Few months ago I heard of this motion flick goes by the name of Twentynine Palms, French number about a couple driving round the Joshua Tree desert in L.A, seems to be a fairly intense affair, all filthing and murder, an "experimental horror film" according to director Bruno Dumont, fella behind 1997's La Vie de Jésus and 99's L'Humanité.
I hear tell of heavy atmospherics and heavier skull-bashery, hear critics tearing chunks out each others eye-holes;
"It's a fucking masterpiece!"
"It's an abomination! It bored me out my prostate!"
"It's about The War!"
"It's about 110 Minutes Too Long!"
These sortsa hollers cross the broadsheets.
And The Duke knee-deep in Crisis. Where the hell can I see this damn thing, anyhow?
Maybe at the Queens Film Theater in Belfast, is what I pondered, but holy shit, it'd have to be a damn work of unsurpassed wonder for to justify that kinda excursion, for to run the risk of being trapped among a buncha Buckfast-soaked students from picture's end till the train sets off at dawn.
But still the niggling, on account of I really fucking wanted to see it, and why, a whole hosta reasons, but primarily something about how The French know a thing or two about the horror flicks these days.
On account of folks like Gasper Noé and Marina de Van and Catherine Breillat stalking the screens, hell-bent on tearing guts out the yaps with the kinda brutality and unblinking fascination with Human Torment ain't nobody seen since back in 1983 when, insiders say, Marlon Brando allegedly went all kindsa demented in downtown Venice, a torture spree lasting ninety-two hours straight, and all because of something involving The Russians.
So the point of it all is that I didn't get to see it in the cinema-theater, but who needs to worry about anything of the sort, since it's now available on DVD, and so yeah, sitting down with this picture concerning the town of Twentynine Palms, this meditative, contradictory flick all about the savagery a man's capable of, given the right series a shoves.
The kinda shoves that led Dustin Hoffman to blow the fuck out feet left and right in Straw Dogs, aye. The kinda shoves that had Burt Reynolds and friends getting all revengeful of the senses back in Deliverance. The kinda shoves that got Vincent Cassel and pal crushing skulls with a fire extinguisher in Irreversible. The kinda shoves, I say, that led to Camille Keaton slicing a man's filth-limb from his flesh in I Spit On Your Grave.
And all those shoves, they all reek of sexual violation, and so too the shoves in Twentynine Palms, but this is a different sorta hell-broth entirely.