Luckily, you don't have a worthy forum for your opinions. Your diseased taste can only affect the pimps and pigs near and dear to you, creatures beyond help as it is. But I, on the other hand, sing songs that make the Furies weep. As Orpheus, my words are pure and true. And truly, Sore Losers is the single most important film of the past ten years. It has single-handedly renewed my faith in the waning format. For eighty-nine minutes, I was engaged in an epiphanic indiscretion with cinematic genius, sexy and unrestrained. This holy visage is something akin to the maximalist contempt of Gregg Araki, but with the playful filthiness of a John Waters exploit. Surely this film is a treasure misplaced by angels.

It goes like this: A men-only alien race, the invisible Lo-Fi Frequency, send assassins to earth under the guise of preserving western culture. The missions are of the highest social importance, and failure on the part of an assassin would leave him labeled a loser, or worse, exiled to earth forevermore. Lo-Fi elder David Friedman (yes, motherfucking sexploitation legend David fucking Friedman!) dispatches Blackie to Memphis, Tennessee in 1955 to kill twelve beatniks. Trouble is his time is short, and the coffeehouse subculture isn't exactly thriving in the area. He only manages to kill nine and returns in disgrace.

Forty-two years later, he is sent back to earth to finish the job. He tracks down his blood brother, Mike Maker, and the two promptly kill a nurse and a convenient shop owner. Fate joins them with Kerine, a voluptuous, leather clad hermaphrodite with a propensity toward murder. Blackie grants him/her immortality, and he/she offers to kill his/her mother, thus completing the assignment. But in the heat of passion, Kerine kills both her mother and father, thus bringing the death count to thirteen. Blackie is once more a loser.

The elders give Blackie one more chance to redeem himself. He is ordered to sacrifice Goliatha, a motorcycle-riding strongwoman, thus raising Kerine's mother (the thirteenth victim) back from the dead, effectively resetting the count to twelve. Simple enough. Or it would be without the meddling of a team of an intergalactic FBI agents and mysterious Men in Black (played by the beloved members of Japanese punk band Guitar Wolf!!!). Also in the mix is a topless angel and a boa-constrictor whom dispense beers of knowledge, another Lo-Fi loser, and enough 1950s comics and Johnson Smith catalog goodies to give collectors a four-hour erection.

You see, I told you you wouldn't fucking get it. Why don't you go revisit Jaws or Princess Bride and leave the intelligent viewing to me, huh?

What makes this film so incredible isn't the acting, or the sound work, or the editing, or the DVD cover art, or even the soundtrack, though the soundtrack is quite impressive. No, this film is amazing simply because it exists at all. To say I am overly skeptical of the future of film would be an understatement. The trends are depressing, to say the least. Studio productions are created solely by marketing surveys, marginalized for maximum appeal until they are stripped of anything distinctive or creative. Independent filmmakers, meanwhile, are drowning in a world where affordable DV equipment and YouTube promotion means every five-year-old with a lawnmower can manufacture a biography on his fucking cat. There simply isn't room for inventiveness, nor has there been for thirty years. Finding this experimental and gritty gem was like discovering a living fossil. But as amazing as the carnivorous amphibian Koolasuchus is, it doesn't even begin to approach the value of Sore Losers.

Obviously, my pretentious diatribe is mostly in jest, though I really am better than you. But it is true, most people will not like this film. But I loved it, so I wholeheartedly encourage you to seek it out, which could be tricky. The Guerrilla Monster homepage is as good a place as any to start.