Saturday, December 26, 2009

The Being, Again

Foreboding fog emanates from the fog machine inadvertently captured in the lower left corner of the screen. An acrid odor seeps from the local disposal dump. Night looms and The Being lurks.

What a horrible night to have a curse.

And cursed Potsville, Idaho is. Cursed with a twelve foot tall bipedal sausage that "mutilates and decapitates."

Every night The Being, a sentient conglomeration of circumcised foreskin, emerges from his sophisticated system of underground tunnels to terrorize ordinary people--people just like you and me.

His maniacal rampage begins with the brutal execution-style killing of a man in his own home. The Being knocks on the front door. A bare-chested man opens the door and snaps his red, white and blue suspenders against his chest as he greets the deranged dildo-shaped monster. "What can I do for ya? This ain't no hour to be bangin on people's doors, ya know." The Being stares as a strong wind plucks three-inch blue-gray hairs from the man's stout corpus, dense with a century's worth of accreted bumpkin cuisine.

"Well?" The man gestures for a response. The Being shoots him with laser beams.

The Being then stumbles upon two young lovers in the park while he is foraging for used condoms. He interrupts their séance with more laser beams.

Just when you thought The Being embodied only the macabre, he rescues a kitten from a tree. "Thanks again, The Being," says old lady Speransky, pink curlers clinging to her head as The Being hands her Muffy. They smile at each other like a Mentos commercial.

Then he lobs her head off and fucks the cat.

The film has a bit of a queer ending however. While renovating his catacombs a logistical error causes The Being to become lodged in some plumbing with his head protruding into someone's toilet bowl. The proprietor of the toilet recognizes The Being from a poster he saw at the post office which read, "Wanted Dead or Alive or Crammed in a Pipe". The man flushes the toilet, and with this gesture purges evil from the very bowels of Potsville.

Jackie Kong's The Being is like an onion. Every time you watch it you unravel another layer.

And then you start crying.

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