If you’ve ever been to a trendy coffee shop, you’ve seen someone sitting in an overstuffed armchair, conspicuously keeping track of the multiple bookmarks stuck into their perfectly-aged copy of “Infinite Jest”. Their unkempt beards and knock-off designer glasses frames assure us all that they have, indeed, considered the lobster.
What many of you may not know, however, is that there is a subset of this population that only emerges when the days grow shorter and the leaves begin to turn. I’m speaking, of course, of guys who read “House of Leaves” in public.
The cafes they frequent might be dimmer and danker, but the way they twist and turn the tome in their hands is no easier to ignore than the bookmark management of “Infinite Jest” readers. Either one of these guys is certain to distract you while you’re trying to figure out the shop’s nitro options from its poorly designed menu.
Both readers would defend their actions as normal. Wallace fans claim that flipping back and forth between the main text of “Infinite Jest” and its interminable endnotes replicates the game of tennis, a game famous for being clumsy and slow. “House of Leaves” proponents claim that the book’s unique typesetting actually affects their sanity, as the book’s author Mark Z. Danielewski disregarded decades of warnings from psychologists, who say that turning a book upside down can literally make you lose your mind.
Neither admit the true reason for their behavior: they want people to notice them and assume that they are intellectual.
Any printed material over 700 pages isn’t a book; it’s a prop. I’m not saying that there’s no wisdom or entertainment within those pages, but it’s not the object’s primary purpose. Countless people have found comfort in religious texts like the Bible, but you can bet that exponentially more have held the book aloft as a token of their supposed piety. Anyone who owns an omnibus copy of Lord of the Rings certainly isn’t reading that edition. Books were made to fit into a human hand, just as God designed us. I read about that in the Bible while I was sitting in my local coffee shop. You know, the one that’s closed on Sundays.
Let’s start off with good ol’ Mr. J himself, Pope of Trash John Waters. “Multiple Maniacs” may truly be Waters’ masterpiece, superior at times even to “Pink Flamingos” and “Desperate Living” (both films that would rank negative numbers on this list). But this film is fun… with the right crowd. There is the type of person who would thrill at watching Divine fornicate with a giant lobster. There is a type of person who considers a chill-hang sesh to include graphic sex scenes intercut with images of the Crucifixion of Jesus Christ. These people are few and far between and should be treasured. But alas… as stated, they are few.
“Suspiria” is awesome. The colors are more colorful than any other colors have ever been. The soundtrack, oh my God, it’s so loud. And it is CON-STANT! To be fair, with the right crowd, “Suspiria” is loads of fun. It’s exciting, the kills are creative, and there it influenced later horror films like “Saw,” but don’t watch it with the squeamish. There’s a scene in this where you see a close up of a knife go into someone’s beating heart.
Here’s the thing, your friends will piss and moan and complain about you putting on a silent film. That’s why you should never tell them what you’re putting on in advance. Once they adjust, though, they’re gonna have a wonderful time. Truly. “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari” makes for a perfect introduction to silent films. It’s fast, it’s genuinely scary and the dream-like atmosphere leant by the silent aspect actually helps the film’s overall effect. Make your friends watch it. We guarantee they’ll give it five big, wet, sloppy kisses on the mouth out of five.
What’s fascinating about this film isn’t just that it exists, but rather that it exists as the Japanese answer to “Jaws.” This film follows a group of school girls who go to stay with one of their aunts, a reclusive old pianist who lives in the mountains. Based on childhood fears and blatantly artificial, this film is a darkly comedic acid trip that your friends may not want to take at first. But as it chips away at them, they’ll be glad they did.
Oh, what a lovely horror film. It’s like if Wes Anderson directed “Don’t Look Now,” my God, the colors are impeccable, Toni Collette, Ann Dowd, Gabriel Byrne, why… HOLY SHIT HER HEAD’S GONE! And from that point on, this is not a film that makes for a pleasant evening in. The most uncomfortable scene of all is not even related to the horror elements, but in simply watching a grieving mother wail and scream: “I JUST WANNA DIIIIIIE!” It’s a gutting film. And while friends may help to cut the tension, it’s not something that leaves a good taste in the mouth. Maybe watch “Dream Warriors” instead.
This is another one that can be hit or miss. If you have a more intellectual group of viewers, “It Follows” hits just right, as a paean to classic slashers and a meditation on aging, maturity and the sexualization of women. With the wrong people, though, this reads as an abstinence lecture. And that’s what we recommend. Showing this to your sluttiest friends and chastising them. We all practice abstinence here at The Hard Times. Not a popped cherry in the house. When we see naughty-muffins in the magazines, we have to go home and spray ourselves with the hose.
So you’ve decided to vvatch “The VVitch.” How wonderful for you and yours. Your friends are excited by this one. It’s the film that more or less put A24 on the map. You tell them it’s scary. One of the scariest films you’ve ever seen. And it is. What you don’t tell them is that it’s a slow-burner that moves, often at glacial speed, and that all the dialogue is written faithfully to the style of the 1690s. That realization will dawn on them slowly, as they watch the extended opening scene, all shot in close-ups, in which the main characters are banished from their home.
So you managed to get them on board with you after “Hereditary?” They tasted a little Ari Aster and now they want more. So you put this on. “Midsommar” is the perfect movie for brunch day with the girlies. You say that it’s a “feel-good break-up, road-trip rom-com” about a young woman getting her groove back. And then, you let it play. Bonus points if you put on the three-hour director’s cut. It’s really the superior version, anyway.
The fact that this entry is so high up on the list should be a pretty good indication of where we’re headed moving forward. There is not one second of this film that’s comforting. It’s dark, stilted, blisteringly amoral and strangely funny. All hallmarks of Yorgos Lanthimos and good absurdist filmmaking. But this one is especially unsettling, especially to your friends who are hypochondriacs. So whether it’s the opening shot of open-heart-surgery that bothers you, the scene in which Alicia Silverstone messily tries to seduce Colin Farrell or the scene in which Nicole Kidman tries to convince her husband to murder one of their kids because “we can have another,” your friends are guaranteed to have a terrible and off-putting time.
Listen, by this point you should’ve gathered that we’re trolls. The thought of duping your friends into watching these ponderous, pretentious pieces of art thrills us. And if you’re looking to trick your friends, look no further than “The Wicker Man,” Robin Hardy’s 1973 folk-horror film about an uptight Christian fundamentalist cop searching for a missing girl on a pagan island. It’s the kind of film that will truly have your friends saying: “Oh God… it’s a fucking musical?”
The last gasp of pre-code Hollywood, made right before Will Hays decided that American film should deep-throat his censorship code, “The Black Cat” by Edgar G. Ulmer is one of the most interesting and risqué of the classic horror, poverty-row canon, and a real showcase for Lugosi and Karloff. There are a lot of really great moments in here that are simultaneously scary and cringey. For instance, Béla Lugosi sniffing a sleeping woman’s hair, Boris Karloff inspecting a collection of murdered wives and (in the movie’s most iconic scene) Lugosi skinning Karloff alive. It’s that rare combination of just campy enough to be fun and just weird enough to be scary. And just old enough for your friends to not want to watch it.
Without question, this is one of the sexiest movies ever made. The fact that Jim Jarmusch made it definitely makes that odd, but let’s not judge the Musch. This film stars Tom Hiddleston and Tilda Swinton as Adam and Eve, two ageless vampires (him a pretentious, drone-rock musician, her an itinerant traveler) traveling the world, shacking up in Detroit and pretty much just being “that couple.” This movie is slow, not very scary and a really pretentious person’s idea of sexy. It’s an absolute 10/10, and an absolute 0/10 for a chill night in with the buds.
Without question, this is one of the sexiest movies ever made and this time I mean that as a threat. The basic concept of this film is: What would happen if the most “should be divorced” couple you know met the most “my wife and I noticed you across the bar” couple you know hooked up on vacation? There’s a lot in this movie, brutal and graphic nudity, full-frontal violence and semen from the most passive-aggressive handjob ever put to film. It truly is “A Clockwork Orange” for the 2020s and if you would show “A Clockwork Orange” to your pals I think I might run away from you.
Do you ever find yourself wishing that “Pan’s Labyrinth” made you feel like getting a tetanus booster? Or that “Skinamarink” was scored by Trent Reznor? Well look no further. It’s “Moon Garden!” This film follows a young girl rendered comatose after falling down the stairs navigating an industrial dream world, trying to make her way back to consciousness while being stalked by a rancid tooth monster, and encountering all sorts of weird little guys. Who can forget the iconic character of: Guy who plays that weird piano? Or: “That dinner table guy that looks like Gerard Way in the 1800s?” Or my favorite: “The non-sequitur princess?” This is the kind of film to put on when you need to make people ask: “Wait, what just happened… go back… no wait, I said go back! Fuck you!” Bonus points if you show this to your anxious friends so they can recoil watching the domestic argument scenes.
Without question, this is one of the sexiest movies ever made and I mean that in the most hellish way possible. Let’s face it, David Cronenberg, for all his talents, is a weird fucking freak. Especially about sexuality. His movies make it seem like he views sex the same way you might view a dead squirrel by the side of the road. Taking a stick and poking at it just to see what’s going on. Relishing in the freakishness. This movie is about an adult film channel programmer, a radio psychiatrist (played by Debbie Harry, in a performance that can be described as Sadomasochist Frasier Crane) and an underground resistance movement. There’s really nothing like it, especially when it treats its viewer to “surprise BDSM.”
This is the kind of film you should put on if you want to piss off that friend of yours that has like… fifty, really trashy Chucky tattoos and thinks that horror isn’t good unless someone is getting impaled with a machete. This is the slow-burning story of two men stuck in a lighthouse, sitting around, drinking, masturbating to scrimshaws (and each other), having mermaid sex dreams, and slowly going out of their minds. There is one really excellent scene that involves the bludgeoning of a seagull. And you know us. Just the mere thought of a dead animal is hilarious.
One of the greatest (and least legally made) “Dracula” adaptations of all time. “Nosferatu” is a film about love, life, death and real estate. Surprisingly a lot about real estate. And that brings me to my main point. We love silent films here at The Hard Times. We love going to those shows where acne-scarred bands play instrumental doom-metal with silent films in the background. But “Nosferatu,” for all its beauty and grotesque imagery is… well, it’s a bit boring, isn’t it? I mean, just a little bit. We all can admit that, right? Like, your friends will be bored watching this. They’re probably not going to have fun unless they are H-I-G-H, stoned.
Speaking of getting high, if you’re looking for an adorable trick to play on someone you’ve fallen out with, then invite them over, give them a live-resin gummy. You know, the kind that makes you think you’re gonna die, and then pop this bad boy on. “Carnival of Souls” is one of the most existentially gutting films of any genre, a film that makes you question reality, life, death, and the space in between them. Bonus points if, after the film is done, you pretend you can’t hear them for a bit when they start talking to you.
Because “Cat People” is just too fun. “The White Reindeer” is, among other things, an anthropologically fascinating film. For one thing, it is, to date, the only Finnish film to win a Golden Globe Award and the first Finnish film to compete at Cannes. What’s that you say? Finnish? You mean there’s… s-s-s-subtitles? Why yes. Yes, there are. But relax, this film is actually quite easy to get into (once you get past a little bit of animal cruelty). Just sit back, relax, enjoy the beautiful snow-scape of pre-Christian Lapland, and squint hard at those white, white subtitles on that white, white snow.
I’m all out of hope. One more bad embrace. Could bring a fall. When I’m far from home, don’t call me on the phone to tell me you’re alone… “Eyes Without a Face” is one of those films that influenced a thousand others, from the mask of Michael Myers to the fairy tale films of Guillermo Del Toro to the music of… well, Billy Idol. Now, you can tempt and tantalize your “Saw” loving friends with promises of graphic face-removal surgery, only to drop the bomb that it’s really a slow-moving meditation on the obsessive quest for perfection. And worse… iT’s FrEnCh.
There are some genuinely terrifying moments in Michelle Garza Cervera’s “Huesera: The Bone Woman.” That staircase scene for instance. But more than that, “Huesera” is a fascinating look at queerness, motherhood, belief, and freedom that’s also deeply invested in telling a story rich in Latin culture and heritage. It’s honestly a masterpiece and if you give it time to work its magic trick, it’s a brilliantly unnerving film. You know who’d really like it, though? Your friend who has misophonia. Especially if they’re bothered by the sound of bones clicking together. They’ll love this film. You should show it to them.
Type O’s sophomore effort is their most tongue-in-cheek record. “The Origin of the Feces” is a fake live album, complete with canned applause and Steele’s between-song banter to no one. The majority of its material is re-recorded, renamed, and rearranged songs from “Slow, Deep and Hard” (see below)—which is to say, inferior versions. The one improvement “The Origin” has over its predecessor is the musicianship, especially original drummer Sal Abruscato’s playing. It’s the heaviest Type O ever got, coming much closer to the thrash of Carnivore (Steele’s previous band), with uneven results. In this way, the record is best viewed through a what-if lens. “The Origin” ends with crickets chirping—a nice touch—which is entirely fitting: this mostly entertaining record lands with little impact relative to the others in the band’s catalog. Even if the joke is the substandard and recycled quality, it’s still substandard and recycled all the same.
“World Coming Down” is (mostly) a return to goth metal following “October Rust” (see below), and is the only of the band’s albums with genuine emotion. Steele suffered some tough losses in his life between “October” and “World,” so naturally he wrote about death: “Everyone I love is dead / Goddammit!” This is their heaviest record lyrically, with self-loathing and addiction being throughlines. To match the weighty subject matter and haunting melodies, Steele and Silver coat the record in a thick comatose haze, especially Hickey’s excellent playing. “World” would be ranked higher had they not decided to include (and end!) the record with a sarcastically fun but glaringly inappropriate Beatles medley. It’s more out of place than Lauren Boebert at a Mensa gathering. That’s the band’s only real fault: a pathological need to shoehorn a joke into everything.
Type O’s penultimate record finds them facetiously playing with arena goth rock. “Life Is Killing Me” is the band’s overtly mainstream album, filled with earworm choruses, satisfying melodies, neat riffing, and soaring leads. It’s the sort of crass commercialism that Disney can get behind. Meanwhile, Steele’s sense of irony has fully returned following “World,” as he pairs big dumb rock songs with gleefully resentful lyricism: “Even though I still miss your lips / You’re about as real as your tits.” Steels also takes time to explore some Weird Al-esque silliness: “Appointment made, waited three hours / Did not realize you had such power / I’d rather see a mortician.” The takeaway, though, is this: “Life is” is the best display of the band’s superb pop songwriting.
Their seventh and final album is a sample platter of their career up to this point, which—thanks to Steele’s untimely death—turned out to be the entirety of it. “Dead Again” has the thrashy riffage of “The Origin,” the goth metal of “Slow,” the beautifully melodic balladeering of “October,” and the arena rock ambitions of “Life Is,” with many of its songs employing some combination of those. As such, it’s the most logical entry point into their catalog. (In other words, start here if you’re lazy.) Being the band’s heaviest record since “The Origin,” it’s also a helluva lotta fun. While the lyrics feature multiple winks at the end (“I can’t believe I died last night / I’m fucking dead again”), the spritely music suggests a rejuvenation: Hickey never played with more purpose, while Steele overacts vocally throughout the record, chewing scenery at every opportunity. “Dead” isn’t their most consistent work, but it’s a strong note to (unintentionally) end on.
As the title hints at, Type O’s fourth full-length is their bleakest. It’s also their most poetic. Steele’s sarcastically touching writing suggests decay is everywhere he looks: nature (“Winter’s breath of filthy snow / Befrosted paths to the unknown”), love (“All of the flowers I gave her / She burned them”), and Christmas (“The stockings are hung, but who cares? / Preserved for those no longer there”). He didn’t discard his biting wit, however. Here he is discussing a threesome: “They keep me warm on cold nights / We must be quite a sight / In our meat triangle.” Musically, “October Rust” is the band’s gentlest offering, composed largely of goth rock ballads with lovely melodies and pillowy arrangements. It’s their prettiest, and least metal, album for sure. The band’s debut (see below) ended with the line “Suicide is self-expression,” and “October” provides the soundtrack for it: perfect-temperature bathwater to lay in and open a vein.
Type O Negative came out fully formed and didn’t do any of that hand-holding shit on their debut LP. This is the band’s satire at its blackest—topics include racial hatred, the angry ex-boyfriend hurling misogynistic invective, and suicide being a kind of art—and features Steele’s career-best biting, sarcastic delivery. His exaggerated performance allows him to sell the album’s best joke, ending “Slow” with the lines “You think I’m insane, but I have no regrets / One more time won’t matter, no question / Suicide is self-expression.” Musically, “Slow, Deep and Hard” contains genuine hooks here, as well as several cool riffs, but Steele’s compositional skills weren’t fully developed yet. That’s OK, though, because “Slow” is still an excellent first effort. To wit: some of this material is so strong, the band would reuse it for their follow-up.
Type O’s third and best album is both a classic of gothic metal and its best parody. Steele’s writing and singing is so tongue-in-cheek that there musta been a hole in his face after recording. His smug-drenched condescension, combined with the band expertly providing space for him to perform, is a thing of beauty. “Bloody Kisses” is a CD-capacity sarcastic song cycle, and also probably the funniest gothic metal record ever. The song lengths and the overlong fadeouts seem sarcastic. Even the sarcasm feels sarcastic. So when Steele sneers, “We don’t care what you think,” it’s both a fuck-you to any criticism of goths and to goths themselves. His succinct crotch kick to the absurdity of fake identity posturing within and without goth culture—“You wanna go out ’cause it’s raining and blowing / You can’t go out ’cause your roots are showing”—remains incisive, funny, and relevant 30 years later.
With this statutory classic, you and your partner take a flirty spin on student-teacher affairs and hint that while you are both of age, that is a mere coincidence in this relationship.
Nothing says “I know exactly how much mayonnaise he takes on his sandwich” like a pair of hot pink bunny ears. This adorable sex boss and sex object costume will show party-goers that he has a very high opinion of himself, and that your relationship is predicated on both of you maintaining that fantasy.
This sexy career ensemble will show everyone that one of you gets paid more even in your pretend jobs! As an added bonus, he gets to hold a clipboard while you get to hold your pain and resentment deep inside until it bubbles over one day years later and he acts totally blindsided to it.
It’s not always the man who holds a weird and sexually charged position of power! The power dynamic in this relationship is slightly different, in case anybody was wondering. Dress him up in a dog collar that you totally owned prior to Halloween, and hint with an egregious lack of subtlety that he has a thing for mean ladies and being called a loser.
Nothing illuminates mutual respect like dressing up as an inanimate object that rests motionless on his shoulder.
Now we’re talking—you get to live out your dream of dressing up like an adult baby and pretend this was a last-minute choice.
Dress up as Superman and his girl-next-door sidekick and announce to the world: “I am here strictly for the purpose of his character development. Also, he made me watch this movie six times.”
This one is for the boyfriends that were introduced to feminism against their will this year and now somehow know how to take a Boomerang.
Honestly, we are not even sure if one of you holds the power here or if neither of you is free from the shackles of this relationship. Either way, dressing up as this sexy duo will show everyone that you two are “twin flames,” and also that you are both off your medication.
Instead of trying to reinvent the wheel, why not go with the power imbalances inherent to the church? Women cannot ascend the higher ranks of the church, nor can they assert any real influence on this particular partnership.
Somebody thought this was a good idea, and we have a feeling it was not the person wearing a pillowcase with a face hole.
Why not just an on-the-nose depiction of how you feel about being with each other?
