Holy Mountain?! Holy Shit!

The Clinton Street Theater crew, as they are prone to doing, has dredged up a print of some awesome yet little played gems from the cinema history vaults (Repo Man, The Goonies, Skidoo!). This town is no slouch when it comes to screening great films and it is occasionally difficult to choose between the limited run films that pop up in the various pub/cinemas that dot the landscape.
But, imagine my surprise when I saw that they had dug up a print of Alexando Jodorowsky’s 1973 hallucinogenic head-fuck Holy Mountain.
The first time I saw this film was in Eureka, California. I was woefully ill prepared for what I was getting into. If I remember the circumstances correctly, my roommate, a perpetually stoned jazz-hippie who had an obsession with all things Sun-Ra and Jaco Pastorius, brought it home one evening.
This roommate and I, we did not mesh musically (Sun-Ra? Jaco Pastorius? No. An emphatic “NO!”), at all, other than our mutual appreciation for Tom Waits. His seemingly endless Green-powered bass freak-outs were my arch nemesis, but other than that we got along. We stayed up all night drinking, playing gin rummy, and daring ourselves through bowls of this unholy habanero salsa he liked to make; it was more of an experience than an actual food. Never before have I eaten something so hot as to make my ear canal burn.
He also had his hands on quite a bit of LSD most of the time. Luckily I was beyond my attraction to the Beast, the fear had been planted in me a few years before and we had amicably gone our own ways. So long, thanks for the memories.
He had a habit of keeping a vial (or three) of liquid LSD in the freezer and I, in turn, developed a habit of not buy anything that needed to be frozen as I had a largely irrational terror of the thing falling out of the freezer and blowing up all over my hands and chest as I fumbled about trying to catch it.
“Terror” is not a strong enough word in regards to this scenario. I wondered if I would just ride it out, constantly reminding myself that it was just a peculiar chemical reaction as the planet melted around me—into me. My other option, the more feasible one, had me jumping for the nearest knife in a panic and doing myself in before the drugs took hold.
But getting on with this, he brought Holy Mountain home one day from the beacon of hope that is Video Experience. I had nothing to do but drink or sleep or write shitty metal songs so I opted to spend a cozy night watching a movie with this strange, tittery creature that was my roomie.
Well, if you have seen the film, then you probably remember your first time. It’s up there with your first sex or the first time you get caught masturbating or the first time you get your ass kicked so bad you literally shit your pants. Your first time with this film may have been your last time. Regardless, I believe that one and all sat through the spectacle wondering something along the lines of, “What the fuck…?” as a parade of amputees, midgets, hookers, penises, castrations, shit, alchemy, head shavings, executions, platform shoes, exploding frogs, naked children (hello NAMBLA? Have I got a film for you!), a tasty boil lancing, blasphemy, exorcisms, and a whole slew of other visuals which scrolled by leaving the viewer more than just a little numb.
Plot be damned the first time. It was like walking through an art gallery in some obscure South American branch of the Illuminati, a defrocked splinter group that got so far into the mysticism as to become totally impractical in this dimension.
I loved it.
I watched it another time and was just as disturbed, amazed, confused.
Then I went on with my life. It was always in the back of my head and when people would talk about fucked-up movies they had seen, chances were I could trump them with Holy Mountain.
Years later, that being now, I saw that the Clinton Street is doing a four night run with Holy Mountain. I couldn’t believe it. I remember reading an interview with Jodorowsky and him claiming that some pseudo-authority in Mexico had destroyed the prints. I must have read it wrong, cuz here it was, and I had to go. So I rounded up a dear friend and off we went, and let me tell you, some things take on a whole different meaning on the big screen.
It was epic.
In all of its glory, up there a bruised and battered print all speckled and geriatric, but none the less amazing in an old theater that smelled of ancient books and had no heating, the ancient projector flickering in the back of the room like an old set of wind-up teeth.
If anything the film has to be worshipped for the set-designs alone. I can’t even begin to comprehend how this was all put together. Combine that with some spectacular cinematography, otherworldly costumes (who knew giant pilgrim hats and platform shoes could present such an arresting image?) and one is left with a stream of images that I would tattoo across my body if I had the space and the money.
I was left wondering what zoo he pilfered for all of the animals in the movie. It was like Noah’s ark up there, and I was wondering, knowing what I know now about hippos, how unnerving it was to have your asshole washed by a 6’ black woman covered in Arabic text while a baby hippo frolicked around you. Even a little one could snap a person in half and I don’t know how tame they can get, regardless of how cute they are.
Anyway, I left the film understanding it more. And I learned that the only way to wake up a drunken Jesus up is to tie him to a cross and throw rocks at him.
Practical information that one can use on a daily basis.
And there’s a great jab at Tim Leary. I laughed, as did a large chunk of the audience. Fuck that guy.
Well, the next day upon waking at 9 AM I decided that I had to experience it again. I might as well see it while I can since I don’t know when I’ll get the opportunity again. My friend opted out to go see Fulci’s The Beyond instead. It is a fine film indeed, one of my favorite Italian Splatter-Fests, but I knew that this was a rare opportunity. So, her being the only person within 800 miles that would go see this with me, I struck out alone.
And it was no less awesome.
So much could be said, but I don’t really know where to start, and if I did, I wouldn’t know where to end.
And yeah, I’ve read tidbits from various scholars, critics, and out and out dicks, but really I could care less about references to spaghetti westerns and other filmmakers who he may have cribbed from, all I know is that this film is most excellent.
If you get the chance, and are into such things (hyper-mystical, drug induced forays into the controlling mechanisms of our planet… and tall toilets) you should hunt Holy Mountain down and subject yourself to it.