House of Self-Indulgence

When I think of the 1990s, the last thing that comes to mind is great horror. In fact, I can't think of any horror movies from that particular ten year period that are worthy of the unique brand of praise I like to dole out on a regular basis. Sure, there are lots of cool horror flicks from 1990, 1991, 1992, and 1993. But those years are basically the late '80s (the last gasp of a dead decade, if you will). Try finding anything of note that was made beyond early '90s, and you will find yourself watching I Still Know What You Did Last Summer on a loop (my God, how did I get here?). Which is why I was somewhat taken aback by the undiluted awesomeness that Cemetery Man (a.k.a. DellaMorte DellaMore) was putting out there. I know, I shouldn't be surprised–after all, it was directed by Michele Soavi (pronounced: me-káy-lay so-áh-vee), the genius behind such films as Stage Fright and The Sect, and the story is based on the Tiziano Sclavi novel of the same name (his comic book "Dylan Dog" was apparently an influence as well)–but the last thing I expected to find was a darkly funny tale about an impotent "engineer" who enjoys reading the phone book and shoots zombie boy scouts in the head for a living. Hell, even the film's mentally challenged, comically rotund sidekick has a romantic subplot, and he barely grunts more than two words. You can't see it right away, but this film is special. Call me a sick twist dangling in a perverted wind, but the moment our "hero" shoots a bespectacled nun in the eye (just because she told him he couldn't smoke in the hospital's intensive care unit) was when I first realized that this film is not your typical zombie flick. And, by the way, I'm a little uncomfortable calling this film a "zombie flick," as it's not really about them. You could tell that the film wasn't just by observing the devil-may-care attitude Rupert Everett exudes while dispatching the so-called "returners."

They [the zombies] are more of a nuisance than an actual threat. The frailties of a human heart, on the other hand, play a bigger part in the world of Cemetery Man, as the love Francesco Dellamorte (Rupert Everett) feels for a mysterious widow (Anna Flachi), the new mayor's girlfriend (Anna Falchi), and a local prostitute (Anna Falchi) are what dominate the proceedings. Wow, that's a lot of acting heavy lifting for a someone so top heavy. What I mean is, Anna Falchi doesn't look like the kind of actress who's equipped to take on one role, let alone three. Of course, I was completely off base in my assumption, as Anna Falchi manages to give each incarnation of the woman who vexes the film's morbid protagonist a distinct personality. You think I'm kidding about him being vexed? Check this out, he forces a doctor to castrate him when he learns that one of Anna Falchi's alter egos has an erection phobia. Don't worry, though, the doctor opts for chemical castration instead of the old snip-a-roo.

Shooting returners in the head with his trusty six shooter seven days after being laid to rest has so commonplace at the Buffalora Cemetery, that he can't even seem to muster a sly smile while he casually ventilates their rotting skulls. It's true, every once and a while he gets to crush their heads with a shovel. But it's safe to say that Francesco Dellamorte is in a bit of a rut.

This changes, however, when Dellamorte spots "the most beautiful living woman I have ever seen" walking with a funeral procession. There to bury her dead husband, the widow (Anna Falchi) is obviously sad. But Francesco doesn't care, he must talk to her. However, shooting the dead with a brain-destroying accuracy and chatting up shapely Italian women are two totally different things. In other words, he blows it. Wondering if he'll ever get another chance to talk her, Francesco mulls over his options. Luckily, the widow is quite punctual when it comes to putting flowers on his dead husband's grave.

Ossuary: A container or receptacle, such as an urn or a vault, for holding the bones of the dead.

Who would have thought the cemetery's ossuary would turn out to be the reason the widow takes a liking to Francesco. Personally, I thought Rupert Everett's handsomeness was going to be the deciding factor. But, no, it was the cemetery's fully-stacked ossuary that made the widow's Italian pussy ache with desire.

Even though she's wearing a black veil over her face, you could easily tell that the widow was turned on by the ragged clothing, the bones, the tree roots, the wetness, and the general creepiness of the ossuary. Hey, whatever floats your boat, honey.

Running off in a huff after they started to make out (she doesn't want to dishonour he husband's memory), Francesco finds the widow standing in the moonlight (just one of the films many stunning images). Well, since she ran off, it's obvious that the widow has done some impromptu soul searching, and eventually decides that having sexual intercourse on her husband's grave with Rupert Everett is not only the correct course of action, it's the only sane one.

Was it, though? Whatever do you mean? It's Rupert Everett. So, yeah. Of course it was the "correct" thing to do. But her husband "returns" during a post-coital lull and bites her. I guess that's one of the negatives about having sex on the graves of loved ones in cemeteries known for having somewhat of a zombie problem.

Looking at him, you wouldn't think that Gnaghi (François Hadji-Lazaro), Francesco's developmentally challenged assistant, would turn out to be such a compelling character. After all, he's sharing the screen with Rupert Everette and Anna Falchi. But, to put it bluntly, Gnaghi rules! In town to meet with the mayor, Francesco, who has brought along Gnaghi, is there to talk business. When all of a sudden, Gnaghi spots Valentina Scanarotti (Fabiana Formica) sitting across the table from him. Who is she, you ask? Why she's the mayor's adorable teenage daughter. And judging by the amount of vomit that spews from his mouth (most of it landing on Valentina, causing her fly backwards in her chair), it's clear that Gnaghi is in love.

As expected, the puke approach wasn't a very effective method when it came to picking up the mayor's daughter. Distraught, Gnaghi runs home crying. Oh, poor Gnaghi. Why can't you catch a break? Wait a minute. What's this? Word on the street is that Valentina was just decapitated in a terrible motorcycle accident, one that also killed her biker boyfriend Claudio and a bus filled with boy scouts. Yay! Gnaghi is going to so pleased. What the hell? Don't you see? In roughly seven days, Gnaghi can begin wooing Valentina's severed head.

Of course, before the courtship of Valentina's severed head can begin, Francesco and Gnaghi must to fend off the hordes of zombie boy scouts that are about to come their way.

Speaking of cemeteries, did you know I used to cut through a cemetery when I walked to school? And get this, I didn't really have to. You see, there were two options when it came to walking to school. The first involved traversing the grounds of a Catholic school and the other was the cemetery option. And even though the former was somewhat quicker, I usually went with the latter. Unfortunately, the crowd/unruly mob I rolled with eventually shunned the cemetery root. Leaving me with a difficult decision. And that being, to quote "Subdivisions" by Rush, "conform or be cast out."

That's fascinating and all, but would you walk through the cemetery featured in Cemetery Man? Well, let's take a look at the pluses and minuses, shall we? On the plus side: You might spot the hunky watchman and his shapely Italian girlfriend having sex on a tombstone. As for the minuses? Duh, flesh-eating zombies. Actually, the fact that it's so damn hilly was the cemetery's biggest minus. And I ain't walking up no fucking hill to get to school. Someone get my ass a bus pass, stat!

The film gets increasingly dark and twisted when Death (who manifests himself by using the charred pages of a burnt phone book) tells Francesco Dellamorte to just kill the living. The logic being that it will save him the trouble of having to shoot them when they inevitably emerge from their coffins. He also starts to wonder what the rest of the world looks like (he has spent most of his life in the cemetery). Complicating matters even more is when different versions of Anna Falchi start to show up. My favourite, of course, being Zombie Falchi.

At the end of the day, I was most enamoured with the relationship between Gnaghi and Valentina's severed head (which he keeps in his broken television). We only get a brief glimpses of its majesty, but from what I saw, it was downright squee-worthy. In fact, I would have liked to have seen a spin-off that featured these two; a sitcom or maybe even a mini-series. The obvious title being, "Head Over Heels," the less obvious one being, "Undiagnosed Schizophrenic Loves Teenage Head." Oh, and fans of unorthodox camera angles will love the scene where Valentina's head lunges at her father's neck. Anyway, Cemetery Man is easily one of the best horror films of the 1990s. Oh, and keep an eye out for Michele Soavi regular Barbara Cupisti as a college student (her presence was sorely missed in The Sect).

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"What's that over there? Oh, it's just a bird." Hello, before I go any further, I would just like to quickly inform you that particular line of dialogue is one of the few hings that makes Cannibal Terror a totally worthwhile experience. It's true, I had to wade knee-deep through a mile of festering garbage to hear it uttered, but when the line finally spews from the mouth of Silvia Solar, and we're shown stock footage of a bird sitting in a tree (the same exact footage of a bird we saw at an earlier point in the film), I fell headfirst into a five second giddy fit. While I'll be the first to admit that five seconds doesn't sound like whole lot of time for one to engage in an action that contained enough giddiness to be considered full-on by any giddy means. But as those who have seen the film can properly attest, five seconds of giddiness is as good at it gets. Just for the record, the reason I enjoyed the bird line so much is because it's the kind scene you might find in a parody of a bad movie. However, this film, which is directed by Alain Deruelle and co-written by an uncredited Jess Franco (Devil Hunter), is no parody, it's deadly serious. Sure, I would have probably been a tad more forgiving had Jess Franco directed the film instead of this Alain Deruelle fella. But he didn't, so get over it. Oh, I will. It's just that Monsieur Deruelle doesn't know how to film a shapely woman walking down the street if his life depended on it. In fact, someone should ban him from owning and operating a camera, because he doesn't have the pervert's eye. The pervert's what? The pervert's eye. All European men are born with the eyes of a pervert, but it's up to the individual to maintain the health and well-being of their perverted peepers. And clearly the director of this barely competent cannibal opus has not done that.

The scene where the gorgeous Montserrat Salvador walks down the street was botched beyond belief. Of course, I'm not saying the entire scene should been nothing but close-up shots of her undulating buttocks. I just thought shooting the scene with a long lens from start to finish was a mistake from a filmmaking point-of-view. And, on top of that, it's not a smart way to introduce one of the film's key characters, as it keeps us at a distance.

Meanwhile, her bumbling accomplices, Mario (Jess Franco regular, Antonio Mayans) and Roberto (Gérard Lemaire), are down at the docks breaking into a boat in broad daylight. Well, at least they try to break-in to one. You see, while Roberto keeps watch, Mario is struggling to gain entrance to the cabin. Which is weird, because all that stands in his way is a flimsy-looking door. Anyway, as they continue to wallow in their own ineptitude, I couldn't help but notice that they're all getting close-ups. Nothing against Antonio and Gérard, especially Antonio, who's quite handsome, but I don't want to be staring at their stupid faces. Eventually breaking into the boat (the door was unlocked), Mario and Roberto make off with a bag of miscellaneous loot.

As the shapely Lina (Montserrat Salvador), perhaps named after Lina Romay (after all, their respective booties have a similar buoyancy about them), makes her way through the streets of an unnamed resort town, her womanly hips swaying side to side with a hypnotic brand of child-bearing confidence, Madame Danville (Silvia Solar) is getting her nails done at a beauty salon. A mature goddess in a pink on pink summer dress with a giant slit up the side, Madame Danville, sitting with her legs crossed as the manicurist works on her left hand, decides to let her daughter Florence ("The Little Annabelle," that's what it says in the credits) play out outside.

This decision, as we will soon find out, is going to having a lasting effect on everyone I just mentioned. You know who else it's going effect? That's right, Florence's father, Monsieur Danville (Jess Franco regular, Olivier Mathot), who Madame Daville and Florence call from the beauty salon. At first, the call seems to revolve you're typical husband and wife bullshit. But all that changes once Florence picks up the phone. I don't know, there's something disturbing about watching Olivier Mathot making cat noises over the telephone while a little girl, whose voice has been dubbed by an adult woman, tries to guess what animal he is.

Have I mentioned that Montserrat Salvador is stunning? If not, I just want to make it clear that, even though Alain Deruelle doesn't know how to film a statuesque woman walking down the street, the sight of Montserrat going for a stroll in her strappy heels and long blue skirt with green flourishes here and there was breathtaking. Now, I'm not 100% sure if Montserrat Salvador is the name of the actress who plays Lina (the credits aren't that reliable), but the name Montserrat Salvador seems to suit her. So, until anyone tells me otherwise, Lina, the sexiest kidnapper to hit the French cannibal circuit in ages, will be known as Montserrat Salvador.

Running into Florence on her way to a bar, Lina has a brief chat with the little scamp. Their conversation, while innocent in nature, is the catalyst for the coming events. Sitting at the bar, drinking her troubles away, Lina rendezvous with her partners in crime, Mario and Roberto; I must say, I was quite envious over the fact Roberto got to grope the softness of Lina's supple hindquarters upon meeting her (she obviously didn't mind as his face remained slap-free for the duration of their stay at the bar). Frustrated that they can't seem to land a big score, Lina, Mario, and Roberto try to come with some new ideas how to make money; the level of their frustration gets to the point where Lina ends up telling Mario, "My ass says go fuck yourself." I don't know what means, but anytime Lina refers her ass, I'm a happy camper.

As they're brainstorming, Lina remembers the little girl she met on the way to the bar. And just like that, a kidnapping scheme is hatched. I wonder how long it will take for the threesome to botch the kidnapping. Oh, sure, the kid was easy to grab (for some strange reason the actual abduction isn't shown). But remember, Mario and Roberto had trouble breaking into an unlocked boat. As expected, a mild snafu occurs, a fourth accomplice ends up in police custody (he was struck by a car while crossing the street), so they end up switching to plan B; which entails them flying to the jungle to wait further instructions.

While their plan is evolving, you'll notice that Montserrat Salvador has changed into a white dress. You better get used this particular garment, because it's going to be clinging to Montserrat's succulent frame for the rest of the movie. And you what? I'm totally at ease with that, as the dress looks fabulous on Montserrat; the matching white strappy heels were not too shabby either. Oh, and keep an eye on Montserrat's face when Roberto is being given instructions over the phone, her reaction acting is top-notch.

After enduring a quick plane ride, Lina, Florence (who doesn't seem to mind the fact that she's been kidnapped), Mario, and Roberto meet Mickey Morris (Miriam Camacho) in a field. Hired to take them to a safe house, Mickey, a luminous double-chinned flower goddess with crimped hair, tells them to hop in her jeep. First, she's got to get them across the border, which might require some trickery. But don't worry, Mickey's got the thighs for the job. Did you just say, "thighs for the job"? I did. Oh, okay. Just checking. The reason I stopped you was because you don't often hear that expression. Well, let me a bit more clear. While Lina, Florence, Mario, and Roberto travel on foot, Mickey needs to get the jeep past the border crossing. Of course, I don't why they couldn't have just driven the jeep the same way they went on foot (it is, after all, an off-road vehicle). But that's not important. What is important that Mickey says, "I know what to do." Call me deranged, but I believe her.

Driving up to the check point, Mickey simply lifts up her orange hippies dress, flashes the guard a bird's eye view of her left thigh, and three seconds later, she's on her merry way. As she's pulling away, one of the guards can be heard saying, "Nice thighs." To which the other guard says, "You can say that again." Are you sitting down? Because the original thigh-praising guard actually says, "Nice thighs," again. Unbelievable! Maybe this movie isn't as bad as I initially lead on? I mean, double-chinned hotties with nice thighs are all I really need for a movie not to suck nowadays.

Unfortunately, Mickey's life is about to come to a tragic end. What do you mean? I'd rather not get into it. Okay, let's just say her world class thighs are about to be consumed by a tribe of cannibals.

Arriving at the safe house, the foursome meet Antonio and his wife Manuela (Pamela Standford from Lorna the Exorcist). Deciding that now is a good time as any to take a bath, Manuela removes her red dress and starts to wash her milfy body in an outdoor tub. She thinks she's alone, but Mario is watching her. Horrified when she discover she's being spied on, she runs into the jungle (which are more like woods, if you think about it). Tying her to a tree, Mario rapes Manuela. It was weird watching one Jess Franco regular treat another Jess Franco regular so shabbily, but this technically isn't a Jess Franco film.

If you thought Mickey's thigh flash was awesome, wait until you see Lina's attempt to seduce Antonio's guitar-playing house boy. Entering the room with a girlish thud, Lina puts her left hand on her left hip, and pretty much dares the house boy not to get hard.

Playing it cool (he barely acknowledges her), the house boy tries his best not to notice the shapely slab of feminine perfection standing before him. Realizing that the house boy isn't going to succumb to her charms so easily, Lina sits down underneath a zebra pelt and crosses her legs. Holding her right leg firmly in the crossed position with both hands for a period of time that can be best described as "lengthy," Lina throws the house boy a sly smile.

The blue macaw perched next to the house boy has no idea what kind of structural metamorphosis is taking place inside his jeans. But since I own a pair of jeans that are similar to the house boy's, I know exactly what's going on in there. Still plucking away at his guitar, the house boy doesn't know it yet, but he's about to come face-to-face with every breeders fantasy; a short-haired brunette built specifically for hot, throbbing, infant-producing sexual intercourse.

Moving closer to the house boy (making sure to push the blue macaw out of the way), Lina sits down, re-crosses her legs, and goes in for the kill. Allowing him free reign to massage the corporeal viscosity out of her calves and thighs, the house boy metaphorically dines on Lina's wonderfully proportioned body with the a reckless form of heterosexual abandon.

As you might have guessed, I was quite taken with Lina's encounter with the guitar-playing house boy. It was not only sexy as hell, it also managed to relieve the icky feeling I got from the rape scene. On top of that, it's the only scene I wasn't tempted to fast forward past. Granted, the drunken, post-rape party sequence has its moments; one in particular features Montserrat Salvador staring directly at the camera during her dance number. But the scenes where Lina, Florence, Roberto, and the house boy (don't ask me what happened to Mario) wander the jungle were downright tedious. Pursued by Monsieur and Madame Danville, who managed to track down the kidnappers (Monsieur Danville calls a border guard a "cunt" at one point), the sheer amount of jungle wandering in this film was too much to take at times.

The only instances you need to look at the screen during their exhaustive jungle march are when Silvia Solar thinks she sees something in the trees ("it's just a bird") and the part where Lina lifts up her dress in a veiled attempt not get it wet while walking through a stream, and, in the process, reveals more of her gams. Hey, man, if there's one thing Cannibal Terror gets right, it's the amount of times we see Montserrat Salvador showing off her tasty thighs.

Everything else, on the other hand, is bungled beyond belief. The so-called cannibals were some of the least convincing "natives" ever to be captured on film, the film's editing is sloppy, the gut-munching scenes were bland and repetitive, the continuity is piss poor, you could see cars traveling on a nearby road during the scenes that are supposed to take place at the cannibal tribe's remote jungle village, and...well, actually, I could spend all day listing things that are wrong with this movie. But truth be told, I'd rather not do that. If you like buxom women with short hair and sturdy legs, one's who might respond to name Montserrat, then I'd say it's your duty to see this film. As for everyone else, steer clear of this abomination.

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Is there anything more Goth than watching your annoying sister slowly die while creepily stroking a Siamese cat? Actually, I'm not really asking a question, I'm simply stating a fact. Oh, you could try looking for something that oozes a purer, more unadulterated form of Goth. But you needn't look no further than Iva Janžurová, who plays "Viki," in the excessively dainty yet stylishly morbid Morgiana; the Gothiest hunk of Gothiness that has ever Gothed in front of my tired Goth eyes. Which is saying a lot. I mean, I've seen the Sisters of Mercy live in concert. Sure, it was the late '90s and I left midway through the show because the buckles on my winklepickers were pinching my feet like something fierce, but I made the effort; no matter how misguided and sad it might have been. In hindsight, I should have gone to see Rhea's Obsession instead, who were playing at Lee's Palace, a venue that is a mere stone's throw from Bathurst subway station, the very same night. Wait a second. Okay, before you ask, yes, I'll admit, going to see the Sisters of Mercy in the late '90s was kinda lame. And...No, what I wanted to ask you was: What kind of name is "Viki" for someone who purportedly oozes so much unadulterated Gothiness? Excellent question. You see, her name is actually Viktoria (a Goth-friendly name if I ever heard one), but her fair-haired, non-Goth sister, Klára, insists on calling her "Viki." Now, is that any reason for her to try to poison her? Of course it is. Don't you see what she's doing? She's trying to undermine her Goth cred. And I don't have to tell you, but a Goth without the proper credentials, is a weak Goth, and, some might say, a tepid Goth. In other words, I saw Viktoria as the victim of the piece, not the villain. All she wanted was to be treated with respect, and to have the moderately handsome lawyer in the tailcoat notice her refined beauty. But Klára wouldn't have any of that. In fact, the reason the attention was not forthcoming was because Klára had already distracted the moderately handsome lawyer with her curly red hair, propensity for smelling flowers, and less extreme approach when it came to applying eye makeup. Most lawyers, moderately handsome or otherwise, will always choose to penetrate the vagina that is attached to the sister who is more impaired in the meshugana department.

It's a sad state of affairs, but most men tend to lean towards sunny and warm, as supposed to dark and weird, when it comes to courting a mate. It doesn't matter that Viktoria (Iva Janžurová) and Klára (Iva Janžurová) are identical twins, their personalities and their sense of style are completely different.

Lacking the exploitative elements I've grown accustomed to over the past couple of years, Morgiana bypasses sleaze and tawdriness for elegance, scenes that are drenched in dreamlike atmosphere, and, of course, the occasional implementation of point-of-view shots that are shot from the perspective of a precocious Siamese cat.

Opening at the funeral of their father, Viktorie and Klára are told what their inheritance will be: the former gets the residence of "Green Flute" and and assortment of jewels, while the latter gets everything else. That's right, if Viktoria didn't have enough reasons to murder her sister before, she's got plenty now. After that seed of evil is planted in our heads (why did Viktoria's father snub her in his will?), we're treated to the sinister sounds of Luboš Fišer, as his combination of eerie flute work and monotonous drumming accompany the equally sinister opening credits (shots of colourfully bizarre paintings are shown intermittently).

As Klára is getting ready for bed, staring at herself in the mirror, as usual, Viktoria, who is wearing a red slip, sticks her gorgeous visage in her bedroom door and tells her sister that her face annoys her. Okay, before you say, "Oh, no she didn't," and accuse Viktoria of being a troublemaker, you should know that Klára's face is annoying. But don't they have the same face? Yeah, I guess. However, while Viktoria is always pursing her lips–you know, like a normal person, Klára is constantly giggling like a brainless twit.

The following morning we get our first view from the point-of-view of Viktoria's cat, Morgiana. Hey, that's the same name as the movie. Very observant, my doltish friend. Anyway, the flute from opening credits accompanies Morgiana as she make her way to the breakfast table where Klára is currently sitting. Even though we know Viktoria is up to something, our attention is focused squarely on her sea green eye makeup and red lipstick outlined with black, as this is our first clear view of the work of art that is Viktoria's face. Reducing me to a puddle of pure giddiness, Iva Janžurová's makeup in Morgiana was too much for my on the cusp of being gay brain to handle at times. Realizing that this only her second scene, and that the movie has just started, I quickly composed myself, and prepared to be immersed in what will surely be the makeup event of the year.

You really get a sense of their contrast in styles during an afternoon garden party, as Klára is playing with swans and flirting with Glenar (Petr Čepek), the moderately handsome lawyer I was telling you about earlier, while Viktoria lurks in the shadows, popping out every once in a while to make the occasional catty comment. Feeling sorry for her sister, Klára instructs Glenar to talk with her–you know, humour her, make her feel better. Listening to their conversation from the aforementioned shadows, Viktoria overhears Glenar tell Klára that he'd rather be with her and that he doesn't like Viktoria. What the fuck? He doesn't like Viktoria?!? Insanity.

Seeking advice from a tarot card reader, Viktoria is basically told that the queen of hearts is standing in her way. And you don't have to be a genius to figure out that Klára is the queen of hearts. The dramatic music can only mean one thing: it's time for Viktoria to go down to vial store to pick up a receptacle that is suitable for containing poison. If I was in the market for a vial, one that came with a swanky carrying case, I would have gone straight to Siren Clothing on Queen West, as I distinctly remember seeing vials for sale there. Unfortunately, they closed in 2005, so my vial needs aren't as secure as I thought they were. At any rate, getting back to Viktoria for a second. Sporting one of her trademark black lace dresses, Viktoria watches her sister smelling the roses in the garden; we'll soon learn that Viktoria prefers the smell of cut flowers.

It only makes sense that filmmaker Juraj Herz (Ferat Vampire) would include a scene where Viktoria is putting on her iconic makeup, as he knows the audience is dying to know how she applies it. After she's done putting her makeup on, Viktoria is changing into some Goth-friendly attire, when all of a sudden, she notices that one of the masons working on the exterior of the house is peering into her window. Covering herself almost immediately, the mason reacts indifferently to the sight of Viktoria's supple body. This, of course, angers Viktoria, as it appeared that she had deliberately allowed the mason to catch a peek at her supple body. Much like people nowadays, who seem to go out of their way to let complete strangers to view images of their unclothed junk, Viktoria was hoping to attain positive reinforcement pertaining to her body. But sadly, the reinforcement she received wasn't even close to being positive.

Oh, and when I said that Viktoria was "changing into some Goth-friendly attire," I didn't mean to imply that the clothes she changing out of were not Goth-friendly, as everything about Viktoria is Goth-friendly. What I should have said was that Viktoria was changing into some clothes that were even more Goth-friendly, making sure to put the emphasis on "more."

After poisoning Klára's water during breakfast, Viktoria and Morgiana head back to Green Flute to await the results (the poison apparently takes time to work). When she arrives at her residence, Viktoria is greeted by her staff, who are all young women with reddish hair. The other cool thing about her staff was the fact that they all wore blue hosiery, blue gloves, blue puffy shirts, and these dark green dresses; in other words, very chic, in a rustic sort of way. As you might expect, Viktoria starts wonder if the poison she used to kill her sister was actually poison. Agonizing over this quandary (she has a feeling the person she bought the poison from might have cheated her), Viktoria decides to test the poison on the dog belonging to one of the help's kids.

As the poison starts to slowly take effect on her sister (symptoms include: an abnormal desire to ingest liquids and strange hallucinations), it would seem that Viktoria is suffering from a bit of poisoners remorse. Or is she? It's true, I don't know what compelled her to go down to the beach in order to throw a large rock at the head of one of her servants, but it must have something to do with the guilt she feels over poisoning her sister. If it doesn't, well, I would still date her in a heartbeat. Yeah, like I would totally date her. More like worship the ground she walks on. In fact, I would be honoured if Viktoria took the time out of her busy schedule to poison me. As it's been a long standing dream of mine to be murdered by a woman who wears an excessive amount of eye makeup.

When the blackmailers start coming out of the woodwork, you know the shit is about to hit the proverbial fan. Shut the front door! How dare you sully Viktoria's name by associating her with a fan that is about to be covered with globs of fecal matter. I'm sorry. As all hell begins to break loose (that's better), Viktoria's paranoia seems to go into overdrive. Whether placating blackmailers who wear fingerless gloves and sort of look like Sharon Mitchell, or being repeatedly forced to walk along windy cliff faces in inappropriate clothing, Viktoria has got her work cut out for her.

Convinced for the duration of the film that Iva Janžurová was performing alongside her twin sister, let's call her, Anezka Janžurová, I was shocked to discover that there was no Anezka. That's right, Iva plays both sisters. Now, I wasn't shocked because I felt tricked or anything like that (the sisters rarely appear onscreen at the same time). I was shocked because Viktoria and Klára are so dissimilar to one another. Sure, they have the same face. But like I said before, things like, fashion, makeup, temperament, attitude, and body language played a huge role in creating two distinctly different characters. It's a testament to Iva Janžurová's talent as an actress that she was able to pull off such a feat so effortlessly.

Using camera angles shot from the point-of-view of a Siamese cat, featuring a dainty wardrobe (costumes by Irena Greifová) that seemed to come directly from the mind of a sullen teen who has been reading nothing but Charles Baudelaire for two weeks straight, crazy eye makeup (the lipstick is pretty kooky, too), trippy nightmare sequences, and a stunning lead performance, Morgiana is like watching a novel. Except instead of words, it uses sounds and images to tell its story. In other words, you could call it a filmed novel. Replete with Goth-approved clothing and surrealistic imagery, this fanciful tale of two vastly different sisters will tickle all right pleasure receptors on those who like their costume dramas to have a malevolent edge to them.

Walk up to anyone who owns an expensive sports car and ask them what kind of engine is under the hood, there's a good chance you'll be getting a guided tour of said engine mere moments after the question was asked. The desire to show off the complicated apparatus that helps propel their vehicle is something that lies within almost every driver on earth. However, what if your engine doesn't contain an intake manifold, a Johnson rod or spark plugs? What if your car has a vampire instead of an engine? And in place of gasoline, it uses blood, your blood. Do you mean there's a vampire living underneath the car's hood, or do you mean the actual car is a vampire? I'm not sure. It could be a metaphor for soaring gas prices. But then again, I've never purchased gas. Though, I've heard the sensation one feels after filling up their tank with gas is akin to feeling as if you have been sucked dry. The manufactures of the Škoda Super Sport 1100 in Ferat Vampire (a.k.a. Der Autovampir), a deeply weird film about a car that may or may not be a bloodthirsty vampire, don't want you to know what's under their hood. A veiled attack against capitalism, an ironic jab at the ridiculousness that is the automobile industry, and an inspirational tale of a nerdy doctor who gets more Czechoslovak tail than the display only bidet at your local Bed Bath and Beyond, director Juraj Herz (Morgiana) takes his bizarre premise and runs with it; well, "drives with it," is more like it, as there's not much running in this film. Is all this an elaborate rouse to drum up interest for Ferat's prototype sports car, or is there something truly sinister going on? Interesting question. In fact, I'm surprised you were able to pick up on the film's satirical tendencies. Are you sure you didn't just read someone else's take on the film and are currently trying to pass it off as your own? No, I'm afraid this all me.

You know how they say, "any publicity is good publicity." Well, the makers of the car at the centre of this odd undertaking seem to be hedging their bets on that concept, as the publicity mad company seem to be encouraging the wild speculation that is swirling around their product.

I've often wondered, how many times a day does your average ambulance driver think to his or herself that they could easily make the transition from driving ambulances to driving rally cars? No, seriously. I've often wondered that. Well, at the beginning of Ferat Vampire (a.k.a. Upír z Feratu), a blonde ambulance driver named Mima (Dagmar Veškrnová-Havlová) seems to think she can do just that. Of course, it doesn't hurt that she used to be a race car driver before her ambulance driving days. But still, driving ambulances and driving rally cars aren't quite the same thing. For starters, ambulances are slow and clunky compared to rally cars, which are specially built road-legal cars. Also, you need to have nerves of steel to drive rally cars professionally.

Actually, now that I think about it, ambulance drivers are perfectly suited for rally car racing. And it would seem that the makers of a new car by Ferat, a German motor company, think this as well. How else can you explain the strange events that occur on a rural road just outside of Prague? Driving her ambulance, along with Dr. Marek (Jirí Menzel), Mima is hounded by the prototype for Ferat's latest car. After the Ferat disappears, Mimi and Dr. Marek realize the address they were called to doesn't exist, and start to wonder who would do such a thing. Suddenly, the black Ferat reappears. Opening the car's unique door (both its doors and windshield are pushed up), the curly-haired driver of the Ferat, Luisa Tomášová (Jana Brezková) sticks her legs out and awaits Mima and Dr. Marek. Since she's obviously still steamed about almost being run off the road, Dr. Marek suggests that he do most of the talking.

Telling the bespectacled doctor that there's something wrong with her foot, Luisa shows Dr. Marek a foot that is covered in contusions. As Dr. Marek is examining Luisa's foot, Mima decides to sit in the Ferat. Playing her foot on the accelerator, Mima can't help but notice that it's oddly shaped; she even points it out to Dr. Marek.

Advising her to rest her feet, Dr. Marek and Mima hop back in their ambulance and drive off. Call me crazy, but there was something not right about Dr. Marek and Mima's encounter with Luisa. The situation gets even more not right moments later when Dr. Marek and Mima come across Luisa's Ferat turned over on the side of the road. Being a doctor and all, Dr. Marek tries to aid Luisa, who looks like she's been injured. The key word there being "tries," as another ambulance, the media, and members of Team Ferat are already at the scene. How did all these people know that Luisa's car had crashed so quickly? Shoved aside by the throng of reporters and the fleet of Ferat employees (you can spot the people who work for Ferat by their distinctive red and black uniforms), Dr. Marek is helpless to stop Luisa from being carted away in this other ambulance.

Meanwhile, back at Ferat headquarters, Madame Ferat (Zdenka Procházková) and her gang of leather-clad sycophants are reviewing the tapes of the event that occurred at the side of the road. When Dr. Marek appears onscreen to tell the reporters that there's something wrong with the car Luisa was driving, the room grows quiet. What interest could Ferat have in a nondescript doctor who pines over an ambulance driver. Speaking of which, has anyone seen Mima? The last time I saw her she was getting in a car with one of those Ferat assholes; I think it was a guy named Kross (Petr Čepek, the moderately handsome lawyer from Morgiana). Either way, I'm worried about her.

Akin to the paranoid thrillers that littered the cinematic landscape of the 1970s, with, of course, a touch of David Cronenberg thrown in there for good measure, Ferat Vampire is many things: A horror film with science fiction overtones. A satire of mindless consumerism. But it's also an attack on driving. Think about it. Driving is one the most unnatural activities the human body partakes in during the modern era. A morgue employee, one who apparently performed the autopsy on Luisa Tomášová, informs Dr. Marek that spinal cords and automobiles don't mix. In other words, people's bodies aren't equipped to handle the trauma that can be inflicted by a car in motion. Anyway, when Dr. Marek goes to look at Luisa's body, it's missing. Which is too bad, because according the morgue employee, her foot appeared as though it had been bitten off.

If the mild-mannered doctor's imagination wasn't already going into overdrive, a "scientist" named Kaplan (Jan Schmid) makes sure it is when he starts filling Dr. Marek's head with all sorts of outlandish nonsense. The kicker being that Ferat's cars run on human blood. Arguing that the fine folks at Ferat have made an startling advancement in the field of biological machinery, Kaplan basically tells him that their car kills all those who drive it.

In an attempt to convince him that his theory is sound, Kaplan shows Dr. Marek an old vampire movie. While not the most common method to persuade someone into thinking there's a car out there that runs on human blood, it makes sense that a company would want its customers to become addicted to their product. You see, once the car gets a taste of your blood, you will find that you won't be able to stop driving it. Which is exactly what happens to Mima, who has apparently signed a contract to be Ferat's newest test driver. This causes Dr. Marek to become more determined than ever to unveil the truth, as he cares deeply for Mima. And why wouldn't he? She's freakin' adorable.

Still curious to know what happened to Luisa Tomášová (he would really like to know if her foot was in fact bitten off like the morgue guy said it was), Dr. Marek heads to the church where Luisa's coffin is lying in state. Finding an empty coffin filled with dirt, Dr. Marek meets Luisa's twin sister Klára Tomášová. Also curious to know what happened to Luisa, Klára and Dr. Marek decide to share resources. And, of course, have sex.

I don't know how Dr. Marek managed to pull this off, but watching him score with the ladies was inspirational. Only problem being that both his sexual encounters in Ferat Vampire end with him being covered with blood. Don't ask.

At the end of the day, we all, sooner or later, become whores to capitalism. And Dr. Marek is no different. Signing a deal for 60, 000 korunas, Dr. Marek is told by Ferat to write an article about their car. Now, I don't know what Ferat are up to, but Dr. Marek simply wants to get close to the car. Which the contract he signs allows him to do. In the film's most memorable, non-leg crossing scene, Dr. Marek approaches the car in the Ferat showroom (a slick space filled with neon and smoke). Noticing that the car seems to be breathing (its hood throbs same way the television set does in Videodrome), Dr. Marek puts his hand inside. And, well, let's just say, things get a little messy.

Did you just say, "non-leg crossing scene"? Oh, yeah, the leg crossing scene. Oh my god, can you believe that I almost forgot to examine this scene? During one of the many conversations that take place between Klára Tomášová and Dr. Marek, Klára decides to sit down on the couch. And as her ass is hitting the cushion, she completes the sitting down process by crossing her legs in a forceful manner. Unwittingly creating the Czech leggy moment to end all Czech leggy moments, one that oozed an untoward amount of Czech legginess, Klára realizes that she might have overplayed her leggy card (all Czech women have this card in their corporeal deck of cards) and quickly covers her crossed legs with the material attached to the bottom half of her robe.

Obviously having seconds thoughts about her leg-based sheepishness, Klára Tomášová chooses to re-implement her legginess moments later while sitting on a small bookshelf. While not as forceful or in your face as the couch display, Klára Tomášová makes it clear that her legs are in total control of the situation. And judging by Dr. Marek's crumpled demeanour, they're definitely that...in total control.

A pleasant surprise, in that, I had no idea Czechoslovak cinema was still being weird and fanciful into 1980s, Ferat Vampire makes a mockery of the advertising industry and the lengths some companies will go to get publicity. Culminating at the Škoda rally, complete with time trials, the truth slowly starts come out. Or does it? Either way, the film, on top of being an excellent showcase for Jana Břežková's Czech legginess and Dagmar Veškrnová-Havlová's cuteness, is a curious slab of Eastern European sci-fi horror. Oh, and did anyone else notice the word "ferat" can be found in the word "Nosferatu"? At any rate, see you at this year's Moscow International Motor Show (Московская Международная Автомобильная выставка).

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Oh, D'Lana Tunnell. Your drool-inducing aura causes my engine to operate at a level that is on par with the standards and regulations put forth by the Canadian Motor Vehicle Safety Act. Her aura did what? Okay, how 'bout this: Gently place my genitals between two slices of chickasaw fried bread! The gorgeousness that is D'Lana Tunnell is a real live barn burner...with hash browns on the side. That's a little better. I mean, you're on the cusp of making sense. But you're going to have to drop the histrionic double-talk, and, not to mention, be a helluva lot more succinct, if you want people to understand what you're getting at. Okay, I think D'Lana Tunnell is pretty and junk. There, are you happy? Very much so. Now stop sulking and tell the fine folks what you're babbling about. Yeah, I suppose I should do that. I don't mean to be the bearer of bad news, but it's the mid-1990s...again. Are you serious? Does that mean we have to watch Caroline in the City (a television sitcom about a small group of white supremacists living in a yuppie-fied version of New York City) and listen to grunge music on compact disc? Not necessarily. It may be the mid-90s, but don't tell that to writer-director John Michael McCarthy (The Sore Losers and Superstarlet A.D.). Ignoring the cultural trends and styles that engulfed the mid-section of the decade like an out of control head cold, Teenage Tupelo is here to prove once and for all that fully-fashioned nylon stockings are the epitome of sexy and that organized man-hating is alive and well.

Encased in black and white nylons whenever possible, the ladies (i.e. D'Lana Tunnell) of Teenage Tupolo are goddesses. Photographed in the most loving manner possible, in black and white and in not-so glorious techicolor, J.M.M. obviously worships the ground that D'Lana Tunnell walks on. You think I'm kidding around? Closely observe the way he shoots Miss Tunnell walking up and down the alleyways of Tupelo, Mississippi. I'm convinced that most of you will be jealous of the each slab of concrete that is lucky enough to feel the pressure of her exquisite pumps as they plunge violently into their jagged crevices with every nuanced step by the time you've finished watching her walk in this here film.

All hail, D'Lana Tunnell! Queen of the mid-90s. I'm not trying to cause any trouble, but I don't think you're ready to drink in the awesomeness that D'Lana Tunnell's mind-blowing curves were putting out there in this low budget, but aesthetically precise motion picture. You don't think so, eh? Well, I didn't want to bring this up, but I've drinking in the corporeal essence of shapely ladies before you were even born. In other words, I can safely say that D'Lana Tunnell is one of the most alluring actresses to grace the silver screen.

If she is, as you say, "one of the most alluring actresses," why has D'Lana Tunnell only ever appeared in three movies? What are you nuts? Some of the greatest performances of all-time were given by actresses, and, I suppose, actors, who only ever appeared in one or two movies. And besides, everyone knows that quality is more important than quantity.

It's funny, but I started watching Teenage Tupelo as a lark. What I mean is, I didn't expect to be moved in such a profound manner. But there I was, moved like a randy jaybird at his daughter's adults only debutante ball.

One of the first things we hear is the sound of a guitar string being plucked. As its reverberations began to bounce around my ear canal, I thought to myself: That's not a synthesizer. Oh, you're so right, my Gary Numan-loving friend. It's definitely not a synthesizer. But you know what? I didn't seem to mind. You see, the guitars used in this film had a certain sleazy twang about them that wasn't lame at all. In fact, I think I can safely state that the guitars, and the music in general in this film, all composed by a band called Impala, was pretty fucking cool.

Well, except maybe for the impromptu rock ditty washed up rock star Johnny Tu-Note (Hugh Brooks) sings to his girlfriend D'Lana Fargo (D'Lana Tunnell), who's smoking a cigarette in a treehouse on the outskirts of Tupelo, Mississippi, while not wearing any pants, as I thought it was a tad on the cheesy side (he does get his pants back, though). But other than that, it's garage rock heaven.

As Johnny Tu-Note and his pants recede into the night, we follow D'Lana home. Judging by what we see at first glance, it would seem that she lives with her mother, Wanda Fargo (Wanda Wilson), and her young son Pookie Fargo (Phillip Tubb). Oh, and if you're thinking that Johnny is Pookie's father, think again (the boy's father doesn't seem to be in the picture). Speaking of pictures, D'Lana wants to know why her mother broke her framed photo of Johnny Tu-Note, while her mother wants to know where she was all night. They go back and forth like this for a little while until they both end up rolling around on the floor.

The following morning, D'Lana answers a knock at the door, only to find two squares who want her to sign a petition that would lead to the banning of Topsy Turvy. Who's she, you ask? Well, according to the two squares, she's a stripper turned movie star from Memphis, and they don't want that kind of riff-raff defiling their fair city. Too busy to sign, D'Lana leaves for work. Starting a new job as a waitress at Johnnie's Drive-In, we get our first taste of Tunnellvision, the cinematic technique John Michael McCarthy uses to capture the beauty of D'Lana Tunnell while in motion.

Cutting through the Priceville Cemetery and walking along the railroad tracks, the sight of D'Lana Tunnell commuting to work on foot in her waitress uniform (the heels of her white pumps pounding into the dewy grass) is the stuff of ambulation legend. Suddenly, she passes a group of tough chicks in black working on their car. Telling her that she looks like Topsy Turvy, D'Lana is confused as to why people keep mentioning her. Anyway, the tough chicks apparently worship Topsy Turvy, a, like I said, stripper turned actress, who has also dabbled in nudism.

Hanging out Johnnie's Drive-In, Johnny Tu-Note (who's flirting with a waitress named Cindy) learns that D'Lana is pregnant (her mother called the drive-in). As you would expect, Johnny denies that it's his. But Wanda doesn't seem to care (she's got a scheme brewing). Arriving late for work, D'Lana is immediately fired the second she enters the drive-in. Realizing she's got nothing to lose, D'Lana attacks Cindy (Cindy Blair) with a fork; you go, girl!

Leaving in a huff, D'Lana hits the bricks. And you know what that means? It's time to watch D'Lana walk some more. Yeah, but get this, she does it in nothing but a black bra and leopard print panties (only the crotch area is leopard print, the rest is black) this time around. Doffing her waitress uniform in disgust, D'Lana takes to the back streets of Tupelo with a thunderous aplomb. Her mighty hips swaying with every step, the white pumps attached to D'Lana's long legs (her pale thighs glowing in the morning sun) make mincemeat out of the dilapidated concrete.

When the bra goes, D'Lana puts on her coat; yeah, I forgot to mention that she was carrying a coat (with a fur collar), sorry about that. Moving on, Johnny Tu-Note catches up D'Lana and confronts her in an alleyway (he's worried that she might try to black mail him). But don't worry, the tough chicks in black D'Lana met earlier, Franky (Kristen Hobbs), a long-haired brunette wearing sunglasses, Ruthy (Sophie Couch), a short-haired brunette sans sunglasses, and Joey (Dawn Ashcroft), a blonde wearing sunglasses, come to her rescue.

She doesn't know it yet, but D'Lana is in league with Thee Madd Madd Manhaters, a tight-knit gang of forthright dykes who hate men (duh) and despise country music. Or maybe she does know who she's league with. What do I know? Maybe if I stopped staring at D'Lana's soft, pillowy lips for more than five seconds, I might be able give you a proper reading about what she knows and what she doesn't know.

Even though Franky has called dibs on her, that doesn't stop Joey from dreaming about D'Lana in colour. Lounging in black stockings and eating a banana in what looks like a basement, D'Lana is a sight to behold. Actually, I'm not entirely sure whose dream it is. I mean, Franky is chained to the wall (in black stockings), but Joey (also in black stockings) is bringing Franky bread and water. Either way, the scene is hot.

Embarrassed about the Johnny Tu-Note tattoo that she has on one of her butt cheeks (a rotund mound of pale perfection), D'Lana suddenly finds herself hanging from a rope ("On a rope / On a rope / You got me hanging from a rope"). I'm not sure if this scene is supposed to be real or a dream (it's in colour). But whatever it is, it features Satan altering her tattoo.

After going home to change (before you ask, yes, she's sticking with the panties with the leopard print crotch), D'Lana heads out with her new lesbian friends to catch a screening of Topsy Turvy's movie, Trashus Traileris (a seedy slice of "full-throttle sexploitation"), and, of course, try to meet their idol. Navigating male drag racers and protestors ("Hey hey! Ho ho! Nudie cuties have got to go!") in order to get to the theatre, the gals take their seats. The film is about a group of lingerie enthusiasts, including Topsy Turvy (D'Lana Tunnell in a blonde wig), who get an atomic bomb in the mail. If you're wondering what a bunch of lingerie enthusiasts are going to do with an atomic bomb, it was actually a bit of a mix up. Apparently, the atomic bomb was supposed to go to Cuba, but instead was sent to them. Oh, and what did the Cubans get? They got a box full of edible undies.

Everything that occurs in Teenage Tupelo could be seen as a veiled excuse to film D'Lana Tunnell lying, walking, lounging, sitting, or even just standing (with, of course, her hands on her hips), in her underwear. And, to the surprise of virtually no-one, I'm totally at ease with that. A humid blast of campy wind from the deep south, John Michael McCarthy has proven that his taste in music, women, cars, and clothing is right on the money in terms of righteousness.

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Mildly thick and extremely temperamental. If you don't possess any of these qualities. That's okay. We can work things out. But if you do, happen to possess these particular qualities, that is, we're going to get along swimmingly. Featuring more oomph than a coked up drag queen with Tourette's syndrome, the women featured throughout The Sore Losers are a spicy bucket of barbequed fun. Sure, you'll get your ass kicked every so often, and you might even get your feelings hurt. But at the end of the day, all that pain and suffering is totally worth it. Which reminds me. Don't you just love it when a film, especially one you've never heard of, suddenly hits you in the face with an awkward sounding kapow? Well, this kooky slab of sleazy goo, written and directed by John Michael McCarthy (Teenage Tupelo), slapped the mopy smirk off my face, and somehow managed to turn it into the type of grin that may or may not contain tiny pieces of fecal matter. Oh, you mean a "shit-eating grin." Um, I don't think so. You obviously have no idea who you're dealing with. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. Mildly thick and extremely temperamental. Filmed in colour from start to finish, this tale of ultra-conservative, EC comic book-loving aliens who are sent to Earth to kill beatniks in a region not known for having beatniks might be one of them satirical homages thingies, but its take on femininity is not even close to being unstable. In fact, I would call it downright healthy. As I was saying, the women that populate this stockings-obsessed universe have this extra layer of shapely flavour attached to their organic structures. And from I've read, that added layer of fleshy padding drives non-fascist heterosexual men wild with breeder-based desire.

However, you're going to need more than curves to create a sustainable piece of wood. And that's where temperament comes in. Pair your curves with a churlish attitude, and I guarantee you'll be drowning in plant-craving electrolytes once the jiggling subsides. Seriously, if you can manage to combine these two traits, you'll be beating them off with a stick. Okay, you'll be beating me off with a stick. Either way, someone is going to be beat off when all is said and done, because these chicks mean business.

Starting off with the sight of a red flying saucer heading toward Earth, The Sore Losers makes it abundantly clear right from the get-go that this is no whiny indie flick. No sir. This is film celebrates exploitation, drive-in movie theatres, comic books, shapely chicks with big butts, and trashy garage rock.

The red flying saucer lands on the road and quickly morphs into a red 1955 Chevy (now that's a sweet ride). Behind the wheel is Blackie (Jack Yarber), a red racing jacket-wearing "loser" from the Killer Frequency. Determined to kill three more people in order to satisfy the bloodlust of The Elder (David F. Friedman), an omnipotent entity who lives inside the invisible wavelength, Blackie quickly finds his first victim.

A quick aside: Killing nine people in the summer of 1954, Blackie was well on his way to killing twelve. But he ran out of time. Forty-two years later, Blackie is back in this candy-coloured universe and is ready to finish the job.

Stopping at a gas station to check out what kind of comics they have, Blackie is shocked when he discovers that they don't any Weird Science in stock. (If you're looking for Canadian content in the nudie cutie world of John Michael McCarthy, look no further than the comic book rack in the gas station, as it's filled with issues of Yummy Fur.) Unimpressed with their comic book selection, Blackie knocks over the rack in disgust. As you might expect, the redneck behind the counter does not appreciate this, so he threatens to "open up a can of Mississippi whoop ass." This threat, however, is not carried out, as Blackie kills the redneck clerk with an issue of, you guessed it, Weird Science (he always has an issue in his pocket).

Even though the film has just gotten underway, I'm starting to feel a little antsy over the fact that D'Lana Tunnell hasn't shown up yet. But don't worry D'Lana fans, as Blackie is filling the body of the dead redneck clerk with lead, a vision of loveliness suddenly appears in the form of D'Lana Tunnell. That's right, one of the most alluring women the ever grace the silver screen, is sitting on top of a Barber's ice cream freezer. Wearing a floral top (one that was cinched well above the waist), a pair of chunky heels, black short shorts, and sporting haphazardly tied pigtails, D'Lana tells Blackie that she has a short attention span. She might not realize it, but she just talked her way out of being murder victim number eleven. Either way, before Blackie can change his mind, D'Lana has sped off on her motorcycle.

In the meantime, Blackie heads over to the abandoned drive-in movie theatre to bury the redneck clerk (murder victim number ten) beside the graves of the fine folks he killed back in 1954.

Feeling a tad lonely, Blackie decides to see if his old friend Mike (Mike Maker) is still kicking around. Finding him right where he left him forty-two years ago, at a rundown mental hospital, Blackie is excited to reunite with his long lost blood brother (a blood transfusion from Blackie has made Mike immortal...just like Blackie). Well, he's got to get past Nurse McComb (Lydia Martini) and her crossed legs of ashen doom first. Pale and covered with tattoos, the nurse's shapely legs, and, not to mention, chunky white heels, are not match for Blackie. As he is roughing up the nurse (apparently, they were a match), Blackie inadvertently unbuttons the top of her pvc uniform. I don't why I'm mentioning this, but I thought...No, wait, I just remembered. The nurse has two Eye of Horus tattoos above each breast.

Tossing Mike, who looks like Japan's biggest Bauhaus fan (one who secretly likes Spacemen 3 on the side), his trusty cane, the two hit the [fucking] road. Shortly after they stop at Mike's parents' house to pick up his comics (Vault of Horror, baby!), Blackie's red '55 Chevy nearly collides with a lime green AMC Pacer. If D'Lana Tunnell provides The Sore Losers with the curves, then Kerine Elkins must surely supply the psychopathic moxie. You know the instance Blackie meets Kerine, an insane redhead who will stomp all over your skinny ass at a moment's notice, that she's going to be trouble.

Hanging out in the woods, Kerine enlightens Blackie about the scourge that is the hippie movement. You got to remember, Blackie's been away for the past forty-two years. At any rate, Kerine informs him that they're against war, the death penalty, and bathing. And, on top of that, she tells Blackie about the hippie hitchhiker she killed earlier in the day (he tried to steal her lime green AMC Pacer). In Kerine's mind, the hippies are responsible for the decline of Western Civilization (the patchouli years), and because of that, they must be wiped from the face of the Earth. In other words, when Kerine says, "kill all the hippies," she means it.

It should go without saying, but Kerine is super excited to be a part of Blackie's quest to murder one more person.

During a stop at her parents house, Kerine, who just got out of prison, goes a little overboard with the parental homicide. What I mean is, she kills two instead of one, making Blackie's total: thirteen. And, as we all know, he's supposed to kill twelve. I don't see what the problem is. After all, we got to see Kerine read the encyclopaedia marked 'P' (1975 edition) in nothing but black, hole-covered hold-up stockings and a pair of black chunky heels out in the woodshed.

Scolded by The Elder for not only killing too many people, but for mostly killing the elderly, Blackie is given a second chance.

Who wouldn't fall in love with D'Lana Tunnell if they saw her perform at a carnival as "Goliatha of the Amazones," the world's strongest woman. In the world of J.M.M, women are superior in almost every way imaginable, and D'Lana represents this superiority during her motorcycle striptease/feat of strength; after removing her black opera gloves and black corset, D'Lana lifts her motorcycle above her head with one arm. Falling in love with her almost instantly, Mike, who even removes his trademark shades in order to properly drink in her womanliness (I hope you're thirsty, because her her fishnet pantyhose are drenched in sweat), manages to successfully woo her after the show.

Since things move pretty fast in the realm of The Sore Losers, Mike is caressing her leopard print bra while asking her about comics in no time (man, that Mike is one smooth motherfucker). Unfortunately, the Elder has branded D'Lana as number fourteen. Why D'Lana? That's what Blackie would like to know.

It all kinda gets convoluted after this point. Don't believe me? Well, the members of Guitar Wolf(ギターウルフ) show up as the "Men in Black" at one point. Oh, and, yeah, Hugh Brooks (Johnny Tu-Note from Teenage Tupelo) returns as Tuthpick, a fellow exiled alien who loves to kill hippies (he mows down a room full at one point), and Mary Wills plays character known as the "Malt Liquor Angel," a name that was given to her probably because she has angel wings and gives out cans of Schlitz.

Replete, which is a fancy way saying, "filled with," with scenes where stocking clad women do what stocking clad women usually do when they happen to be clad in stockings, featuring seemingly random moments of lesbian bdsm, instances where fiery redheads can be seen painting the walls of dilapidated warehouses with their dead mother's entrails, and boasting a soundtrack so trashy, my ears started to cramp, The Sore Losersis basically the epitome of cool. In fact, I felt cool just watching it. And, as most of you, my coolness rarely needs to be authenticated, especially by a movie from the late-1990s. Now, who wants to go beat up some hippies?

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I've often wondered, if given the opportunity to direct a feature length movie, how would I justify the fact that the entire cast is wearing nothing but lingerie from start to finish. As we have seen in the past, some movies have used ingenious methods to get their female cast members to wear nothing but their underclothes. Take, for example, the ladies of Hard to Die. They simultaneously ruin their regular clothes. But luckily, they work at a lingerie factory, giving them no choice when it came time to decide what to change into while their regular clothes dried. And, of course, the cast of Stripped to Kill and Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls are strippers. Meaning, there's practically lingerie everywhere. Do you think that John Michael McCarthy, the immensely sane individual behind such classics as Teenage Tupelo and The Sore Losers, will be able to justify the lingerie extravaganza that is Superstarlet A.D., a film where every frame is literally bathed in old-timey garter belts and bras? I don't know, but this post-apocalyptic tale about a world run by a succulent succession of shapely redheads sure has its fully-fashioned nylon stockings on straight. What am I talking about? The lingerie justification this film bandied about with shameless abandon was probably one of the most clever things I've come across in years. Are you sitting comfortably? The reason the women who populate this girdle ensnared universe are always in their underwear is because all the gay men are dead. Uh, I don't get it. I mean, what's so clever about that? Don't you see, without gay men, there's no fashion. And without fashion, you guessed it, there are no clothes. In other words, the women are forced to wear lingerie at all times. I don't think I even have to see the film. Why is that? I think it's safe to say that this might be the greatest film of all-time. You're totally right. On paper, this film does sound like a masterpiece. But don't you think you should watch it first? I guess. You got to admit, though, as far as premises go, this film can't lose. Or can it?

Remember that episode of Star Trek that featured the planet whose culture was based solely on 1920s Chicago-style gangsterism? Well, the scantily clad ladies of Superstarlet A.D. seem to have modeled their society exclusively on the nudie cutie and stag films of the late 1950s/early '60s.

Without electricity, there's no way to watch television, and without literacy, there's no way to read books, the only connection to their past are films. Hold on. How do they watch films without electricity? Why, they use hand-crank projectors. Duh. Well, they can, if they can find one. In the meantime, the women, or, I should say, the "superstarlets," carry their ancestral stag films on their backs.

Ancestral what? You see, the superstarlets are all descendants of women who appeared in stag films, and in order to be a true superstarlet, you must find your grandmother's reel and wear it with pride...on your back.

We met two of these so-called "superstarlets" at the beginning of the film. Which makes sense, as I have found that the beginning is the best period to introduce your characters when telling a story. And Superstarlet A.D. does not deviate from that storytelling principle. Don't get me wrong, there's a whole lot of deviating going on in this film, but not when it comes to introducing its characters. Anyway, we're introduced to the gorgeous Naomi (Gina Velour), a brunette, sten gun wielding Superstarlet in black lingerie, and Rachel (Alicia Trout, Jodie Brewer, Dagmar O'Doom, and others), a blonde, sten gun wielding Superstarlet in white lingerie, just as they're about to start searching the rubble strewn streets for Naomi's missing ancestral stag film. Um, excuse me, but isn't Naomi already carrying a reel of film on her back? Very observant, my obtuse friend. But that reel of film contains the ancestral stag film of a redheaded Superstarlet who's either missing or dead, and Naomi is carrying it on her behalf.

As Naomi and Rachel, whose voice sounds like Isabella Rossellini, if she was from Düsseldorf ("My name is Rachel and I'm a blonde"), are poking around the ruins of an old movie theatre, they come across a caveman (Hugh Brooks); which happens from time to time. After filling him with lead, Naomi and Rachel mark the occasion with celebratory gunfire and a lesbian kiss. Which is odd since lipstick and ammo are apparently in short supply; my logic being that celebratory gunfire wastes ammo and lesbian kisses smudge valuable lipstick. Either way, I'm happy both activities were implemented as it gives us our first gasp-worthy moment; the sight of Naomi and Rachel kissing while firing their sten guns in the air is the kind of image you'll find floating around inside my subconscious on most days.

We soon learn that the Superstarlets are a bit of rarity, in that, they're only the only girl gang in town that allows brunettes, blondes, and redheads to co-exist within the same Beauty Cult, after we met the luscious Verona (Michèle Carr), the wide-eyed Lois (Lydia Martini from The Sore Losers), and the rest of the Satanas, a Beauty Cult known for its brunette hair, black stockings, robust thighs, and affinity for leopard print bras and headbands.

If there's a Beauty Cult made up entirely of brunettes, shouldn't there be...I'm way ahead of you, muchacho. As soon as I was thinking that thought, we're presented with the Phayrays, a gang of blondes who ride horses and carry M2 machine guns. Wait. They "carry" M2 machine guns? Yep, they totally walk around with them. Lead by Ultramame (Rita D'Albert), the Phayrays are, like, the Satanas, the main antagonists of the Superstarlets. But make no mistake, the Phayrays and the Satanas don't get along either. If you need proof of this, look no further than the scene where Verona and Lois are trying to teach the dead caveman's brother (Jim Townsend) to hate blondes by tormenting him with a blow-up doll that is wearing a, you guessed it, blonde wig.

In other words, to quote Rachel, "It's not a good time to be blonde."

As most people know by now, my favourite part of a John Michael McCarthy flick is when D'Lana Tunnell shows up. Unfortunately, she's not in Superstarlet A..D. However, don't fret fans of curvy chicks who melt the hearts of discerning reprobates the world over, Kerine Elkins is hear to alleviate your heterosexual suffering. Hey, isn't Kerine Elskins a redhead? She sure is. Where do redheads fit in in this hair colour important microcosm? Where do you think? They rule over the lipstick-adorned wastelands that make up this eyeliner-smeared universe with a lacy-gloved fist.

If cinematic heaven is a film where stocking-covered knees appear in every frame, Superstarlet A.D. earns its angel wings and then some as we enter the Replay Lounge, the headquarters and main hangout for The Tempests, a gang of unruly redheads. Lead by the insanely attractive Jezabel (Kerine Elskin), the 13th redhead to govern The Tempests, their world is literally saturated with red hair, obviously, but also stockings, garter belts, and leather. Grabbing her feather boa and a stag film reel, Kerine, her tasty thighs encased in black hole-covered hold-up stockings, performs a musical number that could best be described as campy. Actually, after watching her coo and gyrate for what seemed like an eternity, the word "campy" doesn't seem to do the musical number justice, as it seems to go beyond camp.

If the stag film reel is the sacred object of the Superstarlets, the sewing machine is what Jezabel and The Tempests prefer to worship. Sadly, the leather clad Velvet (Katherine Greenwood), the only member of The Tempests who knows how to sew, refuses to do so; I guess she doesn't like Jezabel. Hell, even their in-house dominatrix, Cathy X (Kitty Diggins), can't seem to force Velvet to sew.

After a weird caveman interlude, another redhead is added to the mix. Her name is Valentine (Katherine St. Valentine), she lives in an abandoned movie theatre, thinks subversive thoughts, drives a hot rod, and, get this, wears clothes. Since she's not affiliated with The Tempests, or any other Beauty Cult, for that matter, Naomi and Rachel find themselves drawn to the unusual redhead. I mean, it's not everyday you come across a clothed redhead who knows how to drive and doesn't hate men.

Meanwhile, back at Tempest HQ, Kerine is begging Velvet to make her some clothes. In a world without gay men (oh, and don't bother looking for a gay caveman, they don't exist), even the queen of the toughest gang of shapely redhead chicks has no clothes.

Hearing plenty of talk about ancestral stag films over the course of this perversely sophisticated enterprise, it only makes sense that we eventually see a couple of stag films for ourselves. The first we see is the stag film Naomi was carrying on her back, and it features a redhead (Susie Hendrix) performing an upright striptease in matching lingerie. And the second is the stag film of Rachel's grandmother, and boasts a blonde (Jodi Brewer), with the juiciest behind, writhing in black lingerie on a bed with red sheets.

Will Naomi ever find her ancestral stag film? And if she does, will it bring her closer to understanding where she came from? Who knows? Nevertheless, the film itself manages to examine the importance of the physical objects that connect us to the past. With nothing being built to last anymore, will there be any evidence of our existence in coming years? It's hard to say. All it would take is a world wide electromagnetic pulse to wipe out the digital realm.

Coursing with the exaggerated dialogue that I crave, and featuring an approach to costume design that every film should strive to emulate, Superstarlet A.D. is feminist cinema at its finest. Made from the perspective of a gay man, the film proves once and for all that unchecked flamboyance is only form of entertainment worth watching. Apocalypse Meow.

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If a retired boxer, one who currently runs a talent agency that hires out strippers to the city's strip clubs, meets a psychotic kung-fu master in a dark alley, who would win? Okay, first of all, you have to ask yourself: What's at stake? I mean, the victor has to come away something, or else the contest is meaningless. Well, if the former wins, he gets to continue dating a heroin-addicted Melanie Griffith. As for the latter, he gets the opportunity to finish his literally masterwork. Just curious, what might that masterwork be called? It's called "Fear City," which just happens to the title of my latest cinematic foray into the depths of stripper-adjacent misery. And secondly, how did these two men, who, besides being trained fighters, end up at odds with one another? That's simple, their lifestyles don't mesh. The former boxer makes his living exploiting women for monetary gain, the material artist, on the other hand, while he doesn't exactly "make his living" doing this, enjoys doing bodily harm to the women the former boxer is trying to exploit. You're probably thinking to yourself: An ex-boxer who exploits women (he's basically a pimp with an office) and a deranged weirdo who wields nunchucks after dark (he's basically Joe Spinelli in Maniac, you know, without the mannequin fetish), these are the guys I'm supposed to root for? It's true, they're both scumbags. Nevertheless, I found the film's lack of judgment towards them and the rest of its characters to be its greatest strength. Whoa, hold on there, buddy. Let's not get carried away, shall we? You're right, the film's greatest strength is actually the authentic New York City flavour, specifically, the scenes that take place on 42nd Street, it puts out there on a semi-regular basis. But the fact the lead characters were deeply flawed individuals was very appealing.

The film, directed by Abel Ferrara (The Driller Killer), might not judge the characters, but that doesn't mean Al Wheeler (Billy Dee Williams), a cynical homicide detective, is going to let them off so easily. You think I'm kidding around? If it's your job to provide the strip clubs that dot the Manhattan landscape with able-bodied strippers, Al Wheeler doesn't like you. If it's your job to provide the strip clubs that dot the Manhattan landscape with able-bodied strippers, and you happen to be of Italian extraction, Al Wheeler straight-up hates your ass.

Now, I was going to add an Italian slur before the word "ass," but I don't want to appear to complacent about Al Wheeler's intense dislike for Italian-Americans. Having said that, I thought Al Wheeler's anti-Italian stance added yet another layer to this morally complex tale about pimps, strippers, and lowlifes. You see, Al Wheeler, who presents himself as a champion of justice, is basically a reprobate with a badge.

You'll notice that I called the guys who run the "talent agency" that provide the strippers, or, as they're sometimes referred to, "exotic dancers," for the city's strip clubs as "pimps." The reason for that is I have no idea what to call them. In my mind, if you make money off the exploitation of women, you're a pimp. Not that there's anything wrong with being a pimp. It's just that I don't feel comfortable calling them, oh, let's say, talent agents.

Looking at the sheer extravagance of the film's opening scene, you might be inclined to think that the producers of Fear City paid millions of dollars to capture of the seedy charm of 42nd Street in the early 1980s. But I'm sure it didn't cost nothing at all. What I think I'm trying to say is, the director simply has to turn on his or her camera and the energy of the street does the rest.

After the opening montage, which included as a dizzying array of garish billboard lights and a steady concourse of thong-ensnared undercarriages gyrating in time to the beat, has finished, the film begins to focus on a blonde stripper named Loretta (Melanie Griffith). Oh, and before you let out a groan. Remember, this is Body Double Melanie Griffith, not Shining Through Melanie Griffith. (The reason I didn't reference Working Girl Melanie Griffith is because I like Working Girl.) Anyway, Loretta, who is wearing full-length blue sequined number with a massive, and I mean, massive, slit down the side, has the audience eating out of her hand.

Just as we're about to get a close-up shot Loretta pulling down the zipper of her dress, Matt Rossi (Tom Berenger) and Nicky Parzeno (Jack Scalia) arrive at the strip club with much fanfare. If they're not cops, and don't own the joint, what is their connection to this place? I'll answer that question in a minute, Loretta is about to pull on her zipper. Yeah, baby. Great shot, Abel Ferarra; very sleazy. Okay, where was I? The connection. It would seem that Matt and Nicky run the Starlite Talent Agency, the city's premiere stripper emporium. If you need a stripper, these are your guys. Obviously, the owner of this fine establishment, Mike (Michael V. Gazzo), thinks they're his guys, as all his strippers come from their agency. If only he could pay them on time.

Collecting their weekly commission might be the primary reason they showed up at Mike's club this evening. But judging by the preoccupied look on his face, it's clear Matt's mind is elsewhere. He's thinking about Loretta. You see, the two used to date, and from where I was sitting, they were going at it like bunny rabbits. When their attempt pick up the earnings goes nowhere, Matt decides to pay Loretta a visit in her dressing room. Only problem is, a fellow stripper named Leila (Rae Dawn Chong) has gotten there first; he catches them making out. Leaving in a huff, Matt grouses about what he saw to Nicky, who basically tells him to forget about her.

It's a good thing Matt has a friend like Nicky he can lean on for support. But more importantly, the actor who plays Nicky, Jack Scalia, also does an excellent job of placating Tom Berenger's non-Italian-ness. I'm serious, if Jack Scalia wasn't in this movie, I wouldn't have bought Tom Berenger as an Italian-American ex-boxer haunted by his past for a second.

As Loretta is finishing up her performance, and believe me, it's a performance (the crowd reacts to her like she's a disco star), another stripper, Honey (Ola Ray), is dragged into a nearby alleyway by an unknown assailant; who stabs her repeatedly and cuts some of her fingers off.

Surprisingly, Matt and Nicky are the first to visit her in the hospital. Maybe I was a little harsh on them when I called them pimps. Sure, you could say they're just worried about their property. But they seemed genuinely concerned about her well-being. And I don't know any pimps who can pull off the genuinely concerned routine. In fact, Honey's trauma causes Matt to reflect on an incident that occurred when he was a boxer. In order to help us understand where he's coming from, a flashback sequence is implemented that details the time when Matt killed a fellow boxer in the ring.

"Get her ass off the bar." And with that line, Billy Dee Williams makes his presence felt in the Fear City universe. Walking into the Metropolitan A Go-Go, a seedy strip club with a wonderfully sleazy atmosphere (much sleazier than Mike's establishment), Billy Dee's Det. Al Wheeler is there to bust Matt's balls and to hurl anti-Italian ethnophaulisms. Getting back to the club for a second. It's true, the waitresses can't seem to get your drink order right (what part of the phrase "no ice" do you not understand?), but the joint is crawling with the right kind of scuzziness. The club's owner, Frank (Joe Santos), a scumbag who loves his new JVC speakers, tries to confront Al Wheeler, who's getting all up it Matt's grill. Big mistake. A visibly annoyed Frank tries to interrupt Al's "conversation" with Matt, to which Al responds, "Am I talking to you, wop?" Frank answers his question with a question of his own, "Then who the hell are you talking to? Al, without missing a beat, says, "I'm not talking to you." It's a great exchange. As it not only does it expose Al's over the top dislike for Italians, but also shows that the people who work in the strip club world don't much care for the cops either.

The linguistically aware will notice that Al Wheeler has used to words, "wop," "dago," "cesspool," and "greaseball" (a slur he uses twice) during his time at Frank's club. The word "guinea" is uttered, but he unleashes that hateful chestnut later on in the film: "There's nothing I hate more than guineas in Cadillacs."

With animosity between the victims and the police at at all-time high, it's no wonder the "New York Knifer" (as the local press dub him) seems to have been given free reign to do whatever he pleases. Played by John Foster (though, there's been much discussion about the actual identity of the actor of who plays the killer), the New York Knifer attacks strippers who look like Rae Dawn Chong (subway platform), Maria Conchita Alonso (apartment), Janet Julian (sidewalk) and Get Crazy's Lori Eastside (the park). If you want to know why the New York Knifer is stabbing his way through the stripper community, look no further than the pages of his manifesto, which, of course, is titled "Fear City."

If I had to pinpoint a single moment in Fear City that encapsulates the film's overall appeal, I'd have to say the scene where a heroin-addicted Melanie Griffith enters Metropolitan A Go-Go looking to score some quick cash does the job. Standing in sunglasses in front of a wall of lights that spell out the word "girls" over and over again, Melanie is, in that moment, the poster girl for urban desperation. A state that Abel Fererra manages to capture multiple times over the course the film, but no more so when Melanie is jonesing for a fix. The other thing that made Fear City stand out was the fact that the strippers stopped going to work when the killer started chopping off their heads. I can't tell you how many films of this type that feature clueless characters who continue going about their daily routine despite the fact that there's a killer on the loose. In other words, I appreciated it when they showed the clubs were practically empty.

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The floors are creaky, the doors are literally falling off their hinges, and, oh yeah, there's this local legend about a pregnant witch who committed suicide by jumping out of one its many windows a couple hundred years ago. In other words, I don't envy the real estate agent who has the daunting task of trying to sell the giant house at the centre of Witchery (a.k.a. Evil Encounters), a film that begs the question...Actually, I can't quite remember what the question was that this particular film was begging at the moment. But I promise that you'll be the first to tell when I do. Anyway, that doesn't sound too bad. I mean, with a little baby powder (trust me, it's perfect for creaky floors) and a quick trip to the hinge store (be sure to check out Martina Hingis' Hinge Bin on Yonge St. just south of St. Clair - They do hinges right!), you should have no problem selling that creepy house located on a small, isolated island off the coast of, oh, let's say, Delaware (hey, I saw a lighthouse at one point, so, I could be right). Okay, but what about the pregnant witch who committed suicide? Big deal. Pregnant witches sometimes commit suicide, what are you going to do? Yeah, but I heard the reason she killed herself was because the locals wanted to burn her at the stake. Aren't you gonna tell the prospective buyers about the witch legend? Hell, no. Besides, I'm 100% sure that the female realtor who accompanied the family who want to purchase the property is wearing a silky white slip underneath her conservative realty clothes. In fact, I'm having trouble concentrating on anything else because of that damned slip.

Holy crap! I just remembered what question this film begs. And that is, why did they even bring her along? Bring who along? The lithesome Linda Sullivan (Catherine Hickland), that's who. Who the fuck is that? Why, she's only the leggiest real estate agent this side of the Potomac River; and believe me, I've sampled the gams attached to a plethora of shapely real estate agents. From Indian Head, Maryland to Woodmont, West Virginia, I've sampled them all. Oh, and to answer your question, the house hunters in Witchery brought her along in order to make sure the local real estate agent doesn't screw them over, and to give them an estimate on how much it will cost to renovate the dump.

Excuse me, but I find your obsession with Delaware and Catherine Hickland to be a tad disorienting. Really? Why is that? Well, the movie stars Linda Blair and David Hasselhoff, yet here you are, talking about flipping houses and leggy real estate agents. I guess you're not familiar with the way I operate. You see, Catherine Hickland (quick quirky fun-fact: Catherine Hickland was married to David Hasselhoff at the time this film was made) makes several attempts to be sexy in this film. On the other hand, Linda Blair does not. It's true, her character is pregnant. But that is no excuse.

Changing gears for a second, remember that witch I mentioned earlier? Well, the film, directed by Fabrizio Laurenti, starts with a scene that finds a pregnant woman in the 1600s being chased a bunch of folks who look like they work at Black Creek Pioneer Village (all Toronto children under twelve are forced to go there at least once). Wielding pitchforks and boasting demenour that can best be described as belligerent, the mob corner the woman in a stately manor. Trapped, the woman sees no other recourse but to jump out of a second floor window. Just as she's about to hit the ground, Jane (Linda Blair) suddenly wakes up as if she just had a nightmare in a movie. Pregnant herself, Jane wonders what the dream could mean. I'm curious as well, but I'm more curious about her headboard bookcase; it's fabulous!

Meanwhile, on the very island Jane's nightmare took place, Leslie (Leslie Cumming), a writer interested in witches, and Gary (David Hasselhoff), a photographer with a deep-seated interest in poontang, are exploring the house. In fact, they're currently standing by the window the woman from Janes's nightmare jumped out of back in the 1600s. Hold on. I've got to get this off my chest before I continue. I don't who decided to cast Leslie Cumming as David Hasselhoff's virginal brunette girlfriend, but she's got to be one of the worst actresses I ever seen. Seriously, she has no business being in movies. It got so bad, that I started to feel sorry for Herr Hasselhoff as the film progressed. It must have been pure hell to exchange dialogue with an actress with no charisma whatsoever.

While walking down the street, Jane spots the mysterious Lady in Black (Hildegard Knef) standing on the sidewalk. Staring at her in a menacing manner, the Lady in Black starts messing around with some kind of crystal pendant thingie. Seconds later, Jane is nearly killed by a falling girder. What's going on here? Wait a minute. Is that evil I smell?

Content that her creepy confrontation with Jane went as well as creepy confrontations go, the Lady in Black decides to strike while iron is hot and heads over to the park to act creepy in front of Tommy (Michael Manchester), Jane's nephew. Call me a poor judge of creepiness, but I can't decide who was more creepy, the Lady in Black or Tommy. Yeah, you heard me. I don't know, there was something not quite right about this Tommy kid. Listen to the way he asks the Lady in Black for his ball back, it's downright terrifying. Have you ever thought that maybe he's just a bad actor? You have a point there, as some of his line readings are atrocious. Some of his line readings? Okay, fine, all of them. Nonetheless, he's creepy me the fuck out.

What I can't understand is why David Hasselhoff's character would date a virgin. Not to be crass, but the Hoff needs pussy on a semi-regular basis. All right, forget about the virgin thing. What I'd like to know is, why is he seeing a woman who does nothing but mope around while mumbling incoherent nonsense about witches? She's totally not his type. Either way, Gary tries multiple times over the of the course of the film to set in motion a scenario where his penis penetrates her vagina, but he's repeatedly denied the privilege.

A real estate agent named Linda Sullivan (Catherine Hickland) is hired by Jane's parents Rose (Annie Ross) and Freddie Brooks (Robert Champagne) to given them estimate on a house they plan on purchasing. Pretty mundane stuff, right? Wrong! The sexy Catherine Hickland receives the call while standing over her boyfriend in nothing but a towel. Oh yeah, getting good news over the phone while wearing a towel is the epitome of hot. The way her boyfriend, whose name is not even close to being important, stares at her legs as she stood over him was tantalizingly awesome. I'd go as so far to say that it's the film's best leg moment...so far.

Wait, "so far"? You mean there will be more leg moments to come? What do you think? Actually, I think another one is about to transpire right this second. Let's watch, shall we?

Sitting in the office of the local realtor, Rose and Freddie Brooks discuss the property they might want to purchase with Tony Giordano (Rick Farnsworth), the son of the guy who runs the realty agency; in the other words, this is a big sale for him (make daddy proud, Tony). At any rate, as they're talking about the house in question, Freddie seems preoccupied.

Was it the cheeky cat calendar hanging on the wall? No, I don't think so. How about that cup full of pens? I doubt it. If it wasn't any of those things, what could it be? I'll tell you what it was, it was the leg scratch heard around the world. All right, maybe it wasn't heard around the world. However, I bet it was heard all along the Eastern seaboard. Which, if you think about it, is still one pretty impressive scratch.

Who's doing the scratching? Oh yeah, sorry about that. Sitting at her desk in a yellow top paired with a black skirt, Jenny Lee (Victoria Biggers), the office's brunette secretary, suddenly feels an itch on her right thigh. In order to alleviate this irritating sensation, Jenny Lee takes her right hand and fashions the fingers of said right hand in a manner that causes it to look like a claw. Taking this newly created claw, Jenny Lee gingerly brushes it over the affected area several times.

As she's doing this, Jenny Lee can't help but notice that Freddie, who should be listening to what Tony is blathering about, is checking out the pleasing shape of her secretarial thighs. Slightly annoyed by this untoward leering, Jenny Lee ceases to scratch her thigh.

I know what you're thinking, where was Linda Sullivan during all this thigh scratching excitement? She was stuck in traffic. It's too bad, she missed quite the show. Which reminds me, why didn't anyone offer Victoria Biggers the opportunity to play Leslie Cumming's part? And why not? Anyone, and I mean, anyone, would have been better than her. Jeez, we get it. She sucks. Let it go, man. Yeah, but Victoria Biggers has shapely thighs and manged to scratch one of them in a semi-convincing manner. No, you're right. She probably would have been the better choice. But there's nothing you can do to change the fact that Leslie Cumming landed the role of David Hasselhoff's virginal girlfriend in Witchery, and that Victoria Biggers was stuck with a non-speaking, scratching only role.

Did you just say that Victoria Biggers doesn't have any lines?!? If that's the case, how do you know she would have been better than Leslie Cumming? Trust me, she would have been better. You might not be able to seem them, but all the people out there who have seen Witchery are nodding their heads in agreement.

Eventually all the characters end up getting stranded on the island. Sure, they're trapped inside a giant mansion (which I suppose isn't the worst place to be stranded). But you have got to remember, the Lady in Black is lurking around somewhere upstairs. One by one, each character gets the opportunity to scream awkwardly while immersed in red lighting. Well, actually, I don't recall seeing David Hasselhoff doing the awkward scream thing, but most of them do.

As usual, Annie Ross (Basket Case 2) excels at being a cun...Um, no, let's call her "overbearing." Yeah, overbearing. I like that. The cool part of her awkward scream was the all the close up shots of her red pumps struggling to maintain their grip on the floor (a sinister force pulls her into a dumbwaiter). Oh, and the infamous "mouth stitch" scene was laughably gruesome; meaning, it was gory yet poorly staged.

The film's most compelling, non-thigh scratch moment comes when Linda Sullivan removes her blazer, and then Tony (who I nicknamed "Realty Boy," because he seemed to be so dedicated to realty) removes his blazer in order to facilitate sexual intercourse in front of a large, wall-mounted marlin. You knew these two were going to hook up, so it came as no surprise when they wandered off the way they did. How or why they got together is not important. What is important, however, is the fact that Catherine Hickland wore a white slip underneath her realty clothes. I also liked the loud zipping sound her skirt zipper made as she unzipped it. It should go without saying, but this sequence has many great leg moments. Unfortunately, they're the last the film has to offer as the body count begins to rise.

After the sex scene in front of the marlin starring Catherine Hickland's white slip is over, the film is a tedious slog. There's an effective death scene, complete with twitching and arterial spray, a shock-haired Linda Blair does some her best demented pajama work since the early 1970s. But for the most part, you'll be wishing it would just end already....much like this review. Stupid thigh scratch.

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I've got good news for all of you crybabies who are constantly worrying about not being around after you die. Are you sitting down? It would seem that there is life after death. Isn't that great? Unfortunately, the bad news is your everlasting soul is going to be immediately sucked up by the bat-like aliens currently orbiting the earth in their umbrella-shaped spaceship. That's right. If you had hoped to spend the next five or so years haunting the living fuck out of your obnoxious neighbours after you kicked the bucket, you can forget about it. Your spirit is needed elsewhere. To be more specific, your energy, or, "lifeforce" is required to help feed a race of sophisticated space vampires. While all this talk about the after life and vampires from outer space is fascinating, what does the plot of Lifeforce entail? I mean, you're already halfway through your first paragraph and you have yet to touch on the film you're purportedly writing about. Oh, haven't I? What? No. Really? Get out of here. You mean to tell me that Lifeforce, directed by Tobe Hooper (Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2) and produced by Menahem Golan (The Apple) and Yoram Globus, is about space vampires?!? No way. That's impossible. For one thing, the film is filled with classically trained British actors. First of all, I don't know what it is about the cast being predominantly British that makes you to doubt its existence. And secondly, to answer your question, yes, that's exactly what the film's about. Now, you can either remain wrapped in a veil of denial or come with me as I bask in the first-rate insanity Lifeforce was putting out there on a semi-regular basis. So, which is it going to be?

Judging by the fact that you're still here, I take it you're ready to dive headfirst into this film's kooky world of shapely, naked space vampires who are able to woo impressionable astronauts with a nipple-protruding ease. Wait a minute. Hold on. You never mentioned that the space vampires were naked. I didn't? Huh, that's funny. I'm usually quite reliable when it comes relaying details like that, especially when they involve naked space vampires who are purported to be shapely. Anyway, they're naked, all right. Naked for an extended period of time, if memory serves me correctly. Okay, I got it, they're not wearing any clothes. You make me sound like some kind of pervert who only cares about nudity. Well, aren't you? Pish motherfucking posh! I'm a well-rounded movie watcher whose interests are the epitome of multifarious.

Watching you get all defensive about the space vampires lack of clothing reminded me the way some of the characters behaved when they come face-to-face with the naked space vampires for the very first time. Reduced to a blithering pile of heterosexual inadequacy, most people, particularly males, when they meet the space vampire at the centre of this crafty enterprise can hardly move. Stricken with something I like to call, "erotic dementia," the men in this movie act as if they have never seen a naked woman in the flesh before. Is it because they're repressed? Nah, British people are surprisingly sexual. Which reminds me, is it because they're British? Don't be daft. Perversion is alive and well in Britain (they have photos of topless women next to the five-day forecast in their newspapers).

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that the reason the men were so enamoured with the naked space vampire was because she was just that, a naked space vampire. Sure, most guys will go goo goo gaga over a housewife from Surry prancing around a field nothing but a garter belt and stockings, but put them in front of a naked space vampire, and we're talking total sexual subservience up in this girdle factory.

How do I know all this? Just ask Col. Tom Carlson (Steve Railsback), commander of the H.M.S. Churchill, a space shuttle headed to Halley's Comet, he knows all about the intrinsic allure of naked space vampires. His date with a naked space vampire begins when his shuttle approaches the comet, and the crew (a joint mission between British and American astronauts) spot a needle-like structure floating near the comet's tail.

Measured at around 150 miles long, Col. Carlson decides to lead a team to investigate the strange object. What do they find? What do think you think? That's right, large, desiccated, bat-like creatures. As they're bagging one of the giant bats to take back to their ship, the alien vessel literally opens its umbrella. After that occurs, a door opens. Inside they find three transparent cases containing three naked humanoids. Ignoring the naked fellas, Col. Carlson is drawn to the female (after he puts his tongue back in his mouth, he orders his away team to bring all three of them aboard).

Jumping forward thirty days, we find out that the Churchill is currently floating in space above the earth and isn't responding to hails from British mission control. Worried, the Brits enlist the help of the Columbia shuttle. And before you can say, "Houston, we have a problem" (something that is actually said in this movie), the rescue team find nothing but charred bodies and three transparent cases containing three...well, you know what they contain.

Undamaged by the apparent inferno that took place aboard the Churchill, the three cases are brought back to England to be studied. If a professional astronaut had trouble resisting the womanly curves of the naked female (Mathilda May) under glass, what chance does a lowly security guard have? Let me tell you, he's doesn't have a prayer. And what do you know, a security guard is standing over the encased female with an inquisitive expression on his face that practically screams sex. Instead of biting him, like a normal vampire, she casually sucks out his lifeforce through his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth (i.e. anything with a hole), reducing him to a shriveled raisin of a man. Rejuvenated by the guard's energy, the naked female gets up and heads out the door. On the way out, the space woman grabs some energy from Dr. Bukovsky (Michael Gothard)–who must open at least twenty glass doors in order to get to the lab–but not enough energy to cause him to shrivel up, and she zaps a few guards along the way.

As the survivors of the naked space ladies escape are regrouping, including the aforementioned Dr. Bukovsky and a Dr. Fallada (Frank Finlay), a new character bursts onto the scene. I'll admit, when I first saw Col. Colin Caine (Peter Firth), Special Air Service, arrive to investigate the weird goings on at the spacelab, I thought to myself, who's this pratt? Which is a thought I think a lot when watching movies such as this. You see, I usually cannot stand macho tough guys who think they're so cool. However, I found myself strangely not annoyed by this trench coat-wearing S.A.S. commando. Like most people, I assumed Col. Caine was there to antagonize the protagonists (i.e. be a major dick). But after about five seconds, I quickly realized that Col. Caine is not only a reasonable chap who's only interested in what's best for Britain, but he is, to put it bluntly, a badass. Again, and I can't emphasize this enough, I'm wired to hate this guy, but I thought every decision he made was the correct one. In fact, every time an idea was thrown out there regarding what to do about the naked female vampire who drains people of their lifeforce, I would look to Col. Caine, and if he nodded in agreement, I would nod as well.

If you thought Col. Caine was a badass as a solo act, you should see him when he's paired with Col. Carlson. Wait, didn't he die in the Churchill? No, apparently he survived. Anyway, Col. Carlson is brought over to England to help Col. Caine piece together the events that occurred on the Churchill. 'Cause if you remember, we're not told what happened after the naked humanoids are brought aboard the Churchill. And according to Col. Carlson, things were quite insane. Actually, some might say what occurred aboard the Churchill is now taking place on earth.

Leaving shriveled bodies in her wake, the naked female humanoid starts to hop from body to body. My favourite being the body belonging to the gorgeous Nancy Paul, who plays a redheaded nurse named Ellen. Call me crazy, but I much preferred Nancy Paul over Mathilda May. Call me even crazier, but the sight of Nancy Paul walking in a black raincoat is way more sexy than any of the scenes that feature Mathilda May walking around naked. I know, I know, that's a lot of craziness to digest all at once. Buy, hey, I'm just being honest. I should start a support group for people who prefer a fully-clothed Nancy Paul over a completely naked Mathilda May. Yeah, that's a terrible idea.

Speaking of a fully-clothed redheads, the scene where a hypnotized Col. Carlson enters the mind of the space chick (yeah, he can totally do that) as she's wooing a man in a Volvo in the body of Nancy Paul was the film's sexiest. Now a strawberry-flavoured redhead with seductive eyes, the space girl has to feed on human energy to remain strong. But she doesn't want to leave a trail of wrinkled corpses in her wake. Good golly, what's a peckish space vampire to do? Suck in moderation, that's what. Taking little bits of energy here and there, the space girl feeds on people by extracting only what she needs, leaving the sucked party only a tad groggy.

In order to entice a male Volvo driver, the Nancy Paul version of the space vampire uses the ashen smoothness of her thighs to lull her victim into a state of erotic complacency. Inviting the male Volvo driver to caress her left thigh by lifting up skirt well above her knees, Nancy Paul is well on her way to getting the energy her supple body needs.

I think we can all agree that no one wants to see the Patrick Stewart version of the space vampire walking around naked. I have nothing against Patrick Stewart or his body. It's just that, to quote Elaine from the Seinfeld episode, The Apology, "Whoa! Walking around naked? Ahh…that is not a good look for a man."

As more and more people come in contact with the space vampire, the more chaotic the situation becomes in Britain. Which is a bit of an understatement really, especially when you consider the fact that London is swarming with wrinkly zombies. You could say that the nation's world renowned stiff upper lip has become in desperate need of some kind of lubricant. But I'm not going to be the one to say something that egregiously lame. If you like movies where respected British actors and Steve Railsback openly talk about being in love with a vampire chick from outer space, you'll love Lifeforce. Of course, Peter Firth does not once express feelings of love toward any of the creature's many incarnations. Though, Peter Firth's character (I love the way he answers the phone simply by saying, "Caine!") does say that's he's a voyeur at heart at one point, which made me like him even more. At any rate, if you like the things I just listed, and dig high concept science fiction that takes itself way too seriously, you need to see this flick pronto. Even more so if your name is Tonto and you live in Toronto.

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If this is what I have endure in order to see Monika M. lounge about in black hold-up stockings, black stockings held up with the aide of suspenders attached to a garter belt, black knee-high socks, and black pantyhose in a motion picture, than so be it. Whatever do you mean? Well, let me tell you. If I want to see Monika M., the sullen slice of genteel gorgeousness from Nekromantik 2, wear the aforementioned articles of clothing, I'm afraid I'm also going to have to watch a hairy German man hammer three nails through his weather-beaten foreskin. Why, that doesn't sound so bad. What are you nuts? Hold on. Did you just make a genital-based pun? Maybe. What have I told you? I will not tolerate that kind of lameness to sully this corner of the matrix. Fine, but stop avoiding the question. No, I'm not, nuts...er, I mean, meshugana, that is. Were Monika M.'s shapely gams encased in the items I just listed? Yes, they were. And did writer-directer Jörg Buttgereit (Nekromantik) and producer-editor-cinematographer Manfred O. Jelinski manage to capture their mouth-watering essence in a way that pleased you from an erotic and aesthetic point-of-view? I guess. Okay, so what are you complaining about? Haven't you been listening? A hairy German man hammers nails through his crumpled foreskin. And not only that, he's haunted by a vagina monster with teeth. All right, I can't comment on the vagina monster at this juncture. But as for the do-it-yourself foreskin perforation, all I can is, get over it, man. I mean, for starters, his penis looks nothing like yours. Think about it, you don't even have what he's hammering nails into. True, his penis was a tad on the strange side. That being said, it still must have hurt like one of them motherfucker thingies. Oh, I'm sure it did. You just got to remember that for one to enjoy the sexier aspects of Schramm: Into the Mind of a Serial Killer (i.e. the sight of the lovely Monika M. in various types of black legwear), you're going to have to suffer through the fair amount of ghastliness.

Call me misguided and sad, but I thought the dichotomy between hosiery and heinousness was expertly balanced. You don't often get that in most horror movies. But then again, I've noticed that Jörg Buttgereit doesn't seem like he's interested in making your typical horror film. Brimming with well-executed gore, off-kilter titillation, and a flurry of art-house pretensions, Schramm presents itself as a meditation on the life of Lothar Schramm (Florian Koerner von Gustorf - now that's a fucking name), a character we quickly find out has been dubbed "the lipstick killer" by the German press. Of course, as we reflect on his life, he's not the lipstick killer, he's just a cab driver who enjoys jogging and watching out for Marianne (Monika M.), his attractive next-door neighbour.

Lying motionless in a pool of white paint, it would seem that Herr Schramm (who is wearing nothing but a pair of undignified Bermuda shorts) will be doing no more killing, as it appears as if he's met his match. No, not by a cop on the edge or a plucky F.B.I. agent, but a wobbly step ladder. Yeah, that's right, the infamous lipstick killer was done in by a step ladder. Of course, the wobbly step ladder doesn't deserve all the credit. In fact, most of credit should go to the blood that used to flow through the bodies of a couple of door-to-door religious fanatics (Micha Brendel and Carolina Harnisch) who decide to show up at Herr Schramm's apartment one fateful afternoon.

Think about it, if he didn't slit the male zealot's throat with a knife or bashed the female zealot in the head with a hammer, he wouldn't have had to paint his bloodstained walls (the arterial spray from the male zealot was particularly intense). While I'm sure he could have just cleaned the blood off with a soapy rag, he felt to need to paint over the blood. Hey, I'm not one to question the domestic habits of serial killers. I mean, if he wants to paint, let him paint. Anyway, we soon learn why he is called "the lipstick killer," as the bodies of the zealots are covered with lipstick (they're also placed in lewd positions for good measure).

On the floor of his cramped flat, blood trickling from his nose and mouth, we enter Herr Schramm's subconscious as he slowly expires. What would a serial killer think about moments before he died? Flowers, maybe? Yeah, there were flowers. How about jogging? Sure, there was some jogging; that Herr Schramm loved to jog. However, since no-one, at least no-one I know, wants to watch a serial killer film about a serial killer who thinks about flowers, we get a scene where Herr Schramm wakes up to find that his right leg has been severed. Or, as they would say in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life, "Woke up just now... one sock too many." Poking at the bloody stump with an uncomfortable brand of familiarity, Herr Schramm has just had the first of many disturbing dreams to come.

Shush! Stop talking about bloody stumps, Monika M. is about to appear onscreen. Hasn't she appeared onscreen a couple of times already? Yeah, but this a full body shot. What? Don't judge me. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, Monika M., who is wearing black nylons (probably pantyhose given the shortness of her dress), can be seen talking to two older-looking gentlemen about business. And, in case you haven't figured it out yet, Monika M.'s business is prostitution.

As he's taking a shower after a long jog, Herr Schramm hears a knock at the door. It's Monika M.! And she needs Herr Schramm's help (for minute there I thought it was going to be more pamphlet pushers). As he towels off, Monika M. (her character's name, like I said, is "Marianne" but I prefer to call her Monika M.) asks him if he would accompany her while she makes a housecall (she's nervous about taking her whoring services on the road - she prefers to work out of her apartment).

The camera pans across to where Monika M. is sitting, and as its doing so, her robe falls open to reveal a pair of crossed legs sheathed in black stockings. Did this leggy revelation have any bearing on his decision to drive Monika M.? Probably not. But, nevertheless, I'm sure it didn't hurt. In meantime, Herr Schramm masturbates to the sound of Monika M. moaning in her flat with a blow-up sex doll torso. The sight of Herr Schramm washing his blow-up sex doll torso in the tub after successfully penetrating it with his penis was one of the saddest things I have ever seen.

While waiting in his cab outside a large mansion as Monika M. conducts her business inside, Herr Schramm suddenly spots her in the doorway wearing a black knee-high socks, tan shorts, suspenders, a white short sleeve shirt, a pair of black men's shoes, a black tie, and a black belt. Why is she in this get-up, you ask? I have no idea. But obviously that's what her clients want her to wear. I don't know how Herr Schramm is supposed to look for Monika M. when he can't see inside, but I guess she feels better knowing he's out there.

In case you're curious as to what Herr Schramm does while waiting for Monika M. to finish, he listens to the radio and imagines himself at the dentist where he not only gets a tooth removed, his right eye taken out as well. Okay, let's see. So far he's imagined that his leg has been amputated, and now his eye. Could this be a metaphor for Herr Schramm's breakdown as human being? Interesting.

A steady diet of weirdness (arty weirdness), blurry images, stockings, lumpy flesh, sit ups, a drawer full of lipstick, droplets of cum landing on the faces of fashion models, all set to this throbbing music, are what greet us over the next few minutes. Some might wonder if the film has accidentally morphed into a SWANS video. Most, however, will not wonder this, and just see it as arty weirdness.

After applying lipstick to his penis, Herr Schramm hammers three nails into his foreskin. And, of course, we're shown this self-abuse in graphic detail. This sequence is the perfect segue to Herr Schramm and Monika M.'s dinner date at a restaurant with "abstract" portions, as nothing makes me hungrier than watching a hairy German man hammer nails through his just as German penis.

Take note of the way Herr Schramm eyeballs the wad cash in Monika M.'s hand when she goes to pay the bill. He stares at it intensely and starts to imagine how she got the money. Which leads to a flashback scene where Monika M. can be seen making her bed after servicing a client. In this scene, Monika M. is wearing her red hair in a beehive, a pair of shiny thigh-high boots (okay, they're not quite "thigh-high," they go just slightly above the knee), black stockings (which are attached to a grey and black girdle-like garter belt), and a diaphanous black top.

Spiked cognac, black pantyhose, and Polaroids are what dominate the nightcap sequence, as the action moves back Herr Schramm's apartment. You don't think he's going to kill Monika M., do you? If he does, I'm going to lose a fair amount of my shit. Stroke her pantyhose adorned legs as much as you want, but don't you dare hurt her. Besides, she's depending on you to protect her. And not only that, she's one of the only things in your life that isn't sick and twisted.

When vagina monsters begin to appear around your apartment at random, that's a good sign you have gone off the deep end. In fact, the deep end is nowhere in sight. I'm afraid you have gone beyond the realm of regular crazy, and into one that is...well, populated by vagina monsters. Mercifully short, Schramm: Into the Mind of a Serial Killer is art-house horror at its vilest. The perfect date movie for those who hate dating.

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Quick, alert the mainstream media, I'm about to wallow in my element. Has anyone seen me wallow in my element? It ain't pretty, honey. And it doesn't get anymore hella-mental than my face wallowing in the vicinity of Multiple Maniacs, the John Waters' film that raises the question: What's a rosary job? Licking bicycle seats and sniffing glue, now these are my passions, and they're fully explored in this flimsy excuse for filmed entertainment. Okay, maybe they're not my passions, and they might not even be fully explored. But I do appreciate it whenever a director decides to include either one of them in his or her film, especially glue sniffing, as you don't see it depicted or talked about much nowadays. Oh, sure, you'll see it on reality shows on that channel that used to show ballet in the 1980s (now they only air programs about lumpy, illiterate mouth-breathers who pay money for other people's junk), but you hardly ever see it movies anymore. I love inhalant abuse. (Fuck you, Mr. Drug Dealer. I'm going to the housewares section of my local hardware store to shoplift me some spray paint.) In fact, I love inhalant abuse almost as much as I love cross-dressing. And, get this, this flick features both in the same scene. Yeah, you heard right. A male glue fiend in a dress rapes Divine, with the help of a female glue fiend, sort of in an alleyway. What do you mean "sort of"? You either rape Divine or you don't rape Divine. No, what I mean is, given Divine's ample girth, her body wasn't entirely in the alleyway. Hence, she was "sort of in the alleyway." In retrospect, the glue sniffers were probably just too lazy to pull Divine all the way into the alleyway after they jumped her on the street. In other words, I apologize for implying that Divine was too fat to fit in an alleyway. Anyway, what Divine's unpleasant encounter with the glue sniffers has to do with the film's plot is anyone's guess, but I did enjoy it on some bizarre level that went well beyond my sphere of comprehension.

In case you're wondering, the reason I pretended that licking bicycle seats was one of my passions was because I own a bicycle with a seat and I thought about licking it after the movie was over. But cooler, less bicycle seat licking heads prevailed, and my bicycle seat is currently languishing in a state of not being licked.

"Welcome to Lady Divine's Cavalcade of Perversions: The Sleaziest Show on Earth," announces Mr. David (David Lochary), the M.C. of the aforementioned show that purportedly features fags, sluts, dykes, and pimps. Beckoning all those within earshot, Mr. David is selling the living shit out of this show. But get this, it's free!

Standing before a couple of crudely erected tents, Mr. David eventually catches the attention of three ladies wearing clothes that were inexplicably fashionable at the time this film was made. Now, I don't know who two of the women were, but I know for sure that one of them was played by none other than Mink Stole (Female Trouble, Desperate Living, etc.), my favourite Dreamlander. The second she appears onscreen I had this sudden urge to thrust my hand up her skirt. Which, I've been told, is perfectly normal. At any rate, playing a total square, Mink and her friends reluctantly enter one of the tents. What they see, according to Mr. David, will shock and amaze them.

Check this out, for absolutely nothing you get to see a guy fondling a bra, a heroin addict go through withdrawal, some armpit licking (and some bicycle seat licking as well), watch the puke-eater eat his own puke, and see two "actual queers" kissing. I'll admit, it's pretty tame by today's standards; in fact, you can probably see all of them acted out on HBO's awesome new show, Girls (eww, you just mentioned something current). Either way, in typical John Waters fashion, he manages to make the perversions on display seem harmless.

Is Susan Lowe the topless cavalcade pervert in the black pantyhose we see at the beginning of the film wondering when the shows going to begin? I'm just asking because I only know her as Mole McHenry from Desperate Living, and the woman in the black pantyhose doesn't look an angry bull dyke.

Just as Lady Divine (Divine), the star of the show, is about to go on, a bleach blonde chick named Bonnie (Mary Vivian Pearce) tries to approach her. Not in the mood to hear what some autoerotic coprophiliac has to say, Lady Divine, who is lounging in the nude, tells her henchmen to remove "this slut" from her presence. Instructing Mr. David to "hand me my hose," Lady Divine eventually hits the stage. What's her perversion, you ask? Why her perversion is to pull out a gun and rob the audience of their valuables.

You see, the "Cavalcade of Perversions" is merely a ruse, a scam, if you will, that Mr. David and Lady Divine run. However, things start to fall apart when a bleach blonde, you guessed it, named Bonnie, enters the picture. Just because his attempt to get Bonnie into the cavalcade was thwarted doesn't mean Mr. David is going to continue being Lady Divine's lap dog. Telling Bonnie to meet him at Pete's Club (a joint run by Edith Massey), Mr. David, Lady Divine and Ricky (Rick Morrow), Lady Divine's right hand man, head over to the apartment that belongs to Cookie Divine (Cookie Mueller), Lady Divine's always topless daughter, to argue. In other words, engage in some over the top John Waters-style dialogue.

While Mr. David is making arrangements to meet with Bonnie, Lady Divine is busy being raped by a couple of glue fiends.

You know how I said certain parts of Multiple Maniacs went well beyond my sphere of comprehension? Well, when the Infant Jesus of Prague grabs Lady Divine by the hand and escorts her to a church, St. Cecilia, I think, things definitely started to sail away from comprehension comfort zone. As we're shown images of a badly beaten man wearing a crown of thorns dragging, what looked like, a giant lower case 't' made out of wood, spliced with a scene that featured Mink Stole, playing a character named "Mink Stole," cramming rosary beads up Lady Divine's ass in one of the church's pews.

Thankfully, things start to come back to my realm once Lady Divine and Mink Stole leave the church together. Their conversation on the street (Mink's talks about her transient lifestyle), is edited together with a scene that has Mr. David performing cunnilingus on Bonnie; I loved it when David Lochary, during a moment of post-coital bliss, puts his ashtray Mary Vivian Pearce's stomach. I don't know what I like better, David Lochary and Mary Vivian Pearce as a couple or David Lochary and Mink Stole as a couple. On the other hand, the sight of Mink Stole and Divine as a couple was just plain odd.

Make sure to keep on a close eye on Mink Stole (who is wearing a turban) when she's talking to Lady Divine on the street. As her facial expressions are almost as memorable as the film's infamous lobster rape scene. Carefully examining the scene several times now, I've come to the conclusion that Mink was trying to get John Waters's attention. And instead of breaking character, Mink tries to inform him that some people are were about to walk through their shot by bulging her expressive eyes in a manner that signaled to John that something was up.

Hold on. Did you say, "lobster rape"? Yeah, yeah, Divine is unexpectedly raped by a giant lobster near the end of the film. If you don't mind, I'd rather talk about Mink Stole's eyes. So, where did the lobster come from? Fine. I'll talk about the lobster. To answer your question, I have no idea. In fact, I don't think anyone really knows where it came from. And that's what makes the scene so special, it just comes out of nowhere. Like, boom! Here's a giant lobster. Suck on that, crustacean enthusiasts.

As far as classic lines go, you know, like, "I wouldn't suck your lousy dick if I was suffocating and there was oxygen in your balls!" from Female Trouble, or "My saliva tastes funny, and I itch a lot," from Desperate Living, I'd have to say that David Lochary's "I love you so fucking much I could shit," was my favourite line uttered in Multiple Maniacs, as it encapsulates everything I love about John Waters: Sweetness wrapped in a cheaply made veneer of vulgarity.

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Who kills a vengeful burn victim by burning them? Talk about insensitive. Let's say, your entire body is burnt beyond recognition by a bunch of juvenile pranksters who think every week is Prank Week ("I live with snakes and lizards and other things that go bump in the night / 'Cuz to me every week is Prank Week / I have given up hiding and started to fight"), and when you're well enough, you decide exact your revenge by heading over to the local wooded area to slaughter yourself some sexually active campers (it doesn't matter if they had anything to do with your burns, just as long as they're sexually active while camping). Instead of chopping off his head or stabbing him with a pitchfork when his killing spree is eventually thwarted by said sexually active campers, they choose to set him on fire. And not only that, just before he's burned...again, we get a quick montage containing all the grisly, Tom Savini-orchestrated deaths he was responsible for over the course of The Burning, the summer camp slasher film where hedge clippers are the teen-dispatching weapon of choice. Implemented to remind the audience that the burn victim is the film's villain, not the sexually active campers, the montage re-demonizes the burn victim. Wait a minute? Hedge clippers?!? So this what it's come to, eh? Hedge clippers? All right. Anyway, get this, it's the burn victim who's deemed the menace to society in this film's upside down universe, not the pranksters. Maybe my brain works differently, but I thought it was absurd that the burn victim was the one being portrayed as wicked and threatening. Either way, much enjoyment was extracted from this humdinger of a slasher flick.

I've just been handed a note telling me that the burn victim at the centre of The Burning wasn't a nice person. In fact, it says that the burn victim was a bit of a sadist. First of all, you can't be "a bit of a sadist," you're either a sadist or you're not...a sadist. Call me someone who licks dick for a living, but I refuse to believe there's any middle ground when it comes to sadism. And secondly, stop trying to justify "the burning." I know, the pranksters who carried out "the burning" didn't intend on burning the burn victim. But that's exactly what did happen. And you can't exactly un-burn a burn victim (believe me, I've tried). They're isn't enough ointment in this world to undo that humdinger of a boo boo. What's this? It's looks like I'm being handed another note. Let's see. Huh, it says here that I should stop using the word, "humdinger."

As the pranksters watch the burn victim hopelessly try to put himself out, they must know, if he doesn't die, that he's going to come after them one day wielding a pair of hedge clippers. Oh, and before you start making wisecracks about your hedge being in need of a trim, he has no intention of straightening out your bushes and sculpting shrubs into weird shapes, he wants to murder you by penetrating your yuppie ass until it oozes blood, and, fingers crossed, hopefully a little pus as well.

Since "the burning" takes place five before we see George Costanza with a full head of hair, that means the film, directed by Tony Maylam and produced by Harvey and Bob Weinstein, begins in 1975, where a group of disgruntled campers are planning to pull a prank on Cropsy (Lou David), the caretaker at Camp Blackfoot. And like I said, the prank goes terribly awry. Instead of scaring him, Cropsy ends up engulfed in flames. While recovering in hospital, we quickly learn that Cropsy has become a bit of sideshow attraction. In that, some of the staff, I'm looking in your general direction, Mansoor Najeeullah, like to haze the interns by showing them his flame-broiled body.

After five years, Cropsy is finally released from hospital. Told by the nurses to "try not to blame anyone," Cropsy heads immediately to the sleazy part of town to look for some action. And by "action," I don't mean...Come to think of it, I have no idea what I mean by "action." Let's just say, he solicits one of the most beautiful prostitutes the city of Buffalo, New York has to offer. If the sex workers in Buffalo actually looked like K.C. Townsend circa 1981, I'd be down there every other weekend.

Oh, and just to clarify, I wouldn't be going down to Buffalo to fornicate with Western New York's finest prostitutes. No, I'd be down there to accompany them when they went shopping for new hooker clothes. Duh.

Luring the dark stranger to come up her room, the luminous K.C. Townsend (Bellow the Belt), who is wearing a short black skirt, black pantyhose, and a teal blouse, temps Cropsy inside with the promise that he will be able to molest her tender flesh...for a price. As the garish light from the neon sign outside her window causes her succulent, pillowy lips to shimmer like diamonds, Cropsy slowly enters the room. Now, here's the question: Was Cropsy there to kill her? Or did Cropsy kill her because of the way she reacted when she saw his ghastly appearance? I'm going to go with the latter, as you'll notice doesn't use his trademark garden shears to dispatch K.C.'s prostitute. In fact, I think was K.C.'s reaction that caused Cropsy to head down to the hardware store, pick up a pair of garden shears, and catch the next bus to North Tonawanda.

Why would a burn victim wielding garden shears want to go to North Tonawanda of all places? That's simple. It's where Camp Stonewater is located. Yeah, but didn't "the burning" take place at Camp Blackfoot? That's true, it did happen there. But if you remember, that camp burnt down. And, besides, as we'll soon find out, Cropsy has good reason to visit Camp Stonewater.

When we arrive at Camp Stonewater, the female campers are engaged in a heated game of baseball. What are male campers doing, you ask? Well, some of them, like, Alfred (Brian Backer, Fast Times at Ridgemount High), are cheering them on, while others, like, Eddy (Ned Eisenberg) and Dave (Jason Alexander), are admiring the ass attached to the lanky frame that belongs to Karen (Carolyn Houlihan), who is playing, oh, let's say, short-stop. Hey, I'm not one to judge their taste in women. But if I was at that game, my eyes would be all over Tiger (Shelley Bruce), the team's angelic first basewoman. Sporting cut-off jean shorts and a blue top tied at the belly for added sex appeal, Tiger is a baseball-playing goddess.

If my affection for Tiger is coming off as a tad creepy, that's good. As that is exactly the note I'm trying to strike. Actually, creepy with a touch of unpleasantness is the most accurate way to describe the tone I'm going for. Anyway, the best part about watching Tiger play baseball was the fact that she gets to introduce the audience to Cropsy's garden shears. Wait, she's not the first camper to buy it, is she? No, don't worry. A chick who kinda looks like Amy Smart hits a foul ball into the trees, and it's up to Tiger to find it. The first of the film's many non-kills, Tiger is unwittingly stalked by Crospy as she looks for the missing ball. Bending over repeatedly, which causes the coarseness of the denim material of her shorts to press tightly against her undercarriage, in a veiled attempt to locate the ball in question, Tiger has no idea how close she came to being brutally murdered by a burn victim wielding a pair of hedge clippers .

Not to give anything away, but Tiger does eventually find the errant ball. Which should come as no surprise. I mean, Tiger is not the type of gal to give up so easily when she sets her mind on something. After she throws the ball back into play, she engages in a celebratory hair flip. No one probably noticed this, especially Eddy and Dave, who are still admiring Karen's bony ass. Either way, I thought Tiger's celebratory hair flip was awesome, and don't care who knows it.

I'm surprised they didn't utilize Tiger's ball finding skills later on the film, as I'm sure she could have easily found those missing canoes. Think about it, a canoe is nothing more than a canoe-shaped baseball.

Just before another non-kill is about to take place, a misdirection involving a showering blonde camper named Sally (Carrick Glenn), you'll notice that Tiger has a pair of white knee-high socks hanging on her bed frame. Yeah, so what? So what?!? Well, I don't know if you know this, but Tiger doesn't wear knee-high socks, she wears lavender-coloured socks that barely go past her ankles. Again, so what? Don't you want to know whose socks they were? Not really. Fine

Your obsession with Tiger, who can't be older than fourteen, is starting to even creep me out, and I'm the slightly demented voice in your head. Hey, did you know Shelley Bruce played Annie on Broadway? It's true, she did. Oh, and, by the way, Shelley was fifteen going on sixteen when she made The Burning, so there.

Since I've already talked at length Tiger, who's a real troublemaker, judging by her mess hall theatrics (she likes to throw food), I might well introduce the others. Who haven't I mentioned? Okay, there's the Fisher Stevens-esque Fisher Stevens plays Woodstock, a couple of bland camp counselors named Todd (Brian Matthews) and Michelle (Leah Ayres), there's Glazer (Larry Joshua), a musclebound bully who likes to pick on Alfred, who, like I said, is played by Brian Backer; don't forget Fish (J.R. McKechnie), a kid who sort of sounds like Jason Lively, Marnie (Bonnie Deroski), a bespectacled blonde with large breasts, and a gaggle of nondescript brunettes. A gaggle that includes: Sophie (Holly Hunter), Diane (Kevi Kendall), Rhoda (Ame Segull), and Barbara (Sarah Chodoff).

Truth be told, there's nothing nondescript about Ame Segull and Sarah Chodoff. Well, for starters, Ame is a big gal, whose equally big butt should have been the focus of Eddy and Dave's ass appreciation during the baseball game. And Sarah had a coquettish vibe about her that was quite appealing (her many flirtatious encounters with Jason Alexander were awkwardly adorable).

Seeing all the teens gathered in one place during the scene that takes place at the lake, the girls are sunning themselves on one of them swimming platform thingies (check out Tiger, rocking a dark green one piece bathing suit on the life guard tower - no wonder they call her Tiger, rawr!!!), the guys are busy goofing off on shore, you have to wonder: How is Crospy going to kill all these people in a such a short amount of time? What they [the producers] need to do is to have a mass cull. Yeah, just wipe five or six campers is one fell swoop. Just as long as Tiger isn't one of the five or six. Aw, man, if I see Tiger getting abroad that makeshift raft, which we all know is not going to make it very far, I'm going to freak out.

In closing, I'd put The Burning up there alongside Sleepaway Camp and Little Darlings in terms of summer camp movies that managed to scratch most, if not all, of my many itches. Oh, and I almost forgot, Ralph Wiggum: "I ated the purple berries... They taste like...burning."

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The debate going on inside my head whether or not I should admit that I just watched Cruel Jaws utilizing my own free will was a raucous one. On the one hand, I want everyone to know that I braved yet another Bruno Mattei film and lived to tell the tale. Yet, at the same time, I don't want people to think that I wasted any brain cells watching this drivel. I mean, even I have standards. You'll notice I didn't say, "wasting my time," when referring to the negative, brain cell destroying side effects that can accompany the viewing of a Bruno Mattei film. You wanna know why? No? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. It's because I don't believe time can be wasted. Interesting, do go on. You see, everything is a waste of time. In other words, to me, watching a Bruno Mattei film is on the same level as a attending your daughter's piano recital or catching the game winning touchdown in the Grey Cup. At least that's what I kept telling myself as I struggled to wade through this excruciatingly awful enterprise unscathed. In fact, I'm still trying to figure out how this shark hit piece managed to slither its way in front of my cerebral cortex in the first place. Am I this desperate for entertainment? The only explanation I can think of involves mounds of cocaine, but I don't do cocaine. You could say, I do Bruno Mattei (a.k.a. Vincent Dawn). In this particular film, which, get this, was made in 1995; Whoa! 1995?!? Have you lost your mind? You of all people should know that nothing of value was made in 1995. Anyway, the Bruno Mattei being employed in this flick goes by the name of William Snyder, a potent strain of the drug. Yeah, that's right. It's potent. Don't be fooled by the blandness of its name, this film is pure Bruno Mattei from start to finish.

If you like watching mediocre actors interact with grainy stock footage stolen from other films, what the fuck is wrong with you? It's obvious that you need to get professional help. Which reminds me, someone, not me, of course, as I'm a habitual user with low self-esteem, should set up a Bruno Mattei support group to help those who endured his films. Actually, that's not fair, as Women's Prison Massacre, Private House of the SS, and Hell of the Living Dead are excellent films. Okay, maybe that's a bit of a stretch. But I think most folks will agree that all three are entertaining in their own unique way. No, what I think someone should set up is a Cruel Jaws support group.

Enough stalling, tell us all about this wonderful film. Do I have to? I would much rather talk about Bruno Mattei as if he were a drug and I was the user. While I dig the hypothesis you're putting out there, I think you should focus some attention on the actual film. Again, do I have to? Yes. Okay, let me try to gather some thoughts together. Ahh, it's coming back to me. Oh my god! I'm starting to remember Cruel Jaws. Quick, somebody kill me. Too late, it's in my brain now.

The film opens with a camper heading toward the quiet coastal town of Hampton Bay. ("Armageddon - come Armageddon! Come, Armageddon! Come!") Actually, the film opens with divers being attacked by a shark while snooping around the wreck of the U.S.S. Cleveland. But really, who gives a shit? Try not giving one, it feels great. Inside the camper, Billy (Gregg Hood), a marine biologist, and his girlfriend Vanessa (Norma J. Nesheim), a marine biologist she is not, are discussing all the fun they plan on having while in town.

The reason Vanessa says, "Something smells fishy" could be seen either two ways. The obvious reason is because Billy is pulling into the parking lot of an aquarium (they have fish there, and fish some times smell fishy). But she's also saying it because she thinks Billy is up to something. You see, Vanessa wants Billy to periodically poke her vagina with his hopefully erect penis, but she worries that his cunt concern will drift back to fish and junk.

Sauntering over to where a couple of dolphins are swimming with a little girl named Susy (Kristen Urso), Billy embraces her dad, Dag (Richard Dew), the owner of the aquarium, and his teenage son, Bobby (Scott Silveria); and judging by the chummy nature of their embrace, it would seem that Billy used to live Hampton Bay. When Susy eventually gets out of the water, Cruel Jaws has its first dramatic moment. As she's being helped out of the water, we learn that she has the lost use of her legs. I think I might have heard something about her getting attacked by a shark, but the annoying carnival music drowns out their conversation (it's too bad I can't read Japanese - the version of the film I watched has Japanese subtitles). Either way, the look of sadness on Billy and Vanessa's faces as Susy is plopped into her wheelchair was like being on emotional roller coaster.

Strange, from what I've read so far, Cruel Jaws sounds like a pretty good movie. It's got dolphins, little girls confined to wheelchairs, that Dag fella looks like Brooke Hogan's dad circa 1987 (I want Brooke Hogan to suffocate me with her thighs - just putting that out there), and, oh, look, the local sheriff, Francis (David Luther), is handing Dag an eviction notice. Yeah, maybe you're right. Let's see if my recollection of this film continues on this positive-sounding course.

It appears that Sam (George Barnes, Jr.), a local businessman, has bought the property and plans to build a condo/resort on the land the aquarium sits. Meaning, Susy won't be able to swim with Kooky and Daisy (the actual names of the aquarium's dolphins) anymore. I know, what a jerk. To make matters worse, there's a killer shark on the loose.

Oooh, quiet. My favourite Cruel Jaws character is about to show up. You mean that asshole with the dimpled chin? No, not Ronnie (Carter Collins), the son of the aforementioned jerk/businessman. Check out the woman he's running along the beach with. Wow, she's amazing. Who is she? Why, that is Glenda, Hampton Bay's resident short-haired, leggy troublemaker. Played by model Sky Palma, Glenda is one the few people in town whose facial expressions properly match the mood of their surroundings. In other words, if Glenda sees something horrible, like a badly decomposed body washed on the beach, she'll scream. If those "other words" aren't clear enough. What I think I'm trying to say is that Sky Palma is the only one doing any actual acting.

The badly decomposed body Ronnie and Glenda stumble upon is taken to the morgue, where Billy tells Francis that the diver was killed by a shark. When this nugget of information hits the ears of Sam and the mayor, they freak out. But not because they're concerned about the well-being of the townspeople, they stand to lose lot's of money if no one comes to the regatta they have planned. Determined to do everything in their power to make sure the windsurfing race goes off without a hitch, Sam tries to placate the fears of Billy and Francis (who want him to call off the regatta) by installing a shark-proof fence around the beach and hiring helicopters to patrol the harbour.

If he thinks the shark is causing him grief, wait until he finds out that his daughter Gloria (Natasha Etzer) has a crush on Bobby. Yeah, that's right. His daughter is canoodling with the enemy. When his dimple-chinned asshole of a son finds out about Gloria and Bobby, Ronnie threatens to tear his balls off. Quirky fun-fact: Barehanded castration is threatened a total of three times during Cruel Jaws. And in every instance, it's Bobby's balls that are threatened to be forcibly removed. Making his balls the most at risk testicles in movie history.

I didn't need another reason to dislike Ronnie, but the film provided me with one when he attempts to poison Kooky and Daisy. Don't worry, his dastardly deed is thwarted by a plucky seal. But still, poisoning dolphins? You suck, Ronnie. I don't know what Glenda sees in you.

Maybe there's more to Ronnie than meets the eye, because Vanessa makes a beeline straight for his cock. Wait a minute, you mean Vanessa and Billy are through? It looks like it. But why? They seemed so right for each other. It looks like Vanessa has had enough of Billy's obsession with fish. In fact, she gives him ultimatum at one point, asking him "it's either the fish or me"? And he chose the fish? Not exactly. He didn't answer the question quickly enough to her liking, so she told him to go fuck himself. Ouch.

The best way to avoid being attacked by a shark is to stay out of shark-infested waters. The worst way to avoid being attacked by a shark is to participate a windsurfing race that's being held in shark-infested waters. When a race official tells the windsurfers that the race will commence in two minutes, it seemed like I had to actually had to wait two minutes. Speaking of time, even though it takes fifty minutes for Bruno Mattei's shark to appear onscreen (everything up until now has been stock footage of sharks from other movies), I was strangely satisfied. Sure, it looked fake, but I would much rather have fake-looking puppet shark than anything created on a computer. The puppet shark gets wet, the computer-generated shark doesn't even know what wet is. At any rate, as the race kicks off, we're treated to some Yello-esque music, which is followed by some John Williams-esque music. Which reminds me, with so much out right thievery going on, you could call Cruel Jaws movie-esque, as it contains some of the elements that make up a real movie. But mostly features material stolen from other movies. At the end of day, you have to admire the editing of Bruno Mattei, as he has pieced together a pretty entertaining shark movie without a shark.

video uploaded by Dollar Ben

"Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! Saviour of the universe! Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! He'll save everyone us!" When people come up to me on the street–you know, to tell me my shoes are untied–they invariably ask me what my opinion is regarding actor Sam J. Jones (people, as you might expect, are dying to know what I think about stuff). And if they were to ask me before, oh, let's say, last Wednesday, I would always start off by saying, in the most sheepish manner possible: Oh, you mean they guy from My Chauffeur? And then, after waiting for their playful laughter to subside, I would launch into this long, meandering, some might say, deranged soliloquy, about the statuesque thespian. After I finished, the person who had just endured my long-winded speech would always ask why I failed to mention Flash Gordon, the live action sci-fi adventure flick from 1980 that he's purportedly best known for. Trying my best not to appear infuriated by their insolence, I would simply say, "Flash Gordon?!? I don't watch crap like that," and politely excuse myself. Fast forward, or, I guess I should say, flash forward, you know, because the film is called...never mind. Jump ahead to this past week, where cursing the arrogant, non-Flash Gordon-watching jackass who used to live inside my nimbus has been the main order of business. You can thank the live action version of Masters of the Universe for loosing up my butt-hole's tolerance for films that mix swashbuckling with laser-gun shootouts, as the Mike Hodges-directed film entered my organic structure with a buttery smoothness (my rectum did not bleed, I repeat, my rectum did not bleed). But as a fan of films such as Barbarella and Starcrash, I must say, I feel a deep sense of shame for ignoring the garish allure of Flash Gordon, one of the greatest films to ever open with the words "hot hail" flashing on the screen for inordinate amount of time (if you remember correctly, the classic film Grand Illusion starts off with the words "hot hail" as well).

The fact that it took me over thirty years for my eyeballs to make a date with Flash Gordon is, to be perfectly honest, extremely embarrassing. Aren't you forgetting something? Oh, yeah. I want to be whipped by Mariangela Melato, while, of course, she's wearing her skintight Kala uniform. No, not that. The other thing. Right, the other thing. I would like to use this opportunity to apologize to all the people I flippantly dismissed whenever they brought up Flash Gordon after I had completed my Sam J. Jones-related ramble/tirade. In my defense, he is amazing in My Chauffeur. I mean, his chemistry with Deborah Foreman is undeniable. However, that's no excuse for my behaviour. I am, for intents and purposes, truly sorry.

"Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! Saviour of the universe! Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! He'll save everyone us!" Now that's how you start a fucking movie. What are you talking about? I'm talking about the music of Queen. "Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh!" Granted, I don't know much about Queen. Other than seeing their Metropolis-inspired video for "Radio Ga-Ga" and the video that featured Freddie Mercury vacuuming in a leather mini-skirt ("I Want to Break Free") as a smallish child, and, of course, the famous scene from Wayne's World, my Queen experience is pretty limited. Grabbing you by the haunches almost immediately, the second Freddie yells "Flash!" and that first lightning bolt flashes across the screen, I knew I was in the presence of greatness.

Like I've said many times before, it doesn't usually take long for me to size up a film's awesomeness. But in the case of Flash Gordon, it was almost instantaneous. Starting off with an unseen Emperor Ming (Max von Sydow) telling his loyal henchman Klytus (Peter Wyngrade), who is also unseen, that he's bored, you know some evil shit is about to go down. Spotting a planet on his view screen, Ming asks Klytus what the name of that peaceful looking bluish rock is. Pronouncing "Earth" in the most derisive manner possible, Ming decides to have fun with this "Earth." And by "fun," I mean cause earthquakes, hurricanes, and, you guessed it, make hot hail fall from the sky.

With a theme song that kicks an egregious amount of ass, it only makes sense that the hero at its centre kick just as much, ass, that is. You can't tell right away, but a blonde human male named Flash Gordon (Sam J. Jones), quarterback for the New York Jets, will have an army of Hawkmen spelling his name in the sky above Mongo by the time this epic adventure is over.

Waiting on the runway for his private jet to pick him up, Flash spots Dale Arden (Melody Anderson), a brunette travel agent, getting out of a van. Judging by the way their eyes lock, it's obvious that Flash and Dale are attracted to one another. And why wouldn't they be? He's tall, handsome, and is wearing a white t-shirt with his name on it (his first name is emblazoned across his chest in flamboyant red letting). And she, well, she's rocking a red and white ensemble like nobody's business; a pair of cheeky white pumps, a modest red dress, and a white blazer with a red handkerchief in the pocket. In other words, Flash likey.

As they're flying through the air together, their plane hits a little turbulence (of course, this doesn't stop Flash from hitting on Dale, whose lipstick, by the way, totally matches her dress). Suddenly, the plane begins to veer out of control. Oh my, the pilots are gone! What do you do you mean the pilots are gone? Just that, they're gone. It's almost as if they were sucked through the windshield by an unknown entity. Thankfully, Flash, who has recently started taking flying lessons, grabs the wheel and attempts to land the plane safely. It's still early on, but I like the way this Flash fella never seems to shirk from a challenge.

Crashing through the lab of a disgruntled scientist named Dr. Hans Zarkov (Topel), one who used to work for NASA, Flash and Dale find themselves in yet another pickle of a situation. You see, Dr. Zarkov is disgruntled for a reason. He wants to confront the aliens that are responsible for the earthquakes, the hot hail, and the lunar eclipses, and plans to do so with the aid of a rocket that he's built in his lab. Unfortunately, no one believes his theory that a malevolent force from another galaxy is causing the planet so much turmoil. And since his lab partner has flown the coop, Dr. Zarkov wants Flash and Dale to accompany him on his mission (his rocket needs more than one person in order for it to operate in an efficient manner).

Since Flash and Dale, like Dr. Zarkov's lab partner, have no desire to battle imaginary aliens played by Swedish, British, and Italian actors, they resist the deranged scientist. Try as they might, all three, as a result of some mildly contrived circumstances, end up blasting into space. Even though they have, up until now, only exchanged a few lustful looks and engaged in some light to moderate flirting, you can tell Flash has the hots for Dale by the way he tries shield her from harm.

Welcome to Mongo, puny earthlings. If you thought The Apple was too gaudy, the Phantom of the Paradise was too glam, and Xanadu was too...xanadu-ey?!? Your eyes ain't seen nothing yet. As the opening credits were rolling to the sound of Queen, I couldn't help but wonder why the film's costume designer/set decorator, Danilo Donati, was featured so prominently (the font used for his name seemed more robust than the others). Well, after getting a look at the characters that populate Mongo, the planet ruled by Emperor Ming, I'm not surprised his name was so prominently displayed. I would say that a large part of this film's appeal comes from the sets and costumes, as they're wonderfully garish. I mean, never have I seen so much red and gold worn by so many at once.

As Flash, Dale, and Dr. Zarkov enter Ming's chambers (they have been taken prisoner), we get a sense that all is not well in this tawdry universe. It would seem that the Tree People, ruled by Prince Barin (Timothy Dalton) and the Hawk People, headed by Prince Vultan (Brian Blessed), are at odds with one another. As the two princes are about to have at it, Klytus, Ming's gold-faced henchman, reminds them that no one shall die unless Emperor Ming wills it. And judging by his stoney demeanour, Ming ain't willing shit. The always thinking Dr. Zarkov sees the conflict between the Tree People and the Hawk People as an opportunity. Meaning, if he can convince them to put aside their differences and focus their energy on defeating Ming, who they secretly dislike, maybe he can save Earth from being destroyed after all.

Let's be honest, the chances that a disgruntled scientist, a leggy travel agent, and a blonde quarterback will be able to defeat Ming's forces all by themselves is pretty far-fetched.

While we're at it, let's be even more honest. How are they going to save Earth when the disgruntled scientist's mind has been wiped, the leggy travel agent is engaged to marry Ming (he may be evil as all get out, but his taste in concubines is second to none), and Flash is dead. Flash is what?!? Yeah, he's dead. That's what you get when you call Ming a "psycho." But don't worry, Princess Aura (Ornella Muti) has got things covered. Who's she, you ask? Oh, she's Ming's daughter. She likes to toy with men. How does she do that exactly. Uh, by looking like Ornella Muti, that's how.

Speaking of Italian women who toy with men with a jaunty elan, even though it takes roughly forty minutes for her to make her first appearance, the moment Mariangela Melato shows up as Commander Kala was totally worth the wait. In charge of Ming's feared secret police, Kala, sheathed in leather from head to toe (with gold flourishes peppered here and there to break up the monotony), is the queen of torture.

If you need to wipe someone's memory, she's your gal. If you need your treacherous, eye makeup-obsessed daughter to be whipped, she's your gal. If you need to...we get the idea, she rules. You got that right. In fact, she rules so hard, I'm having trouble concentrating. I don't know, I keep imagining myself being double-teamed by Kala and Evil-Lyn from Masters of the Universe. What makes Kala, and, I suppose I might as well include Evil-Lyn, so appealing is that they may follow the orders of dictators, yet they display brief moments of independence. As in, we'll do your bidding, but only on our terms. Oh, and they both manage to be sexy without revealing any skin.

When she first arrived at the airfield at the beginning of the film, I wasn't sure about Melody Anderson as Dale Arden. I mean, if I'm going to believe that Flash Gordon would cast aside a flirtatious Ornella Muti for another woman, that woman is going to have to be pretty spectacular. And during the film's early going, I wasn't getting that vibe from Melody Anderson. All that changed when Dale takes off her shoes (her white pumps have long since been replaced with a pair of strappy gold heels), places them in a safe place, and proceeds to overpower three or four of Ming's creepy guards. When she's done blasting and karate chopping the guards (who let out this horrible shriek when killed), she calmly picks up her shoes and continues on her way.

Being a concubine probably blows, but you gotta love the free shoes. I'm surprised Dale didn't have second thoughts about the whole concubine thing. The prospect of having round the clock makeup service must have been tempting.

In a universe where manliness is measured by inserting your fist in a wet hole, Hawkmen dive with an infectious brand of enthusiasm (when the boisterous Brian Blessed - whose laugh makes me happy- instructs his Hawkmen to dive, I'm sorry, I meant to say, diiiiiiive, I got goosebumps), rings have built-in flamethrowers, no-nonsense earthlings use their knowledge of football to defeat alien henchmen ("Go, Flash, go!), and rocket-cycles are always conveniently nearby to help facilitate escape attempts, Flash Gordon is what cinema should be. Colourful, raucous, goofy, camp-laden fun. "Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! Saviour of the universe! Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! He'll save everyone us!"

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The open road, a well-attended orgy, drugs, flamboyant guys named Bruce, wet panties, dry panties, drugs, inadequate rapists, and the world's cutest truck stop waitress all converge to create one of the best films about teenage hitchhikers I have ever seen. Wow, that's high praise, especially when you factor in the amount of time you have pretended to spend in the mid-1970s over the past couple of years. Why do you assume this film was made in the mid-1970s? It wasn't? That's not the point. Okay, for starters, I assumed that Teenage Hitchhikers took place in the mid-1970s simply because that's date you listed (I'm not a moron). And secondly, why wouldn't it take place during the mid-1970s? Think about it, I'm not watching a teenage hitchhiking movie that takes place during the mid-1960s. (Hey, daddy-o! How's about giving us a lift?) And I'm certainly not watching a teenage hitchhiker movie that takes place during the mid-1980s (Like, oh my god! Eww! You wanna give us a ride? I'm so sure.) The mid-1960s thing I get (you can keep your clam diggers and bobby socks), but I thought you loved the mid-80s? Oh, I love 'em, all right. It's just that I don't buy for a second that anyone, particularly a couple of sexually attractive teenage girls named after animals, would hitchhike during mid-1980s. While I'm sure many teenagers did in fact thumb rides during the Reagan administration, I think the decades neon, Patrick Nagel illustrated temperament can't match the mid-1970s as far as sleaze goes. As anyone who was alive during the mid-1970 can attest, it was a boisterous period filled with violence and debauchery. I know what you're thinking, there's plenty of violence going on out there right this minute. Yeah, that's true. Violence never seems to go out of fashion. But I ask you, where's the debauchery?

Nowadays, pornography is everywhere, but, at the same time, it's also nowhere. Relegated to the fringes of our collective unconsciousness, erotica, pornography's forgotten, kinder, gentler cousin has become so non-existent, that you would probably need a magnifying glass to find it anywhere within mainstream society. Now, I'm not talking about oversexualized pop stars gyrating in their underwear. No, what I miss is artful perversion, which is something this film, directed by Gerri Sedley, has in great supply.

Getting back to my original point, the films of the mid-1970s are replete with violence and debauchery. But they also have a sense of fun. In the grand tradition of the drive-in movies made by Crown International Pictures, Teenage Hitchhikers looks like it might be yet another violent exploitation film; two young women, Mouse (Chris Jordan) and Bird (Sandra Peabody) hit the open road in search of adventure by using their thumbs, and, when necessary, their naked, tan line-adorned titties to hitch rides. However, the film, in actuality, is a lighthearted, softcore romp. In fact, it's so lighthearted, that even the ubiquitous rapist character is a bit of a doofus.

We meet Mouse, a kooky blonde with a flat chest and strong comedic chops, and Bird, a playful brunette with a shapely, pantie-compromising booty, as they're, you guessed it, trying to hitch a ride. As darkness falls, Mouse and Bird have yet to land a ride. Their luck, however, changes when a camper filled to the brim with hippies picks them up. The men are members of a folk rock band called "Energy Crisis" and the women, Sol Alcoa (Margaret Whitton) and House Cat (Lynne Ritchie), are their groupies (the former actually calls herself a parasite who sucks other people's energy). As the band perform one of their ditties, Mouse and Bird get to know House Cat, who has a habit of contradicting everything they say by spouting hippie-related nonsense in their general direction. Like, for example, if you were to say, "I don't get it" to House Cat, she would say, "I don't 'get,' man, I give."

In order for them to remain warmly ensconced in their camper, Mouse and Bird are informed that they're going to have let the band members temporarily use the inside portion of their vaginas for undisclosed amount of time. After mulling it over for about two seconds, Mouse and Bird bolt from the camper like a couple of exasperated black-capped chickadees.

Is there anything more depressing than watching a couple of teenage hitchhikers attempt to catch fish with their bare hands? Oh, you're asking me? Actually, I found the scene to be quite rewarding, as it gave us our first peek at Bird's first-rate behind. Encased in wettest pair of white panties ever to exist on this or any other plane of white pantie-based existence, Bird hikes them up even further, creating a sort of cottony no man's land of corporeal tightness. Hardcore fans of this film, the kind that write Teenage Hitchhiker fan fiction in their spare time, will notice that Mouse, who kinda looks like Cheryl Hines from certain angles, stares at Bird in a loving manner as she adjusts her wet white panties on the shore. Was Mouse simply impressed by her pantie-hiking technique? After all, wet panties are tougher to hike than regular, non-wet panties (you mean dry panties? yeah, dry. which is totally the opposite of wet). Or was there something else going on? Hmmm.

Oh, and in case you're wondering. Yes, they do eventually catch a fish. Now, I don't want to say how exactly they go about doing this, as it would ruin the surprise. But trust me, finding out how is definitely worth, oh, let's say, the price of admission. Do people still pay for stuff? Hmmm.

After drying off, they're back on the road. No money for food? No problem. As Mouse would say, "Boobs and butts are legal tender," and they head to the nearest truck stop ready to spend a bit of both. Sitting on either side of some guy, Mouse and Bird immediately unleash a barrage of food-related sexual innuendos at Keily (Donald Haines), the truck stop's clueless soda jerk. When that doesn't work, Mouse and Bird proceed to dance without the aid of pants. Huh, it would seem that Bird's panties are in fact dry; to be honest, I wasn't sure if they were dry or not. Yeah, anyway, um, Mouse removes her top and begins to gyrate like a coked up go-go dancer. I don't know what exactly they're trying to accomplish (I think they're trying to get a free meal), but either way, it's a great scene.

When flashing their boobs fails to get them a ride (they hurl homophobic slurs at the drivers who refuse to stop for them), they turn to plan B: Writing the words "west" on their butt cheeks. While Bird has some junk in her trunk, I don't think these gals have the badonk necessary in order to make a legible sign, especially one that supposed to be seen by the occupants of a vehicle traveling at an accelerated rate of speed. Proving that ingenuity was alive and well in the mid-1970s, Mouse and Bird share the letters in "west." Yeah, that's right. Mouse gets the 'w' and the 'e,' while Bird gets the 's' and the 't.' You know it's an ingenious plan because their riding in Dick Daggert's station wagon in no time.

Who's Dick Daggert, you ask? Played by Pater Carew, Dick, who is a lingerie salesman, has a girl named Mouse bouncing up and down on his cock in no time. God I love the mid-1970s. A time and a place where even the most repugnant of individuals seem to get laid on a regular basis.

Sure, everything up until now has been light and frothy. But I have a feeling things are going to take a dark turn when word gets around that there's an escaped rapist on the loose in the surrounding woods. Lounging in those very same woods, Mouse (rocking giant yellow curlers in her hair) and Bird (reading an erotic paperback while relaxing in a leggy manner) have no idea, but Jenny (Nikki Lynn), a young runaway, is being stalked by an escaped rapist (Ric Mancini) a hundred yards away from where they are currently lounging.

Will Mouse and Bird come to Jenny's rescue? What do you think? Pretending to be a wayward teen, Bird tells the escaped rapist to stop raping Jenny. Why would he do that? Well, according to Bird, he's trespassing on the property belonging to a school for, you guessed it, wayward girls. And, not to mention, he failed to obey the sign that clearly stated, "No Rapists Beyond This Point." Now, we all know there's no school for wayward girls or any sign meant to deter rapists, but the escaped rapists doesn't know this. On top of the things I just mentioned, Bird also mocks his genitals and belittles his raping technique; "maybe raping isn't your bag," Bird tells the escaped rapist at one point. I don't know if this scene would pass today's politically correct smell test. But nonetheless, I admired its dark sensibility.

The stunning Claire Wilbur only made two films during her career, and I've seen both of them (I love when that happens). Anyway, just like in Radley Metzger's Score, Claire plays a forthright woman who always gets what she wants. And in Teenage Hitchhikers she plays Toni Blake, a rich lesbian who desperately wants to have sex with Mouse and Bird. The plan is, have sex with her, while Jenny (who has since joined the duo on the road) robs the rich lesbian of her valuables. While Bird is being smothered with kisses in the garden, Jenny starts to poke around Toni's study. However, it doesn't look like Jenny is in the mood for stealing, as she mostly daydreams about her boyfriend, who bears a striking resemblance to the truck stop soda jerk. Oh, and while Jenny is wistfully woolgathering about the soda jerk, Mouse has hopped in the bath with Toni.

It's during the bathtub scene that I first realized that Chris Jordan has a genuine gift for comedy. It's true, she's funny throughout the movie. But watching her face as she bathed with Claire Wilbur was when it dawned on me: Chris Jordan has got the goods.

As far as plot goes, the girls desire to purchase a car is pretty much it. A plot that culminates when they visit the Farquart Classic Car Emporium, a car lot located in a clearing in the woods. Even though it looks like a junkyard, Mr. Farquart (Kevin Andre, credited here as Carter Courtney Jr.) insists that all his cars run. Unable to afford the one car on the lot that actually works, the girls and Mr. Farquart hash out a unique payment plan. Which leads to a bizarre sex montage where Mr. Farquart almost humps Mouse and Bird in the back of a convertible. "Almost" because he's interrupted every time he's about to get his thrust on.

Oh my god! The waitress who serves Mouse, Bird, and Jenny at a greasy spoon is freaking adorable. And, get this, her name is listed in the credits! Played by Karen Schutzman, the waitress character, a demure brunette in a green smock, might only be screen for four or five seconds, but she still managed to steal my heart. Give me my heart back, demure brunette waitress who appears in Teenage Hitchhikers for four or five seconds. Give it back!

Celebrating freedom, independence, and the excitement of the open road, Teenage Hitchhikers is a loving tribute to the mid-1970s made during the mid-1970s (if you're going to pay tribute to a specific period of time, try doing it during the actual period). Ending like all tributes to the mid-1970s do, with a well-attended softcore orgy sequence (complete with a zipper pulling montage) hosted by Bruce (Kevin Andre), the orgy's "resident fag." A dizzying mish-mash of pantyhose, uncouth hippie genitals, grape-based cunnilingus, paisley shirts, catchy music, drugs, Eric Edwards, and casual humping, I can't think of a better way to end a movie about teenage hitchhikers. You could bring the escaped rapist back. Yeah, I guess you could do that. But don't you think ending with the orgy would have been the perfect metaphor for the decade's liberal attitude toward sex? Either way, the film is must see for fans of frivolous balderdash with a subversive edge.

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Riding on a crowded subway at the height of rush hour is nothing compared to being forced to eat sewer rats off the end of a skewer. At least that's what I kept telling myself as I basked in the entertaining glow of 2019: After the Fall of New York, a post-apocalyptic thrill ride that has more villainous, ponytail-sporting brunettes than every Hollywood film that it purportedly "borrows" its ideas from. Oh, and I don't mean to imply that I like riding the subway during the hellish period known as "rush hour." On the contrary, I would much rather live in the radioactive wasteland that's depicted in this film's universe. Why is that, you ask? Well, for starters, everyone is sterile. Which is perfect, as I'm always getting chicks pregnant; they don't call me the Reverse Creampie Champion of South Central Ohio for the nothing (check their non-existent website if you don't believe me). In a world without babies, who do you think would come out on top after the fallout had cleared? If you said those pesky Europeans. You would be right. You wanna know why the Europeans rule what's left of the world? It's simple. No, it's got nothing to do with their healthy attitude toward sex or their obsession with soccer. Remember that brunette with the ponytail I alluded to earlier? You do? Excellent. You see, she's a woman, and she plays an important role in the daily operation of Eurac (a Europe run alliance that includes Africa and Asia). Sure, she's not the biggest cheese in the drawer where the cheese and other cheese-related products are kept (that distinction goes to some bald motherfucker), but at least she has a hand in running things. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for the Pan American Confederacy, a small yet determined group of Americans who hope to recapture the ground they lost to the Eurac, in that, they have no women working in positions of power. At least none that I saw hanging around their antiseptic Alaskan compound.

In hindsight, maybe the Americans don't have any women. Hold on a second, that doesn't make any sense. I'm sure there are some ladies kicking around somewhere. Unless they were all killed while being experimented on. Typical male thinking. Oh-no, women can't get pregnant! What are we going to do? I know, let's perform experiments on them–you know, in order to find out what's wrong with them. Never once thinking to themselves that it's the defective sperm floating around inside their testicles that's the problem. No matter what the reason is, I think it's safe to say that I'm reading way too much into the film's imaginary take on gender dynamics.

Look at the once flourishing city of New York City, it's skyline is a smoldering shell of its former self. Who's responsible for this? The Eurac monarchy, that's who, a powerful Euro-Afro-Asian alliance who rained nuclear hellfire on the city. Claiming what's left of Manhattan as their own, the Eurac, and gangs of local mercenaries, like, the Harlem Hunters, scour the streets, armed with crossbow-style rifles, spiky clubs, and flamethrowers, in search of New Yorkers.

You can spot them by looking at the pus-laden lesions on their faces.

The idea is to wipe out, exterminate, if you will, the last vestiges of human life in the city, so that the Eurac may set the stage for their new society. Only problem is, there hasn't been a human baby born in over fifteen years. Anyway, the flamethrowers look cool and the crossbow-style rifles fired by the Eurac cavalry sound eerily similar to the phasers used in The Beast in Space.

As the Eurac cavalry and their flamethrower-wielding allies cleanse the streets of Manhattan, Parsifal (Michael Sopkiw) is about to engage in some vehicular combat out in the Nevada desert. A bloodsport, complete with prizes and a punk-friendly audience, the no-nonsense Parsifal battles other cars, most of which are equipped with cannons; think of it as a live action version of Twisted Metal: Black. Speaking of demented clowns, I want the female clown automaton who repeats the line, "To the victor: long life and happiness," after Parsifal destroys/kills all the other drivers. What do you mean, you want it? Exactly that, I want to own the the creepy female clown automaton from 2019: After the Fall of New York; the herky-jerky way she moved, the eyeball on top of her head and the deadpan manner in which she spoke was very appealing to me.

One of the rewards for winning the car war is a brunette sex slave named Flower (Siriana Hernandez), who he puts on the back of his three-wheeled motorcycle, and proceeds to hit the road.

Deciding that owning a brunette sex slave isn't all it's cracked up to be, he let's her ride off on a horse belonging to one of the guys Parsifal puts out of his misery by the side of the road (they were coughing up green slime as a result of drinking radioactive water). Zapped by a stun gun (the prop master who worked on Barbarella just called, he wants his rayguns back), Parsifal wakes up in the secret hideout for the Pan American Confederacy, which is located somewhere in Alaska. What do they want with Parsifal? It would seem that the president (Edmund Purdom) knows the whereabouts of the world's last fertile woman, and wants Parsifal, of all people, to bring her back so that they [The Pan American Confederacy] may start producing babies again.

Suspicious of the president's motives, Parsifal approaches his offer with the right amount of caution. I mean, why should he trust him? After all, he's a politician. Mulling it over for a few seconds, Parsifal reluctantly agrees to go on the mission. Since the president doesn't trust Parsifal either, he assigns Bronx (Paolo Maria Scalondro), a claw-handed former New Yorker (the Eurac killed his family and made him watch) and Ratchet (Romano Puppo), an eye-patch-sporting strongman, to accompany him.

Did the trumpet player who toots his horn just out Manhattan remind anyone of the scene from Cafe Flesh where Max Melodramatic plays the trumpet during a break in the show? No? Okay, moving on. The plan is simple: Find the fertile woman, and bring her back to Alaska. However, as they soon find out, getting into Manhattan is easy. It's getting out part that is downright impossible. Though, I should say, getting in isn't that east either. Unless you consider crawling through rat-infested sewers easy.

After battling some Harlem Hunters at an abandoned bus depot (great location, by the way), Parsifal, Bronx, and Ratchet find themselves back in the sewers. It's here where we're introduced to the Rat Eater King (Hal Yamanouchi) and his merry band of Rat Eaters. The sight of the clearly demented Rat Eater King, his face covered with lesions, whipping rats with his trusty whip was the definition of badass. You see, by whipping them, the Rat Eater King stuns the rats in order that his fellow Rat Eaters can stab them with greater efficiency (a stunned rat is easier to stab than a rat that hasn't been stunned). As the Rat Eaters are stabbing rats, Parsifal notices a blonde Rat Eater poking rats like a pro. Even though I thought the bald chick with the lesions on the side of her head was the most attractive Rat Eater, I can't argue with Parsifal's choice. At any rate, before he can make goo-goo eyes with Giara (Valentine Monnier), the threesome must save a little person, who, of course, is named Shorty (Louis Ecclesia), from being killed by the Rat Eaters (they think little people are demons).

A brawl takes place, one where we get to see Ratchet's ball bearings in action (they're attached to a wire and hidden in his sleeve). Unfortunately, Parsifal and Bronx, and Ratchet are outnumbered and are eventually taken prisoner by the Rat Eaters. Forced to watch them eat rats and perform some kind of campfire rape lottery, things aren't looking too good for our heroes. Will they be able to find the world's last fertile woman in order to save humanity. And if they do find her, is it really worth making more people if this is world they're going to be born into? These and many other questions are bound to answered by the time 2019: After the Fall of New York has decided that its dolled out enough awesome to satisfy the unwashed rabble lurking in the dark.

No one will deny that director Sergio Martini (Torso) was heavily influenced by films such as Escape from New York, Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior and Planet of the Apes (a half man half ape character named "Big Ape," played by George Eastman, shows up during the film's final third), but the cool thing about this particular film is that it manages to expand upon the films that initially inspired it. In fact, I thought this film was actually better than Escape from New York. While I realize a statement like that could be interpreted as blasphemy, the fact is 2019: After the Fall of New York is simply more entertaining and does more with the post-apocalyptic, New York City in ruins premise. And on top of that, Michael Sopkiw (Massacre in Dinosaur Valley) is just so darned likable.

I would be remiss if I failed to mention the stunning performance given by Anna Kanakis (The New Barbarians) as Ania, the Eurac's second in command. Channeling the Baroness from G.I. Joe, Valaria from Robot Holocaust, and Meg Foster's Evil-Lyn from Masters of the Universe, Anna Kanakis, her giant ponytail tied to perfection, imbues her character with enough ruthlessness and paranoia to sooth my wounded soul for at least six to seven hours. As I watched Anna stomp around Eurac headquarters in her black skintight outfit, I thought to myself: Fuck any film that doesn't feature a strong, fashion forward female villain at its centre. I mean, seriously, fuck them all. If you're not going to give me what I want, like, 2019: After the Fall of New York does and then some, then I'm afraid I'm not going to watch your lame ass movie with same amount of enthusiasm. Oh, sure. I'll sit in front of you for ninety or so minutes, but my heart won't be in it.

"My ponytail is better than yours. Deal with it." ~ Ania (Warning: This line is not actually uttered in the film.)

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Special thanks to The Film Connoisseur for suggesting that my eyes and their ball-like housing make a date with this totally righteous flick.

The world of motion pictures is made up of two separate yet equally important groups. First and foremost, you have the scumbags who are obsessed with telling a compelling story. As for the other group, well, they think every film needs to end with motorcycle helmet-wearing government troops on horseback setting people's faces on fire with flamethrowers. And which group do you think 1990: The Bronx Warriors belongs to? If you chose the latter, you're obviously well aware that this Bronxsploitation yarn was directed by Enzo G. Castellari, one of them inordinately Italian men I often refer to. Who else would feature something so exceedingly badass in their movie? No-one, that's who. I don't know what it is about Italians, the apocalypse, and flamethrowers (both Rats: Night of Terror and 2019: After the Fall of the New York boast scenes with flamethrowers), but they have taken the post-apocalyptic genre to a whole new level of awesome. Taking their cues from films like, The Warriors, Escape from New York, and Mad Max, the makers of this film envision a future where The Bronx, the northernmost of the five boroughs of New York City, is a lawless land overrun by gangs. The first thing you'll notice about the residents of this unlawful version of The Bronx is their sense of fashion; it's not only on the cutting edge, it serves a practically purpose in their day to day life. On the other hand, the uptight squares living across the river in Manhattan are all dressed in bland business suits. Proving yet again that instability is good for fashion, the gang members seen throughout this film are able to freely express their inner clothes horse thanks to society's undoing.

The practical purposes of the gang clothing worn in this movie are on full display during the film's stylish opening credits sequence. Featuring a black background, each credit is accompanied by an item of clothing, an accessory, a weapon, or an example of the makeup will be seeing over the course of the film. And judging by some of the weaponized accessories, elaborate lingerie, Toyah-esque makeup I saw during the credits, it looks like I'll be wallowing in my cinematic comfort zone for the next ninety or so minutes.

For those interested, the order goes something like this: Skull rings, makeup, knife knuckle dusters, green roller skate wheels, spiky elbow pads, an undefined skull, makeup (butterfly face paint), a spear, claw rings, makeup, another undefined skull, makeup, knife boot, and, last, but not least, lingerie!

The year is 1999, and there is no law...Wait a minute. Wrong movie. The year is 1990, and The Bronx has been declared a "no-man's land," one that is ruled by bikers, hot rod driving pimps, and bowler hat-wearing tap dancers. If that's the case, why is Ann (Stefania Girolami Goodwin), a Manhattan socialite, fleeing her cushy existence across the river? I don't know, but the second she crosses the bridge, she greeted by The Zombies, a gang of roller-skating fascists who wear white German army helmets paired with red and orange knee and elbow pads, and carry hockey sticks as weapons. Even though this gang is in desperate need of a stylist, they look quite formidable. Proving that looks are deceiving, The Riders, lead by Trash (Mark Gregory) show up to teach The Zombies a lesson or two in street fighting.

After the brawl is over, Trash goes over to collect his blonde prize. Now, you would think Trash would be hostile towards Ann; after all, she's from Manhattan. But much to my surprise, Trash let's Ann join The Riders. And, get this, he doesn't merely let her ride on the back of his bike like some "girlfriend." No way, Ann gets own bike. Which we can clearly see her on as Trash and the gang rumble their way underneath The Manhattan Bridge. Parked in a w-shaped formation, The Riders stare ominously at the body of one of their own as a loner drummer wails away on a drum-kit. I'll be the first to admit, I haven't done any research about the drummer. But I have a strong feeling that the bridge drummer from 1990: The Bronx Warriors has his own cult following, as the sight of him drumming for no apparent reason is pretty fucking cool. Oh, and I also liked how none of the other characters acknowledge his presence.

Even though the opening title card states that The Bronx is ruled by The Riders, the borough's largest gang are actually called The Tigers, a dapper group who take their cues from 1930s American gangster culture and mix it together with the gaudy swagger of your typical 1970s street pimp. Arriving under the bridge with a flamboyant aplomb (we're talking flame-adorned hots rods, baby), Trash requests to have a chat with The Ogre (Fred Williamson), leader of The Tigers, who, of course, smokes thin cigars and has a leggy sidekick named Witch (Betty Dessy). Telling Trash that the dead member of his gang was a spy, The Ogre says he'll let it slide this time and gives him a stern warning. It's true, I''m not that familiar with Fred Williamson as an actor, but even I know he's not someone to be trifled with.

Accepting what The Ogre told him to be the truth, Trash instructs his gang to hit the road. You'll notice that the bespectacled Ice (Joshua Sinclair), whose nickname should be Fisher Stevens, isn't convinced that they had an informant in their midst, and starts to plant seeds of doubt in the minds of his fellow Riders. It's early on, but I can tell already that this Fisher Stevens fella is going to be trouble. And it's obvious he doesn't like the fact that Ann has joined the gang, either.

If you're wondering if anyone in Manhattan is concerned about Ann's whereabouts, we're introduced to The Hammer (Vic Morrow), a self-proclaimed badass who has been hired by some shady corporate types to bring her back safely.

Making his presence almost immediately, The Hammer guns down two Riders, Speedy and Sandy, in the stairwell of their dilapidated hang-out. You have to wonder why The Hammer chose to kill those seemingly random bikers. But his cruel actions do lead to one of the film's most memorable sequences. And that this, Speedy and Sandy's funeral. The cremation ceremony and the act of flinging their ashes in the East River (each biker flings a bit of ash) was downright poetic. Still not convinced that the Tigers are behind the series of setbacks that have befallen The Riders as of late, Trash must contend with Ice, who has managed to rile up the troops; some of which are calling for war with the Tigers. Having to deal with a gang that is fracturing, and the pressure that ultimately come with having a Manhattanite as a girlfriend, Trash heads to the beach to clear his head.

Leaving the sensible Blade (Massimo Vanni), a dead ringer for one of the guys in Man 2 Man, behind to keep an eye on Ice, whose got side deals going with The Hammer, a trucker named Hot Dog (Christopher Connelly), and Golan (George Eastman), the leader of the Zombies, Trash takes two of his men deep into Tiger territory. The plan is to ask The Ogre to form alliance with them, so that may defeat The Hammer and rescue Ann from the clutches of The Zombies. And while that sounds easy enough, they're going to have to get by The Jackals, The Scavengers and The Sharks. Now, I know the Scavengers are the one's in the ragged clothing who live underground. But I'm not sure about the rest.

Choosing my favourite gang from this movie was more difficult than I expected. The Tigers have great style, The Zombies wear white German helmets and get around on roller skates, and The Riders looked like they had just walked off the set of Cruising. However, after much deliberation, the tap dancing gang in the Toyah-inspired makeup and silver bowler hats, let's call them, The Dandies, were my gang of choice; you gotta love any gang that uses jazz hands to intimidate their rivals.

Picking my favourite gang member, on the other hand, was easy. What do you expect to happen when you put a lankly blonde woman in black stockings worn over black pantyhose, a black leather corset, and a silver cape? To put it in the simplest terms possible, Witch rules! Watching her dispatch Scavengers with her trusty whip and knuckle claws was downright electrifying. When we first meet Witch at the meeting between The Riders and The Tigers under the bridge, I figured she was just The Ogre's lady–you know, an accessory, like his thin cigars and puffy shirts. But the moment she springs into action, I was like, whoa, this woman is amazing. Looking at her bio, I was shocked to discover that 1990: The Bronx Warriors was her lone film role. Which is a shame, because she really has a great screen presence. The same goes for the bridge drummer. It should go without saying, but more films should feature unexpected drummers.

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If your idea of paradise is a world where every car is equipped with a dome-shaped sunroof, then you my friend will love the future depicted in The New Barbarians (I Nuovi Barbari, a.k.a. Warriors of the Wasteland), yet another Italian post-apocalypse movie from Enzo G. Castellari (1990: The Bronx Warriors), as it has more dome-shaped sunroofs than Ontario Place. (I don't care if no-one knows what Ontario Place is, I've always wanted to make reference to it, and I feel this is the best opportunity to do so to come along in years.) Fine. If that reference means nothing to you, how about this: If your idea of paradise is a car that has an elongated drill installed under the hood for the sole purpose of lancing other vehicles in order to exact homoerotic comeuppance on your enemies, then you my friend are gonna love The New Barbarians, as it has more elongated drills than the men's room at a Village People concert. If, however, you're not into those things–which, even I'll admit, are things with a very limited appeal–I'm afraid you're going to be hunted down and exterminated by an unruly gang of bearded fancy boys who wear white whenever they damn well please. Speaking of fancy, who designed their outfits? Whose outfits? The Templars–you know, the bearded fancy boys. Anyway, as I was saying, the outfits worn by not only The Templars, a gang who want to punish humanity for allowing itself to be destroyed by atomic weapons by killing everyone who had the gall to survive, but almost every citizen of this rubble-strewn universe is making a bold fashion statement. It's true, your average nuclear holocaust can be murder on your wardrobe. And I'm sure the most common question asked in this post-nuke realm is: Do these torn rags go with these hole-ridden shoes? Yet, looking at the people who kill and get killed in this movie, I don't think that question is asked very often.

I know what you're thinking, how hard is it to scrounge around dilapidated sports stadiums to find old football pads? Yeah, but, you see, they don't wear discarded sports equipment in this film. The outfits they don are designer originals. Meaning, they were specifically made with the apocalypse in mind.

Okay, smart guy. How do The Templars, the self-proclaimed "ministers of revenge," who roam the wasteland in search of humans to exterminate, make their outfits? I mean, there are no lady Templars. Are you suggesting that a gang of bearded men need a woman to make their outfits? In that, only a woman would know how to sew? Yes, that's exactly what I'm suggesting. Well, did it ever occur to you that The Templars are all card carrying Friends of Dorothy? What does that mean? They're gay! And what do gay men do? They make outfits.

Determined to destroy what's left of humanity after the nuclear holocaust of 2019, the movie opens with The Templars arriving at a camp filled with humans who seem just as determined to carry on living. This desire to live irks The Templars, who want to punish them. And the best way they can think of to do so is by killing them. Circling the wagons sort of speak, the humans try to hold off The Templars. But it's to no avail, there are too many of them. Swarming their makeshift base with armoured cars and motorcycle troops, The Templars make short work of their defenses. Lead by Shadow (Ennio Girolami), an overly blonde man with a large mane of hair that made him look like The Cowardly Lion from certain angles (and by "certain angles," I mean every angle), The Templars finish off the stragglers utilizing their weaponized vehicles; the aforementioned Shadow uses the flamethrower feature on his car to dispatch one straggler and Mako (Massimo Vanni), a black-bearded Templar with a purple Mohawk, uses a bladed fan attached to the side of his car to decapitate another straggler.

You know how I said Shadow was the leader of The Templars? It would seem that One (George Eastman) is their actual leader. I just assumed Shadow was in charge, because, well, he oozes leadership. And, like I said, he has that whole Cowardly Lion thing going on. I guess One doesn't take part in raids. Anyway, One rips a Bible in two and declares the world dead.

In the past, I've stated many of what I think are the benefits to living in a post-apocalyptic world. And, I won't lie, most of them involve fashion. You see, thanks to the wanton destruction, the fascists who run the fashion industry are longer in control of what people wear. That's right, people can wear whatever they want. Yeah, I know, The Templars seem just as fascistic as the people in the fashion industry; they all wear the exact same thing (a white leather jumpsuit with testicle-shaped shoulder pads). But I don't think The Templars are supposed to represent freedom of choice.

The so-called "freedom of choice onus" is actually placed squarely on the shoulders of a loner named Scorpion (Giancarlo Prete), who we meet as he's blowing away a bunch of "crazies" (ragged nomads who wear welding goggles) and an archer named Nadir (Fred Williamson), an unflappable badass who seems to act as Scorpion's guardian angel. Here's some free advice, if you don't want to get shot in the head by one of Nadir's explosive-tipped arrow, don't bring up the the whole guardian angel thing, as he seems like the kind of guy who wouldn't like to be known as a "guardian angel." Come to think of it, I wouldn't use the word "unflappable" to describe him either.

After being introduced to Scorpion's mechanic, oh, let's call him, Timmy (Giovanni Frezza), a little blonde kid who, as we'll soon find out, wields a sling-shot with deadly accuracy, we're back on the road with The Templars, who have spotted an armoured van filled, no doubt, with pesky humans. Piercing its armour with his trusty hood-mounted battering ram, Shadow proceeds to spray the inside of the van with hot flames. Two of the occupants jump from the flame-engulfed van. The male occupant is quickly taken care of by Shadow (say hello to my little phallic-shaped hood ornament friend), while Mako and his male companion decide to have little fun with the van's female occupant.

They may be on friendly terms with Dorothy, but The Templars seem to have it in for all women not named Dorothy. Huh? They don't like women. All right.. At any rate, just as Mako and his male companion are about have their way with Alma (Anna Kanakis), Scorpion steps in to save the day. Oh, and when say, "have their way with Alma," I didn't mean to imply that they were about to rape her. It's more likely that were going to torture her before eventually killing her. Now that I have cleared that up. A visibly frightened Alma, who is wearing red-tinted goggles and purple leather tights, stands between two armoured vehicles. And just as Scoprion and Mako were about to ram into each other, Shadow intervenes just in the nick of time. It would seem that Scorpion has a bit of a history with The Templars. I don't know what exactly occurred between them in the past, but apparently if anyone is going to kill Scorpion it's going to be One.

As Scorpion is driving Alma to safety (she feels comfortable enough with him that she removes her goggles), Mako is planning his revenge. I thought you said that One wants to be the one to kill Scorpion? Yeah, but that doesn't seem to stop Mako, who gathers up a small group of Templars, from acting on his own. Fans of Italian exploitation will probably notice that Frank von Kuegelgen provides the voice of Mako in the English language version of The New Barbarians; his distinctive voice can be heard in Cannibal Ferox, The House on the Edge of the Park (two films where Frank's voice is used by characters played by Giovanni Radice Lombardo) and Hell of the Living Dead. Confronting Scorpion in what looks like an abandoned quarry, Mako and his men attack him with their vehicles and energy weapons. Holy crap, did you see that fucking mannequin head come apart? (Every time a Templar loses his life, a mannequin explodes into a million pieces.) As expected, Scorpion takes care of business, with, of course, a little help from Fred Williamson.

The scene where Fred Williamson scopes Anna Kanakis' legs, which, like I said, are encased in purple leather, using the scope on his bow was one the film's few instances where heterosexual titillation was paid any sort of lip service.

As far as synth-friendly music goes, it's a whole 'nother story, as The New Barbarians is chock-full of synthy goodness. The film's score, composed by Claudio Simonetti, is a synth-lovers dream. Check out the synth flourish at around the hour and twenty-three minute mark, it will blow your mind; it occurs when Fred Williamson is stalking Templars with his trusty bow.

A glorified western where the villains have traded in their spurs for jumpsuits that make them look like sperm, The New Barbarians is your classic gay vs. straight battle. On one hand, Scorpion and Nadir want to have heterosexual intercourse with Anna Kanakis (2019: After the Fall of New York) and Iris Peynado (a dreamy-eyed wasteland resident with the wasteland's most robust side-ponytail), while The Templars want to have gay sex with each other. You could say, since the gays are depicted as the "bad guys," that the film could be construed as anti-gay. But how can any film be classified as "anti-gay" when it features a mildly chiseled man wearing see-through, gladiator-style plastic armour during the film's man-penetrating climax? Don't look at me, 'cause I don't know. All I know is that the film, while anti-gay at times, can turn pro-gay on a dime. Which, given the circumstances and time period in which the film was made, is the best we can hope for. And besides, the film ends with an interracial "gimme five," something you don't see much of nowadays. Which is a shame, really, as I love interracial gimme fives, interracial gimme tens, and, of course, interracial fist bumps.

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When I saw the names Sandy Stockwell and Ted Stuart appear in the opening credits, I let out one of my world famous inaudible chuckles. Just to be clear, my reason for uttering unheard laughter had nothing to do with who they are as people, as I'm sure Sandy and Ted are two of the most upstanding individuals to ever walk the face of the earth. No, it had more to do with what they brought to this stupefyingly awesome piece of cinematic tomfoolery. After the stealthy giggles had subsided, I thought to myself: Where does a film called Creatures from the Abyss, or even one called "Plankton" (it's alternate title), for that matter, get off having a production designer and an art director? As hard as that is to fathom, or, I guess, imagine, that's what Sandy Stockwell (production design) and Ted Stuart (art direction) ended up bringing to this sticky, fish-fucking endeavour. Okay, whatever you say. On top of making with the ha-ha's that were impossible to hear, I also noticed that I was starting to roll my eyes a lot more than usual. Well, for one thing, the opening scenes are dark and muddled. Wow, I thought to myself, for a film that boasts a production designer and an art director, things are looking pretty threadbare. Meaning, I think the producer was doing someone a favour by giving them a credit on their low budget horror movie about killer fish who stymie a whole dinghies worth of teens off the coast of Florida. (Just for the record, "Before I die, I'm gonna fuck me a fish.") Here's the scenario I envisioned: The nephew of one of the producers asked if he could get a couple of his or her friends cushy jobs on the film they're currently working on. And, after much begging and pleading, they agreed by saying, "Fine. They can be the film's production designer, and, oh, let's say, the art director."

Great, you mean to say I'm about to watch a film where half the crew has been hired under erroneous circumstances? Well, I can't speak for director Massimiliano Cerchi or screenwriter Richard Baumann, as their unique brand of batshit is on a whole 'nother level of localized loco. But the amount of sheer talent displayed by Sandy Stockwell and Ted Stuart was astronomical. Didn't you just say the film was, and I quote, "dark and muddled"? Yeah, but that's because the opening scenes take place at night...in the middle of the goddamn ocean. If you're going to blame anyone for that, you should place it squarely on the shoulders of David Williams, the film's cinematographer. Though, to be fair, I wouldn't call shooting five frightened young people on a dinghy at night the most ideal conditions to work in as a photographer.

Anyway, the moment the mostly brain-dead characters at the centre of this tale of radioactive plankton and bikini-clad co-eds enter the lounge located on an abandoned research vessel, all my doubts pertaining to Sandy and Ted's skills simply melted away. No doubt helped by set decorator, Eddie Reinhold (you thought I forgot about you, didn't you, Eddie?), the work they put into the creation of the lounge, kitchen, and the cabins aboard this yacht was downright exquisite. Yeah, that's right, exquisite. You got a problem with that?

An evening of sun, sand, and fun soon turns perilous for five young people as their dinghy gets caught in one of those rare summer storms. Forgetting their spare gas on shore, Margaret (Sharon Twomey), Mike (Clay Rogers), Bobby (Michael Bon), Dorothy (Laura di Palma), and Julie (Ann Wolf), the scantily clad fivesome find themselves stranded in the middle of the ocean without a paddle. Oh, don't get me wrong, they have paddles. I just wanted to use the expression "without a paddle."

When all seems lost, Julie, of all people (she's probably the dimmest bulb in the group), spots a light emanating from a large ship in this distance. Paddling towards the light, they eventually reach a yacht that apparently belongs to the Oceanographic Research Institute. It should be noted that as they were paddling (well, I should say, as Bobby, Mike, Dorothy, and Margaret were paddling - Julie was too busy having a conniption fit to do any paddling), we're treated to these brief flashes of weirdness. (Do my ears deceive me, or does that sound like a tentacle being wrapped around a chemist's neck?) Hey, I love weirdness as much as next transvestite, but the fact we're given a sneak preview of what the inside of the yacht looks like is the real reason to celebrate. And judging by what we see in the brief flashes, it looks the yacht's interior is not going to disappoint.

The headstrong Bobby, a guy who clearly knows a thing or two about winning John Stamos look-alike contests (personally, I'd put him in the coked-up sex offender division), hops aboard the yacht first. After giving the all clear, the rest climb aboard, and immediately start poking around the yacht's laboratory. Filled with tubes, tanks of water in the vicinity of tubes, and bowls connected to tubes, the place seems to be set up to study fish. But these fish aren't your average fish. Uh-uh, these fish, to quote Dorothy, "have an evil expression."

Declaring the yacht to be a ghost ship (the helm is completely deserted), the group head downstairs to relax in the ship's lounge. Holy crap! Would you look at this place? First of all, the glass spiral staircase is simply divine (you can totally see right through it). Oooh, check out the fish-shaped floor mosaic made entirely out of shards of mirrored glass. Stunning. And the walls have been painted silver, creating the illusion that we're inside a giant TV dinner (the so-called "tin foil effect" is in full effect up in this nautical dojo).

Featuring a fully-stocked bar, an aquatic bonsai, an equally fully-stocked kitchen, a spacious couch (it can seat up to five scantily clad young people in one sitting), an erect penis lamp (stroke it gently to turn it on) and a state-of-the-art stereo system.

In other words, why weren't Sandy Stockwell and Ted Stuart recognized? Now, I don't know who exactly I would want to do the actual recognizing, but I'm sure there's someone out there, one who gives out recognition like it were a bodily function, who is willing to recognize what they accomplished in Creatures from the Abyss, 'cause I was blown away by the amount of work that went into the lounge set.

Speaking of blowing things, I'm about to blow your freaking mind. You know who should recognize the production design and art direction in this film? No, who? You. And you know what? You just did. Your enthusiasm for the production design and art direction in Creatures from the Abyss beats any stupid, namby pamby award. You wanna know why? Your expressions of love come from a sincere place. Really? Most people like what they're told to like. You, on the other hand, are able to see past the mounds of disingenuous tripe that litter the marketplace, and make decision that are based solely on taste and intuition. Wow. After giving what you just said some thought, I have to say, you're absolutely right. I am the only one who is qualified to praise the cast and crew who worked so diligently on this awe-inspiring slab of moistness-inducing cinema.

You know how most surfaces need to be scratched in order to get at their nutritional nimbus? Well, I haven't even begun to scratch the surface on how trepidatiously fantastic Creatures from the Abyss actually is, as this randy fish out of water tale is chock-full of the right kind of chowder. After exploring the nooks and crannies of the lounge, the fellas head to the yacht's cabins. However, before they do that, they must transverse a hallway. That doesn't sound too hard. Simply place one foot in front of the other, and you should be walking up and down that hallway like a real human being in no time. No, it's not the walking that will trip you up, it's getting past Jessica that's the hard part. Who's Jessica? She's the one-eyed mermaid on the wall who tells you the time in a squeaky voice whenever you walk past it. Flummoxed is the only way I can describe my reaction Jessica, or, "cutie time," as she is sometimes called. I've never seen anything so inexplicably awesome in my life, and that's saying something, as I've seen plenty of stuff over the years that could best be described as "inexplicably awesome."

As the guys are changing out of their wet clothes and the girls dry themselves (thankfully, the boat has no ladies apparel for them to change into), you'll notice that something is watching them through a fisheye lens. Which is apt, since the something doing the watching is probably a fish. But not just any fish, carnivorous fish...who live out of water. Wondering what kind of fish the scientists were studying, Mike, the smart member of the group, rules out piranha. Actually, he's says, "We all know piranha live in river water." Are you sure about that, Mike? I mean, Margaret's bicycle-style shorts have flowers on them, hence, she might know that. But as for Bobby, Julie, and Dorothy? I don't think so. They're idiots. Though, to be fair, Julie and Dorothy do look amazing in their bikinis (the former is wearing a pink and white gingham number and the latter's bod is sheathed in a tight dark green bikini), and therefore, don't really need to know anything about stuff and junk.

The first sign of trouble comes when Julie's cooking fish and the fish start to move in the pan. Do they take Julie's claim about seeing roly-poly fish heads seriously? Of course not (people who wear pink and white gingham are rarely ever taken seriously). At any rate, according to Jessica, it's 8pm, and that means it's time for the ladies to eat fish with their legs crossed (I don't what looks more scrumptious, the fish or Dorothy's stems locked together like a pretzel), and for the film to employ one of its many top-notch synth flourishes. Unleashed just as Dorothy, who, on top of being leggy, is an itty bitty tittied goddess if I ever saw one, was a about to shovel some fish in her mouth, this particular synth flourish, like I said, the film is replete with flourishes of synthy nature, penetrates my wax-laden eardrums with a gingerly softness. In fact, the entire score by Elokonia Group provided me with the synthy goods I crave on a semi-regular basis. A score, by the way, that reminded me of Vangelis (Blade Runner) and Krisma circa their Clandestine Anticipation period, especially the song "Water."

When they discover a demented chemist cowering in the basement, Bobby's theory that the yacht's lab is a cover for a super-secret cocaine lab begins to crumble. Since there's nothing they can do for the demented chemist (he's foaming at the mouth), the young people decide to go to bed. Remember the synth flourish that accompanied Dorothy's fish intake? Well, get ready to watch Dorothy return that fish to dry land in the form of yellow, sludge-like vomit. While the initial barrage of puke looked normal–well, as normal as yellow, sludge-like vomit goes–the second barrage is filled with unknown creatures. A panic-stricken Dorothy runs out of the bathroom to sneak comfort from her friends. Which she receives, but only from her female friends. The guys doubt that her puke contained anything out of the ordinary. And that doubt remains when they discover a bathroom floor covered in nothing but vomit.

Keen observers will notice that Bobby tells Jessica to "shut the fuck up" when she tries give him the time during the whole situation surrounding the contents of Dorothy's puke. In my mind, Bobby's anger toward Jessica was when things started to go off the rails for the group. Though, I should point out that Suzanne, the woman who lives inside the computerized shower, doesn't receive the same level of abuse that Jessica does. But then again, Jessica's job, reminding young people what time it is, is a lot tougher than Suzanne's, whose job it is to basically tell people to fondle themselves for a living. Nonetheless, the carnivorous fish who live out of water are about to make the presence felt in the not-so distant future. And it's a good thing they strike when they do, as the film's dialogue really seems to come alive when the carnivorous fish who live out of water come out of the woodwork.

My favourite being Mike's frequent use of the phrase, "damn it!" As in, "Damn it! It's the fish, you idiot!" or "Now do you see why this ship has no crew! Damn it!" The best non-damn it line has to be, "Professor, how long have you been fucking fish?"

"It's midnight. I'd be careful if I were you." ~ Jessica

Will Mike, the smart one, Bobby, the simple one, Margaret, the sensitive one, Dorothy, the slender one, and Julie, the shapely one, be able to resist the fishy onslaught that is about to come their way? Who's to say? All I know is that Creatures from the Abyss is a barn burner crossed with two sparsely attended hootenannies. In other words, it's Italian-conceived idiocy at its finest. Hands down, the best film ever to be made about radioactive plankton.

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Cannibal Terror (Alain Deruelle, 1981)

Morgiana (Juraj Herz, 1972)

Ferat Vampire (Juraj Herz, 1982)

Teenage Tupelo (John Michael McCarthy, 1995)

The Sore Losers (John Michael McCarthy, 1997)

Superstarlet A.D. (John Michael McCarthy, 2000)

Fear City (Abel Ferrara, 1984)

Witchery (Fabrizio Laurenti, 1988)

Lifeforce (Tobe Hooper, 1985)

Schramm (Jörg Buttgereit, 1994)

Multiple Maniacs (John Waters, 1970)

The Burning (Tony Maylam, 1981)

Cruel Jaws (Bruno Mattei, 1995)

Flash Gordon (Mike Hodges, 1980)

Teenage Hitchhikers (Gerri Sedley, 1975)

2019: After the Fall of New York (Sergio Martino, 1983)

1990: The Bronx Warriors (Enzo G. Castellari, 1982)

The New Barbarians (Enzo G. Castellari, 1983)

Creatures from the Abyss (Massimiliano Cerchi, 1994)