Netflix Fix -- Virgin Witch (1972)

Some movies just make you feel dirty while watching. Pornos fall into this category, obviously, but I'm speaking on actual "films," flicks you'd find outside of that seedy backroom in your local video store haunt. It's the way the film is shot, the amounts of gratuitous nudity and/or unflinching gore. Nine times out of ten the film was made sometime before 1990, and doesn't have a known-star-name in credits' sight.

Not to say that watching this type of movie is something to frown upon. Not even. Granted, I toss these DVDs into my bedroom's player, not the living room, where the roommate or any passers-in can see. Explaining myself or the movie itself is just too much awkward work, and I prefer keeping a semi-normal air about myself. If people walked in on me watching, say, Cannibal Holocaust or I Spit On Your Grave, the screw-faces and damning inner-dialogue I'd be met with wouldn't be pretty. Far from attractive. Unpleasant, to the umpth.



Virgin Witch is just that breed of film. Up until a week ago, I'd never even heard of it; my knowledge of obscure British cinema doesn't extend far beyond the Hammer-produced horror films I hunted down on VHS as a kid. But as I was skimming through one of my fave websites, Ain't It Cool News, early last week, per daily usual, I noticed something where one Edgar Wright---the super-skilled and infinitely-and-awesomely-geek-ish filmmaker behind Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz---wrote a column singling out a movie that he loved and felt others needed to be more aware of. His choice, Virgin Witch, and his enthusiasm while explaining the plot and expressing his admiration immediately sent me to my Netflix Queue to experience the flick myself.

Am I sure that I didn't just watch a '70s British porno that employed a horror-twist? Barely. I'd venture to say that Virgin Witch is like the Holy Grail for breast-loving men; tons of nipples and boobs, in that unkept, natural, silicon-free old-school way. The plot, meanwhile, is fairly simple stuff. It's like Suspiria, only with double the protagonists, way less scares and an unavoidable thread of inferiority.The film opens up with two young-ish girls hitchhiking, apparently having just ran away for some unexplained reason. This rich guy picks them up, and then puts them up in his apartment. The one girl, Christina, dreams of being a model, and she comes across an ad for a new agency, which she consults and ultimately decides to head out to the countryside with her friend to shoot for. Only, the supposed modeling agency turns out to be a coven of witches looking for some naked, hot, young female tail to offer as sacrifices.

Typical America's Next Top Model territory, basically. Tyra Banks being the unholy witch, of course.



Virgin Witch isn't a terrible flick, yet it didn't do too much for me. For the first 40-45 minutes, it's pretty damn boring, plodding along with flirtation after flirtation, exposed breast after exposed nip. Which I'm never mad at, but I'm more partial to hot chicks doing interesting things, rather than middling. And serve as extra goodies in a story that makes sense. There's far too many scenes in Virgin Witch that literally had me shouting, "What the fuck?!" Prime example: in the already-mentioned scene where the rich guy picks up the two women (or sisters? are they sisters? who cares), the guy is talking to them and not minding the dark, nighttime road; as they're about to hit some object on the road thanks to guy's reckless driving, the one sister screams "Look out!" After he swerves and avoids disaster, he retorts, "You must be able to see in the dark," to which the other girl says, "She can." And then the camera pans to the dark-seer as she stares menacingly into it, backed by a Gothic piano key. Yet, never again is this dark-seeing ability mentioned or seen. The point of it? Fuck if I know. Bad screenwriting being exhibited, intentionally? Doubtful, but it'd seem correct enough.

Here's another: early on, the sisters are walking down a busy public street, in mid-day, wearing very-short miniskirts. This sleazy guy walks by them and not-so-nonchalantly grabs the ass of one of the girls. Instead of slapping him or causing a who-the-fuck-do-you-think-you-are ruckus, as any self-respected lady would do, she starts giggling along with her terribly-unprotective sister. Nice.

Somebody ask for unnecessary plot-derailing scenes? Perfect, 'cause we got 'em here. Such as, when the rich dude, who is named Johnny, for disclosure's sake, watches his cheating girlfriend, who is lifeless, stage-presence-deficient lounge singer, perform for what feels like an eternity but is actually like five minutes. But that's about four minutes and 3o second too many, since the scene is meaningless and only acts as a "Johnny still cares about that one hitchhiking sister he nearly fucked but was cockblocked by the other sister's impromptu modeling plans." Perhaps if Johnny were even a slightly-intriguing character, written with a shred of layering, such a scene wouldn't induce agony. But he isn't, and it does.

Could I have spent my Saturday afternoon doing something more contructive than sitting through Virgin Witch? Absolutely. I could've went to the gym, or read a book, or further worked on some ideas I've been brewing for the last week. Sometimes, though, a guy like me just feels like taking in some crappy schlock cinema, even when I'm fully aware of how shitty it will be, and how much time it'll waste. Call it movie-watching masochism. Whatever floats your boat, won't sink my ship. Profound, eh? No? Wanna fight about it?