May 2008 - Horrorphile

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“Today I am dirty, but tomorrow I’ll be just dirt.”

German maverick director Jörg Buttgereit’s perverse take on the serial killer genre, Schramm (1993) is a sick little curio. Less disgusting than I anticipated (but then I’d heard much of Buttgereit’s noxious, reprehensible attitude to sex and death over the years, yet never actually managed to view the movies for myself), yet the movie is not for those easily offended or repulsed by necrophilia and self-mutilation.

Two of his earlier movies, the grimy Nekromantik (1987) and its sequel, the scatological Nekromantik 2 (1991) have notorious cult followings, although they polarise audiences and critics as to whether they’re actually any “good”. I’ve seen the trailers, but not the movies themselves, so I can’t really comment.

Schramm (Florian Koerner von Gustorf)'s dark and twisted life flashes before his eyes

Schramm, however, is an intriguing and, dare I say it, thoughtful film. Uneasy, very much so, and at times shocking, but there is an intelligent sense of disquiet sustained throughout the movie. It’s an art film doused in sleaze. Or is that an exploitation flick framed for a gallery?

Monika M. as Marianne

The movie follows the last days of (fictional) Berlin serial-killer The Lipstick Killer, Lothar Schramm (Florian Koerner von Gustorf). Everything we see unfolds from within his mind, as he lies dying in a mix of blood and white paint alone in his apartment. It’s a series of flashbacks; Schramm’s life passing before him under his twitching eyes.

Jehovah's Witnesses

There’s the Jehovah’s Witnesses asking him “Have you ever really thought about God?”, and their subsequent violent death. So he’s very much guilty in the eyes of the Lord (and he’ll have a slap in the face from Christ at film’s bitter end). There’s Marianne (Monika M.), the call-girl neighbour, whom Schramm forms a tentative bond with. He fantasises dancing the waltz with her, and they even have dinner and share a cognac nightcap.

The Lipstick Killer applies his handiwork

Marianne is troubled in her work, and asks him to drive her to a mansion and wait patiently in the car while she has to service several wealthy businessmen. Schramm senses a kind of lonely kinship with Marianne, a like-minded appreciation of abuse, and he agrees. But will she end up just another of his violated victims?

Schramm Florian Koerner von Gustorf and Monika M.

Schramm and Marianne in his fantasy

Schramm takes his abuse beyond the pale, inflicting self-mutilation, when he’s not having intercourse with his inflatable torso-with-vagina, that is. He drives nails through his foreskin (yup, it looks real enough; apparently Buttgereit employed a stunt penis!). He rubs anxiously at his forehead, staring into the bathroom mirror and seeing his balding head crack open to reveal his throbbing brain. Schramm is resolute to his crimes.

Although the performances of both Koerner von Gustorf and Monika M. aren’t going to win them any awards, they’re certainly much better than a lot of the high-minded crap I’ve sat through recently. Gustorf doesn’t look as menacing as you’d imagine, but then, serial killers frequently don’t. They look like your next door neighbour, and to the general public, they act like a normal citizen too.

Schramm finds temporary relief with his sex toy

Schramm is very low-budget (but not as barrel-scraping as his earlier movies), but employs a confident and often arresting use of camera-work and imagery. Shot on 16mm, with a vivid colour palette and a creepy soundtrack, the movie lingers long after the final, unexpected image lurches at you. There’s also some very impressive special effects make-up and animatronic work; a thoroughly revolting eye-gouging and a very Cronenberg-esque vagina dentata (!)

This sequence will really curl your toes!

Lothar Schramm is a lost soul on his last legs (literally). Schramm - as a portrait of homicidal insanity - doesn’t possess the fragmented brilliance I had hoped for, but it does delve into the mind of a depraved killer with more unapologetic conviction than any Hollywood film ever attempts to. David Lynch does come to mind, and while not as expressionistic as Eraserhead (1976), it is at times just as uncomfortable and compelling. European filmmakers, and especially the Germans, never shy away from the truly grotesque imagery that filters through the human mind, and I admire that.

Undressing and photographing

The mind of a serial killer must be a very strange and disturbing place, Schramm wanders through one and opens a few cracked doors, peering into the filthy darkness, fumbling for the light switch, and tripping over something squishy and putrid on the floor.

Here's the teaser trailer:

Horrorphile - May 2008