Nymphomaniac is a movie that dives deep into female sexuality, emotional trauma, and the complexity of desire,  Directed by controversial auteur Lars von Trier, this two-part film stars Charlotte Gainsbourg as Joe, a woman who recounts her entire sexual history to a man who finds her bloodied and broken in an alley.

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This erotic art film can make a middle age housewife in a swinger club end up feeling like a Sunday school teacher once she meets the demented slut, Joe

This Ain’t Your Average Erotic Drama

This ain’t soft-focus romance here. This movie will grab you by the nipples (or balls) and it won’t let go. Joe’s journey is raw, messy and explicit.  In fact the only things that keep it from being classified as porno is that the acting is good and the sex isn’t real.  However, the film doesn’t play it safe.   It takes you on a journey from spontaneous trysts on trains to emotionless affairs and full-blown sex addiction.

Once again, unlike porn, it explores the feeling of shame, and the void many sometimes try to fill with whatever or whoever is available.

Charlotte Gainsbourg: A Performance That Leaves You Speechless

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Charlotte leaves acting behind and instead, transforms.  As the character, “Joe” she’s is vulnerable, pitiful and difficult to watch.  Obviously she’s an actress, so all of this is just her pretending but she does it with same passion and determination as people fighting for a giant TV on Black Friday.   The woman has mastered her craft very well.

Why Nymphomaniac Makes You Rethink Everything

Watching Nymphomaniac can be like taking a selfie of your life in a funhouse mirror.  It’s distorted, exaggerated and still very much you.   Here you see yourself mirrored in Joe’s shame and recklessness. Most people never end up in a alley with bruises but emotionally, we’ve all been there.   – Nymphomaniac is not just erotica, it’s an existential journey.

Is It Worth Watching?

This movie isn’t for someone who’s easily offended or can’t handle adult themes.   So, anyone who wants something that’s politically correct, gentle or soft and flowery, should just watch the Paw Paw Patrol.  On the other hand, it’s a must-see for anyone who enjoys brutal honesty and witnessing emotional damage.  – Pour yourself a glass of wine

This is art

Another Erotic Movie – Emmanuelle

Nymphomaniac isn’t a movie, it’s an experience. Like all good art, it’s provocative.  But, it’s also humbling for many because it underlines the fact that the majority of people are not as wild as they believed.   Their stories are tame compared to Joe’s and their sex lives could be a whole lot worse.

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Scarface is one of the most gloriously unhinged, over-the-top movie you’ll ever see.  Which, if you’ve been to Boston family barbecue, you know that’s saying something

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Scarface ain’t exactly a trip to the grocery store.  What it does is slap you in the face with its own brand of life in a hood with bullets zinging past your head way.  When this movie was released in 1983,  it was like someone got the biggest ghetto blaster available and then cranked up the volume past 11.  The for good measure they dumped a mountain of coke on your kitchen table, and screamed, “Say hello to my little friend!” And no, my friends, we’re not talking about someone’s one eyed trouser snake.

So here’s the sitch: Tony Montana, played by Al Pacino (he of the smoky voice and intense eyeballs), is a Cuban refugee who rolls into Miami with nothing but a hunger for power and money. And hungry is an understatement, he’s ready to eat someone’s face off for 10 bucks.  He’s a lunatic who goes full psycho within five minutes.

Scarface is brutal, sure but it’s also a nuclear bomb of ambition, excess, and tragedy. Kinda like a mascara-streaked love song with machine guns.  The only people giving him a shot are drug dealers and corrupt government weirdos. So he takes that opportunity and builds an empire.  Eventually he buys a mansion so gawdy that  it looks like it was stolen from a mall in the 1980s.

This flick screams 1980s !   Miami looks like Billy Idol married a pink flamingo and hired Ralph Macchio to make the wedding decorations.   It’s neon, pastels and palm trees with a synth beat.  As for Tony, he looks like he mugged Disco Stu for his wardrobe. He’s wearing silk suits and shirts open down to his navel.

However this movie is actually a tragedy. Like most of us, Tony wants the American Dream.  Only he finds out that it’s a bunch of false promises with only the elite making it to the top.  Capitalism isn’t much better than communism so he tries to buy it with bullets.   There’s one scene where he’s sitting in a huge chair, covered in money and drugs. But yet, he looks so miserable and empty.

And can we just give a shoutout to Michelle Pfeiffer as Elvira? Girlfriend is ice-cold fabulous. She struts through the movie in those slinky dresses like she’s got Blondie playing in her head 24/7. But even she gets swallowed up by the madness. Scarface isn’t kind to the ladies, lemme tell ya. Not a lotta girl power going on in that world—but it makes you think. Power without compassion? It’ll chew you up, spit you out, and leave your glitter on the floor.

Michelle Pfeiffer is in this movie too.

She plays Elvira, his girlfriend and she’s ice cold fantastic.  She’s got the  “I hate everyone” attitude and yet always incredible while being a bitch.  In a weird way, you almost feel bad for her but then it hits you that all the characters in this movie are a psychological mess. The closest you get to a decent human being is a guy who gets out early and starts a sandwich shop.

Scarface isn’t a family friendly movie but that’s what makes it unforgettable. There’s actually a moral to the story about getting everything you wanted but losing everything that matters.  It’s OK to chase your dreams but don’t lose your heart in the process.

For something different try RoboCop

#Scarface #TonyMontana #SayHelloToMyLittleFriend #80sMovies #CrimeDrama #AlPacino #ClassicCinema

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Star Wars –  If you weren’t paying attention or weren’t alive in 1977, you never saw the way this movie was originally made.  It was raw, and unapologetic. Han Solo blasted Greedo under the table, before he pulled a gun on him, because that was the way to stay alive, be more dangerous than your enemies.

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Let’s get one thing straight: back then, it wasn’t Episode IV: A New Hope. It was just Star Wars. Period. No fancy subtitle, no Roman numerals, no “Oh, but actually, it’s part of a saga.” It was a standalone space adventure that came out of nowhere and kicked the door in. George Lucas was making it up as he went, and we loved him for it.

Now, about Han Solo. The man was a scoundrel. A smuggler. A guy who’d shoot first, never second guess his decision, and leave the moral dilemmas for the Jedi. He doesn’t sit there like a chump while Greedo takes a wild shot at him. No, Han lays out that green-faced bounty-hunter like he’s shuffling a deck of cards. Han was a survivor, he didn’t play by the rules because he lived outside of them. Later edits tried to soften him up, make him shoot second, like some kind of intergalactic gentleman. The Han we met in ‘77 didn’t need an excuse.

The magic was in its attitude. The film was rough, fast, and bursting with energy. The cantina aliens? Glorified rubber masks. The space battles? Miniatures on strings. But none of that mattered because Star Wars didn’t care if you noticed the seams. It just grabbed you by the collar and dragged you into its world.

So here’s the truth, kids: the Star Wars of 1977 was a rebel. No corporate nostalgia play, no decades of lore to weigh it down, just a movie that blew minds because it dared to be different.  Storm-troopers couldn’t hit the broad side of a Sandcrawler. Lightsabers looked like they were powered by extension cords. While the Death Star plans were stolen by a bunch of guys wearing what looked like hockey pads. And if you weren’t there? Well, let’s just say you missed the good stuff.

Also watch ET !

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Grease! The title encompasses the 50s vibe from greasy spoon restaurants, to hair products, to hot rods. Throw in tight fitting clothes, catchy tunes and hip gyrations and we have a favorite movie classic .

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Let’s start with the *opening cartoon credits*, which look like they were drawn by a caffeinated toddler . Then suddenly, we’re on a beach where Sandy and Danny are making goo-goo eyes like two people who just got our of a years worth of solitary confinement. Sandy’s in a full-length skirt and sweater, let you know that she still thinks she’s wintering in Australia, even though the beach is clearly a hot July in the USA.

The Physics of Grease

Rydell High operates under its own laws of physics. Not only are all the teenagers, much older, but an entire school year flashes by in the blink of an eye. The boys are a tough gang known as The T-Birds’ whose favorite past-time is racing for pink slips (car ownership). But these Greasers are also known for their gravity defying hair.  Danny’s pompadour is so impressive, if turned upside down, he could be used as a mop.

The Pink Ladies: Are the de-facto female counterparts to the T-Birds. Membership seems to come from having a T-bird put his arm around you. They aren’t really a gang, more like a cheering squad, and their greatest cheers are for each other.  Supporting Frenchie’s failed attempts at beauty school, and Sandy’s failed attempts at being accepted as one of the gang.

The Music: A Series of Red Flags Set to Melody

– Summer Nights: A he said/she said where both are lying. Danny claims they “got friendly,” which in ‘50s slang means “We slow-danced and then I named a star after her.” Sandy says they “held hands,” which in ‘50s slang means “We slow-danced and carved our initials in a tree.”

– Greased Lightnin’: A song about a car that’s 90% innuendo, 10% actual vehicle. Kenickie’s so turned on by his own jalopy, he might as well marry the carburetor.

– Beauty School Dropout: A public shaming set to music. The Teen Angel (Frankie Avalon) descends from heaven like a glittery HR rep to tell Frenchie she’s failed at life. Maybe or perhaps Frenchie only wants to be a stay-at-home mom.

– The One that I Want – This shared declaration of love is a gyrating masterpiece. After both Sandy and Danny had tried to adapt to their “opposite” love interest. But the relationship is dead when one is a goody-two shoes, so let the Sandy gets “Bad”. And Danny throws off his stuffy letter sweater.

The Ending: When the Movie Fully Gives Up on Reality
After two hours of “Will they/won’t they?”, Sandy completely reinvents herself as a leather-lunged vixen to win back Danny. And everyone is happy. But a celebratory dance at the end of the school year is not the finale.  No, they go to drive off into the sunset like a “just married” couple and their car flies away. Not metaphorically. Literally…What? I guess it’s a just a reminder that the American Dream of the 50s is…only a dream.

Watch the anti-RomCom

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48 hrs is all they’ve got to catch 2 killers.  Unfortunately, they can’t stand each other. One’s a cop with a temper and bad fashion sense, the other’s a con with a mouth and in need of sex.  Together these two  are pure chaos.

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48 Hrs.” — A Wild Ride Through Crime, Comedy, and Chaos

OK ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, trans men and trans women, plus the non-binary option.  You need to hold onto your heads and keep your man bun hair clip handy, ’cause we’re rollercoastering into the 1982 buddy-cop blockbuster before “buddy-cop” was even a genre.   It’s the movie, 48 Hrs.! Set in San Francisco before human poop lined all the streets, it still managed to avoid being a typical Sunday afternoon stroll.   No… No…  No..  This is two days of madness, mayhem, and machine guns with extra hot sauce.

Directed by Walter Hill.  For this movie, he was the guy who took a film camera and asked the studio executives, “What if we made Clint Eastwood run a marathon of testosterone?”  A movie legend was made that day and 48 Hrs. is what you get when stick a cop and a criminal in a blender and hit “frappe.”  This is Eddie Murphy in his silver screen debut, and oh baby, the man does not just dip his toe in the water.  It’s his big chance and he cannonballs into the Hollywood pool wearing a prison clothes and singing The Police.

Nick Nolte is Jack Cates.

He’s a gruff, gravel-throated detective who looks like he eats broken glass for breakfast and washes it down with Jack Daniels. He’s a walking hangover with a badge, and he’s trying to catch a pair of psycho criminals who make Charles Manson look a Care Bear.  Normally he’s the man to get the job done but this time he needs help from a slick-talking criminal named Reggie Hammond.  Eddie Murphy enters the stage left with a laugh, a presence that has you forget that you’re watching a cop movie and think you’re watching stand-up at the Apollo.

There’s just one problem, they’ve only got 48 hours to catch the bad guys.  Yup, two days…. Just one weekend. That’s almost less time than it takes for Trump to destroy the stock market and these guys are chasing murderers, dodging bullets, and learning to love each other.

It’s a classic toxic masculinity bromance !

48 hrs is all about grit, balls, and glorious one-liners.  It’s so hardcore ‘80s that you can still smell the Aqua Net and hear the synthesizers. And Eddie Murphy is the cherry on top.  He’s the Cindy Lauper in the Madonna martini bar. He didn’t just steal the scenes but instead mugged the entire movie and rode off on a laugh.

But beneath the wisecracks and gunfights, 48 Hrs. kicked off a whole genre.  It’s the original mismatched duo, forced to work together, each one rubbing off on the other like sandpaper. There would probably never have been a Lethal Weapon, Rush Hour, or Bad Boys franchise, without Cates and Hammond trail blazing the way.

So if you haven’t 48 hrs,  grab some popcorn and take a ride in a beat-up car with a lunatic at the wheel with a con man riding shotgun. 48 Hrs. isn’t just a movie. Is early-’80s madness and baby, it’s fucking awesome

Here’s some late ’80s Robocop insanity

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The Nude Bomb is funny surprise, much finding a tuna sandwich in the glovebox of your car.  Before watching I advise that you strap in and zip up or maybe don’t zip up to truly be in the spirit of the movie. This is cinematic acid trip which deserves a review with all the chaotic energy of a triple espresso shot with an overdoes of Viagra

So what is “The Nude Bomb”? Well, you can start by imagining James Bond and Inspector Gadget had a baby, and then left it at a daycare run by Roger Rabbit.  It’s a spy comedy starring Don Adams, reprising his legendary role as Maxwell Smart — a man so clueless, he makes a Joe Bidon look like Sherlock Holmes. He’s got the trench coat, the shoe phone  and enough dry one-liners to desiccate an Egyptian mummy. But this time, he’s not fighting KAOS with bullets or brains — no sir — he’s going after a villain who wants to explode everyone’s clothes off. That’s right. It’s not a metaphor. It’s a literal bomb that nukes your underpants!

The villain is a baddie named Nudo — very subtle and very Bond-esque.   He’s built the ultimate weapon of mass undress destruction. This guy is like if Dr. No watched too many Hustler porn movies and said, “Yes, this is my origin story.” However, instead of taking over the world with lasers or robots, he’s decided, “Let’s get rid of clothes! BOOM! Now you’re naked!” You gotta admire the boldness of the plot. Or maybe call Dr Susan Block for therapy. Possibly both.

The storytelling darts around like a gerbil on LSD. Maxwell Smart bumbles from one locale to another: ski resorts, fashion shows, underground lairs that look like IKEA on roids. He’s surrounded by an ensemble of agents and models and there’s even a talking typewriter at one point. The movie runs on logic on cartoon logic written by an infantile version of 80s toxic masculinity. .

Now this movie is damn funny but only you’re someone who enjoys a nostalgic high on disco fumes and wearing polyester pants.  But if you’re watching it now, stone-cold sober, you might feel like you’re being slowly attacked by dad jokes wielding banana peels. The humor is dated and from today’s perspective, it’s like being told that the Care Bares are teaming up with Dead Pool in the next sequel.

BUT! Don Adams sells it with his unforgettable his nasal delivery and eternal optimism, He’s like the weird uncle at Thanksgiving who tells the same joke every year, and dang it, you still laugh. There’s a charm, a weird nostalgic magic, like watching a roller disco ballet while blindfolded.

The Nude Bomb is a glorious, glittering missile with a happy face painted on it. It’s ridiculous. It’s nonsense. It’s got less plot than a Tiktok video. But it knows it’s ridiculous but that’s the point.   In a world of self-serious action flicks, sometimes you just need a naked bomb and a man with a shoe phone to remind you how weird things can get.

Need a laugh?  Then watch Up In Smoke

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The vampire journals has more cheese than a midnight snack at a dairy farm, but damn if it isn’t a bloody good time. The 1997 flick comes crawling out of Full Moon Entertainment, courtesy of Charles Band. – Pure 90s low-budget gothic.

Alright, listen up ! I just sat through The Vampire Journals, and let me tell ya, it’s about as subtle as a chainsaw to the face. These bloodsuckers have got more drama than a Shakespeare play performed at a goth prom. First, our hero is a brooding vampire with a piano fetish, named Zachary. His fashion sense is like Dracula spawned a goth kid with the sales clerk at Hot Topic. And if that’s not enough pop culture, his nemesis is a Dude called Ash (not the EVIL Dead, chainsaw wielder), but some Euro-trash vamp lord with a wardrobe straight out of hell from a Spawn reject bin. This Ash guy chews scenery like it’s his last meal, and honestly? I respect that. If you’re gonna be evil, go big or go home.

Then there’s Sofia, the damsel who’s got, future vampire snack, written all over her. Granted, she’s got an ‘I’m innocent but secretly powerful’ look. But she’s too busy getting hypnotized by Ash’s cheap vampire tricks. Come on, lady, snap out of it!

The effects of the vampire journals are so cheesy, you can taste them. The fangs look like they came out of a Halloween clearance bin. While the blood has less realism than making roadkill from a stuffed animal covered in ketchup. This movie knows it’s schlock, and it leans into it like a drunk on a pool table. Fog machines working overtime, slow-mo sword fights, and enough leather to make a biker gang blush. It’s like someone took Interview with the Vampire, stripped out the budget, and replaced all the angst with pure, uncut cheese. And I kinda love it.

The action’s the best part—swords clanging, vampires poofing into dust, and enough dramatic stares to fill a soap opera. It’s dumb, it’s loud, and it doesn’t give a damn. If you want a gloriously dumb, over-the-top vampire flick kick back, and enjoy the ride. Just don’t blame me if you start seeing fangs in your dreams.

Watch the start of this 5 part vampire series

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Up in Smoke is a 90-minute contact high—just don’t ask what happened after the first toke. Though it does prove two things: vans should be made of weed, and cops should never chase guys who are too stoned to care.

Up in Smoke is a Hazy, Crazy Ride Through Stoner Paradise – Man, oh man, where do I even start with Up in Smoke? It’s like, the ultimate trip, man—both literally and figuratively. This movie isn’t just a film, it’s a lifestyle, a cosmic journey through the wild, weed-fueled minds of Cheech Marin and Tommy Chong. And let me tell ya, if you ain’t seen it yet, you’re missing out on one of the greatest cinematic experiences since, like, the invention of the bong.

First off, the plot

Or what passes for one in this smoky dream scape—is simple, man. You got Cheech as Pedro de Pacas, this streetwise Chicano cat with a heart of gold and a pocket full of primo, and Chong as Anthony Stoner, the ultimate laid-back, spaced-out hippie. These two dudes meet by fate (or maybe just because they were both looking for a score), and next thing you know, they’re cruising through L.A. in a van made out of weed, man. The cops are chasing ‘em, but they’re too high to notice, and honestly, that’s the whole vibe of the movie.

The humor? Oh, it’s dumb. Gloriously, stupidly dumb. But that’s the beauty of it, man. This ain’t some highbrow comedy where you gotta think too hard. Cheech and Chong have been advocating for the legalization of all things pot related since even before this film. Having achieved glorious success, this film is a historical anthem to their efforts. Their dreams didn’t go “up in smoke”, or get lost to history.  Nor were they burnt to the ground into a tragic pile of ashes. They have left a legacy.

So leave your lighter. Grab your pot laced munchies and spend some time with the comical genius of the legends who helped you have the freedom to get high. The soundtrack is like a time capsule of ‘70s stoner rock, with Chong’s band (because of course he’s in a band) dropping tunes so smooth, you’ll go up in smoke with him, riding the hazy cloud.. The whole movie feels like a concert where the audience got too baked to leave, so they just stuck around and filmed whatever happened next.

Later, dudes and watch the Toxic Avenger

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AirWolf — the 1984 series pilot that’s part Top Gun, part James Bond, and part ‘What if a helicopter had a midlife crisis and joined the CIA?”

Say, kids! Ever seen one of those newfangled ‘television’ contraptions? Well, hold onto your 420 gummies, because I just had a real gone vision of the future called ‘Airwolf’ — The helicopter version of a swiss-army knife. Fully loaded with nuclear weapons.

The Scoop:

It’s Top Gun meets James Bond, but with more Pacman nostalgia than a Gen X’r lost in a mall! This jet-helicopter named AirWolf is hotter than a two-dollar pistol, stolen by foreign agents (not our foreigners, the other foreigners—you know the ones who climb walls!). Our hero, Stringfellow Hawke (played by Jan-Micheal Vincent, a fellow who looks like Henry Cavill after a three-day bender), has to get it back while brooding handsomely and avoiding sex.

The Action?

Daddy-o, this whirlybird does loop-de-loops that’d make the pilot of MH370 toss his cookies! It zooms through canyons, shoots commies (probably just college students), and makes noises like a broken CD player full of firecrackers!  AirWolf stocks his prey in zero visibility, with electronic gadgets and escapes missiles with super sonic speed.

The Cast?

Ernest Borgnine (you know him from Escape from New York) plays a lovable old coot who wears shirts louder than a Bowery bum —imagine JD Vance as a New York bus mechanic! And the villain is played by Alex Cord.  He’s a cold fish in a white suit, not cowboy white as if he’s really the good-guy. It’s reminiscent of a lab-coat, a would-be mad-scientist who has no moral code, and is aiming for world domination.

The Verdict?

It’s the cat’s pajamas!  A high-flying hoot with more gadgets than a Dollar Store dumpster! Not exactly ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’, but who wants that when you can watch a flying gas tank turn reds into red mist?

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Plan 9 from Outer Space has Aliens, Zombies, and Ed Wood’s Crippling Lack of Talent —The Only Thing Harder Than the Acting is Trying to Explain This Movie to Your Therapist!

Ladies, gentlemen, and horny extraterrestrials lurking in the back row of the drive-in—gather ‘round, because we’re about to dissect *Plan 9 from Outer Space*, the celluloid equivalent of a bow-legged hooker trying to tap-dance in quicksand. Directed by the infamous Ed Wood (who apparently filmed this while huffing model airplane glue), this 1959 “masterpiece” is so gloriously inept that it makes *Deep Throat* look like *Citizen Kane* by comparison.

The Plot (Or Lack Thereof)

Aliens—dressed like rejected Vegas lounge acts—decide to conquer Earth by resurrecting the dead as stiff, disjointed zombies. (Think a chiropractors’ nightmare or the delivery man who moves like he’s got a broomstick lodged up his backside). Their grand scheme? “Plan 9”—which, spoiler alert, is about as threatening as a vibrator with dead batteries. Our hero, a square-jawed pilot (who delivers lines like he’s reading ingredients), teams up with a cop so wooden he could’ve been carved by a Boy Scout. Brought together to combat… bad acting, mostly.

The “Special” Effects

The flying saucers are literal hubcaps dangling from visible strings. The “space” is a black sheet with glitter thrown at it by a deranged kindergarten class. And the zombies?  Bela Lugosi—God rest his soul—shot three minutes of footage before croaking, so Ed Wood just slapped a stand-in with a cape over his face and hoped nobody’d notice. Spoiler: You notice.

Why You Should Watch It (With Booze and a Willing Partner)

Here’s the thing, degenerates— Plan 9 isn’t a movie. It’s an experience. Like losing your virginity in a haunted house, it’s awkward, confusing, and over way too fast.  The sheer audacity of its incompetence is erotic in its own way. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll question humanity’s worth… and then you’ll get laid, because nothing turns a woman on like saying, “Hey baby, wanna see the worst movie ever made?”

Final Verdict: 0 Stars, 100% Boner-Inducing Chaos
If Plan 9 from outer space were a porno, it’d be the one where the plumber forgets his tools but somehow still “fixes the pipes.” It’s terrible. It’s magnificent. It’s the cinematic equivalent of catching your parents doing the nasty—you wanna look away, but you’re transfixed like a deer caught in the headlights, you brain in its panic, stopped working the controls.

So go watch it with a bottle of Jack or a joint, and someone who’ll ride you like the aliens should’ve ridden those hubcap UFOs.

Sincerely

B.S. Cinephile (The Unapologetic Masochist)

—
PS. For a real double feature, pair this with *Flesh Gordon* and a case of Schlitz. Or, a you can watch Brooke Sheilds pay an underage hooker while snorting kitty litter -You’re welcome.

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