#7: Sex: The Annabel Chong Story (Lewis, 1999)

Sex: The Annabel Chong Story (2008)

"Gentlemen, we found a vibrating brass cock ring buried inside Mrs. Chong. Please pick it up later today at 'lost and found.'"

Sex: The Annabel Chong Story is a documentary chronicling a woman’s attempt to fuck 300 men in one day of work. Annabel will inevitably be transformed from a giddy young porn starlet into a confused and insecure mess—and I simply do not care. She is tragic figure, sure, but her manically insipid dishonesty fails to generate in every scene.

Grover Cleveland may have once said, “Even lifeless documentaries are worth watching if they impart wisdom.” The Annabel Chong Story taught me that the University of Southern California is actually a pretty good place to meet sex workers, but I’m not sure if that’s what Old Grover meant.

I honestly wonder why Sex was ever made. Should I be impressed by Annabel’s attitude or accomplishments? (I’m not.) Moved by her relationship with conservative family? (I wasn’t.) Sickened by what we see of the porn industry when the curtain is pulled back? (I am, but certainly there are six million better ways to tell that story.)

Maybe Annabel and her friends are simply so intriguing as subjects, cameras can’t help but film their every movement (including movements from the toilet). However, Annabel’s trumped-up neuroses and predictable responses (“If I got AIDS from the whole thing, I’m not going to regret it. I had the experience. I lived.”) are boring and the other characters are worse.

And that’s a problem since Sex strives to be shocking above all else (e.g. one interviewee who never mentions Annabel is clearly kept in the film so he can say, “Why can’t you pay someone to suck your dick? Why is that wrong?”). Maybe this footage was riveting in 1999. I doubt it, but I don’t know. In today’s world, where you can’t throw a pretzel without hitting three people who have seen 2 Girls 1 Cup*, we aren’t shocked very easily.

A little research uncovers that director Gough Lewis dated Annabel throughout most of the project. The woman he cares for decides to fuck 300 other men and his reaction is “let’s film it!” What the hell? I would have rather have seen a documentary about him.

Instead we watch Annabel stumble over her own words and are asked to seriously consider her career path as a legitimate interpretation of feminism. Worse yet, the documentary is planned and executed terribly.

The editing is either sloppy or dishonest; we are asked to believe a secondary crew is already filming in her porn producer’s office when Annabel randomly decides to telephone them in hopes of negotiating a raise. The shot selection is amateurish (e.g. an extreme close-up of Annabel’s dark and shifty eyes for what seems like an hour—and yes, she looks as bored as I feel).

Near the end of this meandering, pointless little film, Annabel explains her love of gang-bang as a natural byproduct of her healthy psyche; in the next scene she gives us a tour of the random London flat where she raped by a dozen consecutive different men. The juxtaposing is ineffective and the sequence doesn’t work because neither the editing nor the subjects are trustworthy.

Sex: The Annabel Chong Story (2008)

Annabel was emo before it became trendy.

Annabel finally admits making pornography is far less fun than it looks. She thinks being the subject of a 251 person gang-bang (I guess she cramped up before reaching 300) is the most torturous event a person can experience, but the only true test of endurance here is staying awake for 85 minutes worth of worthless documentary.

(NOTE: In one obviously staged scene, where our porn star slices into her arm in order to “let out the pain inside,” I briefly imagine Sex might be the worst documentary ever made. Fortunately for Annabel and company, I’ve also seen Kurt & Courtney.)

Final score: 16 out of 100.
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*Sorry sickos, you're going to have to track that one down on your own.

#5: big block of cheese day

I watched (RE: endured) a shit-ton of movies in the past week or two. I'm far too forgetful (RE: lazy) to review them ex post facto, but I'll give them each a sentence or two and maybe we'll just count that as a single review towards this unrealistic end. Cool? Okay? Please?

Listed in order, from shit to THE shit:

Ghost Rider (M. Johnson, 2007) - No. No. No. My initial expectations were lower than a Tokyo Drifter's custom suspension, but no horrid review could prepare me for this kind of abomination. I refuse to even link you to the IMDB page, that's how much I hate it. 0 out of 100.

Fu Manchu does not approve:



Small Town Gay Bar (Ingram, 2006) - Documentarian Malcom Ingram chills 2 ounces of homosexuality and 1.5 ounces of drunken debauchery over a few cubes of Deep South intolerance, and garnishes his documentary with a wedge of transvestite kink before serving. Sounds like a mouth-watering cocktail, right? Wrong. The result is dilute to blandness and the aftertaste is bitter enough to make you cringe (and yes, I am now the proud owner of "the world's most embarrassingly contrived bar metaphor"). 39 out of 100.

I'm Reed Fish (Adler, 2006) - Meh. If you have the chance to marry Rory Gilmore, you do it (lest she give you the stare). Life really is that simple. 43 out of 100.

Kill Your Idols (Crary, 2004) - A rockumentary on the rise of No Wave in NYC. The roots of the movement are thankfully explored (as I'm no rock historian) in the film's great first half. Then the n00bs appear and everything turns to shit. When seasoned veterans from Suicide or Sonic Youth wax nostalgic it's meaningful, mostly because they know what the fuck they're talking about; when the scatterbrained hapa kolea from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs pontificates about her own importance, it's unbearable to watch. 59 out of 100

punk sucks

"They say punk is dead / It's all in your head / Art doesn't pay / I got a job instead"

Timecrimes (Vigalondo, 2007) - Satisfying, but not as good as Primer. Ebert breaks it down: "'Timecrimes' is like a temporal chess game with nudity, voyeurism and violence, which makes it more boring than most chess games but less boring than a lot of movies." 68 out of 100.

The Great Happiness Space: Tale of an Osaka Love Thief (Clennell, 2006) - A fairly engaging documentary illuminating peculiar corners of the Japanese sex trade. If you didn't think Japan was weird before seeing this... well, you're a fucking idiot. 79 out of 100.

Smithereens (Seidelman, 1982) - Lumpy's 45th Axiom of Awesomeness: random films made during the '80s are inevitably more interesting (and revealing) than current ones set in '80s. "I got a scar, I'll show it to you for five dollars... it's in a real interestin' place." 83 out of 100.

The Last Detail (Ashby, 1973) - I don't say this about too many things over 35 years old, but The Last Detail is insanely funny. Jack Nicholson at his absolute best. I have too much dignity to call anything a "hidden gem," but I'm tempted. 93 out of 100.

Manhunter (Mann, 1986) - I can never say this enough: Michael Mann is a phenomenal (and underrated) filmmaker. Manhunter has everything I want in a thriller (except, of course, Sharon Stone's fluffy sausage wallet). 94 out of 100.

Manhunter (1986)

Michael Mann's classic film needed more pussy.

Talk Radio (Stone, 1988) - This movie is a double-tall Red Bull and awesome! It's very clearly a stage adaptation (98% dialogue, only two or three different locations), but that's not a detriment here. It's Network on meth. 95 out of 100.

Once (Carney, 2006) - Gorgeous in every measurable way. Wonderfully heartbreaking original music. Please see it now. 98 out of 100.

Yup, I've watched some epic movies lately. Except Ghost Rider. Which sucks.

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Once more with extra Fu:

Grindhouse (2007)

"This is my MECCA! muhahahahah"

#4: Street Fight (Curry, 2005)

"I understand what you've done here, Queue. But I think the lesson could have been learned without the loss of 18 members of my crew." - Captain Picard

My Netflix queue is almost always at maximum capacity. I don't get it, who doesn't have 500 movies they are dying to see?

This is particularly annoying whenever I stumble across an awesome looking softcore lesbian foreign "film" and the site won't let me queue it up. Since I know that I'll forget the name of That Movie with That French Chick immediately after navigating away from its page, I have a conundrum. I can...

1) ...Forgo watching I Kissed a Mongolian Girl (and I liked It) altogether.
2) ...Prune a random film from the list I wasn't likely to watch in the first place (I'm looking at you, Rollerball).
3) ...Stream a queued "instant" movie through the Netflix website, after which a spot will be freed.

Tonight, I chose option three.

Streaming a movie through a browser is a bit different than watching it on a disc. The picture quality is pretty good, but not as great as DVD and nowhere near Bluray standards. There aren't any subtitle options, which annoys the screenwriter in me. And you don't get any special features (i.e. director's commentary, deleted scenes). I decided on a documentary ((1) less emphasis on picture quality, (2) likely was never a screenplay, (3) low budgets often result in very few DVD extras).

I picked Street Fight (Curry, 2005). Curry gives us a good documentary about the 2002 mayoral election in Newark, NJ, focusing mostly on the grotesqueness of urban politics and barriers that prevent new ideas and new candidates from dismantling "the machine."

The subject is compelling, Curry's style was adequate for a "follow you around" type doc, the footage was intimate, and the characters say provocative things ("We ask our black children to get educated. And they do. Then we call them white.") Street Fight is a good film, I thoroughly recommend it, etc., etc.

What really fascinated me was this glimpse into Newark. It's a fucking disgusting city in every respect, I really had no idea! If the occupants weren't speaking quasi-English the whole time, I would have assumed they were filming in Port-au-Prince or something. The police are corrupt, the buildings are rundown, the candidates are unapologetic criminals who are consistently re-elected by the stupidest constituents to ever be captured on celluloid! Newark is the fucking asshole of the entire hemisphere.

Who knew?

Street Fight (2005)

Even buildings kill themselves when forced to live in Newark.

And the film's most random exchange:

LITTLE BLACK GIRL: "I just touched Booker. If you don't believe me you can smell my hand"
DOCUMENTARIAN: "Um, does he have a smell?"
LITTLE BLACK GIRL: "Yes. He smells like... he smells like THE FUTURE."

Final score: 78 out of 100.

#2: Confessions of a Superhero (Ogens, 2007)

Over the next month (10/22 - 11/22), I will be viewing and reviewing 100 films on this blog. This is entry number two in that series.

Confessions of a Superhero is one of the more thoroughly depressing documentaries I’ve ever seen. Director Matthew Ogens invites us to tour one famous stretch of Hollywood Boulevard where freelancing “actors” in homemade costumes pose as popular American icons. Dressed as anyone from Elvis Presley to Elmo, these characters pose for photographs with tourists all day long in the relentless Southern California heat. They earn no wages; their only permitted income is the unsolicited tips of charitable spectators.

Ogens’ film focuses on four of these street performers who come to work every day dressed as Superman (Christopher Dennis), Wonder Woman (Jennifer Gehrt), Batman (Maxwell Allen), and The Hulk (Joseph McQueen). Each of these jaded heroes is quixotically fascinating, though all their stories vaguely resemble those cautionary Tinseltown tales we’ve heard before.

Dennis is the ultimate obsessive-compulsive Superman fanatic. He’s elated to meet Margot Kidder, but he still tears up thinking about Christopher Reeve’s passing. Gehrt is the quintessential transplanted Midwest pageant queen; her innocent smile is saccharin, but her naivety is frightening. She realizes she may not be skinny enough to be a leading lady when her agent suggests she audition for more “voluptuous” roles.

McQueen is the foursome’s only black man. His race is rarely mentioned but it’s telling that, as a fully costumed Hulk, he’s the only hero covering up the color of his skin. McQueen can’t afford to put a mattress in his bedroom but, as he shows us the alleyway he used to live in, we understand why he’s still upbeat.

Allen, a legitimate George Clooney lookalike, is violent and possibly delusional. He attends therapy sessions—dressed like Batman, of course—and boasts about the people he killed back in Texas (“You do realize there is no statute of limitations for murder,” says his therapist at one point).

Ogens’ film is gorgeous. The settings are never dull, the colors are always rich, and the composition is unusually elegant for a documentary. The visual elements give life to the tragic limbo that imprisons these four unsatisfied people.

As a man who is only a few months away from taking the same desperate plunge, I found this film chilling. Confessions of a Superhero forces anyone with grand aspirations to reexamine their situation. Can one ever sense their own mediocrity? Am I destined for this purgatory too?

Hopefully, I’ll be the only one dressed up like Colossus.

Final Score: 86 out of 100.

#1: Can Mr. Smith Get to Washington Anymore? (Popper, 2006)

Over the next month (10/22 - 11/22), I will be viewing and reviewing 100 films on this blog. This is entry number one in that series.

Documentarian Frank Popper follows idealistic schoolteacher Jeff Smith as he runs for U.S. Congress. Jeff is energetic and plucky, but his valiant fight against our nepotistic political institutions is seemingly naïve.

Still from Can Mr. Smith Get Washington Anymore?

If Jeff Smith doesn't make it in politics, he might have a future in the NBA.

I liked Can Mr. Smith Get to Washington Anymore?, but I did not love it. Popper tells an interesting tale, but his limited scope and lackluster execution ultimately thwart something greater.

As a human drama, the film is unquestionably successful. Like the voters in Missouri’s 3rd Congressional District, we first see this baby-faced schoolteacher with a zero political experience and think: “This guy? Really? But he has a lisp!” Jeff’s quirky charm eventually grows on us, however. By the end of the film, we are more invested in his campaign than are his cynical parents. The problem is we never understand why. Audiences will generally root for any compelling underdog regardless of political platform. Besides anonymity, what does Jeff Smith offer his potential constituents? What differentiates him from the other candidates in the democratic primary? We’re shown a few seconds of rhetoric on reproductive rights and health insurance, but we never really find out.

The film poses an important thesis question: can the best candidate, regardless of fame or finance, still win an election? There aren’t any definitive answers. We learn the eventual fate of Jeff Smith, of course, but Popper fails to put his protagonist’s struggles in any greater context.

Why is Jeff’s road so difficult? According to his campaign staff, it’s clearly a matter of insufficient resources and reputation. Perhaps institutionalized politics really are that impenetrable, but Popper needs to show us. The film is so personal that it doesn’t allow audiences to draw any broader conclusions about the political landscape. We see in the film’s opening scenes that Jeff is barely even able to convince the members of his immediate family for support. Perhaps Jeff’s journey is made difficult because of a flawed or mismanaged campaign. The campaign managers frequently claim to be doing everything correctly; perhaps Popper should have asked for a second opinion.