There is good cinema, there is bad cinema, and then there is "Trash Humpers" by Harmony Korine, which ideologically continues the line of marginal aesthetics from his earlier film "Gummo," only exactly 12 years later and in a much more radical form. This radicalism led to a rejection not only of a coherent plot but also of the language of cinema as such. Instead, we get a disturbingly realistic stylization mimicking home video footage of a group of four marginal figures with ugly, barely distinguishable facial features. These characters do nothing useful for themselves or society, plunging into an abyss of absolute meaninglessness. On the periphery of their drugged-out trip, one can hear vague conversations about freedom, the meaning of life, or anything else—but these are empty musings, unsupported by any empirical experience, a false and thus fatally flawed reflection of people (or are they even people?) who find it easier to seek new ways to realize their perverse sexual fantasies and unleash their inexhaustible aggression. Upon closer examination within the broader cinematic context, "Trash Humpers" allows one to painstakingly identify connections, for instance, with David Cronenberg’s early work "The Brood," where the role of conscience’s executioners—or even an embodied alter ego (feminine in that case, though Korine strips his merry quartet of mutant maniacs of any superfluous gender markers)—is played by horrific, repulsive dwarfs with shriveled faces, their entire appearance demonstrating the unnaturalness of their existence. Korine’s heroes, this same infernal brood, exist in their natural environment and have no one to seek revenge against. They simply live as they please. It is here that one can equate "Trash Humpers" with Fred Vogel’s cult pseudo-snuff trilogy "August Underground," in which a similar marginal gang invades strangers' homes and commits various forms of deviance, with a particular emphasis on snuff. Moreover, the staging style in Vogel’s works and Korine’s film is strikingly similar; without prior warning that it’s all just cinema, they could easily be mistaken for authentic documentary footage, complete with a rotten, corpse-like stench. Both Vogel and Korine essentially elevate the mockumentary/found footage style to infernal perfection, reducing the language of cinema to primitivism, to the most crude and artless inarticulateness, ultimately depriving their films of the foundational elements of cinematic language—while simultaneously leaving a gap for the viewer in the monstrous "new reality" they create, a reality that is abhorrent to most, the infamous Nietzschean abyss. For in this world, everyone around is just as non-human, just as emotionless beings, for whom there is only one significant life need: to hump a trash can. To delve deeper into this expansion, let’s consider the evolution of Harmony Korine’s filmmaking career, which provides essential context for understanding "Trash Humpers." Korine burst onto the scene in the mid-1990s as the screenwriter for Larry Clark’s controversial "Kids" (1995), a raw depiction of urban youth culture steeped in nihilism, drug use, and sexual experimentation. This set the tone for his directorial debut, "Gummo" (1997), a mosaic of vignettes portraying the underbelly of American suburbia in Xenia, Ohio, post-tornado devastation. "Gummo" was polarizing: critics hailed it as innovative for its non-linear structure and unflinching gaze at poverty, boredom, and eccentricity, while others decried it as exploitative trash. Yet, it established Korine’s fascination with the fringes of society—people forgotten by the mainstream, living in cycles of absurdity and despair. Fast-forward to 2009, and "Trash Humpers" represents a quantum leap in Korine’s radicalism. Shot on VHS tape to emulate outdated, grainy home videos from the 1980s or 1990s, the film eschews traditional narrative entirely. There are no character arcs, no rising action, no resolution. Instead, it’s a series of improvised scenes following four elderly-looking vandals (played by Korine himself, his wife Rachel, and others in grotesque makeup) as they roam Nashville’s back alleys at night. They smash televisions, urinate on walls, sing nonsensical songs, and, most infamously, simulate sex with garbage bins and other urban detritus. The film’s title is literal, but it symbolizes a broader metaphor for humanity’s basest instincts—devoid of purpose, driven by primal urges in a decaying world. This rejection of cinematic norms aligns Korine with the Dogme 95 movement, though he takes it further into anarchy. Dogme filmmakers like Lars von Trier sought authenticity through rules like handheld cameras and natural lighting, but Korine discards rules altogether. His "actors" mumble incoherently, the camera shakes erratically, and edits feel accidental, as if the tape was found discarded. This faux-amateurism blurs the line between art and artifact, forcing viewers to question: Is this a deliberate provocation or genuine madness captured on film? Expanding on the comparison to Cronenberg’s "The Brood" (1979), Korine’s mutants echo the psychoplasmic children birthed from rage in that film—external manifestations of internal horrors. In "The Brood," the dwarfs represent repressed trauma and maternal fury, acting as avengers. Korine’s humpers, however, are not vengeful; they are complacent in their monstrosity. They embody existential inertia, a Nietzschean "eternal recurrence" of futility. Where Cronenberg explores body horror through sci-fi allegory, Korine opts for social horror via verité. Both filmmakers dissect the human psyche’s underbelly, but Korine removes any redemptive layer, leaving pure revulsion. Similarly, the link to Fred Vogel’s "August Underground" series (2001-2007) is profound. Vogel’s films, presented as snuff tapes discovered by authorities, feature killers Peter and Maggot (and later Crusty) torturing victims in graphic detail. Shot on low-fi video with no soundtrack or plot, they mimic real camcorder atrocities, drawing accusations of promoting violence. Korine adopts this aesthetic but shifts focus from murder to mundane perversion. His humpers don’t kill (overtly), but their actions—molesting mannequins, reciting bizarre poetry—evoke the same dread. Both creators exploit the found-footage trope to critique voyeurism: We’re complicit in watching, just as society ignores its outcasts. Philosophically, "Trash Humpers" channels Jean Baudrillard’s simulacra, where reality dissolves into hyperreality. The film’s VHS degradation mirrors our mediated existence—social media snippets of lives without context. It also nods to Georges Bataille’s eroticism of excess, where taboo acts transcend norms, revealing the sacred in the profane. The humpers' "freedom" is illusory, trapped in repetition, much like Sisyphus humping his boulder eternally. Critically, the film divided audiences. Roger Ebert called it "a new low," while others praised its audacity as punk art. At festivals like Toronto and SXSW, it sparked walkouts and debates on cinema’s boundaries. Korine’s intent? To confront complacency. In interviews, he described it as "a portrait of America," exaggerating the absurd to highlight societal decay—consumerism reduced to literal trash-fucking. Expanding further, consider parallels to other avant-garde works. John Waters' "Pink Flamingos" (1972) shares the shock value, with Divine’s filth-eating as a defiant act. But Waters camps it up; Korine keeps it grim. Or Werner Herzog’s "Even Dwarfs Started Small" (1970), where rebels wreak havoc in isolation, mirroring the humpers' anarchic play. Even Andy Warhol’s experimental films, like "Empire" (1964), embrace boredom as art, though Korine’s is aggressively anti-aesthetic. In terms of technique, Korine’s use of non-professional elements—real locations, improvised dialogue—recalls cinéma vérité pioneers like Jean Rouch. Yet, he subverts it into anti-vérité, fabricating authenticity to unsettle. The soundtrack, a mix of eerie synths and diegetic noise, amplifies alienation. Thematically, the film probes identity in late capitalism. The humpers' androgynous, ageless forms defy categorization, symbolizing a post-human era where gender, age, and morality erode. Their aggression—smashing bottles, harassing passersby—vents unspoken rage against conformity. Conversations about "life" feel satirical, exposing philosophy’s impotence in the void. To appreciate its legacy, note how "Trash Humpers" influenced later works. Films like "Spring Breakers" (2012), Korine’s own mainstream pivot, retain the neon-lit nihilism. Or Ari Aster’s "Midsommar" (2019), with its cultish horrors echoing the humpers' ritualistic antics. In the found-footage genre, it prefigures "Creep" (2014) and "The Outwaters" (2022), pushing horror toward the incomprehensible. Ultimately, "Trash Humpers" isn’t for everyone—it’s a endurance test, a mirror to our darker selves. At 78 minutes, it feels eternal, looping like the humpers' nights. Yet, for those who endure, it reveals profound truths: In a world of simulated meaning, perhaps humping trash is the most honest act. Korine doesn’t judge; he observes, leaving us in the abyss, pondering if we’re any different.