Kitty Litter: “Confessions of a Psycho Cat” (1968)

HOW DO I LOVE ME? Could this bizarre Michael Findlay moment be intended to illustrate society’s unhealthy addiction to narcissism or is it merely a demonstration of an exotic method of mirror cleaning without the aid of Windex? In either case, neither explanation has more relevance to the central plot of “Confessions of a Psycho Cat” than the rest of the shameless volume of padding intended to extend the material to something resembling a minimum of feature length.

           “Confessions of a Psycho Cat”  (1968)

    While the variety of adaptations of Richard Connell’s seminal short story The Most Dangerous Game is impressively eclectic-  with the tale attracting cinematic interest from filmmakers on both ends of the creative barometer from handily professional to jaw dropping incompetence (What is trendy to call “surreal”, which is a contemporary context is generally an academically naive way of avoiding identification as “lousy”)  -perhaps none achieve a similar level of almost psychotropic weirdness as “Confessions of a Psycho Cat”, a film which certainly attempts a stubbornly consistent substitution of bizarrely inappropriate exploitation elements when faced with gaps of narrative logic, the restraints of meager budgetary resources, wince inducing bad performance skills and directorial indecision; explaining lengthy insertions of Doris Wishman-like orgy scenes in which (once again) the participants engage in the same endless ritualistic foreplay that was characteristic of the 1960’s nudie and roughie films, in which sexuality was generally expressed by a dispassionate guy slowly rubbing his hands over a topless woman’s body as if her were applying Turtle Wax to an old car, with peculiarly specific avoidance of all erogenous zones in dispiriting exhibitions of carnality as ennui; without either intimacy nor interest on the parts of the “lovers”.

 

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