House of Self-Indulgence

I don't think she had any lines beyond, "What'll it be?" And get this, she's only onscreen for something like ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Yet, the moment I saw Roxanne Rogers as the perpetually unamused diner waitress in 976-EVIL, I knew she had talent. While the makers of the hotline from hell movie couldn't see that she was oozing raw, uncut star power (if they had, they would have given her a bigger part), someone else might. And wouldn't you know it, the fine folks behind this particular movie obviously saw that Roxanne Rogers needed an opportunity to properly shine as an actress. (So, did they?) Oh, you better believe they did. They not only cast her as a punk in the aptly named Punk Vacation, they cast her as the lead punk. Now, in most movies that feature gangs that subscribe to the punk ethos, whether they be unruly biker punks and unscrupulous street punks, their leader is typically a man–he usually has a bad attitude, a short temper and is named either Spike or Slash. Well, in this film, a woman calls the shots. (Oh, I see, she leads a gang of girl punks.) You sexist pig. (What?) You just implied that if a woman is the leader of a gang of punks, it must be an all-girl gang, 'cause no man would take orders from a woman, right? (Okay, fine, they have one gay guy in the gang who does their hair and helps the girls put together their punk ensembles, but the rest of the gang is made up of chicks.) You are not only a sexist pig, you're a homophobic jackass. (What?) Do I even have to explain?

Check this out, Roxanne Rogers' characters name is "Ramrod." Isn't that awesome? To be honest, I thought the leader of the punks in this movie was a man. You see, while hold up in an abandoned barn, the punks keep referring to their leader, "Ramrod." Noticing a burly male punk with a strong upper body standing in a menacing manner, I naturally assumed that he was Ramrod, as he looks exactly the way you would think a person named Ramrod would look.

However, when I finally realized that they were referring Roxanne Rogers and not the burly fella as "Ramrod," I nearly lost it. Not because I felt duped, or because the whole incident exposed some mild sexism on my part. No, because I love the idea of a woman calling herself "Ramrod."

While I was getting my panties all in a twist over the fact that a woman named "Ramrod" leads a gang of unruly biker punks, I failed to mention that this movie brilliantly depicts the epic battle between punk and grunge.

As the 1980s were coming to an end, punk faced its biggest threat yet. Having survived many style-based onslaughts over the years (disco, new wave, the mod revival, ska, goth, preppies and yuppies), punk came up against the flannel work shirt. Boasting the ability to adopt various aspects from the styles it fought with over the years, punk has managed to thrive since its inception. That being said, the flannel work shirt has always poised a real problem for punk. I've seen some punks try to employ the flannel work shirt as an accessory (they usually tie it around their waste), but the garment usually ends up dominating the punk's ensemble to such degree, that even the classic leather jacket is rendered frightfully square and totally ineffective.

In Punk Vacation, they ask the question: What if a group of punks were stranded in a town filled with nothing but people who wore flannel work shirts? You think that's scary, what if I told you the people wearing the flannel work shirts were also heavily-armed rednecks?

These types of questions wouldn't have had to been asked in the first place had the flannel work shirt-wearing rednecks just made sure their vending machines worked. (Huh?) Think about it, if the dolt who runs the gas station in this movie had kept his vending machines in working order, we wouldn't be having this conversation. (Come again, I'm still not following.)

Okay, let me set the scene for you. Wait, is this a Terrence Malick film? Shots of swaying grass, eerie new age music, and water flowing down stream are what greet us as Punk Vacation gets underway. Hey, man–I thought to myself as I watched the pastoral tranquility wash over me–this is not what I signed up for. Interrupting this "pastoral tranquility" (which, by the way, was the working title of the third album by Archers of Loaf) is the sound of gun shots. Practicing firing his gun in the woods, Deputy Steve Reed (Stephen Fiachi) suddenly gets a call on the radio that the alarm at his girlfriend's father's gas station has gone off again.

Telling his girlfriend's father to either fix the alarm or turn it off, Steve manages to annoy Lisa (Sandra Bogan), his blonde, flannel work shirt-wearing girlfriend. Noticing this, Lisa's little sister, Sally (Karen Renee) tries to swoop in and woo Deputy Steve, but he doesn't even know she exists. After some time, Lisa's father becomes even more annoying than Steve, and Lisa agrees to be driven home by Steve. I don't know 'bout you, but all this talk about the inner workings of Steve and Lisa's relationship is starting to wear me out.

After Steve and Lisa leave, a lone punk on a motorcycle named Billy (Robert Garrison) shows up. Hoping to grab an orange soda, Billy is clearly disappointed when he finds out the vending machine only has cola. Despite the fact that the Billy despises cola, he deposits his forty cents like a good little consumer. Only problem is, the cola fails to materialize.

When Sally tells her father that some "weird guy" is banging on the vending machine, he immediately grabs his shotgun and confronts Billy. (Hold on, didn't he first offer Billy restitution for his missing soda?) No, like I said, he shoves a shotgun in Billy's face almost immediately. (But his vending machine was unsuccessful when it came time to produce a carbonated beverage. In other words, shouldn't Billy be the one shoving shotguns in people's faces?)

Driving off soda-less, Billy eventually comes back to the gas station with his friends, a gang of punk and new wave bikers (I added to "new wave" to their description because some of them seemed more new wave than punk). Now, did Lisa's father really deserve to be murdered over a can of soda? Of course not. Hold up, let me noodle with this for awhile. In meantime, please enjoy "Tell Me Girl" by Scary Thieves.

What am I saying? Of course Lisa's father deserved to be murdered. Okay, maybe not in front of Sally, but the moment Lisa's father pointed that shotgun at Billy, a precedent was set. One that stated that physical violence was an acceptable course of action to solve grievances. (Even if the issue at hand is a forty cent can of soda?) It doesn't matter how trivial the issue at hand is, Lisa's father set in motion the events that lead to his own death the instant he picked up that shotgun.

(While your rationalization is strangely logical, I don't think Lisa is going to be so understanding.)

Seconds after the murder takes place, Billy is run over by Deputy Steve as the punks flee the scene and little Sally goes into shock. Both are sent to the same hospital, where Lisa vows to avenge her father's death (she doesn't say this out loud, but you can see the wheels of vengeance turning in her brain). When her attempt to stab Billy in his hospital room is thwarted by a security guard (a lingerie catalog-reading security guard), Lisa decides to target the members of his gang, who, as she soon discovers, are hold up in a barn on the outskirts of town.

(How come the punks haven't split?) Well, according to Ramrod (Roxanne Rogers), their blonde, spiky-haired, black fishnet-sporting leader, they ain't leaving without Billy. While some of the punks feel bad about killing a man (who one of them describes as "Gomer Pyle's grandfather") and think it's best if they hit the road (the punk haven of Los Angeles is only 100 miles away), most agree that Billy needs to be rescued. And since Ramrod rules by using consensus, the minority opinion is overruled.

In charge of keeping a look out for cops, girl punks Flo (Delta Giordano) and Shirley (Pat Briody) discuss their careers while sitting on a hill that overlooks the valley.

Even though I saw her at the gas station and in the barn (she's the one who compares Lisa's father to Gomer Pyle's grandfather), the girl punk look out scene was when I fell for Flo, full name, Florence Henderson, in the worst possible way. I mean, the dark teal jacket, the dark teal tights, the dark teal highlights in her jet black hair, she's the definition of adorable; she's the teal deal.

Including Billy, there are eleven punks in Ramrod's gang, seven men and four women. And after thinking about it for quite some time, I've decided that Ramrod and Flo were my favourite punks in Punk Vacation. Just kidding, it hardly took any time for me to decide that Ramrod and Flo were my fave punks.

Seriously, look at them!

Did you get a good look? So, now you understand, right? You do? Awesome. It's great to have you on board.

Every time they would appear onscreen I would feel this warmish sensation in my tummy.

The great thing about Ramrod and Flo is that they're nothing alike. You see, while Ramrod is dedicated fully to the punk cause, one that involves destroying the "parasites of the military industrial complex," Flo isn't, she's merely, "misguided as hell." This lack punkish fortitude on Flo's part causes her clash with Ramrod on several occasions. A male punk named Feggy (Billy Palmieri) also clashes with Ramrod over similar issues. But I'm sure most people will agree, Feggy isn't as adorable, or as fashion-forward for that matter, as Flo.

Assembling a posse to attack the punks, the town's sheriff (Louis Waldon) is determined to kill every last one of those "yellow-bellied fascist communist pinkos." Did you notice what the majority of the posse members were wearing? That's right, flannel work shirts.

While punk would ultimately survive the flannel work shirt plague that was the early 1990s, the purveyors of hair metal weren't so lucky. Their way of life would be decimated by the flannel work shirt, as sales of hair spray, Winger albums and tight spandex trousers plummeted throughout the '90s.

A strange thing occurs during the battle between the punks and the posse. The punks started to come across as the good guys. Or better yet, the film seems to imply that it's the posse, not punks who are the real menace to society.

Anyway, I loved the way all the male punks, including the bald Venny (Wayne Chema) and the French-accented Pierre (Todd Anderson), would dutifully report to Ramrod, who during the final showdown, stood on top of a hill, binoculars in hand, like she was George S. Patton, except, of course, with way more eye makeup.

The soundtrack might, on the surface, be severely lacking in the punk rock department. But in all honesty, I actually prefer the catchy Wang Chung-esque synth punk vibe that composer Ross Vannelli was repeatedly putting out there with his score. If I was given the choice to listen to the music of Wang Chung or, in this case, music that sort of sounds like Wang Chung, or any punk band, besides Wire and Gang of Four, I would choose Wang Chung every time most of the time.

As I sat down to watch Fantom Kiler 4, I made sure to check that my critical knives were properly sharpened before doing so. Feeling guilty over the fact that I had unnecessarily subjected myself to Fantom Kiler 2andFantom Kiler 3 (the first Fantom Kiler was a distant memory, as I had watched it more than fifty menstrual cycles ago), I was in a foul mood going into the fourth film in the Roman Nowicki-directed extreme erotic horror franchise. I know, you're thinking to yourself: Then why watch the fourth film if that's the way you feel? Well, you see, if I had stopped after the second film, that would have been all right. But once I made it through the third film, I felt contractually obligated to finish the series. And finish it I did. Call me misguided and sad, but I felt a weird sense of accomplishment when the end credits for part four began to roll. I would even go as far as to say that I bet the sensation you get after watching all four films in the Fantom Kiler series is similar to the sensation mountain climbers experience when they reach the top of Mount Everest. Am I serious? Let me ponder that for a minute. You know what? I am serious. Both are physically and mentally demanding. And both take a ton of skill and a shitload of daring. Oh, sure, Mount Everest is tad more dangerous (as the recent headlines can attest), but can a mountain give you an erection? That's right, it can't. And you wanna know why it can't? It boasts no leggy Polish or Czech chicks whatsoever. None. Nada. Zippo. Zilch. Have I checked? No, I have not checked. But trust me, there are no leggy Polish or Czech chicks to be found on Mount Everest.

(I guess you're going to tell me that Fantom Kiler 4 is replete with leggy Polish and Czech chicks, am I right?) You're not only right, you're correct too.

The real reason I slogged through Fantom Kiler 2and Fantom Kiler 3 had nothing to do with being "contractually obligated" or even for the sense of accomplishment it would no doubt bring me. No, sir, the real reason had everything to do with the fact that Fantom Kiler 4 stars the one and only Hana Liska. As I watched the so-called actresses from the previous three films stink up the joint something fierce with their lack of charisma and their oiled up fake breasts, the thought that the beguiling Hana Liska would be coming along soon or later to teach these no talent hosebeasts a thing or two about screen presence gently buttered my aura with a sense of languid anticipation.

Just the mere thought that Hana Liska's unique brand of everything was about to kick me in the taint was what got me through the cinematic nightmare that was the experience of watching the first three chapters.

(Hold on, man, "unique brand of everything," what the hell does that mean?) If you remember what I wrote about Hana Liska's performance in Mark of the Whip, then you'll know that Hana Liska doesn't behave in an orthodox manner (she doesn't have an orthodox bone in her body). Whether she's walking, talking, sleeping, or just plain sitting still, Hana Liska puts her own unique twist on almost everything she does. In fact, I would go as far as to say that Hana Liska is unlike any human being who has ever lived.

You'll notice immediately that isn't your typical Fantom Kiler flick. How so? Well, for one thing, it starts off outside. I know, all the films in the series technically take place "outside," but this one really takes place outside. And get this, I can totally see the sky! Anyway, a prostitute named, oh, let's call her, Pani Piegi (Pavla Nicole), opens her leather coat to reveal that she is wearing nothing under it. Flashing her naked pussy at a punter named, oh, let's call him, Zbigniew (Andrej Krupa), Pani Piegi tells him that she's sure he can afford her.

Things get rough right from the get-go, as Zbigniew drags Pani Piegi into the woods and proceeds to insert his erect penis into her butthole. As he's about to do this, Pani Piegi tells him, "I don't do anal," to which Zbigniew quickly replies, "You do now." Oh, Zbigniew.

After suffocating Pani Piegi with a plastic bag and expelling lepki jizz all over her neck and face, Zbigniew pulls out his knife and prepares to cut off her labia (he wants it as a trophy), when, all of a sudden, Pani Piegi springs to life and proceeds to stomp the hell out of his patetyczny genitals.

Running after Pani Piegi, who has taken off into the woods, Zbigniew throws his knife at her. Barely missing her, Pani Piegi decides to throw the knife back. Hitting him in the hand at such a velocity that it causes him to become stuck to a tree, Pani Piegi is able to give Zbigniew a few knuckle sandwiches without fear of reprisals. Telling him that she's going to cut off his penis, Pani... (Wait, how can Pani Piegi cut off his penis? If she removes the knife from his hand, won't Zbigniew will be able to resist?) Ah, you didn't let me finish. You see, Pani Piegi has a surprise hidden in her rectum. Now, I don't know how Zbigniew wasn't able to feel this surprise when his erect penis was poking around in there five minutes earlier, but Pani Piegi pulls out a straight razor from her ass.

As Pani Piegi began to gingerly extract the straight razor from her not-so chocolate-coloured chocolate starfish, I started bouncing off the walls like a deranged mental patient who has just discovered the walls of their cell are padded. The sight of Pani Piegi using the straight razor she had hidden in her rectum to cut off Zbigniew's penis was the most awesome thing I've seen in years.

My advice to Pani Piegi: Take the straight razor, leave the severed penis. Tossing Zbigniew's penis in the bushes like the rape-facilitating piece of garbage that it is, Pani Piegi wanders off. Oh, and if you this is the last we're going to hear from Zbigniew's penis, think again. It will take more than getting sliced off and chucked in the bushes to keep Zbigniew's penis from exploring new and exciting vaginal, oral and anal passageways.

Trust me, what I just said will make sense in the coming moments. In the meantime, Pani Piegi is confronted by a faceless man dressed all in black in a corn field. Before you yawn, I should tell you, the faceless man in black is chasing Pani Piegi in a combine havester. When the faceless man knocks Pani Piegi unconscious, she dreams that she is being penetrated by a purple dildo that is being wielded by her girlfriend. In reality, though, the faceless man dressed in all black is raping her with an ear of corn.

Meanwhile, back in the woods, the cops find Zbigniew's dead body right where Pani Piegi left him. And you know what that means? Enter the gorgeous Inspector Sylvia Nowak (Hana Liska), Poland's best and leggiest lady detektyw. "Have you found his dick yet?," she asks the officers on the scene. As she's noticing something in the woods (a shadowy figure dressed in black), someone shoves Zbigniew's severed cock in her face.

While chatting with her boss, Barabara Rynkowska (Maria Vaslova), outside police headquarters, Inspector Nowak is told that Officer Stella Green (Dionne) can't be trusted with evidence, and, on top of that, she's a nymphomaniac.

(Oh, no, don't tell me, Officer Stella Green is in charge of Zbigniew's severed cock, isn't she?) Yep. When Officer Stella Green, who's in her office (dig the Soviet flag on the wall), holds Zbigniew's severed penis aloft in its evidence bag, she says, "Okay. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yes. Cut. Yes. Oh, you poor thing. So nice penis. Fuck." It was at this moment that I realized that Roman Nowicki's decision to have his actors speak English was the correct one. You see, in the previous chapters of the Fantom Kiler series, all the dialogue was a bizarre mishmash of Polish, Czech and Russian. But now every line is spoken in an endearing form of broken English.

Anyway, taking Zbigniew's severed "so nice penis" out of its evidence baggy, Officer Stella Green proceeds to examine it carefully. Removing her seksowny Polish police uniform, Officer Stella Green, whose eyeshadow matches her bra and panties, hops on her desk (which naturally has a bottle of J+B scotch on it) and starts to insert his severed penis into her vagina. While I thought the prop department could have probably done a better job finding a more realistic-looking severed penis, kudos to them, nonetheless, for at least making the part of the penis where it was severed to appear somewhat bloody.

While Hana Liska is definitely the sexiest, most alluring woman in the Fantom Kiler universe, Dionne is no slouch, as her body is amazing (all-natural, baby).

Just down the hall, Barbara Rynkowska is scolding the painter who was hired to paint her office. Check this out, instead of painting, he was busy reading a pornographic magazine. After sending him packing, Barbara is confronted by the Fantom Kiler. Offering a simple solution to her problem, the Fantom Kiler removes Barbara's grey suit and uses her fake breasts as paint brushes. You heard right, her paint-covered fake breasts are being pressed against the wall of her office.

A similar scene takes place later on in the film when Kasia (Kate Blond), Inspector Nowak's BFF, catches a janitor sleeping on the job. Except, instead of using her breasts as a paintbrush, the Fantom Kiler employs her as a human mop. And anyone wanna guess where the Fantom Kiler shoves the mop handle? Anyone? Very good, Billy. He does insert the mop handle into her anus.

My favourite aspect about the booby paintbrush/human mop scenes are that they both start off with strong women bossing around meek men. The fact that both scenes eventually evolve into two of the most misogynistic sequences the franchise has ever produced didn't seem to bother me.

Stressed out... no, scratch that. Deeply disturbed by what happened to Officer Stella Green, Barbara and Kasia, Inspector Nowak is more determined than ever to catch the sadistic killer responsible for these heinous crimes.

She shouldn't, however, expect any help from her male peers, as Inspector Borak (Petr Sass) gives her nothing but grief (and a severe spanking with a red fly swatter). Well, he does advise to start wearing pyjamas as a way of preventing foreign objects from slipping into her pussy as she sleeps. Which I thought that was on the cusp of being helpful. But for most part, Inspector Nowak is all alone.

In the film's most effective scene in terms of atmosphere, Inspector Nowak is seen investigating a dark figure lurking in the middle of a field of dead sunflowers. I don't know how they managed to pull this off, but this scene looks like something you might find in a real horror movie. Leggily approaching the dark figure, Hana Liska, who is fully clothed(!), slowly walks toward it (the slit on her white skirt no doubt aiding her ability to walk slowly) with her gun drawn, and then she... Well, I don't want to ruin the surprise.

(Is the gun Hana L. uses in the sunflower scene the same gun that was in her vagina the night she discovered there was a gun in her vagina?) Probably. (Yay!)

A vast improvement over all the other films in every possible way you can imagine, Fantom Kiler 4 trumps its predecessors when it comes to camera angles, cinematography, acting, sets, and costumes. But most importantly, part four gives us a series of cleverly devised torture and murder sequences that will shock and amuse in equal measure; you have to admit, using a severed penis as a dildo is pretty freakin' hilarious. My only complaint has to do with the fact that none of the women wear stockings and that Hana Liska's pubic hair seems to change in-between scenes. So, in the future, be sure to add stockings to your costume designer's shopping list and make sure to keep tabs on the pubic hair of your actors.

What's the first thing that comes to mind when you think of The Toy Box? (Oh, I don't know, clenched male butt cheeks.) Okay, what's the second thing you think of? (Flaccid male penises pretending to thrust with the vaginal wherewithal of erect male penises.) All right, let me try one more time. What's the first thing you think of that's not, I repeat, not, related to the male anatomy in regard to The Toy Box? (Hey, I know what you're trying to do, you're trying to goad me into going on a brain-exhausting diatribe that openly extols the lumpiness of Uschi Digard's mouthwatering breasts, aren't you? Don't play coy, that's exactly what you're trying to do. If I'm going to go on any brain-exhausting diatribes in correlation with this film, and that's a big if, it's going to be either about Neola Graef's shapely gams (and the sense of pride she displays when wielding them in a van at a drive-in) or the profound ba-donka-donk being put forth by Casey Larrain's workmanlike buttocks at a hippie orgy on the outskirts of a fever dream. These are the types of things that come to mind when I'm not busy giggling over the fact that all the guys in this film are desperately trying to keep their assholes out of sight as they attempt to penetrate randy hippie chicks with their flabby hippie cocks. I'm no scientist, but there would be no human race if guys weren't able to fornicate in a free, anus-exposing manner.)

Is it porn? Is it horror? Is it science fiction? I don't know, maybe it's all three, who's to say? But do I know this, the foetal goo gestating inside the wombs located in and around the pronounced hips attached to the abundance of hippie chicks in this film are the luckiest foetal goo on the planet. (Don't tell me, they're lucky because they get to be ten and eleven years-old in the early 1980s?) Huh? No, I was thinking they were lucky because they got to gestate inside women with child-bearing hips. (Still not following.) There's room to move in a womb attached to a hippie chick with child-bearing hips.

You know how my alter ego said earlier that they weren't a scientist? I think I just proved it beyond the shadow of a doubt that we're not with that whole bit about children born in the early 1970s being more comfortable, womb-wise, than children born during other periods of time. (Don't be so hard on yourself, your theory is not as stupid as you might think. I mean, the women in this film do have wider hips than the women who appear in other films. And scientist or not, you would have to imagine that a baby would enjoy his or her stay inside a womb belonging to a woman with child-bearing hips more than his or her stay inside a womb belonging to a woman with no hips whatsoever.) I can't believe I'm about to say this, but you make a good point.

It's a matter of simple physics: Babies prefer women with child-bearing hips. And since there were more women during the early 1970s with child-bearing hips than at any other time in existence, all babies born during that period were better prepared to face life's many challenges.

(Word on the street is you're just stalling for time, because deep down you have no idea what The Toy Box is supposed to be about.) That's pure poppycock. I know exactly what this film is about. So, babies born in the early 1970s are better than babies born in the early 1980s, who would have thought that? Speaking of that, that Uschi Digard has some big ass titties.

Holy crap. I was so transfixed by Neola Graef's shapely gams, Casey Larrain's workmanlike buttocks, and even Uschi Digard's big ass titties, that I failed to mention the fact that the luminous Debbie Osborne is in this film. (Again, I think you're be too hard on yourself. I mean, you just mentioned her.) Yeah, but I should have done it sooner. Mentioning Deborah Osborne this late in the game is intolerable as far as I'm concerned. (This Debbie Osborne person sounds like she means a lot to you.)

Let me put it this way, if it wasn't Debbie's leg-tastic performance in the seminal Cindy and Donna, I don't think I would be the pervert, er, I mean, movie fan, I am today. Her stunning turn in that seemingly innocuous slice of low-grade sexploitation changed the way I viewed cinema forever. You see, before Cindy and Donna, I used to enjoy movies based on the quality of the acting and not to mention the film's ability to tell a good story. But after I saw Cindy and Donna, I began to watch films, oh, let's just say, differently. No longer constrained by the rules and regulations that dictate movie watching, I found myself free to focus on any aspect of the film I saw fit.

Anyway, say you're an alien from another world who gets high by feeding on human brains, what kind of human brains would you go for? (I'm no expert on the brain-eating habits of space junkies from outer space, but I'd say they would probably favour the brains belonging to depraved hippies.) Bingo! Only problem being, how do you get a gaggle of depraved hippies to congregate under one roof? That's simple, invite them over to a large house in the country, and tell them if they perform a vile sex act for "Uncle," they will get a reward. (Don't tell me, the reward is located in a toy box?) Bingo again.

It would seem that the word on the street about me not knowing what this film is about is a bunch of hooey. As you can clearly see, I know exactly what The Toy Box is about. Sure, it took two viewings for me to "get it," but you try concentrating on a film's plot that features a scene where Debbie Osborne's superabundant vagina is the focal point. Well, it's not really the focal point, but I felt like her vagina was being shoved in my face. Which might sound like a bad thing (most people are against having things shoved in their face), but it's actually a good thing.

In charge of assembling the depraved hippies for "Uncle" (Jack King) are Ralph (Sean Kenney) and Donna (Ann Perry), two sick twists who, by the looks of things, have been assembling depraved hippies in this manner for quite some time.

Arriving at the party just as two naked brunettes on chain leashes were about to orally devour the organic structure belonging to a naked and bound Uschi Digard, Ralph and Donna seem pleased by the turn out; the place is packed with depraved hippies of every stripe.

After the man wielding the whip finishes expelling his hippie spunk inside Uschi Digard, Casey Larrain hops to her feet and begins to dance. Credited on IMDb as "party guest in boots," Casey will continue to dance for most of the film's spry running time. You could blame Casey for the fact that I didn't notice Debbie Osborne right away, as the sight of her constantly shaking her ass is quite distracting. But I won't...blame her, that is. It's my fault I didn't notice that Debbie Osborne was sitting cross-legged nearby as Casey shook her meaty thang.

Fans of Uschi Digard will want to check out the next scene as she is groped by demonic/horny bed sheets. (Isn't their sentient bed linen in Something Weird?) Very astute observation, my nimble-minded young friend. There sure is. I guess sentient bed linen was a thing back in the hippie era.

In-between the sentient bed linen scene and the one where a Neola Graef shows off her legs to some creep, Donna loses her shit and decides that she wants to leave. Unfortunately, the doors are locked. In other words, no one is allowed to leave. A couple of more "tricks" are performed for Uncle, one involving butcher shop necrophilia and another that takes a place at a picnic. While the film's signature piece is an extended orgy sequence. Instigated by a naked Debbie Osborne, who says, "Let's play commando," the party guests roll around on the floor together in an attempt to achieve sexual enlightenment.

A still naked Debbie Osborne appears before Ralph and Donna as a giant. This is when I should have realized Debbie Osborne was in this film, as we get multiple close-ups of her face (and the top part of her pubic triangle). What really should have clued me in was Debbie's trademark half asleep style of acting. Mumbling her dialogue in an overly relaxed manner (she can barely keep her eyes open), Debbie, who towers over Ralph and Donna (like I said, she's a giant), gives them the skinny on what the hell is going on. Not too much skinny, however, as the film's big reveal is still to come.

When the "big reveal" finally does occur, which I already sort of alluded to, I was dumbfounded by its audacity. Okay, maybe I wasn't "dumbfounded," but I was definitely impressed by its boldness. It's not everyday that you come across a hippie era slab of sexploitation that is both deeply weird and occasionally on the cusp of being intelligent. I wouldn't hesitate to put The Toy Box on a double-bill with Café Flesh. Highly recommended.

If your sun-baked, sweaty legs–which have been haphazardly poured into a pair of red cowboy boots–are the first thing we see in the film's opening shot, does it not make sense to assume that said film is going to be about the person attached to those sweat-drenched, red cowboy-adorned legs? Oh, hi, I'm in the middle of a heated debate I'm having with myself over who's the lead in The Naked Cage, Paul Nicholas' second stab at the women in prison genre (his first being, of course, the amazing Chained Heat). Part of me says the tough as nails Christina Whitaker is the lead, while the other part says it's Shari Shattuck. Now, it should be noted that the part of me that thinks Shari Shattuck is the lead still wets the bed. Of course, I'm not saying that this embarrassing little nugget of information should negate their opinion, but it does give one pause (or I should say, urine-soaked pause). I think the reason there was such a tug of war going on inside my head over Shari Shattuck's Michelle and Christina Whitaker's Rita was because they represent the inner struggle that goes on within each and everyone of us on a daily basis. Weaned on a steady diet of Pat Benatar videos and Jack Daniels, Rita represents the dark side, or you could say, the fun side. And, you guessed it, Michelle represents the sunny side, as she was fed nothing but feel good platitudes by her flannel-wearing parents and has spent countless hours playing with her My Little Ponies.

Maybe it's because my moral compass is out of whack, but I agreed with everything Rita does in this movie. And, yes, even the part where she shoves a chunk of glass into the mouth of a fellow inmate. Sure, I recoiled in horror a bit, I might have even said, tsk tsk at one point, but I thought cramming shards of broken glass into the mouth of a former recovering junkie was the correct course of action.

In the spirit of transparency, it should be noted the reason I called the inmate with the mouth full of broken glass a "former" recovering junkie, as supposed to just a "recovering junkie," is because Rita got her hooked on heroin again by forcibly sticking a syringe full of the stuff in her arm in, where else, but the shower.

Whereas, I kept shaking my head in disbelief over what Michelle does in this movie. Take, for example, the scene where Diane (Angel Tompkins, the leggy teacher from The Teacher), the corrupt lesbian warden, makes a pass at Michelle in the infirmary by gently caressing her thigh. If this happened to most normal people, they would happily allow a gorgeous milf (one who likes to be dominated in the vicinity of tanks of tropical fish and neon lights) to grope them. But no, you had to rebuff her attempt to buff your... (If you say "muff," I'm not going to be pleased.) cun... vagin... puss.... No, man, I gotta say, "muff." (Fine. Go ahead.) But no, you had to rebuff her attempt to buff your muff.

And because you got all huffy just because the cuff of Diane's puffy blouse came close to buffing the rarely buffed tufts of the fluffy hair that pepper the surface area of your tuff to get at muff, you lost all your stoolie privileges.

Holy shit! I just realized that this film not only with opens with a shot of Christina Whitaker's sweety stems poured into a pair of red cowboy boots, it features "Tuff Enuff" by The Fabulous Thunderbirds blasting on the soundtrack. (So? That was a popular song in 1986.) Look at the way they spelled "tough" and "enough." (Oh my God!) Yeah, I know. And get this, I didn't plan it at all.

Anyway, the cool thing about "Tuff Enuff" is that it's a ZZ Top/Stevie Ray Vaughn-style chunk of '80s rock that boasts sequencer-based knob-twiddling as its foundation. I love it when boring ass blues-based rock music dabbles with electronic sounds. I mean, think about it, how much better would every rock song in existence be if it had synthesizers? It boggles the mind.

On top of wearing red cowboy boots, Rita (Christina Whitaker) is wearing cut-off jean shorts, a denim vest (a jean jacket with the sleeves cut off), and mirror shades. Pressing the stop button on her Walkman (which stops "Tuff Enuff" in its tracks), Rita sticks her short, spiky-haired head into the passenger-side window of the Red Corvette that "belongs" to Willy (John Teresky, Valet Girls).

Bumming a ride from him with relative ease, it's clear Rita always gets what she wants. Which is something I've noticed about people who wear tooth earrings, they seem to have a drive that most of us seem to lack.

Meanwhile, at a nearby horse ranch, we're introduced to Michelle (Shari Shattuck), a horse-loving blonde, who... Now, would you look at this, none of her denim has been cut, slashed or even ripped. How am I supposed to take a character seriously if none of her clothing has been distressed on purpose? It's 1986, not 1956, honey. In other words, get with it.

The dichotomy between Rita and Michelle's approach to fashion speaks volumes. No foolin'. Never, in all my years of watching stuff, have I seen such a huge clothing chasm between two characters.

Another thing that was off-putting about Michelle was... (Don't tell me, it was her obsession with flannel shirts.) I wouldn't say she was obsessed with flannel shirts, it's just what she likes to wear. But that's not what I'm talking about. Are you ready? She calls her father "daddy." (I thought you liked it when human females over the age of seventeen called their father's "daddy.") Yeah, when Michelle Johnson does it in Blame It on Rio, it's hot. But when Shari Shattuck does it, it's just pathetic, sad, and, not to mention, a whole lot of creepy.

It turns out, Rita is a wanted criminal, and ends up going on a crime spree with Willy (in addition to being driven, individuals with tooth earrings tend to have criminal records - oh, and don't bother looking that up, it's a known fact). To show Willy her gratitude for a crime well-executed, Rita allows him to snort cocaine off her tits.

As luck would have it, Willy's ex-wife works at a bank. Anyone care to guess who Willy's ex-wife is? That's right, it's Michelle. Of course, Rita and Willy's attempt to rob Michelle's branch goes terribly wrong, which leads to Rita and Michelle being arrested. I know, you're thinking to yourself: But Michelle had nothing to do with Rita and Willy's botched bank job. Yeah, but according to Rita's testimony, Michelle was in on it.

Meaning, someone better get Michelle a teal smock that's in her size, 'cause her skinny ass is totally going to prison.

The first thing I noticed when we're given a tour of the yard is that's there's no consistency when it came to women's prison attire at this particular facility. I know, I implied that the Michelle will be wearing a teal smock. But all the black inmates are wearing peach smocks. And some of the inmates are not even wearing smocks at all. Colour me confused... and intrigued. A women in prison flick without uniformity, this could be interesting.

Take the attractive redhead leaning by the fence in the yard, she's not wearing a smock at all. She's in a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a grey, belly-revealing top. Oh, and, of course, the attractive redhead is played by none other than Lisa London (Savage Beach, Guns and Black Moon Rising).

What I don't get is why are the inmates using money in this prison? Aren't cigarettes supposed to be the currency of choice in the prison system? Okay, let's say cash is the currency, where are they getting it from? Do they have jobs? Is there an ATM in the mess hall? Whatever, the attractive, and, as we'll soon find out, leggy (but let's not get ahead of ourselves), redhead needs cash to pay for her drugs, which are supplied by Sheila (Faith Minton), a tall drink of butchy water who runs all the prison's rackets.

After punching Lisa London in the stomach (the most common plenty for non-payment of drugs), we're shown Michelle being taken to her bunk by a guard named Martha (Suzy London). Five seconds later, she befriends Amy (Stacey Shaffer), a pixieish blonde/recovering drug addict. Ten seconds after this meeting occurs, Sheila, with her skanky henchwomen in tow (she goes nowhere without them), is introduced to Michelle. The hulking, 6' 1" Sheila surprisingly takes a liking to Michelle, and allows her be in her gang.

Legs! We have legs. Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that Lisa London is climbing down from her bunk in a aggressively leggy manner. Where is she going, you ask? She's going to provide late night lesbian and sadomasochistic‎ satisfaction for the warden. Boasting neon wall art, super-long armwear, stockings, chains, lace, mild face slapping and off the shoulder resplendence, this scene is just what the doctor ordered.

To give the film a more well-rounded sense of brutality, we're introduced to a scumbag guard named Smiley (Nick Benedict), a Robert Z'Dar wannabe in aviator shades. He rapes and kills a black inmate, Ruby (Valerie McIntosh), on the same night the Angel Tompkins and Lisa London had their fling. This news upsets not only the warden, but Brenda (Aude Charles), the leader of the cage's black prison population; plus, she doesn't buy the whole suicide cover-up the warden cooked up.

Blaming Amy of all people for Ruby's death, Brenda confronts her (she thinks Amy supplied Ruby with the cocaine found in her system). This confrontation leads to one of Brenda's henchwomen beating the shit out of Amy. Luckily for her, Michelle steps in, but not before taking quite the beating herself. What's funny about the next scene is that Michelle can be seen in the infirmary covered in bruises, while Amy (who comes to visit her) doesn't have a single mark on her.

Bad bruise continuity aside, I think what this film needs is a little Christina Whitaker. And wouldn't you know it, look who just walked into the mess hall. Transferred from another prison, Rita quickly gets reacquainted with Michelle by stabbing her in the hand with a shank. As Sheila's goons pull the hysterical Rita off Michelle, you'll notice that her pink get-up is teeming with creative flourishes. Which got me a thinking: When did Rita find the time to work on her prison ensembles? I mean, the amount of effort that went into the shoulders alone is extraordinary (the craftsmanship is first-rate).

(Wait, did you say, "ensembles"?) Yeah, Rita has a pink look (seriously, the shoulder work on this garment is stunning), a teal look (the girl definitely knows how to use a pair of scissors), and a Pat Benetar-inspired "Love Is A Battlefield" look (a pink sweatshirt and a blue headband). The fact that Michelle's teal outfit has not been altered in anyway should be a clear indicator that she has no personality. Hell, even Lisa London found the time to add some personal touches to her outfits, and she's a leggy redhead who's addicted to drugs. Meaning, she doesn't have much time for fashion; being leggy, redheaded and addicted to drugs is a full-time job.

While not as inventive as Rita or Lisa London, one should not discount the warden's commitment to silky, age-appropriate blouses.

My favourite blouse out of the many blouses she wears is the one she dons while groping Michelle's thigh. Sure, the red one she wore with the black tie was great because it made look like a member of Kraftwerk. But she doesn't try to grope anyone while wearing it.

Not adding any personal touches to your outfit is one thing, not letting Angel Tompkins grope you is inexcusable. I despise everything you represent, Michelle. You are a conformist bore. I bet the first thing you're going to do when you get out of prison is vote for Ronald Reagan. (I think the election was two years ago.) Whatever, man, she sucks.

As you might expect, being on Team Rita means you'll probably lose out in the end (you just know miss goody two-shoes is going to win). However, I must say, I enjoyed the ride along the way, as The Naked Cage is hands down one of the best women in prison movies ever made. In fact, I would put it up there with the likes of Women's Prison Massacre, Barbed Wire Dolls, Bad Girls Dormitory and Bare Behind Bars in terms of greatness.

Tired of making holes with his trusty blade, the Fantom Kiler has decided to start filling holes that already exist. Except, what's the point of stabbing a hole that already exists with a knife? Exactly, there isn't one. Here's a free piece of advice, why not try filling these holes with something else. What a novel idea. But what to fill them with? Are you thinking what I'm thinking? I bet you are. Let's all say it at once, shall we? Are you ready? On the count of three. 1, 2, 3, Polish penis! Yay! That's right, Polish penis: Being thoughtfully stuffed into Polish pussy and other orifices since the glorious birth of Polska. I know, some of the cocks are Czech and a good chuck of the cunts are Czech too. But what can I say? I like the way "Polish penis" rolls off my tongue. In the Fantom Seducer 1 + 2, all the knives have been replaced with cocks. While this sounds like a simple transition on paper. I mean, all you really need to do is put the knives back in the drawer and hire men with cocks. It's actually a little more complicated than that. You see, your average knife is super-duper dependable (rain or shine, it will always be there for you). The penis/cock, on the other hand, whether it be Polish or Czech, it doesn't matter, can be a tad erratic when it comes to delivering the goods. (So, what you saying is, these fleshy protuberances aren't reliable?) Right. And since Roman Nowicki (Fantom Kiler, Fantom Kiler 2, Fantom Kiler 3, Fantom Kiler 4 and Mark of the Whip), as far as I know, hasn't worked with real live cocks before, this could make for a sticky situation. Luckily for him, the spunk flows freely throughout this epic tale about morality, luck... and gruesome-looking purple dildos.

In case you're wondering why I'm lumping Fantom Seducer 1 and Fantom Seducer 2 together as one review, it's because they were basically shot over the course of the same weekend. In other words, they're like Party Doll A Go-Go! Part 1 and Part 2 and The Devil Miss in Jones 3 and 4, except Fantom Seducer 1 + 2 are nowhere near as awesome. Hence they're being lumped together. The other reason is because I don't feel like writing two separate reviews. Truth be told, there were times I didn't even feel like writing one review. However, as with most of Roman Nowicki's work, my demenour can go from being severely annoyed to excessively giddy in the blink of an eye. And judging by the goofy look on my face as part two came to a close, it would seem that the excessively giddy demenour won out in the end.

If you experience some mild déjà vu as the film gets underway, you're not alone. Eerily similar to the opening of the original Fantom Kiler, Fantom Seducer 1 begins with a tall, slender woman standing in a railway station. Taking on her phone, Ursula Novak (Sandra Kay) is minding her own business, when, out of the corner of her eye, she notices two janitors watching her. And just like in Fantom Kiler, the janitors are making lewd comments to each other about the lanky brunette. A candidate for The Morality Party, Ursula approaches the janitors, who both have English accents, and tells them to get their dicks out.

As she's being pounded in the ass and slurping on a half-hard penis like it were a skin-flavoured chew toy, a third custodian enters the fray and introduces his cock to one of her readymade holes with an inelegant thrusting motion. When all is said and done, she gets doused in the face with three helpings of lukewarm jizz. Or does she? (What do you mean? Her face is covered with the stuff.) No, it would seem that what we just watched was a dream. In reality, Ursula approaches the janitors and asks them directions. As she walks away, she slips and falls. Of course, the intensity of the fall causes a bucket to land on her head and the buttons on her fake Chanel suit to become unbuttoned.

To the surprise of virtually no one, Ursula ends up wandering through the woods at night in a confused daze. Since wandering through the woods at night in a confused daze with your clothes on goes against everything these films stand for, Ursula removes her clothing. Did you just ask why? Well, if you must know, she did so in order to ease the masturbation process. Stumbling upon a couple having sex in the woods, Ursula takes off her suit, gets down on her hands and knees, and begins pawing at her ass and genitals.

While the man's penis is slipping in and out of the woman's vagina, which is adorned with a faint Hitler mustache, I couldn't help but notice that the woman being penetrated would occasionally look directly at Ursula and throw her a sly grin. I wonder if this sly grin is going to pay off somewhere down the road? It's almost as if the sly grin peddler knows something we don't know. Anyway, after having all her hollow places sufficiently violated, the man unloads his wad in her face.

Backing away from the scene, Ursula is shocked to discover that her clothes are missing. Wandering the woods in nothing but a pair of black heels, the freckled brunette eventually comes face to face with a dark figure. (You mean, the "Fantom Seducer"?) Probably. Speaking in a manner that was so deep and gravelly that it needed to be subtitled (a wise decision on the part of the filmmakers), the dark figure tells Ursula that her body burns with desire. (Isn't Ursula a member of the Morality Party?) She is, but even she can't refuse a free helping of fantom cock. The ripe dicking she receives this time isn't the figment of a janitor's imagination, it's all too real.

Suddenly, without warning, Ursula finds herself back at the railway station. Unfortunately, she's naked on all fours, is covered in fantom jizz, and has baton sticking out of her ass. What sort of black magic is this? Whatever it is, Ursula can forget about being the candidate for The Morality Party, as her lewd railway station antics are front page news.

In case we didn't get it, we're shown a similar scenario during the next scene. This time it's a buxom blonde named Laura (Anatasia Christ) who gets fucked in the woods by a dark stranger only to find her cum-stained naked body back at the railway station when the deed is done.

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that all this weirdness has something to do with that janitor with the glasses. He did, after all, rub his chin a menacing manner when Ursula left the railway station.

After we endure a montage that features a female janitor named Carla (Stacey Silver) mopping up the railway station, we find out how life is treating Ursula post the baton in the butt incident. And judging by the way she's begging men to pay her money to have sex with her on the station's platform, she's definitely hit rock bottom.

Convinced that the janitor is behind all these strange occurrences, Ursula confronts him in his office with a gun. Except, instead of shooting him, she decides to stab him to death. The end? It's a good thing I watched part two immediately after finishing part one, because the suspense would have been too much for me to take. I mean, I was dying to know what happened to Ursula after she killed the janitor.

Well, it would seem that Ursula is now the railway station janitor. Mopping the floor in what looks like a brand new skirt, Ursula is confronted by her boss (Sarah Blu), who gets all up in her grill. (Does she suspect that Ursula is the one responsible for the janitor's disappearance?) Who's to say? All I know is, Sarah Blu is totally reading her lines off cue cards. (How can you tell?) How can I tell?!? It's obvious they're being held off to the side, as Sarah keeps looking...off to the side. (Um, shouldn't you be talking about the lesbian sex scene that Sarah Blu and Sandra Kay partake in?) Nah, I think most of you will agree that Sarah Blu cue card-assisted acting style is much more interesting.

Just like in the first chapter, a woman wanders the woods in a fake Chanel suit. Only this time, it's Sarah Blu who's lost. However, unlike Ursula, Sarah is caught by the couple she watches have sex in the woods. And not only do they steal her clothes, they give her a giant purple dildo. (Huh?) I don't know why they did that either. Nonetheless, some redneck hunters mistake Sarah's giant purple dildo for a snake and shoot it. Barely escaping the dildo-snake incident unharmed, Sarah, who is naked, continues on her way. When the redneck hunters discover the giant purple dildo they thought was a snake has fresh vagina juice all over it, they declare a pussy hunt.

Unaware that her pussy is being hunted, Sarah approaches a... Yes!!! (What?) Nothing, it's just that Sarah is about to traverse a barbed wire fence. (So?) So, I haven't witnessed a naked woman traverse a barbed wire fence since the first Fantom Kiler. This is a big deal. After making it through the barbed wire fence pretty much unscathed, Sarah's foot gets caught in a trap. Jeez, can't this woman catch a break? About to be gang-raped by the redneck hunters, the "Fantom Seducer" steps in to help her. (But don't the redneck hunters have guns?) Pish posh, the "Fantom Seducer" is impervious to bullets.

(Is it just me or does this movie not make any sense?) Stop trying to make sense of everything and just enjoy the sight of Sarah Blu bouncing up and down on the Fantom Seducer's cock. (Okay, I will. But this movie is making my brain hurt. Oh, great, after being cummed on, guess where Sarah Blu ends up?) The railway station with a mop handle up her ass? (Excellent guess.) Luckily for her, though, Ursula was the only one at the station (in fact, she was the one holding the mop handle in place).

(Is Sarah's reading of the line, "Get this mop out of my ass now," the worst line reading in the entire film?) Um, maybe. But I think you should see the two guys who play a couple of DP-loving Polish detectives before you start declaring anything to be the worst. And wouldn't you know it, here they are. Sitting in their office (which, for some reason, has a large Soviet flag on the wall), the detectives are in the middle of discussing the murder of the janitor. And I must say, after listening to these guys talk for ten seconds, I can safely declare them to be the worst actors ever to be captured on film. I don't care if English is their third or fourth language, I've never seen such terrible acting in my life. (You sound flabbergasted.) Fuck yeah I'm flabbergasted.

Luckily, their cocks take over, as the DP-loving Polish detectives go to town on Claudia Rossi's many holes. This scene, by the way, which features Claudia Rossi as a policewoman who wants a promotion, is the film's hottest. (I thought you said you weren't a big fan of double-penetration scenes?) I'm not. But since Claudia Rossi seems sincere when she asks one of the detectives to stick his cock in her ass while the other detective's cock was in her pussy, I decided to make an exception to the rule. It also helped that Claudia Rossi is gorgeous and that the scene was shot was in a brightly lit office (most of the film's sex scenes are shot in the woods at night).

Briefly turning into a women in prison film after Ursula is arrested for the janitor's murder, the film features lesbian prison sex, a cool stripetease scene involving Lucie Stratova in black stockings (sadly, Lucie is the only woman who wears nylons in these movies), and facials number 12 and 13.

Yet, despite the prison setting, this film is slowly beginning to sap me of my strength; seriously, if I have to watch another penis plow into a pussy for an extended period of time, I'm going to lose my mind.

While the majority of the actors can't even recite even the most basic of dialogue in a convincing manner, I was shocked when Sandra Kay is given the opportunity to perform a monologue. And not only does she perform the monologue with flying colours, she says the words, "corroborate" and "manifestation." Well, as you would expect, I started to jump around the room when I heard Sandra utter these two words. Now, did her utterance of these words manage to renew my will to live? Not quite. But I have to say, it sort of made the ordeal/chore that is the act of watching these movies a trifle less painful.

Her husband wants to penetrate her, former New York Yankee great Luis Arroyo wants to penetrate her. Hell, even her father wants to penetrate her. What's that? Are you serious? Well, you don't see that every day. It would seem that, while her husband and former New York Yankee great Luis Arroyo make no bones about wanting to penetrate the virginal vagina attached to a mixed up twenty year-old with iridescent knees, her father, in a shocking twist, does not, I repeat, does not, want to penetrate his daughter's grown up pussy with her his equally grown up penis. In fact, I don't think the father wants anything to do with his daughter. On the other hand, the daughter definitely wants to fuck her father. (Um, there must be a more delicate way of putting that.) No, I'm afraid there isn't. (Are you sure she doesn't just want to be with him in a normal father-daughter sort of way?) I won't lie, part of me wishes that was the case, as I love people who are able to have healthy relationships with one another without resorting to behaviour that is icky and gross. But the part of me who enjoys off-kilter sleaze wouldn't have it any other way. And to my utter delight, the wonderfully odd Toys Are Not for Children delivers when it comes to providing me with the type of sleaze that could be construed as off-kilter.

Now, sure, the film might be a tad lacking in the sex and violence department. But it more than makes up for it in other ways. (Other ways, eh? Care to give us an example.)

All right, here's one: The film boasts a scene where a fresh-faced prostitute takes off one of her tan stockings in a slow, deliberate manner.

I know, why didn't they show her taking off both her tan stockings? But remember, this isn't a Jess Franco film. Yes, it would be awesome if every film in existence was a Jess Franco film, but they aren't, so, get over it. Now, where was I?

Ah, yes, slow and deliberate.

Giving a play-by-play account to the blindfolded John sitting at the end of the bed, the newly-minted harlot seems to relish describing the stocking removal process.

And why wouldn't she? It's the cornerstone of being a whore.

Imagine if you took away the act of putting on and taking off stockings from your average streetwalker. Pretty frightening, right?

I would even go as far as to say that without stockings there would be no prostitution. And without prostitution, there would be no civilization.

(Is this film really about a childlike twenty year-old woman who decides to become a trollop in order to reunite with her long lost father?) I guess. Though, I have to ask, couldn't she have just used the yellow pages? I mean, sure, he might not be in the book, but it's worth a try.

Since her mother, Edna Godard (Fran Warren), won't tell her where her father is, and since Pearl Valdi (Evelyn Kingsley), her middle-aged hooker friend, won't tell her either, Jamie Godard (Marcia Forbes) is going to have to fuck every man in New York City until she finds him. (I don't get it, why does she have to do that?) While her mother won't reveal the exact whereabouts of his location, she's not shy when it comes to telling Jamie that her father prefers the company of whores. Using this knowledge, Jamie figures the best way to find her father is to become a whore herself. The only problem is, Jamie is the farthest thing from a whore. In fact, she's so un-whore-like, Jamie won't even let her husband Charlie (Harlan Cary Poe) touch her; by the way, you should have seen the expression on Charlie's face when he finds out he ain't getting laid on his wedding night, it's priceless.

The film opens with the sight of Jamie masturbating in the dark with one of her toys. And, no, not that kind of toy. I'm talking about an actual toy. What makes things even creepier is that the toy she's spanking it with was given to her by her father. Catching her in the act, Jamie's mother, who is sporting a ratty-looking beige bathrobe, tells her, in the most shrill manner possible, that what she's doing is unnatural.

After the opening scene, which makes it clear that Jamie and her mother don't see eye-to-eye when it comes to her father, the film takes a nonlinear approach to storytelling. Meaning, the film jumps around a lot.

Marrying Charlie, one of her co-workers at the toy store, which is owned by Max Geunther (N.J. Osrag), she works at, Jamie, it would seem, would rather sleep with her toys than her husband. Ouch.

As Charlie is bemoaning the fact that his wife won't have sex with him on their wedding night, you'll notice that the film's score was created using electronics. (You mean?) Yeah, the film has an electronic score. (But this film is from 1972?) That it is. (Groovy, man.) Composed by Cathy Lynn and Jacques Urbont, the music is ominous in places, which gives the proceedings an extra of layer of menace.

Do you see that area just above Jamie's thighs? Yeah, well, just because Charlie has had no luck accessing that particular area doesn't mean Eddie (Luis Arroyo) is going stop trying. Who's Eddie, you ask? He's Pearl's live-in pimp. (What's a live-in pimp?) Oh, that's a pimp who does the majority of his pimping from the comfort of the great indoors. Anyway, since Jamie is always over at Pearl's Manhattan apartment (remember, she thinks Pearl is the key to meeting her long lost father), that means Eddie gets multiple opportunities to hit on Jamie.

Using his hand to probe around the bottom of Jamie's skirt (if you look closely, you can see her slip), Eddie decides that Jamie is ready to be deflowered. Luckily or unluckily, depending on whose genitals you're rooting for, Pearl comes home and puts an immediate end to Eddie's lascivious advances.

Frustrated by the fact that his wife won't have sex with him, Charlie hits the local nightclub scene to scrounge up some willing poontang. (Hey, don't talk about early 1970s Lizzy Caplan that way.) Who? (You know, Salee Corso, the short-haired brunette chatting with Charlies who sort of looks like Lizzy Caplan.) Oh, her. Yeah, well, it would seem that Charlie prefers Gloria (Irene Signoretti), a wannabe vivacious blonde. (If that's the case, he's a damned fool.)

"You're a whore, aren't you"?" asks a wide-eyed Jamie while having lunch with Pearl at a fancy downtown eatery. Telling her to keep her voice down, Pearl tries to change the subject, but Jamie continues to badger her. Culminating with Jamie's admission that she thinks being a whore is wonderful, it looks like there's nothing Pearl can do to stop Jamie from becoming a prostitute.

Slipping on the pinkest, shortest mini-skirt she can find, Jamie leaves for Pearl's place. But first she must navigate a group of male perverts who have assembled on the stairs outside her house. Once she gets past them (gingerly walking down the steps), the next scene resembles an episode of Leggy and the City. What's that? You say there's no such program. Whatever.

Of course, when she arrives at Pearl's place, the only person she finds there is Eddie. Transfixed by her iridescent knees, Eddie seems more determined than ever to turn Jamie out. (Does Eddie succeed?) You be the judge.

Boasting a fresh new look, in the next scene Jamie is slowly removing one of her stockings for the crotch-based benefit of her blindfolded client. "I'm rolling it down my leg... more flesh is showing," she coos as she removes them.

You could say Jamie is the victim of bad parenting. No, forget about could, she is definitely the victim of bad parenting. Told in a nonlinear fashion and featuring great performances by its inexperienced cast, Toys Are Not for Children is a bold examination of arrested development run amok. And you know a film has had an impact on the viewer when they can't hear the word "daddy" without cringing. I love you, daddy. *cringes*

Preparing to engage in mock disbelief in correlation with yet another generous serving of Japanese weirdness from the perspective of a feckless gaikokujin in 3, 2, 1, go! Wow, they sure do make some odd movies in Japan, don't they? All right, now that I got that out of the way, I can continue typing words about Entrails of a Beautiful Woman in a calm, face-palm inducing, highly irrational manner. What's that? You want to know what I was getting at with that opening line? Well, that was my not-so subtle way of dismissing the folks who belittle Japanese cinema by calling it strange or bizarre. Though, I have to admit, when the inside out flesh monster penis bursts from the stomach of a drug-addled gangster's moll, I did mumble to myself: What the fuck, Japan. I know, that's such a white person thing to do, but I can't help it. On the bright side, the drug-addled gangster's moll did cordially invite the inside out flesh monster penis to enter her aching vagina. Which is something you don't see that often in Japanese cinema. (You got that right, an inside out flesh monster penis is a bit of rarity no matter where you go.) Oh, no, I wasn't talking about the inside out flesh monster penis, I was referring to the cordial invite. (Huh?) What I mean is, sexual intercourse between consenting adults, whether their genitals be smooth to the touch or bumpy as fuck, is an uncommon sight in Japanese cinema.

I'm not saying every sex scene in Japanese cinema is rape. It's just that I've noticed that even the so-called consensual sex scenes have an air of rape about them. Actually, now that I think about it, the drug-addled gangster's moll wasn't really planning on having sex with the openly gregarious penis attached to an inside out flesh monster when the evening began, it was literally shoved in her face, and like any insane individual, she chose to lick it up and down like it were candy cane.

Of course, given that her vagina is always aching (her Yakuza boyfriend is impotent), the drug-addled gangster's moll sees the inside out, slightly duck-billed penis as an unexpected blessing in disguise. In her defense, she didn't know it would come crashing through her abdomen moments after the traditional prodding had gotten underway, so, you can't really blame her for excepting this munificent helping of outre cock.

(Um, hello? I can blame her. It should go without saying, but people who allow giant penises with toothy urethras to enter their bodies shouldn't be surprised when said penises start creating their own holes. I mean, they're semi-sentient cocks with teeth, it's what they do, man.)

Yeah, but her Yakuza boss boyfriend can't get an erection. (That's no excuse for treating your vagina like an amusement park ride.) I don't get that analogy. (Okay, let's say your girl penis is a merry-go-round, you don't want millions of strangers straddling it for hours on end, you want to be more selective.) I think I know what you mean.

Are you aware that the reason the penis being swung about with malice in this film appears to be inside out is because it's actually a vagina? (You mean it's a prolapsed vagina masquerading as a cock.) I can't believe I'm about to say this, but that's exactly what I'm saying.

How does this prolapsed vagina masquerading as a cock come to be? Well, it all starts in the rape warehouse belonging to the Ichiyama Clan, a Yakuza affiliated gang of dope pushers and slave traders. When their leader injects a young woman named Yoshimi (Siera Kitagawa) with latest his product (a drug called "Angel Rain") during a lull in her gang rape, she suddenly becomes addicted to sex. Of course, since their leader can't get hard, he leaves the fucking to his four henchmen, well, three henchmen, Higashi simply lures the woman to the rape warehouse.

It turns out, leaving Hiromoto and Takiguchi in charge of watching Yoshimi was a bit of a mistake, as she takes off running the second they let their guard down. Bleeding from her vagina, Yoshimi staggers around for awhile. She eventually collapses in front of the door belonging to the "Aquarium Clinic." And after hearing someone staggering outside, Dr. Hiromi (Megumi Ozawa) rushes to help the wayward former sex slave turned drug addict.

Needing her Angel Rain fix like something fierce, Yoshimi decides to jump to her death. However, before she jumps, Yoshimi tells Hiromi everything that happened to her.

While sitting on her exam table in a manner that allows her admire her white stocking ensnared feet with a relaxed ease, Hiromi gets the idea to avenge Yoshimi's death. And who do you think she holds responsible for Yoshimi's death? That's right, the Ichiyama Clan. But she also blames herself, as she thinks she could have done a better job helping Yoshimi.

Meanwhile, the Ichiyama Clan boss is watching his girlfriend writhe around on the floor in a veiled attempt to achieve an orgasm. It's true, he still can't get an erection (his girlfriend's blow job is basically nothing but a never-ending mouth bath), but he's relaxed in the knowledge that Yoshimi's death hasn't been tied to his gang yet.

Remember how I said Higashi is the one who lures women to the gang's rape warehouse in order to be turned into sex slaves? Well, that's where Hiromi begins her campaign to avenge Yoshimi's death. Tracking him down at a local bar, Hiromi manges to get Higashi's attention rather easily. Which is no surprise, since Hiromi is quite attractive.

One thing leads to another, and the next thing you know, Higashi is showering Hiromi's nipples with kisses on her exam table. You'll notice that Hiromi is wearing a black garter belt as Higashi is kissing her nipples. (Yeah, so?) Um, where are her black stockings? (Oh, yeah, I can see how that might annoy you. So, what are you going to do now?) I'll continue to watch the movie, but this better not happen again. Hypnotizing him while giving him a handjob, Hiromi manages to not only extract information from him, but she plants messages in his head. The most important one being, she instructs Higashi to stab his fellow Yakauza.

The way she smeared cum over her mouth immediately after Higashi ejaculated was pure genius, as it fooled him into thinking she gave him a blow job, when we all know she merely gave him a handy. (I don't get it?) Don't you see, Hiromi has power over Higashi. Meaning, he'll be more inclined to do her bidding now that he knows that his penis has been in her mouth. Trust me, it was genius move on her part.

What wasn't a genius move was Hiromi's assumption that Higashi's knife attack would go smoothly. Sure, he manages to cut one of the members of the Ichiyama Clan with a knife, but her attempt to exact revenge on the Ichiyama Clan via Higashi ultimately ends in failure. After the gangsters force Higashi into telling them who put him up to the seemingly impromptu knife attack, they turn their attention to Hiromi.

And you know what that means? (Uh, rape, drugs, forced confinement and more rape.) Well, yeah, but I was thinking, shapely lady doctor legs encased in white stockings and prolapsed vagina cocks with teeth. (You would think that, wouldn't you.) Hey, don't you dare make me feel ashamed about what I think.

We get a brief overhead shot of Hiromi's lifeless body is resting on a mattress in the Ichiyama Clan's rape warehouse. Let's savour it, shall we? Can you see what I can see? (You mean the top of Hiromi's white stockings?) Nicely done, you'll be a pervert soon.

(Speaking of seeing stuff, is that a tuft of pubic hair in Hiromi's mouth?) Good eye. Yeah, it totally is. As Hiromoto and Takiguchi are about to... no, wait, as Yoshioka is anally raping Hiromi, the impotent gangster gangster's moll decides she wants a piece of the action. Since Hiromi's backside is currently being stuffed with Yosjioka's penis, the gangster's moll, who is wearing white stockings with red trim and knee-high boots, elects to place her crotch near Hiromi's mouth. Which turns out to be an error in judgment on her part, as Hiromi takes a big bite out of her pussy moments after it's shoved in her face.

(I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that these gangsters are going to suffer terribly for the crimes they have perpetrated throughout this movie.) You can say that again. I mean, an inside out flesh monster with a prolapsed vagina cock with teeth is about to pay each of them a visit. So, yeah. (Wait, you haven't said if you like the movie or not. I haven't?) Well, if I write this much about a movie, it usually means that I liked it. (Good to know.)

Bust out the baby oil and dust off the rubber masks, it's time once again to return the clitoris-compromising realm of Roman Nowicki's Mark of the Whip, the not-so whip smart extreme erotic horror film that boasted a ton of whipping, a shitload of lip biting and an exorbitant amount of inquisitive head tilting. It's my not-so distinct pleasure to introduce you to the blatantly inevitable, Mark of the Whip 2, now featuring more pain and degradation, roughly same amount of leggy Czech chicks and a fuckload of nuns. Yep, you heard right perverts, part two has nuns. (But aren't nuns, besides beekeepers, the most clothed individuals on the planet.) Yeah, so, what's your point? (My point is, does Roman Nowicki, Fantom Kiler, Fantom Kiler 2, Fantom Kiler 3, and Fantom Kiler 4, even know how to film women who wear clothing?) How hard can it be, put the clothed women in position and yell action. Oh, I get it. Mr. Nowicki is famous for having scantily clad women of East European extraction prancing around forests late at night in his films. Well, Mr. Nowicki has obviously decided to stretch his muscles as a director. I'll wait for your laughter to subside. Are you done? Good. I'm serious, Roman Nowicki has really grown as an artist. (All right, now you have gone too far.) What?!? ("Grown as an artist," you have got to be kidding?) Don't make me say "I'm serious" again, because that's totally what I'm being.

The moment I realized Roman Nowicki had grown as an artist was when Slyvia Novak (Tiffany Love, credited as "Tiffany Lust") invites a gun salesman over to her hotel room. If you're an ex-cop, by the way, who has been living in a nunnery for the past several years and wants to buy a gun in order to exact revenge on The Fantom Whipper (Conrad Bismark) for killing your best friend, you're going to have buy one on the street.

Anyway, when the gun salesman comes knocking at her door, Sylvia (who is oiled up and smoking a cigarette in a black bra and a black pair of panties on her bed), takes her sweet time to answer it. Oiled up, smoking and scantily clad, these are Roman Nowicki staples. In other words, everything is going according to plan. However, when the gun salesman makes a reference to the gun salesman scene from Taxi Driver, my eyes lit up.

The reason they lit up is because the films of Roman Nowicki seem to take place in their own unique universe. Meaning, the existence of other films is hardly ever acknowledged. But in this film, not only was he acknowledging the existence of other films, he was straight-up quoting dialogue from one.

When I noticed that the gun salesman's opening line of dialogue was exactly the same as the gun salesman's opening line of dialogue from Taxi Driver, I thought to myself: Aww, that's cute, an unexpected shout out to Taxi Driver. Little did I know, but the scene I was about to watch, the one where a salesman sells Sylvia Novak a couple of guns, was not content with merely giving a shout out to Taxi Driver. Uh-uh. The whole scene was word for word exactly the same. Of course, some of the Taxi Driver dialogue was omitted, but everything the gun salesman says in Mark of the Whip 2 was taken from Taxi Driver; he even offers to sell Sylvia a wide array drugs when the gun deal is finished.

Quirky fun-fact: The actor who played the gun salesman in Taxi Driver was Stephen Prince. While the actor who plays the gun salesman in Mark of the Whip 2 is credited as Stephen Price.

While you were busy noticing that, you might have noticed that Tiffany Love, not Hana Liska is playing Sylvia Novak, the world's most famous ex-cop, ex-nun, ex-whip addict turned vigilante. How will this effect the quality of the production since Hana Liska was the best thing about the first Mark of the Whip?

We're going to have to wait a little while to get an answer to that question, as the film opens with Stacy Silver's Stella Diamond relaxing in her backyard in a pink bikini. Am I crazy or does the music playing as Stacey Silver relaxes in her backyard sound Bernard Herrmann-esque? In fact, it sounds eerily similar to the music used in--you guessed it--Taxi Driver.

Nonetheless, a couple of mask-wearing cops show up to harass Stella Diamond right on schedule. Accusing her being a member of an outlawed pro-democracy party, the lead goon feels up Stella before dragging her away to be interrogated.

Meanwhile, at a nearby nunnery, Sister Sylvia, a.k.a. ex-cop, ex-whip addict Det. Sylvia Novak, receives a letter from her friend Kasia (Kate Blond). In the letter, she talks about her struggles with her addiction to the lash. If you remember, both Sylvia and Kasia were hooked on being whipped. As she reads the letter, the music from Platoon ("Adagio for Strings") swells on the soundtrack, and we get our first close up shot of Tiffany Love's dynamic face. (Did you say, dynamic?) Yep. (Does that mean Tiffany Love met with your approval?) You could say that. No, what am I saying, of course you can say that. (Whew, that's a relief. For a minute there, I thought Tiffany Love wasn't going to be able to fill Hana Liska's strappy heels.)

I don't know where they find these women, but the fine folks at Teraz Films seem to have access to an unlimited supply of tall leggy chicks who are willing to have foreign objects crammed into their vaginas on camera. That being said, Tiffany Love does lack Hana Liska's innate ability to simultaneously bite her lip while tilting her head to the side.

If you're like me and wondered why the scene where a naked Alicia Malikov is confronted by a drill-wielding maniac in Fantom Kiler 3 was relegated to the deleted scenes section. Well, first of all, congratulations, you're like me. But more importantly, the scene makes an appearance in Mark of the Whip 2. A group of nuns watch said scene on television during their lunch break. And just as the drill is about to pierce her eyeball, the nuns change the channel to the news. It's here that Sister Sylvia learns that her friend Kasia was whipped to death by a group of masked assailants. When Sister Sylvia hears that the autopsy report says that Kasia experienced eight orgasms before she died, she knows exactly who's responsible for her death: The Fantom Whipper.

Telling convent's Mother Superior (Maria Vaslova, Nina's Nightmares) that she's quitting the nun racket, Sylvia hangs up in her giant crucifix necklace and sets out to get revenge.

What occurs next will blow your mind. (Don't tell me, a naked woman gets whipped.) Well, yeah, a naked woman does get whipped (Stacy Silver is whipped by the cops). But the film also gives us a brief The Sound of Music parody. You think that's weird, wait until you see the Schindler's List parody.

Checking into a cheap hotel, Sylvia changes out of her habit and puts on a Burberry print Chanel-style suit. After buying some guns, Sylvia waits for her opportunity to strike. In the meantime, Mother Superior is whipped and prodded with foreign objects in a dingy basement setting. You see, to justify the film's title, we're occasionally shown women being whipped who are not Sylvia Novak. And like the whipping scenes in the first film, they can be a bit tedious.

Not so long ago, I recall watching Conan O'Brien interviewing Gwyneth Paltrow on his show. Nothing strange about that. But there was something strange about her legs, in that, they looked like they had been slathered with olive oil (goop, perhaps?). However, when they came back from a commercial break, I noticed her legs were no longer oily. Someone (i.e. one of her minions) obviously noticed this and toweled her off during the break. Unfortunately, there's no one to towel Tiffany Love's legs, as they're covered in an inordinate amount of oil. I think the oil is supposed to be sweat. Whatever it was supposed to be, it's dampening her legginess.

Tracking down The Fantom Whipper, Sylvia makes an appointment with him to be whipped. Little does he know, but Sylvia has no intention of being whipped. Though, I must say, Sylvia is having trouble staying focused on the task at hand. Being an ex-whip addict, Sylvia is afraid that she will go back to her old habits. And, no, I don't mean "habits" in the nun way, I'm talking about her addiction to the lash.

In order to placate her pulsating pussy, which she describes as a "sexual time bomb," Sylvia repeatedly shoves the barrel of one of her newly acquired pistols into it to stave off her desire. Fully satisfied, Sylvia is now ready to take on The Fantom Whipper. But first she must get past his mother. Yep, The Fantom Whipper lives with his mother. Played by Dorothy Slime (that's what it says in the credits), Mrs. Whipper forces Sylvia to take her clothes off before allowing her to go any further. Of course, things don't go exactly as planned, and Sylvia ends up spending the next six days being whipped in various ways. If you're wondering how long six days worth of whipping takes in movie terms, I would say it takes around forty-five minutes.

Delivering on his promise to whip Slyvia into a "quivering, sweat-drenched pile of orgasming flesh," The Fantom Whipper, cheered on by his mother, uses and abuses her organic structure. Proving once and for all that the film does indeed have a sense of humour, The Fantom Whipper answers the phone, "Fantom Whipper speaking."

If you want an easy way to sum up Mark of the Whip 2 to your friends, just say it's Taxi Driver meets The Sound of Music and Schindler's List crossbred with a nunsploitation film and an early '80s Rough Trade video.

Finally, a movie with enough horse-sense and common decency to feature an upwardly mobile leggy woman with an affinity for ecru mini-skirts. I mean, when I first saw the ecru mini-skirt appear onscreen, I was like: Hallelujah, my prayers have finally been answered. What's that? You're absolutely right, I do pray for the darndest/lamest things. But then again, I only pray for the things I like, and I like ecru mini-skirts. If that makes me pathetic and sad, so be it. I'm not going sit here and pretend to be someone who doesn't like ecru mini-skirts. At least not on my watch. And the last time I checked, this is my watch. Anyway, for years I've been openly bemoaning the fact there aren't that many movies kicking around out there for us fans of leggy women of the upwardly mobile variety who wear ecru mini-skirts. Complaining to anyone who would listen, I would wander the streets in an ecru mini-skirt-less haze, screaming nonsensical gibberish of an ecru mini-skirt nature at the top of my lungs. Well, I can scream a little less, 'cause, wouldn't you know it, Herschell Gordon Lewis of all people and his giallo-esque The Gore Gore Girls has decided to come along and feed my ravenous hunger for ecru mini-skirts. Of course, I had no idea going in that this semi-putrid slab of low-cost ghastliness was going to be the cinematic nugget to satisfy my desire to see a whip-smart field reporter with toothsome gams help a super-suave ultra-dandy solve a murder mystery while wearing an ecru mini-skirt. In other words, it was a happy accident.

I know, you're thinking to yourself: What the fuck is "ecru"? It's sort of a greyish pale yellow. (Are you sure it isn't yellowish brown?) That's the thing, ecru is a lot different things to a lot of different people.

You think all this talk about ecru mini-skirts is off-putting and creepy, wait until I find out the whip-smart field reporter with the toothsome gams sheaths those very same gams in a pair of tight tan pantyhose, I'm going to lose my motherfucking mind. Oh and guess what? I just found out, like, ten seconds ago.

Since the tan pantyhose scene to end all tan pantyhose scenes occurs near the end of this here motion picture, let's focus on what happens at the beginning first and then work our way towards the tan pantyhose scene, shall we? (That sounds like a plan. But if you fail to focus your attention on the tan pantyhose scene, I'm going to...) Yeah, yeah, you're going to throw the world's worst hissy fit. Keep your panties on, I'll get to it.

Wasting very little time, the film immediately opens with the sight of a go-go dancer named Suzie Cream Puff (Jackie Kroeger) getting her face bashed multiple times against a mirror by a faceless killer wearing black leather gloves. Talk about your gruesome openings. Think about it, I barely had time to adjust to surroundings, when, blamo, a woman in a pink bra is having her face literally rearranged. If things are this gory in the first ten seconds, who knows what kind of sick and twisted shit we're going to see later on.

Reading about Miss Cream Puff's murder in the paper on his flowery cat vomit of a couch, Abraham Gentry (Frank Kress) hears a knock at the door. As he approached the door, the voice in my head kept saying: Please be an attractive novice reporter with shapely legs and long reddish hair, over and again. And wouldn't you know it, an attractive novice reporter with shapely legs (which I'm sure would look great sheathed in tan pantyhose) and long reddish hair is standing in Abe's doorway.

Say hello to Nancy Weston (Amy Farrell), an attractive novice with... (You don't have to mention that part again.) Yeah, I guess I don't. At any rate, after mistaking him for the butler, Nancy offers Abraham Gentry a large sum of money to help her investigate the grisly murders that are currently taking place within the city's flourishing go-go dancer community.

(Hey, I thought you said Nancy's mini-skirt was ecru? The mini-skirt she is wearing in Abe's apartment is clearly taupe or beige.) Which is it, taupe or beige? Um. Just kidding, the ecru mini-skirt makes it first appearance in the next scene.

After making yet another clever remark, Nancy asks Abraham if he's finished being clever, to which he replies, "I'm never done being clever." Pompous as he may sound, he's actually right, Abraham Gentry's cleverness knows no bounds.

Don't believe me, just ask Marlene (Hedda Lubin), the waitress who seems to work at every strip club in town, as she is constantly on the receiving end of Abraham's clever retorts throughout the film.

At first, I was confused by the Marlene character. What I mean is, I thought she was played by different actresses. For example, the waitress who takes Abe's drink order is wearing a purple leotard with a green wig, but the waitress that brings Abe his order is wearing a pink leotard with a blonde wig. Well, I soon discovered that Hedda Lubin played Marlene in every scene. And what she did was, she simply changed leotards and wigs between shots.

(Did she wear tights with her legion of leotards?) Of course she did. What's wrong with you? She's a sophisticated modern woman who wouldn't be caught dead without a thin layer of nylon pressing tightly against her uncomplicated vagina.

It's true, most people will tell you the reason they love The Gore Gore Girls so much is because of the gore, but the snarky back and forth between Abraham Gentry, a never not clever dandy fop who carries a cane, and Marlene, a cynical no-nonsense go-go bar waitress, was definitely my favourite non-mini-skirt/non-tan pantyhose-related thing about this movie.

The utter contempt they have for one another right from the get-go was exquisite. And add the fact that Marlene never appears onscreen in the same leotard or wig does nothing bring an extra level of oft-kilter weirdness to an already weirdly off-kilter set of circumstances.

After obtaining information from a go-go dancer in blue pasties and yellow panties, Abraham sets out to obtain more information. Utilizing a seemingly endless supply of cash, Abraham is quickly making progress. Insisting on tagging along is Nancy, who is waiting for Abe outside the Candy Cane Club.

Anyone care to guess what Nancy is wearing while lounging on top of Abe's white 1966 Corvette? That's right, an ecru-esque mini-skirt.

Even though Herschell Gordon Lewis drops the ball early on when it comes to filming Nancy in her ecru-esque mini-skirt, he more than makes up for it later on, as we see her lengthy legs in all their lengthy glory when Nancy and Abe stumble upon the crime scene of another faceless dead go-go dancer. The way H.G.L.'s camera lingers on a distraught Nancy (it's not everyday that you stumble upon a go-go dancer without a face) as she sits in a leggy manner was much appreciated.

In order to mislead the audience, we're introduced a character/red herring named Grout, a bouncer who works at Tops and Bottoms. Usually seen sitting at the bar, Grout spends most of his time drawing faces on fruit and then smashing them with his fists. If that wasn't enough, we're also introduced to a group of feminists who like to protest (they carry signs that say things like, "Lewd is Crude") the go-go bars owned by Marzdone Mobilie (Henny Youngman). I, for one, I'm not buying for a second that Grout or one of the feminists is responsible for the murders.

When the feminists cause a small riot to break out in Tops and Bottoms, Abe (after dumping a passed out drunk Nancy in a cab) goes home with a go-go dancer named Lola Prize (Nora Alexis). Not to have sex with her, mind you, but to interview her about her dead colleagues. (Are you sure Abe isn't a Friend of Dorothy? I mean, he hasn't tried to nail any of the chicks that have crossed his path so far.) Maybe he's picky. (Picky? Have you seen Nancy? She's a babe.)

Don't worry, I have a feeling Abraham Gentry knows exactly what he's doing. (Are you sure about that? After all, he had no idea the go-go girl killer was in Lola's kitchen.) Oh yeah. Speaking of Lola's kitchen, did anyone think the killer was going smash Lola's firm ass to a bloody pulp with a meat tenderizer? I didn't see that coming. The suspect sticks with the kitchen theme for their next couple of kills, as an iron and a pot of fries are used to gruesome affect. (Don't forget the nipple cutting/chocolate milk scene set to marching band music.) Ugh, that was gross. I mean, marching band music?!?

Culminating with an amateur striptease contest at Marz's Heaven, Abe plans an elaborate ruse to expose the identity of the go-go girl killer. How does he go about this? It's simply, really. Tan pantyhose. (What about 'em?) If you want to a catch a serial killer who is bumping off go-go dancers, just put a leggy gal in tan pantyhose. And who's more leggy than Nancy Weston? (I can't think of anyone. But Nancy isn't a go-go dancer.) Yeah, but you don't have to be a professional go-go to enter the amateur striptease contest (the word "amateur" is in the title).

(Oh, I see where this is going, Abe is using Nancy tan pantyhose adorned legs as bait.) Exactly. Now, I don't want to give away the results of Abe's tan pantyhose sting operation, but let's just say the results are pretty damn sexy.

(Do you want to summarize your thoughts regarding The Gore Gore Girls?) Not really. I think everything I just said pretty much summarizes how this film is close to perfect in terms of content. It's the sexiest, goriest episode of Law and Order ever.

As stand-up comedian Rupert Pupkin began to do his much ballyhooed act in front of a live audience for the very first time, I started to experience a whirlwind of emotions. First of all, I was constantly praising the movie–which is directed, of course, by Martin Scorsese–in my head for not letting us hear Rupert Pupkin's act up until the end. Oh, sure, there are plenty of allusions made to said act over the course of the film, but we don't get a real sense of what it actually entails. It's true, Shelley Hack thought it could use some work after hearing a tape Rupert Pupkin made for her to listen to. But then again, what does Shelley Hack know about comedy. I mean, her name is "Hack" for cryin' out loud. (Um, I think you're mistaken. Shelley Hack is the name of the actress, her character's name is Cathy Long, and she's a big shot television producer.) Don't bore me with facts, I'm on a role. When I realized that we were going to see Rupert Pupkin's act in its entirety, I began to get anxious. I'm not only deathly afraid of public speaking, I get physically ill whenever I watch others do it; mind you, I don't puke my guts outs out or anything like that, I just feel sick. I'll make exceptions for people like, say, George Carlin, Bill Hicks and Richard Pryor. But only because they're seasoned professionals who are no longer with us. No, for the most part, I tend to avoid situations where people speak on stage.

The other reason I felt uneasy when the untested Rupert Pupkin (Robert De Niro) hit the stage of The Jerry Langford Show was because Sandra Bernhard, who plays Masha, the biggest Jerry Langford fan on the planet, was chasing Jerry Lewis (who plays Jerry Langford) down the street in nothing but her bra and panties. (Hold on, say that again.) Bra and panties. (Now say it in conjunction with Sandra Bernhard's name.) Huh? (In conjunction! Say them in conjunction!) Get out of my head, I'm trying to make a point here. God, this a Martin Scorsese film I'm writing about. In other words, try to behave with a modicum of dignity.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, you try to concentrate on Rupert Pupkin's stand-up debut when the thought of a deranged Sandra Bernhard running down the street late at night in nothing but her bra and panties is bouncing around inside your head. (What colour were her bra and panties?) I'll get to that in a minute. (Why do I have to wait a minute?) Could you just be patient, I said I'll get to that. (Why can't you just tell me?) Because I'm trying to give the fine folks out there an idea of where my head was at as I watched this darkly humourous satire about celebrity and fame. (How's about giving us a hint? Forget that, let me guess, were her bra and panties black? And were her panties pressing tightly against her pussy? I bet they were.)

Oh. My. God. Sandra Bernhard's bra and panties were white. Are you happy now? (You didn't say if her panties were tight or not.) Can you believe this guy? Yes, they were tight. In fact, her panties were so tight, they caused her pussy to pulsate at an alarming rate. (Pulsate sounds so antiseptic, could you use a different word to describe Sandra's pussy as it pressed tightly against her white panties?) How 'bout "throb"? (Yeah, throb. I like that. I can just picture her juicy maw throbbing in and out like a pink wad of glistening chewing gum.)

What's Martin Scorsese going to think when he reads this? (You think Martin Scorsese is going to read this? Ha! Ha! Ha!) He might. (Are you high? He's got better things to do than read about some perverts obsession with Sandra Bernhard's panties.) Oh, really? If that's the case, then I don't want him to read it. Those who can't appreciate a good-natured back and forth of a schizophrenic nature regarding Sandra Bernhard's panties in The King of Comedy are the kind of people I try to avoid in my every day life.

Which reminds me, what kind of jackass runs away from a scantily clad Sandra Bernhard? Maybe I ain't hooked up right, but shouldn't you running towards her, not away from her? (What are you babbling about?) At one point in the movie, Jerry Lewis can clearly be seen running in the opposite direction of a half-naked Sandra Bernhard. This baffled me beyond belief. Though, if you take in account what occurred during the previous scene, it might make sense. But you know what? It actually doesn't. As Sandra Bernhard wears a slinky black dress with a massive slit in the so-called "previous scene." (Massive slit, eh?) Massive!

In fact, you could see the entire length of one of her legs in that slinky black dress. (You sound like a bit of an expert when it comes to Sandra Bernhard's legs.) It's funny you should mention that, as back in the 1980s I used to consider myself the world's preeminent Sandra Bernhard leg aficionado. (Watching her many leggy appearances on Late Night with David Letterman doesn't make you an aficionado.) Doesn't it? Oh, wait, you're right, it doesn't. Either way, watching Sandra on Letterman is what I did during the 1980s. Yep, while most people were doing cocaine and not finding a cure for AIDS, I watched Sandra Bernhard not take any of David Letterman's shit.

If that sounds sad and pathetic, it's nothing compared to Robert De Niro's Rupert Pupkin. (Hey, man, that was like a professional segue.) Thanks. While walking down Bloor St. a couple of years ago, I recall passing Janeane Garofalo near Spadina. I didn't realize it was her until the last minute, so nothing really happened. And I remember thinking to myself: If only I had noticed her sooner. Now, most people in my situation would be thinking about what they're going to say to her. I, on the other hand, wished I had noticed her sooner in order that I could cross to the other side of street. (Huh?) I don't want to meet celebrities, they make me uncomfortable. This also applies to the people who want to meet celebrities. And when we meet Rupert Pupkin, he's engaging in the kind of behaviour that makes me cringe.

Hounding talk show host Jerry Langford (Jerry Lewis), along with countless others outside the studio where they tape his show, Rupert Pupkin manages to get inside his limo. Showing him the cut he received on his hand keeping the [other] crazies at bay, Rupert convinces Jerry to not throw him out and goes into a sales pitch that promotes, who else, Rupert Pupkin. Listening to his spiel, Jerry tells Rupert, an aspiring stand-up comic, that he needs to start at the bottom.

While most of us can clearly see that Jerry is trying to get rid of him, Rupert seems blind to all of this. Telling him, as he enters his building, to "call his office," Jerry doesn't realize it yet, but by saying that, he just gave hope to a delusional man who will stop at nothing to become famous.

Nowadays, you upload a video, and, boom, six days later, you're famous. But back in the old days, you had to get past a complicated maze of gatekeepers if you wanted to attain fame and fortune. And one of these gatekeepers is played by Shelley Hack. Oh, sure, these people still exist, but their power isn't as great as it once was. Anyway, she might not look it, but Shelley Hack is not an easy gatekeeper to bypass.

(I don't know, Rupert Pupkin seems to doing all right. I mean, look, he's having lunch with Jerry Langford at a fancy eatery in the very next scene.) Ah, it looks like you just discovered this film's clever habit of melding reality with fantasy. Sprinkled liberally throughout the movie are these fantasy sequences that show what's going on inside Rupert's head. Now, when you think, "fantasy sequence," an off-kilter universe that seems to exist on a different plane all-together is the first thing that usually comes to mind. However, the great thing about the fantasy sequences in The King of Comedy is that you're never quite sure if they're really happening or a product of Rupert Pupkin's imagination.

Take, for example, the scene Rupert Pupkin and Rita (Diahnne Abbott), the attractive bartender who Rupert is infatuated with (the feeling isn't mutual), show up uninvited at Jerry's home in The Hamptons. I thought for sure this was yet another fantasy sequence. But as the scene got gradually more awkward (all you have to do is look at Jerry's body language to come to the conclusion that he does not want them there), I started to realize that this is really happening.

If showing up at Jerry's house was an act desperation (all his many attempts to meet with Jerry at his office ended in failure - thanks to Shelley Hack), Rupert's plan to kidnap him, with the help of the deranged Masha (Sandra Bernhard), a fellow Jerry Langford devotee, is the act of someone who has gone completely over the edge. Though, calling Rupert Pupkin a "devotee" of Jerry Langford's is a bit of a misnomer. Sure, he admires him, but he really wants to destroy him. Or, in less harsh terms, he wants to be him. Leaving Jerry in the care of Masha, Rupert sets in motion a series of events that will hopefully lead to him becoming the next... king of comedy. Damn, now that was a good movie.

(What about Sandra Bernhard?) I'm sorry, I got a little carried away there, didn't I? Yes, Sandra Bernhard. Where to begin? Well, the scene where her character's alone with Jerry Langford in her townhouse was definitely sexy (like I said earlier, she appears in a slinky black dress with a massive slit in the front). However, the part where Masha confronts Rupert on the street (near or in Times Square) is actually my favourite. The way Sandra and Robert De Niro played off each other was exhilarating (the topic of their argument being, of course, Jerry Langford). It also helped that the scene was shot on the street with authentic-looking New Yorkers (the manner in which they gawked at the two bickering nut-jobs added so much to the scene) and for some strange reason, The Clash.

The other stand out scene is the one where Sandra's Masha gets in a heated debate with Rupert over who's been talking too much during their kidnapping of Jerry Langford. The forceful way in which Sandra Bernhard expresses herself might intimidate most people, but I've always found it to be quite alluring. And she's never been more alluring than she is here.

Let's say you're in the middle of giving a rousing speech at a convention that celebrates model trains, you have the crowd eating out of your hand, and your leggy mistress is in the front row beaming with a sense of misguided pride. But what's that? A deranged Englishmen, one conjured by your non-model train enthusiast wife, is currently smashing your expansive, state of the art model train set-up like he were a floppy-haired limey version of Godzilla. I don't know 'bout you, but I think it's safe to say that Track 29 represents every white American male's nightmare. I know, you're thinking, not all white American males like model trains. That's the thing, model trains are just a metaphor. Whether it be distractions like American football or Star Wars, white American males have forgotten what's important in life. Do I have to spell it out for you? Look at Theresa Russell's organic structure. You see it? All right, what's missing? That's right, her husband's penis. Since her husband's too busy playing with his trains, Theresa... or, I should say, Linda Henry, is forced to imagine herself hanging out with her fully grown son, who, of course, is played by Gary Oldman. Not that I approve of his actions, but her husband's mistress is played by Sandra Bernhard, who, as we all know, is not only leggy as all get out, but foxy beyond belief. On top of that, Sandra B. gives Christopher Lloyd's model train enthusiast exactly what he wants. And that is, a good spanking every now and then.

(Wait a second, you mean to tell me that Track 29 features Christopher Lloyd as a doctor/model train enthusiast who likes to get spanked, Sandra Bernhard as a nurse who likes to spank model train enthusiasts who practice geriatric medicine, a floppy-haired Gary Oldman as the adult son of an American woman, and Theresa Russell plays a curvaceous woman with a huge doll collection?) That's exactly what I'm telling you.

How was this movie allowed to be made? I mean, don't they have laws in place that prevent these kind of cinematic anomalies from occurring? To answer my own question, I have no idea.

In the meantime, I have to congratulate myself for going this long without saying it, but I can't hold out much longer. And that is: What the fuck? It had to be said at least once. I try to use the expression, "what the fuck," sparingly, because if you use it too much, it lessons the thing you think is worthy of your fuck-based disbelief and/or confusion. But after giving it much thought, I can safely declare that Track 29 is definitely worthy of a what the fuck.

In truth, I knew I was going to type words about Track 29 the moment I saw Theresa Russell bouncing around in purple exercise clothes. (Hold up, you mean to tell me you don't write movie reviews based on a film's ability to tell a compelling story or on a the quality of the direction?) Uh, no, I write them based on whether or not Theresa Russell appears onscreen within the first five minutes wearing purple exercise clothes, haven't you been paying attention?

In my defense–not that I need to defend myself–I was on the cusp of making a pretty profound point about how this film is in fact a scathing rebuke of the infantilization of the American male. (Where?) In the opening paragraph of this here movie review, that's where.

You can tell right off the bat that this film, produced by George Harrison's HandMade Films, is not going to sport a conventional trajectory the moment we see Gary Oldman standing by a rural bridge with his thumb out. Wearing one of them Peruvian hats underneath a cowboy hat, Gary screams, "Mommy!" at the top of his lungs.

As Gary waits for someone to give him a ride, Linda Henry (Theresa Russell) is at home exercising in purple sweats (dig the matching headband, girlfriend). Drinking vodka-spiked orange juice and watching a science fiction movie on television (she can multitask like nobody's business), Linda (who is also rocking a fierce ponytail), calls her husband Henry Henry (Christopher Lloyd), who is upstairs playing with his model trains. Now, Henry Henry would probably bristle if he heard me call what he's doing "playing." But you know what? I don't care. If you can think of a better way to describe what you're doing up there, please, let me know. Until then, you're a middle-aged man who plays with toy trains.

Nonetheless, you don't have to be a marriage counselor to figure out that Linda isn't happy with her husband's obsession with model trains; if you call them "toys" you'll be on the receiving end of one of Christopher Lloyd's trademark exasperated looks.

You'll notice that a water tower looms large over Henry and Linda's home. This reminded me of this guy I knew as a teenager who lived in a house that had a large water tower practically right next to it. One day I asked him: Aren't you afraid the tower will one day come crashing down on your house, killing you and your entire family? Surprisingly, he said no. Yet, despite his reply, the thought that the water tower might come crashing down on us was never far from the back of my mind every time I was over there. (What's this got to do with Track 29?) Nothing, really, I just... (Nothing, eh? Then get to writing about Theresa Russell's knees. No one cares about your irrational fear of water towers.) It's not that I'm afraid of water towers, per se. I just get nervous whenever I find myself in the vicinity of large metal objects that could possibly fall on me.

Am I crazy or is Nicolas Roeg have a thing for Theresa Russell's knees? (Since I've seen Track 29 as well, I can say, without hesitation, that you are in fact not crazy.) Whew, that's a relief. I mean, for a second there I thought you were going tell me I was crazy. (No, there's definitely something going on with her knees.) In case anyone doesn't know what we're talking about, Theresa Russell's knees are the focal point of almost every scene in this film. In fact, there are a couple of instances where her knees are the only things onscreen.

My favourite instance of this type is when Linda's friend, Arlanda, played by the always delightful Colleen Camp, listens to her tell a strange anecdote, and the only thing onscreen are Theresa's knees. It was almost as if Theresa's knees were telling Colleen the anecdote.

As the film went on, and with no let up in the knee sightings in sight, I began to think: Oh, great, the crux of my review is going to be knee-based. (You make that sound like it's a bad thing?) Well, as most people know, I'm somewhat shy when it comes to waxing semi-poetically about certain female body parts. However, this film has given me very little choice in the matter, as it repeatedly shoved Theresa's delicious knees in my face. Oh, and how do I know they're delicious? Trust me, they're delicious.

Actually, forget about her nice knees, everything about Theresa Russell in this movie is delicious. (Aww, that's so sweet... in a mildly creepy sort of way.) The way Nicolas Roeg films Theresa Russell in this movie reminded me of the way Jess Franco films Soledad Miranda or Lina Romay. In that, it's obvious that he's enamoured of her. And who can blame him? She's got a pleasing shape.

If you're wondering how Gary Oldman fits into this story, it's not that simple. From what I gathered, Linda had a baby when she was a teenager. And that baby, if the contents of the flashback are correct, was taken away from Linda upon its delivery. Well, after Martin, the name of Gary Oldman's character, meets Linda at a local diner, the garrulous Englishman drops by her house as she's taking a dip in her pool. Holy crap! Would you look at Theresa Russell in that bathing suit! (Stay focused.) Sorry, um, yeah, Martin is definitely real when we see him in the diner, as the waiter and Arlanda both interact with him. However, I think Martin is a figment of Linda's imagination from this point on.

Giving her some convoluted story about how he's the long lost baby that she had when she was a teenager, Linda seems convinced that Martin is her son. And so begins one of the oddest mother-son relationships in film history.

Now, I've seen my fair share of kooky Gary Oldman performances over the years (his turn in Tiptoes immediately springs to mind), but his work here is beyond kooky. In fact, it's so kooky, I felt a profound sense of unease every time he and his floppy head of hair would appear onscreen. It gets to the point where Gary says, "I'm entitled to an American childhood" (in a mock child's voice) and uses Theresa's diaphragm as fake lips to mouth even more inappropriate gobbly-goop.

She's only in three maybe four scenes, but Sandra Berhard (the real reason I watched this movie in the first place) managed, nevertheless, to impress this viewer. How, you ask? It's simple, really. She's Sandra Bernhard. Seriously, she spanks Christopher Lloyd in one scene and sits cross-legged at a model train convention (Trainorama). I know 'nuff said.

The real reason to see this movie is to witness the stunning performance given by Theresa Russell. Yes, she's sexy, gorgeous, leggy, and all that. But she's also fearless. Reminding me of Kathleen Turner in Crimes of Passion and Cathy Moriarty in White of the Eye, Theresa–in the grand tradition of British directors working in America who bring out the best in blonde actresses born in the U.S.A.–isn't afraid to appear foolish or daft. And because this, the quality of the film inevitably go through the roof. If you're a fan, like I am, of American movies directed by British directors that feature a lead performance by an American actress playing an insane person, than I highly recommend that you seek out this motion picture.

Two fully-clothed orgies, two abandoned runway motorcycle races (the winner gets first dibs when the time comes to select the kind of cock they want to penetrate with their pussy), one poetry slam session, one airport runway adjacent biker brawl, one missing belly chain, and a whole lotta funky vests: Welcome to the feminist hellscape that is She-Devils on Wheels, a.k.a. Man-Eaters on Motorbikes. Ah, I couldn't help but notice that your eyes lit up when I alluded to the fact that this film may contain a plethora of funky vests. Well, my friend, your ocular luminosity is totally justified, as the vests in this movie are to die for. Coming in a wide array of colours (including leopard print!), the vests worn by the Man-Eaters, the toughest all-girl bike gang the mean streets of Medley, Florida have ever seen, are the hot ticket item of the season. Boasting a picture of a fang-heavy pink kitty cat wearing a bow-tie, the vests are only given out to those who are willing to live by the Man-Eater code. A strict doctrine that primarily involves abusing members of the male gender and repeatedly sticking it to The Man, the Man-Eater code, if broken, can lead to serious consequences. In other words, joining the Man-Eaters may be hazardous to your health. On the plus side, you do get to participate in sex parties, motorcycle races, rumbles, and, most importantly, you get your own vest!

I wonder what the Man-Eaters' policy is on allowing men to join their gang? What am I saying, of course men can't join, they're Man-Eaters, not the Man-Lovers.

Hmmm, this puts me in a bit of a bind, as I desperately want one of those vests.

Do they accept cross-dressers? I mean, if I showed up wearing teal hot pants, gold go-go boots and a long blonde wig, would they let me join? Actually, I think they would show my ass the door just for wearing teal hot pants with gold go-go boots. Seriously, what was I thinking when I put that ensemble together? God, I'm such an idiot. Here I am, trying to join a gang that only allows exceedingly attractive women to join, and I blow my chances almost immediately with a major fashion faux pas.

Okay, I realize that some of you might have spit out your prune juice the moment when I said, "exceedingly attractive women." But I won't back down from that statement. Just to prove how sincere I am, I'll say it again: The women who appear in She-Devils on Wheels are exceedingly attractive.

What I liked about the Man-Eaters was that they looked authentic. And it turns out, they are... authentic, that is. What I mean is, they're really bikers. Sure, they probably don't belong to a bike gang, but they're definitely the ones who are riding the motorcycles in this movie. That's right, no stunt doubles or cute camera tricks, these chicks are the real deal. Besides, Herschell Gordon Lewis isn't kind of director to hire expensive stunt performers or employ camera tricks, cute or otherwise.

Now, I'm not implying H.G.L. is cheap or lacks know-how. I'm just saying he brings a no frills approach to filmmaking that is rather refreshing.

Other than having your film be about an all-girl biker gang who wear flashy vests, one surefire way to get in my good graces to open your movie with a catchy song. And She-Devils on Wheels does not disappoint in that regard as it gives us the classic, "Get Off The Road" (words by Herschell Gordon Lewis, music by Robert Lewis), right out of the gate. If the movie turned out to be nothing but seventy minutes of Pat Poston's Whitey doing naked jumping jacks, I still would have given the movie a passing grade based solely on the awesomeness of the film's theme song.

"We are the hellcats nobody likes. Man-eaters on motorbikes... Get off the road!"

Long legs! Black boots! Puke green hot pants! Motorbikes! A scrappy theme song. This is how you start a biker movie. No, forget a biker movie, this is how you start every movie.

Leaving her place of residence in a beige skirt and getting into a red automobile, Karen (Christie Wagner) is up to something. Chucking the beige skirt for a pair of puke green hot pants and trading in the car for a motorbike at an undisclosed location, Karen obviously doesn't want her mother to think she's in an all-girl bike gang. Hence, the elaborate deception.

On top of making the changes I already alluded to, Karen also dons the vest of the Man-Eaters.

Meeting up with a fellow Man-Eater named Terry (Ruby Tuesday), a dirty blonde with a ferocious sneer, Karen rides to Man-Eater headquarters (a dilapidated shack just off the Interstate). When they arrive, we see that Whitey (Pat Poston) is fixing her Harely. The reason she's fixing it is because the Man-Eaters have a race coming up. You see, the Man-Eaters race one another to determine the pecking order of who gets the first pick out of the many low-life studs they have stashed away in their harem.

Judging by the way Queenie (Betty Connell), the leader of the Man-Eaters, is thrusting her bountiful crotch to-and-fro, it's obvious she's not happy about something. And wouldn't you know it, the cause of this unhappiness is Karen-related. The thing is, Queenie is wary of what she sees as Karen's lack of enthusiasm for the Man-Eater lifestyle. This wariness on the part of Queenie plays an important role in how the film plays out, as every action usually has something to do with the tension between the two bikers.

You would think, given her preference for tight-fitting trousers, that Queenie would be in danger of exposing the shape of her labia. However, that's not the case at all, as not once did I notice anything that came close to resembling the toe of a camel. And believe me, I looked long and hard to try to uncover some kind of vaginal indentation, but came up vag-empty every time.

Anyway, it's race time. And you know what that means? It's time to meet the other Man-Eaters. This scene, the one that takes place moments after the race is finished, is critical to learning their names, as you won't get another chance. It's clear that Queenie is the leader, Whitey is second in command, Karen is the reluctant biker and Terry is the one who sneers a lot.

As for the rest... Well, you see the spunky one with strawberry blonde hair, that's Honey Pot (Nancy Lee Noble), she's not a fully-fledged member of the Man-Eaters, but she hopes to be one someday.

The two brunettes are Russian (Joani Kramer) and Supergirl (Donna Stelzer) and the two redheads are are Deita (Roz Cohen) and Mac (Laura Platz). I'm afraid that's it as far as names go, as I couldn't quite make out what Honey Pot was saying when she identified the other Man-Eaters (she was in charge of keeping track of what place each Man-Eaters came in during the race).

Though, using deductive reasoning, the blonde in the gold pants has to be Poodle (Donna Testa). I mean, let's get real folks. Blonde hair + Gold pants = Poodle. It's that simple.

Pay close attention to Poodle's body language during the stud selection process, it's clear as a day that she would rather be out hitting on chicks at one of Medley's numerous dyke bars.

After the stud selection process is complete (the suspense surrounding which piece of low-rent man-candy Whitey will chose is palpable - I guess there were no chubby chasers in the house), a clothed orgy ensues. Well, actually, a clothed wrestling match ensues, as the style of groping they engage in wasn't even close to being sexual. If I had to list one gripe about this movie, it would be the lack of nudity. The film would have so much better had the two clothed orgies had been more pornographic in nature.

Did anyone notice that I used the word "gripe" in the above paragraph? No? Well, it would seem that gripe was a popular word in 1968, as not only does Whitey use it in this film, so does Big Shim in the classic film, She Mob. To make matters even more factual, they use it in the exact same manner. As in: "What's the gripe?"

Sporting his trademark use of colour (like I said, the Man-Eater vests come in a wide array of colours and Queenie's crotch is always draped in brightly coloured fabrics) and boasting a couple of effective gore moments (a man's head is severed at one point and another man is dragged face down behind a Man-Eater motorcycle), Herschell Gordon Lewis has made a–get this–feminist(!), proto-riot grrrl masterpiece with She-Devils on Wheels.

I don't know why I was reluctant to tell you all about my date with Invasion of the Love Drones. After all, the film features a scene where a Love Drone–who is wearing, get this, black fishnet stockings and a black studded collar–masturbates by using two futuristic-looking vacuum tubes that boast irregular nozzles. If that weren't enough, the reason she's masturbating is to thwart a nuclear-tipped rocket that is headed her way. You see, in order to stop the nuclear-tipped rocket from destroying the Love Drone mother ship, Auto-Erotic (Alexandria) must have an orgasm. It would seem that her climax has the ability to blow nuclear-tipped rockets out of the sky. I know, pretty awesome, eh? So, why was I reluctant to admit that I took time out of my busy schedule to watch this sleazy slab of sci-fi pornography? Well, the reason I was reluctant has a lot to do with the fact that most of the performers don't fully commit their genitals to the sex scenes. It's true, we see many close-up shots of women's anuses whilst in the throes of vaginal intercourse, but I have a sneaking suspicion that all the anuses in this film belonged to the fabulous Bree Anthony (Claudia from Satan Was a Lady). Now, I have no way of proving that every anus was Bree Anthony's anus, but there was definitely some anal recycling going on in this film. And it annoys to think that five years after the birth of porno chic, a triple x production had the gall to try to limit the amount of lady buttholes I see in a motion picture. I mean, if you can't trust the makers of hardcore pornography, who can you trust?

Fraudulent rectums aside, Invasion of the Love Drones is a straight-up masterpiece. And it features a ton of actors I sort of recognized. I know, a straight-up masterpiece with recognizable actors? Talk about a win-win. It even opens with a Rod Sterling-esque introduction. "Welcome to... The Erogenous Zone."

The first recognizable actor being the film's male lead, Eric Edwards. You might remember him from Waterpower, he performs a backroom enema on Long Jeanne Silver. Anyway, did you know his penis has been inside Taija Rae? Well, it totally has. Many, many times in fact. What's this got to do anything, you say? Oh, nothing.

Why the aliens, who are currently orbiting the planet Earth in their penis-shaped spaceship (just once I'd like see an erotic sci-fi film bypass the whole penis-shaped spaceship gag), chose Eric Edwards to be their first Drone is never really explained. Or maybe it was and I just wasn't paying attention. Either way, they beam him abroad their ship.

Naked and confused, Eric Edwards is told (by a female voice emanating from a red light located in the middle of what looks like a giant disco ball) to have sex with two Pornovisions (Arlana Blue and Lorraine Alraune). Don't ask me what a "Pornovision" is, I'm just copying what it says in the credits. Actually, I think the Pornovisions were created in order to entice Eric Edwards to have sex with them and in turn become a Drone.

The huge afros, the freaky shades, the black and white armwear, the habit of performing interpretive dance, the gold-studded belts, the Pornovisions are quite the sight to behold.

You can tell there's something different about Eric Edwards after he ejaculates in the mouth of one of the Pornovisions just by listening to the sound of his voice, which has developed a robotic, almost monotone register.

Returned to his bathroom in Queens, Eric Edwards, who is actually a guy named George, tells his wife Joanne (Joann Sterling), a top-heavy redhead, in his new robot voice, that he wants to have sex. When you have sex with a Love Drone you yourself become a Love Drone. And, you guessed it, Joanne is now speaking with a robot voice.

Since he can't go around having sex with random strangers (at least not yet), George heads to a clinic where Dr. Debra Femme (Viveca Ash) and her assistant Andrea (Michelle Magazine), two leggy lab coat enthusiasts, are conducting sex research. Volunteering to be a test subject, George is paired with a woman named Janet (Any Mathieu) and the two of them have sex. It's during this sex scene that we get our first glimpse of Bree Anthony's anus in action. The lighting and the thrusting speed didn't match at all (in the wide shots, Any is doing the bulk of the humping, whereas, during the close-ups, the man is doing the lion's share of the fuck work). In other words, that wasn't Any Mathieu's anus in the throes of love making.

One way to spot a Love Drone, besides their tendency to speak in a robot voice, is to listen for the phrase "okee dokee." If you hear this, then you know you're in the company of a Love Drone.

As George is out making new Love Drones, his wife Joanne is out doing the same. Showing up a photographer's apartment to get her picture taken (she's model of some kind), Joanne "drones" a photographer played by Alex Mann. I must say, if watching Alex Mann movies was a skill, I would be... well, to be honest, I don't know what I would be. Let's just say, by adding this film to the mix, I've seen a total of four Alex Mann movies. Just to remind you, the others are: Malibu High, I Drink Your Blood and Satan Was a Lady.

It should go without saying, but whenever I see Alex Mann's name in the credits, I know the film is going to be good.

In order to absorb all the sexual energy emanating from Earth, the Love Drones unleash two Sex Servos (Bree Anthony and Tony Richards), who begin to have sex. This scene, by the way, is the only "real"sex scene in the movie, as the rest are simulated. Actually, that's not entirely true, the scene with Eric Edwards and the Pornovisions was definitely real. But other than that... Of course, I don't mean to imply that sexual intercourse between a man and a woman is the only sex I consider to be "real." It's just that Bree Anthony and Tony Richards are the only performers who seemed willing to fuck on camera.

Hence, the reason Bree's chocolate starfish makes several appearances throughout the film and the reason the sex scene between Bree and Tony on the floor of the Love Drone spaceship lasts until the end of the film. Let me better explain the latter. Each leg of their sexual journey is gradually unveiled as the film progress. For example, after Molly (Dusty Evsky), who uses Bree's anus as well, "drones" Frank (Levi Richards), an F.B.I. agent, on her couch, we're whisked aboard the Love Drone spaceship to watch the Sex Servos engage in the oral presentation of their act of deep space copulation.

F.B.I. agents, chicks named "Molly"? It would seem that the Love Drones are quickly taking over.

Yeah, the F.B.I. get involved at the behest of Dr. Femme, who is convinced aliens are trying to take over the world. When Agent Frank fails to uncover an alien plot, the F.B.I. chief sends Agent Rona (Jennifer Jordan from The Tiffany Mynx and A Woman's Torment) to investigate a sex party happening at Club de Vie. This, of course, just leads to Agent Rona being turned into a Love Drone. She tries to escape, by Alex Mann and a gang of Love Drones overpower her and gang drone her on a chess table.

Since the F.B.I. are no help, Dr. Femme hatches plan--with zero help from her assistant Andrea (who sort of just sits there with the clueless expression on her face)--to stop the Love Drones by infecting the Love Drones with a venereal disease. She figures since the Love Drones are a collective, she reckons that all she has to do is infect one and the rest should follow. Only problem, where to find one? That's easy, just locate a man with a monotone voice, have sex with him, and then inject him with the virus as he's about to climax. Drone, and drone.

(Wait a minute, what if the man Dr. Femme has sex with in not a Love Drone, but some random dude who just happens to speak in a monotone voice?) Huh, I didn't think about that. Well, the first guy Dr. Femme approaches on the street is played by Kevin Andre, a.k.a. the car salesmen from Teenage Hitchhikers.

Oh, and in order to come off as more appealing to the men of New York City, Dr. Femme puts away her lab coat and dons a mini-skirt and a pair of knee-high boots.

You would think a film like this, one with a limited budget, would have trouble depicting a planetary invasion convincingly. But the film does a surprisingly excellent job making it seem the world is about to overrun with sex-obsessed Love Drones. We get a shot of George, Rona and Joanne heading to the airport, Jerry Jerome plays various newscasters from around the globe (U.K., France, West Germany and India), and authentic footage of a rocket being launched into space is used at one point. All these things helped give the proceedings a real sense of urgency. Meaning, if Dr. Femme doesn't infect a Love Drone with V.D., and quick, the world is doomed.

As I implied earlier, the nuclear-tipped rocket is thwarted by Auto-Erotic (Alexandria), who masturbates (in black fishnet stockings with seams) with a pair of vacuum hoses with bell-shaped metallic tips.

When Jamie Gillis shows up as the leader of a group of Love Drones, I was sure he was going to fuck something. But when he doesn't, I was like: Huh, Jamie Gillis is not fucking anything. How strange. Instead, he just sits there asking his fellow Love Drones: "Are we one?" over and over again.

If everything I've described so far still sounds unappealing to you, just sit back and enjoy the synthy goodness that is the film's soundtrack. Seriously, the music in this movie rules. The music used when Bree Anthony is being mounted missionary style in particular is fucking awesome, as deep, sinister-sounding synth flourishes fill the air as Bree's real pussy is filled with drug-free 1970s cock.

"If we kill the brain, everything should go back to normal." When Jim, the hunky protagonist in the aptly titled, The Brain, says this particular nugget of wisdom to his super-cute girlfriend, Janet, I thought: Yeah, that makes perfect sense, as the brain is the key to putting a stop to the weird events that are plaguing this more bland than usual corner of the GTA. Oh, and, yes, this film definitely takes place in Toronto. I know, there's an American flag in the school's library, but that's just there for show. This film sweats T.O. from its pores. But where exactly in Toronto, I wondered? Convinced that it was shot somewhere in the wilds of Scarborough, I readied myself to go on yet another award-winning rant about the east end hellscape. Then it dawned on me: What if it wasn't shot in Scarborough? The prospect that this might be case alarmed me. And since I didn't want to make a fool of myself, I decided to do a little digging. As I was about to double-check, I became enraged. How can this film not be shot in Scarborough? I mean, the lead character attends Meadowvale High School. Seriously, I distinctly remember playing volleyball there (unlike my school, their gymnasium had high ceilings, meaning, your ball didn't get stuck in the rafters every time you bumped the ball). Well, I'm glad I checked, because this film, believe or not, was totally shot in Mississauga. That's right, it was filmed all the way on the other side of the city. In my defence, all suburbs in Toronto look the same.

It doesn't matter if The Brain was filmed Scarborough or Missassauga, my point still stands. What's that? I didn't make any points. I was too busy doing what? It says here I was debating whether or not the film was shot in Scarborough, Ontario, Canada. Wow, I'm sorry about that folks.

Anyway, the point I think I was about to make–you know, before I got sidetracked–involved questioning Jim's logic. It's true, if they do kill the brain, things would probably go back to normal. But I'd have to ask him: Why would you want things to go back to normal? Think about it, man. You're living in freakin' Missassauga! To make matters even worse, it's the middle of winter.

Then again, if things weren't "normal" you'd still be in Missassauga. I have to say, I make an excellent point. However, I'm missing one key ingredient. And that is, if things went back to normal, you can pretty much kiss the impromptu hallucinations that boast icy blonde lady scientists with frightfully precise nipples goodbye.

I don't care if we're forced to live in normal Missassauga or abnormal Missassauga, I want to see icy blonde lady scientists with frightfully precise nipples, and I want to see them now!

If I'm being sincere, and I usually am, it sounds like I'd be the perfect candidate to be brainwashed by "Independent Thinking," a television show hosted by Dr. Anthony Blake (David Gale). His last name, by the way, is Blake, not "Blakely," as it's listed in the credits. And it's pronounced Blake as in flake, not "Bah-lah-kay."

Having cleared that up, we can now move on to less blakey ground (you see what I did there? I replaced the word "shaky" with "blakey").

Don't you think showing "the brain" right from the get-go was a bit of a mistake? Personally, I would have at least waited until the ten minute mark. But you know what? I'm going to let film scholars debate whether showing the brain this early in the film was a mistake or not. You wanna know why? Because I have an icy blonde lady scientist with frightfully precise nipples to write about, that's why.

I'll get to the I.B.L.S.W.F.P.N. in just a second, I think I should first mention that Becky's mom really wants to her to watch the aforementioned Independent Thinking. However, it's obvious that Becky (Susannah Hoffmann) would rather hang out in her room. Suddenly, these large tentacles burst through her bedroom walls and start grabbing at her. Is this the brain's way of punishing Becky for not watching Independent Thinking? Who knows.

Actually, I do know. You see, the brain is a large brain-like creature that Dr. Blake keeps in a vat of green goo backstage. And this large brain-like creature is hooked up to a satellite dish outside the studio, which is really the Psychological Research Institute (major kudos to the filmmakers for the building they found to act as the P.R.I., as it has a real otherworldly vibe about it).

Nevertheless, both Becky and her mother are dead. Passing their house as their bodies are being hauled away is Jim Majelewski (Tom Bresnahan), a good student, but a bit of a troublemaker. (Maybe he wouldn't such a troublemaker if his girlfriend would just let him penetrate her vagina with his penis.) Look, when Janet (Cynthia Preston) says she wants to wait until college, she means it. So stop trying to guilt her into having sex with you just because you can't seem to control your ability to act out in an anti-social manner.

After being caught dumping sodium in one of the school's toilets, the principal of Meadowvale High School, Mr. Woods (Kenneth McGregor), and Ms. Chisolm (Vinetta Strombergs), the school's resident VCR expert, suggest that Jim go see Dr. Blake at the P.R.I. for counseling. (The very same Dr. Blake who is secretly trying take over the world via the large brain-like creature he keeps in a vat of green goo backstage at his cheesy day time television show?) Ding, ding, ding! We have a wiener.

Reluctantly agreeing to see Dr. Blake... (Reluctant my ass, he was told he had to go or else he would be suspended.) Okay, fine. Forced to see Dr. Blake, Jim waits in one of the P.R.I.'s examination rooms.

Entering the examination room legs first, Vivian (Christine Kossak), who is wearing a mini-lab coat and a dark pencil skirt, greets Jim with an icy smile. (Did you just say, "icy smile"?) Yeah, so? (Just checking. Please, do continue.) Unable to concentrate on what she's saying, Jim focuses the bulk of his attention on her legs, which are on full display; thanks to her dark pencil skirt and the mini-nature of her lab coat.

(You how you described Vivian as an "icy blonde lady scientist with frightfully precise nipples?) Yep. (Are you sure they're frightfully precise? I mean, if you ask me, they look kinda imprecise.) While her nipples aren't exactly precise, they are the best thing about this movie. Not to toot my own, but I think that's one of the sanest things I've ever said.

In what's becoming an annoying trend... (Aren't you going to explain how Vivian's frightfully precise/imprecise nipples move the plot of The Brain forward?) Oh, sorry about that. Yeah, after attaching some sticking pads to his forehead, Vivian leaves the exam room and Dr. Blake proceeds to ask Jim some questions.

On a monitor in the exam room, Jim sees Vivian holding an apple. But in reality, she's holding a baseball. The fact Jim doesn't see what Dr. Blake wants him to see upsets him greatly. Things get even more out of hand when Jim imagines Vivian topless. Standing there holding an apple aloft, her frightfully precise/imprecise nipples glowing like pinkish diamonds, Vivian begins to entice Jim with saucy, come-hither language. Of course, Dr. Blake can't see or hear any of this, so he puts a stop to the experiment and sends Jim home.

Just when I thought I had seen the last of Vivian and her frightfully precise/imprecise nipples, she shows up during the climatic P.R.I. boiler room finale. And, yes, she is topless when she appears to Jim.

When I went to check Christine Kossak's filmography, I was shocked to discover that she has only appeared in three movies. Outrageous!

On the opposite end of the spectrum, The Brain is my third Cynthia Preston movie (the other two being Pin and Prom Night III: The Last Kiss). At any rate, I think we can safely declare Cynthia to be a genuine "scream queen." Sure, she never appears nude onscreen, but she knows how to scream and is usually the last one standing before the end credits start to role. Oh, and she seems to excel at playing the girlfriends or siblings of troubled teens.

As expected, Jim becomes a thorn in the side of Dr. Blake, his hirsute henchmen Verna (George Buza) and the brain itself. This thorniness leads to the film--which, at times, seems to be channeling Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Videodrome--to becoming a bit of a chase movie, as Jim tries to prevent Dr. Blake and the brain from brainwashing not only Missassauga but the entire nation (his television show is about to be broadcast nationally). The hallucinatory bits were my favourite part of the movie. And, no, not just because they would occasionally feature Christine Kossak's frightfully precise/imprecise nipples. Wait a minute, what am I saying? That's explicitly why they were my favourite bits. The film's many chase scenes, on the other hand, were tedious and a bit of chore to sit through. So, to sum things up: Icy blonde lady scientists with frightfully precise/imprecise nipples. Yay! Dull, protracted chase scenes across the insipid Missassauga landscape. Nay!

You know how some movies act as comfort food? Everyone has them. They're certain films that are always there for you whenever you need them in a pinch, and, as of right now, I'd say Richard Elfman's Forbidden Zone is a film that currently occupies that spot as my go-to slab of cinematic comfort food. Well, I would classify The Touch of Her Flesh by Michael and Roberta Findlay as a sort of break glass in case of emergency type of film. Let me explain. You see, I was all set to devour a film by a porn director whose been called the heir apparent to Rinse Dream. Excited to finally watch one of his films, I knew right off the bat that this was a bad idea. It was so antiseptic and bland. Fake boobs, no lingerie, cheesy mid-'90s techno music, it was awful. Now, I don't want to mention his name (feel free to guess if you want - and I tell you if you're right), but I will say that the experience left me somewhat shaken. Since I ended up fast-forwarding through most of it, I was able to free up a huge of chunk of time. Meaning, there was still a chance to salvage the evening. I know, why I didn't go outside and play instead. I'll tell you why, I had a hankering for sleaze, and no insipid piece of pompous pornography was going to prevent me from getting my pervert on.

Looking over the modest pile of unwatched movies sitting on my coffee table, I set about choosing my sleaze. Anyone care to guess what was on the top of the pile? That's right, first chapter in the Flesh Trilogy, the Findlay's epic journey into the mind of a deranged serial killer who targets go-go dancers, strippers and prostitutes. Grabbing it without fail, I put it on and hoped it would remove the foul taste of mid-90s pornography that was still lingering in my mouth.

As the fleshy opening credits began to throb and heave across the screen in not-so glorious black and white, I felt a profound sense of relief wash over me. Now this is sexy, I thought to myself, as the titles cleverly appeared all over Roberta Findlay's shapely bits and pieces.

It's just a hunch, but I think the crossbow Richard Jennings (Michael Findlay) is playing with at the beginning of the film will probably be employed later down the road.

Anyway, as he's about to catch a train to Boston, Richard says goodbye to his wife, Claudia Jennings (Angelique - I don't need no stinkin' last name), who's sleeping on the couch in heavy eye makeup (I like this chick already).

No longer asleep, a fully-refreshed Claudia is sitting cross-legged on a chair in the living room in a tight cocktail dress and heels. It would seem like she's waiting for something. But what? What is she waiting for? Suddenly, there's a knock at the door. Ah, she's not waiting for a what, but a who. She's waiting someone, not something. (No shit, Sherlock.) Shut up.

Do you know what this means, right? (Um, she's going to answer it?) Well, yeah. But don't you see, there's at least ten feet that separate the chair she is currently sitting cross-legged on and the door that is being knocked on. (Oh, okay. I get it now.) Exactly. She's going have to uncross her legs, get up, and walk across the room. This is going to be sweet!

All right, here she goes. I knew it. (Knew what?) I knew her voluptuous figure would look amazing as it pressed against the fabric of her cocktail dress as she walked. (You have got to be the most perverted person on the face of the Earth.) Thanks. However, it's got nothing to do with being a pervert. I don't know how many of you know this, but I have a very keen erotic eye. Some might say it's a little too keen, if you know what I mean.

The level of my keenness aside, the sight of Angelique's Claudia walking around her apartment in a tight cocktail dress and heels is, to put mildly, aesthetically pleasing as all get out.

I don't want to alienate my base, but I must have watched Angelique uncross her legs, get up and walk over to the door at least twenty times.

What am I talking about? If anything, that will make my base like me even more. And if that's the case, I should come clean and tell them that half of those twenty times were viewed in slow motion. Oh, if only the disorganized collection of creeps and weirdos who saw this film on 42nd Street back in the late 1960s could see me now. *single tear*

Since I'm pretty much an expert when it comes to watching Angelique uncross her legs (which are, of course, sheathed in tan stockings), get up (she uses the chair's arms for leverage) and walk over to the door (each step causes her ample curves to careen violently against the inside of her dress), thanks to my over-indulgence, we can now safely move on to discuss the undressing process.

I'm sorry, I forgot to mention that Claudia was waiting for Steve (Ron Skideri), her lover, to arrive. Greeting him at the door, they kiss. After they're finished, Claudia leads Steve to the bedroom.

Leaving Steve by the bed, Claudia goes over to another part of the room to undress. Unzipping her dress, she pulls it down to reveal a black bra, black panties (though, we kind of already knew she was wearing black panties given her due to the extreme nature of her pantie line, so no real surprise there), a black and white garter belt and tan stockings.

You'll notice that Claudia's first attempt to kick her dress (which is now in a clump around her ankles) to the side fails (the dress has become ensnared on her right foot). Realizing this, Claudia simply tries again. Successful in her second attempt to kick her dress to the side, Claudia sits down and begins to work on her stockings. Whereas the second stocking is merely tossed like a rolled up sweat sock being put in a laundry basket after a long day, the first stocking flies gently through the air like a gossamer bolt of mist on a wretched October day.

Meanwhile, an agitated Richard Jennings is wandering the bus station in a daze. Deciding to give Claudia a call, Richard, who has just written a book about weapons, grows concerned when the line is busy. Heading back home in a hurry, Richard is not going to like what he sees when he gets there. Storming out in a huff, the sight of Claudia and Steve rolling around together causes Richard to run wildly through the streets. Eventually, he's hit by a car.

Temporarily paralyzed and missing an eye (the accident was obviously worse than it looked - the car barely touched him), a now wheelchair bound Richard Jennings recites his new mission in life in the form of an anti-women screed. The montage the accompanies his screed (a screed that includes the line, "slash open the very core of your perversion") is the film's most artistic from a film-making perspective.

The opening salvo in his war against what he perceives as the millions of whores who tempt men with their naked flesh lands squarely at the feet of a black go-go dancer (Vivian Del Rio) with substantial, drink coaster-size nipples. In order to flesh out her character (get it, flesh out...), we're shown her dancing at a nightclub and getting undressed backstage. I prefer the latter scenes, as they give us a nice peak into the day-to-day grind of being a go-go dancer. And we get to see her hanging out in black stockings (mmm, busty black babes in black stockings).

Anyway, I won't say exactly how Richard Jennings kills the black go-go dancer. But let's just say it's a prickly affair.

Transported to the woods, we watch as a thick woman named Janet (Suzanne Marre) makes her way to a wood working studio. Once inside, she finds Claudia playing the piano. Sitting on the couch, Janet proceeds to remove her leather jacket, her gloves, her dress, her slip, her tan stockings, her white garter belt and her white bra. It would seem that Janet is there to model for Claudia, who's bit an artist. Nonetheless, Claudia is having a hard time concentrating, as her mind is preoccupied with Richard Jennings (she thinks he's stalking her).

Attending a burlesque show, Richard targets a stripper (Sally Farb?) during her routine (again, like the go-go dancer hit, his technique is unorthodox - though, I shouldn't be surprised, he is a weapons expert after all).

Unable to locate Claudia, Richard uses a hooker friend of Janet's to find out where his cheating wife is hiding. This leads to another terrific scene involving stockings and garter belts, as the hooker (Peggy Steffans) slowly strips in Richard's apartment.

Tracking her down at the wood working studio, which is in Oyster Bay, Richard Jennings confronts Claudia in the classic horror movie style (chasing after her with a crossbow - I knew we would see that crossbow again). At any rate, in a perfect world, every film would mix horror and eroticism the way Michael Findlay does in The Touch of Her Flesh. Curvaceous chicks in lingerie being slaughtered in creative ways by a madmen in an eye-patch. It doesn't get better than this. Let's just hope the next two chapters in the trilogy are as good as this one.

Forget about separate knobs. Why Lauren Holly?!? Why Lauren Holly?!? Why did you have to cross your legs while sipping a glass of cool, refreshing Perrier on James Remar's sofa? Oh, hey. Don't mind me, I'm just cursing the fact that Lauren Holly chose to sit this way at around the thirty minute mark of Band of the Hand, a glorified episode of Miami Vice mixed with what looks like an all-male version of Survivor. (Don't you mean, Gay Survivor?) Yeah, "Gay Survivor," that's exactly what it was. Seriously, if I was a gay man, or a straight woman for that matter (I keep forgetting they, for some inexplicable reason, dig dudes as well), I would be all over Danny Quinn; man, he's one handsome son of a bee-sting in this movie. The shots of him cruising around Miami in that flashy dark teal blazer confused the living fuck out of my genitals. Anyway, getting back to Lauren Holly. The moment I saw her cross her legs, I said to myself: Thanks, Lauren Holly, because of you, and, your sexy manner of sitting, I'm going to have to review this movie. I know, I don't technically have to do anything of the sort, but Lauren Holly gave me no choice. To put what I'm getting at in the simplest terms possible: Lauren Holly's legs are the reason this review exist. So, if the sight of the title "Band of the Hand" caused you to have an unpleasant flashback to the 1980s, blame Lauren Holly. Luckily, the film adheres pretty close to the Miami Vice formula.

Produced by Michael Mann (Thief, The Keep), and directed by Paul Michael Glaser, the director of the classic Miami Vice feature-length episode, The Prodigal Son" (he also directed "Calderone's Return Part II" and "Smuggler's Blues"), the film is about a gang of misfits who are shaped and molded into an elite crime-fighting commando force by a tough-talking Miccosukee ex-Marine turned vice cop. So sit back and enjoy the ride as this ragtag bunch of hoodlums slowly build up their self-esteem by hunting wild boar in the swamps of South Florida.

Oh, crap. It just dawned me that I've already used the words "misfits" and "ragtag." Damn it, I didn't want to employ them so soon. Dare I use them more than once? What is this, amateur hour? Of course I won't use them again. I'll have come up with another way to describe the group of young people who may or may not be a... well, you know.

Introduced to a veritable gaggle of adolescent nonconformists who are incongruously varied in character, the film shows five youths from various backgrounds being arrested. The first two are nabbed together while brawling, Streets of Fire-style, on the streets of Miami during a rumble between the Home Boys and the 27th Ave. Players. How do I know what gangs these two youths are mixed up with? It's simple, really, I just took a look-see at their rap sheets (they briefly flash on the screen). And it would seem that Ruben Pacecho (Michael Carmine), alias: "Mira Primo," and Moss Roosevelt (Leon), alias: "Warlord," are both 16 years-old.

The next youth we meet is Carlos (Danny Quinn), alias: "The Lover," a drug pusher. He gets busted trying to sell cocaine while his equally teenage girlfriend, Nikki (Lauren Holly), waits outside in a white Porsche. Don't worry, she isn't caught. But I have to say, the NARC who shot at Nikki as she fled the scene should be fired. Who do you think you are, Sonny Crockett? Shooting multiple rounds at a fleeing vehicle in the parking lot of a busy hotel is a definite no-no.

Meanwhile, at a nearby trailer park, Lee MacEwen (John Cameron Mitchell), alias: "Crazy," a new wave explosives expert, kills his father (who was in the middle of beating up his mother). And later that evening, at a youth detention centre, Jon Bridger (Al Shannon), alias: "Rattler," a car thief, is caught trying to escape.

It should be noted that not all the information on the rap sheets is accurate. For instance, Rattler's first name is actually Dorcey (for some reason his rap sheets says his name is Jon), and Carlos' rap sheet says his name is Rene. The only explanation for this I can think of for all this is that the names of the characters were changed or altered slightly after the rap sheets were already printed up and they didn't bother to change them. Or maybe...

Wearing blue tights covered in black splotches (with matching heels of course), a large white t-shirt covered in funky splashes of colour (with a black belt and a white purse) and a pair of heart-shaped earrings, shows up at the prison Carlos is being held. Only problem is, he's not there.

Where's Carlos? Good question. Actually, that's a pretty crap question. Open your eyes, man. He's on an airboat with four other young offenders in the middle of the swamp. The question you should be asking yourself is: Why are they there?

Direct all your at questions pertaining to why five no good punks were taken from prison and dumped in the middle of the swamp at Joe (Stephen Lang), a Miccosukee vice cop who specializes in turning troubled youth into productive members of society. Okay, maybe that's a bit a stretch, but the man tries.

Oh, and if the name "Miccosukee" sounds familiar, that's because the Miccosukee tribe were featured in the season four episode of Miami Vice called "Indian Wars." You'll notice quite a few similarities to episodes of Miami Vice throughout this movie. The obvious ones being: "The Glades" (Crockett and Tubbs team up with a family of swamp people to battle drug dealers after being stranded in the Everglades), "The Maze" (a gang of criminals hold up in an abandoned building), and "Give a Little, Take a Little" (Gina reluctantly fucks Burt Young).

While "The Glades" and "The Maze" are obvious choices, "Give a Little, Take a Little" reminded me of the situation Lauren Holly's character goes through. Desperate to find out what happened to Carlos (she has no idea her boyfriend is out playing in the swamp with four other dudes), she asks to meet with Nestor (James Remar), his drug dealing, black magic practicing boss.

The meeting, which was facilitated by Aldo (Danton Stone, Neil Chase from My So-Called Life), at a local nightclub (excellent use of Prince's "Let's Go Crazy," by the way), takes place at Nestor's condo.

Wearing a dark skirt with a slit in the back, Nikki enters a room to find Nestor sitting on a large sofa in front of a bank of around ten small television sets. She seems nervous, but takes a seat next to the lounging drug dealer in the red robe. When one of Nestor's henchman brings Nikki a Perrier, she crosses legs something fierce. Now, we don't exactly see the actual moment when she crosses them. But believe me, it was fierce. At any rate, ignoring her query as to the whereabouts of Carlos, Nestor flippantly tells her to go upstairs and take her clothes off. Stunned at first, Nikki ignores his request and continues to ask about Carlos. Clearly annoyed, Nestor repeats the request. Only this time, he does so in a more forceful manner.

It would seem that Nestor is making a play for Carlos' girl (who says she's 16 years-old) while he toils in the jungle. And this play involves her going up to Nestor's bedroom to the sounds of "Faded Flowers" by Shriekback.

I'm glad the filmmakers decided to keep us abreast as to what Lauren Holly's character was up to while Carlos and the boys hung out in the swamp, as I'm not sure if I could handle a movie that was solely about a bunch of guys learning how to survive in the wilderness. Oh, and the manner in which Leon and Michael Carmine fought with one another was so loud and shrill. I was somewhat relieved when they finally became friends, as I don't know how much more I could take of their racially charged bickering. And wouldn't you know it, James Cameron Mitchell's Crazy seems to agree with me, as the first words out of his mouth are to tell them to stop fighting.

When the boys pass Joe's test, the action moves to an Art Deco-style building in the Little Havana section of Miami, where they must battle pimps and junkies. And, of course, resist the temptation to return to their old ways.

Awesome music (Mister Mister in the house!), sweet Uzi shoot outs, cool threads (Carlos' dark teal blazer is so chic it hurts), an all-natural Lauren Holly (leggy and flat-chested... it's a beautiful thing), Laurence Fishburne as a pimp named Cream, Paul Calderon wielding a mini-gun, Martin Ferrero (Izzy from Miami Vice) as a hardware store clerk who knows a thing or two about getting rid of armadillos, and a pre-Hedwig James Cameron Mitchell destroying a pill-box like he was in Saving Private Ryan, I won't say Band of the Hand has everything, but it comes pretty damn close.

One more thing, I don't know how old I was, or if I was even born yet, when this movie came out (my math skills are beyond piss poor), but I distinctly remember wanting to see this movie. The fact it took me this long to get around to checking out a movie I had inkling I wanted to see back in the 1986 is mildly hilarious. Okay, it's not even close to being hilarious. If you think about it, it's actually quite sad. But if you don't think about it, the act of me finally getting around to watching Band of the Hand is greater than anything I ever accomplished during my life time. Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner. That has to be the saddest thing anyone has ever said.

Opening with what has to be the greatest image in film history... (Whoa! Not so fast, buddy. "Greatest image in film history"? I don't think so.) You don't think the sight of a woman's bum encased in pink bikini bottoms is great? (Don't get me wrong, it's great and all, but greatest in film history? Let's not get crazy.) Okay, how 'bout this: Blue Murder opens with what has to be the greatest image to ever kick off an Emmeritus Productions, Inc. movie ever. (Now that I can live with. Wait, did you say, "Emmeritus Productions, Inc."?) Yeah, so? (The same Emmeritus Productions, Inc. who brought us The Tower?) I guess. (Oh, boy. I hope your brain is ready to go on a weird and wild trip, because if Blue Murder is anything like The Tower, you're about to experience something truly unique.) Well, just to let you know, I've already watched Blue Murder. In other words, I clearly survived the ordeal. On the other hand, I do feel somewhat woozy. (Did you hurt yourself while celebrating the fact that a Canadian flag appears in the corner of the Lieutenant Rossey's office?) No, it wasn't that. I just felt odd afterward. Though, I have to say, the Canadian flag's appearance in Lieutenant Rossey's office was cause for celebration. Just for record, I wasn't celebrating in a nationalistic way (remember kids: nationalism is a form of mental illness - just say no to jingoism), I was celebrating because I'm tired of watching Canadian movies, especially ones made during the 1970s and 1980s, that try to hide the fact they were filmed in Canada.

And judging by the Canadian flag in Lieutenant Rossey's office, the yellow(!) police cars, the old timey TTC streetcars, the Metro Theatre, the hoser accents, the fact they're black people in almost every scene (unlike Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, my Toronto has black people in it), this film takes place in Toronto, Ontario, Canada circa 1985 and never once tries to hide it.

Misguided civic pride aside, I think it's time to stop beating around the bush and get down to brass tax as to why this film caused me to feel so disoriented. See what I mean? The film must still be in my system, as it just caused me to use the expressions: "stop beating around the bush" and "get down to brass tax." You see, I would never use those asinine idioms under normal circumstances. But then again, there's nothing normal about people freely subject themselves to the films produced by Emmeritus Productions, Inc.

I'm probably the worst offender there is, as I have subjected myself to count 'em two films produced by Emmeritus Productions, Inc. If there's anyone out there who been subjected to three or more films produced by Emmeritus Productions, Inc. I can only imagine the kind of mental anguish you must go through on a daily basis.

I know, you're probably thinking to yourself: What is it about these particular films that induces such a visceral reaction from those who watch them? I mean, at the end of the day, they're still just movies. That's true, they're just movies. But there's something majorly off about them. And I don't mean off in terms of acting, directing or general storytelling. There's simply something wrong with them. Seriously wrong.

Take the opening scene, for example. No, not the opening shot, which, like I said, features a woman's ass in pink bikini bottoms (imagine the opening shot of Lost of Translation, minus the twee ennui and Japanese people used as props). I'm talking about the fact that the pornographers who are shot and killed by an assailant wielding a silenced pistol at a pool party had armed guards everywhere. I know, the porn industry, especially in the '70s and '80s had strong ties to the mob, but I don't think the armed guards were necessary. (Did it ever occur to you that these so-called "pornographers" dealt drugs on the side?) It's possible. But... you know what, I don't have to explain myself. There's just something off about this film.

Anyway, on top of the pool party pornographers, anyone involved with porn/sex industry is being targeted by a faceless killer (well, he has a face, it's just that we haven't seen it yet).

The gal in the football jersey sporting the number 66... (You mean, Rebecca Pederson?) Yeah, her. Well, that ain't her football jersey. It belongs to an investigative journalist named Blake, Dan Blake (Jamie Spears), and... (Why is that chick wearing Blake's football jersey?) It's common for women to wear a piece of clothing that belongs to the man they just had sex with. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, Blake gets a strange phone call from a man claiming that he will continue to "rid this world of filth" if his demands aren't met.

It would seem that the person bumping off pornographers, pimps and prostitutes wants Blake to write a newspaper column (Blake has a popular column in the local paper) demanding that all deviant behaviour in the city cease immediately or else more people will die.

Meanwhile, Blake's pal Lieutenant Rossey (Terry Logan) is down at the crime scene of the pool party massacre trying to figure out why the killer leaves cheap clown masks on all his victims.

Later that night at The Brunswick House, a man named Cleo (Bob Segarini) picks up Linda (Denise Duncan), a leggy prostitute in a yellow dress with two massive slits down the side (dig the white stockings, girl). Taking her to a motel, Cleo and Linda are about to have sex, when, all of a sudden, a man with a gun wearing a cheap clown mask bursts into the room. Instructing Cleo to tie Linda to the bed, the man in the cheap clown mask forcefully tells him to spread her legs. This does not bode well for Linda, as people in cheap clown masks don't just tie random strangers to beds for shits and giggles. Or maybe they do, what do I know? My point is, let's say goodbye to leggy Linda and her awesome yellow, slit-heavy dress-white stockings ensemble, 'cause we're not going to see anymore of her.

Which is a shame, because I would rather watch Linda writhe on a bed for an extended period of time, than watch Blake talk to a priest on a park bench for what seemed like forever. I don't what it is with this film, but the dialogue scenes are so fucking long. Though, the scene where Blake and Rossey drink Molson Export (from stubbies) at a bar while discussing such topics as: the "porno murders" and why do so many cops have mustaches, is pretty entertaining. Even more so when Blake and Rossey show up drunk at the next crime scene (for those keeping track, there have been thirteen porno murders committed so far).

However, the film goes back to its old habits when they take to Cleo back to police headquarters (52 Divison on Dundas St. West) for questioning, as this scene goes on way longer than it should have.

(Are you sure Blake and Rossey are just pals?) What are you trying to say? (I got two words for you: bubble bath.) Okay, sure, the scene where Blake sits on the toilet (with the lid down, mind you) while Rossey takes a bubble bath was kind of odd. But it was normal for heterosexual buddies to watch each other bathe in the mid-1980s. (Was it?) What are you asking me for? I was born in the late 1990s. But, yeah, it was totally normal.

It's funny you should mention bathing, because I think Rossey is a dirty cop. Why would I think that? It's simple, really. He takes money from Carlos Vespi (Henry Malabranche), a shady porn producer. The funny thing is, this didn't affect my opinion of Rossey. In fact, it made me like him even more. Oh, and you'll notice that when Vespi throws Rossey an envelope stuffed with cash, that it's filled with Canadian money. Yeah, baby, take that Canadian hush money, you dirty yet lovable cop, you.

The deeper Blake delves into this shady world, the bigger the conspiracy gets, as he runs into all kinds nefarious characters. (Like?) Well, there's Millwood (Andy Knott), a middle-aged gay guy who enjoys siting abroad the "Lady Charisma" with his two Indonesian boy-toys; the basement-dwelling Hermie (Tony Curtis Blondell), a sort of underworld know-it-all; Tyson (Victor Redlick) and Beverly (Ralph Magnus), two henchmen who work for Vespi who rough up Blake for information, Theresa (Stephanie Sulik), the daughter of a gangster's moll who is not fazed at all by improvised explosives that have been placed inside champagne buckets...

...Angelina Scarletti (Roz Michaels), the aforementioned gangster's moll who rocks diaphanous blouses like nobody's business (Roz, believe it or not, is the film's best actor); Kenneth Markham (John Woodhill), a local entrepreneur; and Peter Baillie (Peter Snell), a red herring for hire.

It should be noted that Blake's chat with Millwood spawns the "pinch the wrong boys bottom" recurring gag and features a pretty solid oral sex joke.

With no real porn (unless you count filming inside the Metro Theatre on Bloor St. as "porn" - I'm assuming they filmed inside the threatre) and no real violence to speak of (most of the deaths are bloodless affairs), I would hold off calling Blue Murder a giallo classic along the lines of The New York Ripper and Strip Nude For Your Killer, or even the superior Toronto-shot giallo/slasher American Nightmare, but for those interested in '80s hair and fashion, Toronto in the '80s, male bonding in the '80s, 1980s-style synth music, and, well, the '80s in general, you might want to give this film a look-see.

Let's see, one, two, three, four, five, six and seven. Yep, there are definitely seven bikini-clad Japanese chicks onscreen at same time in this film. Oh, hello, I'm just making sure I got the right number of bikini-clad Japanese chicks who appear in this movie. You see, I don't want to mislead anyone into thinking they were getting more, or less for that matter, than the actually number of bikini-clad Japanese chicks who giggle and jiggle up a storm in this martial arts masterpiece, as that would be wrong. While most people tend to focus on the plethora of extraordinary fight sequences, I, for some strange reason, became fixated with the bevy of bikini-clad Japanese chicks who greet the film's hero in one of the film's early scenes (by the way, does seven bikini-clad Japanese chicks qualify as a "bevy" or do you need a couple more in order for it to attain bevy status?). Anyway, I was watching Roaring Fire (a.k.a. Hoero Tekken), the film that features a total of seven bikini-clad Japanese chicks, on a lark recently on a non-movie review day, when all of a sudden... (Let me guess, a bevy, or something close to being a bevy, of bikini-clad Japanese chicks appeared onscreen?) Hey, how did you know? (Lucky guess.) As I was saying, I was watching the film purely as entertainment. In other words, I had no intention of reviewing it. When all of a sudden, the overly aforementioned bevy/maybe bevy of bikini-clad Japanese chicks show up out of nowhere.

When this happened, I started to panic. Too many bikini-clad Japanese chicks onscreen all at once... can't concentrate, I began to mumble to myself. As the bevy/maybe bevy of bikini-clad Japanese chicks eventually started to dissipate, I felt a wave of relief wash over me.

Almost roped into reviewing a material arts flick by a bunch, I mean, by a bevy/maybe bevy of bikini-clad Japanese chicks, I felt like I had just dodged a bullet.

Confident that the worst of this sudden burst of inclement bikini-clad Japanese chicks was over, I went back to watching the film in a calm and relaxed manner (for those of you interested, I watched the film whilst in the seated position).

You won't believe what happens next. As Joji (Hiroyuki Sanada) is listening to his Uncle Ikeda (Seizô Fukumoto) berate an underling in front of a painting of Adolf Hitler from the relative comfort of a super-secret hallway, we are privy to one of the greatest scenes in the history of femdom, subtle slit appreciation, nylon worship and shoe fetishism. Okay, maybe I'm over selling it a bit. But make no mistake, the moment Uncle Ikeda's sexy henchwoman presses the heel of her right shoe into the hand of the now cowering underling was the moment I decided to review this movie.

Since it was still a "non-movie review day," I stopped the film immediately after the henchwoman removed her heel from the underling's hand, and scheduled to watch the film in its entirety at a later date. Which is something I've never done before.

I must say, I came close to stopping the film during the bikini-clad Japanese chicks scene, also known as the Hiroyuki Sanada vs. Abdullah the Butcher pool side meet and greet. But cooler heads prevailed. However, I was rendered powerless the second I saw the henchwoman stab that underling's hand with the heel of her shoe. Seriously, I had no choice. My hands were tied.

Now, this may come as a surprise, but in-between all the stuff involving bikini clad Japanese chicks, nylon-ensnared Japanese legs and feet stomping the heels of their shoes into the hands of blubbering underlings is a pretty amazing martial arts movie. (Oh, yeah, you did call this film a "martial arts masterpiece.) That's right, I did. So, technically, this shouldn't come as a surprise. Either way, the movie, directed by Noribumi Suzuki and featuring fight choreography by Sonny Chiba, kicks a ton of ass. (Only a ton?) Okay, it kicks a shitload of ass. And I think it had a hand in inventing parkour.

Starting off on the mean streets of Hong Kong, a Japanese man named Toru (Hiroyuki Sanada) is gunned down by gangsters in an alleyway. Meanwhile, in Texas, a Japanese man named Joji (Hiroyuki Sanada) is herding cattle. As he's doing this, he gets word that his ill father is dying. Rushing to his deathbed, Joji learns that his father is not who says he is. We're only five minutes into the film, yet Roaring Fire has already featured scenes that boast Hong Kong-style street violence and cattle herding in Texas. I wonder where we're going next?

After the theme song, sung, of course, by Hiroyuki Sanada, is over, we're whisked to Kobe, Japan, where Joji and Peter, his monkey companion, are looking for the home of his blood relatives (he doesn't know his long lost twin brother was gunned down by gangsters in Hong Kong and thinks the plane crash that killed his parents was an accident).

Anyone care to guess what Joji finds when he gets to the house? That's right, a bevy/maybe bevy of bikini-clad Japanese chicks playing in the pool. But what's this? Peter seems to be carrying a red object in his little monkey hands. Holy crap, Peter just swiped the red bikini top off of one of the Japanese chicks. Am I crazy, or this film starting to resemble Malibu Beach or The Beach Girls? If you remember correctly, those films also had an animal who liked to steal women's bikini tops, only it was a dog, not a monkey.

As you might expect, the now topless Japanese chick is none to pleased that a monkey stole her bikini top. Crowding around Joji, who is now holding the red bikini top, the Japanese chicks start accusing him of being a pervert. During the ensuing kerfuffle, Joji accidentally removes the bikini top of another Japanese chick. This causes the bevy/maybe bevy of bikini-clad/topless Japanese chicks to unleash their secret weapon.

Emerging from the water like the Creature from the Black Leather Lagoon, Spartacus (Abdullah the Butcher) picks up Joji and tosses him in the air like a bag of low-cost potting soil. Landing on his feet with a cat-like efficiency, Joji proceeds to mock Spartacus by leaping around the pool area like a monkey. An unamused Spartacus demands that Joji cease this activity by repeating the line: "Come down, monkey" over and over again. I have to say, the combination of bikini-clad Japanese chicks, Windsor, Ontario born wrestler Abdullah the Butcher, and the sight of Hiroyuki Sanada jumping all over the place is making my head spin. I mean, why can't all movies feature a scene like this?

Later in the day, after downing about a dozen plates of spaghetti, Joji meets Chihiro (Etsuko Shihomi), his blind sister for the very first time. She is living with her Uncle Ikeda, an, as we'll soon find out, evil, Nazi-loving bastard.

Even though a nightclub ventriloquist (Sonny Chiba) tries to inform Joji that his uncle is bad news via his act (his basically accuses his uncle of killing Joji's parents), he eventually finds out when he eavesdrops on one of his conversation. And, yes, it's the conversation that involves his uncle's shapely henchwoman pressing the heel of her shoe into the hand of a cowering underling.

When his uncle reveals his true nature, Joji decides he wants nothing to do with him. Unfortunately, before Joji can leave in a huff, his uncle shoots him with a tranquilizer dart. Waking up in a pit, Joji is pitted against a boxer and a martial artist wielding a sword on a stick. (You mean a spear?) No, it was a sword on a stick. After defeating them, Joji manages to escape, with the help of Abdullah the Butcher ("Oh no! I am champion").

Things are complicated somewhat when Joji procures a large diamond ("The Queen of Sheba"), one that his uncle desperately wants. In order to obtain it, his uncle eventually uses his blind sister as a bargaining chip. However, before things come to that, we get a great foot chase sequence involving about a dozen relentless goons in kasa hats, six or seven nuns (one wearing red panties), three school girls, and Mikio Narita in a pink Popeye ball cap.

Oh, and if you think Joji's sister is some kind of damsel in distress, think again, as Etsuko Shihomi knows a thing or two about kicking ass. (Isn't her character blind?) A little thing like blindness isn't going to prevent Etsuko from defending herself. And boy does she ever, when Etsuko takes on about ten of her uncle's henchmen at once.

Culminating with an epic showdown that takes place in Hong Kong and on a nearby island, Roaring Fire is an excellent showcase for Hiroyuki Sanada, who's natural charisma is on full display in this film, especially during the chaotic finale, where he takes on about fifty henchmen (some wielding metal pipes) and chases down a jeep on a horse. His arduous task would have no doubt been a whole lot easier had the bevy/maybe bevy of bikini-clad Japanese chicks been there to help him. But judging by the way Hiroyuki punches and kicks his way through this unorganized gaggle of henchmen, it wouldn't have made much of a difference. Hiya!

If I didn't know any better, I could have sworn that I just watched the eye-opening story of a young woman struggling to come to terms with her own homosexuality. Unfortunately, I do know better. Meaning, I'm going to have to admit sooner or later that I just watched a film written and directed by a trial lawyer named John De Hart. It's true, just because a film is written and directed by a trial lawyer named John De Hart, doesn't mean it can't be about sexual awakening. But let's get real, what do trial lawyers named John De Hart know about coming out as a lesbian? Actually, what do trial lawyers named John De Hart know about directing movies, writing movies, acting in movies and scoring movies? When you ultimately decide to subject yourself to "GETEVEN" (a.k.a. Road to Revenge), a film that is tantamount to watching a ninety minute infomercial for a revolutionary new kind of adult diaper, these are the types of questions you will be asking yourself. Boasting the action chops of Samurai Cop, the hot tubs of Andy Sidaris and the misguided moxie of The Room, John De Hart has made a movie so awkward and sad, that you can't help but root for it. (Yeah, root for it to end. Am I right, fellas?) You're not far off, but I sincerely wanted John De Hart to succeed at whatever it was he was trying to accomplish when he decided to unleash this ego stroke job masquerading as filmed entertainment onto an unsuspecting public.

Speaking of sincerity, I did genuinely pick up on a lesbian subplot amidst all the Wings Hauser-generated insanity and Pamela Jean Bryant-fostered legginess that is sprinkled liberally throughout this movie.

In-between the moments that feature Pamela Jean Bryant drinking wine from a gold fish bowl-size wine glass and John De Hart singing a country and western song at a local tavern (and by "local tavern," I mean the writer-director-trial lawyer's spacious rec room), we get the occasional shot of two women in cowboy hats enjoying the twangy atmosphere of the joint.

Even though these two ladies have nothing to do with the plot, John De Hart's camera seems obsessed with them. Things get even stranger when a woman comes out and starts dancing in nothing but a cowboy hat and a tropical-themed thong. Now, that might not sound all that weird, but it's the reaction of one of the cowboy hat ladies to the thong dancer that's interesting.

Horrified by the sight of the topless woman shaking her thong ensnared butt-crack on the stage, the cowgirl with the shortish brunette hair openly complains to her blonde cowgirl friend ("How disgusting," she says at one point). Basically telling her to relax, the blonde cowgirl dismisses her whining ass with extreme prejudice.

Pushed to the limit, the brunette cowgirl asks the bartender to use the telephone and promptly calls the police ("I need to report public nudity"). Now, you could say the brunette cowgirl is just being a good citizen. But I like to think she was trying suppress her attraction to women.

Sadly, after the call to the police is made, we never see the cowgirls again. Which is a shame, as I really think John De Hart had the makings of a compelling lesbian thriller/coming out movie on his hands. Whether he knew this or not isn't important. What is important, however, I was able to gleam something unexpected from a movie that doesn't purport to be about a closeted lesbian who likes country and western music.

Sandwiched between this non-lesbian coming out drama is a movie. Well, to call "GETEVEN" a movie is an insult to movies. This movie is like watching a Make-A-Wish wish gone terribly awry. When Wings Hauser, Pamela Jean Bryant and William Smith showed up to act in a movie called "Road to Revenge," they thought they were going help a sick little boy fulfill his dream of starring in a movie. Instead, they soon discovered that this sick little boy is in fact a middle-aged trial lawyer.

Too embarrassed to admit they were duped, Wings, Pam and William just went along with it, and the end result is the film you see here.

Starting off with some Manos: The Hands of Fate-style footage of Hollywood, we're not-so quickly ushered to the scene of the drug bust that alters the lives of three cops forever.

Just as Rick Bodie (John De Hart), Huck Finney (Wings Hauser) and Normad (William Smith), their commanding officer, are about to take down a drug den, a gun fight breaks out, one that leaves Huck wounded. When Normad shows indifference to Huck's suffering, Bodie knees him in the gut.

While we should be heading over to the courthouse to find out what the repercussions are for Bodie's ill-advised yet totally justified knee placement, we're instead shown Bodie practicing kung-fu and feeding his pet poodle a snack (if you look closely, you'll notice his poodle is a black belt).

Lying to the court, Normad manages to frame Bodie and Huck (he accuses them of misconduct). And as a result of this, he gets them kicked off the force. While I was impressed by the number of extras they had on hand to play the courtroom security guards, the production designer dropped the ball big time when it came to procuring convincing-looking courtroom tables (seriously, I've seen sturdier tables at bake sales). Anyway, while Bodie handles the news of their sacking in a calm and rational manner, Huck is clearly agitated; it's a good thing they had all that extra security on hand, or else Huck would have beat the living snot out of Normad.

Forced to get jobs as limo drivers, Bodie and Huck are doing the best they can given the circumstances.

Since limo drivers need to unwind just like everyone else, Bodie and Huck head over to Lanie's Bar for Cowboy Night. Sitting at the bar, nursing the largest glass of wine in human history, is Cynthia Westport (Pamela Jean Bryant), an old flame of Bodie's. And just as they're getting reacquainted, the other patrons demand that Bodie sing us a song. Five seconds into his song, "The Shimmy Slide," I began to feel uneasy. And, no, it wasn't because Cindy was wearing a sleeveless top with a marching band motif, it was because the song is terrible.

I'm not kidding, I don't know how much longer I can take this. Luckily, a gang of Satanists show up to harass Cindy. I don't want to toot my own horn, but I knew those Satanists were up to no good the moment I laid eyes on the guy with the bolo tie. Anytime you see a man wearing a bolo tie outside of Texas or New Mexico, walk the other way. Oh, and if the colour of the hair on his head is different than the colour of the hair on his beard--no matter what state you're in--run the other way.

Am I crazy, or does the redheaded waitress at Lanie's Bar look like Lisa London? I didn't see her name in the credits, but it definitely looks like her.

"I didn't come here to get grossed out" ~ Closeted Lesbian at Lanie's Bar on Cowboy Night

After bailing Huck out of jail (he got in a fight trying to protect Cindy from the Satanists), instructing the desk Sgt. to buy a personality with the quarter he just tossed in his general direction, and telling the maître d' at a fancy restaurant two lame doctor jokes in quick succession, Bodie recites the soliloquy from the Nunnery Scene in William Shakespeare's play Hamlet while sitting on a garden swing.

I'm getting the feeling that John De Hart has a check list of all things he's ever wanted to do in a movie (sing a country and western song for an audience made up of mostly closeted lesbians and former Playboy Playmates, check... punch Satanists in the face near a Mrs. Pac-Man machine, check), and I'm, unfortunately, being forced to watch.

I know, my arms and legs are not in restraints. So, technically, I'm not being forced to do anything. If that's the case, why can't I stop watching?

Sure, the promise that Pamela Jean Bryant will appear in black stockings at some point is helping me get through this tripe, but what's keeping me from running screaming from the room in the meantime? Two words: Wings Hauser.

Whether shooting holes in his unpaid bills with a revolver, getting in arguments with bar patrons who have no class...

Wait, is John De Hart paying tribute to Cabaret Voltaire with that shot of a television tuned to a dead channel? (I don't know about Cabaret Voltaire, but it's got a definite David Lynch vibe about it.) Either way, I told you this film was filled with surprises.

All right, where was I? Oh, yeah, Wings Hauser. Whether drinking bleach, getting in theological debates with nuns, promoting the "noble noises of Huckism" whilst standing in a pool with his clothes on flanked by two bikini clad women floating on air mattresses, Wings Hauser is off his meds from start to finish in this film.

(Don't forget photo-bombing Bode and Cindy's wedding ceremony.) Oh, man. I loved that part. The way he keep staggering into frame was so... ahhhh! And he's wearing an orange suit!!!! This can't be happening!

Blah, blah, blah, Bodie storms the Satanist's compound, kicks some ass, the end.

If you like movies, you should do yourself a favour and maybe think about not watching "GETEVEN." However, if you like milf-tastic milfs dancing erotically in milf-enhancing black stockings for the crotch-based benefit of a milf-loving trial lawyer, I'm afraid going to have to insist that you check out "GETEVEN" (pronounced: 'gay-teh-vehn') immediately.

The shot where the plucky, inquisitive nurse character slowly enters the ominous factory that makes Lotus Cat Food (the cat food that is causing cats to develop a taste for human flesh) has to be the best scene, from a technical point of view, to ever appear in a film directed by Ted V. Mikels. (Shouldn't you examine some of his other films before making such a bold statement like that?) You know, I thought about doing that. But, at the end of the day, I chose not to. (Why?) Well, for starters, who has the time to sift through twenty-something low-budget horror movies? And secondly, I'm pretty sure nothing can come close to touching the artistry of the scene in The Corpse Grinders (a.k.a. The Flesh Grinders) where J. Byron Foster sneaks up on Monika Kelly. Lurking in the corner behind the door Monika just entered, J. Bryon can be seen standing with his head looking downward. Bathed in green light whilst in this position, J. Bryon's head is suddenly bathed in pink light as he begins to look up. Oh, and check out the way his neck remains bathed in green light. How did they achieve this effect? (You should listen to director's commentary on the DVD.) That's a good idea. (Well, what you waiting for?) I'm not going to listen to it right this minute, but I'll get back to you as soon as I do. (I'm on the edge of my seat.)

If wonderfully composed shots weren't enough, The Corpse Grinders features what has to be one of my favourite duos in exploitation cinema history. (I thought Sean Kenney, the guy from The Toy Box, and Monika Kelly were all right together, but let's not go crazy.) Not them, you numbskull. I'm talking about Sanford Mitchell as Landau, the world's most ruthless cat food entrepreneur, and Drucilla Hoy as Tessie, the one-legged deaf mute who is basically the office gofer at Lotus Cat Food.

(Hold up, if this Landau fella is so ruthless, why is he so nice to Tessie? And if Tessie only has one leg, why does the Lotus Cat Food company have her running the kind of errands that involve an exorbitant amount of walking?) Don't you see? That's what makes their relationship so compelling. I mean, Landau seems to genuinely enjoy feeding human cadavers into his cat food company's meat grinder, yet he constantly shows compassion towards Tessie.

Part of me thinks the only reason he treats her with respect is to spite his business partner, Maltby (J. Byron Foster); he doesn't like her.

I know, how could someone not like Tessie? She's freakin' adorable.

Anyway, the part of me that believes that Landau is friendly with Tessie purely to spite Maltby is a cynical asshole. Besides, would Landau go to the trouble to learn sign language just to annoy his business partner? I don't think so. No, the love that Landau and Tessie share for one another is completely genuine. Okay, maybe love is too strong a word, but there's definitely a spark between them.

Watch Landau's demeanour change when Tessie hobbles (she walks with the aide of a crutch) into the office during their first scene together, it goes from being evil and sinister to, well... he's still evil and sinister, but just not as much when Tessie's around. It's almost as if Tessie's soothing temperament decreases Landau's desire to commit heinous atrocities. Oh, and believe me, he loves to commit heinous atrocities. You could say, "commit heinous atrocities," is Landau's middle name. Seriously, you could totally say that, as we never find out if Landau is his first, his last, his or middle name.

Opening on a rainy night, the film shows a cat clawing at the door of the house where two beatniks live. (Just because one of them is wearing a black top, doesn't make them beatniks.) Whatever you say, daddy-o. The chick in the black top (Sherri Vernon), gets up off the couch and goes to see what's scratching at the door. The second she opens the door, the cat lunges at her neck. Managing to remove the cat before it can do any real damage, the female beatnik screams, the screen freezes, and the title "The Corpse Grinders" appears on the screen. Now that's how you start a movie, baby. Cats lunging at the necks belonging to female beatniks, it doesn't get any better than this.

I'm not joking around, it doesn't, as the next scene features a gravedigger named Caleb (Warren Ball) asking his wife to bring him some beef jerky. No, that can't be right, she's too old to be his wife. His mother, maybe? Uh, I don't know, man. She could be his sister. You know what? Cleo (Ann Noble) is Caleb's wife. I mean, she does bring Caleb beef jerky several times over the course of the movie. And in the early 1970s, the most popular method for wives to show affection for their husbands was to fetch them dried beef products after they had just completed a grueling task.

I'm no expert when it comes to anything, but what's more grueling than digging up graves so that you can sell the bodies to shady cat food companies for twenty-seven cents a pound?

Quiet, Landau and Tessie's first scene together is about to commence. We're immediately shown the difference between how Landau treats Tessie and how he treats his other employees; which for some strange reason, are all elderly. Telling an old fart named Willie (Charles Fox) to, "Get back to work and stop whimpering," Landau's demeanour changes radically when asks Tessie how she's feeling. Sure, he tells his business partner the reason he's nice to her is because she won't testify against them, but I didn't buy that for a second.

It would seem that Landau and Maltby need "more raw material." So, you know what that means, right? Yep, it's time to head over to Caleb's cemetery to collect some more bodies. Though, they might have hit a road block, as Caleb is not pleased. You see, Landau and Maltby owe him close to five hundred dollars for the previous bodies they "bought" from him for the purpose of grinding into cat food. And now they want more?

Utilizing his straight-forward brand of charm, Landau manages to convince Caleb to give him some "more raw material" without paying. But Caleb tells him: "Next time. No money, no meat." Speaking of meat, Cleo brings Caleb a chunk of beef jerky just as Landau and Maltby are about to drive off with a van full of free dead bodies. Aw, how sweet. Love is nothing like a glass of warm piss.

Meanwhile, over at the local hospital, Nurse Robertson (Monika Kelly) is feeding her cat. Which shouldn't be headline news, but look at the label on the cat food, it says, "Lotus Cat Food." This does not bode well for Nurse Robertson's neck. (How do you know that particular brand of cat food is to blame for the recent spate of cat attacks?) Um, duh, it's made from people. And wouldn't you know it, the second Nurse Robertson leaves the room, her cat lunges at the neck belonging to Dr. Glass (Sean Kenney), Nurse Robertson's boyfriend.

Now, most people would agree, being attacked by a cat isn't that unusual. But when Nurse Robertson and Dr. Glass discover a shut-in named Annie (Mary Ellen Burke) had her throat recently ripped out by her cat, they do a little digging. Anyone care to guess what brand of cat food Annie fed her cat? That's right, Lotus Cat Food. This discovery leads the nurse and doctor duo to go into sleuth mode. Determined to prevent more people from having their throats ripped out by their kitties, the pair use science and good old fashion detective work to get to the bottom of this fur raising mystery. Get it, instead of "hair raising," I wrote "fur raising," because cats are covered with fur. (Ugh.)

Since the film was made in the early 1970s, that means we should get to see a lot of mini-dresses. While Monika Kelly wears a few, it's Donna (Andy Collings), the secretary of a local F.D.A. bureaucrat, who does the garment the proudest. Leaving work, we follow her home. While this might seem gratuitous at first, especially when she strips down to her bra and panties, grabs a can of beer from the fridge, and sits down on the couch to watch some television, it's actually integral to the plot, as wouldn't you know it, Donna feeds her cat Lotus Cat Food. Meaning, her throat is in serious danger.

What I really would have liked to have seen was a scene that showed what life was like for Tessie when she wasn't at the cat food factory. I mean, where does she live? Does she like her job? Does she have a boyfriend? And if not, does she have feelings for Landau?

The grinder itself is pretty crude as far as props go. But nonetheless, the sight of ground up meat pouring out of that little hole after the corpses have been put through the machine still managed to be disgusting; I know I sure I didn't want to eat anything after I watched this movie.

Oh, and the scene I alluded to earlier where Nurse Robertson snoops around the cat food factory while bathed in pink and green light was probably created simply by employing flood lights. It just goes to show that you don't need a huge budget to make a cat food factory after dark seem creepy and weird.

Punk Vacation (Stanley Lewis, 1990)

Fantom Kiler 4 (Roman Nowicki, 2008)

The Toy Box (Ronald Víctor García, 1971)

The Naked Cage (Paul Nicholas, 1986)

Fantom Seducer 1 + 2 (Roman Nowicki, 2005)

Toys Are Not for Children (Stanley H. Brassloff, 1972)

Entrails of a Beautiful Woman (Kazuo Komizu, 1986)

Mark of the Whip 2 (Roman Nowicki, 2010)

The Gore Gore Girls (Herschell Gordon Lewis, 1972)

The King of Comedy (Martin Scorsese, 1982)

Track 29 (Nicolas Roeg, 1988)

She-Devils on Wheels (Herschell Gordon Lewis, 1968)

Invasion of the Love Drones (Jerome Hamlin, 1977)

The Brain (Ed Hunt, 1988)

The Touch of Her Flesh (Michael Findlay, 1967)

Band of the Hand (Paul Michael Glaser, 1986)

Blue Murder (Charlie Wiener, 1985)

Roaring Fire (Noribumi Suzuki, 1982)

"GETEVEN" (John De Hart, 1993)

The Corpse Grinders (Ted V. Mikels, 1971)