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September 24 marks the 90th anniversary of the birth of Jim Henson, in this writer’s opinion one of the greatest creative artists of the 20th century. Even though we have been without his imagination and humanism for nearly four decades, the loss is still keenly felt.
Although we have never enshrined any of his productions here, Henson’s projects make a legitimate bid for full-fledged weirdness. The vaudevillian surrealism of the Muppets borrows as much from Ernie Kovacs as it does from Kukla, Fran, and Ollie, and The Muppet Movie (1979) is an unexpectedly metatextual work, to the point where Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem come riding to the rescue by virtue of having read the script. And this was no accident. Blessed with a blank check from the success of the Muppets, Henson opted to direct the dark fantasies The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth, At the very least, he’s weird-friendly.
There is another Jim Henson, though, one prone to seeing doom around the corner. You get hints of it in his most popular works, like the way “The Muppet Show” is always just one Gonzo-led stunt away from disaster. It’s likely that this was a holdover from his earliest days in show business, when he was finding different kinds of success, but none that brought stability or security. In the years between his first foray into television, “Sam and Friends,” and his eventual arrival on Sesame Street, Henson was a hustler, grabbing work wherever it might be found. The Muppets were regulars on “The Jimmy Dean Show,” frequent guests on Ed Sullivan, and leading lights in TVadvertising. Amidst all this, Henson was a movie director, and two films from this period represent an inflection point, a moment when Henson could have legitimately become a pessimistic avant-garde filmmaker. Fate intervened, arguably for the betterment of all mankind, but it’s interesting to glance at the road not taken.
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DIRECTED BY: James Florian Quinn
FEATURING: Man Without a Face, Kmsura, Dead Flesh, Elektriking
PLOT: The last words of a man on his deathbed are followed by a nihilistic nightmare seemingly representing humanity’s greatest fears.
COMMENTS: Flesh of the Void is a low-budget, experimental horror film that bagged an award for Best Overall Feature and a few nominations—including Best Cinematography and Best Director—at the Nightmares Film Festival in 2017. The fact that its cast is mostly anonymous should raise no eyebrows, considering that the movie includes sexually explicit material and extremely violent scenes.
Shot on both Super 8 and 16mm film, James Florian Quinn employs different techniques that give his work a timeless feel, such as black-and-white photography, film grain effects, intertitles, and a creep– and sleep—inducing soundtrack. In that sense, and in its frequent religious imagery, Quinn’s creation inevitably reminds one of E. Elias Merhige’s (in)famous experimental horror film Begotten(1991), which gives viewers a similar impression of being witness to an old, taboo recording.
Flesh of the Void has no linear plot or conventional narrative, but it does have a sort of theatrical structure, since it is divided into three acts alongside a prologue, an interlude, and an epilogue. It all begins with a surprisingly lyrical and unsettling monologue whispered by a dying man offscreen (“And it all started, to my dismay, soon to set in the state of decay. What just still was will never be again, as I’m still lying in my bed, breathing my last breath”). Then, chaotic images with occasional voiceover ensue, and the viewer is presented with a parade of grainy images depicting increasingly grotesque scenes.
At first, there seems to be a preoccupation with industrial, urban landscapes and the sinister occurrences taking place therein. Afterward, however, violent situations and religious imagery feature more prominently, without any clear links between them and the aforementioned urban landscapes—this overall meaninglessness perhaps being part of the movie’s presumably nihilistic message.
Such haphazard sequences often involve explicit sexual action, and because of these the viewer may get easily sidetracked. At the risk of waxing intellectual, one may regard the combination of sexuality and suffering that the movie presents as the tension between Eros and Thanatos, that is, the two opposing forces that make up human life, with Eros standing for (pro)creation and Thanatos standing for destruction and death. Indeed, whoever decides to watch Flesh of the Void will be assailed by disturbingly brutal situations—including cannibalism and rape—interspersed with numerous masturbatory scenes, often involving the clergy. The latter scenes—which look good on paper as representations of Eros—drag on unnecessarily. They would have greatly benefited from condensing, for their meaning—or lack thereof—is equally impactful after just a glimpse. Such lengthy scenes detract from the overall disquieting atmosphere of the movie and border on the gratuitous.
Nevertheless, occasional shots are genuinely enjoyable despite the budget limitations, especially at the beginning and the end of the film. There is also some respite from cruelty, sex, and interminable onanism in the interlude (titled “Agony”), which is the most theatrical part of Flesh of the Void, with actors moving in ways reminiscent of Greek tragedy at times. This is the most eeriely intriguing and even—dare I say it—tranquil part of the movie, taking place between two acts that feature a great deal of the above-mentioned perversities.
Those who relish experimental movies that feel like inexplicable waking nightmares, no matter how low their budget, may be inclined to give Flesh of the Void a shot. Yet, I must give them a heads-up that their patience is going to be tested, and possibly not rewarded, for the movie as a whole frequently meanders. While opinions will surely differ, for me the nihilistic takeaway from Flesh of the Void seems to be that religious systems and promises of an afterlife are hollow, and we should only believe in the reality of human suffering and the void of death. Suitably for this interpretation, the black-and-white cinematography of the movie is maintained until the very end, when blood suddenly gushes in a vivid red. Cheerful stuff!
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DIRECTED BY: Aleksey Fedorchenko
FEATURING: Nadezhda Smirnova, Yana Esipovich, Roman Mishin
PLOT: A series of vignettes depicting aspects of Mari culture, each revolving around a different female figure whose name starts with “O.”
COMMENTS: Aleksey Fedorchenko is perhaps one of the most creative and widely known auteurs in contemporary Russian arthouse cinema. His works Silent Souls (2010), Celestial Wives (2012), and Angels of Revolution (2014) form an atypical trilogy about Russian ethnic minorities, focusing on the Merja, the Mari, and the Khanty, respectively. The ethnographic and folkloristic approach is apparent even from the title.
Celestial Wives is a collection of short tales and micro-fiction written by Russian writer Denis Osokin, a close collaborator of Fedorchenko’s. A short prologue welcomes us to a pagan society where magical thinking governs people’s lives. The following series of vignettes deal with sexuality, our relationship to our bodies, and rituals. Fedorchenko puts women at the forefront, hinting at a matriarchal society; each tale focuses on a different female, her name always starting with “O”—a playful twist on the literary and musical form of the theme and variations. Each chapter takes its title from its homonymous heroine.
“Odocha” and “Onalcha” explore ideas of the sacred and acts of blasphemy. Through ritualistic acts, “Osylay” and “Ormarche” offer glimpses into Mari society’s relationship with Thanatos and Eros. Other segments focus on a destigmatized view of sexuality and the human—especially female—body. And then there are a few chapters that turn away from the purely anthropological, towards magical realist territory.
Here things become somewhat bizarre. Magical realism, often thought of as the mildest form of surrealism, is the most expressive way to translate an animistic worldview into visual language. “Oropti” and “Oshalyak” are the most notable examples of this stylistic shift. Demonic entities and evil curses appear on screen, not only as part of people’s beliefs, but as real phenomena.
All in all, this is ethnographic cinema with elements of magical realism. The short form episodes add an anecdotal style reminiscent of oral narrative traditions, while carefully composed shots enhance the pervasive lyricism. If you love poetic international cinema as a window on different cultures, you will enjoy this experience. But it won’t satiate the hunger for strangeness that hardcore fans of the weird seek.
FEATURING: Christopher Brown, Michele Miller, Jacques Herlin
PLOT: Candide, thrown out of the idealized bubble he grew up in, and has to come to terms with the hardships of real life.
COMMENTS: Jacopetti and Prosperi are mostly known inventing the “mondo” film (Mondo Cane, Africa Addio), a genre of exploitative shockumentaries produced in large quantities in the late 60s and early 70s. Despite its name, Mondo Candido is not a mondo film. While retaining elements of social critique from their previous works, this purely narrative literary adaptation was a change in style for this duo of directors (and also their final collaboration).
Above all else, Mondo Candido is slightly campy, slightly grotesque fiction, loosely based on Voltaire’s emblematic novel “Candide.” Voltaire, an Enlightenment intellectual, was a skeptic, and “Candide” heavily parodied the ideas of German philosopher Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz , especially his belief that we live “in the best of all possible worlds”. Voltaire’s humor is deconstructive, dark, and full of cynicism, and translates well to the cinematic environment of the crazy, revolutionary 70s.
The plot revolves around our young hero Candide: noble, chivalrous, pure of heart. Candide grows up in a privileged environment, inside a castle, educated by philosopher Pangloss, a caricature of Leibniz who advocates the position that our world is as ideal as it can be. However, as an adult Candide falls in love with Cunégonde, the baron’s daughter, enraging her father who deems him unworthy and throws him out. And so, his misadventures begin.
The world proves itself to be an earthly hell, and his journey takes the form of a Felliniesque odyssey. Jacopetti and Preosperi create an atmosphere of extravagant dreaminess, suggested by a playful, anachronistic, and kitschy mise-en-scène. A few graphic segments commenting on the absurdity of war could even pass for excerpts from an Alejandro Jodorowsky film.
The film establishes a quixotic narrative as Candide learns of Cunégonde’s whereabouts and makes it his life’s mission to find her again. But the ideal romantic images he has in his mind turn sour again and again, hurting him more than any physical torture ever could. He never stops his search, however, in a journey that traverses not only continents, but also eras.
If the first half of the film incorporates anachronistic elements, the latter one leaves aside any pretense of a period piece, transferring our hero into the 20th century. It plays out like an attempt to reveal the ills of the film’s contemporary era as well as explore the timelessness of Voltaire’s fiction. Familiar faces like Pangloss reappear across time, in new historical settings but with similar ideologies guiding them.
Pangloss’ ideas reveal a hidden depth towards the finale: a stoicism lies under the pretense of optimism. And this is the closest to hope this movie has to offer as an antidote to this cruel world we inhabit.
(This movie was nominated for review by TheRealBpilgrim, who called it “the forgotten Jacopetti and Prosperi film.” Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)
COMMENTS: Nikos Nikolaidis is perhaps the Greek director most closely associated with the “Surrealist” label. His works often merge dreams with noir elements and social critique. ” Singapore Sling” (1990) may be his most extreme movie, in terms of graphic scenes and fetish content, and is the most well-recognized internationally. However, in his own country he is most appreciated for his trilogy “The Years of Cholera,” about people in the margins of society. Wretches, the trilogy’s first installment, has gained cult status, thanks to its witty dialogue and absurdism.
The opening scene sets the tone accordingly, giving a sense of ultimate doom. The plot that follows, revolving around the reunion a band of people in their late 30s- early 40s, develops retrospectively. Alkis, a faded musician, calls for this gathering. He spends his time in his mansion reminiscing about Vera, his so-called ex-wife, attempting unsuccessfully to find her again through a plethora of liaisons with other women. His method is the epitome of nihilism, though. Nightly, he kidnaps, rapes, and then murders women reminding him of Vera, burying them in his garden right after. But perhaps, as a phantom of one of his victims claims, “Vera never existed, it is just the name of an era lost forever.”
As his friends gradually appear, we get to know their eccentric personalities. Kostas, with his cold demeanor, adds an element of deadpan humor to the table. Short, fat Christos is the “funny guy” of the group. And then there is Rita, the girl with the enigmatic past and a history of confinement in psychiatric hospitals.
Alkis now has companions for his savageries. The group proceeds to indulge in a variety of anti-social behaviors, always culminating in sex and death. There is a melancholy on the air for friends lost along the way, and a feeling of having lost control over their own lives. As Christos states while proposing a toast, “They took me in the university without asking me, they took me in the army without asking me, and without understanding how, I found myself married.” Their degenerate acts seem like a desperate attempt to reassert control over their fates.
Rita is the most marginalized character, not feeling at home even within the group. She feels used, in more ways than one; she stoically endures sexual assaults from her “friends” while asking desperately, in vain, for them to listen to her, even for a bit. She emerges as a complex, abused personality, full of contradictions.
Acting is a big part of the appeal here. Each character recites their lines with a musicality. The rich accompanying soundtrack, full of old blues, jazz, and rock and roll, also enhances the sense of nostalgia and regret, while the many night shots and blurry visual effects give the film a noirish, almost dreamlike feel.
The narrative is straightforward at times, yet has its surreal moments. A dead girl occasionally appears in the mansion, checking on the group and looking after Alkis. Everyone is apathetic, even after the most outrageous or bizarre occurrences. Add a grim finale fully immersed in hopelessness, and you have an exquisite example of nihilistic cinema.
WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:
No other English language reviews found for this film.
Although we have never enshrined any of his productions here, Henson’s projects make a legitimate bid for full-fledged weirdness. The vaudevillian surrealism of the Muppets borrows as much from Ernie Kovacs as it does from Kukla, Fran, and Ollie, and The Muppet Movie (1979) is an unexpectedly metatextual work, to the point where Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem come riding to the rescue by virtue of having read the script. And this was no accident. Blessed with a blank check from the success of the Muppets, Henson opted to direct the dark fantasies The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth, At the very least, he’s weird-friendly.
“Time Piece” has its place in history as the project that earned Henson the only Academy Award nomination of his career. A meticulously planned short film, “Time Piece” features Henson himself (looking, in the words of Boston Phoenix critic David Harris, “like a beatnik posing as an office worker”) as he flits about his imagination Continue reading DIRECTED BY JIM HENSON: TIME PIECE (1965) / THE CUBE (1969) 
