Underrated : The Scary of Sixty-first

THE SCARY OF SIXTY-FIRST

When I first learned that it-girl, Dasha Nekrasova, co-host of the podcast Red Scare, was making her contribution to the current, over-saturated and uninspired new wave of quote psychological horror films, my expectation couldn’t be lower. But when early reviews rolled in, drawing comparisons between the film and giallo -- the kaleidoscopic, Italian horror classics of the 60s and 70s, in the vein of Suspiria (Dario Argento, 1977) or The Girl Who Knew Too Much (Mario Bava, 1963) -- it piqued my interest, albeit a morbid one, and I fluctuated between positions of curiosity and frankly fear that Nekrasova would deliver a cheap imitation of the tradition of giallo.

The release of the film was curtailed by the pandemic, and premiered at the ‘online,’ 71st Berlinale, showing in the Encounters section. But The Scary of Sixty-First (Dasha Nekrasova, 2021), a neo-gothic terror that basks in incoherence and esoteric intrigue, seemed appropriate for the post-Covid release landscape, and fitted in nicely with my now abject familiarity with my laptop.

The film, detailing the dialectics of latent apophenia, captures the compulsive, patternseeking logic of the terminally-online (or the proponents of Pizzagate and QAnon), and are personified by the two young women in the film (played by Dasha Nekrasova herself, and her co-writer, Madeline Quinn) who dedicate themselves to uncovering the truth about Jeffrey Epstein and his elite cabal of pedophiles. The dynamic is echoed by Red Scare, the popular podcast co-hosted by the director with Anna Khachiyan (who cameos as a doppelgänger of Ghislaine Maxwell,) which is situated within a particular milieu known as the ‘dirtbag left’, who are either (depending on your persuasion,) 1. revolutionary, cultural critics offering an alternative to the societal flatness of neoliberalism, or 2. pseudointellectual, shock-jock vulgarians. The film borrows tonally from the transgressive effect of Red Scare, albeit swapping the parasocial, ambient intimacy of the podcast with audiencealienating dramatics but retaining it’s sardonic satire and unnerving dark humour.

Suffice to say, I wasn’t disappointed.

Undoubtedly, the fierce and frenetic feminine energy, over-the-top aesthetic decadence and high-camp tableaux, and homoeroticism more than hint at the innate camp character of Scary, despite accusations of earnestness levelled at the film. Even so, the conspiratorial mode depicted in the elegantly eccentric oestrogen-drenched arthouse epic is not entirely unfound. Paranoid as the characters are, they find both intentionality and resolute humanism within the otherwise soul-crushing banality of late-stage capitalism. As the neoliberal world order produces equal parts agitation and anaesthesia, conspiracy in this schizophrenic mode doesn’t seem entirely unfounded, and in some cases (as evidenced by the growing landscape of podcasting) functions as an antidote to the quiet horror of existence.

Streaming Gem: Cecil B. Demented

John Waters’ Cecil B. Demented (2000) is a film that lends itself to the damning label of “pretentious”, fulfilling many of the criteria one would expect. Firstly, it can be found on Mubi, the notably arty streaming service filled with subtitled films that have been on your list for ages. Secondly, it is a film about filmmaking! Oh, how people deride this genre, accuse it of being self-indulgent, navel-gazing filth whose target audience is filmmakers themselves (it is, I admit, all of these things). Thirdly, it detests the establishment— specifically Hollywood. The central gang of underground filmmakers-cum-terrorists (led by the eponymous Cecil (Stephen Dorff)) shoot guns on the set of Forrest Gump 2, scream “Make good cinema or die”, and (most central to the plot) kidnaps an A-list actress, played spectacularly by Melanie Griffith. Her slow-at-first then unbelievably-fast indoctrination into the gang manages to be both credible and camp, lighting up even a grubby laptop screen.

In pure John Waters style, this film refuses to be subtle at any point. The down-withblockbusters message is on the nose, the visuals are so gaudy as to almost hurt your eyes, and the plot is obviously ridiculous. Both Cecil B. Demented’s pretentiousness and its lack of subtlety serve the film incredibly well. While fleeing from the police, the gang are protected by first a theatre that shows violent films, then a pornographic cinema. Cecil’s gang rejects respectability, believing that “family’s just another word for censorship”, and branding themselves with hot metal. If you couldn’t tell from the premise, it’s worth noting that it’s also hilarious.

Ultimately, this is a film made by and for degenerates and outsiders, for those who have been giving out about Marvel since before Scorsese got his hands on such discourse. This probably makes it pretentious, and it might make it obvious or crude, but Cecil B. Demented doesn’t give a shit, he just wants to make good cinema, which is exactly what he does.