Metal City - Hai Ina Ia Mai Ana Ka Puana

A letter..

I wrote a letter to Lloyd Kaufman tonight, and posted it to Troma. I wonder if he'll reply?

Dear Lloyd,

I have no idea if this will ever get to you, but I felt like sitting down today and watching a few of the classics from your wonderful company, and after listening to your words on the commentary tracks, I felt compelled to write a letter to you, just to express a few of my responses to the things you've said.

I don't want to sound like a fawning fanboy. Even though, in all honesty, that's largely what I am. When I was a young boy, my Mum used to take me to hire videos - and even at 13 or 14, I was already sick and tired of the bullshit that Hollywood was attempting to shovel into my brain. I just didn't care very much about Steven Segal, or whoever was popular at the time - I was in love with The Beatles' 'Magical Mystery Tour' film, which was my first real indication that there was a cinematic world out there that didn't seem custom-built to separate me from my cash. And I still remember walking into the independant video shop near my house, and seeing 'The Toxic Avenger' on the shelf. Little did I know that the film was rather heavily edited by our less-than-progressive censors, but even still, the images in the film were important to me. I'm sure I'm not telling you anything new when I say that Toxie's debut is a vicious, savage, bleeding wound of a film - but that was what I loved about it. 'The Toxic Avenger' was such a complete spit in the face in the direction of corporate media that I instantly fell in love with it. I wouldn't presume to put words in your mouth by politicising your output - but that was honestly how the film seemed to me. And as time dragged on, I started to plow through the Troma library as best as I could, given the censorship limitations of the time, but I managed to absorb Class Of Nuke 'Em High, Blondes Have More Guns, Bloodsucking Freaks, Surf Nazis Must Die, and many, many more of your titles - and all the while, there was a purity in your work that made it stand alone. Amonst all of the bodies, bullets, and blood - it was honest. It felt like it came from a man who was making films the way he wanted to make them - and if they involved tits and gore, then that was how they were SUPPOSED to be. Tromaville was a wonderfully detailed, satirical vision of the western world - and it held a billion more salient truths about the way in which the world functions than all of the moralizing and hypocrisy of the Hollywood system.

Now I'm 25, I just finished a master's degree in writing and editing, and I find myself in a position where I am largely useless - the only way to survive is to sell out to the various elites that you have discussed - which, I guess, is going to be what I have to do. I always dreamed of being able to work in some kind of alternative media - to find somewhere that offers a writer a chance to talk honestly about the giant dollar bill-lined beartrap that we are caught in - but out here in Australia, where we are largely subjugated by the U.S corporate media, this is impossible. It sickens me to watch the freedoms - artistic and cultural - that the world once enjoyed being slowly eroded by hypercapitalist leeches - and it is this nausea that leads me to write to you.

You talked on one of the commentary tracks - I think it may have been Class Of Nuke 'Em High - about the Troma Team's distribution problems in the wake of the deregulation of the cinema industry, with companies like Fox buying theatres so that only their product is offered. You also talked about the destruction of freedoms - the freedom of choice in art, literature, and film which has been eviscerated so that we are forced into going to watch the latest Brad Pitt movie. I'm not sure how familiar you are with Australia, which is where I live - in a little suburb of Melbourne - but here, we have absolutely NO choice. In Australia, you either watch Gwyneth Paltrow, listen to Justin Timberlake, and cringe at Oprah - or your access to contemporary art is, essentially, cut off. We don't get any DVD's released here that aren't by Warner Brothers/Fox/Paramount - and as far as alternatives to Hollywood, we are basically only offered 'World Cinema', which is another fancy schmancy way of controlling our intake of art - only it focuses on beret-wearing clove smokers, rather than Mum and Dad. In short, Lloyd, we got nothin' out here. But *I* do.

I've been buying disc after disc by Troma and Something Weird - a company I'm sure you're familiar with. And I've been doing it because it has reached the point where I simply cannot take it anymore - I refuse to be treated like an imbecilic child any longer. I want to be challenged, entertained, and amused - and I want it to be done by humans, with all of the quirks, flaws, idiosyncrasies, and passions that they bring to the table. This is where you come in.

Whenever I've watched you interviewed, you've always struck me as so wonderfully humble about your successes - and so accessible to the fans. Troma always felt like a place that ACTUALLY EXISTS - rather than simply a town full of overpaid models who are used to make you feel bad about yourself in order to extract your cash. Troma was sweet, and clever, and fiercely proud of their independant status. And through it all, you always came across as the kind of guy that it would be an honour to spend time with. You always seem humble about Troma - yet Troma is far more important than you may realise. For me, a scungy nobody in a country that has little consequence in the grand scheme of things, you and your team are a lifeline to world of art that isn't corporate, isn't soulless, and can honestly be believed in and loved.

Like I said, this letter will probably never reach you - I'm sure you're a busy man, and after all, I'm just some punk kid with loose lips. I just wanted to write to you, though, to let you know just how important Troma has been, and still is - and to let you know that even though The View or the Village Voice may never review 'Class Of Nuke 'Em High' , you'll still be more important and relevant than all of the
Hollywood product of the last twenty years combined.

Thanks for all the movies.

Your friend,

David

Warping my brain one movie at a time - Flower Of Flesh And Blood.

I was alone this weekend. My social life has flatlined through a disturbing two-pronged attack: a cancerous slew of girlfriends have afflicted my nearest and dearest, thankfully sparing me from their swarming, bacterial malaise. The result is, of course, most of my friends are strangely bedridden - and they feel that being quarantined until their treatment has ceased is the only humane thing to do. I tend to agree with them, having been privy to the madness that an acute case of girlfriend can do to a man, as he begins saying things like 'I'm a FEMINIST!', and talking about how much he loves dance clubs. Secondly, as I am currently 'between engagements' (Read: Finished uni, not yet gainfully employed), my options for meeting new and exciting folks are extremely limited. But, that's okay. Because this weekend, I decided to experiment with myself.

My dear friend Clare warned me against this kind of hideous behaviour several months ago when I announced my intention to watch nothing but Michael and Roberta Findlay's 1974 film "Snuff" for a straight week. Just to see what would happen. This weekend, though, I had nothing better to do - and I thought it was about time that I truly disturbed myself.

See, a lot of you pussies out there have a few problems with the idea of 'extreme entertainment'. You think that a Good Charlotte record and a copy of 'American Psycho' (the film, not the book), makes you a candidate for Intensity 101. Most of you simpering, namby-pamby mother's boys have no idea about the rollercoaster ride of stomach-churning nausea and existential wreckage that is the world of extreme cinema. I've touched on this subject in an earlier post, where I outlined my love of underground/grindhouse entertainment. This time, we're talking about the sick stuff. Things that aren't cute. You don't look at them and smile nostalgically at the timid special effects, and the limp-wristed attempts at violence. I'm talking about the kind of films that are the stuff of night sweats, involuntary urination, and a sensation of dread and malaise so intense that it causes one to cling to the nearest warm body, weeping at the carnage and depravity unfolding on the screen in front of you, which has been transformed with the press of a 'play' button into a portal to Hades.

Unless, of course, you're me.

I remember reading about it in the most excellent textbook Killing For Culture : The History Of The Death Film From Mondo To Snuff. And I remember reading about Charlie Sheen's ill-fated attempt to get the FBI to investigate and ban it, the sissy boy. I remember it spoken of in hushed tones on alt.horror - it was the film that went too far. The point where the horror genre finally achieved what must have been its ultimate goal since the early part of the twentieth century - to slowly decimate the very idea of a 'narrative', replacing the blocks that were amputated with mechanized, artificlal depictions of violence - usually revolving around damage taking place to a human body. The film in question was Guinea Pig 2: Flower Of Flesh And Blood.

You probably shouldn't click on the link I've provided above. If you're easily upset by violent images - or if you're basically a big chicken in general - keep away. For the rest of you, let me qualify my position on the subject of Za Ginipiggu - since I've already been accused today of trying to academically justify my reasons for even watching anything so totally depraved and vicious.

For those of you wimps out there who've never heard of Za Ginipiggu, and are too lazy/afraid to click on the link above, what we're talking about here is essentially a Japanese incarnation of the work of Ruggero Deodato/Umberto Lenzi/Niko Mastoriakis - an attempt to claim the title, once and for all, of Most Violent Film Of All Time. There have been many pretenders to the throne - the cannibal cycle, from Cannibal Holocaust to Make Them Die Slowly, for example. Jorg Buttgereit's Nekromantik is a little too arty to make the grade - and is more grotesque than violent, anyway. A few of you crybabies out there have been making waves in the media by claiming that Tarantino's Kill Bill may be a contender. To this, I laugh hysterically. I REALLY don't think so. And after seeing Za Ginipiggu - you'll agree with me.

So, basically - what you turkeys are in for if you decide to seek out Flower Of Flesh And Blood is 50-odd minutes of dismemberment. That's it. No plot, no characters... just a special effects workshop, in which a young woman is dissected by a deranged man with black teeth, wearing a samurai outfit. In very, very graphic detail. He cuts off her hands, her legs, and finally decapitates her with an axe - spouting off oddly poetic dialogue about 'flowers of blood' in the process. He lights a cigarette. He eats the girl's eyeballs - her 'jewels'. Then, he shows us his collection of body parts - and we watch as he adds his latest acquisitions. The film ends with our hero back out on the streets of Tokyo, stalking a new victim. Freeze frame on an innocent girl walking away from him. End. Fade out.

The thing that struck me while I was watching this second installment in Za Ginipiggu was that I found myself wondering 'Why am I watching this? What is this?' So profound is the effect of the film that even as I write this, I feel guilty - and almost ashamed of myself for watching such an utterly grotesque and savage spectacle. Surely this is a film with no redeeming features - a sleazy voyage into the most debased and diseased elements of the human condition? Does the Za Ginipiggu series represent the ultimate decadence of contemporary film - providing viewers with what they have been hinting that they have wante4d for decades: an immersive experience in pornographic violence, which fetishizes both the act and the physical damage to the body? Should we be ashamed of ourselves for allowing such an awful thing to exist - and is my friend right? CAN one academically legitimise an ostensibly indefensible film?

Well, I'm gonna try my damned best.

Like I said, I almost feel ashamed of myself for admitting that I saw Flower Of Flesh And Blood. Am I a truly sick maniac? Is this why I don't have a girlfriend? Have my own private neurosis finally coalesced in the form of an unhealthy obsession with cinematic violence? The film is an attempt to recreate our imagined idea of what a 'snuff film' would look like, should one exist. Indeed, to add resonance and veracity to the film - it looks like the producers cooked up a story about Za Ginipiggu being based on a real snuff film that one of the directors recieved from an over-imaginative fan. I can find no record of the case, and since Killing For Culture reiterates that not a single frame of a snuff film has ever been found. Not one. I don't care what your friend's friend's friend's uncle's friend says about how he saw one at a biker party one night - he didn't. It was fake. Let me say this one more time: There is not a single reported case of a snuff film existing. I don't want to get into the legal issues, let alone the artistic and cultural ones associated with the very idea of snuff films - if you want to know more about that, read Killing For Culture, or ask your local priest. For the purposes of this article, all you need to know is that a 'snuff film' - according to the term coined by Ed Sanders in his seminal Manson biography "The Family" - is a depiction of a murder on film, a murder specifically committed for the purposes of entertainment through film. So, Faces Of Death is not a snuff film. Nor is Executions or Mondo Cane or any of their exploitation brothers.

Where am I going with this?

If we are to assume - and rightly so - that the very idea of a snuff film is the most repellent, insidious, sinister, and abhorrent mode of filmmaking - then the recreation of a snuff film is, by association, just as odious. If that is true, then Flower Of Flesh And Blood is not simply unpleasant - it is immoral. It is a film which actively seeks to profit from the suffering of others. Even if snuff films are an urban myth - the possibility that they are not renders any attempt to trivialise their existance an exercise in the worst kind of exploitative nihilism, and a gesture which actively invites criticism and denouement.

As always, I have to get in the ring and defend the work's right to artistically - and legally - exist. 'Flower Of Flesh And Blood' is a nasty piece of work, yes. It certainly isn't for the squeamish - and it is a film which contains such phenomenal levels of sheer visceral, muscular power that even it seems unsure of what to do with them. It has the power to disturb dreams - and is a brick in the face of cinemagoers across the globe, an antagonistic gesture which lays down several gauntlets. On one level, it is a snarling attempt to provide an ultimate realisation of cinematic violence - every frame drips with a teeth-bared, nihilistic slime, as the images howl in the viewer's face: "Okay, you motherfuckers - if you want to watch something violent, then HERE is something violent. Here is violence, and nothing else. I hope it was worth it."

I'll probably get a whole bunch of mail from you turkeys, in which i'm vilified as a deeply sick soul - but I'm going to say this anyway. 'Flower Of Flesh And Blood' is a beautiful film.

There.

Now that we've got that out of the way, let me just qualify that statement before you finish dialling the number for the police. When I say that it is a beautiful film, I don't mean that the sight of a girl being chopped to bits is beautiful. Although, I suppose - technically - it could be. What I am referring to is the kind of beauty that the images of Pasolini's masterpiece Salo offered us: Wonderfully textured, dense, evocative visual images achieved through colour, shape, and the breathtaking monolithic energy that total symmetry can provide. And, among these incredible, penetrating images - a vomiting up of all of the putrid evil that humanity is capable of. In the case of Salo, a litany of outrages perpetrated on a group of youngsters, beginning with sexual humiliation, moving into cophrophilia and other scatological scenarios, and ending in physical torture, dismemberment, and execution, in an attempt to give us an impressionistic portrait of Italian facism at the end of the second world war. The construction of 'Flower Of Flesh And Blood' presents us with a fascinatingly kaleidoscopic vision of death and dismemberment. Hideshi Hibino seems hell-bent on reminding us that this is a film by continually experimenting with various coloured gels on the lights, working in primary and secondary colours associated with disease and death - namely, green and red. The samurai himself wears some kind of strange kabuki makeup - and his performance is oddly detached. Remorseful. He postulates endlessly on the significance of what he is doing - and describes the girl's demise in quite touching, poetic terms. He talks of 'flowers of blood' as he tears her apart, and intimates that what he is doing is borne not out of hatred - but out of love. He loves her so much that he is going to assist her in her journey to the other side.

I'm quite willing to accept this. But, at the same time, I'd argue that there is something slightly more socially relevant at work here - when the samurai talks of committing his acts of violence out of love, not hate - he is clearly referring to the directors, and the creation of 'Flower Of Flesh And Blood' itself. Bear with me - I'm going somewhere with this. It isn't out of the question to view 'Flower Of Flesh And Blood' as a postmodern splatter film - I'd think of the entire Za Ginipiggu series as a collection of metafilms. And perhaps, that is their link - a link which seems lost on most film scholars and other academics of various stripes. At the same time as 'Flower Of Flesh And Blood' is violent - it is also about violence. Think about this - the film is not a snuff film. It is a snuff film presented as entertainment - and YOU ARE WATCHING IT. WHAT THE HELL KIND OF SICKO ARE YOU? WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?

This is what the film is, essentially, attempting to say.

It's a trap. If you watch the film, you are implicating yourself in the creation of the film, because you are creating a demand for it. But, like the ill-fated Barry Convex in Cronenberg's infinitely relevant Videodrome says - why watch it? Why would ANYONE want to watch something like 'Flower Of Flesh And Blood'? Through the samurai's dialogue, we see a character who is a mouthpiece for the filmmakers. They are doing this awful thing - creating a foul, repellent piece of cinema - out of love for us. They are giving us violence - raw, ugly, vicious, and exposed. It isn't stylised or clean - and it certainly isn't in a work which can ever be deemed 'entertainment'. It is simply an exercise in stomach churning brutality - an excercise that YOU ASKED FOR. Now, aren't you ashamed of yourself? Don't you feel dirty?

I'm going to shoot for a Baise Moi moment here, if I may. By this, I'm referring to an infamous article that I wrote for the DUSA magazine that earned me a few stern words from the chief editor, because I was suggesting something that she deemed as outlandish and 'irresponsible'. I would argue that a film like 'Flower Of Flesh And Blood' is, in fact, psychologically healthier to view than - say - Lethal Weapon.

No. I'm serious.

Take 'Flower Of Flesh And Blood'. A girl is murdered in graphic detail. She is in pain. She is afraid. She is degraded and humiliated by a sick, dangerous creature. She is a victim of his abhorrent affections - and will be ripped apart by him onscreen, in a vulgar display of severed extremities and separated offal. It is very intense, very upsetting, and very, very real.

Now - take Lethal Weapon. A good-looking-yet-crazy cop spends at least 75 of the film's 90 minutes of running time engaged in the act of shooting people. He shoots them in the face, chest, legs, arms, and back. The bodies pile up - and death is treated as a joke. Mel can cap off as many rounds as he likes, and he can kill as many people as he wants, as long as he flashes us that winning grin as he does it. In the film, an endless parade of people are murdered by Mel's character - but that's okay. They were 'bad'.

That's pretty much an accurate overview of both films. Which one seems to have a more healthy, realistic attitude towards violence? Which one could even help to prevent violence by showing it as a gruelling, harrowing, inhumane display of viciousness - which is ultimately self-destructive? And which one shows the very idea of ending the life of another human being as a game - a stunt which is custom-made to help you get the girl and pull of the awesome acrobatic move with your unlimited-ammo-clipped dual-pistols? Which attitude would you rather embody? Murder as an experience laced with disgust and revulsion, or murder as a game?

Now, guess which of the two films have a right to legally exist in this country. Which one of us is the sick freak with no respect for human life, again?

All I Know About Filmmaking I Learned From Lloyd Kaufman, AND The Toxic Avenger.

If you're unfamilar with the ouvre of Troma Studios, the longest running independant film production company in the United States, what I am about to say may be a little bit of a shock. Maybe you read an article that resides on this very site, in which I take a few fumbling steps towards attempting to clarify and explicate my taste for only the seamiest, most sordid films that money can buy - and why there are quite rational political, artistic, and yes - emotional reasons behind my obsession. This isn't simply going to be another piece where I reveal far more than I should about my past, and espouse the virtues of entertainment which belongs, for most people, in the bin rather than on their screens. This is going to be far more political than that. Far more pointed. But first, let me take you back to 1990 - when a young, nerdish boy stepped into a video store in Lower Plenty, Melbourne, and managed to convince his long suffering mother to hire 'The Toxic Avenger' for him, reassuring her that the movie's brazen legend on the rear of the case ('This movie contains loads of unnecessary sex and violence - You'll love it!') was meant to be taken ironically. Which was, frankly, total bullshit.

All things have to begin somewhere, and as far as my love affair with Troma goes, it was - as I said - standing in a video shop in Lower Plenty, pushing the case of 'The Toxic Avenger' into my mother's hands, as her brows furrowed with concern. I had a fullproof method of getting her to hire the most sordid drivel that I could find, and after more than a decade of keeping the secret to myself, I am going to share my technique with you all. Here's how it worked.

I would grab the tape off the shelf. It might be Robocop. Or The Thing. Maybe it was Total Recall, or A Nightmare On Elm Street. I would hold it, stare at it for a moment, check over my shoulder to make sure that Mum was engrossed in scanning the shelves, and then I'd nonchalantly wander over to her, pretending that it was absolutely no big deal, and there was no reason for her to be concerned - and I'd slip it into her hands. Because I was such a cool cat, and there was nothing underhanded going on, I'd just look at the shelves with her, and stick my hands into my pockets, rocking back and forth on my feet.

"Found anything?", I'd say.

She would frown, and look at the tape in her hands. "What's THIS?"

I'd not look up, pretending I didn't hear her. "Hmm?"

"What's this, David? It's R-rated. I'm not sure -"

"Oh, Mum. Don't worry about THAT. That's the OLD R-rating. There's nothing to be worried about."

"But, I -"

I'd be gone. Cooly walking away, my eyes relaxed and my hands swinging loosely by my side. I wouldn't even break a sweat, as I exuded an air of total confidence. Of COURSE I'm going to hire 'Xtro'. And while I'm here, I might pick out a few more tasty titles. Anyone for 'Basket Case'?

And, rather than shatter my confidence, or risk getting into a heavy debate about the relative merits of the cinema, she'd hire the damned tape.

Of course, she should have been worried. 'The Toxic Avenger' WAS about as depraved a film as one could imagine - a cornucopia of degenerate sex, pointless violence, and a seemingly endless litany of perverse behaviour, by a cast who genuinely seemed brain damaged. A squalid, foul, vulgar film - I absolutely adored it, and would unequivocably rave about it whenever I could. For a few moments in the schoolyard, I reigned supreme. The other boys would sit around me, crosslegged, with their faces displaying pure awe, as I stood powerfully before them with my arms folded across my chest, and a defiant smirk pressing my rubbery, oversized lips together. I regaled my classmates with tales of the unknown. Of the forbidden. Violence, sexuality, and human depravity were the tools with which I asserted my intellectual and cultural supremacy over these peons. My biceps felt taut and hot as I would wave my arms in the air like some kind of powerful sorcerer, the boys spiralling upwards in a frenzy of bloodlust - visions of The Toxic Avenger slipping into their VCR's, and unlocking a world of clandestine cinema that lay just beyond their grasp.

Then, when I ran out of 'It was really cool when -' stories, they'd beat the shit out of me and stole my lunch money.

As I grew older, I started to explore Troma's back catalogue. An expansive series of films which seem to cover every conceiveable sexual perversion and vehicle for dismantling the human body, I was awestruck by the chutzpah of these upstart filmmakers, who seemed to hold issues of taste and public morality in so little regard that they would actively mock their detractors from inside their film world. From The Class Of Nuke 'Em High to Fat Guy Goes Nutzoid to Bloodsucking Freaks, to the infamous Surf Nazis Must Die, it seemed that Troma would stop at nothing to splatter the screen with their hellish, savage vision of humanity. The thing that confused me, though, was that despite the orgy of carnage and sex that constitutes the average Troma film, I couldn't honestly conceive of anyone being offended by them. They were so damned good natured. So amiable. There was a sweetness and an innocnce that pervaded them - and even in the darkest, most savage lows that Troma vomited onto the screen, the films were tinged with a playful sensibility that stopped the images from being offensive, and made them - somehow - fun. The bad jokes. The self-consciously goofy special effects. The eighties rock scores. The acting - which can't really be described, it can only be labelled 'The Troma Style'.

The reason behind the sweetness of Troma has something to do, I suspect, with one Lloyd Kaufman - the president of Troma. A fascinating figure, Lloyd is also one of the more accessible figures in cinema - with the Troma webpage featuring an email address where he can be contacted, and a continually updated series of articles on issues pertaining to free speech, globalisation, and the monopolises on media and art that the conglomerates are attempting to achieve. Lloyd appears on most of the Troma Team's VHS and DVD releases, and his presence simply warms my heart. He seems to be a man of great intelligence, verve, and passion - who can be both self-deprecating on one hand, and fiercely protective of his the cinematic output of his company, citing Troma's catalogue as one of the last bastiens of free speech and independant thought operating on the cinematic landscape.

Troma swooped down during the brief, glorious age of independant VHS distribution in the early 1980's - attacking the market aggressively with their flagship titles, such as The Toxic Avenger and Class Of Nuke 'Em High, stealing the thunder away from the major studios, who were too paranoid about losing money through video piracy to actively take part in the video revolution. This was the pre-Blockbuster age, where video shops were just that - shops that people opened which rented videos, as opposed to the foul chain stores which now clutter our landscapes, offering us nothing but the same films from the same companies ad nauseum. No, in 1985, it was not unusual to walk into the 'Greensborough Video Library' and see 'I Drink Your Blood' sitting quite comfortably next to 'Kramer Vs. Kramer'. As Lloyd tells us on one of his wonderful DVD commentaries, there was a hell of a lot of shelf space to fill in those days - and shops would take whatever was offered. As it turned out, there was a lot on offer - a tapestry of independant films, too bizarre or individualistic to be given massive distribution found a home in OUR homes, entertaining us, and giving us a world that wasn't simply more Hollywood Product. We had the freedom to choose. And we loved it.

So, it was in this atmosphere of freedom that Troma first tasted success, both financially and culturally - and it was the slow, sneaky erosion of this atmosphere that forged Troma's aggressive protection of its independant status, and the
passionate fire that seems to burn inside Lloyd's words. As the major studios began to realise that there was a market for VHS tape that was so huge that piracy wouldn't be an issue, and as the cinema industry was deregulated so that studios could BUY theatres - controlling all aspects of distribution, it seemed that the party was over. Once again, the bogus rich kids - in their desperate attempt to keep their gnarled claws wrapped around our wallets - had decided that we were simply having TOO much fun, so they ended it. Blockbuster - now the predominant chain of video rental stores across the world - began to move in and seize control of the market, using their considerable financial muscle to simply destroy and and all competition in their path - united in an unholy pact with the major studios to ONLY stock mainstream product, and to flat out REJECT independant film, including that made by our beloved Troma.

Troma, and any other independant artists, have basically been shut out of any form of media-distribution heirarchy. Their films have been blacklisted from promotion on any major television networks. Reviews, essentially pieces of plastic writing designed to schill for major studio Product, aren't written on Troma films in the mainstream press. Even when Troma acquired a classic children's film and reissued it on DVD, it was totally ignored. By virtue of the fact that Troma refuses to play the game with AOL/Time Warner, they have become outcasts, exhiled into the realm of festival showings - yet still maintaining their presence as force on the home video market.

We are gridlocked. Our pathways for access to film, music, and literature that isn't simply a piece of the mainstream culture machine are being rapidly destroyed. If it isn't Bradd Pitt and Cameron Diaz - then it doesn't exist. For Australia, the consequences of this are dire, to say the least. Australia has been culturally colonised by the major U.S corporations - and at the same time as they have destroyed their own independant art scene, they have destroyed ours. Australia now has no outlet for its reservoir of writers, actors, filmmakers, and musicians - unless they want to bend and spread for the ruling elite, lose the stupid accent, and accept the powerful American phallus. Homogeneity in art is all that can and will be accepted by the corporate elite - as Lloyd reminds us on his website, the mainstream cinema is now nothing but a wasteland of 'sequels, remakes, and films made from bland literary sources.' There will be no room for deviation - no originality or imagination. The passionate fire of Troma still burns - but it can only be seen by the devoted. The mainstream will have none of Troma's mayhem - and for that, I pity them.

Troma's films might be perverse, profane, violent, and filled with an obsessive, adolescent fixation on the female body - but that is how they were intended to be. Kaufman's vision of the world - which, when seriously analyzed, is actually quite profound and complicated - is just that: A deeply personal vision of humanity and society, interlaced with an exploitation film aesthetic. It is undiluted and raw. Troma does what Troma does, and if you don't like it - you can get fucked. Go whine to someone who cares, crybaby - because Uncle Lloyd couldn't care less. If you want something clean and sanitised, then make your own damned movie.

I don't have a way out. I wish I did, but I don't. I will tell you this, though - I really do miss days like the one when I hired The Toxic Avenger. I miss being able to scan the racks and dig out gems every time - I could rummage through hundreds of tapes and dig out all kinds of weird and wonderful treasures, and watch films so demented that I needed a shower afterwards. Or not - I could simply watch something that provided me with a window into someone else's mind. Something that was open and bleeding - and allowed itself to hurt when it needed to, and could accept that film can be ugly, rough, and burned - and still be wonderful.

Lloyd, on the other hand, being a far more resourceful chap than I, has put together a list of things that all of us CAN do to at least TRY and defeat the machinations of the corporate media machine.

Quoted from www.troma.com:

DON'T Go to shit Hollywood movies

DON'T Read shit newspapers, magazines and websites published by the media conglomerates

DON'T Buy shitty overpriced CD's put out by the major labels

DO Read independently published newspapers, magazines and websites

DO Support independent art

DO Everything possible to destroy the media conglomerates

I do try to do all of these things - and I urge all of you to do the same. But sometimes, it is hard. Sometimes, the way that our streets and houses are cluttered with advertising material forcing Jennifer Lopez and Lucy Liu down our throats is enough to make you simply cry. But do you want to know something?

Every time I walk past Hoyts, and see Ben Affleck's box head staring down at me, with a quote from Roger Ebert, I feel a little futher away from little boy who whined at his mother to hire The Toxic Avenger, after finding it in a stack of video tapes in the 'horror' section of the 'Main Street Video Library'. I feel like I want to take him aside, give him a hug, and tell him to make the most of the wonderful array of choices he has - the seemingly endless kaleidoscopic vision of modern culture that the video shop provided in the eighties and early nineties. I really start to miss the freedom - and I miss the feeling of excitement and exhileration at the discovery of something new, some little diamond that I'd never seen before. All that's left is me, Blockbuster, and George Clooney.

And it's at times like that, that Lloyd Kaufman becomes even more important to me than usual.

Bad is good. Except when it's bad for the wrong reasons. Then it is just bad.

Okay. So, I'm gonna slap down a few words for you turkeys on why I spend my miserable life chasing these rotten movies. I know they are no good. I was a cinema student for (deleted) number of years - I know my Coppola from my Copperart. I know my Kubrick from my House Brick. I know my Orson Wells from my Mork Calling Orson. I know my Warhol from my "Phwoar. A hole." So, I am not simply some scumbag degenerate with a filthy taste in perverse movies. Lordy, no. There are punishing academic reasons behind my love of trash - reasons that I will share with you.

I started with horror movies. They were, after all, readily available available. As the early 1980's video boom began to slowly ebb by the early to mid 1990's, a lot of debris remained after the smoke cleared. Wonderful, wonderful things - "The Incubus". "Silent Night, Deadly Night". "I Spit On Your Grave". "The Toxic Avenger". "Basket Case". Nasty films, all - yet accessible. You could stride confidentally down to your local Mum and Dad video library, slap your three dollars on the counter, and walk away with a feast of carnage - a litany of human excess at your fingertips. And, as I grew up and devoured every title I could find in the horror section, I began to realise why I loved these things. People would ask me what the fuck was my problem, and why was I such a sick, demented weirdo - and for the longest time, I had no answer. It took hindsight to give me the answer. And the answer was this - they WEREN'T HOLLYWOOD.

I know what you're thinking. 'Here we go. Another fucking art student whining about Big Bad Hollywood and the movie machine. Heard it before.' And you'd be right! I'm NOT going to say anything new. I'm just going to justify myself. It's about time.

They weren't Hollywood. By 15 or 16, I was already sick of American cinema - especially the fucking mainstream 'blockbuster'-style movies that were being forced down my gullet at every opportunity. And it wasn't because of some high-falutin' future lefty art student bullshit - it was simply because they were all *the same*, and they were all *boring*. As ridiculous as Friday The 13th Part V: A New Beginning was - and it WAS... it had soul. It looked like it was made by people. Stupid people, yes. But people. The film looked handmade - the reasons for the film's creation were irrelevant. I'm not stupid. We all know that Jason existed to make moolah for fat guys with pinkie rings.

And then, as the Internet took off, and my dorkiness found a new way to escalate towards unheard of heights, the joys of overseas ordering became available. Finally, I was able to access all kinds of degenerate sleaze - grindhouse movies, roughies, ghoulies, gore movies, eurotrash.. a world of demented pleasures beckoned towards me with a manicured, vermillion fingernail - an innocent flower of a smile playing across the lips. And, being an easily led sort of guy, I followed.

What a world it was. Herschell Gordon Lewis's 'The Gore Gore Girls' was the sleaziest, trashiest, filthiest thing I'd ever seen - and I loved it.

I loved the insanity - the raw, screaming fury of these films. They were assaultive and vicious - striking out of the screen at the viewer in an attempt to shock, repulse, confuse, and bewilder. They embodied a savagery that was numbing - and as I began plowing through the cannibal subgenre, which reached an apex of some sort with the unforgettable 'Cannibal Holocaust', I began to upset and disturb myself. Why? Why was I watching these horrible, repulsive things? Why was I so fascinated by such odious, exploitative images?

Because they were real. The low budgets of most of these films meant that the director could do whatever the hell he wanted - as brutal as he felt it should be. They were like diary entries - bleak, nihilistic expressions of time and place by men and women who had no interest in genre, narrative, culture, boundaries, or taste. They did what they liked, when they liked. And if you didn't like it, fuck you.

I'll tell you something for free, girls and boys - there's a lot more truth in a H.G Lewis gore movie, or a Findlay roughie, or a $10,000 Warhol movie than in the combined output of the mainstream American cinema over the past 20 years. And at the moment, truth is the most valuable - and scarcest - commodity in the world.

And THAT is why I'll take 'The Kiss Of Her Flesh' over 'The Matrix' every time.