Amazing Flying Flower

filmed by Cousin Shaky the Camera Man.

film review: "dsm-iv"

There was a malfunction in the large-screen LCD and we stopped in Las Vegas to replace the thing. I was annoyed with the pilot, Armando. Luxury items are supposed to be checked-out prior to take-off! Eventually, the LCD was replaced and Armando had us back in the air searching for topless citizens lounging by Vegas pools to photograph. Since I was annoyed with the stop in Vegas, and annoyed with an earlier call from my mechanic explaining Sylvie's car would not be ready until Monday, I turned away from poolside loungers and turned toward champagne and film to soothe my jangled nerves. The film? Steven Blütbergen's "DSM-IV".

The film was panned by most critics. No, really. So I'm here to point out there is nothing wrong with a BMW car crash on the Autobahn, gratuitously filmed in high speed for slow motion playback, in which the lead character and her favorite male prostitute are killed driving at 160KPH, high on Ecstasy and mood enhancers. There is nothing wrong with slow-paced scenes depicting technical details of tricyclic pharmaceutical sales in Leipzig, in which forms are signed without translation, and in which long and confusing glances are exchanged without background music between three doctors and a wonderfully busty lead (Elsa Küchen plays "Besos" - marvelously large aureolas too). There is little to criticize with the scene in which an apparently disturbed ex-con biker dude (Dick Cheney plays "Mon") shaves his goatee, flushes his steroids, waggles his shriveled penis, inserts a butt-plug, mounts a Harley Davidson, sets himself on fire, and drives directly through the plate glass window of a woman's clothing store in downtown Modesto, California. Seemingly incongruous events such as these are connected by themes of anger, IBS, and mood enhancers. But there is a problem. And the problem with this film is in its inappropriateness and offensiveness to reasonable people such as myself who are educated and who have more refined tastes than prurient trash such as this film can address. Nobody, and I mean *nobody*, is going to take my money at the box office, when I can have custom shirts made to order, fly around Vegas in a helicopter looking for topless sunbathers, or have my chef create sweet potato masterpieces.