House of Self-Indulgence

Instead of wracking my brain trying to figure out this film's timeline, I should just listen to Eddie Wilson when he says: "It's about the music, man." While I have to admit, that's some top notch advice. I would still like to know when Eddie and the Cruisers II: Eddie Lives! takes place (and, yes, the exclamation mark in the film's title is totally justified). Okay, let me take one more stab at it before switching to a more stimulating topic. The original Eddie and the Cruisers flipped back and forth between 1963 and 1983, and... You know what, who cares? I mean, so what if Michael Paré was only five or six years old in 1963, I totally bought him as a troubled rock star who faked his death in the 1960s and is now working as a construction worker in late 1980s Montreal. I'm telling you, if you flush away all the doubts in your head regarding the film's wonky timeline, you'll discover that this film kinda rocks. Sure, everyone from the original film except for Michael Paré and Matthew Laurance is missing in action. But again, I have to sort of quote Eddie Wilson: "It's about the music, man."

In other words, it's not about the actors, the script, or even the direction, it's about–you got it–the music... man.

The next point I'm about to make is on the cusp of being timeline related, so please bear with me. Don't get me wrong, I dig your music, Eddie Wilson (or should I say, Joe West), I really do, it's just that I'm having trouble buying that people living in late 1980s Montreal would go nuts for Chuck Berry inspired rock 'n' roll, especially when you take in account the city's synth-pop pedigree (Trans-X, Men Without Hats, Rational Youth).

It reminds me of that heinous scene from the WKRP in Cincinnati episode, "Dr. Fever and Mr. Tide: Part 2" where Dr. Johnny Fever stops acting like his alter ego "Rip Tide," the host of a televised dance music show, and lashes out against his disco-loving overlords. It doesn't seem to matter that the audience is filled with disco fans, he manages to convince them that disco does in fact suck by merely spinning a rock 'n' roll record.

That being said, I'm not a big fan of realism. And besides, why does a film about a made up band have to reflect the tastes of the period? It doesn't. And just like the film's "wonky timeline," I'm going to have to except the fact that Montrealers love their old time rock 'n' roll.

After opening with a guitar lick, the film, directed by Jean-Claude Lord (Visiting Hours), hits us with the classic piano intro to "On the Dark Side," one of the stand out songs from the first chapter in the Eddie Wilson saga.

Now, when sequels allude to the previous film, it usually backfires, as it reminds us of how great the first one was. And by opening with "On the Dark Side,"Eddie and the Cruisers II: Eddie Lives! is at risk of having that exact thing happen.

Well, after seeing the film from start to finish, I can safely say that this sequel has nothing to worry about, as not only are the songs (co-written and sung by John Cafferty) just as good as the one's from the first film, I'd go as far as to say that they're better.

I know, that sounds like kooky talk. But I'm serious, "Runnin' Thru the Fire,""A Matter Of Time,""NYC" and "Some Like It Hot" are all barn-burners of the highest order.

What happened to Eddie Wilson (Michael Paré) after his car crashed through a guard rail and landed in the river in 1964? According to this film, he changed his name to Joe West, grew a mustache, moved to Montreal, and became a construction worker; and get this, he's a Habs fan!

Meanwhile, the legend of Eddie Wilson continues to grow around the world. Eddie's record company, Satin Records (the same Satin Records who rejected his sophomore album for being too arty), are still hoping to exploit the reemerged interest in his music.

When Eddie/Joe hears about an Eddie Wilson lookalike contest being held in New York City, he decides to drive down to take a look-see. I know he has a mustache now, but why didn't anyone recognize him? I mean, the real Eddie Wilson is standing in the crowd at an Eddie Wilson lookalike contest.

Either way, you know almost immediately that Satin Records' Dave Pagent (Michael Rhoades) is not to be trusted the second you see that he's rocking a sports coat with a pair of jeans.

Seeing the Eddie Wilson clones lip-sync to his music in black sleeveless t-shirts must have inspired the real Eddie Wilson, because he starts working on songs the second he gets back to Montreal. Obviously a tad burnt out, Eddie decides to unwind by taking in a Habs game with one of his construction worker buddies. It's here that Eddie/Joe meets Diane Armani (Marina Orsini), an artist who wants to paint his portrait.

If you're wondering why Diane, an attractive brunette, would want to paint a portrait of a construction worker she met at a hockey game. It's simple, really, she thinks he has an amazing face. In case you forgot, Eddie/Joe is played by Michael Paré, who is still hunky, still cool and still pleased to meet ya.

Even though Eddie/Joe rejects Diane's offer, she doesn't give up. The following night, Eddie/Joe is at a nightclub. There he buys a drink for Hilton Overstreet (Anthony Sherwood), the band's sax player. Overhearing their conversation, the band's guitar player, Rick Diesel (Bernie Coulson), challenges Eddie/Joe to put his money where his mouth is (I think I'm using that idiom correctly). Anyway, Eddie/Joe goes on stage and blows everyone away, including Diane, who must have followed him there. Um, stalker much?

After multiple attempts to get Eddie/Joe to join his band, Rick Diesel finally manages to convince him, but only if they hire a new drummer, bass player and keyboardist. These slots are filled by Charlie (Paul Markle), Quinn Quinley (Mark Holmes) and Stewart (David Matheson).

As Eddie/Joe's music career is getting back on track, he also finds time for romance, as Eddie/Joe and Diane become an item. In fact, they become so close, you can drop the whole "Eddie/Joe" charade when referencing them. That's right, Eddie confesses to Diane that he is in fact Eddie Wilson. While I wouldn't say that I got chills when Eddie says, "I'm Eddie Wilson" to Diane, it's still a pretty awesome moment.

The rest of the movie involves Eddie/Joe and Rick Diesel butting heads over the direction they want to the band to take. On the one hand, Eddie/Joe, being a perfectionist, wants the band to practice ("I won't short cut the music!), while Rick Diesel wants the band to start playing gigs. These clashes get a little tiresome after awhile, but the four songs I mentioned earlier manage to smooth things over in the end. Ultimately leading to a highly satisfying conclusion.

Oh, I'd be remiss not to mention that Martha Quinn in this movie. Now, I've said in the past that pointing out Martha Quinn in movies is sort of my thing. But Eddie and the Cruisers II: Eddie Lives! is a little different, in that this is probably Martha Quinn's biggest film role to date.

When she first appears onscreen, as the host of "Rock TV News," I was like, Yay, Martha Quinn! Then, get this, she appears a second time. I thought myself: Two Martha Quinn appearances in the same movie?!? This is crazy. Well, I hope you're sitting down, because Martha Quinn appears onscreen a third time! Three times!!! Can you believe this? Okay, I'm going to go relax.

Despite the fact that there's a good chance that a disgusting man (one in a pig mask wearing ill-fitting lingerie) will be watching your every move, I still wouldn't mind spending the night or two at the bizarre motel that is at the centre of Kim Christy's ultra-freaky, ultra-kinky Squalor Motel (Come for the cheap rates, stay for the guilt-free cunnilingus). However, since lumpy transvestite pig mask voyeurism isn't listed in the brochure, most of the folks who stay at the "Squalor Motel" will remain enveloped in a haze of perpetual darkness when it comes to the plethora of weirdos and perverts who haunt the motel's hallways on a semi-regular basis. In other words: Please continue to dine on your girlfriend's consecrated lady speckle at the rate of speed you're currently dining. Sincerely, the staff and management of Squalor Motel. Even though no such document exists, that didn't stop me from noticing that something was missing from the Squalor Motel brochure. Sure, it mentions having clean sheets and a colour television in every room (I sure do miss the days when motel's listed colour TV as a selling point), but there's no mention of The Reptile Room.

In my mind, The Reptile Room is the sole reason to stay at the Squalor Motel. Seriously, it makes no sense to not mention it in your brochure. In fact, if I was in charge, the brochure would be all about The Reptile Room, as that place is hip and happening.

Don't believe me? Let's see, I got, uh, um, I got... eleven words for you: Punks and transsexuals cavorting in the vicinity of a glory hole.

Just a sec, I gotta double check something. Yeah, that's totally eleven words (yay! I can count). I know, I could have given you ten words if I had chosen to spell "glory hole" as one word. But, hey, I didn't, so get over it.

Personally, I don't think the words "glory" and "hole" should really touch one another; that's just the way I was raised.

Enough about semantics. I was just thinking to myself: Oh, if only I could share with you the awesome music of Vida Slann. Vida who, you say? Vida Slann, the person responsible for the synth-tastic music heard throughout Squalor Motel. Where have you been, man? At any rate, wondering how I was going to describe the music from this movie, I decided to search the youtube using the words "Vida" and "Slann" (previous searches centred around the words "Squalor" and "Motel" came up empty). Well wouldn't you know it, someone posted an audio portion of the music that opens the film.

I'm telling you, the music in this movie is a synth lovers dream, especially if you like your synths dark and sinister.

It should go without saying, but the instant I heard the music, I knew I had made the right choice, porno-wise, that is.

The music from the youtube clip I provided, like I already said, plays over the opening scene, which features a brief dream sequence that has Miss Clark (Colleen Brennen), the cat-eye glasses-wearing front desk clerk at the Squalor Motel, seeing a strange couple to their rooms (down a slanted hallway). When all of a sudden, she sees herself being wheeled away on a gurney... only, she isn't dead or injured, no, she's laughing hysterically.

Awoken by Manny (Nick Random), the motel's sleazy manager, Miss Clark seems dazed. But quickly snaps out of it, and begins to verbally joust with Manny. Of course, it being Squalor Motel (a twenty dollar a night freak show on the outskirts of a fever dream), their verbal jousting involves lewd and lascivious wordplay.

After one of them asks: Who's in the Reptile Room? The pair take turns watching a slender brunette with slicked back hair have stand up coitus with a man wearing a bald cap near a cherub statue through a hole in the wall. Other than Vida Slann's music and the fact that the male participant is wearing a bald cap, nothing really stands out about this scene; naked people having sex... how pedestrian.

The next person to enter the motel is Nancy (Desiree Lane), a wide-eyed, long-nippled woman who looks like she just got married. Putting down her book (Bound Pig Fuckers), Miss Clark envisions herself having a lesbian scenario with the wide-eyed, long-nippled woman standing before her; a scenario that involves licking, groping, fingerless and fingered gloves and lingerie. When this scene runs its course, we're back where we started... the front desk.

I think I speak for everyone when I say it's time for Nancy to enter The Reptile Room. And who do you think the first person Nancy runs into? That's right, it's none other than Jamie Gillis. Credited as the "Doorman," Jamie offers to sell Nancy the various items he has tucked away under his trench coat (sex toys, Preparation H, etc). Realizing that she isn't interested in buying anything he's selling, Jamie invites Nancy to put his penis in her mouth; free of charge... what a great deal.

When satisfaction is achieved, a cum-stained Nancy literally falls into The Reptile Room. What she sees will alter the course of her spiritual trajectory forever. Okay, maybe that's a bit of an overstatement. But nevertheless, Nancy is deeply affected by what she sees.

While the producers of Café Flesh (a film that clearly influenced the makers of Squalor Motel) had an entire blood bank and methadone clinic to get extras from, Kim Christy and her crew could only scrounge up a handful of punks and freaks for The Reptile Room sequence.

This lack of extras, however, does not mean the scene is not memorable. Don't believe me? Well, let me just say this: The gorgeous Angelique Ricard plays the lead guitarist in The Reptile Room's transsexual house band? Flanked on either side by Magnificent Margo and Summer St. Cerly, Angelique Ricard sways back and forth to the music. And by doing so, we would get a brief glimpse of her cock every five or six sways. (Every five or six sways? I'm no math whiz, but that would mean we get close to eighteen glimpses of her mouthwatering girl-cock.) Yep, it's pretty fucking cool–you know, if girl-cock glimpses are your thing.

As the transsexual house band are swaying and the punks are glaring, a new wave-ish brunette can be see giving head to a man in hiked down leather pants (studies have shown that hiked down leather pants are more conducive to oral sex than pulled up leather pants).

Even though I'm indifferent to non-transsexual blow job scenes, the fact that the new wave-ish brunette's metallic triangle-shaped earring would crash into the leather pants guy's abdomen every time she would inhale his non-peppermint-scented flesh-stick was very appealing to me. It's too bad they couldn't have found away to show that her earring was cutting into his abdomen. Call me perpendicular, but I really would have liked to have seen the affected area to slowly bleed as the blow job progressed. Oh well.

Meanwhile, in one of the motel's rooms, a blonde sailor is getting a blow job from a black chick with silver hair and a yokel is surprised to find that one of his sex dolls has come to life.

While taking a break from performing, the transsexuals watch as the Nazi-esque Dr. Thumbs (Herschel Savage) and his gum-smacking assistant, Nurse Terri Kloth (Lisa De Leeuw), try to jump-start the libido that belongs to Mrs. Shipowitz (Tantala Ray), who is wearing black stockings. This scene is my favourite, for obvious reasons (Lisa De Leew and Tantala Ray are always worth watching... the former for her freckled thickness and the latter for her brash camp-appeal), but the reason the scene really stands out is the music. I'm telling you, this film has hands down one of the best scores I've ever heard. It makes even the film's mediocre scenes so much better. Not to imply that Squalor Motel is filled with mediocre scenes. Anyway, thanks, Miss Christy. You make good pornographies. Bring on She-Male Sanitarium!

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.

Whenever I hear someone call a woman (or a man) a "dirty whore," they're usually way off the mark. First of all, they're not dirty (you could eat an entire bucket of day-old escargot off their immaculately manicured taints and not even get as much as a head cold). And secondly, they're not whores. Sure, they perform sex acts for money. But everyone does that, and everyone can't be a whore, now can they? Judging by the sly expression on your face, I think you know what I'm going to say next. Well, I just watched Greg Lamberson's Slime City Massacre, the long awaited sequel to his Slime City, a.k.a. one of the greatest horror films of all-time, and it, my friend, is literally stuffed to the gills with dirty whores. It's true, we could sit here all day and debate the merits of the film from a technical point-of-view, but the fact that the whores that populate this post-dirty bomb hellscape were covered in copious amounts of dirt caused my spirit to soar. Of course, some might say Greg Lamberson went a little overboard when it came to the soiling the prostitutes seen throughout this movie. But let's not forget, there's no running water in this universe. They could, I suppose, bathe in that tub of orange goo that used to be the vivacious Debbie Rochon. But, as everyone knows, orange goo dries out your skin. And no-one wants to penetrate a dirty whore with dry, ashy skin (trust me, I know).

Then again, if I saw a pre-orange goo Debbie Rochon walking around Slime City with dirty legs, I would be the first to volunteer to lick them clean.

It should be noted that I'm not implying that Debbie Rochon is a dirty whore. Everyone, whether they be a dirty whore, a fat fuck or an unkempt Debbie Rochon, is covered in filth. Being unclean is normal in this world.

If that's the case, what's up with Alexa (Jennifer Bihl), her gams are spotless?

You could argue that since her character is new to the area, her legs haven't had time to get sufficiently begrimed.

However, as anyone who has seen the film knows, Alexa's mouth-watering stems remain clean from start to finish. Actually, they do turn pink later on in the film. But still, being pink isn't the same as being dirty.

While the solution for dirty legs is good old fashion soap and water (or my tongue), the solution for pink legs, or, in Debbie Rochon's case, orange legs, is good old fashion murder.

Along with her boyfriend, Cory (Kealan Patrick Burke), Alexa thinks they may have found a new home in post-apocalyptic New York City when they stumble upon the ruins of an old apartment complex dubbed "Slime City" by its residents. Little do they know that a Flesh Cult started in the late 1950s by Zachary Devin (Robert C. Saban), a deceptively affable fellow, used to perform rituals and throw wild sex orgies in the building's basement.

Instead of dying, the cult members turn themselves into ectoplasmic slime, which is placed in tubs labeled "Himalayan Yogurt." And when this "yogurt" is ingested along with Zachary Devin's Home Brewed Elixir by non-cult members, the spirit of the dead Flesh Cult member enters their body, which immediately begins to ooze iridescent slime.

In the case of Alexa, it's pink slime. In the case of Cory, it's green slime. As I mentioned earlier, Debbie Rochon oozes orange slime. And Debbie's boyfriend, Mason (Lee Perkins), he oozes blue slime.

In order to placate, or, appease the slime, the slimee must kill. If you listen to the way Cory and Mason are carrying on, that doesn't seem to be a problem, as this dump is crawling with lowlifes to kill. But Alexa isn't all that thrilled with idea of killing people (even if they are lowlifes) to help stave off the melting process.

Welcome to Slime City: Come for the not-so scenic views, stay for the radioactive yogurt.

Side effects from eating radioactive yogurt may include: Involuntary spasms, syrupy iridescent discharge, structural paralysis and full body moistness.

It's true, while the majority of these side effects might not sound all that pleasant on paper, have you ever had sexual intercourse while experiencing full body moistness? It's quite the scene, man.

Anyway, no wonder...

...Alexa's legs are so...

...silky smooth...

She moisturizes with slime.

Make all the boys cream their chinos and use slime on your legs as a part of your daily beauty regimen.

Seriously, not only do her legs never get dirty, they look like they were bathed in a lavender-scented cesspool.

Exploring the history and the future of the Slime City mythos in a manner that is both entertaining (Debbie Rochon spends the bulk of the movie as a puddle of orange of sludge) and enlightening (I had no idea blow jobs were a thing in 1959... I always had this idea in my head that sex was strictly vaginal back then), Slime City Massacre is a sleazy, grimy, and, most importantly, slimy, treat for the whole family. Okay, maybe not the whole family, but maybe a small subset of your family (your perverted Uncle __ and your deranged Aunt ___ will eat this shit up).

Boasting a cool shout out to Basket Case ("What's in the basket?"), a kick ass opening credits sequence (artwork by Stephen Romano), the return of Mary Huner-Bogle (the leggy enchantress from the original), a great location (an abandoned warehouse in Buffalo), cool props (the book "Flesh Control: The Shape of Pleasure" being my fave), awesome extras (I loved how dirty the hookers looked), kinky sex (Mason fingers Alice's orange puddle at one point), and, of course, a Lloyd Kaufman cameo (Roy Frumkes, writer of Street Trash, has small part as well), I would say that Slime City Massacre does the first film proud and then some.

While I would love to say that I haven't seen such a pronounced spattering of semen since my days as a male prostitute. I can't because I've never been a male prostitute. Oh, sure, I used to fuck guys for money (in bus station men's rooms to be unnecessarily specific), but that was for charity (Reach Arounds for Cancer Research to be, again, unnecessarily specific). What was the point I was trying to make? Oh yeah, whitish secretions of the moist kind. Now, I've seen pools of cum coagulating in pornography in the past, but the quality of the picture has always prevented me from admiring the goo's innate viscosity. The reason for this can usually be attributed to laziness on the part of the people in charge of releasing this so-called "pornography" to the masses. In their greedy little minds, they figure the saps who like these kinds of movies won't care if their precious pornography is simply transferred from worn out videocassettes. The result: Lackluster porn. That being said, when you think of restoring old movies to their original luster, stuff like, The Red Shoes, Metropolis or The Whoopee Boys probably come to mind. Well, the fine folks at Vinegar Syndrome are trying to change all that, as they, for some strange reason, have lovingly restored Alex de Renzy's Pretty Peaches 2, which looks freakin' amazing. And...

You see that? (What?) Look at the way I said, "for some strange reason." It would seem that even someone like me is having trouble understanding the logic of restoring Pretty Peaches 2.

Not to worry, though, I don't feel that way anymore, as I have just witnessed classic (shot on 35mm film) hardcore pornography the way it was meant to be seen.

Which brings us back to cum. When I saw how vivid that pool of recently expelled spunk looked as it lay all over Tracey Adams' mid-to-late '80s stomach in the film's opening sex scene, a single manly tear fell from my eye. And believe me, it was a pool; the cum languishing on Tracey Adams' mid-to-late '80s stomach, not my single manly tear.

Of course, it should come as no surprise to anyone with eyes or genitals that the pool of recently expelled spunk used to belong to Peter North, as the Halifax born actor is renowned for giving forth an extra helping of the creamy joy juice.

Anyway, you gotta hand it to Alex de Renzy, as only as an artist of his caliber would be able to weave Peter North's generous wad into the film's plot with such an effortless elan. Oh, I'm sure countless other films have played up the vast size of Mr. North's wad, but I've never seen one do so in a manner that seemed so plausible.

When the film opens, Peter North, who, of course, plays Bobby (he's such a Bobby), is trying to penetrate the pussy that belongs to Peaches (Siobhan Hunter), his dimwitted girlfriend. The reason he's trying to penetrate her in this fashion is because it's one of the best ways for a man to achieve an orgasm. Granted, there are countless methods at a man's disposal (trust me, I should know - I must have raised at least a million dollars for cancer research via butt-fucking), but I have found that most of men prefer vaginal intercourse. And it looks like Bobby is no different in that regard.

Unfortunately for Bobby, Peaches' mother, Eunice Goldbloom (Tracey Adams), doesn't seem to care about his impending orgasm, and tells her daughter to go to bed (their sex noises are disturbing her something fierce). Not one to disobey her mother, Peaches manages to cram Bobby's rock hard cock into his jeans and sends him packing.

Speaking of cramming things, I liked how Peaches stuffs her panties (her white panties) in her shoe; she may be dimwitted, but she knows how to... put her panties (her white panties)... in her shoe. That doesn't make a lick of sense. Either way, Peaches' panties (her white panties) are in her penny loafers (the left one, I think) as she goes upstairs.

After Bobby supposedly leaves, Eunice continues to remove her womanly accoutrements (bracelets, earrings, garter belt, stockings, etc.) with a haughty grace.

Unbeknownst to her, but Bobby is watching her remove her womanly accoutrements. That's right, he never left, and is hiding behind the curtains. Hearing a slight rattling sound coming from the window, a now naked Eunice grabs a knife and investigates.

After Eunice scolds Bobby for being a peeping tom, she forces him to remove his clothes (it's what chicks named Eunice do). At around this time, Eunice notices that Bobby has "lovers nuts." Engorged with enough fluid to fill at least five reasonably priced kiddy pools, Eunice decides to help Bobby some extract some of this "fluid" by employing her mouth and vagina as temporary receptacles for his throbbing, overstuffed man-junk.

Who wants to name the multitude of jizz rivers that are currently snaking their way along the surface of Tracey Adams' abdomen? Anybody? Clean up on Tracey Adams' tummy!

Frustrated that her mother refuses to tell anything about sex, Peaches decides to ask Stanley (Herschel Savage), her former step dad, for advice. Showing up at his office in a red top paired with a yellow skirt, Peaches begs her former step dad to teach her about sex. For a second there it looked like Stanley was contemplating giving his former step daughter a private lesson, but less pervy heads prevail. Instead, Stanley tells Peaches to "ask around" and most importantly, "don't be a tease... no-one likes a tease."

"Golly, daddy... that's some excellent advice," she cheerfully replies. The manner in which Siobhan Hunter says the word "daddy" is so unsavoury, that it will cause you to run down to the nearest police station to register yourself as a sex offender.

Since the film hasn't had a sex scene in at least two minutes, we're given a quick one when Stanley calls over his secretary, Miss Wilson (Tammy White), to "discuss" something important. What transpires is your standard office sex scene. What isn't standard, however, is Tammy White's body. Dang! This Tammy chick is shapely as all get out. Oh, and since she isn't some cave-dwelling neanderthal, Tammy's delicious gams are sheathed in black stockings. Mmmm, slice 'em thick, Ma.

Taking what Stanley said about "asking around" seriously, Peaches comes to the conclusion that the sanest course of action for her to take is to visit Uncle Howard (Ron Jeremy) up in San Francisco; which, according to Peaches, is the best place to learn about sex.

Those familiar with the handkerchief code will probably notice that Peaches has a dark blue hanky stuffed in the back pocket of her jean shorts. Does this mean Peaches will have anal sex later on in this movie? Who knows? I do know this, the guy in the trucker cap (Buck Adams) who picks up a hitchhiking Peaches definitely has anal sex with Juliet (Janette Littledove), a busty prostitute, during their stay at a motel.

What's amusing about this scene is that Miss Littledove kept calling Buck a piece of shit as he plowed into her ass. And I couldn't help but laugh when she mock asks him whether or not he took humping lessons at Disneyland.

Worried about her daughter, Eunice teams up Stanley, and they both hit the road in search of Peaches. And, of course, they end up booking a room at the same motel Peaches and the trucker cap guy stayed at. Except, instead of having anal sex with Janette Littledove, Eunice blows F.M. Bradley; much to the chagrin of Stanley, who had hoped their little road trip would lead to some kind of reconciliation between himself and his ex-wife.

Meanwhile, in San Francisco, Peaches is up to her eyebrows in perversion. Let's break it down, shall we? Incest, gaudy furniture, Jamie Gillis dressed as a granny, wispy pubes, blue panties, Melissa Melendez (Kat Dennings meets Asia Argento) as a Chinese chick and an impromptu bunny dip tutorial. It should come as no surprise that Peaches is a tad overwhelmed by what she sees at Uncle Howard's. That being said, she seems to be learning a lot.

Other than not giving us any clear shots of Tammy White in her lingerie, as far as being a playful piece of plot-driven pornography, I'd say Pretty Peaches 2 is pretty much perfect. And thanks to the fine folks at Vinegar Syndrome, it looks perfect. I'm almost tempted to throw away all my porno DVDs, as this release makes them all look like utter garbage. Almost (let's not do anything rash).

Don't believe me? Let's see, I got, uh, um, I got... eleven words for you: Punks and transsexuals cavorting in the vicinity of a glory hole.

Personally, I don't think the words "glory" and "hole" should really touch one another; that's just the way I was raised.

I'm telling you, the music in this movie is a synth lovers dream, especially if you like your synths dark and sinister.

It should go without saying, but the instant I heard the music, I knew I had made the right choice, porno-wise, that is.

Meanwhile, in one of the motel's rooms, a blonde sailor is getting a blow job from a black chick with silver hair and a yokel is surprised to find that one of his sex dolls has come to life.

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.

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.

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?!?

Just as I was about to start questioning the logic behind casting Brion James as "Dr. Hampton," a doctor who works at a poorly run mental institution, he goes ahead and describes Zena, the character played by one of my favourite actresses, Hilary Shepard, as an "odd yet attractive brunette." I must say, I haven't agreed with something said in a movie this much in a long time. Oh, the reason I was about to question the logic of casting Brion James is because his role is so small. But that doesn't matter now, for I have seen Scanner Cop, the movie that boasts Hilary Shepard's finest performance. I know, a lot of you will say that Hilary's role as Divatox in Turbo: A Power Rangers Movie is her finest performance, but since I haven't seen that movie... (You call Hilary Shepard one of your favourite actresses, yet you haven't seen Turbo: A Power Rangers Movie? What's wrong with you?) The reason I haven't seen Turbo: A Power Rangers Movie is complicated and sad. In other words, I don't feel like getting into it at this juncture. Speaking of sad, a quick show of hands: Anyone think it's kinda sad that I've seen Scanner Cop but I haven't seen Scanners? Wow, that's a lot of hands (don't worry, though, I'm working on fixing that).

Loosely based on the David Cronenberg film–which, according to some, is considered a classic (I'm sure it's nowhere near as awesome as Rabid, but I've heard nothing but good things)–about a small segment of the population (called "scanners") who can blow up people's heads with their minds, Scanner Cop is about a cop, who is also happens to be a scanner... You could call him a "scanner cop," but let's not state the obvi... You know what, since I'm feeling a tad impish today, let's call him that. After all, the film's called "Scanner Cop," not "Policeman Psychic," or... well, you get the idea.

Anyway, for a film that looks pretty stupid on paper, Scanner Cop is actually quite good. What am I saying? It's more than quite good, it's phenomenal.

Sure, a lot of this has to do with Hilary Shepard's manic performance as a goth-tinged psychic psycho-hosebeast who wantonly wields a spray bottle filled with what I'm assuming is chloroform, but the rest of the film is just as compelling.

A quick side note: After watching the film a second time, I have since learned that the stuff Hilary Shepard sprays is a "harmless neuro-blocker."

The explanation as to why the rest of the film is so darned compelling can be summed up with these six simple words... (Wait, let me guess: Darlanne Fluegel in a pleated skirt.) Hmmm, I was going to going to say: Help! Deformed baby heads are protruding from my Dad's forehead. But since that's not even close to being six words, I'm going to have to say, yes, the reason this film is so darned compelling is because To Live and Die in L.A.'s Darlanne Fluegel wears a pleated skirt in one scene.

Just kidding. Oh, don't get me wrong, I love pleated skirts (especially when paired with a matching blazer). That being said, the opening scene that features three miniature baby heads protruding from a scanner's forehead is pretty fucking compelling. In fact, it's so compelling, in some markets, the protruding baby head forehead guy is on the poster (and by "poster" I mean the VHS box).

In reality, however, the protruding baby head forehead guy doesn't really have baby heads protruding from his forehead. You see, this is what happens when scanners fail to take their meds. Designed to dampen their power, scanners who wish to lead normal lives take a special pill that will keep the noise that sounds like the music of Zoviet France at bay (the decision to not go see Zoviet France at The Rivoli back in the early '90s still haunts me to this day).

I think I should explain myself a little bit. Um, how should I put this? Okay, whenever a scanner goes into scanning mode, this monotonous droning noise erupts on the soundtrack. Designed to replicate the atmospheric conditions that are taking place inside a scanner's brain while scanning, the so-called "scanner noise" can be added to the list of things that I loved about this movie.

After the protruding baby head forehead guy is shot and killed by a slumlord during an altercation with police, the protruding baby head forehead guy's son, Samuel Staziak (Daniel Quinn), is adopted by Officer Peter Harrigan (Richard Grove), one of the very cops at the scene. Realizing that Samuel will probably spend the rest of his life being experimented by mad scientists, the cop decides the raise the kid, who, like his father, is a scanner, as his own.

Flash-forward fifteen years, and Officer Peter Harrigan, who is now Commander Peter Harrigan, is congratulating his son for graduating from the police academy.

Meanwhile, a war on cops has just gotten underway, as average L.A. residents are murdering police officers all across the city.

Okay, it's not a "war" and it's not exactly happening "all across the city," but the fact that two police officers were murdered by seemingly random people on a single night is somewhat troubling to authorities. Putting Lieutenant Harry Brown (Mark Rolston) in charge of the case, Commander Harrigan hopes to catch the person responsible for these crimes because... well, it's his job. But don't forget, his son just graduated from the police academy and is about to hit the streets as a patrolman.

While the authorities are at a loss, we, the audience, are clued in as to who is responsible for these murders when we see Hilary Shepard's Zena appear onscreen for the very first time. Now, I'm not saying just because Zena is dressed like a Goth, with fortune teller overtones (think Sioxsie Sioux crossed with Stevie Nicks), that she's the one responsible. But let's get real people. Prejudice towards Goths and fortune tellers runs deep in Hollywood.

Take the scene where Zena sneaks up on Cyndi Pass (who's wearing a leotard, yet she's carrying a tennis racket*). For a minute there I thought I was watching a public service ad about the dangers of Goths, especially Goths who do the bidding of mentally unstable individuals who look like Richard Lynch; by the way, if your horror or action movie doesn't star Richard Lynch, then you're doing something seriously wrong.

Nevertheless, I dig Gothic fashion and think fortune tellers are rad.

Giving the film a much needed splash of campiness, Hilary Shepard injects (literally at times) Scanner Cop with an off-kilter playfulness that Daniel Quinn, Richard Grove, Mark Rolstone, et al were unable to bring to the table.

Despite the fact I haven't seen the original, even I know it's not a scanner movie unless someone's head explodes. I won't spoil it for you by identifying the person whose head goes all kablooey, but everything that leads up to the head ruining scenes is... What was the word I used earlier? Oh yeah, phenomenal. I was particularly impressed with the Clive Barker-esque sequence that takes place in Hell, as some of the imagery is quite disturbing.

* It's called multitasking, look into it.

In Alex de Renzy's Pretty Peaches 3: The Quest, the sexual awakening of a naive young twit with thighs that don't know the meaning of the word quit continues unabated. Which should come as no surprise, as that's exactly what occurs in the first two movies in the Pretty Peaches trilogy. What is surprising, however, is that I won't be able to watch porn ever again. Just kidding, I will always be able to watch porn. Imagine... a world without porn. *shudders* What I mean is, from now on, all porn that isn't treated with the same reverence and respect that Vinegar Syndrome bestows on the genre will be looked upon with suspicion. I know, a company in France called "Alpha France" puts out high quality porn releases, including titles by Alex de Renzy. But as far as North America goes, I can't think of anyone who cares more about the preservation of sleaze than Vinegar Syndrome. Oh, and, by the way, this isn't some elaborate ruse to get them to send me free porn. It's just that I've never seen 1980s-era XXX cinema look so good. Hell, I bet the version the raincoat crowd saw in theatres back in the day didn't look this crisp and clean. Sure, some of you might say: Yum-Yum, you dolt, classic erotica is supposed to look like crap... that's what makes it so charming. True, but I think that only applies to roughies. I mean, I can't imagine a film like, say, Forced Entry, looking all pristine and junk, it just wouldn't feel right.

However, hardcore films from the 1980s are a different animal all-together. Boasting bright colours and garish art direction, the 1980s was a visual decade, and those visuals need to be crystal clear to be properly appreciated. This applies to '80s music videos, '80s magazines, '80s television commercials, '80s fashion ads, '80s art, and, of course, it also applies to '80s pornography.

I would argue that it needs to apply to porn more than the others because porn is the only true way to take the temperature of the era you're currently living in. Whereas most genres are filled with people whose job it is to undermine the creative process at every turn. Porn, on the other hand, has more freedom. In other words, when you watch porn from the 1980s, you're getting an unfiltered view of the decade.

Take Keisha, the totally bodacious lead in Pretty Peaches 3: The Quest, for example. In all the other genres I just mentioned, a person like Keisha would have been dismissed as either too chubby or not white enough (the plague that is white supremacy has its hooks in everything). But in porn, particularly '80s porn, Keisha is not only welcome, she's the star of the show!

Shapely and oh so soft (more cushion for the pushin'), and, not to mention, dim and utterly clueless, Keisha plays–you guessed it–Peaches, and, golly, I gotta say, does she ever do Desireé Cousteau (the original Peaches), and, to a lesser extent, Siobhan Hunter (the second Peaches), proud.

Giving a performance that will no doubt cause your mundane genitals to be imbued with rigid and moist sensations (the sensation you experience will depend on the structural composition of your genitals), Keisha stomps her way through this movie with a well-proportioned aplomb.

It would seem that Peaches and her mom (Tracey Adams) have gone down a few rungs on the social ladder since we checked in with them. While living in a trailer park is quite the change of scenery, one thing remains the same, and that is, Peaches is still an idiot. Okay, maybe that's a tad harsh. Let's just say she's not the reddest radish in the shopping cart, if you know what I mean.

After a disturbing dream, one that involved her friend (Lynn LeMay) having her pantyhose torn asunder by her boyfriend Bobby (Gene Carrera) and a pal (Marc Wallice), Peaches' mom suggests that she go see Dr. Thunderpussy (Rachel Ryan), a doctor who has appeared on the Oprah show.

(Whoa, hold up, guy... "Pantyhose torn asunder"? Tell us more.) Sure, the dream, like I said, involves the two guys I mentioned tearing Lynn LeMay's pantyhose off. But get this, every time they tear away her pantyhose, another pair miraculously reappears. I wasn't keep track (though, I should have been), but they must have removed at least ten pairs of pantyhose before eventually reaching vaginal pay-dirt.

At any rate, when Dr. Thunderpussy says to Peaches during her examination, "Time to check your girl things," I couldn't help but be reminded of Rinse Dream, as that's the kind of line you might hear in one of his movies. Wouldn't it be awesome if Alex de Renzy and Rinse Dream worked together? Actually, I know for a fact they did. So, what are you waiting for Vinegar Syndrome, restore that movie; don't make me watch some grainy, thirty year-old VHS rip.

As expected, Dr. Thunderpussy's examination of Peaches mostly involves having her "girl things" poked and prodded. When Dr. Thunderpussy is finished doing that, she has sex with a doll and tells Peaches that she needs to find spiritual enlightenment. And with that, Peaches embarks on an epic journey of self-discovery.

Actually, the quest doesn't officially get underway until Peaches watches a tearful sermon by a televangelist named Billy Bob (Jamie Gillis) on her tiny trailer park television. Flanked by his busty sidekick, Nanette (Victoria Paris), Peaches nods approvingly to the bulk of what the blubbering preacher has to say. Personally, it sounded like a lot of nonsense to me, but Peaches clearly liked what she heard, and heads out to meet him in person.

Unfortunately, the authorities are closing in on Billy Bob and Nanette just as Peaches arrives. Not to worry, though, despite the fact that a helicopter is swirling overhead, Billy Bob decides to take a break from destroying evidence and planning their pending getaway to give Peaches some "spiritual guidance" after all. Of course, it being late 1980s, his "spiritual guidance" largely involves feeling the shapely nitwit up.

A bizarre sex scene between Jamie Gillis and Victoria Paris gets underway after Peaches has been sufficiently felt up.

(What's Keisha doing during this so-called "bizarre sex scene?) She struggles to maintain her balance (the helicopter hovering above is making it difficult for her to stand up).

Meanwhile, back at the trailer park, Bobby and Mrs. Peaches hatching a plan to find Peaches; the sexual tension between these two is palpable.

Waking up in a field, Peaches stumbles upon the "Holy Repose Spiritual Retreat." You might think: Ooh, what luck, that's exactly what Peaches is looking for. You couldn't be more wrong, as the people there, specifically three blonde lesbians (Tianna, Priscilla Love and Vicki Blair) seem more interested in cunnilingus than spiritual guidance.

Leaving in the middle of the night (the blonde lesbians' late night cunnilingus session was keeping her up), Peaches is next seen walking along a country road in an acid wash skirt. Call me crazy, but the sight of Keisha simply walking is the sexiest part of this movie.

Hitching a ride from Fife Bardot's "Chicken Girl," Peaches is taken to a meeting of The Realization Cult. Run by Professor Otto (Jon Martin), this group, just like the others, seem more about exploring one's genitals than you know what.

Do you think Peaches' chance meeting with Jack Baker (New Wave Hookers) on the streets of San Francisco will lead her to finally achieving her goal? I don't know about that. But I do know this, at around the hour mark, someone finally fucks Keisha with their penis. Not to sound crude, but I was like, yes! Pound that pussy! Anyway, uh, the film's grand finale is quite unusual, in that it implies that Peaches becomes a... You know what, I don't want to spoil the ending for you. Let's just say it's a fitting end to a pretty kick ass trilogy. Oh, and Vinegar Syndrome, if you decide to restore the Alex de Renzy/Rinse Dream collaboration, don't forget to do the same to the rest of the Rinse Dream catalogue (including the untamed cowgirl flicks). Thanks.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Imagine not being able to, oh, let's say, ride the bus without the ability to drown out the thoughts of the other passengers. I think most people would agree that the constant of barrage of inner inanity would slowly erode a person's mental well-being. Luckily for us, we have no idea what other people are thinking. However, to a small segment of the population who exist in the world of David Cronenberg's Scanners, the scenario I just described is all too real. It should be noted, however, that, yes, it's true, most people can't read people's minds. But for a brief moment there, I did have to listen to other people's conversations (which are like thoughts, but more verbal). You see, when the mobile phone first started to become an acceptable mode of communication within the non-brain surgeon/non-drug dealing community, I felt like I was being inundated with pointless bather non-stop. It was only when talking on the phone became passe (eventually replaced by texting) that I felt secure that my brain cells would not have to be subjected to such tediousness. Every once and awhile I'll hear someone talking loudly on their phone. But since they're usually speaking a language I don't understand, I try not to get too bent out of shape about it. Oh, and just to let you know, I have a strict "No English Allowed" policy on my bus.

Anyway, getting back to Scanners. Does anyone know if Margaret Gadbois, who plays "Woman in Mall," was wearing a full slip or a half slip underneath her dress? The only reason I ask is because I'm a huge pervert. Just kidding. But seriously, does anyone know?

The reason I ask is because the sight of Margaret's not quite middle-aged, not quite elderly gams kicking and flailing on the floor of a mall food court is the first image to grab my attention in this film, which, should come as no surprise, explores the destructive nature of the human body.

According to David Cronenberg, the human body (specifically the human brain) propels us forward, but ultimately let's us down.

(What caused Margaret's oldish legs to flail so violently?) What are you doing, man? I was trying to make a profound point. (You already made that point in your review of David Cronenberg's Rabid.) I did? Let me check... Well would you look at that...

If that's the case, let's get back to talking about those kicking and flailing old lady legs, shall we? Like I said earlier, the legs belong to an oldish woman who is sitting in a mall foot court with a friend. Noticing a mildly dishevelled man eating scraps of food off the bolted-down tables that have recently been vacated, the woman and her gal pal start to think disparaging thoughts about him. The reason we can hear their thoughts is because the man, Cameron Vale (Stephen Lack), is a scanner, the name given to a powerful group of telepaths.

Except, Cameron doesn't know he's a scanner. Nevertheless, while attempting to block out the women's thoughts, Cameron inadvertently causes one of the women (the leggy one wearing the full or maybe half slip underneath her dress) to convulse on the food court floor.

As she twitches violently (her friend and some passersby try to calm her), two creepy dudes in trench-coats begin to pursue Cameron through the mall. After a brief chase, the men eventually shoot Cameron with a tranquilizer dart and take him to a warehouse run by CONSEC, a Blackwater-style security company, who, in the grand tradition of David Cronenberg films, are shady as fuck.

Lulled into thinking he's amongst friends, Cameron is given a drug that will help him suppress his powers (or "quiet the voices") by Dr. Paul Ruth (Patrick McGoohan), the world's foremost scanner expert.

Meanwhile, over at CONSEC's main headquarters, a scanner is giving an audience a demonstration of what a scanner can do. Asking for a volunteer from the audience, the scanner... oh shit! (Don't tell me, another woman just showed her slip while being scanned.) No, the audience member who volunteered is played by Michael Ironside. (You're right. Oh shit.) This does not bode well for that scanner's mental health. *splaaaaat!* Wow, now that was quite the understatement.

Irked that a scanner was able to infiltrate their organization and cause their scanner (the only one they had on the payroll) severe cranial distress, CONSEC hire Braendon Keller (Lawrence Dane) as their new head of security.

While the hiring of Keller is initially seen as a step in the right direction, Dr. Ruth manages to convince the CONSEC higher-ups that the only way to stop a scanner is to use another scanner. And that's where Cameron Vale comes in.

Sent on a mission by CONSEC to infiltrate the so-called "scanner underground," Cameron Vale goes literally head-to-head with Daryl Revok (Michael Ironside), the world's most powerful and therefore most dangerous scanner.

Culminating in an epic battle, one that will test the structural integrity of his mind, Cameron Vale quickly discovers that not all scanners are socially awkward misfits. Some have plans to take over the world, while others are merely content to look awesome in high-neck knitwear; I'm looking in your general direction, Jennifer O'Neill, from Lucio Fulci's The Psychic.

In one of the film's best scenes, Cameron Vale also discovers that he can hack high security computer systems simply by picking up the phone.

Boasting top-notch make-up effects (especially during the scanner showdown), an appropriately throb-friendly film score by Howard Shore and the always terrific Michael Ironside (in what is easily one of his best roles), Scanners does an excellent job of mixing the silly with the cerebral. Which, and I think most people will agree with this, is the key to making a successful David Cronenberg film.

Hey, 1995. What's with all the slack-jawed gawking? Haven't you ever seen a guy in a fedora before? I know, it's been nearly ten years since Duckie donned his iconic old-timey chapeau in Pretty In Pink, so, it's probably been quite some time since you seen anyone outside of an old black and white movie wearing one. But still, you really need to get over your fear of fedoras, it's so unbecoming, it's so... 1995. What's that? Really? Well, I've just been informed that 1995 wasn't just staring at Jeremy 'Powder' Reed (Sean Patrick Flanery), the lead character in Powder, because he was wearing a fedora, a lot of it had to with the fact that he's so pale (and, before you ask, yes, I consider "1995" to be a sentient life form). You mean to tell me that they don't have Goths or Goth-adjacent people in this part of Texas? I mean, if Jeff Goldblum is allowed to be a science teacher, I'm sure they can deal with a rat pack reject with gothy skin. What think I'm trying to say is: I found the town's reaction to Powder's chalky complexion to be a tad over the top. However, at one point Lance Henriksen's Sheriff character does remind his Deputy (Brandon Smith), who finds Powder's ashy appearance to be off-putting, the irony of a Texas police officer being prejudiced against another human being for being too white.

Speaking of things that are ironic, anyone else find it odd that Powder's primary antagonist looked exactly like Eddie Vedder? It's true, Pearl Jam technically didn't release an album in 1995, but I think most of you will agree that no-one represents 1995 more than Eddie Vedder. And if there's one thing the Eddie Vedder's of this world hate, it's pigmentally-challenged hipsters who dress like Dean Martin circa 1955.

That, and super-smart freaks of nature who are able to cleanse, fold and manipulate the forces of the universe; they totally hate people like that.

After causing cafeteria cutlery to smoosh together of its own accord and showing a deer hunter the face of death, you would think the Eddie Vedder-aligned populace would learn that you shouldn't mess with albinos from Texas, especially one's who have memorized Moby Dick. But if they didn't, mess with them, that is, there wouldn't be a movie. And who wants to live in a world without movies like Powder? I know I sure don't. Seriously, this movie is uplifting and shit. It's like Begotten meets Edward Scissorhands, and it features Susan Tyrrell!

Not to continue to pick on 1995, but I have to say, Powder couldn't have picked a worse time to emerge from his cellar. I know, he had no way of knowing that his grandpa would was going to kick the bucket in 1995, nor did he know that 1995 going to be such an asshole. But still, 1995 is no place for... (Pigmentally-challenged hipsters who dress like Dean Martin circa 1955?) Exactly.

If Powder had, oh, let's say, emerged from his cellar in 1977, he would have been the toast of New York City. However, instead of hanging out with Andy Warhol, Little Edie and Bianca Jagger at Studio 54, Powder is stuck with a bunch of bland, non-cocaine abusing ninnies.

Anyway, after Powder's grandpa dies, Sheriff Doug Barnum (Lance Henriksen) enlists the help of Jessie Caldwell (Mary Steenburgen), who is the director of a reform school for troubled boys. (Where the fuck is the school for troubled girls?!?) I have no idea. Nevertheless, since Powder is still a minor, he's forced to live at this place, which, yep, you guessed it, is also home to Eddie Vedder and his evil band of moistly sprocketed toadies.

Accusing him of being a "vampire from outer space" and asking him if he's was kicked out of "cancer camp," Eddie Vedder makes it's clear that he doesn't like Powder from day one. And it's when Eddie Vedder tries to initiate the hairless newcomer (some stupid ritual involving a spoon), that he gives him his first taste of his Powder power.

(Hold up, you mean to tell me that Eddie Vedder gets multiple tastes of Powder's powerful Powder power?) Yeah, so? (Didn't he learn his lesson during the first demonstration?) Oh, I hear what you're saying. That's just it, the Eddie Vedder's of this world are super-stubborn. In other words, it's going to take a lot more than causing forks and spoons to collide with one another in the cafeteria of a Texas all boys reform school to quash this bully.

Allowed to attend a regular high school, Powder, using the muscles in his neck, turns his head to look at Lindsey (Missy Crider) during science class. Of course, Mr. Ripley (Jeff Goldblum), notices this, and incorporates it into his lesson plan. I was surprised Powder didn't give Mr. Ripley a look as if to say: "Uncool, bro... uncool" (in other words, cock block my chalk-covered cock again and I'll cold cock you). But since he's the kind of person who is amazed by power windows, no such look is forthcoming.

Anyone else think it was somewhat peculiar that on his first day of school Powder attends a class that boasts a demonstration of a Jacob's Ladder? Talk about your plot contrivances. Either way, Powder is zapped with enough electricity to kill five elephants. After a brief stay at the hospital, Powder is told by Ray Wise that he's a genius. When this happens, I was like, great, let's get this boy to New York City, or at the very least, Dallas. But what happens instead? Powder goes on a camping trip with Eddie Vedder. This movie is starting to make less and less sense as it goes along.

Senselessness aside, I did experience some mild wetness in and around my eye-holes during certain moments. However, in all honesty, that just means the film is good at manipulating saps who are easily moved. And manipulating saps is like shooting fish in a barrel. That being said, I ain't no sap. Meaning, it must have been my allergies that were causing my eye-holes to well up. (But you don't have any allergies.) Shut the fuck up. There's no way I'm admitting in public that I was moved to tears by a movie this maudlin. Uh-uh, it's not going to happen. Powder is a movie I watched. If you want to do the same, be my guest. Warning: The film, for the most part, does take place in 1995.

If men continue to insist on walking around and doing stuff in public, would it kill them to at least do so while dressed the way Michael Gambon and his posse of sycophants do in Peter Greenaway's The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover? I mean, I don't ask for much. What I think I'm trying is, I loved the fashion in this film. However, that was the only thing I loved about this film... at the beginning. You see, while I dug the clothes, the sight of Michael Gambon acting vulgar and crass at a fancy eatery in the early going wasn't really working for me; despite the fact that he looked so dapper while doing so (red and black, baby). Yet, as the film progressed, I slowly found myself starting to admire the artistry of it all. Everything from the costumes, to the sets, to the music (Michael Nyman) was sumptuous as all get out. Shot in a theatrical manner, the film puts on a mise-en-scène clinic. That makes sense, right? If it didn't, what I think I mean is, everything that appears onscreen was arranged in a way that seemed well-thought out. Which, I must admit, is not something I come across much nowadays. In other words, if was refreshing to see a film that actually seemed concerned about the way things looked (watching the recent crop of superhero movies is like watching filmed noise).

Since most of you know how I think by now, you know a film needs to do more than just be artistic and junk to impress me. And that's where Helen Mirren's stockings and gloves come in. The fact that Helen Mirren's legs and arms were always sheathed in stockings and gloves put my mind at ease as the film progressed.

And when I saw Jean-Paul Gaultier's name appear in the opening credits, I knew right away that he would not let me down when it came to style.

However, like I said earlier, I was not down with this film's overall tone. Now, that might come across as a tad weird, as the film opens with Michael Gambon peeing on a naked man in a dog-ridden parking lot, but I just wasn't feeling it.

After he's done peeing on that guy (a member of his nattily dressed entourage offers to pee on him, but Michael Gambon says he doesn't want anyone to see his "shriveled contribution"), Albert (Michael Gambon), his wife, Georgina (Helen Mirren) and his gang enter Le Hollandaise, an upscale restaurant, with enough swagger to fill two large receptacles specifically designed to hold copious amounts of swagger.

It's Thursday night, and Albert and the boys are clearly ready to enjoy a late night feast after a hard day of thieving; I'm assuming he's "the thief" in the film's title and that he runs some sort of crime syndicate. If that's the case, than Georgina is "his wife" and Richard (Richard Bohringer) is clearly "the cook." I wonder who "and her lover" is?

While gnawing indifferently on a piece of asparagus, Georgina notices Michael (Alan Howard), a blonde fellow in the caramel-coloured suit, reading/eating at a nearby table.

Wait a minute, that guy can't be Georgina's lover. I mean, Michael might have, to use Georgina's words, "a beautiful cock," but he doesn't have the balls to bone a gangster's wife right under his nose. (How would Georgina know that Michael has a beautiful cock?) Whoops, it looks like the cat has just left the relative comfort of the proverbial bag.

Meeting in the ladies lavatory (a gorgeously designed room filled with extraordinarily dressed ladies), Georgina and Michael come close to getting it on in one of the stalls, but are interrupted by Albert, who nearly catches them in the act.

Since Albert is always sticking his nose in the ladies lavatory, it would seem that Georgina and Michael are going to have to consummate their affair somewhere a little more discreet. But where? Well, here's where the cook comes in. Aware of their situation/dilemma (and clearly sympathetic), the cook let's Georgina and Michael have sex in the kitchen's pantry.While not exactly sanitary (it's a health code violation just waiting to happen), the pantry gives them the privacy they need.

Given Albert's unruly temperament, how do you think he'll react if ever finds out that circumcised mediocrity is screwing his wife? Will he:

A) Throw a hissy fit.
B) Hurl verbal abuse at those around him.
C) Stab a gorgeous brunette in the face with a fork.
D) All of the above.

If you answered "D," all of the above, congratulations, your knowledge when it comes to British loutism is unsurpassed.

Actually he does more than just throw hissy fits, call people names and stab sexy dark-haired women with cutlery, he... well, I don't want to spoil it for anyone. But trust me when I say it's quite glorious, as The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover morphs into a kind of revenge movie. I say "kind of" because I've seen a revenge movie this well-put-together.

Speaking of well-put-together, if you're not into, let's say, Helen Mirren or Emer Gillespie (a.k.a. the gorgeous brunette fork-face lady), you could always savour the luminous Alex Kingston, who plays a waitress at Le Hollandaise. Seen dutifully doing her waitress duties throughout the movie, I would slowly come to cherish these moments, as the sight of Alex Kingston looking chic as fuck in her red waitress uniform would cause me to briefly forget that a vulgar twit (i.e. Thatcher) is running things.

You could view this film as a highly polished expose on the negative effects drugs had on the W.A.S.P. population during the height of the "Just Say No" era. You could also view it, if you had some serious time to kill, as an eerily accurate foretelling of the emergence of rap metal. However, as someone who has seen Less Than Zero (a.k.a. Unter Null) more times than they care to admit, the proper way to view it is to look at it as the only film to capture the majestic splendour that is Jami Gertz in black stockings in a satisfactory manner. Oh, and I know what you're thinking: "Hey, Yum-Yum. How do you know Jami Gertz was wearing stockings? For all you know, they could have been pantyhose... super-tight, vagina-constricting pantyhose." Trust me, I know. No, I don't have the ability to see through women's clothing (at least not yet I don't). But thanks to the fully-clothed hallway sex scene that takes place near the end of the movie, I was able to ascertain the exact type of hosiery that was affixed to Jami Gertz' slender gams. So there.

(Did you say, "fully-clothed" sex scene? If so, how does that work?) Well, you see... Wait, I'm not going to explain to you how fully-clothed sex "works." But I will say this, if you don't have sex while at least wearing one article of clothing, you're no different than a mentally-challenged emu or some insipid billy-goat trolling the fields for ovulating sheep pussy.

While it brings me great pleasure to go on and on about Jami Gertz, who, seriously, looks amazing in this film, the thought of James Spader stalking L.A.'s hottest night-spots circa 1987 is never far from the back of my mind. I mean, how could it not be? Sure, he's a drug dealing scumbag named "Rip," but he's so darn pretty.

Sporting a brown trench-coat and slicked back hair, James' Rip is the personification yuppism gone awry; not to imply that yuppism was ever symmetrical, but yuppies usually commit white collar crime, they don't sell crack to leggy debutantes and shiftless trust fund layabouts.

Anyway, while Jami Gertz and James Spader provide the eye candy, Robert Downey, Jr. provides the acting chops. His performance as Julian, a drug addicted rich kid, is... What's that? What does Andrew McCarthy provide? Um, I'm not quite sure. I've seen the film, like I said earlier, a shitload of times, but I've never really given him much thought.

As I was saying, Robert Downey, Jr.'s performance in this film is definitely a career highlight. (I thought you said Hugo Pool was his career highlight.) You're joking, right? If anything, Robert's drugged out demeanour in Hugo Pool is eerily similar to the one he displays in Less Than Zero. The only difference being, I don't think he's acting in Hugo Pool.

Filled with hope and junk, three friends, Clay (Andrew McCarthy), Blair (Jami Gertz) and Julian (Robert Downey, Jr.), graduate high school in Los Angeles in the spring of 1987. While Clay goes to college on the east coast, Blair and Julian stay in L.A. to do cocaine. The end.

While you're probably thinking to yourself: It can't be that simple. Well, actually, it can. You see, 1987 was a simpler time. You went to school, you did cocaine and that was it.

We do learn, thanks to some stylish black and white flashback scenes (accompanied by the warm synths of composer Thomas Newman, Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael), that things got somewhat complicated for the three friends over the course of the following summer, when Clay learns that Blair and Julian became fuck buddies his back (Clay and Blair were a couple - and, for what I could gather, pretty hot and heavy).

Even though Clay plans on coming home for Christmas (to spend the holidays with his cartoonish-ly waspy family), he is still somewhat shocked when Blair calls up him out of the blue. Thinking that she wants to apologize for her fling with Julian, Clay seems eager to see her (this eagerness is accentuated by the use of The Bangles' cover of "Hazy Shade of Winter," which famously blasts on the soundtrack as he arrives in L.A.).

Oh, and before you point out the unlikelihood that Clay would be a Hüsker Dü fan (his L.A. bedroom has a "Land Speed Record" poster on the wall). Remember, kids, Ferris Büller had a Micro-Phonies-era Cabaret Voltaire poster on his wall. And does anyone actually think Ferris listens to Cabaret Voltaire? 'Nuff said (someone on IMDb pointed this out, and, in doing so, saved me from going on a mini-diatribe).

As for Tia Russell, Jean Louisa Kelly's character from Uncle Buck... now she's a Cabaret Voltaire fan.

Sticking with the music theme. As anyone who has seen Less Than Zero knows, music plays an important role in shaping the hedonistic, party-obsessed universe depicted in this film. Curated by producer Rick Rubin, the music heard during the film's many club scenes was, for the most part, not to my liking. For one thing, I don't think Kiss (covered by Poison), Jimi Hendrix, Aerosmith and The Doors do a very good job of representing the period. I mean, couldn't they have at least used "Everything Counts" by Depeche Mode? I know, it's a little too on the nose, but still... it's synthy.

On the other hand, I loved the use of Manu Dibango's "Abele Dance." The funky Afro-jazz funk barn-burner also has the distinction of playing when my favourite extra appears onscreen. Holding a portable hand-held television near his face, the way this guy bops back and forth to the track's catchy horn hook never fails to fill me with joy. Wait, joy?!? Yeah, fuck it. Joy!

Getting back to the story for a second. When his disappointment over the fact that Blair called him not to get back together finally subsides, Clay soon discovers that almost everyone is abusing drugs. Including Blair and Julian. But more so in the case of the latter, who owes James Spader's scumbag drug dealer character 50,000(!) dollars.

In a weird twist, IMDb comes through yet again. You know that white shirt Robert Downey Jr. wears throughout most of the movie? Yeah, the one with the giant red splotch on it. Well, I always thought the graphic was a gun shot wound. It turns out it's not a gun shot wound, but a poinsettia; which is fitting since this is technically a Christmas movie.

While it's no Christiane F. in terms of realism, nor in terms of exuding late 1970s West Berlin/Bowie cool, the film does have its moments. And even though most of these "moments" are visual, thanks to cinematographer Ed Lachman and production designer Barbara Ling, I happen to think Less Than Zero is, after all these years, still on the cusp of being watchable.

The only explanation I can come up with to explain why the glass partition in the nudie booth where George C. Scott hooks up with/enlists the help of Season Hubley is so thoroughly jizz-laden, is that the spunk cleaners must have been having some kind of labour dispute. I mean, how else can you explain why the glass, and, I suppose, the floor (some guys are dribblers), was covered with, to quote N.P.H., "love stains"? Unless what we saw was the result of only ten minutes of self-abuse. Think about it, it's 1979, and people loved to ejaculate sperm in places other than their home. Nowadays, no one does anything away from home. They jerk off, they watch movies, they jerk off to movies, they play video games, they read books (or book-like facsimiles) and they consume massive amounts of carbohydrates all within the confines of their own home. In Paul Schrader's Hardcore, however, if your teenage daughter runs off to do porn in L.A., you going to have to physically get on an airplane (i.e. leave your home) and pretend to be a shady, toupee-wearing smut peddler if you ever want to see her again. Imagine someone doing that today. Actually, if this film was made today, I bet the parents would be the one's driving their kids to audition* for, oh, let's say, "Anal Face-Fuck Fuck-Face Fuckers Vol. 17" -- thanks to E! and MTV, depravity and indifference are in vogue.

And the reason has nothing to do with bad parenting skills on the behalf of the parents. It's because porn is viewed differently today. At the present time, thanks to the internet, porn is everywhere. But back in the 1970s, porno was still seen as taboo. Oh, sure, the climate that created porno chic was a real thing. That being said, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, specifically, its Dutch Calvinist community, porn is the personification of pure evil.

I don't know if this was done on purpose, but the first twenty minutes look like something straight out of one of Lawrence Welk's wet dreams. Meaning, it's extremely square and lame as fuck. Seriously, Christmas caroling, turkey craving, tobogganing... white people in sweaters?!? What is this shit?

Call me callous and somewhat deranged, but I let out a mild cheer when Jake VanDorn (George C. Scott) learns that his daughter Kristen (Ilah Davis) has gone missing. It's not that I want anything bad to happen to her, it's just that I want this small town nightmare to end; it's like watching a greeting card come to life.

Anyway, over in California to attend some kind of church camp, Kristen apparently took off while at Knott's Berry Farm. And like any good father, Jake flies over to L.A. to talk with the police. Since the cops are swamped with cases involving missing teens, Jake decides to hire Andy Mast (Peter Boyle), a sleazy private detective.

I'd like to say, before I continue, that I couldn't help but notice how pervasive Star Wars was in this film. Now, of course, I'm acutely aware how insanely popular the movie was back in the late 1970s, but I had no idea it was this popular. There are at least three separate instances in Hardcore where the film is referenced. The first comes when Jake pokes around his daughter's bedroom looking for clues that might shed some light on her disappearance and we see a Star Wars calendar on her wall. The second occurs when a Star Wars billboard is briefly visible on the side of a building near Jake's hotel. And the third, and my personal favourite, takes place when Jake enters a sex club and we see two strippers mock fighting on stage with light sabers.

What I think I'm trying to say is this: It baffles the mind to think that something that was originally conceived to amuse ten year-olds in 1977 is still being talked about. In fact, J.J. Abrams–yeah, that's right, the guy who did the score for Night Beast–is apparently making a new Star Wars movie. Weird, wild stuff.

Okay, let's get back to George C. Scott's journey into the scummy yet strangely beautiful world of porn, shall we?

Realizing that neither the police nor Peter Boyle are fully committed to finding his daughter, Jake strikes out on his own. This strike out, by the way, is signified by a deep, synthy-sounding synth flourish followed by the sound of a screeching guitar; the film's score is composed by Jack Nitzsche, Cruising (another film with great synthy-sounding synth flourishes).

Of course, who is the first person George C. Scott runs into during his initial foray into the porn world? Why, it's Repo Man's Tracey Walter! Just as Jake is about to start browsing the shelves of an adult bookstore, the clerk (the aforementioned Tracey Walter) informs him that there's a fifty cent browsing fee. Can you believe that? A browsing fee.

The next stop on his foray are a couple of pseudo massage parlors that offer "body-to-body contact." As you might expect, Jake gets nowhere at these places, and leaves with nothing but a bruised face (his failure is punctuated by being thrown face-first into a parked car by a bouncer after getting rowdy).

Deciding to employ a different tactic (and a different wardrobe), Jake pretends to be a businessman from Detroit who is interested in becoming a porn producer. After getting his foot in the door, Jake eventually meets Nikki (Season Hubley), an adult film actress, who agrees to help him, for a sizable fee, naturally.

Even though Season Hubley's Nikki walks the same streets as Princess, her character from Vice Squad, I think her performances are vastly different. And that difference has a lot to do with George C. Scott, who brings out the best in Season. Not to imply that she isn't good in Vice Squad. It's just that Wings Hauser is no George C. Scott. Look at George's body language when he enters the adult bookstore run by Tracey Walter and compare it with the body language he displays when he enters another adult bookstore later on in the film. He was able to convey a change in his character simply by the way he walks. Now that's fine acting.

While the film ultimately has more to do with snuff films (pure fantasy), Hardcore is a pretty authentic look at the porn world pre-videotape. Well, everything except the scene where the show a porn being shot outside at night. Edit: Having recently seen Alex de Renzy's Pretty Peaches, I can confirm that some porn films did in fact shoot outside at night. Nonetheless, I'm sure it's still kinda rare.

* Audition? How cute. Your teenage daughter is making a D.I.Y. version of "Anal Face-Fuck Fuck-Face Fuckers Vol. 17" in her bedroom as we speak. Go check. I'll wait... Pretty rad, eh?

In a movie that boasts an all-girl goth-industrial band (with a drummer named "Rapunzel") and an utterly clueless Patty Mullen running around an abandoned hospital in a red bikini, you would think that one would be hard-pressed to come up with anything that could possibly top these two things. Well, I have two words for you my friend: Hips and baby-makers. Specifically, the hips and baby-maker attached to Kristin Davis (Couples Retreat). That's right, in Doom Asylum, the high concept, artfully crafted horror extravaganza about, um, I'll get to that in a minute (the plot is too complex to describe in a single sentence). As I was saying, Kirstin Davis' hips and baby-maker manage to steal the spotlight away from gothy industrial chicks and Frankenhooker! And, no, I'm not referring to one of the lovely ladies who played one of the many prostitutes who appear in Frank Henenlotter's Frankenhooker, I'm talking about the actual Frankenhooker! Wanna date? (Didn't you find it somewhat ironic that Kirstin Davis spells her first name the same way Kristin Hersh from the Throwing Muses does?) Uh, no. (Think about it. Kristin Davis is best known for starring in a movie that glorifies the shapely splendour that are her curve-tastic hips and the glide-worthy fuckitude of her slithery baby-maker and Kristin Hersh is best known for her album, 'Hips and Makers.') You're insane.

On that note, let's get back to a more pressing issue. (The blue one-piece bathing suit that presses oh-so tightly against Kristin Davis' mouth-watering crotch for the bulk of this movie?) Exactly.

Clearly aware of the power that her mighty undercarriage possesses, Kristen saw that Doom Asylum was severely lacking in one key area, the hips and baby-maker department, and stepped in to fill the void by–you guessed it–presenting her hips and baby-maker in a manner that was both aesthetically pleasing and... yeah, well... I gotta go shovel the snow... be back in a second.

Where was I? Let me see. Ah, yes, Kristin Davis' squishy petunia. It's true, I never watched Sex and the City on a regular basis, but I guarantee Kristin's groin wasn't on display as much as it is in this movie. I think the point I'm trying to make is this: I'm just nuts about the area between Kristin Davis' legs.

Despite there being a legend about a crazed palimony attorney turned coroner who murders trespassers with autopsy equipment, four teens decide to drive through the wilds of New Jersey to have a picnic on the grounds of an abandoned hospital.

(How does a palimony attorney become a coroner?) Excellent question, Billy. You see, ten years ago, a successful palimony attorney named Mitch Hansen (Micheal Rogen) was driving with Judy LaRue (Patty Mullen), his lover/client, when all of a sudden, he loses control of the car and crashes into... something (a tree, perhaps?). Unfortunately, budget constraints prevent us from seeing the accident in graphic detail. However, no expense is spared when it came to depicting the grisly aftermath (we see Judy's severed hand lying in the grass).

While Judy dies at the scene, a not quite dead Mitch is taken to the morgue of a nearby hospital. (Wait, if he's not quite dead, why did they take him to the morgue?) I have no idea. Either way, a naked and badly deformed Mitch wakes up on a slab and proceeds to murder the two medical examiners who were about to perform his autopsy. No doubt grabbing one of the dead coroner's lab coats, Mitch is doomed to wander the halls of this hospital for an eternity.

And by "an eternity," I'd say about ten years. And by "wander," I mean watch old movies in the basement near a shrine to his beloved Judy (her severed hand is surrounded by candles... aww, how sweet).

We flash-forward ten years to find a Judy's teenage daughter, Kiki LaRue (Patty Mullen), Mike (William Hay), her indecisive boyfriend, Dennis (Kenny Price), an avid baseball card collector, Darnell (Harrison White), "the black guy," and Jane (Kristin Davis), a smart brunette who wears glasses, driving along the very same road Mitch and Judy did ten years ago.

(Don't you mean a smart brunette who wears glasses and has a mouth-watering crotch that doesn't know the meaning of the word quit?) Actually, no. We haven't seen Kristin's crotch yet, so I cannot classify it as the type of crotch that is unaware of its quit-like status with any confidence. Sorry.

Entering the grounds of the abandoned hospital, Kiki and her friends can't help but hear a loud racket emanating from inside the hospital.

It turns out that the racket is actually the music of Tina and the Tots, New Jersey's only, at least to my knowledge, all-girl industrial goth band, who use the abandoned hospital as a rehearsal space. Oh, and when I say "industrial," I'm not talking about wimpy VNV Nation-style synthpop, we're talking Throbbing Gristle and early SPK up in this hornet's nest. We're talking Industrial with a capital 'I.' We're talking, well, you get the idea.

Since they don't want to spend the day listening their "music" (which, in all honesty, sounds like Cranioclast meets Smersh), Darnell sneaks inside and unplugs their sound system. This, as you might expect, irks Tina (Ruth Collins), the band's leader, who vows to get back at these non-Goth troublemakers.

In the meantime, all Tina can do is laugh. When I first heard Ruth Collins' comically evil laugh, I thought to myself: Wow, now that's a comically evil laugh. After laughing like this a third time, I decided to keep track of how many times she laughs in this fashion. And, boy, was that a mistake. While I might have missed a few sinister chuckles long the way, I would say that Tina laughs a total of sixteen times over the course of the movie. Which might not sound like a lot, but trust me, it is, especially when you consider the fact the film is barely eighty minutes long and is stuffed with filler (entire scenes from the old movies Mitch watches in the hospital basement are shown periodically).

You could also call the two fantasy scenes where Darnell and the Tot's drummer, Rapunzel (Farin), fantasize about running towards one another in slow motion as filler. But I wouldn't do that. Any scene that features Rapunzel doing anything can't be declared as filler. You want to know why? It's simple, really. Look at Rapunzel's feet. See what she's wearing? Well, now you know. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I love pointy buckle boots. And while I've seen this particular style of boot worn in a number of different movies over the years, the type Rapunzel wears in Doom Asylum are pretty much perfect. 10/10 on the Goth-o-meter.

Sadly, the same can't be said for Godiva (Dawn Alvan), the Tot's keyboard player. Don't get me wrong, her self-righteous pontificating does have its moments. But it's nothing compared to Tina's exaggerated laugh or Rapunzel's chic footwear. In light of this, I'm afraid can only give Godiva 4/10 on the Goth-o-meter. :(

However, as I overly implied earlier, I'm all about Kristin Davis' hips and baby-maker. I like how the film makes a big deal about the scene where Patty Mullen first appears in her red bikini, yet my eyes were transfixed by Miss Davis, who was lounging in the background in her blue one-piece bathing suit.

To the surprise of no-one, the characters are eventually killed off one by one by Mitch. Roll the end credits. Hold up, there's got to be more to it than that. Uh, let me see. Tasty crotches, pointy buckle boots, industrial music, sixteen exaggerated guffaws, gory kills, exhaustively long clips from old movies and... No, that's pretty much it. That being said, if you're at all interested in the things I just mentioned (especially tasty crotches and pointy buckle boots), you should do yourself a favour and watch Doom Asylum.

Eddie and the Cruisers II: Eddie Lives! (Jean-Claude Lord, 1989)

Squalor Motel (Kim Christy, 1985)

Demolition High (Jim Wynorski, 1996)

Slime City Massacre (Greg Lamberson, 2010)

Pretty Peaches 2 (Alex de Renzy, 1987)

Squalor Motel (Kim Christy, 1985)

Demolition High (Jim Wynorski, 1996)

Turkish Mad Max (Çetin Inanç, 1983)

The Passion of Darkly Noon (Philip Ridley, 1995)

Scanner Cop (Pierre David, 1994)

Pretty Peaches 3: The Quest (Alex de Renzy, 1989)

The Passion of Darkly Noon (Philip Ridley, 1995)

Cobra (George P. Cosmatos, 1986)

Automatic (John Murlowski, 1995)

Scanners (David Cronenberg, 1981)

Powder (Victor Salva, 1995)

The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover (Peter Greenway, 1989)

Less Than Zero (Marek Kanievska, 1987)

Hardcore (Paul Schrader, 1979)

Doom Asylum (Richard Friedman, 1987)