LUNATIC CINEMA: MUSCLE (1989) dir. Hisayasu Sato

Hisayasu Sato's Muscle was recommended to me by a friend (thanks Coltrane!) as an introduction to the world of pinkus; a sentiment I later found echoed by the Internet at large. It's for good reason, too - Muscle may be a shining example of the genre, but it seems to exist simulatenously in a category all it's own. Blending visceral body horror and twisted psychological games with explorations of desire, obsession, alienation, and unbelonging, it's the perfect way for any queer degenerate horrorhead cinephile with a rogue weblog to kick off her pride month celebrations.

Muscle centers around Ryuzaki, an editor for an underground muscle magazine, and his increasingly masochistic relationship with a brooding and sadistic bodybuilder named Kitami. In the midst of a particulary feral encounter, Ryuzaki cuts off Kitami's arm in an act that's half self defense, half desperate desire. Upon his release from prison one year later, Ryuzaki begins a frenzied, obsessive search to reunite his lost lover with his severed arm.

About halfway through its runtime, Muscle makes a clever and delightfully meta reference to Pier Paolo Pasolini's Salo, which I have not seen, but from which I understand Muscle takes cinemotographic inspiration. Still, Muscle boasts some of the most creative and atmospheric arthouse cinematography I've ever seen. It's disorienting, transcendent, seedy, but strangely heartfelt. Sato's camera work is the perfect accent to Muscle's poignant and uncomfortable deep dive into the fears of one's own desire; the intersections between pleasure and pain, and a terrible but undeniable aching for the very hand that has hurt you. The dialogue is minimal but careful and deliberate - not a single one of Muscle's sixty minutes is wasted. Like many queer individuals, especially in the late 80s and early 90s, Ryuzaki is searching for unmistaken identity, he is becoming, he seems to exist in a place of indefinite uncertainty. But even in his confusion, I don't think he mistakes suffering for desire - he exists in the narrow space between them, choosing both again and again.

Decorated with moments of dark humor and gloriously moody erotica, Hisayasu Sato's Muscle is a haunting and unforgettable exploration of violent delights and violent ends. Like my friend and the Internet at large, I can't recommend it enough.