We can thank the DVD revolution for helping preserve not only cinematic masterpieces but also the lowest dreck the industry has ever produced. There is, in fact, a thriving market for such material, the cinematic equivalent of releasing footage of train wrecks: there are enough folks out there who won't be able to look away (or, in this case, plop down their twenty bucks for the experience).
Exploitation cinema offers the richest vein of such material - understandably - and video distribution companies like Something Weird, Blue Underground, and Synapse Films continue to show just how much of it was created throughout the years. To watch some of these bottom of the barrel creations, however, a question comes to mind: In spite of what they are, why do they have to be so consistently awful.
The modern-day independent cinema community, for instance, is crawling with talent, brilliant filmmakers who, for want of that one big break, could easily usurp the Spielbergs and Scorceses of the world. Even given the lurid, by the numbers requirements of exploitation films, it's almost certain that these unsung geniuses could turn out compelling, interesting work. Why then, did exploitation distributors of the 60s and 70s put their films in the hands of such incredibly untalented hacks as Doris Wishman, the director of "Let Me Die A Woman," undoubtedly one of the worst pieces of cinematic garbage that's ever been committed to celluloid? The transsexual phenomenon is an easy subject to exploit. Right from the beginnings of sex reassignment surgery, the details have been lurid enough to hold fascination even in mainstream media. One would have to be utterly inept to make a film on the subject which would be boring, uncompelling, and insulting to the viewer, which is exactly what Wishman created with this film. Sitting through this monstrosity, we get the impression that Wishman had a list of bullet points she knew she had to touch upon, and plowed through each and every one of them with only the slightest thought about weaving them into a cohesive package. In a sadly appropriate way, the film's inept structuring almost compliments the consistently awful performances of the actors. If this film works at all, even as exploitation, it does so in spite of every effort of the director.
"Let Me Die A Woman" doesn't even warrant a viewing as the nadir of exploitation cinema. It is one train wreck even the die hard enthusiasts might want to avoid.
Exploitation cinema offers the richest vein of such material - understandably - and video distribution companies like Something Weird, Blue Underground, and Synapse Films continue to show just how much of it was created throughout the years. To watch some of these bottom of the barrel creations, however, a question comes to mind: In spite of what they are, why do they have to be so consistently awful.
The modern-day independent cinema community, for instance, is crawling with talent, brilliant filmmakers who, for want of that one big break, could easily usurp the Spielbergs and Scorceses of the world. Even given the lurid, by the numbers requirements of exploitation films, it's almost certain that these unsung geniuses could turn out compelling, interesting work. Why then, did exploitation distributors of the 60s and 70s put their films in the hands of such incredibly untalented hacks as Doris Wishman, the director of "Let Me Die A Woman," undoubtedly one of the worst pieces of cinematic garbage that's ever been committed to celluloid? The transsexual phenomenon is an easy subject to exploit. Right from the beginnings of sex reassignment surgery, the details have been lurid enough to hold fascination even in mainstream media. One would have to be utterly inept to make a film on the subject which would be boring, uncompelling, and insulting to the viewer, which is exactly what Wishman created with this film. Sitting through this monstrosity, we get the impression that Wishman had a list of bullet points she knew she had to touch upon, and plowed through each and every one of them with only the slightest thought about weaving them into a cohesive package. In a sadly appropriate way, the film's inept structuring almost compliments the consistently awful performances of the actors. If this film works at all, even as exploitation, it does so in spite of every effort of the director.
"Let Me Die A Woman" doesn't even warrant a viewing as the nadir of exploitation cinema. It is one train wreck even the die hard enthusiasts might want to avoid.