THE NIGHT PORTER — THE CRITERION COLLECTION

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Director/co-writer Liliana Cavani's mind-bending reflection on the Nazi era is a pure filmic transmogrification of power, war, sex, personal identity, and soul-searching.

Cavani reduces her complex wartime narrative to a dead-end reunion between Max (Dirk Bogard), an ex-SS officer and Nazi warder to his former prisoner Lucia (Charlotte Rampling), the imprisoned non-Jewish daughter to a Leftist activist at a Nazi concentration camp.

A chance encounter at the Vienna hotel where Max is employed as a bellman, derails Lucia's post-war life as the concentration camp-survivor wife to a successful American symphony conductor busy on tour in Vienna.

In Cinema, Vienna is the place where people go to die.

Max and Lucia pick up their leftover BDSM desires from the days of their concentration camp experiences together when he was master to her prisoner/slave.

It is significant to realize that Liliana Cavani launched her filmmaking career with two historical documentaries ("The History of the Third Reich (1962) and "Women of the Resistance" (1965), for Radiotelevisione Italiana.

Clearly, Cavani's deep insights into the mindsets of the Nazi's prisoners, as well as that of their tormentor goons, adds significant anecdotal historic depth to "The Night Porter."

The devil is in the details. Even wallpaper sends a message.

To compare "The Night Porter" to any other World War II film would be folly. Not even Bertolucci's "The Conformist" can compare.

The necessary mental, physical, and emotional escape hatch that Max and Lucia employ serves as a temporary life raft from the anger, repression, and violence that rages around them, and deeply inside their tortured souls.

Fearless performances from Dirk Bogard and Charlotte Rampling give "The Night Porter" its humanity. For a film about the lasting effects of genocide, "The Night Porter" gives essential meaning to the madness with a delicate touch of palpable understanding.

Remembering the very thing that most people want to forget is a promise to oneself and a curse.

We are all damned by history, and all that history leaves out.

Rated R. 118 mins.

QUEER

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"Queer" searches for a story, but never finds one.

There's good reason that the producers left  William S. Burroughs' name off its title, considering that nothing lines up regarding Daniel Craig's rendering of Burroughs' character from his 1985 novella.

Daniel Craig's "William Lee" ("Bull Lee" in Kerouac's "On The Road") is so obsessed with screwing a handsome young man with all the personality of a mildewed hand towel, that Lee never once sits down to write.

A more boring sex addict/junkie you'll not find on the big screen.

David Cronenberg's filmic adaptation of "Naked Lunch" remains the best cinema adaptation of any Burroughs novel to date.

Most lacking is any chemistry (sexual or otherwise) between Daniel Craig and Drew Starky's Eugene character. Drew Allerton is a poker-faced ex-G.I. ex-pat with nothing but time on his hands.

"Queer" is an open-handed insult to its audience and to William S. Burroughs in particular.

By the time the movie gets around to its big fuck scene, it's too little too late. Not to mention Mr. Lee taking the top position.

Anyway, Jason Schwartzman steals the movie as Joe Guidry, an old Jewish queen who's part of Will Lee's '50s era social circle in Mexico City.

Will Lee's heroin addiction takes over his lost sex addition and all roads lead to a deeply unsatisfying audience experience.

It's cool that Daniel Craig goes full queer Queen but so what? It's just not that interesting to watch when there isn't a cogent storyline to hang the movie on.

Everything about "Queer" screams failed experiment. Luca Guadagnino has no natural instinct for narrative structure.

Guadagnino's cinema is a fake formal style without any foundation whatsoever, save for whatever depth Daniel Craig brings with a brave but limited performance.

Luca Guadagnino is a phony wannabe queer; is there anything worse?

Even Donald Trump sucks fake microphone cock — another phony wannabe queer.

Good sucking vs. bad sucking?

John Waters come back!

Rated R. 136 mins.

ZERO STARS

LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT — SHOCKTOBER!

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Groupthink doesn't live here, critical thought does. This ad-free website is dedicated to Agnès Varda and to Luis Buñuel.

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Wes Craven's debut film is everything wrong with exploitation cinema. Mean spirited to its core, this film's overriding theme seems to be that society is broken up into three categories: killers, victims, and witnesses.

Amateur filmmaker Craven switches tone between horrific sexual abuse, lighthearted comedy, and hippie crushing thriller.

Schlock.

Just ugly.

Actor David Hess's folk guitar songs point in a dead-end direction. Hess takes a piss at Led Zeppelin's "Stairway To Heaven" with a too often repeated song that states, "And the road leads to nowhere."

I suppose it is fitting for such a piece of shit movie.

David Hess plays Krug, a cigar-chomping killer living out his perverted obsessions on two hippie girls that Krug and his "family" kidnap to torture. 

Wes Craven reworks Ingmar Bergman's significant "Virgin Spring" into something cruel and disgusting.

The specter of the Viet Nam War only hangs over the movie with the thinnest of threads.

The sexual abuse and murder scenes are treated without regard to any meaningful subtext. This is a movie without a soul.

There is no social commentary to be found. This is exploitation for exploitation sake.

Gene Siskel put it succinctly in his review of the movie.

"My objection to The Last House on the Left is not an objection to the graphic representations of violence per se, but to the fact that the movie celebrates violent acts, particularly adult male abuse of young women ... I felt a professional obligation to stick around to see if there was any socially redeeming value in the remainder of the movie and found none."

Rated R. 84 mins.

ZERO STARS