(see also part 1, Why don't we Just Go Ask Alice?) The once innocent figure of Alice has grown warped by time's funhouse looking glass to become a token of phallic empowerment, coupled (wisely) to amnesia and embodied by the lovely Milla Jovovich in the RESIDENT EVIL series. Yeah, I said it. Regularly waking up in a strange shower and working her way past sterile booby traps down poisoned white Raccoon (City) holes, this Alice's wonderland is a video game version of Hell. All nonstop threats and very little love, the amnesia she's granted after each death proves her only balm. From a mythic standpoint, Milla's Alice trades coy Lewis Carroll innocence for guns and high kicks; she deals with undead monsters and corrupt post-apocalyptic governments and death not ends it. She is both fully mature and unborn, sexy but essentially genderless, a series of super-conscious pixels mired in the quicksand of shifting animus relations, doomed to spend the rest of her life wrestling with the sticky shreds of her cocoon. Hers is a dream from which one awakens only into yet another strange new level of the same endless first person shooter arcade game.
We can see the reverse of this personal stagnation in the mama's boy phenomenon, i.e. Norman Bates, unable to sever the hydra-like apron strings of a domineering mother, growth stunted in a loop of censorious homicide. While the girls with bad animus relations may simultaneously revere and fear their fathers (punching like a guy, as it were), the boys simultaneously resent and "represent" their mothers, in wig and apron string cleaver. In order to blast loose the Self from this repressive quagmire of unassimilated archetypal energies, some real force is required. Death--real or symbolic--is often not even a viable solution --especially if you're just one of a million clones.
But the egocide of acid works, baby: you don't have to die, just let go of your gun and submit to an alien frisking, with looove.
'Twas the psychedelic drug explosion of the late 1960s that first caused a drastic and much needed push in this direction. Women were shown a different way forward than just copying or condemning men, or buying into man's narrow view of what constituted ladylike behavior. When the scholars, artists, writers, musicians and filmmakers got a hold of LSD, the whole pop culture burst at the seams, as did gender roles one way or the other, adding a revisionist slant towards like-minded artists of the past - the Marx brothers, Humphrey Bogart, Dali, and of course Lewis Carroll's Alice. The "Go Ask Alices" are indicative of this. Girls who would have aged into light blue/gray beehive hairdos and terrible dress sense became instead goddesses of eternal coolness and debauched vengeance, and/or dumped at the emergency room door by a panicky dealer who then sped off.
But even demonizing mind-expanding drugs at least opens up a discourse, just talking about altering one's mind has a tendency to alter it, so it makes sense that in the 21st century it's not even polite to talk about why you don't want to talk about it. It's the pink elephant in the room and once you dare to actually behold it, reality itself begins to loosen and slip away. Pretty soon the elephant is right there, bigger than life, getting more tangible by the second, and within minutes you don't even remember a time it wasn't always there. Reality bends and folds and now you remember the elephant from when you were four years old and it just came home from safari. Sounds messy and costly in the long run and yes, you do get stomped on, but hey... an elephant!
Psychedelic drugs have their own animistic shadow in the "gifts" that help the heroine on her mythic journey. Before acid, the mythic jewels bequeathed on an Alice by her hippy caterpillar animus were mere signifiers. LSD was the white rabbit-shaped booster rocket, a literal bite of 'some kind of mushroom' that made you feel big or small (in that suddenly your vision could micro and macroscope farther than before in both directions). Millions made the journey before the door was locked shut by police and bad karma. Now these opportunities are crippled by media-perpetuated fear, urban legends, and draconian drug laws. When taken they're taken at four AM just so people can stay up longer, and they aren't particular about set and setting. But for a stretch of time 40 years ago or so, for a nominal fee, anyone could buy a round trip into the recesses of their own forests, where boyfriends were revealed to be wolves and woodsmen rolled together, and fathers were revealed to be slack-jawed televisual zombies hung up on a martini lunch Madison Ave trip. Lit up in a brilliant flash, the lines dividing light and shadow, ego and anima, yin and yang vanished leaving only the Unified Self... even if that Self quickly dissolved again back into its polarities, that was OK. You'd seen the light -- you weren't just feeling around in the dark anymore; you 'saw' in that flash of light the contours of the room, and now knew in which direction lay the wall switch.
A young girl, Valerie, lives in a small Czech town that's being visited by a circus/carnival. While surveying the clowns and jugglers from her window above, Valerie spots a mysterious vampire figure--The "Weasel"--and from then on its a mad masquerade, as he menaces her and vampirizes her grandmother (her mom is--as is usual in fairy tales--absent) and later the Weasel turns out to be Valerie's father, maybe even her son. Meanwhile Valerie's grandmother regresses in age, and there's near-incest galore. Valerie is given a pair of magic earrings that cause her to teleport through time and space. In one of the most beautiful and bizarre scenes, Valerie is implicated as the devil and fastened to a pole in the center of a bonfire by the roused rabble. Yet she merely smiles down at them in a warm, absolving way, and uses her earrings to vanish at the last possible second. The end finds her walking through what seems to be a post-production picnic orgy, that same enigmatic Mona Lisa smile on Valerie's face, grown now to bewitchingly mythic proportions. At one point she even looks right into the camera and smiles warmly. Anyone, male, female, straight, gay, old, young, is bound to be bewitched by this young actress's preternatural serenity and auburn beauty, causing a vast frisson of potentially impure thoughts mixed with the urge to protect and nurture her already impressive intelligence, just like her friendly 'Eagle' - a mix of familiar and friendly animus. We might flip back and forth from good to evil a dozen times as spectators all in that one moment, but she's already seen it happen with her own Weasel father. She's beyond it all; to paraphrase a metaphor from part one, she's already hugged her werewolf. It may not be quite a prince yet, but for the nonce she's just fine with having a dog.
Then there's LEMORA: A CHILD'S TALE OF THE SUPERNATURAL, which the always trenchant Michael Atkinson sums up in a Village Voice article:
Richard Blackburn's long-fabled Lemora: A Child's Tale of the Supernatural (also 1972, obviously a key year) exists in a suffocating, ur-Southern Gothic nightscape all its own. Unashamedly shoestring, Blackburn's dream odyssey through pubertal agony drips with Freudian syrup, but it's also a fervidly physical film—the midnight back alleys of Old South ghost towns are not places you'll be longing to revisit. More so even than Carnival of Souls and Night of the Living Dead, this mysterious phantasm plays like a visit to the underworld.....As is the case with fellow indie cult hits CARNIVAL OF SOULS and NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD (both 1968), the poverty of the locations creates part of the creepy affect, the feeling one is adrift in a flea-bitten midnight zone between intentional Brechtian distancing for a post-modern aesthetic arrest and the cheap carny spookshow thrills of schlock. Like all good Alice tales, LEMORA involves a plucky young heroine, Lila (Cheryl Rainbeaux Smith). leaving her kindly but clueless preacher guardian in the middle of the night to seek out the wild dangers of her "real" father, a presumed weasel (i.e. gangster werewolf).
The poverty row emptiness gives LEMORA the eerie two-dimensional frisson of a childhood nightmare. Lila's journey begins when she stows away in the car of a sleazy couple to get to "town," which turns out to be a few cardboard storefronts in a small, darkly lit, empty garage. Rather than making the film laughable, this "unashamedly shoestring" quality adds to the dreamy disconnect. All the extras and actors she encounters are grotesque parodies of sexual adults as seen through the eyes of a child, a drunken pair of brawling lovers, a creepy bus ticket cashier, slobbering leering animals, etc. The more cheapjack and surreal it gets, the creepier, the more uncanny, the more the feeling the entire world is indoors, or underwater, or asleep.
But the "Alice effect" in LEMORA actually comes not from the usual stock of menacing males, but from the coven-like peer pressure of the older women. Lemora herself is a succubus-type who gets Lila eating raw meat and drinking blood and possibly dabbling in lesbianism--and there's an old hag who sings an eerie nursery rhyme while walking slowly in circles around Lila while she's imprisoned in a shed. There wouldn't be another matriarchy this creepy until Neil La Bute's WICKER MAN remake! And here we realize why: the Bruckheimer bottom dollar feeders of Hollywood have a frat boy's fear of castration so there's no powerful women like these in our modern Hollywood myths --only arm candy and maybe a syrupy old grandma for Peter Parker. And LEMORA has all the things big money boys are still struggling in their inner female's sticky webs to get away from. They'd rather not be reminded, like Jimmy Stewart in VERTIGO, that they're not ever going to escape their Midges.
But the truly sensitive non-hack artistes aren't afraid to fall, Johnny-Oh. They say the unconscious (anima) of every old male artist is a young girl, and vice versa (or maybe it's just me who says this), that all the ages and genders ultimately meet halfway in BENJAMIN BUTTON-style criss-crosses, as the psyche is slowly illuminated, the consciousness grows dark and the unconscious inherits the burning building. And when we grow weak and elderly our soul energy is so vibrant it's barely noticeable. Old interests return, part of the reason why children and old people get along so well (or why I'm finally eating candy every night for dinner like I always dreamed of). The key to discovery of self is the brave meeting with these inner figures of your past and present, light and shadow; the magnetism between genders and generations is sublimated into art and myth, not repressed or acted on in some trite sexual/literal way. That's why drugs like LSD and mushrooms should be regulated and dispensed gingerly, but never suppressed or demonized. With research and proper set and setting, they could change the world overnight for the better. The real dangers to our future, as LEMORA indicates, are the preachers, moralists and hysterics, the ironic distancers and the ego-blinded. The addictive nature of repression is the real dark power at work in our communities, censoring with violence what it can't control (i.e. handing out life sentences to minor first time drug offenders), never admitting to itself that without darkness, light itself becomes dark, to compensate, resulting in sudden RAIN-style grabby outbursts from once-chaste reverends. The outlawed darkness is forced to become light just to go in there and save the day.
Balance--not triumph--is key. That's why John Lennon knew he had to invite the defeated Blue Meanie to come hang out at the end of YELLOW SUBMARINE. Alice would have done the same for you. And you'd arrest her just for that?