The Other Side of the Underneath

Being the only film of 1972 solely written & directed by a woman who would tragically commit suicide 10 years later at the age of 55 would, surely, cancel out any impact a gratuitously experimental and excruciating experience like this one might have to offer. But Jane Arden's linear-free schizo-mental health examination remains brain numbing hard work for anyone with the courage & patience to sit through it.

Beginning with images & ambiance similar to that found in the previous year's Lets Scare Jessica To Death (itself an exploration of a woman losing her marbles), TOSOTU Starts promisingly but quickly buckles under the weight of a too-much-too-soon dosage prescribed by the heavy-handed Dr Arden.

A young lady pulled from a lake in an undisclosed part of the Welsh countryside winds up in what can only be described as an all female funny farm for avant-garde theatre performance artists. There is no plot or characters so to speak of, only a bloody-minded desire on behalf of the filmmaker to set her creative co-ordinates to eleven on the launch pad and blast off into the solar system for the best part of two hours before crash-landing somewhere in the region of Zeta Reticuli. One can only assume by that point the coffers must have run dry for film stock.

There is certainly no question of the director's earnest sincerity broaching the weighty subject matter. But the ruthless disregard for linear dynamics disallows any point of entry other than to smirk or guffaw at the serious-as-a-heart-attack images of women sharing beds with sheep whilst taunted by Mr Punch's ugly sister or, birthday suited nymphs flanking cellos in the Green Green Grass of Home (at least composer Sally Minford's oppressive string arrangements hit the vulnerable dark spot).

I find it hard to believe that even back then this was considered fresh and challenging, especially considering the likes of Ken Russell had been there, seen it and vommed on the t-shirt with this sort of visual excess a million times before already. Meanwhile, over at the BBC, the Monty Python gang were running full throttle dropping raspberry stink- bombs on targets like Arden's school of pretension with devastating precision. Their merciless lampooning of the great King Ken's work in the 'Gardening Club' sketch should give you a good idea of what you're letting yourself in for.

Whilst I do have a big appetite for seeking out the more cutting edge offerings to be found hidden away in the dead-letter-office of secret cinema, this is one I feel has not stood the test of time and would've preferred to have left under lock and key.

This is my second attempt at doing a review.

Okay, this is a supposedly 'avant garde' film, and if you think of Derek Jarman's early features as 'avant garde', consider them like John Waters but without intentional comedy.

This is absolutely laughable rubbish, and having read that it's likely everyone involved was imbibing and ingesting certain substances, that certainly comes across on the waste of celluloid. It's literally just people doing 'free form' freakouts, that are meant to be expressive and deep and meaningful. Unfortunately this just means that there's a ton of nuddy women and an extremely graphic sequence that lasts forever involving some digits.

The main thing I took from this was concern for the number of children that happened to get in the way of the front of the camera, and thus evidently involved in the production of all the drug-taking and goodness knows what milieu.

We're supposed to be grateful that this 'artiste' had her work preserved because her life 'tragically' ended a few years later as she was a drunk. No, this is utter rubbish and whatever 'arts council' or similarly trendy project that threw the confetti money at her to make this has not changed in the subsequent 50 years.

I've got to add. Her attitude towards women is plainly poisonous. Simultaneously seeing them as sexual objects then wanting them to destroy each other. What a disgusting individual.

Let's see, definitively avant-garde, British, absolutely no narrative, everyone's on LSD, it's 1972, a cacophony of a soundtrack, nearly two hours. What can possibly appeal to me in this film? As it turns out, NOTHING.

It starts out as nonsense, devolves into further levels of nonsense, the asylum throws out a mental patient, who in turn, aimlessly wanders the countryside, observing filthy hippies, doing all sorts of... nonsense, I think she's crucified? Then she returns from the dead (given that was even her... it made the cover, anyway), takes the very last fistful of psychedelics (offscreen) and performs with a bunch of freaks, which brings us to the abrupt thud of a nonsensical ending. Hey, this filmmaker is posthumously finally getting her due respect in the cult film world!

Ouch. I can't believe I made it through the whole thing, as there's absolutely nothing to grasp onto. I watched this as the fourth and final movie of the House of Psychotic Women box set, culled as one of the four very best in Kier-La Janisse's book of the same name. Granted, I really, REALLY dug the first two movies, Identikit, and I Like Bats (of which it could be argued the woman in it is not psychotic at all, she's a vampire! And it's a comedy! She isn't someone who THINKS she's a vampire, and behaves as one, she IS one). Anyhow, there's a severe nosedive in quality with the remaining two, with three scores/soundtracks progressively getting more and more horrifying.

Either Janisse is much, much smarter than I am, or the introductions she gives for each movie is a series of ramblings, and habitual tangents. I found next-to no light shed on any of these films. I gleaned more info in other supplements.

Seems like I've gone off on a tangent of my own. Oh, there's gotta be a bizarro audience for a film like this, and it ain't me. I can only describe it as grating, insufferable, and embarrassing. There's a rather violent fake-murder between two mental patients (in a basement, I guess?), with both participants clearly in outer space on God-knows-what, done to the tune of ("live") Britain's worst acid rock band. Hell, get in a time machine, travel back to England in the late 60's/early 70's, throw a rock and you will hit one. I'm sure finding these guys was one of the easier production tasks.

Zero point zero.

Extras: In surrealist Penny Slinger's interview segment, where they discuss (and show extended clips of) her career in film and photos, I was reminded of my years in school studying Fine Arts. The way they evaluated (and read in to) her abstract and surreal work was exactly like the art critiques that I so many times participated in. What can I read into this film? Ya freakin' got me. I'm sure there's some feminist messages to be found in the confrontational "psychologist" scenes inside the asylum, but the movie is primarily a series of meandering, random scenes.

Fun fact: In another extra, one participant reveals writer/director Jane Arden (who also plays the doctor) was drunk the entire duration (just guessing, she was an angry drunk), and all the women in the asylum scenes were fed acid. These facts alone make this film something I would have an aversion to.

The more a picture embraces experimental art film sensibilities, the more limited its appreciative audience is going to be. Of all the pictures that have ever deservedly been called art films, I don't believe I personally have seen one more experimental and abstruse than this. I admire the audacity to create something so completely, wildly unorthodox, something which not only may not appeal to many viewers but which, for its inscrutability, may also actively repel viewers. I admire the gusto of the cast, collaborators of filmmaker Jane Arden, who clearly share her enigmatic vision and go all-in in their own ways to bring it to life. I also think, however, that for my part, such nonspecific praise is not enough to manifest such value as to solidify a recommendation. I'm glad for those folks for whom 'The other side of the underneath' is an enjoyable or possibly even revelatory experience. I'm not one of them.

The one requirement I have of the movies that I watch, more than anything else, is concrete narrative in at least some small sense. No matter how minimal or extraordinary, if a movie has a story to tell, then I can abide just about anything, and surely find worth in even the slightest measure. Indeed, I'll watch just about anything. Whatever else is true of this feature, however, it has no discernible narrative. What we're greeted with in this instance is a collection of scenes tied around a loose concept, yet at no point am I able to ascertain a through-line, a consistent thread, that imparts a progression from A to B; that brings order to the dialogue, to the characters, or to the vague assemblage; or that ties everything together with meaningful connectivity. Scenes are executed with intensity, passion, and care - is this enough in and of itself, when there is no detectable substance to the tableau? This is the sort of project that invites spectators to glean what they will, to See and Think and Interpret freely. I deeply regret to say that I see nothing. I deeply regret to say that I need more than what 'The other side of the underneath' is - and by "more" I really mean anything, anything at all.

I love the music in the film, especially the exceptionally unconventional offerings of cellist Sally Minford. Beyond this, and my appreciation for the overall daring and commitment of those involved, I struggle to form words that might project positive airs over the proceedings. I can't think of any comparison for how incredibly esoteric or even mystifying this is, and anyway, I don't known if comparisons would be worthy anything. There are people who will come upon 'The other side of the underneath' and absolutely Get It, without hesitation or question, and who will find this an enthralling, exemplary viewing experience. If you're not someone already open to the most profoundly strange and eccentric spheres of cinema, however, then I can only recommend against this. Watch it if you want, but be very, very well aware of what you're getting into.

I don't feel this film can be divorced from Jane Arden's evolution in to radical feminism and R. D Laing's 'Anti-Psychiatry' movement of the 60's. It is more than a film, it is a jarring polemic. Jane Arden and Jack Bond made 3 of the most unique 'art films' of British cinema: 'Separation', 'The other side of underneath' and 'Anti-Clock' (in which they experimented with and pioneered video techniques). Not a trilogy more a triptych on the sense of self, it's disintegration and the internal and external influences on that process. Where as 'Separation' can be humorous and 'Ant-Clock' dream like. 'The other side of underneath' is a dark night of the soul, the nightmare that lingers when you wake. All beyond narrative description. Caveat Inspectoris (I have never studied Latin please don't be harsh)