EMĮileen Myles, named by BUST magazine "the rock star of modern poetry," is the author of more than twenty books of poetry and prose, including Chelsea Girls, Cool for You, Sorry, Tree, and Not Me (Semiotext(e), 1991), and is the coeditor of The New Fuck You (Semiotext(e), 1995). Wakefield Poole is a genius and a sensualist and an artist of surprising complexity and passion. I watched it this week with a bunch of unconvinced art colonists of a wide variety of sexualities and art practices and everyone was transformed and no we actually didn’t have an orgy but underwear sales in this particular demographic have been totally altered and changed forever. You’ll never want to wear underwear again once you’ve seen Bijou. Plus there’s just footage of a New York that even those who were there have long forgotten. Sex is a such a rabbit hole in this film and we get treated to such a phantasmagoria of groping and grouping and kaleidoscopic rendering of sex. It’s hard to watch Bijou and not think that David Lynch is a Wakefield Poole fan, especially in Mulholland Drive. Poole’s consciousness is massively absorbent. It swerves from a near-documentary, realist mode suddenly into a kind of Russian constructivist passage, to an action car chase, a little grainy Warhol and falling we find ourselves in a Frank Wedekind play. I love this movie both because I do love gay male porn, and movies (duh) and also love the 70s and remember it, but Bijou simply smashes the mold to bits in terms of genre.
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