An apology in advance to those readers who appreciate more of a mix in their Saturday Morning Cartoons, more of a grab-bag of treats with which to satisfy their dilettantish sweet tooth. Today we present a meal, a robust, full flavored dish chock full of aromatic spices and out of control insanity. Today Ectomo is proud to present Satoshi Kon’s Paprika.
Paprika is set in the near future and focuses on a new type of psychotherapy treatment called dream therapy. Using a device known as a “DC Mini”, therapists are able to enter the dreams of their patients. The story begins with Doctor Atsuko Chiba, who uses the alter-ego known as Paprika during therapy sessions, counseling one Detective Konakawa Toshimi. The nature of the sessions is a closely guarded secret as the use of the DC Mini is unsanctioned, and its existence is being kept from the press. Things quickly go wrong, however, when three of the machines are stolen, and so begins the story proper.
The themes present in Paprika are well-trodden by Kon. He has almost a singular obsession with the human subconscious — especially in terms of a larger, societal subconscious — and pop culture. Paprika does not stray too far from this territory but the torrent of imagery that Kon throws at the viewer makes the experience feel fresh nevertheless. It also strikes me upon each subsequent viewing how much Kon is seemingly aping Hayao Miyazaki —probably the most successful current animator coming out of Japan by western standards. Whether this is intentional or not I cannot be sure, but he does it well enough, and sparingly enough, that the film is not bogged down by a feeling that one is watching, say, Spirited Away II: The Revenge
Paprika really is a fantastic film, and for those of you who are not as enthusiastic about anime, or who downright loathe it, I would still urge you to give it a try. Kon’s work is unlike most of Japanese animation that makes it to our shores and I feel that, given the chance, it may surprise you.
Eschewing creature comforts like social interaction and sunlight is a relaxing thing for folks with an isolationist, artistic bent. The type that’s equally likely to invite you in for tea as they are to poke you in the eye to give them enough time to load up the shotgun with rock salt for taking the chance of checking in on your missing misanthropic friend.
But after a while the conversational stylings of art supplies and imaginary monsters become so tedious, and we’re forced to brave the heaving morass of the world in order to confirm that its borders aren’t limited by the peeling paint on our self-imposed boundary walls. When we crawl, blinking and ghostly pale, into the world to congregate and share tales of horror and mania it’s then that the realization hits.
There’s no one else in the world that you could ever hate more, and no one that you’ll ever feel closer to.
Left:The Girl with the Faberge AssRight:Appetite for Destruction
Robert Williams, founder of Juxtapoz and contemporary of Ed “Big Daddy” Roth. Also, possibly, a madman. Looking at what he unleashes onto a canvass one can only wonder about what he may still be repressing. We’re probably better off not knowing.
Keeping with the fine Japanese, cinematic tradition of unconstrained insanity and over-the-top violence, comes Tokyo Gore Police by the same people who brought the world Machine Girl. The “plot” of Tokyo Gore Police is as follows: in the future, Tokyo is in the grip of a plague which allows infected individuals to turn their wounds into weapons. These individuals are called Engineers and in order to keep them under control a private, heavily armed police force — whose members are imaginatively named “Engineer Hunters” — is created.
All of this takes place in a world where the denizens of Tokyo are so tumid with fluids that one would expect to hear it sloshing in their bulbous, distended limbs as they waddled about. The aforementioned ability to use one’s wounds as weapons also leads to some inventive situations, such as a gentleman using his severed penis as a cannon, a woman who sprays acid from her chest after being separated from her breasts, and a woman whose torso terminates in a toothsome toothy, alligator vulva. The level of gore in this trailer reaches such a hysterical pitch that at times it appears that the filmmakers have stooped to just throwing rubber organs in the air and spraying fake blood on the camera lens. In one scene I cannot even be sure if what is being depicted is a truck driving through a pile of mannequin parts or if said parts are supposed to be human bodies.
Needless to say this clip is NSFW and brilliant in a way only something so completely ridiculous can be.
Some cells have mattresses, others blankets, still others bare floors. None that we had seen (and we found these cells in each institution visited) had either a bed, a washstand, or a toilet. What we did find in one cell was a thirteen or fourteen year old boy, nude, in a corner of a starkly bare room, lying on his own urine and feces. The boy had been in solitary confinement for several days for committing a minor institutional infraction.
In December, 1965 Dr. Burton Blatt and his friend Fred Kaplan, a photographer, visited “five state institutions for the mentally retarded”. Kaplan was armed with a small camera attached to his belt, which he used to surreptitiously take photographs during their tours. The finished photo essay, which they titled “Christmas in Purgatory: A Photographic Essay On Mental Retardation”, is a harrowing catalog of loneliness and despair; the reader being saved from its crushing weight only by its last collection of photos from The Seaside, an institution in Connecticut, whose program is cited here as an example of proper, institutional care. The entire book can be viewed at the link below, as well as hundreds of others chronicling the history of mental and physical disabilities.
Oh sure, you can take Xenu into your heart, but can you put him on your toy shelf? Sadly, still no, as this is the only custom Xenu toy that Jin Saotome has done. However, our sources deep within the convoluted Scientology network tell us that once you reach Level 17 you’re awarded a Xenu figurine of your very own.
While the Japanese Giant Hornet is certainly a horrifying affirmation of nature’s twisted, murderous intent it’s also a fascinating creature cautiously adored by the many warped freaks we call our friends. Apparently this fascination isn’t limited to the aforementioned bosom-dregs of society, extending to the Japanese, who treasure the enzyme rich honey created by the brutal beasts, believing it to have an invigorating effect.
The honey is collected by questionably sane apiarists on a small island in Japan who fortify the treat with methods intended to increase the enzyme levels of the honey, all so you can get the most venomous bang for your buck.
Being something of a tea zealot — and thus obsessed with constant experimentation in the field of tea accessorizing — I can ignore the hefty dosh needed to pick up a measly 4.5 ounces of this odd treat. Have a peek at the hornet honey dispensary, while currently fresh out of virulent hornet heavings they’ve got a wide array of insect-centric delectables sure to please even the most discerning adventurer’s palette.
The power of Ectomo is both wondrous to behold and terrifying to contemplate, as any ectomite knows all too well. Certainly it is a wonder closet of dazzling proportions but it also has a dark and unholy box perched on its top shelf, high up where little ones can’t get to it. Things lurk in this neat little package, things not fit for the minds of man, let alone his spawn.
One must assume, however, that some will find their way into Ectomo’s stash, perhaps when it was left out on the table; after all, these things do happen and the occasional moment of forgetfulness can be forgiven. Not so in this case, however. No, faithful readers, no in this case we must turn our stern eye of judgment toward one Nathan Myers, a gentleman with a wanton disregard for human life and a destroyer of innocence. Mr. Myers is responsible for the most heinous of crimes he has shown his no doubt wonderful and carefree eight year old daughter Ectomo’s secrets and wrought untold damage.
Once exposed to the tentacled, crawling blasphemy contained therein his once lighthearted progeny at once fell into a deep morass of babbling, incoherent madness; her eyes, no doubt, displaying the same dual irises portrayed in In The Mouth of Madness. Her mind shattered, she shuffled off and immediately took up a waxy writing implement and began to work feverishly, trying desperately to put on paper the horror that now assaulted her mind’s eye in a futile attempt to make sense of it.
The product of this sick experiment was this piece, entitled “Sun Goes Like This”. As you can see, clearly the dank recesses of Ectomo have wormed their way into every aspect of the poor little girl’s world, rendering everything a tentacled nightmare. A parade of transmogrified beasts — Shoggoth, perhaps — travel through an empty wasteland under the scorching gaze of a mindless, Cthulhoid sun, led by what appears to be a banished Innsmouth resident upon a R’lyehan death-horse. Truly a bleak and terrible world and a warning to all: the power of Ectoplasmosis is mighty and not to be wielded by those who would prove irresponsible. Take care, Nathan Myers, your daughter’s lost sanity rests on your head.
Back in the early 90’s David Cronenberg adapted Naked Lunch to film, a release that had a profound effect on my development, introducing me not only to the works of Cronenberg but also Burroughs and then further into the strange labyrinth of cinema and beat poetry. Naturally, the film was received with a mixed reaction; an unsurprising turn of events considering the combination of both Cronenberg and Burroughs was likely to stir the hornets nest of fanboyism for the latter. Personally, I found my first (and subsequent) viewing of it similar to the abject horror followed by near post-coital bliss of the insipid Reese’s commercials from the 80’s; two great tastes that did indeed taste great together.
While I could prattle on about my love for Cronenberg, Burroughs, and the combination of the two artist’s work for hours on end I’m also able to admit it’s not going to be to everyone’s tastes. Regardless, if you’re enough of a thick-skulled bint not to wholly appreciate the film in its entirety (it’s ok, we still love you, but you only get half an Octobee for Christmas this year), simply mute your TV; because this movie is pure eye-candy ladies and gents. Hit the jump for more stills from Naked Lunch.
There’s two ways you can take this advertisement for Fred’s “Video Movie” and animation services. The first is as a hilariously perplexing display of the kind of human tragedy lurking within the seething morass of “normal” people. That interpretation is really more than enough to keep you amused as you watch the rest of Fred’s inexplicably edited and composed videos.
There is however, a second, far more insidious (and I think more accurate) interpretation. You see Fred is no ordinary Canadian man with a video camera, computer, and delusions of film-making grandeur. Fred is a monster, an evil man that has conducted horrific experiments in the unspeakable regions of science that no self-respecting man or woman gives any thought to lest they run shrieking into the night. That lifeless lump of audibly monotone flesh is not his wife, but an automota created in his hideous lab simply to see if he could accomplish the feat.
She was probably once a beautiful woman, rife with vim and vigor, full of the promise and untapped potential our parents and Disney have led us to believe we all have inside. Now the poor thing is nothing more than a shapeless mound atop a wheeled stool (adjustable in height of course, even mad scientists need their rocks off once in a while) shuffled around to be put on display as Fred’s greatest accomplishment. You can almost hear the screams of a shattered psyche echoing in her mind as she mumbles the speeches Fred has programmed her prior to show time.
I have been deathly ill these last few days, and as a result have experienced some of the best fever dreams I’ve had in a long time. In relating one of these dreams to a friend I was informed that it sounded exactly like the video for Nick Cave’s The Weeping Song.
It’s important to note here that in spite of having gone from wee gothlet to full blown goth-denial over the years I hadn’t actually seen the video for The Weeping Song. Oh sure, I’ve heard it countless times in smoky goth clubs, but more often then not I was preoccupied with laughing into my drink at the slow motion seizures occurring on the dance floor to actually take note and look it up later.
After watching the video I was surprised by how closely it paralleled my dream, while missing the junkie mullets and copper coiffed sidekick in the video the dream I had was nearly exactly what you see above. Either Nick Cave (circa 1990) and I (circa brain-boiling fever) share a brain (which isn’t much of a stretch considering the pharmaceutical soup pumping through his veins at the time) or the idea of a sitting in a tiny boat in the middle of a vast, dark ocean wearing a suit and tie simply appeals to the disturbed.
I’m not exactly sure what to think of this trailer, to be honest. My trepidation stems from Singh’s first film, The Cell, a movie whose arresting visuals were wrapped around a vapid plot and horrendous acting. It is a stunning example of the music video as feature film. His newest effort, eight years later, seems to be in much the same vein. The story is that of a young girl who, while recovering after breaking her collarbone, meets a bedridden man who tells her fantastical stories that reflect his deteriorating mental state. He also uses them as a bribe in order to get her to steal pharmaceuticals for him. In all it doesn’t seem as though much has changed. I have no doubt that The Fall will be gorgeous but one wonders if Mr. Singh shouldn’t just set the damned thing to music and be done with it.
Y’know, I always thought that once time travel had been invented I’d use it to go back and give advice to my adolescent self, not to parade around the streets of Paris in what is apparently the natural evolution of my already questionable fashion choices, though when I think about it the idea makes sense. Apparently even in my advanced years I am a force of fashion with which to be reckoned.
After a dozen years of tyrannical Prohibition, the people of our once proud and great nation had finally cracked. I know it sounds far fetched but bear with me, the mental decimation of North America at the hands of 12 years of sobriety at gunpoint and poisonous, bathtub concocted tonics explains everything.
The bunny is coming for you. He knows where you live. He knows where your family lives. He is watching you all the time. His time is nigh. Beware the bunny.
In sheer defiance of the World Wide Web Consortium's will, Ectomo was designed using a non-web-standard font. Luckily, it is included in the excellent font pack released by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, which can be freely downloaded in Mac and PC formats here. Ectomo should still look fine without it, though.
