JFL

It may sound like the grumbling of an old man, but they just don’t make films like this anymore, and that is the key reason for the deserved unanimous enthusiasm that accompanies Fury Road. Against the background of today’s technology, the new Mad Max is a film from an era that has long since passed – in terms of style, it comes across as the essence of 1980s Australian trash flicks laid out in the form of an epic fresco following the example of the peak of Hollywood’s creative era of the 1970s. Fury Road is simply Miller’s Apocalypse Now or Heaven’s Gate. In the promotional campaign, the constantly emphasised appellation “visionary director” was for once not a hollow phrase, but an appropriate statement, in every sense of the word. Miller reveals himself to be not only a filmmaker with a well-though-out vision, from which he builds a portrait of a distinctive post-apocalyptic world thought out to the smallest detail, but also a filmmaker who has yielded completely to his own delirious vision, which is both absorbing and fascinating. Though Fury Road is both a variation on the original trilogy and its continuation, it thus remains fundamentally distinctive and unique. So, even though fans will identify various similarities between the new film and the trilogy, Fury Road never engages in that current pop-culture scourge, quotespotting. There is no recycling, no knowing winks at fans, no references to other films or pop culture, and not even any franchise elements. Fury Road is not exclusive and elitist like contemporary blockbusters, which create enclaves of true believers by flattering different audience segments. Into the artificial and overly sophisticated waters of the contemporary mainstream, Miller has released his own raging monster, which, with the roar of an infernal machine, cuts a path through all of the rules about the habits of the target audience, commercial trends and the producer’s calculations, and it has no regard at all for what a contemporary blockbuster is supposed to look like or what supposedly works in it and why. Like its world, the film is simultaneously disjointed and deranged, yet in spite of that, it is also completely coherent and functional. The archetypal three-act narrative concept is crushed here by a single permanent confrontation and non-stop tension (the first shot, in which the characters are not in motion or in immediate danger and are only talking to each other, seems as if it is from another world). Out of the bowels of the degenerate macho action-movie genre, a matriarchal parable has grown, with the male characters surprisingly relegated to supporting roles. And all of this is set in a pulsating world, which we don’t see from the outside, but are rather thrown into. As the characters carry us along at a frenetic pace, we see, unwittingly and literally at the edge of the field of vision, that world’s practical functioning and, primarily, its complex mystique, which emerged from omnipresent madness and pain. In an interview, Miller said that he liked the feeling he had when, as a child, he walked out of the cinema and felt like he had stepped off a roller coaster and wanted to get right back on it. Whereas the seasonal blockbusters of recent years have merely zipped passed viewers, leaving only a dim memory on the horizon, Fury Road picks up viewers at full speed and, like its protagonist, runs them paralysed and strapped to the hood through the tumult of its creator’s vision. If the post-apocalypse previously infused archetypal heroic stories with new blood and replaced the foul taste of the distant era of westerns and chivalric tales with the intoxicating promise that the age of heroes would come again in the future with the fall of civilisation, then Fury Road likewise revives the validity of the mythological epic in the destruction of the world. Though the film’s narrative has certain similarities to The Iliad and The Odyssey, its matriarchal level refers to even more ancient traditions. Even though it evidently undermines machismo and the patriarchy, it also offers a celebration of heroism and masculinity in accordance with the aforementioned revitalisation of archetypes. The appearance of those traits here, however, is not only classical in nature, but also mythically absolute and post-feministically complex in equal measure. When the roar of the engines subsides and the smoke from the explosions clears, we see the tragic and paradoxical nature of the heroism of not only Max, but primarily of the other main character, who, infatuated with the myth of patriarchy, rushed like a raging dog of war to the gates of Valhalla, but only achieved true heroism when he abandoned the father figure and accepted the role of helper and protector alongside his mother. Fury Road takes a no less complex approach to women, who, in the manner of legendary matriarchal societies, not only personify life and procreative and regenerative power, but also serve as warriors. However, they are not limited to the one-dimensional ideal of badass goddesses of war. Like the male characters, each of them has her own story and motivations, which are alluded to in the narrative, and those are what condition their heroism, which is all the more impressive thanks to its believability and inspirational nature.

When porn came to cinemas in the 1970s, it faced the challenge of how to entice viewers to watch feature-length films on the big screen. One of the logical ways to do that was to use and enhance existing genres of erotic and sexploitation films. In the case of German production, this meant that porn became the logical culmination of the popular titillating comedies of the late 1960s and early 1970s, which comprised lascivious and deliberately subversive variations on the conservative Heimatfilme of the 1950s. This lineage is apparent precisely in the most famous title of the golden era of German porn, Billian’s Sensational Janine. The narrative about the title character’s sexual awakening thoroughly copies the motifs and style of the Heimatfilme, with the exception of the fact that the carefree youth, the wisdom of the traditional authorities and the cohesiveness of the family take a significantly smuttier and more explicit form. Stylistically, the film is akin to the costume-drama and historical Heimatfilme, which delighted in the false idyll of the nineteenth century and depicted the life of the nobility and bourgeoisie of the time (another direction was represented by films celebrating the simple life in the German and Austrian countryside, especially in the Alps, which was caricatured by racy comedies, particularly Three Swedes in Upper Bavaria, and porn variations such as Bienenstich im Liebesnest). Adherence to the acting style of the Heimatfilme and, in particular, the period language serve as the basis for a large part of the humour in Sensational Janine, which remains completely lost in translation. Humour is also a key aspect of the sex scenes, in which much more attention is paid to the exposition and its development into a complete scene (see the brilliant sequences with the photographer and the priest) than to the individual simple exercises. Sensational Janine is surprising in its concept of sex, which goes beyond not only the obsessive performance of today's mainstream porn production, but also the delightful debauchery of the golden era. Sex here is not an expression of desire or lust, but simply fun. It does not matter at all with whom or where the deed is done; the only measure is the amount of pleasure it brings. The film thus stands above the usual gender formulas even though the exposition of a number of the scenes may give the impression that the women are treated merely as objects and commodities. On the contrary, however, the likable female protagonist remains a completely autonomous and headstrong person in every situation, as she is only concerned with whether she will have an orgasm and she is completely indifferent with respect to the circumstances in which she has it. It is also worth mentioning the film’s playful meta-humour, which is apparent in the its opening and closing passages, where scenes originally framed as diegesis suddenly break the fourth wall when the protagonist begins to directly address the audience while enjoying physical pleasures. Though the success of Billian’s first Janine led to a number of sequels, none of them feature the amazingly natural and distinctively down-to-earth Patricia Rhomberg in the title role, nor do they reach the heights of fun, playfulness and sophisticated debauchery of Sensational Janine, which deserves its status as cult classic.

Voyage of the Rock Aliens is a brilliantly campy flick that offers a thick concentrate of 1980s pop culture, including its roots in the trash of the preceding decades. Surprisingly, however, the film wasn’t the unintended result of madness, but was rather created entirely deliberately. According to the screenwriter (yes, this film actually had a screenplay), the intention was to make a film that would replicate the effect experienced by a viewer channel surfing late at night. As such, Voyage’s blend of music videos, teen romance, trashy monster flicks, sci-fi B-movies and horror movies about homicidal maniacs suddenly makes sense.

Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends was conceived and created by renowned animator Craig McCracken, who previously worked on production of the popular series Dexter’s Laboratory and later gained fame for his original work The Powerpuff Girls. Whereas his previous projects were partially based on classic pop-culture motifs, which gained a degree of uniqueness due to their distinctive stylisation and incorporation into the characters of children’s heroes (particularly brilliant and somewhat mad scientists and superheroes), this time McCracken came up with a completely original concept with the assistance of animator Lauren Faust, who was later behind the international phenomenon My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Around the psychological phenomenon of imaginary friends, he built a world in which such companions become real. That in turn brought about the creation of countless bizarre, colourful and often surreal characters comprising imaginary friends, each of whom has a completely distinctive appearance and character, although dozens of them appear only very briefly in the series. The most attractive aspect of the series is the personalities of the characters who appear in every episode and turn even everyday activities into burlesque escapades through their interactions. Deep within the series beats a melancholic heart in the form of the motif of friendship that cannot last forever, but memories of that friendship certainly can.

In his last directorial effort, experimental filmmaker Antony Balch fully expressed his love of trash and low culture, which he had previously vented as the owner of a distribution company and two cinemas with a dramaturgically distinctive programme. Horror Hospital is thus an entertaining intermingling of the style of classic British horror movies with the aesthetics and attitude of swinging London at the time. The formulaic premise of a mad scientist is thus transformed into a whirlwind of exaggerated attractions and caricatured clichés bound together by stoner logic. This is not a parody, but rather an utterly distinctive blend of two seemingly contradictory styles, as foreshadowed a year earlier by Hammer Film Productions’ Dracula A.D. 1972. Whereas that film was based entirely on the contrast of a classic monster and a modern setting, Horror Hospital offers an entertainingly delirious conglomeration of both styles. Therefore, it is not at all surprising that the film has the purely anti-establishment premise of a sanatorium where a mad scientist turns intractable young people into absolutely obedient lobotomised zombies, as well as experimentally rendered psychedelic sequences and characters such as the duo of biker henchmen, who come across as a demonic version of Daft Punk, a twisted and unpredictable midget next to whom even the guy from Game of Thrones pales and, of equal importance, the brilliant central villain, who comes across as a clone of Ian McKellen and Bella Lugosi (and is played by the late Alfred the Butler from the 1990s Batman films). As a result, the film as a whole doesn’t seem incoherent, but rather radiates creativity and the impish charm with which it approaches classic horror clichés.

Along with Jesús Franco, Jean Rollin is one of the most overrated directors in the area of trash movies. Some filmmakers are deservedly renowned for their ability to make formulaic sequences more interesting despite limited budgets or, as the case may be, to draw dramatic potential out of a weak story and construct a narrative on it. Conversely, Rollin proves to be a desperate dilettante who completely squanders any potential with his futile directing. This is extremely obvious in The Grapes of Death, which a more capable director could have turned into a devastatingly intense horror movie, but Rollin turns the strong screenplay into a formalistically dismal bit of naïveté. Somewhere inside the film, there is the potential for a unique, gloomy horror movie that would turn the concept of apocalyptic zombie flicks on its head. Whereas such movies set most of the action in interiors, which, as symbols of home, protect the characters against the evil coming from outside, this time the female protagonist walks through a spectral landscape of desolate French mountains with old stone farmhouses and dilapidated homes. The agoraphobic motif is then combined with claustrophobic paranoia in the second half of the film, when it becomes clear that the villages and buildings offer no escape from the infection that is spreading through the countryside. Like Romero’s The Crazies, from which this film is clearly derived, places of civilisation become scenes of the breakdown of civilisational rationality and community when infection robs people of reason. An amusing curiosity is the purely French motif of the spread of infection, which takes place here through infected grapes and the wine made from them, which puts beer drinkers in the role of saviours of the world and exterminators of the infected. Unfortunately, all of the film’s positive aspects and potential are nullified the amateurish treatment and non-dramatically realised sequences, as well as the overall lack of motivation and the half-baked nature of the whole thing.

Olinka Bérová’s second Italian engagement is far from the jadedness, stiffness and chastity of the preceding Lucruzia. This time, curious viewers not only can enjoy more shots featuring the exposed star Jessie, but can also get them served up in a riotously entertaining tale from the age of antiquity. Though Poppea’s Hot Nights is pure B-movie trash, its overall levity makes this exploitative look at the debauchery of ancient times a relatively tolerable spectacle.

Though Lucrezia, the first of Olinka Bérová’s two Italian engagements, promises an exploitative look at the juicy peripeties of the debauched lives of the infamous Borgia family, the result is a tired costume spectacle that is surprising because of its modesty instead of the desired attractions. It could even be said that the famous femme fatale finds herself here in the role of a tragic and distinctly passive tragic heroine and her life story is reshaped as a tale from a romance novel. Faced with these deficiencies, it is no longer possible to cover up the fact that the only reason anyone would watch this film today is the lecherous pleasure of viewing the exposed assets of a popular Czech star. In that respect, however, the film requires a great deal of attention from viewers because, due to the editing and camerawork, the desired nudity comes and goes as quickly as the beating of a hummingbird’s wings.

Made with characteristic haste and second-rate actors under the auspices of Hollywood’s factory of trashy dreams, Cannon Films, Number One with a Bullet is a highly generic variation on the buddy movies of the 1980s, of which 48 Hours and Lethal Weapon are the best examples.

This is indeed a distinctive variation of Journey to the Centre of the Earth, but the result is not so much due to any creative intention but simply to business calculations. Cannon Films, run by movie enthusiasts and hustlers Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus, was famous for, among other things, being the first Hollywood company to introduce and boldly operate the system of pre-selling films to foreign distributors, which today is an entirely common practice in film markets. In practice, this means that a distributor does not buy a film based on seeing the finished work, but as early as in the production or pre-production phase, or even based only on the concept or the cast. On the one hand, this system enables producers to have the essential inflow of the funding needed to complete the given project, but the case of Cannon Films and Journey to the Centre of the Earth clearly illustrates the drawbacks of this system. Cannon received money solely on the basis of the title, but by that time, the company already had major financial problems, so it paradoxically could not afford to make the film for which it had already collected the cash, but at the same time it was contractually obligated to deliver a film called Journey to the Centre of the Earth to distributors. With their kitchen-sink approach, however, the masters killed two birds with one stone. They already had the prepared material for the sequel to Albert Pyun’s bizarre Alien from L.A. project involving an underground dystopia, which was a commercial flop. So they simply took the scenes that had already been shot for this completely different film and hired a new director to shoot a handful of extra inexpensive scenes that serve as an introduction to the resulting film, rooting it in the style of a family farce. The result not only has nothing at all in common with Journey to the Centre of the Earth, but it doesn’t even work as a film in its own right. The attempt to combine the completely bizarre world of Pyun’s Alien from L.A. with a family movie had the consequence that the narrative is absolutely incoherent. Some of the characters simply disappear from the narrative without a trace, some passages that were originally intended to be part of a linear plot in the originally intended sequel are used here only as fragments in the characters’ dreams, key plot motifs remain entirely unresolved, and some passages and individual shots have obvious dubbing and were originally intended to be set in a completely different context. We can draw comparisons with avant-garde and editing-based projects, where the establishment of a new context nullifies the original meaning of the scenes and forms a new meaning, but in practice that doesn’t change the fact that Cannon’s Journey to the Centre of the Earth is a completely incoherent clusterfuck. It is a fascinating relic and a testament to the workings of Cannon Films at the time of its demise, but as a film, it is simply unwatchable.