Because the screen is the only well-lit mirror in town

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Bell, Book, and Hallucinogenic Tampon: THE LOVE WITCH (2016)

"Men are very fragile. They get crushed down if you assert yourself in any way." notes our love-junky Wiccan Elaine (Samantha Robinson), voiceovering in her vintage convertible down Highway 101 from San Francisco, flanked by gorgeous redwoods and crashing surf. We see her stubbing out cigarettes in the car ashtray. (God, it's been so long since I saw anyone do that!). This girl, we realize, has it going on, whatever that is. Her new apartment is popping with magical candy color, and herb jars; the somewhat more flowery and genteel interior decorator Trish (Laura Waddell) was told to paint it with the "colors from the Thoth Tarot deck," by the owner, a girl from Elaine's coven. Trish takes Elaine to the 'Victorian tea room,' where men are not allowed, and a lady harpist plays. We're clearly in some wild alternate reality, or are we just seeing the world through someone's eyes who has broken off with it? It's a matter of perspective. Elaine seems not only from a 60s-70s time capsule but a timeless fairy bower. Her gaze alone--we learn--can knock men clear out of their own era.

Trish only has 'reality' on her side, and who gives a shit about that in the movies? Trish's handsome (Robert Seely) is bound to be stolen by Elaine the moment he inadvisedly crashes the Victorian Tea Room to say hi and his eyes meet those of this otherworldly new visitor.

Elaine, you see, is a Love Witch: "Giving men sex," she counsels Trish, "is a way of unlocking their love potential." Trish is shocked; she can't even tell if Elaine's serious with such "Stepford Wife" nonsense, but what is Trish offering in sex's stead? A kind of frowny sense of third-wave entitlement? The expectation of blind dotage? Elaine can fuck that shit up with nothing more than a heavy lidded sex magick hypnotic stare.

Back at the Thoth Tarot-colored apartment, Ennio Morricone stings come slinking in, slyly, shyly, and this Wicker-Mannered Kenneth Anger x Anton La Vey x Pedro Almodovar magickal tale takes slinky wing, held aloft by a lovingly stilted acting style that approaches (no doubt intentionally) ceremonial ritualistic embodiment of astral bodies (solstice, etc.). A beverage of hitherto uncharted potency, The Love Witch has been mulled through a kind of high camp soapy-Sirkianism until it becomes like the mind of a person being forced to watch that Taylor-Burton movie BOOM! while being slowly encased in a psychotropic pancake syrup that hardens to frozen-in-the-belly-of-the-dragon amber; Merlin watches helpless behind colored glass as Morgana le Fey begins her long-belated incestuous revenge against Camelot). And this time, we're on her side all the way.

Written, produced, and directed by CalArts wunderkind Anna Biller, LOVE WITCH luxuriates graciously in its own lopsided consciousness. There is a difference in male and female auteurship and the difference should be celebrated, declares Biller, not ignored or dismissed. She's clearly right as no maenad madness like this could ever flow from a man's hands without lapsing into trite kink or preachy posturing. Rarely has so cohesive a vision emerged seemingly full-grown from the head of a first time Athena. This true septuple threat (Biller also did the art design, costumes, and composed several of a the renaissance faire songs) has no qualms about using deliberate artifice towards a ritualistic, almost fetishistic end. It's a perfect fit, then, to visit the early-70s 'suburban housewife joins witch coven' subgenre, and the Eurosleaze erotic black widow variation, diligently spinnereted to Jacques Demy fairy tale romance with a Satan's School for Gifted Youngsters' annual solstice pageant primitivism that keeps it from being either too campy or realistic. Comfortably ensconced in the middle ground between power of suggestion (as in Polanski, Lewton) and fantasy, we can't really tell for sure where real magic, power of suggestion, and delusional madness divide within the diegetic reality of the film, which is how it should be if you want to resonate with uncanny 70s cracker factory frisson, as this does. While the vintage Morricone patches the disparate pastiche elements into a coherent whole, Biller ointments up her broomstick and flies herself up ahead to act as point guard for this whole new flock of filmmakers, I've written lovingly about, who use the 60s-70s 'Euro-artsleaze' genre as a palette from which to paint uncanny new vistas, and in some cases--such as Billers'--bring in a whole other level of filmmaking cohesion -- deliberate artifice, ala Shakespeare's plays within plays. Any separation between art /experimental, film, narrative, genre, retro-pastiche, present and past --are all gone.

The story of three or so conquests in the disturbed life of a dangerously powerful and intoxicatingly sexy 'love witch' - Elaine lets us know in the opening that she's leaving San Francisco "after a nervous breakdown" - which she discusses matter-of-factly in a highly mannered theatrical voiceover with conflicting flashbacks in a way that connects the events to a host of female-driven films from the late 60s-70s, from PLAY IT AS IT LAYS to CIAO! MANHATTAN (1972) and even LET'S SCARE JESSICA TO DEATH. Echoes even of MESSIAH OF EVIL (especially when Robinson deepens and draws it her vocals on lines "The day Jerry left me is the day I died" she sounds eerily like Marianna Hill in that film), and of course STEPFORD WIVES (name-checked). In vision and scope of satisfying both genders' eye-requirements, Biller seems to exert the same kind of creative alchemy that usually takes a couple to bring off successfully: Argento and wife Daria Nicolodi in SUSPIRIA; Helene Cattet and Bruno Forzani in AMER, Alma Reville and Hitchcock. Linda Hassani's DARK ANGEL: THE ASCENT, with its Matthew Bright (FREEWAY) script, probably comes closest and I heartily recommend it, too.

One reasom the LOVE works so well, is Biller knows it takes lack of moral judgment to get this deep into the mystic. Rather than go down a Goodbar rabbit hole of sex and madness, as one might expect--especially if a man was directing--there's a vivid sense of Elaine's almost supernatural ability to wreak pastorale renaissance tarot imagery and witchy ritual from nearly every scene she sashays through. Her ability to, in a sense, turn men into sobbing wretches ("Just like a woman," Elaine notes of one in her ongoing voiceover narration. "What a pussy.") could be overkill if any magic is added - as she's way too hot to need it.  If you've ever been seduced and abandoned by a creature so lovely and damaged that you're instantly addicted to her worse than any heroin, then you know how easily death might result from that level of sudden wish fulfillment followed immediately by its total absence. Especially if you mix in too many toxic herbal psychedelics, like jimson weed, aka datura root, the effect--as we learn--can be lethal, and maybe it should be.

Biller's film also explores and takes (relatively) seriously the world of the Wiccans (presumably) and (probably) explains the way young teens tend to get pretty warped when they happen to live near a Renaissance Faire and visit every weekend for a whole summer, and how Elaine's cracked determination to live life as a fairy tale fuels an ambition to seduce so intense it blows men right out of their shoes, without consciously intending any malice. Magic, horses, princes, tarot cards, strange sex rituals, it's all dangerous stuff, as any Jack Chick pamphlet. Never underestimate the power of ritualized intent. And Elaine isn't in the habit of casting lightly, despite the flowers and candy colors.

Are covens just the adult version of a young girls' tea sets and stuffed unicorns?
In pointed shoe fact, this is Disneyland ritualism run amok in a kind of clockwork movement counter to what the sweaty dying dad experiences during his tryst with the aging princess in ESCAPE FROM TOMORRROW. Elaine has chosen to live in a world of horses, mock marriages, 'girls-only' tea houses replete with beautiful "Victoriana" trappings (and using Victorian fairy tale motifs grisly enough to make a Jane Eyre shudder in shock, but not shying away from the grisley sacrificial maenad / murder ballad element - putting her into the same world as musicians like Rasputina, Josephie Foster, and Dame Darcy). This world, the girly tea set / stuffed rabbit / Wonderland brought to adulthood --is a 'safe space' for women-only (men beware), with girls in long blonde hair playing the harp or--at the burlesque house--twins dancing in unison with feather fans (the reclaiming of burlesque by feminist performance artists ensures this isn't unduly jarring). The performance-within-performed  artificiality adds to the feeling of ritualistic predestination, as if this movie is only following a linear narrative (cop investigating and falling for prey - ala Basic Instinct) to lure the eye into a sticky trap ceremony of feminine rebirth through seduction and symbolic castration. Our male gaze checks in, but it don't check out.

With THE LOVE WITCH, Biller zaps her mark deep in the soft collective unconscious tissue that binds us along our collective Islets of Langerhans (right/left; male/female). She goes so deep we're compelled to realize just how short of breadth and depth other female directors fall in the same goal (an operational mythopoetic feminine--but commercial--film language) by contrast. Sofia Coppola came close a few times to Biller's natural magic and might actually nail it at last with her upcoming remake of THE BEGUILED (I ain't seen it yet) but so far has only done it in the Trip Fonatine-prom segment of VIRGIN SUICIDES; Asia Argento was one of the first to go all the way down into the chthonic basement with SCARLET DIVA in 2000, wading through the septic sludge of the male gaze like a harried plumber; Anna Lily Amirpour approached it in half of A GIRL WALKS HOME ALONE AT NIGHT but it was a love story, with a real live boy, which threw the language off; Helene Cattet did the amazing AMER (2) with her boyfriend, and together they turned experimental abstraction and the giallo on their respective heads; Catherine Hardwicke did it in the first TWILIGHT, which was so good the terrified money men promptly turned the franchise over to male directors, none of whom matched the druggy electric drag of her original. Xan Cassavettes' ever-so-slinky KISS OF THE DAMNED is another where the men are arm candy in a matriarchal jet set held together by beauty, wealth, and discretion. Along with the aforementioned DARK ANGEL: THE ASCENT, they're highly recommended as examples of women directors appropriating the genre in ways parallel to--but unique from-- male-driven explorations of similar lines.

Bitches may be strong in retro-analog films by Tarantino, Rodriguez; Russo and Ashby of DANGER 5, etc., but are all susceptible to the male drive to action and violence, the 'drive-in' adrenalin rush. None would ever dare to, for example, show their starlet casually noticing a blood spot, inserting a tampon, and then later taking it out and adding it to a bottle of her own urine + a few wild grown herbs, then placing it on a man's grave, so a "part of her can stay with him forever." If they did, they'd underline it as if we should be grossed out, rather than merely add it to the flow, the way Biller does here. Biller slides it right past us. We wouldn't dare flinch.

JW Waterhouse - "Circe" detail
The Rose Bower - Burne-Jones

By contrast and comparison. Let's examine the all-female lepidopterist un-fantasia of Peter Strickland's DUKE OF BURGUNDY, an example of 'faerie bower cinema' wherein chthonic overgrowth ensnares all chances for narrative phallic linearity, leading to a kind of feminine reverie/stasis, mirroring the way desire can hold a person almost in a state of paralysis, tapping into the state of powerless awe we as tiny children felt towards mom and her visiting lady friends (over for tea), when we had them all to ourselves and, compared to us, they were as giants--lavishing attention on us  expecting no corresponding action (finding its correlation later at the movies--we don't need to do anything sitting there in the dark, just beam up at Garbo's giant face; she loves us no matter what). The consolation prize from the non du pere (Lacan's construct of the forbidding father who welcomes us to the social order on condition of symbolic castration) is twenty bucks to go to the movies. We get some of that at burlesque clubs (where the male acts are all symbolically neutered - baggy pants comics or androgynes like Joel Grey in CABARET - thus posing no threat to our seat of pre-Oedipal spectral omnipotence). When brought into actualized kinky tableaux, ala Jess Franco, however, sadomasochism and/or stripping often becomes merely tawdry.  This is the fundamental proof, perhaps, that Laura Mulvey is not a man. For she'd recognize the complete lack of proprietary control that comes as the fine print on every male gaze. The fantasy of harem-construction / female dominance through looking is little more than the first grader's subjugation fantasies, brought on by the utter powerlessness of being either small, pre-adolescent or a disembodied spectral ghost/viewer. We're far too powerless to stop any adult from doing anything; as viewers we're like the huntsman, unable to ride through the one-way mirror screen (or out of the baby chair safety straps) to rescue Red Riding Hood from the primal scene awaiting her at grandma's house.

I only refer to Lacan and sadomasochism (Mulvey vs. Studlar) to contrast Biller's style, which exits the bower (and does burlesque rather than stripping - and knows keenly the difference) to pursue the backdoor histrionics of 'suburban swinger-turned-to-crime' films by mavericks like Russ Meyer, Radley Metzger, Arthur Marks, and Joe Sarno, instead. These may be male directors but they love strong, proud empowered, sexually voracious females who can and do turn any suburban backyard barbecue into a wild orgy of close-ups: batted eyes, licked lips, adjusting hemlines and sizzling symbolism. These trash auteurs don't judge their heroines, they celebrate their power and recognize their immunity to the petty rules of 'decency.' It's to them Biller looks for a chalk mark arrow forward, then drags the bower behind her to wipe her tracks.
Not tawdry
After Anna's first conquest in her new town, a naturalist teacher named Wayne (Jeffrey Vincent Parise) at the local university, starts bawling and screaming needily for her the morning after, the format is set. Parise is a real find --his breakdown is a high point of the film, acting-wise, as he gives it his all while staying on message. "I have never felt real love like this before! Elaine," he shouts, "I'm scared!!" The sheer magnitude of his lovelorn heartbreak threatens to disrupt Elaine's candy-colored sandman 'magical thinking.' So she has to go smoke in the other room, suddenly it's morning and she's been sleeping on the couch. Wayne is a ruined man.

Considering the frequency of the reverse --the man as tomcat, the woman--like Yvonne Furneaux in LA DOLCE VITA--tearing herself apart waiting for her errant lover's call, only to threaten suicide if he doesn't come right home--we shouldn't be quick to judge Elaine's callous man-eating as vindictive or bitchy. Fellini's film is a man's fantasy of a salt-battered surfer ever in the process of being swallowed up by the maternal sea, the clinging woman issuing suicide threats through phone line apron string kraken tentacles; all the women in his life weaving a luxurious seaweed wrap of ardor about him while he chases the next flutter of blonde feathers around the tower stair curve. Aware of the petty shallow glamor of his life, Marcelo's still powerless to change. By contrast, Biller's film is a woman's fantasy, one where her past conquests succumb to acute melancholia, but she feels only contempt for them the crazier they crave her -- rather than a surfer, Elaine is the ceaseless surf... and any man desired by another woman is her fair target.

Fans of 60s-80s Eurocult specialty DVD labels like Synapse, Mondo Macabro, and Blue Underground know well the genre Biller is exploring. In particular, the post-Ira Levin (STEPFORD WIVES, ROSEMARY'S BABY) 'female empowerment through cult ritual magic' sub-genre (see Bad Acid's Greatest: 70s Paranoid Feminism Edition), the 'modern girl falls under ancient black magic sway and/or has really flipped or passed through the erotic looking glass' in films like Romero's 1972 SEASON OF THE WITCH, 1976's THE WITCH WHO CAME FROM THE SEA, DONT DELIVER US FROM EVIL, THE GIRL SLAVES OF MORGANA LE FAY (1971), and basement-budget fairy tales like LEMORA: A CHILD'S TALE OF THE SUPERNATURAL, and of course the works of Jess Franco and Jean Rollin. Biller evokes them all while never losing her own voice, one so strong I trusted it wasn't 'abdicating power' when the older coven male shows up like a leering dirty old Pan.

The subgenre has a dark timeless complexity that might seem anathema to LOVE WITCH's sunny Tarot card artifice, but like Kubrick or prime-era Argento, Biller offers a fully unified style that's never less than swoon-worthy. She doesn't star in it, but Biller has starred in other works of hers, and embodies a strong period persona. Just as Lana del Rey embodies a kind of early 60s David Lynch roadhouse hallucination, Biller embodies the female strength and cool of a composite of all three ladies in FASTER PUSSYCAT KILL KILL with some aspects of Lydia Lunch, Edwige Fenech (ALL THE COLORS IN THE DARK) and Argentine 'sinsation' Isabelle Sarli (FUEGO!).

Anna Biller - thou art a badass
I was scoping photos of her for this post, and found an interesting response to a Coffee Coffee review of Biller's previous film, the lower budgeted scrappy VIVA.  Coffee's writer Peter suggested viewers be better served by BEYOND THE VALLEY OF THE DOLLS or Franco's VENUS IN FURS, presuming the intent on Biller's part was a kind of high comic camp, a satire of late 60s decadence. Her response is galvanizing:
Sexploitation films were based on real things, like sexuality between men and women. I would never be interested in critiquing them wholesale, because I don't find them stupid or inferior (you might). They are more for me like fascinating fragments of culture, all the more alluring because of their low status in today's culture. 
So again, you are making many assumptions. Those assumptions come from our need today to look back on history and laugh at it. They also come from a discomfort with the exploitation form because of guilt at male enjoyment of it. I am not critiquing those films, but I am critiquing cultural stereotypes. There is a big difference. 
The intention with VIVA was to make my own version of those films, to rewrite history as it were and place myself and my voice (as a female and an individual) within it. So in that sense it's pure fetishism, and comes much more from the place the original films came from (the desire to make a sexy film using fantasy and displacement). The confusion about my intentions may come from the fact that we have not seen many sexual fantasy films made by women, except by female directors who are working in entirely more "serious" forms.
Damn right, sister! Dig the way she defends her choices and calls Mr. Coffee semi-out on an ideological gender-based point, but does so sans knee-jerk third-wave malice. Her pride in wanting to make a "sexy film using fantasy and displacement" is a truly honorable ideal, especially as she reaches for a new kind of subgenre, a truly female fantasy.

More than most of the aforementioned female-directed retro-genre films, LOVE WITCH succeeds at this ideal, mixing intentional story book artifice--lots of 'talent show from Summerisle' light/dark macabre counter-Christian pageantry--with genuinely erotic content in ways we don't really see in modern film (here she cites Demy's DONKEY SKIN as a huge influence); the closest we get is perhaps Bergman's MAGIC FLUTE or Godard's PASSION or CODE NAME: CARMEN, wherein the double negative, if you will, of a play-within-a-play, seems to help induce a mimetic erotic magic that's distinctly feminine (Mother Night) in its timeless (or lunar cycle-based) parallel to the 'normal world' of linearity and men (Sarastro). Biller grasps the deep magic at work in narrative immersion and in the way mythologizing through performance helps uncork one's inner power.

That power, of course, is too much for a shaky patriarchy to handle. Becoming a man's every wish and surprising him with allure beyond what he can stand leaves him a sobbing wreck, and leaves the love witch alone in the other room smoking a cigarette, listening to  his anguished infantile castrated bathtub sobs with the dispassion of Camille Keaton rocking in her chair downstairs (5).

Thinking it over, actually, the closest I can imagine to the first of Elaine's amazing psychedelic seductions is the opening swath of DUNWICH HORROR with smoov Dean Stockwell using that weird crystal to hypnotize Sandra Dee. Or even the way Mae West brings home "That Dallas Man" in I'M NO ANGEL (1933). The other extreme, of course, is more prevalent, especially in the US under the lash of books like The Rules and the ridiculous perfect man-replaces-slovenly selfish prick dichotomy rom-coms, that is: the disappointed woman of high expectations, stranded in her narcissistic cocoon, unwilling to admit it's stifling her. For just as man is empty thunder and plaintive howls without a woman, so woman is the fairy bower, the sticky web, the windless rain without a man (Jungianly speaking).

The fairy bower end-of-the-line "woman in her fancy hats broods and pontificates along the rocky coast" kind of jazz is harder to do right than it looks. For example, Angelina Jolie took it for a spin in BY THE SEA, which some people (whose judgment I revere), love but which I felt suffocated by as if being dragged to some expensive boutique by a petit-bourgeois girlfriend and made to stand there for hours trying not to seem bored while she fussed over designer clothes and scowled at me for not somehow not volunteering to pay for everything or wearing a Rolex. The story of a couple dissolving and clearly trying to save their relationship by renting out apparently an entire corner of the Riviera, it's the film that helps us realize Brad and Angelina are not doing well as a couple - it's the movie version of them sitting us down on the couch for a special family meeting to let us know dad's moving out for an indefinite period while mom and he work out some issues. Outside in the open air bar, Brad makes friends with old locals and picturesquely has a beer while the old men tells a story and the vibe is like if an Eric Rohmer moral tale was bronzed, thrown in the sea, and told to swim.  It can't, Brad. Stop pretending to care. You're better than that. Fight Club, Brad! Fight Cluuubbb (Imagine me saying this as i sink below the amber waves). (3)

THE LOVE WITCH on the other hand at least has its own lunar tidal pull. It's alive and snaking ever-forward; it might dilly-over the edge with little moments that evoke Ed Wood and/or Tommy Wiseau in their amateurish strangeness, but baby does it ever float like a tossed bouquet--a floating iron glove cast in velvet--- to future female filmmakers. Biller's film is the feminine mystical equivalent of finally blowing a hole through the concrete defensive ring around male cult film Normandy, to seize princess super power without necessarily being a bitch about it. 'This is what turns me on," Biller announces, "and I don't care if it seems immature and I should have grown out of it by now--ponies, princesses, and love-love-love," whatever, I'm proud to share it." Of course it would still be the empty fantasy, if Biller wasn't wise to herself, and to the limits of the bower's protection. LOVE WITCH is like a young girl's tea party crashed by a Jayne Eyre-Wide Sargasso Sea madwoman, who comes rolling down the stairs and under the locked door like little Rosita's blood in THE LEOPARD MAN (1943). As Elaine masturbates to memories (?) of being shamed by her father as a child or mounted by the hairy coven leader during her coven initiation, we're forced--especially as male spectators--to contemplate just how thorny female sexuality really is. We're put into a position we're totally not comfortable with, and it's about time we were. Biller presents us with the idea that a woman might masturbate thinking about her father, and/or hairy and hobgoblin-esque characters like the men in her cult. As men we're taught to recoil from our own toad-ish aspects, the bloated troll underbelly of our princely visage, but for Elaine (and, by extension, Biller), the repellant frog kiss that prefigures the marriage to the handsome prince is swirled into the erotic potion that gets her off, in a sense, to a far greater proportion than the prince is still toad himself. This aspect of female sexuality has been explored only by wild-eyed surrealists like Bunuel. Most men dare not go near it and so often it tumbles off the path and into the thorny issues that bog down so many films (and even some of my other posts).

Jacques Demy's Donkey Skin
But Biller's every gilded splinter-step is sure. She never falls too far down the whimsical fantasy rabbit hole or up the "psychotic break" vortex of subjectivity. Instead, snaking like a footpad between the high and lowbrow camps, Biller proves an adept guide to the feminine's archetypal root cellar, one who knows how to not get snagged. She excavates the tarot as a bridge between fantasy and the reality of the moment, and the result-- as in all the best examples of the period/genre--leaves us unsure whether the 'magic' being performed is merely ceremonial posturing (meant to focus the will with drugs as a kind of perception enhancing tool), or if it evokes genuine spirit power. It's not even important. That's how you know myth is working - you no longer perceive the illusion of a separation between the real and the vividly imagined. After Trish smacks her around and storms out, if it was a Hammer movie, we'd cut from Elaine repeating "crash" over and over to Trish's windshield cracking and hitting a tree or going off a cliff. Instead, she's just gone - as if in leaving the film and Elaine's life she is for all intents and purposes, as good as dead.

We're also never sure just what we feel about these couple of disreputable hairy male characters who seem to have inserted themselves into the otherwise hip coven, but for once, a rarity, we trust Biller to know the answer and never falter, to not let patriarchal conditioning kick in and warp her thrust. The fey, hairy warlock named Gahan (Jared Sanford) is at the head of the coven not out of some nod to some deep-seated animus patriarch sub-conditioning (6) but because he's a mentor/executive producer and thus it's a role that fits his role within the film (and her memories of being with him on the dais are folded into her thorny masturbation memories -- it's clear she's disgusted by him but not enough to leave - he's endured). That we can trust Anna Biller implicitly by then to not 'cop out' and turn the car over to him and/or some other man, or get all heavy-handed--'killing is wrong' blah blah I found a boyfriend who loves me for me,' or something--is testament to her strength, her ability to use what we tend to pigeonhole as camp as the palette for a deeply subversive neo-feminist spin on a unique genre from a unique time and place. We can rest easy in her hands. Being able to trust a female auteur with the car keys --so to speak--is the psychotro-poetic equivalent, to a guy like me, of being able to float on a giant amniotic breast cloud into the dissolving rays of a birth-reversing sun. When you trust the girl driving you don't automatically wince when she pumps the brakes, and if she almost hits another car - well she meant to fucking hit it -- the other driver was just too fast or slow, or a man.

Knowing this, the rest is rearview.
Speaking of which, maybe you saw on FB: I happen to have been in the hospital most of last weekend with my first case of the DTs! Shhhh. I'll tell you, and bury it safely on the bottom of a non-related post. Actually, it's related as I had my own anima-projection/ fantasy girl come along when I was twitching in the ER. I hadn't been to a hospital in over 16 years, so was amazed that this hot knowing sexy Asian-Jewish nurse in sexy blue scrubs wheeling around a kind of podium pushcart with the glow of a computer screen hovering over it in the dark of the early AM (not that there were windows - but they turn out a lot of lights after 10 or so, and it all becomes like a big slumber party) like a kind of floating alien saucer. With this device she floated amongst us agonized, zonked sinners like an absolving angel. In my case, shooting a dose of Ativan into my IV tube or passing out Librium in a tiny paper cup.

Eventually they had me in an upstairs bed a different beauty with her alien tray came gliding along (a "hospital medication computer cart" - I looked up its name), its CRT a reassuring UFO nightlight in the darkness, part Valkyre descending down the Valhalla-way with her benzos and opiates, this upper floor girl looked like the eldest Haim sister and became my new feminine ideal. There were also three trainees, all very Haim-like but blonder--vaguely Nordic--traveling in a white lab coat gaggle, led by an old, important looking doctor, down the rows of sick and suffering. I was amazed. Why, I wondered, am I always presented, one way or the other, with these shimming visions of three during my darkest hours? Angels exist, man, and they have long Haim hair that shimmers in the light from the blue screen monitors of their floating drug trays during the wee wee hours, and when they pass they leave the souls screaming in forlorn pain suddenly sighing and silent... and snoring.

I could never find the one or the other once they left my little screened off bed, and I often grabbed a hold of my wheeled IV drip (they make great combo canes/walkers, like Merlin's staff) and went strolling down the hall, to the quiet amazement and feigned disinterest of the zillions of other people floating around. All zonked and lost and powerless, forced to wait for every visit, screams and moans of the damned meant little to the super busy staff. I knew I was amongst experts, and would not hasten the next Libirum one iota. But, at last, I knew true surrender - beyond shame. Just getting out of bed was enough of a challenge, getting up to go to the bathroom right next door was as laborious and involved in my delirium as scaling Wudan mountain.

Now I'm back home but God I miss those lovely shimmering goddesses and their glowing late night floating UFO pill dispensary stations. Since I'm reasonably sure they'll never read this, or remember me, let me just say in case they do: ladies, collectively in my fever brain you have cohered into my Lady of the Lake. Hail and blessings be, oh shimmering Benzo-flection, my Lost Lenore, reflection of the kind nepenthe I know I can never drink again. When next will we three meet --thy cart and thee and my poor polluted streams?  (4)

(my previous sobriety date - 11/17/98; my current 02/15/17)

1. Burlesque has become the go-to for female performance art and cultural/body/image reappropriation - in xase you didn't know - Most larger cities have at least one tucked-away venue, even if it just hosts a show once every week, like at some cabaret-style club.  
2. She did it with boyfriend Burno Forzani- but her presence is more keenly felt as its a woman story
3. I didn't actually get more than 1/4 the way into BY THE SEA, and felt the same way about LAST YEAR IN MARIENBAD, a film I can only see in one 10 minute dose every three years. Maybe when it's all finally seen, I can forget.
4. My initial hour or whatever in the waiting area of ER was a century of Hell- watching the faces cohere in Pollock-level drop deep through the pattern left by the hot floor waxer that had just been by --leaving too much damp heat emanating upwards. And feeling the emanating waves of slow opiate (or crack) withdrawal emanating from this junkie chick and her sketchy arm support. Now I know what Hell smells like. Shipmates, the smell of hot floor wax has burned deep into the soft spots of my soul, leaving permanent stains that alternate between a ghostly image of Veronica Lake beckoning to me from the deep, as if the floor wax pattern on the tile was the shimmer on the surface of the ocean; my carry-on bag had my Kindle Fire with the voices of Fred Allen and Portland, talking to a ribbon of electric razors, emanating from it --the laughter of their audience activating the paranoia of my fellow ER-mates. The main thing from my alcohol withdrawal, which is why I had to go to the ER, I was too fucked up to get more alcohol to stop my horrible withdrawal / DTs. Most of the last few days I was lying in bed in delusional misery remembering lines from HIGH SOCIETY, which I'd been watching over and over in my drunken excess-tasy - Sinatra blurring "she got pinched in the ASS--ter Bar" (From his duet with Bing, "Yes Indeedy") over and over like a broken record, for hour after hour) after hour) She was Stoned - Frank says, of the girl pinched in the ass / ter bar. Ass-Ter BAR. So now I know - when your hangover gets worse and worse the longer you go without a drink (rather than say clearing up by the evening), that's alcoholism! 
6. My seeing red over random insertions of some kind of overriding pimp to devouring females is well-documented, it was a huge turn-off in both VAMPIRE LOVERS and UNDER THE SKIN, among others (VAMPYRES to its immense credit lacks one, as does--sort of--DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS). It seems to be this fear so deep-seated within the masculine psyche evokes a knee-jerk response for the intermediary (see my 2009 anti-salute to them: "Pimps: the Devil's Subjects")

Why don't we just Go Ask Alice? 
Alice 2.2 - The Looking Glass Dolls
The Ancient She-Shaman and her Shrooming Exhumer: SZAMANKA 
A Star-Spangled Salute to America's most Acidemic-Cinematic Women (7/4/10)
13 Best or Weirdest Occult/Witch movies on the Amazon Prime.
Desperation and Divinity (Help us, Mae!) BL 09


  1. I've long been an admirer, Mr. Kuersten. We've never met, but I've been a reader here for almost a decade and feel as if I know you a bit. You are one of the most honest, original, generous, and brave writers I've ever had the pleasure to read. I am one of the those who watch in awe, from afar, never commenting here, until now. We love you, Erich. We appreciate you. Please be well.

  2. Thank you - I love you too, oh anonymous long-time reader. It means a lot to hear this, especially at this particular moment. Be well.

  3. Excellent article! I just have one small criticism - the painting "The Rose Bower" that you have noted as being by JW Waterhouse was actually painted by Edward Burne-Jones... That being said - your writing is very erudite! I salute you!

    1. Whoa thanx Dax your totally right - some of them it's hard to tell and I'm a huge fan of both. I'm fixin' it


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