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THE ART OF DYING (1991)
If Red Bull gives you wings...no more Red Bull for me I've been wanting to see this ever since I used the Video Movie Guide instead of the internet to look shit up. Only ever saw it around once though, and that was on laserdisc. In Brunei. That would've been 1994. Why I even remembered this movie existed now, I don't know. Wings Hauser directs this one, and stars in it too, falling into a lot of actors-directing-themselves traps: making himself look too cool, making his lifestyle seem too glamorous, giving himself a lengthy and fairly unsparing sex scene with heaving-bosomed Kathleen Kinmont. Astonishing how unsexy he manages to make that, what with all that facial raspberry jam-rubbing, and pouring milk on each other, and spilling gallons of food on the floor. The Art Of Dying is an ego trip on overdrive, and that contributes (a little) to what makes it fun. There's a sick evil filmmaker out there who thinks movies like The Deer Hunter and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre weren't good enough the way they are; he's getting starry-eyed young talent off the street to star in his re-enactments of their most famous death scenes, which he captures on film for what I guess is a snuff greatest hits. That's where Hauser comes in as a Hollywood detective assigned to the case of just why this guy needed two girls for his Psycho shower scene. That specific mystery is never solved. The cop is periodically romanced by Kinmont, a woman he barely knows but seemingly can't stay away from him. His methods may be unorthodox, but he gets the job done - or something like that. He butts heads with a damn hippie police psychiatrist, gets a teenaged prostitute off the streets and tells himself "I did good...I did good" and gets chewed out by a black superior officer...you know, the standard cop movie shit. Weird thing about that black guy; he's the only black guy in this movie, fine. Only shows up for one scene, no problem. That scene has no effect on anything else, okay. But the only purpose for that scene is for a stand-up-and-cheer moment for when the white hero calls him a racist (and all the other white heroes chime in with agreement)? What? Is that really what this movie needed for two minutes, racial tension? Not too much effort was put into the plot beyond the high-concept setup; there's one point late in the movie where the villain literally shows up at Hauser's (beachside, natch) house for no reason other than to draw attention to himself, being the most expedient way for the movie to get to its ending at under 100 minutes. The film this guy is making doesn't seem destined for any kind of distribution (which bars it from being a true snuff film); exactly who he intends to see it is never suggested. The real hook of the movie is the murder scenes, whose inspirations are specific and once or twice actually referred to by name, at least in other parts of the movie later on, but for the most part you'll need a little familiarity with the subject matter to catch them all. I don't know what movie the hung-upside-down chick is supposed to invoke, and the fate of that cute redhead is left vague (hence two girls for the Psycho shower, I guess). The gore effects are harsh but inconsistent (the Scarface chainsaw murder is a larf). Hauser does his best to keep it sleazy, and there are enough phone sex operations, S&M bestiality bordellos and fleabag motels populated by screaming white trash to do so. A slippery 80's saxophone slinks through the score of the whole movie, helping give it a glitzy-nasty sheen that makes it a passable tribute to an era of movie sleaze just barely gone by in 1991. That sex scene with Kinmont does show Kinmont naked a fair bit (yes!) but it's cut up with other scenes that makes it appear that their marathon lovemaking goes on for days; there's even a sex-and-death montage worked in there. And why Hauser is doted on so thoroughly by Kinmont and the still-attractive lady who played Ursa in Superman II is a question for...right. Director. Hauser also gets to go on a rant where he despairs of what's become of American manhood, and fears for what will become of it in the 90's. Maybe he jumped the gun a bit. Metrosexualism wasn't even on the horizon yet. (c) Brian J. Wright 2008 BACK TO THE A's BACK TO THE MAIN PAGE |