It's A Sin: West Trades Porn for MGM Parody

Oh no, Ti West's phenomenal Boogie Nights meets Texas Chainsaw Massacre slasher X from earlier this year receives a rapid follow up with the much talked about prequel Pearl and it is akin to a modern tragedy. Only way to describe the experience is that I'm feeling you have to be a huge Wizard of Oz fan to be really in to this. Me? I just like porn.

West had us all fooled in to thinking the days of exploitation filmmaking were back. A time when filmmakers could go out and make a film in just a few short weekends and get that shit pumped out to a hungry cinema audience wanting bloodshed and chaos. Those days are not back. This is a W for theatre kids, those bellends have hijacked my porn picture. Honestly, any cunt that likes to break in to musicals spontaneously and be the centre of attention when the spotlight comes down better stay out of my way for the next few weeks. Otherwise it's Fists of Fury, baby! Understand this is not particularly an attack on musicals as a genre (there's some good ones out there) but the weirdos who are obsessed with them. So next time you're thinking of humming Hamilton with your Airpods in, make sure it is far, far, far away from Mr J M Kelly, until I can move on from potentially the biggest disappointment of the year.

Perhaps, I would be alienating myself If I said even other horror musicals such as The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Little Shop of Horrors are pretty lame too. May as well start blasting out Queen with that shit. You're on the same slippery slope. I still would love to kill whoever came up with the concept of the rock opera. No one needs to give their ears a pummelling with that rubbish. Beetlejuice does have a hilarious central character but that one's directed by Tim Burton, which makes it automatically wank. Cabaret should be the greatest one with its provocative story set in the early days of Nazi Germany but it's a shoddy attempt at transgressive art. Literally, the drama kids view of controversy. At least Burlesque and Coyote Ugly (belters) have the decency to deliver on the pop appeal rather than resorting to unbearable amounts of pathetic cringe.

Don't even talk to me about Les Miserables, Phantom of the Opera, The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins or Dreamgirls. There was never any hope for them. Also, how on earth did they make Jersey Boys so bad? Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons fucking slap. Doo Wop legends. The Wanderers, now that's a movie which used those bangers well. Why don't musicals use actual songs rather than resorting to plot singing? Maybe just do the lip singing of hits and keep the dance routines. They're hits for a reason! Use them. Do we really need to hear what the cast sounds like with their abysmal renditions? Always eludes me as to why that isn't common practice. Probably why I've always preferred dance movies like Footloose, Flashdance, Saturday Night Fever and yes, Staying Alive to shit like Funny Girl or A Star is Born . I'm here for the cheesy '80s montages. What are you here for?

The breaking of the film world and narrative pauses, which are regular criticisms of the genre have never bothered me. All for montages and endless dance sequences. They're just the set pieces the film seeks to communicate itself through. They are not what disrupts the movie or takes me out of the experience. It's the aforementioned plot singing instead of classic hits and its show offy singing style. Oh look at me, I have an incredible voice! Shut up, sing with a sore throat that's battered from too many cigarettes and play 3 fucking notes on the guitar like normal people.

Alright, so what musicals do you like Kelly you fucking incessant wingebag? Elvis movies of course! John Waters's Cry Baby and Hairspray. That's the original Hairspray, which was once described by David Edelstein as being a "family movie both the Brady's and Manson's could adore". Not this commercialised crap they're passing off nowadays without any of the originals grotesque soul. As I said, generally I prefer pre recorded songs without the cast singing. However, If you have to go that route, I welcome the ones where the actors either can't sing or sounding incredibly pissed like Mamma Mia and Jesus Christ Superstar, which defy all rating systems.

In particular, Pearl parodies the old MGM musicals. Unlike my man John Waters though, I've never really cared for Wizard of Oz. Hold your horses, before you get too excited, I don't hate it either, which for some of these films is a massive achievement, I guess. One for the kids and so let them have their fun. Singin' in the Rain is easily the peak of those MGM musicals with the titular track and 'Good Morning' being certified bangers. Honestly though, Smauel Goldwyn Production's effort from 1955 Guys and Dolls wipes the floor with any of the MGM offerings. Brando and Sinatra? Yes, please.

Pearl seeks to cater towards that egotistical star bullshit as though it’s a dream everyone shares. Sure, I'm a cinephile but I've always been in to championing directors and in particular smugglers. Those who make genre pictures and hide in messages over really obvious and self satisfied dramas that you figure out from the trailer. Actors are just tools or pawns and you can fight me on that. Actors think they are the movie and rarely understand what the pictures about. I mean just watch them do interviews or even direct themselves. They think their role is the movie. I will not apologise for my auteur purism.

A director that sneaks his thoughts into genre pictures and admire, Martin Scorsese has gone on to praise Pearl for being "powered by a pure undiluted love for cinema". Maybe it is but it’s a side to cinema I'd be lying if I said I had much time for. Mia Goth, who does indeed look as sexily deranged as Shelley Duvall, can act but we've known this since Nymphomaniac Vol. 2. Fucking hell, how I wished Pearl was more like that movie. It could have so easily been if they sacked off all the musical meanderings and maintained stricter focus on sexual liberation like the first movie. The purpose of Goth's performance is lost on me here and the 10 minute monologue summarises everything I hate about it with its disgustingly self centred attitude and nature of the performance it attempts to champion. Some will say the simple set up and low budget is admirable as a Covid production but it only makes it resemble cinemas ugly sister: the theatre. For the nerds that sorry, can't approve.

Pearl's titular character has already gone down in history as a cinematic girl boss. Easy to understand why with her 'chaotic energy' that becomes increasingly drawn out when having to deal with male characters, which no doubt will appeal to women. Strangely, I found that side to the movie rather humorous, especially the moment when she starts cry screaming "Why are you leaving me!" As a sexual partner gives her the cold shoulder. Can't believe I'm saying this but we could have had more of that. Less drama kid antics, more feral girl.

None of West's mixing of horror and musical ever comes close to the home invasion sequence in Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange , which successfully subverts Singin' in the Rain with nightmarish results. Always find West's slow burning atmosphere hit or miss to begin with. Either it's ground breaking or boring. Pearl, I'm sad to say falls in to the latter with its stale drama. Don't you just hate it when the golden boy misbehaves?

When it comes to West's slow brooding approach, on dark conversations using found footage with The Sacrament, it works. When he's subtly mapping out locations like The House of the Devil , it works. As a means to combine Psycho/Eaten Alive southern gothic styles with Giallos like Suspiria on X, it works. Often, I reckon this dude needs a good score or music track to fill the gaps, otherwise I find them dull and unengaging like The Innkeepers

Naturally, as Ti West is arguably the best US horror director right now or at least emerging as one, there are some commendable areas of Pearl, which would be foolish to ignore. As expected, it has some real technical moments of awe with its skilled compositions. When his images of the lake begin playing with X, had my attention. They will surely affect now how you watch X in future. Editing is a real weapon in West's hands with his notable methods of experimentation with time. He will briefly return prior images from the previous scene and have them flash on screen, despite the next scene having commenced. All this borders on avant garde, yet it never threatens to destroy the commercial appeal and integrity for a wider audience. Respectably, he picks his moments well, exposing people to techniques they might not normally be acquainted with, whilst not alienating them in process. Undeniably, this is completely admirable.

Overall though, I found Pearl too plastic and fake to be effective. You could say that's kind of the point with the MGM throwback but I don't think West succeeds in doing his own thing with that either. Much has been said about the ending/final credits taking influence from Indiana Jones. This didn't win me over as it should have and just reconfirmed for me that this wasn't a movie but a failed stylistic exercise.

Right Kelly are you quite done moaning about musicals? Yeah, maybe it's about time I just moved on and got on to the Kelly/Bonehead adventures section. Well, this week I was kidnapped. Or that's what Bonehead Bill seems to think any way. I maintain that it was more of an elaborate prank than a full on abduction. When did this happen? A Sunday afternoon. I was coming out of The Light Cinema having seen Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery, which I will review next issue. Upon making it to Trafalgar Street, which runs parallel to the road Corp's on, out of nowhere, I was rudely jumped. A sack was put over my head and my hands tied behind my back by some unidentified individuals.

They were too quick for me and my thoughts were too distracted by the Glass Onion to be on the lookout for assailants. Looking back, all I can think of now is where on earth did they get a sack from? Obviously, though this was not on my mind at the time. Instead, my thoughts were on working out who the fuck had just jumped me and thrown me in the boot of a car. Who could I have possibly pissed off this much to warrant such actions? The list was endless.

During the drive, I ran through the names of all the people who could be involved on this one. Attempts were made at doing what they do in the movies with 'busting out the tail lights' to attract rear drivers attention. Turns out if you've got a sack on your head and you've turned in to a god damn contortionist cause you can't fit in to the boot comfortably, this is rather difficult. It only just dawned on me now, that there was actually a better way out of this. A simple voice activated, "Ok Google" and phone call to a trusted companion might have quickly resolved this situation. Will store that one for next time.

Finally, the car pulled over and the engine stopped. The boot pops open and a voice calls, "Get out" "I fucking can't", I stupidly replied in response to my claustrophobic conditions. Not the best answer to give cause this meant I was dragged out. My repeated shouts of "Careful, Careful!" Were not really listened to and resulted in many grazes to the elbows.

Having been dragged to my feet I was made to walk a good hundred yards or so. It became clear that we were no longer walking on road and that the terrain had definitely changed. Other than that getting a sense of location without the eyes was near impossible. Eventually, we stop and I feel an arm on my shoulder halting my movement. The idiot had given his position away. An image of Lt. Aldo Raine headbutting that Nazi soldier in Inglorious Basterds entered my brain. However, having not ever been one for the headbutt attack, I opted for a double dropkick that Eric Cantona would have been proud of. As the man's screams hit my ears, so too did a flash of light. That was when I realised the sack had half slipped off my head and I was gifted with the power of sight once more.

Looking around, I was able to gather that we were somewhere in the peak district and that I knew the two people in front of me. "Oh thank fuck, it's just you two", I called out relieved. "And what do you think you mean with that?" was the reply. Standing in front of me were The Pseuds. Arms and body aching from the journey, I decided to get down to business and ask, "Right let's get this over. What do you guys want then". "To talk", said one of them smiling as he did so. "To talk? What's with the Breaking Bad routine? We couldn't have had this conversation back in the city centre?", I queried. One of my attackers responds with, "the countryside helps me think". It hits me that this guy wants to joke around so I play along, hitting him back with, "I don't disagree but I didn't bring my walking shoes". To which he replies, "For someone in your position, you shouldn't make so many jokes". A one sided jester it appeared. He must not be one for the back and forth.

Struggling not to laugh, all I could think to say was, "Ok" and look around awkwardly awaiting this guys next move. After an age of silence, he mutters, "Look. We know it wasn't you that defecated his ride. Since we couldn't get hold of that mate of yours, we thought we'd come after you. And you could tell us where he is". So what we had here was a two man operation. One guy doing all the talking, he was the confident one. His mate, Pseud number two, who's ride it was, he still seemed in a daze from a good Kelly drop kick. Glad to know that one still does some damage.

Unwilling to give up my accomplice, I stalled them with, "How'd you find me?". The one doing all that talking takes control again, stating, "that was easy. Asked everyone at the Halloween party who you were. None of them had heard of you. All we heard was you were running around screaming about some Japanese horror movie whilst breaking things and stealing beers". Nodding along I had to agree and declared, "yep that sounds like me". My captor ignored this and went straight into saying, "we thought to ourselves, where do all the scum of Sheffield like to congregate? The Washington between the hours of 12 and 3. The only bar in Sheffield open that late on a Friday. So we went looking. Couple of weekends go by, you don't show up"

I breathed an even bigger sigh of relief than when I realised it was these two idiots behind this pathetic attempt at an abduction. "Oh thank fuck, I thought you were going to suggest I was a regular then. Mate, I literally go once every blue moon", I retorted, feeling the need to explain myself. This didn't please Pseud number one, who quickly came out with, "I'm not your mate. That's when Louie here " . "Louie?", I asked baffled as to who he was referring to and added, "Who the fuck is Louie?". "Me, you fucking stupid cunt", said Pseud number two angrily, whilst still gripping his injured chest. Pseud number two speaks, I remember being rather shocked by that. Wasn't long before Pseud number one regained control, clarifying that, "He's Louie, I'm Seb. Right so he gets this bright idea and says isn't this guy supposed to love movies. He suggests we look outside cinemas on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Drive by a few times. Eventually we caught you coming out The Light".

"Fuck me fellas, you guys have got too much free time on your hands", was all I could think to say after hearing their detailed plans. Hit hard by a stroke of embarrassment and feeling the need to justify himself, 'Seb' returns with, "I just don't take too kindly to people shitting in my friend's cars. We'll make you a deal. You tell us where we can locate your good for nothing friend and we'll let you go".

Pseud number one feels the need to follow up quickly with, "so, any ideas as to the whereabouts of Bungalow Bill?". This caught me so off guard and without really knowing what to say just returned, "Bungalow Bill?". From somewhere Pseud number two plucks up the courage to join in the conversation, adding, "It isn't Bungalow Bill. That's that guy from The Beatles song. It's something like Buffalo Bill" "Louie shut up! You're thinking of Silence of the Lambs", clarifies Seb, giving his pathetic partner a scolding. This Louie doesn't get the message and continues with, "Am I? No, wait. I got it. It's Bushwick Bill"

Putting the moron out of his misery, I explained that it was, "Bonehead Bill" Unexpectedly Pseud number two starts jumping up and down like a child, screaming, "That's it! That's it!" Pseud number one is a real no nonsense man and goes straight back into questioning with, "how'd you end up hanging around with a disgusting toerag like that anyway?". I recalled the initial meeting, stating, "Some beer garden. I was practicing my drunken boxing technique and he came over like what the fuck is that?" "What the fuck is that?", interjected Seb. Casually, I explained like a true sensei, "Catches your opponent off guard. The movements are too hard to predict. It's a legitimate thing. I haven't made it up. Goes back to the 18th century. Where it was said 8 drunken monks used it. You can google it. Maybe if you untie me, I can show you".

I knew that was a long shot but couldn't help mentioning it. Pseud number one shut me down with, "not happening. Unless you want to tell me where I can find Bonehead Bill. You gonna tell me where he is?" "Nope" was all he got with me alongside a smile. You'll never guess what happened next. Pseud number two finds his balls and starts saying, "He isn't going to tell us shit. Let's just leave him here". I was low key proud of this little runt suddenly growing a pair. Well done, well done Pseud number two!

My excitement and enthusiasm at Pseud number twos noble character development did not last too long, as I really was left out there. Half expected Pseud number one to hit me with a Jigsaw style, "Game Over" but instead he just tossed me a pair of scissors and said, "should take you about 4 and a half hours to get back from here. Unless you've got money for a bus". He took my silence as a no and added, "best get started on those bindings then". The Pseuds were long gone before I could cut through the bindings. I'd been tempted to ask for a lift back but somehow I didn't feel they were in the generous taxi service kind of mood.

Once untied, the next job was figuring out my bearings. These fools didn't know I knew the peaks like the back of my hand. Truly, the Crocodile Dundee of these lands. A couple of short cuts and I could probably hack this journey in about two and a half hours. Always loved a good hike me. Even had my headphones in as rule #2 is always carry headphones, you never know when you may need them! All these boys had done was mildly inconvenience me. I was enjoying the refreshing countryside, singing along to 'Easy' by Commodores and loving life. The joke was on them.

These feelings all suddenly subsided when it became apparent, I was lost. Decided to call Bonehead Bill and use our new codeword for becoming stranded and needing a lift. "Cast Away" I blurted down the phone multiple times to illustrate the nature of the emergency. Normally the 'Cast Away' was used when attending a gaff and becoming lost/stranded the next morning. We could now add kidnapping to the list. Although, I'm still not convinced it was a kidnapping. A poor excuse at best. Sloppy, you could tell it was amateur hour. Bonehead tells me, he's at work and can't get off right now. In my state of shock at being lost in the wilderness, all I could keep saying was, "on the day of the lord?"

During these horrible circumstances, I did at least find out Bonehead Bill's profession. The man's a mechanic. Who knew? After pleading with his boss Barry, he managed to get off his shift early. It would still take him a good hour to meet me, so I decided to keep walking and head towards an agreed spot, which would be St Swithin's Church in Holmesfield. Those two bastards had taken me somewhere near Baslow, had they staged their little 'talk' around Eyam or Hathersage, I would not have had this problem. Those routes are engrained. Baslow was new to me. Never even heard of it. According to wikipedia, one notable resident, Frederic Barker. Who the fuck is that?

Around this time, I recall going in to a fit of rage as the sun began to set and darkness fell upon me. Those fucking early winter sunsets impeding my mission. Nature hated me. What had I done to deserve such a fate? Spent the majority of the evening cursing the England football team because originally I had planned to see Glass Onion on the Friday night. Forgetting England were playing those losers the USA. Thought we'd give them a good game. Nope, we embarrassed ourselves against a bunch of geezers who be calling it 'soccer'. Would rather lose to Iran than endure a goalless draw with the yanks ever again. Disgraceful. As you can see it was England's fault, I was put in this position. Damn you, Gareth Southgate!

In defeat and absolutely knackered from getting lost several times, when I did actually make it to the church meeting spot, all I could do was lean against the wall and hope Bonehead wouldn't be long. A passerby made the joke of, "a bit late for Sunday service?". Was this a sign? Was I meant to have made it to the church at exactly this time. There was no spiritual awakening. God could wait, I had burgers to get home to! Sat tight for what seemed like an eternity until that familiar fusion red Dacia Sandero appeared. Once it did pull up, the days events had rattled me that much, I briskly headed towards the car and without so much as a word opened the door and fixed my seatbelt. Bonehead Bill sensing the situation, realised now was not the time for a debriefing and drove the Sandero away from the confines of the church and into the pitch black night.