JFL

First a lot of blather and then a lot of bullshitting. Let Us Prey has strong potential to be a fine horror flick, but despite its effective form, basic concept and Pollyanna in the lead role, the result is surprisingly mediocre and forgettable. This is partly due to the fact that the passages that are seemingly intended to be mystical and mysterious conflict with the shocking horror and action-packed splatter. Though its likable as a cheesy genre flick, it lacks the spark to take the precision craftsmanship on display here to a higher level.

The success of the first The Raid went to Evans’s head and brought his boundless ambitions to light. These ambitions are not limited to revolutionary depictions of action, but unfortunately also include storytelling. The director has obviously watched Leone and Coppola, so instead of the striking video-game structure of the first instalment, this time he delivers a showy mafia saga in which a third of the runtime is taken up by goons and the rest of the film is importantly narrated and plotted by the bosses. The film tries to placate viewers even in the plot-development passages through emphasis on formalistic stylishness and coolness, but despite the nice images, it’s like bad porn, where the viewer merely waits for the men to shut up so they can get to the action. Though on paper these passages are supposed to add a dramatic element to the action, in practice that element is limited to kitschy pathos in the best case and, in the worst case, a ridiculously strained appendage stretching the runtime. One can now wait with interest as to whether Evans will take a different route in terms of the genre and stylistic direction of the planned third instalment, which would give the whole trilogy an element of experimentation and, mainly, retrospectively justify the choice of the style used in the second instalment. The deviations from the liveliness of the first film seems rather like the unfortunate influence of the growing co-producer, XYZ Films, whose trademark has become superficial fan-service pomposity and a calculated attempt at otherness, resulting in detachment and empty gestures. Therefore, in The Raid 2 we have comic-bookishly stylised characters with special attacks and costumes (Hammer Girl, Baseball Bat Man, Prakoso) who gush pathos and coolness from every pore, but involving them in the effort to make a tense mafia saga only exposes the whole project as a juvenile genre fantasy targeted at hipster movie fans who hide their consumerism and proneness to being manipulated behind their ostentatious rejection of the mainstream. But these are all just the aforementioned appendages or perhaps even concessions made in exchange for the freedom of implementation for the film’s main attraction. Here, a revolutionary mix of contact choreography, computer-generated effects and brilliant formalistic arrangement combines contemporary Western and Eastern action-movie trends into a thrilling whole, much like Matrix did in its day. With the bigger budget brought about by the success of the first instalment, Evans could also afford to take the action a step beyond the relatively cheap fight scenes. Whereas in the first instalment the choreography was worked out by Evans together with the lead actors, Iko Uwais and Yayan Ruhian, this time the crew included professionals from abroad, led by Hong Kong-based automotive action expert Bruce Law and fight choreographer Larnell Stovall (Undisputed III, Universal Soldier - Day of Reckoning). ___ Update after the second viewing in 2020: Though all of my criticisms still apply, nothing better has yet been made in the action genre in terms of choreography, even though the John Wick franchise gives The Raid 2 a respectable run for its money. But with its combination of physically gifted performers who know how to give and take punches, a director with a feel for action scenes and a refined style and staging ambitions, The Raid 2 has simply achieved the best balance so far.

Mulot’s definitive farewell to pornography was, as expected, carried out in grand style. He was one of the few in the segment to give his films a creative signature not only in terms of formalistic trademarks and style, but also in terms of his view on sexuality. All of his previous directorial and screenwriting projects are characterised by exploring, problematising and even satirising gender norms in relation to sex and the duality of passivity and activity. Eloquently titled La Femme-Objet, the film represents the undiluted essence of this approach. The story of a writer who constructs a woman to satisfy his libido, but in the manner of Frankenstein’s monster, she becomes independent and, like the heroine of Shaw’s Pygmalion, takes control over her maker, subverts the very foundations of porn. The target of the film’s satire comprises the myths of the permanently virile and sexually avaricious man who always satisfies every woman and, conversely, the always ready and unhesitatingly accessible woman. The protagonist’s opening voiceover – “I'm a completely normal guy, except that I have a tremendous appetite for sex” – both foreshadows the absurdity of the image of the man in porn and signifies the macho conceit bound to the formula of the virile male. The protagonist’s active role is emphasised by his occupation as a writer, i.e. a creator and bearer of stories, as well as by his voiceover, which gives him the role of narrator of the film’s plot. His perpetual horniness requires a properly devoted counterpart, but no actual woman can fulfil his needs – his partner demands non-sexual attention and the hired secretary, a woman dehumanised by the burden of objectifying stereotypes and clichés, quits after a while. The porn-man’s perfect ideal thus becomes a woman-object, an artificial lover who responds to the impulses of a remote control, is always ready and has no personality or voice of her own. Through his voiceover, the protagonist even relates his creation to two of the greatest passivising mythologies of Western civilization – the Bible (he compares her to Eve) and cinema (he names her after his long-ago crush from the silver screen). But this porn-idyl, and with it the protagonist’s supposed self-confidence and power, doesn’t last long. The artificial woman becomes self-aware through her own pleasure and soon takes an active role in her relationship with her creator and with others. In the face of the female orgasm and desire, the macho myth collapses, and the protagonist is relegated to the role of a helpless observer and later becomes a responsive instrument of her pleasure. The continuing voiceover then shows the narrator to be the exact opposite of the active element – in the climax, his story becomes the confession of a passivised man and quite possibly also the verbalised fantasy of a man longing to be subjugated. In addition to elevating gender motifs to the central theme and dramatic arc, La femme-objet also represents the culmination of Mulot’s creative approach to pornography. Though it should be the ultimate porn flick in terms of quantity, most of its numerous sexual sequences are far from being raunchy. Instead, the sex depicted in the film serves solely as a narrative element and a means of presenting the characters. The same role is played by the set design and the formalistic treatment of those sequences. Most of the action takes place in a deliriously surreal luxury apartment, which Mulot constantly contrasts with the rubble strewn in the adjacent dirty street, thus emphasising the fantastical nature of pornography, or rather pornographic fantasies (porn was often filmed in houses or apartments that had been specially modified for swingers’ parties and orgies). A number of sequences make direct use of the various elements of the space as part of the narrative. One of the highlights in this respect is the sequence with a glass door, where the mise-en-scene, camerawork and editing jointly shape a brilliant formalistic satire on the objectifying male gaze. In the words of the director’s close friend and loyal collaborator, Didier Philippe-Gérard, Mulot always longed to work outside of the porn industry, which he fell back on at the beginning of his career only because it offered great creative freedom. Although he eventually made several non-pornographic films before his untimely death, he paradoxically never managed to surpass his career as a pornographer in terms of creativity, personal expression and creative ambition.

It may seem that the title La grande baise (literally, “The Big Fuck”) is somewhat inappropriately vulgar for a film that presents a sensitive, intimate look into the relationship of two lovers and their distressing separation due to infidelity. However, the title, which was originally intended to be used for Mulot’s earlier project Mes nuits avec… Alice, Pénélope, Arnold, Maude et Richard, suggests that the primary plot in this case is only one level of the film. It is both an editing experiment by Mulot and a subversive reflection on the state of French porn production at the time. At least two-thirds of the film is composed of recycled shots from various older films, which are used in combination with new material and dubbing to tell a new story. The reuse of sex scenes from earlier films by the same producer was not unusual in contemporary French porn production. After all, we also find in Mulot’s Shocking a scene from another film with Karine Gambier that is narratively framed as a memory. This time, however, Mulot does not use older sex and plot sequences from his own and other films – particularly Le sexe qui parle (1975, Mulot), Échanges de partenaires (1976, Mulot), Les plaisirs solitaires (1976, Francis Leroi), Délires porno (1977, Didier Philippe-Gérard) – in their entirety, but rather plays with ways to create a false impression of continuity with the new material through the appropriately arranged mise-en-scene. If it weren’t for the two new sex scenes, this would have resulted in a porn flick in which well-known porn actors, with contemporary star Karine Gambier at the fore, were paid only for acting, as the copulation scenes were merely recycled from the archive. This creative trickery can be seen as a caustic commentary on the contemporary practice of French porn productions, or rather on their creative decline in the second half of the 1970s. Apart from the fact of the reuse of older sex scenes and the rising trend of superficially vulgar titles, La grande baise also points out the increasing tedium of the films, which, due to the limited number of actors and actresses, began to seem like a bizarre universe where the same faces always appeared in identical situations. In comparison to the competition, however, Mulot created, through his editing work, a very good psychological film dealing with the ambiguity of the ethics of relationships, where sex can be not only a manifestation of long-term love or momentary passion, but also a catalyst for relationship dynamics and an instrument of power.

After Deep Throat showed that narrative porn could be a commercial draw, Gerard Damiano made a number of films that are many times better in every respect and which are unjustly overshadowed by his widely cited hit. The Devil in Miss Jones represents a regular contribution to porn chic, because here, unlike in Deep Throat, it’s possible to talk about aspects like cinematography, music, acting, the screenplay and dramaturgy. At its core, it is an almost brilliantly simple concept that elevates the premise to an outstanding result. Factually speaking, we have here an unbroken chain of sex scenes depicting the broadest range of practices, bordered on either side by plot sequences, almost exactly in the ratio of 1:2:1. However, it is these narrative sequences, and Georgina Spelvin’s performance, that elevate sex above the superficial physical act and make it an expressive image of the central character’s development. The Devil in Miss Jones is an unexpectedly feminist but also intellectually multi-layered work. It’s the story of a middle-aged woman who spent her entire life in chaste abstinence and, thanks to a second chance from a representative of hell, returns to experience carnal pleasure. The plot directly tracks how the initially timid protagonist soon takes the initiative. Her sexual awakening and indulgence in her own pleasure establishes her as the centre of both the narrative and the formalistic treatment. Instead of the later prevailing trend, the woman is not an object, but rather an active element and, from the first initiation, the men are conversely gradually reduced to objects serving for her pleasure. Accordingly, the camera focuses primarily on the protagonist’s face and conversely fragments the male bodies, which are almost literally reduced to sex organs (see the great sequence in which the protagonist and another woman share one penis). The men mostly do not speak at all, while the protagonist explicitly verbalises her desires and the experience of pleasure itself. Also, cumshots are either completely absent (the first sex scene) or used only as part of the women’s passionate experience of sex. If we add to this the formalistic refinement of the individual sequences (from the delicate passage culminating in suicide, through the fleshing out of the sex scenes mixing erotic suggestion with the literalness of pornography, to the outstanding use of Morricone’s music in the self-gratification sequence), we have here a film in which sex is not an appendage or an attraction standing apart from the plot, but rather an excellent portrait of sexual flourishing that is equally a celebration of carnal pleasure and a reflection on its repression. The Devil in Miss Jones not only implies opposition to the suppression of sexuality through religious dogma (and not only that), but it also presents a notable reflection on the foundations of Christian mysticism. Hell here is not in the form of bodily torment, but the eternal denial of the pleasure of bodily experiences. The woman who has spent her entire life in celibacy thus becomes a doubly tragic character and the mysticism that justifies repression with respect to the body in religions conversely proves to be the work of people who characteristically had no idea about sexuality or any experience of it.

Born Erect, one of the first films by Czech native Alan Vydra, a master of the golden era of European pornography, starts with the dream or myth of the permanent erection and develops it into a burlesque comedy. The film’s protagonist, Leo, has had his dick permanently standing at attention since early childhood, but as he says himself in his commentary, this is certainly not a blessing. The whole film presents his desperate journey as he tries every possible way to rid himself of this misfortune. The humour oscillates between the rigid desperation of television variety shows (would-be funny dialogue scenes outside of sex), brilliant meta self-reflection (the protagonist addressing the audience directly and commenting on what’s happening in the scene) and subversive disparaging of pornography (cumshots accompanied by burlesque sound effects). The comedic approach is not limited to the passages conveying the plot, but is also present in the sex scenes and even in the floridly risqué dialogue, and with their humour, the crazy peripeties often surpass well-coordinated storyline scenes, which stiffly lumber toward some sort of point or insipid joke. The climax of the film and its subversion then comes in the end, conceived as a verbal and visual celebration of flaccid penises.

Though this story of two girls who run away from a broken home and are taken in by an aging yakuza, a character obviously borrowed from Besson’s Léon (well-known and popular in Japan), has proper audience appeal, it merely recycles all possible clichés and throws one star cameo after another at the viewers. While the film has tremendous potential on all fronts, it unfortunately fails to use it as anything other than a superficial attraction. The straightforward plot and stylistic arrangement are inundated with affectation and excessive bittersweetness and, mainly, the film is kneecapped by its lack of humour and imagination. The result is a film that draws viewers in with a great cast and genre premise, but unfortunately disappoints with its generic execution.

Eiji Uchida is currently celebrated as one of the promising talents of contemporary Japanese cinema, which is essentially true, though it’s impossible to escape the impression that he is merely a weak and so far underdeveloped imitation of the leading figures of the past two decades. Greatful Dead stands somewhere among outsider comedies like Funuke and the films of Yosuke Fujita, a focused treatise on the problems of contemporary youth like Ima, Boku Wa, the over-the-top satire of these problems in the mould of the legendary Visitor Q and the films of Shion Son, and the intimate genre experiments ala the Duel Project of 2003. As is apparent from the references to the above-mentioned phenomena, Uchida is attempting to build on the last golden era of Japanese cinema and its trends, which resonated in the West, but at the same time, he avoids the superficial exploitation of fans’ notions about Japan with respect to the trend of excessive projects of recent years, such as Tokyo Gore Police. Greatful Dead thus aims to address the rootlessness and emptiness of Japanese youth and the phenomenon of madness brought on by loneliness. From these motifs, he creates an absurd satire, which, through drawn-out peripeties, leads to a bloody climax and an oversimplified point. Though it cannot be denied that the film offers a number of excellent ideas and supporting motifs and imaginative hyperboles, Uchida will have to sharpen his storytelling skills and style before he is able to match such talents as Miike and Sono. One would hope that maybe someday he will take viewers’ breath away like his peer Daihachi Yoshida, but on the other hand, after so many years and entries in his filmography, it’s past time for that. 7/10

In his crowning achievement, Tony Scott crafted a crazy story inspired by the wild life of a real-life bounty hunter as an impressive trip that induces in the audience a heightened perception of the over-the-top narrative. With variable shooting speeds, an unusual process of developing material, an epileptically roaming camera and frenetic editing, Scott transforms the movie screen into a kinetic image in which the structure and matter of the film become visible and tangible. Richly coloured shots stacked on top of each other and camera movements become the equivalents of massive coats of paint and brushstrokes, alternately evoking the paintings of the Fauvists, Futurists and German Expressionists.

Breakin’: Electric Boogaloo is an audio-visual holocaust, the viewing of which will test just how much the viewer is willing to put up with. Drowned somewhere in this quagmire of awkwardness and gaudiness there are clearly likeable, attractive and perhaps even charismatic performers, but it’s hard to recognise them through all of the terrible clothes, sleazy hairstyles, repulsive pubescent moustaches, headbands and tacky earrings. At its core, Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo actually has the same foundations as the recent Let’s Dance movies; it is simply a classic format shaped in accordance with the current trend. Whereas Grease, for example, may be timeless thanks to its exaggeration and retro stylisation, Breakin’ 2 shows what awaits contemporary dance hits a few decades from now. Not only will they be outdated as a form of sincere adoration for and promotion of the fashion of the day, but audiences will shake their heads in disbelieving amazement at the horrors these people were wearing and the ridiculous physical creations that they were convinced were astonishingly cool. Furthermore, thanks to its distant and disbelieving gaze, Breakin’ 2 exposes the monstrous manipulativeness of fashion films, which actually work like any other indoctrination propaganda, as they primarily target a young audience, ideally children, in order to get them hooked and thus ensure their continuity. On the other hand, trends in fashion and music fortunately have a shorter lifespan than various religions and nationalistic ideologies, so they don’t pose as much of a danger, because the vast majority of people will simply grow out of them, just like the stars of the Breakin’ franchise. Breakin’ transformed from a clichéd fashion-dance flick into not only a telling memento of the transience of trends, but also a confirmation of how fine the line is between coolness or stylishness and physically unpleasant awkwardness. All of the evil of the 1980s has never been so essentially imprinted on celluloid as it is here.