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It’s amazing to see that after almost forty years, Straw Dogs is still a movie that will divide opinion quicker than a humorous family tragedy. This is unquestionably one of Dustin Hoffman’s greatest roles, as bookish intellectual David Sumner. A quiet mathematician who, tired of the peace protestors in his resident USA, travels to Cornwall with his new wife Amy, played by then unknown Susan George.

The locals, in keeping with traditional countryside traditions, ‘don’t take kindly’ to the arrival of the pair. With an old flame in the shape of Charlie Venner (Played by Del Henney) making his feelings quite clear to Amy upon their re-acquaintance.
‘Remember when I used to take care of you?’ He asks leeringly,
‘But you didn’t, remember?’ Amy replies.

This simple enough statement is a clue to the events that will unfold later, on initial examination; it simply refers to the fact that whilst they were once sweethearts, he was neglectful within the relationship. It is only when she is talking to her husband later on and he quizzes her on the past liaison, she confesses that there were never any physical relations between them. This will serve as a vital statement later in the movie.

Charlie and his friends are hired to assist with the construction of a garage on the Sumner’s farm; their aloof and lackadaisical approach to the task only serves to increase the tension between the young couple and the group of local men. In the village, the rapport is even less developed, with the vast majority choosing to either fully ignore or to simply taunt the timid American and his bride.

Tensions also begin to form between the young couple, as David retreats further within his work he drives away the playful Amy, leaving her to flirt with the workmen (including Charlie). After their pet cat is found hung ghoulishly in their closet, Amy pressures David to challenge and confront the locals, for she sees it as a warning. David instead tries to win their friendship, something that proves to be a drastic error.

I will abstain from summarising the rest of the plot for you. This is a movie that you will most likely be aware of, but may not have yet seen. The central argument was due to an ambiguous and graphic rape scene, involving Susan George. This resulted in the film being cast into the notorious BPP list, along with the rest of the supposed ‘Video Nasties’ of the time.

The trouble with this decision was that it served only to confuse the contextualisation of the scene itself. By drawing further attention to it, it made it a predominant thought in the mind of the viewer. Like the eyeball gouging scene in Zombie Flesh Eaters, upon first viewing, you are merely waiting for the scene to pop up, as it were.

It was interesting watching it with a woman, who had neither seen the movie before nor was aware of any of the surrounding furore. We could both agree that the scene itself is open to several interpretations, due to George’s apparent responsiveness to her (first) attacker, and the subsequent (albeit brief) tenderness that exists between them. It’s a hard one to call. (Stop sniggering at the back you)

What is more interesting is how she handles the situation afterwards. Choosing not to tell her husband about the events, she is stuck in a peculiar form of hell, as she is continually thrown into their company. The psychological deconstruction of her mental health is played so well in this picture that it is a dominant force in the latter half of the movie.

David’s psychosis also increases as he becomes more erratic, unpredictable and eventually homicidal.

The other significant question raised is that, is David, a meek and bookish individual, really then instigator of all the events which unfold? Does his refusal to stand up for himself and his family ultimately cause the horrific results? There are many questions that this movie leaves you with. This being a Sam Pekinpah movie, the action and violence are both raw and believable, as are his characters.

What you really take away from this movie is just how well crafted it is, it is so far removed from exploitative misogyny (as it is often accused of being) in its realism and subtle use of suggestive implication, that it leaves most criticism that I have read completely unfounded and misinterpreted.

The movie portrays terrible acts in a very realistic way, in that nothing is ever black and white. There is ambiguity in all that we do, and if some people won’t allow themselves to ponder this aspect, and to merely focus on the sensationalist elements of this picture, then they truly are missing the point.

It has recently been announced that Rod Lurie (No, me neither) is set to remake Straw Dogs next year. Don’t bother. Really. Don’t bother. You are wasting both my time and yours by doing so. Make sure that you have seen the original before whatever tainted dilute version makes its way to our cinemas next year.

Good memories have a habit of reintroducing themselves from the deepest realms of the subconscious at a time when their mere existence serves only to remind you of how sparse and irregular they become as life goes on. A recently uncovered photograph of my bedroom, taken when I was much younger, only brought back how sweet, innocent and simple life was before ‘Episode 1 – The Phantom Menace’.

Happy looking, content Star Wars figures lay on the floor, the odd dog chewed Stormtrooper here, a Jawa there. Then, the terrible summer of ’99 came and with it, the childhood admiration that existed within a generation was tarnished, buggered and sent to CGI hell for all eternity.

It’s been really hard to give a shiny sixpence about anything Star Wars related in the last decade. All three movies were awful and the less said about the animated adventures the better. Lucas & Spielberg have squeezed the franchise for all that its worth. I am not for a moment trying to suggest that Star Wars was never designed to make money, but the endless re-releases and special editions soon became less than essential purchases. In short, I stopped caring. Not even a showing of the ‘Holiday Special’ a few Christmases ago could spurn a resurgence of my interest (Not least of all because it was horrible).

If they had simply included ‘Return of the Ewok’, starring Warwick Davis on any of these DVD’s, it would have made a million dateless wonders very, very happy indeed.

This half hour documentary style film is a fictionalised account of Warwick Davis’ acquisition of the role of ‘Wicket’. It features all of the main characters, hamming it up marvellously as they jump from the fictional Star Wars universe to grey old England.

An ominous talent scout gets the young Warwick to dress up like an Ewok and sends him on his way to find his brethren. In this mini adventure, he encounters everyone from Yoda to Vader. The outcome of this tongue in cheek mini movie is a delight and a joy to see. As an Ewok, he searches for his place amongst the cast members, trying to find where he is supposed to be on the shoot. This masks (unsubtly) a few other issues which I won’t insult you by spelling out.

Set during the filming of ‘Revenge of the Jedi’ (A far more awesome name), you can see the actors having fun with it all, the solemnity and piety of the recent travesties (I-III, Pthoooey) it really did remind me of the pleasure without irritating association that Star Wars used to represent.

This has been the best Star Wars related item that I have come across in a very long time and will most certainly be played to unsuspecting visitors and inopportune times throughout the coming months. It’s just a damn shame that it’s always followed up by the realisation of what a great franchise has now become.

PS: I prefer The Battle For Endor and Caravan Of Courage to any of the last three Star Wars movies. That’s how much they suck.
PPS: Am I really writing about Star Wars? How did this happen? This is a new low for me. I think I will actually have to spend the rest of the day hammering short nails into my thighs in repentance. Or I might just re-watch Battle for Endor.

PPS: Warwick Davis was a member of a video store that I once worked in.
Christ, I’m a nerd aren’t I? I really thought I wasn’t for so long, but I guess there’s no denying it now.

‘Star Wars – The Amateur Pornography Years’

In a continuation of exploitation week here at zombiehamster.com, we momentarily divert from the movie end of the spectrum to examine one of the finest documentaries of the period. Scared Straight feels like it has been cast with members of 42nd Street’s finest, but is in fact very real indeed. A group of juvenile delinquents are sent into New Jersey’s maximum security prison Rahway State. The scenario is introduced by Peter Falk of Columbo fame, in a monotone so chilling that you are instantly stop slouching and start paying attention.

The troublesome teens are taken into the prison to be confronted by ‘The Lifers’ a group of hardened criminals, most of whom are serving life sentences for murder, hence the clever moniker. They have permission to terrify, verbally abuse and intimidate the new arrivals for several hours and the results make for essential (and hilarious) viewing.

Delight as some odious little runts with bad acne and attitude problems get threatened with intimate prison rituals, like snuggling. This predates all the diluted reality show versions that exist today, the overall feel of it being genuinely menacing. The ‘Lifers’ are a frightening bunch of guys, especially the one with ‘the eye’. Parodies of this have been seen in everything from the Simpsons to Beavis and Butthead, but the allure of the original is still as strong as it was over two decades ago.

There are two versions available, the original and also the 20 year anniversary special, hosted by none other than Danny Glover! This is the one which I would recommend searching for; I have included a section, submitted for your approval. In this version, the kids are ‘reunited’ with the Lifers in the most awkward situation I think I have ever seen on film. The cons make their way to the kids houses and you can almost see the suppressed memories come flooding back as the fear takes hold of their faces.

You won’t give a damn about the snotty roustabouts (Although in saying that, a lot of the kids look like extras from The Warriors, which is pretty cool. Also, keep your eyes open for a young Flava Flav), but the ‘Lifers’ play out like an episode of ‘Oz: The Wonder Years’ and if your idea of entertainment is watching large scary men making teenagers cry, then this may just be the ideal documentary to show on a first date.

As promised, this week is exploitation week at zombiehamster.com and to kick things off we’re beginning the proceedings with a modern homage to the bouncy bouncy romps of Russ Meyer. Director Jonathan Yudis makes no secret that this movie was merely an excuse to have as much fun as possible whilst paying tribute to the girls and gore features that he grew up with. The result was ‘Pervert!’ and from the title sequence alone, you know exactly where the movie is headed.

A young man travels into the remote desert to rekindle his strained relationship with his father, who he finds has somehow managed to procure himself a rather buxom young wife (played hilariously by Mary Carey). It isn’t long before the two are (ahem) hitting it off, thanks to some of the most unsubtle come on’s that I’ve seen outside of a Rugby Club disco. The most notable being a hilarious suggestive corn eating scene which would have Vladimir Nabokov spinning in his grave.

Suddenly, she disappears only to be almost immediately replaced by a new successor, who seems equally interested in her new groom’s son. It is about this point that the film starts to get really weird. The girls start to get viciously mutilated by an unseen entity. A really disgusting car mechanic appears and tires to man love our protagonist (see pic). The father is then discovered constructing a woman out of meat (a là Quincannon from Preacher – ‘Say the Name’).

I’m not spoiling a thing by telling you that the entity emerges to be a disembodied killer penis, which is animated Morph style out of plasticine. The penis belongs to the son, who underwent an impromptu voodoo ceremony to cure him of his sex addiction. We are in ridiculous territory here, but thankfully, the locals are friendly. There is a charm to this movie that goes beyond the absurdities and you are genuinely transported to a time when people made movies that were just plain old fun.

The whole ethos of exploitation was that it focused on the elements that mainstream cinema ignored, with its pretensions and grandiose ideas. Don’t get me wrong, I have a love for in depth, heavily structured intelligent moviemaking, but sometimes it does good for the soul to watch something like this. The soundtrack is excellent, comprising mainly of 60’s surf and boogie, adding to the Meyer feel of the whole thing. I can imagine that if the great man himself were alive, he would have happily added his grubby seal of approval.

If you are new to the exploitation genre, you could view this as pure garbage, however, if you have even a slight familiarity with the influences behind it, you will be left chuckling long after the credits have rolled. It’s a great late night feature and it makes me wish that they still had drive in theatres, because there has not been a more suitable movie for such a medium as this in quite some time (with the notable exception of Grindhouse of course). Get yourself a copy, get some beers in and enjoy.

PS: Yudis’ father in law is renowned animator Ralph Bashki, who directed the Animated Lord of the Rings and Fritz the Cat, oddly enough.

The French have a way with beauty, style elegance and class. Argue all you want, but it’s true. Sure, they can be rude, obstinate and boastful, but the last time that I checked, we weren’t exactly leading the way in politeness, courtesy and humility, so quit your whining for a moment and we shall continue.

It was about twelve years ago when I first discovered a movie called Dobermann, which starred zombiehamster favourite Vincent Cassel and a (then relatively unknown) Monica Belluci. The movie was an exercise in glamorous excess, hyped up violence, ridiculously over the top action sequences and nauseatingly slick camerawork. In short, this was a teenage boy’s wet dream of a movie.

A few months ago, two delightful French friends of mine returned home, leaving about a hundred of their DVD’s in my safekeeping until they returned, or I went over to see them. I had been using them to work on my linguistic skills which remain schoolboy at best, but I digress. It was with delight that I unearthed a triple disc version of Dobermann and with glee; I dove into the extras to find something of unparalleled beauty which I never knew existed.

Director Jan Kounen had also made several short films in the run up to this particular feature, and one in particular is essential viewing. Le Dernier Chaperon Rouge (The Last Red Riding Hood) is a 25 minute masterpiece. A reworking of the classic fairy tale, it retains the horror and mystique that the originals were intended to possess.

Dance and song take as much precedence as dialogue and visual stimulus. In a post apocalyptic world, a monstrous beast takes a young Red Riding Hood capture, viciously removing parts of her legs. Broken hearted and desperate, she manages to kill the creature, but is left crippled and captured, waiting for a successor to inflict the same fate upon.

The woodland springs to life, with rabbits, flowers, mushrooms and rocks, dancing and singing in anticipation of the arrival of the last existing Red Hood. They eagerly convince the (wonderfully portrayed) Big Bad Wolf to summon her from her underground slumber.

I will not divulge anymore of the plot because near in mind that this is a short film. The colourful and playful visual aesthetics are fantastically juxtaposed with the dark and gothic elements that are also at play. I cannot implore you enough to seek this out, I have included a link, but to do this justice, seek a DVD quality version.

Emmanuelle Bèart is delightful as the Last Red Riding Hood and the humour in her performance is second only to her innocence. There are very few short films that leave you so thirsty for more upon conclusion; it is a shame that this seems to have been lost in obscurity. For any fans of Guillermo Del Toro, Terry Gilliam or David Lynch, this is a mini masterpiece that will not disappoint. If this is their cinematic standard, then it’s justifiable for the French to be as proud as they are of their cinematic output.

Version with English subs available here:    http://tinyurl.com/c8h2zz

Roger Corman is a name that’s synonymous with schlock for any discerning fan of the Horror and Sci Fci genre. His Edgar Allan Poe adaptations with Vincent price are amongst some of the most iconic horror movies ever made. The Raven, Masque of the Red Death, The Pit and the Pendulum and Premature Burial to name but a few. He also gave many of today’s greatest directors, such as Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese, their first big break in the movies.

Corman and Coppola made a movie called Dementia 13 in 1963, starring Patrick Magee and filmed it in Ireland. Many of the Poe adaptations were also filmed in the west of Ireland, with its gothic landscapes and disfigured locals proving more successful for setting the tone of these wonderful movies better than any manufactured studio lot could provide. It was Corman’s affinity for the emerald isle that lead him to establish a production company in Conemara, just beside Galway.

A lifelong supporter of new talent, Corman has put his name to many things and can generally be used as a quality guide for recognising good trashy fun. Imagine then, my excitement when I discovered that the same year that I moved to Galway, Corman had produced a feature shot in the city called Moving Target starring none other than 80’s action legend and kickboxing star Don ‘The Dragon’ Wilson. The results are almost hypnotic in what is possibly one of the most ridiculous movies that I have ever seen.

The ‘plot’ is thus. Don has come to Ireland to meet a potential love interest that he has met (i.e.: groomed) online. This love interest is so unbelievably ugly that we spent the entire movie wondering if she was wearing prosthetics, or was altered by cgi, like the inbreeds in the recent Hills Have Eyes remake. The only reason for casting this unfortunate seems to be that she has red hair, which coincidentally all the women in the movie seem to have.

In a bid to impress this meek, shrew like creature, (‘He keeps trying to kiss me, on the mouth’ she tells a friend who responds ‘Well, he’s an American isn’t he?’) he has to purchase a six pack of Beamish stout (In the most blatant use of product placement since I Robot) to impress her boss, so that she can get the day off work. He then inadvertently buys a six pack that contains a nuclear device belonging to the IRA.

I’m not making any of this up, I promise you. The only thing that makes this film more ridiculous than its premise are the production values. There is a car chase sequence filmed on the Galway docks which was obviously only hired for the day. They drive around in circles repeating the same in car shots about six times.

The ‘Oirish’ actors are all hilarious and I even saw a few people turning up in it that I know from about town. This does not however mean that any of them are any good. The bumpkin like shenanigans border on racist, but are no less hilarious for this. The acting is horrible beyond belief, the action scenes are horrifically edited and to be honest, I haven’t had such fun watching a movie in a long, long time. Come laugh at how backward and untalented they all are, it’s worth the price of admission alone.

I urge you to seek out a copy of this, get some beers and a pizza and laugh your ass off. Roger Corman, thank you so much for this because, like a daisy through concrete, there is a simple enjoyable beauty to this.

Coming soon, another review of a Corman feature shot in my old art college, starring Patsy Kensit. I bet you can’t wait.

Moving target can be purchased here: http://tinyurl.com/df7k9b

‘Hang on a minute, that wasn’t what you looked like in your MySpace avatar.’

The perils of the internet kids, be careful!

It was probably subconscious, probably a hangover from finishing ‘It’s Always Funny in Philadelphia’ a few weeks ago, but I ended up watching three Danny De Vito movies in a row the other night, two of which were directed by the man himself. That in itself is a feat that warrants mention, or possibly committal. I opt towards the former, I’ll reserve the latter card for when I go on a drunken, naked ‘Ernest’ binge, again.

It’s easy to dismiss De Vito as ‘the little guy’ from Twins, ‘the little guy’ from Taxi or ‘the little guy’ from Romancing the Stone, but there’s a damn sight more to him than this. De Vito is a huge supporter of independent cinema. He runs a small production company ‘Jersey Films’ which he runs with his wife Leah Pearlman (No relation to Ron, unfortunately) which released the sublime and highly recommended Death to Smoochy a few years back. Smoochy (Also directed by De Vito) was a great vehicle for all involved, particular mention goes to Edward Norton and Robin Williams, who both give their best performances of recent memory (Edward Norton, what happened?). Since then he has been involved in the production of Reno 911, currently one of the USA’s funniest exports which has just begun its sixth season. He also returned to television and joined the cast of ‘Its Always Sunny’ after he saw the first season. This was definitely a factor in the shows success and longevity. Without resorting to the standard ‘star appearance’ fare so familiar in sitcoms, he threw himself into his role with gusto, becoming a central character of equal calibre to the existing stars.

Wise Guys also stars Zombiehamster favourite Joe Piscopo and also Harvey Keitel in what lies comfortably between comedy and gangster thriller. De Vito & Piscopo play the hapless underlings perfectly, resulting in one of the most watchable and fun movies to grace my screen in weeks. I am still suffering from the grimace making, couch chewingly awful abominations of ‘Zach & Miri Make a Porno’ and ‘The Love Guru’ which I watched both of last week whilst I was obviously under the throws of some mild form of dementia, even this did not improve these horrible, horrible films. I shall berate Kevin Smith some other time, for now, back to Danny. Yes, watch Wise Guys, its dumb, funny 7pm movie fun.

To follow up with something of a little more substance, The War of the Roses. This was one of those films that I had always left on the video store shelf as a kid, probably for the fact that it didn’t look funny and there were no monsters in it. It’s probably for the best that I did leave it there, because this is a grown ups movie, and a great one at that. It has all the hallmarks of a great 1980’s comedy with some truly amazing performances. I really detest Michael Douglas, but he is unfaultable in this picture, as is Kathleen Turner, who is equally repugnant. De Vito plays his divorce layer shtick to a t. The breakdown of the marriage portrayed, with the extremities of cruelty that the couple bestow on each other are just so, watchable. I am not one for misplaced nostalgia, but a lot of the films of the late 80’s early 90’s have a certain style to them. This is a great example. Seek this one out and watch it with a loved one, and wait for the looks to begin.

Finally, Throw Momma from the Train stars grotbags from the Goonies, that scary old bitch who looks likes Satan’s own ringpiece with a moustache. Strangers on a Train is plagiarised, romps are had. Billy Crystal is shit, but he always was. Watch for the truly terrifying momma.

So, there you go, three Danny De Vito movies, clumsily summarised and selected for your viewing pleasure. See, see the things I do for you? You just wait until the Chevy Chase marathon next week. I’m not kidding. Now, for a reprise of ‘Ernest dances starkers on the balcony’

Straight off the bat, I apologise for having the audacity to try and rework The Raven for comedic effect. Although as bad as my writing may get, it’s always nice to watch something that suggests, no enforces the idea that I can do better.

Jonathan Demme’s ‘Something Wild’ is this kind of movie. During the title sequence, you could be fooled into thinking that this may be in the vein of John Water’s colourful bad taste extravaganzas. It transpires that this is about as far removed from John Waters as Hannah Montana. Jeff Daniels plays a hapless ‘suit’, representative of tight ass Reaganite America, or something. Melanie Griffith is a hilarious ‘free spirit’ character (loves reggae, wears layers of wooden African jewellery) who kidnaps him, in the most ridiculous way imaginable. That’s about it.

They embark on a road trip on which, well bugger all happens actually. Griffith removes her top, Jeff Daniels looks out of place, hilarity does not ensue. The stinger in all this is; I have seen this movie about six times now, thanks to late night ITV throughout the 1990’s. It was an uncertainty in the depths of my brain that said ‘maybe you did enjoy it’ but no, it must have just been the boobs. John Waters does appear as a used car salesman for about twenty seconds and is completely wasted.

Overall this movie proves that no matter what small fragment of nostalgia can be retrieved from watching this, it won’t be worth the inevitable torment of watching the ‘liberated’ Jeff Daniels rock along to ‘Wild Thing’. It’s a ludicrous, horrifically written movie, badly executed with inadvisable casting. It won’t have you gouging your eyes out with your bare hands, but it’s doubtful to be cited as anything worth revisiting by anyone of note.

Jonathan Demme went on to make Silence of The Lambs and Philadelphia. Hmmm.
Jeff Daniels did Dumb and Dumber, ending his career for good. (Apart from that one about ducks that I quite liked)
Melanie Griffith married Antonio Banderas and then restructured her face to resemble a gay fish.

And any of us can do better than this.

Once amidst a midnight movie, strange sensations did run through me,
I sat in my apartment, gloomy, eating pizza from the night before,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly my brain came tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my bedroom door.
`What the hell is this?’ I muttered, `’tis your brain and nothing more -
And you’ve seen this film before.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
I had traveled out and ventured, ventured to the video store.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – for something to watch tomorrow
From the videos to borrow- I owed them money, from before-
For the rare and gory movies, laid on shelving and on floor-
50p or 5 for 4.

And they never checked the ratings, you could leave with all sorts of things,
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
Is it my imagination, or have I seen this before? -
I have seen so much at this stage, they just merge in disarray?-
This it is, and nothing more,’

Then when I began to wonder, thinking long and thinking longer,
I remembered seeing this a decade now, or so before;
Something subconscious spoke to me, there can not be many movies,
That feature both John Candy, and as well, Tupac Shakur,
But even better than Dan Akroyd, were the truly magical,
Chevy Chase and Demi Moore.

I have surely seen worse movies, terrors still return to haunt me,
Like when I watched Mannequin and Nicholas Cage in ‘Lord Of War’.
I have sat through so much garbage, that anything that offers salvage-
Salvage from Zack Snyder and the movies that he bore; -
Chevy Chase and Demi Moore!’

One sure sign of the fact that time is thrusting itself over the precipice and down an everlasting chasm at increasing speeds is when you can’t correctly identify which decade a movie was set in. The early to mid nineties in particular. It is now almost impossible to distinguish a movie from the early nineties from one of the mid to late eighties. It isn’t until the advent of the CGI explosion that you can make any assured judgement. It’s similar to when you watch too many Emilio Estevez movies in a row, and your nightmares are just assimilated images of Emilio and his mullet in various threatening situations. Case in point here was a movie called The Creeps, which I was convinced throughout, was made a long time before it actually was. This movie would make Fred Olen Ray proud. A neurotic outsider steals a handwritten manuscript of Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus from an antiquarian library, run by a rather confusing lesbian character that has a propensity for using an original copy of Jane Eyre as a masturbatory aid. Please, don’t leave, not yet. This odd gentleman proceeds to summon the four main characters from horror (Dracula, Frankenstein, The Mummy and The Wolfman) to do his evil bidding on earth. A scuppered plan and a botched experiment later, the entities appear, as midgets! Roll on 90 minutes of diminutive farce and I think it’s fair to say that you got yourself a movie. The peculiar revelation was at the end when the credits stated that this feature was made in 1997. It appeared more along the lines of a flick from 1989. This is trash, this is the trash that trash throws away, this is…perfect zombiehamster material, seek!

A change of genre next for some Bette Davis, in The Man Who Came to Dinner, a highly enjoyable whimsy concerning a cantankerous writer who, injuring himself on a fan’s property, plans to sue the householder for a sizeable amount. He also designates that he will live within the confines of the home until fully recuperated. In the course of doing so, banishing the owners from his presence. This is a delight of a movie and is on par with the Ealing classics of the time. Recommended strongly if you want some traditional celluloid escapism. Beautiful.

Finally, a movie that I had been planning to revisit for some time, Barfly. Mickey Rourke plays Henry Chinaski; alter ego of Charles Bukowski. This film was made with the full consent and creative insight from Bukowski himself, who wrote the screenplay. The plot is familiar ground for anyone who has read any of Bukowski’s short stories or novels. It is in the handling, Rourke swaggers with the drunken grace possessed so magnificently by the author. It feels less like emulation, more transferral. It resonates far more satisfactorily than Matt Dillon’s performance in Factotum. I implore any of you reading this to search out something by Charles Bukowski, a true great of 20th century American literature; this film does justice to the stories, but will never be a substitute. Barfly was made in the 1980’s, but oddly enough, looks like it was made in the late seventies. Either my concept of time has been thrown completely out of kilter, or I have finally gone insane. Either way, back soon!