Quag7

Four Christian college brohams go to Europe and reflect on being Christian brohams.

My immediate reaction upon seeing this is wondering what these guys were like when the cameras weren't on -- when they were in social situations and the like with pecking orders that they were at the top of -- when they had something to lose by doing the right thing.

Then again, I get a sense that this was one of the points of this film; at several points these guys talk about falling short of their own standards, which is admirable enough.

I guess in the final analysis, I have to respect the idea that a bunch of college bros decided to take the time and effort to make a film on this subject at a time in their lives that are full of secular distractions. That's got to be worth something.

But as a non-religious person myself, I thought something was missing here. What this needs is a followup down the road. I'm curious how many of these guys (some recently "saved" in Christian parlance) are going to be Christians ten years down the road, or if the lessons supposedly learned here about *living it* rather than just going through the motions, are going to be put into practice.

The weak link in Christianity, for me, has never been Christ -- it's been Christians. It's been aggressive self-righteousness coupled with hypocrisy and rationalization (they touch on one of my personal peeves, the so-called Prosperity Gospel, one of the ugliest manifestations of modern "Christianity") of Christians themselves that consistently turns me off. I have known more Christians who behaved terribly when not in church than have actually lived the faith they insist guides and informs their spiritual lives.

Periodically I run into someone who has been transformed by their faith - filled, as they would say, with the Holy Spirit, in a substantial way. The question is whether or not the guys in this film are, knowing what they know, going to become like this, or whether they're going to just continue living their lives as they have.

Anyway, this film is likely to be more interest to young Christians than jaded atheists like myself, but sometimes you learn more about people by listening to them talk among themselves than packaging their religion or ideology into a sales job targeted at you. To that end, this film was interesting and worth my time.

My honest feeling upon completing it was that these guys become better Christians -- the Christians they know they can and should be. Of course, that's my feeling about Christians generally, because it isn't when Christians are being Christlike that they get on my nerves, it's when they're talking about how Christlike they are while behaving and living like complete knobs that rustles my jimmies.

Films like this infuriate me. Films which are thoroughly bad can be enjoyable in an "ironic" sense, but The Initiate is one of those films filled with promise, yet never delivers.

The premise is fascinating enough: A man in Southern Georgia dies in an accident and during the autopsy, tattoos indicating Freemasonry and/or Golden Dawn involvement are found on his body. The film then proceeds as a sort of mystery, but completely fizzles out. And I do mean completely. The film rapidly slows to a crawl to such an extent, I wouldn't be surprised if most who started watching this (I saw it on Netflix) abandoned it midway through.

Involving the Golden Dawn in a film plot and then going nowhere with it borders on cruelty.

But I have to say the problem with this film is almost entirely with the script. The film feels like it gets stuck in mud about 25 minutes in. From there it plods along, until it nearly stops. There is a shooting later in the film which is supposed to be the climax, but I was in such a bored stupor by then, it was impossible to involve myself in it or care.

What's excellent here is the use of light and shadow -- itself awkwardly highlighted as it contrasts uncomfortably with the script problems. The film looked better than it probably deserved to, and the low budget of the film actually added a kind of intimacy rather than cheapness. I wanted to see it succeed, because it had the potential to succeed in the way a big budget Hollywood production couldn't.

The soundtrack is also remarkable, and contrasts similarly. I almost wish the film had been completely ham-fisted; I could write it off completely as another relic in the enormous landfill of low budget films and wouldn't have bothered writing this comment.

I wanted to see more about the Golden Dawn. I wanted more character development, and I wanted a film with some complexity. Worse yet, the movie has no apparent ending. It seems to trail off in mid-sentence. There is no resolution of tension, no twist, nor even any kind of a cliffhanger. It almost feels like they ran out of money and just never finished.

So many individual aspects of the movie are so good that my temptation is to give the filmmakers the benefit of the doubt. So much effort was put into specific aspects of the film (the aforementioned look, for instance) that I have to believe something subverted the film's production before it could be finished properly.

Those who are fascinated by the films occult elements in particular will be supremely disappointed. There's a brief discussion of Crowley and the Golden Dawn, and a brief shot of one of the characters in some kind of altar setting, and that's it. What the occult has to do with what turns out to be about a mundane drug ring with bikers, I am not sure.

This film is older than I thought. The writer/director has no other IMDb credits. I would encourage the creators of this film to take another shot at film-making.

While The Initiate can only be categorized as a failure, it is an interesting one. I would certainly consider watching any further projects by the filmmakers.

Despite the darkness implied by the description of the plot, this ultra- low budget independent film, is somehow saved by the adorableness of teenagers taking life far too seriously.

Filmed in and around Lopatcong, New Jersey, the film consists primary of two characters talking as they walk through the woods. My initial reaction was annoyance with the characters (especially Dart's crap attitude), but as the film progresses it becomes clear that this is necessary to his character - a character who has written a "Choose Your Own Adventure" book, where every path leads to doom. His moodiness is an important contrast to Mouse's whimsical, playful personality and I enjoyed watching the two together.

Like most films made on this budget by young filmmakers, the film has its flaws, but like scratches and pops on an old record, somehow those add to, rather than detract, from the film's charm. There's no reputation to live up to here, no summer blockbuster special effects to fill millions of movie seats with, just a bunch of people who want to tell a story about a couple of teenagers trying to navigate a difficult world they're trying to make sense of.

With its obvious affection for its youthful leads, the film's screenplay wanders along a familiar and vaguely Salingerian (is that a word?) path between sadness and humor.

It's got a lot of heart, and whatever its flaws, I can say unreservedly that I hope to see more from everyone involved.

I hate the 1980s (grew up then and hated them then, too). I hate synthpop. I hate when computers are portrayed in ridiculous ways in films. As a dude, I don't really do romance in cinema.

There are many reasons I should despise this film. It is cloyingly precious, sentimental, saccharine, and safe.

How irritating it is, then, that the only reaction I actually have to this film is warm fuzzies. I've seen it maybe a half dozen times, and will probably watch it a few more.

The many detractors of this film that I have spoken to seem incapable of the necessary accommodations one must make for this film's refusal to care about its own believability. Critics tend to fixate, instead, on supposed plot holes (this is a film about a computer that becomes self- aware when liquid is spilled into it, at which time it assumes the voice of Bud Cort, and falls in love with its owner's object of desire. Just sayin'.) and the aggressive, relentless adorableness of everything, from America's most picturesque city (San Francisco) to Edgar's cartoony "facial expressions," to Virgina Madsen, whose prettiness here is nearly coma-inducing in its dreaminess.

Critics of this film tend to hate this kind of thing, preferring instead to find themselves, at the completion of the films they say they like, naked and in a fetal position on their own bathroom floor, rocking back and forth and sobbing quietly.

Like I'm the lame-o for liking this film but they're the sophisticated, dignified ones for kneeling in the mud in a rainstorm and crying out to the God who has abandoned them, which is the sort of state one finds oneself at the end of "serious" films like Dancer in the Dark or Requiem for a Dream.

Lame-o it is. Snobs might try watching this as a postmodern commentary on the 1980s: the airy 80s-ness actually détournes itself (HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE!?), thereby being so avant-garde you can barely even stand being in a room where the film was once shown, owing to your insufficient coolness. Discuss.

Part of the thing about this film, of course, is how easy it is to develop a crush on the cello-playing, classy, girlfriendy Virginia Madsen, and as a tough wannabe manly teenager with weedy adolescent facial hair and a preference for films with machine guns and rivers of blood, going all googly over Virginia Madsen was not something high on my list to do at the time. You couldn't maintain your dignity with your friends if you said you liked this film, when they were all watching, you know, FACES OF DEATH and playing 5 Finger Filet with balisongs in the basement.

Virginia, if you're out there, I'd totally bring you hot chocolate and animal crackers on a snowy day. I am man enough to say this now.

After watching Ms. Madsen in Electric Dreams, the most intense fantasy I was capable of conjuring up was: we're sitting on the couch, Virginia and me, and we're watching Pete's Dragon, both of us in in matching cotton jammies with dinosaurs on them, and eating ice cream. At one point she turns to me and says, "Let's stay in our pajamas all day. And then I'll play the cello."

OK I tried to go for broke (I was a deeply hormonal 13 or 14 year old at the time), but that's as lusty as I could make it, no matter how hard I tried. The fantasy was no less satisfying. Something can be extrapolated from this about the film's virtues, as well.

The soundtrack, on paper, is the embodiment of purest evil for me. This is pretty much the last soundtrack I'd ever buy, had I not first heard the music in the context of the film.

If you have not heard the Phil Oakey title theme, I am warning you now: it will make you into a complete and total wuss. OK, men? Just. You know, we'll have some whiskey and go hunting and hare coursing tomorrow and belch and scratch ourselves. Tomorrow, though. Today, it's, you know. Though you're miles and miles away, I see you every day. I don't have to try. I just close my eyes.

I'd hate myself if I wasn't enjoying myself too much to care.

Other standouts are (kill me now) the Culture Club contribution, "The Dream," which accompanies a memorable animated montage, and two Jeff Lynne (ELO) songs. You won't soon forget the soundtrack, for better or worse (you will probably love it - but you will not like loving it).

All of these elements just work, even though they shouldn't, and much to my annoyance, I must grudgingly admit to this being quite possibly my favorite film from that year (much like foodies deriding middle American vices like deep-fried Oreos, and then realizing, to their dismay, that they enjoy them). Mock me if you must. If I look a bit dazed, it isn't that I am ignoring your derision, but rather it is because Pete's Dragon is over and I'm putting Harold and Maude into the VCR while Virginia sits there in her pajamas, reading an article from the New Yorker about J.D. Salinger out loud to me.

Where was I...

Oh...

I give this a 9 out of 10, because for all of the reasons I could give you why this film is a treacherous menace to all of my sensibilities and values, I just really love it.

You should watch it, if you haven't.

Quit being a sourpuss, critics. The Godard films you pretend to like are still in their plastic anyway and have a long shelf life. You've been "working up to them." You've got time to keep "working up to them."

And they won't love you like Electric Dreams will. I bet even Lemmy Caution would agree.

Films like this make me cheer, because it is rare that a film aims so high and hits all of its marks. I mean to compliment not only the writer/directory Paul Andrew Williams's sure-shot storytelling, but the outstanding performances all around.

This is a deeply unpleasant film, by which I mean it deals in dark subject matter. It is difficult to watch. But I cannot remember watching actors work harder to earn their paychecks, especially the two protagonists played by the incredible Lorraine Stanley and the young Georgia Groome, whose terrified sobbing just absolutely tore me apart.

Watching Lorraine Stanley carry both guilt and responsibility (especially her scene as she sits listening on the couch), I was struck by what exactly how difficult acting must be. I rewound to watch this scene twice, amazed with the overwhelming realism of her reaction to what was going on. Neither overblown nor self-consciously minimalist, I could simply not imagine this character reacting any other way; not even by a hair. Watching an actor hit their mark so precisely, it reminded me of everything I could never pull off myself in front of a camera, and why I never sought to be an actor: I know that even after years of study and practice, I would not be capable of this kind of precision. This actress walks around the whole film with a beat up face and her basic humanity just bores straight through the latex and makeup in a way that never leaves you guessing exactly what's going on in her mind. She's just fantastic.

And I don't want to leave out the bad guys. Sometimes they don't get the credit they deserve because we love to hate them, but without them, you can't pull as hard for the good guys as you would, and Johnny Harris in particular pulls off the sleazy, evil, slightly thick Derek with remarkable effectiveness, wearing the characters immorality on his shirtsleeve and fairly stinking up the joint in the best possible way. Ditto for the rest of the baddies, for whom you will have, I promise, no sympathy whatsoever.

After watching a terrible big-budget film with A-list Hollywood types early in the evening, I cannot help but focus on the contrast between punching a clock in a big budget film and putting sweat and blood into a labor of love that London to Brighton must have been.

There is a vast difference - and it is clear from some of the comments here that many cannot make the distinction - between making a depraved film, and making a film about a depraved subject. This film is certainly the latter. At no point in this film are we invited to sympathize with the degenerate villains, and our sympathies for Kelly and Joanne simply grow as we become more and more acquainted with the malevolence and motivations of the reprehensible and sometimes demented antagonists.

This will be worth your time, and I'd definitely rate it higher than the 7.1 it is currently at on IMDb. This is an outstanding film and, unpleasant and squicky subject matter aside, I recommend it unreservedly.

Deft, effective film-making. This is how it's done, folks.

It is always dangerous to make any kind of statement about what previous films may have influenced a particular filmmaker, but this film is easily identifiable as what could only be called "post-Linklater," with some similarities to his early film Slacker, and maybe Smith's Clerks. Hopefully the filmmakers would not be unhappy with that comparison.

Two groups of suburban slackers drive around Calgary trying to score weed, while a third group attempts to retrieve instruments from a locked apartment. Along the way, there are discussions about women and haircuts, and a whole lot of suburban "scenery" (malls, roads, residential neighborhoods, arcades), such as it is.

Calgary could be a stand in for any suburb on the continent. Accordingly, anyone who has found themselves completely bored in such an environment ought to enjoy this sedate slice of life.

It's a quiet film with several amusing moments. I enjoyed it, mainly because the characters and settings were familiar (though I'm not from Calgary). The actors do a pretty good job of it as 20-something suburbanites trying to stay awake in the malaise and ennui of their test pattern surroundings.

Definitely worth a watch, if you don't mind a (mostly) plot less film that centers around dialog.

Cool soundtrack.

I've given up trying to figure out what version of this I'm watching. The copyright at the end indicates 1983. And though this is not the important bit of my objection to this film, I will say that watching a film obviously made in the Aquarian Age (including long haired hippie chicks and odious station wagons) but with a 1980s synth soundtrack is unsettling. Extremely unsettling.

My main objection here is HOW DARE THE FILMMAKERS BURY CUTE-AS-A-BUTTON PAMELA FRANKLIN ALIVE. HOW DARE THEY.

Seriously she's all like adorable and stuff but in the two movies I've seen her in - this crapfest and the otherwise excellent Legend of Hell House - they kill her off.

I would like to put the film industry on notice. Pamela Franklin has apparently retired from the business but if she ever decides to do another film and some blasted cur of a director attempts to kill her off I SHALL ASK HIM TO STEP OUTSIDE.

NO ONE BEATS UP ON PAMELA FRANKLIN AND GETS AWAY WITH IT. I AM QUITE CROSS. THE FURY HAS BEEN UNLEASHED.

For B-movie fans seeking out a crapfest, you could do much worse than this. On the plus side, this is not a film which involves Satanism in a peripheral and circumspect way - this movie is a hardcore satanic film.

Wall-to-wall satanic ceremonies, baphomets, hallucinations, a ludicrous rat attack - what else could you ask for.

This excellent stuff is quite nearly ruined by the baffling grafted-on 1980s synth soundtrack, which is about as mismatched to a film as it is possible to be. The soundtrack reminded me of something you'd hear on The Equalizer. It's really bad.

Also, they made Pamela Franklin squash her charming English accent, which was also quite rude, if not a cruel atrocity (against the viewer) such as you might find covered by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. I say that we have a right to hear Pamela Franklin speak in her own voice. Who's with me? I could forgive everything else about this film if they didn't abuse Pamela Franklin. And so I throw the gauntlet down, sirs -- ANYONE WHO MESSES WITH PAMELA FRANKLIN MESSES WITH ME.

EVEN IN A FICTIONAL CONTEXT.

GOOD DAY, SIRS.

This is the story of a guy who used to be a member of some radical faction of the IRA who has left that life and has managed to "go straight." He lives in Brixton, with a Rasta pirate DJ living above him, and a drug dealer living below him.

One day, some of his old comrades, wanted by the police, show up at his door, and drag him back into his old life. The always awesome Roger Daltrey shows up as one of the boys in the old brigade, though as someone else commented, he's not given enough screen time.

It was really cool to see Vinnie Jones get a three dimensional role. He's fantastic as a gangster or thug, but here he plays a guy with a conscience. He does a really convincing job of it, and as I'm used to seeing him play one kind of character, I was a bit surprised by this one.

I think part of what works here is he doesn't overact. He doesn't seem self-conscious about having what is, perhaps for him, a deeper character than usual. He pulls it off with reserve and without histrionics or over-acting, and I was pleasantly surprised with the result. I hope to see him do more of this kind of thing in the future (hopefully not to the exclusion of his tough guy gangster roles!) Patrick Bergin, an actor I wasn't familiar with before this movie, does a fine job as a radical bomber who seems to be in it for all the wrong reasons (such that there's anything but wrong reasons to be into political terrorism, but that's a whole other discussion). As an Irish tough guy with a swagger and an air of irresponsibility, he gives it just the right amount of gusto to make the character work.

Lennox Lewis is shockingly good as the pirate DJ, who plays a kind of counter-cultural authority figure or conscience of the film (he is said to be something like "the king" of Brixton.) I didn't even recognize him, but after this I hope to see him in more films.

The dubby, reggae soundtrack is fantastic - perfect, actually. The film concerns, at least in part, the interplay between English, Irish, and Jamaican characters, and the soundtrack and script seem quite cohesive in covering this theme.

I think this film is underrated. While it isn't The Godfather or anything, this is a solid film, with solid performances. I particularly liked the ending.

I recommend it, and I think it's certainly better than the 5.5 it presently has.

This is a treat. I was looking at another film on IMDb and noticed "alchemist" as the keyword and, curious, clicked on it, which led me to this short film by Benjamin Dickerson, who clearly has a more comprehensive understanding than most of what "alchemy" really means (in the hermetic sciences, it was about much more than changing lead into gold).

Lindsay has locked herself into a grimy purgatorial (or worse) basement because she is convinced that she is undergoing some kind of physical and mental transformation. The film is intended as a documentation of the process, and so, it seems, the transformation begins. At times Lindsay talks to the camera but is unable to articulate specifically what is happening, or why. But a happy camper, she is not.

There are lots of great things about this film, not the least of which is the actress, Pip Dwyer, who is either transforming into something or going insane, or both. A moody and haunting soundtrack accompanies the excellent camera work and editing as Lindsay unravels (the score is remarkable; it would be worth listening to on its own).

You can't pigeonhole this. It feels like a horror film, but is avant-garde, artistic, and surreal to the point where the term horror feels unfairly reductive, though it did creep me out.

Lindsay the Alchemist got under my skin. I had to smile at the ending, despite the nasty feeling in my stomach.

There are a lot of people making short films and putting them on the Internet these days, but Dickerson feels, to me, deserving of a feature film deal (no, I do not know Dickerson and am not shilling for him).

It's simply that this film indicates he's got the chops. With Lindsay the Alchemist, he has managed to make a film with one character, one room, and spare dialog compelling, weird, and disturbing. Even though this is a short film, it doesn't feel like a student film; the effectiveness of this pushes it into a whole other league.

You can watch this grim and existential film online at the filmmaker's website.

I would add that this is definitely not for young children.

This was a movie I watched only because I was curious how to pull of a goth road film. Nothing in the description beyond that appealed to me (I am a particular fan of road films).

On paper, this movie should have been irksome beginning to end. Heavily sentimental at times, Stevie Nicks obsessed girl with gay goth friend struggling with sexuality on their way to New York City...this is just not my world. I was pretty resolved not to like this from the opening scene on. It's kinda...chick-flicky. You know, it was kind of hard to see the screen over my uh, dudeness, if you get my drift. I was drinking Miller Lite, belching, and scratching myself at the time.

I attempted to scowl through the first half of the film, but the minute the damn Cure started playing ($#@& CURE! THEY ALWAYS DO THIS TO ME! I WILL SEE YOU IN HELL ROBERT SMITH! WHERE I WILL SING ALONG! AND CURSE YOU! BUT SING ALONG TOO! WHICH WILL BE MY ETERNAL TORMENT! $#@& CURE! I HATE YOU! YOUR MUSIC RULES! CAN I BE IN THE BAND PLEASE. ARGH.) I lost my resolve and just had to admit I really liked this, and really sympathized with the characters. I wanted to see them happy, wanted to see them get what they needed. Once characters win me over in a film, the game is over, and I'm sold. Largely on the strength of the alienation theme, but also, I have to say, in the way these actors nailed the parts, well...

I mean to say, I really liked this movie. I'd even call it excellent. I will probably watch it again.

In The Razor's Edge (Bill Murray version), there is an excellent line I have never forgotten, which is, "It's easy to be a holy man on top of a mountain," and somehow this film has makes an equally quotable counterpoint when Gypsy says, "Try being a freak in the real world" to a bunch of mocking, catty, obnoxious goths.

Anyway, uncle. This is a *really good* film and I have nothing bad to say about it. I still don't get goths but I get not fitting in. And it's a reminder that we ought to respect each others dreams, even if we don't fully understand them.

Also, I must remark on the leads here, Sara Rue and Kett Turton (as well as the always likable John Doe), who nailed these parts. They brought boatloads of charm to these self absorbed characters who, in the hands of less capable actors, could have wound up being whiny and irritating.

There is a difference between "trippy" and "psychedelic." "Trippy" is what people who mostly have never had psychedelic experiences ascribe to weirdness in art, and "psychedelic" is art - be it music or film or whatever - that simulates or outright induces a state of altered consciousness as a proxy or alternative to psychedelic drugs, dream states, meditation, etc.

People really like to pat themselves on the back a lot in their neurotic quest to dismiss all 60s or occult techniques, imagery, sounds, tropes, whatever. I can understand this to some degree. A lot of the 60s was just goofy. The case I'd make for this and Lucifer Rising is that this is about as good as this kind of thing can be done.

It is not for everyone.

Here Anger turns everything up to 11 in a relentless torrent of Thelemic, Satanic, and Nazi imagery, nudity, drug use, and blasphemy.

This is a psychedelic film or, I guess, if you're just too hip or grounded or intellectual or contemporary or whatever for Kenneth Anger, an attempt at one. The purpose here is to get on top of you, by which I mean, tap a nerve. This is a torrent of input - visual and aural - pumped mercilessly into the viewer's senses.

The disturbing soundtrack, varying film speeds, interlaced light effects and occult imagery (flashing unicursal hexagrams, etc.) are clearly meant to unsettle and induce a state of altered consciousness of some sort, but in my case it just kind of made me uncomfortable. In a good way. This is not to say a pleasant way. An effective way. (Is this film itself, a magickal working of sorts?)

I can't help it. I like this, even if I don't *enjoy* it exactly. This is not an exploitation film. This is the real deal: the Age of Horus spontaneously exploding through (and nearly obliterating) the Age of Aquarius.

Evil hippies, man.

I found this nightmarish, frantic, and disconcerting. I suppose if you can simply dismiss the whole of the 1960s and the whole of the occult of the time, you can dismiss this, too. I'm just not that cool I guess.

Worth a watch as art and as film-making with a different purpose than usual (while this is entertaining, I don't think this was conceived of as primarily "entertainment").

There's no plot here. If you need one, don't bother. Watch with an open mind.

Then go to Church after.

I guess I can't blame Kenneth Anger fans for looking for something weird and menacing in here, or looking for a statement on consumerism or something like that, but aside from some disturbing old footage of what appears to be a merry go round out of control, this is more cute than anything else. Seriously, you can watch it with your kids. They'll love it.

Toy Mickey Mouses come walking across the screen, wink at the camera, and so on, while popular music through the ages plays. People are always looking for evil in Mickey Mouse, and I'm as sensitive to consumerism and jingoism and corporate excess as anyone else and try as I might, I simply cannot find anything *evil* about Mickey Mouse or any kind of statement in this film. I tried, I really did. I've seen Invocation of My Demon Brother. I've *seen* Lucifer Rising and I just can't connect that sensibility here. There are some things identifiably Kenneth Anger here - something about the way things are filmed that I can't put my finger on, as well as the music choices (which made me recall Rabbit's Moon for some reason). But nothing immediately psychedelic or, you know, um, Thelemic.

As far as I can tell, this is a filmmaker having a bit of fun with an icon familiar to just about everyone.

It's Mickey! Lots of them! In many forms! Dancing, singing, and so on. And that's about it. I liked the film, frankly. It was whimsical and fun. I guess if you have it in you to really hate Mickey Mouse, you'll see something else here. But man I just don't have any room left in my heart to hate Mickey. Or plastic representations of Mickey.

For a movie with a lot of silliness, this movie has soul. It's not Citizen Kane but that's not the intention. If you like Pee Wee's Big Adventure or UHF, you'll probably like this. The intent here is to entertain, nothing more...but also, nothing less. And it succeeds.

The one word that best describes this film is "whimsical." There is, however, obvious frustration that underlies this film. You can tell that Jittlov is both a fan of watching movies as well as making them, and it's clear that he is fairly exasperated with the things that get in the way of movie-making.

Here, he skewers the excesses of Hollywood, most of which film fans are at least passingly familiar with - unreasonable union regulations (and exclusivity), filming permits, shady film executives, and just getting someone to look at your work and give you a shot.

From the start, we're on Jittlov's side. And this is why the movie works. Some of the jokes are corny, but again, they're kind of supposed to be. But there's a lot here that's genuinely funny too.

Mostly though this is a visual treat. The film is packed with visuals - even the sets (Jittlov's room for example) are interesting to look at. From riding a suitcase through Los Angeles to running pretty much literally around the world at high speed, the uncynical love for "movie magic" shines through.

And it would be wrong not to mention the presence of J.R. "BoB" Dobbs, the one true living slackmaster, stenciled on the side of a van. And this is appropriate because this is definitely a film about the film industry as an extension of The Conspiracy, stealing the slack away from the passionate, creative people who just want to make an honest film.

Mike Jittlov - I know you must look at the comments here and I want you to know, I'm on your side. Thanks for making this movie. It was a lot of fun. Sorry about the suits. Sorry about the soul-sucking "Con." And I hope you get an opportunity to make something else for us soon! This movie is a pure-hearted anthem for every independent film maker or effects guy ever who just wanted to do it for the love of it. And it's a hoot. If you're looking for something light but entertaining and visually interesting, this would be a good pick.

I like really good *bad* films. And for some reason I especially like really bad films from the 1960s. That includes the whole exploitation films thing.

This is cringe-inducing, and normally I like 60s kitsch psychedelia with its canned 60s psychedelic effects - kaleidoscopes, liquid slides, and so forth.

This film had precisely one decent scene (right near the end), where the letters LSD are hanging on one wall and STP (dude STP) are hanging on the other and all the characters are kinda sorta having an LSD orgy or something. I don't know, there's body painting which I don't get to this day, and some boobies, and some genuinely weird music and lighting. If you can fast-forward to it, do. It's nothing great but it was the most worthwhile few minutes of the film.

The rest of this is just really tasteless (by which I really mean asinine) failed attempts at humor.. This disappoints on every level that a movie like "The Trip" delivered on (well firstly, the presence of the mighty *ELECTRIC FLAG* alone, justifies the The Trip. The *ELECTRIC FLAG* can do stuff like pardon Original Sin. This film had no such advantage).

One of the writers went on to direct a FRANK STALLONE movie in the 1980s.

Two of these actors are actively (inexplicably) working today. I haven't seen them in anything but, they should thank God they survived the indignity of being in this.

OK also, there are a lot of boobies in this but the boobies are just UNINSPIRING. No one wants to hear UNINSIPIRING and boobies in the same sentence but there it is. I said it. The boobies themselves are not awful but their presence in such a cruddy, subtextless, one-dimensional, puerile film is highly disappointing and occasionally disturbing.

The filmmakers did not, in other words - in my opinion - did not respect boobies. And I am sure I speak for most of us when I say that this is something our civilization is right not to tolerate.

Anyway, then there's the instrumental, at times vaguely Ventures-like California-convertible-driving douchebag rock music that makes up the soundtrack. I cannot lie. I did like parts of it. Whether I liked it ironically or non-ironically, I haven't figured out yet.

Categorically, this is 99% a sexploitation film interlaced with crap humor. It is not a *psychedelic exploitation* film except for the aforementioned LSD/STP (dude STP) scene. It disrespects the 60s of course. It disrespects the counterculture. It disrespects comedy. It disrespects screen writing. It disrespects kitsch. And it disrespects boobies.

I give it the gas face.

I doubt even the most easily amused among us could get high enough to enjoy this film.

ALSO what was the deal in the 60s where cinematic motorcycle gangs are about as threatening as hall monitors? These bikers were more like BFFs with matching clothes than an evil horde of, you know, death riders.

Agitational left-wing diatribe or fantasy about a mostly lesbian women's army confronting the compromised "in-name-only" socialist government of the United States (there is a sort of bubbling-under anarchist sentiment in here).

Yeah, you know what, it's a little out there, just run with it.

My attention kept drifting because I felt this obsessive need to get into the filmmaker's head. I get, I suppose, radical socialism and I get radical feminism. As a straight white...dude...I guess I have trouble understanding radical lesbianism. I couldn't figure out why, given the fairly ludicrous premise for this movie, a women's army such as this would be "mostly lesbian." Is it because the people who conceived of this film were lesbians and this was kind of a political fantasy of theirs, or was it a comment on radical feminism, that only lesbians (for reasons I don't understand but kind of want to - if this is indeed the case) would be militant enough to get it together and get down to business? Or was it that the feminist struggle of the time resembled this in some way? I am, quite obviously, not the audience for this movie, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't find it interesting. The politics here are inescapable and unavoidable - if you can't tolerate the Left's extended cinematic trips (and this is one long one), you're not going to make it through - there's not much else to glom on to. It is impossible to suspend disbelief (or was for me), especially considering this film is really a polemic thinly disguised as a fictional drama. And I don't mean that as criticism. It is what it is. This film is about ideas, and it doesn't equivocate.

The movie does have a (genuine) punky, indie, underground feeling to it that might appeal to some who otherwise wouldn't be interested in something this ideological. The soundtrack is interesting and kind of weird. Not *quite* punk but not quite anything else either (which maybe makes it more punk, I don't know.) Oh - I disagree with other comments that this movie is somehow confused or unfocused. It's not. If anything, it is as subtle as a sledgehammer. I mean, I, for one, know *exactly* where the filmmakers stand. The plot seems to be fairly logical, if strangely paced.

This film is low budget (and wears it on its shirtsleeve), rough around the edges, and frankly I think this movie would be a complete failure if made with a big budget - if for no other reason than a large budget would sabotage (through overproduction and glossiness) the undeniably radical position the film takes. Possibly the film's most compelling attribute it is that it is wholly uncompromised (for comparison see The Spook Who Sat By The Door - which is not as low budget, but is similar in its revolutionary fervor).

In any case, this movie is not for everyone. The summer blockbuster crowd isn't likely to enjoy this, and I doubt those on the right side of the political spectrum are likely to make it through (though I can imagine some of them, maybe, rubbernecking in a voyeuristic way - "so this is how the other half lives, eh?").

Oh, and it ends with the World Trade Center being bombed (well, the transmitter on top), and Eric Bogosian shows up and has exactly one line, and I guess that's worth seeing if you're a Bogosian fan (I am).

Anyway -- recommended, with strong reservations. If you like double meat and cheese on your ideological pizza, you'll probably dig this, or at least find it worth your time.

OK spoiler: 3 young people go traveling across Australia's interior. They break down. Then, a redneck tortures and kills them. One barely escapes. The end.

If this was indeed based on a true story, it demanded a documentary or something like that.

It's a shame, too. Australia is clearly an astoundingly beautiful place, and a lot of the wilderness shots alone might have otherwise made this film worth watching.

The three victims were likable enough. I'm not sure what my reaction was supposed to be, other than repulsed, then bored, then ticked off.

And that is tedious.

I have no complaints about the performances, camera work, or otherwise. The story, however, was rotten.

This is a pointless movie, unless you like to watch cruelty for cruelty's sake. No twists, no revenge, just, abduction - torture - escape - chase - recapture - kill. What a waste of some beautiful scenery and decent actors.

You know what, there's silly, dumb television and movies for when your brain is fried. I have no problems with that kind of junk food TV.

And then there is insipid. And insipid is never amusing. This show, along with its idiot sibling Drawn Together, is insipid.

The writing is lazy. The jokes are obvious and easy. Of all of the talented humorists and animators out there, it irritates me that shows like these are green-lit. Yeah, Cheney kind of mumbles. Ha ha. We get it. Yeah, no really, we get it. Okay, enough already.

This show is *cheap*. The humor is cheap. It is especially depressing when you compare it to something like The Daily Show, Colbert, or even South Park. And, incidentally, it's got nothing to do with your political opinion or how you feel about George Bush. It has to do with having your intelligence insulted.

At this point, Bush is an easy target. Watching dry, straight news from the major networks is itself a laugh riot if it doesn't make you cry. This show just riffs on the obvious. It adds nothing to the already fairly rich tradition of Bush Administration satire.

With this show, they're not even trying. I can really chalk up subjective differences of opinion when it comes to a lot of shows I don't like. I can usually abstractly understand why someone would like something I don't.

But I am at a loss as to why even those who like really lowbrow humor would like this. The show is simply poor. I'd really like to know who is asleep at the wheel at Comedy Central.

And to those who would defend it as "stoner humor" -- horse puckey. No amount of drugs or alcohol would make this funny. This is an insult to the intelligence of (even the wicked mad high) Comedy Central viewers, as well as an affront to talented writers who actually take some time to write decent satire.

And as for comments about the voice talent, well, this doesn't sound like a dead-on impression of George Bush. This sounds like a dead-on impression of someone else doing a George Bush impression.

Complete crap. Stare at the wall for a half hour instead; you'll laugh more. Pathetic.

The whole gang is in this one (Richardson, Mayall, Edmonson, Planer, French, Saunders), and the script is tightly written. Lately, I've been watching all of the Comic Strip movies/shows, and this is definitely one of the better ones, and possibly the best one of all.

Very tight script, and the ending of this one is particularly imaginative, I thought. Plus, you get to see Rik Mayall completely wig out (over something that would wig anyone out), which is one of the great joys of television, in general.

Some of the Comic Strip movies/shows are a bit uneven, but this is one is solid all the way through. Highly recommended to any audience, including those who are a fan of these actors, as well as those who might be new to this bunch.

Why have these not been released on DVD in the States? I have no idea. The humor here is universal and accessible without being sanitized or insipid. It's what, ideally, you look for when looking across the Atlantic for humor.

This has been true of most of the things the Comic Strip folks have done. Though American fans of British comedy will no doubt enjoy this (the cast listing alone should interest any Britcom fan worth his or her salt), I think this kind of humor would appeal far more broadly beyond that niche.

The unwillingness to export stuff like this to the States (and promote it not as some kind of novelty British import, but as unqualified humor for humor's sake) under the assumption that it won't appeal over here, continues to tick me off.

The amount of garbage many of us have had to wade through to watch this and other semi-modern classic British television is, frankly, infuriating, and I know that I speak for a fair amount of us here when I say that.

I'm not one to slag all of American entertainment, because some of it is quite good, but I feel cheated when I am denied things such as this over some ridiculous cultural assumption about the kind of humor I'm likely to respond to - which is the only excuse I've ever heard from commercial interests who refuse to release this stuff in the US.

Well this one definitely isn't for everyone, as you can tell by the comments. For awhile, I liked this movie. I kind of liked these two driving around in the desert. The movie had that sort of dreamlike Zabriskie Point thing going on. In fact, along those lines, I'd mention that the film did feel like something from the 1960s (in a good way).

Katia Golubeva is a pretty enough girl, and we see a lot of her.

I know from regular trips to Death Valley that Europeans have a special respect for American deserts. At Badwater Junction in Death Valley, you can walk out onto the salty flats and despite the fact that you're in a giant valley, they know enough to whisper, or remain silent altogether. It's a pensive respect for the desert I wish more Americans had.

Here, you get a lot of California desert; always a good thing (to me). I liked these two characters when they were getting along - there was a weird and charming sort of innocence in their sex life and affection for each other.

Didn't fully get why they were constantly sniping at one another or why they kept having falling outs with each other. And that seems to be important to the overall point of the film, and I'm still thinking about it. I wanted to slap them - especially David - when he was being a jerk.

Because you should *never* take a sexually liberated French girl naked in the desert for granted that way (Am I right?).

The end is jarring, and a metaphor for something but I'm not sure what, exactly. Something, I suspect, about the fact that the two characters should have been a little more tender and appreciated each other more (especially on the dude's part), what with all the meanness and cruelty in the world (and so on).

This is not for everyone. It is slow moving, beautiful to look at, with characters who occasionally charm and occasionally irritate. The end sequence is disturbing and unpleasant.

If you're a fan of mainstream Hollywood, you might find this excruciatingly boring. The pervasive quiet of the movie makes the end all the more startling.

This film was not an unqualified success, but there's a fair amount to like here, I think. For certain people, anyway.

Both of the HST films have problems. This film's problem is that it is too "screenwritten" (Lazlo replacing The Brown Buffalo, "Blast" Magazine replacing Rolling Stone, etc.) and lacks the weird surrealism that a drug-fueled observation of American culture at the end of the 1960s deserves, if not requires.

It does play a bit like Caddyshack, as someone else pointed out, and it's hard to get really invested in the characters. And if you love HST as much as I do, you really do want to get into the characters and in to the story, because it's as important as it is funny. Where the Buffalo Roam is, for the most part, silly. It comes off as more a bunch of sketches than anything else. I did like Bill Murray in the part. The problem is the script, more than anything else.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, by contrast, does well with the surrealism and depravity but fails to make the full point I think Thompson was trying to get across - the decadence and over-the-top performances (especially of del Toro) are distracting, and really all of this is supposed to be about the death of the American dream, and the end of what was (to some) the best decade on record, or at least the one where people thought, for a time, they could make something of American life. Both movies hint at this but don't go into it enough, in my opinion.

Where the Buffalo Roam captures a little of the sadness and the creeping hopelessness of the early 70s (along with an indication of the hangover awaiting that generation in the 70s), but both movies fall far short of Thompson's books and writing in my opinion.

I was particularly saddened that both movies left out the "We're looking for the American dream" bit at the taco stand, because I think that was important, and the F&L Vegas story seems decontextualized without it (in terms of having a fairly serious (and sad) point under all of the humor and excess).

In any case, both movies are worth a watch but ultimately unsatisfying. Thompson is still best read. I think a good film about HST can be made, but the right person needs to be at the helm.

Richard Linklater or John Sayles, perhaps...someone who isn't going to miss the deeper substance underlying and buttressing the humor. That being said, there are far worse movies you could be watching than either.

And like Thompson, it still hasn't gotten weird enough for me.

Sharp, well-made documentary focusing on Mardi Gras beads. I have always liked this approach to film-making - communicate ideas about a larger, more complex, and often inscrutable phenomenon by breaking the issue down into something familiar and close to home.

I am sure most people have heard stories about sweatshops and understand the basic motives behind profit and capitalism, and globalism's effect on poorer nations (however people feel about it). Rather than expound on these subjects and get up on a soapbox (not that there's anything wrong with that, other than such documentaries typically preach to the converted), this documentary simply shows Mardi Gras beads, how they are manufactured, by what people, and under what conditions, and then how they are utilized by consumers at the end of the process. It openly and starkly investigates the motivations of everyone involved in the process, including workers, factory management, American importers, and finally, the consumer at the end of the chain.

I felt a little sickened by this; equally by the Mardi Gras revelers, but also by the way the workers in China have accepted their situation as normal and par for the course (even if they have some objections to the details of how they are managed). The footage of the street sweepers cleaning up the beads off the streets at the end, made a particular impression. But that was just my reaction; I can see how someone else might read this documentary a little differently.

Unlike other documentaries on this subject, I don't think you have to have any specific political opinion to be affected by this. This is ultimately a story about human beings and our relation to the goods we produce and consume. If you have ever bought a product made in the Far East, this should give you something to think about.

Outstanding and highly recommended. Need to see more documentaries like this. Kudos to all of those involved in the making of this film.

I wouldn't even bother commenting on the execrable cesspool of a film if its very existence didn't offend me.

I hated this film. Hated it to a degree that I cannot even find the words to express myself. This is literally (and I do mean literally; this is not hyperbole) the low point of western civilization since the Spanish Inquisition.

I enjoy a goofy Saturday afternoon or late night insomnia movie like anyone. I even enjoy bad movies if they are bad in a charming or kitschy way.

What really makes this movie offense and vulgar is the sense of smug satisfaction of the giant ensemble cast.

One of the worst feelings you can experience is embarrassment for another person, and this movie is, from beginning to end, a combination of feeling embarrassed for everyone involved coupled with insult and outrage.

The idea that someone would find this worth watching is insulting. The idea that such a thing as this movie should even exist on a roll of film somewhere is offensive. I will have trouble sleeping knowing that somewhere within one thousand miles of me, some unclean television sits that once showed even a split second of this film.

Quite literally, you, who are reading this comment, could have made a better film if I handed you a home video camera and shoved you out into the desert, then kneecapped you and left you for dead without water so that all you could film was the meager piece of ground you were capable of crawling across.

I am wounded psychologically from having to sit through the sight of Burt Reynolds, Sammy Davis, and Dom DeLuise in drag.

I could go cast member by cast member here, each of whom should be ashamed of themselves to this day and should be made to atone for their sins before a public tribunal of fire and pitchforks and angry mobs.

All of my political principles go out the door when it comes to this movie - I want to see someone hanged, publicly and brutally, for bringing this abomination of a film into existence. I want to go Jacques deMolay on the whole cast. Forget dreading Friday the 13th; we should all rue the day this film was released, instead.

I am permanently and incurably scarred by having to look at cars in this movie from the worst era for car design in the auto industry's history.

What in God's name were people thinking in the 1980s - about EVERYTHING? The Mitsubishi in particular is one of the most shameful and odious pieces of machinery I have ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes on. I have yet to encounter anything, for example, in the dark recesses of the internet, so thoroughly offensive as the vehicles in this miserable "film."

This is a movie about a race; the least they could have done is found some decent cars rather than relying on the miserable, unclean, blasphemous detritus of the era. The cars and Burt Reynold's mustache in this film are an affront to God and humanity. Each should be punished severely and swiftly. I want to hear someone scream.

This is a movie full of people very amused with themselves with zero regard for the audience. The contempt for the audience is palpable. Not a single shred of effort was made - this is Burt and Dom partying on someone else's dollar, and the film itself equates to abuse and trauma. Not a single idea here is new - simian (literally) humor, dressing people up in drag, stereotypes, and a bunch of unlikely and trite crashes and disasters evoke nothing so much as Stalin era gulags and syphilis experiments.

I hate this movie. Hate everything about it. Hate its presumptuousness, hate every actor who appeared for appearing in it. The entire acting career of everyone involved here should be completely discredited simply by virtue of appearing in this film. I want to see people kicked out of SAG, blacklists, exile, and angry mobs rampaging through the streets of Beverly Hills or Malibu or wherever these people live. I want to see tribunals and fire and primitive religious symbols and hooded men with axes.

I will never be the same again, and I curse the day I saw this film.

I have seen many movies, and this, I have to say, is the worst movie ever made. I am an enthusiastic and radical opponent of censorship but I make an exception for this witless, charmless, unfunny, vacuous disgrace of a film. Every copy in existence should be hunted down and burned, and any note of its existence should be wiped out of film guides and so on under penalty of death. When this campaign ends, we should start history over with Year 1. History should be rewritten, exactly as it happened, minus the existence of this film. Penalties should be doled out. We are talking stretch racks and iron maidens and bamboo under fingernails.

I HATE THIS MOVIE.

Well meaning but ultimately poor quality cartoon from the early 80s, typical of that time period. Corny with stilted voice performances and painfully trite dialogue, its value today is mainly kitsch, which explains its extremely late night/early morning showing now on Adult Swim.

Like GI Joe and other cartoons of the period, the cheap, unimaginative animation is accompanied by a morality lesson. Unlike those shows, however, the plots are generally oriented in some form around the central moral lesson rather than merely tacked-on as a didactic lecture by the cartoon lead at the end (though there is a non-animated "wrap up" of the lesson by Mr. T at the end).

I give it credit for trying hard to teach basic values, but I was 11 years old when this came out and I would have found it cheesy (had I seen it during its original airing - frankly, I don't remember it).

Personally I do not understand, beyond basic nostalgia for Saturday Mornings and so on, why so many people consider the 80s some kind of golden age for animation; it wasn't. Animation was cheap, much of it looked the same, and the artwork was poor, generic - workmanlike, even.

Nickelodeon in many ways set the standard for at very least making cartoons look distinctive. This cartoon, like most others of the period, pale in comparison with more recent offerings like Spongebob Squarepants, Dexter's Laboratory, Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, and so on. These cartoons may not have the Reagan-era moralizing, but they do have style (and surrealism, and imagination) and considerably more talented voice actors and far, far less stilted dialogue. (Not that every modern cartoon has something unique to offer but there are far better choices now.) Speaking of voice actors, I notice that Phil LaMarr did some of his first voice work on this cartoon. He would become a considerable talent (voice-wise) in years to come.

In some sense Mr. T is a good example of a time when animation was not taken seriously as an art form; rather, it was sold as "product" to kids, and like many sugar cereals advertised during showings of these kinds of cartoons, there's not much substance here, artistically.

I can see why someone would like this film.

That being said, I found this movie to be irritating to watch.

First, the kid screams *constantly* for the first part of the film. Shrill, high pitched screaming. While I understand that this was necessary for the role, I just wanted her to shut up. So utterly grating was her high pitched screeching, that I lost any sympathy for her character. I wanted someone to just clock her good, to shut her up. You can tell she was directed not to immediately respond to Hopkins's interventions. I was deeply annoyed at the directors for this because it prolonged the howling. Again - probably good direction in service of the story, complete agony for me.

Second, the mother is a constant emotional wreck, which is annoying to watch as well. Again, I admit - necessary for the film, but it got so incredibly tiresome watching this woman in a state of constant distress. Take a Valium already or go to church or just off yourself, please, for the love of god, the constant worried crease in your brow is making me dyspeptic. Pull yourself together, you miserable cow or at least, please SHUT UP.

Then, there were the predictable plot devices, where the father refuses to believe Hopkins's claims and motivations. The hostility - necessary and consistent with the believability of the plot, was tiresome and obligatory. Yes, we get it, you think the guy's either a shyster or a nutcase and you're hostile to him. Can we please just flash forward a week or something and get past this? We know we're watching a horror movie with probably supernatural overtones. Can we all agree as audience and filmmakers that yeah, the guy is all skeptical as anyone would be, in real life, and then just jump forward? Every stupid film dealing with the supernatural makes us go through this. The skeptic in horror films is like a placeholder. Perhaps flash a title card, "For the first 45 minutes of this film, the father was skeptical, and very angry at those who weren't." It would save a lot of screen time.

(It's like television, too - you have a super genius but non-traditional cop who is *always* right, over and over, yet every time he posits some kind of theory, his chair-warming superiors scoff at it even though the cop has solved like 400 cases in the last year and is never wrong. TIRESOME.)

Then, as others have mentioned, there is the tired 70s new age crap. I can't really expound further on this, except to say, 70s new age crap sucks. (See the movie "Serial" for a fun send up of all of that garbage.) Not a horrible movie by any stretch, but for me, at least, completely unpleasant to watch. Whatever virtues there were in the story, they were overshadowed by my boundless discontent.

Maybe you can sit through this and see the kinda okay movie underneath all of these annoyances. But you'd better be okay with the sound of screeching children.

I would also warn you that creepy mustaches abound, as they apparently did everywhere, in the 70s.

Fairly amusing monologue by Josh Kornbluth about growing up in New York city in a communist family. At the center of the story is Kornbluth's headstrong, anti-authoritarian Marxist father.

Also discussed is a trip to the Soviet Union as a teenager, the author's early sexual experiences, and ultimately his father's death.

I would have liked to hear more about how his experiences growing up, the fall of the Soviet Union, and the end of the Cold War have influenced Kornbluth's present outlook on the world as a mature adult, however this is fundamentally a monologue about people rather than ideology or politics.

Still, an entertaining 90 minutes or so and definitely worth a watch.