[Rec]

Comparable to H.P. Lovecraft at his very best and infused with some of the most devastating jump scares known to cinema, [Rec] is a relentless and exhausting film that never ceases to scare and excite.

TV reporter Angela Vidal, fantastically played by the effervescent Manuela Velasco, is assigned to do a story about a fire house for a local TV show. While taping the show, the firemen receive a call about an elderly woman trapped in her apartment, and the TV crew tags along on the call. At the building they are joined by the police. When they try to talk to the old woman, who, by the way, is wearing only a nightgown and is covered in blood, she attacks and bites one of the policemen. From there, everything goes to Hell very quickly.

Angela and the other firemen carry the injured policeman down the stairs only to find that the health department has sealed the building; no one comes in, no one gets out. Hysteria ensues. Vague explanations and warnings are doled out via megaphones by the inspectors outside, sirens blare and flashing lights blind, everyone is shouting, the camera is shaking and being shoved by a nervous officer, and, to make matters worse, a fireman falls down the circular stairwell from at least three stories up and lands with a crash and accompanying screams, one of the many perfectly timed and executed scares in the film.

This first attack occurs about thirteen minutes into the film, after we've watched Angela and the firemen hanging out, eating dinner, playing basketball. We've gotten to know them a bit and seen them having fun, so we can genuinely care for their safety. Later, after the old woman is killed, the injured men stabilized as best as possible, and all the exits verified to be sealed, another period of calm takes place, where Angela interviews several of the tenants, including a Chinese couple, a sick seven-year-old, and a suave but somewhat prejudice older man. These people are now made characters rather than glorified extras, allowing us to care about them.

A fireman has a toolbox containing an axe and a mallet, and one policeman has one pistol. That is all the weaponry used in the entire film. Everyone trapped in this building is as vulnerable as possible. The only things with which they can defend themselves are their hands, minds, and whatever small trinket that happens to be lying around. They are sealed in like lab rats, entirely cut off from the outside world save for one health inspector who comes in to take blood samples. There is no cavalry coming to rescue them. They are utterly alone.

Once the health inspector enters the building, he first tends to the injured officer and fireman. While giving them some sort of injection, they jump back to life and attack the inspector and the medical intern helping him. Later we learn that it's the sick girl and her dog who first spawned this sickness, and she violently attacks her mother, biting her eye right out of its socket! The violent, frenzied delirium resumes, and does not cease.

I must admit that some of the scares feel a tad gratuitous. The lights will go out and then come right back on just before the scare. Ever so briefly I feel that I'm being picked on by a bully who keeps yelling "boo" loudly next to my ear, only instead of being annoyed I'm terrified. But the scares are so well timed and well set up that they keep scaring me, no matter how many times I'm hit with it. It keeps the fright and insanity going; the hairs on the back of my neck are given no time to relax and fall limp.

Angela and Pablo the cameraman are forced to escape into the penthouse of the building, which is nothing short of a meticulously-decorated Lovecraftian mad scientist's lab of horrors. Dozens of newspaper clippings are hung on the walls relating to the possession and exorcism of a Portuguese girl, among many other disturbing readings, tools and equipment. There's even a tape recording of a scientist describing an experiment. All very strange, confusing and eerie.

The light atop the camera, which has been used marvelously throughout the film as a plot device, finally goes out, and Pablo has to switch to night vision. He can see, but only through the camera; Angela can see nothing. Out of a dark recess within this penthouse walks some tall monstrosity that may have been a human at one point, but now only barely resembles a human. It lumbers toward Pablo and Angela, wielding a hammer.

I'd tell you what happens next, but it'd spoil the experience for you, if you'd even believe me. One of the best examples of the shaky-cam, or acknowledgement-of-camera, genre, [Rec] is an all-out blast, a thrill ride of terrifying proportions. Watch it alone, in the pitch dark if you dare, but you may wanna notify your neighbors that this movie will be the reason for your screams.

Oscar's Roundup

The 83rd Academy Awards are this Sunday. As one could reasonably guess from my previous film reviews, I've never been a huge fan of the types of films that tend to dominate the Oscars. In light of that fact, I thought it's be interesting to give my picks of which films I feel are deserving of the Academy's awards.

Having now seen seven of the ten nominees for Best Picture, I have to say that Black Swan is by far the best film of the year. The cinematography and art direction are relentless and amazing, Natalie Portman is nothing short of breathtaking, the sound and visual effects are impeccable, Mila Kunis and Vincent Cassel are wonderful supporters to Portman, and the suspense is nearly unbearable. Sadly, Black Swan is only the seventh most nominated film, receiving snubs in several categories; Vincent Cassel deserved a Best Supporting Actor nomination, and the film should've gotten art direction and sound mix nods, if not won those categories. However, Black Swan still takes home awards for Best Film, Best Actress for Natalie Portman, Best Director for Darren Aronofsky, and best cinematography.

My second favorite film of the year would have to be Inception. It really seems that the Academy and I just don't agree this year, because I felt Inception was also heavily snubbed. No nomination for Leonardo DiCaprio as Best Actor, nothing for director Christopher Nolan, and no nod for Best Editing, which was perhaps the most remarkable part of the film. Inception still manages to earn my vote for Best Direct Screenplay, Sound Mixing and Visual Effects, but deserved a bit more recognition.

Even though I can't fully approve of The Social Network because of its twisting of the truth, I still must give the film its props. Jesse Eisenberg takes home the Best Actor trophy in a tough choice over James Franco for 127 Hours, and the film also wins for its adapted screenplay, its editing (thanks to Inception's snub), and Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross's impressive score. Also, Andrew Garfield deserved a Supporting Actor nomination for his performance.

Geoffrey Rush takes the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor for The King's Speech, a performance that managed to overshadow his lead actor Colin Firth. King's Speech also wins by default for art direction, with Black Swan snubbed and out of the way. Although the role is arguably more of a lead role, Hailee Steinfeld wins Best Supporting Actress for her performance in True Grit, and the film also takes home the award for Best Costume Design.

Given my love for horror and otherwise contentious films, and given the Academy's continued ignoring of such films with only a couple exceptions, I've accepted that I'll never agree fully with the Academy's choices. But, now that I've expanded my tastes in movies to almost all genres and types, and my love for the art form as a whole has grown, I thought that my tastes would've gotten closer to those of the Academy than they have.

I think this is due to the fact that the Academy gets so hung up on biographical dramas. Or at least fictional dramas with a strong lead character, particularly one who has a strange accent or some other funny way of speaking. The Social Network, The King's Speech, Winter's Bone, 127 Hours, True Grit and The Fighter all fit this bill. It's not that I don't like these films; I often do. It's that they're so character- and actor-driven that they leave little room for things like art direction, cinematography and all the other technical things for which the Academy hands out awards. This is the Academy's pattern, and so now their most-nominated films are somewhat interchangeable, if not with each other than with winners from previous years. Where's the innovation? The controversy? The experimentation?

Two films came out in 2010 that I want to mention that would certainly get some nominations if I were running things. One is Frozen, a suspenseful thriller about three friends stuck on a ski lift. The sheer terror created in this movie from its music, sound effects and camera work is among the most palpable and intense I've ever experienced in a film. Such a visceral reaction from simple things like particularly its sound mix; isn't that something worthy of an award? The other film is The Killer Inside Me, a harrowing film about a Texas sheriff trying to hold at bay his serial killer side. The screenplay is intricate, detailed and thought-provoking, and it's brought to life by a wonderful lead performance by Casey Affleck and terrific neo-noir cinematography.

Alas, these two marvelous films received no recognition from the Academy. Understandable; the Academy stays away from horror like a plague, and Killer Inside Me, although not quite horror, is too dark and violent for the Academy to ever get near. I could list a dozen more great titles from the last few years that got no recognition from the Academy because they were too controversial, violent or experimental. The Academy wants to award the films that are best able to continue and perfect the standard tradition of American filmmaking that has changed very little since the 1930s, and more or less rejects anything too revolutionary.

Despite this vexation, I'm still gonna watch the Oscars this Sunday; it's an industry must. But I will take in the Academy's choices for each category and the entire Oscar experience with the giant grain of salt that it requires.

The King's Speech

The King's Speech is the charming, twelve-time Oscar-nominated film about a soon-to-be king overcoming his stammer through the help of a speech therapist. It basically boils down to the standard and overdone "overcoming adversity" storyline that for whatever reason the Academy seems to drool over (which I'll address in more detail in my upcoming Oscars roundup).

This movie pretty much starts and ends with its performances (although there are a few other nice trinkets). Colin Firth gives a very genuine performance as King George VI, or "Bertie." The pressures he feels of becoming the new king and having to deal with his speech impediment come across absolutely, and his stammering speech is thoroughly convincing. Firth is very good, but Geoffrey Rush in the supporting role of speech coach Lionel Logue overshadows Firth in many of the scenes they share. Rush brings such a lightheartedness and humanity to the role, and is really the one to bring Bertie around despite his insecurities and self-doubts. Considering the roles both actors were given, Rush brought much more to the table than did Firth. Helena Bonham Carter was good as well, but was given too little screen time to really showcase or judge her performance.

Due in part to Rush's performance, the film had a charming humor to it that I wasn't expecting. There were quite a bit of comic relief that made the film more accessible, such as Lionel's wordplay and jokes and the swearing tirade Bertie goes on as a speech therapy technique; how often to you get to hear The Duke of York say "fuck" ten times in one minute? It was a bit out of place at times, particularly near the end, preparing for his first speech as king, but overall it was a nice touch.

Bertie's speech impediment also serves as a nice metaphor for the difference between nobility and the common man. Bertie's older brother Edward, his predecessor as king, resigns so that he may marry his love, a divorced woman. Bertie feels strongly the pressures of the Royal Family, while his brother hands over the crown so that he may marry his love. Edward has learned how to balance the stresses of nobility with his passions; Bertie has not. The pressure he feels as king and his desire to be like the common man causes his indecision, and hence his stammer.

This metaphor is understandable, but it's not all that relatable, especially in this age and place. Most of us cannot relate to the amount of pressure that exists in having to be the voice for an entire nation. In this country, at least, the pressures of nobility and family heritage are non existent unless you happen to have a former president or multi-billionaire in your family tree. The most basic ideas of conflict and pressure comes across in the film, but the specific degrees and natures of those pressures are from an antiquated society, and not easily relatable to today's moviegoer.

The photography in the film is worth discussing. There are many nicely composed and angled shots in terms of where the actors are in frame, but the art direction is not very noteworthy. There isn't a lot of symbolism, if any, used in the photography. The design of the costumes and sets puts you into 1920s Britain, but the photography is not used to really drive home the themes and tensions at work in the story. Given that the film is not extremely relatable, some cinematography that helps convey the stress that Bertie feels would have greatly helped the viewer understand his plight.

 

The King's Speech mostly amounts to a film that exists to showcase a great performance, which kind of bothers me. Films should be about the combination of story-telling and photography; this is the simple nature of film because of the combining of visual and auditory mediums, and those two aspects need to be in balance. When photography isn't given much importance, and story-telling and acting are given heavy importance, you might as well be watching a play. Even if you accept that, you're left with a play in which the dominant performance comes from a supporting actor, a play that's difficult to relate to.

 

The King's Speech is a good film that I enjoyed watching, but I wouldn't really pay to see it again or buy the DVD, and I certainly wouldn't give it twelve Oscar nods.

Senseless

A somewhat hidden gem of a film, Senseless is a 2008 film from director Simon Hynd. It's based on a novel by Stona Fitch about an American capitalist, Eliott Gast (played by Jason Behr), who is kidnapped, held captive and tortured by a terrorist. The terrorist describes Eliott as a "man of the senses," and so he, over the course of the film, removes each of his senses, all while commanding Eliott to confess his sins as an American imperialist to the live Internet audience.

When we first meet Eliott, he appears to be like any other wealthy American businessman. He's having dinner with presumably clients in Paris, talking about wines. He admits he used to work for the government, but playfully says the details are classified. Once he's kidnapped, all the audience can realistically convict him of is a bit of greed. Once we meet his captor, nicknamed only in the credits as Blackbeard, a charismatic, cocksure man concealed by a stark black mask covering his eyes, spouting anti-American rhetoric, Elliot's sins are quickly forgotten in the face of this frightening man (expertly played by Joe Ferrara).

Once we reach the first torture scene, in which Eliott's tongue is burned with an iron, we see the fear and desperation on Elliot's face, making the scene all the more unbearable. Sound and gore effects throughout the film are impeccable; not one of the five torture sequences are watchable without some sort of squeal or scream, even from the most seasoned gore-hound, and it's because you're there. The sounds and Eliott's wonderfully sympathetic performance puts you right there as each of his senses are destroyed one by one.

Later in the film it is revealed that Eliott is a bit more guilty than we were led to believe; he gave bad loans to foreign governments, making them politically indebted to America. By this point in the film, though, Eliott has suffered so much and been through such hell at the hands of such a cruel and hate-filled man that we're all too willing to forgive him.

This film is really a giant ball of energy and tension, and much of the energy and tension is created through the plot. Most films create a lot of their excitement through music and quick edits. This film does that also, but the passion shown by Blackbeard in his emotionally-charged anti-American propaganda, and the anger desperation he's able to draw out of Eliott compound the stress and tension of the film, making the peaks and valleys, twists and turns of this roller-coaster ride even higher and even more turbulent.

The sense of foreboding in the film is incredible. The paradigm of the five senses is established within the first twenty minutes of the film. Therefore we know what tortures will be coming, creating an unbelievable amount of anticipation. Also the cover of the DVD has the tagline "Removing an eye is easy. All it takes is a confident man and a coffee spoon." Once we see that written on the wall of Eliott's room toward the end of the film, we know what's coming; we're just not sure when and how. We wait, wondering how it's gonna happen, how much we're gonna see. When the eye removal finally comes, just after a devastating betrayal by a supposedly helpful liaison-slash-nurse, we are paralyzed with fear (I'll save the gory details for inside the film).

Senseless is one of the most exhausting movie experiences I've ever endured. However, I am fully aware that the film has its flaws. The story brings with it many of the conventions and clichés of the trapped-in-a-room movies such as Saw, and has too many side and background themes for it to really cohere into a polemic. But the film is remarkable just for its insane torture sequences, in addition to its excitement and political fury, and not to mention a mesmerizing denouement that I'll leave for you to see for yourselves.

Memento

It's a movie told backwards. That's unique and inventive. That makes it amazing. Right?

Actually, no it doesn't. And it's not even that unique or inventive. Several films have used this story-telling device, Gaspar Noé's Irreversible for one, and used it to better effect.

In Memento the story-telling device makes sense thematically. He has no short term memory, so he loses place of where he is and what he's doing and has to figure that out from his notes, photographs and tattoos. He's trying to build what's going on without knowing what just happened, and so is the viewer. The problem in doing that is it makes the storyline insanely difficult to follow, especially when the story is this intricate and complex. Even those who are able to follow the story feel as if their mind had just run a marathon.

The difference, though, between a marathon and Memento, is that after completing a marathon the runner is rewarded for his or her feat with a sense of accomplishment. Memento doesn't reward the viewer with enough deepness or amazing photography or overwhelming performances to compensate for the mental gymnastics he or she had to do to simple understand the story.

The ultimate conclusion or statement behind the film is that we all lie to ourselves; we "make our own realities." The twist that reveals this idea is surprising, as almost all twists are, but that's because it comes out of nowhere. For a twist to really hit home, there needs to be doubt in the minds of the viewer concerning the subject matter of the twist, like in The Sixth Sense or Fight Club. Otherwise the twist is just forced upon the viewer, and more or less evokes the same reaction as a deus ex machina; a feeling of being cheated. If you're gonna make me run through hoops like this, you gotta give me something more profound than "I make my own reality."

Christopher Nolan is usually pretty understated with his cinematography, but 

here, because the story is so tough to follow, he has to be extra sparse with it. The audience is just following the story, and has no beautiful photography to marvel at along the way. Also Guy Pearce's dead pan performance is a little off. Dead pan acting usually suggests an inner conflict which leads to indecision and a sense of not knowing how to feel. Lenny doesn't really seem to suffer from this conflict. He's supposed to be chasing his wife's murderer; why is he so calm and restrained in doing so? Shouldn't he be more angry, aggressive and frantic?

It's somewhat frustrating to feel obligated to make the comparison between Memento and Irreversible, but due to the similar and rare device we are forced. Irreversible succeeds with this device where Memento fails for several reasons. The story of Irreversible is much simpler and more straightforward--it's easier to follow when told backward. The cinematography of Irreversible is amazing, allowing us to marvel at it and keep us going while we try to put together the story. The argument behind Irreversible for hard determinism--"Time destroys everything"--is much stronger and more hard-hitting than "I make my own reality." Vincent Cassel in Irreversible is also chasing his lover's killer, but is more emotional and desperate than Pearce in his pursuit, as someone in such a dire position should be. These differences admittedly are in part due to the different tones of the two movies, but it still seams that Irreversible and other achronological films, such as Nacho Vigalondo's Timecrimes, were later able to fine-tune this story-telling concept and make it more compelling and meaningful.

There is no question that Memento deserves an "A" for effort. The script is intricate, detailed and precise, and the scenes in black and white that are played forward, with Pearce on the phone with the cops, and wonderfully done. But you have to ask just how much does the film gain by being unraveled in reverse? The story was be just as compelling and meaningful if it were told forward, and the audience wouldn't have headaches trying to put together scenes in reverse order.

Audition

If I can be frank about it, Takashi Miike's Audition is one of the ten best movies I have ever seen. It is one of those rare films that manages to leave the viewer with no sense of reality, no sense of place. The viewer is left to try to decipher what one has just seen, and even if one is unable to do so, one knows what they saw was amazing.

 

Audition is about a man's (Aoyama) search for a new wife seven years after his first wife's death. His friend, a movie producer, suggests that they hold a fake audition so that he can meet a good woman. Aoyama immediately falls for Asami Yamazaki, a very shy but beautiful former ballerina. After the audition he calls her and they go out for lunch. He says he'll call her again and have dinner.

Until this point in the story, the film is shot like a straightforward romantic drama, which it pretty much was. Once we see inside Asami's apartment, the the film gets much more expressive and threatening: color and light are more purposeful, angles become harsher, sound effects more startling. Her apartment is very bare, with wallpaper peeling off the walls. She's seated on the floor, eagerly staring at her phone. There's a giant oddly-shaped sack on the floor behind the phone. Once the phone finally rings, she smiles, and something in the bag growls and begins to roll around; a wonderfully-timed jump scare.

After that follows a seemingly random series of dates, vacations and encounters between Aoyama and Asami. Some of them show Asami as a shy and awkward but ultimately sweet and devoted girl. Some show her as the victim of her ballet teacher's torture when she was young and the probable murderer of her former boss. One scene shows Aoyama and Asami in her apartment, where a man missing three fingers, an ear and his tongue crawls out of the aforementioned sack, and Asami vomits into a bowl and feeds it to him. By this time, no one watching, and especially not Aoyama, has the slightest idea who the real Asami is.

Then we jump to one of the most frightening torture scenes ever filmed. Asami has poisoned Aoyama, leaving him paralyzed but able to feel. She has donned a black leather apron, boots and elbow-high gloves; give her a wimp and she'll be your dominatrix. She begins by placing acupuncture needles under his rib cage and behind his eyeballs, all while repeating the incredibly creepy but cheerful chant "kiri kiri kiri kiri kiri," meaning "deeper, deeper." Then she slowly removes his foot with razor-thin piano wire, and with a cute, gleeful and insane smile from ear to ear.

During the torture scene, Aoyama's son walks in, and we jump to Aoyama waking up in bed next to Asami in the hotel where they vacationed earlier in the film. It seems it's all been a dream. But no. After Asami lovingly accepts his marriage proposal, we jump back to the torture scene. Aoyama's son is then able to subdue her and call the police.

This film to me is a struggle with misanthropy, and particularly hatred toward the opposite sex. Aoyama, after losing his wife to illness, is terrified of dating again. He falls for Asami, but has no idea what to expect from her. He hopes that it goes well, and that hope is reflected in the scenes in which Asami is fully normal and falling in love with him. But he fears for the worst, and that is why he imagines the worst case scenarios of her being a torture victim as a child and a serial killer as an adult. His guilt forces him to imagine Asami as his feminist housekeeper, his late wife whom he feels he is betraying, his desperate secretary with whom he had a one-night stand. He fears that women will see men as inferior, as emotionless, as liars, in any negative way at all.

Asami is guilty of this misanthropy as well. She repeats throughout the film her fear that she will find him "heavy," as some sort of burden. If we take as true any of the abuse she suffered at the hands of her ballet instructor, which cost her the one thing that gave her joy as a child, she has an obvious and understandable hatred and fear of men. Not so much a physical fear of men, but a fear of being rejected by men, of being alone. It's this fear that causes her to be so shy and awkward around Aoyama.

But in the end, even after the horrible torture, hope springs eternal. After Asami repeats her fears and lamentations, Aoyama assures her "Someday you'll feel that life is wonderful. That's life, isn't it?" The last image we see is Asami as a child putting on her ballet slipper, are reminded of the happiest time in her life, and then credits roll.

The ability of this film to exist both in the real and surreal planes, the blur the line so well between what's seen and what's imagined by its characters, and the statement it makes about finding hope and beauty in life even after such atrocities, combined with the amazing sound effects, performances and cinematography, are what make this film so singular and so mesmerizing.

The Fighter

Shakespeare once said that there are only seven stories ever to be told. This means that since the eighth story ever imagined by humankind, we have been copying and repeating ourselves. Extrapolate that to the year 2011, and we have no hope for complete originality. Even still, can we try a little harder, people.

Taken by itself, The Fighter is a good movie. Mark Wahlberg and Christian Bale both give terrifically sympathetic performances, and fit well within the ensemble that is the Ward family and the entire city of Lowell (despite the somewhat annoying New England accent the cast is forced to feign). All the documentary-style moving camera and point-of-view shots really help to give you a sense of humanity and a connection with the characters, and the music does well to get you excited for each of Wahlberg's matches.

But, treated as one work within a medium, the film is incredibly predictable. Wahlberg's character is the stereotypically unassuming up-and-comer stuck in his star brother's shadow. Bale's is the standard over-the-hill douchebag-with-a-heart-of-gold still clinging to whatever faint glimmer of stardom that he can. Melissa Leo plays the typical unwittingly-overbearing mother trying to keep the family together by managing her son's career, and Amy Adams the hot young girlfriend competing with Walhberg's mother for his affection and control over his career. Any experienced moviegoer will be easily able to foresee which scenes are coming next, and there's never any doubt in the audience's mind whether Wahlberg will win his fights.

This creates within me a conundrum. I know the movie is formulaic, but it still manages to draw emotion out of me. Even though I was certain what the outcome of Wahlberg's fights would be, I still found myself fist-pumping in the theater when his opponents fell to the mat. Why is that? It's certainly not out of surprise; my disbelief was never really suspended. And is this experience of emotion enough to make it worthwhile to sit through a two-hour film?

Most of the time I would say no. I tend to find much more enjoyment in watching films that experiment with somewhat original story lines, camera techniques, etc; ones that take some chances, even if they end up falling flat. Even if you weren't able to succeed with your movie, at least you went against the grain and possibly influenced someone out there who can take your film and perfect the things that you attempted.

Accepting the fact that it brings nothing new to the table, I did nevertheless enjoy my viewing of The Fighter. Something about it got to me, even though it's not particularly relatable to me. It's probably Christian Bale's performance, which is, again, outstanding--Bale, and everyone else, watching his documentary in prison is extremely powerful and heartbreaking. In the end there will always be screens available in the world's cinemas for films that can execute the film-making textbook as well as The Fighter does.

Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom

Where does one begin the dubious task of reviewing Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom? I guess a reasonable place to begin is with a brief synopsis for those who do not know the film.

 

Salò in its most basic definition is about a group of fascists occupying an area of Northern Italy just before the second World War. What these fascists like to do to pass the time is to abduct teenagers from the area, bring them to their lavish estate, and subject them to their perversions, which are without a doubt the most disgusting and debauched perversions known to human kind. Many of their perversions have something or other to do with defecation; any further detail I will leave to your imagination.

The easy path in thinking about a film so abhorrent is simply not to. And this is the path chosen by many who are forced to experience this film. Once fine appears on the screen, if they got that far, they immediately reach for a handle of their favorite alcohol, down it, and try to pick up the shards of their broken life as best they can. But I, never one to do anything half-assed, am fully willing to dive head first into Pier Paolo Pasolini's controversial picture.

The fascists try in every way they can to dehumanize their subjects. They disallow them any religious observance, intercourse with each other, any dignity equal even to that of a dog. Does Pasolini do this to show the horrors of fascism? The abuses of the bourgeoisie? The capability for perversion and despicable behaviors that exist within us all? I don't think so.

I see all these things listed as red herrings that serve only to further enough of a story line to keep the viewer going. I think this film exists solely to see just how far the envelope can be pushed, to see what the definition of gratuitous truly is.

I come to this conclusion based on a few things. The fascists show no icons to confirm that they're indeed fascists: no swastikas, so hammer and sickles, no paintings of Mussolini, Hitler or any other dictator. They show little rhetoric indicative of fascism. The audience isn't told to which nation or party the group belongs. The male fascists are only given arbitrary political titles, such as "Duke," "Magistrate" and "President." All this suggests to me the fact that these villains are fascists is immaterial.

The photography is so matter-of-fact. Long shots dominate the film, meant to showcase the large "orgy room" and all the depravity happening within it. The camera is used solely to record what's happening. There are no extravagant camera movements, no interesting edits; there's only one memorably harsh angle, at the beginning of the film that emphasizes that the teens are subservient to their captors. For the vast majority of the film, the camera is placed in the center of the room to film the action.

The audience is given so little time to get to know the victims. We're told most of their names, but there are far too many of them to keep straight, or to be able to really get to know any of them. Any back-story given, like the girl whose mother died trying to save her, is quickly forgotten when she is swiftly punished for her outburst, and after that scene becomes again another face in the crowd. The victims are dehumanized so much that we can't even sympathize with their plight, their being abused by fascism.

All these things considered, along with the pure simplicity and extremity of the tortures, I can't really buy into the fact that they're supposed to put forth any kind of statement about fascism, the bourgeoisie or human nature. I think Pasolini just wanted to see how disturbed and outraged an audience could get. The question that then comes up, is whether that's remarkable.

The simple definition of gratuitous is "unnecessary or unjustified." If every disgusting scene does indeed disgust, then those scenes accomplish their goal. They serve their purpose. The film may ultimately be a long series of revolting acts, but if the audience is still revolted by the end of the film, by the umpteenth nasty thing, which they are, then the film is still drawing the intended reaction from the audience. Pasolini gives us just enough intrigue to drag us along, to make us want to see what atrocity is on deck for these poor souls, and does not disappoint in delivering the atrocities, and I'd venture to say there is something remarkable in that.

Yes, it's true that any person could theoretically make this movie. But who has the balls to push it this far? It turns out only Pasolini and very few others (Noe and Deodato, to name two). And so for that I give a cheer to Pasolini, to anyone who can sit through his film, and to any filmmaker daring enough to try and top it.