Pretty in Pink (Howard Deutch, 1986)

As they're leaving Trax to go on their first date, Blane asks Andie, "So, do you wanna go home and change"? Obviously implying that what she is currently wearing is not appropriate first date attire. Can you believe this guy? There's a lot to like about John Hughes' Pretty in Pink, but there's a lot that will make your spiro-saturated blood boil. And the scenario I just mentioned is one of the most infuriating. If I was Andie, the date would have ended the second that glob of verbal repulsiveness passed through the mouth-hole attached to Blane's smug face. Now, you could say: Hey, give the guy a break. I mean, he's not used to dating girls who shop at thrift stores. But I'm not going to be doing that today. No fucking way. Besides, his decision to then take Andie to a party being thrown at James Spader's house was just as misguided. And, no, this isn't the kooky, lovable version of James Spader from 2002 we're talking about. This James Spader circa 1986. In other words, we're talking about someone who is a major douchebag. I don't know 'bout you, but "major douchebag" actually undersells the level of douchiness James Spader is putting out there in this movie. At any rate, what was Blane thinking? I realize that the whole dating sequence is set up to highlight the colossal divide that exists between Blane and Andie's different social structures. But never have seen someone act so clueless before. Seriously, you would think, judging by his actions, that he was trying to sabotage his relationship with the redheaded enchantress right from the get-go.

Mind you, I'm not one of those Pretty in Pink fans who, after they're done trashing Blane, goes ahead and starts listing the reasons why Andie should be dating her best bud Duckie instead. I don't think so. Despite possessing "strong lips" and a unique sense of style, Duckie is a clingy crybaby and a bit of a stalker. Actually, all the men in this film have a stalker-ish vibe about them.

Watching Blane stalk Andie in the halls and then show up at Trax, the record store where Andie works after school, like that was kind of unnerving. Think about it. Who wants some guy with no personality or fashion sense following you around for most of the day? I know I sure don't.

Wait, did I just say that Duckie, played by Jon Cryer (Dudes), had a "unique sense of style"? While it's true, Duckie is a style icon. You'll notice that when Blane (Andrew McCarthy) goes to talk Andie (Molly Ringwald) in the place where all the cool/misunderstood students hangout, the joint is crawling with Duckie clones.

We're talking garish blazers, brightly-coloured blazers, tweed blazers, check blazers, blazers covered with anachronistic military insignia. It's like an irregular blazer free-for-all back there. Not to mention, vests! Bolo ties! Studded bracelets! Jelly bracelets! Pointy monk strap shoes!

And my God. The fedoras! Never have I seen so many young people in fedoras. Of course, that statement makes sense when said between 1986 and, oh, let's say, the year 2000. But have you walked down the street of any major North American city over the past fifteen years? There are fedoras everywhere. You could say that everyone has morphed into Duckie. Yeah, yeah, not everyone looks like Duckie. But you can definitely feel his presence. It's kinda eerie when you think about it.

Who would have thought a character from a John Hughes movie would go on to become the template for the hipster movement?

Don't be fooled, though, the toxic brand of masculinity that the likes of Blane and Steff stink of still permeates the atmosphere. Anytime you see a man assume that a woman owes him something, whether it be her attention or even sex, you can thank the likes Blane and Steff... And, in a way, Duckie is no better than them. He has this idea in his head that if he keeps harassing Andie, she'll eventually fall in love with him.

At the end of the day, Andie shouldn't date any of them. Okay, she should definitely fuck James Spader... a bunch of times. But as for long term relationships? Yeah, I don't think so.

   

My advice to Andie is: Listen to music... on vinyl (it's 1985/86!!! Depeche Mode, Skinny Puppy, Cocteau Twins and countless others are putting out albums, like, all the time), continue to play around with fashion, try dating a woman. It's 1986! You're living in one of the most exciting times to be alive. Don't waste it by dating a bunch of needy twerps.

Hell, date a trans person. I'm not sure, but I think I spotted one during the fedora scene. They're wearing a brimmed hat and carrying a camouflage backpack. Trans or not, there's definitely some gender fluidity brewing at this particular high school.

Anyway, yeah. I'd tell Andie to date Iona (Annie Potts), the owner of Trax, but she seems to fall under the soul crushing spell that is mid-1980s heterosexuality. Sure, heterosexuality is fun now (you know, with all those newfangled kinks and fetishes and whatnot), but mid-1980s heterosexuality was a different story all-together. You can watch Iona slowly succumb to it by watching how her wardrobe changes over the course of the film.

In her first scene, she's rocking a bondage-inspired punk look. And to top it off, she uses a stapler against a shoplifter. Bad-ass.

Her second outfit is a new wave look with new romantic flourishes. All that was missing was a Visage song blasting chic-ly on the soundtrack (the film's real soundtrack features three(!) New Order tracks).

The third and I guess fourth outfits combine cultural appropriation and nostalgia, as Iona embraces that brief trend where everyone pretended they were Chinese or Japanese (or, in some cases, both at once) and sports a 1960s-style beehive hairdo/pink prom dress.

Of course, if you were Chinese or Japanese in the 1980s, you pretended you were Madonna. Who, by the way, is mentioned in this film. This might sound odd, but it was kinda freaky hearing people talk about Madonna in the 1980s.

At the end, Iona sells out and becomes a yuppie. Which, in a way, sums up the last ten years (1976-86) pretty accurately.

You start off with punk (safety pin earrings)  and new wave (pink lip gloss on weekdays), dabble with cultural appropriation (remember when you wore a Japanese rising sun bandana to that Kajagoogoo concert?)  and nostalgia (admit it, you used to watch Sha Na Na reruns... unironically). And then you sell out and move to Connecticut. The end.

Random PIP observations:

Duckie, from the looks of it, lives in an abandoned crack house.

Gina Gershon can be spotted twice, once during the gym scene and again at the prom.

Did you know that Trax, the record store where Andie works, is based on Wax Trax! Records, the iconic record store/record label in Chicago? Yeah, I didn't know this. Apparently it's where John Hughes used to shop when he lived in Chicago.

The DJs at the prom are ridiculous. I mean, really? Does it take that much gear to spin OMD records?

A copy of The Residents' Diskomo/Goosebump can be seen for sale at Trax for 7.99.

Hey, Duckie. Yeah, Ed Norton from The Honeymooners called, he wants his entire wardrobe back.

And finally, Andie can't even surf the 1985-86 version of the internet without being harassed. Typical.

Pass the Ammo (David Beaird, 1988)

Our shimmering neon crucifix is filled to the brim with underpaid operators who are standing by to receive your generous donation, so, please, look deep into your heart and give us a steaming wad of your hard earned cash. Oh, and when I say, "give us," I really mean give me. After all, I'm the one doing the majority of thr spiritual heavy lifting. Just a second, did you say, "neon crucifix"? Yep, I sure did. Wow, that must look amazing on television. Why just thinking about its chromatic glow washing over me as I sit motionless in my sparsely furnished living room makes me want to run next-door, masticate the living daylights out of my neighbour's insipid taint, and chug a can of Fresca (and since I'm already there, I might as well grab myself a complementary footstool). What I'm doing right now, believe or not, is I'm attempting to understand the mindset of the type of individual who would give their money to someone who gives them nothing in return. It's true, you could argue they're providing them with divine comfort, but its essence is purely hypothetical. If you told a stranger or a total stranger, let's say, while riding the subway, that you had just purchased a shitload of divine comfort for around fifty bucks, they would look at you funny and proceed to get off at the next stop, regardless if it was their stop or not. Judging by the mail streaming into the megachurch in Pass the Ammo, a blunt satirical attack on evangelical hucksterism from the director of, get this, My Chauffeur, they're sending more than just money. It would seem that nothing is off limits, as everything from jewelry to insurance policies, to even teeth are being sent their way. But why are they giving these freaks all their valuables? I'm no expert when it comes to irrational zeal, but I bet it's got something to do with the sheer size of the hair sitting atop the head of the preacher's wife? The only reason I mention her hair is because its largeness is the main reason I would send them any money (as a recovering Goth, I know hair spray ain't cheap).

If you're anything like me, then you no doubt spent a huge chunk of the late 1980s taping televangelists off the television in order to use their bizarre ramblings to spice up your homemade industrial music. Recording their sermons with a steely resolve wasn't always easy, as sometimes their preachy gobbledygook would seep into your feverish brain. Even though my memory of this period is a tad foggy, I could have sworn I bought six prayer clothes. Preachers, infomercial pitchmen, lawyers (particularly ones with offices in Cheektowaga), scumbag politicians (i.e. all politicians), those chipper ladies who sell bras on the shopping channel, they all prey on your vulnerabilities. In order for them to remove a sizable amount of cash from your wallet, they need to either scare you or belittle you. Your average televangelist does a bit of both, feeding off human weakness and general gullibility. It's no surprise that these shady godmongers have an air of superiority about them, one that definitely masks a sinister underbelly.

Feeding off your nonexistent ignorance by amusing the lint-covered receptors that dot the surface of your face, the Rev. Ray Porter (a wonderfully insincere Tim Curry) is the leading force when comes to distorting the teachings of Jesus Christ, a man who preached peace and love, not greed and pettiness. Hosting his garish gospel program along with smoking hot wife Darla (Annie Potts), even her name makes my flesh tingle with untoward satisfaction, the preacher with state's most hairless nostrils is literally raking in the dough. Hypnotizing his mostly yokel-based congregation with a kinetic brand of forthright evangelism, the oily reverend manages to extract millions of dollars from his devoted flock.

Am I shocked that the Rev. Porter was able to pilfer his followers so comfortably for so long? Hell, no. Have you seen his show? It's fucking awesome! Taking your racist grandmother's evangelism and jazzing up for the 1980s, the Tower of Bethlehem ministries, by adding Las Vegas-style production values, and employing MTV-style editing, have managed to turn apotheosizing into a multi-million dollar a year industry.

You only have to take a casual, non-judgmental glance over at Darla, her rarely violated body sheathed in a silver frock, to fully understand what the Tower of Bethlehem ministries are bringing to the highly lucrative preaching the gospel on TV racket. Smoke, neon, irregular pantyhose, and Engelbert Humperdinck-quality facial hair fill the air as Darla saunters down the stairs of the main stage. An audible gasp lingers in the audience as Annie Potts, channeling Kate Bush while performing choreography straight out of Liquid Sky, starts singing the line, "you're in paradise now," over and over again.

In order to emphasize how much money the sight of Annie Potts, the mousy blandness she exuded in Crimes of Passion has been completely exorcised, belting out religious show tunes as Darla makes for the church, we're subjected to a montage–one set to the strains of "Lay You're Money Down for Jesus" by twins John and Paul Cody–that depicts the complex machinery that operates behind the scenes (the church basement is packed with people whose sole job it is to oversee the cash flow). As we're down there, we also see Rev. Porter blessing the letters sent in by those suffering from various diseases (before he blesses a pile, a lackey informs him of which illness they're afflicted with).

Meanwhile, in another part of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, Bill Paxton is being straddled by a slip-wearing Linda Kozlowski (much respect to her for ignoring the waspy pricks who probably told her to change her name to something less Polish). Unsatisfied with life between Miss Kozlowski's able-bodied thighs, Bill Paxton, who is actually playing a character named Jesse, decides to rob the Tower of Bethlehem. You see, they took 50,000 dollars from Linda Kozlowski's dying bubby (Linda's character, by the way, is named Claire), and Jesse would like to get that money back.

Of course, they're gonna need a little help, after all, you'll need more than a fully grown Bill Paxton and a silky brunette woman in a slip (her dainty ankles beaming with Polish pride) to pull off a job like this. Enter Big Joe (Dennis Burkley), a shotgun-wielding career criminal who fancies himself a country and western singer, and Arnold (Glenn Withrow), the reincarnation of one of Marie Antoinette's handmaidens, two ex-cons just itching to "go do some crimes." Now you'd think these characters, simply by looking at them, would bring nothing but comic relief to the proceedings. But they're just as important as Jesse and Claire, even more so at times. Representing the healing powers of redemption, Big Joe humanizes the police with his stirring rendition of "Policeman," seeks financial advice from a crooked reverend, and uses his giant teddy bear-eqsue temperament to successfully placate Darla's impending meltdown, while Arnold finds love in the form of a choir member dressed as an angel (Debra Sue Maffett) and employs his playful nature in a way that allows the show's fake born again director (Anthony Geary) to reconnect with his inner rabble-rouser.

With his team assembled, it's time to head on down to the Tower of Bethlehem. Since no-one wants to watch a film where a megachurch is robbed without incident, Jesse, Claire, Big Joe, and Arnold find themselves, after taking a wrong turn, in the middle of Kenny (Brian Thompson, the weight-lifting helicopter pilot from Miracle Mile) and Darla's impassioned interpretation of the story of Samson and Delila.

When it comes to movies that feature hostage situations, I always side with the hostage takers, as I tend to identify with their status as outsiders who want to buck the system. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your outlook, Pass the Ammo presents a bit of a conundrum in that the character I would normally root against is so darn affable. If I had to blame anyone for this off-putting turn of events, it would have to Leland Crooke (Cat Fight from My Chauffeur). Charming, folksy, and always levelheaded, Leland and his Louisiana accent bring a lot of unexpected nuance to Rascal Lebeaux, a smalltown sheriff who's thrust into the middle of one doozy of a standoff. At first, it seemed like Sheriff Lebeaux was gonna be nothing more than your average redneck lawman (after all, he is duck hunting when we first meet up with him), but slowly, as the film progresses, the character becomes more complex.

Another dilemma arises when Claire points her pistol in anger at Darla during a particularly heated moment. I was all like, get that gun out of Darla's face, you hillbilly skank! Despite the fact that her head is filled with paint fumes and sautéed poppycock, Darla was able to win me over through her dedication to gaudy fashion (lots of slit-heavy gowns), and, of course, her overall babeiliciousness. It doesn't take a genius to figure this out, but while Linda Kozlowski was busy portraying Claire as a bit of a buzzkill, Annie Potts is secretly plotting the course that lead Darla to come off as sympathetic by the time the bullets (and tank shells) started to whiz through the auditorium.

You could say my favourite characters were Rascal Lebeaux, Darla, and, if I had to choose a third, I would probably have to go with either Dennis Burkley's Big Joe or Anthony Geary's Stonewall, as they were genuinely likeable, but not dicks about it. Besides, you gotta love a guy (Big Joe) whose idea of revenge is to blast two pricey pairs of cowboy boots with his trusty shotgun.

Lampooning televangelism is a little like shooting fish that have placed in a smallish container; they're an easy target. But Pass the Ammo, however, casts a wide net when it comes to its mockery. Ridiculing the corrupt machinations of local politics, the power of "Big God," redneck vigilantes, corn-fed reactionaries, and the scourge that is groupthink, writers Joel Cohen and Neil Cohen have fashioned a script, one that features the line, "they're gonna butt-fuck the preacher on TV," that seems to spare no-one.

video uploaded by tcfan123

Special thanks to Russ for not only introducing me to this movie, but for providing me with a copy of it.

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Crimes of Passion (Ken Russell, 1984)

Stuck in the same cramped room, staring at the same small screen, my cinematic travels have literally taken me nowhere over the years. Oh, sure, the images flickering on its glossy surface portray a wide array of people doing a wide array of things in a wide array of places, but I can't physically touch or interact with them. If I were, however, given the opportunity to enter any film I wanted, I would definitely think about entering Crimes of Passion, an unconventional, somewhat satirical, yet totally trashy erotic thriller written by Barry Sandler (Making Love) and directed by Ken Russell (Lair of the White Worm). Why, may I ask, would you want to enter that particular film? I mean, what makes it so special? And besides, everyone says they want to penetrate the film they just finished watching, it's human nature. In fact, I know someone who wanted to live like the drug-addled fashion models in Liquid Sky so badly, that they moved to Manhattan, bought a penthouse apartment near the Empire State Building, and started a trendy heroin habit. While I won't be moving to this film's location (L.A.'s skid row) anytime soon, I did notice that the desire to install a flashing neon sign, preferably one with an x-rated theme, outside my bedroom window was quite pronounced after I had finished bathing in its unsavoury glow. In other words, I want to live in a world where lightness and darkness are always fighting one another for radioactive supremacy. It's true, the inconsistencies that come with existing in a realm that features two distinct types of illumination will take some getting used to, but most will agree that the varying degrees of visual comprehension are the one of the signature perks of living life on the edge.

Looking over the wad of words I just typed about the film's unique approach to lighting, part of me wishes I had just said: I liked the way the film was lit, and moved on. But that's not my style, man. The need to convey my love for this film's lurid cinematography in a manner that allowed me to express my true feelings without having to put any self-imposed restrictions on myself was paramount. The only criticism I can think of is that I failed to use to word "lingerie" in my opening salvo. It plays an important role throughout this generous dollop of Reagan-era sleaze, and to not mention even once was a gross oversight on my part.

Since the luminosity is always changing, so is our perception of lingerie (don't worry, it will all start to make sense in a minute). You see, with a fluctuating brightness level, the lingerie, or any other object, for that matter, will seem like it's always coming and going. The way the lingerie seemed to appear, then disappear, only to reappear a couple seconds later, gave the film an unpredictable character that was quite intoxicating. It was almost as if the initial thrill that came with seeing a tarted up Kathleen Turner standing in the pulsating light emanating from the neon sign located just outside the window of her hotel room, her blue dress shimmering in the garish splendour of her vulgar surroundings, was repeated over and over again.

The battle between lightness and darkness is also fought out on the streets of L.A.'s red-light district, as China Blue (Kathleen Turner), a forthright prostitute who may or may not have a heart of gold, and the Rev. Peter Shayne (Anthony Perkins), a deranged preacher/psycho-killer who carries around with him a bag containing a small sampling of what he calls "the devil's playthings," butt heads with one another over the spiritual trajectory of their very souls.

Ironically, the first character we're introduced to represents neither lightness or darkness, he's Bobby Grady (John Laughlin), the owner of Grady Home Electronics (a shop that specializes in home security). A man who seems to be living in an amorphous daze, we meet him just as he's just about to inadvertently tell what looks like some kind of support group something deeply personal. Attending the therapy session as a favour to a friend (Bruce Davison), Bobby is goaded into revealing that his relationship with his wife (Annie Potts) isn't going as well as he initially lead on (the fact that it took him an entire week to notice that she'd cut her hair in a manner similar to the way the great Sharon Mitchell wore her hair throughout most of the 1980s was a definite sign things weren't all lollipops and lawnmowers).

Promising to restore "dignity and pride" or was it "pride and dignity"? Whatever, promising to carry out her duties as Miss Liberty 1984 to the best of her ability, we open on a close up of China Blue's smiling face. The camera slowly pans out to reveal that she is sitting on her gynaecological throne in a cunnilingual manner. Describing in graphic detail how one should properly play the flute as a man's head rests in the vicinity of her crotch, China grabs his "flute" (her arms adorned in white lace) and proceeds to blow on it until it makes sweet music.

After his music lands all over her mouth and chin, we meet up with the Rev. Peter Shayne just as he's about to visually devour the lumpy frame of an appetizing peep show stripper (Janice Renney). Shoving an inhaler filled with amyl nitrate up his nose every few seconds, the Rev. Shayne seems hypnotized by her banal gyrations. Bursting out of the peep show theatre in a huff, the preacher plops down his portable soap box in front of the entrance and begins castigating the very sins he seemed to be enjoying moments earlier. Midway through his sermon, he notices a shapely figure sauntering down the street. It's China Blue, a "victim of the night," as he calls her, and two exchange a brief barrage of insult-based dialogue. While it's obvious from the get-go that they don't like each other, the sly smirk the Rev. Shayne wears on his face as she walks away has lead me to believe that he begrudgingly admires the cheeky streetwalker. Just for record, you'll be hard pressed to find anything more off-putting than the sight of Anthony Perkins wiping sweat off his face with a bible while ogling Kathleen Turner's first-rate buttocks.

Where, may I ask, is China Blue heading off to? Why she's on her way to perform an elaborate rape fantasy for one of her regular clients. After punctuating their rough yet awkwardly consensual sex act with some post-coital pleasantries, China displays a sound head for business when she charges ten dollars for the privilege of owning a pair of her blue panties. This exchange of money for used blue panties is a clear indication that China Blue isn't your average whore. It would seem that the blue dress, the platinum blonde wig, and the thick coat of trollop-friendly make-up are all part of a costume she wears on a nightly basis. The identity of the person behind this elaborate facade is a bit of a mystery.

Unwittingly discovering the answer to this mystery, Bobby finds out that China Blue is actually Joanna Crane, a nondescript fashion designer. Hired by the owner of the women's sportswear company she works for to spy on her (the owner thinks she is selling patterns to the competition), Bobby follows Joanna to her swanky apartment. Moments later, Joanna emerges wearing a raincoat and a platinum blonde wig, and proceeds to get into a cab, which takes her to the heart of the city's squalid underbelly. Filming her from the relative safety of his car and listening to her conversations from the fire escape located outside her hotel window, Bobby seems transfixed by Joanna's transformation from a drab yuppie to a vibrant sex fiend.

The conversation Bobby listens to out on the ledge is being conducted by China Blue and the Rev. Peter Shayne, and it's a terrific example of the wacked-out chemistry that exists between Kathleen Turner and Anthony Perkins, as the two actors both seem to be giving it their all. Awash with purple, pink, and blue, the scene where the fake clergyman reluctantly shows the droll harlot the contents of his bag perfectly signified the go for broke attitude of the two performers. Besides, I also liked the names of the "disgusting array" of items he had in there. My personal favourite being: Foam Rubber Pretty Kitty.

You can't really blame Bobby for wanting to enter the world of China Blue after witnessing what he saw transpire in that hotel room, and that's exactly what he does. Arriving at her door the very next night, Bobby sheepishly gives China a fifty dollar bill (her standard rate for curbside copulation) and the two of them buckle up and prepare to pierce the sexual stratosphere. Pierce the what? Oh, didn't I tell ya? The theme for tonight's mutual debasement involves air hostesses, and you know what that means? Airline-tinged sexual innuendo, and, most importantly, stockings!

Gingerly toss her gold flight attendant uniform onto the floor, allow her to suck on your filthy man toes, take that Quaalude she gave to you, caress her legs with a series of soft petting motions, but don't you dare remove her stockings! Luckily for everyone involved, he didn't. Anyway, filmed via a silhouette and smeared in red and blue lighting, China Blue and Bobby employ a multitude of positions during their maiden sex act. It's too bad Bobby was so eager to jump into the shower after they had finished (I would have waited at least a couple of minutes), as China was a tad offended by his lack of hooker-john decorum. "A tad" offended?!? Who am I kidding? China Blue doesn't do anything "a tad." In the following scene, while dressed as a nun, China Blue tells the Rev. Peter Shayne, "He makes up in diction what he lacks in dick." The film's script is full of clever put-downs like this, put-downs that are mostly hurled in Anthony Perkins' general direction.

The only time we get to see China Blue in the light of day was during the limousine sequence (she's offered two hundred dollars to participate in a three-way). It's also the scene that best allows us to appreciate the crude workmanship that went into the construction of her iconic blue dress. According to my research, the infamous frock was simply purchased at Sears, which just goes to show that you don't need a huge costuming budget to create something fashionable.

While the soft-hued garment deserves some of the credit, it's Kathleen Turner's volcanic presence that makes the outfit and the film as a whole erupt with a wanton kind of vitality. Easily putting herself in same league as Season Hubley (Vice Squad) and Donna Wilkes (Angel), Kathleen gives a career defining performance as China Blue/Joanna Crane. The amount of courage it took for her to straddle that guy during the policeman-hooker fantasy must have been off the charts. Mainstream actresses, specifically ones who like to work in Hollywood on a regular basis, don't usually appear in movies where they're called upon to dig their spiky stiletto heels into a man's legs (by the way, I loved the close-up shots of his bloody heel wounds) while simultaneously sodomizing the very same man with his store-bought police baton.

Getting back to the plot of the film for a second, I was surprised that Bobby's interest in China Blue carried over to Joanna Crane. Don't get me wrong, I liked the whole Paula Poundstone vibe (bulky blazers and kooky-coloured ties) Miss Crane was putting out there, but my inner pervert kept telling me that he would much rather spend his spare copulatory time with China Blue.

Even though Crimes of Passion is only the fourth Ken Russell film that I've seen, it's actually only the second film of his that I've watched utilizing the entirety of my face. While I can't really explain how a normal person goes about watching something with the total sum of one's face, take my word for it, Ken Russell directs the kinds of films that require them to be watched in this particular manner. Interspersed with a dizzying array of unusual stylistic choices, the kind that no sane director would ever dare implement, Mr. Russell, whether injecting the paintings of Aubrey Beardsley and John Everett Millais into his sex scenes or having a scene where a bland suburban couple watch a surreal music video that mocks materialism, seems totally unafraid to skewer society's puerile views on sex. And what a beautiful skewering it is, one that's set to the sounds of Rick Wakeman's synth-rock interpretation of Dvořák's New World Symphony. Speaking of music, the Rough Trade lyric: "There's no limit to the depths you can sink to / There's no limit to the heights you can climb, Crimes of passion, crimes of passion, crimes" would occasionally pop into my brain as me and my face watched this amazing film's seedy yarn unfold.

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