Brad Armstrong merits brownie points for chutzpah but used an impressive amount of resources to produce a silly film in "Underworld". Having seen dozens of his Wicked pictures, I like his modest, simple works compared to these, to use his own term, "Blockbuster" projects.
Brad's dumb premise reminded me of a film I loved since seeing it in first- run, 20th Century Fox's "Fantastic Voyage". Instead of a miniaturized sub crew in the bloodstream trying to save a patient's life, Brad has endless stupid puns mirroring the surgical team's efforts to save mugged victim of a gunshot Jessica Drake. These puns inhabit the title fantasy world similar to myth of Purgatory, a product of Drake's deranged subconscious mind.
Because of Brad's track record, he has substantial means to realize his oddball concepts, sort of a porno minor leaguer emulating the extremely overrated Tim Burton (among my least-favorite auteurs, ranking barely above Tarantino these days). Brad even steals from Tim by having Xander Corvus (overracting terribly with a dumb affected accent) as Slice, a character on stilts representing the surgical scalpel come to life in imaginary fashion. It's merely a ripoff of Edward Scissorhands, pointless unlike the clever rip 20 years ago of Sikki Nixx as Edward Penishands in Paul Norman's remarkable junker of VHS fame.
Film's rocky opener has Drake making love to her hubby Steven St. Croix, before they're mugged in their parking garage, and Drake is shot by meanie Jack Vegas after she resists and uncovers his face. Why he doesn't kill Steven who also can identify him is left as a dangling plot thread.
Problem with Armstrong's script is that we don't get to know Drake and only care for her as an anonymous patient who Brad as surgeon Dr. Collins is attempting to save. Medical drama suspense of "will she survive?" is not enough to sustain 2-1/2 hours emphasizing special effects (and costumes) plus the regular amount of explicit sex. Latter stresses anal sex and d.p.'s for Drake.
She wanders nude (of course gazing at Drake in the buff is a pleasure, but she's got hundreds of videos that provide that component) through a dumb fantasy world. I was immediately reminded of the jolly, insane such worlds for porn created by Britain's Bluebird Films, such as "Alice", "Secret Garden" and other import titles. It is merely a coincidence that Bluebird ceased production forever just before Brad shot "Underworld", but I much prefer the crazy approach of those Brits to his literal, frankly boring method.
So a piece of gauze is used on Drake in the O.R., and we get a stunning aerialist spinning around in the air Le Cirque Soeil style above a huge swimming pool water feature where bloody Drake's body lies on a platform in shallow water. The aerialist acting as double turns into Capri Cavanni to lay some Sapphic love on Drake, who miraculously becomes the dom, making a full recovery in the fantasy world at least.
Similarly she runs into a series of silly characters, Julia Ann in fancy outfit as Mecca (should have been spelled Mecha) a mechanical contraption without legs; memorably Asphyxia Noir as Stitch, with magic marker tattoos all over her body Frankenstein Monster style, amazing with another anal sex scene in threesome with Drake, and ultimately she meets up with bald Derrick Pierce as Death.
His Death gets serviced by Jessica but makes no promises and predictably is ready to take her to Hell when she gets a choice of saving herself or sacrificing to save hubby Steven. This lady or the tiger choice is the film's climax, and Brad manages to bungle it for a stupid happy ending.
My facetious title for this review is actually pertinent: Wicked is one of the few porn outlets (boy/girl that is; Gay Porn emphasizes safe sex) that insists on condoms on screen. That presumably noble policy wreaks havoc with many of its films, where condoms materialize and disappear miraculously, or are used in the fantasy Underworld (or in Drake's subconscious?) so that even Death wears one. Of course, the fan is used to this nonsense and overlooks it, but as a porn lover who watches all sorts of videos, when I return (and frequently) to Wicked or Vivid the condoms still are shocking in their cinematic misuse. Safe sex: yes; credibility of a scene: no.
The profusion of industry awards won by "Underworld" suggest that it is Brad's porn equivalent to a mainstream epic like "Lawrence of Arabia", but at arm's length I disagree. Watching it, with moderately high expectations, I would liken the result more to "Ishtar", a silly movie made with unlimited resources but poor ideas. Given the state of DVD economics in the Adult world these days, "Underworld" should be among the last of these XXX ego-trip extravaganzas produced, just as Warren Beatty of 50-plus takes per shot fame has been quietly retired for over a decade, apart from his long-in-the-works Howard Hughes swan song made on (for him) a modest $30,000,000 budget. The Beatty of old, whom I assume Brad would love to emulate (especially in the sack), would have spent the equivalent of $150,000,000 on that project. (Or maybe more - Scorsese pre-empted him with Leo in "The Aviator" for $110,000,000.)
Brad's dumb premise reminded me of a film I loved since seeing it in first- run, 20th Century Fox's "Fantastic Voyage". Instead of a miniaturized sub crew in the bloodstream trying to save a patient's life, Brad has endless stupid puns mirroring the surgical team's efforts to save mugged victim of a gunshot Jessica Drake. These puns inhabit the title fantasy world similar to myth of Purgatory, a product of Drake's deranged subconscious mind.
Because of Brad's track record, he has substantial means to realize his oddball concepts, sort of a porno minor leaguer emulating the extremely overrated Tim Burton (among my least-favorite auteurs, ranking barely above Tarantino these days). Brad even steals from Tim by having Xander Corvus (overracting terribly with a dumb affected accent) as Slice, a character on stilts representing the surgical scalpel come to life in imaginary fashion. It's merely a ripoff of Edward Scissorhands, pointless unlike the clever rip 20 years ago of Sikki Nixx as Edward Penishands in Paul Norman's remarkable junker of VHS fame.
Film's rocky opener has Drake making love to her hubby Steven St. Croix, before they're mugged in their parking garage, and Drake is shot by meanie Jack Vegas after she resists and uncovers his face. Why he doesn't kill Steven who also can identify him is left as a dangling plot thread.
Problem with Armstrong's script is that we don't get to know Drake and only care for her as an anonymous patient who Brad as surgeon Dr. Collins is attempting to save. Medical drama suspense of "will she survive?" is not enough to sustain 2-1/2 hours emphasizing special effects (and costumes) plus the regular amount of explicit sex. Latter stresses anal sex and d.p.'s for Drake.
She wanders nude (of course gazing at Drake in the buff is a pleasure, but she's got hundreds of videos that provide that component) through a dumb fantasy world. I was immediately reminded of the jolly, insane such worlds for porn created by Britain's Bluebird Films, such as "Alice", "Secret Garden" and other import titles. It is merely a coincidence that Bluebird ceased production forever just before Brad shot "Underworld", but I much prefer the crazy approach of those Brits to his literal, frankly boring method.
So a piece of gauze is used on Drake in the O.R., and we get a stunning aerialist spinning around in the air Le Cirque Soeil style above a huge swimming pool water feature where bloody Drake's body lies on a platform in shallow water. The aerialist acting as double turns into Capri Cavanni to lay some Sapphic love on Drake, who miraculously becomes the dom, making a full recovery in the fantasy world at least.
Similarly she runs into a series of silly characters, Julia Ann in fancy outfit as Mecca (should have been spelled Mecha) a mechanical contraption without legs; memorably Asphyxia Noir as Stitch, with magic marker tattoos all over her body Frankenstein Monster style, amazing with another anal sex scene in threesome with Drake, and ultimately she meets up with bald Derrick Pierce as Death.
His Death gets serviced by Jessica but makes no promises and predictably is ready to take her to Hell when she gets a choice of saving herself or sacrificing to save hubby Steven. This lady or the tiger choice is the film's climax, and Brad manages to bungle it for a stupid happy ending.
My facetious title for this review is actually pertinent: Wicked is one of the few porn outlets (boy/girl that is; Gay Porn emphasizes safe sex) that insists on condoms on screen. That presumably noble policy wreaks havoc with many of its films, where condoms materialize and disappear miraculously, or are used in the fantasy Underworld (or in Drake's subconscious?) so that even Death wears one. Of course, the fan is used to this nonsense and overlooks it, but as a porn lover who watches all sorts of videos, when I return (and frequently) to Wicked or Vivid the condoms still are shocking in their cinematic misuse. Safe sex: yes; credibility of a scene: no.
The profusion of industry awards won by "Underworld" suggest that it is Brad's porn equivalent to a mainstream epic like "Lawrence of Arabia", but at arm's length I disagree. Watching it, with moderately high expectations, I would liken the result more to "Ishtar", a silly movie made with unlimited resources but poor ideas. Given the state of DVD economics in the Adult world these days, "Underworld" should be among the last of these XXX ego-trip extravaganzas produced, just as Warren Beatty of 50-plus takes per shot fame has been quietly retired for over a decade, apart from his long-in-the-works Howard Hughes swan song made on (for him) a modest $30,000,000 budget. The Beatty of old, whom I assume Brad would love to emulate (especially in the sack), would have spent the equivalent of $150,000,000 on that project. (Or maybe more - Scorsese pre-empted him with Leo in "The Aviator" for $110,000,000.)