In "Ass Fever #31", one of the many heroines visits her male doctor complaining of stomach cramps, congestion, headaches and frequent spells of dizziness. The doctor instructs his patient to disrobe, then, without even offering her a hospital gown to wear, he proceeds with a rather intense inspection of her person for approximately twelve minutes.
At no point during this medical exam does the doctor: 1) take the patient's pulse or blood pressure 2) inquire as to the nature of the discomfort she is experiencing with his investigation, except, oddly, in the affirmative - "I bet you like that, huh?" etc... or 3) talk about the history of the symptoms.
Worst of all, the doctor, despite the quite intimate nature of his ministrations, never washes his hands or puts on protective gloves or gear of any kind. Quite the opposite, he ends the exam wearing considerably less than when he started!
Though the exam seems to have helped his patient - we never do learn her name - and she leaves the room with a smile on her face. Incredibly, no diagnosis is ever given, no medicine prescribed, no instructions for self-care enumerated, and no actual follow-up appointment scheduled.
Both patient and doctor make a verbal agreement to "come here" more often, which might help remedy her unspecified illness, but you wouldn't know that by the rest of this confusing film. The movie next jumps to a pleasant enough pizza delivery interaction - albeit with three totally different, unnamed protagonists! - but, when the credits roll, we are left wondering about the anonymous patient's well-being.
Perhaps she suffered from one of the thirty-one feverish asses, but we'll never know.
As opaque and segmented as "Ass Fever #31" was, it told several stories relevant to today's world. The buxom patient sees a doctor. The chesty co-eds take delivery of a pizza. The top-heavy tourist gets some help applying sunblock. These simple, undeveloped stories resonate with the busty and leggy female in all of us.
Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for "Jizz Factory". One quickly begins to wonder what is made in this jizz factory, because, clearly, it is not a plot.
Whereas "Ass Fever #31" manages some meager exposition about the characters and their environment, "Jizz Factory" manufactures nothing more than grunting and moaning bereft of discernible context. Scene after scene, the viewer is dropped, in medias res, without even so much as an explanation from an omniscient narrator introducing these rutting hedonists.
It's possible, perhaps, to appreciate the scenes as post-modern "stories-without-words", but that may be seeing more than is there. Settings change from poolside cabana to back seat of a luxury car to the back room of a shoe store without even so much as a subtitle offering a glimpse into the lives of the characters. Most noteworthy about these various, disconnected settings would have to be that not one of them resembles anything vaguely industrial, much less a factory.
Who are these people? Where are they? What are they doing there? Why are they doing that?
These extremely basic plot points remain not only unresolved throughout this film but also unasked. It's as if the production team and actors saw storyline and character development as more of a burden than an opportunity, or thought they were communicating those elements on a totally different level.
Perhaps the incessant rub of "Jizz Factory" was, itself, the rub. Were these filmmakers telling a timeless story to which we, as viewers, are intimately aware, and, therefore, needs no introduction nor development, continuity or denouement? Was this a daring new way of demonstrating the endless human struggle for acceptance; something to which we are all so acquainted that the movie perfectly mirrors us all?
Indeed, are we the jizz factory?
I do not know; ultimately, the gaping plot holes left too much unanswered.
I will have to wait for those holes to be filled in "Jizz Factory #2", scheduled for release next week.