House of Self-Indulgence

There's a scene that occurs midway through Andrzej Żuławski's L'Amour Braque that is the key to judging whether or not this film is a success. Personally, I thought the scene where Sophie Marceau rips the crotch of her tan pantyhose to help the trajectory of Tchéky Karyo's erect, vagina-bound penis was all I needed to deem this film a success. However, in order for this come off a real movie review, I need to allude something that is not perversion-based. And since it's tradition for me to type words that pertain to the insanity of the characters whenever I write about the films of Andrzej Żuławski (this is my fourth), I think opening with a bit about madness is only fitting. Anyway, as I was saying, when Francis Huster falls to the ground shouting incoherent nonsense at the top of his lungs at around the midway point, I... Wait, I think every scene in this movie either begins or ends with Francis Huster falling to the ground shouting incoherent nonsense at the top of his lungs. Be that as it may, the fact that none of the people who were walking by as Francis Huster engaged in a full-body conniption fit took notice of him put my mind at ease. The reason it did so is quite simple, everyone who appears in an Andrzej Żuławski film must be on the same wavelength as the director. The second someone comes off as shocked or appalled by what is transpiring in front of them, is the moment I get taken out of the movie.

Thankfully, everyone is completely on board. Meaning, good luck finding a voice of reason in this two-toed clusterfuck of a romantic comedy. Yep, you heard me, romantic comedy.

I know this goes against everything I just said, but I would have loved to have seen a character ask a simple question. You know, something like: Do you know what time it is? Imagine how Tchéky Karyo or Francis Huster would have reacted to a question like that? I can just picture Tchéky holding this person down (while screaming incoherent nonsense at the top of his lungs) as Francis proceeded to eat escargot from their quivering butt-hole.

(It can't be that absurd, can it?) Oh, trust me, it can. No one acts like a normal human being in this movie. Of course, I don't mean to imply that using the outer layer of someone's anus as an escargot bowl is abnormal. But you got to admit, it's highly irregular, especially when you factor in the sheer amount of non-rectal tableware that was available in France during the 1980s (they don't call it the dish and plate decade for nothing).

If I was at screening of this film and Andrzej Żuławski was on hand to do a Q and A afterward, I wouldn't ask a goddamn thing. Actually, that's not entirely true. If I was able to communicate via telepathy (using your mouth to express ideas is for saps), I think I would ask him if Brian de Palma's Scarface was an inspiration. I know, it clearly states that Fyodor Dostoyevsky's The Idiot was the inspiration for this film. It's just that some of the action scenes had a Scarface feel to them.

Yeah, that's right, I said, action scenes. So, let's recap: It would seem that Andrzej Żuławski has directed an absurdist romantic comedy/action movie that was inspired by Fyodor Dostoyevsky's The Idiot.

At any rate, like I was saying, there's plenty of action in this film. We're talking car chases, we're talking shoot outs, we're talking bank robberies.

Opening with a bank robbery involving four jumpsuit-wearing thieves in Disney masks, L'Amour Braque establishes right away that this is going to be a film that plays by its own rules. Oh, sure, it looks like a bank is being robbed (a common occurrence in action/crime cinema), but the way it's executed is unlike any bank robbery I've ever seen.

Hopping aboard a train, the gang, lead by Micky (Tchéky Karyo), seem to be making a clean getaway, when all of a sudden, the police arrive. Luckily, Tchéky and the gang are able to thwart the authorities with the help of Léon (Francis Huster), a dim Hungarian émigré.

Seeing him as a sort of good luck charm, Micky takes Léon under his wing and proceeds to show him how Parisian criminals unwind. Part of the unwinding process involves introducing him to Mary (Sophie Marceau), his gorgeous Parisian girlfriend. I don't think I have to tell you what happens next.

Actually, even if I did have to tell to you, I don't think I would want to. First of all, while the story is pretty straight-forward gangster stuff, as with the bank heist scene, the way it plays out is nothing but... straight-forward. Careening from one scene to another in a nonsensical fashion, the film will severely test the patience of those who are accustomed to hearing dialogue that makes a modicum of sense.

Now, unlike the characters in Andrzej Żuławski's Possession and Szamanka, these people are not mentally-ill. They simply express themselves in a manner that is somewhat unorthodox. (Somewhat?) Okay, they do so in a manner that is extremely unorthodox. So much so, I don't think I understood a single thing any of the characters said in this movie. Granted, I was familiar with the words they were saying. It's just that the manner they were arranged was so baffling.

Let's just say, people who pretend to be smart for a living will eat this shit up. As for the rest of us–you know, those who are painfully aware of their own brain deficiencies–we will have to find alternative ways to navigate this film's pompous ass-enabling mind-field. And the best way I discovered to do so is to relish in the film's visual bouquet.

My favourite example of this "visual bouquet" occurs when we see a group of Dick Tracy-esque hoods strutting down the middle of a neon lit street near the famous Folies Bergère. Looking like a scene lifted straight from the pages of a sleazy comic book, the cartoonish energy of this scene flies in the face of the film's art-house temperament. Hold up, forget about flying in the face of, the two styles actually complement one another.

If cartoon violence and neon lighting isn't your thing, you could simply sit back and bask in the beauty that is Sophie Marceau. If you're not into brunettes, you could always bask in Christiane Jean, who plays... to be honest, I have no idea who she plays. Either way, Jess Franco fans will recognize her from Faceless. In conclusion, out of the handful of Andrzej Żuławski film I've seen so far, I would have to say L'Amour Braque is the most challenging.

Am I seeing things or did Shawn Weatherly's impeccable nylons just go from being jet black to tan in the middle of her confrontation with a demented, eye-liner-sporting Leif Garrett? I know for a fact that her stockings and/or pantyhose were black when the scene starts. So, how does one explain the fact that they seem to turn tan on a dime? Oh, hey, don't mind me. I just watched Party Line for the very first time and this nylon-based continuity error is occupying the bulk of my thought process at the moment. I wish it wasn't, as I had this hilarious diatribe about Leif Garrett (The Spirit of '76) in a wedding dress all ready to go. But Shawn Weatherly had to go and undercut it with one well-placed knee to the groin. Nonetheless, in the wide shots, it's obvious that Shawn Weatherly is wearing black nylons as she struggles with Leif Garrett on the balcony of his large Bel Air estate. However, when the director, William Webb (California Girls), goes in for a close-up, it would appear that Shawn Weatherly is wearing tan hosiery. At first I thought it was merely the lighting that was making her black nylons appear tan. But then it dawned on me, these are black stockings and/or pantyhose we're taking about. Meaning, there's no way their inherent blackness could be diminished by wonky lighting.

What I think happened was, the director decided that the balcony brawl between Shawn Weatherly and Leif Garrett needed more physicality. In order to achieve this, they brought in Shawn Weatherly, or maybe even a stunt performer, and shot the knee to groin sequence at a later date. And it looks like no one bothered to point out that Shawn Weatherly's gams are literally a different colour.

Now, did this nylon-based continuity error hamper my ability to enjoy this late 1980s masterpiece? Of course not. No, the fact that the movie is kind of crappy did the lion's share of the joy-related hampering. If anything, the nylon-based continuity error was a refreshing anomaly in an otherwise lifeless erotic thriller.

Truth be told, there are actually quite a few anomalies of a refreshing nature peppered throughout this motion picture. And, yes, one of them involves Leif Garrett being slapped around by his sister while wearing his dead mother's wedding dress.

While I could watch Leif Garrett get slapped in the face while wearing a wedding dress for hours, my favourite refreshing anomaly is when Karen Mayo-Chandler (Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls) clam-jams the living hell out of Patricia Patts' teenage pussy. Seriously, it's one of the most forceful clam-jams I've seen in a motion picture. Oh, and in case you don't know, "clam-jam" is when a woman prevents another woman from getting laid.

Well, Karen Mayo-Chandler's character in Party Line takes it one step further. In that, she doesn't just stop another woman from getting a guaranteed helping of cock, she steals the cock all for herself ("it's a competitive world"). Little does she know, there's no cock to steal, as the man attached to this cock has no intention of using it to penetrate either of them.

You see, the man and, I suppose, his cock, has an Oedipus complex. In other words, his cock is his mother's property. Unfortunately, Seth, played by the always excellent Leif Garrett, can't insert his cock into one of his mother's many orifices since she's dead. Not to fear, though, Seth's sister, Angelina (Greta Blackburn, Chained Heat), has stepped in to fill the void left by his deceased mother. And let's just say, it's a kinky scene, man.

Obeying her every whim, Angelina has Seth slit the throats of the married men she lures into her bed by using "Party Line," a phone sex service that acts as a sort of public dating forum for the city's perverts, freaks and bored babysitters. I told you it was a kinky scene... man.

When the bodies of married men of a certain age start piling up at the morgue, Richard Roundtree's Captain Barnes decides to pair a rule-breaking vice cop named Lt. Dan (Richard Hatch) with Stacy Sloan (Shawn Weatherly), a buttoned-up district attorney special investigator; or as Lt. Dan calls her, "some yuppie cop."

Since Lt. Dan can't go five seconds without breaking the rules, he's thrown off the case almost immediately. As for Stacy Sloan, she's suspended after refusing to have sex with her boss. Despite these roadblocks, Lt. Dan and Stacy Sloan manage to put aside their differences and work as a team.

At first I was annoyed by the sight of Shawn Weatherly in her conservative lawyer clothes. But then my stance softened somewhat when Miss Weatherly dons a tight red dress with jet black hose during the film's third act. Worn for the sole purpose of luring a shadowy killer out into the open, Lt. Dan thinks her equally killer curves will be no match for the mullet-sporting mama's boy.

Really, Dan? I think the chloroform-soaked rag currently pressing against Shawn Weatherly's mouth might beg to differ.

Upon further [unnecessary] inspection, it looks like they used a stunt performer for the close-up shot of Shawn Weatherly kneeing Leif Garrett in the nuts. How did I come to this conclusion? Well, for starters, you can clearly see that they're wearing a blonde wig. On top of that, the stunt performer's legs are, let's just say, not as shapely as Shawn's legs. What the hell, I'm just going to come out and say it, I think the legs belonged to a man.

Anyway, fans of Leif Garrett, nylon-based continuity error occurs, red Ferrari's, clam-jamming, workplace sexual misconduct, scrunchies, nightclub scenes and the late '80s in general will definitely want to watch this flick in the not-so distant future.

In a Florida bar packed with rowdy spring breakers, a comely young woman named Rachael asks a boy named Skip to go for a walk. Now, here's the thing. Either I was too busy bathing in the dark, foreboding whirlpools that are Rachael's feverish eyeballs or I'm losing my hearing, but I don't think I actually heard Skip's reply. Wait, why is Rachael leaving? Or, I should say, why isn't Skip leaving with her? What's that? He said no?!? Who in their right mind wouldn't want to go for a walk with the most attractive woman in all of Manatee Beach? Hold up, forget Manatee Beach. Who in their right mind wouldn't want to go for a walk with the most attractive woman in all of Miami-Dade County? Oh, and don't give me any of this crap about him being depressed about losing the Orange Bowl. I mean, quarterbacks who blow big games can still walk, right? I know what's going on, Skip prefers light and sparkly to dark and foreboding. In other words, Skip has a thing for Gail the bartender, whose eyes are–you guessed it–light and sparkly. If that's the case, I'm going to have to cut Skip some slack, as I can't force people to like who I like. But dude, you were offered a night of mind-blowing sexual intercourse with the most attractive woman in all of Miami-Dade County, and what did you do? You dropped the ball (being a football player, you should know exactly what I mean).

And, yes, I realize she only asked you to go for a walk. But as everyone knows, all walks in Florida eventually lead to hours of mind-blowing sexual intercourse. And that's not just me taking a cheap shot at Florida (the state is a popular punching bag within the hack comedian community), I'm simply stating a fact.

I'm sorry, I totally forgot to mention the name of the movie I'm currently reviewing. Even though it's obvious, it's customary to at least mention the name of the movie you're reviewing. Well, here it goes, it's called Nightmare Beach (a.k.a. La spiaggia del terrore). And while it might look like your average spring break set slasher film, underneath that bubbly exterior lies a ferocious Italian giallo made by actual Italians.

I know, "Harry Kirkpatrick" doesn't sound all that Italian. Well, that's because "Harry Kirkpatrick" is the pseudonym being used by the one and only Umberto Lenzi. That's right, the director of Cannibal Ferox and Nightmare City. And just like in those movies, lot's of people die... horribly.

Since the film's cold opening is such a downer (a biker named "Diablo" is executed in the electric chair for a crime he claims he did not commit), the film tries to lighten the mood a bit by giving us a playful montage featuring cars, bikinis and sunshine.

I'm no math whiz, but I'd say at least ninety percent of the people frolicking on the beach in the opening montage had no idea they were in a movie. I'm not complaining, as I found their obliviousness to be actually quite refreshing. Nowadays, everyone acts as if they're staring in their own reality show. But back in 1989, people lived their lives with a certain degree of anonymity. Sure, a lot of them still wanted to be famous, but most had very little recourse in the getting famous department, and continued to toil away in the shadows with no complaints. Or, in this film's case, toil in the hot Florida sun (not to be a major buzzkill, but I'd say at least half the people in this movie went on to develop skin cancer in the mid-to-late '90s).

After the montage is over, we get our first stolen wallet and our first ghoulish prank. Usually occurring at the same time, the stolen wallet/ghoulish prank gag is implemented a total of four times over the course of the film. Did anyone else think the wallet thief and the ghoulish prankster were in cahoots? Just me, eh?

Sitting in the back of a friend's convertible with a haughty grace, teenage hellion in training, Rachael Bates (Debra Gallagher), is a walking, talking one woman adorable symposium. Noticing her father, Rev. Bates (Lance LeGault), chatting with Lt. Strycher (John Saxon) and Dr. Willet (Michael Parks), Rachael attempts to hide the can of beer she's holding. She might be adorable, but she really needs to work on her beer hiding skills. Despite being busted, Rachael remains defiant, and refuses her father's request to stay with her Aunt Agnes, a woman she calls a "senile old hag."

While that line is great, Michael Parks' drunken doctor tops it with relative ease when he delivers this gem soon afterward: "Welcome to Spring Break... the annual migration of the idiot."

Speaking of idiots, here comes Skip (Nicolas De Toth) and Ronnie (Rawley Valverde), two college football players hoping to put the memory of losing the Orange Bowl behind them by getting drunk and having lot's of casual sex. Well, at least Ronnie seems interested in doing those things. You see, it was Skip's interception that cost them the game. Meaning, he's in no mood to party in the late 1980s.

We get proof of this in the very next scene when Rachael approaches Skip and says, "Hi, you're cute. Wanna take a walk with me?"

This is the face Rachael makes when she hears Skip's answer.

Never in my life have I wanted to beat a man to death more than I did when I saw what Skip's response did to Rachael's face. And get this, this Skip fella is supposed to be the film's hero.

I'm not saying Skip had to agree to Rachael's request, I just think he could have handled it better. If anything, at least handle it in a way that will not cause Rachael make the face she sports seconds after hearing his reply, as I don't want to ever see that face again.

To be fair, Rachael isn't the only woman to be rejected by Skip in this movie. While attending a wet t-shirt contest with Ronnie, Skip looks depressed. Don't you think the women currently having water poured on their chests noticed this? Think about it. You're on stage, jiggling your tits for an enthusiastic crowd, then all of a sudden, you notice a man with a sour expression on his face. Wouldn't you take it personally? I know I would, and I don't have tits... at least not one's worthy enough to jiggle in public.

If that isn't enough, Skip actually rejects the woman he's supposed to be interested. It occurs when Gail, the bartender at a local bar (yes, the same bar Skip rejects Rachael at), who just spent a better part of the evening helping Skip look for Ronnie (who's gone missing), asks Skip if he would like to come in for coffee. Telling her "no thanks," Skip drives off, leaving Gail standing there in the shortest pleated yellow skirt the world has ever seen.

You could argue that Skip is playing it cool, but it was clear that Gail wanted his cock (for vaginal penetration purposes). And for Skip to not provide said cock (for vaginal penetration purposes) was not only the total opposite of cool... it was totally uncool.

At any rate, was anyone else amazed that Gail failed to furnish an upskirt during her lengthy time in that ridiculously short pleated yellow skirt? I know I was. Hey, Sarah Buxton. You owe me an upskirt.

You wouldn't know it judging by the words I've typed so far, but Nightmare Beach is actually about a serial killer who uses his or her (like in Nail Gun Massacre, the killer's gender in shrouded in mystery) motorcycle to electrocute his or her victims. However, since killing people in this manner has its limitations, the killer starts to employ more conventional methods as the film progresses.

That being said, if you were to ask Kimberly (Christina Kier), a popular masseuse, and Trina (Yamilet Hidalgo), a biker chick/denim vest enthusiast, I have a feeling that they would tell you that there was nothing conventional about the manner in which they were killed. Conventional or not, I'd say Kimberly and Lori's deaths were the best in terms of mood and gore. Oh, and don't worry, no one lays a finger on Rachael's pretty little head.

While not as mashugana as Creatures from the Abyss, Nightmare Beach is still a must-see for fans of Italian made horror films that are set in Florida.

In a movie filled with legginess, scrunchies, leotards and unplanned upskirts, i.e. all the things I like, I can't believe I'm going to start off my review of Primal Rage with a tangent about Bo Svenson's lackluster ponytail. I know, what I'm about to say is sort of scrunchie-related, but my tangent doesn't pertain to Bo Svenson's scrunchie, it has more to do with the flimsy nature of the ponytail itself. Poorly constructed and ill-conceived, every time Bo Svenson's weak ass ponytail would appear onscreen, I found myself teetering on the brink of madness. Now, normally, I'm in favour of ponytails on men, but the one Bo Svenson (Night Warning) sports in this movie gives male ponytails a bad name. In fact, if I had a ponytail while I watched this movie, I would have cut it off in disgust the second I had the chance. It's a good thing I already went through my ponytail phase, or else we would have been... uh, I guess, cleaning up a huge wad of hair. What I think I'm trying to say is this: I despised Bo Svenson's ponytail in this movie. In order to restore my faith in male ponytails, I watched a random episode of Parker Lewis Can't Lose. Why that show and not say... something else? It's simple, really, P.L.C.L. features Frank Lemmer (played by Taj Johnson), my male ponytail inspiration. Even though mine had more of an undercut vibe to it, Lemmer's male ponytail is what enabled me to traverse the 1990s pretty much unscathed. It's a hell of a thing being a man with a ponytail in the 1990s.

Okay, great, now that we got that out of the way, who wants to obsess over denim skirts, leotard-ensnared butt-cracks and the mother of all upskirts? Whoa, whoa, calm down, folks. If I had known you were that perverted, I would have scrapped my scrunchie screed all-together. Anyway, let's get down to business, shall we?

Oh, and before I continue, you can't watch this film without seeing Nightmare Beach first. While I suppose you could watch Primal Rage first... What I mean is, you need to see both films. Sure, one is about a killer in a motorcycle helmet terrorizing spring breakers and the other is about monkey-pox-infected college students terrorizing the campus of a Florida university (Florida International University, to be specific - Go Panthers!), but they essentially take place in the same universe.

Yeah, yeah, I know, every movie in existence technically takes place in the same universe. But does every movie feature the same cast, the same crew, the same locale and the same red motor scooter? Trust me, they don't. (And this one does?) Haven't you been paying attention? Yes, it does. Jeez.

Keen observers couldn't help but notice that the red motor scooter Sarah Buxton famously rides in Nightmare Beach didn't have a rear-view mirror on one of its handlebars. (So?) So? Well, the one Sam Nash (Patrick Lowe), roving reporter extraordinaire (he's basically a journalism student), drives in this movie does. The question is, are they the same scooter? I mean, how many red motor scooters could there have been in southern Florida circa 1988? Not many I'm guessing.

I've just been informed that red motor scooters were in fact quite commonplace in southern Florida during the late 1980s. Who knew?

Either way, the film starts off with Sam Nash driving around the picturesque F.I.U. campus on his red motor scooter like a boss. Noticing a leggy blonde getting her car towed by an unscrupulous tow truck driver, Sam Nash steps in to help the leggy blonde in distress. After he explains to the tow truck driver that what he is doing is illegal, this so-called "numb nuts" (Sam's words, not mine) realizes that he has no choice but to let her car loose. And just like that, Lauren Daly (Cheryl Arutt), the leggy blonde, has found her knight in shining armor. Or, to put it in terms you'll understand, her pussy just exploded into a thousand little pieces.

When Lauren and Sam are finished making goo-goo eyes at one another, the former goes home to her apartment, where she finds Debbie (Sarah Buxton), her new roommate, poking around in her closet. And the latter heads to the offices of his school newspaper, where he covers for his pal Frank Duffy (Mitch Watson), who is in deep trouble. Why? Whoa. Aren't we curious today. Well, it would seem that an article Duffy wrote about "stud baggers" (female students who are paid to have sex with the school's football players) didn't go over well with some of the ladies mentioned in the piece.

And therein lies the difference between Sam and Duffy when it comes to reporting. While Sam is all about exposing the truth using traditional methods, Duffy sees himself more as a gonzo journalist.

It's while doing a story about animal cruelty on campus that these divergent styles clash with one another, as Sam tries to get the scoop using conventional means, while Duffy decides to break into the school's lab, Animal Liberation Front-style, in order to get to the bottom of things.

Unfortunately, Duffy is bitten on the arm by a demented monkey during the break-in. And this couldn't happen at a worse time, as Sam and Lauren want to fix Duffy up with Debbie so that they can go on a double-date.

Remember when I said in my review for Nightmare Beach that Sarah Buxton owed me an upskirt? of course you do. Well, you'll never guess what happens during Duffy and Debbie's date. That's right, we briefly see Debbie's panties. I was so happy when this occurs, as I felt somewhat cheated when Sarah Buxton's ultra-short yellow pleated skirt in Nightmare Beach failed to produce an upskirt. Seeing that the film was shot in Florida (a state renowned for its stiff breezes), I would have thought an upskirt would have been mandatory, but alas.

At any rate, it appears that Duffy's monkey bite is slowly turning him into a mindless killing machine, and... Oh, crap. I just remembered that Duffy bites Debbie on the neck while on their date. I guess I was too busying admiring Debbie's upskirt to notice Duffy bit her (it was mild nibble).

The rage virus (28 Days Later... totally ripped this movie off) soon spreads across the campus, and Dr. Etheridge (Bo Svenson), his pathetic excuse for a ponytail, Sam and Lauren have to race against the clock to stop it before it spreads even further. And by further, I mean the campus of the University of Central Florida - Go Knights!

This may sound weird, but horror movie fans will love the sequence that takes place at the F.I.U. Halloween party. Featuring hundreds of extras wearing elaborate costumes, the kills are pretty creative and The Facade Band perform their hit song "Say The Word" (the song also plays over the opening credits). In case you're wondering, the reason I said it might sound weird, is because the film is a horror film. But I don't think horror movie fans will dig the first hour (it plays more like a college sex comedy). That being said, the gruesome finale more than makes up for it, as it's all kinds of insane.

Even though I haven't mentioned her, I think now is as good a time as any to pay tribute to Kimberly (Jennifer Hingel), the sniveling hosebeast who wows the F.I.U. faculty on a semi-regular basis with her leg crossing prowess. Woo-hoo! Cross them legs, girl.

First off. Yes, the date is correct. This film was in fact made in 1999. I know, when most of you think of Jess Franco, you automatically think of the 1960s, 1970s, or maybe even the 1980s. But the 1990s?!? While not as prolific as he was in, let's say, the 1970s (he famously made close to ten films in 1974 alone), Jess Franco continued to write and direct films right up until his death in 2013 (Al Pereira vs. the Alligator Ladies being one of the last). The thing that makes a film like Broken Dolls such a dicey situation for a Franco-fanatic like myself is that I've never ventured outside my self-imposed Franco comfort zone. In other words, I've yet to watch a Jess Franco film that was made after 1987. Sitting on my shelf for what seemed like an eternity, Broken Dolls found itself passed over time and time again by other movies. This all changed one day when the two films I had scheduled to review turned out to be unworthy of my unique brand of attention (Fright Night Part 2 and Hemoglobin). And after noticing that my stash of emergency porn was exhausted, I finally decided to take the plunge into the bewildering world of Jess Franco, post-1987. How bad could it be?

Well, I'm happy to report that the bewildering world of Jess Franco, post-1987, is just as bewildering as the bewildering world of Jess Franco, pre-1987. Meaning, the calendar might say 1999, but you wouldn't know it after watching this film. Sure, Jess Franco's muse, Lina Romay, is a little older, but I bet he can scrounge someone up to fill her black hold-up stockings.

(How do you know the actress Jess Franco casts to fill Lina's black hold-up stockings is going to be wearing black hold-up stockings?) Do you really think I would bother to review a Jess Franco film if it didn't have a scene, or multiple scenes, that feature scantily clad Euro-babes prancing around in nothing but black hold-up stockings? (Of course, how stupid of me.)

Her name is Christie Levin (a.k.a. Rosa Muñoz) and she is hands down one of the sexiest women ever to appear in the Jess Franco universe. Which is high praise when you consider the sheer amount of sexy women who have appeared in his movies over the years.

However, I have a particular type, and, after studying and observing her essence for an extended period of time, I eventually came to the conclusion that Christie Levin pretty much encapsulates everything I look for in a Franco siren. The only problem being, she's in Broken Dolls. Don't get me wrong, I appreciated the film's off-kilter tone. It's just that I'm not used to cinema that is this off-kilter. Anyone who has seen the film will back me up on this one.

After opening with your standard Franco-approved coastline porn (random shots of the ocean and the sky), we're quickly informed by an island dweller named Tona (Lina Romay) that what we are actually witnessing is not filler, but an environmental disaster in the making. You see, what may seem like a bunch of tankers simply sailing across the sea, is, to use Tona's words, "a sinister invasion." Disrupting the tranquility of her island paradise, Tona views these metal monstrosities as a threat to her way of life.

I like how Jess Franco manages to incorporate his surroundings into the plots of his films. Obviously noticing that the island (Málaga, Andalucía, Spain) is constantly being passed by huge tankers, he decided to write them into the script.

When she's done cursing the ships, Tona goes to home to have breakfast or lunch (it doesn't matter) with her normal family; one that includes her son, Beatriz (Mavi Tienda) and her daughter, Gina (Christie Levin). Also sitting at the table is Don Martin (Paul Lapidus), her husband, who Tona describes as a "man of mysterious origin." Wait a minute, why is Tona's son wearing a girls top? And how come he doesn't have a bulge in his pants? Holy crap, Beatriz is a woman! And get this, she's not even Tona's daughter. If you thought that was worthy of a holy crap, I should inform you that Gina isn't Tona's daughter, either. No, she's her husband's mistress. And, like I sort of implied earlier, she has an awesome habit of prancing around the island in nothing but black hold-up stockings, black panties and an Asian-style robe (which, by the way, is never cinched - cinching is for losers).

Even though I figured out Beatriz's gender, we get officially confirmation in the next scene when we see her walking naked on the beach (look, ma, no penis). Did anyone else think it would have been cool to have Beatriz notice a woman named Mimi floating on a pink surfboard during her nude beach stroll? Just me, eh? Weird.

"I want to move away... I don't want to be here... I'm losing my youth and beauty..." You said it, sister (an unhappy Gina is clearly not a fan of living in paradise). Nonetheless, Gina still manages to fulfill her duties as Don Martin's live-in whore with a cock-straddling grace.

Caught masturbating with a couch cushion while watching Gina and Don Martin have sex (or at least have something that vaguely resembled sex), Tona gives a Beatriz a good spanking. "You're a bad girl," Tona tells her after each slap. To which Beatriz responds, "I'm not."

The scene where Gina tries to seduce Herbie (Exequiel Caldas) in an uncinched robe is the real reason this review exists. A sort of handyman/guitar player, Herbie plucks away at his guitar as Gina heaves and thrusts the contents of her hump-worthy undercarriage to-and-fro in an erotic manner.

Now, some might say committing six minutes to a scene where a leggy blonde with mild chin acne in an uncinched robe flirts with some shirtless dweeb with a guitar is overkill, but I'd argue the scene's actually too short.

Clearly possessing a shitload of talent, Christie Levin is a natural performer. It says here that Jess Franco cast Christie in two other movies. Meaning, I might just have to watch more post-1987 Jess Franco movies. Noooo! Seriously, if they're anything like Broken Dolls, I'm in for a treat. Wait, "a treat"? Um, let's just say, I'm in for some serious brain damage. And I don't mean brain damage in a bad way.

Special thanks to Tom Clark for recommending this movie

Do you like pornography? What about gambling? You gotta love hookers, right? How 'bout drugs? Okay, I realize you probably get asked this everyday, but do transvestites with polio scratch you where you itch? Or maybe switchblade-wielding transvestites without polio are more your thing? I'm sorry, but it's hard to keep track of your likes and dislikes. Either way, like most non-mentally-ill people, you're probably a fan of all the stuff I just mentioned. Unfortunately, however, the members of the Hollywood vice squad, who, strangely enough, appear throughout Penelope Spheeris'Hollywood Vice Squad, think these things should be outlawed. I know, who in their right mind would want to outlaw hookers, or even transvestites with or without polio for that matter. But trust me, they're out there. And they, it would seem, have it in something fierce for everything fun in this universe. Don't believe me? Check out the amount of energy the cops in this film expel trying to curb vice, you'll be exhausted by the time the end credits begin to roll. And while it pained me to see leggy hookers, unruly pimps, shady pornographers, leggy junkie whores, harmless bookies, and leggy hookers who are also leggy junkie whores constantly being harassed by "The Man," they do sort of need one another.

Think about it. Take away the vice cop and their so-called "rules and regulations," and you pretty much take away the sense of danger. And these professions feed off danger. In fact, it's part of their innate appeal.

Besides, what would Robin Wright (in her film debut) be doing if she wasn't a heroin-addicted prostitute in Hollywood? Exactly, she would be going to the prom and having bland sexual intercourse with football players somewhere in the not-so wild wilds of Iowa. No offense to Iowa (okay, maybe a little), but I'd rather be murdered in a cheap motel just off the Sunset Strip by a jealous pimp, than have sex with Brad (the punter for the Urbandale J-Hawks) in the back of his 1970 Dodge Dart (don't get me wrong, it's a sweet ride, but the blisters on his scrotum cause the hairs on my lady taint to stand on edge).

If the thought of a pre-Sean Penn, pre-Princess Bride Robin Wright strutting around Hollywood wearing hooker clothes while high on drugs is getting you all excited, don't over do it. What I mean is, pace yourself. The film actually contains three subplots, and only one of them is worth a damn in terms of being good and junk.

Supposedly based on real cases investigated by the Hollywood vice squad, the film follows a group of detectives as they try to crack cases involving a teen runaway and her unruly pimp, a harmless bookie and the mob, and a shady pornographer.

The only thing worth noting about the gambling subplot is Julius Harris as a harmless bookie and Robert Miano as a mob boss. Why? It's simple, really, I like these guys. But other than that, it's nothing special.

The sames goes for the porn plot. Sure, it features, an at times, leggy Carrie Fisher as Betty, an ambitious vice cop eager to make a name for herself, but it's so sanctimonious (porn is evil, vote Reagan).

Tired of being overshadowed by her male co-workers, Betty decides to take on a porn ring she suspects of using underage actors in bondage films. And, I have to say, the way she stumbles upon this nugget of information is quite laughable (I wish I came across porno shoots while out jogging - all I ever come across are discarded scratch lottery tickets and the bodies of dead hobos).

Actually, the film has four subplots. There's a hooker subplot involving two vice cops played by scene stealer Evan Kim and non-scene stealer Joey Travolta. However, this subplot quickly converges with the film's main subplot. Which, of course, centers around Pauline Stanton (Trish Van Devere), who is looking for her daughter, Lori (Robin Wright), a teenage runaway who has gotten herself mixed up with Walsh (Frank Gorshin), an unruly pimp.

As you might expect, Mrs. Stanton doesn't believe Captain Jensen (Ronny Cox) when he tells her that she's probably selling her girl-crevice for dope (he puts it a tad more delicately), so she continues wandering around Hollywood in the hope that she might find and bring her daughter back to Iowa, or wherever. Fans of movies that feature characters wandering around Hollywood will no doubt recognize these streets, as they're the same ones wandered in Savage Streets, Vice Squad, Angel, Hardcore, Don't Answer the Phone! and Modern Girls.

All the movies I just listed, by the way, are vastly superior to Hollywood Vice Squad, so watch them first.

When word gets out that Lori works for Walsh, Captain Jensen teams Evan Kim and Joey Travolta with Hawkins (Leon Isaac Kennedy), who specializes in being a fake unruly pimp, and Judy (Cec Verrell, Hell Comes to Frogtown), who specializes in being a fake leggy whore.

Concocting an elaborate sting operation to nail Walsh for human trafficking, the four detectives need to hurry, because Lori is starting succumb to the adverse effects of semi-regular heroin use. How can I tell? That's easy, heroin-based face-touching. When she's not snorting blow or showing John's the tops of her stockings, Lori can usually be seen clawing at her face. If movies have thought me anything, it's that drug abusers get itchy nostrils when their cravings aren't properly satisfied.

Now, you might be looking over the words I just typed (or scanning the pics that I provided) and be wondering: Where are the punks? It's true, Penelope Spheeris does have a reputation for being a "punk director," but that reputation seemed to slowly melt away as the 1980s progressed. It does briefly resurface in Dudes. But if you remember, my biggest complaint about that movie was the fact that the soundtrack was mostly composed of heavy metal songs.

While the film is totally punk-free, it is transgender-friendly. Okay, maybe it's not exactly "friendly," but it does feature Sandy Crisp (a.k.a. Goddess Bunny) as Charlene, Walsh's cynical receptionist, and a cross-dressing hooker, who, for some reason, pulls a knife on Evan Kim, and that's at least something. Oh, and the holding cell at the Hollywood police station is filled with transvestite hookers. And by "filled," I mean, it boasts a couple of rough-looking queens.

As I was noodling with what to write about in regard to Obsession: A Taste for Fear (a.k.a. Pathos - Segreta inquietudine), the bulk of the thought-based anomalies that began rattling around in my head involved statements pertaining to the aggressive manner in which this film depicts the 1980s. Realizing that I had already written a review like that (Valet Girls), I started to panic. However, just as I was about to give up and start writing about stockings and pantyhose, I remembered the sound Virginia Hey's car makes at around the twenty-seven minute mark. Whereas cars in 1980s roared pretty much the same way they have always done, Virginia Hey's car sounded different. Then it dawned on me. This isn't a hyper-stylized depiction of the 1980s, it's a hyper-stylized depiction of the future. While some might argue that Virginia Hey's car is merely a prototype (one of the perks of being a successful artist during the 1980s), the moment Lt. Arnold pulls out his gun and fires a shot at a fleeing vehicle was when I officially declared this film to be a futuristic science fiction cyberpunk giallo. The reason? It's simple, really, cops didn't carry ray-guns in 1980s. Another thing that clued me in to the film's futuristic setting was the fact that the characters watch bondage snuff porn on DVD.

Whatever time period the film is supposed to take place in, my mouth was literally agape during the course of this movie. Let's face it, when a movie starts with a scene that features a woman in sexy lingerie being tormented by a gun-toting woman in drag, agape gobs are par for the course. As for the scene itself, we quickly learn that the whole thing is being staged for the sake of art, specifically the art of Diane (Virginia Hey), a fashion photographer.

Remember the scene in Clueless where Cher uses a computer to pick out her outfit? Okay, combine that with one of the many scenes in Automatic where a character downloads an item from their desk, and you'll get Diane's closet. Simply type in the name of the clothes you want to wear (for example, dresses and shoes), and you'll be given various pictures of yourself wearing... dresses and shoes. When you have chosen the ensemble you want to wear, a mannequin comes bursting out of the closet wearing the very get-up you selected. As you might expect, when I saw this occur, the distance between my (mouth) lips was astronomical.

While I could sit here all day and list hundreds of scenes that caused my mouth hole to become a gaping maw of wide open wonder, I'm going to stop wasting everyone's time and simply declare Obsession: A Taste for Fear to be cinematic perfection.

In order to familiarize myself with the movies I write about, I usually watch them a second time. However, since most movies, even the so-called "great ones," don't hold up on the second viewing, I, more often than not, find myself hitting the fast-forward button just to move things along. Well, that temptation didn't happen once during this Piccio Raffanini-directed masterpiece.

Oh, and don't worry, you're not alone. I have no idea who Piccio Raffanini is either. It would seem that Obsession: A Taste for Fear is the only film Piccio Raffanini ever directed. And while it might show, I'm actually glad it does... show, that is. Unless your name is Jess Franco or Joe D'Amato, I don't think people should be allowed to make more than, oh, let's say, five movies. I was going to say one movie, but some people need a little practice before they get things right.

This, of course, does not apply Piccio Raffanini, who knocks it out of the park at his first at bat, as he has made a film filled with style, fashion, synths, lingerie, Eva Grimaldi's pillowy bee-stung lips, female bodybuilders, retro-futurism, Kid Creole (sans his Coconuts), racial diversity, live-in lesbians, cheekbones, Japanese coroners and a two-hundred foot high building made entirely out of televisions.

Okay, I made up the one about the TV skyscraper. But if Georges (Gérard Darmon), professional bondage pornographer, had his way, he would totally build that. Of course, all the televisions would be screening his bondage porn on a loop.

Anyway, I know that's a lot to take in, but there's actually more.

Just for the record: When I say, "Japanese coroners," I don't mean coroners of Japanese decent. No, I'm talking about an actual coroner from Japan. I know, Japanese coroners from Japan are allowed to exist outside of Japan, but do they usually speak Japanese to people who clearly do not speak Japanese? Well, they do in this film's universe, thanks to the automated translator, a device that translates the Japanese coroner's words into English with a female robotic voice. Trust me, it's very cool, very Blade Runner.

As I was saying, this film has more to offer than the things I just listed. Did I mention that it's gay-friendly? Sure, I listed "live-in lesbians" as one of the things this film is filled with. But going beyond that, the film is rather blasé when it comes to sexuality. Every character is either bi-sexual or, at the very least, bi-curious. Well, everyone except Dario Parisini's Lt. Arnold, a cop who seems to be from another planet. In fact, he seems so out of place, I almost expected him to begin every sentence by saying, to quote Keyrock (Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer), "Your world frightens and confuses me."

Except, instead of being an unfrozen caveman lawyer, Lt. Arnold comes across as an unshaven cop living on the edge of an edge.

In case you're wondering, the reason Lt. Arnold is brought into this frightening and confusing world is because he has to solve the murder of a fashion model. And since the model was last seen byVirginia Hey, her assistants Paul (Carlo Mucari) and Valerie (Gioia Scola), who also acts as Diane's live-in lesbian, and Kim (Carin McDonald), the murdered model's live-in lesbian, they're all are considered suspects.

When it's discovered that the model's murder was filmed, Gérard Darmon's Georges (Diane's ex-husband) is added to the suspect list, as the film bares a striking resemblance to the style of bondage trash he's known for making.

As more of her models are murdered, Diane does what any sane woman would do, she masturbates in a black beret as two scantily clad dancers perform an interpretive dance routine set to Grace Jones' cover of The Pretenders'"Private Life." That's it! Right there. If the scene I just described sounds appealing to you, you will love this movie. If it doesn't, well, I'm afraid to say it, but you ain't hooked up right.

Make sure to stick around during the closing credits, as the photo montage that accompanies them pretty much encapsulates everything I believe in. Gorgeous.

As with most people, my initial thoughts after watching John Landis'Into the Night revolved around the unequaled chic-ness that is Michelle Pfeiffer's red leather jacket. If you find yourself not enamored with it after watching this film, check yourself in at the nearest morgue, 'cause you be dead, honey. Okay, maybe that's a tad harsh, but you should definitely seek professional help. I mean, it's red, it's shiny, it's fits her perfectly, it has multiple uses (it's used as a pillow at one point), and it's, well, you get the idea. However, as these thoughts eventually subsided, I started to debate with myself about whether or not the iconic red leather jacket would have looked better on Dedee Pfeiffer, Michelle's less famous sister. I know, I just got finished saying that the jacket fit Michelle Pfeiffer perfectly. Yet I couldn't help but imagine Dedee Pfeiffer wearing the much-ballyhooed garment. To make matters worse, Dedee Pfeiffer has a cameo as a prostitute turning tricks outside Frederick's of Hollywood. In case you haven't figured it out, when it comes to the Pfeiffer sisters, I'm on Team Dedee. While Michelle has the haunting eyes and the chiseled cheekbones thing going for her, Dedee has spunk-appeal.

Wow, are my priorities out of whack or what? In a movie that boasts at least a dozen cameos by famous directors, the cameo I decide to focus on is the one by the spunk-laden sister of the film's female lead.

Actually, if you think about it, my priorities are not out of whack, they're kinda in whack. Seriously, who would you rather grope in the backseat of your grandma's sister's cousin's Chevrolet El Camino? Dedee Pfeiffer or Paul Mazursky? (I don't think the Chevy El Camino has a backseat.) Okay, the front seat. Well? Who would you rather grope? Exactly, Dedee all the way.

Of course, if I had said Amy Heckerling (who has a cameo as a waitress) instead of Mr. Mazursky, the question becomes a real mind-scrambler, as Amy is a total babe. But I didn't. Besides, the majority of the directors are middle-aged white men. Not that there's anything wrong with being middle-aged, or white for that matter, it's just that...

Moving on, you could call this the L.A. version of After Hours, but I won't. Why? It's simple, really, all they have in common is that they both take place at night. Sure, Jeff Goldblum and Griffin Dunne (the star of After Hours) have similar character traits, and they both have tedious jobs, but other than that, they're totally different. And I think the main reason has to do with the fact that L.A. is a car town, while New York City is not.

Playing aerospace engineer Ed Okin, Jeff Goldblum drives or is driven in at least six different cars over the course of this movie. Isn't that fascinating? Anyway, the car we first see Ed in is as bland as he is. Stuck in traffic with a co-worker (Dan Aykroyd), Ed says that he hasn't had a full night sleep since the summer of 1980. While he's exaggerating to some degree, his lack of shut-eye is having a negative effect on his work. After blowing it in front of his boss (David Cronenberg) at an important board meeting, Ed decides to take the rest of the day off. When he gets home, he hears his real estate agent wife (Stacey Pickren) making sex noises in their bedroom.

Taking Dan Aykroyd's advice, a despondent Ed elects to hop on a board a midnight flight to Las Vegas. Getting as far as the airport parking garage, Ed meets a woman named Diana (Michelle Pfeiffer), who jumps on the hood of his car screaming for help.

What's that? Oh, the reason she's screaming is because four SAVAK goons (one played by John Landis) are trying to kill her. Why are they trying to kill her? Well, I don't know if they want to kill her, at least not right away. You see, they want what's inside her pussy. I won't say exactly what it is that the Iranians want, but trust me, to them it's worth what they go through to get inside there. And by "there," I mean her pussy.

At this point in the film, Ed makes multiple attempts to extract himself from this sticky pickle of a situation. However, you'll notice that he isn't trying very hard. The thing is, a lot of men find Michelle Pfeiffer to be easy on the eyes. And because of this, Michelle Pfeiffer is able to manipulate almost every man she comes in contact with. The reason I say "almost" is because Diana's Elvis-loving brother (Bruce McGill) is clearly not swayed by her sister's overt attractiveness.

I thought it was amusing that Michelle Pfeiffer tries to out bluster Bruce McGill in his Elvis memorabilia adorned apartment. Give it up, girl, you can't upstage Bruce McGill. He'll straight-up knock your dick in the dirt. Just ask Wings Hauser ("Wipe that smirk off your face!"). Or even Crocket and Tubbs, who Bruce mops the floor with in "Out Where the Buses Don't Run," one of the best Miami Vice episodes from season two.

"You wanna date? Do you want to party?" and with those memorable lines, we're introduced to Dedee Pfeiffer, prostitute, humanitarian. Her crimped blonde hair glowing in the neon slime, her Retail Slut belts zigzagging across her womanly waste with a clingy form of clingy desperation, her zebra print skirt practically begging to be hiked up during the throes of... Wait, where is she going? Why don't Ed and Diana want to "party" with Dedee Pfeiffer? This makes no sense.

Now, I won't say Into the Night goes completely downhill/off the rails after Dedee Pfeiffer exits stage left; after all, a well-built Kathryn Harrold is still to come. But I was somewhat crestfallen by her departure. That being said, on top of the luminous Miss Harrold, the film also boasts a scene where three extras playing beauty queens are getting their legs polished by a female crew member.

After surviving multiple attempts on their life, including one by an assassin played by David Bowie (it would seem that the Iranians are not the only ones who want to get their hands on what's inside Michelle Pfeiffer's pussy), Ed and Diana begin to... well, you pretty much know exactly what they begin to do. They begin to fall for one another. Despite this cliched turn of events, the movie is still a mildly entertaining mish-mash of comedy and action.

If you're not into comedy and action, you could always play spot the director, as the film, like I said earlier, features numerous cameos by famous directors, including personal faves like, Amy Heckerling (Fast Times at Ridgemont High), Paul Bartel (Eating Raoul) and David Cronenberg (Rabid).

Oh, and the scene where the four SAVAK goons drown one of their victims in the ocean is one of the most disturbing murder scenes in film history. Okay, maybe that's pushing it a bit. Nevertheless, I found the cavalier brutality of the scene to be quite jarring, especially since the film is supposedly a light-hearted buddy comedy.

I'm having a bit of trouble understanding why Anthony Edwards' Harry Washello jumped out of the back of that moving food truck near the beginning of Miracle Mile. Oh, I get it, he wants to rescue Julie Peters, the woman he met at The Page Museum the previous day. But the funny thing is, Julia Peters isn't played by Betsy Russell. No, she's played by Mare Winningham!?! You see what I'm getting at? Now, I'm not trying to imply that Mare Winningham isn't worth rescuing because she doesn't look like Betsy Russell, it's just that Anthony Edwards just met her... like, five hours ago. However, as Anthony, er, I mean, Harry Washello, says in the film's intro, "Love can sure spin your head around." Meaning, love can make people do crazy things. Whoa, I think better start steering this review into less obnoxious waters. The last thing I want is this to be is one of those Miracle Mile reviews that spends the majority of its time bemoaning the fact that Mare Winningham is no Betsy Russell. And that's what it's starting to become. That being said, the casting of Mare Winningham as the lead's love interest was a bold decision. Which is not that surprising, as the film, written and directed by Steve De Jarnatt (Cherry 2000), is filled with bold (and some idiotic) decisions.

If you think about it, Mare Winningham is the perfect woman for a socially awkward trombone player. (Don't you mean, "socially awkward museum employee who plays the trombone on the side"?) That's just the thing, I always thought Harry Washello worked at The Page Museum (a.k.a. La Brea Tar Pits). But get this, he's doesn't, he's simply a humble trombone player (one who's in town to play a series of concerts).

Okay, now that we've established what Harry Washello does for a living, and tiptoed around the fact that Mare Winningham is an unconventional leading lady, it needs to be said, and as often as possible, that Miracle Mile is a top-notch thriller.

Seriously, the moment Harry Washello (Anthony Edwards) enters Johnie's Coffee Shop at the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue, I was transfixed. Which is not something I can say about a lot of films. Most movies are a real chore to sit through. Either they fail to hold my attention or are just stuffed with superfluous nonsense.

Anyway, getting back to the scene in the museum. Even though I initially thought Harry Washello was employed at the museum and that Julie Peters (Mare Winningham) was a teacher leading her students on a field trip (she's not a teacher, but a waitress at Johnie's), nothing can damper the sight of the two colossal dorks playfully flirting with one another to the synthy sounds of Tangerine Dream.

Thinking that he's blown it with Julie, Harry goes out to wallow in self-pity near La Brea Tar Pits. But wait, what's this? It's Julie (if you look closely, you'll notice that her purple tights are pressing against her aching girl-maw with the force of a thousand vice grips). It's turns out he hasn't blown it. In fact, that exact opposite is true, as the two embark on a whirlwind romantic adventure. We're talking merry-go-rounds, impromptu lobster liberation, the works, baby.

Oh, and if you thought the music of Tangerine Dream was great during the opening scene, you should hear the piece used during the scene where a bird inadvertently knocks out the power at Harry's hotel. (Wait, what?) A bird tries to use a lit cigarette (one that Harry tossed on the ground) as nesting material. And since the bird's nest lies on a bunch of wires, the fire it sparks causes the hotel's power to go out. As I was saying, the music used here is my favourite out of all the Tangerine Dream compositions heard throughout this movie, as it perfectly sets up the events that are about to unfold.

Since the power outage causes Harry's alarm to not go off, he ends up missing his rendezvous with Julie; the plan was to pick her up at Johnie's when she got off work at midnight. Sleeping till 3:45am, a panic-stricken Harry rushes over to Johnie's. Of course, Julie isn't there (she would be insane to wait that long). What Harry does find when he gets there is an odd assortment of characters, a revolving digital clock and a ringing pay-telephone.

While Harry should technically ignore these things, especially the ringing pay-phone (no good can ever come from answering one), the person on the other end of the line, time and the early morning diner crowd are what give him a slight edge in the not being vaporized by a nuclear explosion department.

According to the person on the other end of the line, a nuclear war is about to get underway, and L.A. basin is going to be, to quote Jenette Goldstein, "a total overkill zone."

Now, some of the folks in the diner believe what Harry tells them. O-Lan Jones (who, of course, plays a waitress), Alan Rosenberg (a street-cleaner), Robert DoQui (Fred the cook), Diane Delano (a stewardess) and, most importantly, Denise Crosby (a.k.a. The Woman with the Mobile Phone), for instance, are convinced he's telling the truth. Whereas, Roger the Transvestite (Danny De La Paz, 3:15), Claude Earl Jones (the other street-cleaner) and Earl Boen's drunk L.A. BBQ expert are less convinced.

The even number between those who believed Harry and those who didn't helped add to the sense of realism. I mean, would you really believe the half-baked ramblings of some stranger in a diner at 4am?

However, it was the way Denise Crosby reacts to certain things that Harry says that convinced me that shit was about to get real. Plus, she carries a mobile phone (only important people carried them back then).

Taking notes on what transpires after Harry takes the phone call proved to be quite difficult, as the film never really gives you a chance to catch your breath. Shot in real time, Miracle Mile is a relentlessly paced thriller that only follows Harry's valiant attempt to rescue Julie, who, like the rest of the city, is sound asleep.

As that damned revolving digital clock constantly reminds us, time of the essence. In other words, will Harry be able to get Julie to the top of 5900 Wilshire Boulevard before the missiles start landing? Or, more importantly, will Harry be able to find a helicopter pilot at 5am? Obviously I'm not going to say. But I will say this, the parts of the film that depict the various reactions of the sleeping masses when they finally find out what's happening are truly terrifying.

First things first, you gotta love slits. (Don't you mean tits?) What do you think I am, a baby cow? No, I said, slits! Ugh. Slightly annoyed that I found myself sitting in front of some kind of viewing screen, one that just happened to be playing the 1987 TV movie version of The Spirit, I hunkered down for what I expected to be yet another glorified episode of Murder, She Wrote. Now, granted, I've never seen Murder, She Wrote (not a single episode). Nevertheless, it's the first thing I thought of when the film got underway. As you've probably already figured out, The Spirit isn't like any episode of Murder, She Wrote that I've ever seen. And I'm not just saying that because I haven't seen Murder, She Wrote. Just to be sure, I did a quick search and I couldn't find any links between The Spirit and Murder, She Wrote. Of course, most of my searches involved perusing my exhaustive network of resources related to sanitary belts and raised toilet seats (people with limited mobility need to poo too), and, for some strange not even close to being tragic reason, I flipped through the latest edition of the Farmer's Almanac. But still, I couldn't find any substantial connection whatsoever.

While all that's fine and good. Let's get back to the topic at hand, shall we? (Slits?) That's right, Timmy. Slits.

Historians will likely debate for years to come about whether or not my decision to watch the 1987 TV movie version of The Spirit based solely on the rumour that we get see the tops of Nana Visitor's tan stockings was worth the time and effort.

Well, I can say, without a hint of hesitation, that it was totally worth the time and effort. And I'm not just saying that because we get to see the tops of Laura Robinson's stockings as well.

The manner in which we get a glimpse of the tops of Nana Visitor's stockings is the stuff of stocking top legend. (Stocking tops have legends?) Of course they do.

This may sound a tad out of character, but I can't remember the movie review where I talked at great length about "makeshift slits." It might come to me, but right now I'm drawing a blank (Edit: Death Walks at Midnight). Anyway, the slit that causes the tops of Nana Visitor's stockings to be revealed is makeshift in nature. But since there was already a slit in place, I'm trying to figure out a way to describe its implementation in a manner that makes sense.

After giving it much thought (of course, some might say, too much thought), I've decided to use the term, slit addendum.

Being a fashionable woman near the end of the twentieth century, Nana Visitor's character likes to wear skirts that boast slits. Not only are they pleasing to look at, but slits allow the wearer to move more freely (and they make kicking perverts in the dick a breeze). However, when the slit grows larger as a direct result of outside forces beyond the wearers control, there's a good chance certain articles of clothing, one's that are designed to remain hidden, could be exposed. You're probably thinking to yourself, so what if "certain articles of clothing" are exposed. In most cases, yes, it's no big deal. But there's nothing trivial about stocking tops. In other words, society as a whole is at risk of being destroyed.

What I mean is, don't expect anything to get done when the tops of Nana Visitor's stockings are not being sheepishly sheltered by a funnel-like swath of rough yet smooth to the touch fabric.

Actually, that's not entirely true. You see, when Sam Jones, a.k.a. The Spirit, sees the tops of Nana Visitor's stockings, he not only gets things done, he manages to bust up an elaborate forgery ring, investigate his friend's murder, befriend a little kid, nearly get dipped in a vat of acid, create a new identity and turn his crypt into a swanky bachelor pad.

If that's wasn't enough, the elaborate forgery ring is lead by the never not leggy P'Gell Roxton (Laura Robinson). Seriously, how anyone can think straight in the presence of such legginess is beyond me.

Which makes you wonder about The Spirit's commitment to heterosexuality. I mean, watching the rugged go-getter repeatedly go out of his way to avoid having sexual relations with Ellen Dolan (Nana Visitor), the police commissioner's daughter, and seductive super-villain P'Gell Roxton, seemed kinda odd. Or maybe his love of fighting crime is so steadfast, that he doesn't have time for the ladies. It's the only logical explanation I can come up with at the moment.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, Sam Jones (Flash Gordon and My Chauffeur) plays Denny Colt, a cop who is investigating the murder of a writer (Philip Baker Hall). Using his police skills, Denny concludes that Simon Teasdale (Daniel Davis), the pompous curator of the Roxton Museum, was the one responsible for the dastardly deed. Unfortunately, Denny is shot just as he's about to make an arrest. Since no one finds his body (the gunshot causes him to fall into ocean), everyone assumes Denny is dead. Figuring that a man with no name can fight crime more effectively, Denny takes advantage of his untimely death by donning a mask and becoming... The Spirit.

Ahhh, I can't believe I went so long without mentioning the tops of Nana Visitor's stockings. Sorry about that. But, yeah, that's basically the plot.

Obviously, this film was supposed to lead to more, either a television show or more TV movies. Nonetheless, I enjoyed its light-heartened tone. More in tune with the Batman television show from the 1960s (Adam Westis Batman), you'll never mistake The Spirit for any of the ultra-serious comic book movies that are being made nowadays. For one thing, it's mildly amusing. And get this, it's sexy. Yes, the extended sequence where Nana Visitor tries in vain to keep the tops of her stockings shielded from view is one of the main reasons this film is sexy. But the film's sexy vibe is actually quite consistent throughout its spry running time. And that's the main reason you should watch this film.

Did anyone else find it ironic that Nana Visitor tried desperately to lesson the impact of her slit addendum, while Laura Robinson seemed to flaunt the excessive nature of her slit(s) with a shameless brand of au-slit-dacity?

Oh, and bondage fans will want to check out the scene where "The Spirit" and Ellen Dolan are tied up (the latter is placed in an iron maiden). It's very kinky... for late '80s network television.

Do we really need another movie to tell us that the music industry is full of assholes? Since I'm the only one here at the moment, I'll go ahead and answer that question myself. No, we do not. We do, however, need more movies that star the amazing Catherine Mary Stewart, an actress who you might know from Night of the Comet, Nightflyers, Dudes, etc... Oh, and The Apple! (God, how could I forget The Apple?) And Scenes from the Goldmine provides us with more C.M.S. than all those other movies combined. (Even more than The Apple?) Oh, you better believe it. This film is the ultimate C.M.S. experience. Sure, it's premise is basically this: The music industry sucks. But nothing is gonna stop me from enjoying the sight of Catherine Mary Stewart playing keyboards in winklepicklers alongside... (Wait a second. Did you just say, winklepickers?) Yeah, so? (How are you so calm right now?) Trust me, I'm not calm. In fact, my mind is racing like a cocaine-fueled tornado. When the camera zooms in on Catherine's multi-buckle winklepickers while her band was jamming ~~at a local bar~~ at their rehearsal space, I had to stop watching for a minute, as my psyche suddenly found itself inundated with pure, pointy-footed pleasure.

As far as I'm concerned, there's no other type of footwear on the planet that brings me more joy than winklepickers. Okay, creepers make me smile as well. But when it comes right down to it, I'm a winklepicker man through and through. Always have been, always will be.

Of course, I own pair of winklepickers myself. Unfortunately, due to financial constraints, I could only afford a pair of winklepickers that sport two buckles. Don't feel too sorry for me, my two buckle winklepickers and I have had some pretty good times together. It's just that I feel that I could have had an even better time if my winklepickers had more buckles.

Anyway, what caused me to react so intensely to the sight of Catherine Mary Stewart's winklepickers was the fact that they had [are you sitting down?] six(!) buckles (that's a total of twelve all-together). When I would dream about owning a pair of winklepickers that had more than two buckles, I would usually stop at four buckles. So, as you might expect, the sight of C.M.S. wearing a pair with six... (Yeah, yeah, you like pointy, goth-friendly footwear.) You don't understand, they're very important to me.

Besides, I'm sure everyone would rather listen to me bather on and on about winklepickers, than listen to me describe the plot of this toothless jab at the music industry. Yes, people who work for record labels are terrible human beings. We get it.

While it's true, the film, written and directed by Marc Rocco, does cover a lot of familiar territory, it does have a few nice twists here and there. The biggest one being that Niles Dresden (Cameron Dye) of Niles Dresden and The Pieces is just as big of a phoney as the music execs.

To an outsider, the red flags should have started waving immediately. But I guess Debi DiAngelo (Catherine Mary Stewart) was too awestruck by Niles' mega-mullet to think clearly. I mean, the way Niles and the boys, Dennis Lameraux (Timothy B. Schmidt) on bass, and Kenny Bond (John Ford Coley) on drums, fired Stephanie (Pamela Springsteen), their previous keyboard player, should have sent alarm bells ringing in Debi's head. But like I said, his mega-mullet is pretty persuasive.

I know, how can an overgrown clump of hair cause someone to lose touch with reality? It's simple, really, the clump in question is flowing from the back of the head attached to Cameron Dye (Valley Girl), a man whose sharp bone structure could moisten even the most obdurate of panties.

Of course, I don't mean to imply that Debi's new wave panties are soaking wet after successfully auditioning to be the band's new keyboard player. I'm just saying her judgment must have been hampered somewhat. As the quote that opens the film says, "A good girl falls for a wild one every time."

Now that Debi is a fully-fledged member of the Pieces, Harry (Steve Railsback, Lifeforce), the band's manager and Niles' brother, get them a gig at a local club, where Manny Ricci (Joe Pantoliano), an artists and repertoire man for Rush Records, will apparently be in attendance.

Even though the song they play, "Listen To My Heartbeat," is a non-threatening slab of banal mid-80s pop rock if I ever heard one, the band still manages to impress Manny, who tells them to basically keep at it.

After having dinner with her drug addict brother and her disapproving parents (her father, played by Alex Rocco, doesn't like the fact that his daughter is performing at clubs with names like, "The Lingerie"), Debi hangs out at the beach with Dana (Jewel Shepard), her best friend/roommate. It wasn't until near the end of the movie that I realized that Debi's pal was played by Jewel Shepard. I blame the director for this, as he seemed to like to shoot everyone, except for the two leads, from afar; the same goes for Lee Ving, who plays an eccentric music video director.

Taking Manny's advice to keep at it, Niles and the Pieces perform "I Was Just Asking" at their rehearsal space. On top of being my favourite song in the movie, this is the sequence where we first see Catherine Mary Stewart in her six buckle winkpicklers.

In a weird twist, Catherine's winklepickers get more close-ups than both Jewel Shepard and Lee Ving combined.

Speaking of weird twists, the decision to feature three bands performing covers of "Twist and Shout" during Niles and Debi's club crawl courtship sequence was the film's most interesting from a stylistic point of view. Of course, the version I liked the most was the robo-synth one by James House's Roberto Roberto.

Now, I don't want to say too much about what happens after Niles and Debi eventually become a couple. Though, I will say this, Debi should have never shown Niles her giant binder of songs. Seriously, that was a bad decision (you'll see why). But I like said earlier, it's hard to say no to a fully-mulleted Cameron Dye... he's a wild one.

Even though you'd be probably better off watching Ladies and Gentlemen... The Fabulous Stains, Breaking Glass, or even Eddie and the Cruisers, if you're a fan of Catherine Mary Stewart (who does all her own singing), music movies, winklepickers and zebra print, you should probably check this film out. If you can find it (there's hardly any information about this film on the interweb).

"Shove it, brother, just keep walking!" - Michael Hutchence. Since this movie opens with an Iggy Pop quote about eating dog food, it only makes sense to begin my review with a quote from Michael Hutchence himself. Now, some of you might be thinking, "I don't remember hearing those lyrics on "Never Tear Us Apart." Well, that's because the line is taken from a song that appears on INXS' debut album. You see, before the band starting making safe, non-threatening pop rock, they were scrappy as fuck. However, just before releasing KICK, their mega-selling, chart-topping album in the autumn of 1987, Michael Hutchence got reacquainted with his scrap-adjacent roots by starring in Dogs in Space, the punk movie to end all punk movies. (It can't be that be that punk, can it?) Um, yeah, it can. Well, for starters, it's Australian. And there's nothing more punk than Australia. I mean, look where it is on the map. Plus, they have winter in the summer. How punk is that? I rest my case. Aussie punk cred aside, the film earns its place in the pantheon of great punk movies by shirking the living shit out of traditional storytelling. Oh, sure, words are kind of said and stuff sort of happens. But for the most part, things transpire organically. And I liked that.

It's true, every once and while, the film, directed by Richard Lowenstein (director of numerous INXS music videos), would come close to having a plot. Nevertheless, these flirtations don't last very long. In order to nip them in the bud for good, the film would simply have Michael Hutchence roll around on the floor mumbling incoherent nonsense. And, if we're lucky, his rolling escapades would usually lead to him clawing at Saskia Post's nylon-adorned legs.

Claw at those sexy, hose-ensnared stems, you gorgeous motherfucker. Claw at them!

I'm sorry, it's just that this film is replete with hot punk chicks in jet black hosiery.

You would be forgiven if you thought the crowd lined up on the street in the opening scene were all auditioning to be extras in the next Mad Max movie. But they're not. It's 1978 and all of Melbourne's youth are waiting in line for David Bowie tickets (Heaven is hell and heaven is waiting). Well, almost all of Melbourne's youth. A skinhead in platform shoes pulls up in a car, gets out and asks Sam (Michael Hutchence) if he's from "Planet Poofta" or "Planet Stupida"? Confused by the question, Sam simply hides underneath his many blankets. Since Sam is in no shape to fight the skinhead, it's up to Anna (Saskia Post), Sam's leggy ladyfriend, to deal with him.

The sight of the wispy blonde getting pushed around by this colossal prat causes the rest of the crowd to turn on the skinhead, and so begins Dogs in Space, the punk movie to end all punk movies. (You already said that.) I know, but it needs to be said again, as it makes all other so-called "punk movies" seem, well, less punk.

In the next scene we get our first glimpse of the house. Now, I'm not sure if the house is still there, but if it is, it should be hallowed ground for punks, new wavers, goths, wasteoids, dweebies, dickheads or anyone who digs things that are cool. Anyway, this particular house is going to be the scene of many wild parties. And it's also where the punk/new wave band, Dogs in Space (Sam's band), rehearse.

Awoken by the Dogs in Space theme song, the aptly titled, "Dogs in Space," is Lucio (Tony Helou), an engineering student who lives in the house. Studying for an important exam, Lucio spends most of his time in his room. But he does party every now and then. In a classic scene, the Volkswagen Beetle he's driving crashes with about six punk chicks inside. But don't worry, they simply push the Beetle back on its wheels and carry on to the party, a rowdy shindig featuring the way out sounds of Whirlywirld; their song "Win Lose," by the way, is probably my favourite song on the soundtrack.

What I liked about the Lucio character is that he provided the outsider perspective. The same goes for Deanna Bond, who is credited simply as "The Girl." A teenage runaway, "The Girl" can usually be found staring at the punks, freaks and "bloody sex maniacs" with a childlike sense of wonder. And I'm not surprised her sense of wonder was so childlike, she can't be older than sixteen. That being said, you would boast a look of childlike wonder as well if you saw a dishevelled Michael Hutchence playfully flinging warm dog food at a leggy blonde in the vicinity of a poster advocating independence for East Timor; which finally happened in 2002 (the poster worked... eventually).

It just dawned on me, Michael Hutchence wasn't just clawing at Saskia Post's hose-ensnared stems for erotic purposes, he was trying to gather up the bits of dog food that had landed on her. Eww/Yum.

Other than the subplot about Lucio's exam and the stuff with "The Girl," the only other plot line involves Tim (Nique Needles) and his wonky synthesizer. You gotta feel for the guy. I mean, if Michael Hutchence's Sam thinks you're a fuck up, you must be doing something wrong.

After his homemade synthesizer conks out during a gig (one featuring The Primitive Calculators), Sam informs Tim that's he's no longer a member of the Dogs in Space. Unlike most movies, though, this scene transpires with a carefree nonchalance. Sure, Tim didn't seem all that thrilled to hear that's he been kicked out of the band, but I think even he realized his days were numbered. Oh, and instead of smashing shit, Tim simply sulks while watching Marie Hoy and Friends perform "Shivers."

While part of me admires the lifestyle depicted in this movie, I have to admit, I wouldn't want to live next-door. I've had neighbours who leave their garbage lying everywhere (we're talking soiled diapers and used condoms), so, I know what's like to live next to scum (Cheech and Chong with a touch of Gummo). However, this particular brand of scum are making the world a more interesting place to live. So, leave these kids alone. The movie they star inrules.

Over the past year, I've seen the stocking tops of rock legend Deborah Harry (Drop Dead Rock), Star Trek: DS9 actress Nana Visitor (The Spirit), Dame Helen Mirren (The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover) and Brat Pack-adjacent cutie-pie Jami Gertz (Less Than Zero). Well, you can add another stocking top glimpse to my ever-growing list. No, not Stockard Channing. What's that? Cami Cooper? Uh-uh, not her either. At around the midway point in Meet the Applegates, the best satire about a family of giant praying mantis' living in suburban Ohio to come out in 1990, and, not to mention, the third best "Meet" movie from the period (Meet the Hollowheads is #1, while Meet the Feebles comes in at #2), we get to see the tops of Dabney Coleman's stockings. You heard right. I said, Dabney Coleman. I'll give you a few seconds to adjust your genitals, as they no doubt changed shape the moment I said Dabney Coleman's name in correlation with stocking tops. Are you good? Great. While I was already sold on this movie way before he even makes his first appearance, Dabney Coleman in drag pretty much solidified its standing as a substantial work of art.

Taking place in the same small town Ohio universe that birthed Heathers and Welcome Home Roxy Carmichael, Meet the Applegates... Actually, now that I think about it, Meet the Applegates could be seen as a sequel to Heathers. Sure, the script lacks Daniel "Fuck Me Gently With a Chainsaw" Waters' trademark snarky dialogue. It does, however, boast other less important Heather alumni, such as writer-director Michael Lehmann, tubby southern dandy Glenn Shadix, three out of the four producers (including Denise Di Novi), and Mark Bringelson and Chuck Lafont (the cops from the "oh, man, I can't believe they were fags" scene). So, you see, it's got a lot more going for it than Dabney Coleman in drag.

If that wasn't enough... (Yeah, yeah. Not only does Dabney Coleman appear in drag, but he plays a praying mantis disguised as Dabney Coleman dressed in drag.) I was going to say, Susan Barnes (Repo Man) puts on a kooky sweater clinic in this movie. But you're kind of right. There are actually multiple levels going on with Dabney Coleman's character.

Let's see if I can break it down: Dabney Coleman plays Aunt Bea, the queen of a species of large praying mantises who live in the Amazon rainforest. In order to pass as human, Aunt Bea uses the body of a man who looks like Dabney Coleman. And since Aunt Bea is still a female praying mantis underneath her Dabney Coleman costume, she instinctively wears women's clothing.

Not to toot my own horn, but that has got to be the greatest Dabney Coleman/Aunt Bea break down ever.

The reason Aunt Bea is trying to pass as human is because the forest her species of praying mantis (the "Brazilian Cocorada bug") calls home is being threatened by deforestation. And since they can't strike back at humanity looking like praying mantises (though, I can't see why not), they decide instead to go undercover. And this is where the Applegates come in.

Sent on a mission to destroy a nuclear power plant in suburban Ohio, the Applegates, Dick Applegate (Ed Begley Jr.), Jane Applegate (Stockard Channing), Sally Applegate (Cami Cooper) and Johnny Applegate (Robert Jayne, a.k.a. Bobby Jacoby), pretend to be an average American family.

In-between keeping Aunt Bea informed of their progress and maintaining the illusion that they're normal, the Applegate's struggle to resist the many temptations that humans face on a daily basis.

The first to succumb to temptation is Sally, who causes Vince Samson (Adam Biesk - Corey Halfrick from My So-Called Life), a high school football player, to pop a chubby when she walks by in red shorts. Now, it should be noted that while Sally is interested in Vince (and his erect penis), she clearly didn't want him to rape her on a trampoline. No, that's definitely not what she intended. As a result of this rape, Sally's gets pregnant. However, instead of calling the police, Sally elects to rap him up in a cocoon and hide his anesthetized corpse in her bedroom closet.

In today's world, rape and high school football go hand in hand. But back in 1990, rape was frowned upon. In other words, this was a big deal back then. Or maybe it wasn't. I remember it being illegal, that's for sure.

You could apply the same logic almost every temptation subplot. Take Bobby's dilemma, for example. If you were to see a movie or a TV show made today that featured a teenage boy smoking pot, you would probably shrug your shoulders. But back in 1990, smoking pot was a no-no. As you might expect, the sight of a fresh-faced Bobby–who befriends Kevin and Kenny (Philip Arthur Ross and Steven Robert Ross), a couple of stoners/headbangers in matching denim vests–smoking weed out of a bong sent shock waves across the square, Just Say No-saturated landscape that was 1990.

Since I'm on a role, I might as well bring up Jane's temptation, which is, credit card debt. While browsing the local dumpsters for groceries (remember, they're praying mantises, not people), Jane makes friends with Opel Withers (Susan Barnes), the stylish wife of Dick's boss. When Opel takes Jane clothes shopping, she is surprised to learn that Jane doesn't have a credit card. Well, you can pretty much guess what happens next. (Jane gets a credit card?) And not only that... (She accumulates a massive credit card bill?) Well, yeah.

Anyway, like rape and marijuana usage, credit card debt is now seen as an everyday part of life. In fact, if you're not a pot smoking rapist in debt, the government views you with suspicion.

Should I mention Dick's temptation? What the hell. It's basically sex. The temptation for a man to mount the milfy hips of a shapely co-worker in a sexual manner has always been around, so, this subplot lacks the bite of the others. Nonetheless, I found Savannah Smith Boucher's "milfy hips" to be sublime and would mount them in a New York minute... if she wanted me to. Remember kids. Rape is against the law. Oh, and Miss Boucher, in case you're wondering, plays "Dottie," Dick's sultry secretary.

While not really a temptation, per se, I thought the film's pro-environmental message to be a tad ahead of its time. Most folks don't know this, but the only people who were genuinely interested protecting the environment back in 1990 were Sting and, ironically, Ed Begley Jr., so, to see a relatively mainstream Hollywood movie imply that cutting down the rainforest could have a negative effect on the planet's ecosystem was quite daring.

If I didn't know any better, I think, judging by what I've written so far, that this film is trying to tell us something. Sure, it might have failed miserably at stopping the rise of rape culture, and its stance on drugs might seem outdated in today's pro-legalization climate, but Meet the Applegates was on the cutting edge when it came to saving the planet.

Messages aside, the film is actually funny in places. The biggest laugh comes when Jane stumbles across Dick watching television in the middle of the afternoon, and Dick says, "I thought I'd take the afternoon off to watch some curling." I don't know if Dick knows this, but watching curling is the least normal thing an American can do.

As the Applegate's start to run out of places to hide all the people they've "kidnapped" (each family member ends up cocooning someone in a sack made out of fibrous material), things begin to spiral out of control. It doesn't help matters that Dick's hooked on milf pussy, Jane's become a shopaholic, Johnny's a drug addict and Sally's a pregnant lesbian. If only there was a way for humanity and nature to coexist with one another. According to this film, coexistence is possible. But that dream has long since died. Well, that was a depressing thought. To cheer myself up, I'm going to put on my winklepickers and dance to The Sisters of Mercy... in the dark. "Black. Black planet. Black. Black world." Oh, yeah... that's the stuff.

Special thanks to Stacie for recommending this movie.

Roller skates, big hair, butterfly knives, leotards, portable cassette players, black thongs, neck-gore, skateboard punks, shopping carts and hand puppets. Oh, hi. In case you're wondering, I'm not just listing random things in order to kill time. You won't believe this, but all the stuff I just mentioned actually appears in the amazing Roller Blade at some point or another. Sure, it's lacking a few things here and there (for starters, there are no black silk stockings featured in this film whatsoever), but as far as post-apocalyptic skate-sploitation flicks go, it's pretty much got everything you could ask for and more. It's true, it doesn't quite reach the dizzying heights of Shredder Orpheus when it comes to overall greatness, but it's definitely better than Prayer of the Rollerboys. While it's true, Roller Blade and the films I just mentioned do have a lot in common, I think this particular film, written and directed by Donald G. Jackson (Hell Comes to Frogtown), has got the others beat in terms of sheer insanity. I know, Shredder Orpheus is all kinds of insane. But once you see the outfits worn by Mother Speed and her roller-skating sisters, you'll start to see what I'm getting at.

The only way to describe their outfits is like this: Imagine if the Ku Klux Klan decided to consulate Gucci to remake their signature look.

While it pains me to compare their look to that of the KKK, their outlook is all about peace and understanding. That being said, they will straight-up stab your ass if you as much as look at them funny. But, if they like the cut of your jib, they might just heal your ass. That's right, the sisters can heal people. And they do so by waving their magic butterfly knives over the affected area.

Of course, the haute couture KKK outfits and butterfly knives that heal are just the beginning when it comes to understanding the scope of this film's nuttiness.

As things get underway, I wouldn't chastise you for thinking that this film had a Fred Olen Ray quality about it. Hell, I, too, thought the film reeked of Fred Olen Ray (and believe me, as someone who has seen Evil Toons, that's a stench you do not want to reek of). However, the second Mother Speed (Katina Garner), the leader of The Cosmic Order of Roller Blade, and Marshall Goodman (Jeff Hutchinson), the protector of the Third Harvest of the New Order, open their mouths and start conversing with one another, I knew this wasn't your typical slab of cinematic trash.

As Mother Speed and Marshall Goodman are chatting, Sister Sharon Cross (Suzanne Solari) is writhing in bed. Having a nightmare, one that involves Baby Saticoy dragging her into a vat of acid, Sharon's black thong would dig into her anus with every writhe. How do I know this, you ask? Let's just say I've been watching hot chicks in black thongs writhe for quite some time now.

Anyway, it would seem that in the old days, people skated for fun. But now people either skate or they die. Case in point, Hunter (Shaun Michelle), a freelance bounty hunter, stabs and kills some guy who wasn't wearing skates. Now, would he have lived had he been wearing a pair of roller-skates or riding on a skateboard? Who's to say. All I know is, those who do not skate in this film's universe are easy pickings.

The so-called "Roller Patrol," lead by Marshall Goodman, try to police this unruly wasteland (L.A. during the Second Dark Age), but it's clear to anyone with eye-holes that still sort of work that chaos is calling the shots.

What's that? Who leads chaos? As most of you know, chaos doesn't usually have a leader. But if you were to ask the demented Doctor Saticoy (Robby Taylor), he would probably tell you that he's the one in charge... of chaos.

Since the Roller Patrol are no match for Doctor Saticoy, it's up to the Cosmic Order of Roller Blade to stand up against his unique brand of villainy. Unfortunately, three roller blade sisters are captured by the Samurai Devils, a gang affiliated with Doctor Sacticoy... (Don't forget Baby Saticoy.) Ah, yes. Baby Saticoy. The face of chaos for the majority of the film.

As I was saying, three roller blade sisters are captured by the Samurai Devils. Two of them are forced to wrestle one another, while the third one watches from the discomfort of a shopping cart. If you thought writhing in bed caused your black thong to press tightly against your anus, you should see what wrestling does... to your anus.

Don't worry, though, Mother Speed launches a rescue mission. And you can almost guarantee that the mission is going to be a success, as it's lead by none other than Sister Sharon, whose butterfly knife swooshes open with a shitload of vigor and at least six tubs worth of moxie.

When word gets out that Doctor Sacticoy wants someone to steal the Cosmic Order of the Roller Blade's magic power crystal and that he's willing to pay a hefty sum for it, Hunter jumps at the chance (after all, her Walkman needs new batteries). In order to infiltrate the cosmic order, Hunter pretends to be a damsel in distress. The plan is to have the sisters think that she wants to join the order, and when they're not looking, nab the magic power crystal. However, things get a tad complicated, when Hunter, who is re-branded as "Sister Fortune," starts to bond with Sister Sharon.

I can't say I blame her. I want to bleed to death all over Sister Sharon's supple hindquarters... let my blood nourish her smooth thighs and tasty buttocks.

Things go from being a tad complicated to extremely complicated when Waco (Sam Mann), a shopping cart pushing bounty hunter (dig the swimming goggles, man), kidnaps Marshall Goodman's son for Doctor Sacticoy. But don't worry, things go back to being a tad complicated when Waco sees Sister Sharon's aforementioned smooth thighs and tasty buttocks. What I mean is, Waco switches sides when he realizes that's there's more to life than ball bearings.

Even though Roller Blade looks like it was made for no money, it still manages to create the sense that this world actually exists. You see, by simply using their surroundings (Sun Valley, California) in an imaginative manner, the producers were able to construct a universe that seemed authentic and totally lived in. It didn't hurt that old-timey second person singular pronouns were added to the dialogue during post-production, and that Michelle Bauer makes a brief appearance as a "Bod Sister."

Smart, funny and profound are three words. And, believe or not, I'm going to use them to sum up my feelings about Roller Blade. And while I'm at it, you can add: Sexy, unique and stupefying. Go forth now and skate the path of righteousness.

Hey, late 1970s porno actress. Would it kill ya to put on an anklet? If you're too lazy to bend down that far, how 'bout a belly-chain? Call me perverted and sad, but I don't think that's too much to ask. I mean, for crying out loud, give me something to work with here. Ugh. At any rate, for a film that's purportedly about lingerie, there's an awful lot of nudity in it. I know, flicks like these are renowned for their nudity. But c'mon, man. Do they have to be naked all the time? As I was saying, like, ten seconds ago, the least they could do is put on an anklet or a belly-chain. However, as you've probably already figured out, no ankle or belly beautifying jewelry is forthcoming. No, what we get instead in Gail Palmer's Hot Legs is a series of sex scenes that boast naked men and naked women. If I wanted to watch unclothed animals humping on each other, I'd go down to the park. I don't know, maybe my expectations were too damn high, but I was hoping for more lingerie sex. On the positive side, a photographer (Paul Thomas) and his assistant (Sharon Kane) conduct a photo-shoot that features two female models wearing black stockings and skirts with healthy slits. If every scene had been like this, we would be talking about one of the greatest films of all-time. But every scene isn't like this, and that's the problem.

Now, this doesn't mean I'm going to ban myself from watching films directed by Bob Chinn in the future. It does, however, mean that I'm going to be somewhat cautious the next time the opportunity to watch one comes around.

Seriously, how do you fuck up a film about a fledgling lingerie company who are desperately trying to get the word out about their sexy product?

Okay, maybe "fuck up," is a tad harsh. But the fact that none of the sex scenes featured a stitch of lingerie was beyond aggravating.

Of course, I didn't notice this right away. What I think happened was, the sheer awesomeness of the opening credits sequence must have hampered my ability to think straight. That being said, after I eventually got my faculties back, I started to notice the nudity. And, much to my chagrin, I began to realize that none of the chicks were wearing stockings during sex.

I know, pretty outrageous, eh?

Getting back to the opening credits for a second. Everything from the leggy camera angles to the rockin' theme song was perfect. Sure, the stockings could have been blacker (they actually looked gray at times) and the theme song is no White Bunbusters (not much is), but as far as making first impressions go, Hot Legs had me eating out of the palm of its hand.

After the founder of Hot Legs, Mort (Richard Pacheco), is done smooth-talking John (Jon Martin), a potential investor, he heads over to his studio/office to see how things are progressing.

Stressed over the fact that he's got a deadline to meet, Mort starts to panic when he realizes that Annie Spencer (Jesie St. James), his star model, hasn't shown up for work yet.

You would think that the angry message Mort left on her giant, late 1970s answering machine would cause Annie to get her skinny ass in gear. But it doesn't. Lying sprawled out on her bed without any clothes on (boo!), Annie coos as her boyfriend (Blair Harris) laps up the crumpled outer layer of her wheatfield-esque girl squishy with his tongue.

Fans of fucking on film should take note that the sex scene between Oksana Baiul, I mean, Jesie St. James, and Bill Blair is the only one to feature a position other than the missionary position.

As Oksana Baiul and Bill Blair are going at it, a photographer named Dave (Paul Thomas), and his assistant Debbie (Sharon Kane), try to work around Annie's absence by shooting a nautical themed lingerie spread with Michelle (Jennifer Wolfe) and Candy (Adele Sloan), two models who are just as leggy as Annie.

(You called Jesie St. James Oksana Baiul again.) Oops. I always get Ukrainian figure skater Oksana Baiul and disco era porno actress Jesie St. James mixed up.

Telling Michele and Candy to "pull those slits up," the Dave and Debbie photo shoot sequence is probably the hottest scene in the entire movie.

It's definitely hotter than the sight of Bill Blair's balls being repeatedly shoved in my face. Wait, that didn't come out right. What I mean is, I grew tired of Bill Blair's balls. I will say this, though, I appreciated the fact that it looked like Bill had shaved them recently. Granted, the upper portion had some mild five o'clock shadow action going on. But the underside was silky smooth.

The testicular forecast for today is silky smooth with a chance of some mild pubic shadows appearing by the late afternoon (you might want to bring a toothpick).

In a bizarre twist, when Oksana Baiul finally does arrive for her photo shoot, what we get is a lot of face shots. What are you doing, Bob Chinn? The movie's called "Hot Legs," not "Hot Faces." Ahhh, this movie!!!! While it gets a ton of stuff right, its screw ups are glaring.

The lesbian scene between Oksana Baiul and Julie (Lisa Sue Corey), a demure seamstress, could be viewed as a screw up (it's pretty dull). But it does lead to one of the film's more clever sight gags. Let's just say it involves a Halston dress and an ironing board.

Since Halston was renowned for his disco-friendly clothing, it only makes sense that the next scene be about "Disco Hot Legs," nylons that will apparently allow women to show as much leg as they want (they're basically sparkle-covered tights).

If anyone had any doubts whether or not this film takes place during the disco era, they won't have any whatsoever when they see the Disco Hot Legs photo shoot sequence. Flashing lights, roller-skates, tongue kissing, Travolta posing, double-scrunchies, triangle-shaped earrings and a throbbing disco song ("oooh, you should be dancing... love on wheels"), this scene has got everything a fan of this particular period of history could want and more.

Of course, the models for the Disco Hot Legs (Penelope Jones and R.J. Reynolds) jettison their disco threads the moment the sex gets underway. Actually, we don't even get to see them jettison them, they're simply clothed one minute, completely naked the next. On the bright side, R.J.'s balls are dolphin smooth.

Oh, and since it wouldn't be a film from the late 1970s without a reference to the International Society for Krishna Consciousness, we get one in the form of a plot twist involving Oksana Baiul, I mean, Jesie St. James.

In closing, even though I was annoyed by the amount of nudity in this film, the sex scenes, unlike this review, are mercifully short. And given that this film was recently remastered by Vinegar Syndrome, it looks fantastic. The late 1970s have never looked so good.

Standing over his prey in a menacing fashion, Nosfero, the leader of a militaristic crime syndicate (one filled with a seemingly endless supply of leather clad dandies), says: "You killed my brother. Now I'm going to cut off your dick." Not one to sit back and let his genitals hit the dirt without a fight, W2, a non-rule-playing cop, responds by saying: "If you do that, you leave me no choice but to slaughter your bald minions." This may come as a bit of a surprise, but the conversation I just quoted doesn't occur in W. That being said, I think most of you will agree that it sums up the plot of this action-heavy Filipino revenge movie pretty succinctly. However, since I'm never succinct, I plan on dragging this thing out for as long as possible. Okay, I probably won't drag it out for that long. But I ain't stopping until I have fully explored the cock-free dilemma that W2's wife experiences after her husband loses his junk on their wedding night. In other words, sit back and relax. I just watched a movie made in the Republic of the Philippines about a man who wakes up to find that his penis is no longer attached to his body. Life is good. I ♥ Eunuchs.

Doing what any normal woman would do when faced with such a profound form of dicklessness, W2's wife makes friends with her shower nozzle. Now, you would think that the sight of your wife openly boning plumbing fixtures would cause W2 to rush down to the Manilla Learning Annex to sign up for cunnilingus classes (or, at very least, order a chin-strap dildo from the back of one of your now useless porno mags). But it doesn't. No, what does W2 do instead? He sits by the pool and sulks.

Boo-hoo, my wife's pussy is hungry for cock, and I have nothing to feed it with.

After he's finished sulking, W2 decides to confront Nosfero. Sadly, he doesn't get very far, as he fails to get past his Lieutenant. As a bound W2 hung in the middle of Nosfero's camp, he must have thought to himself: Why didn't I just lick my wife's vagina? If he didn't think that, then, well, he's a bigger dumbass than I initially thought.

Of course, a lot of people will say that W2's wife shouldn't have fucked one of his cop buddies. I, for one, I'm not one of these people. The moment W2 left to confront Nosfero was when I lost respect for him. Your thirst for vengeance has caused to lose focus on what's important. And that is, the needs and wants of your wife's clitoral infrastructure.

Changing gears for a second. I'm usually quite the wordsmith when it comes to describing synth flourishes. However, the one that accompanies the bulk of the film's psych-rock heavy score is causing me fits. Hell, I'm not even sure it was made using a synthesizer. Either way, I loved the weird, funky ass music heard throughout this movie.

What I am sure of is that Pentagon (Richard Jones) reminded me of Heinrich Himmler (Reichsführer of the Schutzstaffel) and David Leisure (Empty Nest). I wonder if any aging Nazis got a chance to see Empty Nest? Call me mentally unsound, I can just picture, oh, let's say, SS-Sturmbannführer Alfred Naujocks screaming for the nurse at his rest home to turn on Empty Nest in the TV room: "Hey, don't make me start World War II again. Put on meine favourite show!!! That David Leisure iz a riot." Anyway, Pentagon, the man in charge of the international underworld syndicate at the center of this motion picture, hopes to turn the land occupied by Nosfero (Den Montero) and his trike gang/cult into the biggest marijuana plantation in all of Asia.

Meanwhile, down at police headquarters, Alice (Alicia Alonzo), a police reporter, is introduced to an enforcer named W2 (Anthony Alonzo). On top of meeting W2, Alice also meets R2 (Bing Davao), D3, B9 and V1.

If you're wondering why I bothered to mention W2's fellow enforcers, the answer is easy, they all have alphanumeric names and one of them is played by an actor named "Bing Davao."

At any rate, the reason W2 doesn't make a play for Alice is because it would seem that W2 has a girlfriend (Anna Marie Guteirrez). Unfortunately, she won't accept his marriage proposal until he gets a less dangerous profession. Being an enforcer, as we'll soon find out, is no picnic.

After killing Nosfero's brother in the parking lot of a local steak house (see what I mean, no picnic), W2 is suspended from the force. The look on his girlfriend's face when she hears that he's been suspended speaks volumes. Seeing this as positive step in the right direction, W2's girlfriend starts to view the disgraced cop as husband material.

Despite being targeted by Nosfero (W2, R2 D3, B9 and V1 are nearly killed while enjoying a late night snack), W2 and his girlfriend decide to get married right away. As they're about to consummate their marriage by engaging in some good old fashion lying down heterosexual intercourse, Nosfero and his men (and women) swoop in and drag the horny newlyweds away.

Waking up in the hospital the very next day, W2 is shocked to discover that his penis is gone.

Unable to penetrate his new bride with his missing penis, W2 becomes increasingly frustrated. To make matters worse, Maj. R.A. Medina (Joonee Gamboa), W2's boss, won't overturn his suspension. Meaning, W2 can't legally go after Nosfero. However, if you were paying attention earlier, you will have no doubt remembered that I called W2 a "non-rule-playing cop." And, as most people know, non-rule-playing cops aren't the type to sit idly by and allow their severed penises to go unavenged.

You know what that means, right? Cue the welding montage. Employing the help of a sympathetic female syndicate/cult member, W2 turns his Camaro into an armored battle wagon of death. The cool thing about the welding montage is that it reminded me of a Test Dept. video.

Will the side-ponytail-sporting Nosfero and his bald/face-painted minions be able to stave off the attack launched by a cock-lacking ex-cop who just found out his cock-starved wife has been canoodling with a cocky cock-abundant ex-co-worker? Given that Nosfero commands a huge army that seems to spend the majority of its time training, I'd say the answer is most definitely yes. That being said, I wouldn't underestimate W2. Whoever is victorious in the ensuing battle, there's no denying that it's going to be freakin' epic. Let me put this way, the local undertaker is going to be getting a lot of new business when all is said and done.

Even though this is yet another film that is supposedly set in the future, it technically takes place in the past. Um, I think that makes sense. Nevertheless, despite the wonky timeline, City Limits still manages to capture the unwashed disquietude of a world rife with unopened cans of cat food and fingerless gloves as far as the eye can see. How, you might be asking yourself, does it manage to do this? It's simple, really. Costume designer Merril Greene was obviously given free reign when it came time to design the various outre outfits worn by The Clippers and The DA's. And, no, I'm not talking about the NBA franchise, nor am I talking about a group of funkily attired trial lawyers. Believe or not, The Clippers and The DA's are two of L.A.'s toughest bike gangs. Actually, I think they're L.A.'s only bike gangs (they basically run the entire city). Of course, there's not much for them to rule over nowadays... you know, since a mysterious plague wiped out almost the entire population. Needless to say, with no links to the past, the citizens living in this post-apocalyptic paradise have developed their own unorthodox sense of style.

Now, if, say, The Clippers or The DA's were to walk down the street during the pre-apocalypse, they would probably be laughed at (or worse, be accused of being hipsters). However, since the people who would have been doing the majority of the laughing are all dead, it means that Rae Dawn Chong can wear a white fedora with a pink cape covered in black polka dots without having to worry about being judged by the self-appointed fashion police.

If this world sounds too good to be true. Don't worry. The fine folks at Sunya Inc. want to change all that. In a normal movie, Sunya would be the heroes, and bikers the villains. But in a bizarre twist, especially for a movie from the mid-1980's (a period when Charles Bronson/Chuck Norris/Sly Stalone-style vigilantism was all the rage), City Limits implies that the biker way of life is the way of life worth preserving.

Sure, Sunya will tell you that all they want to do is turn the lights on and bring back other essential services to the city. And who in their right mind would be against that? Yeah, but can Rae Dawn Chong still wear flannel shirts with studded collars? (Um, I don't think she wears anything like that in this movie.) Okay, maybe she doesn't wear a flannel shirt with a studded collar. But at least she can if she wants to. When Sunya take over, you can pretty much forget about mixing and matching.

How do I know this? Trust me, if the leader of a powerful, quasi-fascist organization looks like Norbert Weisser, you can pretty much kiss your freedom goodbye.

Oh, crap. It just dawned on me that Mick (Darrell Larson), the leader of The Clippers, sort of looks like Norbert Weisser, who, if I haven't mentioned already, plays Bolo, Sunya's most Germanic honcho. Either way, judging by Norbert's actions, it's clear that Sunya are not to be trusted.

Born in the desert and raised by James Earl Jones (his parents died during the plague), Lee (John Stockwell) has grown tired of living in the country, and yearns to go the city. Hopping on his motorbike, Lee rides to L.A. with the hope of joining The Clippers.

Now, this may come across as a tad dickish, but any review for City Limits that fails to give props to Mitchell Froom's score should be discounted immediately. Seriously, it's that good. Sure, it sounds a lot like Mr. Froom's Café Flesh score. But as almost everyone knows, the Café Flesh score is one of the greatest scores of all-time. In other words, you could view City Limits as the real Café Flesh 2 (no offense to the late great Antonio Passolini - a.k.a. Johnny Jump-Up). Except instead of being about Sex Negatives looking for post-nuke thrills at a club run by Tantala Ray, it's about... Come to think of it, the plots of the two films are eerily similar. Of course, no one expels seminal fluid on anyone in City Limits. Which is a shame, as I was hoping to see James Earl Jones blast his CNN-bank rolled seed all over Pamela Ludwig's alabaster backside.

Don't look at me that way. It's clear to anyone with eyes that James Earl Jones and Pamela Ludwig (Over the Edge) do more than bond over model airplanes in this movie.

Anyway, after being initiated, Lee is accepted into The Clipper fold. Oh, wait. It would seem that Ray (Danny De La Plaza), the leader of The DA's, wants Lee dead. You see, one of The DA's was killed during the chase involving Lee. So, Ray wants restitution.

Instead handing Lee over, Whitey (John Diehl), or maybe it was Sammy (Don Keith Opper)... Whoever it was, trial by combat is put forth as a possible solution. I liked how the idea comes from issue #43 of Insect Man, a comic book that serves as a sort of bible in this film's universe. In a way, it reminded me of how the Earth book "Chicago Mobs of the Twenties" shaped the residents of Sigma Iotia II in the Star Trek episode, "A Piece of the Action."

The cool thing about the trial by combat sequence is that Jennifer Balgobin (Dr. Calgari and Repo Man) is the one The DA's choose to fight Lee. Any time I can add a Jennifer Balgobin movie to my list of Jennifer Balgobin movies that I've seen is a reason to celebrate. Watch out, Out of Bounds, you're next!

If you look closely, you can spot Jennifer Balgobin busting out some sweet ninja moves during the climatic battle scene as well.

The reason there's a climatic battle scene is because The Clippers refuse to cooperate with Sunya. Managing somehow to convince Ray and The DA's that working with Sunya is in their best interest, the corporation, lead by Robby Benson, seem to be having trouble convincing The Clippers.

When asking nicely gets them nowhere, Sunya resort to acts of violence. It's at around this time that Wickings (Kim Cattrall), an idealist Sunya employee, realizes that the company she works for is super-nefarious. Of course, by the time she figures this out, it's too late.

With the majority of their members either dead or being subjected to Sunya sponsored re-education seminars, The Clippers find themselves with their backs against the wall. Will these freedom-loving, motorcycle-riding, flamboyantly-dressed samurai ass-clowns be able to retake their half of the city from a heavily armed group of jumpsuit-wearing fascists? Probably. I mean, sure, the odds are not exactly in their favour. But I bet they got a few tricks up their puffy sleeve.

The most puzzling question has to be: Why did Mystery Science Theater 3000 feature this movie on their show? I thought they only watched bad movies, and City Limits is not even close to being a bad movie. Weird. At any rate, if you like films like, Café Flesh, Punk Vacation, Roller Blade and Shredder Orpheus, you should give this film a whirl.

In a film replete with shoot-outs, leggy hostages, upskirts, leggy reporters, upshorts, leggy floozies, finger knives, uptowels and not-so leggy lascivious pre-coital fruit consumption, I can't believe Cyborg Cop had me looking up fanny packs before beginning my review. Whether you know them as waist wallets or bum bags, the fanny pack is the key to unlocking this film's many secrets. Sure, you can unlock its secrets by focusing on the other stuff I mentioned, but take away the fanny pack, and you'll be looking at yet another cyborg film chock-full of the usual nonsense. Now, I don't mean to imply that leggy hostages, upskirts, leggy reporters, upshorts, leggy floozies, uptowels and not-so leggy lascivious pre-coital fruit consumption are in anyway nonsense. I'm just saying: Thank you, David Bradley. Thank you for wearing a fanny pack. Seriously, I don't think I would have made it through the film without it. Of course, I realize that a lot of you are probably thinking to yourself: What's so amazing about this fanny pack? It's not that there's anything all that special about this particular fanny back (it's black and fits snugly around the waist). No, the reason I'm currently losing my shit over a fanny pack is the length of time David Bradley wears it in this movie.

While I would love to tell you that David Bradley wears a fanny pack from beginning to end during Cyborg Cop, directed by Sam Firstenberg (Ninja III... Dominion!), I can't, because I think he takes it off while having hot, naked, back arching heterosexual intercourse with a leggy lady reporter.

How cool would it have been had they shown that David Bradley was still wearing his trusty fanny pack as he plowed gingerly into the leggy lady reporter's not even close to being pugnacious lady vagina?

Judging by the excessive amount of head nodding I'm seeing out there, it would seem that most of you agree... that it would have been cool. Unfortunately, he doesn't wear it during sex. Nonetheless, he does wear it a lot in this movie.

What's that? You're saying that I've already established that David Bradley wears a fanny pack for an inordinate amount of time in this movie? Well, I'm establishing it again. In fact, anyone who fails to repeatedly mention the fanny pack clinic that David Bradley puts on in this movie for nearly ninety straight minutes is straight-up mentally-ill.

And not only are they mentally-ill, they must be blind as well. I mean, you can practically see his fanny pack from space.

You know what else you can see from space? The film's contrived I hate you/I love you relationship. Actually, when we're first introduced to Jack Ryan (David Bradley), a hard-boiled DEA agent who plays by his own rules, and Kate (Alonna Shaw), an ambitious lady reporter with legs for days, I had no idea they would meet again. However, it's obvious to anyone with a functioning brain and/or genitals that Jack and Kate will be straddling one another like a couple of shaved squirrels in no time.

However, before any kind of hairless rodent humping can commence, Jack Ryan's brother, Phillip (Todd Jensen), who is also a DEA agent, needs to be turned into a cyborg. And for that to happen, Phillip has to be sent on a doomed mission to bring down Kessel (John Rhys-Davies), a drug kingpin/cyborg expert who lives on a tropical island in the Caribbean.

Oh, and if you're wondering why Jack wasn't with his brother on this doomed mission. What's that? You weren't wondering that. Either way, Jack wasn't there because he was kicked off the force for gunning down the son of a prominent Denver newspaper publisher. You see, his son (who, I guess, forgot to take his meds that day) had taken a leggy party girl (Kimberleigh Stark) hostage. Tracking him to a rundown warehouse, Jack and Phillip have him cornered. Instead of waiting for back-up, Jack decides to take care of it himself... Cobra-style. Personally, I thought it was a clean kill. Nonetheless, Jack is dubbed a "rogue cop" by the press and the self-proclaimed "double-trouble psycho cops" are all but finished as a duo.

As Jack is comforting the leggy party girl after the shoot-out, the press come rushing in. Lead by Kate, who is wearing a bulky naval-style blue blazer with a toilet seat collar, the press inundate Jack and the leggy party girl with pointed questions and flashbulb photography.

When I saw Kate burst onto the scene like that, I was like, Ooooh, I like this chick's style. Brash and blonde, Kate seems like the kind of gal who knows what she wants, and she clearly knows how to get it. After the warehouse scene is was over, I figured that was the last we'll ever see of Kate, the brash, blonde, leggy lady reporter.

In what has to be the biggest coincidence in movie history, Jack bumps into Kate while attempting to rent a car on the Caribbean island of St. Keith. The former is there, like I said earlier, to find out what happened to his brother, and the latter is there to do a story or some bullshit. While this meeting doesn't go smoothly (they mainly shout at each for the duration), you can totally tell that they have the hots for one another.

It's during their second chance meeting that they end up stuck with each other. Though, I have to say, the evolution of their courtship could have used a little more build-up. I mean, they go from constantly bickering with one another to eating fruit together rather quickly.

Anyway, while Kate is questioning the local authorities, Jack heads down to The Jive Bar to get some information on the whereabouts of his brother. While there, Jack fends off a couple of leggy floozies (leggy floozies love men in fanny packs) and beats up some of Kessel's henchmen. I don't know what I liked better, Jack's unique, kick his adversaries in the face fighting style or his leggy floozy fending off skills.

While the chemistry between David Bradley, his fanny pack and Alonna Shaw is undeniable, the cyborg action is a tad lacking. Other than a brief scene in the island morgue and a quick demo Kessel gives for some potential investors, the film is pretty light when it comes to cyborgs. On the bright side, we do get a lot of scenes that feature David Bradley gunning down henchmen. Sure, his shotgun would some times sound like a machine gun and his shotgun would some times sound like a machine gun, but I can't stay mad at a film that boasts a grown man blowing away henchmen and fending off leggy floozies while wearing a fanny pack.

It looks like someone is having cyborg-related problems... again. Oh, Jack Ryan. When will your friends, relatives and enemies stop being turned into mindless killing machines? In Cyborg Cop II (a.k.a. Cyborg Soldier: Cyborg Cop 2), Jack Ryan finds himself... Whoa! Hold up. Is that what I think it is? It is!!! Are you sitting down? 'Cause I'm about to blow your freakin' mind. Guess who wears a fanny pack from start to finish in this film? (Um, David Bradley.) Wait, how did you know that? (Everyone knows that David Bradley wears a fanny pack in Cyborg Cop II.) Well, I didn't. And that's causing a bit of a problem. You see, if I had known that David Bradley wore a fanny pack in Cyborg Cop II, I wouldn't have gone so overboard with the fanny pack talk in my not yet award-winning review of Cyborg Cop. To make matters even more complicated, David Bradley has a scene in this film with an actress who is also wearing a fanny pack. That's right, this film, directed, like the first one, by Sam Firstenberg (Ninja III... Dominion!) is literally oozing fanny packs. When I saw this, I started to panic.

Of course, I could have done some research beforehand, and quickly found out that Cyborg Cop II was rife with fanny packs. However, when it comes to watching movies, especially cyborg movies, I like to go in fresh. Nevertheless, the sight of two actors onscreen at the same time wearing black fanny packs sent me over the edge.

Don't believe I'm over the edge, check this shit out: The more I observed Jack Ryan (David Bradley), the more I started to realize that his power comes from his fanny pack. Sure, that might sound like the ravings of someone who has clearly lost their grip on reality. But how else can you explain the fact Jack Ryan never gets injured? Thrown through plate glass windows, punched in the face (by cyborgs, whose punching prowess is second to none) and hit with large metal pipes, Jack Ryan seems impervious to harm.

Okay, so what if Jack Ryan's fanny pack contains an ancient talisman of, oh, let's say, Latvian origin, that prevents him from being hurt. (Or, he could be a cyborg himself, and his fanny pack is where he keeps his back-up battery.) Jack Ryan, a cyborg? Poppycock. No, an ancient talisman of Latvian origin makes more sense. Think about it.

If you're currently having trouble in the thinking department, let me help you out: When Jack Ryan was a little boy growing up on the mean streets of Chillicothe, Ohio, his Latvian grandfather, Artūrs Irbe Rieņš (their name was officially anglicized in 1906, but Artūrs refused to be called Mr. Ryan), gave him an ancient talisman of Latvian origin on his tenth birthday. The only problem being, ancient talismans of Latvian origin are too unwieldy to wear around one's neck, and they're definitely much too irregularly-shaped to be crammed up one's anus (trust me, I know). In order to rectify the situation, Artūrs suggested that Jack store it in a fanny pack, which he has done ever since.

In other words, I don't want to hear any more of this Jack Ryan is a cyborg nonsense.

Though, I have to say, I'm having a little trouble coming up with an equally levelheaded reason as to why Gloria Alvarez (Kimberleigh Stark), Jack's go-to babysitter, was wearing a fanny pack.

Actually, after giving it a lot of thought, I think I have an explanation for that as well. Since Gloria will be looking after his adopted son while he's out fighting cyborgs, Jack gave her a less powerful ancient talisman of Latvian origin that used to belong to his Aunt Lūcija (she drowned in the Scioto River - witnesses say that her fanny pack sat on the shore mocking her as she struggled to keep her head above water). Anyway, like his grandfather's talisman, it's way too cumbersome to be worn around the neck or to be inserted into your average anus. Hence the reason Gloria was wearing a fanny pack when she came over to babysit. Any questions? I didn't think so.

It takes roughly nine minutes for Jack Rieņš, I mean, Jack Ryan, and his fanny pack to appear onscreen. Up until this point, we've had to endure a Sam Firstenberg-style, over the top, body count heavy gun battle.

Taking place in a warehouse used to manufacture cocaine (one where all the workers work topless), the shoot out pits Starkraven (Morgan Hunter), a ruthless criminal (think Kurtwood Smith in RoboCop crossed with Yul Brynner), and his pick-up truck filled with henchmen, against Fats (Robin Smith), a drug kingpin who commands an army of hapless thugs. The reason I call them "hapless" is because they can't seem to stop four or five guys from destroying Fats' operation.

When the DEA show up, Starkraven and his men take hostages and barricade themselves inside. Since Captain Salerno (Dale Cutts) is at a loss what to do, Jack Ryan (David Bradley), and his new partner, Mike Alvarez (Hector Rabotabi), who show up late on their motorcycles, decide to do things their way. Of course, this way ends up getting Mike killed.

When word gets out that Starkraven has escaped from prison, Jack Ryan immediately springs into action. Leaving his adopted son with Gloria Alvarez, who you might remember as the leggy party girl in the skimpy mini-dress from the first Cyborg Cop, Jack Ryan heads out to find Starkraven and bring him to justice.

I wonder if Jack would have acted differently if he had known the truth. Didn't you hear, Starkraven didn't actually escape from prison. No, his body was "borrowed" by the ATG (The Anti Terrorist Group) and turned into the ultimate tactical warrior. Knowing Jack, he probably would have done the exact same thing. Sure, Starkraven (who is re-born as "Spartacus") is now a super-cyborg, but don't forget, Jack has an ancient talisman of Latvian origin in his fanny pack. Meaning, super-cyborg, schmuper-schmyborg. Bring it on.

To the surprise of virtually no-one, Spartacus goes rogue. After killing all the ATG scientists, Spartacus begins to assemble a cyborg army. Well, that's actually not true (not the cyborg army part), some of the ATG scientists seemed genuinely surprised when Spartacus goes rogue, especially the leggy lady scientist who gets knifed in the back.

Oh, and if you're wondering how I knew the leggy lady scientist was in fact leggy, that's simple.

Take a look at the skirt she's wearing while sitting at the bar/lounge next to the cyborg lab. Pretty modest, right?

Okay, now look at it. Where did the material go? It would seem that her skirt went being modest to super-short in the blink of an eye. I'm not complaining. I just thought it was weird that her skirt length changed the moment she entered the cyborg lab. Either way: Best continuity error ever.

After some perfunctory sleuthing scenes (cool, floppy disks) and an action sequence where Spartacus' cyborg army takeover a nuclear power plant, we finally meet Liz McDowell (Jill Pierce), the deputy director of operations for ATG. I say, "finally," because this film has been a major sausage festival since the leggy lady scientist scene. At any rate, realizing that Jack Ryan is the only one competent enough to stop Spartacus, Liz decides to team up with him.

Unfortunately, there's no time for romance. There is, however, time for erections. You probably didn't notice, but Jack Ryan is sporting a massive erection when he meets Liz McDowell for the very first time. Wearing a short gray skirt with a matching blazer, the simple act of flashing a little leg causes a torrent blood to rush to Jack Ryan's penis. You might be thinking: How embarrassing. But fear not, as Jack's fanny pack has got his erection under control. The great thing about fanny packs is that they're not only perfect for carrying around unwieldy ancient talismans of Latvian origin, they also allow the wearer to sport as many erections as they want. The fanny pack is most likely thinking to themselves: Get hard, my Latvian-American friend. I've got you covered.

(So, is this movie good or what?) How the fuck should I know. I can tell you this, I won't be writing about Cyborg Cop 3. No David Bradley, no fanny pack, no review. So, fuck you, Cyborg Cop 3. Your ass smells like shit.

Let's say your sister was raped by the biggest piece of yuppie scum the late 1980s ever produced, and, after said yuppie scum is acquitted by an all-mullet jury, she kills herself by jumping off the roof of the courthouse. Do you: A) Shrug your shoulders and say, "Them's the breaks." B) Hire another lawyer and demand a retrial C) Track down the yuppie scum and his yuppie scum accomplices and murder their yuppie scum asses. Or D) Transform your dead sister into a killer cyborg and have her hunt down the yuppie offenders one by one. Well, you can forget about 'A.' I mean, no-one wants to watch that movie. As for 'B.' What is this, a John Grisham novel? Pass. While I like the premise of 'C,' I'm afraid I've seen that movie before (in fact, I've seen it multiple times). No, the only logical choice is 'D.' And, as luck would have it, that's exactly the direction the makers of Steel and Lace (a.k.a. Čelik i čipka and Seducción asesina) decide to go.

Now, you're probably thinking to yourself: "Steel and Lace,""Cyborgs,""1991"? This sounds like a total cheese fest. While, yes, it does sound a tad on the cheesy side. The film is actually quite intelligent in places. Wait. Who am I kidding? It's not only intelligent in places, it's intelligent from start to finish. But get this, it's sleazy, too.

In order to exact revenge on yuppie scum in a manner that is sufficiently satisfying, you must utilize the ancient art of seduction. Sure, you could simply lift them up off the ground while their standing underneath a running helicopter, but what you really want to do is to make them suffer. And in the case two of the fellas, the best way to do this is to have them think they just won the poontang sweepstakes.

How, you might be thinking, is your sister going to seduce the yuppies? Aren't they going to recognize her if she walks up to them looking like that woman who killed herself after they were acquitted for her rape?

It helps that Albert Morton (Bruce Davison) is a cyborg expert (duh). It also helps that Albert's cyborgs are masters of disguise.

Feeling guilty after his sister, Gaily Morton (Clare Wren), commits suicide moments after her rapist, Daniel Emerson (Michael Cerveris) and his four accomplices, are found not guilty, Albert decides to put his cyborg expertise to good use. Well, I don't know if it's exactly "good use." I suppose it is if you're in favour of killing yuppie scum who getaway with rape. Either way, Albert has clearly put a lot of effort into avenging his dead sister. And, thanks to this movie, we get to see each yuppie death in gory detail.

Did anyone else find it odd that when we jump forward five years after his acquittal that Daniel Emerson was still sporting a ponytail? I don't want to analyze this too deeply, but I doubt he would still be rocking a ponytail after five years. I mean, hairstyles changed rapidly during the late 1980s/early '90s. One day you're wearing your hair like Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me-era Robert Smith, the next your do is done up like Irv Weinstein.

Anyway, Emerson, who inherited Emerson Realty from his family, and his "partners," represent the dark side of the 1980s.

We get a taste of this so-called "dark side" almost immediately, as we see them trying to evict an elderly gentlemen from his home so they can build a mini-mall. The sign out front reads: Another Emerson Mini-Mall Coming Soon. Their actions in this scene kind of reminded me of what the corporations did to Queen St. West in Toronto. Haven't you heard? Goth and freak central has been slowly transformed into a bland, corporate cesspool, filled with nothing but chain stores.

It sucks, man. Seriously, what does a brother have to do to get some pointy skull buckle boots up in this bitch? (Um, travel back in time to 1987.) Fuck you, dick-munch.

Sorry about that. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Emerson and his band of shiftless sycophants are busy ruining society, one mini-mall at a time.

After telling the old dude that he's got twelve hours to pack up and leave before the wrecking ball starts swinging, Emerson and the gang get in their cars. It's here that we begin to follow Craig (John J. York), a bolo-tie/curly mullet enthusiast, as he makes his through the Hollywood Hills. Experiencing car trouble, Craig looks like he's in for a rough night. Hold on, what's this? It's a leggy blonde (J. Cynthia Brooks) in a T-Bird. When she's finished flirting with him, the leggy blonde (in the pink mini-skirt) offers Craig to "climb in... my car."

I liked the way she paused before saying "my car," as it made it sound like she was talking about her vagina.

Instead of driving him home, the leggy blonde takes him to a motel, one that offers hourly rates (maybe she was talking about her vagina after all). Just as Craig is starting to plant kisses all over her neck and chin, the leggy blonde pulls off her face to reveal her true identity. (Well, who is she?) It's Gaily Morton, the rape victim from five years ago. However, instead of pulling out a gun and shooting Craig in the head, Gaily deploys a large drill from her cyborg chest cavity and proceeds to penetrate Craig's non-cyborg chest cavity with it. This, as you might expect, causes Craig much discomfort.

Meanwhile, the frumpy courtroom sketch artist from Emerson's trial is now vivacious artist who lives in a cool loft. The way her character, Alison (Stacy Haiduk), gets involved with the Emerson murders is sort of contrived. But after a few awkward moments, I said, screw it, and just went along with it. Told to compile a book made up of courtroom sketches by her manager, Alison finds herself working alongside a cop named Clifford "Don't Call Me Cliffy" Dunn (David Naughton). A cop, by the way, who just happens to be Alison's ex-boyfriend and the detective in charge of solving Craig's murder.

While I would have loved to have seen the leggy blonde cyborg motif used for all the yuppie killings, to keep things interesting, they have Gaily use a number of different guises to entrap her yuppie prey. The weirdest being when Gaily pretends to be an FBI agent named Spoon (John DeMita) in order to wreak vengeance on Toby (Scott Burkholder) in the alleyway of a local bar.

My favourite non-leggy blonde cyborg yuppie killing has to be the one where cyborg Gaily poses as Miss Fairweather (Brenda Swanson), a bosomy secretary. Of course, the scene is not exactly perfect (there are no clear shots of Miss Fairweather's black nylons). But the way they edited the sound of Gaily's cyborg drill penis piercing the fleshy, non-cyborg penis that belongs to Oscar (Paul Lieber) with the sound of Alison's manager finishing off a Big Gulp in the building parking garage was pretty awesome.

With the authorities closing in, and there being only two yuppies left (including Emerson himself) to dispatch, will cyborg Gaily and Albert be able to get to them in time? Personally, I'm surprised the guy from Fast Times at Ridgemont High (Brian Backer) was able to last this long (I figured he was going to be the first to buy it). At any rate, what looks like your standard cyborg rape revenge flick, is actually a well acted movie about loss. (Did you say, "well acted"?) I did. And it should come as no surprise, as both Clare Wren and Bruce Davison are excellent actors, who bring an air of respectability to the proceedings that I did not expect.

In closing, if you thought I Spit On Your Grave had too much rape and not enough cyborgs, Steel and Lace is the movie for you.

L'Amour Braque (Andrzej Żuławski, 1985)

Party Line (William Webb, 1988)

Nightmare Beach (Umberto Lenzi, 1989)

Primal Rage (Vittorio Rambaldi, 1988)

Broken Dolls (Jess Franco, 1999)

Hollywood Vice Squad (Penelope Spheeris, 1986)

Obsession: A Taste for Fear (Piccio Raffanini, 1988)

Into the Night (John Landis, 1985)

Miracle Mile (Steve De Jarnatt, 1988)

The Spirit (Michael Schultz, 1987)

Scenes from the Goldmine (Marc Rocco, 1987)

Dogs in Space (Richard Lowenstein, 1986)

Meet the Applegates (Michael Lehmann, 1990)

Roller Blade (Donald G. Jackson, 1986)

Hot Legs (Bob Chinn, 1979)

W (Willy Milan, 1983)

City Limits (Aaron Lipstadt, 1984)

Cyborg Cop (Sam Firstenberg, 1993)

Cyborg Cop II (Sam Firstenberg, 1994)

Steel and Lace (Ernest D. Farino, 1991)