Not the best Japanese gore porn film (who would want to be the best?) but one of the most famous. A man abducts a woman and dismembers her with a camera rolling. It doesn’t sound like much when I describe it, but it won’t seem like much when you watch it, either.

Apparently Charlie Sheen thought it was real (no doubt while tooting more than just his flute) and called the FBI. That seems to be the time-honored route of fame in the gore porn film industry – try to hint that it might be real. Eventually an actual snuff film will make it to market, and we’ll all call it a boring publicity stunt.

Supposed horror legend Hideshi Hino both directs and plays the killer. He’s more often associated with manga, which are a different beast entirely. His manga efforts (Hell Baby, and so forth) resemble a Japanese Goosebumps, complete with fill-in-the-blanks storylines and a cast of characters that you wonder even he doesn’t forget. The gore is offset by a cartoonish, exaggerated art style – you can imagine children reading Hino’s manga, but this, not so much.

Viewers will find two possible routes of enjoyment: first, the gore, and second, analysing the special effects. It’s a low budget film, and a lot of it isn’t very well done. The woman’s flesh has a rubbery quality. The blood seems like copiously squirted cherry juice. Much of the film is shot in extreme close-up, focused on a single body part that’s an obvious prosthetic. The production quality can be described as “muddy, dark, and distressed” – adding a gritty grindhouse quality at the expense of us actually being able tos ee see what’s going on. You’ve heard of Hollywood’s famous L-shaped bedsheets? Where the male lead has his chest exposed and the female lead has her chest covered? Here the woman’s body spends so much time covered up, she’s practically a goddamn Quaker. The movie takes a lot of care to hide bad special effects, but it’s all in vain.

The admin of the legendary shock site rotten.com was once asked how he knows the gruesome pictures on his site are real. He said something to effect of “I just do”, which is pat, but also probably accurate. He also mentioned that they received large volumes of fake pictures, and that they were usually quite easy to spot.

Little tells always gave the fake pictures away – tricky camera angles, harsh lighting, conveniently poor photo quality. It’s pretty obvious: if a murderer really did dismember someone and make a snuff film, he’d capture it in the best quality possible. Remember the Mitch Hedberg gag about Bigfoot being a blurry, pixelated monster roaming the landscape? It’s the same for gore porn. If the real stuff ever appears, we can assume it will be in 1080p. Fuck this dark, murky crap. It’s for wannabe auteurs and professional fakes.

I like extreme art, but for something like this you really need…more. Of what? Almost anything. Some individuality. Some personality. Something that would separate it from a film generated at random by a sophisticated computer. There’s exactly one interesting angle (Hino wears a samurai outfit), and a lot of fake WWE blood. Apparently, some of the other Guinea Pigs are more story focused. I’ll probably never know. The sad truth is that a perfect gore porn film will probably never be made: anyone ready to outlay the necessary money will want it to be marketable enough to sell. Flower of Flesh and Blood is an interesting historical curiosity, but those who don’t learn from history are condemned to repeat it.

Have you ever listened to a conversation in a foreign language? That’s what sexual fetishes are like. They’re exciting if you speak the language. If you don’t, you’re left watching two people make noises with your mouth, your brain struggling to pattern-match their syllables against some meaning until eventually you give up.

I don’t find BDSM interesting, so much of Venus in Furs is a conversation in Putonghua or Sundanese. After I gave up trying to follow the conversation, I looked for a story, and there wasn’t much of one.

It’s a book within a book. A man reads a text about a “supersensual” man, Severin von Kusiemski, who falls under the spell of a woman with the South Park-sounding name Wanda von Dunajew. She wears furs. She captivates him – literally. He wants to be her slave. They go away on adventures together. The tone of the book feels like cordial that’s on the verge of fermenting into poison: a fantasy pushed as far as it can go.

Venus in Furs contains frank descriptions of a lot of things that would not have names for decades to come. It’s also unfocused, and suffers from the curious comorbidity of too much and not enough. The plot’s repetitive, with events looping around like a 12 inch record caught in a groove. But von Sacher-Masoch keeps adding in all these asides about metaphysics and gender roles and paganism, throwing the novel’s forward momentum into a talespin.

Sacher-Masoch likes to set up bowling pins and then forget to knock them down. Partway through the story, a few black female slaves assist Wanda in humiliating Severin. Could that have led to a reflection on real bondage? And the shallowness of what he experiences with Wanda? After all, Severin can reclaim his freedom and dignity whenever he wants, whereas some people can’t. BDSM’s just a fantasy, which is good in real life, but in a fictional book, why couldn’t he have gone beyond fantasy? Why not talk about real bondage? Venus in Furs dwells obsessively on saccharine instead of real sugar.

Apparently in BDSM there is a concept called “topping from the bottom”, where the submissive person uses the fact of their submission as collateral to manipulate or control the dominant. “I gave up my freedom for you. You really owe me, so let’s run this relationship on my terms.”

I’m the furthest thing from an expert, but Severin seemed like he was topping from the bottom a lot. One of his first acts is to make Wanda sign a contract of his servitude, stating among other things that she must always wear her furs. This adds a false, insincere dynamic to their relationship: like putting someone in chains and giving them the key. It’s like von Sacher-Masoch was topping me from the bottom. The book lures you in with the promise of revelation, intimacy, and one man exposing his secret heart. He immediately starts offloading mountains of ruminations on gender roles and metaphysics and paganism. This book could be subtitled “Dear Diary.”

The fetish-as-language metaphor breaks down. When you hear an unfamiliar language, the problem is that you don’t understand it. With a sexual fetish, you understand it perfectly well, it just has no meaning. After it’s possible to learn a new language, but I don’t know that it’s possible to learn a new fetish. If you can, Venus in Furs is no Berlitz Easy Language course.

You know that guy at work who can burp the alphabet? And does so at length? That’s what this dipshit’s voice sounds like.

Dethklok is the fictional band on Adult Swim’s animated TV show Metalocalypse. As happens to all fictional bands (Spinal Tap, The Monkees, the Blues Brothers), eventually someone smashed the fourth wall with a Flying V and made them real. Obviously it’s possible to beat a joke into the ground through overuse and thereby make it not funny, except Metalocalypse avoids that problem by not being funny in the first place. I’ve watched a few episodes of the show. What am I missing?

It’s just The Big Bang Theory, except about heavy metal. Shallow, pandering references and cheap namedropping, without any effort at serious analysis or commentary. I remember seeing an episode where they’re at a burger joint called “Burzum’s Burgers”. Lest you miss their writers’ sparkling wit, there’s a metal band called “Burzum,” who’s name sounds a bit like “Burger”. Let me try: Underoath Underwear. Bathory Bathtowels. Great stuff. If only I an aisle to roll around laughing in.

Is there good music on this album? Fuck no! Why would there be good music? This is an album made for people who don’t really listen to heavy metal and have no way to tell good from bad – who only appreciate it as a kind of fashion accessory. It’s just crummy unoriginal dogshit from beginning to end. I hate even thinking about it.

The drums have zero reverb and sound sterile and fake. The guitars have no body, and seem half as loud as everything else, especially Brendon Small’s voice. This is bad news, as he should not be twice as loud as ANYTHING, including the repairman working on the power lines next door and the bird crapping on the roof. Words cannot describe how shit his voice is, how utterly devoid of emotion and intensity.

“Murmaider” merely sounds like Pantera with bad production up until he does that incredibly annoying “Knives, check, rope, check, dagger, check” part. Remember Metallica’s “frantic-tick-tick-tick-tick”? This guy apparently decided that was the future of metal. “Awaken” – tonelessly shouting the song title over and over again, awesome. “Bloodrocuted” actually has two or three good riffs, a stupid chorus, and then they self-consciously switch it out and bring in an equally stupid chorus. “Hatredcopter” got a laugh out of me. “Face-Fisted” is more senseless chugging on an album that conspicuously does not need more senseless chugging.

Even when there’s actual songwriting happening, the weak production and bad vocals just cut everything away at the knees. There’s no sense of brutality or heaviness, everything sounds like a fake plastic-like slab of processed sound. The overall tone is something like Slaughter of the Soul era At the Gates with the guitars turned down 9db at the mixing desk, songwriting c/o a troupe of monkeys, with awful burpy vocals. What a horrible, horrible album. If your imam catches you listening to this in the back streets of Riyadh, you richly deserve beheading.