Fire in Her Bed! (1972)

Fire in Her Bed! (1972). 1h

“u0026#39;I am someone! I am no one! I am everyone!u0026#39; And with such an oblique opening testament begins iconoclast filmmaker, Alan Lindusu0026#39;s morbidly fascinating, occasionally monotonous, downwardly spiralling cautionary tale about an interminably philosophizing, once righteously u0026#39;turned onu0026#39;, perkily psychedelic, Rock nu0026#39; Roll waif, now a boozily burned out case, groggily spouting hoary epigrams like this especially odoriferous nugget: u0026#39;I am lonely with a loneliness that smells!u0026#39; Right on, loneliness stinks, baby!!!!!u003cbr/u003eu003cbr/u003eDepending on oneu0026#39;s robust tolerance for conspicuously incense infused, soft-lensed, Haight-Ashbury soaked, pot-addled hippie-dippy rumpy pumpy, the surprisingly melancholy, grimly nihilistic, u0026#39;Fire in her bedu0026#39; proves quite a head-trip into the groovily fatuous world of far out musicians, skeevey liggers and magisterially moustached male groupies. Muck-master, Lindusu0026#39;s grubbily prurient expose of our sensually permissive, permanently pizzled, dope-addicted destruction, the deliciously overwrought, crypto-zen narration is psychedelically drenched in sensationally shrill sounding sitar wrangling, and in order to maintain the vieweru0026#39;s interest, there is some righteously blissed-out, grape-fueled sapphic grappling, wherein our two exquisite looking, dark-haired, acid-headed angels zealously explore the tantalizing topography of their terrifically titillating, pleasure-hungry bodies!u003cbr/u003eu003cbr/u003eHeading inexorably to her self-administered, doomily narrated, psychological and physical dissolution, we see our increasingly jaded Heroin Harlot (Donna Rae) finally succumb to the decreasingly groovy, hedonistic happenings about her, with mutual infidelity, chronic opiate abuse, and hella bad vibes taking their not inconsiderable toll, man!!! Sending our musically-orientated, sinuously-limbed, knee-painting, luxuriantly lascivious, terminally tormented, toxically tripping 1970s temptress into the void. Not only is u0026#39;Fire in Her Bedu0026#39; a fascinating period artefact, the heroically inane voice over is not infrequently pure comedic genius!u003cbr/u003eu003cbr/u003eI shall leave the final eloquent thoughts to the estimable word smithery of the loquacious smut-slinger, Mr. Lindus: u0026#39;Let me destroy my soul, destroy my rock, let there be an end, an end to love, end to peace, and end to life, the finish of warm giving, of truth, my love died at my request, I am my hell! To lie screaming mad In a mad word in a mad world!!!!!u0026#39;u003cbr/u003eu003cbr/u003eAmen, Donna Rae, Amen!!!!!!”