Frisk & Paul Morrissey

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I didnít put Frisk on the VCR until Charles had headed for Raleigh. The reviews Iíd read made it sound like a movie that would make me queasy. Finding guys to murder and dismember should be a disturbing to say the least. Mostly I thought it verbose. And when the narrator magically finds other serial killers to team up with the elision in logic was so awful that when it is revealed that the deaths are his pornographic imaginings I was only less annoyed.

I found Frisk merely weak. Too much intellectualizing. It takes a rare talent to intellectualize pornographic reveries. I can think only of Genet. Maybe The Story of O.

Back in the 70s a few horror movies made sexuality disturbing and horrifying. In Donít Go In the House a man builds a metal room. He brings women home so that he can burn them up. The movie is merely trash but numbing, gut wrenching. Thereís no explanation. Merely a berserk need that satisfies itself. After ninety minutes all you can do is get up to reharmonize yourself with sanity.

The people who walked out on Frisk were just modern prudes.

Charles is spending tonight in Raleigh where he can play the organ. Iíll be watching Trash, Heat and Flesh. All Paul Morrissey movies with Andy Warholís name stuck in front.

Trash I saw long ago. Seemed pretty funny decades ago. In retrospect it seems akin to a John Waters movie. Except that Morrisey was first. And as Iíve confessed during these few years Joe Dallesandroís body harmonies overthrew my usual preferences. Iíd rather Charles were here. When Iím watching by myself it can be hard to not press the FF button just as I can rarely watch few than three TV shows when I have the godamnoisybox on.

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