American Gunk Review

Review: “American Gunk: The Shit that Killed the King”
By T.J. Longprong

With his debut “American Gunk: The Shit that Killed the King”, Guy Capo has turned the porn industry on its head. Along with Evolution Erotica’s Tom Byron, this Capo fellow is shaking things up, doing his part to see that we view porn in different ways.
What the hell is Capo trying to prove, you may ask? We don’t need to hear artists give their opinion on laws and politics, right? Pull this leg, it plays Jingle Bells. If done right – as with this wholly unique picture -- mixing entertainment with current events can be informative, provocative and a riot. (Funniest slice from Capo’s straight-into-the-camera tirade: “Four score and suck my dick ago…”)

“Gunk,” to be sure, is not the same old, run-of-the-mill, generic, lazy bullshit. It’s actually political and philosophical, edgy and challenging, funny and smart, creative as hell – all without losing its sense of erotica and focus on sex. (Think all porn movies have lousy music? Keep thinking.)
Besides, how can you fail with Ron Jeremy starring as Elvis Presley? Well, lesser directors could probably find ways to fuck it up and bore us to tears. Capo, conversely, has other plans.

The rookie director’s maiden voyage is the equivalent of a shot in the arm, a kick to the nuts, a slap to the face, an elbow to the ribs. With “Gunk,” you’ll see and hear things heretofore unexperienced. Feel free to be strangely aroused, to laugh (because the script is genuinely witty), to be startled, to cringe, to use your brain -- not to mention your hand. Look away, gasp, jerk off or walk away if you must.
A brief scene-by-scene ASSessment:

SCENE ONE: Demi Marks, Ted Hunter, Summer Nite, Vandalia
The delectable duo of Demi Marks and Summer Nite, the latter of whom has the same indescribable appeal of indie actress Chloe Sevigny, join forces (those damn teases!) for a game of Spin the Bottle. The activity, needless to point out, quickly turns into a game of Fuck the Orifices. And viewers can be thankful that Demi and Summer suck as if their lives depend on it. (It’s as if Capo instructed them: “Make your partners cum or you’re dead.” The girls happily obliged.)
Watching these luscious ladies ply their trade can be considered only torture, as male viewers will be disappointed they can swap place with the guys on screen. Can any woman’s mouth make you harder than Demi’s does? The answer, if those movie is any indicator, is two letters in length. When her tongue salutes Ted Hunter’s purple-helmeted soldier, we can only wonder, “How the hell can he NOT instantly erupt like a volcano?” (If Demi blew me with such vigor, I’d paint her face like Picasso.)
To his credit, director Capo has fun with the sequences, giving each twosome equal time. He also mixes up the cinematography and editing, as if keeping us on our toes. And a special nod to Mr. Hunter, who always seems thoroughly involved, enjoying the situation, concentrating (i.e. making a genuine effort to act) no matter what his role. In this case, he stuffs Demi like a turkey and rightfully makes no apologies.
On a slightly down note, there’s a glimpse or three of big Vandalia (simply not my type) playing her own version Hide the Fingers. God bless the gal, but her brief antics didn’t do much for me, despite the filmmaker’s valiant effort to spice it up. Which leads to the next bit…
FELECIA FOX (aka The Mad Masturbator):
What red-blooded hetero doesn’t enjoy looking at this Fox-y lady? Especially when she’s enveloped with a cool, black backdrop, colorful spinning lights, wicked camera angles, come what may. And who doesn’t want to see Felicia pleasuring herself with abandon? Well, this critic, for one. Don’t get me wrong: There’s something to be said about a hot woman abusing her crotch – and that something is this: It needn’t go on and on and on. At least not as far as I’m concerned. Capo has so much to offer visually in this sequence, but it’s the actual activity before his cameras that bothered me. Too much of a good thing, to put it bluntly. The scene could’ve been shortened, but then – that’s what the Fast Forward button is for, no? Onward we march, hardly discouraged, because we’re anxious to see what Capo has up his sleeves next…
RON JEREMY AND VICKI VOGUE:
Are you kiddin’ me? Hedgehog and Double V, cavorting on the beach, doing the “nasty” in a restroom and in the back of a car? All while Jeremy is dressed as the King himself? First off, let’s get something straight: Any filmmaker who, with his goddamn debut, convinces Jeremy to strike Presley poses and utter his best “Thank you very much” deserves props of the highest order. He rest of the sequence is, well, man gravy.
Take the priceless bit when the King is popping pills while Vicki goes mouthsurfing on Mount Baldie. He then bends her over the toilet and nails her like a cross. The car scene, when the King seals the deal, is short and sweet. To the point without a cut wasted. Again, Capo displays a knack for mixing fun, satire, seriousness and sex. And his taking time to set the pace, to establish a setting, to pan the ocean and observe Jeremy traverse the streets and sand is not just commendable. Such attention to refreshing detail also serves notice that Capo has a vision and knows precisely what he’s doing.
RANDOM BITS:
I would be remiss not to point out the movie’s ingenious use of title cards, facts and statistics, and other gems that intermittently pop on screen. Capo’s voiceovers aren’t intrusive, but rather inform, enhance and punctuate his narratives. Speaking of which, does it get any sharper than…
MOLESTED BY AMERICA: featuring Ted Hunter and Gen Padova
Right off the bat, Capo tells it like it is, damning network TV and its vile “reality” programming. The director has his own rendition, starting with casual boy/girl conversation between the two stars. Within minutes, Gen is playing Ted’s flute before she can catch her breath. (There she blows!) This “reality” show is structured with a purpose; you can tell Capo and his crew take sheer pleasure in sticking it to mainstream TV execs while Ted sticks it to Gen. In turn, that’s the sheer pleasure for viewers, capped off by the most invigorating and amusing head-butt in the history of motion pictures.
FACIAL FRENZY:
In so far as this critic has a blowjob/facial fetish (but isn’t it normal to love watching pretty girls get cum in the faces and mouths?), this is the movie’s golden moment. Capo lets ‘em rip, left and right, front and center. Guys and dolls, different sets, different approaches – but the same winning results. It’s the quintessential facial montage: He cuts from clip to clip, back and forth, watching the women suck and grab and lick, until each guy explodes all over their faces. Exquisite cum facials, in all their sloppy glory. I hereby demand Capo’s subsequent movies each include facial montages. He knows how to shoot and doesn’t ask questions later.
CAPO TO THE CAMERA:
Already referred to one quote earlier in my review. Our director speaks his mind and then some, rapping and rhyming like nobody’s business. Only it is everybody’s business. Whatever you don’t do while watching, DON’T ignore this scene. DON’T fast-forward through it. Or, go right ahead – see if I care. You’ll miss the man’s entire point for making “Gunk” in the first place.
VOMIT SCENE: Cherry Poppins and Rick Masters.
Just when you think director Capo has flipped his irreverent lid, he does it again – kicking off a sequence with a girl puking. Then promptly sucking cock, as if it’s an anti-vomiting device. (Perhaps every nauseous girl should give blowjobs as a remedy?) Strong, sturdy efforts from both stars in a difficult scene. Biggest kudos to Cherry for being a good sport.
LIZA HARPER: Her solo sequence is a keeper – succinct, erotic, economical. Nice “touch” on her part, yes, but on the director’s as well.
FINALE: John West, Olivia O’Lovely.
What may appear, at first, to be just another sex scene is enlivened more by Capo’s tehniques. The lighting, the background, the music, the essence. Are the subjects and action herein rather generic? That’s a fair argument. Were spectators led to believe this particular film would end on a more disturbing, fascinating and experimental note? Without a doubt.
But those are minor nits to pick. With “American Gunk,” it’s beyond clear this new pornmaker won’t be a flash-in-the-pan. We haven’t heard the last, by any stretch of a penis, from Guy Capo. Remember the name.

- Reviewed by T.J. Longprong