Monday, March 29, 2010

The Teachings Of the Pulp Novel

Education begins in the home. Then it takes a detour through school (the classroom) and behind the school (the shelter shed).

It is behind the shelter shed where we should have learned that Satan was a lesbian. Unfortunately, I only learned this recently. It's a revelation, to be sure, but should we be surprised by it? For eons, the heterosexual male has been fascinated by the woman who shares his passion for women. Dare I say the heterosexual male has much in common with the lesbian, and enjoys something of an unspoken bond with her.

Satan is all about temptation, right, so it makes sense that Satan would be a lesbian in order to lure the hapless heterosexual male into a cauldron of burning-worthy sin?

The photo of Satan on the cover of Fred Haley's book is more butch than any lesbian I've had the fortune or misfortune to know. If you ask me, the mustache and extended goatee are pushing the masculine characteristics a little too far. A mustache isn't uncommon in lesbian or hetero women, but the beard is much too obvious. One can only surmise that if a lesbian is prepared to sport a beard, she ought to lose the title deed to her vagina.

I'm prepared to accept the fact that Satan "was" a lesbian, but I'm not prepared to let the issue slide until I'm informed when it was that Satan reverted back to heterosexuality. Recently? Eons ago? Last week? The book's not closed on this.

The cover blurb on this classic implies that lesbians are passionate creatures who live to molest the bodies of their sisters. They have no time for chit-chat, knitting, gossip, cooking, or riding horses? Is this a fact, or just marketing nonsense?

What about those lesbians who've been living and sleeping together for twenty-five years? Do they still wake up every morning and rip each other's clothes off? Are they constantly rubbing each other's vaginas together in order to achieve that obligatory daily orgasm? Just because they're lesbians?

Perhaps they're just like gay males. Most homophobia seems to be based around the hetero man's belief that every gay man does nothing but engage in anal sex. That's what makes him scary! If he's not earning a crust or cooking up a storm in his well-appointed kitchen, the gay man is sucking, fucking, groping, or thinking of groping any non-female within his immediate zip code. He has nothing on his mind but penetration. Nothing! How he finds time for arts appreciation or pet grooming is the greatest of mysteries. Perhaps there's a pulp classic that unlocks the mystery.

Here we go again. More lesbians, and more damn passion. Crikey, these gals don't come up for air, do they? Apparently, "primeval passions lured them to lust's outlands."

Pray tell, where are these outlands? Is it really safe to lie down there and canoodle without catching a dose of poison ivy? And if these passions are primeval, why have they waited so long to express themselves?

No doubt about it, sex in the great outdoors can be wonderful, but the cover of this expose suggests that outdoor lesbian sex is better than just wonderful. It's downright revolutionary. Note the pinkening nipples -- you can almost touch them! And try imagining the scent of fresh, country air as flesh meets flesh and vulva is pressed to vulva in a carnival of clitorial euphoria. This is primeval stuff, folks, not your standard youporn MILF gangbang. Hell, no!

The cover photo does suggest that the lass on the bed prefers the fairer sex. Maybe it's the direction of her gaze that gives it away. Or perhaps it's the unbuttoned top through which her heaving chest is visible?

The standing lass isn't exactly opposed to the idea of girl/girl fornicating, either. She appears to have dressed for the occasion, and her hairdo looks like something from a recent episode of Mad Men. You get the sense that when she goes down, she goes down elegantly.

The title doesn't imply that the reclining lass would kick a handsome man out of bed, but she wants you to know that her preference is women. With a gun to her head, you can safely assume that she will not pick a penis when a vagina is available.

Finally, John Christopher's "novel of pure terror" is before us. When you arrive at the conclusion that there are no good Nazi leprechaun novels left, along comes this classic.

There are no lesbians to be found here, but there's an awful lot of passion on display. Passion for murder, of course, which is probably not too far South of passion for pussy in terms of strength.

Actually, this '66 novel is a fascinating one about a couple who inherit an old house in Ireland that is the home of seven tiny people who don't speak England; German is their preferred mode of discourse. Much terrific drama ensues. Writer John Christopher wrote many a fascinating story.

Stick with the pulps. For a well-rounded education, they can't be beat.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

The Boring Centipede

The positive reviews for The Human Centipede puzzle me because I have nothing positive to say about it. The film is based on a silly conceit that is unconvincingly executed on screen. Director Tom Six needs to know that a centipede has one hundred legs, not six (or twelve, if you count arms). His human centipede is comprised of three people; the second and third are doing a mouth to ass configuration; the point person just pulls the others with him. The make-up effects are so amateurish, the whole affair feels like a student film (a bad student film).

Essentially, the writer/director has one idea -- a human centipede. As a result, there is nothing of interest surrounding that idea. We just get a series of awful contrivances that place three individuals in the "care" of a mad scientist whose grand plan is to sew them together. That's it. The acting of the two females is hideously awful, and the male victim (a Japanese man) is not much better. The digital photography and lighting are horrific, and the editing is sloppy and slack.

If you're looking for "sick", you won't find it here. If you're looking for boring, however, you've hit the mother lode. Scenes run forever and not one iota of characterization or suspense emerges. The screenplay and direction are totally uninspired, and the performers flounder in a directionless universe. 

It's depressing that this rotten pile of shit is getting a small theatrical and a DVD release in the US when so many brilliant non-US horror films are totally ignored.

If anything I've said about this film makes it sound remotely interesting, I apologize for misleading you.


Saturday, March 13, 2010

William Castle's Shanks



William Castle's Shanks, a '74 super-oddity that has never been released on VHS or DVD anywhere in the world, played last night on Turner Classic Movies (TCM); when I saw it in the program listings a week ago, a long voyage to experiencing it was finally drawing to an end.

I first read about Shanks, which stars world famous mime Marcel Marceu, in Cinefantastique. They'd given the film a short, not entirely positive review, but it sounded like gold to me. I waited and waited for the film to be released in Australia, but that never happened. Never saw it on TV, either, and never stumbled on a pirated version from a US TV broadcast (I know others did). Nope, Shanks was destined to be the one that got away, one of those titles I never thought I'd see in my lifetime.

Well, now I've seen it, and I must say it is easily Castle's most bizarre and original achievement; it was also his last. Was it worth the thirty-five year wait? Well, is anything? My expectations were high -- but why? Cinefantastique had not canonized the film as a classic; they'd been somewhat critical of it. So why did I choose to ignore their review and act like they'd championed it? I don't know. I do know I get "feelings" about films sometimes. Irrational feelings. Feelings that have no basis in fact. Feelings formed by pure intuition.

That's why I always knew I'd like Shanks. I knew it would touch something in me. And it did. Parts of it disappointed, too, but they didn't spoil the overall experience of seeing it for the first time.

Marceu is Malcolm Shanks, a deaf mute puppeteer and mime who works for the crusty Old Walker (played by Marceu also). Shanks lives with his greedy sister (Tsilla Chelton) and her alchoholic, good-for-nothing husband (Philippe Clay). These two scoundrels are out to steal every cent Shanks makes working for Walker. What Shanks actually does for the grizzled Walker is pretty vague, but puppet making appears to fall under the job description.

Old Walker is a backyard reanimator, and he shows Shanks how he can make a dead frog hop by attaching electrical nodes to its body. He fires up a dead rooster, too, but he uses a type of acupuncture to do that; he controls the creature with a remote control resembling an early incarnation of a video game controller. When Walker kicks the bucket, the lonely Shanks decides to reanimate him. The movie gets very strange from there.


The film's opening title sequence, featuring circus music and animated figures, is a pleasing taste of things to come. Alex North's music, which received an Oscar nom, see-saws between contemporary and classical. Because Marceau is the main character and never speaks, the film is a defacto Silent Movie. There is dialog, but the tone and the pitch of the central performances are more Charlie Chaplin than 70's exploitation. Unfortunately, there is an off-kilter exploitation angle introduced later in the film that feels totally out of place, and it is the one aspect of the film that deflates its virtues.

A great deal of the film's running time is spent on Marceu's amusing and beautifully directed experiments with the dead. He revives several key characters, and some of the best scenes involve him parading them down the main street of his country town, or manipulating them to kill his enemies. The stuttery movements of the actors playing these animated corpses is a sight to see, as is a sequence where the corpses battle a biker gang led by exploitation staple Larry Bishop, the director of the recent (and pretty awful) Hell Ride.

The film is set in gorgeous countryside that reminded me of the rural English location of William Wyler's magnificent The Collector. The film's pace is a little too slow at times, and the drama is fairly inert. Although Marceu is excellent in his multiple roles, I didn't find him to be a terribly commanding screen presence. The classical photography and lighting by legendary cinematographer Joseph F. Biroc is stunning, though, and acts as a striking counterpoint to Castle's wild surrealism.

Unfortunately, the introduction of a motorcycle gang into the story does considerable damage to the brittle tone and texture of the movie; it felt very European until this strange switch occurred. Was Castle forced or felt obliged to pander to his teenager audience by throwing them a piece of familiar exploitation meat? Looks like it.  Although the scenes of the bikers being stalked by the dead are effective, their presence just feels wrong.

There is a sweet subplot involving actress Cindy Eilbacher, a young teenager who seems smitten with Shanks. Resembling a slightly more attractive Marcia Brady, Eilbacher has a few great scenes in which she expresses disgust at what Shanks is doing with corpses. A scene in which she is served by a couple of reanimated humans at her own birthday party, organized by Shanks, is a beauty. Larry Bishop also gets an opportunity to molest her in a surprisingly brutal scene (for this film, anyway).

Although it has its faults, Shanks is a truly original, bizarre, and beautiful movie. I waited thirty-five years to see it. The wait wasn't in vain.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Recent Cinematic Expulsions


Seen any good films lately?


Of course. There are always good films to see if you can be bothered looking.

What do you mean by that?

People who complain that there are no good films out there are lazy, unadventurous morons. Their perception of cinema starts and stops at the doors of Blockbuster. Fuck 'em!

Alright. Before we get into the obscure stuff --

Excuse me?!

Um, before we get into the stuff nobody's heard of, what English language films have you enjoyed recently?

The Ghost Writer.

Polanksi's new film?

Yes.


You enjoyed it?

Absolutely. It's an old-fashioned thriller that is extremely well put together. It's not gimmicky and it doesn't try to compete with the ADD-ridden rubbish studios call "thrillers" these days. It is patient, and it allows its audience to warm to it. Even Ewan McGregor is good in it. He's always been a good actor, but his choices generally suck. With Polanksi guiding him, he delivers a terrific performance. It's his best pic in years.

Anything else to recommend in this?

Plenty. Tom Wilkinson, who is good in everything he does, plays a dark, mysterious figure in this film. He only has a few scenes, but one scene, where McGregor visits him at his house, is fantastic.

Anything you didn't like?

Unfortunately, yes. In the last ten minutes, McGregor lets a certain person know that he knows something about them that he shouldn't know. At the time, it made for an entertaining scene -- but as I walked out of the theater, I thought to myself: What a fuckin idiot! Why would he do something so sloppy?

You'll have to see the film to discover this scene for yourself. There is also a much-complained-about final shot. Cinematically, it works, but it breaks the reasonably solid logic of the movie.

So you'd still recommend the movie?

Yes. It has elements of Polanski's other films -- even Bitter Moon, which is a favorite of mine -- and it draws you seductively into its world. That Frenchman knows a thing or two about seduction.

Isn't Pierce Brosnan in this? His singing sucked in Mama Mia.

Everything sucked in Mama Mia. Are you kidding!!!??? Thankfully, he doesn't sing anything here. He's quite engaging as British PM Tony Blair (well, he isn't called that, but nobody's fooled).

So what else have you seen?

Breathless (Ddongpari, 2009). Saw it on Korean DVD and loved it. Pretty much a character study of a debt collector, Sang-Hoon (Yankg Ik-Joop), who forms a very strange friendship with an abused schoolgirl. Sang-Hoon himself is a shockingly violent character who's only known violence all his life; he watched his father murder his mother, and now he lives with the guy (doesn't make for happy families).

Hasn't this been compared to Once Were Warriors?

In some circles, yes. There are tonal similarities, and the violence here is extremely realistic, like it was in Warriors; most of it falls into the domestic abuse category. People get bashed and beaten all over the place and frequently. It's infectious. If you like films like Gary Oldman's Nil By Mouth (which I loved) or Kim ki-Duk's Bad Guy, you'll really appreciate the magic of Breathless.

Ultimately, its strength is its script. It's not fixed to one level. Its lead character does change, but in an unexpected way. The relationship between him and the schoolgirl is beautifully handled, and the cinematography (mostly hand-held, but not annoying hand-held) is perfect. I should also mention the film's vibrant urban setting. It's like a semi-slum of extremely steep streets and dark alleyways. Just fantastic.

Sounds like you REALLY liked it?

Yeah. Loved it. I have a real affection for worlds of relentless brutality contrasted with a tiny speckle of hope. This is the stuff I love as a film viewer and filmmaker.

So that's it? No other recommendations?

I also caught another terrific Korean film called A Dirty Carnival (Biyeolhan geori).

Porn flick?

Sounds like it, but no. I'm a little late discovering this one because it was made in 2006 by director Ha Yu. It's a crime flick with a rags-to-riches character trajectory. Somewhat reminiscent of A Bittersweet Life (great movie!), but not quite as stylized.

Like Breathless, this is incredibly brutal. In fact, there are so many beautifully staged violent sequences, I couldn't believe I hadn't heard more about this flick.

Basic plot?

In-sung Zo (Kim Byung-doo) plays a middle level criminal working for a boss who doesn't acknowledge his hard work and denies him a promotion. When an opportunity to climb higher presents itself, Zo takes it, and forges an uneasy relationship with a crime boss/real estate mogul who promises him the world. There are many complications and levels present in this set-up, and the resulting film is a fuckin knock-out.

Like a Scarface?

Not as operatic and over-the-top as Scarface, which is probably to this film's credit. We relate to Zo because he's not too far removed from the Everyman. There is a strange subplot involving Zo helping out an old school chum who's becoming a film director. At first, I didn't like this addition to the narrative, but it does have an interesting pay-off.

Anything you didn't like?

I'm 50/50 about the film's ending. See it yourself and try making up your mind. I haven't quite reached a decision yet.

This sounds well worth seeing.

Absolutely. It's really bloody in parts and the violence is very impactful. It's a long film (141 mins.), but I never lost interest in wanting to see more.

Anything else?

Yeah, saw Valentine's Day with my gal.

Jesus. Must be love.

So, was it terrible, surprisingly not too bad, or total fuckin shit?

I suffered through every minute. Gary Marshall needs to be shot. The cinematic equivalent of a stinking bowel movement. Even the galfriend despised it. Utter shit heated in a microwave for two hours. Imagine would that would smell like and you'll understand how much this film reeks.

"From the Director of Pretty Woman is a selling point?
As a species, we're doomed!


Final words?

Yes, wash the taste of this crap out of your mouth and the fecal matter from your eyes with Criterion's Nikkatso Noir box set (Eclipse Series 17). Highlights are Suzuki's Take Aim At The Police Van, Cruel Gun Story, and Rusty Knife. I'll blog about some of these in depth at some point, but don't hesitate to snap this set up. These titles are amazing.

I'm heading straight for Blockbuster now...

You're a fuckhead.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

A Nightmare on Shutter Island

Let me make it clear that I'm a big, fat, salivating fan and admirer of Martin Scorsese, the director who has given the world many classics such as The King of Comedy, Goodfellas, Casino, The Last Temptation of Christ, Kundun, Mean Streets, The Departed, and the current Shutter Island. I have no personal axe to grind against Marty and his towering talents. His place in cinematic history is untouchable.

That said, I didn't much like Shutter Island.

There are certain cinematic tropes that I have grown to despise. Each year, these rotten, tired devices from lazy minds annoy me a little bit more. Probably because each year I'm living longer with them and they're (unfairly) going to outlive me.

One of my pet cinematic hates is dream sequences. I don't mind material that is dream-like, but I want to kick a skull when a scene is building to a head and suddenly, viola!, a character snaps awake or sits up in their bed looking frazzled and fried. We then know that we've been watching the character's dream. We've been conned.

Well, I say Fuck your stupid dream sequences, they suck elephant dick! The very idea of a dream sequence is sucky to me. Not only does it permit the filmmaker to write checks they can't cash, but it gives marketers an opportunity to shove irrelevant scenes into a trailer that really have nothing to do with the meat of the movie they're selling. It makes for sloppy writing, too, because writers chuck stuff into the mix that they couldn't logically include in the central narrative. That's what bothers me most. Like I said, I'm all for dream-like, bizarre, crazy imagery, but why not come up with an original story that can logically incorporate this imagery. Or sell us a world where grotesque, terrifying events are part of the furniture. If it can't be logically incorporated into the world of your script, perhaps IT DOESN'T BELONG IN THE FUCKING MOVIE.

I guess I was never cut out for Shutter Island, or stories of its ilk; it's masturbation material for dream sequence lovers everywhere, and if you're one of those, you'll spill a gallon of spunk beating off to what Scorsese does with uncommon relish here. If you haven't seen the movie yet, stop reading right now because I'm going to allude to content that could be deemed spoiler-ish.

Film opens with Leonardo Di Caprio and Mark Ruffalo on a boat on a misty bay. Very picturesque. Moody. Dream-like. Shutter Island, a prison for loonies, emerges from the soup. Di Caprio and his partner have arrived to investigate the disappearance of a prisoner. We know something strange is afoot because everybody on the island is either too nice or too evasive. The body of the movie involves the investigation. Although the premise is not lacking for drama, no muscle is exercised resisting a plethora of dream sequences and dreams within dreams within dreams. Di Caprio snaps awake often, bolts upright, and is left in a sweat by a shitload of dream sequences before the film hits its lengthy run time.

In fairness, Di Caprio's dreams and mental wanderings have much to do with the film's "twist", but I didn't care for it one bit. Nothing felt particularly original or compelling, either. I'd seen it all before without dreams. What this movie provoked in me was a strong desire to see a different movie.

Not surprisingly, the film's technical accomplishments are monumental, but so they should be when you're spending close to a hundred million dollars. The performances are strong, the island setting is potent with mood and texture, and the music, a compilation of many movie scores assembled with the assistance of Robbie Robertson, is a thing of beauty. Unfortunately, the film made me yearn for a story in which characters face assorted demons in a state of wakefulness. In dream sequences, you can throw in any old crap and justify its existence. It is the very ease in which this can be done that bothers me most. When a character snaps out of a dream, I never believe that the dream was so vivid it remained with them. For the most part, dreams are incoherent and mostly forgotten after we've emerged from them. I simply don't buy the whole idea. Hollywood's representation of dream states has us much credibility as how it depicts what one sees through a pair of binoculars.

Although I liked Wes Craven's A Nightmare on Elm Street, I fancied the 'Elm Street' part far more than the 'Nightmare'. I liked the opening scene where Freddy sharpens his tools and gets ready to take revenge. When I learned that he'd do it in dreams, my hopes scattered like dried leaves, and I was forced to suffer one incoherent set piece after another. I wanted to see the real Freddy butchering the real parents who burned him. I didn't believe a moment of him doing it in dreams. I guess I prefer waking nightmares.

Shutter Island's Leonardo Di Caprio is living a nightmare, but it's not a nightmare that excited me.

Just a personal opinion based on my own likes, dislikes, and personal preferences, of course. But isn't one's reaction to every movie just that?

Monday, March 1, 2010

Not The Lighter Side of Cannibalism


The crimes of Issei Sagawa have been pretty well documented.

In Paris, he invited a female student (Renee Hartevelt) to his apartment, killed her, slept with her, and ate her over the course of a week. Although the French authorities caught up with the flesh-loving fiend and incarcerated him, his wealthy, influential father petitioned for his release and he was spirited back to Japan. There, he was retried for his crimes, found insane, and released back onto the streets.

In the subsequent decades, he has worked as a painter, become a celebrity restaurant reviewer, and starred in a number of pink films (and documentaries).

In the totally nutty 7 Days of Sagawa, he recreates his crimes on videotape and agrees to have his non-existent athletic abilities scrutinized for purposes of mockery. He is clocked running (?) a single man race at a large sports stadium. He dribbles a basketball and drops it. He huffs and puffs his through an obstacle course, and attempts the long jump with disastrous consequences. Watching such a puny, sickly gnome participating in track sports provokes a mixture of incredulity and sadness. Later in the show, a hidden camera records Sagawa on a blind date with two unsuspecting schoolgirls. The most outrageous section is when the girls learn that their Romeo has a flesh-loving resume.

Sagawa starred in the odd Unfaithful Wife - Shameful Torture aka The Bedroom (Uwakizuma: Chijokuzeme; '92) from prolific and notorious pink director Hisayasu Sato, the unique talent behind Naked Blood, Lolita Vibrator Torture, and Survey Map of a Paradise Lost. He also has a small part in my friend Tomoaki Hosoyama's A Weatherman (Otenki-oneesan; '96). No doubt about it, Sagawa is a bizarre and troubling blip on Japanese subculture.

On top of these achievements, he also appeared in an X-rated movie (from the notorious Bazooka!) and released his own CD (see below).


Recently, I came across Sagawa's first person account of his flesh eating. I consider myself quite jaded when it comes to such material, but I must admit to not being unmoved by the thoughts and details below. My stomach did a somersault more than once.

If anybody is considering cannibalism, the reality of the act may provoke reconsideration.

We pick up the account after Sagawa has shot his victim. The accompanying art, which is rather good, is courtesy of Sagawa himself.

In his own words:

Afterwards I sleep with her.

Next morning she is still here. She doesn't smell bad. Today I must finish cutting up her body.I have to put it into suitcases and sink it in the lake. It will be her grave.

I touch the cold body again and I wonder where I should start. I start to cut off all the meat before amputating the limbs. While I cut her calf I suddenly want to taste it. I see the beautiful red meat beneath the fat. I grasp her knee and her ankle, and tear it with my teeth. It is tender. I slowly chew and savor it. After eating most of the calf I look at myself in the mirror. There is grease all over my face. And then I start to eat at random. I bite her little toe. It still smell of her feet. I stab the knife into her arch and see the red meat deep inside. I thrust my fingers inside and dig out the meat and put it in my mouth. It tastes okay. Then I stab the knife into her armpit. Ever since I saw it under her yellow sleeveless top I wondered how it would taste this good. The wonderful taste cheers me up and I devour her underarm up to the elbow.


Finally I cut off her private parts. When I touch the pubic hair it has a very bad smell. I bite her clit, but it won't come off, it just stretches. So I throw it in the frying pan and pop it in my mouth. I chew very carefully and swallow it. It is so sweet. After I swallow it, I feel her in my body and get hot. I turn the body over and open her buttocks, revealing her anus. I scoop it out with my knife and try to put it in my mouth. It smells too much. I put it in the frying pan and throw it in my mouth. It still smells. I spit it out. I go into the next room. It smell of fat, like I've been frying a chicken.

It's been twenty-four hours now. Some huge flies hover and buzz in the bathroom. I try to chase them away, but they came back. They swarm on her face. They seem to tell me that I've lost her forever. It is no longer her. Where is she? She's gone far away. I've broken her. Like a child who breaks his toy. I try to use an electric knife to cut her body. It doesn't work. It just makes a loud sound. I use a hatchet. I strike several times. It's hard work. I strike her thigh. Her body jumps up. If she could feel, it would have hurt.

Finally the thigh separates from her body. I bite it again, like I would bite a chicken leg. Then I cut off her arms. It is even harder than the thigh. I use the electric knife again. It makes a shrill sound, like the sound of her shrill voice. It works this time. Her hand still wears a ring and a bracelet. When I see her long fingers I am driven by another impulse. I use her hand to masturbate. Her long fingers excite me.

When I'm finished I try to bite her finger. I can't. I'm disappointed. I put her hands into the plastic bag along with her legs. And then I see her face. It is still quiet. She has a small nose and a sweet lower lip. When she was alive I wanted to bite them. Now I can satisfy that desire. It's so easy to bite off her nose. As I chew the cartilage I can hear the noise. I use a knife to cut off more of the cartilage and put it in my mouth. It really doesn't taste very good. I scoop out her lower lip with my knife and put it in my mouth. It has hard skin. I decide to eat it later when I can fry it. So I put it in the refrigerator.I want her tongue. I can't open her lower jaw, but I can reach in between her teeth. Finally it comes out. I cut it off and put it in my mouth. It's hard to chew. I see my face in the mirror. Her tongue entwined with my tongue. I try to close my mouth, but her tongue slips out.

Finally I cut the skin off the tongue and taste the meat.I try to eat her eyes. It's hard for me to stab into them, though it is the easiest part of her face. I can tears coming from them. It frightens me. Her eyes are all that is left of her face. It is nearly a skull.

I decide to take out her stomach. When I stab under her navel a little fat appears and then I can see the red meat under the fat. I slice a piece of the red meat and put it on a plate. Then I stab into the stomach. The internal organs appear. There is a great length of rolled tubes and I find a gray bag at the end of the tubes. It must be the bladder. There is a strong smell as soon as I pick it up. I thrust my hand into her body cavity. There is another bag. It must be her womb. If she had lived she would have had a baby in this womb. The thought depresses me for a moment.

"The public has made me the godfather of cannibalism, and I am happy about that. I will always look at the world through the eyes of a cannibal." Issei Sagawa