If any form of artistic expression can be called the “front line” in the seemingly eternal war between free speech and censorship, it’s pornography.

In the U.S., ever since a 1957 Supreme Court ruling (Roth v. U.S.) made the legal distinction between “pornography” (protected speech) and “obscenity” (not protected speech), the debate has continued to stymie judicial efforts to find a standard to define where that line is drawn in a way that doesn’t arguably encroach on First Amendment rights – but legality aside, it’s clearly a matter of personal interpretation. If something an artist creates features material that depicts sexual behavior in a way that offends us (or doesn’t, for that matter), no law is going to change our mind.

That’s OK, of course, everyone has a right to their own tastes, even when it comes to sex. But in an age when the conservative urge to censor has been weaponized against anything that runs counter to their repressive social agenda, it’s easy to see how labeling something as too “indecent” to be lawfully expressed can be used as a political tactic. History is full of authoritarian power structures for whom censorship was used to silence – or even eliminate – anyone who dares to oppose them. That’s why history is also full of radical artists who make it a point to push the boundaries of what is “acceptable” creative expression and what is not.

Indeed, some of these artists see such cultural boundaries as just another way for a ruling power to enforce social conformity on its citizens, and consider the breaking of them not just a shock tactic but a revolutionary act – and if you’re a fan of pioneering countercultural filmmaker Bruce LaBruce, then you know that’s a description that fits him well.

LaBruce, a Canadian who rose to underground prominence as a writer and editor of queer punk zines in the ‘80s before establishing himself as a photographer and filmmaker in the “Queercore” movement, has never been deterred by cultural boundaries. His movies – from the grit of his gay trick-turning comedy “Hustler White,” through the slick pornographic horror of “LA Zombie,” to the taboo-skewering sophistication of his twin-cest romance “St. Narcisse” – have unapologetically featured explicit depictions of what some might call “deviant” sex. Other films, like the radical queer terrorist saga “The Raspberry Reich” and the radical feminist terrorist saga “The Misandrists,” have been more overtly political, offering savagely ludicrous observations about extremist ideologies and the volatile power dynamics of sex and gender that operate without regard for ideologies at all. Through all of his work, a cinematic milieu has emerged that exists somewhere between the surreal iconoclasm of queer Italian provocateur Pier Paolo Pasolini and the monstrous camp sensibility of John Waters, tied together with an eye for arresting pop art visuals and a flair for showmanship that makes it all feel like a really trashy – and therefore really good – exploitation film.

In his latest work, he brings all those elements together for a reworking of Pasolini’s 1968 “Teorema,” in which an otherworldly stranger enters the life of an upper class Milanese family and seduces them, one by one. In “The Visitor,” Pasolini’s Milan becomes LaBruce’s London, and the stranger becomes an impressively beautiful, sexually fluid alien refugee (burlesque performer Bishop Black) who arrives in a suitcase floating on the Thames. Insinuating himself into the home of a wealthy family with the help of the maid (Luca Federici), who passes him off as her nephew, he exerts an electrifying magnetism that quickly fascinates everyone who lives there. Honing in on their repressed appetites, he has clandestine sex with each in turn – Maid, Mother (Amy Kingsmill), Daughter (Ray Filar), Son (Kurtis Lincoln), and Father (Macklin Kowal) – before engaging in a incestuous pansexual orgy with them all. When the houseguest departs as abruptly as he arrived, the household is left with its bourgeois pretensions shattered and its carnal desires exposed, each of them forced to deal with the consequences for themselves.

Marked perhaps more directly than LaBruce’s other work with direct nods to his influences, the film is dedicated to Pasolini himself, in addition to numerous visual references throughout which further underscore the “meta-ness” of paying homage to the director in a remake of one of his own films; there are just as many call-backs to Waters, most visibly in some of the costume choices and the gender-queered depiction of some of its characters, but just as obviously through the movie’s “guerilla filmmaking” style and its gleefully transgressive shock tactics – especially a dinner banquet sequence early on which leisurely rubs our noses in a few particularly dank taboos. There are also glimpses and echoes of Hitchcock, Kubrick, Lynch, and other less controversial (but no less challenging) filmmakers whose works have pushed many of the same boundaries from behind the veneer of mainstream respectability.

Despite all of these tributes, however, “The Visitor” is pure LaBruce. Celebratory in its depravity and unflinching in its fully pornographic (and unsimulated) depictions of sex, from the blissfully erotic to the grotesquely bestial, it seems determined to fight stigma with saturation – or at least, to push the buttons of any prudes who happen to wander into the theater by mistake – while mocking the fears and judgments that feed the stigmas in the first place.

That doesn’t mean it’s all fluid-drenched sex and unfettered perversion; like Pasolini and his other idols, LaBruce is a keenly intellectual filmmaker, and there’s a deeper thread that runs throughout to deliver an always-relevant message which feels especially so right now: the treatment of “otherness” in a society governed by homogeny, conformity, and xenophobia. “The Visitor” even opens with a voiceover radio announcer lamenting the influx of “brutes” into the country, as suitcases bearing identical immigrants (all played by Black) appear across London, and it is by connecting to the hidden “other” in each of his conquests that our de facto protagonist draws them in.

LaBruce doesn’t just make these observations, however; he also offers a solution (of sorts) that matches his fervor for revolution – one in which the corruption of the ruling class serves as an equalizing force. In each of the Visitor’s extended sexual episodes with the various family members, the director busts out yet another signature move by flashing propaganda-style slogans – “Give Peace of Ass a Chance,” “Go Homo,” and “Join the New Sexual World Order” are just a few colorful examples – that are as heartfelt as they are hilarious. In LaBruce’s revolution, the path to freedom is laid one fuck at a time, and it’s somehow beautiful – despite the inevitable existential gloom that hovers over it all.

Obviously, “The Visitor” is not for all tastes. But if you’re a Blade reader, chances are your interest will be piqued – and if that’s the case, then welcome to the revolution. We need all the soldiers we can get.

“The Visitor” is now playing in New York and debuts in Los Angeles March 14, and will screen at roadshow engagements in cities across the U.S. Information on dates, cities, and venues (along with tickets) is available at thevisitor.film/.

One of the highlights of the Palm Springs Film Festival was Joachim A. Lang’s beautiful German-language film, “John Cranko,” which tells the true story of the famed LGBTQ ballet choreographer. 

The film follows the South African-born Cranko, (played by Sam Riley) as he arrives in Stuttgart, Germany, in 1960, to be guest choreographer for the city’s ballet company after a very public scandal: his job at London’s Sadler’s Wells Ballet abruptly ended after he was prosecuted for committing a homosexual act in a public place. 

In the relaxed city of Stuttgart, Cranko is able to find refuge from his past and is embraced despite his unique lifestyle. He quickly rises to become the ballet director and a favorite of the audience, dedicating himself fully to his art and a vibrant social life. He engages in affairs, faces personal setbacks and deep crises, runs his office from the theater canteen, and affectionately refers to his company as “his children.”

Lang’s perspective

Cranko was a fascinating enigma to capture on screen, with a complicated, often manic, personality. Loved by his gifted dancers, he was extremely passionate about ballet, and creative in his artistry, yet cantankerous at times, often dealing with depression and a heavy alcohol intake.

Over the years, Lang had “intensive conversations” with companions and friends of Cranko, which greatly helped him with the script.

“I talked with Marcia Haydee, the great ballerina of the 20th century; Birgit Keil, equally famous; costume designer Jürgen Rose; and ballet dancer Vladimir Klos,” Lang told the Los Angeles Blade. “And especially ballet dancer Reid Anderson and administrator of the Stuttgart Ballet and holder of the rights to John Cranko’s ballets, Dieter Gräfe, both of whom lived with John Cranko.”

Many of them were on board when sadly, Cranko died somewhere over the Atlantic between America and Europe on the flight back from a guest performance of his ballet company in New York, in 1973, at the age of 45. 

For Lang, the biggest challenge was to realize his goal of making one of the first “real” ballet films. 

“A film that is really about this art–the film wants to be more than a biopic, it is an attempt to capture the soul of dance by portraying the life and work of this genius. It is a film about art and reality, it is about us humans, the time we have left and what drives us, it is about the great themes of being human, the longing for love, life and dying. It is a tribute to art and to the people who make it.”

Riley’s portrayal

Thefilm delves into the delicate nature of a lonely, fragile soul searching for love and recognition. It’s no wonder Riley, known for his mesmerizing role in “Control,” where he played Joy Division’s Ian Curtis, as well as “Rebecca” and “Maleficent,” is absolute perfection in the role.

“Sam Riley is one of the best actors,” acknowledged Lang. “I knew right away that only he could do it so well. I sent him the script. We met for an hour in a hotel in Berlin. It was clear then that we belonged together. He was world class. The greatest praise for him was when I showed the film to Cranko’s companions, they said: ‘John is back!’”

With so much archival footage, Riley was able to deeply immerse himself in the character.

“With John, there’s quite a lot of material, the (Stuttgart) Ballet had an archive of stuff, so I got all of his old performances with the original cast. And there was quite a lot of footage of him at work, choreographing and directing. I watched as much as they had. Rather than mimic it, you just try and absorb it somehow.”

Because ‘ballet is such a universal thing,” Riley really hopes the film can do well outside of Germany.

“What I found most inspirational about being in the film was something that I wasn’t really expecting. I think, like a lot of guys, I had grown up with a sort of unconscious prejudice against ballet. I’d never actually been to see one my whole life, until I went to be a part of this. I just assumed it was something not for me. I like rock and roll music and movies and things.” 

But it was in watching the young dancers rehearse that touched Riley’s heart.

“Realizing that they’ve been dedicating their lives to this art form since they were little children, the effort that they put into it every day, the work ethic, and that something that still exists today, just a pure dedication to something — that’s beautiful … They are performing for the love of it. And it moved me every day, really, watching them do it. Every scene, they really throw absolutely everything into it. They were completely exhausted. And it was really inspiring.”

At a time when being an immigrant in America – whether documented or not – has become even more precarious than usual, telling immigrant stories is essential. 

Hollywood, of course, has loved stories about immigrants for decades, though it has a history of perpetuating tropes and stereotypes even when portraying non-American characters in a positive light. More recently, the involvement of creatives who are actually from the cultures behind those stories (and a more critical awareness of America’s troubled relationship with its own history) has improved that, somewhat, but given current cultural sentiments have made the subject a sore point with a wide swath of audiences, it seems likely that the progress will be stalled for a while.

Fortunately, there are movies made in other places, too, and independent filmmakers willing to make them; we just might have to look a little harder to find them.

Such a film is “Stockade,” which premieres for a theatrical run in Los Angeles this weekend before rolling out for a VOD/DVD release on Feb. 5. Written and directed by Eric McGinty, it avoids politically charged controversy – there are no ICE agents here, and nobody is a terrorist – and aims instead for a self-described “Immigrant Noir” with all the murky morality and shifting alliances one might expect from a movie with that designation.

The plot is centered on Ahlam (Sarah Bitar), a young Lebanese painter struggling to gain a foothold in New York City on an artist visa that is about to expire. Her work is starting to get noticed, but an extension on her immigrant status is expensive, and her finances are in dire straits. Desperate for money, she jumps at the opportunity for a windfall when she is offered a hefty sum by an acquaintance – Paul (Guy de Lancey, who doubles as the film’s cinematographer), an older South African expat – to deliver a package to a small town in upstate New York. The catch: after dropping it off, she must stay overnight and pick it up before bringing it back to him, with no questions asked.

Shady as it seems, the assignment goes well enough, at first; there’s even the unexpected bonus of running into an Iranian friend from art school, Zora (Bahar Beihaghi), with whom she experiences a definite spark and who makes her overnight stay much more enjoyable than expected. The next day, however, things go awry when her contact fails to return with the package, and she suddenly finds herself tangled in an ominous web of suspicion, intrigue, and danger, as mysterious strangers converge around her to demand answers she doesn’t have. Fearing for her own safety and still without the money she needs, she is forced to seek out answers for herself; without them, she has no hope of avoiding deportation and losing the opportunities that have just begun to blossom for her in America.

On the face of it, McGinty’s film seems disconnected from the issues arising from the new government’s draconian deportation policies today. Ahlam’s status is legal, and she is working within the system – or trying, at any rate – to keep it that way. Nevertheless, much like the inner workings of its plot, much of what is being conveyed can only be read “between the lines”; as our picture slowly forms of the hidden underworld into which Ahlam has stumbled, it’s possible to see the hardships and disadvantages of being an immigrant as the driving force behind everything that happens to her – not just in her own predicament, or the game into which she’s been trapped, but in the motivations behind many, maybe even most, of the other players.

Of course, that’s true only if you are able to discern them, and McGinty doesn’t make that entirely easy. “Stockade” – which takes its name from the deceptively quiet neighborhood which seems to be the nexus of its mysteries – sets up a lot of questions as it goes, and spends a lot of time and energy pursuing some of them, but many of them are left – verbally, at least – unanswered. In the end, we are given a kind of closure, a revelation that brings connecting sense to the whole thing, though we don’t quite know the details; but we are left to our own surmises to piece together all the connections and explanations, the relationships and the alliances, even the fate of the package – almost as prime an example of Hitchcock’s “MacGuffin” concept as the briefcase in “Pulp Fiction” – around which almost all of the action has revolved.

Even if you’re not up to the effort of mining the characters’ dialogue for hints and clues – they’re there, we promise you, though some of them might be unspoken – there’s still plenty of food for thought; perhaps most glaringly, the focus on illegal trafficking of antiquities (which [spoiler alert] is an integral part of the story) conjures ethical questions around colonialist appropriation and the trap of jockeying for power in a system that exploits you into a betrayal of your own loyalties. More subtly, perhaps, its implied connection between the wealthy world of art (or, perhaps more accurately, the commerce of art) and the black market amorality required to possess someone else’s stolen birthright sends the timely shivers up our spines that its less-visceral urgency around the plight of immigrants never quite manages to achieve.

Perhaps the most telling quality that “Stockade” delivers, however, comes from its subtle-yet-unmissable exploration of mistrust and suspicion of strangers, of outsiders who come into a community – particularly one that’s bound together by a connection which gives them reason to fear outsiders – and pose a perceived threat to one’s own “entitled” place in the hierarchy. In a town (or a country) where everyone is looking out only for themselves because they have to assume everyone else is doing the same thing, prosperity becomes a fickle illusion and survival depends on asserting whatever power one can manage to accumulate for themselves.

Well acted (Bitar is a revelation) and artfully shot with observational aestheticism by de Lancey, “Stockade” makes for an engrossing hour-and-a-half, even when its lack of definitive clarity becomes particularly challenging. After all, motives are not so readily conveyed in real life, and in many ways it’s refreshing to see a movie that embraces the fact that life often consists of the “unknowable”.

Still, viewers might be better prepared armed with the knowledge – contained in the movie’s press materials – that the work of late, great surrealist film genius David Lynch was an inspiration for McGinty’s effort. While the movie never veers into the dreamlike, transcendental territory in which Lynch was most at home, the unorthodox and sometimes strange directions toward which it frequently veers still evokes memories of films like “Blue Velvet” and “Wild at Heart,” and the strange divide they illuminate between what is visible and what remains hidden in the shadows.

In truth, “Stockade” might have been a more satisfying movie had it not played itself so closely to the chest. Nevertheless, it’s an intriguing and occasionally thrilling film experience, and one which will, most likely, become more so with repeated viewings.