Truly, one of the best, and most horrifying documentaries I have ever seen; absurdist yes, but also a wry allegory on the vanishing substance of language. It should be re-edited with interspersed films of industrial slaughterhouses.
Maybe out of a forgiveable human self-inflicted memory loss, Ace neglects the additional discussion merited by the object of the (merciful) black censorship rectangles. Apparently this young woman (man? female? differentially chromosome-curious? who knows in this milieu) on break from a horror burlesque had some third point of contention to make, equally as lost in validation-marginalization-gender theory, but it was impossible to sense if there were alliances being formed and broken between the three of them before she leaves, Brecht-style, but with a Streets-of-San Francisco pizzazz.
After a while the black rectangles become lazier, showing more and more of the cursed-by-nature burlesque girl, but neither you nor she nor the rectangles care any longer, just a shared shame between the viewer and the viewscreen object and the rectangles. The rectangles become the real protagonist in this Gramscian Theater of the Macabre.
In the end, exhausted from arguing, they look at each other with the slow realization that they have achieved their own shared hell. They all speak words, words so utterly stripped of meaning that they are only the braying of dogs.