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FANTASIA 2026: APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: METAL MESSIAH (1978)

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Weirdest!

DIRECTED BY: Tibor Takács

FEATURING: Richard Ward Allen, David Jensen, Liane Hogan, John Paul Young

PLOT: A mysterious metal man on a mission of peace and understanding is co-opted by a cynical music promoter.

Still from Metal Messiah (1978)

WHY IT MIGHT JOIN THE APOCRYPHA: Largely incoherent, Metal Messiah is both energetic and meandering. Couple this with the outré performances and this 1978 relic stands as an example of movies that are beyond the realm of standard criticism.

COMMENTS: “Most people around here think I’m insane. I suppose there’s some truth in that. On the other hand, I wish they could see themselves under the same light.”

Seventy-six minutes, some dozen or so chapter headings, several text panels of introduction, and narration that, were it any more prevalent, might just transform Metal Messiah into a radio play: and that’s just the framework for what is perhaps cinema’s greatest reach > grasp ratio ever. Anycity, Earth is where we’re at, being confided in by the impressively garrulous detective (?), Philip Chandler. Upstairs in the hotel we catch some exposition on the room’s television: super-promoter and all around nefariously accented big time operator, Max, exhibits proof (?), courtesy of a blurry snapshot held up for the camera for approximately a second and a half, of a new danger to the world. Down in the streets, trying to spread the word of love to disillusioned rock ‘n’ roll youth, is an alien (?): nameless, perhaps, but truly the Metal Messiah.

This trio are what we’ve got. (Alongside cult leader/evil scientist Violet, with a surgical facility and a bag of Mick Jagger’s blood.). Where we’ve got it is across junkyards, dive bars, endless rainy streets, and a mystical desert wherein the Metal Messiah meets his doom to synthesizer strains. There is a lot of shouting, many observations from Chandler stating exactly what is occurring onscreen (presumably in case we’re looking away at the time), and a performance from John Paul Young as the enigmatic “Max,” whose single-shot monologue should be standard audition material for any performer wanting to qualify for the Big Time.

There are times during the Fantasia Festival when I am apprehensive after a screening. Having attended this event for this long, I’ve (happily) made many Fantasia buddies. And indeed, I cannot hold it against them when they ask the very sensible question, “What did you think?” In regards to Metal Messiah, that turned out to be more difficult a question than expected, and frankly I’m still not certain.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“… it’s not without some strange fascination…. It can be deeply infuriating at times and it will test the patience of anyone hoping for a more traditional storyline, a cohesive musical vision or even a sense of why the protagonist really is.” — Kevin Lyons, The EOFFTV Review

366 Underground, It Came from the Reader-Suggested Queue

366 UNDERGROUND FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: DAYMAKER (2007)

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DIRECTED BY: Joe LiTrenta

FEATURING: Joe LiTrenta, Michael Nathanson, Cristina Marie Proctor, Myla Pitt, Sakura Sugihara, Carrie Terraccino, Sara Weibel

PLOT: On a clear day in New Jersey, twentysomethings meet up, chat, drink and take drugs, dream, and reconvene in new combinations.

Still from Daymaker (2007)

COMMENTS: Not too long ago, we talked about the options available to the no-budget filmmaker. They can go for taboo. They can go for shock value. They can try for goofball comedy. They can aim at surrealistic nonsense. They can go for flat-out absurdism. Whatever the approach, the goal is to demonstrate what an aspiring filmmaker can do even without all the bells and whistles and the fancy equipment and the support of a whole industry. And if there’s an important message about the human condition to convey in the process, then that’s just gravy.

Which brings us to Daymaker, a DIY debut from writer/director Joe LiTrenta that is about drugs. It’s not about the drug trade, or drug abuse, or drug profiteering. It’s not a hard-hitting exposé or a harrowing descent into addiction or even a psychedelic celebration. It’s just about drugs. We know this because it’s the only thing anyone in the film talks about. Any other topics—work, relationships, a movie someone saw—are filtered through the ongoing use of drugs, like a benzo-laced Bechdel Test that the film cannot pass. No one wants to leave it to chance that you might miss this reading of the text, so characters come out and say it at every opportunity. “I’m addicted to cocaine.” “Janice has a drinking problem.” “We did a bunch of molly.” “That’s right, no more acid for me.” “I’m supposed to have been sober for a month now and I can’t even stop my hands from shaking.” This feature is most amusing/bananas when a woman tells her daughter, “Mommy has an illness,” and the girl replies, “Because you like beer?” Daymaker is not a coy film.

Having laid its cards on the table, it has precious little to say about the subject. There’s a slot machine-approach to scenes, with characters from previous scenes coming together to start a new one. This hints at a La Ronde-esque format in which each new pairing reflects on the interactions we’ve seen before, or where a single character or object leads us on a picaresque journey, but there’s nothing so orderly. The unpleasantly rude boyfriend we meet at the very beginning of the film hasn’t gone any further emotionally or geographically when he returns halfway through to proposition a girl for her pink motorcycle helmet, nor has his now-ex-girlfriend when she turns up as the subject of a hastily staffed photo shoot with cigarettes and highway flares. People just come together willy-nilly, and there’s a good chance that when they do, they’ll be drinking or snorting or talking about having drank or snorted.

After a while, you start to get the sensation that it’s not the characters that have done drugs, but that the movie itself is high. It has that drifting lope to it, that sense of being in a conversation with someone who can’t hold the plot and who seems to be way too into whatever distraction comes up next. The comparison that kept coming to mind, unfavorably, was A Scanner Darkly, a film legendarily successful at putting the viewer inside the minds of its aimless, drug-addled protagonists while revealing their world for the hollow dead end that it is. Daymaker has some of those same moves, with significantly less plot to interfere. Drugs are certainly not glorified—people are either being told they need to get off that stuff or are admitting themselves that they need to get off that stuff—but there are no consequences. The most devastating impact of their addictions is that they are dreadfully boring. At more than two hours, Daymaker really needs to have something to say to justify itself, and it decidedly does not.

Daymaker is bad, but often in intriguing, surprising ways. The actors—you might assume they were all amateurs doing the director a solid until you see the surprising number of them with more than one credit to their name—deliver their dialogue with the desperate hopefulness of amateurs who have been asked to improvise, but the words they speak are so carefully assembled that they leave no room for an ad-lib. (At least one performer stumbles on her lines and they just leave it in.) Repeatedly, characters tell each other that they’ve just said something funny, and their word is all we have. Locations bounce between the basement of a rec center, a cellar decorated with cinder blocks and unpainted drywall, a series of sparsely decorated bedrooms and living rooms. These spaces are meant to suggest how low these people have fallen, but in fact scream “a friend loaned us their house for a day.” Twice, the film breaks into a dance number. You want it all to mean something, to add up to a message that has been lurking amidst the randomness, but it never does—and it doesn’t seem to want to.

There is at least one moment that I can take to the bank. It’s a dream sequence where a girl walks through a field of perfect green, leaving behind her the faintest trace as she cuts through the tall grass, while a boy stares after her clutching a childish mash note. The image is genuinely captivating. The guy who shot it must have some talent; somebody ought to throw a few bucks at him and see what he can do.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

No other critics have published reviews of this movie.

(This movie was nominated for review by Desmond, who said it was “damn weird.” Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)   

366 Underground

366 UNDERGROUND: YOUR LIFE IS ON THE LINE! A JOE CHRIST ANTHOLOGY, VOL. 1

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Beware

You have to feel sympathy for the poor microbudget filmmaker. There is almost nothing they can do that the Hollywood filmmaker cannot do better. The easiest option to stand out is to give viewers something that Hollywood can’t. This could be a non-clichéd storyline or avant-garde aesthetics; but those paths require hard work and talent. There is one fairly easy avenue to notoriety open to anyone brave and shameless enough to take it: show the audience something taboo. This path probably won’t get you rich, but it may at least get you noticed.

has repeatedly said, “It’s easy to be shocking. It is much harder to be witty at the same time.” Generations of underground filmmakers have been proving that adage true ever since Pink Flamingos spat in America’s face with its vision of smug, gleefully villainous drag queen coprophagia. Waters’ outcasts and gays weren’t sissies to be kicked around: they were powerful, they would cut you. And they would make you laugh, often against your better judgement. But ever since Waters blazed the path, punks, outsiders, and weirdos everywhere have spat out their own attempts at scandalizing the bourgeois, aping Waters’ shocks despite not possessing his wit or purpose, to diminishing returns. Few returns are as diminished as the 1980s-90s direct-to-VHS atrocities of one Joe Christ, punk musician turned garbage auteur. Now, VHS and early DVD revivalists Saturn’s Core have shoveled the collected refuse of Christ’s movie attempts from 1988-1995—God forbid, there’s a volume 2 coming!— into a trash bin of a Blu-ray. Here are the 5 short films included:

“Communion in Room 410” (1988): Joe literally cuts a woman with a razor on the arm and breasts, then he and another woman drink the blood. They also eat Wonder bread dipped in blood in mockery of communion. Joe’s irritating, badly recorded music plays in the background. This goes on for 20 minutes, with all the artistry of “2 Girls, 1 Cup.” Hard to watch; I suggest not watching it.

“Speed Freaks with Guns” (1991): Joe delivers a paranoid, methed-up monologue, then shows some home videos of him and 2 female cronies murdering random women, then steals a car and leaves New York. This mess does contain one interesting scene: a priest randomly pukes communion wafers on Joe as he passes by. It’s the one of a very few attempts at humor on the entire disc. It’s also, revealingly, the only scene where Christ depicts himself as a victim rather than the bully.

Still from Crippled

“Crippled”: A paralyzed woman is cruelly abused by her caretakers. This is actually a surprisingly trenchant critique of… naw, just kidding, it’s more crap.

Still from acid is groovy kill the pigs

“Acid is Groovy Kill the Pigs”: A meth addict buys acid because his dealer has no meth, eats the entire blotter, then goes on a killing spree and interviews the numerous other acid-chewing serial killers he knows. The “pigs” of the title aren’t cops; they’re everyone who isn’t a serial killer themselves. The only halfway good scene is death by puppy, another rare attempt at comedy. “Acid” shows improvement over the last 3 Christ films, in little details like title cards and music that’s properly recorded, but it’s still the cinematic equivalent of soap scum you find clinging to the grout in your shower.

Continue reading 366 UNDERGROUND: YOUR LIFE IS ON THE LINE! A JOE CHRIST ANTHOLOGY, VOL. 1 →
List Candidates

APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: HOPITAL BRUT (1999)

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DIRECTED BY: Le Dernier Cri (Pakito Bolino, Marc Druez, Christophe Istier)

FEATURING: None

PLOT: A revue showcasing the grotesque occupants of the world’s most inhospitable hospital.

Still from Hospital Brut (1999)

WHY IT MIGHT MAKE THE APOCRYPHA: Hopital Brut is an indefatigable assault on the senses, combining a deliberately crude and hyperactive visual style, a clamorous soundtrack that never softens or slows, and a giddy disregard for propriety. The curators aim to offend, and they never let up in their compulsion to shock.

COMMENTS: The digital hive mind at Google Translate interprets “hôpital brut” directly as “raw hospital.” However, “brut” alone lso translates as “gross,” and “Gross Hospital” is a far more appropriate and accurate title for these 45 minutes of cartoon cacophony assembled by the French collective Le Dernier Cri (translation: “The Latest”).

One of the things that makes animation anthologies like Spike and Mike’s Festival of Animation compelling is the broad range of styles and intentions sitting alongside each other. Hopital Brut is based on comic panels created by more than two dozen stars of the alt-comic scene, and their unique artistic approaches seem well-suited to the format, which promises something distinctly strange behind each door. However, the end product suffers from an interminable sameness, with one chaotic onslaught sliding into the next one. The techniques change somewhat, with stop-motion, paper cutouts, and even the occasional burst of sped-up live action footage spotlighted, but they all share a rapid pace, herky-jerky rhythm, and a love of the coarse. With so many sources of artistic inspiration at play here, and considering the assembled film’s intention to be a patchwork quilt of strangeness, maybe it’s not asking too much to expect a little variety. Instead, the same ideas keep popping up to the tune of the relentless hammering of an industrial soundtrack.

Despite its repetitiveness, a few segments have enough novelty to stand out, such as the tale of the lonely artist who turns to a lord of the underworld in order to get girls, but discovers that the over-endowed demon has more to offer. Another patient freaks out when he sees himself drowning in his soup. A set of genitals features anthropomorphized testicles that look like busts of German composers. A giant praying mantis shows up for a quick orgy of rape and evisceration, which makes for a change of pace from all the poking, prodding, and maiming that the doctors usually employ. But even these moments are only marginally more impactful than their brethren, as the same notions are served over and over again. The chef may change, but the dish remains the same.

There’s little doubt that Hopital Brut is weird. It wears its irreverence and its iconoclasm on its sleeve. But after that, there’s very little to recommend it. The film is a Venn diagram where the categories of “weirdness” and “watchability” are moving steadily apart until they are completely separate circles. It ends as it began, no less defiant and no more engaging than it was from the outset. Still, the collective seems to have landed squarely in the center of its intended target, and there’s an amusing piece of evidence to back that up. If you visit the film’s page at MUBI, you’ll be greeted with a piece of text which is both absurdly tangential and highly apropos: “Hopital Brut is not available to watch. Instead, check out Lars von Trier’s Antichrist.” An even trade? It’s probably a perfect double feature, an algorithmic pairing that would make Le Dernier Cri’s collective hearts flutter.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Don’t want to fry on acid? Afraid your gonna do a Diane Linklater dive off a skyscraper thinking that you can fly and the only “scraper” you’ll get is when they peel you off the pavement?! Look no further than the semi short ‘Hopital Brut’!!!… keep kids far away from this, unless you want your kids traumatized for their rest of their short, miserable lives.” —noisepuncher_caiaav, Noisepuncher

(This movie was nominated for review by Parker Weston. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)         

366 Underground, It Came from the Reader-Suggested Queue

366 UNDERGROUND FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: I NEVER LEFT THE WHITE ROOM (2000)

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AKA My Crepitus

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DIRECTED BY: Michael Todd Schneider

FEATURING: Michael Todd Schneider, Eric Boring, Tom Colbert, Amy Beth Deford

PLOT: Hospital patient Jeffrey has violent, bloody dreams revolving around his life as a sex criminal and murderer.

Still from I Never Left the White Room (2000)

COMMENTS: The general tenor of I Never Left the White Room is established not in the first act, not even in the first minutes, but in the vanity card of the production company. The Maggot Films banner boasts stabs, screams, and gore to assure the viewer can expect only the most unpleasant, blood-curdling material. By that standard, I Never Left the White Room is an honest production indeed.

Schneider expands on a short film, and while one is inclined to salute him for deftly hiding the seams between old and new, the patchwork nature of the movie makes that faint praise. While there’s the suggestion of a narrative spine, I Never Left the White Room is really just a collection of disparate images, scenes whose common thread is their origin inside Jeffrey’s mixed-up brain. The title turns out to be a description of our mise en scene. 

Those visions are largely troubled, and Schneider distinguishes them with varying degrees of stylization. The most compelling is a dialogue set on a railroad trestle that warps the video image with posterization and color correction to suggest the demons inside our protagonist’s mind. Sometimes the beasts are literal, like a monster whose features can be smeared away like shaving cream. Other times, the horror has only the barest pretension to metaphor, like an absurdly lengthy scene in which a man spies on a woman taking a shower, each pleasuring themselves until the woman begins to bleed profusely. If the same central character weren’t involved, you would never know one thing had anything to do with the other. 

What Schneider is going for, other than checking items off a list, is not clear. There’s murder of women, already an infuriating trope but even more so when shorn of any motivation. There’s gore but, aside from the occasional jump scare, nothing that’s truly inventive. The acting and bare minimum of scripted dialogue don’t help, and there’s neither a hint of disgust nor irony. I think it’s supposed to be chilling, not funny, when the psychiatrist (who might also be a cop?) tells his patient, “I should be straight with you: my wife and daughters were raped and murdered last night.” As delivered, though, it’s not momentous; it’s ridiculous. 

I Never Left the White Room is trash. There’s a market for trash, of course, as evidenced by Schneider’s later association with Fred Vogel and the August Underground series. But this isn’t even good trash. Schneider has an hour of video to reveal the depths of his imagination; it proves to be shallow and aimless. Leave the white room. 

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…the main aspect of this 70-minute piece of headache-inducing insanity is the endless stream of spliced together nightmarish visuals, surreal dreamy encounters, gory visions, bizarre symbolic imagery, lustful masturbatory fantasies sometimes including violence, grating sound effects, eye-slicing color filters, grainy post-editing effects, and so on…. mostly tedious…”–Zev Toledano, The Worldwide Celluloid Massacre

My Crepitus (I Never Left the White

My Crepitus (I Never Left the White Room) [Blu-ray]

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(This movie was nominated for review by Kenshin, who described it as “very insane, very trippy, very surreal and extremely creepy.” Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)