Roboforce (David Chung, 1988)

As I sit and stare at this blank slab of nothingness, trying desperately to come up with something clever to say, the scene from Roboforce (a.k.a. I Love Maria) where the female robot swoops in to rescue her male companions from certain death just in the nick of time is currently playing over and over again in my head. I think the reason this particular scene stands out from the rest is because I secretly wish I had a robot girlfriend, one who quotes Romeo and Juliet, drinks oil from a soda can and fires rockets from her wrists. Now, I realize what I just said is probably the dorkiest thing ever to be written in this site. But I don't care. I want a robot girlfriend, and I want it now! Oh, and if she could look exactly Sally Yeh, that would be great. I'm surprised you didn't go with robot Susan Tyrrell or robot Mary Woronov. Yeah, that was a tempting idea. However, I'd like to stick with the Sally Yeh model I saw in this Category III flick, directed by David Chung and Tsui Hark. Besides, I don't think Miss Tyrrell or Miss Woronov have the right temperament to play robots; they're too headstrong. At any rate, while I wouldn't exactly call myself a Category III expert, I think it's safe to say I have seen enough of them to know what to expect. And one of the main things I look for is weird shifts in tone. What I mean is, Hong Kong films made during this period seem to mix genres in a way that could be construed as haphazard. For example, one minute your watching a family-friendly action sequence where a buffoonish Tong Leung is attempting to take photographs of giant robot reeking havoc on a downtown street, and the next you're watching a forthright Sally Yeh put a bullet through the back of the head of some dweeb in a lab coat.
 

 

Sometimes the shifts in tone occur onscreen simultaneously. The film's many bar scenes are prime example of this, as they mix slapstick comedy and over-the-top violence rather seamlessly. This style of filmmaking can be jarring to those who are not used to it; my first Category III film, Robotrix, is famous for being all over the map when it comes to tone (it's The Terminator meets Porky's). But I like said, now I think I'm better prepared to handle what they throw at me. And, believe me, you need to keep your eyeballs frosty while watching these films, as they will overwhelm and disorient the uninitiated.
 

 

While not as awesome as Naked Killer (then again, nothing will ever be as awesome as that film), nowhere near as sleazy as Jailhouse Eros or Red to Kill, and not even close to being as insane as Robotrix, Roboforce (I actually prefer the title "I Love Maria," but decided at the last minute to go with the more generic-sounding "Roboforce") does have its moments. It's true, none of these moments include a big-boobed Amy Yip openly mocking the laws of gravity, but don't discount the gorgeous Sally Yeh, her bulletproof bosom will melt your heart and arouse your genitals. No, seriously. You haven't lived until you have seen Sally Yeh tilt her head slightly to the side in a decidedly robot fashion.
 

 

I know, almost every actor who has ever played a robot or cyborg has done the head tilting thing. One of my favourite head tilters being Hallie Todd as Lal, Lt. Data's android daughter in the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode titled: "The Offspring" (my eyes get moist and junk just thinking about that episode - dork!). Nevertheless, I thought Sally Yeh, who, according to her bio, was raised in Victoria, B.C., brought an inquisitive grace to her head tilting. Which is one of the keys to becoming successful in the cutthroat world of non-competitive head tilting. Think about it, head tilting is the physical manifestation of curiosity. 
 

 

The moment you stop tilting your head, is the moment you stop living.
 

 

More on the art of head tilting in a second, a giant robot, one who doesn't tilt their head, is causing a shitload of havoc in the city's downtown core right this minute. A so-called "Van" that is owned and operated by a gang who call themselves "The Hero" is about to make off with an entire bank vault, and there's nothing the police can do about it. Taking pictures of the Van, which is not really a "van," but an unstoppable killing machine, as it brushes aside of the large police force assembled to prevent it from stealing the vault, is Ching (Tony Leung), a bumbling newspaper reporter.
 

 

When the Van returns home to base, we meet Maria (Sally Yeh), the number two in The Hero, who is clearly upset with her scientists. As she is instructing the lead scientist to fix the Van, one of his underlings decides to make a run for it (apparently the scientists are being forced to work for The Hero). After the wayward scientist's body is riddled with gunfire, Maria pulls out her pistol and finishes him off with a bullet to the back of the head. You might be asking yourself, what kind of neck movements did Sally Yeh employ in this scene? Whoa, slow down, Billy. This version of Sally Yeh is not a robot. She's a human being. However, since you asked, Sally moved her neck, which is attached to her head, in a normal manner. That is to say, in a way that seemed direct and filled with purpose. If Sally Yeh wants to gaze upon something that is currently out of her field of vision, she will totally turn head to get a better look at it.
 

 

Meanwhile, back at police headquarters, Ching is trying to ask the police chief a question. As he's being told no comment, he runs into Curly (John Sham), a self-proclaimed genius who works for the police as a weapons designer. Telling his boss that he has developed a laser cannon that can pierce the armour of any robot The Hero throw at them, it's obvious that Curly is excited. Only problem is, as he's leaving, he overhears his boss mocking his invention to a group of police scientists. The reason he mocks his gun is because it totally works. In other words, he shuns his invention because he's jealous. Funny you should mention jealousy, Maria isn't pleased that their leader, The Saviour (Ben Lam), has created Van II, a more human-looking robot.
 

 

Heading down to the local bar to drink his troubles away, Curly, a man who is bullied constantly at work, comes to defense of a drunk named Chu (Tsui Hark),  who is being tormented by...well, pretty much every in the bar; even the bartender is getting in on the act. Eventually getting the better of the unruly mob, with the help of Ching, Curly and Chu (whom Curly nicknames, "Whiskey") stagger out of the bar. He doesn't know it yet, but Curly has just befriended a member of The Hero. However, like Curly, Chu/Whiskey is a bit of an outsider. Actually, you could say the same thing about Ching.
 

 

In fact, I think I just figured out what this film is really about. No, it's not about robots. It's about three friends, wait, make that four friends (they get an addition to the group later on), who are all underdogs. Yet, at the end of the day, they're the one's who end up being the real heroes. Individuals who lash out against corrupt or apathetic agencies, join up with like-minded souls, and rip the system.
 

 

Anyway, if you thought Maria was jealous of Van II before, wait until The Saviour shows her his latest upgrade. You guessed it, he's put Maria's face on his new robot. And the Maria-bot's first order of business is to kill Chu, who The Hero spies recently spotted consorting with a cop; though, I wouldn't exactly call Curly a "cop." Nevertheless, he works for the police, and The Hero don't like that. A rooftop battle between the Maria-bot and Chu (who has a crush on the real Maria) and Curly ensues where, surprisingly, the latter actually come out on top. The reason I said it was surprising that Chu and Curly managed to defeat the Maria-bot was because she can shoot rockets from her arms and they can't.
 

 

Packing up a bunch of scientific doodads, Chu and Curly hit the road (it's no longer safe in the city) and head out to the country in a car that seemed like it was a combination of the Back to the Future car and the ambulance from The Ghostbusters. To eat dog or to not to eat dog, that is the question.What?!? Never mind.
 

 

Unbeknownst to Chu, but Curly has re-assembled the Maria-bot behind his back. Hold up in an old monastery, Curly programs the new and improved Maria-bot to only respond to the command "I love Curly." Which makes sense because that last thing Chu wants to say out loud. After overcoming his distaste for the expression, "I love Curly," Chu eventually gains control of Maria. Unfortunately, the real Maria and her henchmen have tracked them down.What ensues is an awesome robot fight, one that is way better than anything that appears in those stupid Michael Bay movies (could you be more specific? no, I can not), a scene that features excessive grappling hook usage, a flying motorcycle, and more of that sweet Sally Yeh-based head tilting (mmm, Sally Yeh-based head tilting, it's what's for dinner). Tilt that head, you mechanical seductress.
 

 

If you listen carefully, you can hear a slight clicking sound every time Sally Yeh tilts her head. Speaking of listening, if the sound effects used for the robots in Roboforce sound familiar, that's because the noises were taken from Aliens (exosuit cargo-loader) and RoboCop (ED-209) respectively.
 

 

While it may seem like the film mostly about head tilting and grappling hooks, Roboforce (a.k.a. I Love Maria) is an inspirational film about friendship and loyalty. And, like I said, a true underdog story. If you watch it with a group of friends, I guarantee you'll be hugging and giving each other high fives each by the time it's over.

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Hanna D. - The Girl from Vondel Park (Rino Di Silvestro, 1984)

I'm no junkie, but I don't think it's safe to inject heroin directly into your eye. Hell, I don't think it's safe to inject heroin into half the places it's shot into in Hanna D. - The Girl from Vondel Park (Hanna D. - La Ragazza del Vondel Park), the grittiest film about drug-addled teen prostitutes to ever find its way onto the polluted, dingy as fuck shoreline that is my perverted mind. Even though needles filled with heroin are inexplicably crammed into every orifice imaginable, I'm not going to be one of those non-Italians assholes who sits on their throne of smugness picking apart Italian cinema like it were some sort of ill-conceived game. My aura, much like this film's protagonist, needs sleaze to survive. And, I must say, the film, written and directed by Rino Di Silvestro (Werewolf Woman) and edited by none other than Bruno Mattei (Hell of the Living Dead), delivers so much sleaze, that needed to stop the film every so often to catch my breath. Based the novel...um, I don't think this movie is based on a novel. All right, how 'bout this: A loose collection of thoughts and ideas that were floating around inside the heads of Rino Di Silvestro and Hervé Piccini, the downward spiral the titular character takes will shake you to your very core. Yet, at the same time, it will also cause your genitals to become engorged with blood. And depending on the genital model you received when you were born, you might feel as if someone has shoved a small stick, or a large branch (I don't want to discriminate), down your pants. What you do with the frightfully hard appendage languishing in your trousers as a direct result of watching this awe-inspiring slab of cinema is completely up to you (it's one of the few freedoms we have left in this increasingly fascist society). But the fact that you're able to contemplate such a decision with any semblance of poise or dignity is the biggest complement you can give an Italian made, Amsterdam set exploitation film.
 

 

Most films, depending on their fetishistic girth, will induce you to plunge one, or both (I don't want to discriminate), of your hands down your pants almost immediately (no plunging necessary for all you sweatpants enthusiasts out there out in Slackistan - that's funny. no, not the "Slackistan" bit -- that was stupid -- you rarely ever see the words "sweatpants" and "enthusiast" used in the same sentence). In fact, most, films, that is, are designed to promote hand plunging during the actual film (no waiting required, plunge at will). But not this film, it drags you through so much muck, that you'll want to take a shower (a sort of upright bath) before you think about plunging your hand(s) down anything.  
 

 

Quick question: Shouldn't it be "Sweatpantsistan"? Sweat what? I don't think so. But they're not wearing slacks, they're wearing sweatpants. Hence, Sweatpantsistan. Oh, I see. No, it's called "Slackistan" because they're slackers. I don't get it. You see, people who wear sweatpants in a non-athletic environment are often seen as lazy. And slacker is just another word for lazy.  And "Slackistan" sort of sounds like Pakistan, and therein lies the humour. Whatever. It's still stupid. 
 

 

You would think, from the way I'm describing it, that there wouldn't be much leeway in this film when it comes to plunging hands into arenas that once boasted slumbering genitals. Oh, really, I say sheepishly to myself, knowing full well that my memory bank contains many images that contradict the crux of the writer's opening salvo. Wait a second, I need a hit of oxygen.
 

 

I have fifteen words for you: Prostitutes fighting one another in naturally inclement weather while wearing heels, stockings and fur coats. Are you sure that's fifteen words? Who gives a flying fuck? Did you see the words I just typed?
 

 

Look them over carefully. Study them. Read them aloud if you have to. It's what awesome looks it.
 

 

Just the mere fact that the weather was naturally inclement was enough to make me employ three celebratory fist pumps in quick succession. Really? The weather made you do that? It's not just weather, it's naturally inclement weather. Oh, yes, there's a difference. One of my biggest pet peeves about movies is how phony the weather is. Nothing annoys me more than the over the top rainfall used in most movies. And, believe me, I've seen a lot of fake rain over the years. However, on that rare occasion when I do spot inclement weather that seems to be occurring naturally the way nature intended, I get excited. And in Hanna D - The Girl from Vondel Park, the weather is naturally inclement as all get out. 
 

 

In order to make Hanna D. - The Girl from Vondel Park seem more like Christiane F. - We Children from Bahnhoff Zoo, the film starts off in a train station. But that's where the similarities end. Wearing a saucy beret, a grey skirt, and white knee socks, Hanna Daniels (Ann-Gisel Glass), or "Hanna D.," is innocence personified. Or is she? Aboard a train docked, or are they parked? Whatever. Aboard a train in Amsterdam, it would seem that Hanna D. is a prostitute and the train she's on is a kind of makeshift brothel.
 

 

Ushering tricks into her rail car by her kindly pimp (he winks at her to reassure her every so often), Hanna D. does the naive schoolgirl routine for a wide array of perverts and lowlifes. Entering her rail car on this occasion is Nikolai (who is not played by James Garner), a man who wants to explore the subtle peaks and valleys of Hanna D.'s undercarriage, which are currently being suffocated by a wispy pair of white panties.
 

 

Sitting with her legs crossed while reading a comic book, Hanna D. teases Nikolai by slowly uncrossing them. In doing so, she reveals a hint of her panties. Unbuttoning her shirt while Nikolai's focus is primarily on her crotch, Hanna D. gently caresses her boyish nipples with her fingers. After all he's been put through, you'll be surprised to learn that Nikolai doesn't want to have sex with Hanna D. Actually, he probably wants to, it's just that he doesn't...have sex with her. Anyway, as her next client is being brought into her rail car, Hanna D. grabs a doll from her bag and starts to play with it. Like I said, the naive schoolgirl routine is her stock and trade.
 

 

Why does Hanna D. have to work as a prostitute, you ask? Well, don't look now, but we're soon going to find out. She's blonde, she's shapely, and she's an alcoholic. Meet Hanna D.'s mother, Pearl (Karin Schubert), the most erratic parent or guardian this side of Utrecht. Drinking alone in her white fur robe after being ditched by her in-house boy-toy Hans (Hanna D. gives Hans - who Pearl calls a "clap-giver" - an upskirt peepshow on the stairs as he's on his way out), Pearl welcomes Hanna D. home with a nonsensical helping of verbal diarrhea and milfy staggering.
 

 

Since Hanna D. can't eat milfy staggering for dinner, she takes a shower while Pearl complains to herself in the mirror. Admiring the exquisite lumpiness of her robust body, yet bemoaning its very lumpiness simultaneously, Pearl is, to put it mildly, a mess.  
 

 

With so much domestic distress, it's no wonder Hanna D. turns to the dark side. And where is this dark side, exactly? Just follow the trail of used syringes and broken dreams. In a dilapidated building on the outskirts of town, we meet, oh, let's call him, Peter (Fausto Lombardi), because he reminded me of Peter Weller, a drug dealer, as he's giving a customer a free sample of his latest product. As he sends the junkie packing, he says to her, "Have a good trip..." but mumbles to himself "to Hell." I thought this scene was quite telling, as it implies that the drug dealers are fully aware that the drugs they sell are bad. You thought that was telling, eh? Well, aren't you special.
 

 

It's funny that you should mock my specialness, as am I about to be rewarded with one of the most lopsided hooker brawls in film history. On top of being lopsided, the sequence where a tarted up Hanna D. takes on four of her fellow streetwalkers (one of them played the bellissimo Donatella Damiani) is a lingerie bonanza. Boasting stockings, animal print dresses, leather, garter belts, and furs (all supplied, according to the credits, by Francesco Casini), everything about this scene is sexy. And get this, the scene even makes an allusion to spaghetti westerns at one point (the camera shoots between Donatella's legs as if it a wild west showdown). Except instead of cowboys, we get to see a bunch of fur-draped floozies square off against one another. 
 

 

Four leggy whores vs. Hanna D. (whose legginess has increased tenfold since ditching the schoolgirl look). Yikes. I don't like her chances. Luckily, a guy named Miguel (Tony Serrano) shows up on his Honda motorcycle just in time and drives her to safety. Oh, and the reason the four hookers had a beef with Hanna D. was because they didn't like the fact that she was honing in on their territory.
 

 

You have to ask yourself, what did Miguel rescue Hanna D. from exactly? I mean, she still has to deal with her insane mother. Upset that she rejected Hans' late night advances, which caused him to eventually leave, Pearl and Hanna D. get in an argument. One that leads to my favourite line, "I'm nobody's pussycat!" Which Hanna D. utters before a slap hug. "Pussycat" is what her mother calls her and a "slap hug" is when you slap someone in the face and then immediately hug them after you have slapped them.
 

 

Either way, being called "pussycat" every now and then and getting slap hugged sounds like a picnic compared to what Miguel is about to put her through. Convincing her to let him be her "manager," Miguel has big plans for Hanna D., and I don't think he only wants what's best for her.
 

 

Oatmeal-quality vomit, inhalant abuse (huff that tool shed gas, you underage whore), syringes jabbed into her head, mouth and eyes, jail time, rectal heroin smuggling (I want to lick that hairy...shut your mouth...I'm just talking about placing my tongue on the unkempt asshole attached to a curly-haired Italian women), faucet fellatio, more slap hugs than Mommie Dearest, ferry rides with authentic-looking punks, red stockings seen both at night and during the day, and a romantic montage that will no doubt cause your spirit to soar, the amount of crap Hanna D. puts up with in this movie will make your stomach feel queasy by the time it's over. That is, if you have an aversion to things that are inherently super-terrific. And the last I checked, I don't...have an aversion to things that are...well, you get the idea.
 

 

Featuring two of the stars of Rats: Night of Terror (Ann-Gisel Glass - who played the hysteria prone "Myrna" - and Fausto Lombardi), the composer of Rats (Luigi Ceccarelli), the cinematographer of  Rats (Franco Delli Colli), and the director of Rats (Bruno Mattei, like I said before, is the film's editor), Rino de Silvestro's version of Christiane F. is the sleaziest slice of  garter belt adjacent gimcrackery to hit me in the face in donkey's years. In other words, it has restored my faith in cinema. If only every film I watched had a similar, more single-minded approach to delivering "the sexy," life would be so much easier.
 

 

Oh, and the reason Karin Schubert's performance was so intense in terms of uncut meshugganah was because her voice was dubbed by none other than the late great Carolyn De Fonseca. Whenever I'm watching an Italian exploitation film that's been dubbed into English and I hear Carolyn's distinctive voice coming from one of the characters, I know I'm in goods hands.

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Happy third anniversary to Cinema Gonzo, the premiere movie blog for reviews of films such as: Tainted Image, Out of Bounds, and Satan's Blade.

Christiane F. (Uli Edel, 1981)

Just recently, I decided to cease watching a culturally irrelevant reality show that I had been diligently tuning into for the past twelve years. (I know, what a colossal waste of time). Now, I don't want to say the name of the particular program, especially not out loud, as I would rather not sully this space with its stupid ass name. But let's just say, it's one the original shows that launched the so-called reality show craze that has been infecting our attention deficit disorder-laden consciousness like a bad head cold for nearly a decade and a half. Am I attempting to compare my decision to stop to watching a television show to heroin withdrawal? No, I am not. What I'm doing is, I'm trying to tap into the mindset of an addict. You see, I'm not addicted to anything. Sure, I'm addicted to glamour. But then again, who isn't? Seriously, though, forced Party Monster references aside, I can't picture myself getting to a place where I'm desperate enough to sell my Universal Indicator (Red) 12 inch to a guy on the street for seventeen bucks in order to feed my debilitating drug habit. Well, at least not when I was fourteen. And that's exactly the age of the protagonist who wanders, well, staggers, she mostly staggers, the austere nooks and crannies of  the Bahnhof Zoo in Christiane F., the gritty West Berlin-set drug addiction movie that manages to depress and inspire in equal measure. Yes, I'm afraid, as downbeat as this film is, it will cause a fair amount of inspiration. Of course, I'm not implying that the film, directed by Uli Edel and based on the non-fiction book Christiane F. – We Children from Bahnhof Zoo, will motivate young people to dabble with intravenous drug use and teenage prostitution. What I am saying is, it will inspire young people to become David Bowie fans. And the powers that be don't want that, as they fear The Thin White Duke. They fear him? The guy who's married to Iman and sang "China Girl"? I can see them fearing Judas Priest or Motörhead, but David Bowie? You bet they do. Bands like the one's I just mentioned inspire nothing more than uncouth behaviour in parking lots. On the other hand, David Bowie inspires creativity and open-mindedness in others.

 

 

Unfortunately, none of that occurs to a Berlin teenager named Christiane (Natja Brunckhorst), who contradicts everything I just said about David Bowie fans by going on the world's most dramatic downward spiral. "Oh my T V C one five, oh oh, T V C one five."
 

 

When we first meet Christiane, she seems like the last person you'd expect to see turning tricks to buy junk. But that's the power of liquid sky, it can alter the DNA of even the most innocuous of souls.
 

 

Looming large over the proceedings, the music of David Bowie drives the early scenes of the movie (the eerie "V-2 Schneider" opens the film). However, it's a poster for a niteclub called simply "Sound," Europe's latest discotheque, that pushes Christiane toward her date with cult movie infamy. Using a well-connected friend, Kessi (Daniela Jaeger), Christiane is able to enter its neon-adorned doors with minimal hassle (the age requirement to enter is apparently sixteen, but they don't seem that interested in enforcing it).  Surveying the scene with a wide-eyed sense of  wonder, Christiane orders a "cherry juice" and absorbs the glossy splendour percolating before her very eyes, as David Bowie's "Look Back in Anger" ("waiting so long, I've been waiting so...") blasts triumphantly in the background.
 

 

On top of being the place to listen to David Bowie music while sipping on cherry juice, Sound also has its own movie theatre. Playing Night of the Living Dead, Christiane is set up with some guy who is all hands. Unimpressed by his pawing antics, Christiane heads to the washroom to try the acid she was given. As she's doing so, she spots a guy passed out in one of the stalls with a needle sticking out of in his arm. Thinking he's dead, Christiane runs out of the club, where she proceeds to vomit.
 

 

Remember when Christiane was surveying the scene? Well, you'll notice as she's doing so that she shares a brief yet telling glance with a guy with a teenage mustache. Now, I didn't think much of it when it occurs, but that glance actually spoke volumes. Guess who's there to hand Christiane a napkin after she's finished throwing up? That's right. It's faint mustache boy. And from now on, he's not faint mustache boy, he's Detlev (Thomas Haustein), the second most important character in the Christiane F. universe.
 

 

Oh, and the guy in the toilet stall wasn't dead. Sure, he may look like a living corpse, but he ain't dead.
 

 

What kind of person gives a David Bowie fan "Changesonebowie" as a present? I guess it's the thought that counts (the boyfriend of Christiane's mother gives her the album as a gift).

 

 

Is there anything more exhilarating than a bunch of unruly teens running through an empty shopping mall to the sound David Bowie's "Heroes"? Epic. Iconic. Badass. On a personal note, the moment I first heard "Heroes" back in the day was when I first realized that David Bowie was cool. You see, when I was introduced to David Bowie, it was via "Let's Dance" and "Modern Love." Don't get me wrong, they're good songs, but they don't quite reach the coolness level of "Heroes." And the way the song used in Christiane F. only managed to solidify its coolness.
 

 

Worshiping him as if he really were a hero, Christiane looks up to Detlev; she even gives herself the same exact hand tattoo as him. Only problem is, Detlev doesn't seem to feel the same way about her. Spotting him with another girl at Sound, as David Bowie's "Station to Station" (the "it's too late" part is doing its Bowie thing on the soundtrack), Christiane soon realizes that everyone, and I mean, everyone, in the joint is strung out on heroin. She comes to this conclusion when she looks into the eyes of Axel (Jens Kuphal), one of Detlev's drug buddies.
 

 

This realization becomes even more apparent at the David Bowie concert. As bikers brawl and "Boys Keep Swinging" plays over the venue's P.A. system, Christiane asks Axel, "Apart from me, am I the only one who doesn't shoot up"? Or maybe he asks him that after the concert. Before or after, it doesn't matter, you don't have be a genius to figure out that Christiane feels left out. The decision to start a trendy heroin habit is the hardest decision a teenager has to make. Think about it, once you start, there's no turning back.
 

 

The seconds leading up to Christiane's decision to try heroin are some of the film's most intense. You want her to go home; you might even find yourself yelling "go home" at the screen. But there's nothing you can do to stop a teen who desperately wants to fit in. Hell, even Axel tells her, multiple times, that it's not a good idea. To emphasize the whole "there's no turning back" motif, we're shown a long, dark tunnel after Christiane takes her first hit (instead of shooting up, she snorts it).
 

 

Even though Detlev objects to the fact that Christiane is copying him (the hand tattoo, the trendy heroin habit, etc.), he accepts her into the fold. In other words, Christiane's plan worked perfectly. The downside being, trendy heroin habits cost money. If you're wondering how Detlev manages to afford a trendy heroin habit. He explains to Christiane that he gives men, or "punters," as they're known, handjobs in exchange for cash. And most of these handjobs are performed in and around the Bahnhof Berlin Zoologischer Garten, a.k.a. the "Zoo."
 

 

You know it's only a matter of time before Christiane is shooting up (snorting is for amateurs) and giving handjobs like the rest of her friends. And you know what that means? Cue the downward spiral. If you thought spending all your birthday money on heroin was the definition of rock bottom, you're in for a nasty surprise. When she's not injecting heroin directly into her bloodstream, Christiane spends most of her time looking for her next fix. That's right, heroin addiction is a full-time job. Firmly ensconced within her family of underage drug addicts, including Babsi (Christiane Reichelt), Stella (Kristin Richter), and Bernd (Jan Georg Effler), Christiane seems to be on the road to ruin.
 

 

Despite being hard to watch, there is a glimmer of hope for Christiane and Detlev when they both decide to withdraw together; a harrowing sequence replete emaciated bodies twitching, wallpaper ripping, cramping in the foetal position, and projectile vomit. However, it's obvious that their flirtation with sobriety will be fleeting at best.
 

 

To give everyone a sense of the magnitude of the problem, we follow Christiane as she walks through the subway (David Bowie's "Sense Of Doubt" is playing on the soundtrack), where we get a firsthand look at the sheer size of the city's heroin epidemic. Walking in a perpetual haze, the wide-eyed Natja Brunkhorst we met in the film's opening scenes has long since been replaced by a dark-eyed shell of her former self. Unrelenting in its portrayal of the so-called "lost generation," Christiane F. is beautifully bleak. Yeah, I like that, "beautifully bleak." Not to toot my own horn too loudly, but I think that sums up the appeal of the film perfectly. It's not often that you come across a film that manages to suck you into its frightfully specific universe, but Chrsitiane F. is definitely one of those rare instances where art and tragedy collide to make cinematic gold together.

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