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What can you say about this film except run?

As in there are a lot of running scenes. And walking scenes. And walking up stairs into a bedroom to pose with rifle in front of a Matisse painting.

Bigfoot turns up eventually, mauls a few of the gay porno guys.

No fucking though.

Shame.

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It’s a forest day

lugging for revenge

laying out the dolly track

beneath volatilised scriptwriter onomatope.

God, I love the fishery scene.

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A young, tanned man arrives at a remote lodge soaked in pornographic. His plan is to hunt with a miniature rifle. Only now there are four other young, tanned men standing on the front porch. Their plan is to hunt also. Topless with their bare hands. And later with a miniature rifle.

‘I will merge with you,’ says the first man.

The others demur.

Then acquiesce when demur turns on them.

Behind, the lodge calls out.

Jog, it says.

Merge and jog.

Merge, jog and-

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Inside the lodge is a director too proud to live within the walls.

But it is his house.

And he is willing to endure four separate scenes of each tanned receptacle walking up the stairs to a bedroom where they will take off their pants and masturbate to a reflected form.

The masturbation will not exist in the final cut.

Nor will the director and his leopard suit

fucking the short one with jaundice

that’s out for sure

cos I will never prune this thing, vows the director, retreating into the walls.

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The next day is without precedent.

Night happened theoretically but no one remembers it.

‘Hey let’s go for a run,’ says one of the five.

John Dice accepts.

How can he not, running makes him suicidal. The longer he runs, the more chance he has of suffocating himself with the plastic bag the director gave him the night before, in the bathtub with blackish ice water, which may not have happened now that he thinks about it.

Though it did in fact happen.

It was filmed.

And that film did not survive due to legal issues, small print

blank contracts

beneath the bloody ones

zero protection from the talons of-

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Eric Roberts trying gum hard not to be D B Sweeney caught as D B Cooper sitting on a plane that is actually an abandoned kindergarten, cos he is artistically the spirit of the thing. And it was a kindergarten. Eric knows this cos he can see the remains of an indigenous boy strung up on the wall opposite.

They didn’t even try to hide it.

Or they tried to hide it then felt shame for hiding things.

Secrets are for liberals.

Liberals are varicose.

This is the truth:

The indigenous boy couldn’t count past ten thousand, refused to say Merry Christmas, lost it when the blankets came out, had weirdly smooth skin, great hair, shit idioms etc.

Fearing the same fate, Eric Roberts feels god and teleports out of there

only he doesn’t reform as a physical mass, that would be arthritic/mundane, no instead he drifts over to the pornographic lodge and spies as psychic energy force on the longest ever fun run.

It’s two days in and here are the rules:

Each runner must keep to a pace of fourteen miles an hour.

Drop below that for longer than thirty seconds and you will receive a warning.

Three warnings and you get fucked by the director of photography.

Who is in fact DeCoteau in a cloche hat.

Poor disguise, solid threat.

Against undisclosed odds, the two young, tanned men keep up the pace. They run mega laps of the pornographic lodge. Eric Roberts follows behind the pair as psychic energy force. He is in every scene of this film. It is the best way to destress from the Runaway Train shoot. His failure to shoot Jon Voight in the knees. That were most likely holographic anyway. Those were the years. They really were. Directed by Kurosawa fan. Sex on tap with Eddie Bunker. Now he just wants to let go, give himself up to an elderly Austrian cannibal who doesn’t have the stamina to kill anymore. Do one good thing before he dissipates.

Typical Eric.

Always thinking of others.

Even as psychic fog.

If that’s what he is.

I drift, therefore–

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Meanwhile, Bigfoot has finished with Derrida.

He’s tired of saying the word forest and understanding it as forest. He wants to go and splay someone. He wants to rub up against a tree with the roughest bark and watch two young tanned men run an infinity loop around his grandmother’s lodge. He wants to point the camera at them forever. He wants to shower them at night and then drug them so they forget night was ever a possibility. The concept of night is for him alone. Cos he is the auteur of this porno sham stroke cinema feat.

Is this cinema?

What are the boundaries, the crossover lines?

Am I talented?

Is this dick six inches or plasticine?

Why is my cum purple?

Lost in a fog of otherness too grubby to be presented as is to Nollywood, Bigfoot gets ambushed, violated, pleasured, left to glow orangey-grey by the psychic energy mass of the star of this thing who promised he wouldn’t turn up to the plane set drunk and, with that in mind, the director rips off the monkey arms and launches crippled self at the two non-stop running props who stop momentarily

catch sight of the dailies and

jog back to LA

leaving Bigfoot alone with the Spectre of Marx

Eric too

assuming his psychic energy is air-coloured

that the plane set remains evisc-

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‘I can’t go on,’ says the director, playing back the previous night’s seduction

wincing at the infra-red

heading with Turkish urge into the husk that is the ex-pornographic hunting lodge, sitting on the same bed that the hunkiest of the five mannequins lay prone in the night before, stroking the dried cum stains, the weathered blood, the congealed gasoline, wondering if doing the act was better than the imagining of it three months earlier when he’d first planned the making of a Cosmatesque Corman-esque horror film as sly ruse to date rape five actors who may have said yes if he’d just asked them direct instead of putting Panadol dust in the tap water, and now it was nothing, an empty space, a spent sex lodge filled by riggish pensioner in surplus store gorilla suit [arms torn off], with the only thing left a memory of a bent dick going in and out of the mouth of a bartender who probably had jaundice, and there’s no way he could put that in the finished cut.

And if eroticism was out then the running would have to be in.

Fifty-seven minutes of it.

But only cos it made sense thematically.

And the bodies were young

tanned

desperate

infinitely reproduced

unquestioning

tanned

ripped-stroke-innocent

camera sluts.

‘I will go on,’ the director mutters, fumbling at his dick with the gorilla hand.