Bitter Moon (1992)

Boy, don't you hate it when you really like something, and everybody else decries it as absolute shit? You feel like you're seeing something they aren't. Or they're seeing something you aren't. It's a weird feeling. And as I looked up the reviews of Roman Polanski's Bitter Moon, my heart sank. Were we watching the same movie? Not only was there barely anything on the net about the movie (no interviews, few reviews...), but everybody (thankfully, except Ebert) hated it, and I just didn't get it.

I had developed a real admiration for Polanski's work from his early films - Repulsion (1965), Rosemary's Baby (1968), Tess (1979) being my favourites. When browsing on Netflix late one night, I came across Bitter Moon, and took it on because I love Polanski movies, and wanted to give Hugh Grant one last chance to prove some acting skills beyond being his usual dithery English twat of a self. Well, my first motivation was ultimately supported. The second was an unsurprising let down.

Grant plays Nigel, who is exactly like every other guy he has ever played. He wears dodgy suits, stutters and grins a lot, and recites lengthy apologies when leaving a game of cards, as the other players ignore him entirely. He is on board a cruise ship with his wife Fiona, played by Kristin Scott Thomas as most of the other women she has ever played. She is stiff, matriarchal, cold and at times cunning. They are attempting to conquer the seven year itch with a trip to India, an aim not eased by the sudden presence of gorgeous, mysterious french woman Mimi. Mimi is played by Polanski's beautiful wife Emmanuelle Seigner, whom he has directed several other times, and she is an absolute siren. As her doomed lover later describes, she has a sexual maturity and a childish naivete.

That night on deck, Nigel is set about by a loud Yankie cripple, Oscar, played by Peter Coyote, who is one of those types who imposes themselves on you with their dramatic demeanours. He begins to inflict his lifestory on Nigel over glasses of whiskey, teasing him with acknowledgement of his lust for Mimi, and promising that if Nigel will hear his story, he can have her.

The script, by Polanski, Gerard Brach and John Brownjohn (great name, by the way, John) is based on the beautiful french novel Lunes de fiel by Pascal Bruckner, which I bought and read after falling for this movie, as I am a moderately talented french-speaker who finds great practise in french literature and a dictionary. Polanski diverts a little more from his original source than is characteristic of his work: Rosemary's Baby and Tess, both around three hours in length, take their time and stay remarkably loyal to the novels upon which they are based. It is a quality I truly admire about Polanski. He does not condense: he is a caring storyteller who makes sure everything is taken into account, and hence succeeds in creating as vivid a world on screen as those on the page, film after film.

However, the powerful themes of Bitter Moon are bold, aggressive, primal. I believe I enjoyed this movie so much because it seemed to quite uncannily remind me of myself in years past. This is not an easy thing to admit, as Oscar and Mimi, both of whom begin as starcrossed Parisian lovers and show promise of lifelong affection, are ultimately wretched people. This is not necessarily their faults. Not all the time. But in coming to this conclusion, we are guided by the stark way in which Polanski addresses human behaviour and emotion.

Though Nigel and Fiona end up playing an interestingly pivotal role in the film's finale, Mimi and Oscar are the real focus, with Nigel playing the fourth wall to which the story is narrated. Oscar introduces his story some years earlier, where he is a middle-aged writer, living his dream Hemingway Paris life on a trust fund left by his pioneer grandfather. He is full of life and poetry and exuberance, and looking to write the masterpiece that will finally get him published. One day on a bus, he notices a beautiful young woman, 'my sorceress in white sneakers', who cannot find her ticket. Oscar slips her his, and takes the fine from the conductor. His romantic mind is besotted, and he stalks the city and the bus route looking for her. He finally bumps into her in a restaurant, and asks her out. Thus their touching romance begins.

In this movie, at the age of 26, Emmanuelle Seigner achieves that incredible balance, also achieved by the likes of Linda Blair, Catherine Deneuve and Britt Ekland, of being both terribly cute and thrillingly sexy. It's in the look and the nature, and it is so rare to fall dead in the middle of the spectrum, but it can create some fascinating onscreen characters, as all these actresses proved throughout their careers. When we first see Mimi on the bus, she is schoolgirl-like. She has long, straight, blonde hair and flat shoes, and her gaze is downcast. Her blossoming sexuality creeps in, from the low cut leotard and mini skirt she wears on their first date, to the sensational way she holds a baguette in the elevator. It is nicely escalated by a brilliantly memorable scene involving milk, a well timed toaster and George Michael's 'Faith'.

Oscar's life, or the imagery Polanski and cinematographer Tonino Delli Colli present it with, is as extravagant and poetic as his narration of it. Although I revel in the romantic way Oscar describes Mimi's vagina to Nigel, others I have watched with have not hesitated to laugh. Oscar's increasingly outrageous antics are at times quite laughable, but as his narration reminds us, he doesn't care what we think, because nobody could hate him more than he does himself. Moreover, he wants us to know him truthfully; he is committed to this cause. It plays out with the sense of Oscar taking some quasi-grandiose opportunity to record his memoir, even if it is only in the single mind of the single man to whom he tells it.

As our preliminary introductions to Mimi and Oscar have revealed, their current selves are considerably different to the two lovers at the beginning of Oscar's story. For one thing, Oscar was able-bodied enough to fuck for several days straight, and is now a paraplegic. For another, that timid city girl Mimi now wears voluminous curls, smoky makeup and slinky dresses, and loves to thrash about on the cruise ship dance floor. They have separate cabins and Oscar is content with an open relationship. What has gotten them both to this stage? And why is it so important for Nigel to hear, when Oscar has already declared that he does not begrudge Mimi seeking elsewhere 'that which I cannot provide'?

Now, this is a pretty fucking kinky picture. Among all the embarrassing hoo-haa by bored, unsatisfied housewives and excited students over the terrible Fifty Shades of Grey franchise, I declared that anybody seeking truly erotic and entertaining films should watch two Polanskis: Bitter Moon and Venus in Furs (also starring Seigner, who ignites the screen more than twenty years after playing Mimi). It turns out that both Oscar and Mimi have fairly ravenous sexual appetites, and fairly adventurous tendencies to match. And anybody who's ever visited Paris can attest to it being one of Europe's sex shop capitals (if it's not, I'm surprised: my partner Leon was amused to see a namesake sex shop there!) - so the next chapter of their affair commences: S&M.

In the course of this chapter, two major forces occur: the S&M gives way to cruelty which lies in a grey area between kink and abuse; and Oscar declares with their increasingly outside-the-box sexual experiments, that they were approaching 'sexual bankruptcy'. Their collaborative need for more eventually outdoes them, and the great love of Oscar's life is dead, and seemingly his soul along with it. When Mimi no longer presents any sexual potential, he casts her off, leaving her heartbroken and eventually so desperate for him that she is willing to do anything.

The formerly dormant cruelty and pomposity in Oscar's nature comes to fruition, and he decides to play a game with Mimi: if she won't leave willingly, he'll torment her into wanting to leave. Oscar is very different to almost any male movie character to find himself in a situation similar to this. The Rom-Com approach would be to give in to the woman's desperation, and live an unwanted and unfulfilling lifestyle to satisfy her, because hey, her behaviour is quirky. The Thriller and/or Horror approach would be to, well... take a leaf out of Limey Lyney's book and make Fatal Attraction; just bump her off, because it makes for good tension and means the man can go off and live his life. But as truly thrilling as Bitter Moon is, it takes the dramatic route: the one that is neither end of the spectrum, and settles for the ways real people might actually behave in such a situation.

Oscar is no 30 year-old pretty boy who tells hushed tales of his abusive parents in a husky whisper, in justification of his being an asshole as an adult. Nor can he say that he has been wronged by Mimi. His response to Mimi's neediness is not revenge, it's mere reaction. He is an asshole, and he knows it. He vocally encourages Nigel, and us, to go ahead and hate him, as he has hit that wall of self-loathing in which no further damage can possibly be endured, or dispensed. So what can be done in order to correct the hatred we feel towards Oscar? Well, Mimi needs her turn.

After demoralising and tormenting her into a quivering state, and ditching her on a plane headed for some exotic island following a botched abortion he insisted upon, Oscar really has it coming to him. Is he redeemable? And if so, is it only because of the pity we can't help but feel for this wretched individual? Mimi makes a surprise return from the exotic island, where she has been for so long that her former lover assumed he was free and clear, and is her new self, with the skirts and the make up. And, living up to the classic noir femme fatale role, she has devised her own plan of action, in which the power swaps hands, and we see Oscar suffer equal humiliation, bringing around some sort of karmic balance.

Bitter Moon is one of those movies I watch with some regularity, because it is just so damn gripping. It is emotionally enticing and wild and is so wonderfully unconventional.

Edgeplay: A Film about The Runaways (2004)

L-R: Cherie, Jackie, Joan, Lita, Sandy

The Runaways are my favourite band. I mean, Bowie's my favourite solo artist, no questions, but when it comes to a group of musicians who rocked hard, put on amazing shows and made their mark on the industry, The Runaways cannot be beat for me. Despite my classic rock upbringing and at the time budding love of the '70s, I had not heard The Runaways' music until 2010. Fans will know that this was when Floria Sigismondi's movie about the band, starring Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart was released. That summer, I was watching E! News (don't judge me), and was nothing short of captivated by the sudden sight of 15-year-old Fanning in a corset and stockings, singing to a crowd of screaming teens with a rock band. I had to know more. The movie The Runaways got a very limited release in the UK, but I tracked down a local cinema that was playing it for about two days, and was treated to an empty theatre!

I loved the movie, and it got me hooked on a few of the band's signature songs. But it was when I started looking into the real Runaways that I fell in love. They were five girls of no more than 17 years old when, in mid-70s LA, they were found by maniacal music producer Kim Fowley, who put them together and worked them like 'dogs' (as he so often referred to them), and made them a controversial overnight sensation. The band's run was short but fierce, and it broke barriers and paved the way for generations of female musicians to come. By 1980, they had all gone their own separate ways, to various fates. But their story is an amazing one, and in 2002, one-time bassist Vicky Blue (or Victory Tischler-Blue) had got into filmmaking, and decided to document the rise and fall of The Runaways.

Although there were a few lineup changes in the very early and late chapters of The Runaways' life, the band is mainly remembered as five key members: Joan Jett (who you may have heard of, I say sarcastically) was the engine, lead songwriter, rhythm guitarist and occasional singer; Lita Ford, who also went on to a long musical career, rocked out lead guitar; Jackie Fox, now an attorney, was on bass; the late great Sandy West worked magic on the drums; and one of the most memorable frontmen in band history took centre stage on lead vocal in the form of Cherie Currie.

All very different girls, but together they constituted a miracle formula for grimy, hardcore, teen-angst rock. Looking back at my own fifteen-year-old self, what The Runaways actually achieved is all the more phenomenal. I was lead singer and bassist in a band at fifteen, and was only asked to play bass because I stood like such an awkward moron when only singing. I would be the first to admit that I had no charisma, and no stage presence. The Runaways were each determined, for one reason or another, to make it big, and each drew major inspiration from key idols: Jett's was Suzi Quatro, Ford's was Richie Blackmore, Jackie Fox loved Gene Simmons, and Currie obsessed over Bowie (girl after my own heart). These teen girls took to the stage, time after time, and did things no other band was doing. Their signature song Cherry Bomb was often performed by Cherie in her trademark corset and stockings, and they were thanked for their efforts with such critical reviews as 'these bitches suck'.

I acknowledge that the '70s wasn't totally rainbows, sunshine, free sex and dollar-acid. It was a key time for the feminist movement, and many industry professionals were at best taken aback and at worst utterly pissed off that females, and not even adult ones at that, were trying to strut their platform boots all over the male stomping ground. So the band was bearing the brunt of a lot of criticism and outrage, but they were 16 and 17 years old, so they reacted with a massive middle finger. But as awesome as the situation sounds - being a talented sixteen-year-old with four wild contemporaries, on the road playing rock gigs - the behind-the-scenes reality was quite different, as Edgeplay shows us.

The one thing Edgeplay is sadly lacking is Joan's participation - for whatever reason, and she is known to be almost suspiciously detached nowadays from a lot of the Runaways stuff. She decided against appearing in the film, or permitting any of her material to be used. This was a major bummer, as about 80% of the band's material is credited to her. I have to admire Vickie Blue's tenacity with pressing forward with the project anyhow, and finding ways around the predicament. It has left some corners cut, with some filler music from Suzi Quatro et al, but audio and video of the band performing songs written either by other members, or other people entirely were a-OK.

Vickie Blue makes a great film here, structurally. Where Sigismondi's quote-unquote biopic was focused almost solely on Joan and Cherie (and steered off the path of truth on more than one occasion), Edgeplay is about the five (or seven, including Vickie and former band songwriter Kari Krome) people who made the band what it was, and chronicles their lives, as narrated by themselves and their parents, and their time together. It also very poignantly looks at the aftermath of The Runaways, which seemed to particularly affect Sandy. Towards the end, we see her close to tears, recounting the terrifying things she'd resorted to in recent years, practically begging the others for a reunion. It's so obvious that the band was her life source, and even twenty years after its demise, it was all she cared about,

As a documentary, Edgeplay is brilliant. Although Vicki Blue directs and asks the odd question on camera, narrative is left to the band members. There is also stock input from that fabulously wired svengali Kim Fowley, who offers his trademark eccentric eloquism (sidenote: Fowley's father Douglas was an actor - he played the exasperated director in Singin' in the Rain) in defense of the various tragedies and successes he was responsible for. And all members interviewed are wonderfully upfront, and Cherie and Sandy's parents offer their perspective as long-distance caregivers, scared for their absent daughters' wellbeing. A very rounded, and at times varied, account is built of the career of The Runaways.

All is held together with some fantastic, grainy old footage of the band, playing live shows, and riding in the backs of cars, and walking through airports, and giving press conferences. It's excellent, evocative stuff. I don't know if a version approaching complete will ever come to be. Cherie's autobiography Neon Angel, a redraft of her original book, is a vivid account of her time with the band, among other things. But to date many intriguing and disgusting perspectives have come to light. Both Kari Krome and Jackie Fox have said Kim Fowley sexually assaulted them. Cherie, after decades of describing Fowley on par with Caligula, brought her cancer-afflicted former manager into her home and cared for him in the months before his death. She and Lita, whose mutual hatred is infamous in the history of the band, have appeared together at an awards ceremony and sung each others' praises. A lot has changed over the years, but Edgeplay is a great combined telling of the story of a significant and, in my opinion, fantastic band, and should be seen by anybody whose soul is either partially or fully comprising of rock.

Edgeplay: A Film about The Runaways (2004)

L-R: Cherie, Jackie, Joan, Lita, Sandy

The Runaways are my favourite band. I mean, Bowie's my favourite solo artist, no questions, but when it comes to a group of musicians who rocked hard, put on amazing shows and made their mark on the industry, The Runaways cannot be beat for me. Despite my classic rock upbringing and at the time budding love of the '70s, I had not heard The Runaways' music until 2010. Fans will know that this was when Floria Sigismondi's movie about the band, starring Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart was released. That summer, I was watching E! News (don't judge me), and was nothing short of captivated by the sudden sight of 15-year-old Fanning in a corset and stockings, singing to a crowd of screaming teens with a rock band. I had to know more. The movie The Runaways got a very limited release in the UK, but I tracked down a local cinema that was playing it for about two days, and was treated to an empty theatre!

I loved the movie, and it got me hooked on a few of the band's signature songs. But it was when I started looking into the real Runaways that I fell in love. They were five girls of no more than 17 years old when, in mid-70s LA, they were found by maniacal music producer Kim Fowley, who put them together and worked them like 'dogs' (as he so often referred to them), and made them a controversial overnight sensation. The band's run was short but fierce, and it broke barriers and paved the way for generations of female musicians to come. By 1980, they had all gone their own separate ways, to various fates. But their story is an amazing one, and in 2002, one-time bassist Vicky Blue (or Victory Tischler-Blue) had got into filmmaking, and decided to document the rise and fall of The Runaways.

Although there were a few lineup changes in the very early and late chapters of The Runaways' life, the band is mainly remembered as five key members: Joan Jett (who you may have heard of, I say sarcastically) was the engine, lead songwriter, rhythm guitarist and occasional singer; Lita Ford, who also went on to a long musical career, rocked out lead guitar; Jackie Fox, now an attorney, was on bass; the late great Sandy West worked magic on the drums; and one of the most memorable frontmen in band history took centre stage on lead vocal in the form of Cherie Currie.

All very different girls, but together they constituted a miracle formula for grimy, hardcore, teen-angst rock. Looking back at my own fifteen-year-old self, what The Runaways actually achieved is all the more phenomenal. I was lead singer and bassist in a band at fifteen, and was only asked to play bass because I stood like such an awkward moron when only singing. I would be the first to admit that I had no charisma, and no stage presence. The Runaways were each determined, for one reason or another, to make it big, and each drew major inspiration from key idols: Jett's was Suzi Quatro, Ford's was Richie Blackmore, Jackie Fox loved Gene Simmons, and Currie obsessed over Bowie (girl after my own heart). These teen girls took to the stage, time after time, and did things no other band was doing. Their signature song Cherry Bomb was often performed by Cherie in her trademark corset and stockings, and they were thanked for their efforts with such critical reviews as 'these bitches suck'.

I acknowledge that the '70s wasn't totally rainbows, sunshine, free sex and dollar-acid. It was a key time for the feminist movement, and many industry professionals were at best taken aback and at worst utterly pissed off that females, and not even adult ones at that, were trying to strut their platform boots all over the male stomping ground. So the band was bearing the brunt of a lot of criticism and outrage, but they were 16 and 17 years old, so they reacted with a massive middle finger. But as awesome as the situation sounds - being a talented sixteen-year-old with four wild contemporaries, on the road playing rock gigs - the behind-the-scenes reality was quite different, as Edgeplay shows us.

The one thing Edgeplay is sadly lacking is Joan's participation - for whatever reason, and she is known to be almost suspiciously detached nowadays from a lot of the Runaways stuff, she decided against appearing in the film, or permitting any of her material to be used. This was a major bummer, as about 80% of the band's material is credited to her. I have to admire Vickie Blue's tenacity with pressing forward with the project anyhow, and finding ways around the predicament. It has left some corners cut, with some filler music from Suzi Quatro et al, but audio and video of the band performing songs written either by other members, or other people entirely were a-OK.

Vickie Blue makes a great film here, structurally. Where Sigismondi's quote-unquote biopic was focused almost solely on Joan and Cherie (and steered off the path of truth on more than one occasion), Edgeplay is about the five (or seven, including Vickie and former band songwriter Kari Krome) people who made the band what it was, and chronicles their lives, as narrated by themselves and their parents, and their time together. It also very poignantly looks at the aftermath of The Runaways, which seemed to particularly affect Sandy. Towards the end, we see her close to tears, recounting the terrifying things she'd resorted to in recent years, practically begging the others for a reunion. It's so obvious that the band was her life source, and even twenty years after its demise, it was all she cared about,

As a documentary, Edgeplay is brilliant. Although Vicki Blue directs and asks the odd question on camera, narrative is left to the band members. There is also stock input from that fabulously wired svengali Kim Fowley, who offers his trademark eccentric eloquism (sidenote: Fowley's father Douglas was an actor - he played the exasperated director in Singin' in the Rain) in defense of the various tragedies and successes he was responsible for. And all members interviewed are wonderfully upfront, and Cherie and Sandy's parents offer their perspective as long-distance caregivers, scared for their absent daughters' wellbeing. A very rounded, and at times varied, account is built of the career of The Runaways.

All is held together with some fantastic, grainy old footage of the band, playing live shows, and riding in the backs of cars, and walking through airports, and giving press conferences. It's excellent, evocative stuff. I don't know if a version approaching complete will ever come to be. Cherie's autobiography Neon Angel, a redraft of her original book, is a vivid account of her time with the band, among other things. But to date many intriguing and disgusting perspectives have come to light. Both Kari Krome and Jackie Fox have said Kim Fowley sexually assaulted both of them. Cherie, after decades of describing Fowley on par with Caligula, brought her cancer-afflicted former manager into her home and cared for him in the months before his death. She and Lita, whose mutual hatred is infamous in the history of the band, have appeared together at an awards ceremony and sung each others' praises. A lot has changed over the years, but Edgeplay is a great combined telling of the story of a significant and, in my opinion, fantastic band, and should be seen by anybody whose soul is either partially or fully comprising of rock.

The Sacrament (2013)

Finally, a decent example of post-modern found footage horror. Let us make this the third relevant step in the subgenre thus far: 1) the original and best Cannibal Holocaust by Ruggero Deodato, 2) The Blair Witch Project and 3) Ti West's The Sacrament. These three films have presented to us unimaginable terror through the medium of handheld footage, and have done so to such admirable effect that I feel they warrant this three-step programme in FF.

The synopsis of The Sacrament will almost certainly ring bells for many people. Some people may actually remember the real events upon which the movie is based occurring. I was gripped by the premise of a mockumentary about a guy who is invited by his sister to visit the strange cult village she lives in, and the madness that goes on within. OK, lemme just throw it straight out there. Kool Aid. There we have it: the Jonestown massacre of 1978. Once I'd finished being thrilled to hell by The Sacrament, I went and googled it, and soon found the reason the story seemed so familiar to me, and watched several absolutely soul-crushing documentaries on the tragedy. Let there be no mistake: this movie is, at times, painful to watch, and not in any gratuitous, explicitly savage or violent way, but in often quietly disturbing moments, with a wholly crushing sense of dread building from the outset. It is, in this way, that it is amazingly effective.

For my birthday this year, I was given (after much hinting) the Shameless DVD release of House On The Edge Of The Park by Deodato (Cannibal Holocaust), and whilst powering through the special features, an interesting lecture came up, held by some English film professors, with the director and actor Giovanni Lombardo Radice present. These professors had been commissioned to examine the results of violent movies on audiences, and this was one of the titles they looked at. Their findings were interesting: most people were disturbed by brutality and control inflicted on vulnerable characters. Surprisingly, mostly Ricky. His character is the secondary antagonist, who answers to Alex (David Hess), and he comes across as mentally challenged. Where the audience could, for the most part, accept the violence going on between the fully functioning adults, they were uncomfortable with the young, virginal Cindy getting caught up in the trouble, and the obvious manipulation of a mentally incapacitated man.

The story of Jim Jones, the wacko proprietor of Jonestown, shows bold and consistent themes that ran throughout the guy's life. He always had a knack for sniffing out vulnerable people, who felt outcast and ill-fitting, and giving them a place where they belonged. As a child, he actually was one of those sickos who got off on torturing animals. And when shit hit the fan, the dude ran. The really disturbing element of The Sacrament, rather like with HOTEOTP, is that the victims' vulnerability is what throws them into the arms of evil people. It's a classic abusive relationship. The abuser is dominant, and presents themselves as an escape, a refuge, which the victim dares not try to escape, for fear of what's on the outside being worse than the inside. The relationship is ruled by fear, isolation, insecurity. And what kind of place, we come to ultimately ask, must a person be in to feel like killing themselves, their friends and children, is the best, or only, option.

Something I came to notice only after I had watched this movie and gone on to learn about the incident through documentaries, was that The Sacrament is practically a shot-for-shot recount of the real incident, with names and dates changed to protect those (very very few) still living. Not that this is really necessary, but still...they had to fictionalise something. Patrick (Kentucker Audley) is a photographer, who receives a letter from his recovering addict of a sister Caroline (Amy Seimetz), inviting him to visit her at Eden Parish. It's one of those places that the residents refer to as a 'community' when we know it's a total freakin' cult. Patrick's two buddies, Jake (Joe Swanberg) and Sam (AJ Bowen) are professionals in media and looking for a compelling story.

My boyfriend said to me when the guys first arrive at the 'community', "They have a watchtower. Only one kind of place has a watchtower." While the residents willing to speak to the crew rave about the freedom and peace that their new home has given them, a distinctly ominous tone is set with the introduction of the Jones figure, here named The Father, on the first evening at a village meeting. He has agreed to be interviewed by the guys, luring them into an intense exchange somewhat reminiscent of Dr Lecter's psychic musings. Father is played, with a thrashing undercurrent of menace, by a wonderful actor (ironically) named Gene Jones. A 60-something balding fellow with immeasurable manipulations behind those dark glasses, Father is an astonishing character, played with measure and daring by Jones. He embodies the macabre evil that slowly decays his character, and is frighteningly similar to the real Jones.


As mentioned, the movie is a distinctly accurate reconstruction of the massacre, so the details need not be disclosed here. But the film crew get out alive, as did one or two of Congressman Leo Ryan's people back in '78. But the interactions and manipulations that festered in that town and brought on its imminent demise are painfully crafted by West, leaving the audience gripped in fear and horror and despair. You witness the movie's finale as a desperate, helpless onlooker, mouth hanging open for minutes at a time. If the Titanic had been sank deliberately by a mad captain, the situations would begin to be comparable. It's a level of horror that transcends horror: it's tragedy. As helicopter shots capture the shrinking patchwork of whole families, lying face down on the ground, arms about each other in dying embrace, masses and masses of people, it's like having been plucked from Hell and stuck on a bird's shoulders, to be nothing more than a silent, rescued witness of the aftermath of murder. The Sacrament is utterly sombre, and unforgettable. It is brilliant.

Deep Throat (1972)

Cultural scandal/phenomenon Deep Throat has a place in my life I believe to be unlike that of most other fans. For one thing, I'm 23. The movie is 20 years older than I am, and a lot of people my age are under the false impression that things from our parents' generation are stupid or lame or ugly. Don't worry, I've taken a deep breath and composed myself.... For another thing, porn is probably more easily accessed than decent healthcare nowadays (sad statement) and it has gone to muuuuuuch darker, creepier and distinctly less erotic lengths, which have become the norm for most viewers, i.e. the sexual content, explicit though it is, is way too soft for modern audiences.

But of course, I am a devout appreciator of vintage articles and the contexts within which they were created. My awesome Pop grew up in London in the 1960s, and was one of the original hippie generation, and so we have spent many, many hours over the years talking about those wonderful times, and the things people got up to. He, naturally, was the person from whom I first heard of the movie Deep Throat, and its iconic star Linda Lovelace.

Last week I bagged an original 1974 paperback printing of Inside Linda Lovelace on eBay for £6.50 and read it within a day. You see, odd as it may seem to some, pervy as it may seem to some others (simpletons), in the years since I first heard of the movie, I have read many books and articles, seen many movies, documentaries and interviews, and my interest in the whole Deep Throat - Linda Lovelace thing is significant. Perhaps this wouldn't be quite so the case were it not for Lovelace's crazy, tumultuous existence in and out of the public eye.

She was born Linda Boreman in 1949, and as a young adult met bar owner/photographer/professional creep Chuck 'JR' Traynor, this slimy geezer with the least sexy moustache I ever fucking saw. He taught her meditative techniques, being the self-professed love guru he was, that enabled her to open her throat like a sword-swallower and accommodate a phallus. Not long after the whole Deep Throat craze (which did go on for several years), Linda disappeared and popped up some years later as a distinctly frumpy and domesticated version of her former self, newly married, born again and raging against the porno machine. At the time when the hardcore feminism movement that my mother was once such an avid participant of was at its peak (if you can call it such), Linda was picked up by an odious activist named Gloria Steinem and rode the anti-porn wagon harder than she did Harry Reems. Once that craze had also fizzled, Linda struggled to maintain odd jobs as a divorced retired porn sensation, and several more years later, was doing the convention circuits signing photos, and promoting herself as the star of Deep Throat. She even did a couple of very tame 'glamour' photoshoots for magazines.

There are two sides to the Lovelace record: Side A focused all its energy on creating a stir, and being a general figurehead for the sexually liberated crowd; Side B was probably the first high-profile case of playing the Victim Card. As part and parcel of her mid-'80s feminism kick, the former story of liberation and good vibes became one of apparent torture, rape and control. Linda claimed that Chuck forced her at gunpoint to make all of her movies, threatened the lives of her family etc.etc. Coming to any sort of decision on what really happened has taken a lot of research, and anybody interested in corroborating this should seek out the same materials I did (Lovelace's several books are a twisting tale). But here is the way I see it:

Chuck Traynor was a slimy, over-sexed bastard who got a kick out of being some form of self-professed love guru, and Linda was an overprotected suburban girl from a devoutly Catholic family whose upbringing produced a simultaneous need for rebellion and control from a third party. In honesty, her early porno chic incarnation seemed something of an airheaded one. An old TV interview catches some uptight journalist asking her if her liberal ideas wouldn't cause imminent anarchy. She replies that she doesn't know what anarchy means. Cute, huh? Then, in a move that is sooooooo typical of modern girls, she found people condescended and shamed her for her sexual antics, and decided to totally relieve herself of said shame by blaming it on somebody else.

Almost everybody involved with Linda has denied her allegations of abuse, and their reasoning rings true. New York girls in 1972 didn't take much convincing to do something outrageous and against the grain - there was certainly no need to force anybody at gunpoint to perform in a porn movie. There'd have been a line all the way down the street of free-spirited hippy chicks who figured $1250 dollars for a few days of wild sex was exactly what they were looking for. Moreover, Chuck's later marriage to the era's other porn queen, Marilyn Chambers, painted a very different picture. Marilyn was a very strong-headed woman, who negotiated herself good deals, presented herself well in public, and was free of inhibitions. Not to mention, she never turned against the industry. Her marriage to Chuck has never been talked of on anything but good terms, and they allegedly left the divorce court hand in hand.

I do hope this considerable dilution of the story is raising all the appropriate red flags for you. There were so many things about Linda's allegations that didn't add up, and this time she just played mouthpiece for a militant feminist rather than a slimy perv. Linda insisted that every time somebody watched Deep Throat, they were witnessing rape. But the idea of all of these perfectly respectable adults - co-stars, crew, etc. - being in on a gang-conspiracy to force one particular woman into porn is quite ludicrous. Harry Reems, Linda's co-star (who, incidentally, spanked the spunk out of Traynor on the Sexy Moustache-Off) was an absolute class act from beginning to end, who actually served prison time when some narrow-minded jury somewhere decided to press obscenity charges. He even paid for Linda to have life-saving surgery later on. People who worked with him over the years described him as an absolute love with a heart of gold. The list of inconsistencies goes on, and sadly, almost taints our ability to enjoy what is actually a funky, silly little sex movie that earned its place in history. Almost...

Ambitions for middle-age summed up in one photo

Linda Lovelace, as herself, is a hippie chick living in Miami with a middle-aged divorcee, Dolly, who enjoys the swingers' life, but feels that sex is missing something. "I wanna hear bells ringing! Dams bursting! Rockets exploding!" she laments. Dolly, who I can only hope to be as cool as in my late forties, provides the perfect solution: a massive sex party! Woohoo!

When even this doesn't untangle Linda's tingle, she turns to hokey Doctor Young (the gorgeous Mr Reems), who discovers that her clitoris is in her throat. Well if that isn't your textbook male fantasy! He teaches Linda to give Deep Throat, and suddenly the girl's practically deafened by all the rockets and bells and bursting dams, and decides to dedicate her life to enjoying herself. Of course, this also means men enjoying themselves, and so Doctor Young enlists her as a 'nurse' to make home calls and enjoy various sexual escapades with various people. The goofy, slapstick action is nurtured by a wildly brilliant, and sadly unclaimed, soundtrack of grimy, funky guitar and amusing synth. The finale number, entitled Deep Throat To You All, is a wonderfully folky and surreal theme. In my mind, which remains static in downtown LA of 1976 or thereabouts, I have this cool fantasy that the soundtrack is the secret work of David Hess, whose music for Last House was nothing short of brilliant. It seems totally him. Alas, the shady Mafia background of the movie seems to have caused the musicians to seek anonymity, but the album is available, and it's brilliant.

As a piece of early '70s nostalgia, Deep Throat is a gem. How does it stack up as a porno? I guess it is entirely dependent on one's personal tastes. Myself, I have seen quite a bit of modern porn, and several factors are a turn off: firstly, lack of plot, style, or discernible creative talent involved; secondly, the freaky shit people do - I find a woman sucking a guy's juices out of another woman's anal cavity to be nothing short of nauseating; thirdly, the 'actors' are harsh, brassy, Botoxed to the gills and generally unrelatable. Porno chic has the appeal of being ordinary people enjoying each other, people you don't feel upstaged by, having sex you can identify with. Kinks are all well and good, but the bar for 'regular' porn has been skyrocketed to distinctly unerotic levels nowadays.

My viewing partner this time round was surprised at how satisfying Deep Throat was pornographically. Plenty of close up shots, plenty of momentum, and some fun variety. It's only about an hour long, but it's hard to get bored of; it's as fun as it is erotic. And for those modern fascists who insist they cannot get turned on by a woman with pubic hair, fear not! Even though 99.9%-vastly-recurring of women would have chewed your ear off for your apparent paedophilic tendencies at the time, Linda (for whatever reason) was a pioneer of several new practices, the first being the removal of her pubic hair.

The '70s are known for their pubic hair, although it wasn't really until the 2000s that women started appearing full 'Hollywood' (totally bare, that is) in film. And while every other woman in Deep Throat is hippie to the core when it comes to pubes, Linda is shown shaving hers off. In an interview, a woman journalist once grilled her about her grooming, saying she didn't know anyone else that did it. It's odd, and pretty depressing, that a mere twenty five years later, this wasn't merely the norm, but expected. Get ready for another personal preference: I love hairy guys. Beards, head hair, chest hair, pubic hair, bring it on. It looks manly, feels gorgeous, I go crazy for it. Thankfully, my boyfriend indulges me. However, the majority of guys my age shave, wax or even laser everything off, and if there is one thing that looks supremely gay, it's a guy with no pubic hair. It gives me the oiled-up Chippendale vibe, the apparent 'ideal' sexy look that comes off as staged, and utterly emasculated. Deep Throat has got some nice shaggy guys on board, with Harry at the helm, and pornstaches galore!

I could probably write more books than Linda did about her, and this movie, and about vintage porn in general. But I think I've pretty much summed up Deep Throat. It's wacky, cheesy, funny, naughty, ground-breaking, Conservative-offending brilliance, and it's an entirely viable mastabatory aid to boot.

Cabin Fever (2016)

Rating: 1/5

I find it strenuous not to begin this review with a gospel-style "Why, oh, why, Lawd?!", because the remake of Cabin Fever just breaks so many rules, it's hard to know where to begin. Well, let's start with time: how long is a reasonable period between remakes of a film? 30 years perhaps? Certainly not 15. That's how long it's been since Eli Roth's original screamer of a teen horror was released, and it did not take long to gather a cult following. But the majority of the original's audience is still young enough to identify with the story (the teens are all played by people our age, anyhow). I saw Cabin Fever in 2005, at the age of 13, and it remains a favourite. Its perfect blend of bloody gore, intrigue and hopelessly millennial humour made it pure gold to my generation, and the next up.

Secondly, if you're going to remake a movie, isn't the crummy excuse always that the makers are 'giving it their own twist' or reimagining the story in some form? What is the point of remaking a fifteen year old movie, and doing it almost shot-for-shot identically?! There is basically nothing to distinguish this Cabin Fever from any of the other dead-teenager riffraff. I counted four instances throughout in which the action did not borrow exactly from its predecessor's. Four. Way to make original material, guys. And perhaps the most offensive thing to top it all off: dialogue is identical, except for the 2000s humour. No 'gay'. No gay squirrels to shoot, and no romantic protagonist to tell not to be gay. This blows.

So here we are. Don't anybody dare watch this crapfest without watching the real one. Anyhow... the kids (*ahem*late 20s*ahem) are off on spring break or whatever and rent a cabin in the woods whose neighbouring landscape is inhabited by your classic yokel bunch (see other reviews for fun with the Yokel Bunch!), which was still a fairly original bit back in 2001. The douchey third wheel who once brought a pussy air rifle along, for shooting aforementioned gay squirrels, now has a fucking AK47 (Murica), and does considerable damage to the infected hobo he accidentally shoots.

When the guy rocks up to the cabin later, the mayhem ensues: they get infected...it's in the water... etc. Fairly standard, especially because by this point, you have given up on director Travis Zariwny (in the credits, he even has the audacity to go by just Travis Z...how hip) making any effort at originality. But one of the four differences that severely got under my skin was the sex change of Deputy Winston. You'll recall that Winston was originally played with absolute perfection by evasive actor/musician Guiseppe Andrews, as a young slimeball with social issues who was as obsessed with partying as he was with doing an unwittingly terrible job at being a policeman. Here we have your average Page 3/Playboy fodder (Louise Linton), i.e. a young woman, playing Winston, with almost identical dialogue. Here, it comes off as just some strange copper in desperate want of a threesome but not the balls to ask for one.

I seriously don't know where to go from here. I just find myself reminiscing about all the hilarious scenes in the original Cabin Fever... the guy who swallows the harmonica -- the kids selling infected lemonade for 'fiiiive siiints' -- the local hick that's got a shotgun on the wall 'for the niggers', only for a car full of black dudes to roll up during the closing credits and thank the dude for fixing the shotgun up for them. It was just so of its time, and the thing is, a lot of people of my generation... we still think it's the time. We don't feel old, and we still enjoy the things we did during adolescence, and that includes Eli Roth's Cabin Fever. If kids today want to check out a good, gory horror movie, they can fucking well buy the original! (It's not as if they'd want to return it to Blockbuster, even if that were still a thing).

POST SCRIPT - The paragraph I just finished with is significantly effective as a conclusion, so I thought I'd add some interesting, though terrifying, tidbits. Years ago, my sister and I watched Cabin Fever with our Pop, the learned old devil. And he informed us that the gross flesh-eating disease to which the teens succumb is in fact a real thing. The aptly named Necrotising Fasciitis really is a killer virus that eats away at your body and kills you within a day or two. Rare but real, and what are the odds of getting an ambulance on the phone by the time you realise your fucking fingers have fallen off anyway?!

Ils (2006)

Back in the summer of 2008 (great summer, by the way), my sister and I went to the movies with our boyfriends to see The Strangers. The cinema environment naturally enhances the fear factor of decent horror movies (provided you don't have any sarcastic assholes in the house), and the movie scared the shit out of us. It prompted a lifelong fear of uncurtained windows after dark. And being alone in a house at night. But fuck it, every horror movie had done that.


It was claimed that The Strangers was based on Ils, which I am somewhat ashamed to have taken ten years to watch. The copy that I picked up had an English cover and was titled Them, but my DVD turned out to be an original without subtitles. Fortunately, I am a moderate French speaker and am in the habit of watching French movies to improve my language skills, so it posed me a nice challenge. Particularly as the movie actually takes place in Bucharest and features some Romanian dialogue too. If anybody out there is a particularly cunning linguist like myself (*wink*), Romanian is an interesting language, which a native friend of the family tells me is mostly Latin-based, with very minimal Slavic roots as one might expect. Due to several Turkish occupations, there are even Arabic influences. So yeah, check out a bit of Romanian.

Clementine (Olivia Bonamy) is a French teacher at a school, and she and her fiance Lucas (Michael Cohen) have bought a dilapidated chateau in the countryside which they are in the process of fixing up. It's beautiful and it's huge, and there's no one for miles around. No wonder people emmigrate to France for the space and low housing prices! Anyway, one night Clementine is disturbed first by a weird phone call, then by noises outside. A mysterious gang of attackers descend upon the chateau for reasons unknown and wreak havoc for the young couple.

Even for the surprisingly brief portion of the movie that actually takes place in the house, Ils provides little reference point for The Strangers, other than the basic premise of a young couple in an isolated house being terrorised by assailants unknown. And the only slight oddity of this premise is the small group being attacked. And that's only because the genre usually likes as many pick-offs as possible. But the movie, like its antagonists, is in it for the hunt - the kill is a mere afterthought. And writers/directors Xavier Palud and David Moreau's script and direction make thorough use of the terrifyingly vast spaces where attackers could be lurking.

This movie relies far less on jump scares like The Strangers did, and despite the latter's phony use of the old 'violent crime in America' statistics and implication that it is an act of charity which could help avoid similar things happening, Ils really addresses the situation with realism. Being on this turf, you should already know that this is a ***SPOILER ALERT*** zone, but I'll just put it out there, as the point of this movie requires me to give away twisty details. These antagonists turn out to be children, a small gang of varying ages, who carry out a carefully orchestrated attack against innocent people for no apparent reason. But in court, the children justify their cruelty by saying, "they wouldn't play with us." It is this point that leads one to believe this is far more than your average stalker/slasher. Like Eden Lake, it seems to be making a social statement.

Not only is this a creepy movie whose point is driven further home by the entire possibility of it, but it is vocal, and says to me that the entitled attitudes of the younger generation can have tragically detrimental effects on their social development. In other words, if kids are allowed to command adults and get their own way, what is to stop them going on such criminal rampages as a tantrum?

The Inkeepers (2011)

Ti West is an exceptional film-maker. This I concluded perhaps a third of the way into the first movie of his that I saw, the mind-blowing Jim Jones-based horror The Sacrament, which was a mockumentary. I resist the term Found Footage as the footage-makers got out alive to share said footage. The Innkeepers is an entirely different branch of horror, your traditional ghost picture. However, West's inimitable skill at cultivating horror for the screen makes for a 21st century Kubrick. Alas, there is no King-quality storyline or Nicholson-quality acting, but direction and actual technique is truly remarkable. I might even argue that not since Kubrick making The Shining has a horror director so exquisitely used space and pace to terrify.


The movie involves Claire (Sara Paxton) and Luke (Pat Healy), who are the last two remaining employees of the Yankee Pedlar Hotel, which is due to close within the week. There are only enough guests to count on the fingers of one hand, and the two have arranged to stay in the hotel itself and sleep in shifts rather than go home. Luke, a cool-enough bespectacled fella clicks away on a computer all day, alternating between XXX Chinese Pancakes (whatever the hell that entails) and a website he's created to document the supposed haunting of the hotel he works at. Claire, whose appearance and speaking voice seems stolen from 1992 Edward Furlong, is a loud tomboy whose aspirations seep no further than working at a hotel.

Faced with the boredom of only an irritable mother and her young child to associate with, the pair start investigating the hauntings together, and Claire grows convinced that there is some truth to it all. Just then a former actress-turned-medium played by Kelly McGillis turns up, whose work Claire is a fan of. She warns that there is something macabre in the basement, and that the place is not safe. If I'm very honest, standard horror action ensues from here. However, Mr West is an auteur of craft, so the actual format of the movie is something quite unique. Consider, for example, a brilliant scene in which Claire drags out a dripping garbage bag to the dumpster late at night. She starts doing a sideways crab routine to avoid the goo splashing onto her bare legs. When she makes it to the dumpster, which is taller than her, she makes repeated hilarious attempts to open the thing and swing the bag into it. I was in stitches throughout, utterly identifying with being of diminutive stature and not being the world's biggest fan of questionable bacteria-ridden liquids. It is little touches of situational humour and realism like this that help make the film special.

Consider another, in which that classic set-up has been followed, with Claire having slowly approached a darkened window to investigate a strange noise. When Luke suddenly appears, she releases all the pent-up adrenaline in a wonderfully realistic outburst. Again, it was relatable. I remember once being alone in my house and singing at the top of my lungs whilst cleaning a table. I turned around to see my friend standing right behind me, and being scared shitless, I found it took a good couple of minutes of making weird groans and shaking my arms about to calm down again.

Then, of course, there is the aforementioned spacial awareness. The hotel is no Overlook, but it's vast on the inside, and West takes full advantage of its long corridors, perpendicular turns and the angles that can be experimented with. He succeeds in planting us in the setting with the characters, and in suggesting to us where danger may be lurking. Technique even, at times, borders on Hitchcockian, playing with what we see and what we don't, and what horrors we can make up in our own minds. Agonising spans of time are used to allow us to work ourselves up, to experience the tension for ourselves. What is so special about Ti West's work is that no matter what source of horror he settles upon, be it supernatural or despicably man-made, he never fails to convince us of the terror. Although I do not rate this movie, in terms of a viewing experience, quite so highly as his amazing The Sacrament, it is an excellent piece in his portfolio, and truly his, and definitely worth watching for anyone who appreciates quality horror.

Jurassic World (2015)

I think I can confidently say that anybody who feels in the slightest bit nostalgic about the works that represent their childhood will agree with the following statement. There are some things you don't fuck with, and Jurassic Park is one of them. The makers of the crappy third installment, which couldn't even be saved by the lovely Sam Neill's presence, learned this one the hard way. So when I knew a fourth Jurassic movie was on its way... well, I figured that modern film animation could make for some really wonderful stuff... but the third one... the third one!!

Sad thing is, I didn't even get to see this movie at the cinema. My Pop did, and he said it was an awesome experience. So we invested in the DVD, and have already watched it three times in as many months. I can safely say that if it ever gets a theatrical re-release, I'm there. The visual spectacle of this movie was wondrous even on a twelve inch screen. They pull off a real, excellent modern re-run of the Jurassic series, and make it work well. Surprisingly well.

The remains of Hammond's original island has been thoroughly invested in, and become the tourist attraction of dreams. Vast glass emporiums house interactive games, holograms, artifacts and every sort of franchise and merchandise you can imagine (oh, hey Starbucks, I didn't know you were invited!), and the beautiful South American mountainous terrain is home to all kinds of dinosaurs, which are no longer only visible to tourists from behind wire fences.

Two kids, moody high-schooler Zach (Nick Thompson) and sweet, thoughtful little one Gray (the very talented Ty Simpkins from Insidious) have been sent on a VIP week-long trip to the resort, because their uptight aunt Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard) works there in some senior, executive position that requires her to strut around in all-white outfits and talk on her matching cell phone constantly. Gray suspects it is to get rid of them while their parents figure out a divorce, but Zach is typically nonchalant and scorns his little brother for being so emotional.

The movie makes the questionable move of painting aunt Claire as the evil career-woman who is being mean by having to actually turn up to work. The boys are upset/annoyed when she reveals she cannot spend time with them until the next day, and their mom makes her sister feel guilty for it. But Christ guys, do any of you understand the concept of work? Ya know, with contracts and shit? As in, you have a formal obligation to senior people and are not at liberty to just bugger off as and when you like? She has to work one day out of the seven the boys are staying. C'est la vie. I mean, yes, seven years is a bit of a long time to have not seen your family, but the whole idea of evil aunt Claire choosing to do boring old work and not have managers up her ass about her sudden, unauthorised leave is about the only issue I have with this entire film.

The runaway train of the movie is not Dennis Knight making bumbling attempts at stealing embryos or Jeff Goldblum making far suaver attempts at stealing baby T-Rexes, but the exact scenario you'd expect when you mix commercialism with extinct creatures: dinosaurs are old news, and people are getting bored. They need something bigger, scarier and 'cooler'. So thankfully, good ol' B.D. Wong is back on the case, cooking up some inventive new dino recipes, ready to milk that cash duct for all it's worth. But mix in a bit of Deep Blue Sea, and you've not only got a scaly antagonist that can run fast and eat faster, but it can camouflage and it can scheme. Ooh yeah, the monster is a-turnin' on its creator. And this time, it's personal.

Jurassic World paid its dues in Development Hell for nigh on a decade, and I believe its time on the inside did it good. More, it waited until it was right for the world. A movie like this in 2005, as society was then, and as computer imagery was then, it could easily have come out like Scooby Doo! The ideas of the movie are so perfectly in keeping with the modern world, and the scale of the entire operation is believable. We know our Western society is doomed from the tsunami of media, vanity, consumerism and commercialism that has drowned it in recent years, and have little struggle in imagining a world where the rich man at the top says "take my money and do something dangerous and stupid". This version of Jurassic has a level of cultural reflection that the third one was lacking (along with many other things).

However, this is a harsher world we're living in. One that's stripped us of the right to see a moderately adult movie without the seat-kicking and question-asking of young children in the theatre. Hence, with a 12A certificate, it's one to judge carefully before sharing with kids. My six-year-old daughter has not seen it, and will not for some time. It's not particularly that the deaths are gorier or scarier (lawyer on a toilet, anyone?), but they're harsher. Would you rather be taken in one fell swoop by the jaws of a T-Rex, or tossed between about five different predatory creatures, while simultaneously drowning, before finally ending your life inside an animal that's inside another, bigger animal?

Now, there are a few fairly standard boxes ticked here: stuck up businesswoman, check; tough dinosaur-hunter guy who can solve all her problems with his penis, check; fat guy first to get eaten, check; Asian dude second to get eaten, check. But honestly, I'm just shortening the boring critical bits so I can get back to praising this really good movie. Visuals are really breathtaking, premise is strong, action is thrilling and imaginative, and acting is good. The gorgeous Ty Simpkins is getting a special shout out though. He gives a very tangible and emotional performance, and claws at my heartstrings even more than little Tim did in the first movie. He is an absolute gem... and his hair upside down is one of the reasons I wake up in the morning.

The Green Inferno (2013)

So guys, hands up who's freaking psyched for Eli Roth's The Green Inferno finally getting a release after a couple of years on the shelf due to funding issues? Two huge thumbs up on this end! In another Sleepaway Camp-type coincidence, I heard of the release a few days back and rushed out to get it, then rushed back home to watch it. I got straight on to my sister Relly, who as I have previously chronicled is a horror freak of intensity equal to mine, who, as it happened, was in the middle of downloading it to her hard drive. But she sternly warned me not to ruin anything for her, as she had to wait til the evening to watch it. So I bit my tongue, and kept it to myself for a little while.

Photos of Roth directing on location are very cute!

Is there any horror fan who doesn't like Roth's work? I mean, if you want to be a boring bugger, he can be childish or sensationalist, but that's where the fun is! Filmmakers have been experimenting with comic relief in horror, and of course with pushing the bounds of decency, for decades. Roth is merely one of the ringleaders of his generations of filmmakers. He cares about his movies being enjoyable, and compelling, and unexpected, and he pretty much always pulls it off.

I first read about The Green Inferno a couple of years back, when doing some more research about Cannibal Holocaust, and got worryingly excited at the prospect of Roth pulling an Amazon Cannibal trick, then seriously pissed at the prospect of it never being released. As time went on, it was dragged, kicking and screaming, further toward the back of my mind, until last week, I saw a promo Facebook page for it, and headed for the nearest HMV like Sally Hardesty through the woods.

Justine (Lorenza Izzo) is an uptight college student who's desperate to be cool and dedicated enough to join the bare-footed, beardy protest clique on campus. In her class, her tutor informs the students in rather general terms about the practice of female genital mutilation (FGM), much to the surprise and horror of the kids, who act as if they've never even heard of it before. If this is really the case, I ask A) Where the hell have you been?! and B) If you are so behind with world news and issues, should you be taking this kind of course? But anyhow, Justine half-heartedly attaches herself to this cause, until she is invited along to a protest meeting with the cool kids, where her blunt and careless attitude pisses off the lead protester Alejandro (Ariel Levy).

He is planning an expedition to the Peruvian jungle where they will save the indigenous tribes from loggers who threaten to wipe out their environment, with the help of every douchebag's best friend: social media. In a sort of last-ditch attempt to prove her humanitarian nature, Justine signs up, and heads off on the at least partially-dubious trip with a whole bunch of other young 'uns, who, naturally, are various shades of douchebag. One is a spindly stoner played by Daryl Sabara, A.K.A. Juni from Spy Kids, one is an alternative chick who chats bullshit about her 'next tattoo', one is a soft, lovable chubster, you get the picture. And for a good long while we wonder just how suspicious we are to be of Alejandro, and the expedition as a whole.

A very basic summary of this movie is Cannibal Holocaust x Cannibal Ferox + Eli Roth = The Green Inferno. Although the progress of the action takes nicely unexpected steps and turns, the group still, of course, end up at the hands of some local tribe who paint themselves red and shove bones through their noses and run around in just loinclothes and necklaces. You know the drill. And although Roth took the same questionable option as Deodato by employing real natives for his tribespeople, this movie is far slicker and more professional than the other two cannibal pics, and doesn't give in to the temptation to make it Found Footage (thank God).

The acting is nothing sterling, and there is some silly, amusing dialogue dotted about. There is also a shot of Eli Roth's cock next to a tarantula. Yeah. I noticed in the end credits that Roth is listed as Sabara's 'Hand Double', and when I thought about it, when else in the movie did we see nothing but that character's hand? Oh yeah, when his dick was in it. So there's a cute titbit of trivia for you... Roth figured his whole self wasn't needed for his traditional cameo, for his fabulous cock could do the trick just fine. There are some brilliantly unexpected thrills, and in short, I was not disappointed. I was taken aback somewhat by the Ferox ending, and the motivations behind it. But this is nothing short of Classic Roth, and I struggle to imagine what sort of typical horror watcher wouldn't enjoy it. Tuck in!

Girl House (2014)

Hey guys, fancy being pleasantly surprised by how good a movie is, even when you're sure it's going to be a typical exploitative gorefest with as many naked girls crammed in as a compact disc will hold? Well then, check out this slick Canadian slasher entitled Girl House. In a sentence: psycho killer in house full of webcam porn girls. Right? It sounds cheesy and stupid and gratuitous. That's what my Pop thought when he pointed it out to me in a shop, and that's what I thought when I went to watch it today. So I was somewhat taken aback when I realised I was in fact in for a creative and intriguing horror-thriller. And the surprise addition of the Thriller is one of its potent ingredients.

Kylie (Ali Cobrin) is a college student whose father has recently passed away, leaving her mother penniless and living abroad somewhere. She has been approached by some guy in a suit who says she'd be perfect for his company. And there's no funny business. He's not some greasy-haired cigar chomper hollering 'Hey honey, you wanna be a big time movie staahh? Wanna come sit on my casting couch?' She is fully aware that the job is doing webcam shows. But this does seem like a surprisingly decent company.

Girl House is different from the rest: it's like a cyber Playboy Mansion. All the girls live in a gorgeous secluded house which is rigged up with cameras as if installed by E! themselves, and their USP is that clients get to watch them in any room, at any time, whether they're sleeping, showering, playing pool or stripping. The idea is that the people watching get to feel like they 'know' the girls, and therefore are more loyal and better paying customers. The house has security guards and high walls, the operating system is protected by a whole team of computer specialists. The location is untraceable, and the system unhackable. But then, the Titanic was unsinkable.

All starts well. Kylie settles into the mansion, everybody is nice, and her first show (although very mild) goes pretty successfully, especially when she attracts the attention of Loverboy, an eager user who plans to come back for more. It looks like she'll be able to earn her good money, send it to her mom, and all will be well. And even when a guy from her high school recognises her, and confesses his eternal love for her to the pal he's watching with, he manages to start a relationship with Girl House's favourite New Girl. The introduction of these two guys, Ben (Adam DiMarco) and his buddy Alex (Wesley MacInnes), adds real dimension to the plot, and is written well enough to fork the road without losing the quality. It is their involvement that adds the Thrill to the equation.

When the Webcam Porn Rampage starts, everything is, of course, being broadcast live on the website, much to the horror of its clients (and particularly amusingly, a young boy), and Ben and Alex bear witness. They become the unofficial Day Savers by making many frantic phone calls, driving a 70 mile distance at top speed, and hacking the website. This level of commitment to rectifying the bad situation in a third party is most unusual in horror. But they are great characters: distinct, well acted and level headed.

There's really nothing not to love in Girl House. The script by Nick Gordon is excellent - well paced, imaginative and thoughtful enough to distinguish the dialogue of each character - and Matthews' direction is strong; all the actors are in the Good to Great range, and production design is wonderful. And if none of these more artistically admirable qualities are enough to draw you... there's also lots of hot girls in various stages of undress and a whole bunch of creatively staged murders.