Emma Gilbert
This is it, the bottom of the barrel. The things that reside in the dank crevices of horror cinema; Hell incarnate. This is the end—specifically, in this case, the end of Angela Aberdeen.
Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, and fellow organisms, to VG4, otherwise known as Black Mass of the Nazi Sex Wizard (I know. I know). It is the sixth film of underground horror legend Lucifer Valentine, a man I fear with every fiber of my being. Known for creating his very own subgenre entitled “vomit gore,” Mr. Valentine has certainly crafted quite the image for himself.
The Vomit Gore Trilogy is probably the most well-known collection of hard horror films, right next to August Underground. The film we’re discussing today is technically a part of this trilogy, as it acts as its prequel, which is why I chose it as my first (and perhaps last) Valentine film. It is packed with utterly insane gore effects, incomprehensible editing, deafening guitar riffs, and real vomit. Quite literally, all of these films are 50 percent “story” and 50 percent self-indulgent pornography for Mr. Valentine (I promise you I am not exaggerating even a little bit—not in the slightest).
So, judging by that description, what in the hell could I possibly have to say about this movie? What is there worth talking about? Well, thank you for not asking, because that’s why I’m here today. C’mere, sit down. This is gonna be fun!
My name is Angela Aberdeen, and welcome to the last night of my life.
Not every movie greets you with a warning, giving you a chance to turn back before you inflict irreparable damage to your brain. By all means, I should have heeded this warning before diving in with my buddies for a girls’ night, but I did not, for better or for worse. Let me say, that warning is extremely justified, as the opening credits are introduced along the path of a drop of blood descending the leg of one of the actresses. Said droplet originates from what I am 80 percent sure is a real razor-inflicted slice on the actress’s thigh. Yeah.
I’m going to get this out of the way: yes, this movie, in its literal form, is a load of raggedly edgy nonsense. Without coherence, with precious little dialogue, it is nothing short of a sensory deprivation tank (or sensory overload tank, depending on how you process that type of imagery). But these films, this culture, has a dedicated fanbase whom quite frankly seem like very down-to-earth folks. They express their admiration and love earnestly, some writing poetry and incredibly thoughtful five-star reviews. But why?
Notice how I said “in its literal form” up there. What you see with your eyes when watching this is mostly stimulant for a niche audience, but rest assured there’s something underneath, residing in the concept, in what little dialogue we receive, in the strangely poetic synopsis. Of course, we are all destined to see something different in everything we watch, but here’s my interpretation: this movie is much like a visual poem, recited slowly and repetitively over the one-hour runtime. The writing is, on its own, unremarkable, but when paired with the visuals and concepts, it becomes something more, something I see as an expression of society’s hatred of women.
Our leading lady Angela Aberdeen, portrayed by the mysterious Sister S, is a sex worker paying a visit to a client one holiday evening. Things start out normal enough as she struts about in her cutesy outfit and gets slapped around (at her request), but this is frequently interrupted by other characters, the female ones implied by the film’s description to be alternate incarnations of Angela. They mutilate a woman in a bathtub, gouge out her eyes, lop off her breasts, swallow her eyeballs, regurgitate them, wash, rinse, repeat. This is Angela’s destiny as, unfortunately, her client is a being of pure evil, perhaps Satan himself.
An endless loop, a regurgitation and force-feeding of a dim, repulsive, windowless room of blood, puke, and unpleasant bodily fluids. That is this film series’ version of Hell, and it is the rawest expression of the concept I’ve ever come across. There are no fiery pits, no extravagant rivers of blood and wailing souls, just a bathroom in an old house that is haunted by the tortured beings of innocent women, drowned in filth. It feels real, not because it’s real vomit (though that could have something to do with it) but because it is not fantastical or grand; it is human. “Hell is other people,” as they say.
At one point in the film, there is a reading of JonBenét Ramsay’s ransom note performed by a handful of actresses in different video clips. I’m going to go with the assumption that this is meant to express Angela as a captive, and the hellish entities shackling her as imprisoners, taunting some unknown outside force (who may not even exist) with their possession of her. They have her, they’ve made their price clear, but they don’t actually want it. It’s a game, a joke. Angela is theirs forever.
Back to my interpretation of this as a commentary on women’s suffering. The reason I suggest that the ransom note is addressed to no one in particular is because I think it’s used to heckle Angela rather than someone who may miss her. The suggestion I detect here is, “she’s a sex worker. Who would care that she’s gone?” Which, as many of us know, is the attitude many people have been known to express toward women in sex work. They’re sub-human, degenerates, nothing. According to our society, they belong there, in that twisted human Hell created by Mr. Valentine. I see that puke chamber (haha) of a house as a physical depiction of our world’s opinion of women like Angela: incomprehensibly disgusting.
Angela is someone who slipped through the cracks, her downward spiral chronicled throughout the Vomit Gore series. Deemed “the eternal lost girl,” she was clawing her way through life, desperately trying to keep her head above water, perhaps already submerged and surviving off air bubbles. The only thing that seems to stay afloat is her striking beauty. In the moments her eyes connect with the camera, she’s just a girl doing her job, giving us a window into her normal. This normal feels haunting and deeply sad, as we know it will soon be stripped away. The light in her captivating gaze is just a memory.
This film is an exercise in visual misery like no other, one that left me reeling. Though my friends and I were having a hoot, laughing at all its absurdity, what lay beneath the bile-soaked images still hit me in a way I didn’t expect. That expression of eternal damnation rocked me, as I can’t imagine a sadder fate. A woman, a person like me or you, taken from everyone, everything, including herself.
I woke up the next morning, looked myself in the mirror, and saw how truly beautiful I was, how fortunate I was to live as I am now. I went out and I saw the world around me, filled with vivid promising colors and bountiful life. I am not confined to a stinking bathroom in the furthest corners of humanity; I am outside, able to see the beauty that Angela had stolen from her. I saw the trees through my bedroom window, could feel them without having to touch. I was very much in my head, as watching this movie no doubt inflicted a great deal of psychic damage, but I was also truly in the world. Sometimes what it takes to see what’s right in front of you is seeing what could be under circumstances much different than your own.
You have no choice but to join The Third Reich.
Now, all that said, do I like this thing? No, I can’t say I do. I like its ideas, not so much its visuals, and it is about 95 percent visuals. The nazi imagery is overdone and unnecessary and truly drags the movie down further into the pit it was born into. Somebody carves a swastika into their upper thigh, which on its own knocks this flick down a lot of points. Just, why? Consider, perhaps, not doing that.
Aside from the content itself, Lucifer Valentine as a person is one of the most peculiar individuals I am currently aware of, and that’s really saying something. Everything I know about him is from interviews that are from 2017 at youngest and rumors scattered about by random people. He talks big, but I’m simply not sure how much about him to take seriously. Is this his genuine being, or does he make stuff up to portray himself as an out-of-this-world character? I must say, I really hope it’s the second option because some of his claims are so off the rails that it’s nothing short of revolting. Just take a peep at a few interviews and you’ll see what I mean.
When it comes to these kinds of movies, I work extra hard to put aside any inkling of the idea that any film can be inherently 100 percent terrible. Every film has its audience, and if you’re not that audience, then you probably won’t like it, and that doesn’t mean it’s a bad movie. I live by that and have lived by it even more fiercely since an old couple walked out of Cats at my old movie theater job and raved to me about how much they adored it. A movie can be, by all means, a technical and objective mess and someone will still find something to love. Hey, even I found something to appreciate in this work of visual hell (and I’m talking about VG4, not Cats, just to clarify).
While my first dip into extreme horror cinema was a little on the “meh” side overall, I’m honestly looking forward to exploring more. Violent Sh*t, August Underground, and Fred Vogel’s other works, Visitor Q, Where the Dead Go to Die, and hell, maybe even ol’ Luci’s other stuff is all on my loosely put together watchlist. I remain ever fascinated by this facet of horror culture and can’t wait to learn more.
Had to choose the worst of them….