We are the Sprocket Holes vol. 205

R.I.P. Jess Franco

i don't remember exactly when i first saw a Jess Franco film, or even which film of his i did see first. maybe that's because of the way Franco's films play... their movement and language being that of a dream; following it by the narrative (if indeed there is any)is almost beyond fruitless, and after it's over, your reccolection of the events is hazy and jumbled... but certain moments, characters, images are seized by your memory, to be played in a warping loop, whether they are deliberately paced terror, unraveling kink, maniacal surrealism, or all of the above. you don't watch a Franco film for an easy scare or juvenile gorehound kicks. fans of mediocre jock horror, with its charmless direction, boilerplate writing, artless production design, cynical attempts at bland humanism, overbearing exposition that insultingly obvious, and glitchy music video editing that's less a technique than it is a failed style, can just keep their Netflix stream of the Collection and remain ignorant in their dismissals. Franco's films are less exploitative escapism and more unrestrained examinations of the ID's wilding pathologies. a place where Gothic Horror iconography and European Literary Decadence take part in a conjoint filtration of their essence, their shared perversity distilled into a fevered crawl of nightmarish eroticism.

 trailer for FACELESS (embedding disabled cause fuck me, right?)

Blue Underground, Shriek Show, Anchor Bay, and others have many of Franco's films released in gorgeous editions. look for them. fuck streaming.

RIP.