Melancholie der Engel is the besotted tube through which we hail our maggots. I’ve been vomiting this film since before the ulcer it gave me. Every VHS hitch over masturbation, every Mondo Cane strip roll of wince inducing enema performance is loosed for three hours the world owes you. A milk-filtered retro montage of Byron and De Sade set to elevator jazz. I was lathered out of one of these Euro-sleaze stomas by the prick lost inside. The film just is; there’s no pretention because nothing’s exists outside it. Pretentiousness is one of its flakier skins, the digit your laughter extracts. There is a realm where the campiness you came to snicker about rents your eyelids. It’ll use your quotation marks like a fucking boomerang. I enjoy a good shit phantasmagoria vomit pond amputation rape complicity as much as the next bulky gent, but Dora mangles the exploitation with a deep ballet of editing. He’s smudged his painting above the market. There are previously unseen compositions amongst the spew. And if a man in a dress shirt and sneakers mashing his foreskin upwind during urination upon yonder innocent lass, tweeting, “Soon I will be an integral part of your biography,” isn’t for you, here’s to you. Refusing to rub it in your eyes should wound you with your own trophy. To balk about it as pretentious means you want followers. Become a follower of this catastrophe instead. Stop reminding yourself of your spine when you stroll. Then you can mainline anything direct to rapture. But don’t we live for our status, for our greatly volunteered socially monitored checkpoints at philanthropy? Whose moral indignation’s outshouting mine? And is your standing within the community sufficient or sufficiently proclaimed? Are you announcing yourself proper? The new censorship says feel bad for who-the-hell-ever you can’t help – or be ignored, or fired, or some other veiled Christianity of the all-holy online implicated. Goth modem ownership bequeath regretting how much worse we could have things? Trying to help out with the do-good mustard of our comments? Shall we leave that to art’s confused purpose these days? In Carl Panzram’s beautiful name, having a modem is for watching Melancholie der Engel! No, I’m sorry, please. Sure, I want career-level employment, eventually. Yes, I plan to survive slightly longer. I have items on hold. My crotch, for instance. We, the selfie monks, hate to wallow. No more Woody, either. I, personally, would never stamp him down a flatbed of the sprawled infant relatives he’s lately mobbed about so he may hump their delicious floor because I like Bananas. Never once. And for shame! Thank Satan censorship evolved. That’s right. We’re his updated offspring every time we encourage the recovery of anything. Because we’re already the mulch you can’t escape by pretending. Don’t betray the pulse. Allow the canvas to fondle your prissy zenith. I apologize for proceeding to afford The Lego Movie, especially in this state of thought, considering its audience. I’d say if we didn’t separate author from art, I’d have long been justly executed. Too late. Ah, unfortunately, I have survived to review The Lego Movie. Which is adorable! Go see it. The song “Everything is awesome” is a feature. It’s swank enough for adults and boisterously speckled with store brand absurdity. Hence your general fuck up (present) might giggle. Tickets free, of course, if you devein your genitalia at the door. Maybe you can tell I don’t place myself above the tribe. Even at the cost of sounding neutered. Yet we are saucier when we pee our bandages.