Maniac (2012)

I don't like violent horror movies, nor do I approve of them. The 1980 film Maniac was well-known for its poster art, showing the lower half of a man bearing a bloody knife, a scalp and a protruding bulge in his pants, suggesting that he enjoyed stabbing innocent women to death and then showering their bleeding bodies in semen. What filth. However, the recent remake has been getting high praise among horror fans, so I felt it was my duty to watch it. People need a reminder that violent art should not be judged for its aesthetic qualities, but rather from my own personal moral standards, which you all should share.

The film is admittedly well-made and stylish, but the words of the great James Ferman have never been more true. It’s all right for you middle-class cineastes to see this film, but what would happen if a factory worker in Manchester happened to see it? Don't be swayed by the veneer of artistic pretension. Remember who the true target audience is for such trash and how they will react - drooling ape-like men fueled by violent lustful cravings, fiercely massaging their engorged erections with grubby fists, spurting rope after rope of warm semen onto their burly bellies and into their thick chesthair. This image should always remain in the forefront of any sane mind when watching violent horror.

Adding to the worrisome nature of the film is the fact that it's almost entirely shot from the first-person perspective of a bloodthirsty psychopath. That essentially makes it a POV murder fantasy of a world where females exist for only 2 reasons: To be naked and to be killed. A worldview specifically designed so that sadists can unleash gushing fountains of semen from their tumescent penises.

Some dude watching Maniac (2012). Possibly.

 Despite bearing a semblance of a plot, the entire movie is essentially a series of murder set pieces, where women are mercilessly stalked, then brutally murdered. Some dazzling cinematography and an atmospheric musical score create a strong sense of mounting tension, mirroring the mounting tension of semen in the swollen testicles of sexual deviants across the globe. When the kills arrive, they are blunt and unforgiving. Blood splatters across women's bodies and streams in rivulets down their faces, like money shots of crimson semen, clearly meant to emulate those degrading pornographic films where women are shown as pure sex objects. Blank canvases awaiting to be painted... with semen.

One can only imagine the amount of semen that will be hatefully spurted into the world as a result of this revolting movie. From the opening kill scene, where great arcing geysers of semen will volcanically erupt from rock-hard penises, splashing onto the depraved viewer's chest and limbs. Right through to the grotesque finale, where all that's left in the viewer's drained testicles is small dribbles of semen to run down the glans, over the frenulum and fingers and scrotum, to finally soak into the couch, among other encrusted pools of semen.

Some other dude watching Maniac (2012). Probably.

 This is not a film I'd recommend. It offended me deeply. The world needs to wake up and realise that my feelings are more important than art. Enough semen has been spilled. I consider myself fortunate that I'm blessed with strong moral values and I'm mentally sound enough to resist the film's temptations. I shudder to think of what might go through the mind of a deranged pervert when they watch this reprehensible filth.

Ebert's Chaos: A review of a review

Roger Ebert was not just the greatest film critic of all time, but in fact the most amazing human being that ever lived. I would compare him to Jesus Christ, but that would be an insult to Ebert. Jesus only turned water into wine. Ebert turned language into platinum. Every letter he gave us was a gift that we should all be grateful for. He was never wrong about anything, even when he was. Especially when he was. Unlike the rest of us, he didn't type words. He typed majestic unicorns that shat rainbows covered in galloping fuzzy kittens. Those kittens galloped their way into my heart, making me a better, more loving human being.

Obviously, none of this is true, but you'd never know that from reading all the many tributes to his genius that have flooded the internet since his death. I realise that, when any celebrity dies, their flaws get understated when memorialising them. In this case, the flaws have, for the most part, been ignored altogether. I ain't down with that, so here's my take on the tragedy that started the whole filmworld crying.

 In light of Ebert's passing, I revisited his writing for 2005's Chaos, both the review and his following correspondence with the film-makers. An intensely negative review which wound up being the film's major selling point. The makers happily cherry-picked quotes from the review to splash across the DVD cover and Ebert's futile splenetic fury helped push a grimy low-budget exploitation flick into the mainstream public's eye, despite his insistence that "I urge you to avoid it". Poor old Rog' never did fully cotton on to the truism that all publicity is good publicity.

As was often the case when Ebert disliked a film, he really has nothing interesting to say about it. There's a bunch of quoting from other reviews (a truly lazy tactic for any professional film critic, one which Ebert would occasionally resort to), a brief plot outline and not much more. This was one of his major flaws - if he disliked a film, he disregarded his duties as a critic and stopped paying attention. He made the assumption that he was better than the film, as if spending an hour or two writing a review is a comparable achievement to the months-long process of making even a low-budget independent movie. In fairness to Ebert, he was a freaking good writer who actually could lay claim to creating art better than some of the drek he watched. Let's not forget, he wrote perhaps the greatest line of dialogue in cinema history. You know the one I mean. Sadly, his lofty assumed position of greatness was extremely influential and has been adopted by all manner of worthless critics, both professional and amateur.

What's more problematic is that, when the makers of Chaos suggested he didn't "get" the film, his response was an extensive merciless form of literary bullying, questioning any film-maker's responsibility in depicting "evil". A rant fueled by the same false premise that every single pro-censorship argument is built upon - the idea that morality is a purer form of human expression than art. In his original review, he asked "Why do we need this shit?" and, when pushed further on this stance, he questioned "To what end?" should evil be portrayed. Why even ask these questions? Haven't enough films and film-makers been attacked, censored and banned for these reasons? A few years after Ebert's bludgeoning of Chaos, Iranian director Jafar Panahi was imprisoned along with his family and friends, because his government felt they didn't need his shit and objected to what end its purpose may lead. Ebert lived and worked in the US, a country where artistic expression is protected by law. Others are not so lucky. 

I'd have thought that any true lover of film would feel thrilled at how fortunate they are to live in a society where all art is given the freedom to not be necessary or to not have a purpose or an end or a reason to exist. Apparently, I was wrong in this assumption.

When Ebert truly hated a film, he was unable to accept that "it's only a movie... only a movie... only a movie...". He genuinely attempted to destroy what he disliked and shamelessly used his considerable clout as semi-celebrity to achieve that goal. His review of I Spit On Your Grave (or rather, more accurately, his review of the audience he saw it with) was followed up with a campaign to have it removed from theatres in the US. His crusade against slashers aka 'dead teenager movies' contributed heavily to the stigma placed upon horror in the '80s and helped give legitimacy to David Edelstein's coining of the term 'torture porn' decades later. Not content with limiting his slammings toward only the artwork or artist, he would happily make snap moral judgements about any appreciative viewer, labelling them as morons, degenerates and people who should be avoided, simply because they enjoyed a movie that he didn't. I'm not bothered by what he hated. I'm bothered by how he hated.

 In the final piece he wrote for his website, he told us, "I'll be able at last to do what I've always fantasized about doing: reviewing only the movies I want to review." Just over a day later, he was dead. Such a shame that he didn't decide to follow his dream earlier, preferably several decades earlier. When he wrote about movies he truly had a passion for, he was very, very good indeed. One of the best there ever was, for sure. But when it came to movies he despised, he revealed himself as nothing more than a petty, vindictive book-burner.

His writings on Chaos hold a dark irony regarding his eventual fate. He wrote of the movie that it "denied the possibility of hope". He deplored that "the monster is given no responsibility, no motive, no context, no depth. Like a shark, he exists to kill." A very real monster robbed this eloquent man of his ability to talk and eat. It did so with no responsibility, no motive, no context, no depth. Several years later, at the moment when he was looking forward to a life he'd fantasized about, that same monster took everything left of him. Like a shark, cancer exists to kill. His optimism and his positivity were not enough. The possibility of hope was denied. Hope did nothing to prevent him winding up in the cold, eternal grave. Hope couldn't even prevent a douchebag like me from spitting on that grave. Chaos was proven right.

 To conclude this rant: Less than a week before Roger Ebert's death, Jess Franco also died. Franco was a fearless and truly individual artist; a renegade who spent his formative years combatting a fascist political regime with the power of art. He fought against censorship with every bone in his body and forged an unmatched enormous catalogue of work that wholeheartedly celebrated the boundary expansion of artistic freedom. In contrast to this, Ebert was born into privilege in the one of the safest, most tolerant and most free societies in human history. And he unashamedly used his position to try to restrict any artistic expression that hurt his pissy little feelings.

2 major film figures dead within the space of a week. I'll only be mourning for one of them. The other guy gets a thumbs down from me.

 

Oriental Techniques in Pain and Pleasure (1983)

Phil Prince is one seriously classy guy. I'm sure you know that already, coz you've all seen the delightful moment in The Taming of Rebecca where a dude beats his meat while his hot daughter pees on his balls. Nothing says pure class quite like a bit of incestuous watersports. Oriental Techniques in Pain and Pleasure, a later effort from the Princester, may not be his best, but by golly it's among his classiest.

Just to illustrate how classy this movie is, I'll be interspersing pics from the film with official photos of the 2011 Royal Wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. The resemblance is so uncanny that I guarantee you won't be able to tell the difference.

The royal couple

Annie Sprinkle and George Payne

The "plot" revolves around an ancient Chinese manuscript that's somehow important. We're not told why it's important, but some dudes want it for some reason so it must be real important. These guys can't even read Chinese, yet they still want the manuscript. That's how important it is. It's so important that it gets casually mentioned 3, maybe even 4 times throughout the movie.

So, Annie Sprinkle somehow gets a hold of this manuscript and obviously gets raped as a result. What a classy way to open a movie. Annie's a classy lady in general. She was one of Zebedy Colt's faves and that guy has high standards for class. Adding to the classiness is the fact that the lead rapist is George Payne, the classiest guy in history. Payne here plays against type as a deranged misogynistic pervert - quite a stretch for his thespian skills. He even goes down on her during the rape. If only all rapists were that classy. This classy cunnilingus scene also shows us Annie's clit piercing, which she received onscreen during Phil Prince's previous masterclass in class, Kneel Before Me.

The blushing bride, accompanied by a pair of gentlemanly servants

Some porno slut and a couple of rapists

Sadly, the rape doesn't get Annie to reveal anything about the important manuscript that neither she, the rapists nor the viewer know anything about. In such a situation, the rules of etiquette dictate that she be forced to fist her brother, which she does with gusto and class. She even classilly licks his balls during the fisting. That's a fine lesson in class for all viewers - if you ever find yourself elbow-deep in your bro's butthole, it's only polite to tongue the scrotum a little. Manners cost nothing.

The gorgeous one-of-a-kind ring

The gorgeous one-of-a-kind ring

 A 15-inch dildo, on the other hand, will set you back a few bucks, but a little financial outlay is inevitable when your own fist is not a classy enough tool for anal-stretching. I say splash out on the Lexington Steele model. It's worth it. You can't put a price on class, certainly not when it comes to sibling sodomy. Annie agrees with me, quite enthusiastically in fact.

After a little live cock-and-ball torture which has nothing whatsoever to do with anything else that's come beforehand, the movie reaches a satisfying conclusion. By which I mean, it abruptly ends without warning or explanation. That's cool though, because this film isn't about making sense, it's about being classy. Making sense is for philistines and degenerates. You won't find any of those here. Just a solid, if unspectacular, hit of classy perviness.

Random members of the wedding party

Some serious cock-and-ball torture

24 Hours of Explicit Sex (1985)

Back when I lived in London, I worked with a lot of Brazilian guys and they were all relentless horndogs, constantly trying to bang anything with tits and a pulse. You could have asked any of these dudes what he was thinking about, at any time of the day, and the reply would almost always be either football or pussy or both. Thus, I'm lead to believe that Brazil is one seriously horny country, hence why vaginal waxing is named after it.

A typical Thursday afternoon in Brazil

No surprise then that, during the 1980s, around 70% of the films produced in Brazil were pornos. With Coffin Joe on a hiatus, director Jose Mojica Marins decided to go with the flow, ditch the horror and embrace the fun of zooming in his camera on penises entering vaginas. When in Rome and all that...

 I watched this without subtitles, but the plot is easy enough to follow. A bunch of horny dudes devise a competition to determine which of them is the alpha sex maniac and hole up in a beach house with a bunch of cock-hungry sluts for a day-long orgy. They also bring along a fruity gay Ron Jeremy lookalike to be the judge of their sexual prowess. As with your typical Brazilian orgy, we also get a talking parrot who commentates the sex scenes and a few conversations between a talking penis and a talking vagina. Ya know, the usual. And of course, there's the obligatory scene where a chick rips a massive fart while she's being done from behind. Every porno needs a good fart joke.

Money shots are plentiful and creative, my favourite being when a dude splooges directly onto the camera lens. It's a great moment, almost like the film itself is blessing the whole audience with a good facial. My skin didn't feel any healthier afterwards, but I still appreciate the sentiment.

So far modelled after Euro sexploitation, Jose Mojica Marins decided to push things a step further. His run-ins with the Brazilian censors had previously left several of his movies eviscerated and one movie outright banned. With newly relaxed censorship laws, it was time for revenge. And so it came  to pass that Brazil's cinema audiences finally got to see their first bestiality porn scene, when the vagina of a lady of lax morals met the lipstick prick of a German Shepard named Jack. She had an ass that no male could resist, whether human or canine. He was a suave fellow with a smooth coat, a prideful gait and puppy-dog eyes that would melt the hardest heart. Together, they made history. Frantic, lustful and oh-so-wrong history. Jack's performance was so grand that screenwriter Mario Lima would later declare him "the best actor in the movie". I don't disagree.

The happy couple.

Sadly, this special moment would later be tinged by tragedy. The female performer pocketed a hefty paycheck and no doubt popped over the border to Colombia, purchasing a mountain of uncut cocaine so enormous it would've lasted Keith Moon an entire weekend. Jack, however, died soon after, under suspicious circumstances, at the tender age of 5. Rumours spread that Jack's sudden fame had angered his owner, who poisoned him under the belief that the celebrity canine pornstar was having an affair with his wife. A promising career cut short before it had even begun.

Farewell, sweet prince.

Nevertheless, 24 Hours of Explicit Sex was Marins's biggest ever box-office hit, thus proving my theory that Brazilians are all dirty sexopaths. The groundbreaking bestiality scene opened the floodgates for Brazil's extreme porn scene that flourished in the following decades. The country later produced works like 2 Girls 1 Cup and 4 Girls Fingerpaint, easily the two most famous scat clips in history. They also gave us Human Snot Tissue, generally considered by the planet Earth's 7 snot fetishists to be the ultimate experience in snot porn. In recent times, they've also become the only country to combine bestiality with scat. Just to unnecessarily spell that out for you, that means hot nubile babes chowing down on animal excrement for your erotic viewing pleasure. Ain't the human race grand??

Jose Mojica Marins, hard at work.

Inventing New Words

 
Ever heard of a British dude named William Shakespeare? He's perhaps best known for providing the original story that Lloyd Kaufman's Tromeo and Juliet was based on. 

Yep, Shakespeare totally wrote that shit.

But what many people don't know is that Shakespeare also invented a fucking fuckton of words for the English language. Words like 'besmirch', 'obsequiously' and 'honorificabilitudinitatibus'. Where would we be without the word 'honorificabilitudinitatibus'? Somewhere fucked, that's where.

An example of what somewhere fucked looks like.

So, much like Shakespeare, I've decided to invent a few words which you'll soon wonder how you ever lived without. Here goes -

Snedge, verb
1. To stimulate the perineum of another with the tip of one's nose.
Example: "Consuela lightly perfumed her anus before her date, just in case Horatio was in the mood to snedge her after dinner."

Encunten,  verb
1. To make an orifice more vaginal in appearance and structure, usually for the purpose of penetration.
Example: "Bjorn used a power drill to encunten Svetlana's corpse's ear canal, then immediately commenced fuckenisation of her brain matter."

Dude getting his cranium encuntenned. Courtesy of Lucio Fulci.

See, it's easy! Another fun way to create new words is simply to mash together two previously existing words. Popular examples of this include 'fucktard' and 'twatmuffin'. Here's a couple more -

Glump, noun
1. Great or larger than average sized lumps.
Example: "After rewatching Mysterious Skin, Abraham spent the next hour cleaning glumps of jism from his walls and ceiling."

Misogerrific, adjective
1. Displaying hatred of women in a fun or enjoyable manner.
Example: "Everyone present at Cannes agreed that David Hess's performance as Krug was misogerrific."

The physical embodiment of misogerrificness.

It's also fun to apply new meanings to pre-existing words. Like the following -

Polarise, verb
1. To cause or undergo the production of two contrary tendencies, qualities, etc.
Example: "Ebola Syndrome polarised audiences into two camps - those who didn't consider it one of the greatest movies ever made, and those who have common sense and opinions that don't suck."
2. To swiftly hurl a rabid baby polar bear directly into someone's face.
Example: "Wolfgang Jungerfelt III became depressed after being savagely polarised, but soon discovered that his mutilated nose gave him a unique talent for giving snedgejobs."

The soul-crushing deathstare of a beast that can't wait to be a tool of polarisation.

The moral of this post? Don't just lie back and accept the words you've been given. We have 26 letters to use and an infinite number of possibilities for how to use them. The sky's the limit. Be like Shakespeare and make the English language your bitch. Maybe, just maybe, you'll create a word that your great-great-grandchildren will be using on a daily basis.

Shakespeare in an honorificabilitudinitatibus pose.

Shivers (1975)

Sex is such an intrinsic part in the existence of all multi-cellular biological organisms that any artist attempting to even remotely tackle the broad topic of the human condition, in any worthwhile way, inevitably has to focus on the topic of sex at some point. You may disagree, but fact is if it weren't for your dad splooging baby juice up your mom's love chasm, then you wouldn't have the benefit of existence which is the most basic requirement for disagreement. Denying the importance of sex is to deny your own existence. That's just stupid. So, every great director needs to have a sex movie. It doesn't necessarily have to be a good movie, but it's too important a subject for any great artist to ignore. That's not my opinion, that's a simple fact. Romero has Martin. Henenlotter has Bad Biology. Hitchcock has Marnie. Craven has Last House. John Woo has that one where dudes gaze longingly into each others eyes during a gunfight. Spielberg has Hook. Kubrick has Full Metal Jacket. The Japanese guy who directed Gusomilk has Gusomilk. All great directors; all movies that ask the viewer to mentally purchase a one-way train ticket from Boner Central to Ejaculationville.

Cronenberg stands alone in the above company, because he automatically realises the importance of sex and instills it into almost all of his movies. He's the only director brave enough to faithfully film Crash, the most subversive pornographic novel of the 20th century. He managed to remake a fairly staid Vincent Price classic whilst still including a scene where Jeff Goldblum uses his newly-discovered insectile stamina to provide waves of pleasure to Geena Davis's coochie. Even with A History of Violence, based on a wholly non-sexual graphic novel, the Cronester managed to insert 2 sex scenes which tell us more about the characters than every other scene combined. So while Shivers is not Cronie's definitive sex movie, it still holds the distinction of being his first sex movie.

Shivers begins in a luxurious apartment complex with some elderly doctor dude murderlyzing the shit out of an androgynous looking young woman. I honestly thought she was a boy until the movie kindly shows us her pert bewbs. We learn the doc had created a bunch of squiggly phallic dick creatures that greatly enhance sexual urges in the human brain, and this teen girl (the movie assures us she's 19, but I still felt a little guilty jerking off to her) was the test subject for implanting these sexual parasites. Turns out these creatures are a little too effective and turn their hosts into rape-crazy sex zombies. Adding to the urgency of the horror is the fact that this chick is... well, let's just say that in a game of D&D, she'd be a Level 69 Temptress with a +4 Snatch of Priapism Envelopment. Yeah, she's a total slut who's been boning a number of guys in the bulding.

It's here where Cronenberg wisely leaves the method of parasite transmission to our imagination. Naturally, the immediate image brought to mind is of a horny whore who resembles a 14 year old boy vigorously tonsil-massaging a succession of old guys wizened boners, frantically urethra-tongueing baby worms down their dickholes while she delicately caresses their hanging, wrinkled ballsacks; the parasite's boring into these middle-aged testicles and forming a nest, just as those same testicles' soon-to-be ejected contents will be hungrily gobbled down to rest in her stomach and be consumed by digestive juices. I'm sure you all thought the same. Then again, I tend to think about that sort of thing regardless of what movie I'm watching, so maybe I'm being a little presumptuous.

Later in the film, when it turns out the parasites can be transmitted in the mouth-to-mouth fashion, we're once again asked to conjure up images of the unseen act. A mental cavalcade of buff muscular straight guys finding their inner gay and lovingly fellating these phallic organisms from both sides like a double-ended dildo, occasionally daring to touch lips in the centre during their sensual suck-of-war; lesbians overcoming their fear of the phallus to perform the same; taboo-shattering incestuous couplings where family members lock mouths while a disembodied cock creature travels from one throat to the next. Thoroughly vivid imagery for viewers with pornographically inclined imaginations. Even the way the creatures manifest in the body is somewhat sexual - a presence in the abdomen that bulges up under the stomach muscles. An all too familiar sight for anyone who's seen any extreme fisting porn.

Cronenberg has since admitted that he sides with the parasites and it shows in the movie. Consider that the "hero" single-handedly kills more people than all the infected folk combined do. Alls the sex zombies want to do is bang anything with a pulse, while the guy we're supposed to be cheering for puts bullets into whomever he considers a threat. Here's a very simple life lesson: Sex is awesome. Murder is most definitely not awesome, and is in fact the single shittiest thing that one human being can do to another. So it's entirely fitting that the traditional hero's journey in this movie ends with his death, or rather 'turning', in a swimming pool full of hot horny naked chicks. And this scene plays out not as any kind of tragedy, but more like a baptism ceremony. Ask yourself, is there a single other filmmaker on the planet more uniquely and subversively pro-sex than Cronenberg?

The finale culminates in all the poontastic sex zombies driving out to spread their wonderful infection to the rest of the world. The parasites go global. Every country on the planet becomes infested with sex-mad psychotics shagging every uninfected being, whether they like it or not. Sex in the streets. Sex in your home. Sex in your workplace. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex... Eventually, we all become hosts. The entire globe unites in a singular moment where 6 billion people all simultaneously orgasm. The worldwide epidemic of jizz-soaked shuddering ecstasy knocks Earth out of orbit with the sun. Our world spins off aimlessly into space. Gravity dissipates and we all float away into oblivion, post-coital cigarettes still clutched between our lips. I can't think of a better way for the human race to become extinct.

Once again, the movie leaves the ending to our imagination, and this is just my personal thoughts.

Anyway, to summarise, if you like sex, then you'll like Shivers. If you don't like sex then... you probably haven't read this far and are currently making yourself a hot cup of Darjeeling before settling in for a satisfying night of finishing your latest cross-stitch. Good for you. I'm off to go jerk it to midget porn now. Thanks for reading.

Nekro (1998)

Aaah, corpse fucking. Cadaver boning. Postmortem poon pounding. Givin’ stiff to the stiff. Whatever you want to call it, fact is that a bit of good old necrophilia onscreen tends to be a divider among audiences. In fact, I’ve never heard anyone say “Y’know dude, regarding the subject of necrophilia in cinema, I have no strong feelings one way or the other”. Not one single person has ever said that sentence to me. No joke. 

I’m a big fan of dead body banging myself. Nothing says taboo quite like seeing some perve gettin jiggy with the dearly departed. But it’s definitely a love it or hate it kinda thing. So really, all I need to say about Nekro is that about a third of its 15 minute running time is devoted to showing a deceased broad have rather untender love made to her, and you’ll already know if you want to watch it or not. A review would be fairly redundant. But I’m gonna give you one anyway. Aren’t I nice?!

So Nekro starts off with some dude, our ‘hero’, bringing home a date in his van. Not bringing her home in an asking her in for coffee kind of way, but more in a carrying her unconscious body through the front door sense. He slowly drags her up some stairs, before the screen cuts to black and we get a short philosophical speech about how lust leads to anger and other such uncontrollable urges. A short note about the sound effects at this point: There’s a constant roar of demonic howls and laughter, presumably meant to illustrate the internal soundtrack to this psycho’s mind, that continues for almost the entire duration of the film. And it’s pretty damn effective. It sounds a little like the Deadites in the first Evil Dead only more cacophonous and chilling.

Anyway, the young lady wakes up in a dark room and has a little panic attack, before our Lancelot comes in and stabs her an unnerving number of times. It’s a brutal little sequence, with geysers of blood spewing everywhere, drenching both of them from head to toe. The FX are damn good, especially for such an obviously low-budget production. Now’s when things start to get icky. Really icky. You may want to consider not reading any further....

Still here? Ha, you sicko! So anyway, our young hero’s first port of call is to get this nubile young lady lubed up. Let’s face it, when your foreplay technique involves kidnapping a woman and mercilessly stabbing her in the chest, then vaginal fluid flowage is going to be minimal to say the least. So, he follows the time-honoured tradition of hocking a couple of loogys into his hand and smearing them on in there. I was pleased to see this classy move finally get a bit of mainstream recognition in the Oscar-nominated Brokeback Mountain. In fact, I’d say Ang Lee was heavily influenced by this film. Yeah.

Next, our libertine stoops down to give a little oral pleasure. Why does he do this? Maybe he feels a tinge of remorse for murdering this innocent and wants to make it up to her in some small way, like when douchebags hit their girlfriends and then give a teary-eyed speech about how they’re just so in love that they can’t control their emotions. Or maybe he’s just a revolting pervert. I’m going with the latter. She’s somewhat unresponsive throughout this, not even giving the obligatory “Mmm, yeah baby, that’s nice!”, so he has to imagine her squeals of delighted glee. Even when he’s finished, he’s forced to do all the work himself in getting his soldier to stand to attention. Dead chicks ‘ey? So goddamn selfish.

We finally get to the coitus itself, and it’s lengthy, ugly and a little sickening. If your neighbour happens to peer through your living room window while this is onscreen, you’ll have a very difficult time convincing that you’re mentally sound. In fact, they’ll probably move house just to get away from you. It’s very grim indeed. There’s a final twist, which I won’t spoil, but it doesn’t make much sense anyway. Despite its silliness, it does make for an extremely intense finale.

So that’s Nekro. It’s twisted, sick and actually pretty damn good. The duo who made it, Vince Roth and Mick Nards, certainly have a great deal of talent and sadly haven’t produced anything since. Overall, if you found Aftermath to be too beautiful to be disturbing, then give this one a try.