water from the melting ice had begun to leak onto the hardwood floor. I grabbed a beer and handed one to Beth. After her first sip of watery, bitter liquid, she finally turned to the television and caught a glimpse of the sexual degradation of Salo ’s Italian youths. Having not seen the film before, I could tell she was completely repulsed.
“What are we watching? I think that girl just peed on that guy. Is this some fucked up porno or something? Why is he feeding her that brown stuff?” With that bit of critical analysis, I followed Beth into the other room, far away from the backlit television.
To be honest, I had seen Salo twice, and while I was utterly repulsed the first time, upon second viewing, it has some artistic merit. You can call me sick or twisted but this fact cannot be denied. The sheer gross-out quality of the imagery is enough to turn off about 98 percent of the population. I guess there are certain ways to view the movie, beyond the scalpings and depravity, that make you appreciate the far-reaching boundaries that art can stretch. We are never forced to watch anything other than what plays out in front of us, in real life.
When you can watch 3D cartoons flying at your face or superheroes bloodlessly blowing away bad guys, why spend your time watching a film, in another language, that features some guy realistically getting his eye cut out? I guess the answer lies in sheer curiosity. It’s the kind of movie that spreads slowly through certain circles, riding a certain wave of word-of-mouth. I thought about this through sips of palm-warmed beer and handfuls of dusty Blazing Buffalo Nacho Doritos. The taste was what I imagined week-old jalapeños covered in instant-cheese might be like. My green-orange powder covered hands fumbled in my pocket for my phone. The powder smeared all over the stitching around my pants pockets. Through the grease haze over the front of the screen, I saw it was 10:35pm. Yammering in Italian, at various speeds and with wavering intensity, pumped through the surround sound speakers that could be heard an entire room away from their source.
Beth told me, “I’m sorry I took you here. I heard about James before I left my house and I figured you couldn’t have been anything close to okay. I’d say something stupid like ‘I still care about you’ but face it Anton, we’re past that. I’m not some girl you saw in a movie once.”
I guess being poetic, once you pass 18 years old, becomes overrated. The best statements, unfortunately, are the most direct. I remember the roundabout way I used to talk to people in middle school. It wasn’t so much skittish as it was curious. I wanted to know everything about everything, and would stumble to my point or my original idea. If you ask me, we’ve done away with the romance of every day conversation in this massive, overhaul effort to get to the point. After Beth said that, I heard screaming and crying blaring out of the television speakers in the next room. My high was wearing off and the marching band began going through their routine in my head. We were in some type of seldom-used dining room, with an ornate table holding a giant, aromatic floral centerpiece. Giant cushioned chairs with embroidered ivy vines surrounded the table. Beth had her beer resting directly on the table’s rich finish, no coaster. I wondered who watered those flowers when Vin’s parents were gone?
I sat down in one of the chairs to tell Beth, “Don’t worry about bringing me here. I like Salo , James likes Salo …he was the one who first showed it to me. He asked if I wanted to see the most fucked up movie of all time. Will you check out this house? How did I never notice just how crooked this all is. Look where we are. The evidence of taxidermy is everywhere.”
That last statement was unfortunately true. All over Vin’s house, mounted on walls and standing on floors, were stuffed animals. Not carnival stuffed animals, but ones that used to be
“What are we watching? I think that girl just peed on that guy. Is this some fucked up porno or something? Why is he feeding her that brown stuff?” With that bit of critical analysis, I followed Beth into the other room, far away from the backlit television.
To be honest, I had seen Salo twice, and while I was utterly repulsed the first time, upon second viewing, it has some artistic merit. You can call me sick or twisted but this fact cannot be denied. The sheer gross-out quality of the imagery is enough to turn off about 98 percent of the population. I guess there are certain ways to view the movie, beyond the scalpings and depravity, that make you appreciate the far-reaching boundaries that art can stretch. We are never forced to watch anything other than what plays out in front of us, in real life.
When you can watch 3D cartoons flying at your face or superheroes bloodlessly blowing away bad guys, why spend your time watching a film, in another language, that features some guy realistically getting his eye cut out? I guess the answer lies in sheer curiosity. It’s the kind of movie that spreads slowly through certain circles, riding a certain wave of word-of-mouth. I thought about this through sips of palm-warmed beer and handfuls of dusty Blazing Buffalo Nacho Doritos. The taste was what I imagined week-old jalapeños covered in instant-cheese might be like. My green-orange powder covered hands fumbled in my pocket for my phone. The powder smeared all over the stitching around my pants pockets. Through the grease haze over the front of the screen, I saw it was 10:35pm. Yammering in Italian, at various speeds and with wavering intensity, pumped through the surround sound speakers that could be heard an entire room away from their source.
Beth told me, “I’m sorry I took you here. I heard about James before I left my house and I figured you couldn’t have been anything close to okay. I’d say something stupid like ‘I still care about you’ but face it Anton, we’re past that. I’m not some girl you saw in a movie once.”
I guess being poetic, once you pass 18 years old, becomes overrated. The best statements, unfortunately, are the most direct. I remember the roundabout way I used to talk to people in middle school. It wasn’t so much skittish as it was curious. I wanted to know everything about everything, and would stumble to my point or my original idea. If you ask me, we’ve done away with the romance of every day conversation in this massive, overhaul effort to get to the point. After Beth said that, I heard screaming and crying blaring out of the television speakers in the next room. My high was wearing off and the marching band began going through their routine in my head. We were in some type of seldom-used dining room, with an ornate table holding a giant, aromatic floral centerpiece. Giant cushioned chairs with embroidered ivy vines surrounded the table. Beth had her beer resting directly on the table’s rich finish, no coaster. I wondered who watered those flowers when Vin’s parents were gone?
I sat down in one of the chairs to tell Beth, “Don’t worry about bringing me here. I like Salo , James likes Salo …he was the one who first showed it to me. He asked if I wanted to see the most fucked up movie of all time. Will you check out this house? How did I never notice just how crooked this all is. Look where we are. The evidence of taxidermy is everywhere.”
That last statement was unfortunately true. All over Vin’s house, mounted on walls and standing on floors, were stuffed animals. Not carnival stuffed animals, but ones that used to be
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