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The Misandrists begins with Volker, a young man with an injured leg, stumbling through the forest, pursued by the police and their tracking dogs. When he emerges from the woods, he sees two young women, Isolde and Hilde, frolicking in a field not far from a large old country house. When the beautiful young Isolde realizes that the handsome young man is in trouble with the law, she convinces Hilde to help her hide him in the basement of the house, which happens to be a school for wayward girls. Isolde forces Hilde to agree to keep the young man's presence in the basement hidden from the rest of the household, especially from Big Mother, who runs the school, which is composed of twelve other females: four teachers and eight young women rescued from the streets. It is a lesbian separatist stronghold. Isolde secretly nurses Volker back to health, but does not let him know that the school for girls is also a front for a quasi-terrorist organization called the FLA - the Female Liberation Army - that is willing to go to any lengths to challenge the patriarchy. Meanwhile, we are introduced to all the other girls and women of the house, discovering their backgrounds and their relationships with one another, their beliefs and womanifestos. Several of the members of this radical female tribe are harbouring secrets of their own, which are eventually revealed as the film moves towards its climax: the revelation of a new style of lesbian porn that is to be used as both propaganda tool and calling card for their new brand of female revolution. Blessed be the Goddess of all worlds that has not made me a man.
...featuring intentionally cardboard characterizations and wooden acting along side highly charged sexual images, the script is replete with references to political theory that move so quickly from the lips of the actors that I couldn't keep up.
"The Misandrists" is a lesbian hand grenade. It's a raucous clenched fist of queer feminist outrage thrown in the face of anyone who dares to give the patriarchy even the smallest bit of wiggle room.
As I've argued elsewhere recently, the film landscape feels very polite right now and maybe a blast of straight-no-chaser LaBruce is the antidote we need.
The result feels haphazard, rendering the 85-minute running time a slog, and is stuffed with bad-on-purpose lines like, "Wake up and smell the estrogen."
An invigorating alternative not just to the unending cascade of banal queer-themed fare--if nothing else, LaBruce's outlandish scenarios activate thought experiments for those pondering a corrective to our present gynophobic kakistocracy.