Vortex (Scott B and Beth B, 1982)

Whether I'm doing my laundry or dangling helplessly on a precipice overlooking a deep chasm, you can pretty much guarantee that one of the thoughts floating around inside my brain while I'm doing either of those things will be related to the worship and appreciation of Lydia Lunch's substantive thighs. However, since I've already explained my love for Lydia Lunch's meaty stems many times in the past, I'll just state that her... Oh, how should I put this? Okay, how 'bout this? Her curves were a huge influence on me as a teenager. Yeah, I like that; vaguely specific. Find a copy of the Stinkfist EP, take a look at the pictures that adorn the cover and the back cover (study them long and hard if you have to), and you'll know exactly where my head was at as a sex-starved fifteen year-old. Along with Boy George, Markie Post, and Winona Ryder, Lydia helped nurture my wayward hormones during a critical period. Yet, unlike the people I just mentioned, Lydia Lunch's physical structure was always seemed allusive to me. You see, whereas Boy George could be seen cavorting about in Culture Club music videos on television channels that were originally designed to show music videos around the clock, Night Court reruns gave me my daily allotment of Markie Post goodness, and Winona Ryder's movies were as an ubiquitous as a head cold, Lydia Lunch and her world class thighs were nowhere to be found in the realm of visual media. All I had was the sound of her snarky voice on the records I owned, and that was it. Well, I'm hoping to change all that by seeking out and finding as much Lydia Lunch material as I possibly can. My first step in this process was to watch a recent documentary called Blank City (Celine Danhier, 2010), a detailed account of the movies that made up the No Wave and Cinema of Transgression movements during the late 1970s/early '80s. If any film is going to give some ideas on where to start my cinematic journey, vis-à-vis, the films of Lydia Lunch, this is going to be it.
 

 
In the film, as expected, there's a lengthy segment on Lydia Lunch and the important role she played in both scenes. Showing clips from a wide range of No Wave and Cinema of Transgression movies, I was somewhat alarmed when I discovered that the majority of the films looked like unwatchable, non-titillating trash. Which, I'll admit, are exactly the type of films I seem to be gravitating towards as of late. But I'm not just gonna watch something because Lydia Lunch is in it. I mean, did I buy Waking Up with the House on Fire? (Culture Club's third album.) I don't think so. Did I watch Hearts Afire? (The sitcom Markie Post starred in after Night Court.) Nope. And did I go see The House of the Spirits? (The movie where Winona Ryder plays a Chilean woman.) Are you high? No, I need the film to have a certain quality about it that transcends its trashiness.
   

 
All of a sudden, the documentary started to focus on a film written and directed by Scott B and Beth B called Vortex, a futuristic film noir starring Lydia Lunch as a private investigator named Angel Powers. Now this is what I've been waiting for. A film full of artistic flourishes and big ideas, yet providing me with me shots of a leggy Lydia Lunch behaving in a leggy manner in the presence of a peckish boa constrictor, the film, not to be confused the awesome used record store of the same name (still going strong at Yonge and Eglinton, baby!), depicts a world where corporations have taken over the government.
 

Opening with a U.S. congressmen (David Kennedy) making incriminating statements to an unseen individual on a grainy security camera feed. Watching this grainy feed with an eerie sense of malevolence is Frederick Fields (the reliably gaunt Bill Rice), the Howard Hughes-esque CEO of Fieldco., a company that manufactures state-of-the-art weaponry. Visibly annoyed by what the politician is saying, Fields sends Peter (Brent Collins), the height-challenged bartender who works at a nearby pub, an encoded e-mail instructing him to eliminate the congressman. And the reason for this? Well, apparently, he was talking to Navco, a rival weapons manufacturer, so, goodbye.
   

 
Given that Fields is a recluse who is confined to a wheelchair, that means he has to depend on others to carry out the physical aspects of his bidding. While it's obvious that Pete the bartender is his go-to man when it comes to taking out his enemies (he uses what would now be construed as a taser to kill his victims), Tony Demmer (James Russo) is the man who handles his everyday affairs. Whether he needs milk and donuts delivered to his door or requires his office drones to be sufficiently scolded, Tony is the man for the job. Now, the reason his other employees, like, Pamela Flemming (Ann Magnuson), look at Tony with suspicion is because he used to be Fields' chauffeur. Which begs the question: How did a lowly chauffeur end up being the confidant to a man who designs satellite weapons and unmanned aircraft for a living? I don't know, but Fields seems to trust him.
 

Just as I was starting to wonder where Lydia Lunch fits in in this murky world of corporate espionage, legislative corruption, and congressional cronyism, we finally see her soaking seductively in an analogue bubblebath of her own creation. (Keen observers will notice that her thighs are poking through the bubbles ever so slightly). Smoking while reading notes attached to a clipboard–one that she held aloft over her no-nonsense nipples–Lydia plays Angel Powers, a private investigator who, it would seem, does her best sleuthing while submerged in soapy water.
   

After checking herself in the mirror (gorgeousness oozes from every pore), she answers the door to a man who wants her to investigate the murder of the recently tasered congressman. Standing amidst her collection of stuffed animals (the gal seems to have a thing for taxidermy) in a gunmetal outfit that looked amazing paired with her jet black hair (her bangs mean business), Angel listens to the man prattle on and on about Navco and Fieldco, and something called the "BFW," a super secret space weapon the two companies are trying to manufacture.
 

In order to create a film noir vibe, Scott B and Beth B shoot the scene in Angel's apartment through set of blinds. In fact, almost every scene in Vortex is shot in an irregular manner. In some cases, the only thing on-screen at any given moment is Lydia Lunch's beautiful face floating within an all-consuming field of impenetrable darkness (her profile is coarse yet angelic at the same time). Giving her the skinny on the eccentric millionaire and his chauffeur, the squirrely man tells Angel that he wants her to nail Fieldco, and nail them hard (he probably works for Navco). Meanwhile, back at Pete's bar, Tony is giving a group of Fieldco execs, including the lovely Ann Magnuson, a refresher course on how to act while in the presence of Mr. Fields; the idea is for the execs to watch a demonstration of the BFW in action.
 

As with most private investigators, Angel uses her so-called "connections" to help her with the tougher cases. Only problem is, a junkie and a paranoid shut-in are she's got. Sure, the former is constantly asking her for money, and the latter seems to enjoy watching swing helplessly in a net (a crude security system he uses to trap intruders), but unreliable connections aren't going to prevent Angel Powers from creating an aura that reeks of noirish cool. Sifting through a weapons catalogue supplied by the shut-in (using today's lingo, he'd be considered a "hacker"), while, of course, soaking in the tub, Angel learns more about the case.
 

Heading down to the "company bar," Angel, after telling her junkie "friend" to leave her alone, finally meets Tony Demmer, the world's most powerful former chauffeur. I won't lie, I've been waiting patiently for these two volatile characters to hook up ever since they were introduced. Asking Tony, "Do you want to fuck or not?" Angel is clearly a woman who prefers not to mess around. The film's jazzy electronic score ("Black Box Disco") and dark cinematography accentuate their off-kilter courtship, as the two make their way to his apartment. Unlike her apartment, there are no stuffed animals. But he does have a pet python, which Tony shows to Angel as she lounges leggily on his bed (he feeds it a dead rodent).
 

It would seem that Tony, much like the audience, has developed moderate to strong feelings for Angel (he showed her his snake, I bet he doesn't do that for all the ladies). And, as a result, he has lost interest in taking orders from Fields. Tired of catering to his every whim, Tony has started to ignore his master. This, of course, upsets Fields, who accuses Tony of being a sex maniac bent on destroying his work.
 

 
Sex maniac?!? No, actually, what Tony is doing is what any man with eyes would do, and that is fall hopelessly in love with Lydia Lunch. Granted her personality can be a tad grating at times, but you don't squander the opportunity to be ensconced in Lunch-based loveliness when given the chance, and that's exactly what Tony does; he ensconces the fuck out of her.
 

Except, Tony gets greedy. He wants to run Fieldco and be in love with Lydia...I mean, Angel Powers, at the same time. And we know that's impossible. The truth comes out during a confrontation between Tony and Angel on a shadowy rooftop. The scene is noteworthy for many different reasons, but it's mainly known, at least in my mind it is, for the brief shots of Lydia Lunch's legs encased in black silk stockings. To the surprise of virtually no-one, the sensation that came with watching the moonlight penetrate Lydia Lunch's garter belt, its black suspenders tearing across her ashen thighs with an air of sweaty desperation, was as close to heaven as I'm ever going to get.
 

The budget may have been limited–though, I hear it was quite high as far as No Wave movies go ($80,000)–but the ideas it tries to convey were anything but. Oh, and the fact Ann Magnuson (Making Mr. Right) is in it, even though it's only a small part, increases the film's coolness quota by at least ten points.

Decoder (Muscha, 1984)

Did you know that the insipid noise masquerading as music you hear when you're strolling down the housewares aisle of your local box-shaped monstrosity is not being played for the benefit of your frazzled nerves? Uh-uh, its sole purpose is to appease your inherent desire to destroy everything in sight. Don't believe me? Listen to the sounds you hear the next time you're about to sit down and eat that inexpensive sandwich at your local den of corporate mediocrity. The flavourless tripe invading your eardrums is not your friend, it's your enemy. Its nonthreatening din is specifically designed to lull that inner deranged person that lives inside all of us. Preventing the populace from engaging in behaviour deemed unbecoming, especially acts that fly in the face of social norms, it's subliminally telling you to purchase your proletarian dishpan, consume that gelatinous glob of chemically enhanced sludge, and get out. Well, the best way to reverse the effects of this so-called noise, or "muzak," is to counter it with the disquieting unpleasantness of a properly motivated piece of industrial music. It's true, industrial music is my go-to cure when it comes to solving the world's problems, so my opinion is definitely a tad biased. (I happen to think that "Slogun" by SPK is the key to inner peace.) However, the unhinged individuals behind Decoder, a brightly coloured underground oddity that features seedy peepshows and frog-infested apartments more than any other film ever made, appear to agree with me that industrial music is the single greatest threat against tyranny and hopelessness.

In most cases, the principal aim of music is to comfort or invigorate the vitality of the listener. And from what I've been told, it enters through your ear canal and where it begins to engage the pleasure centers of your brain by employing lush orchestrations and gentle harmonies. On the other hand, industrial music, striping away all traces of joy and happiness, encapsulates the harshness of the modern world in such an unfiltered manner, that your psyche will feel as if it's been violated by a broken rake, or a rake that is still able to carry out its primary function in a semi-competent manner. Depending on the spiritual disposition of person it's being exposed to, industrial music, no matter if they like it or not, will severely alter the genetic makeup of the ears that are listening to it.

Inspired by the writings of William S. Burroughs (the old guy with a shotgun in the music video for Ministry's "Just One Fix"), chiefly his 1970 work The Electronic Revolution, a West German filmmaking collective (Klaus Maeck, Muscha, Volker Schäfer and Trini Trimpop) grab the well-worn idea that multinational corporations are manipulating the masses through mind control, cradle it gently against their Teutonic bosoms, and proceed to run around Hamburg with it. A fast food chain called H-Burger, a joint that trains its employees with military-style proficiency, is the focus of the film's unsubtle satire of a universe growing more and more dystopian with each passing day. The only person standing in their way of attaining global supremacy is a bushy banged audiophile. Oh, sure, a creepy, priest who looks an awful lot like Genesis P-Orridge, one of the founders of the seminal industrial group Throbbing Gristle, helps out our glum hero along the way. But the revolutionary onus is pretty much on the shoulders of one man and his complicated cassette deck. Wow, I just realized that this film's industrial cred is getting more pronounced by the minute.

(Excuse me, I gotta go expel some urine from my bladder.)

Hey, I'm back. I thought of a question as I watched my beautiful pee struggle to become one with the toilet water: If you were in charge of casting the lead actor in an experimental film about a bang-generous guy who creates audio-terrorism in his spare time, who would you pick? I'll give you a couple of minutes to decide. It's not as easy as it sounds, is it? Let me narrow it down. You can only choose from the members of legendary German racket makers Einstürzende Neubauten. If you're still having trouble, all you have to do go to your parents' house, head downstairs to the basement, find a copy of Fuenf Auf Der Nach Oben Offenen Richterskala, carefully examine the record sleeve, and the choice should be obvious. Boasting one of the most distinctive silhouettes in all of industrial music, and, not to mention, a face that is both obscene and alluring at the same time, FM Einheit (a.k.a. Mufti) was born to play F.M., an anti-muzak radical who sets off a wave of civil disobedience when he discovers a sinister plot to enslave humanity one greasy cheeseburger at a time.

In charge of putting a stop to F.M.'s outlaw behaviour is Jaeger (William Rice), a weary bureaucrat who works for a shadowy surveillance company (his workspace is a mixing board in front of a wall of television monitors). However, the bulk his concentration is focused elsewhere. Transfixed (she emits a blinding light) by a peepshow dancer named Christiana (Christiane Felscherinow), Jaeger, a man who lurks the city streets like an emaciated Dutch financial expert, seems more interested in her than the tape deck-wielding rabble-rouser he's supposed to be keeping tabs on.

Meanwhile, F.M., despite the occasional frog-based interruption from his sexy, goth-tinged girlfriend, who may or may not be the same woman who Jaeger is obsessed with, and the odd game of Frogger down at the neighbourhood video arcade, is working around the clock to get his homemade tapes out to the people. You see, the noise on his yellow-coloured cassettes drowns out the joy-inducing muzak, which, in turn, causes diners at H-Burger, and other fast food restaurants, to become violently ill. This leads to rioting and clashes with police (the film features great riot footage), as the newly unburdened citizenry take to the streets.

Skirting the line that separates pompous dreck and illuminating cleverness, Decoder manages to stave off art-house boredom by liberally employing its industrial soundtrack (with tracks composed by Dave Ball, Genesis P-Orridge, The The, Einstürzende Neubauten and FM Einheit) with the ferocity of a well-aimed tank shell.

The 15 year-old me–you know, that creeper-sporting miscreant whose aura reeked of nothing but smugness and apple-coated watermelon–would have loved the film's opening scene. Actually, what am I saying? Modern me loved it as well. What I'm clumsily trying to convey using this jumble of typed words is that the extended sequence where we follow William Rice as stalks the halls of his secretive office building, all the while this menacing electro beat throbs in the background, was the epitome of industrial cool.

Speaking of creepers (my preferred style of footwear circa none of your business), I nearly lost it when an H-Burger employee states the reason he's working at the fast food restaurant is so can save up enough money to buy a pair of creepers. If he had said anything else I would have scoffed in the most bombastic manner humanly possible. But the fact that he said "creepers" allowed me to empathize with his not-so noble cause with a modicum of ease. I just hope the shoe's he had his eye on came with buckles.

The film's many peepshow sequences were my favourite, as I found the garish neon of the Red Light District (a.k.a. Reeperbahn), Christiane F.'s ennui, and the multiple usage of Soft Cell's "Seedy Films" to be very appealing. I don't know what it is, but I have a bittersweet longing for the days when people had to leave their place of residence to masturbate. In addition, I liked the fact that the peepshow, on top of showing women wrestling, seemed to also screen graphic autopsy and castration footage for their shady-looking clientele to view.

Call me someone who is mentally unstable but not schizophrenic, but I could watch the lovely Christiane Felscherinow lounge around her apartment in a pink tissue paper slip covered in frogs and books about frog anatomy for hours. It's just something I think I'd be good at. Anyway, playing two characters: a frog enthusiast who wears black lipstick, gray legwarmers, and fluorescent kimonos, and a peepshow employee whose passive stripe tease drives the raincoat crowd wild, Christiane, who also appears in an eerie dream sequence with William S. Burroughs, is post-punk heaven in a leather jacket.

Reminding me of film's like, Downtown 81 and Population: 1, underground movies about art and music that were cobbled together years after they were shot, the film has an erratic, loosely thrown together vibe about it. However, unlike those two films, this particular flick has a clearly defined narrative. And a lively sense of colour; each character seems to have their own unique colour scheme (Fräulein Felscherinow's face was lit green while in frog mode, red during the peepshow scenes). It was kinda hard for me to gauge the quality of the acting in Decoder, or their physicality, as Christine F.'s legginess was more subtle than I'm used to (Muscha is no Jess Franco). But it was nice to see FM Einheit, a guy who normally smashes shopping carts for a living, moonlight as a leading man.

In closing, the way music is employed in the corporate arena nowadays is a real turn off. Ruining countless shopping and dining experiences, the indigestible noise they inflict on their customers has caused me to flee for quieter ground on several occasions. In extreme cases, if the sound emanating from a particular business is not to my specific liking as I approach the door, it will not be entered. Left to mindlessly wander a garbage-strewn landscape with a fairy dressed in tinfoil, my ears have slowly become wounds.

...