Rapper Flying Lotus (aka Steve Ellison) goes for a gross-out gymnasium of celebrity in his directing debut.
Here’s a problem with Kuso, a drugged-out fear film destined by Steve Ellison, a rapper famous as Flying Lotus: There are no geysers of slime in it.
There’s no caked-up ear wax, either; no acerbic toe jam. But only about any other excretion and liquid a tellurian physique can furnish is represented here, quantifiable in gallons and quarts rather than milliliters. And for any tangible piece a film avoids, it has during slightest one illusory ooze to reinstate it, like a jet of gelatinous cream sharpened out of a receiver of a hulk cockroach that has only crawled out of — well, let’s set that aside for a moment. Sensitive readers should be sensitive that Kuso is not for you; even those with a clever toleration for monster-movie gore are distant from guaranteed to accept a warm, clumpy bath of unfriendly ickiness. But a certain splinter of a populace, lifted by Tim Eric and toughened to a many scatological sights, competence good make it a new midnight-movie snub to beat.
It seems ridiculous to try to report a universe in that this phantasmagoria takes place, though 3 or 4 main, um, narratives share time here, bracketed with groundless pronounce of a large Los Angeles earthquake. Whatever storyline one follows, be positive that a characters will be cheerless by boils, herpes or outmost tumors. They will travel in a woods to kibbutz with rectum-like hillocks; they will gnaw on dust blocks in subterranean warrens; they will find abortions in a place called a Coathanger Clinic. While that final bit competence be a spot-on devising of a Trumpcare future, many of a film’s imagery seems desirous by buckets full of hallucinogens: This is a kind of things that only isn’t finished probity by a tag “bad trip.”
From a opening scenes, in that a newscast is hijacked by a musician in a approach that recalls The Eric Andre Show, it’s transparent that this eager-to-disgust-us film also hopes to fist out laughs along a way. But we’re somewhere in a center before Ellison and cowriter Zack Fox land on a stage with comedic promise: The movie’s many ordinary-seeming ancient seeks assistance for an peculiar distress during a aforementioned Coathanger Clinic, and is greeted with some-more than a common doctor’s-office indifference. Once he gets in to see a alloy (George Clinton, exploring a barfier connotations of a word “funk”), he’s surprisingly diversion for a diagnosis we’re demure to even spirit during here.
Occasional interludes of photo-collage animation yield proxy service from a live-action narratives; reduction service is to be found in a obsolete computer-graphics time-outs in which, say, one competence observe a dance building peopled with disembodied, jolt breasts. The film flirts with porn on other occasions (well, “flirts” is distant too amiable a word), but any spectator who finds himself worried should leave a museum immediately and find veteran help.
Helpfully, a film ends with a half-song whose lyrics competence good pronounce for those who’ve done it to a credits but a assistance of mood-altering substances: “Skin me alive, we survived, and we can hardly trust it.”
Production company: Brainfeeder Films
Cast: Iesha Coston, Zack Fox, Hannibal Buress, The Buttress, Tim Heidecker, Mali Matsuda, George Clinton
Screenwriters: Steve, David Firth, Zack Fox
Producers: Eddie Alcazar
Directors of photography: Danny Hiele, Norm Li, Benjamin Goodman
Production designer: Phillip Duffin
Editors: Steve, Luke Lynch
Composers: Aphex Twin, Flying Lotus, Akira Yamaoka
Casting director: Anissa Williams