Most men — and, honestly, some women — are Peeping Toms. Abasement in all its glory!

The criminal, sexual act of illicit self-pleasure while a person is unknowing, unwilling and nonconsensual is quite damning and will, at the very least, label you as a pervert among family, friends and neighbors.

So remember, kids: Keep an eye out for Mom … unless, of course, you’re peeping on your mom, which will lead to other problems I’m not able to discuss without the care of a professional — a doctor or a hooker.

In the fickle world of pop culture, the stereotypical Peeping Tom is most often a trope of the teen sex comedy, rubbing one out in the girls’ locker room while getting his crank stuck in a vice-like device. But in 1960, filmmaker Micheal Powell decided to cast a unsexy shadow on the world’s most lonely act in the film Peeping Tom.

When the film premiered, people were outraged, and Powell’s name was dragged through the mud, ultimately killing his career. (Sadly, the billions of gallons of sperm while watching the movie waiting for the tame sex scenes were never accounted for …)

It starts with a shadowy man hiding a film camera under his coat as he seeks a prostitute. In her most Cockney accent, she takes to him a flophouse and, unexpectedly, he murders her with an extended leg of his camera’s tripod. As the tape runs out, I imagine he climaxes.

This man is Mark (Carl Boehm). He makes films of the crimes and watches them ad nauseam, as one will wantonly do. He works for a bookshop as a cover for taking snapshots of nudie cuties, but his dream job is to be a film director. (If only he waited about five years for the porn industry to boom!) Mark’s also a sad loner and very quiet, snapping pictures of disfigured woman to masturbate to.

Eventually, he’s befriended by his tenant who views his works, especially the films his father made of him being sexually frightened, as stunting his emotional growth and causing him to deal with the trauma though voyeurism.

Long story short, Mark is punished for his crimes in the worst way possible in the early ’60s.

A true testament to both swingin’ London and swingin’ ballsacks, Powell’s non-illicit camera gets the dirtiest grime in the gear game. Boehm’s Mark is still relevant today — just sub the cheesecake shots with live camgirls who’ll act out your fantasy for an OnlyFans subscription.

Much in the same vein as Joe Spinell’s work on William Lustig’s Maniac, but with a Piccadilly Circus façade, Peeping Tom is a true classic of perverted outré cinema that needs to be reevaluated in these much more maligned times.

Until then, keep it in your pants, Junior! —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

The Fanatic is a 2019 film directed by Limp Biscuit (I refuse to spell it like that) frontman Fred Durst. Working behind the camera and off the stage, Durst embodies the roving spirit of changing career lanes, turning him into the thinking man’s Rob Zombie.

That being said, he is a terrible director and his movie, The Fanatic, is worse.

Sadly not based on The Fan, the Wesley Snipes/Robert De Niro baseball fandom-film from 1996, the movie is all about the crazed fandom (femidom?) of movie nerds, comic-book geeks and very stinky horror fans in general.

It depicts L.A. as a land of celluloid dreams caustic shithole that drearily gleams in the broken spotlight. John Travolta, on his third or fourth comeback, is Moose, a street performer with Hollywood’s version of autism. In his bad haircut, he is a “celebrity” impersonator as a London “bobby” policeman.

But, in reality, he’s the No. 1 fan of genre actor Hunter Dunbar (Devon Sawa). He is fanatical about him, if you will.

Moose meets Dunbar at a Hollywood memorabilia store for an autograph that, in Moose’s mind, is a meet-cute moment. Wiping the fantasies away, he is a truly pushy fan — but Dunbar is just as worse as a B-grade celebrity.

They have words, which end with Dunbar saying he will autograph a dejected Moose “with his fists.” Ow. Wanting a do-over, Moose starts stalking him, using a star map to find his house.

Eventually, after attempting to strangle a dirty magician, he accidentally kills Dunbar’s maid. Though sad about it, Moose — or, perhaps, Travolta — runs around with fake antlers, takes a dump, uses Dunbar’s toothbrush and takes a selfie while kissing Dunbar’s sleeping head, which I guess is kind of sweet.

Realizing that Moose has been in his house, Dunbar pumps the Limp Biscuit (once again, I refuse to spell it like that) in his car. Much like one of Durst’s unlistenable songs, the finale is well-done trash, but in the end, it’s still trash.

This film was made with the association of Redbox. Not wanting to spend the $1.99 for a rental, I saw this on Amazon Prime for free and, well, it was interesting to revisit Travolta’s career … Durst’s, not so much.

Either way, someone owes me $1.99.

While most of the actors are grocery-store brand, Travolta is a big name brand, but one on the clearance shelf. His unwanted performance is a hilarious to both the clinically sane and mentally ill people, feeling like one long joke that no one gets.

But as a director, Durst is dangerously terrible to all people. The movie plays like it were Durst’s vapid handshake to the “meaningful” world of prestige pictures, yet everything about it takes it to broken levels of comic derision because, well, it’s Fred fucking Durst.

In other words, this Fanatic needs to go back to his mom’s basement and shut the door, playing “Break Stuff” while ferociously masturbating. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.