James Ellroy is a scary, scary guy. Not in the “I’ll see you in your nightmares” sort-of-way (well, not entirely, at least), but rather in the “I’m a total fucking piece of shit that has made a mint exploiting others and people are now worshipping me” sense. David F. Friedman, Joseph Brenner, Jerry Gross? Now, they were exploiters that one could at least admire, but this Ellroy asshole is a vain, narcissistic, conservative, Neo-Nazi fucktard. Does that mean you shouldn’t watch Feast Of Death? Nah, just the opposite: you should check out Feast Of Death just to see what a vain, narcissistic, conservative, Neo-Nazi fucktard James Ellroy is. Consider it a propaganda film - just like some of those good ol’ Red Scare flicks from the McCarthy Era - with Ellroy as the enemy (not to mention his friends and fans).

Take a good look at him. Go ahead… take a good long look… Notice the Herman Göring/pedophile-esque round-rimmed spectacles? The lack of hair? He’s scary. If his appearance alone isn’t enough to give you the creeps, wait until you hear him talk! This freak drops the F-Bomb more frequently than Samuel L. Jackson in a one-man play written by Quentin Tarantino and his outlook on life is eerily reminiscent of several songs by Cannibal Corpse.

Yes, he’s scary. He’s also acclaimed, folks… and there are sad, misguided, pathetic people out there who actually hold him in high regard: people like (wait for it) the good men of the Los Angeles Police Department! Oh, there it is: the kicker! A majority of Feast Of Death takes place in the Pacific Dining Car where Ellroy, several journalist and an assortment of corrupt, bloated, white fat-asses from Homicide sit around, talking shop over an elegant dinner in the most desensitized manner possible (you have to wonder what the waiters were thinking the whole time… and then you have to wonder if these bastards tipped well… or even at all).

This BBC-made documentary (which was made over the course of a few years by the look of it) delves ever so gently into Ellroy’s dark, dank grey matter and gives you just an inkling of what a truly fucked-up individual he is: at one point the sadistic buffoon notes that some people find him to be homophobic… he then refers to homosexuals as “fruits” and “dykes” and blames his view on his deceased father… which is laughable considering he’s a Republican because a) Republicans don’t apologize for hating gay people and b) the “I blame my family” excuse is reserved for Democrats while the Republicans tend to say “Yes, I faltered… but I have since found Jesus!”

Then there’s Ellroy’s snooty Mr. Know-It-All attitude… Do you have an opinion about something? About anything? Well, why don’t you ask celebrated crime writer James Ellroy: he’ll tell you right off that it’s wrong and you’re wrong too if you haven’t read each and every one of his novels and provided this sociopath fiend with an Oedipus-complex even more money so that he can flaunt how rich he is in front of you (he’s done that, you know).

After listening to Ellroy talk openly (the only way he talks) with fans and his overstuffed law-enforcing comrades, one gets the feeling that he believes himself to be the greatest writer ever… and the greatest person ever. The funniest part of this documentary is when we meet his wife Helen Knode and each of them talk about their lives together… Ellroy even mentions how he exercises daily so that he and his beloved can spend another fifty years with each other. What’s so funny about it? They divorced several years after this film was completed! Ha, ha, Ellroy - the joke’s on you!

So, getting back to what story there is here: Ellroy discusses his life (a little bit, that is), his obsession with his mother and her unsolved murder (which led to his cool-connection with the fabulous gentlemen of the Los Angeles Police Department Homicide Bureau), how he used to break into homes and sniff panties (no joke), and his other obsession with the infamous Black Dahlia case… among other things. Just when you think the gathering of half-drunk, unpleasant individuals couldn’t get any worse, in walks Nick Nolte! What? Why? Boom -- just like that, Nick Nolte is on the scene, rounding out this meeting of sleazy bottom dwellers!

Watching Feast Of Death is like watching a bloody train wreck: you can’t look away… and you can’t believe that it’s real, either! It is definitely required viewing for crime buffs (gore hounds will appreciate seeing photos of crime victims - including Ellroy’s mother), people studying psychology or psychiatry, and anyone with half-open eyes should be able to realize what a sad place the world has truly become after taking it all in.

Oh, and if you’re an Ellroy fan: wake up or jump off of a bridge - society probably doesn’t need you anymore than the sick fucks whose actions have inspired Ellroy to write.

Yes, that was my apology.

Presentation
James Ellroy’s Feast Of Death is presented in a non-anamorphic widescreen format. Considering it was filmed with those BBC cameras that always add about ten pounds to the performers and twenty years to the footage, it doesn’t look half bad… but it is grainy at times (again, BBC cameras, folks). The English 2-Channel Stereo sound is moderate, although I did have to crank the volume up quite a bit in order to hear it (then again, I’m getting old, too).

Extras
Nope. Nada. Forget it. Uh-uh. Nein.

The Bottom Line
I bet’cha ten-to-one they didn’t tip that poor waiter enough.