You Killed Me First (Richard Kern, 1985)

I'd like to start off by saying, Happy Canadian Thanksgiving! Of course, on this side of the imaginary line that separates the U.S.A. and Canada, it's simply called "Thanksgiving," but I like to emphasize the holiday's nationalistic component whenever addressing an international audience; hello to my equally imaginary friends in Mordovia and Transnistria. While I realize it's technically not Thanksgiving today, that doesn't mean we can't pretend it is. Besides, I'm not going to let some kitschy wall calendar dictate my behaviour. As everyone knows, I despise award shows (they're vulgar and crass), loathe political speeches (they're filled with insincere nonsense vocalized by non-practicing child molesters), and can't stand calendars (they're...well, they're just plain stupid). Greetings. The reason I'm currently spewing semi-nonsensical vitriol is because I'm trying to reconnect with my inner disaffected teen. Why am I doing this, you ask? Isn't it obvious? Having just watched You Killed Me First from start to finish for the very first time, I would like to get into the mindset of Elizabeth (Lung Leg), or, I should say, "Cassandra," the sullen teen at the centre of this Richard Kern-directed slice/slab/piece of so-called "transgressive cinema." If you thought it was easy for me to identify with Cassandra, you would be wrong. Sure, I saw a lot of myself in Lung Leg's portrayal of alienated youth; hanging around my room all day listening to Wiseblood's "Motorslug," destroying my clothes (i.e. making them "cooler"), and acting like a total brat at the dinner table. But I'm not that person anymore. What's shocking is, how much I identified with Karen Finley as Cassandra's mother. It's true, I mostly envied the fact that David Wojnarowicz (Cassandra's dad) got to plow into Karen Finley's vagina with his penis on a regular basis (whether that "basis" was semi-regular or not is still open to debate). Yet, part of me empathized with her motherly distress. 

 

 

Will wonders never cease? I just remembered the reason I started off on that tangent about Thanksgiving: You Killed Me First begins and ends on Thanksgiving. Yeah, yeah, they don't actually mention the t-word, but it's clear, judging by the large turkey on the table, that it's Thanksgiving. Anyway, what we see in-between these dinner scenes is some of the best teen angst ever to be captured on film.
 

 

Speaking of teen angst, remember how sad you felt when you heard that My So-Called Life had been cancelled? No? Well, I do. And the acerbic tone Richard Kern strikes in this film is the direction I would have liked to have seen My So-Called Life take if Angela Chase and the gang had made it to season two. Come to think of it, My So-Called Life and You Killed Me First already have a lot in common. Just replace Claire Danes' flannel-heavy get-up with a torn Scrapping Foetus Off The Wheel t-shirt, and you're already two-thirds of the way there.
 

 

"Lately, I can't even look at my mother without wanting to stab her repeatedly." ~ Angela Chase

 

Upon further inspection, it would seem that the Thanksgiving dinner from Hell that opens You Killed Me First is the same dinner that closes the film. How do I know this? Well, for one thing, all the actors are wearing the same clothes. And secondly, what occurs after Lung Leg's incoherent rant is an extended flashback sequence that tries to explain how we ended up in this sticky diaphragm of a situation.
 

 

Sitting down for turkey dinner on Thanksgiving, mom (Karen Finley) and dad (David Wojnarowicz) seem worried about their daughter Elizabeth (Lung Leg), who is constantly dropping her fork on the floor. On the other hand, their other daughter, Deborah (Jessica Craig-Martin) is a model of Ronald Reagan-approved docility. Asking her if she washed her hands, Elizabeth answers by saying, "fuck no." I like this chick already. When the topic shifts to Elizabeth's boyfriend, her father starts throwing around words such as "scum" and "slime."
 

 

Just as her mom is about to lose it (the lovely Karen Finley rocks when it comes to losing it at the dinner table), Lung Leg launches into this long tirade. Her piercing eyes filled anger, Lung Leg tells her parents how much she really hates them. As she's about to finish her diatribe, we go back to a, now, I don't want to say "happier time," let's just say, a different time. Doing what most teenage girls did in 1985, Elizabeth plays with her puppets while listening to industrial music.
 

 

It's when Elizabeth introduces her shady-looking boyfriend to her parents that we learn that she wants to, from now on, to be called "Cassandra."
  

  
You gotta love the scene where Karen Finley gives Lung Leg a haircut. Telling Elizabeth that she's giving her "the wind swept look," the kind you see in "Mademoiselle Magazine." She also calls it "the new wave look," and compares it to the hairdo Liza Minnelli sported at the time. Of course, Elizabeth/Cassandra does not approve of this. Which, I have to admit, I didn't quite understand. I mean, who doesn't want to look like Liza Minnelli?!?
 

 

Things continue to go downhill when Karen Finley buys Lung Leg a sweater at the local shopping centre. As expected, Lung Leg is horrified by this shitty garment. But get this, Karen tells her that she bought the cheapest one because she knew that she would probably end up ripping it up and writing "fucker anarchy" all over it. Awesome, eh? I wouldn't have guessed it, but Karen Finley is a cool mom.
 

 

Now, normally this is where I would declare the hair cutting and sweater buying scenes to be my favourite parts of the movie. But I can't do that. Not when there's a scene in the film where Karen Finley wears black stockings while being fucked from behind.
 

 

After a series of scenes that involve praying (Karen Finley in a pink dress), mock gun play (foreshadowing, baby), dead bunny rabbits, puking puppets, and art criticism (Karen Finley in a red dress), we're back where we started, the dinner table.
 

 

Spoiler alert: Shouting, "My name is Cassandra! You killed me first!" Lung Leg shoots Karen Finley in the head. This may sound like hyperbole, but I'm declaring Karen Finley's death in You Killed Me First to be the best movie death in film history. Why? The way she screams (which is complimented by some subtle arterial spray), pauses for a second, then violently rocks back and forth a couple of times (she almost falls out of her chair), before finally expiring was inspirational; I get goosebumps and half-moist just thinking about it. Call me a sick twist, but I could watch Karen Finley's death scene in You Killed Me First over and over again. 

Fingered (Richard Kern, 1986)

Always encased in the tightest fishnets money can buy (though, truth be told, I sincerely hope she shoplifts them), the supple legs attached to the torso belonging to the irascible Lydia Lunch (Vortex) will severely test the durability of the synthetic material that covers your pathetic crotch. Unless, of course, you're wearing sweatpants. If that's the case, may your bulge be large and fruitful. If, however, you happen to have self-respect, and are wearing real pants when you watch this film, then may god have mercy on your groin and its uphill battle to stay lukewarm and well-ventilated. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about all you ladies out there. Dangling in a manner that will no doubt drive discerning lesbians wild with cunt-drenching desire, Lydia Lunch's powerful, Smithsonian-worthy stems will surely compromise the impermeability of the fabric that surrounds your soon to be damp pussy. Either way, whether being poked with unplanned hardness or drowned in wave after wave of tepid vagina water, your stain-laden pants are going to have to be put in the wash after they get through watching Fingered, a sleazy, disgusting film that begs the question: Does Lydia Lunch moisturize her thighs, or are they just naturally creamy? Mmm, creamy thighs throbbing on my plate, oozing thickness from every pore. Um, yeah, anyway. I know, pants can't watch movies (they don't have eyes, or a central nervous system, for that matter). But they're going to feel like they have after they experience the Lydia Lunch-a-thon that is this short but sweet trip to Scumbagville, U.S.A., population: Who gives a shit.
 

 

Told to stomp, kick, straddle, run, twitch, and some times told to just plain walk, Lydia Lunch's gams are put through their shapely paces in this film. The person instructing her legs to stomp, kick, straddle, etc. is none other than underground filmmaker Richard Kern, a man who probably knows a thing or two about photographing Lydia Lunch's world famous organic structure whilst under duress. 
 

 

After being subjected to a lengthy disclaimer, one that includes the words, "shock," "insult," and irritate," Fingered opens with a shot of Lydia Lunch–whose character's name is never mentioned, so let's just call her Lydia Lunch–talking on the telephone. Asking one of her regular phone-sex customers for their credit card number, Lydia Lunch slowly starts to lose patience with him. "The fucking credit card number," she yells at him at one point. When the card number is finally divulged, the caller (Emilio Cubeiro) goes on this long tirade about "human garbage" and "human excrement." I guess he didn't like the sarcastic tone she used when she said, "yes...mommy's here."  Hey, you call Lydia Lunch for phone-sex, you're bound to get some sarcasm. At any rate, Lydia Lunch hangs up on the caller after his three minutes are up.
 

 

While I liked the weird energy of the opening scene, and I could have sworn the "human garbage" line was sampled on a Skinny Puppy song (Velvet Acid Christ, perhaps?), I thought we spent too much time in the caller's squalid apartment and not enough with Lydia Lunch, who looked super-foxy in her black see-trough negligee.
 

 

The self-proclaimed "hottest slut in town" has no trouble getting another caller on the line. Bent over a table, Lydia Lunch tells Marty Nation all the wonderful things she would do if she had access to his genitals. Stroking his cock in, what looks like, an auto-body shop, Marty Nation can't wait to stick his "fat juicy cock" in Lydia Lunch's "greasy little hole." Call me sane, but I love the way Lydia Lunch says "cock" in this movie. It's one of my favourite words, so to hear it uttered by one of the sexiest women on the planet was a real treat.    
 

 

You know these two aren't going to be fully satisfied until they meet face-to-face, or, in this film's case, hand-to-muff, so they arrange to rendezvous with one another. Sitting on a table, her black heels gripping its surface with a quiet desperation, Lydia Lunch hurls her fishnet pantyhose/black panties-adorned crotch two and fro in an attempt to unfurl the hopefully bulbous contents that lie on the other side of a complex series of jagged metal teeth. Teasing a clearly flabbergasted Marty Nation, the owner and chief proprietor of said hopefully bulbous contents, to the point of madness, Lydia, who is also wearing black opera gloves and black vinyl footless suspender tights over top of her black fishnet pantyhose, ceases to mock thrust her dewy undercarriage.
 

 

Pulling out his trusty switchblade, Marty Nation cuts a path to Lydia Lunch's vagina. Declaring, "I want your pussy now," Marty Nation plants his face in her lap just as Lydia Lunch instructs him to "take it."
 

 

When they finish with the foreplay, Fingered starts to live up to its name.
 

 

"Words all fail the magic prize / Nothing I can say when I'm in your..." ~ "Add It Up," The Violent Femmes

 

The black suspenders attached to Lydia Lunch's vinyl, footless leggings tear across her pale hindquarters like bad gothic poetry.
 

 

When a guy waiting for a bus asks Lydia Lunch, who has since changed into a short black skirt and a black short-sleeved blouse, where her "faggot boyfriend" is, Marty Nation sneaks up behind him and slits his throat with his aforementioned trusty switchblade.
 

 

Getting into his 1950s-style automobile, Marty Nation and Lydia Lunch, as my spirit animal Frank Booth would say, "hit the fucking the road."
 

 

You're not going to find a more beautiful image of Lydia Lunch than the sight of her arguing with Marty Nixon (who looks like Paul Barker from Ministry from certain angles) in the passenger seat of his car. Her hair is perfect. Her legs are crossed. Her earrings are divine. She's wearing fishnet pantyhose. And, most importantly, her trademark sneer is in top form.
 

 

When Marty Nation stabs his redneck friend in the leg after dry straddling Lydia Lunch for longer than he was comfortable with, I started to get the impression that is Marty Nation fella is a bit of an asshole. What am I saying, "a bit of an asshole"?!? He's a fully formed asshole. Which got me a thinking, why is Lydia Lunch hanging around this guy? He's repulsive.
 

 

Take the next scene, for example, where he shoves the barrel of a gun into Lydia Lunch's vagina. I mean, that was totally not cool. Then it dawned me, Lydia Lunch loves his cock. Only problem being, she has to put up with a lot of his "macho bull shit" to get it. Now, I realize being raped by a gun isn't your typical "macho bull shit" by any means. But the world of Fingered is anything but typical.
 

 

As a visibly annoyed Lydia Lunch and a more smug than usual Marty Nixon are talking about his revolting cock, we're introduced to a frazzled hitchhiker played by the luminous Lung Leg. Looking like she's been through hell, Lung Leg gets into their car. I know, she couldn't have picked a worse car to bum a ride from, but that's life. Sometimes we're picked up by Donnie and Marie Osmond, and sometimes we're picked up by Lydia Lunch and her sleazy as fuck boyfriend.
 

 

While I don't really want to go into what happens next , but let's just say Lung Leg is quite the trooper. Thrown around like a dishevelled ragdoll, Lung Leg gives a frighteningly real performance as an emotionally fragile woman on the brink of a complete and utter mental breakdown. The final minutes of Fingered had a sort of snuff film vibe about it. Not that I know what a snuff film looks like. But I imagine it would look something like this. Ugly, grimy, sick and twisted. It's slowly dawning on me that I just watched Fingered.

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