It’s a film that lingers, not like a fond memory, but more like a strange residue, a faint, unsettling odour you can’t quite place. Watching Harmony Korine’s Gummo (1997) again after all these years, pulled from the recesses of memory like a dusty, half-forgotten VHS tape, feels less like revisiting a movie and more like reopening a disquieting portal to a specific, uncomfortable corner of the late 90s cinematic landscape. There’s an undeniable power here, but it’s raw, confrontational, and designed, it seems, to scrape against the viewer’s sensibilities. What are we supposed to feel when confronted with such deliberate squalor and strangeness?
After the Storm
The setting is Xenia, Ohio, a town ravaged years earlier by a devastating tornado. But the physical destruction feels secondary to the pervasive psychic and social decay Korine puts on display. Gummo isn't driven by plot; it drifts through a series of loosely connected vignettes featuring the town's marginalized inhabitants. We primarily follow Solomon (Jacob Reynolds) and Tummler (Nick Sutton), two listless teenagers who pass their days hunting feral cats for cash, sniffing glue, and generally wandering through a landscape of neglect. Their interactions, along with those of the surrounding characters – Bunny Boy in his pink rabbit ears, the sisters enduring their unseen molester, the unsettlingly detached narration of Linda Manz – paint a portrait of profound alienation. The atmosphere is thick with humidity, boredom, and a quiet desperation that feels both disturbingly real and nightmarishly surreal.
Korine's Raw Nerve
Coming off his screenplay for Larry Clark's controversial Kids (1995), a then 23-year-old Harmony Korine made his directorial debut with Gummo, pushing boundaries even further. His approach feels less like storytelling and more like anthropological observation filtered through an aggressively punk-rock lens. He’s not interested in narrative arcs or character development in any traditional sense. Instead, he seems determined to capture textures, moods, and moments of shocking behaviour, often employing non-professional actors found on the streets, a technique that lends an unnerving authenticity to the proceedings. It’s said Korine gave minimal direction, encouraging improvisation and capturing the raw, unvarnished reality (or perhaps unreality) of his subjects. This film wasn't just made; it feels excavated from somewhere dark.
Fragments of Provocation
The film is infamous for its transgressive content: the casual cruelty, the bizarre rituals (chair wrestling, anyone?), the infamous scene involving spaghetti in a dirty bathtub. It forces us to confront images and ideas many would prefer remained unseen. Is there a point beyond provocation? Perhaps Korine intends to expose the forgotten corners of America, the lives lived in the shadow of the mainstream. Or maybe it’s an exploration of nihilism, a portrait of lives where traditional values and aspirations have utterly collapsed. The film offers no easy answers, deliberately leaving the viewer adrift in its fragmented, often ugly, beauty. The controversy surrounding the alleged killing of a cat on screen (something Korine has vehemently denied, stating effects were used) only cemented its reputation as a piece of confrontational, boundary-pushing art – or exploitation, depending on your perspective. The film reportedly cost a mere $1.3 million, financed partly by Fine Line Features, who likely knew they were backing something deeply unconventional.
Faces in the Static
The performances, if one can call them that in the traditional sense, are key to Gummo's disquieting power. Jacob Reynolds and Nick Sutton possess a startling lack of pretense; their boredom and casual amorality feel chillingly genuine. They aren't acting disenfranchised; they seem to embody it. And then there's Linda Manz, the cult icon from Terrence Malick’s Days of Heaven (1978) and Dennis Hopper's Out of the Blue (1980). Her sporadic appearances, delivering cryptic monologues directly to the camera, add a layer of haunting, almost mythical commentary. She feels like a ghost presiding over the wreckage. These faces, captured often in stark close-up by cinematographer Jean-Yves Escoffier (who also shot Les Amants du Pont-Neuf (1991) and later, Good Will Hunting (1997)), are unforgettable.
Aesthetic Anarchy and the VHS Experience
Visually, Gummo is a jarring collage. Korine and Escoffier mix 35mm, 16mm, Hi8 video, and even Polaroid stills, creating a fractured, lo-fi aesthetic that mirrors the fragmented lives on screen. The soundtrack is equally eclectic and unsettling, veering from death metal (Bathory, Absu) to Madonna, Roy Orbison, and traditional country – the juxtapositions often creating moments of profound tonal dissonance. I distinctly remember finding this tape at the local video store, probably tucked away in the "Independent" or "Cult" section, its stark cover art hinting at something… different. Watching it on a buzzing CRT felt strangely appropriate, the degraded image quality somehow enhancing the film's grimy, vérité feel. It was the kind of movie whispered about, a dare among friends – could you handle Gummo? It felt like illicit knowledge smuggled home in a black plastic case.
Enduring Unease
Gummo remains a deeply divisive film. It’s repellent to many, hailed as visionary by others. It doesn't offer comfort or catharsis. Instead, it burrows under your skin, presenting images and scenarios that are hard to shake. It avoids easy moralizing, forcing the viewer to grapple with the ugliness and, occasionally, the strange, unexpected tenderness found within its bleak world. It’s a film that feels uniquely of its time – that late-90s moment of Gen X ennui and transgression – yet its unflinching gaze at societal margins still resonates with uncomfortable power.
Rating: 7/10
This rating reflects Gummo's undeniable impact and artistic ambition, even as it acknowledges its extreme difficulty and confrontational nature. It's a technically audacious piece of filmmaking with unforgettable imagery and a truly unique, unsettling atmosphere that perfectly captures its intended themes of decay and alienation. However, its deliberate provocations, lack of conventional narrative, and often repellent content make it a challenging, and for many, an unpleasant viewing experience. It achieves exactly what Korine seemingly set out to do, but its abrasive nature inherently limits its appeal, landing it short of universal acclaim while solidifying its cult status.
It’s not a film one necessarily "enjoys," but its power to disturb, provoke, and linger in the mind is undeniable. What does it say about us if we find moments of strange beauty amidst such deliberate ugliness?