Feral!Cat?Red! & Beacon of Flesh @ Brewvies

Biff Hartwell speaking to the audience before Beacon of Flesh

Biff Hartwell is traveling the country to show screenings of his film, Beacon of Flesh. Photo: Sarah Armstrong

Arts

Biff Hartwell, an independent filmmaker from Baltimore, is living out of a van and traveling the country to show screenings of his “experimental rock opera,” Beacon of Flesh. Joining forces with Armed Queers Salt Lake City, Beacon of Flesh made its SLC debut on Monday, July 27 at Brewvies Cinema Pub. Lovers/bandmates Annie Snow and Sam Jessing of Feral!Cat?Red! kicked off the evening with a set powerful enough to cut through the surround-sound of any other films that might have been shown that night.

The show started out slow, with a noise machine emitting ominous wind sounds and instrumentals without lyrics. Quickly, though, the band picked up speed and did not look back. It was later discovered that Snow’s mic was off, but that barely made a difference, as her scream-singing forced its way through the blaring instrumentals. We may have all been sitting in the theatre seats, but we were dancing nonetheless, and my whole row started to shake with head-banging and foot-stomping.

After the concert, it was time for the film. Before we got to see Beacon of Flesh, though, we were surprised with a horror short called The Soul Snatcher. Intentionally fuzzy and blue-tinted, the short focuses on four rooms of the same house: the living room, where friends are watching a movie and waiting for pizza; the basement, where a couple is making loud music (and smoking weed); the bathroom, where someone is taking a shower (and smoking weed); and the bedroom, where a couple is having sex (Hartwell and his ex-boyfriend).

One by one, a dark figure with a hook and a top hat kills this group of friends in ridiculously graphic ways. I’m sorry for what I’m about to describe, but it’s so ridiculous that I simply must describe it — the most disturbing death was when a hand burst through the chest of the man in the bedroom, which then began jerking him off until his penis (which Hartwell later called a “drill-do,” because a hole was drilled into it so it could cum blood — Sorry again) was ripped off and shoved into his own mouth. Someone next to me called the short “pleasantly horrific,” and there’s no better way to describe it than that.

When I finally got to see Beacon of Flesh, it was more a series of visual experiences than a cohesive story, though there were overarching themes of religion and freedom. When I see a strange film like this, it’s fun to recount the events as I saw them, so that is what I shall do next.

A blue-haired, transgender woman stumbles through the night until she comes upon what looks like a big, beautiful egg studded with gems. Inside this egg seems to be the spirit of a deity (who I learned in the end credits was Julian of Norwich — I read her work in college. She’s a mystic who locked herself in a tower and wrote erotic poetry about God). The film is entirely void of dialogue, unless you count the written instructions from the egg that appear on-screen: BUILD A BOMB. KILL THE POLICE. DO NOT DELAY. Julian frolics through the flowers and lies in the grass. A man wearing the same headdress as Julian worships in a church and whips himself. The man then peers through a small, singular window in a stone building and sees Julian inside.

Apparently the blue-haired woman from the beginning did build a bomb, because she’s in jail now, and a pig (I mean literal pig) is guarding her cell. She shoots the pig with a big gun, leaving nothing but his boots behind. The blue-haired woman is naked in a pond, then she’s being chased by pigs through the forest. She masturbates for a very long time, eventually ejaculating into a bottle, pouring the substance down a tube. Oh, and then there’s this flying creature in the sky that looks like a brain with many eyes and wings.

Halfway through the movie, it suddenly becomes animated (this is where we all started to cry for some reason), and Julian is making her way through the organs of someone’s body. Blackness seeps into the heart, but Julian cuts it open, and the darkness flows out like a cloud. The man in the headdress is in a torture device, but then he’s in nature and joyous, rolling around on the ground, straps still around his body. The film ends with a montage in what seems to be Washington, D.C. Poorly edited fireworks are juxtaposed over the screen, then a wooden post burns for a very long time.

It was a film that made me lean forward in my seat, squint my eyes and think, “What am I looking at?” (The margaritas didn’t help.) But that’s not an experience I get to have often, and I welcome it with open arms. Also, the soundtrack went fucking hard. —Braxtyn Birrell

Photos by Sarah Armstrong: