House of Self-Indulgence

He's back! Everyone's favourite eye-patch-wearing, misogynist, spurned weapons expert turned deranged serial killer is back. What's that? You say he was killed with a crossbow at the end of the previous chapter? That can't be right. Oh, wait a minute. Come to think of it, I do recall a woman with substantial junk in her trunk wielding a crossbow during the film's climatic showdown. Well, the crossbow arrow to the chest clearly had little effect on his ability to stalk and kill strippers, go-go dancers and prostitutes, as he's up to his old tricks in The Curse of Her Flesh, the Michael Findlay-directed film that guarantees to have thick, not even close to being malnourished thighs encased in stockings or your money back. Sure, you're going to have to wade through a heck of a lot of softcore groping in order to be exposed by these stocking encased delights, but trust me, the hardship you endure is well worth it. As a reward for your patience, there's even a third act pantyhose moment that sort of just comes out of nowhere. Almost as if to say: Hey, all you perverts out there. We're terribly sorry for all the softcore groping you have had to experience over the past seventy or so minutes. And to show our appreciation for your Herculean brand of stoicism in the face of so much softcore groping, he's a quick shot of Eve Bork removing her tan pantyhose. I know, you would probably much rather see Sally Farb removing her tan pantyhose, but Miss Bork's the best we could do on short notice. Enjoy!

Now, the scenario I just created most likely never happened. However, that doesn't mean that every sleazy moment that occurs in this, or any of the films in the Flesh Trilogy, wasn't meticulously thought-out in advance.

It's true, The Curse of Her Flesh features only one instance where a garter belt is removed from a go-go dancer's waist and tossed gingerly to floor. Whereas, The Touch of Her Flesh boasts a total of four instances where garter belts are tossed gingerly to floor. That doesn't mean the film is deficient when it comes to women in garter belts. Far from it. In fact, the garter belt worn by Sally Farb gives off tiny flashes of light. Meaning, it possesses the power of four garter belts!

I'm well aware that what I just said might not make a lot of sense, but once you see what kind of damage Sally Farb can cause while wearing a garter belt covered in sequins, you will agree that I'm right.

When I saw the opening credits for The Touch of Her Flesh projected onto the naked body of Roberta Findlay, I thought to myself: That's how you make people pay attention to something as stuffy as an opening credits sequence. The question on everyone's mind as The Curse of Her Flesh gets underway is not the number of garter belts they will be basking in over the course of the film, but how will they (the Findlay's) top the opening credits from the first chapter?

Since there's no way they can top them, they can still make them memorable. And boy are they... memorable, that is. Crudely written in black marker on the wall of the men's room of a strip club, the camera slowly pans across the wall (stopping to reveal credits every now and then) to the sound of a man urinating. I don't know 'bout you, but I think these credits perfectly sum up the trashy nature of these films (check it out, someone crossed out a swastika and replaced it with a hammer and sickle). This might come across as odd, but I can't wait to see what they (the Findlay's) come up with, credits-wise, for the third and final chapter.

If you remember correctly, when we last saw Richard Jennings he was chopping his cheating wife's head off with a table saw. Well, after a brief recap of the events from the previous chapter in the Richard Jennings saga (one that is factually inaccurate), we learn that everyone's favourite woman-hating psychopath is now hiding out in a threatre. In fact, I think he might even own the theatre. But he also wears a fake beard and pretends to be the janitor on occasion. It's complicated.

I don't know 'bout you, but I think the decision to open the movie with a scene that features Sally Farb dancing erotically in vivacious lingerie was the correct one. Sure, her character has nothing really to do with the plot, but I could watch her bump and grind for hours. I hope we see more of her as the film progresses (fingers crossed).

Okay, now I know why Jennings is wearing a fake beard and pretending to be a janitor, that's his public persona. You see, he doesn't want anyone to know that he's "Richard Jennings," the man wanted in connection with over a dozen gruesome homicides. And he definitely doesn't want Steve Blakely (Ron Skideri), a struggling actor who shows up at the theatre for an audition, to know his identity, as he's the guy, if you remember, he caught groping his voluptuous wife. As Steve is in the men's room, a bearded Jennings pulls out a sword from the handle of his cane and is about to stab the unsuspecting actor in the back. But he doesn't, as he's got something especially heinous planned for Steve.

In the meantime, Steve recites a bizarre monologue in the vicinity of a fall-out shelter while two curvy chicks dance to rhythm and blues music in stockings and g-strings made out of money. I'm still trying to get my head around the scene, as it doesn't seem to make any sense. Are the curvy chicks in the fall-out shelter the women Steve's character is looking for? Ah, you know what? It doesn't matter.

One of the curvy chicks, Adele (Jane Bond), is approached while sitting at a bar by a... Oh shit! Run, curvy chick, run! That's Richard Jennings! Of course, she doesn't know what Jennings looks like, and politely declines his offer to buy her a drink. Her attitude changes, however, when Jennings introduces himself as Joe Davidson, the owner of the theatre she was just performing her strobe light-assisted lingerie dance.

And before you know it, the two are having drinks back at her place. Look at the way Adele sits with her legs crossed while chatting with Jennings/Davidson, it's absolutely sublime.

At any rate, you won't believe the manner in which Jennings decides to dispatch Adele. I'll just say three words: Poisoned cat paws.

The next scene is rather long, but since it boasts Linda Boyce in black lingerie and black boots whipping a bound Uta Erickson on a smoky stage, I'll let its excessive length slide.

After she's finished whipping her, Linda Boyce, or I should say, Stella, begins to lick Uta's whip marks. After removing her black bra with a switchblade, Stella proceeds to hike down her zebra print panties. As she's doing this, Uta would periodically cry out for more.

When the shows over, Stella heads backstage to hang out with, you guessed it, Jennings. (Hang out?) You're right. What I should have said was make out, as Stella straddles Jennings (who she knows as Davidson) for quite some time.

"Do you know what a dildo is?" And with that question, Stella is sent on a secret mission, a secret lesbian mission. Remember Adele's co-star in the strobe light-assisted lingerie dance? Well, Jennings sends Stella over to her apartment to seduce her. After taking a bath together, the lesbian action quickly moves to the bedroom. Getting on top of her, Stella begins to prod the cunt attached to Adele's co-star with a dildo. Looking down mid-prod, however, Stella is horrified when realizes that this is no ordinary dildo. You could say, it's an Armageddon dildo.

In order to take care of Stella and her co-star, Jennings laces their g-strings with a substance that unleashes a poison when mixed with vaginal secretions.

Giving new meaning to the expression, "leggy tour de force," Sally Farb continues the perform the routine we saw her giving at the beginning of the film. Utilizing her stocking-encased legs in ways I didn't think possible, Sally knows exactly how to work an audience into a psycho-sexual frenzy. If I had my druthers, the whole film would have been nothing but Sally Farb stripping from start to finish.

To complete his masterpiece, Jennings sets in motion an elaborate plan to kill Steve Blakely by employing the help of his new wife Paula (Eve Bork). It's a complicated plan, one that involves squash porn, tan pantyhose, a spear gun, a cheap room divider and a machete. (Wait, did you say, "squash porn"?) Yep, you read right, squash porn is an integral part of Jennings' plan. While the squash porn definitely came out of left field, the machete fight on the back of a moving truck was the film's biggest surprise.

Despite the fact that Jennings' eye-patch seems to disappear randomly during the melee, the machete fight on the back of a moving truck was an unexpected treat. I mean, up until this point, the film has already given us everything one could want from a motion picture. But to give us a machete fight on the back of a moving truck as well? Bravo, Michael Findlay. Bravo!

Well that was a complete waste of time. Oh, not the movie itself... but then again (its merits as a quality piece of entertainment are still up in the air). Extremely curious to know who provided the voice of Virginia, the talking vagina in Tom DeSimone's Chatterbox!, I just spent at least three whole minutes looking for the name of the actress, or I should say, cuntress who... Get it, she plays a talking cunt. (Actually, as your imaginary lawyer, I don't think you should say that.) Ah, what do you know? People love it when I use the c-word, it makes their genitals hard and/or wet. Anyway, you know what my three minutes of research uncovered? Nothing. Zilch. Nada. Ingenting. нищо. On the bright side, I did just watch a film about a talking vagina. Now, was it a good talking vagina movie? You see, that's the question everyone who watches this movie ultimately ends up asking themselves when the film is finally over. I mean, we all secretly wish that every movie in existence featured a character with a talking vagina. Seriously, think about the last four or five movies you watched. Are you thinking about them? Good. Now, imagine how much better they all would be if they had a character with a chatty cooch. You can't deny that a leggy blonde with a garrulous gash makes everything more appetizing. ("Chatty cooch,""garrulous gash," it's going to be one of those reviews, ain't it?) Hey, you put a talking vagi... Scratch that, this is what you get when you shove a loquacious labia movie in my fully conscious face for seventy minutes. In other words, let the beef curtain-based alliteration abuse begin.

What's that? You say I've already exhausted the bulk of my vocal-vagina couplings. We'll see about that. Just kidding, I have no intention of seeing about that.

No, what I would like to do now is complain about the fact that we never once see the prattling poon at the centre of this vulvical farce move its pussy lips.

I mean, it's 1977, Deep Throat came out five years ago, porno chic is still all the rage, so let's see some flapping lady parts all up in this cinematic cubbyhole. Ugh. (What's wrong?) Nothing. (C'mon, you can tell me.) I don't know, I could have sworn I heard someone sitting in the balcony say that I should "use my imagination." Well, first off, shut your stinkin' trap, I'm trying to think of new ways to pair verbal words with vaginal words. And secondly, no, I will not use my imagination.

I'm not asking for them to show graphic close up shots of Virginia, the communicative clitoris, jawing away in an animated fashion. All I wanted was a medium shot that let me know that her outspoken hatchet wound was the one doing the talking. For all I know, Penelope Pittman (Candice Rialson) could have just been a beautiful schizophrenic with super-mad ventriloquism skills.

I hate to be the one to bring this up, but why did the vagina attached to Penelope Pittman start talking? (It's hard to do a talking vagina movie without a talking vagina.) No, I realize that. But why did it start talking when it did? What prompted her lavender-laced jizz jar to start jibber-jabbering? I have a feeling her vaginal voice was always there, it just didn't have anything to say up until now. That is, until the pathetic penis belonging to Ted (Perry Bullington), her tennis-playing boyfriend, decided to stick its helmet-like tip all up in Penny's lady business.

Unimpressed by the quality of the pipe he was laying, Virginia, the name of Penny's fornication fuselage, says, "You call that a fuck?" after an exhausted Ted collapses on top of Penelope. Tired of being on the receiving end of wonky thrusts night after night, Virginia decides to put her cunt down and demand that Penny fuck better cock. Thinking Penelope is the one who is insulting his prowess as a lover, he storms off in a huff (tripping several times as he does so - on top of being a shitty lover, he's a clumsy oaf).

The next day at the hair salon she works, Penny tries to explain to Ted what happened over the phone. But how do you go about telling your boyfriend that your genitals think you suck in bed? At any rate, before Penny can finish her explanation, her boss comes in. Anyone care to guess who plays Penny's boss? That's right, it's none other than Rip Taylor! What's weird about Rip Taylor's entrance was the fact that he didn't throw glitter on anybody. I'm not saying I felt ripped off, I'm just saying it was weird, that's all.

Screw Rip Taylor, would you look at what Candice Rialson is wearing. Or, I should say, not wearing. I love a gal who basically says: Fuck it, I ain't wearing pants today. And it looks like Penelope Pittman is having one of those days, as her legs are on full display.

The other great thing about Penny's skimpy outfit is that every time she shrugged her shoulders we got a glimpse of her panties. Yay! Glimpsed panties!

Would any actress today wear something like this in a movie? I don't think so. They all have this kooky notion in their heads they're going to be the next Meryl Streep. So, here's to you, Candice Rialson, for making the hair salon sequence in Chatterbox!, the world's first R-rated talking vagina movie, one of the most appealing things I've seen all year.

Confiding in a co-worker (Cynthia Hoppenfeld), Penny tries to get Virginia to talk for her. But Virginia is surprisingly tight-lipped when confronted.

And I don't think yelling at it is helping matters, lady. So, do you mind getting your face out of my junk? No, this is one quiet queef-maker. Oh, and I dug the way the co-worker casually snapped Penny's panties back into place after coming up empty in the babbling baby-maker department.

Keep an eye on Candice Rialson during the salon sequence, not only is she sexy, she has quite the gift for physical comedy. In a veiled attempt to muzzle her chattering box, Candice walks with her legs together. While she manages to muffle the sound of her verbose vag to some degree, on the other hand, it looks like she needs to go the toilet.

When a client named Marlene (Arlene Martel), a classy dyke with huge sunglasses, catches a whiff of Penny's frequently exposed panties while climbing the stairs, it sets her taciturn yet voracious vagina on fire. However, since Marlene knows that Penny doesn't swing that way, she keeps her pussy juice on ice. Yeah, Penny isn't into chicks, but Virginia seems open to the idea, and starts flirting with Marlene the moment Penny starts working on her hair.

One thing leads to another, and Marlene's black stocking-adorned gams are straddling Penny/Virgina on a nearby sofa. It's an odd scene. Mainly because Penny is being raped, but Virginia is egging Marlene on (her mind is saying no, but her pussy is saying yes). Luckily, Rip Taylor interrupts them before things get too out of hand. Oh, and if you look closely, you'll notice that the strap on one of Penny's shoes came undone during the girl-on-girl cunt kerfuffle.

At her wits' end, Penny decides (much to Tom Cruise and Jenna Elfman's future chagrin) to go see a psychiatrist. Showing Dr. Pearl (Larry Gelman) her cacophonous crevice, Penny hopes he can help her with her unique problem. When the shrink hears Virginia's singing voice, he sees dollar signs.

Realizing that Penny's singing pussy needs to be seen to be believed, Dr. Pearl, who is now her manager, straps her to a table, puts a microphone up to Virginia's mouth, and has her perform "Old Folks at Home" for the A.M.A. (The American Medical Association).

It was at this point that I started to miss the light-hearted charm of the hair salon sequence. The film starts to overstay its welcome fast, as some scenes seem to drag on unnecessarily.

Everything that occurs after Candice Rialson struts down the streets of Hollywood late at night in white cut-off jean shorts and a purple top pretty much resembles your typical showbiz success story, as Penny grows tired of fame, while Virginia loves the spotlight. This dichotomy is best observed during her performance of "Wang Dang Doodle" on some lame talk show. It's clear that Penny would rather being washing hair at Rip Taylor's salon than be on national television with her cooter exposed.

It should be noted that the film manages to employ three solid "cunt gags." The first being the one where Dr. Pearl calls a talent agent and gets the reply: "You called me to listen to some cunt sing the Star-Spangled Banner?" The second occurs when a director tells a reporter that, "This is not the first film to star a real cunt." And the third, and my personal favourite, takes place when a stagehand yells, "Stop that cunt!" as Penny, with Virginia in tow, flees the set of a movie featuring men dressed as peacocks.

"Words all fail the magic prize. Nothing I can say when I'm in your thighs." This totally righteous passage from "Add It Up" by Violent Femmes–one of the most overplayed songs of the late 1980s and beyond–immediately springs to mind every time Taija Rae (nsfw) appears onscreen in Kim Christy's Desperate Women (a.k.a. Exzesse hinter Gittern), a women in prison with its hairy balls in the right place; and that place is slapping not-so gingerly against Sharon Mitchell's asshole as a direct result of some pretty pathetic pelvic thrusts. At any rate, getting back to Taija Rae and her robustly luscious thighs. I won't lie, I worship at the shapely altar of Taija Rae. Boasting an organic structure that contained more curves than a winding expressway, Taija was one of the few actresses in hardcore whose body had oomph; the others being: Lois Ayres (nsfw), Tanya Foxx (nsfw) and Shana McCullough (nsfw); when you mount them doggiestyle, there will be fleshy ripples. In fact, I'm so in tune with her body, I knew it was her just by looking at her stocking-ensnared ankles when they appear attached to a pair of pumps in the film's opening scene. Sure, her being the star of the film and all meant the chances that they were her ankles were pretty good. But still, every inch of her mid-80s era body is tattooed on my brain. Oh, and the reason I say, "mid-80s era," is because she gradually lost her oomph as the 1980s progressed.

That being said, fans of Taija Rae when her body had oomph need not worry, as it's on full display in this movie. Though, not as much as I would have hoped. We'll get to that in a minute.

In the meantime, let's talk about what one needs to do to make the perfect women in prison film. Every women in prison film I've seen so far seems to be missing something. Even the best ones, I've noticed, could use a little something extra. And, with the exception of Bare Behind Bars, that exception usually involves a total lack of hardcore sex. As in, this women in prison film is doing a tremendous job scratching me where I itch, but I really could use some penetration shots right about now.

Okay, now, let's say you add these so-called "penetration shots" to your women in prison film. But what happens if you forget to add brutal violence and campy dialogue to the mix? Failing to include these key ingredients could severely hamper your attempt to make a successful women in prison flick.

Looking over the contents of Desperate Women, a man is stabbed, a woman is raped by two guards in the shower, and a pair of expensive pumps have their heels forcibly removed by a chick in a headband. In other words, it's got some violence. Not as much as I would normally like, but it's got some.

As for the campy dialogue. Well, you can forget about Taija Rae (who for some strange reason is credited as Taja Rea), as she's playing a naive reporter who desperately wants to retrieve the camera Aurora has stashed in her vagina (more on the hidden camera in a minute). Oh, and don't worry, the camera didn't have a telephoto lens. Anyway, naive reporters aren't known to exude camp.

Um, Sharon Mitchell talks with a Cuban accent. Campy! Cyndee Summers removes the heels from Taija Rae's shoes. I know, I already mentioned that, but you got to admit, that is some pretty campy ass shit.

And Tantala Ray fingers her... Hold up, I'm going have to stop myself for a minute. Tantala Ray?!? I'm sorry, I could have saved everyone a lot of time by just saying her name. What I mean is, when I posed the question: Does Desperate Women have campy dialogue? I should have just said: Tantala Ray, as this unruly hosebeast oozes camp from every pore.

She's so campy, Liberace would have taken one look at her and said: Honeychild, you need take it down a notch, mmm-mmm. (That sounds more like Little Richard, but I get your point.) I don't think you do. She's so campy, the women of Frank The Entertainer in a Basement Affair would have turned beet red with embarrassment at the sight her campy onslaught. (All right, we get it, she's the poster girl for campiness. And who in the right mind references Frank The Entertainer in a Basement Affair? I have this sudden urge to take a shower.)

Despite having camp appeal, mild violence and penetration shots, does Desperate Women succeed at being an effective slab of sleazy entertainment? Who's to say? Oh, wait, since I just watched the film, I guess I'm to say.

Well, the film, directed by Ned Morehead (hee hee), does have one of the best opening credits sequences ever. On top of the sight of Taija Rae's aforementioned ankles walking along a dark, smokey alleyway (just for the record, her feet do the actual walking, her ankles, while to integral the walking process, are just along for the ride), the opening credits feature black fishnet stockings, electro-friendly music throbbing on the soundtrack, fingerless gloves, and, most impressively, a mysterious figure wearing a bandana over his face, is spray painting the title of the film onto a large wall.

I don't want to sound ungrateful, but Taija Rae's skirt is way too long. I know, its length is probably appropriate given her occupation, but it could have shorter. That's all I'm going to say about the matter.

While doing a story on prostitution, Angela stumbles upon a hooker named China Grove (Aurora) just as she's plunging a knife in the neck of some guy. Whether this "some guy" was a drug dealer, a pimp or both, it doesn't matter, China Grove (whose short new wave hair style reminded me of a jet black version of the one LeeAnne Baker sports in Necropolis) is none too pleased when she finds out that her impromptu alleyway homicide was caught on camera.

Just as China Grove is grabbing Angela's camera away from her, a cop (Buck Adams) shows up. As the cop instructs both of them to get up against the wall, you'll notice that China Grove inserts Angela's camera into her pussy.

Frisking them, the cop lifts up China Grove's short black skirt, revealing a small pale ass that's good enough to eat. Since China Grove doesn't seem to object to this action (not that she has a choice), the cop proceeds to cram his face into the darkish realm that lays beyond her pale ass cheeks.

You can pretty much guess where things go from here. Though, as the cop stuffing his cock in and out of China Grove's pussy, she looks at Angela (who is standing awkwardly to the side as they fuck) and informs her that her camera is located somewhere around her navel right about now.

Without the camera, Angela can't prove that she didn't have anything to do with the murder China Grove committed, so both she and China Grove are sent to Sing Song Prison.

"Now you listen up and listen good, you miserable bitch," and with that line, we're introduced Tantala Ray's Sheeba, the horniest, most foul prison guard this side of Tucson, Arizona.

Sent to her cell, Angela, who is now wearing a denim work shirt (with, thankfully, no pants), meets Carla (Sharon Mitchell), her Cuban cell mate. (Did you say, Cuban?) Yep, Sharon Mitchell speaks with a Cuban accent. Seriously, is there anything Sharon Mitchell can't do? (Yeah, speak with a Cuban accent.) C'mon, it's not that bad. Either way, she's wearing bright yellow socks, and tells Angela she's in prison for overdue library books (yeah, right).

In order to make her feel more at home, Carla instigates some top bunk lesbianism with Angela. As Carla and Angela are getting to know each other (oooh, they're scissoring one another), Sheeba watches from her post in a position that is conducive to fingering. This is a dream come true, two of my favourite fuck stars dyking out while Tantala Ray: "The Susan Tyrrell of Porn" masturbates from the sidelines.

It gets even better when a male guard named Bailey (Jay Serling) shows up and starts ramming his cock into Sheeba's well-worn cubbyhole. What pleased me the most about this scene was the fact that they keep showing these close up shots of Tantala Ray's face. Personally, I love Tantala's face, but I can see how others might not be down with its uniqueness. And, as everyone knows, anything that causes perverts to not be able to jerk off in the manner they're accustomed makes me happy.

It wouldn't be a women in prison without a shower scene, and it's here where we meet Tattoo (Cyndee Summers), the chick who runs shit in this joint.

When China Grow sits on the desk of the warden (Nick Random), it reminded me of the way Christina Whitaker sits on the warden's desk in The Naked Cage. In fact, there are a ton of similarities between these two films. A sweet and innocent woman is framed by a career criminal with short, jet black hair. The prison's lead male guard wears aviator shades. And... Okay, that's all I can come up with at the moment. But, believe me, they're similar.

The biggest disappointment for me came when I realized that Taija Rae will only be appearing in two sex scenes. Hell, even Tantala Ray and Nick Random get two sex scenes. Anyway, Taija's second sex scene involves doing it with the prison Chaplin (Robert Bullock) on one of them church benches. (You mean a pew?) Yeah, one of those thingies. Now, I don't know why Taija's character agrees to fuck the Chaplin (as it doesn't lead to much of anything plot advancement-wise), but we do get to see Taija Rae's oomph-laden body undulating as a direct result of sexual activity. The way the flesh on her stomach jiggled was amazing; and to make things even more amazing, if you look carefully, it appears as if her tummy creases are smiling.

In a bizarre twist, Angela's pumps, the one's we saw in the opening scene, are the key to solving her China Grove problem. I won't say how exactly they solve this particular problem. But let's just say, it's pretty out there as far as bizarre twists go.

Let's see, did I forget anything? Oh, the shower rape scene with Sharon Mitchell, Tantala Ray and John Sterling is the film's best... after the Taija and Sharon lesbo scene, of course. The film would have been much improved had Taija Rae been given more sex scenes (she should been in every scene, if you ask me), if all the characters had worn lingerie (stockings, garter belts, etc.), and had the producers hired more extras (the prison seems to be the home of no more than five maybe six women).

The way Jennifer Bishop sits with her legs crossed at a friend's house in this movie will cause your... Uh, will cause your... Um, I seem to have lost my train of thought. Where was I? Ah, yes, the waitress in the white shorts. The sight of her serving customers in those tight white shorts will send you over... Wait a minute, that's not where I was. Let's see. Okay, I remember, I was talking about Jennifer Bishop sitting with her legs crossed. And boy, did she ever know how to... cross her... legs... You know what? For some strange reason, I can't seem to concentrate on the things I want to concentrate on in regard to William Grefe's Impulse, the trouser-moistening horror film that depicts a world where street smart mega-milfs know to be weary when their boyfriend's tell them the belly dancer she caught him canoodling are "just friends." As she would say, "Nobody's 'just friends' with a belly dancer." You wanna know why I can't concentrate? It's simple, really. And it can be summed up by employing two equally simple words. Are you ready? Here it goes: William Shatner. That's right, William Fucking Shatner, T.J. Hooker himself. You know how William Shatner, while sitting in the captain's chair, looks up at the ceiling of the Starship Enterprise and yells "Khaaaaaaan!" in an overly dramatic fashion in Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan? Well, William Shatner's performance in Impulse is one giddy-inducing "Khaaaaaaan!" moment after another, as the Montreal born actor is at the top of his game.

I hope you enjoyed that whole bit where I pretended I wasn't able to concentrate on the film's pervier moments. 'Cause, let's get real, the appeal of this film begins and ends with William Shatner. Take away William Shatner and... You know what, I don't even want to contemplate the prospect of William Shatner not starring in this film, as I get depressed just thinking about it.

That's right, step aside Wings Hauser in "GETEVEN" and Frank Kress in The Gore Gore Girls, I've got a new favourite performance by an actor in a motion picture, and it's William Shatner in Impulse. And the weird thing is, I'm not even a William Shatner fan. Yet, there's something about him in this movie. Now, was it his killer threads? Possibly. How 'bout his way with the ladies? Could be. The face touching? Yeah, it was the face touching, wasn't it? Actually, I like to think was an amalgam of all those things.

Even though I was on board the second I saw him take a drag on one of those cigarette-cigar hybrids he likes to smoke while watching a belly dancer belly dance, the part where he verbally accosted that lady with the balloons was the exact moment I thought to myself: This isn't acting, this is something entirely different.

To be honest, when William Shatner started to berate that woman with the balloons, I wanted to crawl underneath the couch. Not because I was scared, but because I was embarrassed. People who confront people in public make me uncomfortable. People who confront people in public who are holding a shitload of balloons make me want to die (secondhand embarrassment is my kryptonite).

Quirky secondhand embarrassment fun-fact: Whenever I see someone running to catch a bus and the driver ignores their effort by pulling away without stopping, I always look in the opposite direction. The moment the person running stops and realizes the bus ain't stopping for them fills my heart with sadness. Oh, and the worse the weather is, the more sadness gets crammed in there. And the sensation I felt as William Shatner lashed out at the balloon lady was eerily to similar to the one I feel when someone misses catching a bus. Just for record, I never run to catch public transit (I'll just catch the next one). Oh, and this applies to buses, streetcars, rapid transit and subways.

How did William Shatner, or, I should say, Matt Stone, the name of the character he plays in Impulse, become the suave ladies man is he is today? It's hard to say. I do know this, the opening scene shows a young Matt Stone stabbing his mother's abusive G.I. boyfriend to death with a samurai sword some time in the mid-1940s. After stabbing him, little Matthew puts one of his pinky fingers in the corner of his mouth. I'm guessing the whole pinky in the corner of the mouth thing is some kind of psychological coping mechanism, as Matt seems to employ it whenever he's faced with a stressful situation.

Fast-forward to modern times, it's now the mid-1970s, and Matt Stone is the suave, leisure suit-wearing ladies man I referred to earlier. The opening scene explains the mental trauma, but how did Matt become such a ladies man? Actually, I think I'm missing one key ingredient, and that is, Matt Stone looks like William Shatner. And as everyone knows, men who look like William Shatner have to beat horny women off with a stick on a regular basis.

If a stick is not available to beat them off with, Matt simply strangles them with his bare hands. The first woman to experience this hands on approach to homicide is a wealthy milf named Helen (Marcia Knight), who pushes Matt too far while questioning his commitment to their relationship. After strangling her, Matt places his pinky finger in the corner of his mouth and then dumps her body, along with her car, in a nearby lake.

Fans of classic cinema will notice that the shot of Helen's lifeless body sitting in her car at the bottom of the lake is eerily similar to the scene where Shelley Winters does the same in Night of the Hunter.

What's the deal with brunette women giving birth to blonde children? What's that? You say it happens all the time. Interesting. It's just that I initially had trouble buying that Ann Moy (Jennifer Bishop) was mother of Tina Moy (Kim Nicholas), the precocious young girl who... What the fuck?!? Don't look now, but Tina is getting in Matt's car.

Call me a complete square, but don't think children Tina's age should be accepting rides from strange men with fresh scratch wounds on their faces (Helen scratched Matt's face nice and good before buying it). And don't give me any of that, "Hey, man, it was the '70s," malarkey. Nonetheless, Tina wasn't really in any danger, as Matt runs over and kills a dog while driving her the cemetery to visit her dad's grave.

What kind of shop does Ann run? I mean, looking at the stuff on shelves, it would seem she sells everything from dresses, shampoo, cigarettes to jewelry and commemorative dinner plates. It doesn't matter, because look who just walked in the door, why, it's Matt Stone. Catching her as she slipped while dressing her store mannequin, Matt calmly puts her back on her feet, buys some cigarettes, throws her a sly smile and leaves. To paraphrase my personal hero Frank Booth: "Goddamnit, Matt Stone, you're one suave fuck!"

I don't usually do this, but I'm going to have to criticize this movie for something plot-based. When Matt Stone runs into Tina and Tina's mother on the same day, I thought it was a tad coincidental. But when Matt runs into Julia (Ruth Roman), Tina's best friend, while getting film developed, I was like, this is too much. Seriously, what are the odds that Matt Stone would run into three people connected to one another on the same day? What's that? You thought it was Matt Stone's plan all along? I don't know, man, it seemed so haphazard.

Think about it, how did Matt know Tina would be standing in the middle of the road in the middle of the afternoon? It seemed a little far-fetched, if you ask me. Anyway, Julia invites Matt to a small get together at her place in order to fix him up with Ann. Of course, Julia doesn't know that Matt and Ann have already met; the fact Matt remembered the name of Ann's mannequin (Agatha) was adorable.

As you might expect, Matt and Ann start dating (I told you, Matt is one suave motherfucker). One of their first dates involves a trip to the zoo, where Matt, when Ann is not looking, scolds a lady carrying balloons. However, little does Matt now, but as he's doing this, Karate Pete (Harold "Odd Job" Sakata) is watching from the bushes. Who's Karate Pete? He's Matt's nemesis (a rival con man who Matt owes money to). But don't worry, Matt's got plans for Karate Pete, deadly plans.

Unfortunately, Tina sees these "deadly plans" in action, and spends the rest of the movie trying to convince anyone who will listen that Matt Stone is bad news. Of course, no one believes her. To make matters worse, Tina must now avoid the wrath of Matt, who knows she saw his "deadly plans" in action. Will little Tina survive Matt's multiple attempts to silence her? Who's to say? All I know is, William Shatner is amazing as Matt Stone. And pretty much the only reason why anyone in their right mind should make the effort to watch this movie.

When the luminous Mink Stole (Desperate Living) first appears onscreen and extends her glad-hand to Candice Daly's character, my initial thought was: Yay! Mink Stole! Why the yay? It's simple, really, Mink Stole rules and you rarely ever see her act in movies that are not written and directed by John Waters (Mondo Trasho). However, when that initial yay-based thought had subsided, another thought popped into my head immediately afterward. And that was: Call me crazy, but it would seem that Mink Stole and I have the exact same arms! As I was thinking this thought, it dawned me: I don't think it's a good idea for grown men living on the fringes of heterosexuality to openly admit that they have the exact same arms as Mink Stole. Then I thought: Fuck that shit, I'm not ashamed of my puny arms. In other words, say it loud and say it proud: I have the upper body of a twelve year-old girl. Deal with it. Okay, enough about my tiny little girl arms, let's get down to the nitty-gritty of this cinematic alkaline potassium compound. It's called Liquid Dreams and it is hands down one of the most aesthetically pleasing films I've seen in a long time.

Remember when you saw Front 242 live in concert back in the early 1990s? You do? Excellent. Do you recall all those television sets in the background that were playing weird images on a loop? Actually, I'm not entirely sure if it was Front 242 now that I think about it. All right, let me try again. Did anyone see an industrial band in concert during the early 1990s? Well, if you did, you'll recognize a lot the imagery used throughout this hyper-stylish sci-fi noir/erotic thriller.

Part Videodrome, part Wizard of Oz, part Dr. Caligari, part Baby Face, with a dash of Liquid Sky thrown in there for good measure, Liquid Dreams takes place in what looks like the not-so distant future.

And even though place names like, "Ohio" and "Kansas" are used in the early going, the film shirks nationalism and seems much more interested in creating a unique sense of time and place. It attempts to depict a world that exists purely on its own terms. Something I wish more films would try to do, as I'm getting little tired of films that are set in the real world.

Proving that you don't necessarily need a big budget in order to fashion a completely fabricated world from scratch, writer-director Mark Manos and co-writer Zack Davis set their dystopic vision in a large building called "NeuroVid," which I think was created by using a large model.

While I'm itching to give you a guided tour of the NeuroVid Complex, let's first talk about that opening credits sequence, as it's a doozy. Starting with an explosion of static noise, we're shown a rapid fire series of bizarre images set to what sounds like a Clock DVA* B-side circa The Hacker. Boasting masked figures moaning, scat porn (I'm not 100% sure about this one), blurry images, video glitches, lips smeared with blood and random acts of sadomasochism, the makers of Liquid Dreams have already signaled to me that they mean business. Which, I'll admit, caused me to let out a bit of a sigh of relief, as I thought I was about to watch a bland straight-to-cable erotic thriller.

The cab driver (John Doe) who picks up Eve Black (Candice Daly) pegs her as a small town girl from Ohio in search of a lost love in the big city. Telling him that she is in fact from Kansas and is in search of Tina (Karen Dahl), her long lost sister, Eve instructs the cabbie to let her out in front of an ominous-looking building.

When she enters the lobby, we get our first real taste of NeuroVid, the only channel available in the NeuroVid Complex. Finding her sister's apartment on level three, Eve is shocked to discover her sister lying dead in her bathtub. Asking Cecil (Tracey Walter), a NeuroVid employee with a stutter, to help her, Eve begins to panic. Who did this to her and how did she end up in this place? are the questions that are probably going through her mind right now as she watches Cecil snap pictures of Tina's naked corpse.

Looking like he just stepped off the set of a classic film noir, Lt. Rodino (Richard Steinmetz) enters the room and begins asking Eve a bunch of questions. Wearing a fedora and seemingly always in the process of lighting a cigarette, Lt. Rodino's forthright manner manages to irk Eve, who is still somewhat shell-shocked.

When Eve makes it clear that she has no intention of leaving until she finds out who was responsible for her sister's death, Lt. Rodino asks her, using the most condescending tone in his vast arsenal of condescending tones, if she has any idea where she is. While his tone is a tad dickish, he is right, Eve has no clue what's in store for her if she decides to hang around NeuroVid.

Noticing a video monitor on the wall (every room is equipped with one), she turns up the volume and experiences the audio-video assault that is NeuroVid first-hand. I must say, even though we only get a brief taste of what NeuroVid has to offer, the moment when Eve turns up the volume has to be one of the most industrial moments in film history.

After Lt. Rodino leaves, Eve thinks that she can simply start living in Tina's apartment. Wrong! You see, the apartments in the NeuroVid complex are strictly for employees of NeuroVid. Which means... well, I'll let Juno (Juan Fernández) explain it to her. Kicking her out before she even had to a chance to ask how much the rent is, Eve is sent packing.

Luckily, Paula (Frankie Thorn), who is wearing red gloves and a headband covered in polka dots, sees this and decides to help Eve out by getting her audition to work at The Red Top, a club located on the fifth floor that sort of acts as training ground for new girls (and you can't get any more new than Eve). Borrowing one of Paula's outfits, a tight red dress, Eve is "interviewed" by Maurice (James Oseland), who tells her to dance on his desk without knocking anything over. You would think that Eve's long, shapely legs would be knocking things over left, right and centre, but she doesn't upset a single item on his desk. Boo-ya!

Given the stage name "Dorothy," Eve is assigned a first floor dormitory (she seems glad her room's video monitor is on the fritz, but Cecil tells her he'll come by to fix it later - NeuroVid, NV for short, is mandatory), and she gets a quick refresher course on the many rules and regulations that come with working at The Red Top by Juno, her new boss (that's right, one minute he's kicking you out onto the street, the next he's telling you that you'll be making 500 units a week).

Now, The Red Top isn't your average strip club. The men ask the women if they want to slow dance, and when the men start to get grabby, the woman takes him to a private area located behind a red curtain. Once there, the man is escorted by a couple of "Escorts" (men in grey jumpsuits) to The Hot Box. What happens in The Hot Box is a bit of a mystery at first. But as we soon find out, the reason the women are instructed to take the men behind the red curtain when they get grabby is because that's when their brains are teeming with endorphins.

One of the first men Eve/Dorothy takes behind the red curtain is Angel (Paul Bartel), a throat, ear and foot fetishist (his line pertaining to Eve/Dorothy's sweaty feet brought a tear to my eye). Curious to know what happens to the men once they're inside The Hot Box, Eve/Dorothy decides to take a peak. And let's just say Eve/Dorothy is appalled by what she sees.

Told that she has "television potential," Eve/Dorothy reluctantly agrees to appear in one of NeuroVid's videos. This leads to the film's best sequence, a video shoot on a farm set featuring a male reactor (those who appear in NV videos are not called actors, they're called reactors) dressed like a deformed scarecrow and two half-naked guys in crow masks dancing around Eve/Dorothy, who is dressed as a farm girl in white hold-up stockings.

Instructed by the video's director, Felix (Mink Stole), to listen to her muze, the scene mixes Rinse Dream-style kookiness with Belgian electro-industrial music (Insekt, Vomito Negro, A Split-Second, The Klinik, Snowy Red, Liquid G, etc.), as the vocal sample, "freedom from the flesh," is repeated over and over again.

In-between the shots of Eve/Dorothy shooting her NV video, we're shown snippets of her performance at Twilight, the strip club that serves as a jumping off point to being chosen to participate in The Ritual. And once you have performed in both a NeuroVid video and danced at Twilight, you're pretty much guaranteed to be asked to partake in The Ritual. And as you might expect, The Ritual takes place on the penthouse floor, where The Major (Barry Dennen), the NV big cheese, rules over his sick, twisted, self-contained mini-empire.

As both Paula (who lounges in white hold up stockings while watching NV like a pro) and Marilyn Tokuda's Violet (a fellow Red Top dancer who is obsessed with Eve/Dorothy's leather jacket) would say, in the world of NeuroVid, "you're either up or out." That's right, there's no turning back for her. If Eve really wants to know what happened to her sister, she's going to have to keep climbing the NeuroVid ladder all the way to the top.

Black stockings, white stockings, blindfolds, syringes, Mink Stole (Female Trouble - "I wouldn't suck your lousy dick if I was suffocating and there was oxygen in your balls!"), talk of "peak experiences," siphoning endorphins, Paul Bartel (Eating Raoul - "Why don't you go to bed, honey? I'll bag the Nazi and straighten up."), mismatched opera gloves, industrial inspired music (composer Ed Tomney's electronic score is amazing), muze blocking, skinny arm confessions, Tracey Walter (Repo Man - "The more you drive, the less intelligent you are."), and neon diner clocks, Liquid Dreams, to put it simply, is what awesome looks like.

If you're like me, and you thought someone should make a movie that totally looks like it was inspired by the cover of "The Ritual Should Be Kept Alive (Part 2)" by The Hybryds (who, like everything that was cool circa 1990, are from Belgium), your prayers have finally been answered.

Oh, and, by the way, if you have twenty-five minutes to kill, you should check out "The Ritual Should Be Kept Alive (Part 2)," it's trippy and intense. And lastly, don't even think about trying to take advantage of my freakishly tiny arms, I have the legs of a Welsh rugby player. Meaning, I'll straight up kick your ass.

* Clock DVA is actually pronounced "klok dvah." I used to say, "klok dee-vee-ay" back in the day. I know, how embarrassing.

As I watched Shaun Costello's early 1970s scrotum oscillate as a direct result of the pelvic thrusts he was hurling effervescently towards the hirsute quagmire festering between Jutta's David's tantalizing thighs, I thought to myself: They had better change positions soon, or else I'm going to have to get a restraining order against his woebegone testicles. In other words, get your junk out of my face, Shaun, I'm trying to get a glimpse of Jutta David's ample backside. And it's obvious, from where I'm sitting anyway, that your swinging ball-sack is one of the leading causes for the complete and utter lack of Jutta David booty in my life. Now, you could say, it's not his fault his nuts are obstructing Jutta's tangible thickness. But you know why you can't say that? It's because Shaun Costello (a.k.a. Helmuth Richler) is the one directing this bad boy. Meaning, he's in charge of dictating the positions. So, Shaun, baby, buddy, pal, honey cakes, bubala, let's get your greasy taint off the screen. Thanks a bunch. When Jutta David does finally climb on top of Shaun's pole, I was like: It's about time. And you know who else was relieved to finally get a look-see at Jutta's masterpiece of an ass? Everyone's favourite deranged Vietnam vet turned gas station attendant/serial rapist/serial killer, that's who.

That's right, if I can find solace in Shaun Costello's enema classic Waterpower (come for the sleazy, authentic 42nd Street atmosphere, stay for the lukewarm, taupe-coloured, rectal-flavoured water spewing all over Jamie Gillis' cock), I can find some motherfuckin' solace in Forced Entry, the film that has the distinction of being not only one of the roughest fuck films of the burgeoning porno chic era, but one of the first to exploit the Vietnam Vet as a movie villain.

When most people think of films that feature mentally disturbed Vietnam vets, they usually think of Taxi Driver. Well, Joe (Harry Reems)–I'm assuming he's the "Joe" in "Joe's Friendly Service," a gas station in West Greenwich Village–is way more out to lunch than Travis Bickle. For starters, Joe has no desire to clean up the streets. He seems simply wants chicks with nice bums to massage his penis with their mouths, is that too much to ask? What's that? I'm being told that is too much to ask.

Given that the freewheeling, free love vibe/stench of the late 1960s is still floating around out there, Joe probably could get his genitals serviced via conventional means. But I'm afraid his time in Vietnam has completely ruined his social skills. Though, I must say, his ability to acquire the personal information of the people, particularly the young, attractive women who roll into his station, is pretty first-rate. It's too bad this ability of his is only used to foster his two favourite hobbies: Rape and murder.

I would have liked to have added breaking and entering to his list of hobbies. But then again, as the first rape and murder scene clearly shows, Joe isn't all that adept when it comes to forcing his way inside the places of residence belonging to the ladies he plans on raping and murdering.

Unsure how to break into the apartment belonging to David (Shaun Costello) and his wife, oh, let's call her, Beatrice (Jutta David), Joe lingers on the fire escape for what seems like an eternity. Granted, he was probably waiting for David to unleash his moist load all over Beatrice's humdinger of a poop chute. But still, get in there, man.

It's obvious right off the bat that this isn't going to be your average porno flick. Opening with a wall of text that explains the definition of the term "Vietnam vet" and a quote from American psychiatrist and author Robert Lifton, those wanting to masturbate with any level of comfort better start thinking about looking elsewhere to find cinematic satisfaction.

Granted, you might be able to induce a self-administered climax with the help of the film's opening sex scene. But only after you have viewed it once already. Why? It's simple, really. When you watch David and Beatrice going at it the first time, you never know when Joe, who, like I said, is lurking on the fire escape, might decide to break in and chop both their heads off with that huge knife he's waving around. This makes it impossible for you to relax. Hence, ruining your chances of attaining a stress-free orgasm.

Sure, there are plenty of sick twists out there who can pretty much masturbate to anything. But most normal people will find Joe's presence to be too distracting. That's not to say your second viewing will be any easier. As I mentioned before, the sight of David's untoned pouch of scrotum skin knocking violently against Beatrice's anus is the only thing on the screen for what seems like forever. And this, no matter what context it's shown, will cause some audience members to remain flaccid for the scene's duration.

Lingering testes aside, the scene also features graphic footage from the Vietnam War, eerie music, light jazz, the sound of helicopters flying over head, Harry Reems in an oil-stained shirt acting like a lunatic and police sirens wailing the background. Oh, how I would have loved to have seen the raincoaters squirming in their seats when this film played on 42nd Street.

Of course, Joe isn't really terrible at breaking and entering, he was just waiting for David to leave, so he can have Beatrice all to himself. Holding a knife to her throat, Joe forces Beatrice to give him head. To make matters worse, this scene is spliced together with footage of dead children. If this scene didn't cause the raincoaters to run for the exits back in the day, then I have clearly underestimated their desperate need to see naked women on film.

After dispatching the cherub-faced goddess with the butt that doesn't know the meaning of the word quit, Joe goes back to the gas station. Like clockwork, another woman, let's call her, Judy (Laura Cannon), shows up, this time asking for directions. Writing down the address she was looking for on a piece of paper seconds after she drives off, Joe is on the move again.

Not messing around this time, Joe grabs Judy from the shower, and throws her on the bed. If you thought the scene with Beatrice was rough, you ain't seen nothing yet.

While the throat slitting effect was okay in terms of realism, the stabbing effect was downright horrific. It also helped that actress being stabbed was so committed to the scene. Hell, I'll just come right out and say it: Laura Cannon is an amazing actress. You really get the sense that she is being raped and murdered somewhere in Queens by a psychotic Vietnam Vet.

In an ironic twist, Joe's meets his match in the form of two aloof hippie chicks (played by the ultra-annoying Nina Fawcett and Ruby Runhouse). Employing the same credit card scam he used on Beatrice, Joe shows up at their house unannounced (I know, how rude) and tries to rape and murder these two "scummy hippies" who have just finishing dyking out on a ratty-looking mattress. The key word there being "tries." Proving that Joe feeds off his victim's fear, what happens when he attempts to rape and murder someone who doesn't behave in a manner that he's used to? And just like the raincoaters in the audience, Joe becomes bewildered when faced with events that deviant from the norm.

Despite all the unpleasantness, Forced Entry is a surprisingly compelling slab of early 1970s sleaze. Shot on location in New York City, the film features top-notch acting, highly effective gore and clever editing. If you enjoyed Waterpower, do all of us a favour and get your head examined immediately. Just kidding. Seriously, if you like your cinema gritty and nasty, you can't get any grittier or nastier than this film.

If I wasn't so anal-retentive, I would have skipped doing a review of the third chapter in the Findlay's Flesh Trilogy all-together, and gone done something more productive. (Like what?) Oh, I don't know, I could always alphabetize my prized collection of Russian flags. Of course, I would put them in three separate groups (I'm no idiot): And they would be organized as such: Republics (including Mordovia and the Udmurt Republic), Krais (featuring the Kamchatka Krai and the Krasnodar Krai), and, my personal favourite, the Oblasts, baby (a group that boasts the Kaliningrad Oblast and the Kostroma Oblast). (But you don't have a Russian flag collection.) Whatever, man. The point I'm awkwardly trying to make is this: I don't want to review The Kiss of Her Flesh, the third chapter the epic story of a man determined to murder every single woman on Earth. I know, why wouldn't I want to a review movie where a woman is killed by poisonous sperm? It's simple, really. Anyone care to guess as to why? Damn, am I that predictable? You're right, though, the film's total lack of stockings, garter belts and high heel shoes sent me into fetish-based tailspin. If I was sitting in the audience at one of the 42nd Street cinemas that was showing this movie in pre-Jimmy Fallon New York City, I would have jumped to my feet and started yelling obscenities like a half-crazed lunatic. (You wouldn't do that.) Oh, wouldn't I, eh? (That's right, you wouldn't.) You know what? You're probably right, I wouldn't do that. But you can bet your bottom dollar that I would be sporting an annoyed expression on my face for the rest of the day.

It wouldn't have been such a big deal if the previous chapters hadn't been so robust in the lingerie department. Actually, if you think about it, it's my fault for assuming the third and final chapter in the trilogy would be filled with stockings and garter belts. Either way, the moment it finally dawned me that there would be no go-go dancers wearing stockings and garter belts in this movie whatsoever was so depressing. In fact, just thinking about that moment makes my heart sink, as I was ultra gung-ho to watch this movie. You should have seen me, I was literally bouncing off the walls with anticipation.

(No stockings or garter belts, you say?) Yep. (What about panties and bras?) Yeah, there's some of those. (Why don't you talk about them?) I have no interest in bras. And the cut of the panties featured throughout this film failed to meet my frightfully specific pantie needs. You see, I have this pantie itch, and The Kiss of Her Flesh repeatedly dropped the ball when it came time to scratch it.

(What about poison sperm? That sounds intriguing.) Yes, yes, yes, poison sperm! And get this, Richard Jennings (Michael Findlay) doesn't just poison his sperm after he's ejaculated it... (Don't tell me...) You got it, he has somehow managed to make his sperm poisonous. Meaning, it's always poisonous. Let's say you're giving Richard Jennings a blow job, and you're the kind of person who prefers to swallow (no fuss, no muss). Well, you didn't just ingest sperm, you ingested poisonous sperm! (Even though you didn't really need to explain that part in such lurid detail, I dig your enthusiasm.)

The cool thing about the poisonous sperm scene is that it's immediately followed by an acid douche. And, yes, it's as painful as it sounds.

I just remembered that I usually comment on the film's the opening credits at around this time. And just like, The Touch of Her Flesh and The Curse of Her Flesh, The Kiss of Her Flesh goes that extra mile to make their opening credits somewhat memorable. While not as clever as the previous opening credits sequences, the credits appear on lip-shaped pieces of paper that are placed all over Uta Erickson's naked body. If you were to corner me in alleyway and ask me what my favourite opening credits sequence out of the three would be, I would have to say, the one from The Curse of Her Flesh; the sound of freshly urinated piss cascading against cheap porcelain made my spirit soar.

Quirky fun-fact: The man kissing Uta's flesh is none other than Earl Hindman! You know, the guy who played Tim Allen's neighbour on Home Improvement. I never watched the show, but I know enough about it to know that only the top part of his face ever appeared onscreen. Well, in The Kiss of Her Flesh we get to more than the top of his face; Uta crams a string of beads up his ass, and then slowly pulls them out.

While gathering fire wood near a snowy beach somewhere in New England, Richard Jennings stumbles upon Cleo (Donna Stone), a thick brunette. Grabbing the nearest weapon he can find (a tire iron), Jennings hits her over the head with it.

"I do a service to all mankind with every Jezebel I kill," sneers Jennings, as he removes Cleo's clothing.

Tying her to the kitchen cabinets, Jennings proceeds to torment Cleo with a lobster claw (scratching her cleavage in the process). After he's bored with doing that he grabs a knife and says, "Let's cut away these underpants to more easily get at the source." It should be noted that Jennings uses tongs to aggravate her thighs as well. Tired of messing around, Jennings hooks Cleo up with wires and begins electrocuting her using what looks like a car battery.

Meanwhile, somewhere in New York City, Maria (Uta Erickson) and Don (Earl Hindman) are busy groping one another. As I already stated, Maria shoves beads up Don's ass. So, instead of rehashing that part, I'll mention that Maria has a scab on her left knee and we see Maria's pubic hair, something we have yet to see in The Flesh Trilogy. It's true, we get a hint of Cleo's bush during the lobster claw scene. But like I said, we only get hint of it. In the scene between Maria and Don, we get full bush.

Getting a call from her sister telling her that someone electrocuted her one of her friends, Maria knows it has to be the work of Richard Jennings. Determined to stop his reign of terror, Maria hops on the next train to New England to confront Jennings and, if she has time, have sex with her sister. Knocking on... (Wait a minute, did you say, sex with her sister?) Is that not normal? (I don't want to sound like a prude, but, yeah, it kinda is.) Well, Maria and Doris (Suzzan Landau) don't seem to think so.

Knocking on the door of her sister's house, Maria waits outside as her sister gets up to answer it. (Where are you going with this? Oh, no. I don't tell me... you dug the way she got up to answer the door, didn't you?) You got that right. In the film's sexy moment, Doris, who is knitting with her legs crossed, hears a knock at the door, gets up and totally answers it.

It wouldn't surprise me to learn that Doris knit that short dress she is wearing. Unfortunately, they never imply that she knit it herself. Though, the fact that Doris is a knitter, has lead me to believe the chances that she makes her own clothes are pretty high. Anyway, while I would love to tell you what kind of panties Doris is wearing, I can't because the garment she is wearing is too thick (maybe someone should go easy on the yarn... Doris, perhaps?) Nonetheless, I'm sure we'll find out more about her panties soon enough.

And wouldn't you know it, after some perfunctory sister-on-sister chit chat, Maria and Doris head upstairs for some not even close to being perfunctory sister-on-sister cunnilingus. "No one but you can satisfy me," Doris coos to her sister as she gingerly removes her black lace panties. I'm sure am glad she said that using her indoor cooing voice, as Mona (Janet Banzet), her under the weather lesbian lover, might have overheard her and taken offence (she's recovering from the flu in the room next-door).

What's next? Well, you're just going to have to watch yourself. Okay, I'll give you a hint: Jennings plays doctor. But be warned: There are no stockings, garter belts or high heels whatsoever in this film.

All right, that about does it. Oh, before I go, here are my "Top 10 Murder Techniques Implemented by Richard Jennings in The Flesh Trilogy" -- 1) Poison semen; 2) Acid douche; 3) Lobster claw/tongs/car battery; 4) Poison cat paws; 5) Blow torch; 6) Poison g-string; 7) Table saw; 8) Blow gun; 9) Poison rose; 10) Knife stab. Ironically, four out of the top five murder techniques are featured in The Kiss of Her Flesh. So, what the film lacks in stockings, garter belts and high heels, it makes up for it in creative kills.

Did I just watch a film that basically contains ninety straight minutes of hot Indonesian women firing makeshift machine guns in leather shorts, leopard print leotards and frayed mini-skirts? Let me double-check, as this sounds more like a recurring dream of mine than an actual movie. Holy shit!!! This movie is real. And get this, it's technically a women in prison flick. That's right, the hot Indonesian women I mentioned less than ten seconds ago spend the bulk of the film's running time locked in the dungeon belonging an evil aphrodisiac manufacturer with a thing for kinky/rough sex. And not only that, it's got hellcats in headbands on motorbikes and a revenge-based storyline. It's also–and I can't stress this enough–the movie to see if you like to watch leggy Indonesian chicks in colourful outfits blowing away tons of bumbling, red jumpsuit-sporting, saucy black beret-wearing henchmen with funny-looking machine guns. In fact, the film, directed by Ackyl Anwari, is so replete with the thing I just mentioned, I felt a tad guilty afterwards. Here I am, basking/wallowing in such an egregious form of cinematic awesomeness, while there are literally millions around the globe right this minute fighting one another over petty nonsense. I say, why kill people when you can watch leggy Indonesian women in headbands and leather shorts blast their enemies to kingdom come? The choice is simple, really. Stop the violence, and watch Virgins from Hell (a.k.a. Maiden's Revenge). Trust me, it's the right thing to do.

I know, the movie might look moderately, if not extremely stupid on the surface, but who says art has to be intelligent? This film has two, maybe three goals it wants to achieve. The first one, of course, is to entertain. And boy does it ever. Sure, some of the action sequences do get repetitive after awhile, but the film has nary a dull moment.

The second goal is definitely to titillate. For a country with a reputation in the West for being conservative, Indonesia has produced some of the sexiest movies ever made. Now, some of you will point out that this film has no nudity whatsoever. Well, I say to you, who needs nudity when you have unclothed lady leggy legs lounging up a storm in almost every scene?

Lounge leggily, you lascivious hosebeats! Lounge, I tell you! Lounge!!! It's good for what ails you.

While it has produced some of the sexiest movies, Indonesia has also produced some of the weirdest. And that brings me to goal number three: Freak out white people. Of course, I can't prove that it was the intention of the makers of these films to freak out white people, as they probably had no inkling that white people would be watching their films some twenty years after they were made. But deep down, I like to think freaking out white people was one of their goals when they set out to make these films. And by "these films," I'm referring to stuff like, Lady Terminator and Mystics of Bali.

In desperate need of cash, Sheila (Yenny Farida), leader of an all-girl biker gang, targets a local casino. Now, why Sheila felt the need to go undercover as a whore is anyone's guess, as it didn't seem to add or take away from the execution of their plan. But it does lead to a pretty awesome scene where Sheila pretends to take off her red boots. Interrupted mid-pretend zip, Sheila fights off the advances of a sleazy gangster by employing a ceiling lamp to great effect.

After finishing him off (she blows him away with his own gun), Sheila signals to her fellow bikers to attack the casino. You see, why did she have go undercover as a whore? I mean, their plan seemed simple enough: Step 1: Attack casino. Step 2: Neutralize the lead gangster. Step 3: Smash shit up. Step 4: Grab the cash. Posing as a whore was completely unnecessary. Unless, Sheila had a grudge against the sleazy gangster she ends up killing that I didn't know about. It's the only theory that makes sense.

Riding back to base, occasionally shooting their guns in the air in a celebratory manner along the way, Sheila is in a good mood. And why shouldn't she be? With enough money to buy all the ammunition she needs for her and her gang to storm the compound of the ruthless Mr. Tiger (Dicky Zulkarnaen), Sheila is so close to getting revenge, she can taste it. Not so fast, Sheila. It would seem that not all the members of your all-girl bike gang agree with this course of action.

A couple of them, specifically, Julie and Lisa, aren't down with the plan at all (they had hoped to spend the money on more important things, like, leather shorts and shock absorbers).

Realizing that she might have an insurrection on her hands, Sheila gives a rousing speech, one that includes a reminder why she's doing all this in the first place. As she's talking, we're shown what happened on the day Mr. Tiger killed her parents and turned their house into a fortified drug lab.

You can tell why Sheila is their leader (she even throws in a "as God as my witness..." during her speech) and why Yenny Farida was cast as such by the producers just by watching this scene. Sure, her voice has been dubbed by another actress, but Yenny's intense facial expressions are all Yenny. I know it's only a movie, but after listening to her speech, I wanted to lend a hand and help her destroy Mr. Tiger's criminal syndicate.

Meanwhile, in the subterranean lab located underneath his compound, Mr. Tiger is testing the aphrodisiac he is forcing one of his scientists to produce on Dutch, his fiercely loyal, heavily tattooed, lesbian sidekick. When the potion fails to produce any orgasmic writhing whatsoever, Mr. Tiger has his male henchmen kill the scientist.

Just as Larry, a younger scientist, is starting to work on Mr. Tiger's aphrodisiac, Sheila and her gang launch their attack.

Despite suffering mass casualties, Sheila and her gang manage to get to the front door of Mr. Tiger's compound. In fact, they're standing on the very stairs Mr. Tiger killed Sheila's parents. Unfortunately for Sheila, Mr. Tiger had a trap door installed. Meaning, when Sheila and most of her army approach the door, they fall through the floor and into the murky embrace of his dungeon.

Grabbing the leggy cutie in the green and pink outfit, Mr. Tiger instructs Larry to inject her with the aphrodisiac he's been working on. Writhing in chemically assisted orgasmic pleasure seconds after receiving the shot, Mr. Tiger is giddy and says that he plans to take over the world wide aphrodisiac market with this concoction. Boastfully claiming that every man the world over will want to own his product, Mr. Tiger contacts his middlemen; who test the quality of Mr. Tiger's love potion (set a song that sounded an awful lot like, "Nights in White Satin") by violating the organic structure of the leggy cutie in green and pink outfit.

Will Sheila and her gang of colourful vixens be able to extract themselves from this sticky pickle of a situation? I mean, let's be blunt, they probably will. Things usually turn for best for chicks who wear red leather shorts and leopard print leotards, it's a matter of simple physics.

However, the same can't be said for those whose loyalty to Sheila isn't steadfast. That's right, troublemakers Julie and Lisa sell out Sheila and join Mr. Tiger's forces. Though, Sheila shouldn't be surprised, those two have been undermining her authority from the get-go. In other words, Sheila should have given them the heave-ho long ago.

Thinking they made the right choice by switching sides, Julie and Lisa end up becoming Mr. Tiger's sex slaves. Forced to dance (dance oddly, mind you) to Italo Disco music in pink and yellow dresses for Mr. Tiger's amusement, Julie and Lisa must be kicking themselves as they awkwardly boogied in front of a pink wall covered in tiger posters. Unless they get off on being whipped, handcuffed and having their thighs grabbed with more gusto than usual.

It doesn't say in the credits who's responsible for the costumes in this movie, but that doesn't mean their marvelous work should not go unnoticed. Giving each character her own colour or, some cases, they're own animal print, the costume designer clearly put a lot of thought into the design of each outfit. Never once did I get confused as to which gang member was which. Go ahead, try me. (Okay, what colour was Lisa's shorts and/or skirt?) That's easy, they were black. You see, I knew the ins and out of each gang member's ensemble like the back of my hand.

Culminating with an epic battle pitting Sheila, Larry (you know he's a hip scientist by the fact that he wears Nike's with his lab coat) and what's left of her gang against Mr. Tiger, his henchmen, that "lesbo" Dutch and turncoats Julie and Lisa, the film contains more shoot outs, more leather shorts, more torture, more explosions, more cat fights, more headbands, more kooky dancing and more leggy writhing than the average person deserves in a single serving. Need I say more? (Let me see... Leather shorts, orgasmic writhing, Italo Disco... Nope, you've said plenty.) Oh, and don't forget to put another a leggy Indonesian babe on the barbie; hardcore Virgins from Hell fans will know what I mean.

I love Olivia Newton-John. Now, in some less progressive circles, a statement like that might come off as a tad queer. But it's the truth, I love Olivia Newton-John, and I don't care who knows it. Oh, you're probably thinking to yourself: There's nothing queer, or even faggoty for that matter, about loving a woman, especially one who is a British-born Australian singer-songwriter and actress. That's true, you would think the sight of a man loving a woman would endear oneself to the heterosexual overlords who oversee all that goes on within the ovary-antagonizing gefilte fish factory that is the straight universe. But they're not. In fact, there's nothing more subversive than a man loving a woman. In an ironic twist, this is particularly true in a Utah town called Beaver. (Ironic? Twist?) I don't know how many people know this, but Beaver is another word for cunt. And the last time I checked, most women are fitted with the complex box-like doohickeys that are some times referred to as beavers and cunts. (That makes sense.) You see, the heterosexual overlords don't want you to love women, they want you to procreate with women. (There's a difference?) You bet your ass there is. Love is for sissys who regularly clip their toe nails. Real men, on the other hand, fuck pussy whenever possible. And the latter activity, which any doctor will tell you, is the leading cause of pregnancy the world over.

What if you loved Olivia Newton-John so much, that you wanted to be her? And by "be her," I mean the way she appears on the cover of her 1979 album "Totally Hot." You would most likely think that this person had totally lost his marbles. Well, in Trent Harris'The Beaver Trilogy, this question is explored not once, not twice, but three times!

Whenever I hear someone use the word "meta" in a sentence, I always wonder to myself: What the fuck does that mean? Using something called a "dictionary," or at least the modern equivalent of one, I looked the word up. After reading the definition of "meta" multiple times, I began to understand the word's meaning.

The reason I'm talking about the word "meta," is because I think it applies to this film. Truth be told, if I was in charge of writing the definitions in dictionaries, I would say The Beaver Trilogy is the definition of meta. I'd even go as far as say that I don't think a film has ever been this meta.

Anyway, moving on to less meta ground. Who would have thought that Trent Harris' chance meeting with Groovin' Gary in the parking lot of a Salt Lake City television station in 1979 would lead to a film that deftly explores the topics of fame, celebrity, intolerance and mortuary makeup application, and do so in a manner that would elicit so much humour and pathos? I know I sure didn't. I mean, when I first saw Trent Harris (Rubin and Ed) point his video camera at the world's biggest Olivia Newton-John fan, I had no idea what kind of poignancy lay ahead of me.

You know when Grandmaster Flash says, "Uh huh ha ha ha" at the end of raping the lyric, "It's like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder how I keep from going under" on the classic track "The Message"? Well, Groovin' Gary punctuates his sentences the same way.

Wearing bell bottom jeans and a rugby shirt covered in stripes (the stripes kind of reminded me of those old jerseys of the Vancouver Canucks used to sport), Groovin' Gary starts doing impressions of John Wayne, Sly Stallone and Barry Manilow for the cameraman. It's obvious right away the self-proclaimed "Rich Little of Beaver" loves being in front of the camera. After showing Trent his white 1964 Chevy Impala, Groovin' Gary drives off. But not before promising to contact the cameraman if any "good stories" occur in Beaver.

I don't know how much time passes, but Trent gets a letter from Gary informing him that there's a talent show happening in Beaver and that yours truly is headlining. Insisting that he attend, Trent drives down... or was it up? Trent drives to Beaver with his camera in toe. While it's clear, judging by his car, that Gary loves Olivia Newton-John (he has Olivia's name and likeness stenciled on the passenger side window). But just in case anyone in the audience had any doubts regarding his devotion to her, Gary plans on unleashing Olivia Newton-Don at the talent show.

Meeting Gary at the local funeral home, Trent films him as he gets makeup done. It's here where that film starts to really show its off-beat charm, as Gary repeatedly reminds everyone watching that he is in fact a man. But at the same time, he can't help but extol the many virtues of Miss Newton-John: "I love Olivia Newton-John... This is just for fun... I'm a man, not a girl. I enjoy being a guy... Where's my purse?"

After enduring some of the other local talent, it's finally Groovin' Gar... or I should say, it's finally Olivia Newton-Don's time to shine, as we get a wonky rendition of ONJ's "Please Don't Keep Me Waiting." Oh, and like I said before, Gary is dressed like Olivia as she appears on the cover of her 1979 album "Totally Hot."

If you want to know what life was like for Gary before being filmed in the parking lot of that Salt Lake City television station, you're going to have to wait until chapter three. But the black and white "Beaver Kid #2, starring Sean Penn as "Groovin' Larry," does explore the aftermath of his Beaver talent show appearance. And let's just say, it takes a dark turn. For starters, in this chapter, the cameraman, now played an actor, seems to have duplicitous intentions. It also implies that Larry's fellow Beaverites might not be all that thrilled to have a male Olivia Newton John impersonator living in their town.

While watching "The Beaver Kid," it never occurred to me that some people would frown upon having a male Olivia Newton John impersonator in their midst. However, "Beaver Kid #2" smashes any naive notions I had about small town tolerance.

The most relatable scene in the entire trilogy has to be the sight of Sean Penn in a blonde wig singing Olivia Newton-John's "Please Don't Keep Me Waiting" into a hair brush in front of a Xanadu poster. I mean, who hasn't done that? I'm a man, by the way. Don't get me wrong, I love Olivia, but just not as much as I love being a guy.

Getting back to smashing naive notions. Part 3: "The Orkly Kid," smashes them even further by fleshing out the back-story of Groovin' Gary/Larry even further. What does Larry do when he's not hanging out in the parking lots of Boise (the action has now moved to Idaho) television stations or singing in Olivia drag at talent shows? He survives, that's what he does. He has a dream, and that dream involves being accepted for who he really is. Well, I have bad news for you, fella. It ain't going to happen in Orkly.

You would think that Carrissa, the diner waitress played E.G. Daily (Valley Girl), would more accepting of your unique lifestyle, but she's just as bad as the rest of them.

It's true, the first two chapters in The Beaver Trilogy lay a lot of the groundwork. However, The Orkly Kid is the jewel in The Beaver Trilogy crown. Anchored by a terrific performance by Crispin Glover, and great supporting work by Stefan Arngrim (Class of 1984), as Larry's "friend," The Orkly Kid takes the premise of an Olvia Newton-John obsessed eccentric from in a small town in Utah, and runs with it. Now, the fact that I watched the entire film in one sitting, means that I had to listen to "Please Don't Keep Me Waiting" at least six times. Meaning, you'll probably never want to hear the song ever again. That being said, the film is kind of rewarding... in a "This is awkward... make it stop" sort of way.

Most people use their hands to pick things up. I've even read that some people use their hands to throw the very things they just picked up, and get paid handsomely to do so. Others, I've been told, use their hands to strike objects. Personally, when I'm not spastically dancing to "Moving Hands" by Belgium's The Klinik, I like to scratch and grope things with my hands. Whether I'm doing it to myself or to complete strangers on public transit, nothing beats a good scratch and/or grope. Now that I've established what normal people like to do with their hands, what if I told you there's a film character out there who uses her hands almost exclusively to subdue their pain and suffering? After experiencing something that causes her... pain and suffering, troubled blonde Meg Kelton/Ellen Green (Gigi Darlene) takes her hands and either places them on her head (usually over her temples) or over the entirety of her face. Are you sitting down? Good. Because I counted eight separate incidents in Doris Wishman's Bad Girls Go to Hell where Meg/Ellen uses this method (hand therapy, if you will) to soothe her... pain and suffering. The reason I asked if you were sitting down was because I didn't think you could handle the thought of a troubled blonde in so much agony. I mean, think about it. There are eight separate incidents. The movie is barely an hour long. In other words, that's a shitload of angst for one blonde, troubled or otherwise, to experience over such a short amount of time.

In order to fill in the gaps that don't feature Gigi Darlene cradling her head and face in her hands, we watch as the gorgeous Dawn Bennett retrieves a cold beverage from the refrigerator while wearing a black lace body-stocking.

As I watched her struggle to open the can containing her cool beverage, I thought to myself: This should be the entire movie. I know, there's no way the sight of Dawn Bennett wandering around her apartment in a perpetual daze while wearing a black lace body-stocking could be stretched out to the time necessary to pass as a feature length movie. But, I have to say, this film comes pretty close to making my dream come true.

Meaning, I better get used to the sight of Dawn Bennett performing mundane tasks while wearing a black lace body-stocking, as it eats up a good chunk of this film's running time.

Which reminds me, Dawn Bennett, who plays Della, is never once seen cradling her head or face with her hands. You wanna know why? She's got better things to do than pretend her hands can placate her misery.

As we already know, Della likes to use her hands to open drinks. But more importantly, she employs her hands to bring out lesbianism in others. Not sure you're a dyke? Here's a free tip: Before heading down to your local Subaru dealership to pick out a shiny new Lesbaru Outback (the automotive choice for discerning lesbians six years running), let Della feel you up first. If anyone knows how to jump-start authentic lesbianism, it's Della.

At any rate, as I was saying earlier, a troubled blonde uses her hands a total of eight times to mollify the pain and suffering she experiences over the course of Bad Girls Go to Hell. Let's celebrate each face covering incident in the order they occur, shall we?

#1 -- Nearly raped by her building's janitor in the stairwell, Meg/Ellen throws her black lace negligee sheathed body on her gaudy sofa and uses it and her hands to alleviate the trauma of the unsavoury ordeal she just experienced.

#2 -- Crushing the skull of the building's janitor during his second attempt to rape her, Meg/Ellen returns to her apartment and takes a moment to ease her stress by covering her eyes and forehead with her hand. If you're worried that Meg/Ellen's hair will hamper her ability to ease her stress with her hand, not to fear, she's wearing a headband, which does an amazing job of keeping her hair away from her eyes and forehead, a.k.a., her primary stress zones.

#3 -- Instead of sticking around to face the music, Meg/Ellen decides to flee to New York City. Sitting on a park bench, she contemplates this decision the best way she knows how. Yep, you guessed it, by holding her head in her hands. Noticing the destitute troubled blonde sitting on a park bench with her head in her hands, Ed Baines (Sam Stewart) approaches her.

#4 -- While living with Ed Baines, Meg, who, ever since the incident with the janitor, is pretending to be Ellen Green from Chicago, clutches her head after Ed rejects her attempt to come on to him. It would seem that Ed is a recovering alcoholic, and it only takes a couple of drinks (Meg/Ellen found a bottle of cooking sherry hidden under the sink) for him to beat Meg/Ellen with his belt. As Ed is sleeping it off, Meg/Ellen quietly slips out the door.

#5 -- After giving Della, who wears black lace panties underneath her black lace body-stocking (oh, the lace-based redundancy of it all), a demonstration of her skills as an acrobat, Meg/Ellen runs from the room in a huff. Later on, she can be seen brooding on the sofa. And what's the best way to for a shapely blonde to brood while wearing nothing but a black bra, black lace panties and a black pumps? (How the hell should I know?) Haven't you been paying attention? The best way for a shapely blonde to brood while wearing next to nothing is to support her head with her hands. Duh.

#6 -- The act of renting a room for twenty bucks a week from a married couple looked like it might be able to relieve a smattering of her sorrow. But wouldn't you know it, the second she sits on her bed, a tsunami of stress-related self-doubt washes over her. Unsure if this is the right place for her, Meg/Ellen manifests this stress-related self-doubt by resting her head in her hands.

#7 -- Out getting pills for the semi-invalid she's been hired to take of, Meg/Ellen feels like she's being followed by a strange man. Rushing back, Meg/Ellen runs to straight to her room, sits on the bed and cradles her paranoid head in her hands like a new born baby.

#8 -- Waking up back where she started, Meg tells her husband Ted (Alan Feinstein), as he's walking out the door, that she doesn't understand what's happening (he brushes off her concerns with a nonchalant brand of mid-1960s male indifference). And what's happening is clearly a nightmare. In order to convey this to the audience, Meg covers her face with her hands one last time. When will this nightmare be over?, she must be thinking to herself, as the placement of her hands slowly causes the world around her to grow dark.

Damn, I wasn't kidding around. I just listed eight separate instances where a troubled blonde covers her face as a direct result of stress.

It should go without saying, but out of all the hand-related head cushioning scenes featured in this movie, the hand-related head cushioning that takes place at Della's apartment was definitely my favourite. Of course, it wasn't my favourite in terms of actually supporting one's head with their hands (that would be #4, the head cradling that takes place at Ed's). No, it's my favourite mainly because Dawn Bennett is so freakin' alluring as Della. Seriously, I could watch her perform even most mundane of tasks. And on top of that, Meg/Ellen's hand cradling at Della's not really stress-related, it has more to do with the guilt she feels for being attracted to Della.

You can't really blame her for that. I mean, look at her! She's got that certain something. (And a modicum of junk in her trunk.) That, too.

I also liked the fact that she had four beauty marks on her face. (Um, I think they're called moles.) You bite your tongue! They're beauty marks, and I don't you forget it.

The film's best Doris Wishman sanctioned inanimate object moment comes when Della is drinking a beer. Resting it on a cabinet after taking a couple of swigs, Della proceeds to change out of her black lace body-stocking and into more conventional underwear (a black bra and charcoal grey panties). As she's doing this, Doris Wishman makes sure to periodically check on how her can of beer is holding up by training her camera on it every now and then.

As far as lingerie goes, you can't really beat Della's black lace body-stocking. However, the scene where Meg/Ellen removes her dress to reveal a black slip with fringe on the bottom and tan stockings should not be discounted. Those who do so, do so at their own peril. Oh, and before I go, it should be noted that Meg/Ellen is one of the most irrational characters in movie history. Which, of course, is just another reason why her character and this film are so great.

If this film had just been about a mute seamstress who wanders around Manhattan's Garment District shooting men with a 45., I would have been a giddy outdoorsman. But this film had to go and add unorthodox body disposal to the mix. (Oh-oh, here we go. What's so bad about "unorthodox body disposal"?) Are you kidding? There's nothing bad about unorthodox body disposal. In fact, when I found out there was going to be unorthodox body disposal in this film, I was downright ecstatic. I think what I'm trying to say is: I ♥ unorthodox body disposal; the more unorthodox, the better. The moment the protagonist in the exceedingly awesome Ms. 45 (a.k.a. Die Frau mit der 45er Magnum) begins to drag the lifeless corpse of the burglar/rapist she had just bludgeoned to death with an iron to the bathroom was when I knew a body was about to be disposed of in an unorthodox manner. I know, judging by the words I've written so far, I run the risk of coming off as a sick twist (I mean, really, man, take your love of U.B.D. down a notch). But I'm not going stand or sit idly by and pretend I don't like the idea of a mousy woman of Romanian-Swedish extraction (with luscious, pillow-esque lips) dumping human remains in places you wouldn't normally dump human remains, it's just not the way I operate.

If that wasn't enough, it–like I already sort of implied–takes place in New York City in the early 1980s, the story revolves around the fashion industry, there's rape and revenge, and the film's female lead wears black stockings with a skirt with a modest slit after midnight... while, of course, dispatching a gang of nunchuck-wielding thugs. In other words, it manages to check all the right boxes.

I know what you're thinking: New York City. Fashion. The Early 1980s. Rape and Revenge. These things are a must when it comes to producing a halfway decent motion picture. And while I agree, any clod can wear black stockings with a skirt with a modest slit after midnight. I think it's safe to say, you're going to need an actress, one who is pretty fucking dynamic in the everything department, to make those particular articles of clothing come alive.

Now, I don't want to go overboard with the adjectives, but Zoë Lund (credited as Zoë Tamerlis) is stunning, hypnotic, breathtaking and sexy as hell as Thana, a shy mute seamstress who tries to live her life in a city rife with busybodies.

And what's the best way deal with busybodies? That's right, a lipstick-tinged bullet fired from a .45. Well, that's the best way to deal with male busybodies. If you're a meddling or prying person and you happen to be a woman, she'll just shoot your dog.

Let's be honest, though, while every apartment building in New York City seems to have an annoying female tenant, usually an old woman who has lived there since the Eisenhower administration, the city is filled with men who insist on sticking their noses where they don't belong.

After working another long shift in the Garment District, Thana (Zoë Lund) and her fellow seamstresses, including the alluring yet frightfully forthright Laurie (Darlene Stuto), attempt to go home. (Hold on, "attempt"? You make it sound like a war zone.) Isn't it? I mean, you try being an attractive woman in New York City. Inundated with a flood of cat calls, cheesy pick up lines and vulgar propositions ("I want you to sit on my face") from the men assembled on the sidewalk (an assortment of construction workers, douchebag layabouts and garden variety creepozoids), the women can't walk an inch without being harassed. While the alluring yet frightfully forthright Laurie takes the abuse in stride (she tells them to "fuck off"), Thana seems frazzled by all the untoward attention.

Making it to the subway in one piece, Thana goes to the store to pick up some groceries. As she's doing this, a man can be seen breaking into an apartment. Thinking Thana is about to come face-to-face with a burglar, the film, directed by Abel Ferrara (The Driller Killer, Fear City), throws us a curve ball by having Thana pulled into the alleyway behind her building by a masked assailant (Abel Ferrara) and raped.

Staggering home, Thana takes a moment to compose herself on her couch and... Aw, man, the burglar's still there, isn't he? Yep, there he is, standing in Thana's living room, pointing a 45 at her. It's at this moment that the burglar adds "rapist" to his title, when the burglar/rapist forces himself on Thana. No doubt thinking to herself: Seriously? Raped twice by two different men over the span of a five minute period, Thana decides she's had enough and hits the burglar/rapist over the head with a tchotchke. Dazed by the knock on the head that had the gall to undercut his raping momentum, the burglar/rapist tries to recuperate by cowering on the floor. Not one to dilly-dally in the face of a neutered burglar/rapist, Thana grabs an iron and crushes his skull with a series of well-timed blows.

The next day at work, Albert (Albert Sinkys), Thana's not gay boss, yells, "I said a v-neck, not a scoop neck," to one her co-workers (never in the history of humanity have I seen a straight man get so worked up over the shape of a collar). It's at this moment that Thana notices a janitor putting a new garbage bag into a waste basket. Entranced by this sight, Thana's co-workers, including Albert, think she's feeling not well. But on the contrary, Thana couldn't be better. She knows exactly what she has to do.

She might not say much, but her technique when it comes scattering body parts all across Manhattan speaks volumes.

Actually, that's not entirely true. Granted, she chopped up the burglar/rapist into small, easy to carry to pieces. Only problem is, she has a bizarre habit of disposing them during the middle of the day. Meaning, the chances of someone spotting you dumping your mysterious packages throughout the city are pretty good.

And wouldn't you know it, a douchebag layabout (Vincent Gruppi) spots Thana leaving one of her mysterious packages on the street. Seeing this as an opportunity to talk with the woman who dropped the mysterious package, the douchebag layabout grabs it and runs after Thana. Cornering her in an alleyway, the douchebag layabout runs toward Thana, mysterious package in hand, and as he's about to give it to her, she pulls out the burglar/rapist's 45 and puts a bullet in the douchebag layabout's brain.

From this day forward, all douchebag layabouts, garden variety creepozoids, not gay fashion designers, pimps, wealthy Arab sheiks (and their clueless chauffeurs), pushy photographers, petty thugs and garrulous barflys better think twice before approaching Thana on the street, as she's got a bullet fired from a 45 with your name on it.

You know what? I think all men should steer clear of Thana. I mean, look what almost happened to that guy making out with his girlfriend in Chinatown. He came this close to being shot dead, and he didn't even look at her. So, yeah, men of New York City, watch out, you could be next.

The scene featuring the petty thugs is pretty great because... well, Thana kills five gang members in the park. As is the scene with the garrulous barfly. But mostly because Jack Thibeau plays the garrulous barfly. Anyway, you might remember Thibeau as the burnt out Lt. Gilmore in the Miami Vice episode "Shadow in the Dark" (one of my personal favourites). While I'm on the subject of Miami Vice, Zoë Lund is in "The Prodigal Son" and Abel Ferrara directed "The Home Invaders" and "The Dutch Oven."

On top of adopting a more aggressive attitude towards the opposite sex, Thana significantly alters her wardrobe. Gone are the mousy berets, Thana now wears black leather pants, skirts with slits and red lipstick.

Culminating with a misandric mass shooting at a Halloween party, one complete with black stockings and plenty of blood splatter, Ms. 45 solidifies its status as the ultimate feminist fantasy. Sure, not all feminists want to dress like sexy nuns and gun down random men (even men in drag), but a lot them, at least those with a sense of humour, must have gotten kick out of the sight of Zoë Lund ridding the world of male scum. Fuck what they think, I thought the film was a real hoot. Four stars. I laughed, I cried, I saw the tops of Zoë Lund's stockings.

The next French, Czechoslovak, West German, Italian, Spanish, Danish– ugh, this is hard work–Lithuanian, Swedish, Dutch... (Just say "Euro-trash douchebag," it will rescue you from the geographic gymnastics routine you are currently trying to perform.) Thanks, I'll give it a try. The next Euro-trash douchebag to lay a finger on Ethel, the frequently on the move woman at the centre of The Public Woman (La Femme Publique), is going to feel the wrath of my no-nonsense Canadian fist slamming against their infrequently washed face. Oh, don't get me wrong, I get what the film, directed by Andrzej Żuławski (Szamanka and Possession), was going for. It's just that I was growing increasingly tired of seeing Ethel being pushed around by a bunch of ambiguously European pansies as the film progressed. But then it dawned on me. If a French or Polish woman with shapely legs and a demented disposition isn't being driven more insane than she already is by the men in her life or enduring psychological torment caused by outside forces beyond her control, it wouldn't be an Andrzej Żuławski film, now would it? In a rare twist, however, some of the characters in this film are fully aware of the lunacy around them. Meaning, if they see something that is straight-up meshugganah, they will call that shit out. This happens on a few occasions over the course of this film, but the first time it does, I was somewhat taken aback. I mean, the act of pointing out someone's lack of mental fortitude in an Andrzej Żuławski seems like it would be an activity fraught with unintended/unforeseen consequences.

You think calling people "crazy" in an Andrzej Żuławski film is weird, wait until you see the third act car chase. And not only that, a third act car chase that features an Uzi being fired from one of the cars involved in the chase. An Uzi!!!!! This is definitely not your typical slice of arty European cinema.

Don't worry, though, there's still plenty of relationships of a psychosexual nature, tons of pontifical dialogue, and the usual amount of Steadicam shots of fashion forward women walking briskly through the streets of French and/or Polish cities to savour in this film.

The way I usually determine how I'm going to feel about an Andrzej Żuławski film begins and ends with the performance given by the lead actress, and, of course, by the quality of her wardrobe.

Now, we all know what my feelings are when it comes to the first-rate crazy Isabelle Adjani and Iwona Petry put out there in the Andrzej Żuławski films they appeared in. So, the question on everyone's mind is: How does Valérie Kaprisky measure up?

And she's off! Wasting very little time, we're shown Valérie Kaprisky walking briskly down a smoke-filled street right from the get-go. Seriously, there's no establishing shot or subtle lead in, the sight of Valérie Kaprisky stomping down the street in an authoritative manner is the first thing we see. I have no idea where she's going, but I do have a strong feeling it's going to involve a shitload of hysterical shouting. Okay, she, Ethel (Valérie Kaprisky), just handed some guy in a restaurant a wad of a cash (she actually told a waitress to give it to him), and now some of the other restaurant patrons are trying to take the money away from him. A brawl ensues. Head-butting one of them and throwing another out a window, it would seem that the guy Ethel gave the money to knows how to handle himself.

Hurling herself down an alleyway while blubbering and screaming incoherent nonsense, Ethel is already becoming unhinged. Oh, wait, it's just clever editing device. You see, she's not blubbering because of the brawl she just witnessed, she's actually on her way to an audition for a role in the latest film by Lucas Kessling (Francis Huster), the new face of European independent cinema (he's on the cover of the latest issue of Cahiers du Cinéma).

Reciting dialogue from the script for a group of producers, things, judging by their unmoved faces, seem to be going rather poorly. While the producers don't see anything in her, Lucas thinks otherwise and introduces himself to the inexperienced actress/model.

We get a taste of what Ethel's modeling career entails in the next scene, as she poses nude for some creep at a photo studio. (Poses nude?) Yeah, that's not the right term for what she does in this scene. I think spastic nude aerobics is a more apt description. Anyway, after dancing naked to some kind of new wave techno Euro-funk for a rather lengthy period of time, Ethel gets dressed and leaves. Oh, before she goes, the creep with the camera (Roger Dumas), tries to chat with Ethel, who cuts him off mid-sentence and says, "Did I ask you anything?" In other words, don't ever talk to me again, creep.

Felt up by the photo studio's female secretary and groped by a guy in a parking garage elevator, it would appear that Ethel can't go anywhere without being molested by strangers.

It should be noted that every scene starts with Ethel on the move. And even though the film is fast-paced and full of energy without them, these walking intro thingies give the film a real sense of urgency. Where is she going? And why is she walking so fast? These are the type of questions that dart through the minds of normal people.

All I could think about, on the other hand, was what the exact temperature was inside Ethel's pantyhose. (Oh, boy. Here we go.) What? You didn't think I was going to write a review for La Femme Publique and not mention the abundance of pantyhose in this movie? This is the most pantyhose friendly movie I've seen in years. (It's just that I don't think that's what Andrzej Żuławski going for when he set out to make this movie.) He didn't, eh? Well, I don't give a shit. You put an attractive actress in pantyhose and parade her around an urban setting for ninety-plus minutes in said pantyhose, I'm going to take notice.

Putting aside all this pantyhose talk for a second, let's discuss those dresses Ethel likes to wear. Now, I don't know what you would call them exactly, but the style of dresses Ethel wears throughout this movie did nothing but intensify her pantyhose ensnared legs and hips. (Wait, did you say, hips?) I did.

The dresses, a sort of new wave-tinged, Roman-style mini-tunic, have slits down the side that go all the way up to the waist. Meaning, you can totally see her hips. And since she never goes anywhere without her lower half poured into either black or grey pantyhose, her pantyhose-accentuated hips are constantly on display. Depending on the strength of the wind or the level of exuberance of the wearer's movements, you can also see pantyhose-accentuated side-booty.

Hello? You still there? Oh, there you are. It looked you were about to pass out.

Don't be ashamed, I almost did too. I'll give you a quick example. It occurs when Ethel, who is shacking up with a Czech dissident named Milan (Lambert Wilson). It's somewhat complicated as to how Ethel ended up living with this Milan fella, but... It's not important. Well, it is important, just not to the point I'm trying to make here. Stay focused. There's a scene in Milan's apartment where Ethel puts on these gold pumps that literally had me bouncing off the walls...of my padded cell.

After putting on the gold pumps, Ethel gets up and begins to clear the table. What's happens next is hands down one of the sexiest things I've ever seen. (Isn't this the film where Valérie Kaprisky dances naked on three separate occasions?) Oh, I see what you're saying. But, no, I still say Valérie Kaprisky clearing the table in a green new wave-tinged, Roman-style mini-tunic; gold strappy heels; and jet black pantyhose is way sexier. But, hey, that's just me.

While rehearsing for Lucas Kessling's film, an adaptation of Fyodor Dostoyevsky's "The Possessed" (a.k.a. Demons), it becomes clear that Ethel is way over her head. Dressed in period costume (one of the rare of instances we see her out of her trademark mini-tunic) and surrounded by pompous French actors and a crew that obviously has little to no respect for her as an actress, Ethel struggles with the material. The scene that involves her performing a monologue about a large spider in a wardrobe in particular.

Screaming, "I don't understand what you mean! I don't understand what you want!" in response to Lucas' direction/meltdown, Ethel has lost all her confidence.

Did she just get fired? Who knows. But a strange plot twist occurs at this point. I'm not 100% sure, but I think Ethel is pretending to be Elena Mliska (Diane Delor), a Czech actress who has recently gone missing. Well, sort of missing. Her husband, Milan, says she went back to Czechoslovakia, but Ethel's not buying that. She thinks Elena was... murdered!

Nonetheless, Ethel moves in with Milan, dyes her hair red and starts dressing like Elena (gold pumps, baby). To complicate things even more, Ethel thinks Milan had a hand in the recent assassination of an important Lithuanian religious figure (the Archbishop of Kaunas, perhaps?)

While all this sounds somewhat convoluted, it's actually pretty straightforward. You see, Ethel wants to be a better actress. And what better way to improve your acting chops than by assuming the identity of a missing, presumed dead Czech actress and getting mixed up with her troubled, archbishop assassinating husband. At least that's what I think the film is about.

Either way, Valérie Kaprisky is gorgeous and Francis Huster and Lambert Wilson are both a couple of handsome motherscratchers. So, if you like watching attractive French people yelling at each other for a period of time no longer than two hours (stopping every now and then to fuck one another), then by all means seek out La Femme Publique. It will arouse your genitals and make you feel smart at the same time.

Important keywords: Pantyhose, Uzi, Mini-tunic, Gold pumps, Stand up sexual intercourse, Burnt sienna tights, Film within a film, Assassination, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Peach coloured dress, Jeu de paume, Walking, Hair dye, Protest, Naked dancing, and Toothbrushing.

What's with all the close up shots of women's legs and feet? Seriously, who in their right mind wants to see women's legs and feet shoved in their face over and over again for seventy minutes straight? And not only that, all the women's legs and feet are encased in stockings. I mean, enough already. Ha, Ha, I'm just kidding around. Pretty funny, eh? Yeah, I'm quite the card. You have to admit, though, I had you all fooled there for a second, didn't I? What's that? Oh, you knew I was kidding all along. Hmmm, I wonder what gave me away? Nonetheless, the movie I'm currently writing about is Another Day, Another Man, written and directed by Doris Wishman from 1966, and it's the kind of film that would make Jess Franco stand up in the middle of the theatre after the words "The End" popped up on the screen and declare it to be the leggiest thing they have ever seen (yeah, it's that leggy). Actually, now that I think about it, there's a kernel of truth to what I said earlier about there being too much legginess. You see, there are moments during this film where even I thought to myself: Really, another close up shot of Barbara Kemp's legs? As this on the cusp of being sensible thought zipped through my mind, it would occasionally bump into the legs and stockings-obsessed reprobate that rules over the inside portion of my brain with a shapely nylon-covered fist.

Of course, my depraved thoughts would eventually overwhelm anything coming close to resembling a sensible thought. But the fact that I was questioning Doris Wishman's camera placement at all was a bit of an eye opener for me.

Yet, despite these sensible thoughts, I have no choice but to declare Another Day, Another Man pretty much perfect as far as cinematic entertainment goes. Sure, the film relies too much on archival footage, but as far as perverted camera angles; unnecessary close ups of legs, feet and inanimate objects; never having the person reciting dialogue appear onscreen; and scenes that boast distressed blondes cradling their faces in her their hands go, this is pure Doris Wishman-based awesomeness from start to finish.

If you don't mind, I'd like to explain the whole not having "the person reciting dialogue appear onscreen." Instead of bothering to match the actors mouth movements with their respective dialogue during post-production, Doris simply doesn't shoot them when they talk. For example, if newlyweds Steve (Agustin Mayor) and Ann Bundy (Barabra Kemp) are speaking to one another, the one doing the talking is usually off-screen. In other words, rarely do we ever see an actor uttering words onscreen. It's a technique that was clearly devised to cut corners (they can dub in any dialogue they want without having to worry about it their film turning into a badly dubbed kung-fu flick). But from an artistic perspective, it does give her films a decidedly off-kilter aura about them.

And no one, and I mean, no one, gives inanimate objects as much screen time as Doris Wishman does. House plants, telephones, ashtrays, garbage pails, creepy clown paintings, radios, flowers, they all get their moment to shine in this film.

Is a beehive hairdo considered an inanimate object? The only reason I ask is because the beehive hairdo Barbara Kemp sports in this film seems to exist as a separate entity.

I don't know about being a "separate entity," but there's absolutely nothing inanimate about it. Tall, thick, ultra conical and robust as all get out, Barbara Kemp's beehive hairdo is a natural wonder to behold. However, did anyone notice that Steve, who, in case you forgot, is her husband, doesn't compliment her hair once in this film? Not once. Not even a... "Why, honey, your hair looks absolutely stunning today." Though, now that I think about it, he should really think about dropping the "today," as she might interpret it to mean that hair didn't look stunning the day before. Yeah, definitely the lose the "today."

Anyway, Steve needs to find a way to acknowledge all the hard work his wife puts into her hair without having it backfire on him.

As the credits start, we hear a familiar ditty playing on the soundtrack. Why, it's the music of composer Syd Dale. Most fans of (s)exploitation cinema will recognize this track immediately, as it's featured in the intros for all movies Something Weird Video release on video.

The young, recently married couple I mentioned earlier meet in Central Park. Implying that he has good news to tell her, Steve puts off telling Ann, who is wearing a fur coat, until they get to their spot. It turns out "their spot" is a giant rock, which Ann climbs on top of, causing her legs to dangle in a pleasing manner. Informing Ann that he just a got raise, Steve is excited because they can now move into their own apartment. In a bizarre twist, however, it would seem that Ann has kept her marriage to Steve a secret, as her boss doesn't want married women in the office. When I heard her say this, I was all like, What?!? I know, it's 1966 and all, but I don't think he's allowed to hire people based on their martial status.

Promising her friend and roommate that she would meet with her, Ann blows off her husband's dinner plans to have a chat with Tess (Mary O'Hara), a "really stacked" blonde hooker. Their chat doesn't really go anywhere, as all Tess does is smoke and pace about the apartment.

Well, that was a waste of time, it's time for bed. And you what that means? Yep, it's time for them to change out of their clothes. Yeah, don't bother going to your bedrooms to change, just get undressed in the middle of the living room. Take your time ladies, there's no rush. As they're removing their stockings, Ann tells Tess that she should stay away from Bert (Sam Stewart), her unruly pimp.

"No lectures please, Mrs. Prim," Tess fires back at Ann, as she rolls one of her stockings down her leg.

Okay, when I said "take your time ladies," I didn't think you would take what I said seriously. This has got to be the longest scene to feature two women getting undressed in film history.

Carried over the threshold of their new apartment, the second Steve puts down Ann, she starts exploring every nook and cranny of the place. I'm surprised she didn't become violently ill the second she saw that couch (blegh). The scene ends with Steve telling Ann that she's wonderful and the camera zooming straight towards Steve's crotch.

We finally meet Tess' pimp Bert in the next scene. And judging by the way he talks to Tess, he's obviously an asshole.

Sitting on Steve's lap in their new kitchen, Ann drones on and on about her dreams and aspirations. This does not bode well. I mean, the way she went on like that lead me to believe that things will probably not end well for the happy couple. I know, it's still early. But you should have heard her, she was laying it on pretty thick. Though, I could only gauge the thickness of her laying on technique by the timbre of her voice, as Doris' camera was mostly trained on Ann's legs during this scene.

From marital bliss in a state of the art kitchen, to curvy blondes lounging in black negligees, Another Day, Another Man does an excellent job showcasing the dichotomy between the lives of Ann, an upstanding citizen with killer gams, and Tess, a crass streetwalker.

In order to kill some time, Bert narrates a lengthy sequence that sheds some unnecessary light on how he became the pimp he is today. Focusing on his efforts to turn out Dolly (Darlene Bennett) and Daisy (Dawn Bennett), a pair of brunette twins, the sequence uses footage taken from what looks like another movie all-together.

The star of Bad Girls Go to Hell, Gigi Darlene, also makes an appearance as a woman Bert picks up at the bus station. Watch the intricate hip work Gigi employs as she shakes her moneymaker in nothing but her bra and panties, it's downright hypnotic.

When Steve falls ill, Ann reacts to this news by becoming a prostitute. I know, it doesn't seem very logical, but that's what she decides to do. That being said, I have yet to see a woman in a Doris Wishman film do anything that comes close to being logical. I was going to say, there must be other jobs in New York City. But then again, working as a prostitute does pay 200(!) bucks a week.

What ensues during Ann's stint as a prostitute is a veritable cornucopia of stockings, legs, cleavage, legs, feet, shoes, garbage pails, house plants, legs, black lace body stockings, thongs, cartons of milk, ankles, beehive hairdos, heels and black lace panties.

Managing to be sexy without showing a single nipple, Another Day, Another Man is erotic cinema done right. Campy and weird in the best way imaginable, the film is technically a cautionary tale. But, I, for the life of me, had no idea what to be cautious about after the film was over. Hold up, I think I do. When a loved one mysteriously falls ill, don't immediately become a prostitute. Wait a couple of hours. In other words, think about what you're getting into. The more you know.

Warning: This might be the weirdest tangent to ever open a movie review for Shredder Orpheus, so, please, hang on to your brain stems and keep your heart medicine at the ready, things are about to get extremely kooky around here. And here we go: It's been three weeks now and I still can't seem to find a single box of Shredded Wheat at my local supermarket. Each week I cruise on by the cereal aisle, only to find barren shelves where my beloved Shredded Wheat should be. Is there some kind of Shredded Wheat shortage?, I would repeatedly ask myself as I went home empty-handed. What gives, man? All I know is, I would like to consume some Shredded Wheat with mouth some time in the not so distant future. In a strange coincidence, I was watching Conan O'Brien interview John C. Reily (a.k.a. Dr. Steve Brule) the other night, and Johnny C. was telling Coco all about this time when he and a bunch of friends in South Chicago stole around five hundred boxes of Sugar Corn Pops from a freight train that was stationed at a nearby railway yard. I thought, wow, it's too bad it wasn't Shredded Wheat, or else I would I asked them to send over a box. I know, John's cereal heist probably occurred way back in the 1970s, but still, I really could use some Shredded Wheat right about now.

A couple hours after the interview was over, I sat down to watch Robert McGinley's Shredder Orpheus, a film about... Well, I get to that in a minute.

Somewhere near the end of the film, skate punks/industrial music enthusiasts Scratch (Linda Severt) and Razoreus (Marshall Reid) are tooling around The Grey Zone, when all of a sudden, they stumble upon a truck. Actually, I'm not sure they stumbled across the truck; in fact, I think the whole thing was pre-planned (they crave "real carbohydrates"). Either way, Scratch and Razoreus break into the truck, bust open the boxes in the back, and take away the merchandise. The end.

What's that? You wanna know what was in the back of the truck? Oh, I thought it was obvious. Okay, you ready? It was carrying tons of Shredded motherfuckin' Wheat!!! Can you believe that? Shredded Wheat. Two no good skate punks/industrial music enthusiasts (who love to shred it up in parking garages) are probably the reason I can't find any Shredded Wheat at the supermarket. I know, Scratch and Razoreus' cereal heist occurred in The Grey Zone way back in the late 1980s, but still, I really could use some Shredded Wheat right about now.

Surreal cereal-based serendipity aside, I can say, without an ounce of hyperbole, that Shredder Orpheus is one of the greatest films of all-time.

Utterly unique, totally awesome and cool as fuck, the amount of enrichment my aura experienced as it bathed in this film cannot be discounted.

Sure, the film looks like a veiled excuse to film people doing skateboard tricks in a dystopian landscape ruled by a sinister television station, but it has a lot to say about mass media, the afterlife, love, youth culture and corporate mind control.

I'm not sure if this is some kind of record, but the amount of time it took Shredder Orpheus to win me over was ridiculous. I mean, the second the film starts and the film's title (written in Dr. Caligari-friendly font) appears over top a static background, I knew I had made the right choice.

The film opens with a paralyzed skateboarder named Axel (Steven Jesse Bernstein) cursing at the corporate headquarters of the Euthanasia Broadcast Network (EBN). A veteran of the Contra drug war in Central America, Axel is the film's on again, off again narrator, and introduces us the unique world we're about to enter. Specifically, "The Grey Zone," five acres of metal shipping containers masquerading as low cost housing, where the aforementioned Scratch, a vegan percussionist, and Razoreus, an expert shoplifter, live their lives on the edge.

Part of this edge-like existence involves going to see their favourite band, The Shredders, play live at the Trash Bin Club. Well, they sort of go see them. They can't afford to get in, so they usually hang out around the back and peek in through an unguarded door. I did the same at a Laibach show once back in the day, so this scene rang true; only, I could afford to buy tickets, it's just that I wasn't old enough to get in.

Playing in front of a screen projecting a pile of wiggling worms, The Shredders, lead by Orpheus (Robert McGinley), and with Ministry's Bill Rieflin on drums, rock out with a sound reminiscent of The Sisters of Mercy (his vocal style is Andrew Eldritch-esque). The band also comes equipped with back-up dancers, one of which is Orpheus' girlfriend, Eurydice (Megan Murphy), a well-eyebrowed brunette in pointy boots and a black tutu-style dress.

As their playing a song, which is about worms (the projection playing behind them is very apt), a guy in the audience starts filming Eurydice with a video camera. This annoys Orpheus, who eventually jumps in the crowd and puts a stop to it. But not before the cameraman gets some great shots of Eurydice's legs in fishnet stockings and those pointy boots I mentioned earlier.

When the show's over, Axel, Scratch (who I think is a chick - she speaks with a gravelly voice) and Razoreus head over to Rice's Auto Salvage to break shit. As they're about to start wrecking stuff, they become transfixed by a show playing on a television that can be seen through a nearby window (like at The Shredders concert, Axel, Scratch and Razoreus always seem to be on the outside looking in).

It's here that we get our first glimpse of what EBN are all about. The show is called "Praise the Ray," and I was in camp heaven during this sequence. When the host Hades (Gian-Carlo Scandiuzzi) first appears onscreen and says, "Good evening," I nearly lost it. Everything about him, his makeup, his sparkly collared gay abortion of a shirt, and the slow manner in which he enunciated words was perfect.

Then his gorgeous, gold scrunchie-sporting wife, Persephone (Vera McCaughan), appears. Well, if the appearance of Hades caused me to nearly lose it, I lost it completely when Persephone shows up and says, "Praise the ray," and launches into what has to be one of my favourite monologues ever recited in a motion picture.

In fact, I was so enamoured with it, that I wrote the whole thing down. Do you want to hear it? What am I saying? Of course you do.

"The light from the ray is a beautiful mystery. Waves and particles and particles and waves... becoming waves of parts and parts of waves blending into little wavicals of lightning bugs... washing over you and cleansing and healing you. As you breath in, observe the teeny-weeny bits of microwave radiation manifest in your being. As you breath out, feel the warm glow... so soothing... so relaxing... so give yourself to the ray." ~ Persephone

Don't laugh, but I must have watched Persephone recite this chunk of dialogue at least ten times before I continued on with the rest of the film. It literally sucks you in. Seriously, her speech causes your soul to leave you body and enter the source of the ray. So, yeah, praise the ray, indeed.

Not one to be upstaged, dialogue-wise, Orpheus says to Eurydice at one point: "I've dedicated my life to the sound of metal insects screaming at a wall of oatmeal." It would seem that back in '86, Orpheus was a member of "Latent Death Wish," a black metal band that catered to the "corpse lookalike crowd."

While watching the tape the EBN cameraman shot at The Shredders' gig, Hades, Persephone and an EBN producer (Brain Faker)--Klaus Nomi called, he wants his look back--decide they want Eurydice. What do I mean by "want"? It's simple, really, they want to appear on their show. Except, it's not really that simple, as you first must die. You see, EBN is a form of Hell, and the only way to get there is by dying and then being dragged there by ghost-faced caterers.

And wouldn't you know it, Eurydice is murdered and taken to Hell on her wedding day. Luckily, Orpheus' manager Linus (John Billingsley) gave him a Gibsonian Lyre-Axe Guitar (an "ultimate power chord machine" that Jimi Hendrix invented just before he died) as a wedding present. Meaning, Orpheus can use it get Eurydice back.

In his first attempt to get Eurydice back, Orpheus (whose last name, we learn, is "Hellenbach") runs into his parents, who are in charge of shredding the memory files of recent arrivals. As Orpheus tries navigate a hallway filled with shredded memories, I thought to myself: Is this a movie or a Tuxedomoon video? Then it dawned me, it's a bit of both. Nonetheless, Orpheus becomes the first person to perform on Praise the Ray to ever return to ephemeral boundaries of The Grey Zone.

Just before Orpheus goes on Praise the Ray, there's a commercial for a sort of portable device that allows you watch PTR wherever you go (a sort of proto-tablet). I love their slogan: "The more you watch, the less you move."

After returning to The Grey Zone a minor celebrity, it would appear that Orpheus has given up looking for Eurydice. That's simply not true. As Eurydice is never far from Orpeus's mind. So, whenever you see Orpheus playing with his band or skating parking garages with Axel, Scratch and Razoreus, remember, his love for Eurydice is eternal.

Will Orpeus and Eurydice ever be reunited? Who's to say? I know this, though. In terms of delivering off-kilter dialogue, campy acting, industrial-tinged rock music, outre costumes, grungy set decoration, crazy makeup, gnarly video effects, and dense storytelling, it doesn't get any better than Shredder Orpheus. The next time you see someone list a bunch of films that he or she thinks are the greatest cult movies of all-time, make sure to politely inform them that they forgot to include Shredder Orpheus. As it deserves to sit proudly alongside other cult movie luminaries such as: Life on the Edge, Liquid Sky, Forbidden Zone and Motorama. It's radical!

The debate I had with myself over whether or not I should include Enemy Gold (a.k.a. Opération panthère noire), co-written and directed by Christian Drew Sidaris, in my unnecessarily exhaustive examination of Andy Sidaris' filmography was truly epic. Massively epic. Exceedingly epic. You get get the idea? Good. Nonetheless, I think the moment I uttered the words, "co-written and directed by Christian Drew Sidaris," was when everyone out there got clued in as to why the debate was so freakin' intense. Is this an Andy Sidaris film? It's included in the reasonably priced "Girls, Guns and G-Strings : The Andy Sidaris Collection." That's true, but this particular film isn't written or directed by Andy Sidaris (the man responsible for classics such as Guns, Picasso Trigger, Savage Beach and Fit to Kill), it was, like I've said twice already, co-written and directed by Christian Drew Sidaris, Andy's son. When I noticed that Andy and his wife Arlene Sidaris were listed as producers, I started to think: As long as there's a Sidaris behind the camera, it's still an Andy Sidaris film. And while I won't say the decision to watch Enemy Gold was the smartest decision I've ever made, I will say this: I didn't completely regret the decision after the end credits began to roll.

Boasting the same formula that has driven every Andy Sidaris production that preceeded it, the film has fake boobs, guns and explosions. In other words, the formula hasn't been tampered with. Technically, this film is the first Andy Sidaris production to not feature Dona Speir as its star. Which is a good thing. But don't forget, it's also the first Andy Sidaris production without the gorgeous Cynthia Brimhall. Which is a bad thing.

How will the house that fake boobs and terrible acting built survive such a monumental shake-up in its cast? It's simple, really, hire more bimbos. Wait, that didn't come out right. What I meant to say is, grab a Playboy Magazine (nothing older than a year), open it to any random page, and point. And looks like, Suzi Simpson, Playboy's Playmate of the Month for January, 1992, and Tanquil Lisa Collins, Playboy model and the former Miss Virginia USA, 1983, are the one's they pointed at.

Now, did they ask them if they could recite scripted dialogue in a semi-convincing manner or express various types of emotions on cue before casting them? Who am I kidding? Of course they didn't. They were willing to appear onscreen without their clothes on and that's that. Though, I have to wonder, why no bush? I mean, out of all the Andy Sidaris movies I've watched over the past couple of years, I don't think I've seen a single vagina. I know, it's pretty distressing.

Nonetheless, while their acting isn't quite up to par in terms of being even remotely adequate, they are attractive, I'll give them that. Which, I guess, is all that really matters at the end of the day. I don't know why, but just the mere act of writing that last sentence has managed to fill my heart.with sadness.

You see what you have done, Mr. Sidaris, you have reduced me to a sniveling mouth-breather who only wants to watch movies that feature attractive people doing dumb shit in and around Dallas, Texas.

Ugh, listen to me, I sound like such a baby. Mwah, I don't like fake boobs. Boo-hoo, I'm not a big fan of awful acting. Wah, wah, I think films should be competently made. Give it a rest.

Speaking of awful acting, Enemy Gold possesses what has to be one of the worst line readings I've ever heard audibly expressed in a motion picture. In fact, forget about all that talk about debating with myself whether or not I should classify this as an Andy Sidaris film or not. When I heard the delivery of this particular line, my eyes lit up and I said to myself: Oh, I'm definitely reviewing this film. And get this, the line is uttered by someone who I consider to be one of the sexiest women ever to appear in an Andy Sidaris-produced motion picture.

What's that? You want me to tell you who I'm talking about? Oh, I'm sorry, I was just trying to build up the suspense. Actually, the real reason I'm stalling is that I'm not quite sure who performed the horrendous line reading. I know, it's crazy. But that's what happens when you list your characters as "Dancer #1" and "Dancer #2" in the closing credits.

Is it safe to assume that because the stripper on the right has more lines than the stripper on the left, that she would be known as "Dancer #1." You know what? Since I can't find any other way to tell them apart, I'm officially declaring Stacy Lynn Brown to be the actress who utters the worst line reading in movie history.

I promise to go into more detail about the line reading in question later on. In meantime, let's discuss the ins and outs of Enemy Gold, shall we? Opening in 1865, during a battle in the American Civil War, we follow two Confederate soldiers, who are riding through the woods on horseback. Did they fight any major battles in Texas during the American Civil War? Nevertheless, the two soldiers are carrying gold bars they stole from the Yankees. Unable to continue, one of the soldiers, the one who isn't wounded, buries the gold by a tree and marks the spot by plunging a knife into said tree.

Flash-forward to moderns times, and we're in the parking lot of Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. Suddenly, a pair of female legs attached to a pair of white pumps appear onscreen. Testing the integrity of the pavement of Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport parking lot, the white pumps grind into the asphalt using the classic heel toe method. I gotta hand it to him, Sidaris Jr. definitely knows a thing or two about how to win this viewer over, as I'm loving these pervy camera angles.

Sure, the Civil War opening was a bit of a drag, but the shot of Suzi Simpson's legs making their way to a white Corvette parked in the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport parking lot definitely made up for it.

After watching her drive for awhile, Suzi Simpson eventually arrives at her destination. The building she breaks into boasts two male federal agents. Managing to subdue one of the male agents, Suzi Simpson grabs his gun. Unfortunately, she is unable to subdue the other one. It doesn't matter, though, because the federal agent she subdued is Chris Cannon (Bruce Penhall), a former flame, and the one she couldn't subdue, that's Mark Austin (Mark Barriere).

The first thing that struck me about these two guys is their aversion to sleeves. The second thing is... Oh, wait, there is no second thing. You see, for there to be a second thing to strike me, their characters would have to fleshed out a bit more. And believe me, they're not fleshed out at all.

The cool thing about Suzi Simpson is that her character's name is Becky Midnite. On the downside, however, her fake breasts not only mitigate her legginess, they don't match her body type. Did I mention that Becky Midnite is a federal agent, too? I didn't? Well, she totally is.

I liked when it Becky says, "Sounds like an old boyfriend," after Chris tells her the arrows for the crossbow he is holding explode three seconds after penetration. You get it? It's a double entendre. This film has plenty of them, but that one was my favourite, as it implies that Chris' penis ejaculates sperm three seconds after it has penetrated a vagina. Ha! Ha! You can't control the implementation of your orgasm.

It's a good thing Becky Midnite showed up when she did, as Chris and Mark are about to take down some drug dealers. Using Becky, who has since changed into a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a black tank top, as a diversionary tactic, Chris and Mark poke around a barn filled with watermelons that are stuffed with bags of cocaine, while she flirts with a shotgun-wielding henchman.

A decisive gun battle takes, one that ends with Becky using the crossbow whose arrows explode three seconds after penetration; I knew there was a reason they were talking so much about that crossbow.

Killing two henchmen and capturing another two, you would think Chris, Mark and Becky's superiors would be quite pleased by this turn of events. Wrong! The aptly named Dickson (Alan Abelew) is actually very upset that he wasn't informed of this action, and promises to report them to Washington.

Okay, I've stalled long enough. Here comes the scene. Dancing on the stage at Cowboy's Club and Restaurant are two of the hottest strippers I have ever seen. Only, they're not really stripping, they're learning how to strip. And get this, personal fave and Sidaris regular, Kym Malin, is the one teaching them how. Overseeing this on the job training is the owner of the club, Santiago (Rodrigo Obregón), who is watching their every move.

If the white lacy suspender-hose get-up Angela Wright (a.k.a. Dancer #2) is wearing looks familiar, that's because Cynthia Brimhall wears the exact same outfit in Do or Die. Now, I don't want to get into an argument with myself over who looked better in said outfit. But I will say this, Angela Wright has the sexiest legs to ever appear in the Sidaris universe.

After getting in a heated discussion with Dickson, who, to the surprise of no one, is on Santiago's payroll, over the watermelon/cocaine debacle (Dickson is supposed to prevent such things from happening), the "two-bit Bolivian drug dealer who thinks he's Al Capone" (Dickon's words, not mine), heads backstage to unwind.

Asking Kym Malin, who is brushing her hair, "Where are the girls?," she tells him they're in the shower. Pulling the shower curtain open, Stacey Lynn Brown turns around and says, "What's up?," to which Santiago replies, "I am." Now, as far as double entendres go, it's not the greatest. What is great, however, is how mind-bogglingly terrible Stacy's delivery of the line, "What's up?

While most people probably watch the threesome that transpires between Santiago and the two dancers in the shower over and over again. I, on the other hand, must have played Stacy's "What's up?" ten times in a row. Of course, I am, in no way, blaming Stacy for this line reading fiasco. Someone, like, say, the director, should have stepped in and helped Stacy deliver the line more effectively.

Tired of getting his lucrative illegal drug business thrown off track by a trio of meddling federal agents, Santiago enlists the help of an assassin named Jewel Panther, who, of course is played the amazing Julie Strain. As much as these films suck, I always look forward to seeing Julie Strain. Whether head-butting losers outside cowboy-themed strip bars or blowing up park rangers while wearing leopard-print bikinis, Julie Strain never fails to deliver the goods.

Let me quickly check to make sure I didn't forget anything, 'cause I want to wrap this thing up. Oh, Tanquil Lisa Collins (a.k.a. Tai Collins) plays Ava Noble, Chris, Mark and Becky's boss in Washington, D.C. She wears black stockings, lounges in nighties, and talks tough in business clothes. (Is that it?) Yep, it looks like it.

We've all groped dolls when no one is looking. Uh.... Let me put it another way: Every man, woman and child has, at one point in their life, put aside some time in their busy schedule to grope a doll. And the reason we do so is simple: We know the doll doesn't feel anything. In other words, what's the harm? I can't think of any. But what if I told you that every time you groped a doll, a blonde with a pleasantly pronounced booty would be rewarded with the fruits of your clandestine doll groping? You would be pretty excited, wouldn't ya? Well, you can forget about it, 'cause it ain't going to happen. You wanna know why, you perverted doll groper? It's because you don't have a magic ring. You see, groping a doll without a magic ring on your finger is basically an exercise in pointlessness. However, with the ring properly attached to one of your fingers, you can transport your (indecent) desires onto anyone you see fit. I think it helps if the person you select bares a slight resemblance to the doll you plan on groping. But then again, I'm fairly new to whole doll groping racket, so I could be wrong in that regard. That being said, thanks to Doris Wishman's decidedly off-kilter Indecent Desires, I'm one step closer to fully understanding the ins and outs of this frightfully unique and frightfully unusual phenomenon.

No doubt inspired by Roman Polanski's Repulsion, Doris Wishman has created a claustrophobic masterpiece that will challenge your perception of reality. Utilizing her tried and true formula–you know, the one that depicts a shapely, somewhat clueless blonde woman becoming deeply unhinged as a direct result of outside forces beyond their control–Doris Wishman has made what I consider to be the most realistic film ever to capture what it's like to live underneath the dangling serrated dildo that is psycho-sexual tyranny.

Think about it. How would you feel if at any moment you could be groped by a stranger? No, seriously, think about it. You're sitting on the bus, minding your own business, when all of a sudden, you feel a hand caressing your inner thighs. And don't bother looking over your shoulder for the culprit responsible for this unasked for inner thigh rub down, 'cause there's no one there.

Of course, there are going to be some sick twists out there who will view all this untoward groping as a step in the right direction. Most normal people, though, will be justifiably horrified by the prospect that they could be, at any given minute, groped by an unseen entity.

Finding a magic ring and a doll in a trash can while wandering the park on a cold and dreary winter day, Zeb (Michael Alaimo) takes them back to his one room apartment. Putting the magic ring on his finger and placing the doll on a pedestal, Zeb looks at the doll with a cockeyed sense of wonder.

Did Zeb know he was going to find a doll today? I mean, it looked like he had the pedestal already set up before he came back. Either way, after cleaning the doll's face with a rag, Zeb enjoys a cup of tea.

Meanwhile, in a fancy apartment down the street, Ann (Sharon Kent) answers the phone while sort of wearing a towel. Skipping into frame while clutching a towel against her chest, we get our first glimpse of Ann's outstanding booty as it bounces bodaciously across the room. Telling her friend/co-worker Babs (Jackie Richards) that she'll be right down, Ann heads, where else, to the living room to put on her black panties, black bra and black garter belt.

You'll notice, as she's putting these items on, that a pair of light-coloured stockings are laying in a heap on one of the chairs waiting patiently for Ann's delicious stems to be lovingly poured into them in a slow, deliberate manner. Unfortunately, we don't see her put them on. Now, did this hosiery-based oversight cause me to throw a conniption fit? Not quite. Sure, I was disappointed, but I have a feeling Doris Wishman will more than make up for it in a future scene.

While walking down the street, Zeb spots Ann and Babs (who is wearing a zebra print trench coat) heading off to work together. As they're standing at an intersection, something weird occurs. Suddenly and without explanation, the ghostly image of Zeb's doll appears over top of Ann's organic structure.

The look on Zeb's face when he realizes that his doll and Ann share the same soul was one of stunned excitement.

Following them to work, Zeb lingers around outside a bit before going home (making sure to check all the payphones along the way for loose change).

Putting his magic ring on the second he gets home, Zeb approaches the doll. The second he begins to caress it in an erotic manner, Ann feels the touch of his grabbing hands while standing near the water cooler. Unclear as to what just happened, Ann calmly puts her coat on and goes home. Of course, she's being followed by Zeb, who now knows where Ann lives.

As she's making dinner for her boyfriend, a real dullard named Tom (Trom Little), Ann feels the grabbing hands of Zeb (the power of his groping is so pronounced this time around, it causes her drop the dish she was holding). Not wanting him to see her in this state, Ann basically tells Tom to get lost.

Groped by Zeb yet again later that day, Ann begins to think that she might be going mad. Checking herself in the bathroom mirror for grope marks (her black gossamer nightie lying in a ball around her supple ankles), Ann can't seem to figure out what's wrong with her.

A sigh of relief washes over the audience, as we finally get to see Ann put on her stockings. However, as she's slipping them on, Ann hears a noise at the door. Would you look at that, someone left her some freshly picked flowers. She assumes that Tom left the flowers, but we know that is was Zeb who put them there. He might be creepy as all get out, but Zeb knows how to make a bold romantic gesture.

Watching Ann and Tom as they go for a walk, Zeb begins to fantasize what it would be like if Ann was his girlfriend. Wearing a sharp suit and minus his glasses, Zeb envisions himself as a debonair gentlemen who knows how to treat the ladies right.

The decision to give Zeb no dialogue was the correct one, as it gave him an added air of mystery.

He might know a thing or two about making bold romantic gestures, but Zeb can also be petty and vindictive. Angry over the fact that Ann is still seeing this Tom jackass, Zeb lashes out at Ann while she's doing some light reading in lingerie by poking the doll in the face with a lit cigarette. Ouch.

She gets a bit of a reprieve when Zeb loses the magic ring, but it's only temporary. No, it would seem that Ann and Zeb are in this for the duration.

Do you see the large leafless hedge outside Zeb's apartment? Well, Zeb walks past it a total of seven times during this film. (You mean to say, you counted the amount of times Zeb walks past the large leafless hedge located outside Zeb's apartment?) I sure did. (That's just plain sad.) Watch what he does on the seventh trip past the hedge, you'll be pleasantly surprised.

Containing all the ingredients I look for in a good sexploitation yarn, this film has a shapely blonde woman with a big booty slowly losing her mind, a downbeat ending, confused head tilting, a small cast (movies with large ensembles annoy me), stockings held up by suspenders attached to a garter belt and a perverted male lead who gropes dolls for a living.

I don't want to come off as half-cocked or anything like that, but I'm having a difficult time believing there's a Doris Wishman film floating around out there that's better than Indecent Desires.

Rollerboys?!? What about Rollergirls? I mean, what's up with that? And while we're at it, where are the Rollerpeopleofcolour? I didn't see one black dude skating with the Rollerboys in the totally awesome, Prayer of the Rollerboys. What's that? Get the fuck out of here. Really? Even though I'm playing dumb, I've just been informed that the Rollerboys are a gang of white supremacists who view women as merely sex objects. Just for the record, I threw in the latter distinction because: A) They have no female members. And: B) You should have seen that party the Rollerboys staged midway through the film, it was like something straight out of Caligula or an Alex de Renzy flick. Welcome to the Los Angeles of the not-so distant future. Do you know how I know it's the "not-so distant future"? No, not because the city is rife with rollerblading racists who wear white winter coats. And not because Patrica Arquette is wearing a leopard-print jacket with a sailor hat (oh my god, I can't wait to talk about the outre outfits she wears in this film). You know it's the not-so distant future by the unorthodox way old-timey televisions are employed.

Since television in the not-so distant future, especially the dystopian variety, is reserved for the wealthy elites of society, the rest of humanity have managed to come up with alternative ways to utilize them. And the most common way is to display them as decorative pieces for their home or hovel. The best way, I've found, anyway, is to combine the television set with the body of a mannequin. (You mean like Prince Robot IV in Saga?) Yeah, kinda like that.

(Didn't you love it when gay porn flashed on his screen/face after he was wounded in battle?) Yes! That was one of the coolest things ever. Oh, I'm sorry. As most of you know, but just in case some of you don't, Prince Robot IV has an old-timey television set for a head, as do, I'm guessing, the majority of blue bloods who live in The Robot Kingdom, and... yeah.

Anyway, when I saw that the headquarters of the Rollerboys was decorated with television sets attached to mannequin bodies, I knew I was wallowing in the not-so distant future. And now that I've established that this film does in fact take place in the not-so distant future (pats self on the back), I think I'm going to use next paragraph to openly opine about how Corey Haim reminded me of Justin Bieber.

I'll admit, thinking about Justin Bieber was the last thing I wanted to do while watching a pretty kick ass action flick with sci-fi overtones. But I couldn't help it. The similarities were downright eerie. Is it okay if I move onto another subject, like, say, the sound Patricia Arquette's red panties made as they swooshed past her black stocking-ensnared thighs? 'Cause I don't feel comfortable talking about this. What's that? Write one more sentence? Fine. Um, let me see... Okay, I got one. The similarities between the two don't just apply to looks, as I bet the Biebs, much like Corey Haim's character, is pressured on a daily basis to become a member of an all-male gang of rollerblading white supremacists.

Ugh, I'm glad that's over. It's not that I'm above writing about Justin Bieber, it's just that I don't like polluting my little corner of the virtual universe with something that is so aggressively lame.

Opening with the sight of Corey Haim's Griffen, a.k.a. Ramrod (this film, by the way, is my first real Corey Haim experience since I saw Lucas back when I was a gothed up Winona Ryder fanatic) rollerblading in a white tank-top, you would think it was just another average day in 1990. But you're wrong, it's... (Yeah, yeah, it's the not-so distant future. We got it.) What I was going to say, before I was rudely interrupted, was that, yes, it's the not-so distant future, but get this, the United States of America is bankrupt.

According to a speech being broadcast over the airways via a pirate satellite by Gary Lee (Christopher Collett), the leader of the Rollerboys, a paramilitary group of disaffected teenagers, there was a "great crash" that basically left America in financial ruin. Blaming "alien races" for the nation's downfall, Gary Lee hopes to inspire a new generation by assembling a white army of rollerblading patriots.

When Gary Lee holds his fists up and does the official Rollerboy salute after his speech, did anyone else think of Darryl Kromm from Strange Advance as he appeared in their video for "She Controls Me"? Oh, c'mon, it couldn't have been just me. Are you serious? Whatever, man.

After finding a used coffee maker while out dumpster-diving, Milton (Devin Clark), Ramrod's younger brother, spots Casey (Patricia Arquette) while trying to hawk the appliance at a local market. Anyone care to guess what the first words out of his mouth are when he spots her? He says, "Whoa." If you think that's a bit much. Let me tell ya, if you saw the way Patricia Arquette looks throughout this movie, you would say whoa too.

Wearing a sailor hat(!), a leopard-print jacket(!), an orange belt, sunglasses, a black skirt, and black nylons, Patricia Arquette's first ensemble had me literally bouncing off the walls. I mean, her outfit was so fucking fierce. Think about it. She's wearing a sailor hat with a leopard-print jacket. Ahhh!!!! And it keeps getting better.

We see the same outfit in the next scene, as Casey stops by the house that belongs to Speedbagger (Julius Harris) to get her roller-blades fixed (it would seem that everyone roller-blades in this version of the not-so distant future, and that Speedbagger fixes roller-blades). Since most white people live in "Municipal Homeless Centers," Speedbagger allows Ramrod and Milton to pitch a tent on his front lawn, and that's how Ramrod sort of meets Casey (they didn't actually talk, they just made goo-goo eyes at one another).

You can't really blame Casey for assuming Ramrod's a Rollerboy (as the film's opening proved, he's an excellent skater). But he's not a Rollerboy. He is, however, a pizza boy, and, in the next scene, we see him delivering a pizza (in an armored van) to one of those homeless centers I mentioned earlier; not to the homeless, mind you (they can't afford pizza), but to the guards guarding them - they're kind of like prison camps.

I liked it when Ramrod consults the "dash map" (a sort of GPS system) to find the homeless center. Oh, and given that the homeless center is called "No. 87 Municipal Homeless Center," I'm going to go ahead and assume they're must be a lot of them.

Rescuing a Rollerboy–get this–named Bullwinkle (Morgan Weisser) from a burning building using his pizza van, Ramrod suddenly finds himself in the good graces of the Rollerboys' leader, who apparently lived next-door to Ramrod when they were kids.

In order to not cause any further confusion, the only character in the film who calls Griffin by the name "Ramrod" is Jaworsky (J.C. Quinn), a police detective. And since I prefer the name "Ramrod" that's what I've chosen to call him in this movie review. So, if there's anyone out there wondering why I keep calling Corey Haim's character "Ramrod," that's the reason.

While practicing his rollerblading moves in a parking garage with Milton, Gary Lee and the Rollerboys, including Bullwinkle and Bango (Mark Pellegrino, I love this guy), come skating towards them in unison. The sight of the Rollerboys skating in unison is somewhat comical yet awe-inspiring at the same time (their white coats flowing in the wind... so awesome, so cheesy). At any rate, Gary Lee tells Ramrod that if he should ever need anything that he shouldn't hesitate to ask. Oh-oh.

Flouting society's conventions at every turn, we see Patricia Arquette's Casey wearing a bra as a top in the next scene. I know, a bra as a top. (So, what else was she wearing?) Didn't you hear what I just said? She's wearing a bra as a top! It's lewd, lascivious, salacious, and, to be perfectly honest, outrageous!

With American colleges literally moving overseas (Harvard is now located in Japan), what's a teenage juvenile delinquent with great hair to do? Attend a raucous party being thrown by the Rollerboys, that's what. I'm not the biggest Nine Inch Nails fan in the world, but even I have to admit the sight of Corey Haim strutting through the crowd to the strains of "Head Like A Hole" was pretty bad-ass.

A hedonistic free-for-all for the ages, the Rollerboy party has everything: Balloons... (Funny-shaped balloons?) Well, no, unless round is funny. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, the Rollerboy party. It has female mud wrestling, chicks dressed as mermaids, a working merry-go-round, and leggy babes in black pantyhose. See what I mean, everything.

Running into Casey, who is wearing a white ruffled collar, a white tutu, black opera gloves and a black bowler hat, Ramrod takes her outside to "chat." After making out for a few seconds, Ramrod proceeds to remove Casey's red panties. Reaching down towards the area where her red panties are currently housed, Ramrod slowly hikes them down. In order to help facilitate Ramrod's attempt to peel off her red panties, Casey lifts one of her legs up to allow for greater hiking leverage.

As her red panties go swooshing past her black stocking-ensnared thighs and calves (which, by the way, is the best sound ever), Ramrod hands the red panties to Casey and walks away. What just happened? Oh, I know what's going on. Ramrod thinks Casey wants to have sex with him just so he'll hook her up with some mist.

What's mist? It's the drug of choice in the not-so distant future. And guess who controls the distribution of mist in the not-so distant future? That's right, the Rollerboys.

Little does Ramrod know, but Casey is an undercover cop. Soon, however, Ramrod finds himself working for the police, too. But he's not going undercover out of some sort of misguided civic pride, he wants to prevent his little brother becoming a Rollerboy ("Once in, never out," is the Rollerboy motto). To make matters worse, his little brother has started misting.

Already a legend as far as I'm concerned, costume designer Merilyn Murray-Walsh manages to top herself when she unveils Patricia Arquette's orange and black cowgirl outfit. Hell, even the denizens of the not-so distant future can't help but do a double-take when they see Patricia Arquette walking down the street in her crazy cowgirl get-up.

It's a good thing Patricia Arquette's Casey was such a fashion risk taker, as the film's lack of female characters was a tad depressing (she's the only woman with a speaking part). But then again, the film more than makes up for it in other ways. How so, you say? Um, the film's about a gang of rollerblading racists who wear white winter coats. Nuff said. Day of the rope! Day of the rope! Day of the rope! The Future is ours!

Feeling charitable, writer/director/hapless fake tittie enthusiast, Andy Sidaris, after the debacle that was Enemy Gold, has elected to give his son, Christian Drew Sidaris, a second stab at writing and directing his own movie. And the result is pretty much the same old crap. But this time, there's a unique twist. You see, in The Dallas Connection... Hold on, who am I kidding? There's no unique twist. I was right the first time around, this is pretty much the same old crap. If that's the case, why the hell I'm watching this? I mean, I'm not contractually obligated or anything like that, so, what gives, man? Oh, I know why. I'm glutton for punishment and obviously a bit of a closet masochist. Either way, there's a ton of stuff to make fun of in this film. And not only that, the film features the Sidaris debut of Wendy Hamilton, a tall, shapely brunette with an erection amassing ass. Unfortunately, this film is also marks the Sidaris debut of Julie K. Smith, one of the most untalented women to ever to appear in an Andy Sidaris production. Hey, I know, that's a harsh thing to say, but some people need to be told they can't act. It's clear, however, that Andy Sidaris never got around to telling Julie K. Smith that she's a talentless hosebeast, as he, for some bizarre reason, decided to cast her in another two movies. That's right, I have to sit through two more movies with this charisma-challenged dolt. Yeah, yeah, I technically don't have to do anything. But I might as well finish what I started.

It should be noted that Wendy Hamilton can't act, either. It's just that she looks somewhat natural compared to cosmetic freak show that is Julie K. Smith, and Samantha Phillips (also making her Sidaris debut), whose tits look like non-jiggling chunks of flesh-based polyurethane. My point being, Wendy stood out for me in terms of being less awful.

Oh, and when I say, "can't act," I'm using my own personal criteria to assess their acting ability. In other words, I'm not judging them from some highfalutin, Stanislavski angle. All you have to do to impress me as an actor is say your lines in a semi-coherent manner, or, at the very least, talk in an exaggerated fashion, one that is on the cusp of being entertaining. However, I'm sad to report, Julie K. Smith, Wendy Hamilton and Samantha Phillips do not fit into either of these categories. They're simply terrible and shouldn't have made it past the audition stage.

Well, I would have still cast Wendy Hamilton. But in a non-speaking role. I mean, look her! Her bum is sublime. To deny the world the sight of Wendy's killer booty whilst ensnared in a thong/leotard (a thongtard?) or in a thong that is attached to some kind of lime green wetsuit would be a crime.

Let me quickly look over my notes regarding this film... Oh, man. It says here the film opens in Paris, France. Yes, the shots of famous Parisian landmarks were definitely authentic, but there's no way I'm buying that the bedroom where Julie Strain's Black Widow is putting a studded leather collar around the neck of a hunky French scientist is anywhere near France. I mean, check out the light coming through the window, it's so freaking bright. No, that light is way too harsh to be French. Things only get worse when we're shown the outside of the house Julie Strain and the French scientist guy are having sex in, as the house practically oozes suburban Dallas.

You think that's bad, wait until we're whisked off to South Africa and Hong Kong.

Wearing purple fishnet stockings, Black Widow has rough sex with the French scientist, then shoots him between the eyes. Picked up by Platter Puss (Cassidy Phillips), Black Widow is driven to an airplane hangar (totally in France), walks across said hangar (still totally wearing purple fishnet stockings), hops aboard a jet that is being flown by Fu (Gerald Okamura), and heads to Dallas, Big D, D-Town; but not before refueling in Newfoundland. Woo-hoo! Canada finally gets a shout out in an Andy Sidaris production.

After some stock footage, no doubt lifted from Wild Kingdom, we see Cobra (Julie K. Smith) blow up a South African scientist using a bomb attached to a remote control car. Jeez, the Sidaris's and their obsession with vapid chicks with fake tits and remote control cars and boats is starting to sap my strength.

The action soon turns to Hong Kong (complete with aerial stock footage of Victoria Harbour) where Scorpion (Wendy Hamilton) blows up a Chinese scientist on a golf course. This scene is great because it features lots of shots of Wendy Hamilton bending over in a short skirt.

As you might have guessed, Black Widow, Cobra and Scorpion are assassins. But why are they targeting scientists? That's a good question. Oh, wait, here comes Nicholas Lang (Roland Marcus), the leader of I/WAR (International World Arms Removal), I'm sure he'll explain everything.

Paired with an I/WAR agent named Samantha Maxx (Samantha Phillips), Nicholas explains the reason why these particular scientists were targeted while flying from Washington to Dallas. (How come everyone is flying to Dallas?) Excellent question. Wait, no it's not. The film is called "The Dallas Connection," not "The Penetanguishene Connection" for a reason.

Anyway, I can see why Roland Marcus was given the task of explaining the film's plot, as he's the only actor in the cast who can string more than two sentences together without pulling a brain muscle. I'm not implying he's a great actor or anything like that. But his lengthy, jargon-heavy monologue detailing the film's plot gets the job done.

Oh, sure, Samantha Maxx (her crossed legs sheathed in black stockings) chimes in every once in a while during Nicholas's monologue. But I didn't buy for a second that she knew what she was talking about. And, no, not because she's a woman, but because she's a clueless twit.

When Black Widow, with Platter Puss and Fu in tow, arrives in Dallas, she's heads straight for–you guessed it–Cowboys Club and Restaurant. And, yay! Would you look at that, Kym Malin is still the club's choreographer/night hostess.

Like me, Kym is watching Cobra and Scorpion practice their stripper routines while taking notes. Hmm, I wonder if Kym's notes are the same as mine?

My notes basically say: Wendy Hamilton's bum is sexy. Julie K. Smith sucks.

A fourth scientist, an Argentine named Antonio Morales (Rodrigo Obregón) is in Dallas, and obviously needs protecting.

Anyone know why the flag of Zambia is flying outside a building in Dallas, Texas? Could it be the headquarters of The Zambia Association of Dallas Fort-Worth (ZADFW)? Call me, oh, let's say, someone who is not of sound mind, but the sudden appearance of the Zambian flag is so far the only thing that's remotely intriguing about The Dallas Connection.

After Black Widow, Platter Puss and Fu pay a visit to the I/WAR headquarters, the dead bodies they leave in their wake are taken care of by Coroner #1 (Larry Hicks) and Coroner #2 (Ken Meeks). Now, I'm not sure which is which, but one of these guys utters the best lines in the entire movie.

Yeah, yeah, I know, Julie Strain's "After you finish with those guys, rape these bitches and kill 'em... I know I would," is pretty great and all, but the actor playing the coroner who says, "Billy Joe, you better bring more tape... this boy is huge," while marking the outline of one of the dead bodies is hilarious. His delivery, in terms of comic timing, was spot-on. Of course, as is the case with most of the actors who display anything close to resembling talent in these films, he's never seen or heard from again. Boo!

Instead, we're saddled with a bunch of no-talent ass-clowns. Like, Bruce Penhall, who, at one point, says, "look lady," to Kym Malin's Cowboys choreographer/night hostess. Can you believe that? The nerve of this guy. I wanted to eat his taint for breakfast and not leave a tip after he said that.

And things only get worse, as Bruce Penhall says, "You should have read your fortune cookie," after blowing up Gerald Okamura with his grenade launcher. When I heard him say that, I nearly keeled over. (Did you nearly keel over as a result of being outraged? Or did you nearly keel over as a result of laughing too hard?) Let's just say I was genuinely shocked by the scene's casual racism. Whether I laughed or not... I'll never tell.

This film would turn out to be the last of this type to be written and directed by Christian Drew Sidaris, as his father Andy gets back in the director's chair for the next two adventures (yay?). And, yep, that's right, there are only two left (yay!).

It just dawned on me: What am I going to do when I eventually run out of Doris Wishman movies to watch? Ahhh, just the mere thought of watching a film that isn't directed by Doris Wishman is enough to make my skin crawl. Now, some of you might be thinking that I'm currently suffering from a severe case of Stockholm Syndrome, or, in this case, a severe case of Doris Wishman Syndrome. But I can assure you that I'm not. Seriously, though, the prospect of watching a film that isn't obsessed with showing close ups of feet, doesn't linger on inanimate objects for no discernible reason, and has zero frazzled women on the brink of insanity is a frightening thought indeed. Realizing this, I approached My Brother's Wife with a new-found appreciation for Doris Wishman as an artist. Every time we would get a close up of some feet, I would nod approvingly. The same goes for the shots of inanimate objects (ashtrays, table settings, lamps, garbage pails, etc.) and, of course, the scenes where the characters not speaking dialogue would appear onscreen while those speaking dialogue would appear off-screen. You could view this film as a Doris Wishman best of album. Only problem being, the story isn't all that compelling. Sure, all the elements are pretty much in place, but something is missing.

The first thing that struck me was just that, no one gets struck in this film. I don't even think a woman gets slapped once during its spry running time. Not that I want to see women slapped around. It's just that this film is supposed to be a "roughie." I know what you're thinking, the film opens with two guys punching and kicking each other in a pool hall for an extended period of time. Yeah, but, if I wanted to watch two guys beating up one another, I'd watch hockey.

Judging by the way these two guys are going at it, the woman their fighting over must be quite something. What's that? How do I know their fighting over a woman? What else could be? It's true, they could be fighting over a lot of things. But let's get real, it's probably a woman.

Proving that she's still got some storytelling tricks up her sleeve, Doris Wishman shows the film's final scene at the beginning. At first I was like: I don't get it. Why show the end of the movie right off the bat? Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. This was all one big tease to get us interested in knowing how these two men managed to find themselves rolling around with one another in the middle of the afternoon on a dingy pool hall floor. And I have to admit, I was somewhat curious to find out how these two men ended up where they did.

Just as my curiosity was about to go into overdrive, the reason they were fighting finally appears onscreen. Tilting her head inquisitively at the man standing in her apartment doorway, Mary (June Roberts) invites him in when Frankie (Sam Stewart) identifies himself as her husband's brother. That's right, that means to Frankie, Mary is his brother's wife.

Instead of filming Mary and Frankie sitting on the couch in a normal manner, Doris Wishman insists on keeping her camera trained on their feet for the duration of the scene. According to my calculations, we get three separate cutaways to their feet as they talked (the third cutaway lasts twice as long the two previous foot-based cutaways). And just for good measure, we get a shot of Mary's heels as she walks to the kitchen. If that good measure wasn't enough for you, we get another shot of Mary's feet as she fixes her hair in the blender. What I mean is, she uses the reflective surface on the base of her blender to calculate the structural integrity of the hair follicles that sit atop of pretty little head.

When her husband, his brother, Bob (Bob Oran), comes homes, we're all thinking the same thing: How did a major hottie like Mary end up with a middle-aged slob like Bob? Wait a second, "major hottie" doesn't do Mary justice. She's a luminous flower, one that is too beautiful to be defiled by the likes of Bob. And that's just the thing, he doesn't defile her. Oh, sure, he might have defiled in the early days of their marriage, but it's been quite some time since he's defiled anything.

You know what that means, right? Congratulations, Frankie. Your cock is in for a treat. Picking the perfect time to visit his older brother, it would seem that Frankie has stumbled upon not a loveless marriage, but definitely a sexless one.

Oh, and before you start chewing out Bob and his lackluster genitals for not wanting to smear his face all over his wife's stocking-encased legs–and believe me, they're always stocking-encased–let's try to understand his point of view, shall we? Maybe he can't keep up with her, if you know what I mean.

Yes, I realize you don't need an erection to smear one's face all over stocking-encased legs. But he is at least twenty-five years older than her. So, maybe it's a stamina thing. Hell, maybe he just doesn't like sex.

After dinner, Bob tells Frankie that his old flame, Zena (Darlene Bennett) is still town. When Bob mentions Zena's name, Frankie's eyes light up. According to Frankie, "Zena's got everything, and a little bit more."

Hosting a party for her sleazy friends, we meet the well put together Zena as she's overseeing the orgy that is currently taking place in her living room. In-between all the shots of feet in heels, feet in stockings and, my personal favourite, feet in stockings and heels, Frankie and Zena get reacquainted with one another.

Oh, would you look at that, someone does get slapped in the face in this movie. After a close up of Mary's feet standing in the kitchen, Frankie makes a play for her. Put off by Frankie's clumsy attempt to grope her, Mary expresses her displeasure by slapping him across the face.

Giving her husband one last chance to give her the ripe dicking she deserves, Mary slowly undresses in front of Bob.

Removing her white bra first, Mary takes off her tan stockings, then her black garter belt. As she stood there, admiring the shape of her body in the mirror, I couldn't help but notice that Mary is the first character I've seen so far in a Doris Wishman movie to not wear black undergarments. Sure, her garter belt was as a black as the night sky, but her bra and panties were definitely white. I wonder if that was done on purpose?

Anyway, after getting nowhere with Bob, Mary heads straight into the arms of Frankie, who literally sweeps her off her feet. Carrying her into his bedroom, Frankie goes to work on Mary's lingerie. Work that lingerie, Frankie. Work it!

Instead of showing Mary's throbbing pussy reacting positively to Frankie's tender caresses, Doris Wishman substitutes it for Mary's throbbing belly button. The throbbing belly button motif returns in the next scene, when we get a shot of Mary's belly button throbbing underneath the black mesh midriff section of her dress while getting ice for the stiff drink she's making for Frankie.

Even though I can't really comment on June Robert's performance, as we never really get to see her utter any lines of dialogue onscreen. The sight of her getting ice from the freezer is the epitome of sexy.

As you might expect, Frankie is torn between Mary, the bored housewife, and Zena, the wild party girl. Oh, and if you're thinking that Frankie is worried that he'll hurt his brother's feelings. Think again. Frankie doesn't give a fuck.

Up to his chin in brunette pussy, Frankie has got two leggy goddesses gunning for his cock. In other words, things couldn't be better. Or are they?

A wild card named Della (Dawn Bennett from Bad Girls Go to Hell) shows up to put crink in Zena's plans. A staunch lesbian in a leather jacket, one who wouldn't look out of place in the front row at a Bikini Kill concert, Della puts the moves on Zena. This scene is awkward because I think Darlene and Dawn are sisters. But then again, they barely touch one another. Incest averted.

Featuring too many scenes that have Frankie demanding that Mary get 2000 dollars out of Mary and Bob's joint checking account and one's that have Zena demanding that Frankie get 2000 dollars, "No money, no Zena," she tells him, the film, much like this review, starts to overstay its welcome after awhile. That being said, from an aesthetic point of view, you're not going to find a more perfect movie. Close up shots of feet, stockings, inanimate objects, heavy eye-makeup and off-screen dialogue, this film's got everything and a little bit more.

Just as she's about to leave her place of residence, deep in the mist-laden forests of Madeira, to search for sperm and vaginal secretion-based sustenance, Countess Irina of Karlstein does a quick wardrobe check. Giving her body a good once over, she can't help but notice that her long black cape isn't going to provide the dark and foreboding confines of her pound-worthy pussy and her ample grope-friendly breasts the amount of coverage they need in today's cunt and titty averse universe. About to go back into the house to fetch a bra and a pair of panties, Irina stops for a second and thinks to herself: With my lady bits and my tits out in the open like they are at the moment, the people I run into won't misinterpret my intentions. In other words, my organic structure is open for business, feel free to savour its delicious contours at your leisure. Sure, some of these so-called "people" might be perplexed at first by the sight of a shapely woman, who is bumpy in all the right places, sauntering around the woods with her twat and boobs exposed. However, those who possess genitals that are fully operational will be tickled pink to see her. Of course, a good portion of them have been conditioned to fear female sex organs since birth, even women, so don't be surprised if some of them are a tad standoffish by the sight of such wanton exhibitionism.

Wearing nothing but a long black cape, a pair of skin-tight knee-high patent leather boots and a black belt, Countess Irina of Karlstein (Lina Romay) slowly emerges from the mist with one thought and one thought only on her mind. And that is, companionship. Only problem is, she's a vampire, a Female Vampire.

Meaning, she can't help but kill those she copulates with. Whether they be men or whether they be women, she needs to feed on their orgasm in order to survive. Writhing on her bed helps abate her insatiable hunger for fluids of a sexual nature, but sooner or later she must plunge her face into the crotch of a total stranger to reap the moist rewards.

When Lina Romay emerges from the mist in the opening scene, did anyone else mistake her dark patch of pubic hair for a pair of black panties? For a minute there I totally thought she was wearing panties. But then it dawned me: Lina Romay + Panties? That is one equation that does not add the fuck up. Nonetheless, I consider pubic hair to be nature's panties, so, in away, she was wearing panties, just not the type you're accustomed to. Not to sound like a nudist, but societies obsession with covering things (i.e. vaginas) that already come with their own built-in cover is misguided and sad. It's my dream to launch a women's clothing line that features ensembles that cover everything except the vagina.

Oh, and before you start accusing me of being some sort of vagina-obsessed reprobate, please keep in mind that I just watched a ninety minute movie that has Lina Romay's unclad lady box being thrust in my face in almost every scene.

Did I mention the scene where Lina Romay's Countess Irina of Karlstein slowly emerges from the mist? I did, eh? How 'bout the skin-tight knee-high patent leather boots? You don't say. Hmm. I know what I didn't mention, the music by Daniel White, specifically the theme from Female Vampire. It's so freaking haunting. And in typical Jess Franco fashion, the theme becomes its own character after awhile, as variations of it are repeated throughout the film.

After Jess's camera has finished devouring Lina's supple frame, she walks up to a man who tending some sort of bird farm and... What's that? You say it's called a "menagerie." Whatever, this guy gets a blow job from Countess Irina against a bird fence. What's that? You say it's called "chicken wire." Screw you, man.

As Irina consumes his orgasm, the man let's out a loud scream. In fact, it's so loud, that Baron Von Rathony (Jack Taylor) hears it miles away.

Even though we never see her speak, Irina does occasionally provide some back story about her unique plight via narration (mwah, being a vampire is not all it's cracked up to be, etc.). And when these instances occur, the only thing we see onscreen is the vampire bat hood ornament flapping away on the hood of her limousine.

Agreeing to give an interview with a reporter named Anna (Anna Watican), we learn even more about Countess Irina (she answers her questions by nodding her head for yes and shaking it for no). She's apparently the last of her kind and lives alone in the mountains.

Feeling somewhat peckish, Irina instructs her manservant (Luis Barboo) to bring the hotel's masseur (Raymond Hardy) to her room. Lying on her bed in a manner that accentuates her pussy, Irina uses her clitoris to entice the masseur to come to her. As she expected, the masseur agrees to have sex with her. Little does he know, however, the orgasm he experiences on this day will be his last. Though, I gotta say, if you gotta go, what better way to do so than to have an attractive female vampire eat your orgasm.

There's supposedly a police investigation underway (the bodies are starting pile up at the Madeira morgue), but they have no clue what's going on. The medical examiner, Dr. Roberts (Jess Franco), tries tell the inspector in charge of the case that a vampire with a taste for spunk-based spillage is the culprit, but he dismisses his findings as pure poppycock.

What Jack Taylor's character is up to still unclear, but he's obviously drawn to Countess Irina. Until the actual scene where he meets Irina face-to-face, Jack spends most of the movie looking up at the sky (he's keeping an eye out for Irina, as she tends to fly by every now and then).

The blind Dr. Orloff (Jean-Pierre Bouyxou), like Dr. Roberts, is well aware of what's going on the island. His best scene is when he grabs a handful of Monica Swinn's pussy (in the interest of science, of course). That's right, you're not seeing things. The gorgeous Monica Swinn is in this movie. Out of all the actresses who have appeared in Jess Franco movies over the years, Monica Swinn (a.k.a. Monika Swuine) is definitely in the top five in terms of sex appeal. And she does not disappoint in that regard in Female Vampire.

Playing... what does it say here, "Princess de Rochefort"? I don't remember hearing her called that name once during the movie. At any rate, playing Princess de Rochefort, Monica is playing chess with her servant (Alice Arno), when Countess Irina walks in and helps her defeat the servant.

Escorting Irina to her private sadomasochism dungeon, Princess de Rochefort instructs her servant to remove Irina's clothing. If you look closely, you can see that Lina Romay is wearing black hold up stockings. The fact I had to "look closely" was very frustrating, as black hold up stockings in Jess Franco movies should always be easy to see.

After being whipped by... Oh, wait. I love it when Monica Swinn says, "Her skin is so silky smooth... I can't bear to touch it," while feeling up Lina against the dungeon wall. After being whipped by Alice Arno for a couple of minutes, Irina manages to turn the tables on Princess de Rochefort, who finds herself the one being whipped (she uses her vampire mind control powers on Alice Arno).

Crashing to the floor as the result of a punch to the gut, Monica Swinn is swarmed by Alice Arno and Lina Romay, who proceed to grope and lick her (we still don't get a proper shot of Lina's hold up stockings). On the other hand, as they're doing this, we get some great shots of Monica's stems in black fishnet stockings and her extremely hairy pussy (I dug the way her panties had trouble containing the wild nature of her unruly pubic hair).

I would say that Female Vampire is the perfect starting off point for people who are thinking about using/getting into the cinema of Jess Franco, as it contains all the right ingredients. Well, at least it contains all the ingredients I look for in a Jess Franco movie. Lesbianism, the occult, stockings, an exotic location, sadomasochism, Monica Swinn, a haunting score, lot's of close up shots of vaginas, knee-high boots, and an eerie atmosphere.

The Curse Of Her Flesh (Michael Findlay, 1968)

Chatterbox! (Tom DeSimone, 1977)

Desperate Women (Ned Morehead, 1985)

Impulse (William Grefe, 1974)

Liquid Dreams (Mark S. Manos, 1991)

Forced Entry (Shaun Costello, 1973)

The Kiss of Her Flesh (Michael Findlay, 1968)

Virgins from Hell (Ackyl Anwari, 1987)

The Beaver Trilogy (Trent Harris, 2000)

Bad Girls Go to Hell (Doris Wishman, 1965)

Ms. 45 (Abel Ferrera, 1981)

The Public Woman (Andrzej Żuławski, 1984)

Another Day, Another Man (Doris Wishman, 1966)

Shredder Orpheus (Robert McGinley, 1990)

Enemy Gold (Christian Drew Sidaris, 1993)

Indecent Desires (Doris Wishman, 1968)

Prayer of the Rollerboys (Rick King, 1990)

The Dallas Connection (Christian Drew Sidaris, 1994)

My Brother's Wife (Doris Wishman, 1966)

Female Vampire (Jess Franco, 1973)