by Michael Glawogger
You have to love a film that deliberately pisses on 'documentary ethics' and plays PJ Harvey over footage of women actually selling their bodies in real time. Glawogger's cool view of reality is such that he views everything as if it were the stuff of great cinema. The lingering impression is that if the world didn't tie itself into such abysmal knots then it wouldn't so easily become worth filming. Prostitution here isn't a crime, it's shit luck. His fight is with societies that let this happen. How could it be possible for someone like him to bring in his camera and hang out for months, getting the inner workings on camera for the world to see. And the final insult: this movie won't change a fucking thing. To the man who treats these women with more respect than anyone else in their lives, as subjects worthy of their own film, I say: for the love of god don't ever stop making films.
Rest in peace, man. I owe you more than I could have ever repaid. I wish my heroes would stop dying. When I made my film about prostitution, I told my actresses they had to see Whores Glory because there was no better film on the subject. I stand by that and I stand by and love Michael Glawogger. I will miss the feeling of knowing you were out there, doing the work you do.