Kids or Poo?

An interesting etiquette question came up during a recent visit to a local coffee shop. In the men’s room there was a urinal and a sit down commode, without a separating wall between them, and the bathroom door was lockable. So, when using the urinal, do you lock the door?


It is conceivable that two men could stand and urinate together without being socially awkward. And it is a coffee shop, so it is polite to make as much room as possible. The bladder you save may be your own!


BUT! If you were defecating, would you want some guy taking a whiz right next to you as you do it? Um, no. That’s not Miss Manners. It’s just weird. You lock the door. So, after contemplation and referencing Miss Manners and the Cokely Stiffly Necking’s Guide to Deportment, I have ruled that in a bathroom with two conveyances unseparated by wall you may lock the door without shame or a black mark on your permanent record of decency and kindness.


And then I shot myself.


Why? Because I spent time that I could of used for pleasure or the killing of pain to think about proper method of the disposing of body wastes. I literally pissed my time away. You know, like watching reality TV.


Americans have set some records in the realm of hypocrisy, but they have totally raised the bar to new heights when it comes to sex and how we treat our sexual organs. Fortunately, this isn’t too new of a problem, as a good friend of mine, Montaigne, talked about a few centuries ago.


Each one avoideth to see a man born, but all run hastily to see him die. To destroy him we seek a spacious field and full light; but to construct him, we hide ourselves in a dark corner and work as close as we may.


Don’t worry if you don’t know Montaigne. He wrote books, not websites, and has never screwed Paris Hilton, so there’s no real reason why any American should know who he was. He’s got a hell of a point though, don’t he? There is a daily fight over how much we should talk about sex, but nobody fights about violence. That stuff is great! Give us more of it! Kids love it! Grandparents love it! The biggest office building in the world is dedicated to the successful and continuous management of it! While at the same time the leading lawyer in the nation is putting clothing on Greek statues.


A little more perspective: a neighbor might think twice about chastising another neighbor for striking their spouse or children, but you wouldn’t hesitate for a second to yell if that neighbor lowered his trousers and took a juicy crap on your lawn in full view of the entire street. Why? Because our feces is more important to us than our loved ones.


And I’m not kidding. Our way of life proves it.


Every major city in America is having problems funding their Child Protective Services, their Police force and all other welfare services, but those sewers are working great! Who gets paid more, plumbers or teachers? What is cared for more, our feces, or the impoverished sick? It is possible that a person can be so disgusting that they will be ignored, but even the smallest piece of crap will receive attention for someone, and eventually it will be put in it’s proper place.


In America, more money is spent on the proper disposal of feces than on the alleviation of suffering. We would much rather spend money on the maintenance of suffering, as long as it smells like roses. And even if every single American out there is okay with that, even if every single American thinks that’s a good thing, even if every American believes with all their heart that there crap doesn’t stink, it isn’t. And the dead laugh at what we cherish, and wait for the inevitable day when we will ourselves die and smell just like the feces we’ve avoided, foolishly, our entire lives.


Don’t forget to flush.

The magnitude of Justice

“Throughout the history of law the magnitude of the crime has been lessened by the magnitude of the criminal.”

P 28, Our Oriental Heritage, Will and Ariel Durant.



The proof of this lesson has a million legs, and it thunders like a herd through the annals of history, and any exception you offer would be swarmed and engulfed by the rule.

Let’s not engage in any petty listing of the wealthy and famous who have escaped justice. They suck, and that’s their mental enema to hold. They are not the problem. It’s all the people who just step back and let it happen that are the true problem.

Which people?

The Eskimos! They’re evil!!

That’s not true at all. I apologize to the Eskimos.

You and me are the people in a state of accusation here.

The blogger and the blogged.

But before I call you and me weak, vacillating weather vanes of morality, I should do some writer-ing to prove it.

“Throughout the history of law the magnitude of the crime has been lessened by the magnitude of the criminal.”

In the past, this Lesson would have referred to what we call the Lords of the Earth, those who owned the land and thereby also owned the right to say who lives and dies. As laws became written codes instead of personal whim, the last person held accountable by these new laws were these very same Lords. A marked sign of feudal kingdoms becoming modern states is the crisis where a Lord is forced to accept the same justice as a peasant; the beheading of Charles I is an example of this.


Meritocracy aside, legal theorists forced exemptions on behalf of modern lawmakers, to protect them from undue prejudice in passing laws. After all, if they actually had to follow the rules they set, no new rules might be passed. And without new rules society will. . . .that is without new regulations everyone will. . . um. . .be happy, content and self-reliant? It seems this legal theory is the opposite of the ideas currently dominating the management of children, lawbreakers, Heaven and Hell. Why congress commits actions exceptional to these things is a Historical mystery, but we know why they are allowed to:

“Throughout the history of law the magnitude of the crime has been lessened by the magnitude of the criminal.”


How many elected officials have been prosecuted for criminal behavior? How many have served time? How many have been served the same plate of justice that the poor man does when caught stealing food?


Why is this even possible in an age so publicly proud of its advances in social justice? It is possible by a little morality two- step jig we call The Lords of Ego Shuffle.


In the past a person would become powerful and thereby famous, but today a person can become famous, and then powerful as a result of the fame. This is a modern phenomenon. Antiquity and antiquity’s following decades don’t have the power-less becoming powerful as a result of their simply showing yourself to lots of people. Actual accomplishments were required, unlike today.


Lady Gaga is a good example. Nothing about her is original; an outlandishly extravagant pop star has been walking the stage since Sarah Bernhardt. The recent lawsuits brought by the 80’s Sarah Bernhardt, Madonna, further prove that even her music (which is the actual reason we forced to deal with her) is legally not different. So a we have singer who can’t sing without computer enhancement, who sings songs stolen from other music, and whose contribution to culture has been the ability to walk in heel-less high heeled shoes. Well, when she’s sober she can walk in heel-less high heeled shoes.


Her fans will bleat about the positive message of her music, which they claim is about love and acceptance of others and yourself. As an expression of this message, these fans call GaGa the Mother Monster, and they call themselves monsters. Do I have to even point out the lie here? Okay, I will. A crowd of people who emulate the fashion industries’ number one supporter are only Monsters in the hypocrisy of their actions and in their financial support of a person who would not piss on a guy in jeans and a t-shirt if he was on fire. Oh, unless that person had AIDS and there were TV cameras about.


Lady Gaga typifies the modern ‘magnitude’; a magnitude of nothingness.
These we will call Lords of the Ego. People like Oprah, Tom Cruise, Bruce Springsteen, P Diddy and Simon Cowell all contribute nothing to society but distraction and the hope to billions of sufferers of Capitalism that maybe, someday, they too will be paid three million dollars for two months work and not have to answer to anyone; although to do so goes against the ethics taught by every major world religion, just in case anyone was worrying about what the ‘right’ thing to do is.


Our civilization’s answer to this Lesson of History has not been to close the loophole, but to provide a way for the non-powerful to achieve this status, hence the creation of the Magnitude of nothingness and the Lords of Ego.

The masses will tolerate injustice, if they perceive they have a chance to reap the same unjust benefits in the future. Which is why OJ went free and Martha Stewart went to jail.

And, as the people agree to the Lords of Ego Shuffle, they can’t really protest when the wealthy and powerful escape responsibility illustrated by today’s Lesson, now can they?

Oh yeah, and just in case you were deluding yourself into innocence, you and me are those masses; even if you have a college degree.

People getting away with murder; as a metaphor or as a reality is frustrating as hell to witness, but it’s not impossible to fight. All you have to do is risk social standing, defy custom and refuse to yield to the Lords of the Earth and the Lords of Ego.

Which, though heroic, will not make you a hero.

It will make you a citizen.

It will be hard, and people will call you crazy for simply doing what all acknowledge to be the right thing.

But history is here for you, and so am I.

History for Living-

This blog is about applying the lessons of history to our daily lives. But don’t be fooled, History is not an academic pursuit-it’s what every single one of you is doing right now!! This Blog will, I assure you, get personal, wet, sticky and challenging to the ideas you hold most dear. So you can relax, there will be no quizzes, and there will be swear words and jokes and stuff.

But I will not lie to you, or pull the punches of what our ancestors have learned.

If you feel I am wrong about something, let me know with a polite argument.

I am not seeking to prove myself right, but to find out what is right.

And, obverse-ly in the words of Oliver Cromwell, “I beseech you Gentlemen, by the bowels of Christ, to consider that you might be wrong.”





“Man does not love society as much as he fears solitude.”

P21, Our Oriental Heritage, Will and Ariel Durant.


As an Macro-Historical principle, the above statement gives us insight to certain social truths, but little forward action; it is it’s own discovery and therein a cul-de-sac of thought leading only to itself. However, when applied to the personal, daily lives of men and women, it becomes almost a geometric Axiom; a law that we cannot escape. But by acceptance and forethought, we can limit it’s painful side.


And pain, love, joy and compassion and all those vague necessaries are what life is all about.


Don’t let the academic nature of that first paragraph bother you too much.


‘Cuz the rest of this is going to be about the broken hearted, and the loss of love.


The above Historical principle is Will and Ariel Durant’s mathematical word formula which objectively describes the sum total all the horrible things we do to ourselves to just prevent our- selves from being alone. We cannot live alone, but other people are so weird. And other people think I’m weird. Sometimes we pick the wrong solution to our lonliness, and when the mistake must be rectified, we are twice as alone as before, and twice as fearful

The fear of solitude, the terror of being alone in an empty apartment with the growing suspicion that nobody likes you, or ever did or ever will. You may take comfort in the truth that our species has carried these feelings since the burden of consciousness first bloomed in our skulls.

But so what, Montaigne? What’s this going to do for me and that bastard/bitch who hurt me, or won’t return my calls? How will it help ease the pain of being turned away, of having to learn how to forget those intimacies you’ve created with this other soul, who now must be a stranger?

Dang, calm down Tom Waits.

Though loneliness can be existential, History isn’t so all you Satre Jr’. are on your own. Let us stick to the classic modern loneliness from breaking up.

Here’s what History teaches us about heartbreak.

The first lesson of history is to drink profusely. Yep. That’s right. Get real drunk.
Since bread, there has been beer. And since beer, there has been weeping in it. But it was not until 325BC, in the Greek port of Cos where the Official rules of breakup drinking where established:

1. Go with two friends. One will not be enough.

2. Go to a bar you do not regularly frequent, for you will likely be thrown out and asked not to return.

3. Yes, that woman who looks like a man is a man.

4. Do not communicate at all, in any way, with the ex during the drinking binge.

Other rules are added and subtracted with the flow of the lava lamp of time. But those are the basics.


After the drinking is done, history begins to splinter a bit on the next best course to heal a broken heart; Shakespeare wrote sonnets, Ivan III liked to cut off heads and beat people with knotted ropes. But the social scientists here at Cromwell’s Ghost Laboratories have distilled centuries of experience into a few the basic categories. They are: Replacing the lost love, Burying oneself in work, Finding new hobbies, New clothes, New haircut New stuff. And these catagories are all fairly standard though time and space.

These however are just coping mechanisms. Mummer’s plays and magic lantern shows we put on to cover battle within; the fear of being alone-or worse, the fear of deserving to be alone.

The only real solace to this pain is the oxymoronic truth that if you have feeling enough to suffer from the loss, then you are a good person. Jerks, scumbags, bitches and assholes don’t mind losing what they can never really have. And even though it may feel like all things sweet, good and true were taken from you with the loss of the other’s face from your life, you are a good person, and more good things will come again to you, as the old pleasures will soon lose the taint of your ‘other’, and become only yours again. But, unfortunately, no matter what you do to cope or hide, you will be in pain and it won’t go away quick.

But that’s okay, because History is here for you, and so am I.

“Man does not love society as much as he fears solitude.”

You will get over this, because you have to.

Schadenfreude Movie Conclave:Blast Off Girls

BLAST OFF GIRLS

1967
Written and directed by
Herschell Gordon Lewis


We at the Schadenfreude Conclave enjoy our jobs too much. Way too much. In fact, studies show that we enjoy our jobs 37% more than we are supposed to. Fortunately we are aware that to experience too much pleasure can be hurtful, painful and symptomatic of further psychological damage. This is one of the reasons we are Schadenfreude. Here pain and pleasure exchange their masks with each other; reversing roles and upsetting the apple cart of expectations and exploding the myth of Normalcy.
Have you ever exploded a myth? Don’t. It’s gross. It’s nasty. It gets everywhere. And no one is going to clean up that myth for you. Even the Enviromental Protection Agency won’t touch it. If you blow one of those suckers up, you are on your own! Once, we took this one big stupid myth and stuck a M-60 meme up it’s. . . . .
I digress. Our purpose here at the Schadenfreude Conclave is to deliver to you, the unfortunate consumers of Culture, a guide to the movies you hate to love and love to hate. We do this, believe it or not, to help make you happy; to give you a smile or at the very least, the pleasure of seeing something new and completely unexpected, as only a really bad movie can.

BUT. Often in our searches we come across certain movies that are bad, just bad, very bad. But they must be watched. They must be categorized! They must be measured, despite the suffering they cause us, despite the pain, despite the bleeding eyes, screams of terror and unholy visions that haunt our dreams and make us question whether mankind has a right to continue to exist. We watch, for we are the Schadenfreude. We suffer for your pleasure. And we glow like fourteen pregnant fundamentalist Christian mothers with the pleasure of your suffering.

This movie, ‘BLAST OFF GIRLS’ is of the Suffering kind. It will hurt. Mostly because the band really sucks.

However, viewing of this movie will earn the watcher a Schadenfreude Order of The Scarred Collective Unconscious. To achieve this honor, you must watch the entire movie from first image to the last credit. No fast-forwarding, no bathroom visits. Short trips to the fridge are allowed, but any absence longer than 27 seconds will invalidate the Badge.


‘BLAST OFF GIRLS’ is an effort by Herschell Gordon Lewis, who has made the Schaden-favorite ‘Jimmy the Boy Wonder”. And now he enters the list of infamy. This only raises his quality in our minds. Besides, the band sucks.

This movie attempts to be a morality tale about the music industry, a long drawn out morality tale about the Music industry. A long pointless cliché filled morality tale of the music industry. There are salacious offers, including the apparent set up of a gang bang. But not even a single boob ever appears. In fact we don’t see the apparently featured “Blast Off Girls” very much. We mostly are forced to watch the band ‘The Big Blast’( played by the band ‘The Faded Blue’) play poor songs poorly. The lead is ably rendered by Roy Sager, who became a H.G. Lewis regular as well as a respected career behind the camera in many roles. Here, he is given a cane and left to deal with a script that cannot be saved by a thousand Shatners or one Daniel Day Lewis. We both weep and laugh with him. But in the end, the band sucks.

Between the band sucking, there are a few groovy clothes, some odd lines, and of course, Colonel Sanders! Yes Colonel Sanders makes a cameo trading some chicken for a song. His appearance and his dancing is quite thrilling; a prescient prediction of the Colonel’s future as an animated character, shaking it’s inky ass to rap music just to sell more giblets. But soon, the band plays again. And the band sucks. Have we mentioned that?

You will not enjoy this movie. But it may give you pleasure. It is, to the very core, Schadenfreude!!!!

Horrible Highlights:
The Colonel dancing.
There is a lovely lamp, and cool 60’s doors
Pot being the Ultimate degradation, as opposed to the path to it.

Classic bad movie elements:
Bad sound quality.
Atrocious acting. Mostly
Undelivered promise of nudity and sex.
Cliché, cliché, cliche

THE DRINKING GAME FOR “BLAST OFF GIRLS”

DRINK WHEN:
When anyone lights a cigar
There’s a room full of kids dancing
The bands make fun of someone musically

CHUG A WHOLE BEER WHEN:
The colonel dances!
Boojie sets up a gang bang
You hear the name, Sadie Thompson.


IF ONE HAS TO WRITE A COLLEGE ESSAY FOR FILM CLASS

H. G. Lewis continues his exploration into America’s culture through the food it eats. Much like Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, Blast Off Girls uses the poultry industry as a metaphor for the Laissez Fair morality of the 1960’s and beyond. Oh yes, the Colonel would dance to the sweet tune of a youth culture based on consumerism and materialism. He dances all the way to the bank! Blast Off Girls is a fitting appendix to the social revolt and socially revolting documents of the European Fiction masters of the early Soviet period.

SCHADEN FREUDEN SCORE
Elements: 3 (out of 10 )
Titillation: 0 (out of 5)
Wrongness: 1 (out of 5)
Style & Funness: 1 (out of 5)
Extra points: - 1 (out of 5)
TOTAL: 6 (out of 30 )

Mother Knows Best

Ephemera of the doomed

Can you dig it?

Schadenfreude Review: Cool It, Baby

COOL IT BABY
1967
Directed by Lou Campa, sort of.
Written by Joespeh Marzano, sort of
The Blame belongs to Harry Novak



COOL IT BABY is what we at The Schadenfreude Conclave designate a Couples’ Only Film. That’s not just a recommendation, it’s a rule. Surprised? Eyebrows arched in disbelief? Are you upset that we are throwing Fascist Rules at you when all you wanted to do was read a little review? Get over it. This flick is not dirty. It is not raunchy. It is not scandalous. It’s messed up. Really messed up. Wanna know the plot? Screw the plot!


Here at the facts, 6 sets of boobs, two of which are quick flashed shots. The other boobs are of a general high quality. No girl ass, no vagina, no boy ass, no penis. There is a lot of groping scenes. Actually it is just one long session of grope with no advancement of nudity or passion. You know, how nobody does, ever, especially when they are already down to their underwear? There’s some nude modeling, some lesbian teasing, a little oral sex hinting and then THEY BEAT A WOMAN TO DEATH WITH A PAIR OF PLIERS!


It comes out of nowhere. You’re sitting there. Getting good and titillated by the lovely sixties lingerie and then wham! There’s a basement and a girl getting beaten with a table full of objects that look like they were just grabbed from any workman’s bench, that is EXCEPT FOR THE WELDING TORCH. AHH! Pure Schadenfreude glory! Now relax, there’s only a little blood on the extremities, but that’s as gory as it gets. . . . except for the death, of course.


And from there it all goes uphill. There’s a teen being drugged and used in a variety of ways, there’s a Satanic ritual, there’s a orgy, there’s clip on ties. Then, it gets real ugly.


Yes, in answer to your first question after seeing this movie, it did take only five days to shoot it. And yes, it only cost seven thousand dollars. Even in 1967, that’s cheap. But a whole lotta bad can be done in five days, especially with an experienced crew like this one.


Most of the nasty stuff is narrated by a ‘witness’ with no attempt at dialogue. The narration is choppy, with lots of Mamet-ing pauses in it. The Schadenfruede Veracity Detector had trouble telling if the script was Improvised or not, but there is a 75% likely-ness of some serious ‘faking it’. All the rest of the movie consists of court scenes held in some schmucks’ office. They are more boring than your Uncle Billy telling stories of pouring molasses down at the Molasses factory during a blizzard. All the writing is pretty bad. There isn’t a single line which isn’t clumsy, over-worded, cliché or completely extraneous to anything that’s happening. Which of course, calls for congratulations. Now, that takes real Schadenfruede talent!!



Some fun stuff particular to this flick are:
The outlandish writing.
The completely inappropriate movie scoring
The TORTURE



Classsic bad movie elements contained in this Flick
Bad or non-existent acting
All sexual behavior is rationalized by drugs
Lots of sitting around in generic offices


THE DRINKING GAME FOR “Girl in Trouble”


TAKE A DRINK WHEN:
Lesbian flirting
Every time a breast appears ( look closely!)
Every time Monica hits a girl
You see the worst black hat in the world ( it happens early, you’ll know)

CHUG A WHOLE BEER WHEN:
You see the PLIERS!
A young blonde eat some candy
Boxer shorts!!!!


IF ONE HAS TO WRITE A COLLEGE ESSAY FOR FILM CLASS


Cool it Baby splits the world into two realms, that of the Judged and that of those who sit in Judgment. Marzano crafts a lurid and frigid tale, placing the stifling coldness of the legal questioning scenes with the actual scenes of sexual degradation into juxtaposition. They blend into a euphony of discordant angst that atrophies all the characters’ philosophies into gamy rationalizations. We are left to ask, why does the soap leave not marks? Because none of us are truly clean.



SCHADEN FREUDEN SCORE
Elements: 8 (out of 10 )
Titillation: 3 (out of 5)
Wrongness: 4 (out of 5)
Style & Funness: 3 (out of five)
Extra points: 2 (out of five)
TOTAL: 20 (out of 30 )

SUPPORT THE HAPPINESS! SUPPORT THE SUFFERING!

An open letter from a Libertine to Facebook Friends

Having to tell our Facebook Friends we were breaking up was the hardest thing I ever had to do.

We had just talked it all out, exhausted and tear stained, our faces warmed from the freshly cut heart in between us, and as she sat with her computer between her knees, I asked her,
“So, do you want to . . .change your Facebook Status first . . ?”

There aren’t enough words that describe emotional states to describe how many looks passed across my face. I had no clue about the propriety of the event. As she was younger than I, I had discovered that many rules of propriety have changed, and not to the looser. She had taught me by example that Emails were NOT casual conversation, and that the Social rooms needed to be taken seriously, if one was to be taken seriously.

After ten seconds of twisting in the wind, bending my face like a Mandarin to clue her in on my willingness to discover what the right thing to do was, she said sure. And in a brief polite Socratic scene I learned that Facebook Status change was a big deal and that she appreciated the gesture of being allowed to change it first.


That odd moment led me to my own laptop. When I entered Facebook, I noticed that my Relationship status had automatically changed when she had changed hers.


Only one of us needed to change it, to make us both separate.


Then, as I looked at the Facebook page, I realized that even though I had less friends that most, I had, that is had, to say something about the change. It would be rude not to. I don’t talk to my family anymore. None of them. And yet I was socially compelled to politely acknowledge this change in my life to a sea of avatars.


And despite the truly historical significance of the realization, despite the wonder of the connection I felt to the universe, despite the sea-change it represented in my own head; the loss of love trumped it all into mere trivia.


And now will come the days, the weeks, the months of wanting something you have destroyed. And hating yourself for still being the fool who wishes. . .
I had been a greater fool before, so I have perspective on this issue.

And calling myself a fool is being kind.


I betrayed all that shouldn’t be betrayed.


Betrayal is a virus, a sleeping plague that curls up in every cell, first breeding rationalizations and then doubt. Untreated, you die a filthy bag of empty faith and broken promises, fouling up the universe with the trail of disappointment that extends behind you like a Bridal Train of Suffering.


I don’t know the prognosis with treatment.


For I am self medicating, self diagnosing and now I prescribing that I expose most my private mind to you, the Avatars of my planet, whose biological ‘self’ that generates your beautiful thoughts, I will never meet. Relax, it won’t get National Enquirer.


In weeks, perhaps Sophie will fade into the background of my mental desktop, and Facebook folk will step up, as you have in the past with brave camaraderie and good hopes.


For now, I still metronome between running from and running to, grasping at distractions.


And for some reason, I need you to know this.

Thank you for being there, I can only respond by being honest. Which scares me a little.


I know you will have pain, worse than mine, and I hope I can be there for you in my own personal drop of Avatar.

Scahdenfreuden Review A Taste of Honey. . .

A Taste of Honey, a Swallow of Brine

Producer: David F. Friedman
Director: Byron Mabe, ( aka B. Ron Elliot )


Do you remember Plato’s Allegory about the cave? He was describing his version of how reality worked. Basically, all things in the world are the indirect expression (like a shadow) of the most perfect possible form of that thing. The cell phone you are holding is a temporary and flawed version of the most perfect cell phone ever, which exists only in the Most Perfect Ever Realm, which does not exist in physical form.


When it comes to the tease, our girl Sharon, the lead character in A Smell of Honey. A Swallow of Brine is the Most Perfect Ever Tease, from which all other teases exist but as temporary and shadowy substitutes. Plato would be pleased.


The Schadenfreuden Scale would like to applaud the makers of this movie as a textbook example of what we like to call, JUST PLAIN WRONG! Though set up as a morality tale about how leading a man on is socially undesirable and can lead to bad things, the extreme character of Sharon, plunges this tale into a sensational lurid myth that does nothing but exploit a pervasive problem in society; male on female violence. And if someone is being exploited, we approve heartily! These are exploitation movies, for Christ’s sake! Whattya want for nothing? A rubber biscuit?


This is not a Schadenfreuden movie for everyone. Though only four boobs are presented, they are presented often. And the lustier quality of certain scenes are indeed the early seeds of legal pornographic movies. We recommend this as a couple’s flick. Try making out when Sharon and her teasee’s do! These scenes eat a lot of film, and you can tease each other in the privacy of your own movie house! Frustration is fun!


But there is much to offer outside the nudies, of which Miss Stacy Walker is a knockout as Sharon in the best of 60’s fashion, style and pizzazz. Though one mention must go to the most unattractive shot of a breast we have ever seen. More shocking in that all the other shots of Miss Walker do her, and God, much credit. You’ll know it when you see it. To finish out the subject, there is a healthy amount of lingerie, no vaginas, no penis’, lots of boobs and lady butt and one brief man butt. The retro clothing styles were limited and the Schadenfreuden ladies wished for more shoes.


There a total of five teasee’s in our tale, and Sharon tears ‘em apart with the passion and stress of a bra on a Russ Meyer movie set. The acting is well, bad. Pretty bad. And that goes for every actor on the set. But I have a strong belief that the actors would not mind so much hearing that. For indeed, acting is not the point of this film! Miss Walker does her job just fine, and the men don’t really need to act much with her dancing naked at them. Besides, there is montage aplenty! We have a ‘rape trial montage’ with the credits! We have ‘new guy in life Montage’! We have three, COUNT THEM, THREE!, separate ‘frustrated sex fever dream montages’ connected directly with a ‘frustrated sex daydream montage’ at the workplace! Amazingly bad and totally exploitive! All Schadenfreuden glory to senor Freidman!


Some fun bits to watch for are the fabulous observations Sharon makes about her being raped (she wasn’t), the Ringo poster on the wall at Tony’s concert, what Sharon can do with a Coke bottle during that same concert, and through-out the sweaty teased and the haughty Sharon will either piss you off or delight you with her evil ways!


There is a little torture in the dream sequence, and the ending is not for the squeamish. And it is not what it presents, it is how the scene is shot, and what parts of the violent act are shown. You be the judge. And we hope you are saddened by the judgment. For we are The Schadenfreuden Conclave, and your sadness delights us.


Some fun stuff particular to this flick are:
Miss Walker’s use of the word ‘bitch’
Tony’s ironic song, listen close to the words. Yikes!
What happens to the forth teasee, beware!

Classsic bad movie elements contained in this Flick
Bad acting. Oh, so bad.
Excessive montages
Undressing scenes taking an inordinately long time.
A BDSM movie disguised as a morality tale. (Yes, they are common)


THE DRINKING GAME FOR “A Taste of Honey, a swallow of Brine”

DRINK WHEN:
The word ‘bitch’ or ‘butch’ is uttered.
When Sharon’s hair sticks up like an alien from Babylon 5
Granny Panties!
When Sharon is behind her typewriter

CHUG A WHOLE BEER WHEN:
Sharon says finally No! to each of her suitors.
Tony sings!
Boobs in a mirror!

IF ONE HAS TO WRITE A COLLEGE ESSAY FOR FILM CLASS

The real adventure in gender-role politics is to juxtapose Jodi Foster’s The Accused to A Taste of Honey, A Swallow of Brine. The collage of emotions that the two lead characters present, encapture a separate ethos of sexuality, or indeed separate pathology as brought on by the confusion of the Stripper/Nun Syndrome of Modern Suburban morality. Sexual Repression, inter-social violence, class consciousness and the nature of the supposed sex drive are all indicted in the utterance of Sharon in Taste of Honey: “I’ve been raped once this season, I’ll try not to let it happen again.”


SCHADEN FREUDEN SCORE
Elements: 6 (out of 10 )
Titillation: 4 ( out of 5)
Wrongness: 4 (out of 5)
Style & Funness: 2 (out of five)
Extra points: 3 (out of five)
TOTAL: 19 ( out of 30 )

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Every little bit helps us hurt you!

Fiend of Dope Island
1961

The judges at the Schadenfruede Conclave had a difficult time judging whether “Fiend of Dope Island” was truly worthy to be a Schadenfreude film. And therein A Schadenfreuden Conclave Axiom # 772 is activated. #772 says that if any movie makes us worry, it is automatically Schadenfreuden for making us suffer. But don’t worry, we never bend the rules just for the rules sake, this movie also sucks rocks! Well, it actually sucks sand, and that sand’s gonna get everywhere!


Fiend of Dope Island is about this fiendish guy who lives on an Island that grows dope; now that’s the marijuana kind of dope, not Heroine dope or the dwarf known as Dopey( all three occur in Exploitation movies in the period). The guy who grows the weed is very fiendish. Oboy is he fiendish! His main weapon of Fiendiosity is a huge Bull whip, which he uses often and loudly. He terrorizes the island of stereotypes, who all cower before his white godliness. Then apparently a mail order beautiful floozie arrives. She seduces the island of stereotypes into worshipping her because she’s so white. . I mean pretty. It’s a bit gross how the film has the natives suck up to the floozie. We can’t condemn this film for simply carrying the beliefs of it’s time in it’s pocket, but good lord, someone should get yelled at!


Or maybe not. When considered in context, Fiend is not as bad, as in poorly made, as most of the movies on our list. The picture was made as a vehicle for Tania Velia, the Yugoslav Bombshell (the credits tells us), and she does her job pretty well, providing some quick shadowy boob flashes as well as dancing. And walking around in a swimsuit. And standing around in a swimsuit. And laying down in a swim suit. There’s also some pretty good violence, and the overall quality of the camera work, sound and even the script is above the usual Schadenfreuden standards. What makes this High quality crap is the simple fact that the movie keeps going on after the explosion.


We don’t like to reveal plot if we don’t have to. For most of these movies it’s just adding insult to injury, literally. But about 2/3 of the way through this film, there’s a huge explosion accompanied by jungle drums, which is the universal symbol for “this movie is almost over, for we have spent our budget on the huge conflagration you have just seen. Enjoy the flames!” And then. . .and then. . . the movie just keeps going. You can’t continue a movie after the big explosion! You can’t! When God made the first movie, he said “Let there be a big explosion, a little kissing, and then the credits.” It’s just wrong. Dead wrong.
After the explosions, the plot stalls as the characters all start to make ridiculous decisions seemingly just to continue the suffering, to prolong the agony of us sitting there. It was not until fifteen minutes after the explosion, did this film become a Schadenfruede movie. Even a repeated quick shot of Miss Tania’s ‘talents’ do not salve the frustration of the long slow death-rattle-ending of this movie. Shark enthusiasts will enjoy the last few scenes, though it is a long slog to that blessed place.


A special treat is the inclusion of Robert Bray, who played the Ranger in the classic TV series, “Lassie”. He is a manly hunk of flesh in this tropical picture, and I sure he enjoyed being able to do a little more than pet a pooch. And the bombshell Tania seemed appreciative of his handling skills! Go, dog! Go! Forgive the puns, Mr. Bray, ya did good!


Some fun stuff particular to this flick are:
That fast talking Fiend. He’s got good crazy!
Shark stock footage
Tania and her lai!


Classsic bad movie elements contained in this Flick
Stereotyped natives
Stock footage of parrots
Little mention of title element, “dope”


THE DRINKING GAME FOR “Girl in Trouble”


DRINK WHEN:
Every crack of the whip.
When you see the back of the doctor.
Whenever Tania does something nice for or to the natives

CHUG A WHOLE BEER WHEN:
Tania starts a dance
You see ‘dope”


IF ONE HAS TO WRITE A COLLEGE ESSAY FOR FILM CLASS

The fiend of Dope Island is an almost paradoxical satire of Stalinist politics as interpreted though Che Guevara’s writings of Political reality in South America. The fiend, Stalin, Lashes out continuously at the island inhabitants, demanding they do whatever he says. But the local politics will not bend to the will of the Fiend, for distance and nature herself, played by Tania Velia, will always rise against the tyrant. It is the Leninist dialectic itself which predicts the downfall of Stalinist era realpolitik.



SCHADEN FREUDEN SCORE
Elements: 5 (out of 10)
Titillation: 2 (out of 5)
Wrongness: 3 (out of 5)
Style & Funness: 3 (out of five)
Extra points: 2 (out of five)
TOTAL: 15 (out of 30 )

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Schadenfreude Review-My Baby is Black

My Baby is Black
1965



My Baby is Black was released in 1965. It was publicized by the Exploitation Movie Distributers of the time as a shocking expose of the race problem in America. Which seems like an odd thing, as the movie is French. Let us be clear, it is not just shot in France, but it is written with French characters, situations, places and themes which never occur in the United States, thereby invalidating any possible accurate reflection of the race problem in America.


However in 1965 America, mixed race couples were rare, considered to be scandalous and even morally wrong by some. Isn’t that weird? The Egghead rationalizers of suffering have a technical term for mixed race mating: miscegenation, and it scared the hell out of a lot of people. But by 1969 the sight of white girl hippies kissing black male hippies would become almost required for any exploitation film released in the US. It’s still a social issue today, but exploitation films inadvertently helped to ease these racial tensions. Exploitation needs to frighten people a little in order to succeed, and by showing how miscegenation was not equal to aliens, mutants, junkies or even VD, a lot of wind got let out of the sails of hate.


But the Schadenfreude news is, even if My Baby is Black ain’t Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, it’s still French. Extremely French. And with the gentle aging of forty plus years, the racial themes have mellowed - with the assistance of ridiculous French film styling. So the sour social grapes of 1965 have become heady and hilarious Vintage of 2011.


The movie’s opening is Option Number 7 from the Official list of “Predictable Opening Scenes that the Director Doesn’t Think is Predictable”. The lead actress is wheeled from an ambulance into a hospital room; it’s the old ‘Show the last scene first” trick! Right away, we know we’re in for an extra special treat when the background music kicks in. It sounds just like the singers from the original Star Trek theme song escaped from Rigel 7, dropped some acid, got a tympani drum and pressed ‘record’on a beat up cassette machine. We receive the second sign of Bad Movie Apocalypse in the form of the head doctor, who is smoking a cigarette while being dressed for surgery. And he keeps on smoking the cigarette during the procedure! The music builds, and AHHHHHHH! It’s a black baby! What? That’s the horror? It’s not even reversely offensive, it’s just silly! And this was tested amongst the multiple races of the Conclave as being genuinely ridiculously funny.


Over and over again we found ourselves saying ‘Wow! This movie is extremely French’; from the pointless stock footage of French slums to close ups on bleached skulls inexplicably strewn about the room. The camera seems to be everywhere except on the people talking. It’s more Cocteau than thou! And when it is not French, it is preachy. And when it is not that. . . well, it’s just those two things. There are montages aplenty about the love of our lead characters, and they such French-y things about their love such as, “In the great feast of love, everything has the color of love.” And a bad translation helps a bad script come off like a First Year French Grammer Book written by Jean-Paul Satre.


A funny aspect of the movie is the character of Daniel, who is perfect, smart, handsome and brave. He has no bad characteristics. All the Anglos in the movie are flawed, often they openly admit their flaws. But Daniel has none it seems. At the Schadenfreude Conclave, we do not judge a movie by what it claims to be, we judge it by what it is. When we strip a film of it’s pretense in this manner, we create a window into the mental viscera of existence: our suffering ethnic antagonist, Daniel, is a perfect person, and many movies who fought for racial justice put forth ethnic characters who had nothing but positive qualities, which made them perfect and therefore stereotypes! The Circle of BullShit, we call it here at the Conclave. Imagine being stuck between the role models of Sydney Poitier and Buckwheat. One is a lie, the other an impossible goal.


Some caution, the N word is uttered several times near the end of the movie. But most of the racial tension has been let out of this tire a long time ago. There is also one side boob shot. But that’s it. We recommend this one with cultural study groups. Or your grandparents. Watch ‘em sweat and relive the days when this stuff mattered.


Some fun stuff particular to this flick are:

The French students, oh so lame.
The theme music. Oh so unique
The shots of the feet. Oh, so sole-y.

Classsic bad movie elements contained in this Flick
The dubbing and bad translation
Montage, montage, montage
French everything or anything

THE DRINKING GAME FOR “My Baby is Black”

TAKE A DRINK WHEN:
You see the skull!
They compare their love to anything.

CHUG A WHOLE BEER WHEN:
You see Daniel’s feet!
The N word is uttered

IF ONE HAS TO WRITE A COLLEGE ESSAY FOR FILM CLASS

When considered the cultural landscape of deGaulle’s France, the Communist Front cannot be understood without first analyzing, “My Baby is Black.” The Socialist themes contained in the overt plot are obvious, but the revisionist economic pleading for a laissez- faire trading platform in Europe are subtly stitched into the subtext and the art laden picture poems of Paris in turmoil. We are all oppressed, as long as the salt tariff is over three percent.


SCHADEN FREUDEN SCORE
Elements: 8(out of 10)
Titillation: 1(out of 5)
Wrongness: 3(out of 5)
Style & Funness: 4(out of five)
Extra points: 3(out of five)

TOTAL: 19( out of 30 )

SUPPORT YOUR SUFFERING! SUPPORT YOUR HAPPINESS!
CLICK BELOW TO KEEP THE CONCLAVE ROLLING!

Schadenfreuden Review:Cottonpickin' Chickenpickers

SCHADENFRUEDE REVIEW



“Cottonpickin' Chicken Pickers”


Debuting two years before the Country Comedy TV Classic “HEE-HAW”, the cinematic brow-creaser, “Cotton Picking Chicken Pickers”, pioneered the use of country music themes, characters and music for comedic purposes. Except for, of course, the comedy.


Cotton Picking Chicken Pickers features eight country songs which don’t empirically reach our standards of badness. They are competently sung, fulfill the Nashville hit song formula of the time, and are backed up by adequate arrangements. Unfortunately, they are surrounded by cinematic Mustard Gas. Any relief the songs may have provided the original viewers of this movie would have been eclipsed by the overall stench of every other frame of this Farm born comedy which should have been used as fertilizer in that same farm.


Now, gather around the pickle barrel and take a big briny bite of the plot of this movie. CPCP,is about one guy in red pants and another guy in a red jacket who want to be famous so they ho-bo a train and accidentally wind up in Florida. Then comedy ensues. Unfortunately, comedy’s en-sue-ing is tossed out of court and Reality Conter-en-sues with the unholy power of Three Johnny Cochrane’s. To get you warmed up, the first song is sung by a scary gent who looks just like Shoney’s Big Boy on a train car behind a bale of hay next to a horse. He just pops up and starts singing, the weird part is that instead of stabbing him in the face and stealing the horse, the two Red Clad men just sit and listen.


The sound quality is a problem with any cut of the film, or rather a blessing, as The Schadenfreude Conclave has concluded there is not a single joke that works. And yes, a handicap was allowed for the age of the film and the South’s loss of the Civil War. Even with these bonus points, the humor sucks to the very core of the Earth, spewing forth the magma of horribleness upon every eye that witnesses this crime of the Thalian art! Prat falls fail, jokes aren’t, clever word play isn’t and the performers flounder in a sea of bad ideas poorly executed. The Schadenfruede Conclave is still reeling from the heady fumes of failure!


In addition, the stereotypes are truly superbly offensive. We get to see the classic Hillbilly, along with a swamp Indian, a drunken doctor, and four dumb girls and their swimsuits. The girls in their little camp will delight you with the instant decision to make some men their boyfriends simply because they showed up at their campsite. To relate the entire catalogue of instances of idiocy will eat too many bytes in our hard drive. Time has mellowed this stinker into a perfect Schadenfruede vintage, superb to witness and bad for the whole family!


Some fun stuff particular to this flick are:
The explosions at the end of the film
That damn red jacket with the hood
Mel Tellis not stuttering
The Charles Nelson Reilly Impersonator
Featuring the Cadillac-Boat!

Classsic bad movie elements contained in this Flick
Bad car chase, slow and pointless
Bad writing
Pointless large breasted girl in a bathing suit
The explosions at the end of the film

THE DRINKING GAME FOR “CottonPickin’ Chicken Pickers”

DRINK WHEN:
Whenever a song begins
Whenever a song ends
You see the hillbilly
The blockade gets smashed!

CHUG A WHOLE BEER WHEN:
The Cadillac-Boat floats on the river
The boys get caught chickin pickin’!

IF ONE HAS TO WRITE A COLLEGE ESSAY FOR FILM CLASS

As the paradigms used in Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot” have evaporated in the cultural milieu we obliquely call the Modern Media, we must move on to ‘CottonPickin’ Chicken Pickers” to provide us with a new symbolic tale of mankind lost in it’s own environment, or even in it’s own mind. The rural motif is exploded here as a false icon, a deliberate mask over the realpolitik of consumerism. This is centered in the line, “ I don’t care what else they are, ‘cuz they are Cotton Pickin Chickepickers!” As we all are, if we dare to steal a moment of time from the forces that would remove the benefits of consciousness from our cultural landscape.


SCHADEN FREUDEN SCORE
Elements: 10 (out of 10 )
Titillation: 1 (out of 5)
Wrongness: 3 (out of 5)
Style & Funness: 5 (out of five)
Extra points: 5 (out of five)
TOTAL: 24 ( out of 30 )

Schadenfreude review: Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.

Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band
1978
Directed by Michael Schulz


I have seen deliberate rudeness. I have seen calculated acts of destruction. I have witnessed evil. I have been present at catastrophic events wrapped in the macabre and disturbing. I have shown and been shown images and pictures that have made the brave weep and the numb wince, and I have personal knowledge of certain actions that involve the deepest, most degrading aspects of human nature that have blighted entire regions of the mass consciousness.

But now, I have seen Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

This movie is the founding film of the Schadenfreude Order of The Scarred Collective Unconscious. To be rewarded the Schadenfreude OSCU, you must view a film judged to be a member of the Order. And that is the entire move, from first image to the last credit. No fast-forwarding, no bathroom visits, no cheating! Short trips to the fridge are allowed, but any absence longer than 27 seconds will invalidate the SOSCU, and mention of this failure will be added to your permanent record.

Generally, we try not to publish too many details of the movie we review. Previous knowledge of plot and the like dulls the pain, and invalidates the suffering necessary for the S.O.S.C.U. to retain the worth in its achieving. But there is no revelation that will prepare the mind for the utter devastation that is Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. If you have ever wondered how we at the At Schadefreuden Conclave set our standards, this movie is the yardstick with which we punish your inner child.

A high-scoring Schadenfreude Film ( such as My Body Hungers, 25 out of 30 ) delivers all the fun a really bad movie can in a milieu that is strange and foreign. Its that good natured romp through the imagination and depravity that makes one laugh and wonder ‘what were they thinking?’ Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, is not this. It is not fun. It is not easy. Viewing it is work. Hard work. And the sheer horror of each scene is only eclipsed by the sheer horror of the next scene. There is little time for fun or any pleasant mental activity during this film, as one’s mind is completely filled with the enormity of the mistake this film is, was, and always will be.

At least half of horror is the cast. Huge top flight talent such as George Burns, Alice Cooper, Peter Frampton, The Bee Gees, Billy Preston, George Martin ( the Beatles’ own record producer), Donald Pleasance and even Steve Martin all are in this movie, and all actively suck! Only Aerosmith and Earth, Wind and Fire escape the huge Suck brush as it smears its rainbow hue of filth across the faces of Hollywood. Adding insult to sucking chest wound, the movie ends with the scene of a large crowd of the finest talent the Seventies’ had to offer re-creating the Beatles’ Sgt Pepper’s album cover. This mass of Inhumanity includes Tina Turner, the band Heart, Sha-Na-Na, several Carridines, Carol Channing, Johnny Winter, Helen Reddy, Gwen Verdon, Hank Williams jr., Al Stewart, Leif Garrett, Rick Derringer, Del Shannon, Donovan, Johnny Rivers, Jose Feliciano, Seals and Croft, Connie Stevens, Wolfman Jack, Dr. John, Wilson Pickett, Robert Palmer, Bonnie Raitt, Anita Pointer (of the Pointer Sisters ), Curtis Mayfield and mucho mucho mas! And then this group is given choreography. And, of course, the choreography fails, and sucks. There is the look of unwilling contractual obligation on many of the stars’ faces, and the camera has to hunt for close-ups that aren’t faces of overly made-up, strained, confused, drug addled Seventies icons that are having trouble with their left and the right. The camera’s hunt fails. This final moment of the movie is as jaw dropping as the first.

The first moment is that of WWI being ended by a four piece band. Just let that soak in for a second. Poison gas and the Kaiser all just give up because of a guy with a tuba. We are then shown a long montage, scored by the theme song being played in the style of historical periods that have never existed. This movie is so bad, it had to recreate reality to contain it’s evil. Then, with the two exceptions above, covers of The Beatles’s are performed horribly. They are linked with a plot that does not make sense even when hallucinating on acid (we checked). And there is no dialogue. Yeah. That’s right. No dialogue. George Burns narrates the whole thing, and then the lyrics of the songs tell us everything else we need to know, except for ‘there is a limit to how much cocaine you should do in one decade’.

The broad variety of stars ensures a special kind of pain, because someone you love or like is in this film; for if you don’t like George Burns, you probably like Steve Martin, or if you don’t like Aerosmith you probably like The Bee Gees. At least one stars’ untouchable illusion will be shattered for you, guaranteed! For us at the board, the Steve Martin dance number was particularly shattering, and yes, it was worse than The Pink Panther. The Pink Panther is frigging Citizen Kane compared to Sgt. Pepper. No that’s not extreme enough. Oh let’s face it, there is no Metaphor extreme enough to describe Sgt. Pepper.

Still doubt that the enormous suckatudalinous of this Sucking suck-munch of a Suckily made Suck-burger sucks? Get this, it was the second attempt by the Bee Gees to make a cover movie of the Beatles music. Yeah, that’s right! They had practice and they still made a movie so bad it burned it’s own picture out of the dictionary under ‘bad’, like in ‘Raider’s of the Lost Ark’! The art documentary, “All This and WW II” featured Beatles’ covers by most of the music artists in the final shot of Sgt. Peppers set to documentary footage of WW II and WW II personalities. Picture yourself watching Hitler at Berchtesgaden while Helen Reddy croons ‘Fool on The Hill'. That’s the whole movie, stock footage and Beatles’ covers. Then they go and make Sgt Peppers! What the. . .how could they. . . .couldn't they see the. . . .ahem. Sorry. Better now.

When bracketed by the Bee Gee’s “All This and WW II” and Julie Tamor’s ‘Across the Universe’, Sgt Pepper’s gets even worse. We now know it was possible to make a Beatle’s cover movie that does not violently suck the tailpipe of the Universe’s Pinto Hatchback. We also now know the same group tried it twice, and failed. Armed with this knowledge, the viewing of Sgt. Pepper’s becomes the type of psychological experience that could piss off Pollyanna, take Buddha out of nirvana and make Paris Hilton a decent person. We do not recommend this movie. We hope you see it soon.


Some fun stuff particular to this flick are:

Fun? Fun? THERE IS NO FUN!

Classsic bad movie elements contained in this Flick

How about too much budget, to much cocaine, too little control. Classic Hollywood!

THE DRINKING GAME FOR “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts' Club Band”

Just keep drinking, man. Just keep drinking. If you don't drink, start.

IF ONE HAS TO WRITE A COLLEGE ESSAY FOR FILM CLASS

This film has done enough damage.

SCHADEN FREUDE SCORE
Elements: (X out of ten )
Titillation: (X out of five)
Wrongness: (X of five)
Style & Funness : (X out of five)
Extra points: (X out of five)
TOTAL: ( UNSCORABLE out of 30 )

Schadenfreuden Movie Review!

THE HOOKED GENERATION
1968
Directed by William Grefe


It’s important to bring up Beyond The Valley of The Dolls at the very beginning of this review. Firstly, it will get us more hits on web searches. Secondly, students of film must realize that no great work of art pops out of the cultural womb without parents; there are no virgin births in art.


On Pop Culture’s road to Beyond, The Hooked Generation was a bus stop floozie who tossed a little chromosomal freakiness into the milieu. Hooked is an example of Exploitation film called ‘Young naked Hippies running amok taking drugs and upsetting older people’, and they were a popular form of Exploitation film in the late Sixties and the early Seventies. The Stereotypical hippie icon was used to replace monsters like Godzilla, Dracula and the Blob, who had become drained of their power to terrify with every passing day of the Atomic Age. Vampires were
nothing compared to the living horror of the pot smoker just around the corner!


We start off slow, and for the first twenty minutes we are deceived into thinking this is a crime movie, with shoot outs, explosions, foreign drug dealers and even junkies shooting up during inappropriate times. The acting is passable and the special effects are of a decent quality. In short, who cares? It seems like just another Miami Vice Mutation. The Schadenfreuden Movie Conclave almost voted to walk away and dustbin the film, but our dedication to suffering held us firm, and held us true. And lo, we were rewarded with some incredibly bad cinema!


Our central characters are Daisey, Dum Dum and Acid. Acid is a heroine addict, Dum Dum is a violent psychopath, and Daisey is a guy with a girls’ name who leads them all! What more could you want? How about a bunch of Cubans, Coast Guard Sailors local and federal Cops? But wait! Our three villains shoot ‘em all! There are more dead authority figures in this movie than in Ice-T’s wet dreams. And just to make sure all the visual vice bases are covered, we have a young lady and her boyfriend who stumble upon the drug runners, and get caught up in their shenanigans. And yes, the young lady is clad only in a bikini.


The young couple are taken hostage and predictable things happen, though some ridiculously method acting choices keep us interested during the rather tame rape scene. A good example of this is Dum Dum biting off wax from a candle in response to a sexy Go-Go dance our young lady hostage is forced to perform, to her extreme shame as evinced by thick Glycerine tears!


The real treats of Hooked are the scene which take place at the private office of a psychedelic club owner and a large mansion full of hippies, both of which our intrepid triumvirate attempt to sell their drugs. The office stands for itself, it’s great! And the scene where owner stares at the pink phone, debating whether or not to turn the guys in, is truly inspired. Then, we have the scenes wherein Acid visits a Hippie mansion that should be cut into it’s own short film. It has junkies, stoners, flower children, gurus preaching, flute playing and backgammon. Yes! The counter culture terror of backgammon as you’ve never seen before! Acid dies a beautiful death in the mansion, redeeming the insulting normalcy of the first twenty minutes of this movie.


There’s all kind of death and stupidity to close out the film. The hostages do dumb stuff, the crooks do dumb stuff and despite the evilness of the three baddies, the ineptitude of the police almost makes you root for the criminals; those schmuck cops don’t deserve to catch ‘em! There are some odd law enforcement choices that just won’t fly with the Law And Order TV show generation, let us leave it at that. You’ll love the indignation you’ll feel.


The last half hour will feel like a Russ Meyer movie in it’s pace, sentimentality and violence. Which is why we brought it up in the first place. Though there is much to dislike, The Schadenfreuden Conclave would like to send a special Commendation of EatMe to the foley artist who chose the sound effect for the swamp scenes of this movie. Shame on you, and well done.


This movie won’t make you want to do drugs, but it also won’t make you want to quit them. It’s a great example of why actors should be given hugs, not the Method. Strap on your hose America and take a shot of The Hooked Generation!

Some fun stuff particular to this flick are:

The hippie Mansion
Coke snorting scene in office
Hippie lingo galore

Classsic bad movie elements contained in this Flick
Plot holes bigger than Shakespeare’s foot
Cops that can’t shoot
Method inspired over acting

THE DRINKING GAME FOR “The Hooked Generation”

DRINK WHEN:
You see a hookah.
You see any land line telephone
Whenever a joint is passed.
Any one says, “Beautiful.”

CHUG A WHOLE BEER WHEN:
When Glycerin tears flow
When Acid shoots up
When Dum Dum files his bulles
As the club owner looks at the pink phone, you have to drink during the entire scene until he picks up the receiver

IF ONE HAS TO WRITE A COLLEGE ESSAY FOR FILM CLASS
As Ken Kesey explores the subconscious of his generation, Grefe’s The Hooked Generation condemns this exploration with a dystopian yet doctrinal view of the Masochistic Chauvinism of the male psyche. The three leading men split all manhood into the Mythic truth of Creative Theology within the matrix of burgeoning economic upheaval as edified by the rise of the feminine mystique within the Cultural mainstream.

SCHADEN FREUDEN SCORE
Elements: 7 ( out of 10 )
Titillation: 2 ( out of 5)
Wrongness: 3( out of 5)
Style & Funness: 3 ( out of five)
Extra points: 4 ( out of five)
TOTAL: 19 ( out of 30 )

A GOOD REVIEW OF A BAD MOVIE: BY THE SCHADENFREUDEN CONCLAVE

Alley Tramp
Director: H. G. Lewis
1966
Released in the US 1968



Herschell Gordon Lewis, the director of Alley Tramp, has committed many aesthetic crimes in the landscape of the social milieu we call the media, and we in the Schadenfreude Conclave have applauded this brave warriors’ success in disfiguring the collective unconscious. But Alley Tramp does not scar anything except one’s perceptions of acceptable furnishings in the living room of a late sixties’ home. And though H.G. Lewis always pours a heapin’ ladleful of WRONG! in his films, the WRONG!ness is usually muted by the age of the film, by insanity as a plot device, or by NOT using Patty Duke look-alike’s to stoke pedophile’s fantasies. In Alley Tramp, we get an hour and a half of undiluted WRONGNESS.

Our Heroine is 16 and ready to experience the world of love and passion around her, in other words she wants to get laid. Now in a modern movie, she would be told that her feelings are normal but not to express them until she is ready, and then in very special moment/episode she gets the boy. In a sixties mainstream movie, the feelings would not ever be mentioned because woman don’t really get horny. In a HG Lewis movie, the girl’s carousing mother denies the girls’ reality completely and then makes out with Dad during dinner and then in the bedroom where our young lady watches them go at it which inspires her to seduce her cousin. So yes, The sky is a different color to HG Lewis.

The Schadenfruede Conclave understands it is supposed to call underage sex wrong in all circumstances. It understands, but it refuses. To take the morality of these movies seriously is as ridiculous as expecting a major sports star not to cheat on his wife. People between the ages of 14-17 have sex. Sometimes it’s wrong, sometimes it’s not. Just like when people between the ages of 18-130 have sex. What’s wrong in this movie is not the sex, but the deliberate call to youthfulness by the lead. It’s creepy. Way creepy. And the cousin thing is bizarre. We’re sorry to spoil the plot for you, but you needed to know, just in case you invited the Pastor over for Schadenfruede Tea. Don’t worry, there’s a lot more plot to inhale before this stinkburger is over! And a lot more WRONG!

One note on the mundane side. This movie has an extraordinary amount of great Kitsch furniture. The Standing lamps, the dining room chairs, the side lamps shades with the plastic covers; collectors will have a field day with this flick, if they can get past the constant stream of offensive behavior between the brick-a-brack.

Another mundane note for the linguist. This movie uses the word ‘jazz’ as a term for the act of sex. Our records show that this had not been used since the Tijuana Bibles porn comics of the 1920-1940’s. We believe this might be the latest sincere use of the word in this definition. Let us know if we are wrong.

Check out the WRONG score, on our Schadenfruede scale below. This movie should offend you. It is trying to offend you. And as its goal is to offend and not to entertain, it is an Exploitation (or Sexploitation) Film. It also does it very badly, which is what makes it a Schadenfruede Movie. But remember, we at the Schadenfruede do not judge, we only condemn.

On a final note, the credits are all pseudonyms. This is not unusual for these films, but here everybody used fake names, and they are outrageously French fake names. Even ole Herschel Gordon Lewis, the man who read Lolita and thought it would make a good musical, buried his head on this one.



SOME FUN STUFF PARTICULAR TO THIS FLICK ARE:

The Teen tantrum
Mom’s acting. Ouch!
The line, “ Unh-Unh, better than Mother!”


CLASSIC BAD MOVIE ELEMENTS:
Bad acting
Script is uh. . .underdeveloped.
Deliberate pointless stripping scenes
Bad camera work; stiff, slow to pan.

THE DRINKING GAME FOR “The Alley Tramp”

TAKE A DRINK WHEN:

When the Granny panties come out!
You see any lamp.
Constantly during any montage. Just, keep drinking.


CHUG A WHOLE BEER WHEN:
You see the teddy bear
When cousins kiss!!!
Any girl gets slapped.


IF ONE HAS TO WRITE A COLLEGE ESSAY FOR FILM CLASS

Steinem versus Freidan was not the first clash of Proto-Modern Feminism; it was the Mother- Daughter characters in “The Alley Tramp”. Herschel G. Lewis creates a stark black and white story of a young girl lead astray, or led to social relevance, by the excessive sexual imagery she is witness to. The incestuous elements of her passionate attempts to digest and synthesize the psycho-sexual energies released by the conflict of the hegemonic attitude of the Western Philosophies versus the rise of gender liberation becomes the spear point of realpolitik Buddhist political manifestation.

SCHADEN FREUDEN SCORE
Elements: 7(out of 10 )
Titillation: 4, but a creepy 4 ( out of 5)
Wrongness: 5!!!(out of 5)
Style & Funness: 4(out of five)
Extra points: 3 (out of five)
TOTAL: 23 ( out of 30 )

Will and Ariel Durant Tell it Like it Is!

FROM "The Age of Faith" by Will and Ariel Durant.

“A religion is, among other things, a mode of moral government. The historian does not ask if a Theology is true-through what omniscience might he judge? Rather he inquires what social and psychological combined to produce the religion; how well it accomplished the purpose of turning beasts into men, savages into citizens, and empty hearts into hopeful courage and minds at peace; how much freedom it still left to the mental development of mankind; and what was its influence in history.”


11.1.206
“Civilization is a union of soil and soul – the resources of the Earth transformed by the desire and discipline of men.”

11.2.217
“All religions are superstitions to other faiths.”

3.1.44
“Institutions and beliefs are the offspring of human needs , and understanding must be in terms of these necessities.”


I've been reading the Durants for about fifteen years now, and their observations on mankind and it's habits have blown me away. I am still processing some of the things they have shown me. Please let me know if these have any meaning for you, or if they ring false to you and your experience.



Thanks!

Beautiful Old Paper

The Beatles Attack

HI EVERYONE! HERE'S ANOTHER SAMPLE FROM EIGHT ARMS TO HOLD YOU. THIS IS FROM "PAUL IS DEAD". IT IS THE ONLY STORY THAT'S TOTAL LIE. ALL THE OTHERS ARE BASED ON ACTUAL EVENTS, OR ACTUAL NON-EVENTS FORM THE BEATLES LIVES. NOT THIS ONE, IT'S PURE FANTASY. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.





Forty-eight hours later, the four men were crouched down behind several rusty drums of petroleum inside a make shift military camp deep within the Philippine jungle. Night had fallen and the camp was still and quiet. John Lennon was peering through a pair of enhanced vision binoculars, surveying the scene for the fifth time in three minutes.

“Time?” he asked in a whisper.

“Ten minutes til zero.” Said Paul.

‘Right. That’s our cue. Let’s go Ringo.” George hissed, as he and Ringo slid out of the cover, moving as silently as cats in the tropical night.

Minutes ticked by. Paul was silent. John was watchful. Without looking at him, John asked Paul, “So, you ready then?”

“Ready as steady, good to go, good to feel.”

“A bit jaunty, aren’t we?”

“Happy to be back, happy to be working. Worried?”

“A bit.” Said John, being honest.

“Didn’t I check out all right on all the fitness tests?”

“A-number-one you did. But still, some rusty old lab is no substitute for real action.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“That’s the truth. All right. Almost time.” John lowered his head and muttered softly to himself.

“You and your prayers.”, said Paul smiling. “You should have been a Priest.”

After a moment, John answered. “Amen. And you should be less of a heathen with all the dying you do. Now shut the hell up and let’s blow this joint. To the toppermost. . .

“. . . with the poppermost.” Paul finished, pulling a small black box with a red button out of his shirt. “Time for a fiendish thingie.” Paul said and pressed the button. Instantly, the camp and the surrounding jungle resounded with explosions. The night was tossed aside for the daylike intensity of the firey blasts that had erupted from several places all around the camp. Shouts of alarm could be heard, and some small arms fire.

“All right Paul, let’s go give God some business! Lock and load!!”

The two men leapt from their cover, their Thompson sub machine guns spewing fiery death as they went. The enemy soldiers were running and stumbling around, clearly in shock from the sudden and seemingly massive attack. John and Paul picked them off as they went, blasting apart the Philippine guerillas limb by limb, organ by organ. It looked like no one was organizing any kind of defense, which was the hope behind the explosions. Fires were burning and the smoke began to fill the camp, making it hard to see. The Beatles’ suits, however were covered with a special radium coating which allowed them to see each other in any kind of murky situation, thanks to special contact lenses. John looked behind him to see Paul throwing special hand grenades into several tents as he sprinted through the camp. John was busy picking off various targets, as they scrambled about, looking for someone to save them.

“Not today, you bastards. Not bloody today.” He pulled his trigger, and another man went down, spurting blood.

On the other side of the camp, Ringo and George were committing acts of equal barbarity in their own particular style. George was a fan of head shots while Ringo enjoyed the close up knife death. John began to come across soldiers with Ringo’s unmistakable work upon their necks and bellies. John had tossed aside his Thompson and was working with a couple of specially balanced Werther pistols, finishing off a number of writhing wounded and sending off a couple of soldiers who weren’t wounded at all. Soon, John was having trouble finding anything to kill. His radio ear piece buzzed with Ringo’s smooth drawl.

“Stars to Walrus. Quarry apprehended.”

John pressed his tie pin which controlled the miniature walkie-talkie inside his suit. “Copy that. Bring quarry to point Charlie. Rendezvous there. Walrus out.” John ran doubled over until he spotted Paul’s glow. “Hey there! They got him. Let’s burn and run!”

‘Right-o.”, responded Paul cheerfully. From his back pack he fished out four innocent looking canisters and placed them around the camp, setting the timers as he went. John followed, watching Paul’s back in case anybody had been inadvertently left alive. After the last fuse was set, Paul turned to John and said, “That’s it. Let’s make with the Beatlemania, shall we?” The two men turned and ran at top speed from the smoking ruins of the camp. Thirty seconds later, a near wall of flame shot up from behind them, sending a fireball of greasy smoke almost fifty feet into the air.

“A bit much, don’t you think?” asked the still running John.

“Almost.” Answered Paul, who then snapped his fingers, triggering an earth shattering ‘Kaboom’ from the direction of the ex-camp.

“Now, that’s a bit much.” Paul smiled. John did as well. Ringo and George loped into view, pulling along a handcuffed fat person in fatigues with a dirty sack on his head. George tossed the bagged man to the ground at John Lennon’s feet and looked at the flames in the sky.

“A bit much there, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do.”, said Paul.

“As long as we’re all in agreement.”

“That the bastard?”, asked John, nudging the bagged man with his foot.

“Yep. Found him in a tent filled with filthy lucre and whores.”

“Ah, the people’s General, eh? Well back to HQ for tea and whatnot, what?”

“Right!”

“Right!”

“Right!”

Three hours, one hike, two jeep rides and one fast helicopter trip later, the Beatles were in their Asian Headquarters deep under the Budokhan. Though less opulent, the HQ was fully equipped, along with an interrogation room, in which the Beatles’ current guest was ensconced. Ringo was currently in a debriefing session with the Gentleman who had a name, though none of the Beatles gave a crap what it was. The others were typing up their reports of the injection action when Ringo emerged, wiping his hands off of a cloth towel, talking in a silly workman voice.

“Well now, the transmission’s shot, but I think we can save the gear box for a few quid more, Miss.”

“Oh thank you, Mr. Mechanic, sir.” Said George in a falsetto voice.

“Get serious.” Said John. “Anything?”,he asked Ringo.

“Yeah. Got three other locations of guerilla camps, already radioed to MI5 and a large lump of feces that I scared out of the bloke will be delivered to the Marcos’ by a very special air mail.”

“That’ll show the bugger not to mess with the Beatles.”

“It bloody well better have.”

“I’m not having that treatment again like we had at that airport.”

“Too bloody right.”

The anger of the Beatles faded away as the situation alarm flashed red. John ran for the televisorphonicon and flipped on the screen. Slowly fading into view was the large head of Brian Epstein, control executive of the Beatles.

“Good Evening, Lads.”

“ ‘ello Brian.” They all chorused.

“Good show in the jungle. That should keep Mr. and Mrs. Marcos in line for a while.”

“Let’s hope so.” Said John.

"EIGHT ARMS TO HOLD YOU: THE BEATLES AS THEY NEVER WERE"

by John Poole is a collection of eight stories about the Beatles' living lives in Histories than our own. This is a selection from the story "Fear and Loathing in Liverpool". I hope you enjoy it.

FEAR AND LOATHING IN LIVERPOOL

When thinking about George Harrison, it was his spiritual nature that appealed to me the most. But whenever I tried to tell a story about George being a guru, or opening an ashram, it became preachy and boring. So I ‘hired’ Hunter S. Thompson to write the story for me. This is written in the style of the great Gonzo journalist as if he was sent to find George Harrison, who in this Altered Timeline, disappeared in 1970. All Harrison facts quoted by Hunter are from real History, with the exception of the disappearance. All Hunter facts are also from real History, with the exception of the Samba.

Sure I have demons. Great big grown-up demons too. The adult kind that don’t run from the simple cures of holy water or pure thoughts of Mom and Apple pie. Also, I have met other demons on earth and in the Hell’s Angels and lived to profit by the mealy words I squeezed from the experience with a thousand patient editors and chemical freaks one pill less freaked than I.

Yeah, I have known some evil and have been the evil some people have known, and being both these things, I have gained a spine of reinforced concrete and the gumption of a Greek God drunk on Tequila.

And all my solid knowledge and sureness was blown away like atomic bomb stock footage when George fucking Harrison was forced upon my conscious mind.

It was one of those 18 year old hash freak junior editor interns from the Rolling stone that threw the first rock . George Harrison had quit the Beatles soon after that sabbatical to the Mahareeshi’s palatial little ashram, ‘ashram’ being Hindi for ‘tax shelter’. The Beatles tried to Pete Best it along and George cut one solo album to universal acclaim and then disappeared off the face of the Earth. It was a great story in ’69. But by ’74 it was old hat, sad old hat, just another news blurb once a year to remind us how nothing good lasts and the bests lasts the least. See orgasms versus dental visits for reference. Over the years, interest had waned and George had stayed completely out of the public eye. A difficult task, as Salinger and Jesus had discovered. I had banked on that very fact to my great profit and merriment. Hell, I had over-drafted. My last book on the ’72 election had left me drained of all vital processes. Much ammunition was used in the attempt to awaken the need to prove my utility to the vast plebiscite; and to my bank account.

“God damn it son of a bitch!” I screamed, reading the bill accrued from the bullets and booze. “Only one thing will pay the piper this time around!”, I said to the horns on the wall. “A Beatle!” I called Rolling Stone and told them to send the necessary supplies to whatever New York Hotel would take me. I was going to search for George Harrison.

Three days or two weeks later I was speeding on Tijuana Blue Mescaline and two quarts of whiskey. Around me were about 500 photographs of George Harrison, pre-Beatle, Beatle, and post-Beatle. All three forms of Beatle matter. The Hotel staff had finally stopped complaining about the noise, I was almost sure there were no girls in the room and the grapefruit supply was steadily maintained. I was completely prepared to get absolutely nowhere! And that was my intent.

Searching for someone who does not want to be found is an art, an art of careless deliberation. Getting lost had been a serious study of mine, and I had achieved a bit of excellence in this field. Psychology would be useless. This iconic scene of the detective surrounded by evidence, facts, clues, pieces of the puzzle are all the stuff of cheap plots and lazy mythbuilders. In 1975 there were no detectives in slouch hats anymore, no dames in trouble and no shadows to hide in or watch out for. By now, we knew everything. The President had lied, God was dead and Jim Hoffa’s teamster ring will wind up in your hot dog one day. Harrison would agree with me on that point, these images of him told me. And, anybody who quits The Beatles at high tide has bullshit proof glasses and a mind clear of the distractions of Stepmother Madison Avenue. I had to go through the motions, however, I had to see the pieces I was to ignore. And I had to find the first place to go, the beginning of my long red line across the black and white globe of adventure from the silver screen, back when there will still some shadows to be glad of.

Liverpool.

Seemed obvious. Liverpool. How could it not be Liverpool?

Because it isn’t. It couldn’t be. I didn’t want to go there for one thing.

For another, it was too much of The Path, of The Road, of the ‘trail’ that Nancy Drew always found so easily. Harrison wasn’t going to leave a trail. He hadn’t. Some very sober, very sane and very motivated people had failed to find him. But my lack of sobriety was my motivation, and sane people fail all the time. But the insane never fail. It’s either success or more crazy. It’s the best Catch-22 on the shelf, why else go crazy?