“The mattress is soft and there're hangers in the closet and stationary with “Bates' Motel” printed on it in case you want to make your friends back home envious.”

– Norman Bates

“Feelings unspoken are unforgettable.”

– Andrei Gorchakov

In August 1942, a Mexican-American man with a broken finger was found semiconscious near Sleepy Lagoon, Ca.. By association, a group of young Latinos was put on trial. This spark, mere months after Roosevelt sent thousands of Japanese Americans to concentration camps and fuelled by Cold War paranoia, eventually set off the Zoot Suit Riots.

 

Zoot Suiters or Pachucos and other “outsiders” like African, Italian and Filipino Americans, were viciously attacked by Anglo-American #sailors. Those suits, all that fabric, this colourful extravagance, they cried out, were hampering the war effort.

“Inflammable desires dampened by day under the cold water of consciousness are ignited that night by the libertarian matches of sleep, and burst forth in showers of shimmering incandescence.”

– The Dreamer

The Dreamer, Anger, dreams of a similar violent attack. The sadism is harrowing, filmed with such exquisite eye that it's impossible to look away. Blood finds its way out, pulsating and spurting. Ambiguous glances. A hand, no finger. A young man awakes, is born. The dreamer is still asleep.

By times, The Savage Eye has more in common with mondo than with drama. Judith's betrayed, by her husband. She takes a plane out out out. To Los Angeles, where an angel – it's their town after all – talks to her. About her life, the old one and the new. She tries to reinvent herself with new clothes, a hairstyle, a manicure. It fills the longs days, that too. She attends bloodsports. A burlesque, with her new lover, a married man. There are bleeders and drinkers and jumpers. Sticky sheets. New eyes and fiery tongues, courtesy of Jesus. What is Judith's life if not a stranger's.

“I dream of resurrection in a party dress.”

– Judith X

Ben Maddow, Sidney Meyers, and Joseph Strick's lonely exploration of a gritty, hopeless LA was filmed over 4 years by photographers Haskell Wexler, Helen Levitt, and Jack Couffer in wonderful, merely wordless cinéma vérité. It feels naked and raw, and broke ground for the American New Wave that came crashing in almost a decade later.

“We come to life, we die… It's a perpetual renewal. How boring.”

– Mibu

Aah France… Land of old wine, old cheese, old art, and Internet access in the early 80s. Prestige project of Président Giscard, France was determined to take a technological leap. Any French man, woman and child could borrow a Minitel – a PC-like videotex device – from the national telecommunications services. For those who didn't have landline there were numerous public terminals throughout the land. The machine gave the people access to a phonebook (convenient!), the news (smart!), same-day delivery shopping(!) and sexting (ooh la la!). All these services were accessible via a code starting with 3615 followed by a string of letters. Dial 3615 ULLA to text with a sexy lady – some telecom employee pretending to be one – and 3615 PERE NOEL for Santa Claus. The real one, of course.

 

9 year old whizkid Thomas (Alain Lalanne aka Alain Musy) is dead set on proving that Santa is real and not some weirdo looking for a gullible kid to play with. A trap is set, and the boy waits.

“You know Mum, I don't have to write to Santa anymore. There's an easier way, through Minitel.”

– Thomas

3615 code Père Noël is definitely not your cutesy little Christmas romp. The violence is not cartoonish, the bandit is more Manson than moist. The boy's disillusionment in the adults around him is a perfect mirror of “Santa's” lonely attempts to communicate and be accepted. However, Thomas' mom didn't lie about one thing; that seeing Santa on Christmas Eve turns you into an ogre. Or an adult, as the grownups call it.

Nanon Zanzi (Joan Crawford) is mortally afraid of men. Of their grabbing, grasping, groping hands. This is why she only trusts her knife throwing partner Alonzo the Armless (Lon Chaney). What she doesn't know is that Alonzo and his 4'10”/1,47 m accomplice Cojo (that great staple of precode horror Tufei Filhela aka John George), use the #circus to hide from the long arm of the law, who is looking for a murderer with a deformed thumb. Who would suspect an armless man?

“Men! The beasts! God would show wisdom if he took the hands from all of them!”

– Nanon Zanzi

As mighty as Alonzo may be, the incomparable Lon Chaney owes much to armless violinist and knife thrower “Judge” Paul Desmuke. Story goes that Desmuke taught Chaney his knife act in two months. More probable is that some of the more impressive close-up scenes show the Judge's, not Chaney's, feet.

 

Like Alonzo, The Unknown has lost some flesh. Until 1968, only mangled bootlegs were available; a complete print was considered non-existent. Five years later, news broke about film reels of unknown origin labelled inconnu – [the] unknown, somewhere in the bowels of the Cinémathèque Française.

 

Some 14 minutes, outlining the Armless' background, are still missing. Do check your attic.