Unconscious Contact: COMMUNION (1989)

If, as Lao Tzu wrote, "without looking out of their window / one can know the ways of heaven" what if the reverse is also true: without leaving heaven, 'they' can look through our window / and know all things on Earth? Maybe it's true that "the farther one travels / the less one knows." Maybe. And perhaps it's no coincidence that the coming apocalypse of 2012 (note to future ed: if 2012 passes uneventfully, don't remove this sentence) marks the 25th anniversary of the publication of Communion, Whitley Strieber's groundbreaking true story novel about his own experiences as an alien abductee. 25 years is a long time. Back then was waaaay before the prevalence of the subject on today's TV cable and internet. There's no sign of it slowing down! But in 1987, our political science major girlfriends called us crackpots just for reading... COMMUNION.

It's not that before Communion there were no such thing as aliens, at least as far as we in 80s suburbia knew, just that there 'real' only in obscure out-of-print 70s paperbacks and Sunn-Schick documentaries full of dodgy pics (mostly cave paintings), unreliable witnesses and flowery tripper double talk. Strieber brought the 20th-century reality of alien abduction into the popular consciousness and, as a fiction writer first and an abductee second, he brought vivid intensity to the 'fictional' or cover memory aspect of the experience. He made the madness of cover memories-- and the traumatizing glimpses of the alien truth behind them-- so tangible it felt like the content of the Stephen King beach read in our laps was leaking down and pooling in our crotches--and it was icy. It froze us from the inside out. To paraphrase Rosemary Woodhouse, is this shit no dream but really happening!?!

That's the wrong phrasing of the question; our need to separate reality and dream may be something 'they' evolved past centuries ago. To reckon properly with Strieber's book, our conception of truth, of reality, of conscious vs. unconscious perception, had to change. We needed to smarten up, to extract ourselves like a clump of hair from the delusional pool filter of Earth's pedestrian orbit. Was that why psychedelics were given to our forefathers in the first place? 

While some abductees say that the 'greys' are living breathing beings, Streiber has always felt they were more like robotic, insectoid puppets usually controlled by some taller single being (or even via remote control, like advanced biomorphic version of Martian land rovers). In the 1989 film adaptation ('highly' recommended albeit not very good) these aliens appear as toys, goblins, balloons, masks within masks, to the point it sometimes frustrating and seems like the filmmaker is taking some free-reign liberties with the source material. But hey--can this oblique crab walk through Medusa's garden be done any other way without going stone blind?  

Even Christopher Walken makes Strieber into a man who doesn't believe his own eyes half the time. As Whit's suconscious starts jerking him around and off the deep end, Walken lets us see the way his patented 'Walken jive' may itself a cover for his own personal/actorly anxiety. The highlight is his triumphant face-to-face/s meeting with the alien intelligence behind all his experiences, a being who chooses to appear to him as--alternately-- a grey, an alien lizard behind a grey mask, and Walken himself (in black eye liner and tux, so we can tell them apart). He's so terrifying and on-point as the alien that you feel the immensity of what's going on and understand why the military keeps it all secret, and why the aliens wipe the encounters from our memory, and why both military and aliens keep the door to the truth unlocked, while slathering the hanle in obfuscation, disinformation, and self-reflexive trickery bear-grease: we may get a glimpse through the crack, some truth folded in with cover memory, but we just.... can't.... get a grip to open wide. 

Hopefully, it's all for a reason, the gradual widening of the human conscious circumference for when the aliens do make themselves known.... in full....

But in going off-topic with the weird cover memories, the film wanders into its own form of disinformation.  The aliens can appears as people either known by the subject or the subject himself, or inanimate objects. Can we even see the aliens as they truly are with our puny earth-made eyes? Communion (and the Jodie Foster movie Contact) think the answer is a profound "no," so they give us replicas and masks to help us cope, the way we might give a dog a rabbit-sized chew toy rather than let him hunt real rabbits that might be rabid. These beings may be part of a reality so far out humanity's ken they can only be gazed it indirectly, like Medusa in a foggy pocket mirror, and that's perhaps why there is no tangible 'evidence' for direct non-classified perusal. The aliens don't want us to see them, and it's as easy for them to avoid leaving evidence of their visit as it is for a scientific expedition to pick up their trash on their way home from the Savannah. They take only tissue samples and leave only transceiver implants (or ear tags).

Below is a slice of the climactic dialog between Streiber and the alien intelligence, which elaborates on this:

Alien / Walken (to Whitley / Walken): I'd like to say a few things. First I'd like to say 'season's greetings'. Then I'd like to say 'keep your hands on the table at all times.' Heh?

Whitley / Walken (to Alien/Walken):  Boo!...Boo. I wanna go home. I'd like to go home. You've broken my mind! I'm gonna kill you. Can we talk this over? I can't wake up. I am the dreamer. You are the dream.

Alien / Walken (to Whitley / Walken): Look. The only thing that really matters here is what I am about to show you.

(The gray alien's face cracks open; it turns out to be a mask with a reptilian face underneath.)

Streiber/Walken: (staring at the face) "That's... not it. I didn't come all this way... for you to tell me that's that what it is. Is there something under that, because I don't believe that one... It's like a box, a Chinese box... You open it, there's another one inside and another one inside and another one inside...(pause, realization) You're not gonna let me see you, are you?"

Alien/Walken: It is just like a Chinese box and you're not going to be allowed to see. Okay? Just to make that clear.

Streiber/Walken: You are not gonna let us see you... That's a good idea.

Walken is talking to himself inside a spaceship near his upstate NY vacation home, but the other self is a version of himself as a razzmatazz Walken alien, wearing eye-liner who presumably is an alien intelligence talking to him in the form of yet another mask, mimicking or repeating all the 'real Whitley' is saying --or has said previously--or would like to say in the moment ("you've broken my mind!"). It becomes difficult to tell which version of him is really the dreamer and which the dreamed and I think that's no accident of bad editing, but rather a point about aliens that is impossible to make in any 'clearer' way. 

The first clear message seems to be that "season's greetings" part: Walken's kinetic hustler delivery brings out the surrealist edges in all their warped definition. I remember not really liking the film too much when I rented it, drunk, a decade or so ago, but it works much better a second time after I've done a lot more research into the issue, because it plays more as a meditation on the trickster nature of the UFO abduction phenomenon rather than a straight horror story like The Fourth Kind (see my 2010 article "Take us to Your Benzos"). It's this trickster / Schrodinger's Cat mythic unknown factor that appeals to me: the importance of having living myths in our culture - conspiracy theories keep humanity sane in the face of this self-splitting equivalent of what the primal scene is to small children --a kind of too much/too soon that needs mythic grounding ("mom and dad were just wrestling') to stop total psychic disintegration. We can examine the alien issue all we want, as long as we don't get our hands on some 'smoking gun' piece of evidence. And even if we do, even if we have such things (and we do, if you care to look at the recovered implants and handprints), we're spared the terrible certainty of this larger truth. We revolve around the gravitational field of some larger evolutionary issue the way curious first graders revolve around the issue of sex. They can ask mom all they want about it (as I used to do) and her duty to her child's healthy development is to neither tell them the truth nor punish them for asking. This nagging question underwrites every child's wonder and pursuit of unknown knowledge. Not telling them the truth keeps them growing and guessing and following clues, letting them ask and kind of encouraging their exploration around the issue, keeps your society growing (when children aren't allowed to ask, your culutre shortly becomes flash-frozen, and--in a few short generations--is like the Amish or Hassidic community or some fringe cult. 

Chris/t Before the Pollock: Worlds within worlds, or just a goddamn mess?

In this way, Communion's use of obvious masks, phoniness and Bugs Bunny-ism is spookily admirable and correct. Instead of a gleaming white light round room, for example, the abductions occur in what looks like an abandoned psych ward hydrotherapy room equipped with that old flood light and fog machine. And why not? If that's what the budget and unconscious of the abductee will allow, let it be so. I also think of the opening scene of Kubrick's Lolita, with Sellers as Quilty trying to spin the situation with murderous Mason into something more cartoonish and hip, and slowly giving in to dread as the previous night's liquor wears off and his evasion tactics fail, one after the other. In Communion's case though, which Strieber is Quilty, and which is Humbert?

If you guessed Strieber is Quilty, you're wrong. If you guessed Strieber is Quilty, you're right. 

Genuine menace, or just another left-over party guest eccentric?

So-- where is the line between hallucination / cover memory and the 'real'? How much of the Whitley Streiber story is "true" in a concrete sense vs. the bleeding of dream reality into the real via a hyperactive pineal gland? What's more real, the top of Mount Everest or the bottom of the deepest part of the ocean? You've never been to either, so what the hell do you know about it? You don't. Only mountain climbing deep sea divers know, and the result is they get the bends. If the rest of us confuse our TV nature show viewings with direct experience of the natural world, why not the reverse? Perhaps our dream lives are the real reality, the only one any self-respecting alien wants to log into. Do sharks dream of being on dry land? Might not aliens look at our waking life the same way we look at the shark's ocean floor? A nice place to scuba dive, but if we want to do some serious marine biology investigation on a shark we have to hoist them onto the boat, as briefly as possible to not suffocate or traumatize them, do some scooped flesh samples, a swab of their cloaca, then tag their dorsal fin and put them back in the water.... which as far as the shark is concerned is like being pulled by aliens into a dream world, the one they get only a glimpse of when they breach the veil to sneak attack seals.

A shark--in sleep paralysis mode--dreaming about small alien bipeds.

The real life Streiber had already written a book made into a movie starring Albert Finney, Wolfen, before being conscious of his alien visitations. And that begs the question: did he write horror because his unconscious knew things his consciousness didn't? As I write this I can feel an alien intelligence looming over my shoulder, but my unconscious could easily be just fucking around and pretending to be an alien intelligence looming over my shoulder. So is the drive to write a way to create a 'cover memory' even as our unconscious-- knowing the whole terrifying truth --only spoon feeds us little tastes of what is really out there/inside us? What if our entire time-space imprisoned notion of three-dimensional truth is just a cover memory for the far ghastlier truth of our multiverse's terrible, inescapable, irreducible` 'eternal now' omnipresence? Is the alien abduction somehow less an intrusion into our reality than a removal of illusion? Do aliens manipulate time as well as space? If so they may abduct a human for years all while he's sleeping or meditating for only a few minutes in our time. And what's the difference between, say, an alien probe scar on the back of one's neck and the sudden manifestation of the stigmata, or the way people die for real when they die in The Matrix?

Can the alien abduction phenomena be separated from their unconscious correlation, and why would we assume an alien would think our conscious mind was the 'real' mind to visit? Why wouldn't an alien prefer to make unconscious contact rather than the conscious variety. My unconscious is far more literate and witty than my conscious one - I'm sure it's a lot better company. How else could it blow my mind every night with crazy dreams? When I try to get involved with my unconscious mind's creative process, my tongue ties almost instantly but if I just get out of my own way, as you may have noticed, I'm a goddamned genius (or rather my unconscious is). I'm its agent/editor, trying to translate its rantings, clipping the more negative tirades and encouraging the poesy, but I can't control the actual ideas and flow (and the negative tirades are all conscious ego in disguise). Surely that unconscious connection is even more true of Walken, who has a rare gift wherein every line he speaks sounds like it's coming straight from his unconscious rather than a script, even when he is clearly reading from cue cards (as on his many SNL appearances).

So while his hipster affectations in this film may bug 'serious' UFO scholars, I think Walken is ideally cast. No one else could so gamely tread the edge of a straight razor, like a dosed Marx Brother, to convey the realization that all the things that happened in his childhood didn't 'happen' but are still happening, now, right in the hypnotist's office, that the African figures on the mantle (below) are simultaneously the greys standing in the distance watching him do the herky-jerky in the grungy space ship. (Look close in the right quadrant of the second picture down).

Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but in my own astral travels I've experienced the 'synchronized' reality effect wherein an alien, if it wishes to appear in your room while you're sleeping, would first sneak into your subconscious and influence you to buy a bunch of primitive statues for your nightstand, so it could, in a sense, materialize through your perceptions of an equivalent totem, using the statue as a focus, a stand-in, the way we can use a mirror to comb our hair. You have to ask yourself - why do we want statues of human figures, figurines, representatives of bipedal life forms, scattered around our homes and yards? What purpose do they serve? The answer is a profound this: if the beings incorporate themselves into 3D spacetime via astral projection and corporeal form invasion, what better way to launch monitoring agents into our reality than inspiring us to make humanoid/android forms compatible with their projected energies, so they can beam their intelligence across space into them. If you take our technology for the rover (or say a drone) and mix it with robotic replacement appendage evolution along the lines of Surrogates and there you are, an answer to the extraterrestrial travel argument even Carl Sagan could understand.

While there has been mention in alien abduction lore about cover memories, outside the surrealist movement or David Lynch I can't think of a single 'fact-based' film other than Communion that actually dares to address the line between dreams and reality so head on. It's through these intentionally bizarre creatures, masks, show biz parodies, and roll reversal instances that Communion really comes alive. If you can imagine Christopher Walken playing all the non-dwarf roles in a sequel to Phantasm directed by Dario Argento, Communion is your nightmare. One crazy moment finds Walken investigating strange noises at night, looking in a closet and finding this bug-eyed teddy bear.

It's never spelled out, but there's something not quite right about what that bug eyed bear is doing there, or if it would still be there in the morning or would paralyze him with a nerve wand if he tried to touch it. That's pretty Argento-Phantasm-level stuff. The childhood object you see might in fact be something else in disguise. How else would you know unless you touched it, at which point it would be too late for you to escape it?

Arguments against the validity of alien abduction hinge a lot on the nature of hallucinations, sleep paralysis, and vivid dreaming, but neither the skeptic nor the believer sees the whole picture, the way it's perceived by actual abductees or string theory physicists, or those of us who have truly hallucinated or understood the full terrifying breadth of Jung's collective unconsciousness. The truth is this: both arguments--mere mirage/illusion and 'more real' than reality-- are terrifyingly correct. Dreams are as real as anything else and our five senses are just feelers into the physical realm. We have a whole other feeler, the third eye, which we've been conditioned to ignore by mainstream science, but which also 'hears' and 'feels' and 'sees' in a whole separate way from the external senses, even more vividly.... at times.

This third eye is actually the projected energy of the pineal gland, located in the center of the brain, and it can be felt burning a hole in the middle of your forehead if for example, you drink too much Robitussin or have activated your Kundalini through deep chakra work (or like me, both at the same time :). The pineal gland is where the soul allegedly enters the body on the 22nd day after conception (it's the pine cone the Anunaki are inserting into man's forehead in those old Sumerian etchings... and it's where I would enter if I was an alien on the outside looking in, like someone hacking our cell phone. Who cares if another soul is already in there? You're just passing through. Your unconscious is probably much more welcoming of these spirits than you 'consciously' know. You could be a galactic ambassador while asleep, even if during the day you're just a Bellevue psychiatric ward acid casualty.

Let this idea in and feel the terror of the awful realization of alien immediacy-- its presence beyond its status as real or illusion, its presence in all aspects of our lives, our past, present, future--feel how it brings with it a vivid understanding that everything is connected to everything else on every level--so you can visit the other side of your hand on Mars in 1937 and find your watch inside a Chinese box found on the bottom of the ocean unopened since the Ming Dynasty, and find your grandfather alive in the microscopic villages along the ear hair of your grandson. And the sun is just a reflection of your iris. And without looking out of your door you can know all things on earth and even if you never look farther than your own backyard maybe one day you'll notice that the very farthest reaches of outer space are right at your fingertips and the vacation you will take this summer is being remembered right now in the bathroom you just walked out of twenty years from now.

And the cares of tomorrow / must wait / til this day is done.

 But how do you define a day when you have no Earth to spin?

You guessed, but you done guessed right.

Let the idea of a day as unit of time go....Know that it was only ever just a way to partition the darkness, just a trick to not go insane from the sheer screaming nowness of our psych ward clin.... Shhh, here comes the nurse, I mean muse.

Sprays of Heaven: IN THE DUST OF THE STARS (1976)

"Help means so much more than giving you weapons." 

What happens when a peaceful rocket full of sexy East Germans are lured to a western colonized planet and are subject to drugs (the red spray is "spicy" while the blue spray is "sweet"), erotic dancing and orgiastic staring contests?  Das ist die frage in Gottfried Kolditz's colorful, cool and just plain weird film, 1976's IN THE DUST OF THE STARS (Im Staub der Sterne). Classy is the word I use to describe this crew, four women and two older guys, well-dressed and even-tempered. Nice hair.

Answering a distress signal, this East German rocketship (from the planet Cynro) emergency lands and is greeted first by a woman dressed like Pocahontas driving a combination school bus-railroad handcar who comes rumbling up to the ship in welcome like she's Robby the Robot in FORBIDDEN PLANET. Suko stays behind to spy while the rest ride over to the club to sit on divans and catch snide insults from the local bosses. Someone wants this spaceship to go home, but first, why not invite them to the party? Pocahontas comes by later with prismatic plastic fantastic invitations for each of them.

The "boss" of the planet is a fey German artiste who gets his hair painted blue and is forced to play with lite-brite and a keyboard that controls a disco dance floor full of pythons and gel-lit frauleinen. Don Draper this guy ain't. And let me tell you, his army sucks. Mostly the battles consist in a lot of standing around, working up the nerve to bust a cap, like a high school dance in Hell. These cavorting hedonists never speak, but spend most of their time spraying drugs of one color or another into their mouths, brainwashing nosy visitors with pen flashlights and doing licentious dances. The costumes aren't up to Mario Bava PLANET OF THE VAMPIRE standards but nonetheless pretty fetching, with an uncanny resemblance to UN peacekeepers. And it's nice that they change clothes about five times a day and stay color coordinated with each other, as if through telepathic EFSP (Extra-Fashion-Sense Perception). The patterns and styles are elegant and mod without being tacky or cumbersome, and they go well with the natural blonde shag haircuts of the majority of the crew. Jana Brejchová is the hottie commander (at right). She was once married to Milos Foreman!

In a way, DUST OF THE STARS is the perfect Iron Curtain counterpart to the American space fantasia of 50's sci fi films, ala: CAT WOMEN OF THE MOON/MISSILE TO THE MOON/QUEEN OF OUTER SPACE and THREE STOOGES IN OUTER SPACE, wherein dopey male astronauts land on a planets run by space women with a hankering for new blood... in their lineage and on their mandibles. In DUST there seems to be mainly dudes on the planet, at least with speaking roles (aside from Pocahontas) and the men are in weird Studio 54-esque "boytoy" attire, all ready to offer a hit of primo "spray" to any crew member with an open nostril, er, I mean mouth. And the girls in the crew are the ones who call the shots! The two men on the crew are clearly both well-laid and mildly emasculated... a perfect Euro combination that Americans can only sneer at in envy. Both Paul Lind and Mae West would have loved them!

Kind of like HELL HOUSE (the Halloween 'haunted house' wherein Christian kids finally get to dance, pretend to do drugs and worship Satan in their own way), the licentious dancing and spraying of the aliens here presumably was acceptable to the East German censors because it was negatively depicted as a trap-- set by Decadent Western Imperialist aliens--to ensnare good honest Communists.

The parties these aliens throw are awesome, but for my money nothing can beat the black tights beatnik bar modern expressionist dancing of CAT WOMEN OF THE MOON. Man, those girls just nailed it! And though one of the two men on the Cynro crew is pretty smart (usually in these films, only one paranoid crew member smells danger while the others consider him a buzzkill), the commander is a woman--and competent! Navigating her sometimes overly compassionate female emotions with the same objective grappling of, say, Kirk on STAR TREK grappling with his shoot-from-the-hip egotism, and between all of the crew is a sexually relaxed vibe (they sleep with each other and make no big deal of it? Man, those East Germans!). My favorite is the girl at lower left; what a magnificently sensual pout!

I think her name is Miu. She's played by Regine Heintze, and I love her. Also, I love the offhand way that the film's sexuality and lovely female forms are displayed without any leering and/or slavering. It's like the characters in this film actually have sex rather than just winking and drooling and then finally having one chaste kiss like they're David Manners at an ice cream social. In DUST, they just do it and forget about it. The Germans have no patience for lovelorn leering! Stand straight! Are you slouching?! Achtung!

I am grateful to Netflix for having this film on instant stream and thus indirectly introducing me to the wonderful site known as Teleport City ("Bringing you yesterday's tomorrow... today!"). I love what their writer says about the loose nature of the crew (remember this was the 70s, pre-AIDS awareness, when sex wasn't a four letter word):

Now, in addition to their refreshing gender make-up, there are other things about the Cynro crew, only subtly hinted at for the most part, that make them just a little different from what you'd normally expect from the militarily-ranked team manning your average movie starship. I think, also, that these things are meant to suggest the way things roll back on Cynro. For one thing, this gang is just a tad more touchy-feely with one another than the behavior of those serving aboard the Enterprise and its like have accustomed us to. Secondly, Suko, as a not-all-that-in-shape middle aged guy with thinning hair, clearly has the arrangement to beat onboard the vessel, as he seems to be the boy toy of at least two of the female crew members, including the Captain and her blond colleague Miu. Miu, for her part, also might have a thing for the ladies, as one later scene seems to suggest. While all of this implied hanky-panky provides the opportunity for a bit of casual nudity and light petting between the cast members, it's all presented very matter-of-factly, with none of the exploitational hubba hubba you might expect. Wham Bam Thank You Spaceman this is not -- and the tone seems to suggest that the egalitarian ethos observed on this lots' home planet extends to everyone getting an equal piece, not just of the proverbial pie, but of each other, as well.

Now I don't know about you, space neighbors, but that seems pretty cool to me. If the wall hadn't come down, I might be tempted to hurtle it. I would disagree with Teleport City about the score (they don't like it). Yes, it's a bedroom-ish low fi casio-guitar soundtrack, but it's superb in its monochromatic moodiness; it's low-fi shoegaze twenty years ahead of schedule and as such is 100 times better than those super-slick-hyper-cliched Danny Elfman orchestral/children's choir cues that have been deadening so many big budget sci fi and fantasy films here in the states in the last 20 years.

Similarly ahead of his time is the fey "boss" of the bad guys, a prancing Caligula-wannabe who parties with snakes and likes to change his hair color to match his mercurial mood. He could be knocking back drinks with any 1990s Manhattan loungecore crowd and everyone would assume he's in advertising -- but it's still only 1979 and he's a Communist playing a decadent Colonialist oppressor. And we think those East Germans were behind the times? In 1979 they were partying like it's 1997, which is to say, hard and unsmilingly.

In typical Communist fashion, the action break-out finale looks more like a labor strike than a shootout, replete with hundreds of confused, identically-dressed male extras hacking at rocks, locking arms and shuffling around in nonviolent protest. No one seems very militarily coordinated on this planet, with opposing armies running to and fro like herds of awkward antelope, but they look good, specimen-wise. Boasting a mix of modular architecture and muddy grassland roughly parallel to Gene Roddenberry's TV special futurescapes of the era, the film earns extra points for the natural and uncanny weirdness of East German design and the refreshing lack of western sexism. Not once does any male say anything condescending or object to a woman in charge. And our director manages to make the women all seem both vulnerable and strong, smart and gullible, i.e. like anyone else -- all while never missing a chance to show some sexy thighs (below left).

Much more bizarre in terms of sci fi plots is the moral quandary the crew faces: If they intervene on behalf of the oppressed workers of the planet then they'll have to stay around like a peacekeeping delegation and will probably get involved in an interplanetary war; if they just leave then they've turned their back on a people in need. This quantry makes a good modern parable for a UN peacekeeping mission in Rwanda, Liberia or Darfur--or the reason, for example, that George Bush Sr. was too smart to invade Iraq ("no exit strategy").  By the same token, the conquering Tem people know they can't kill or attack the visiting ship directly if they want to avoid an "inter-galactic incident," but the miners are all fair game, used as human shields, slave labor and so forth --again, just like real life!

Another perhaps more controversial analogy is with modern UFO philosophy--i.e. the notion that we're (as in earthlings) under the rule of trans-dimensional aliens who harvest our genetically modified souls and have worked their way into the fabric of all levels of social leadership. The space travelers tell the enslaved Tekk: "We can't build a force field around your planet so you can develop undisturbed like we would like"-- a lament very similar to UN policy toward underdeveloped nations undergoing exploitation by slick multi-nationals, or the way grays try not to disrupt our evolution even as they tinker with our DNA on the sidelines.

Whoa! Don't think I'm crazy. I've just been reading Nigel Kerner's new book all weekend. It's not that I 100% believe we're a soul farm stud on Orion's Belt, but if we in the First World can't/won't imagine there might be some extraterrestrial race for whom we're a Third World primitive society in the midst of being exploited (we learned Colonialism from somewhere) maybe we deserve all we get, or may have already gotten. Plus, our East German rocket comrades bear more than passing resemblance to the "blonde" aliens sometimes seen cruising around in saucers or European dance clubs.You will now please erase this nonsense from your mind. Alles ist schone. Alles ist schone...

Due to budget or obscure Communist censorship laws we don't see too much violence or special effects; most of the attacks are offscreen (we hear about them on the ship's radio). The big climax just involves one "important" death, which causes "the Boss" to smash his orbs, if you know what I mean. On both sides of the squabble there's a remarkably etched-in sense of collective teamwork, decision making and leadership skills. But hey, we don't have to see scenes just because the rickety sci fi framework plot requires them;  we've seen it all before -- fill in your own blanks, let your tongue feel the spray, and dig those astro-boots (right).

In the end, DUST says more about Communist fantasies of western decadence, Binaca-style spray drugs and open-sexuality than a whole festival of Amerikanische schweinhunde filmen ever could. Most devastating is the implication that the need to get high and exploit nude bodies is perhaps just a Capitalist-conditioned response to the repression and misery instilled by our Puritan forefathers. These East Germans don't need to do all that because they just have casual sex with each other, wear cool clothes, and forget about it. With a crew of beautiful, healthy German women to give your aching head a maternal massage as needed-- and/or dance while you eat breakfast, maybe you'd be just fine as a cog in the people's machine. After all, what else are you exploiting the workers and getting high for, anyway?