Pax Analog’s Weblog

Or effin’ hi-def. It’s come of age.

French director Catherine Breillat used Italian porn stallion Rocco Siffredi in Anatomy of Hell and Romance, “real” Euro-indie film spilling over, so to speak into XXX-world.

Baise-Moi (Rape Me) is a notorious French chick-vengeance flick with explicit hardcore sex.

The violent sex was simulated in the notorious rape scene of Gaspar Noe’s Irreversible, but the psychic scorch remains etched in memory, cinematic no-holds-barred attraction/revulsion to ass-rape/beating of Monica Belluci, an iconic beauty who then extends her martyred erotic aura into boilerplate cyber-gnosis, in The Matrix Reloaded. 

Then there’s Nagisa Oshima’s explicit take on an obsessive true sex story, In the Realm of the Senses, of which Madonna blurbed: “It turns me on because it’s real.”

Or Michael Winterbottom’s 9 Songs — not because it quite cuts it, in its odd clinical explicitness, but because any hardcore alt poet would want to do it over again, the mix of fucking and alt rock, and a better-realized narrative enhancement, of a better-realized sexual enactment and relationship. The actress, Margo Stilley, is stuck between the gonzo of the porn star, and the “stretched parameters” of a “serious actress.” Hence, the middling girl gone mild vibe of a sex instruction DVD. Kieran O’Brien coolly lends his uncut tool to the uncut proceedings.

I viewed 9 Songs again, and found the rock bands wanting as well. Un-sexy explicit sex; non-rocking alt bands. Hazards of “art.”

By the way, did Chloe Sevigny swallow Vincent Gallo’s jizz in The Brown Bunny?

I just reviewed Upload, from the award-winning XXX side of the fence, and it was built on a cyberpunk boilerplate, with optional add-ons, sex-scene-wise. It has more story sinew than the above-mentioned “real movies” tho’ there is still more subtlety up close, the poetic inside with the real reels.

Personally, I would be intrigued to see Gaspar Noe’s psychic intensity fused to Eli Cross’s cerebral porn intensity. Recalibrate the violence. Hammer out new boilerplate out of artcore thriller, gonzo XXX, smart genre grit. I suppose it might take a mix of porn muscle and indie film nuance to upgrade from both camps, since I think there is still plenty of room for creative evolution in the examination of implicit and explicit intimacies.

Greg Dark crossed from porn to B-thrillers. I’ll have to check that out. Then one thinks: why does there have to be “cross-over”? What if one were into AdultAdult expression, meaning the compartmentalization of formats is just an antique convenience, not an indication of what something actually is, if that thing is freely intelligent in design enough.

Well at least one can artcore hardcore from either indie or porn camp. Probably the difference is in calibrations: less sex, more emotive nuance; more sex, less emotive nuance — tho’ the genre-bust is in the full execution.

Retool Winterbottom’s 9 Songs to mood check with Chris Marker’s Le Jetee, then pulp-pound it back out through Cross’s howling assfuck dungeon.

What’s truly intriguing is exploring the spectrum of Zen awareness, Romantic embrace, Dom/sub edges intensified to shamanic overdrive, paranormal OBEs, transcendent awe.

Like, what’s the view from Planet_X? What if raw fucking retained its power while being a trope for other psycho-spiritual-societal explorations? Gives “fuckit” priority shifts a new meaning.

Get the butter, for The Last Fandango in Cairo.

Gutfuck, heartfuck, mindfuck. Rated XYZ. XYZ-factor is WHO or WHAT is fucking. Shapeshifters.

Libidinal mystery. New spontaneous rituals. Oblivion fuck tours. Sweetly shocked chakras spinning.

Here’s a spontaneous riff in the spirit of Kathy Acker: Tho’ she had a PhD in comparative lit, she insisted her only resume was deep-throating 9″ post-gag reflex on psilocybin, spanking her clit, and twirling her tongue in the trails of spermatozoon on fire. She served the roaring sky god swallowing, yes, but her throat owned the joystick of  military history. That made her Queen of All Embodiment.

Next: pornosophic avant pop lit via Kathy Acker, Mark Amerika, et al? James Ellroy’s smutty alliteration? Roland Barthes’ The Pleasure of the Text?