Entry 127: Snuff (1975)

Snuff (1975)

Dirs: Michael Findlay, Horacio Fredriksson, Simon Nuchtern

"A film that could only be made in South America, where life is CHEAP!"

 

Hey there; c'mon down!  Welcome to the Basement of Sleaze.  Clear a path through the stale popcorn, used condoms and hypodermic needles and make yourself cozy.  Y'know, I've been writing this stupid blog for TWO years and, though my output slowed a bit in my second year, I've no intention of stopping...It's just too much goddamn fun.  I thought I might take a moment, on this momentous occasion, to reaffirm my statement of purpose.  I spent a good deal of my late childhood and pretty much all of my teens digging through magazine bins at used bookstores, record shops and seedy newsagents trying to dig up cheap back issues of horror movie review 'zines (Psychotronic Video, Slime Time, Cinema Sewer, Shock Cinema, etc.).  I poured over those goddamn rags, thrilling to the lurid descriptions of films I could only dream of tracking down and witnessing for myself.  Later, when greater mobility (and the advent of the internet) made hunting said films down much simpler, I discovered a simple truth: oftentimes, READING about these movies is infinitely more fun than watching them!  Many of those old mags aren't around any longer (though Steven Puchalski's Shock Cinema is still kicking and STILL the shit; check it out!), it is in the yellowed, dog-eared spirit of those publications and their various creators that I continue to do this.

Now then, I've decided no to do anything TOO special for this anniversary entry, but I will be taking a look at a particularly notorious piece of filth that I haven't covered here yet.  Join me, won't you, for a stiff celebratory cocktail as we head down to South America...where life is CHEAP, for Snuff!

The film opens with a couple of choppers cruising down the highway to the strains of an instrumental version of Steppenwolf's "Born to be Wild" that's JUST different to avoid a lawsuit and driven by a couple of cute, leather-clad hippy chicks.  The bikers are Susana and Carmela, disciples of Manson-like Brazilian cult leader Satan.  When fellow cult member Ana holds out on some sweet drugs from the rest of the cult, Satan orders Susana and Angelica to disable her via gunshot and cut her toes off!  We then see Angelica stab a man to death at an airport where exotic foreign film director Max Marsh and his beautiful leading lady, Terry, are arriving in Brazil to film a movie.  Terry is publicly "with" Max, but she's actually fucking local playboy Horst on the side (Horst drives a sweet ChrisCraft speedboat, so you know he's loaded).  In a plot twist that you absolutely WILL see coming, Horst has a housekeeper/fuck buddy who is...yup, Angelica, the murderous supplicant of Satan!  In a goofy flashback scene, we see a naked Angelica swear allegiance to Satan while they frolic in a lake with his other (female) acolytes, and he orders her to get close to Horst; to infiltrate his world and "make them trust you."  When Terry becomes pregnant with Horst's child, he kicks Angelica to the curb.  We're then treated to an endless-feeling sequence at Carnaval, where scenes of Horst going down on Terry are intercut with scenes of street performers, "climaxing (heh heh heh)" in Terry reaching orgasm while Max is murdered by Angelica with a Rambo-style combat knife.  Angelica and Satan show up at Horst's house but, after an incomprehensible argument involving Nazis, butchers and knives, are thrown out by Horst's father and blast down the highway on their sweet hog, while once again the "Born to be Wild" knockoff plays.  After a lengthy flashback details the origin of Angelica (which involves rape, mutilation and patricide), Angelica and the rest of Satan's disciples descend upon Horst's home.  At this point, the film jarringly cuts to a scene in which an actress (who I assume is supposed to represent Terry, but looks nothing like her) is (very unconvincingly) mutilated on-set by her co-stars and crew.  Title explained, film over.   

Having seen the recent, belated third sequel to The Blair Witch Project, I was recently reflecting upon the significance of that film; chiefly, how it represented an absolute triumph of film marketing.  Using then-nascent internet culture, distributor Artisan turned a cheap found-footage film into a multimillion dollar success.  Well, a quarter century earlier, Snuff exploited marketing in a similar fashion.  If the results weren't quite as financially rewarding, they cast an even wider net over pop culture in general.  In the early seventies, urban legends of "snuff" films began making tabloid headlines.  Like any good exploitation producers, filmmakers Roberta and Michael Findlay (Shriek of the Mutilated, several porno flicks) seized the opportunity to make a buck.  They took a Manson-inspired hippy cult murder film they'd made (and never released) in 1971 called The Slaughter and released it under a new title, complete with a tacked-on, newly-shot ending that made it appear as if the lead actress in the film had actually been murdered on-set.  Taking into account the facts that the actress in the newly-shot footage bared little resemblance to the actress in the old footage, and that canny horror film aficionados would spot the deception a mile away, the Findlays presented the film as a limited-engagement, "roadshow"-style exhibition, and hired local actors to pose as priests, nuns and women's rights advocates protesting the film.  The deception worked like gangbusters, and the notoriety surrounding the film made national headlines, culminating in the producers having to appear in court to testify to the fictitious nature of the film, all the while riding the wave of controversy to millions of dollars in ticket sales, and a film that continues to be condemned by those not "in the know" to this day.  In actuality, Snuff is a pretty unremarkable film; it's poorly shot, filled with unconvincing blood and gore effects and features atrocious performances, further hindered by terribly ADRed dialogue.  Worst of all, JUST as you're getting into the (threadbare) plot of The Slaughter, the film cuts away to the bullshit "snuff movie" ending, and you never get to see how the story concludes! 

Snuff certainly deserves its place in the annals of film marketing, and even horror film history in general, but I'd be lying to you if I said it was a particularly engaging film to watch.  The sad thing is, I would have genuinely liked to know how the pseudo-Manson flick The Slaughter ended!  By all means, read an article or two about the film itself, but you can safely skip watching it.

That's a cap on two years, dear readers; if you stick with me, I'll see you for several more!