CRY RAPE

The German label SUBKULTUR, which recently put out an excellent BluRay of DON'T GO ON THE HOUSE,  scores again with MADCHEN: MIT GEWALT aka THE BRUTES aka CRY RAPE.

To answer the obvious question for exploitation fans, no, there is not a lot of rape in CRY RAPE. A woman does do some crying, and she does get chased through a quarry by the featured middle-aged rapists, but the level of rape in this movie amounts to about five minutes.

The sexual marauders of the title are serial rapists, but we don't get any flashbacks of their past crimes. We just get their background activities via a number of clever dialog exchanges.

To the credit of director/star Roger Fritz, the film floats very nicely without a plethora of forced intercourse. In fact, it's what happens AFTER the rape that the film is really about, so I won't go into the kind of details that will spoil the experience for the first-time viewer.

Released in the US as CRY RAPE, it did appear for a spell on a crappy VHS that was panned and scanned and transferred from a bloody awful print.  Fortunately, the Subkultur BluRay––there is also a DVD––features a jaw-dropping transfer that just couldn't possibly look any better.

For the first time, you can marvel at how beautifully shot this film is, and, under better viewing conditions, witness the blossoming of every other element from performances (Fritz, Arthur Brauss, Helga Anders) to editing to the staging of the action scenes.

It's certainly a curious choice for Subkultur to put serious time, effort, and money into the BluRay release of this unsung hero of a film, but it's a choice that is much appreciated.

As CRY RAPE was made in 1969, it reminded me  of the look and tone of short Scandi porn flicks from companies like Color Climax Corporation, Videorama, H.O.M. (House of Milan), and Viking Productions from that period. Although those notorious slices of cinematic nastiness were hardcore, and often ineptly staged, they had an undeniable feel for the era and subversive edge that is found here also. I sure miss that dangerous vibe in my cinema.

The film was co-financed by Oscar-winning producer Arthur Cohn.

The Final Rapeman

THE REIPUMAN 7 (RAPEMAN 7) was the last contemporary entry, and certainly the most emotionally powerful of all the Rapeman films from series director Takao Nagaishi, and writer of five films Jun Kojo. From a production standpoint, it is equally the slickest alongside the sixth entry.  Sadly, the brand ended its contemporary storylines after this entry, and switched to two mostly forgettable spin-offs.

The series, a clever satire, has never been fairly evaluated, and is often dismissed due to its premise. If you can cast your hysteria aside, it is a humble but very fine series filled with everything you want from pulp: political intrigue; a heart-warming relationship between the Clark Kent-like anti-hero Keisuke/Rapeman and his uncle; darkly modest action scenes; and inventive rape sequences that are never terribly brutal and certainly not explicit. Unlike the original manga, this live action Rapeman is a softer touch, surprisingly well written and plotted, but is bizarre enough still for fans of wild and wooly cinema, and never overreaches in terms of its scale. A spare, infectious electronic theme always compliments proceedings.

It took four or five films for the series to find solid footing, so by this seventh entry, the delicate balance of satire, thrills and honest emotion was achieved –– and that's what makes it all the more frustrating that there was no eighth film set in present day Tokyo. I don't know why production company Pink Pineapple decided to set its final two entries in historic Edo, but, for me, they did the series no favors as an historic Rapeman just feels silly and tonally odd, and the heavy-handed slapstick is a real turn-off. On top of that, Rapeman wears a cape and resembles a future version of Batman.

The seventh film involves Keisuke's relationship with a childhood friend whose concern about his girlfriend opens up a hornet's nest of plot twists. Keisuke's "Rapeman Services", which he runs with his lovable uncle, takes on the task of getting to the bottom of his friend's problem, and Keisuke dons his mask once again to "Right Wrongs Through Penetration" (the series motto).

In our ultra-PC age where nothing is considered ironic anymore, Rapeman (all 9 films) walks an even harder road to understanding or acceptance now than it did when released on video in Japan between '93 and '96.  The original manga series debuted in '85 and ran 'til '92 with 13 issues in hand. A fictitious 14th issue appeared as a plot device in an episode about rape in the deadly serious, humorless, moralizing Law and Order: SVU. 

Unfortunately, Rapeman star Hiroyuki Okita, who was a leading teen idol in his earlier years, committed suicide in '99, three years after the series ended, and production company Pink Pineapple re-dedicated itself to sexual-themed anime.

In the film's final minutes, director Nagaishi stages a scene in which Keisuke's friend, the film's true "hero", returns home and finds his girlfriend gone. In her place is a giant Betty Blue poster and an empty chair with a letter on it. The image really resonates as the plot in this episode parallels the mental illness theme of the famous French movie. The follow-up scene in which the friend searches for his girlfriend on the waterfront and finds her is beautifully staged and acted. If you're not a rotten cynic, it will move you as much as it moved me.

Despite the hysteria surrounding this series, which has never been released legitimately outside Japan, a viewing of all seven contemporary entries leaves one with the impression of a unique piece of V-cinema that is, at heart, sweet, heartfelt, and unexpectedly humanist.

That it has never been distributed in a boxed collection outside Japan is most unfortunate.

***I owe my first exposure to the Rapeman series (in '97) to my dear Japanese friend and fellow filmmaker/otaku Tomoaki Hosoyama, the director of Weatherwoman***

Pulpy Porn and Gutter Romance

Time for another look at the luridly wonderful world of pulpy porn and gutter romance.

Love the Forbidden Women art, and the catchy premise.

Myron Jubilee's Always Young Enough is a title that surely reflects the viewpoint of the terribly handsome fellow pictured on the cover. And perhaps the intended reader? Priceless cover.

Subtle image of a woman who likes her meat rare. The gentleman, a cast member of Mad Men, isn't quite sure where to take it from here, so he bangs his head against an empty glass.

Carnal Close-Out is a perfectly evocative title.

Good old Liverpool Press puts out again. Simple, effective illustration that says everything that needs to be said about this book "for mature readers". I reckon some immature readers got a hold of it, too.

"Her body was sin-bait in this lust game!" Sin-bait? 'A' for effort, Sundown.

Trying something much finer here to sell Mary's "misfortunes". 

A cover Tinto Brass would give his stamp of approval to. The gent appears to be sketching a woman not seen in the image here and she's naked also.

Brutal, dark art for Terrorist Tormentors, a series known for its more extreme illustrations.

A hint of Robert Bishop in its shading, too.

"Shame" was a frequently used word back in the day. "Shame-stunts" wasn't so common.

Righting Wrongs Via Mutilation (Pond Scum)

The Pond Scum (CineNature; 2013) shoot is coming to end.

This past weekend, force of nature Renae Boult finally addressed a very murky chapter in her character's checkered life. 

It was definitely 'Ladies' Day' on the Pond Scum set, and these ladies finally faced a rather shocking truth about their pasts.

More than a year in the making, the film has been blessed with stellar performances from Renae Boult, Paul Fanning, Ward Boult, Vida Gaffari, Jacqui Fanning, and the indefatigable Marc Edward Heuck 

Pulpy Porn Pulchritude

Incendiary sexual material like this is frequently ignored by society's hypocritical and ignorant gatekeepers. You know the type of people I'm talking about. They're real big on telling you that THAT is literature and THAT is trash. If it's a Penguin Classic, it's literature -- if it's published by Mills and Boon, Satan's Press, or Eraserhead (Press), it's trash.   Never mind the fact that Penguin publishes a lot of so-called "classics" because they're public domain. They don't cost them a cent in advances or royalties. It's a financial decision, and plonking "classic" on the masthead keeps the scam cooking.

At Phantom HQ, no distinction is made between literature and trash, art or pornography. Nope, here it's all about one question and one question only: Does it achieve greatness on its own terms?

The Just For Kicks cover is truly one of my all-time favorites. "Wandering nymphets, stoked with aphrodisiacs, were capable of any unnatural act." Like what? Well, having wild threesomes with men old enough to be their grandfathers. You can bet that this silver fox didn't need to pop a Viagra to "perform.

Not a bad read at all. It's worth keeping in mind that many, many porno novels were written by established names moonlighting for some extra bucks to put their kids through school.

Uncredited but fantastic cover art for Jim Felton's The Rapist (I love the silhouetted foreground), a book purporting to be the true confessions of an imprisoned man with a year to serve. The book, which is written in a spare, conversational style, has no truck with political correctness or conventional redemption. It concludes with these paragraphs: 

I've been a model prisoner and that means I should be released in less than a year. Whenever I start musing on what I must do, I look out through the window bars of my upper story cell. I can see the prison road winding off through the fields. It's only fifteen miles from this place to the little farm town where I grew up.

Only fifteen miles to Susie Mills' house.

The publisher writes:

We loved it for its unusual candor and its provocative insights into the workings of a rapist's mind.

Jim Felton doesn't hesitate to editorialize on the "hypocritical games" of women and on quite a few other things, and though his views in no way reflect the publisher's views, we think you'll enjoy hearing a rapist "tell it like it is". 

Therefore, we bring you "Confessions of A Rapist". 

I love this image of a woman enjoying her alcohol. She's so damn thirsty she can't wait for her gentleman friend to provide a glass. Clearly, some good times are ahead.

Truly a tawdry tale from J.X. Williams, it is enthusiastically written and paints a vivid picture of a deliciously sleazy mindset.

It opens, literally, with a bang, and a great description of its leading lady.

A poster flapping in the gritty wind announced the feature attraction of the Bijou Theatre as a Payne-Hutton production for Colossal. No one on Hamilton Street was interested, though. The picture had been released for distribution six years ago.

Heavy boards were nailed over the Bijou's doors. Tin cashier's booth had long ago been demolished by vandal and the citizens of Hamilton Street had grown accustomed to seeing that last poster worn away bit by bit in summer rain and winter snow. The paper relic of the Bijou's decay was now reduced to a few letters of type, the right eye brow of Chester Morris and Richard Arlen's determined jaw.

Inside the Bijou this damp September evening, however, there was another kind of feature attraction, completely hidden from the weary citizens of Hamilton Street.

In the dark ruin of broken seats and ripped-up carpet, a seventeen-year-old girl named Rita Danilov was getting ready to take on eight boys one at a time.

Getting ready?

Hell, she was ready.

Her head buzzed with the beer she'd consumed after the boys picked her up outside Olivetti's Variety Store. She kicked off her sneaks. She could hardly wait to get free of the binding constriction of her ultra-tight, dark blue toreadors.

More erotic magic from Greenleaf. I like the darker hues and utter lack of sophistication of this image. That's what makes it hot. Just plain white panties and a provocative pose.

I'm not sure why the fella is reading books on the floor, but one could argue that he's in the right place at the right time.

Porn novel logic can't be denied.

Satan's Press serves up its 107th entry, blessing it with an S/M-inspired cover that deMullotto would have enjoyed. Heavy on the S/M, the Satan's Press books are not true hardcore, and came before words like "cunt", "fuck", and "cum" were commonly used in print pornography.

The $.75 price denotes the era.  

Sexual Freaks, by Stan Remming, features case histories of women encountering bizarre sexual behavior, behavior that would not have been out of place on a 70's Color Climax/Rodox film and still shoot.

Mr. Remming offers a telling introduction to the content:

As a newspaper reporter I have run across many strange stories of bizarre sex practices. Some of them involve warped, twisted psyches that have reached the point where no normal sexual practices are impossible.

At this point, their strange sexual compulsions drive them to all sorts of off-beat sexual contacts in the hope of achieving satisfaction.

While the daily police files are crowded with stories of rape of one sort or another, there are sometimes cases of such terrible magnitude that the details make the calloused reporter flinch.

To better understand how the mind works in these twisted sexual circumstances, I have drawn upon a few such incidents to outline in detail exactly what happened.

While it is hard to understand how certain individuals derive satisfaction sexually from warped sexual practices, it, nevertheless, is necessary to completely understand how their minds function in order to be of help in preventing recurrences in the future.

Therefore, we will focus our attention on the minutest details of these strange and twisted sexual psyches, and by looking at these acts dispassionately it is hoped understanding will follow.

These strange people can serve as vivid reminders that these aberrations exist all around us, and they can well serve as a warning to keep our guard up at all times.

How often one reads of two young teenage girls who are hitch-hiking and wind up picked up by two lusty young men. If they are lucky, they get to their destination unharmed. But, if they are like some unfortunate young girls who've tried hitch-hiking they are either molested, raped or killed. The sexual instinct is second in power only to survival in the human psyche. This must be remembered when anyone thinks sex is just a plaything.

The following case histories expose the depths the sexual drive gone awry can take a person.

A Greenleaf edition trading on 70's fears that grew out of the Vietnam War.

Cover illustration is not particularly striking.  

Although I despise porno novels with actual photos on the cover (it was a sign of a turn for the worst in the business) , I like the description here:

The girls were beautiful and youthful... but not so innocent... and they were willing victims of the dirtiest racket in town!

It's a mighty claim that your racket is the dirtiest racket in town. There are so many others to compete with. 

Another classic (?) from Russ Trainer and Satan's Press. Much of the novel takes place inside a prison, and what makes the male/female coupling possible is the hostage drama set-up. 

In one exciting scene, a nasty husband gets his just desserts from a pissed-off wife:

Lisa raised her foot and struck him again. Then again and again, so fast that her smashing foot resembled the relentless striking of a trip-hammer. And as she tortured his body, she raised her head high, looked to the ceiling, and parted her lips. Her eyes glazed and she looked as if she were experiencing a sexual thrill, undoubtedly the first of its kind she had ever entertained. And she jammed and pumped her foot to him. Blood oozed and smeared at his groin. He looked bloody and broken, made forever limp and useless, injured beyond repair. He looked cutoff and left not at all like a man.

Finally, Burt Matthews yelped a final time before going unconscious. But Lisa continued her attack for it had become to mean something else to her. She pumped her foot hard and as she did so, she raised one hand to her breasts. She tore the bra from her body. She grabbed one breast and kneaded it madly as she continued to thump her sharp shoe into her husband's groin. And her eyes elongated, grew sensual and wild. Moisture dribbled at the corners of her mouth. And she kneaded and kneaded as she jammed her husband's manhood into total lifelessness.

Phyllis Marlowe's Lustful Karate Teacher was an attempt to mix Bruce Lee with porn. Enter the Dragon was big at the time, so it made sense to blend kung fu with fuck fu, didn't it? No, it didn't, it was a dumb idea, and Lustful Karate Teacher was a bust. 

It's weird how they avoided any karate kicking action on the cover. 

A killer who stalks the women of Los Angeles at noon (!)

I'm not sure why it's marketed as surprising that the "victims are always women". Afterall, these novels are aimed at hetero men.

On top of that, why the cover photo that clearly appears to be taking place at night?

The writing here is pretty good, and the Los Angeles trappings (read: lots of freaks and "perverts") make for a spicy read.

The conclusion wraps it all up nicely as the killer goes down:

Cautiously, sweating in his bulletproof vest, he entered the bathroom. It was empty. Slowly he opened the door of the shower stall. Sy Brendt lay slumped on the tile floor, his gun beside him. He had shot himself in the chest, but he was still alive. The toupee had fallen to the floor and his naked scalp trickled drops escaping from the showerhead. "I thought it might be you," Bishop said softly.

The actor stared at him. A glaze had come over his eyes. "Please make sure they feed my pets," he said. "Only rats. That's all Hamlet and Lollobrigida eat. They're the only things alive that ever gave a damn about me."

A moment later he was dead.

Bishop turned as he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Trask. He stood up.

"The girl's okay, Mike. She was all right as soon as they took her out into the fresh air."

Lieutenant Bishop shook his head, took off his hat and wiped his brow with his hander-chief. He moved closer to the window. "What a town! Los Angeles. Even the murders out here come out like B-movies. All these phony complications. Disguises, plastic bags, all that crap. Where else could it happen but Hollywood? Next week, Fu Manchu."

He examined the body for a moment and then went in to see how Penny was. When he came back, Trask was putting down the phone.

"Come on over to the house tonight, Al. Helen always celebrates the end of a case with a twenty-dollar meal: chicken paprika, Hungarian chocolate cheese cake, and champagne."

Trask flushed deeply. "I'd like to, Mike, but I just offered to take Sally Rosson to dinner. She's still a little shaken."

Bishop eyed him carefully. "Bring her over, Al. If she's going to be a cop's wife, she might as well learn how to cook."

A final entry from Satan's Press and the reliable Russ Trainer.

A man finds himself in a camp run by women who enjoy fighting more than fornicating.

Cover art clearly inspired by Eric Stanton.

Female Teacher: In Front of the Students

What's to be said about Yasuro Uegaki's Female Teacher: In Front of the Students (just out from Impulse/Synapse) is all good. Very, very good, in fact.

Nikkatsu, the old Japanese film studio that, after sixty years, suddenly turned dark and erotic to make ends meet, has, admittedly, made its share of lame efforts such as Nympho Diver and I Like It From Behind, both recently released by Impulse/Synapse. I suppose some folks bought them, but, for mine, they have little appeal because they're doing nothing that hundreds of British and American softcore porn flicks haven't already done.

You can't say the same about Nikkatsu flicks like Assault - Jack The Ripper, Rape!, White Rose Campus - Then, Everybody Gets Raped, Sex Hunter - Wet Target, Sex Hunter (the Ikeda film), Secret Chronicle - She Beast Market, and Zoop Up - Rape Site. All of these feature exploitation elements that are very culture-specific, and do not shun the sticky mix of sexual violence and eroticism that many Western films are afraid of.  Although S/M is being mainstreamed (and reduced to blandly flavored vanilla) by works of dubious literary merit such as 'Fifty Shades of Grey' (a massive bestseller), its harsher, more incendiary essence has been shaved away.

Nothing is shaved away in Impulse/Synapse's Female Teacher: In Front of the Students, a truly subversive Nikkatsu flick that some would describe as "troubling" for its perspective on rape. To take its politics too seriously would be to misunderstand its intentions. It is, afterall, a skin flick for a skin flick audience, so it takes a fantasy often imagined by women to its natural end point. If you think it condones the view that a raped woman can be sexually charged by the resulting trauma, you're projecting too hard. This is fantasy Japan-style, not reality.

The pretty Rushia Santo is 'Reiko', a new teacher at an elite high school. Forced to discipline a group of spoilt brats led by the particularly nasty Takuya (Toru Nakane), she finds herself intimidated by the boy. After an unnerving exchange with the group, Reiko is raped in one of the school's showers. Humiliated, she doesn't report the rape, but she keeps a piece of a jigsaw puzzle dropped at the scene by the masked rapist. Over the next few days, she attempts to identify her attacker, and flashes back to key images of the rape, but  her search is sidelined by a series of highly erotic seductions that relight the fire of the incident.

Like Toshiharu Ikeda's little-seen Sex Hunter (not be confused with Sex Hunter - Wet Target) and the notorious Captured For Sex 2, Female Teacher: In Front of the Students exudes an atmosphere of sexual nihilism and abandon that is downright intoxicating. Director Uegaki demonstrates a superb eye and flair for dark eroticism, and creates a seventy minute masterpiece that sucks us into a sexual maelstrom while never ignoring the story's emotional journey. Santo is excellent as a woman on an odyssey of deep exploration, and delivers a strong emotional, physical, and intensely sexual performance as a teacher torn between tradition and the delicious call of the dark.

The film has an amazing look. It's gritty and beautiful all at once, and the compositions, subtle camera moves, and extreme close-ups are striking. The sex runs the gamut from hetero to lesbian, and there is a potent threeway worked into the mix. The narrative never flags, and the sense of anxiety experienced by Reiko is always felt by the audience.

A great selection from Impulse/Synapse, and, hopefully, a sign of the direction future releases will take. Films like this offer a rare and exotic glimpse into the human mind, and underline why nobody does it better than the Japanese.

In Deepest Laymon Country

On my way out of Northern California, I took a detour that led me to the door of this extremely troubling house.

I answered its call, and found myself sucked into its musky dark. Not unlike embracing a stranger.

I'm no believer in ghosts, but the house was oppressive, perhaps a once active venue for the horrors of bodily trespass, the murder of the young, and pure exclamations of hate.

Though truly unnerved by the house's rancid history, its bleak repose fascinated me, and made me its consenting prisoner. The light here was arrested at the slanted walls, denied its penetrative power. When I finally departed, several thorned vines tore at my coat and attempted to stop me from driving away.

For a moment, I was part of its residual hurt, and the thing welcomed my morbid fascination.

The images smart now within me like little blows to the head. The pleasure was worth the pain. I can't deny that.

I've driven thousands of miles and haunted lost towns for decades in search of gold like this. Nothing but reckless sexual abandon can come close to the bittersweet beauty of this. Like the whistles of the long dead in sunless woods, these places pierce the psyche, reminding us that time takes it all from us, so use it wisely, because you're dead and banished long time. 

Richard Laymon, the wonderful scribe who knew these places, and traveled these roads often, felt close on this journey.

I thought of Barlow, where The Woods Are Dark is set, as I wet my shoes in the soggy surroundings of this House of Hate. I thought of The Cellar also, and its villain's journey through darkest California where vile, natural deeds trailed him like permanent exhaust.

I'm alive in these places. Alive with the irreverent dead.