“Well, I’ve thinked we’ve cleaned most of the blood out of the cage…”
The first rule of Fight Club is: you don’t talk about Fight Club. However, this didn’t quite apply to Rage in the Cage, which is how we came to hear about it, since it was promoted on a local radio station, on the Internet and in the press. The venue was a night-club on the West Side of Phoenix, and the audience were largely white, blue-collar and overwhelmingly male, but trouble-free – perhaps in part due to the promoter threatening to throw anyone who caused bother, into the cage. This loomed large in the middle of proceedings, a chain-link octagon, some ten feet tall, raised above the ground. A couple more feet would have been welcome – even our ‘ringside’ seats (six or seven rows back in actuality) had problems following the fight once the combatants went to the deck; next time, we’ll probably just go for the regular seating.
Before the first fight, promoter Roland Sarria introduced the event, and thanked his supporters, such as Dr. Haggard, the “official chiropractor of Rage in the Cage“. This seemed a potential conflict of interests (I wondered if we would see him shouting “twist his neck some more!” at the fighters), but I have to say that the medical aspects were taken very seriously and covered every bit as well as at any boxing event I’ve attended. As a novice here, an explanation of the rules would have been welcome: there obviously were some, as the referee more than once stepped in to warn one or other fighter about an illegal tactic, but we were left to work out for ourselves what was and was not permitted. I was also curious as to whether the contestants were paid for their efforts, or if this was purely an amateur sport; hard to work out which was more likely, but I imagine any rewards would probably be of the token variety.
Following a rendition of the National Anthem (a concept which this Limey still finds a little strange, but then, the British National Anthem tends only to be heard after the odd Grand Prix), we got into the first of the evening’s seventeen bouts. That might seem like a lot to get through, but most were over quickly — even with two-minute rounds, only one match got beyond the first, and that one was so dull that the round girl probably put in more effort than either fighter. Happily, that was an exception; most of the rest were fast, furious and over in anything from 24 seconds. To the untrained eye (which includes mine), it might seem like no more than brawling, but over the course of the evening, the skill factor became more apparent. Submission holds, in particular arm-bars in which the arm gets levered back against itself at the elbow, proved most popular, and often it was the person who appeared to be being pinned, who managed to put the lock on and force his opponent to tap-out.
Match-ups seemed to be done largely on the basis of weight, which meant there were some uneven bouts, where a veteran who’d won eight of his nine bouts, was pitted against a debutant; unsurprisingly, it soon became nine out of ten. Most of the fighters had picked a nickname befitting their style, such as Ragin’ Rhino or The Crippler – though one poor guy had gone for the somewhat lame The Bastard, which provoked the MC into commenting laconically, “Hey, they write ’em, I just read ’em”. This provoked some thought about the name I’d choose: I quite like the idea of being Jim The Flying Scotsman McLennan. And, indeed, I could, quite literally, have been a contender. At the middle of the event, Sarria issued an open invitation to anyone who fancied trying their arm at a future event to come and sign up. For a brief second, I almost contemplated it (we were a couple of beers down the line by now – I imagine the response generally might have been somewhat fuelled by alcohol), but I suspect it would have been one of those things that didn’t seem such a good idea the next morning. Reality delivered a sharp tap on the shoulder in this regard, with one bout during which they stopped to mop the blood out of the ring with towels. Okay…I think some training is in order before The Flying Scotsman makes his debut.
I generally prefer my violence well-choreographed and fictional, rather than in-my-face and real, but have to confess that by the end of the evening, I was beginning to get into the swing of things. What looked initially like two guys rolling around on the floor is certainly more complex, and my fears of a mindless punch-fest turned out to be totally unfounded. I left with a great deal of respect for all those who took part, and while I don’t think I’m going to become a regular – either as a spectator or a participant – but I think that the occasional visit to future events is certainly not out of the question.
Radical Desire by Housk Randall and Mark Ramsden Published by Serpent’s Tail, £16.99
Got to give Serpent’s Tail big kudos for this one. Sub-titled Exploring The Cutting Edge of Western Sexual Experience, this baby rocks! The biggest clue to the fact that Radical Desire will be a worthwhile “experience” are the names of the book’s compilers, Housk Randall and Mark Ramsden. Ramsden is the author of two novels (one of which, The Dungeon Master’s Apprentice, I’ve read and really enjoyed), plays the sax and is justly proud of his tattoos and piercings. Randall spends his days working as a sex counsellor, but is better known for his award-winning erotic photography – he’s also the man behind the very well-received books, Rituals of Love and the stunning The Customised Body. So, it really goes without saying that putting these two together is going to produce something pretty special.
Radical Desire is a large-sized, 106 page paperback that just oozes high-class production. Combining the vision and genius of Housk Randall’s photos with the wit and wisdom of Mark Ramsden’s illuminating and lucid text, it delivers a rich and gripping journey through a rich seam of extreme sexual expression. The trip – magic mushrooms, anybody? – comprehensively covers a number of so-call radical desires, including tantric sex, sex magic, fetishism, occult practices, bondage and erotic piercing and performance art. Cynics might thing, “Oh, the usual subjects then?”…maybe so, but it’s the way that the authors approach their subject matter that makes this volume so interesting. The main point being that they both know the score; they’re on “the inside” looking out, which is of great benefit when trying to present their case.
Mark Ramsden makes a very valid point of stating that as fetishism (for example) becomes more mainstream, at the same time, tolerance towards people classes as “sexual outlaws” continues to decline. A strange paradox indeed! The media, of course, is a two-edged sword. Positive press is far outweighed by the attention given to the pathetic sensation-seeking so-(self)christened moral guardians. This basically is the drive and motivation behind the book; as a healthy dose of very welcome encouragement to those people out there with the courage to defy convention. The photos depict some of these people in all their proud glory, black and white masterpieces of graphic and sensitive design which are a pleasure to absorb.
Read this book, enjoy this book – at least you’ll discover what the magic mushroom reference is all about – for it deserves your utmost attention. Over 40? Fat? The style gurus say you’re not sexy, not horny – this book says “Bollocks!” An essential reference work…and bloody good fun too.
Supernatural forces do not want me to review these movies. In the first three minutes, Emily (my step-daughter) came in to show me some Christmas cards, my mother-in-law asked for my help with a recalcitrant water-tap, and Emily then required help in taking her medicine. Given that she is the ultimate actress, capable not just of making a drama out of any crisis, but a three-part miniseries, this was quite a performance, involving weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth appropriate to the end of the world — and that was just me. I came back to find the power cord of my PC mysteriously unplugged. Is this the work of God or the Devil? And were they trying to stop me writing, or merely trying to protect me from a needlessly painful experience?
I’m actually a big fan of religious apocalypse movies, which is a bit of a surprise since I’m certainly no fan of the church – indeed, any church. But the Book of Revelations is a fabulous piece of writing, even if you do have to wonder what the author was on when he wrote it – odds are it was significantly stronger than holy water. If it truly is the word of God, then God must be Timothy Leary. Movies like The Seventh Sign and The Rapture serve to demonstrate that religion is no bar to interesting and thought-provoking cinema, and if Paul Verhoeven ever gets the chance to make his long-planned film on the real life of Christ, I’ll be there for it too. That was originally scheduled to be released this year, but he did Hollow Man instead; perhaps he was thinking he’d signed up for Holy Man…
Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, from an Incredibly Bad point of view – most of them fall short of this level of competence, perhaps because they are intended for true believers, rather than sceptics. They take the presence of God as a given, and thus the actions of characters which result from this faith, is usually completely inexplicable by secular standards. I’m pretty much with Sam Goldwyn with regard to the topic of messages in movies – if I want one, I’ll call Western Union – but in the case of religious films, I’m prepared to occasionally make an exception. Here are two samples, one bad, one good…
The Left Behind books are a publishing phenomena – the latest volume in the series sold 2.3 million in the first week, and the series as a whole is around 15 million. There’s clearly a market for this kind of thing, and it was perhaps inevitable that they would move across into the modern-day Sodom of Hollywood. The production company, Cloud Ten, have previously made a number of Christian-themed movies, with titles such as Tribulation, starring Gary Busey, but Left Behind is easily their biggest production, even at a moderate budget of around $17m. They’ve adopted a somewhat strange technique to promote its theatrical release – put it out on video first, in the hope of building word-of-mouth in advance of its February arrival in cinemas. This explains why there were two money-off coupons in the box. However, I should point out that the last movie with such a religion-inspired campaign was Battlefield Earth.
Left Behind begins in the expectedly po-faced style; even the logo is preachy, depicting a child hesitating before a road which goes in two directions. A man takes the kid’s hand and leads it along the right-hand path, while lighting flashes ominously over the other. Add in an opening voice-over including lines like “We should have known better. But we didn’t…In the end, there’s no denying the truth” and the pious tone is set.
The film proper starts with a surprise Arab attack on Israel, where journalist Buck Williams (Kirk Cameron) is interviewing a scientist in the middle of a wheat field. They take shelter in a nearby village which just happens to conceal the Israeli base of operations – yeah, like they’d really let a random Yankee journo in there without asking any questions – but the Arab planes are smote (smited? smut? smeet?) mysteriously from the sky to the bafflement of everyone. Or, at least, everyone who hasn’t read the video sleeve. Buck sends footage back to his company, beaming his hi-definition – albeit looking suspiciously like 35mm film – footage to his network using a dish the size of a cake-tin, manually perched on a dustbin, as a satellite uplink. Isn’t technology wonderful?
Williams gets a hot tip on the whole smiting thing from paranoid conspiracist Dirk Burton, who blames industrialists Cothran and Stonagal. Initially dismissing the claims as the rantings of a paranoid conspiracist, Williams is forced to re-evaluate them after Burton’s predictions come true (gasp!). So, it’s accurate rantings of a paranoid conspiracist then… At this point, the Rapture occurs, though it’s not until 74 mins in that anyone mentions the R word, which is weird in a supposedly religious movie. For those unfamiliar with Biblical eschatology: the Rapture is when the truest believers are swept up to heaven, thereby avoiding the Tribulation, a rather nasty period on Earth before the second coming.
Williams is on a plane when “dozens” of passengers vanish; this is pretty dodgy from a statistical point of view. The Bible is obscure on many things, but it’s damn clear about the number that get raptured: “and no man could learn that song but the hundred [and] forty [and] four thousand, which were redeemed from the earth” [Revelations 14:3]. That may seem like a lot, but it’s barely 0.01% of the Christians on Earth, so the odds are heavily against even a single person being raptured off a Jumbo. Perhaps a package tour of Israeli monks was on board, since the Bible also says those Raptured must be virginal Jews [Revelations 7:4 and 14:4], points strangely ignored here. The film at one stage claims 144 million have vanished i.e. the Bible is out by a factor of a thousand. Suddenly, the Feeding of the, er, Five doesn’t seem so impressive.
Back on the plane, the carefully-considered response of pilot Rayford Steele (Brad Johnson) to this catastrophe is…to drop the oxygen masks. This has a strange calming effect on the passengers – maybe they should try it on the ground, where the Soviet leader of the UN, Nicolae Carpathia (Gordon Currie), a pawn of Cothran and Stonagal, takes the reins over the panicking world populace. Steele and Williams team up: Steele’s wife and son have been raptured (repeat previous statistical discussion about how unlikely this is, and never mind the bit about being a virginal Jew), leading to a pitiful scene as he sobs over their belongings, though the most pitiful thing about it is the over-acting on view. Blaming his wife’s religious beliefs, he hurls a bible at the mirror. but then, of course, starts reading it…
Williams finds Dirk Smith murdered (yes, I know he was Dirk Burton earlier in the film, but the computer screen definitely says Dirk Smith – his email address is email@example.com, if you want to send him some), and is shot at himself while examining computer files. Meanwhile the newly-born again Steele links up with the local priest, helping the latter to refind his faith. I drift on the edge of finding sleep, since it’s painfully obvious where this is all heading. When Chloe gets down her “Teen Devotional Bible” and starts reading it, my worst fears are confirmed – this is truly the stuff of nightmares, albeit perhaps not in the way that the makers intended.
Williams and Steele discover that Burton had decoded the prophecies in the Bible, revealing the Cothran-Stenagal plan. Williams gets into the UN, helped by a former air-hostess whom Steele had been screwing – obviously, before he found God and stopped doing that kind of thing. He reveals the conspiracy to Carpathia, and even turns to prayer. But, oops, Carpathia is the Anti-Christ: all lit from below (right) and with his Russian accent becoming thicker by the syllable. He shoots Cothran and Stenagal and takes over the world, simple as that. It’s a really weird and downbeat climax, despite a desperate attempt to make the ending uplifting, with a closing voice-over which goes, “Our only hope is to join together and trust God. I don’t have all the answers; but for now, faith is enough.” It doesn’t work. I know there’s another half-dozen books to go, but the impact on someone like me who hasn’t read the series, is that Satan has won, and God hates everyone, especially Christians – I don’t think this was the desired effect, but I confess to finding it oddly gratifying…
The Omega Code
Dir: Rob Marcarelli Star: Casper Van Dien, Michael York, Catherine Oxenberg, Michael Ironside.
This didn’t exactly start in the most promising of ways: the DVD mis-spelled the leading man’s name on his bio, it’s a production of ‘Good Times Entertainment’ (wince), preceded by a trailer for CrossWalk.com – “the intersection of faith and life” – and the first scene (once again, in Jerusalem) has Michael Ironside looking utterly mortified, disguised as a Hassidic Jew assassin complete with hat and extremely fake beard. Meanwhile, motivational speaker Dr. Lane (Van Dien) gets the exposition out of the way on a TV show hosted by Cassandra Barris (Oxenberg). A code hidden in the Torah predicts the future – as well as, incidentally, Princess Diana’s death in a Paris tunnel. Guess God had a bit of space to fill at the bottom of a page. I presume Lane is supposed to be immensely irritating, like all motivational speakers, coming out with phrases like “we are the higher power,” early signs that he’ll undergo a conversion somewhere between here and Damascus.
Elsewhere, in a laboratory populated with whizzy graphics work-stations, some Russian-sounding dudes are decoding the Torah and coming up with convenient one-sentence summaries which punctuate much of the film like intertitles from the silent era. Stone Alexander (Michael York), a “media mogul turned political dynamo” is now leader of the European Union. Lane wants to speak to him, but is dissuaded by Stone’s personal assistant/bodyguard/part-time Hassidic hit-man Dominic (Ironside). Instead, he has a vision in which one of Alexander’s horses goes all glowy-eyed and berserk. This is just one in a series: as someone asks him, “What kind of visions?”, to which the reply is, “I dunno – weird ones.”. He’s undergoing a divorce, and given his separated and whiny wife, it’s no surprise his small daughter appears to have picked up the Immensely Irritating gene.
The Russians take action to make sure their latest decryption comes true. In another strange echo of Left Behind, a reporter is conveniently right on the scene for the fulfillment of Biblical prophecy, as the Dome on the Rock in Jerusalem (or a 1/12-scale model thereof) blows up. Lane assists Alexander’s efforts to keep the peace; “We need an archetypal figure to embody the message,” he says, and signs up as Alexander’s Minister of Information. Alexander proposes a global currency (another common cornerstone of the apocalyptic brigade, tying in with bar-codes as the Mark of the Beast), and Lane is contacted by a defector from the decryption program. Memo to self: if I ever become the Anti-Christ, instruct staff to shoot traitors before they hand over incriminating sheets of paper to my enemies, not just after.
From this point, you can pretty much tick off the Common or Garden Interpretations of Revelations: a seven-year peace treaty between Israel and Arabs; the rebuilding of King Solomon’s temple; miracle food and water technology from Alexander; a global government under ten heads. Skip forward three years, and Lane is still having visions, though he’s not mentioned them to anyone in the meantime. He discovers Alexander’s plotting, as he and Dominic prepare to initiate Phase 2. The latter is miffed to discover Lane is slated as the prophet for Alexander’s vision and tries in a fit of whiny pique to shoot Lane; Alexander takes the bullet, but Lane is blamed for the assassination and is forced on the run. However, Alexander comes back to life, to everyone’s surprise – not least, Dominic’s…
This is where the movie really kicks in; you’re used to seeing Michael Ironside as a bad guy, but Michael York as the Anti-Christ is so delightfully against type that it works completely, and is huge fun. Plagued by voices, “painful yet sweet”, he takes over as world leader. Lane links up with two prophets who have been causing trouble, and tries to spread the not-so-good word about Alexander, but is blocked at every turn. His helpful prophets give him the final code, which Cassandra steals from him – yes, Catherine Oxenburg is evil too! Is nothing sacred? As she says, “Even Satan comes as an angel of light.”
After Alexander’s coronation, he goes totally out into left field: “I have become king and God,” he says, which doesn’t go over very well. Oblivious, he shoots the prophets, following up with, “I want these reprobates put on display. And guarded.” This seems a little excessive, given they’re dead, but in this film, the scythe-wielder is more Slightly Inconvenient Reaper than anywhere near Grim, so you can see his point. Other omens start cropping up, and it turns out the code Lane got wasn’t the proper one. As digital planes fly overhead on their way to a nuclear strike, Lane has another vision, and finds that prayer makes the gates to his cell fly open. The prophets are indeed resurrected – score one for the Anti-Christ – and take their wrath on Dominic. Lane tries to shoot Alexander, but is forced to surrender the final code…
Which is where I’ll stop, less for fear of spoiling the end, more because I wouldn’t be prepared to swear to the veracity of my vision. Watching this on New Year’s Day 2001, the only thing I could think of was, “My God, it’s full of stars.” It certainly is an ending, but precisely what it means is something I leave to you. Still, it’s a damn sight better than Left Behind, on a number of levels. Firstly, and most importantly, the religious stuff is actually kept well in the background; the hero never really converts as I expected, and the writers eschew over-zealous attachment to the Bible. If it doesn’t fit in, it gets dumped – there is no mention of the Rapture at all, and it’s much more self-contained, whizzing through the entire Apocalypse in 100 minutes. The presence of decent actors like York and Ironside is an undeniable plus too, and overall, this is not a religious film. Nor is it even really a film about religion, because Christianity is never allowed to get in the way of entertainment, and that realisation by the producers may have been the most important code to crack of all.
It proved a surprising success at the box-office, despite only having a few hundred prints to cover all the cinemas. Opening the same week as Fight Club, The Omega Code grossed more per screen, and also outlasted Messrs. Pitt and Norton, inhabiting the top twenty for seven weeks to gross a respectable $12.6m. As a result of this success, a sequel, Megiddo, is now in post-production, and is due to open in autumn 2001. York and Ironside return, and are joined by cult heroes Udo Kier, Michael Biehn and Franco Nero. With Brian Trenchard-Smith (Leprechaun 4: In Space) directing, it’s safe to say that Incredibly Bad Film Show correspondents are keenly awaiting its arrival…