Dusan Makavejev´s "WR: Mysteries of the Organism" (1971) accomplishes more in 84 minutes than many filmmakers accomplish in a lifetime. This dense ideo-collage collapses multiple storylines as well as multiple story-telling modes, splicing together documentary, street theater, fictional narrative, and Stalin-era propaganda. Running through all strands is one common element: rampaging libido.
"WR" begins, nominally, as a documentary about psychiatrist Wilhelm Reich, a former assistant to Sigmund Freud who moved to America and went insane. His followers would probably prefer the term "pioneering genius," but in reality the once highly respected Reich became a certified quack, but one hell of an interesting quack. Reich came to believe that the power of the orgasm was the cornerstone to mental and physical well-being, which isn´t the crazy part. In fact, it was pretty daring since Reich also wedded his sexual theories to political ideology, in effect trying to reconcile Freud with Marx. The crazy came a little later. After devoting much of his research time to measuring orgasms, he formulated a theory of orgone energy, a universal "life force" which he tried to harness with orgone accumulators: little wooden/metal boxes that people sat in to "soak up" the orgones. He also designed a "cloudbuster" (which looked like a mini-anti aircraft battery) which could manipulate orgone energy to disperse clouds or produce rain. Reich was persecuted and then prosecuted by the state for his practices, and in an absurd case of overkill, the FDA actually ordered that his books be burned. He died in prison in 1957.
You could learn all or most of this from "WR: Mysteries of the Organism" but that´s hardly the purpose of the film; Reich´s theories serve as a launching point to explore the power of sexual liberation as a political tool. The fictional narrative strand follows an idealistic Yugoslavian woman named Milena (Milena Dravic) who talks constantly about how important "free love" is to the revolution, but never backs up her talk with action. Her roommate Jagoda (Jagoda Kaloper) doesn´t share the same inhibitions, and spends most of her on-screen time naked and humping soldiers to do her part for the fatherland. Milena eventually falls head over heels for a dangerously repressed Russian skater named Vladimir Ilyich (Ivica Vidovic), but takes her time bringing their relationship to its inevitable and messy culmination.
Back in New York, transvestite and Warhol superstar Jackie Curtis roams the streets with her boyfriend while serenely fellating a vanilla ice cream cone. A man dressed as a US Soldier (Tuli Kupferberg) patrols Manhattan, wielding a toy rifle and stalking citizens to the tune of the song "Kill for Peace" (which serves as only a slightly distorted echo of "Make Love, Not War"). Like Milena, he spends more time stroking his tool than using it. His gun serves as one of numerous phallic symbols featured prominently in the film. Reich´s "cloudbusters" function as sleek heat-seeking love missiles, but the film´s most audacious strand posits the 20th century´s ultimate phallic symbol to be no less than Joseph Stalin himself. Using footage from an overwrought propaganda film that was essentially directed by Stalin himself, Makavejev situates the proud, erect Stalin at strategic moments in the narrative(s).
A crazy psychoanalyst, a horny Yugoslavian, New York street performances, and a penis-shaped Stalin: how in the hell does Makavejev make any sense of this great honking mishegoss? Having only seen the film once, I feel I am woefully unqualified to answer that question, particularly since I lack the chops to tackle any but the most superficial Marxist analysis. I find the film more interesting for its parts than for its sum, not that "WR" doesn´t have a grander meaning. "WR" is definitely post-modern, but it´s not just a random collection of ironic observations. The anarchic fun of the whole film stems from the consistently bold, sometimes downright insane, editing choices Makavejev and editor Ivanka Vukasovic employ to mash together seemingly disparate shots, proving once and for all that any two images can be spliced together, and that the very act of placing them next to each other creates a connection between the two, though perhaps not always the one the filmmaker intended. "WR," like any similar collage film, invites (demands) multiple interpretations from the viewer.
Even a lazy viewer, however, can enjoy simply watching the controlled and inspired lunacy. "WR" may have some high-falutin´ Marxist critique on its mind, but at a simpler level, it´s just a funny film, relying on unlikely juxtapositions and some of the goofy behavior you might see in today´s American indy-quirkfests to generate laughs. In one scene, Milena spurns her former lover Radmilovic (Zoran Radmilovic), forcing him into the street and slamming the door shut behind me. She returns to dote over her sexy Russian skater, but Radmilovic will not be deterred by mere mortal barriers. In the background, he methodically hammers his way through the bedroom wall and literally "crashes" the party, politely shaking Vladimir´s hand as he prepares to lock him in the closet. In another scene, we watch an artist make a plaster cast of a man´s erect penis (the fact that the man in question is an editor at "Screw" magazine only adds to the strangeness) to add to her collection of hard-on sculpture.
WR" is a profoundly weird film by any standard, but it was also a product of its times. The most similar film (as discussed by Jonathan Rosenbaum) is Jean-Luc Godard´s "1+1" (also known as "Sympathy for the Devil" with a slightly different ending) which intercuts between a Rolling Stones´ rehearsal and a fictional narrative. I would also offer Brian De Palma´s late 60s films "Greetings" (1968) and especially "Hi, Mom!" (1969) as films with a vaguely similar use of radical juxtaposition. Even more recent efforts like Harmony Korine´s "Gummo" (1997) or Damon Packard´s utterly bizarre "Reflections of Evil" (2002) carry at least faint echoes of this style.
"WR" is certainly the sort of film that cannot be fully digested on one viewing, though I find myself having to write a review under just such a circumstance. I enjoyed it immensely, and I can understand why critics such as Jonathan Rosenbaum have labeled it a masterpiece. I reserve judgment on that matter until I see it again, but I am certainly interested enough to watch it again… and then probably again. So I guess I know which way I´m leaning
"WR" begins, nominally, as a documentary about psychiatrist Wilhelm Reich, a former assistant to Sigmund Freud who moved to America and went insane. His followers would probably prefer the term "pioneering genius," but in reality the once highly respected Reich became a certified quack, but one hell of an interesting quack. Reich came to believe that the power of the orgasm was the cornerstone to mental and physical well-being, which isn´t the crazy part. In fact, it was pretty daring since Reich also wedded his sexual theories to political ideology, in effect trying to reconcile Freud with Marx. The crazy came a little later. After devoting much of his research time to measuring orgasms, he formulated a theory of orgone energy, a universal "life force" which he tried to harness with orgone accumulators: little wooden/metal boxes that people sat in to "soak up" the orgones. He also designed a "cloudbuster" (which looked like a mini-anti aircraft battery) which could manipulate orgone energy to disperse clouds or produce rain. Reich was persecuted and then prosecuted by the state for his practices, and in an absurd case of overkill, the FDA actually ordered that his books be burned. He died in prison in 1957.
You could learn all or most of this from "WR: Mysteries of the Organism" but that´s hardly the purpose of the film; Reich´s theories serve as a launching point to explore the power of sexual liberation as a political tool. The fictional narrative strand follows an idealistic Yugoslavian woman named Milena (Milena Dravic) who talks constantly about how important "free love" is to the revolution, but never backs up her talk with action. Her roommate Jagoda (Jagoda Kaloper) doesn´t share the same inhibitions, and spends most of her on-screen time naked and humping soldiers to do her part for the fatherland. Milena eventually falls head over heels for a dangerously repressed Russian skater named Vladimir Ilyich (Ivica Vidovic), but takes her time bringing their relationship to its inevitable and messy culmination.
Back in New York, transvestite and Warhol superstar Jackie Curtis roams the streets with her boyfriend while serenely fellating a vanilla ice cream cone. A man dressed as a US Soldier (Tuli Kupferberg) patrols Manhattan, wielding a toy rifle and stalking citizens to the tune of the song "Kill for Peace" (which serves as only a slightly distorted echo of "Make Love, Not War"). Like Milena, he spends more time stroking his tool than using it. His gun serves as one of numerous phallic symbols featured prominently in the film. Reich´s "cloudbusters" function as sleek heat-seeking love missiles, but the film´s most audacious strand posits the 20th century´s ultimate phallic symbol to be no less than Joseph Stalin himself. Using footage from an overwrought propaganda film that was essentially directed by Stalin himself, Makavejev situates the proud, erect Stalin at strategic moments in the narrative(s).
A crazy psychoanalyst, a horny Yugoslavian, New York street performances, and a penis-shaped Stalin: how in the hell does Makavejev make any sense of this great honking mishegoss? Having only seen the film once, I feel I am woefully unqualified to answer that question, particularly since I lack the chops to tackle any but the most superficial Marxist analysis. I find the film more interesting for its parts than for its sum, not that "WR" doesn´t have a grander meaning. "WR" is definitely post-modern, but it´s not just a random collection of ironic observations. The anarchic fun of the whole film stems from the consistently bold, sometimes downright insane, editing choices Makavejev and editor Ivanka Vukasovic employ to mash together seemingly disparate shots, proving once and for all that any two images can be spliced together, and that the very act of placing them next to each other creates a connection between the two, though perhaps not always the one the filmmaker intended. "WR," like any similar collage film, invites (demands) multiple interpretations from the viewer.
Even a lazy viewer, however, can enjoy simply watching the controlled and inspired lunacy. "WR" may have some high-falutin´ Marxist critique on its mind, but at a simpler level, it´s just a funny film, relying on unlikely juxtapositions and some of the goofy behavior you might see in today´s American indy-quirkfests to generate laughs. In one scene, Milena spurns her former lover Radmilovic (Zoran Radmilovic), forcing him into the street and slamming the door shut behind me. She returns to dote over her sexy Russian skater, but Radmilovic will not be deterred by mere mortal barriers. In the background, he methodically hammers his way through the bedroom wall and literally "crashes" the party, politely shaking Vladimir´s hand as he prepares to lock him in the closet. In another scene, we watch an artist make a plaster cast of a man´s erect penis (the fact that the man in question is an editor at "Screw" magazine only adds to the strangeness) to add to her collection of hard-on sculpture.
WR" is a profoundly weird film by any standard, but it was also a product of its times. The most similar film (as discussed by Jonathan Rosenbaum) is Jean-Luc Godard´s "1+1" (also known as "Sympathy for the Devil" with a slightly different ending) which intercuts between a Rolling Stones´ rehearsal and a fictional narrative. I would also offer Brian De Palma´s late 60s films "Greetings" (1968) and especially "Hi, Mom!" (1969) as films with a vaguely similar use of radical juxtaposition. Even more recent efforts like Harmony Korine´s "Gummo" (1997) or Damon Packard´s utterly bizarre "Reflections of Evil" (2002) carry at least faint echoes of this style.
"WR" is certainly the sort of film that cannot be fully digested on one viewing, though I find myself having to write a review under just such a circumstance. I enjoyed it immensely, and I can understand why critics such as Jonathan Rosenbaum have labeled it a masterpiece. I reserve judgment on that matter until I see it again, but I am certainly interested enough to watch it again… and then probably again. So I guess I know which way I´m leaning
Dusan Makavejev´s "WR: Mysteries of the Organism" (1971) accomplishes more in 84 minutes than many filmmakers accomplish in a lifetime. This dense ideo-collage collapses multiple storylines as well as multiple story-telling modes, splicing together documentary, street theater, fictional narrative, and Stalin-era propaganda. Running through all strands is one common element: rampaging libido.
"WR" begins, nominally, as a documentary about psychiatrist Wilhelm Reich, a former assistant to Sigmund Freud who moved to America and went insane. His followers would probably prefer the term "pioneering genius," but in reality the once highly respected Reich became a certified quack, but one hell of an interesting quack. Reich came to believe that the power of the orgasm was the cornerstone to mental and physical well-being, which isn´t the crazy part. In fact, it was pretty daring since Reich also wedded his sexual theories to political ideology, in effect trying to reconcile Freud with Marx. The crazy came a little later. After devoting much of his research time to measuring orgasms, he formulated a theory of orgone energy, a universal "life force" which he tried to harness with orgone accumulators: little wooden/metal boxes that people sat in to "soak up" the orgones. He also designed a "cloudbuster" (which looked like a mini-anti aircraft battery) which could manipulate orgone energy to disperse clouds or produce rain. Reich was persecuted and then prosecuted by the state for his practices, and in an absurd case of overkill, the FDA actually ordered that his books be burned. He died in prison in 1957.
You could learn all or most of this from "WR: Mysteries of the Organism" but that´s hardly the purpose of the film; Reich´s theories serve as a launching point to explore the power of sexual liberation as a political tool. The fictional narrative strand follows an idealistic Yugoslavian woman named Milena (Milena Dravic) who talks constantly about how important "free love" is to the revolution, but never backs up her talk with action. Her roommate Jagoda (Jagoda Kaloper) doesn´t share the same inhibitions, and spends most of her on-screen time naked and humping soldiers to do her part for the fatherland. Milena eventually falls head over heels for a dangerously repressed Russian skater named Vladimir Ilyich (Ivica Vidovic), but takes her time bringing their relationship to its inevitable and messy culmination.
Back in New York, transvestite and Warhol superstar Jackie Curtis roams the streets with her boyfriend while serenely fellating a vanilla ice cream cone. A man dressed as a US Soldier (Tuli Kupferberg) patrols Manhattan, wielding a toy rifle and stalking citizens to the tune of the song "Kill for Peace" (which serves as only a slightly distorted echo of "Make Love, Not War"). Like Milena, he spends more time stroking his tool than using it. His gun serves as one of numerous phallic symbols featured prominently in the film. Reich´s "cloudbusters" function as sleek heat-seeking love missiles, but the film´s most audacious strand posits the 20th century´s ultimate phallic symbol to be no less than Joseph Stalin himself. Using footage from an overwrought propaganda film that was essentially directed by Stalin himself, Makavejev situates the proud, erect Stalin at strategic moments in the narrative(s).
A crazy psychoanalyst, a horny Yugoslavian, New York street performances, and a penis-shaped Stalin: how in the hell does Makavejev make any sense of this great honking mishegoss? Having only seen the film once, I feel I am woefully unqualified to answer that question, particularly since I lack the chops to tackle any but the most superficial Marxist analysis. I find the film more interesting for its parts than for its sum, not that "WR" doesn´t have a grander meaning. "WR" is definitely post-modern, but it´s not just a random collection of ironic observations. The anarchic fun of the whole film stems from the consistently bold, sometimes downright insane, editing choices Makavejev and editor Ivanka Vukasovic employ to mash together seemingly disparate shots, proving once and for all that any two images can be spliced together, and that the very act of placing them next to each other creates a connection between the two, though perhaps not always the one the filmmaker intended. "WR," like any similar collage film, invites (demands) multiple interpretations from the viewer.
Even a lazy viewer, however, can enjoy simply watching the controlled and inspired lunacy. "WR" may have some high-falutin´ Marxist critique on its mind, but at a simpler level, it´s just a funny film, relying on unlikely juxtapositions and some of the goofy behavior you might see in today´s American indy-quirkfests to generate laughs. In one scene, Milena spurns her former lover Radmilovic (Zoran Radmilovic), forcing him into the street and slamming the door shut behind me. She returns to dote over her sexy Russian skater, but Radmilovic will not be deterred by mere mortal barriers. In the background, he methodically hammers his way through the bedroom wall and literally "crashes" the party, politely shaking Vladimir´s hand as he prepares to lock him in the closet. In another scene, we watch an artist make a plaster cast of a man´s erect penis (the fact that the man in question is an editor at "Screw" magazine only adds to the strangeness) to add to her collection of hard-on sculpture.
WR" is a profoundly weird film by any standard, but it was also a product of its times. The most similar film (as discussed by Jonathan Rosenbaum) is Jean-Luc Godard´s "1+1" (also known as "Sympathy for the Devil" with a slightly different ending) which intercuts between a Rolling Stones´ rehearsal and a fictional narrative. I would also offer Brian De Palma´s late 60s films "Greetings" (1968) and especially "Hi, Mom!" (1969) as films with a vaguely similar use of radical juxtaposition. Even more recent efforts like Harmony Korine´s "Gummo" (1997) or Damon Packard´s utterly bizarre "Reflections of Evil" (2002) carry at least faint echoes of this style.
"WR" is certainly the sort of film that cannot be fully digested on one viewing, though I find myself having to write a review under just such a circumstance. I enjoyed it immensely, and I can understand why critics such as Jonathan Rosenbaum have labeled it a masterpiece. I reserve judgment on that matter until I see it again, but I am certainly interested enough to watch it again… and then probably again. So I guess I know which way I´m leaning
"WR" begins, nominally, as a documentary about psychiatrist Wilhelm Reich, a former assistant to Sigmund Freud who moved to America and went insane. His followers would probably prefer the term "pioneering genius," but in reality the once highly respected Reich became a certified quack, but one hell of an interesting quack. Reich came to believe that the power of the orgasm was the cornerstone to mental and physical well-being, which isn´t the crazy part. In fact, it was pretty daring since Reich also wedded his sexual theories to political ideology, in effect trying to reconcile Freud with Marx. The crazy came a little later. After devoting much of his research time to measuring orgasms, he formulated a theory of orgone energy, a universal "life force" which he tried to harness with orgone accumulators: little wooden/metal boxes that people sat in to "soak up" the orgones. He also designed a "cloudbuster" (which looked like a mini-anti aircraft battery) which could manipulate orgone energy to disperse clouds or produce rain. Reich was persecuted and then prosecuted by the state for his practices, and in an absurd case of overkill, the FDA actually ordered that his books be burned. He died in prison in 1957.
You could learn all or most of this from "WR: Mysteries of the Organism" but that´s hardly the purpose of the film; Reich´s theories serve as a launching point to explore the power of sexual liberation as a political tool. The fictional narrative strand follows an idealistic Yugoslavian woman named Milena (Milena Dravic) who talks constantly about how important "free love" is to the revolution, but never backs up her talk with action. Her roommate Jagoda (Jagoda Kaloper) doesn´t share the same inhibitions, and spends most of her on-screen time naked and humping soldiers to do her part for the fatherland. Milena eventually falls head over heels for a dangerously repressed Russian skater named Vladimir Ilyich (Ivica Vidovic), but takes her time bringing their relationship to its inevitable and messy culmination.
Back in New York, transvestite and Warhol superstar Jackie Curtis roams the streets with her boyfriend while serenely fellating a vanilla ice cream cone. A man dressed as a US Soldier (Tuli Kupferberg) patrols Manhattan, wielding a toy rifle and stalking citizens to the tune of the song "Kill for Peace" (which serves as only a slightly distorted echo of "Make Love, Not War"). Like Milena, he spends more time stroking his tool than using it. His gun serves as one of numerous phallic symbols featured prominently in the film. Reich´s "cloudbusters" function as sleek heat-seeking love missiles, but the film´s most audacious strand posits the 20th century´s ultimate phallic symbol to be no less than Joseph Stalin himself. Using footage from an overwrought propaganda film that was essentially directed by Stalin himself, Makavejev situates the proud, erect Stalin at strategic moments in the narrative(s).
A crazy psychoanalyst, a horny Yugoslavian, New York street performances, and a penis-shaped Stalin: how in the hell does Makavejev make any sense of this great honking mishegoss? Having only seen the film once, I feel I am woefully unqualified to answer that question, particularly since I lack the chops to tackle any but the most superficial Marxist analysis. I find the film more interesting for its parts than for its sum, not that "WR" doesn´t have a grander meaning. "WR" is definitely post-modern, but it´s not just a random collection of ironic observations. The anarchic fun of the whole film stems from the consistently bold, sometimes downright insane, editing choices Makavejev and editor Ivanka Vukasovic employ to mash together seemingly disparate shots, proving once and for all that any two images can be spliced together, and that the very act of placing them next to each other creates a connection between the two, though perhaps not always the one the filmmaker intended. "WR," like any similar collage film, invites (demands) multiple interpretations from the viewer.
Even a lazy viewer, however, can enjoy simply watching the controlled and inspired lunacy. "WR" may have some high-falutin´ Marxist critique on its mind, but at a simpler level, it´s just a funny film, relying on unlikely juxtapositions and some of the goofy behavior you might see in today´s American indy-quirkfests to generate laughs. In one scene, Milena spurns her former lover Radmilovic (Zoran Radmilovic), forcing him into the street and slamming the door shut behind me. She returns to dote over her sexy Russian skater, but Radmilovic will not be deterred by mere mortal barriers. In the background, he methodically hammers his way through the bedroom wall and literally "crashes" the party, politely shaking Vladimir´s hand as he prepares to lock him in the closet. In another scene, we watch an artist make a plaster cast of a man´s erect penis (the fact that the man in question is an editor at "Screw" magazine only adds to the strangeness) to add to her collection of hard-on sculpture.
WR" is a profoundly weird film by any standard, but it was also a product of its times. The most similar film (as discussed by Jonathan Rosenbaum) is Jean-Luc Godard´s "1+1" (also known as "Sympathy for the Devil" with a slightly different ending) which intercuts between a Rolling Stones´ rehearsal and a fictional narrative. I would also offer Brian De Palma´s late 60s films "Greetings" (1968) and especially "Hi, Mom!" (1969) as films with a vaguely similar use of radical juxtaposition. Even more recent efforts like Harmony Korine´s "Gummo" (1997) or Damon Packard´s utterly bizarre "Reflections of Evil" (2002) carry at least faint echoes of this style.
"WR" is certainly the sort of film that cannot be fully digested on one viewing, though I find myself having to write a review under just such a circumstance. I enjoyed it immensely, and I can understand why critics such as Jonathan Rosenbaum have labeled it a masterpiece. I reserve judgment on that matter until I see it again, but I am certainly interested enough to watch it again… and then probably again. So I guess I know which way I´m leaning
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