Illustration by Andreas Hykade. Courtesy of Chris Robinson.

I started reading a book about angels. I found myself fascinated with them recently. I got tired of demons. Now, don’t sweat it, I don’t have visions of glowing angels hovering around my room or any such stuff. I kinda like to think that angels are something more innate, a feeling or that gut reaction we often talk about when we make a decision. Maybe it’s coincidence or conscience. And hey, I don’t need winged messengers visiting me. When I stop and take a good look at my life, I see MANY living, breathing angels around me.

In fact, last week I was telling one of them about this angel thing. He said he thought that we were made of demons and angels, that we have the potential for both. And yeah there it is again… an extension of our old pal Heraclitus — who doesn’t seem to want to leave — and his belief that harmony and conflict all come from the same comb. Same line. Ying yang and all that. And that’s to my liking because I don’t believe in that either/or option. I don’t believe in some completely 100% grade A top of the heap being. “Perhaps,” said my friend, “a demon is an angel betrayed.”

I’ve been searching for the meaning of mother and father cause well… ya gotta have one to know one and well… I had stand-ins… understudies. Anyhow… just what are they (we) supposed to be doing. And while reading this stuff about angels, I think that actually parents are supposed to be like angels. I don’t mean that they must be perfect and pure… but they should love, protect, trust and guide their children. Faith. Sure there will be stumbles, plenty of them, but at the end of the fucking day a child should KNOW that they are loved. It’s a big world filled with strangers and if you can’t count on your parents who can you have faith in? Fortunately I had grandparents.

It’s not often that a film just picks me up my neck, but JJ Villard’s Son of Satan (and even his previous film, 9 in a Chimney, 10 on a Bed, or Hate is a Strong Word) was one of those. At first glance, Son of Satan looks like the remnants of an unfinished sketchbook by a student who couldn’t be bothered to finish his project properly. The drawings are rough and sketchy. Barely legible scribblings litter many of the frames. The voice over is distorted and, at times, poorly acted (especially the father character). The soundtrack, featuring excerpts from The Stooges’ Raw Power, appears suddenly like a cut and paste afterthought.

JJ Villard’s Son of Satan. All Son of Satan images © JJ Villard.

However, when you string all the rusty bits together, Son of Satan transforms into something special — a raw, urgent punk scream against the pain of abuse, bullying and the cyclical nature of violence and stands firmly against those who believe that animation must be clean, precise, polished and oh so fucking sweet.

I wasn’t so much a bully really, but I had a nasty temper that got me into all sorts of trouble. I stole, lied, hurt… you name it. What slammed me in Son of Satan was the final scene with the father. His hovering, menacing presence is a little too familiar. It’s a scene I’d lived out many times.

Now, okay, this is a Charles Bukowski story so Villard is starting with some pretty strong material from the get-go…but the fact that he picked that particular story says a lot about his nature. There is always a temptation to just portray, for example, violence without any attempt to understand its roots. Bukowski’s story not only gives us the roots, but also the doubt that penetrates the son’s mind as he and his two chums are picking on the freckled kid. And it’s that moment of awareness and doubt that gives the film hope… that first shows us that this boy’s angel is still fighting. “I felt like letting him go. Maybe he hadn’t fucked anybody. Maybe he had just been daydreaming. But I was the young leader. I couldn’t show any sympathy.”