“Hardcore, psychopathic material.” “Filled with sadism, masochism, and perversion.” “The most offensive zine ever made.” As we learn right up front in Frank Henenlotter’s compelling documentary, “Boiled Angels: The Trial of Mike Diana,” there are a lot of ways to describe Mike Diana’s underground comics. Most people who don’t share his taste — which, to be clear, will be most people — tend to land on something similar to the above. (Actually, the last quote is from Diana himself.)
But the most famous description of his hand-drawn stories? “Obscene.” Is that accurate? Subjectively, sure. But in 1994, the great state of Florida turned opinion into fact, making a shy and unknown 24-year-old the only American artist ever convicted of obscenity.
Given that Diana’s work tends toward subjects like incest, cannibalism, and child torture, the movie opens with the following warning: “If graphic depictions of sex and violence disturb you, STOP watching this film NOW.” Adding to the cult feel, Henenlotter is an exploitation director most famous for a soft-core horror comedy called “Frankenhooker.” Appropriately enough, Diana’s story is narrated by Dead Kennedys frontman Jello Biafra, while the punk soundtrack comes courtesy of bands like Screeching Weasel and Misery Date. Plus, it’s a festival film, premiering this weekend at New York’s What the Fest!?, that was funded through Kickstarter.
In other words, this is the sort of project that’s likely to have a strongly passionate fan base, while everyone else moves swiftly on. But if you’re among the latter, hold up: this is no mere midnight movie, nor was it made solely for those who see “sadism, masochism, and perversion” as intriguing selling points.
Henenlotter may work at the edges of his industry, but even in his most enthusiastically deranged efforts (1982’s “Basket Case” being a WTF touchstone), he’s proven himself a sophisticated filmmaker. This unexpectedly poignant doc unfolds on multiple tracks, each of which proves consistently captivating.
On one level, we get a well-told history of underground comix, in which filmmaker George Romero and cartoonist Jay Lynch (both of whom have since passed away) recall earlier eras in a burst of anti-establishment nostalgia. “It was like a minor version of, ‘Where do you get your dope?’” Romero happily reminisces about trying to track down censored EC Comics in the 1950s.
At the same time, Henenlotter has something much bigger on his mind. Diana was just starting his own underground comic career in 1990, when five students at the University of Florida were gruesomely murdered. The state was gripped by a frenzied search for the killer, and Diana — whose family had fatefully moved from New York to Florida — was living in the wrong place at the wrong time. A patrolman happened to stumble on a rare copy of his hand-printed ‘zine, “Boiled Angel,” and was horrified by the graphic images inside.
Soon the authorities were at his mother’s doorstep, and though Diana was quickly cleared of murder, authorities seemed to need a high-profile distraction. A well-chosen series of talking heads, including author Neil Gaiman and graphic novelist Peter Kuper, take us through the ensuing trial, with additional commentary from Diana himself.
He wasn’t technically a serial killer, the prosecution admitted, while showing Diana’s macabre drawings to the jury. But his work was deeply disturbing, so couldn’t he become one someday? And sure, art would be protected under the First Amendment. But could you even call his unpleasant subjects art? The jurors — one of whom defined artwork as “needlepoint” — took only 90 minutes to make their conclusions.
All of this would be more than enough for a gripping film. But there’s another line running through this story, too: a third rail that the movie tentatively approaches but mostly avoids.
It’s a grave jolt to see Diana’s drawings of gruesomely tortured children and religious desecration, and then hear briefly of his own, appalling early trauma. The references to his abuse and anger are fleeting, and his family members, who make for otherwise engaged observers throughout the film, never grapple with the extensive circumstances of his pain.
It’s easy to understand why a director might shy away from further exploring the distressing facts that seem to inform deliberately extreme fiction. The soft-spoken, immensely likable Diana has been through so much unfairness that no one’s instinct would be to invade his privacy or to hurt him further. And Henenlotter is right to suggest that the nature of his art should be irrelevant to his case.
But “Boiled Angels” winds up expanding well beyond its initial emphasis. Yes, this is a thoughtful and enlightening documentary about artistic censorship and free speech. At its heart, though, is the portrait of an unusually complex artist and his unusually complex career. The biggest shadows in Diana’s life — and in his art — are never fully addressed, but they loom terribly large nonetheless.