This 'Wild At Heart' clone caused debate for the BBFC for a rape scene where the lady in question can be perceived to possibly enjoy herself. No issues with a couple of kids being shot though. (I reckon they must have put squibs on them?) Maybe I'm all desensitized and stuff but it wasn't the rape scene which made me go "Oh fucking hell."
Demi Lovato: Dancing with the Devil can be watched, for free, on the singer's official YouTube channel (opens in new tab). (While the main docuseries is free, you can access several deleted scenes and bonus clips with YouTube Premium.)
Dance With The Devil Sex Scene
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On April 2, the singer also dropped the music video for "Dancing With the Devil." The video recreates scenes from the night of her overdose as well as her recovery, including the intense dialysis she received. It ends on a powerful note with Lovato rising from her hospital bed and revealing a "survivor" tattoo across her neck.
As Faustus engages with them, the scroll of the deed in his hand, he seems to do battle and drive them from the stage, conveying a physical strength and courage lacking in the two Faustuses examined previously. Moreover, in the scene in which Faustus entertains the emperor, Faustus himself does a little dance in front of his patrons, indicating his own pleasure (however fleeting) in his magical powers. The choreography in this production suggests that in this Faustus, Mephastophilis and Lucifer may almost have met their match.
Feeling pity for the women, who had lost their families and homes in the attack on Skalitz, (and probably influenced by the coin they gave her), Gertrude gave them the ointment. It will allow them to speak with their dead families if God wills it, and call upon the devil to drive the Cumans out of Bohemia if He does not.
Henry, now well and truly wasted, wavers on the spot as the women begin asking him when the magic will take effect. At that moment, two 'devils' appear and attack the women. Either watch it happen, attack the women along with them, or take out the 'devils', before passing out. You'll be unconscious til morning, and will awaken besides either the bodies of the three women, or else those of two bandits.
THE CORRUPTOR (R) Director: James Foley. With Mark Wahlberg, Chow Yun-Fat, Brian Cox, Ric Young, Paul Ben-Victor, Tovah Feldshuh, Byron Mann. (111 min.) ++ A young white cop teams with a jaded Asian-American officer for a tough Chinatown assignment, touching off racial and generational tensions along with the usual conflicts between heroes and villains. The trite story has plenty of distasteful moments, but Wahlberg and Yun-Fat justify their growing reputations as capable Hollywood actors. Contains much violence, nudity, and sexploitation. Sex/Nudity: 6 scenes, including several involving frontal or backside nudity and graphic sex. Violence: 14 scenes of gun battles, a car chase, and explosions. Profanity: 61 expressions. Drugs: 23 scenes with cigarettes and alcohol.
DANCEMAKER (Not rated) Director: Matthew Diamond. With Paul Taylor, members of the Paul Taylor Dance Company. (98 min.) +++ A splendidly entertaining visit with the world's greatest modern-dance choreographer and members of his brilliant troupe, focusing on the hardships as well as the rewards of their highly exacting profession. Dance lovers will have a ball, and newcomers to this territory will get a revealing and high-spirited look at both its inner workings and its public face.
TRUE CRIME (R) Director: Clint Eastwood. With Clint Eastwood, Isaiah Washington, James Woods, Lisa Gay Hamilton, Denis Leary, Diane Venora. (115 min.) +++ Assigned to interview a condemned prisoner, an aging reporter tries to salvage what's left of his alcohol-ruined career by proving the convict's innocence just hours before his execution. The drama is crisply acted and entertainingly filmed until credibility wanes in the last half hour. It would be even better if Eastwood followed his character's lead and emphasized "real issues" over "human interest" in a story that touches on important social problems without doing much to illuminate them. Contains a subplot about sexual exploits and a great deal of foul language. +++1/2 Sharp dialog, grown-up, Eastwood-esque. Sex/Nudity: 1 scene of adultery. Violence: 3 scenes. Profanity: 98 expressions. Drugs: 15 scenes of cigarettes and/or alcohol.
WING COMMANDER (PG-13) Director: Chris Roberts. With Freddie Prinze Jr., Matthew Lillard, Saffron Burrows, David Warner. (109 min.) u1/2 The sci-fi gibberish is overwhelming at times, so to prepare you for fictional galaxies unexplored: the Kilrathi are the bad guys, the Confederation represents the good, and Pilgrims have the uncanny ability to navigate the stars by gut instinct, a gift only faintly matched by a computerized system called Navcom. On the downside, it's a bit amateurish and hyper. By Katherine Dillin ++ Non-stop action, comic-book fun, shallow. Sex/Nudity: 1 mild scene of implied sexual activity; 1 instance of innuendo. Violence: 4 scenes including one lengthy battle. Profanity: 25 expressions, mostly mild. Drugs: 3 scenes with alcohol, 1 scene with cigarettes.
What's unsettling is how their deadpan rendition of fundamentalist damnation fits almost seamlessly with the conventions of today's popular culture. For starters, the tour group experience is not unlike reality television. Imagine a line of eclectic people encouraged to form a makeshift community by voicing their impromptu reactions. When a man with a devil-red face bursts through the curtain to start the tour, he luridly calls out, "Who likes to party?" Though I anticipate reticence or even resistance, the youths surrounding me respond with unfeigned approval, "I do!" "Yeah, man!" "Let's party!"
The first scene is a rave. I'm reminded of shows such as Scare Tactics or Punk'd, where viewers know an unsuspecting victim is being set up. Our tour guide introduces a fresh-faced teen named Jessica. Visibly nervous, she's approached by a youth who offers a pill to help her relax. After sipping her tainted drink, Jessica instantly passes out. Her seducer cackles, "Let's rape her!" as a hoard of men and women pounce. We cut to sobbing Jessica's bedroom. To my shock, our guide blames the gang rape on the incest she endured as a child. Urging her to "take control of her life," he gleefully watches Jessica pull a gun from under her pillow. There's a deafening blast, the lights fade, and we're sprayed with what feels like her blood. "Oh shut up!" our guide retorts to our disgusted groans. "It's only water."
While the rape scene is strangely slapstick in tone, a subsequent abortion seems downright harrowing. A cheerleader clutches her pompoms, legs spread wide open. "You lied to me!" she shrieks. "You said it wasn't going to hurt!" Far worse than the bloodbath on the walls are the crimson entrails the doctor extracts from inside her. These, we are made to see, are pieces of her aborted fetus. Our horror turns to awe, however, as we're herded into a large domed tent: the cheerleader's womb! Enchanted by its pink interior, we marvel at the tiny person within it, wearing a velvet jumpsuit. A pair of giant forceps invades the soothing space, yanking the little one out. Our guide fumes sarcastically, "It isn't a complete waste, though. Soon, we'll be harvesting her body for stem cells!" It's only when a young female spectator responds with a jovial "Yay!" that I snap back in touch with my own political values: I, too, support stem cell research and women's reproductive rights. How could a simple spectacle cause me to lose sight of that?
Room after room, we confront our cultural nightmares: classroom shootings by troubled goths; the campy gay wedding of Adam and Steve; next, Terry Schiavo joins AIDS-ridden Steve in the hospital. Schiavo repents and is saved, while god-hating Steve falls through his bed into hell. Several youths in our group demand to know how Steve got AIDS if he always kissed Adam with his hand covering his mouth (a gesture clearly lifted out of Roberts's script). Anticipating such wisecracks, the next scene features a coffee shop where urban hipsters riff on the possibilities of a comedy sketch poking fun at Christian rock. "Irony is so-o-o twentieth-century," our guide chides as gremlins attacks the hipsters. "You know what's really hot right now? Sincerity: painful sincerity."
Try as I might to dismiss these sinners as histrionic stereotypes, I feel a sense of what Freud calls "the uncanny."3 I know I've seen them all before. I find myself doing what I rarely do when the authentic abandoned approach me; I reach for my wallet, only to grasp that we've landed in the pit of hell. It's a literal steam bath; people remove their coats. Bathed in an eerie red glow, Satan devours us with his knowing stare. While others make fun of his horns and flamboyant attire, I try to act frightened; I don't want Satan to think no one takes him seriously. It's just as Satan condemns us for our "drinking and drugging" that a blast of light steamrolls him to the floor. An angel emerges from the blinding intensity and whisks us upstairs to meet Jesus. Ironically, though, this is where predictable affects come undone. Instead of being grateful, the group harangues our Savior's hippy hairdo. Their mockery escalates when Jesus insists on being called "our only Lord." A minister rushes to the scene and earnestly asks us to reaffirm our commitments to Christ. No one but the angel responds. Nevertheless, we're visibly psyched about the "Gospel Hoe-Down" and beverages he promises below. 2ff7e9595c
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