Catering to an audience less interested in the movies than in a dark, semi-secret cranny in which to hide, pass out, score, or fuck, the Deuce’s theaters were a cinematic Dodge City, functioning on the edge of the law and running only the most desperate of exploitation films: porn, amateur bloodbaths, Euro-docs featuring third world t&a. A lowbrow time tunnel wackily nostalgic for the piss fog and meat-counter movie gore of the recent past, hubby-wife team Bill Landis and Michelle Clifford’s Sleazoid Express remembers a very specific place and time: the 42nd Street grindhouses from the ’60s and ’70s, a self-forged, decaying cultural ghetto whose clients, laborers, and films were largely unwelcome anywhere else.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |