House of Self-Indulgence

What the hell? I don't believe this, but it looks like I just dragged myself away from playing Borderlands 2* to write about a film where Dick Van Patten (Spaceballs) plays a four star general and fountain pens are shot out of the nozzle of a fire extinguisher. Yep, that's right, Jim Wynorski, director of Chopping Mall and 976-EVIL 2, and Corey Haim, star of National Lampoon's Last Resort and Prayer of the Rollerboys, have teamed up to produce Demolition High, the ultimate melding of Die Hard and The Breakfast Club. And if that wasn't enough, they, for some inexplicable reason, decided to bring Alan Thicke (Thicke of the Night) along for the ride. The kind of movie that even the most devoted Corey Haim fans would refrain from renting at their local Blockbuster Video (I don't think this movie came out in theatres), this film reeks from start to finish. I know, you're probably asking yourself: If that's the case, why am I writing about it? It's simple, really. There's a scene where Corey Haim kills an Uzi-wielding terrorist with an Uzi he obtained from the Uzi-wielding terrorist he killed in an earlier scene; it's basically Corey Haim's version of "NOW I HAVE A MACHINE GUN... HO-HO-HO."

Anyway, after peppering the Uzi-wielding terrorist's body with an entire clips worth of Uzi bullets, Corey Haim realizes he's out of ammo. The panic-stricken twenty-five year-old teen puts down the empty Uzi and grabs a walkie talkie and runs from the classroom.

(I don't get it, I thought you had a soft for submachine guns?) Sure, I love SMG's, I mean, who doesn't? It's just that Corey Haim didn't pick up the Uzi belonging to the Uzi-wielding terrorist he just killed. He just ran right past it, and this, as you might expect, infuriated me.

The only logical reason I can think of that justifies this bonehead decision on Corey Haim's part is that the writers wanted his character to get in touch with his inner MacGyver/MacGruber. Meaning, they thought it would be more interesting if he improvised weapons out of items found lying around your average classroom. (Like the fire extinguisher that shoots fountain pens?) Exactly. And it doesn't make sense for Corey Haim to be fashioning weapons out of unorthodox materials if he's carrying an Uzi, now does it?

Nevertheless, the sight of Corey Haim running past the dead terrorist's fully-loaded (that's right, the Uzi-wielding terrorist didn't even get a shot off during his encounter with the Haiminator) submachine gun was one of the stupidest things I've seen in a long time.

The film opens with a group of criminals masquerading as right-wing extremists stealing a nuclear missile from a military base. And before you ask, they were able to simply walk out of there with a nuclear missile because of three things: Some of them wore trench coats, some of them had ponytails and all of them were carrying Uzis.

Not wanting to fuck things up, their fearless leader, Luther (Jeff Kober), is taking no chances, as he is wearing a trench coat, sporting a ponytail and carrying an Uzi; he's what we in the stating the obvious business like to call a triple threat.

Proving that the Uzi has many uses (besides filling hapless security guards with lead), Luther employs the firearm in ways you wouldn't expect. Sure, he hits Gerrit Graham in the head with an Uzi (he Uzi-whipped him good) and uses an Uzi to unlock a locked gate. But did you know you that Uzis can be used to shred lettuce? Okay, unlike the first two things I just mentioned, we don't actually see Luther shred lettuce with an Uzi. Nonetheless, is there anything an Uzi can't do?

It just dawned me, this film, while rife with Uzis, is actually not from the 1980s. Now, how could I tell this film was not from the 1980s? Well, for one thing, it says it was made in 1996. That being said, despite the heavy Uzi-usage, Demolition High oozes 1996. Meaning, it doesn't ooze anything.

I know, you're thinking to yourself: It's got to ooze something. Oh, really, it's got to, eh? Are you familiar with 1996? Never have I witnessed an era with no distinguishable style.

In most high school movies, especially the one's that were made between 1978-1993, the background is typically filled with punks, skateboarders, gangbangers, new wavers, preppies, nerds, metal chicks and goths. But not this film. All I saw was an amorphous blob of vanilla-flavoured nothingness. It was almost as if everyone at Mayfield High had been robbed of their panache. And all that was left was a sea of flannel shirts and ill-fitting denim.

People who dress this dull don't deserve to be murdered with an Uzi. Every now and then I would get this sudden urge to throw buckets of paint at them. I mean, damn, I was alive in 1996, but I don't remember it being this drab.

To be fair, 1996 is not solely to blame for this dreary debacle. Some of it has to be hurled at Jim Wynorski and his crew. Think about it, did the makers of Clueless (1995) and Jawbreaker (1999) let the era's lackluster style saddle their films with dull fashion? I don't think so.

If you're curious about the film's plot, just take a look at any random review of Die Hard and replace all the positive adjectives with negative ones. Or better yet, don't watch Demolition High all-together. Seriously, who casts Alan Thicke as a police detective from The Bronx?

And the film's so-called femme fatal was a bit of a bust (no pun intended). Parading around in these tight black trousers like she's the hottest woman on the planet, Melissa Brasselle, who plays Tanya, Luther's sidekick, brings nothing to the table in terms of camp. And this film could definitely use an injection of camp; Corey Haim's painfully unfunny one-liners are just not cutting it.

Despite all this, I did enjoy the minor subplot that involved Mr. Johnson (Arthur Roberts) and Ginny (Katherine Ann McGregor), employees of Mayfield Power, the town's nuclear power plant. When they learn a missile is aimed at their plant, the interplay between Mr. Johnson and Ginny was strangely compelling. In closing, I would only recommend this film to hardcore Corey Haim fans and masochists who get off on being exposed to uninteresting mid-1990s fashion.

* I'm currently playing as a level61 Mechromancer, one who is rocking a WDT/Anarchy build. As for guns, I like to use the Fibber, the Blockhead, the Hail, the Twister and the Pimpernel. When it comes to shields, I find the Antagonist to be the most effective, especially in UVHM. The rest of my gear includes a Necromancer class mod, which boosts Wires Don't Talk (+6), fire rate and magazine size, a Magic Missile (X4) grenade mod, and a max stats Shadow of the Seraphs relic.

Are they cops? I doubt it. Are they secret agents? In a past life maybe. Are they badasses? Most definitely. Oh, hi, don't mind me, I'm just trying to determine the profession of the three lead characters in Turkish Mad Max (a.k.a. Ölüme Son Adim or Last Step To Death), come for the excessive coin tossing, stay for the crazy amount of upskirts, or, I should say, stay for the crazy amount of Turkish upskirts. (What's the difference between a Turkish upskirt and a non-Turkish upskirt?) I don't know, what's the difference? (Um, no. I was, uh, hoping you might tell me.) I know, I'm just fucking with you. While I would love to explain to you (in unnecessarily intricate detail) the difference between a Turkish upskirt and a non-Turkish upskirt, I don't think it would be fair to those who haven't experienced the mind-blowing spectacle that is this motion picture. Let me put this way, once you witness a Turkish upskirt, all other upskirts will seem yawn-worthy by comparison.

Believe it or not, there's more to Turkish Mad Max than Turkish upskirts... (You mean Turkish continuity errors?) Very funny. I was actually referring Turkish bikini babes, Turkish leggy floozies, Turkish drinking contests and Turkish kung-fu (which I like to call "Turk-fu," because the participants are Turks, you know, as opposed to non-Turkish Chinese dudes).

(Well played, my friend. Or, I should say, my Turkish friend. Clearly annoyed by my attempt to mock your habit of putting the word "Turkish" before almost everything that takes place in this film, you managed to turn my veiled attack on your unique brand of idiocy and transform it into something that is on the cusp of being clever. Kudos.)

Thanks, it's what I do.

Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, Turkish Mad Max. I think I was extolling the soft, yet surprisingly sturdy virtues of Emel Tümer's Turkish thighs. What's that? You're saying I have made no mention of Emel Tümer's Turkish thighs up until this point?!? That can't be right. Let me double check.

Well, I did mention Turkish leggy floozies. But, as most people know, there's a big difference between Turkish leggy floozies and Turkish thighs that are soft yet sturdy. More importantly, Emel Tümer is no Turkish leggy floozy. She's a Turkish goddess. I'd even go as far as to say that Emel Tümer is one of the most attractive women I've ever seen. I mean, hell, even her Turkish machine gun face is sexy.

(I know I'm going to regret asking this, but what exactly is a "Turkish machine gun face"?)

It's simple, really. Unable to produce muzzle flashes for their prop machine guns, writer-director Çetin Inanç and his crew would instruct the cast to shake their heads during close-ups in order to mimic the movements one might experience while firing an automatic weapon.

In some cases, they were able to add muzzle flashes during post-production. But for the most part, the cast, Emel Tümer in particular, were told to employ their Turkish machine gun face. And since Emel Tümer is so freakin' hot in this movie, her innate sex appeal could not be dampened by the spastic rigors of fake machine gun usage. Anyway, I hope that answers your question.

It's obvious right from the get-go that Kagan (Cüneyt Arkin) is one agile mother-scratcher. Infiltrating the hideout of a notorious drug kingpin with a quiet brand of efficiency, Kagen suddenly changes tactics when he unleashes a thunderous cacophony of kicks and punches in the general direction of the hapless henchmen that have been haphazardly put in his way.

Eventually cornering the lead drug dealer in his office, Kagan forces him to eat a bag of heroin while a babe in a yellow bikini watches in horror.

Patiently awaiting the arrival of the fedora-wearing henchmen that have no doubt been sent to "take care" of him in response to his recent drug den busting shenanigans, Kagan calmly plays cards on his bed. I know, you're thinking to yourself, how is Kagan going to prevent these thugs from doing him grave bodily harm? After all, they're packing some serious heat. It's simple, really, he stabs them. (All of them?) It's no secret, Kagan rarely ever leaves the house without at least ten knives.

Impressed by Kagan's ability to overcome adversity, another gangster decides to seek out his services. Feeding him a load of nonsense about rescuing some professor (one who has apparently developed a revolutionary leukemia medicine) from a gang of militants, the gangster (a real twitchy bastard) manages to convince Kagan to take the job.

It would seem that one of the perks of being a low-life in this film's universe is that every room comes equipped with either a leggy floozy or a bikini babe. In the case of Saban (Yildirim Gencer), a tactical expert and frequent coin toss loser, his room has been furnished with a bikini babe.

Making out with a bikini babe in a periwinkle bikini while Turkish disco pop blasts on the soundtrack, Saban is living the life. Not only is his bikini babe shapely in all the places, she's... uh... I seemed to have lost my train of thought.

After some playful leg pulling, Kagan asks Saban to accompany him on his mission to rescue the professor.

While it's a tough assignment, Kagan and Saban manage to rescue the professor. The End.

(Wait a minute, what about Emel Tümer and her many Turkish upskirts?) Oh yeah, I'm sorry about that. They must have slipped my mind. Just kidding. If anything, Turkish upskirts are always on my mind.

When Kagan and Saban approach Emel Tümer's character, oh, let's call her, Yağmur, she's doing what most Turkish women do in their spare time: Participate in beer drinking contests.

Wearing a teal and black-ish polka dot dress, tan pantyhose, white panties and cyan new wave space boots, Yağmur is currently drinking this shirtless lout under the table.

(If Yağmur, like you say, is wearing a dress, how do you know her panties are white?)

Two words: Turkish upskirt.

Clearly annoyed that the guy they put their money on lost the beer drinking contest, the soused rabble become belligerent and start pawing at Yağmur in an aggressive manner. In order to placate the mob's grabby advances, Yağmur employs a combination of punches and kicks. And since the act of kicking involves the raising of one's leg in an upward fashion, Yağmur's pantyhose and pantie-ensnared crotch area would briefly see the light of day during the implementation of each kick.

And since the bar is packed with unruly drunks, that means Yağmur is going to have to be doing a lot of kicking. And more kicking means more Turkish upskirts. What a country!

In later scenes, Yağmur can be seen wearing short shorts. Now, you would think, given the non-skirt temperament that short shorts repeatedly put out there, that there would be a major shortage of Turkish upskirts in Turkish Mad Max from this point on. You don't think the director is going to let a tiny swath of denim prevent him from giving us the Turkish upskirts we crave? Think again.

In a weird twist, Yağmur is wearing denim short shorts when she begins her descent down a cliffside, but she is clearly wearing a denim skirt when she finishes her descent. Did she change outfits mid-descent? Who's to say? All I know is, if you're thinking about getting into Turkish cinema, only an idiot wouldn't start their journey off with Turkish Mad Max. If you can't find it, try Head-On, that one's good, too.

In order to prevent myself from experiencing Friday the 13th fatigue, I recently decided to start watch 'em two at a time. At first I thought I had made the right call, as I wasn't experiencing any fatigue whatsoever. Sure, there was some mild mental erosion and a shitload of regret, but no fatigue. Well, after recently enduring Part III and the so-called "The Final Chapter" back-to-back, I have to admit, I'm starting to feel a tad sluggish. Repeatedly hitting me over the head with the same tired formula, the Friday the 13th franchise has got to be one the of the most artistically bankrupt in movie history. Other than a few variations here and there, every film is exactly the same. Since I'm writing about it, let's take, for example, Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter (the fourth film in the teens in peril slasher series), which opens with Jason Voorhees (the world's most famous deformed drowning victim) coming back to life. Given that it's way too early for Jason to be killing the film's leads, he usually targets secondary characters who just happen to be in the area (a.k.a. bit part machete fodder). After these people are murdered, we're usually introduced to a young sexually inactive woman who lives with her mother in a house near a large body of water. And then suddenly, like a clockwork, a car, or a van, filled with horny (sexually active) teenagers shows up and moves in next-door.

The young sexually inactive woman develops a crush on one of the car/van boys at some point during the film, but he's typically killed by Jason just as she's about to put the moves on him. But he's not the first teen to die. No, that honour is usually reserved for the most sexually active (female) member of the group.

I'm sure this has been said a thousand times before, but I think these films are trying to say that sex is bad. Or at least they're trying to imply that if you have sex, you will be brutally murdered. On the other hand, if you don't have sex, you might live to see the end credits.

What am I saying? Trying to imply?!? These films are blatantly anti-sex. In fact, they're downright puritan at times. Ugh, I can't believe I just watched... Wait, how many have I watched so far? 1, 2, 3... Okay. Someone call an ambulance, I've just been subjected to six puritan propaganda films. Luckily for me, I watched them in groups of two, so their corrosive message had little effect on my psyche. But still, you should add "dirty and ashamed" to the long list of things these films have caused me to feel.

While it's obvious that these films have a pro-abstinence agenda, that doesn't mean a skilled degenerate like myself can't find tiny droplets of perversion languishing between all the film's sexless sermonizing.

Even though a major hurt is coming their way, we can still enjoy the puerile antics of the film's vagina and cock-starved characters; who, like I said, just arrived and are ready to party like it's 1984.

After a lengthy recap that features clips from parts 1, 2 and 3 and a dull opening credits sequence, we're whisked to the hospital where Jason's "dead body" was taken. The reason I put the phrase "dead body"in quotes is because Jason ain't dead. In a shocking twist, Jason comes back to life to kill more teenagers.

Of course, he can't kill any teenagers this early in the movie, so, he settles instead on a sexy nurse (Lisa Freeman, Savage Streets) and a horny orderly named Axel (Bruce Mahler, Rabbi Glickman from Seinfeld). The best part of this sequence is not that Axel's head is cut off with a saw, but the fact he's watching Aerobicise just before he loses it (his head).

Technically, I should mention that the film's lead character is introduced in the next scene, but the sight of Corey Feldman (National Lampoon's Last Resort) playing Zaxxon in an alien mask is too distracting. A fedora-less Corey Feldman plays Tommy Jarvis, the younger brother of Trish Jarvis (Kimberly Beck, Roller Boogie), who is anxious because six teenagers are apparently moving in next-door.

When I saw that the six teenagers were four boys and two girls, I let out an annoyed sigh. That being said, two of the male of teens are played by Lawrence Monoson (The Last American Virgin) and Crispin Glover (Rubin and Ed). And since these two are the film's most capable actors, they're given a long dialogue scene in the back of the car where their characters, Ted and Jimmy, discuss matters of the heart.

After Ted calls Jimmy a "dead fuck," and after they fail to pick a hitchhiker (Bonnie Hellman), the six teens arrive at their destination (the hitchhiker, of course, is killed by Jason moments after the teens drive by her without stopping).

Since the other characters were virtually ignored during the car ride, we learn a little about the group's two female members. It would seem that Samantha (Judie Aronson, Weird Science) is a bit of a skank, and that Sara (Barbara Howard) is not... a bit of a skank. Hmmm, I wonder which of these young ladies is going to be murdered by Jason first.

In order to even up the female to male ratio, twins Tina (Camilla More) and Terri (Carey More) are introduced (they just happened to riding their bikes along the same path the teens were).

Of course, Crispin Glover sees this sudden influx of semi-attractive twins as an opportunity to prove to The Last American Virgin that he isn't a dead fuck. And what better way to disprove this than by dancing spastically to "Love is a Lie" by Lion for Terri's benefit?

I don't know what I liked better, the sight of Crispin Glover dancing to heavy metal party rock or Kimberly Beck's predilection for prancing around in shirt dresses. It's a tough call. But I will say this, Crispin Glover's dance is the only thing in this movie that didn't smack of trite tedium. Similar to Tiffany Helm's scene in Friday the 13th: A New Beginning, Crispin injects the film with a much needed dose of creativity.

In fact, the only thing that director Joseph Zito (the man responsible for the bland and uninspired The Prowler, a film totally not worthy of the HOSI touch) gets right in this film is his decision to allow Crispin to choreograph his own dance moves. At any rate, while not as terrible as Friday the 13th Part VI: Jason Lives and Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan, Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter proves that the franchise was already starting to overstay its welcome. Oh, and unless I change my mind, that's it as far as Friday the 13th movies go. I'm done, see ya!

When I saw a blonde Ashley Judd slowly emerge from the ceaseless forest wearing a pair of blue jeans at the beginning of The Passion of Darkly Noon, I thought to myself: Does she really think she's going to arouse the unseasoned genitals attached to Brendan Fraser's hulking man-structure while wearing a pair of blue jeans? I don't think so. Forget about Brendan's genitals, what about yours? What about mine? The writer-director of this film, Philip Ridley (The Reflecting Skin), seems like an intelligent guy, but if he expects us to believe that Ashley Judd can enkindle the junk of others with just her winning smile, he's in for a nasty surprise. Of course, anyone who's vaguely familiar with this deeply weird, yet highly rewarding motion picture knows, I'm being a tad facetious. To be honest, though, I was somewhat alarmed when I saw what Ashley Judd was wearing in her first scene. That being said, I think it's safe to say that Ashley Judd and trousers aren't exactly on speaking terms in this film.

Seriously, I don't think I've ever seen a performance that was this, uh, how you say? Pantless. Oh, sure, the great Gisele Lindley in Richard Elfman's Forbidden Zone and the even greater Lois Ayres in Gregory Dark's The Devil in Miss Jones 3 and 4, are technically pantless for a much longer period. But those films are outlandish and farcical. This film is...

Actually, now that I think about it, The Passion of Darkly Noon and the ~~two~~ three films I just cited are not that different. And I'm not just talking about their affinity for pantless female characters. No, there's definitely something off about this film. And I don't mean off as in, rotten or bad, there's just something askew about it. You could say, off-center.

The first thing that clued me in regarding this film's off-ness was the fact that all the action takes place within a single location. Granted, this location, like I said earlier, is next to a ceaseless forest. But still, I prefer movies that have small casts, yet contain big ideas. (Oooh, I like that.) And you can't get any bigger than the erection Ashley Judd's sweaty gams cause Brendan Fraser to sport in this movie.

While, to the uninitiated, what I just said might come across as vulgar and crass, it's 100% true.

As in Blast from the Past, Encino Man and, to a lesser extent, Gods and Monsters, Brendan Fraser plays a character who is thrust into a world/set of circumstances that he does not fully understand. And just like in those films, Brendan Fraser's Darkly Noon experiences feelings of love and lust for very first time. The only difference being, he doesn't wear a barbed-wire undershirt, cover his body in red paint and hang out with Grace Zabriskie in her backwoods trailer in any of those other films.

Oh, and, yes, his name is "Darkly Noon." Thankfully, though, Ashley Judd's Callie decides to call him Lee. Even though Darkly's explanation in regard to his unique moniker makes sense, I don't think I, or anyone else, want to hear Ashley Judd yelling "Darkly" every five minutes.

Surprisingly, the first thing to grab my attention wasn't the sight of Ashley Judd prancing about in skimpy flower dresses. No, it was the amazing score by Nick Bicât and John de Borman's lush cinematography. However, since the entire film can't be made up entirely of John de Borman's photography set to the music of Nick Bicât, a confused and bewildered Brendan Fraser is thrown into the mix.

Staggering through the woods, Brendan eventually collapses in the middle of a dirt road. After nearly being run over by Jude (Loren Dean), he is put in the back of his truck and taken to Callie's house. And so begins, the passion of Darkly Noon.

At first I was like, the "passion" in the film's title refers to a strong sexual desire. But then I realized that it also refers to the suffering and death of Jesus. While I prefer to think the title refers to the former, you can't ignore the latter, because Brendan Fraser's character is a tad on the churchy side. Hell, his name, Darkly Noon, was taken from the Bible: (1 Corinthians 13), "Now we see through a glass, darkly..." But don't worry, I'll try to shun that aspect of the film for the rest of this review, as I would I really like to focus my attention on, yep, you guessed it, Ashley Judd's organic structure and how it's responsible for unfurling a plethora of crotch-based anomalies.

Just for the record, I'm going to go ahead and assume that Brendan Fraser's character was a member of some kind of Branch Davidian-style sect; one that just suffered a Waco-style raid.

A dazed Darkly Noon stumbles downstairs to find Callie napping on her porch swing. And, after some getting to know each other chit chat, Callie shows Darkly where he'll be sleeping; in the attic of a nearby barn.

At the beginning of the "Third Day," Darkly wakes up to the sight of Callie fixing her roof. Now, given the angle in which he was standing and the upskirt-friendly manner that Callie was hammering, it's obvious that Darkly will never be the same again. What I think I'm trying to say is: Dang! Talk about your crotch-based anomalies.

Just as I about to declare Ashley Judd's character as too nice, she grabs a rifle and starts firing wildly into the ceaseless forest. Of course, the reason she does this is Grace Zabriske-based. But then again, we don't know this yet. However, the moment I heard gunfire, I had a strong feeling Grace Zabriske was the one responsible.

While Ashley Judd's Callie exposes Darkly to vice (smoking, drinking, unorthodox pea preparation, love and legginess), Grace Zabriske's Roxie manages to convince him that his "guardian angel" is in fact a witch.

To make matters worse, the arrival of Clay (Viggo Mortensen), Callie's mute boyfriend (a carpenter who makes coffins for the local undertaker), does nothing but exacerbate things, as Darkly's dream of wooing the slinky seductress is pretty much dead. A perceptive Jude notices this (his lovesick glaring is hard to miss) and tries to set Darkly straight.

Unfortunately, it would seem that Jude's talk had little effect on him, as Roxie's influence on Darkly grows stronger as the film progresses.

As I sort of stated earlier, Brendan Fraser is perfect for this type of role; the dunderheaded fish-out-of-water. Ashley Judd is radiant and leggy as all get out. And I think I can safely declare this to be Grace Zabriske's finest performance outside of the David Lynch universe. Boasting mild surrealist touches here and there (giant floating silver shoe, anyone?), The Passion of Darkly Noon is a rare gem of a movie: mid-90s weirdness featuring an all-star cast. It's like Lake Consequence on crack... or is it?!?

How long do you think the members of so-called "New Order" knock their axes together? I'm no expert when it comes to ritualistic axe knocking, but I'd say no longer than five minutes. Sure, the Night Slasher, their non-charismatic leader, can knock axes till the cows come home (he has the upper body strength to handle a full day's worth of axe knocking). But what about those of us who can't hack it? (get it, hack it). We've got axes to knock, too. Or, I should say, we've got axes to grind, too (man, I'm on fire today). Is there no place for weaklings in the New Order? Even though only me and probably around five other people thought this, I still think the axe knocking sequence that opens Cobra, a glorified commercial for Pepsi and Coors, was what inspired the music video for "New Mind," the opening track from Swans' Children of God album. Granted, no axes are knocked together, but there's plenty of axe swinging. Anyway, as any child of the 1980s will tell you, the poster for this movie was everywhere during the spring of 1986. And even though Sylvester Stallone is the epitome of lame, the shot of him on the poster wearing his signature aviator sunglasses holding a Jatimatic SMG below a tagline that reads: "Crime is a disease. Meet the cure," is the stuff of one-sheet legend.

This leads to the question: Does Cobra live up to its poster? Yes, I realize this question should have been answered years ago, but now is a good a time as any. Nonetheless, you could say the poster and the movie are exactly the same. Both are flat and square. Zing!

Seriously, did you see that photo of Ronald Reagan on the wall of Lieutenant Cobretti's office? Ugh! I have no problem with people admiring Ronald Reagan nowadays (time has a habit of distorting history). But admiring him during 1980s?!? That's just plain wrong.

Moving on, since Sylvester Stallone and Brigitte Nielsen both possess a minimal grasp of the English language, it's up to Lee Garlington to carry the brunt of the film's linguistic burden. Oh, wait, that's right, she only has a handful of lines. That being said, the way she says the word, "Yes," in response to the query: Are you drunk?" was the best line delivery of the entire film.

(Um, the line is actually: "Have you been drinking or something?") Either way, her delivery of the word "yes" was spot-on. Okay, now that we cleared that up, let's circle back and try to sort through this humongous turd in a calm and rational manner.

I'll give the filmmakers some credit, the opening credits are pretty cool. Sure, they begin with Marion 'Cobra' Cobretti (Sylvester Stallone) reciting crime statistics in an overly serious manner, but I liked the way the shot of a man riding a motorcycle was edited together with footage of the New Order knocking their axes together.

It turns out that the guy on the motorcycle (Marco Rodríguez) is a member of the New Order and he's heading to a nearby supermarket to cause a little trouble.

Pulling out a shotgun, the so-called "Supermarket Killer" blows away the produce section. At first I thought he had a grudge against veggies, but it's clear that his agenda has got nothing to do with the evils of asparagus. Holding a group of shoppers hostage, the Supermarket Killer demands that he get access to the media. While the cops (lead by Detective Andrew Robinson and Captain Art LaFleur) have the store surrounded, they're at a loss. Realizing that he's probably going to regret saying it, Art LaFleur suggests they call Cobra.

Now, I don't know what it is about Cobra that makes him so special (as far as I know he has no superpowers). Nevertheless, Lieutenant Cobra saunters into the store without a care in the world. How do I know he was carefree? Let's just say people who walk around in public with a unlit matchsticks in their mouths are the definition of carefree; they're also the definition of pompous jackasses, but let's try to focus on one thing at a time.

Personally, I think he's perfect for this particular job because he doesn't seem to care about the rules. Yeah, I think that's it. Oh, and, by the way, the reason Cobra doesn't care about the rules is because he plays by his own rules.

Case in point: When the Supermarket Killer threatens to blow up the store with a bomb, Cobra replies: "Go ahead... I don't shop here." See what I mean?

When he's done taking care of the shotgun-wielding psycho at the supermarket, Lieutenant Cobra heads home to eat cold pizza and clean his gun. He would have gotten home sooner had it not been for the unruly Hispanic gang members who decide to harass the hard-boiled cop outside his apartment. Wait a minute, I think I got it the other way around. Call me crazy, but I think Cobra was the instigator. Think about it, the Hispanic gang members were simply minding their own business when this colossal douche comes along and starts causing shit.

As you might expect, it's tough to root for the film's hero when he's so thoroughly unpleasant. That being said, the film's villain, the Night Slasher (Brian Thompson), isn't that appealing either. I know, he's not supposed to be "appealing." But other than the axe knocking thing and that freaky-looking knife he carries, there isn't really much to this guy.

What this film needs is a montage. One that features Sylvester Stallone shaking down lowlifes and Brigitte Nielsen posing for pictures set to "Angel of the City" by Robert Tepper. Yeah, this is what it needs and this is what it delivers.

The best thing about this montage is the fact that "Angel of the City" drowns out Sylvester Stallone's dialogue. Screw that noise. The best thing about this montage is the sight of Brigitte Nielsen posing up a storm for a robot-themed, wig-tastic photo shoot. Work it, girl!

After Brigitte Nielsen's Ingrid witnesses the New Order murder a woman at the side of the road, she finds herself in their cross-hairs for the rest of the movie. Anyone care to guess who's put in charge of protecting Ingrid? That's right, Lieutenant Marion 'Cobra' Cobretti. And, yep, his real name is "Marion."

Since staying in the city is not a viable option (both Ingrid and Cobra are nearly killed by the New Order), they decide to relocate to the country. And it's during this relocation period that Brigitte Nielsen says to Sylvester Stallone: "Can ask you something?" When I heard her say this, I was like, Noooooo! Why would you want to ask Sylvester Stallone ask something? Nothing good can come from this. And just like I predicted, nothing good does come from this. If I had to sum up this movie using only one word, it would be: Asinine.

Bloodied and battered, a haggard-looking, pee-stained Anthony Wong stands over his victims in triumph. Shortly after removing the tongue of his lover with a pair of scissors, Anthony Wong turns his attention to his lover's young daughter (who's hiding in a nearby closet). Interrupted just as he was about to set her on fire, Anthony Wong decides to take off, leaving the little girl covered in gasoline. If you're wondering who this Ebola stricken psychopath is going to kill next, do yourself a favour and stop... wondering about that. Are you sitting down? He doesn't have the Ebola virus. Well, not yet at least. But that's just the thing, if this is how Anthony Wong behaves when he doesn't have the Ebola virus, imagine what he's going to do when he does. Trust me, it's not going to be pretty. Oh, and I know for a fact that he's going to contract the Ebola virus. You wanna know why? It's simple, really, he's the star of Herman Yau's wonderfully vile Ebola Syndrome, yet another Category III sex and gore extravaganza that manages to make all other attempts at "cinema" seem totally lame by comparison.

If Anthony Wong didn't contract the Ebola virus in this movie, I would have (Yeah, yeah, you would have thrown a major hissy-fit.) You're goddamn right I would have thrown a major hissy-fit.

That being said, Ebola or no Ebola, Anthony Wong's Kai is someone you don't want to have on your bad side. On the surface, he might seem like a harmless goofball with a soft spot for shapely whores. But the second you hand him, oh, let's say, a pair of scissors, he's going to use them in a manner they weren't intended.

Seriously, though, don't ever hand Anthony Wong a pair of scissors. Now, I would love to tell Shing Fui-On (The Blue Jean Monster) this, but I'm afraid I can't, as Anthony Wong just killed him using the legs of a mahjong table. As the legs of the mahjong table began to crush his larynx, he probably thought to himself: Why, oh, why did I hand Anthony Wong those motherflippin' scissors?

You see, Anthony Wong is having an affair with Shing Fui-On's wife (Tsang Yin). And when Shing Fui-On (who is Anthony Wong's boss) and a friend catch them in the act, Shing threatens to cut off his penis. A blubbering Wong pleads with Fui-On on the behalf of his still attached penis. When that fails, Anthony asks if he can cut off his penis. This request clearly confused Fui-On, because he proceeds to hand over the scissors. I don't think I need to tell you what happens next.

Leaving Shing Fui-On's young daughter crying and covered in gasoline in her parent's Hong Kong apartment (in the mid-1980s), we jump forward ten years to find Kai working at a Chinese restaurant in Johannesburg, South Africa.

Hired by the owners, Kei (Lo Meng) and his wife (Cheung Lau), as a waiter (a low paid one at that), they obviously never saw Herman Yau and Anthony Wong's previous collaboration, The Untold Story. If they had, there's no way they would have hired him. But then again, it's implied that Kei and his wife know about Kai's murderous past in Hong Kong. Meaning, they shouldn't act surprised if they suddenly find their genitals on the menu.

I am surprised, however, that the Association of Chinese Restaurants didn't try to have The Untold Story and Ebola Syndrome banned, as they both manage to tarnish the Chinese dining experience.

Anyway, remember that little girl that Kai left covered in gasoline back in the '80s? Well, she's a flight attendant now. And guess where her next flight is headed? That's right, Johannesburg, South Africa.

The second the flight attendant enters the restaurant Kai works, she starts to feel sick. She can't quite put her finger on it, but something about this place causes her relive the day a crazed man killed her father with a mahjong table and cut off her mother's tongue with a pair of scissors. Though, it's obvious that she doesn't remember what Kai looked like, as she just asked him to direct her to the restaurant's washroom.

Even though she goes back to her hotel room, the flight attendant knows something sinister is afoot (she has nightmares about the place). Meanwhile, Kai is horny. After his attempt to pick up a prostitute ends in failure (Kai: "Fifty for a fondling?" Prostitute: "I only fuck white dudes... no yellow trash."), Kai masturbates into a hunk of pork (he uses a knife to create a makeshift vagina) while listening Kei have sex with his wife.

As expected, Kai puts the jizz-laden pork back in the fridge and serves it to customers the very next day. Oh, Kai, you're the most unpleasant character in film history.

Since the the local butcher shop refuses to give Kei a fair deal on pork, he and Kai drive into the bush to buy a pig from a nearby tribe of cannibals. Despite the fact the tribe's camp is littered with lesion-covered corpses, Kei and Kai buy a pig. On the way back, they experience some car trouble. While Kei works on the engine, Kai wanders off.

Noticing a woman collapse by a river, Kai approaches her. You won't believe what happens next. Oh, you do know what happens next. Well, aren't we demented today. Yep, Kai licks his hand and penetrates the unconscious woman with his penis.

Holy crap, how many orgasm faces is Anthony Wong going to make in this movie? I mean, he's already made three. Whatever, the unconscious woman starts to convulse and spits a milky substance in Kai's face.

To the surprise of no-one, Kai develops a fever. While out of commission, Kei and his wife argue about what to do with him. As they're doing this, Kai wakes up and kills them both; a third employee is killed after he starts snooping around.

If Kai didn't have Ebola, do you think he would have murdered them? It's hard to say. What's not hard to say is, Kai is a scumbag.

Chopping up Kei, his wife and the nameless employee, Kai turns them into "African pork buns" and serves them at the restaurant the very next day. Yum. And in doing so, gives everyone Ebola. Pretty soon people are collapsing and twitching all over Johannesburg.

Finding Kei's hidden stash of cash, Kai decides to go back to Hong Kong to cause more havoc. An Ebola carrier (he has the disease, but doesn't display the symptoms), Kai has no qualms whatsoever about spreading the virus. Did I mention he's a scumbag?

While living it up in the penthouse suite of a fancy hotel, Kai gets a hankering for some whores.

When room service fails to deliver him the whores he desires, Kai goes elsewhere for his whore-related needs.

Oh. My. God. Check out the whore in the tight red dress. Her shape is sublime. I'm guessing the "actress" who plays the thick whore in the tight red dress is Lori Shannon, as she's the only cast member who looks like a "Lori Shannon," if you get my drift.

When the prostitutes develop Ebola symptoms, the local authorities begin to search the city for the person responsible for knocking one of Hong Kong's shapeliest whores out of commission. But they shouldn't bother looking for Kai at that fancy hotel, as he has since moved in with old flame.

I don't know what's more disgusting, the South African autopsy scene or the sequence where Kai spreads the virus willy-nilly (the scene at the ice cream store is beyond gross). I'm gonna go with the latter. I know, it doesn't sound all that nasty on paper, but I nearly lost it when the band-aid on the finger of the ice cream store waitress comes loose while touching a spoon that had been in Kai's mouth.

One of the last Cat III movies to be made before the handover (all Hong Kong films made after 1997, if they want to play on Mainland, need to be approved by Chinese censors), Ebola Syndrome is distasteful, loathsome, hateful, nauseating, and sickening. In other words, it's one of the best Cat III movies ever made.

Would someone get these guys some helmets, was my first thought as I watched Kevin Bacon, Laurence Fishburne (Band of the Hand), Paul Rodriguez and Louis Anderson whiz through Manhattan traffic on their bikes in Quicksilver, the best disgraced stockbroker turned bike courier movie to come out in 1986. Then it dawned on me, people in the mid-80s didn't care about safety. I should know, I suffered a nasty gash to the head after falling off my bike as a kid; I wonder if the scar is still there? (this, by the way, occurred when I was a kid during the mid-2000s, not the mid-80s... I'm not some senile old fuck). Anyway, as this was dawning on me, I suddenly realized that this film would also have us believe that Louis Anderson is a New York City bike courier. I'll let that mental image sink in a bit. Think about it: Louis Anderson, bike courier. Actually, the thought of Paul Rodriguez riding a bicycle is pretty ridiculous as well (he just doesn't strike me as the athletic type). That being said, Kevin Bacon and Laurence Fishburne definitely do some bike riding in this movie. Granted, they probably used stunt doubles in the wide shots, but you could totally tell it was them during the close-ups.

Not seen as a long term career, your average NYC bike courier views his or her (but mostly his -- the film is severely lacking when it comes to showing female bike couriers) time in this particular racket as a stepping stone to something better.

At constant risk of being run over by the thousands of cars that race through the downtown core on a daily basis, the bike courier figures if they survive long enough, they can make enough money to allow them to pursue a less dangerous vocation.

However, in the case of a hot shot stockbroker named Jack Casey (Kevin Bacon), the opposite is true. Falling ass backwards into the fast-paced world of bike couriering all because he lost his so-called "magic touch," Jack is left with nothing. Losing not only all his money, but his parents' savings as well, Jack decides to shave his mustache, let his hair grow long and become the Kevin Bacon we all know and love.

What I mean is, the stockbroker version of Kevin Bacon is someone I don't want to be around. On the other hand, bike courier Kevin Bacon is the bees knees in terms of being likable and shit.

I'd like to circle back to the opening credits before I continue, as to not mention them would be a grave error on my part. While a black and white photo montage of various NYC bike couriers might not sound all that compelling. The way they coloured in certain articles of clothing combined with the music of Thomas Newman managed to turn them into something truly artistic.

Oh, and it should be noted that while an uncredited Thomas Newman does provide the music that appears over the opening credits, the film's score was actually composed by Tony Banks of Genesis.

Okay, now where was I? Ah, yes. Another way they signified Jack Casey's transformation from a putrid slab of yuppie scum to an affable, maroon beret-wearing NYC biker courier was to change the way he moves. The arrogant swagger he displayed as a stockbroker has been replaced by a more playful yet purposeful walk.

You could say Jack Casey always wanted to be a NYC bike courier. It's too bad he had to lose everything to find this out. The only reason I mention this is because of the manner in which he obtains his trademark maroon beret. I won't go into too much detail about how he obtained it (let's just say he found it on the street), but the fact that he held onto it speaks volumes about his character.

"Quicksilver" is the name of the NYC bike courier service Jack Casey now works for. However, since he's too busy delivering a package at the moment, it's up to Hector (Paul Rodriguez) to introduce us to his fellow riders. He does so for the benefit of the audience, but also for Terri (Jami Gertz), the new girl on the block.

Other than Louie Anderson, the only "fellow riders" I recognized were Laurence Fishburne, who plays Voodoo, and David Harris (Cochise from The Warriors), who plays, coincidentally, Apache. And judging by the way Hector interacts with Voodoo, it would seem that the latter is a bit of a dick.

While I would love to explain to you why Voodoo is such a dick, I can't right now, as Whitney Kershaw is stretching in a black leotard in Kevin Bacon's loft.

Best known for playing Sillabub in the original 1982 Broadway version of "Cats," Whitney plays Rand, Jack Casey's "friend." Oops, I shouldn't have said that. You see, Jack Casey gets in serious trouble when he calls Rand a friend. To make matters worse, he calls her that in front of Jami Gertz. I know, what a dope.

Nevertheless, the film's best non-bike riding scene is the one where Whitney Kershaw tries to dance (her black nylons pressing tightly against her you know what... *whispers softly* her pussy), but is constantly put off by Kevin Bacon's childish, bike-based antics.

The other cool thing about this scene–you know, besides Whitney Kershaw's outfit–is the fact that it's set to "Casual Thing" by Fiona; who Miami Vice fans will remember Fiona from "Little Miss Dangerous," a.k.a. one of the best episodes of the entire series; "This is what you want, this is what you get."

Since nothing will probably top the greatness of the scene with Kevin Bacon and Whitney Kershaw being sexy and adorable in their loft, I might as well wrap up this review. I don't know, I'm just not feeling the subplot that involves Hector trying to get a loan to buy a hot dog cart. And the scene where some of the couriers show off their skills when it comes to performing bike tricks didn't do anything for me.

In order to give the film some added tension, a nefarious character named Gypsy (Rudy Ramos) is introduced (a lurking enthusiast who drives a lumbering automobile). Using the bike couriers to deliver items of an illegal nature, once Gypsy gets his hooks into you, you're pretty much dead meat if you don't do as you're told ("I call, you come," is his motto). Unfortunately, Voodoo finds this out the hard way moments after a thrilling head-to-head bike race between him and Jack Casey through the streets of New York.

Without Voodoo around to deliver his goods, anyone care to guess who Gypsy envisions as his replacement? No, not Jack Casey, he offers the job to Terri, who naively accepts. Well, since Jack Casey has developed feelings for Terri, and he doesn't want the same thing to happen to her that happened to Voodoo... let's just say, they confront one another. Bike vs. Car, may the best mode of transportation win. My money is Bacon. Mmmm, a bike fueled by bacon. *exaggerated drooling noises*

Special thanks to Digital Orc for recommending this movie.

In order to even up the female to male ratio, twins Tina (Camilla More) and Terri (Carey More) are introduced (they just happened to riding their bikes along the same path the teens were).

What the fuck, I don't remember the 1990s ever being like this. It just goes to show that even someone as exceedingly cool as myself can miss out on certain key events. And believe me, Mod Fuck Explosion is definitely a motherfuckin' key event. It's not only an event that is key-like (or key-esque) in nature, it's the closest thing I've seen to my life story captured on film. Now, granted, my mother isn't a pill freak (at least not to my knowledge), nor is my face anywhere close to being as dynamic as the face that belongs to the film's female lead, but I distinctly remember being friends, by association, of course, with a gang of unruly mods (the kind that wear fishtail parkas, smash garden gnomes for fun and listen to The Action). Forced to endure/put up with their misguided obsession with a subculture I had little or no respect for, I patiently waited for the right opportunity to cut these losers loose. Well, in Joe Moritsugu's Mod Fuck Explosion, the über-chic, über gorgeous London finds herself pretty much in the same situation.

In reality, my experience as a juvenile delinquent seemed more in tune with Nasty, London's gothy sister. It's sad to say, but when all your so-called "friends" are into things that you know deep down are lame, you end up spending a lot of time alone in your room. *sniff*

As I was saying, caught in the middle of an impending rumble that will pit the mods (the gang her brother's in) against the bikers (Japanese bikers, to be ethnically specific), the self-proclaimed teenage fuck up must choose between love and violence.

One, two, three, four! Wait, what is this movie called again? (27 Dresses?) No, I remember, it's Mod Fuck Explosion. And you wanna know how I remember? Um, because the film's title is mentioned repeatedly during the opening five minutes. And why wouldn't you... mention it? The movie is called "Mod Fuck Explosion." In other words, rinse, lather and repeat, baby! Mod. Fuck. Explosion!

Wandering down the street in her lacy bell-bottoms, London (Amy Davis), the poster girl for sullen teens everywhere, is surrounded by a gang of Japanese bikers. Noticing that she was admiring a leather jacket in the window of a store, their leader, Kazumi (Jon Moritsugu), tells her, straight-up, that he can get her a leather jacket. The catch being, she come party with them. Declining his offer, London continues on her way. But not before Kazumi shows her his chest and says: "Check out my chest. Cool, huh?"

Since we've met the Japanese bikers, it only makes sense to introduce the mods. The first mods we meet are Cake (Alyssa Wendt), Cherry (Bonnie Dickenson), Shame (Lane Mclain), Columbine (Abigail Hamilton), Babette (Deena Davenport) and Snap (Sarah Janeane Pullen), who are gabbing about their mod boyfriend's prowess when it comes to the control-related fortitude they display when they employ their testicular outreach programs during coitus.

One after another, each mod chick tells the group about their respective boyfriend's thrusting-based inadequacies. All except Cake, who has nothing but praise for her boyfriend's ability to make her loins dewy. It would seem that Madball (Jacques Boyreau), the leader of the mods, is a gentle lover whose pelvic thrusts are as smooth as homemade molasses.

With the elevator in her building not working, London is forced to take the stairs (exercise was frowned upon in the '90s). When she eventually gets to her apartment, she finds her mother (Bonnie Steiger) and her mod brother, X-Ray Spex (Victor of Aquitaine) playing the "wrestling game" on the couch (incest much?).

When London tells her mother to stop acting like a whore, mom shoots back: "The whore is an emblem of womanhood."

Anyway, mom likes art books, chocolate covered ants, gossip, ugly furniture and talking on the telephone.

How do I know this? It's simple, London, on top of being interesting to look at, is very descriptive. And quite generous when it comes to doling out her mom's back-story. I loved how London gives us a detailed account of the events that make up the average day in her mother's life. As you might expect, most of these so-called "events" centre around ingesting pills.

Her mom might be a mess (a leggy mess, mind you, but a mess nonetheless), but that doesn't mean London's going to wallow in a pit of her own teen angst. Starting every scene by tucking her hair behind her ears (much like Angela Chase used to constantly do on My So-Called Life), London doesn't want anything from this shit stain of a city. Well, except maybe a leather jacket.

Not to get sidetracked, but I found the fact that Madball likes to call his semen "his juice" to be somewhat disturbing? Refusing to fornicate with Cake in an alleyway, Madball doesn't want to waste "his juice "on the day of the big rumble. Apparently, "his juice" gives him strength.

We soon meet another character, who, like London, is on the outside when it comes to the mod-biker rivalry. His name is M-16 (think Ralph Macchio with a hint of Sal Mineo) and he likes to call London up every once and awhile and read to her a story he came across in the paper; they usually involve murder and suicide.

Speaking of things that cause death, did anyone else notice the sound of crows cawing as Madball denied Cake the use of his cock? I'm not superstitious, but this cannot bode well for the mods.

After a dream sequence that has London talking about being a member of "The Shit Generation," a generation that is, according to her: "Stupid, strangulated, straitjacketed, stunted and sexually unsatisfied," she is visited by a woman named Cleopatra (Elisabeth Canning), the patron saint of shit, or was it poop? Either way, while reclining in London's bath-tub, Cleopatra serenades her with a ditty about diarrhea (loose and watery fecal matter).

Later in the movie, Cleopatra visits M-16 (Desi del Valle) while performing auto-erotic asphyxiation on himself in a dirty warehouse. But this time around she's the patron saint of masturbation, or was it self-massage? Either way, Cleopatra, who is wearing black nylons, tries to steer M-16 off this particular path, and more towards the realm of conventional one-on-one sexual intercourse.

Hi, my name is Nasty, and I like schizophrenic painters, tortured writers, fashion designers, low and vulgar literature, porno movies, video games, punk music, motorcycles, tattoo artwork, homo poetry, disaster and murder magazines and the horoscope. I hate high culture.

Played with a Cure-adjacent indifference by Lisa Guay, Nasty is London's older sister, a bit of a minor celebrity who spends most of her time drawing cartoons. Oh, and London can forget about it, she can't have her leather jacket.

Desperate to obtain a leather jacket of her very own, London decides to sell some of her rare records.

"Welcome to Fucker" by Fucker, 50 bucks.

"Skunk" by Asshole, 75.

The Shit-matrix bootleg, a lot.

And her limited edition DILDO! LP, 100, easily.

Like London, I, too, think the records in my modest collection are worth more than they actually are. The band Unrest, by the way, perform the majority of the songs on the film's soundtrack.

The only motion picture, at least that I know of, to feature a scene where a character robs a record store of its only plaster statue of Grace Jones' penis, Mod Fuck Explosion is the kind of filmed anarchy that would make Gregg Araki (who is thanked in the closing credits), John Michael McCarthy (The Sore Losers) and John Waters proud. Oh, and of course, the actor who steals the plaster statue of Grace Jones' penis is credited as "Cock thief." In closing, who would have thought there was more to the 1990s than Hammer time? Mod. Fuck. Explosion! It sure beats masturbating with garden gloves.

E-mail? Dental scans? Self-healing automatons? Ponytail-sporting badasses wielding CornerShots? Annabelle Gurwitch playing a character with a Japanese surname? Either, I've totally lost control of my faculties or Automatic is the best movie ever. It can't be both, but I'm leaning towards... What's that? Ah, I see. Well, this is kind of embarrassing. I've just been informed that I have indeed lost control of my faculties. Which is a shame, really, because having control of my faculties was one of my strong suits. Nonetheless, this mid-90s motion picture does contain the things I listed at the start of this review. Sure, it's nowhere near as awesome as Nemesis (not much is), but this sci-fi action flick can hold its head high, as it poses some deep, philosophical questions. The most important being: Would Olivier Gruner have a film career if it weren't for cyborgs? Granted, I've only seen two Olivier Gruner films, this and the aforementioned Nemesis. But the fact that he plays cyborgs in both has lead me to believe that Olivier Gruner is the Laurence Olivier of cyborgs.

Now, you might think that calling someone "The Laurence Olivier of Cyborgs" would be taken as an insult. But that's not the case at all. You see, Olivier Gruner has very little in the natural charisma department (the shelves are bare). However, by casting him as cyborgs, having natural charisma is a negative, not a positive.

That being said, you can't make a movie filled with cyborgs with no natural charisma. Okay, that's not entirely true, as I've seen plenty of films that boast tons of charisma-challenged bores. But this is not one of them.

In a shrewd move, the makers of Automatic have surrounded Olivier Gruner's "tin man" with talented actors.

Along with personal favourites like, Jeff Kober (Demolition High), John Glover (Life on the Edge, a.k.a. Meet the Hollowheads) and Marjean Holden (Dr. Caligari), the makers of this film were smart to pair Olivier Gruner with Daphne Ashbrook, an actress who is not only leggy in all the right places (thanks to a short ecru skirt that is put through the ringer), but brash and plucky. I know, brash and plucky.

After kicking things off with a pretty decent fake-out (we're shown a family being attacked by bandits, but it's actually a slick commercial for a revolutionary new security system), we're whisked into the boardroom of Robgen Industries, the makers of 'Automatic,' a line of state-of-the-art robot servants who all look like Olivier Gruner.

Quickly looking over some of the people who at this board meeting, I can already tell that Dennis Lipscomb's character is going to be a toadying yes man and that Stanley Kamel's character is going to be an annoying thorn in the side of John Glover's Goddard Marx, the cheerful president of Robgen Industries.

On top of being a sycophant of the highest order, Dennis Lipscomb is also a scumbag. Asking Nora Rochester (Daphne Ashbrook) if she could stick around to work on an "important project," Dennis Lipscomb clearly has more than work on his mind. Yep, it turns out this so-called "important project" involves gratification-based relief for his unloved penis and nothing much else. Since overseeing the needs and wants of Dennis Lipscomb's penis isn't in her job description, Nora resists his attempts to mount her sexually.

While walking by Dennis Lipscomb's office, an Automatic named J269 (Olivier Gruner) hears the fruits of Nora's resistance. Asking Dennis Lipscomb if everything is all right, J269 is told to basically get lost. Which he does. But when Nora's screams grow louder, J269 decides to help her (he throws Dennis Lipscomb onto the floor). This, as you might expect, angers Dennis Lipscomb, who downloads a firearm from his desk. That's right, if you need something in a flash, whether it be a stiff drink or a gun, you simply ask for it and your desk will serve it up for you.

Anyway, J269 ends up killing Dennis Lipscomb during their confrontation. Informing the building's head of security (Troy Evans), that he had just killed Dennis Lipscomb, J269 asks that the authorities be notified. When Goddard Marx gets wind of what happened, he immediately goes into damage control mode. Since Automatic's aren't supposed to kill people, Goddard decides that both J269 and Nora Alexander need to be eliminated.

What transpires next are a series of poorly staged action sequences involving J269 and Nora trying their darnedest not to be killed by a gang of mercenaries lead by Jeff Kober, a "primitive brute" with a ponytail.

Wait a minute, I think I should clarify something. It's not that the action is "poorly staged," it's that their poorly lit. Seriously, the film is so freaking dark at times, I couldn't even tell if Nora's skirt was a grayish to pale yellow or a light grayish-yellowish brown. I mean, c'mon people, let's set up some lights.

Repeatedly stymied by J269, who is determined to protect Nora from harm, Jeff Kober calls in reinforcements. And would you look at that, one of these reinforcements is played by Marjean Holden. I liked the few scenes Jeff Kober and Marjean Holden had together, as their relationship reminded me of the one between Private Jenette Vasquez and Private Mark Drake in Aliens; except instead of "smart guns," they wield CornerShots.

I will say this, the Die Hard-ish scene in the elevator was well done. And, no, I'm not just saying that because we get some great shots of Nora's grayish to pale yellow/light grayish-yellowish brown skirt. No foolin' the scene is quite thrilling.

Meanwhile, while all this is going on inside, a reporter named Gloria Takamatsu (Annabelle Gurwitch, Pizza Man) is holding court outside with a group of protesters; Automatic's are not popular with the "unwashed masses." At first I was like, why do all the non-Asian reporters in this movie have Asian names? But then it dawned on me, they married Asian dudes. Either way, I love the fact that Annabelle Gurwitch plays a character named "Gloria Takamatsu."

I don't know what else to say about this movie other than it boasts some modestly intriguing ideas in the regard to the future; the ability to download objects directly to your desk is kind of cool. But as far as being a sci-fi action flick, I'd have to declare Automatic a mild, poorly lit failure.

Utah Saints! Utah Saints! Utah Saints! U-u-u-u-u-u-tah Saints! Ooh, I just knew something good was gonna happen when I saw that Vibrations, the ultimate how-to guide on how to be a double-amputee techno superstar, had a Utah Saints song on its soundtrack. Was there ever any doubt? I mean, would the Utah Saints ever be associated with something that is lame? I don't think so. Okay, now that we that got that out of the way (it's been a longstanding dream of mine to start off a movie review with a bit about the Utah Saints), let's talk about dates, shall we? Specifically, 1996. About midway through this rave-tinged classic ("Injected with a poison! We don't need that anymore"), I threw up my hands in frustration and said: There's no way this film was shot in 1996. In fact, there's no way this film was shot in 1995. No, this film reeks of the summer of 1993, pure and simple. After wracking my brain trying to figure out what year the movie was shot, we get a close up of a rave flyer. Of course, I didn't notice the date on the flyer the first time around, but during my third viewing (you have to watch this film multiple times to fully understand it), I noticed the rave, featuring The Shamen, U96, Moses On Acid, Fierce Ruling Diva and, yes, the Utah Saints, was listed as taking place on July 7, 1993. Vindicated that my instincts were totally correct, I let out a mild sigh of relief, and prepared to watch the film a fourth time.

Oh, and one more thing about that rave. If you were to say replace Moses On Acid with, oh, let's say, the Lords Of Acid (sticking with the acid theme), you would be looking at the greatest show ever. Seriously, I prefer raves to regular concerts. And the one being advertised in this movie would make [the original] Woodstock look like poorly acted dinner threatre.

Okay, I might have been exaggerating when I implied that I watched Vibrations more than once. But I will say this: It's the best film about a hand-less wino who becomes the toast of the rave community that I've ever seen.

I'd even go as far as to put it in the same league as Cool As Ice and My Demon Lover in terms of quality. I know, that's some pretty distinguished company right there, but trust me, I know what I'm talking about.

Unfortunately, in order to make a great movie about a double-amputee who finds redemption through techno, we're going to have to endure a pretty mawkish opening. It starts with T.J. (James Marshall), a rock musician who's going places. His band is front page news (they made the cover of The Woodfield Daily!), his girlfriend looks like Paige motherfuckin' Turco and his hair is... well, his hair is...

When I first saw T.J., I thought to myself: Leif Garrett circa 1977 just called, he wants his hairstyle back. But then, after doing some intense research, I was shocked to discover that T.J.'s hair looks nothing like Leif Garrett's hair circa 1977. If I was given another opportunity to compare T.J.'s hair to a celebrity from the late 70s/early 80s, I would definitely go with William Katt from The Greatest American Hero (circa 1981, of course).

However, I already said Leif Garrett (The Spirit of '76), and that's a shame I'm going to have to live with for the rest of my life. That being said, we all deserve a second chance, and T.J. gets one when he wakes up at a rave being held in New York City. Of course, the second chance I'm referring to doesn't occur immediately, but what occurs on this particular evening leads to a shitload of spiritual cleansing.

Oh, wait, I think I might have to explain how T.J. wound up asleep at a rave. You see, while driving to a gig in, let's say, Philadelphia, T.J. is tormented by a gang of drunks in a pick-up truck. Surrounding his car, one of the drunks gets behind the controls of a giant drill attached to a bulldozer and, well, you can pretty much guess what happens next.

How will T.J. perform his beloved rock 'n' roll music without hands?!? A despondent T.J. pushes away Paige Turco (ahhh, she's wearing shorts covered in butterflies, you dumbass), and flees to New York City to become a wino.

One afternoon, while looking for a place to crash, T.J. breaks into what he thinks is an abandoned warehouse, and passes out in a cardboard box. Suddenly, the fresh-faced wino is awoken by the sound of techno.

Staggering through the crowd (a sea of baggy t-shirts and undercut ponytails), a bewildered T.J. is shown the way to the door by Anamika (Christina Applegate), who, I'm assuming, thought T.J. was simply a raver who took too much ecstasy.

While walking home, Anamika is accosted by a couple of low-lifes. Anyone care to guess who comes to Anamika's aid in her time of need? Why it's Super Wino! Just kidding, it's T.J. Nevertheless, I liked how one of the low-lifes calls T.J. "Super Wino;" a low-life he may be, but he's pretty quick on his feet.

Just when the fact that the wino version of T.J. always appears to be clean shaven was starting to bug me, we get a crafty close-up shot of T.J.'s shaving kit. It's almost as if the producers were thinking to themselves: "No-one is going to buy a clean shaven wino." Then one of the producers must have chimed in and said: "Why don't we just show that T.J. carries around a shaving kit and a toothbrush." And just like that, they managed to undercut the criticism of countless undercut-sporting nitpickers and crybabies thinking about getting undercuts in one fell swoop. Well played, producers of Vibrations. Well played, indeed.

You might think: What kind of woman would let a wino stay the night? Sure, he rescued you from the witty low-lifes and he's kinda hunky (you know, for a wino without hands). But it's established early on that Anamika is a bit of a flake. Meaning, her to decision to allow T.J. into her home came across as somewhat reasonable.

She might be a flake, but Anamika draws the line at petty theft (she caught T.J. trying to steal twenty bucks from her wallet). Even though this sours their burgeoning relationship, T.J. is determined to prove to Anamika that he's not a complete fuck up. And the first step in this process is to give up booze.

Since T.J. can't get back in the groove of things with just Anamika's help, he reaches out to her fellow tenants; who include Simeon (Scott Cohen), a techno musician (and a dead ringer for Rockula's Dean Cameron), Geek (David Burke), a computer hacker (who says something to affect of "cyberspace is the only realm left to explore"), and Zina (Faye Grant), a cynical performance artist.

It's after these characters are introduced that the film really starts to shine as a substantive piece of filmed entertainment.

And things start to get substantive as all get out when Simeon introduces T.J. to techno. In what is easily my favourite scene in the entire movie, Simeon shows T.J. what techno is all about. And I couldn't have said it better myself, as I love techno.

With help from his new circle of friends, T.J. gets a new lease on life and re-emerges as Cyberstorm. At first you might think: Oh my God! He's looks ridiculous (T.J.'s Cyberstorm persona dresses like a gothic robot). Is it, though? One of the biggest music acts on the planet dress like robots. And don't make me bring up that asshole in the giant metal mouse head. So, before you snicker at Cyberstorm's appearance, you should actually thank him for paving the way for other faceless musicians.

That being said, if your mouth fails to become somewhat agape during the Cyberstorm concert scenes, then I'm afraid there's little hope for you.

It should go without saying, but Vibrations is a genuine cult classic and a must see for fans of early 1990s rave culture. "We'reprimal, heading for cosmic..."

In order to even up the female to male ratio, twins Tina (Camilla More) and Terri (Carey More) are introduced (they just happened to riding their bikes along the same path the teens were).

When London tells her mother to stop acting like a whore, mom shoots back: "The whore is an emblem of womanhood."

Anyway, mom likes art books, chocolate covered ants, gossip, ugly furniture and talking on the telephone.

Speaking of things that cause death, did anyone else notice the sound of crows cawing as Madball denied Cake the use of his cock? I'm not superstitious, but this cannot bode well for the mods.

Desperate to obtain a leather jacket of her very own, London decides to sell some of her rare records.

"Welcome to Fucker" by Fucker, 50 bucks.

"Skunk" by Asshole, 75.

The Shit-matrix bootleg, a lot.

And her limited edition DILDO! LP, 100, easily.

Like London, I, too, think the records in my modest collection are worth more than they actually are. The band Unrest, by the way, perform the majority of the songs on the film's soundtrack.

Roughly three years after bringing us the super-cool mods vs. bikers epic, Mod Fuck Explosion, writer-director Jon Moritsugu returns with Fame Whore, a movie that features three separate stories interwoven to make one sort of succinct motion picture. (Huh?) What a mean is, one of the stories (the one that takes place in New York City) should definitely be called "Fame Whore." However, the title doesn't really apply to the other two, which are set in Trenton, Jersey and San Francisco respectively. While that's an interesting observation, what's even more interesting is the origin of the term "fame whore." I always thought the saucy phrase was a product of the reality show boom of the early 2000s. But, as you can clearly see, this film is not from the early 2000s. What I'm trying to say is, did Jon Moritsugu come up with the expression? If so, kudos. The idiom, if you don't know, is a term used to describe someone who is so desperate to become famous, that they will do just about anything to achieve this goal.

Sure, the title doesn't really apply to all three stories, which, like I said, are interwoven together. And the origin of the expression "fame whore" is on the cusp of being interesting and/or fascinating. But the reason I'm writing about this film is because of Amy Davis, who stars as Sophie, the world's most deluded woman.

Remember how I prattled on obsessively about Amy Davis's face in my soon to be award winning review of Mod Fuck Explosion? Well, I'm pleased to inform you that not only is Amy Davis's face still awesome, but her acting has greatly improved as well.

Now, I don't mean to imply that she wasn't a good actress in Mod Fuck Explosion. On the contrary, I found her perpetually confused mug to be rather endearing in that film. It's just that she's so brilliantly deadpan in Fame Whore, that I could easily be excused for mistaking her for another actress. But let's be blunt, shall we? There's no way I could mistake Amy Davis for another actress. In fact, there's no way I could mistake Amy Davis for anyone the world over, as she oozes rarefied form of uniqueness.

Don't worry, I'll get to the other stories–you know, the one's that don't star Amy Davis–in a minute. It's just that I need to get my love for Amy Davis out of my system.

I just remembered what connects the three stories featured in Fame Whore. They all take place on April 15. I know, it's not much, but it's something.

Anyway, after the listening to the film's bratty theme song ("I'm a fame whore! Can't you give me more and more.") we're introduced to Sophie (Amy Davis) and J (Jason Rail), her long suffering assistant. If you're wondering what Sophie's last name is, don't bother, she doesn't have one. Her motto is: If Madonna and Cher don't have last names, why should she? Actually, I'm not entirely sure if that's her motto or not. But it seems feasible.

You could say the reason J is suffering is because he has to listen to Sophie's grating monotone voice all day long. However, I wouldn't say that, as I found Sophie's voice to be quite heavenly. Okay, maybe heavenly is a bit of a stretch. But I did come to love it as the film progressed. It also helped that almost everything that came out of her mouth was pretty freakin' hilarious.

Oh, would you look at that, I still haven't mentioned the other stories that make up the Fame Whore family.

All right, let's get this out of the way. The first one takes place in San Francisco and follows the misadventures of Jody George (Peter Friedrich), the #1 ranked tennis player in the world. A huge asshole, Jody spends most of the movie berating his manager (Michael Fitzpatrick), beatboxing, watching porn, speaking in the third person, tipping bellboys autographed tennis balls, giving head to shapely hotel maids, and, oh, yeah, desperately trying to squash rumours that he's gay.

However, unlike gay athletes today (Michael Sam comes to mind), Jody fears that these rumours will cause him to lose his lucrative sponsorship deals. To illustrate how many sponsorships could potentially be at risk, Jon Moritsugu pans up Jody's body, stopping every and now then to point out one of his sponsors. Everything from the shoes on his feet to the dandruff shampoo on his head earn Jody truckloads of money.

The second story is about George (Victor of Aquitaine), a nervous ninny who works at the Urban Dog Placement Center, a Trenton, New Jersey dog shelter. When he's not getting crank calls or people calling up complaining the dog they got at his shelter is pissing all over their fancy (museum quality) quilts, George can usually be found in his office chatting with Mr. Peepers, the imaginary giant dog who comes and goes over the course of the day.

In-between all the crank calls, complaints and conversions with Mr. Peepers about organic food, George has a nasty encounter with Sabrina Mayflower (Izabela Wojcik), a woman who wants to adopt a dog. This, however, will never happen, as George refuses to deal with someone who wears fur. "Real fur is for real fools," he tells her, as he kicks her out of his office.

While these two stories are entertaining and, at times, mildly satirical, the real jewel in the Fame Whore crown is hands down Sophie's saga. And I'm not just saying that because I'm obsessed with Amy Davis. Okay, maybe a little bit. Nevertheless, the Sophie saga has a lot of bite to it, especially when it coming to mocking our celebrity-obsessed culture.

I'm still having trouble believing this film is from the late 1990s. The only solid evidence I have that this film was shot in the late 1990s comes whenever Jon Moritsuga shows Sophie talking on a cellular telephone. It's true, the size of the cell phone practically screamed Clueless. But it's the manner in which the phone is used that caused me to think that this film was actually shot in the late 1990s. You see, back in the '90s, in order to convey to the audience that a character was a douchebag, the director would simply have them use a cellular telephone, as cell phone usage back then was synonymous with douchiness. This technique is impossible to employ today, as almost everyone uses a cellular telephone... and almost everyone is a douchebag.

Whew, I'm glad that's settled. In order to recover from the excessive profundity I just threw in your face, please enjoy a sampling of "Femanatomy by Sophie," the hottest item from Sophie's new fashion line, It's All About Sophie. Model: Turquoise

On top of being a fashion designer, Sophie is also a video artist, a painter, an actress, a photographer, a producer, an art director, an image consultant, a playwright and a performance artist.

Is she any good at any of these occupations? How the fuck should I know? As Sophie would say, "Having priorities is what separates us from the savages." Meaning, you gotta keep busy in this hectic go for broke universe. And no one is busier than Sophie. A startling vision of what society would eventually become, the Sophie segment of Fame Whore exams how vanity mixed with insecurity will be the world's downfall.

Oh, and I would have loved to have seen the model Sophie says this about at one point: "If she had anymore of an under-bite, we could use her as an ashtray. Sadly, all the models for Sophie's doomed music video all appear off-screen; one of the many drawbacks to independent film-making.

I've read that in the early days of MTV, the then music video channel would play just about anything. Now, this policy had nothing to do with MTV being open-minded or adventurous, it was like that because they to had play something. You see, music videos in the early 1980s were still a bit of a novelty. Meaning, not every artist bothered to make a music video. So, if you were in a band with a music video, the chances of it getting it played on MTV were pretty good. What does this have to do with Rock Hard, a Taija Rae porno movie from 1985? It's simple, really, if I was in charge of deciding what got played and what didn't get played on MTV, I would have flat-out refused to air "Hotter Than Hot" by Adonna and The Sexelettes on the grounds that it sucks ass. Seriously, what was that? Okay, I get it, Adonna (Taija Rae) is the singer. But what are those other chicks doing? Are they even in the band? Ugh. We wouldn't be in this mess if writer-director Bob Vosse (Yank My Doodle, It's a Dandy! and She-Male Sex Clinic) had the horse sense to hand them guitars. Hell, even a tambourine would have been a step in the right direction.

And don't give me any of this crap about musical props being expensive. The opening scene clearly

shows a drum-kit and two mannequins, one with a guitar and one with a bass guitar.

Look at them, they're right there. Grab 'em.

That being said, it sort of makes sense that Adonna and The Sexelettes were kinda terrible. Think about it, they would have to have sexual intercourse with almost everyone connected to the music industry in order to get their shitty music video on the air. And–you guessed it–that's exactly what they end up doing. Humping anything with a pulse, Adonna and The Sexelettes literally fuck their way to the top.

After enduring the music video for "Hotter Than Hot" (which is played in its entirety during the opening credits) Taija Rae's Adonna gets right down to business at hand by massaging the cock attached to her manager's crotch with the inside of her mouth. Even though they're technically a couple, Adonna treats Phil (Jerry Butler) more like a boy-toy. In other words, she'll continue to let him make the flesh on her juicy, pale ass ripple as a direct result of his pelvic thrusts as long it helps her career.

Call me avuncular tree frog, but I simply adored how each thrust caused a brand new ripple to appear along the surface of Taija Rae's untanned backside.

Pinning her legs back as far back as they will go, Phil penetrates Adonna with not as much gusto as I would have liked. The fact Adonna obviously wanted to be somewhere else minimized the impact of his thrusts. And it didn't help that Phil and Adonna stopped to chat every once and awhile either.

I did like Taija's purple satin garter belt and the torn up nature of her black stockings, which looked like they had just survived a nuclear explosion.

While to a certain degree it was also annoying that the opening sex scene between Taija Rae and Jerry Butler is periodically interrupted by the scene where The Sexelettes try to convince a VJ to play their video, I wasn't too upset, as the scene introduces us to Ultra Box!!!!

Yep, you heard right, Rock Hard has a character named Ultra Box, who I'm officially declaring to be one of the greatest movies characters of all-time. Sure, a lot my hyperbolic praise has got to do with the fact that she's called "Ultra Box," but Patti Cakes, the actress saddled with the task of bringing Ultra Box to life, is simply amazing. It doesn't have to be noted, but unlike Taija Rae, and Nina Hartley, who plays Cindi Looper, Patti Cakes doesn't have hundreds of credits on her resume (according to my research, Patti Cakes only appeared in ten movies during her film career). Anyway, Cindi Looper, who is wearing an orange sweater dress with a longer pink dress underneath it (creating a nice layering effect) and Ultra Box, who is wearing black stockings with a short skirt, approach Billy VJ (Billy Dee), the VJ for a MTV-style music channel. She hasn't said a word yet, but I like Ultra Box already; she starts clawing at her skirt (reveling the tops of her stockings with every claw).

When Billy VJ implies that there is something they can do to get their video played on the air, Ultra Box assumes he's talking about money, and says, "I thought payola was unlawful." Ahh, I love it. Her voice is so snotty and uncouth; she would be perfect in an early John Waters' movie.

He's not talking about money, by the way, he's talking about sex. Pulling out the mattress he had tucked away underneath the studio mixing board, Billy VJ invites Cindi Looper and Ultra Box to dine on his genitals.

Wearing a red ruffle garter belt, a giant blue crucifix earring and sporting pink highlights in her hair, Ultra Box is the one who gets jizzed on when Billy VJ is finished. Or does she? I know her bush is thick and all, but I can't see any cum. Man, what a piss poor cumshot. Whatever. Lying in a post-coital heap together, Billy informs the ladies that he can set up an appointment with the station's program director (he doesn't have the authority to decide what gets on air).

Meanwhile, Adonna is over at her record label's sales department to smooth talk Super Sales (Eric Edwards), his secretary (Mai Lin) and Dave Darling (Francois Papillon), an art director (he's in charge of designing the video boxes).

My initial thought when Adonna comes barging onto their office was: Holy crap, that pink dress with the zipper sleeves is so fucking chic. However, after that initial thought had subsided, I thought to myself: I wonder how much cocaine Taija Rae did before shooting this scene?. And it would seem that I wasn't the only one who was thinking this, as Eric Edwards asks Adonna at one point if she's on anything. After giving Adonna's body the once over, Dave Daring suggests that since Cindi Looper and Ultra Box aren't there, that Super Sales and Mai Lin stand-in for them in order that he imagine what the box art will look like. One thing leads to another, and the four end up having group sex on the floor. As was the case with the studio scene with Cindi and Ultra Box, the music during the floor foursome is all wrong. I mean, the jazzy score just doesn't fit with the tone of the movie. If this had been, oh, let's say, a Doris Wishman-directed nudie cutie flick from 1964, it would have been perfect. But this film is about hot new wave chicks fucking their way to the top in 1985.

Wearing pink pantyhose, knee-high black boots, a pink top covered in splotchy black dots, multiple gold chains around her neck and a short black and white skirt, Cindi Looper shows up at the office of Joan (Lili Marlene), a booking agent of some kind. And I don't have to tell you what happens next. For those who don't know, Cindi Looper and Joan engage in lesbian sex with BSDM undertones.

Since Adonna and Cindi Looper have both tried to get their band's music video air play by employing sexual favours, it only makes sense that Ultra Box give it a shot. And her target is Mr. Wilson (Roger Scorpio), the music video channel's program director. As luck would have it, Mr. Wilson digs trampy chicks who talk dirty. And no one comes close to being as trampy or vulgar as Ultra Box. Unlike the previous scenes, the one between Ultra Box and Mr. Wilson has pep. What I mean is, there's nary a dull moment. This is because Ultra Box never stops berating Mr. Wilson, who is inundated with crass put-downs and insults of an emasculating nature. My favourite line during the cunnilingus/annilingus portion of their love-making session is this Ultra Box gem: "I'm going to cum all over your executive neck-tie, you asshole!" Though, I have to say, "Come on, faggot. Give it to me," has its charms as well. Oh, and when Ultra Box informs Mr. Wilson: "I'll show you what Ultra Box is," I didn't doubt her for a second.

There was a moment when I got scared, as I didn't think Mr. Wilson had it in him. It occurs after Mr. Wilson had just expelled a modest amount of seminal fluid all over Ultra Box' ample hindquarters. When she instructs him to lick it off, I wanted to crawl under a rock. Assuming that Mr. Wilson would ignore her request, I braced for the awkwardness that was surely to come. To my unexpected delight, Mr. Wilson does exactly as he's told and laps up his spunky leavings with more vigor than I expected. You rock, Mr. Wilson.

Unfortunately, the same can't be said for Ron Jeremy's Teddy Turner; this guy's repulsive. Nonetheless, if Adonna, Cindi Looper and Ultra Box wanna get their music video on the air, this is is man to see, or, I should say, this is the man to fuck. I know, you're thinking to yourself: Why don't they just upload their shitty music video to YouTube? (that's what everyone else does). Believe or not, there was no YouTube in 1985. So, on the downside, they have to fuck Ron Jeremy in order to get famous. On the plus side, they wear pink (Cindi Looper), red (Ultra Box) and yellow (Adonna) stockings while doing so.

Is Mrs. Potter the worst mother in cinematic history? Or is she the best? I know, those of you who have seen Career Bed are probably wondering why I posed my question regarding Mrs. Potter's parenting skills in an either/or fashion, when it's obvious she's the worst. Is she, though? I mean, all she wants is for her daughter to succeed. Nonetheless, there's one thing I have no doubt about, and that is that Mrs. Potter's legs are as shapely, if not shapelier, than her daughters. Don't believe me, just ask Mrs. Potter herself, as she'll be the first to extol the well-proportioned nature of her shapely legs. Forget about asking, telling people that her legs are just as shapely, if not shapelier, than her daughters is how Mrs. Potter introduces herself. "Hello, my name is Mrs. Potter. Crazy weather we're having, eh? My legs are more shapely than my daughters." Oh, if you're wondering how Mrs. Potter is able to prove the validity of her boastful leg-based declaration, look no further than the ratty robes she likes to slink around in for most of the day. If, say, someone is foolhardy enough to doubt her claim, she simply hikes up her robe to reveal the clean-limbed complexion of her legs for all to see.

However, it's not her sexy stems that are going to transform her daughter Susan into a movie star. Sure, they will be employed to seduce Susan's colossal square of a boyfriend and to placate the inflamed genitals attached to a sleazy photographer. But make no mistake, her daughter's screwable cunt is the key to achieving fame as an actress.

Does it matter that Susan (Jennifer Welles) isn't that talented? Of course not. Just like Mrs. Potter (Honey Hunter) says: The only talent you need is the festering box located between you legs. Okay, she's doesn't actually refer to her daughter's vagina as a "festering box," but it's not that far off.

In case we were having any doubts whether or not Career Bed was taking place in 1969, we're subjected to the trippy rock music of Vic Spina and The Lost Children, who perform the film's theme song over the opening credits.

If that wasn't enough evidence, we're shown a copy of Life magazine sitting on a table with Jane Fonda circa Barbarella on the cover. You need more, you say? If the ad copy for Blake's Hand Lotion we hear blaring on the television doesn't convince you that this film takes place in 1969, then I don't know what will, as it practically screams 1969.

The shot of a lingerie-clad Susan sitting on the floor while brushing her hair is a great way to open a movie. It's too bad this film doesn't open that way, as we get instead some shots of Bob (John David), Susan's boyfriend, wandering around Manhattan.

Despite this flagrant misstep on the part of director Joel Reed, we do eventually get to see Susan brushing her hair. Watching her favourite soap opera, The Daily Storm, with her mother, Mrs. Potter, Susan is being put under a lot of stress. You see, her mother wants her to become a star. But Susan has other ideas. This horrifies Susan's mother, who shudders at the prospect of her daughter being stuck raising kids and cooking dinner for that Bob fucker.

In her mother's mind, Susan's shapeliness shouldn't be wasted on some guy, especially one named Bob. In order to get Bob out of the picture, Mrs. Potter hatches a plan so devious, so brilliant, so... Oh, who am I kidding? She flashes Bob some thigh and voilà! Bob is history; Susan comes home to find her boyfriend in bed with her mother, and, as you might expect, isn't too pleased by this unexpected turn of events and sends Bob packing.

The best non-thigh flash related part of the seduction scene, is when Bob says, "I came here to marry Susan!" Yeah, right, Bob. If that's the case, you shouldn't be trying to mount her mother from behind. The look on Mrs. Potter's face as Bob plowed into her exhausted pussy practically screamed tedium.

Now that Bob won't be coming around anymore, Susan can focus more on her career, which her mother is determined to get off the ground.

Acting more like her pimp than her mother, Mrs. Potter arranges for Susan to meet with Miss Reynolds (Georgina Spelvin), an important agent. Or, I should say, an important... lesbian agent. After inspecting the goods (checking out Susan's blemish-free body), Miss Reynolds makes a deal with Mrs. Potter. Of course, the deal doesn't involve money, it involves sex... lesbian sex.

When Mrs. Potter notices that Susan has started thinking for herself, she quickly puts a stop to it. I won't say how exactly she puts a stop to it, but let's say it's quite over the top.

While Miss Reynolds calls Mrs. Potter a stage mother, I would compare her more to Kris Kardashian. Sure, she's technically a stage mother, too. But what separates your average stage mothers from the Kris Kardashian's of this world is talent. It's true, lot's of stage mothers manage untalented children, but Kris Kardashian seems like she is more willing to exploit them for monetary gain. Or maybe she's just a shrewd businesswoman, what do I know?

Either way, Mrs. Potter pretty much sells Susan to a bunch of sleazy scumbags, including my personal favourite, Gerry, a.k.a. "The King" (Stioge Glyspayne), a deluded photographer.

Fast-paced and boasting a simple plot, Career Bed is a cautionary tale that is strangely still relevant, as parents nowadays have even more avenues to take when it comes to exploiting their putrid offspring. Oh, and while Jennifer Welles and Georgina Spelvin appeared is numerous exploitation and x-rated movies after this (the latter in the original The Devil in Miss Jones), this would turn out to be Honey Hunter's lone movie appearance; which is on the cusp of being a shame.

When London tells her mother to stop acting like a whore, mom shoots back: "The whore is an emblem of womanhood."

Anyway, mom likes art books, chocolate covered ants, gossip, ugly furniture and talking on the telephone.

Speaking of things that cause death, did anyone else notice the sound of crows cawing as Madball denied Cake the use of his cock? I'm not superstitious, but this cannot bode well for the mods.

Desperate to obtain a leather jacket of her very own, London decides to sell some of her rare records.

"Welcome to Fucker" by Fucker, 50 bucks.

"Skunk" by Asshole, 75.

The Shit-matrix bootleg, a lot.

And her limited edition DILDO! LP, 100, easily.

Like London, I, too, think the records in my modest collection are worth more than they actually are. The band Unrest, by the way, perform the majority of the songs on the film's soundtrack.

Don't worry, I'll get to the other stories–you know, the one's that don't star Amy Davis–in a minute. It's just that I need to get my love for Amy Davis out of my system.

I just remembered what connects the three stories featured in Fame Whore. They all take place on April 15. I know, it's not much, but it's something.

Oh, would you look at that, I still haven't mentioned the other stories that make up the Fame Whore family.

On top of being a fashion designer, Sophie is also a video artist, a painter, an actress, a photographer, a producer, an art director, an image consultant, a playwright and a performance artist.

And don't give me any of this crap about musical props being expensive. The opening scene clearly

shows a drum-kit and two mannequins, one with a guitar and one with a bass guitar.

Look at them, they're right there. Grab 'em.

Call me avuncular tree frog, but I simply adored how each thrust caused a brand new ripple to appear along the surface of Taija Rae's untanned backside.

I did like Taija's purple satin garter belt and the torn up nature of her black stockings, which looked like they had just survived a nuclear explosion.

Despite having a lead character who sports what I consider to be one of the greatest haircuts of all-time and opening with a shot of Rosie Perez's booty in all its mid-90s glory, I was still on the fence about Perdita Durango (a.k.a. Dance with the Devil), Álex de la Iglesia's raucous road movie about, well... I'll get to that in a minute. Then something occurred that caused me to sit up and take notice. No, not the scene where Harley Cross briefly recalls the time he lost his virginity to a rotund woman with an profound pair of sagittally symmetrical indentations on her lower back (pound that chaste cock into the ground, you chunky harlot, you... pound it!). I'm talking about the face Javier Bardem makes while listening "Spanish Flea" by Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass. I know, that's a weird thing to get excited about it, especially in a movie where James Gandolfini gets hit by a car not once, but twice. But what I can say? I'm sucker for scenes in movies that feature demented psychopaths with kick-ass haircuts making funny faces while listening to jazzy pop music as two blubbering blonde gringos cower in the backseat of said demented psychopath's car.

The mechanics surrounding how those blubbering blonde gringos ended up in the back of the car belonging to Romeo Dolorosa (Javier Bardem) is somewhat complicated, yet, it's also pretty straightforward at the same time.

If you were to tell me that the reason Romeo and Perdita Durango (Rosie Perez) plucked Duane (Harley Cross) and Estelle (Aimee Graham) off the streets of Juárez was for cannibal-related purposes, I would say that, yes, that's "pretty straightforward."

However, if you were to add the fact that both Romeo and Perdita develop crushes on Duane and Estelle (who are as white as their names imply), I would have no choice but to declare their particular situation "somewhat complicated."

Yet another movie that has cast some serious doubts on my previous claims about being alive during 1990s (I have no idea how I missed this film), Perdita Durango is one of the most well-made pieces of trash cinema I've ever had to pleasure to witness. I mean, check out that aerial shot of all those cars waiting at that Mexico-U.S.A. border crossing. The last film I saw with aerial photography this good would have to be Cavegirl. What I'm trying to say in my own clumsy way is that, I don't usually get to see films that sport complicated aerial photography. Seriously, it was like something out of a Michael Bay movie.

Later that night, near that very border crossing, Romeo spots Perdita Durango's reflection in the Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass compact disc he is currently holding. As Romeo approaches Perdita Durango, who is enjoying a cool beverage, I thought to myself: Nothing good can come from talking to a man with a haircut like that.

Short in the front and long in the back (with the sides shaved), Romeo's haircut is a force of nature in this film.

As she proves in the film's opening scene, Perdita Durango isn't the kind of woman you simply walk up and start a conversation with (earlier in the film, she shuts down the pedestrian advances of a lumpy gringo in an airport lounge). But, as we all know, judging by his haircut and his crazed demeanour, Romeo is no lumpy gringo. In other words, I think these two were made for each other.

When he's not taking the time to inspect the breasts of attractive bank tellers in the middle of a bank robbery, or having exuberant sexual intercourse with Perdita Durango on a rickety old bed (there's no way that bed can handle the Latin-tinged thrusts Romeo's workmanlike pelvis puts out there on a regular basis), Romeo conducts bizarre "voodoo style" rituals for tourists and superstitious locals.

Usually involving blood-spitting and bongo music, the first show of this type we see is well-attended, and... Wait a minute, who's that in that back with the video camera? Why, it's Willie Dumas (James Gandolfini), an officer with the DEA.

It would seem that the DEA want to bust Romeo for a series of drug-related offenses. Only problem being, they can never seem to catch him in the act. We're clued in early on as to why this could be, when we see Romeo employ a magic necklace to great effect to pass through customs unmolested. Except, he wasn't trying to smuggle drugs into the U.S., he was trying to smuggle a dead body; one that we later see him use in his "voodoo style" ritual show.

Figuring he can get to Romeo through Perdita Durango, James Gandolfini follows her around town. While an excellent plan on paper, James Gandolfini clearly forgot about the importance of looking both ways before crossing the street. Now, it might not sound like it, but the sight of James Gandolfini getting hit by a car is one of the funniest scenes in the movie. I don't want to over-analyze the reasons why I thought the sight of James Gandolfini's body crashing into the windshield of a speeding automobile was funny. But I will say this, the bulk of the humour came as a direct result of the arrogant air that floated around James Gandolfini's nimbus just before he started to cross the street.

At around this point in film we're introduced to Duane and Estelle, two relatively clean cut American teens. While their introduction seems unrelated to the Romeo and Perdita Durango saga, as we'll soon find out, their respective lives will soon intersect something fierce.

Blessed with some downtime before they do a job for a gangster named Santo (Don Stroud)–a job that has them transporting a trucked filled with frozen human embryos–Romeo and Perdita Durango decide to kidnap a couple of gringos to use in their next "voodoo style" ritual. And wouldn't you know it, they pluck a couple of blonde gringos named Duane and Estelle.

Even though it's best known as the song that appears at the end of Flirting with Disaster, I thought the way "Camel Walk" by Southern Culture on the Skids used in this film was more appropriate. You wouldn't think the same could said for "Spanish Flea" by Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass, but, as I stated earlier, the sight of Javier Bardem dancing–whilst in the seated position–to this particular ditty is awesome.

Will Duane and Estelle be able to survive their insane road trip with Romeo and Perdita Durango? Will James Gandolfini remember to look both ways before crossing the street? Who's to say? Of course, I realize I'm the one "to say." But I feel like I've already said too much.

Boasting not one, but two shoot outs (three, if you include the finale), a sexy Mexican stoner chick with killer thighs who doesn't "get" anime, Mascaras de la Lucha Libre, a gruesome death involving a bottle, Screamin' Jay Hawkins, an Ava Gardner assisted blow job, Alex Cox as an annoying DEA agent and a scene where a man over fifty-five uses an Abflex while watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Perdita Durango is a first-rate crime movie with darkly comedic overtones.

Demolition High (Jim Wynorski, 1996)

Turkish Mad Max (Çetin Inanç, 1983)

Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter (Joseph Zito, 1984)

The Passion of Darkly Noon (Philip Ridley, 1995)

Cobra (George P. Cosmatos, 1986)

Ebola Syndrome (Herman Yau, 1996)

Quicksilver (Tom Donnelly, 1986)

Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter (Joseph Zito, 1984)

Mod Fuck Explosion (Jon Moritsugu, 1994)

Automatic (John Murlowski, 1995)

Vibrations (Michael Paseornek, 1996)

Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter (Joseph Zito, 1984)

Mod Fuck Explosion (Jon Moritsugu, 1994)

Fame Whore (Jon Moritsugu, 1997)

Rock Hard (Bob Vosse, 1985)

Career Bed (Joel M. Reed, 1969)

Mod Fuck Explosion (Jon Moritsugu, 1994)

Fame Whore (Jon Moritsugu, 1997)

Rock Hard (Bob Vosse, 1985)

Perdita Durango (Álex de la Iglesia, 1997)