Review by Annie Riordan
So, on Saturday morning, having nothing better to do, I stripped completely naked except for a pink tutu, popped a handful of NoDoz and washed it down with a bottle of Nyquil, lowered the disco ball, tuned into the All Calliope All the Time radio station, ran a YouTube recording of a Russian exorcism on a loop, filled my bath tub with circus peanuts, razor blades and glitter and then rolled around in it for an hour whilst simultaneously butt-chugging peyote steeped in Kool-Aid, poking a rabid baboon with a stick and screaming: “I am the Lizard Queen!” much to my neighbors’ consternation.
Uh, I mean, I watched The Devils Carnival, the latest offering from the weirdos who brought us Repo: The Genetic Opera back in 2008.
Set in the candy colored world of a 1950s that never existed, The Devil’s Carnival begins with the deaths of three young people: John, a grief stricken young father, commits suicide in his dingy bathroom. Miss Merrywood, a petty thief, is gunned down by police in her trailer home following a botched robbery. Tamara, a naive bobbysoxer, has her head blown off by her abusive boyfriend. Before the fact of their deaths can sink in, they find themselves wandering around a seemingly deserted carnival, each with a personally addressed envelope containing a single ticket.
But the carnival is far from deserted. In fact, it’s teeming with the damned souls of Satan’s sideshow, all of them eager for the show to begin. One by one, the players are handpicked for the night’s performances. The Painted Doll (goth chanteuse Emilie Autumn) is chosen to assist John (Sean Patrick Flanery, one half of the Boondock Saints). The handsome juvenile delinquent Scorpion (Marc Senter, the new Crispin Glover) is assigned to Tamara (Jessica Lowndes, MOH: Dance of the Dead). Miss Merrywood (Briana Evigan of S. Darko and Burning Bright) is set upon by the Hobo Clown and the Twin, who tempt her with a diamond the size of a rhino’s hemorrhoid. One by one, they newly dead fall to temptation as they play out three fables by Aesop, unaware of the fact that they are the stars of the show and that this is their last chance to redeem themselves and find eternal peace, or be condemned to an eternity as a bit player in the Devil’s Carnival.
The Devil Himself is the axis around which everything revolves, and he is played convincingly by Terence Zdunich, who – when last we saw him – was singing about little glass vials as Repo’s narrator Graverobber. He is entirely unrecognizable here, buried under prosthetics, horns and face paint that puts Gorgoroth to shame. He turns much of the show over to his supporting cast, but rises up in the film’s final moments to claim what is his with a power ballad entitled “Grace For Sale.”
For yes, this is another musical. A warped, perverted, sinister autopsy of a musical. Everyone gets a turn and everyone does a damn fine job with their assigned songs. Two pieces definitely stand out, however: “Prick! Goes the Scorpion’s Tale” is performed by Emilie Autumn and her amazing voice which moves smoothly up and down like a sultry genie performing a blowjob on its own bejeweled bottle. It’s hard to believe that anything could outshine Autumn’s amazing performance, but “A Penny For A Tale” is an absolute showstopper, performed by the Hobo Clown before an audience of carnies who have gathered to witness Miss Merrywood, now stripped down to a pair of lacy lambchop panties, being whipped repeatedly as she writhes and screams in the sexy red spotlight with a malformed carnie gyrating between her legs. I have been condemned to be a total hetero in this lifetime, but even I can admit that watching pretty Briana Evigan arching her back, sticking her ass in the camera and jiggling her naked-nude-with-no-clothes-on boobs was hot. If you’re NOT inclined to masturbate whilst watching this scene, there’s something wrong with you.
The Devil’s Carnival runs for a mere hour, but it’s a filled-to-bursting hour, like a water balloon filled with whipped cream and blood, stretched beyond the breaking point and about to viciously orgasm all over your lily-white virgin face. It’s relentlessly fun, totally insane and as catchy as an airborne virus. This isn’t a film, it’s a gothic steampunk orgy, batter dipped and deep fried. It’s Tod Browning’s Freaks on acid. And thankfully, this time around, Paris Hilton is nowhere to be seen.