But God almighty, this is some unpleasant shenanigans, is what. Crumb himself laughs as his brother relates several botched suicide attempts, but you get the feeling the laughter is something of a defence mechanism. Like he might scream and plunge headfirst into an abyss of dementia if he ever for a second gave this shit a moment's serious consideration.
By the films close, Crumb has swapped a suitcase filled with his old sketchbooks for a house in France, a move seemingly prompted by his wife. As he heads off and the screen fades to black, we get a chance to reflect on just what in the hell we might have learned over these past couple hours.
We now know that Crumb uses his own drawings as masturbatory aids. I mean, I gotta be serious, I think some of that shit what The Duke wrote concerning GG Allin was fairly exceptional, but I don't think I ever got a stiffy on account of it.
We also know that when he draws the sexing portions of his twisted narratives, he gets rather excited. We know that the three Crumb brothers are every one prodigiously talented, and that the father refused to speak to Robert after finally seeing one of his creations.
We know we've just seen something pretty motherfucking special, and that it's probably time for take a shower and so on.
Robert Crumb apparently hated the film, and it's not hard to see why. But there's nothing twisted out of proportion, there isn't even a voiceover. Whatever there is to dislike, surely he has only himself to blame.
It's no big surprise, really. It's pretty obvious he hates himself as much as everyone else, and Terry Zwigoff's film is probably the most accurate, incisive portrait of the fella as anyone will ever be brave enough to present.
The fact that the subject hates it is, probably, the greatest recommendation there could be. Excepting the one by The Duke, who recommends it like the wolf, motherfucker.
Thanks folks.
The Duke resides at Mondo Irlando
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