Christ, oh Christ... One watches stunned, incredulous, and possibly deranged, as this tawdry exercise in mirthless smut unfolds with all the wit and dexterity of a palsied Galapagos tortoise. Can such things be? Does this movie actually exist, or was I the unwitting guinea pig of some shadowy international drugs company, sipping my coffee unaware that it had been spiked with a dangerous hallucinogen? I've seen a lot of films, and a lot of bad films, but nothing prepared me for this; by the end of it I was a gibbering, snivelling wreck, tearing at the carpet with my teeth like a dog, clawing at the walls, howling till my lungs were sore. I pleaded desperately, frenziedly for mercy (to whom this appeal was made, I don't know), and longed with burning desire for the soothing balm of Ozu Yasujiro. Sweet Weeping Jesus, the memories... sometimes they come back to me. When I'm at my most vulnerable, when I'm least able to handle them. I shudder, I break down in tears, I bite my fingernails till my hands are slathered with blood, but I can't quite banish the awful flashbacks from my mind. I'm haunted. I'm damaged. I'm a shell of a man.<br /><br />The other user comments here suggest that I am not alone in having undergone this terrifying experience, which can only mean one of two things: a) the film does, in fact, exist, or b) I am but one victim among legions of an international conspiracy of truly sinister proportions. What is quite mind-boggling is that some people seem to have enjoyed their ordeal, or at least have not been left traumatised by it. Perhaps they're part of the operation. God damn them, the maniacs! God damn them all to Hell!!!!!!