House of Self-Indulgence

A clash of styles if I've ever seen one–and believe me, I have seen some doozies over the years–Nevada Heat (a.k.a. Fake-Out) pits the flamboyant gayness of Bob Mackie ("the sultan of sequins, the rajah of rhinestones," as his bio states) and the needs and wants of millions upon millions of discerning, women in prison movie-loving heterosexual men and their lesbian allies up against Telly Savalas' crippling gambling addiction. Who do you think won out in the end? Let me give you a hint: He's bald, he doesn't give a flying fuck, and he has a habit of ending his sentences with the word "baby." That's right, Telly Savalas. He doesn't care about the length of the slit on Pia Zadora's sequin-adorned Bob Mackie original, nor does he care about the structural integrity of the erection/wetness you plan on unfurling/oozing while trying to imagine what the atmospheric conditions must have been like inside Pia Zadora's prison issue leotard as she thrust her dainty crotch to-and-fro in the gymnasium tucked away inside the South Nevada Correctional Facility, Telly's in Las Vegas and he's got some gambling to do. In fact, you're lucky you got any scenes at all that didn't involve Telly Savalas blowing his immense wad at the craps table. Hell, I think I even saw him drop five hundred smackaroos on a total strangers roll of the dice. Enough about that follically challenged, degenerate gambler, this cinematic endeavour, co-written and directed by Matt Cimber, is, make no mistake, a Pia Zadora film. My eyeballs crave a steady diet of Pia Zadora, and that's what they get in Nevada Heat, not only one of the premiere films in the extensive canon of Pia Zadora masterpieces, but a film that boasts one of the best car/foot chases ever to involve a transwoman wielding an uzi and a pistol-packing member of the Arnaz dynasty.

I won't lie, my life would be a hundred times better if it had some Pia Zadora in it. Someone, not me, of course, should clone Pia Zadora in a laboratory in Switzerland–you know, like a Shetland pony. Except, inside of shedding fur, she would give me a handjob every Thursday. Are you sure you want to be telling everyone this? Why not? My feelings about Pia Zadora are well documented. Yeah, but going on and on about the gingham shirt she wore in The Lonely Lady or babbling incessantly about her scrunchies in Voyage of the Rock Aliens is one thing. You're on the cusp of crossing that line that separates playfully creepy from mentally defective creepy.

On the cusp, eh? Well, thanks for the warning. I'll take what you said under advisement. In meantime, I've got a Pia Zadora film to review.

Should all films open with Pia Zadora, smashingly sheathed in a Bob Mackie designed stunner of an outfit, singing "Those Eyes" in a Las Vegas nightclub? Of course not. But I think most people will agree that every Pia Zadora film should open this way. And in terms of delivering the Pia Zadora singing "Those Eyes" in a Las Vegas nightclub goods, Nevada Heat delivers. Excuse me, but doesn't the film actually open with a casino boss being shot in the parking lot by an elderly woman wielding a shotgun? Man, why did you have go and say that? I mean, I had this thing going about how Pia Zadora films should open with Pia Zadora singing in a nightclub. Why don't you just pretend the scene with the casino boss being shot never happened? Excellent idea.

Throwing the audience, a half-awake throng of degenerate gamblers, mobsters, and cocaine freaks, a thoughtful gaze, Bobbie Warren (Pia Zadora), nightclub singer/gangster's moll/full-time cutie pie, begins to sing "Those Eyes." And, as most of you know, the song starts off sort of slow. But it gets gradually faster as the song progresses. The sequin-adorned songtress signifies to the saps in the audience that the song's tempo is about to increase by doing this twitchy thing with her right leg. As the sparkly strands of garish dress material crash violently against her crotch and upper thighs as a direct result of her spastic movements, which include, spinning, humping, shaking, and kicking, we can't help notice that Telly Savalas is lurking about backstage.

Did you say, Telly Savalas? This can't be good. And you know what? It isn't. Slapping a pair of handcuffs on her the moment she's finished singing her closing number, Telly, whose character's name, by the way, is Thurston, Lt. Thurston, takes her way. What could have Pia Zadora, I mean, Bobbie Warren have done to warrant being arrested by Telly Savalas? It's not what Bobbie did, it's what her mobster boyfriend did. You see, the state believes Bobbie knows something about a murder her boyfriend is alleged to have carried out, and they want her to testify against him. And since Bobbie won't testify against him, the state of Nevada decides to throw her surprisingly shapely ass into, you guessed it, the South Nevada Correctional Facility for contempt of court.

Answer me this, fans of Pia Zadora, fashion, and continuity: How come Pia Zadora is wearing a brown jacket with a western motif when she's in the warden's office, yet when she's being taken to her cell moments later, she is clearly wearing a dark tube top? And, no, I don't think she was wearing the tube top underneath the jacket. Colour me flummoxed as all get out.

Fashion confusion aside, I felt bad for Pia Zadora when she enters her cell for the first time, as her aura oozes sadness.

We jump forward three months in Bobbie's sentence to find that she has quickly become the prison's star aerobics instructor. Would I have liked to have seen how Bobbie Warren went from being mopey and sad to thrusting and heaving her leotard-ensnared crotch in front of a bunch of butch female inmates? You bet I would. But I also have to accept the fact that Nevada Heat isn't a women in prison film. Anyway, watching Pia Zadora stretch and kick in her leotard made me want to grab her and put her in my pocket. Which I hear is the most common reaction to the sight of Pia Zadora doing aerobics in a prison setting.

Despite her enthusiasm, it's obvious that Bobbie is starting to lose her fellow inmates. Even though she tells them to hurl their crotches in various directions ("front, back, right, left"), most of them are too busy fighting amongst themselves to listen to her instructions. And to make matters worse, some of the inmates confront Bobbie later on in the shower. You mean to tell me that Nevada Heat has an aerobics sequence and a shower scene? Are you sure this isn't a women in prison film?

Being sexually assaulted by a smattering of rough-looking chicks is apparently what pushes Bobbie over the edge. Sure, her mobster boyfriend has tried to make her stay in the pokey as comfortable as possible (her cell looks like a successful pimp's living room), but she wants out. Isn't she worried about her mobster boyfriend? I mean, it's obvious, judging by the amount of stuff he's sent her, that he wants her to stay in prison. Yeah, but the incident in the shower seemed to rattle her. While part of me doesn't want her to leave, (Pia Zadora + Incarceration + Aerobics = Cinematic Gold), I totally understand her decision.

You can tell Bobbie was really traumatized by her time in prison just by listening to her talk during the car ride home–and by "home," I mean the Riviera Hotel and Casino. Why, what does she say? Well, for starters, she mentions the desire to take a bath twice. In fact, you'll notice she mentions wanting to take a bath quite a few times over the course of the film. At first, I thought it was just a character quirk that writer-director Matt Cimber added to give Bobbie some extra pizazz. Now, you wouldn't think Pia Zadora would need any "extra pizazz," she's fucking Pia Zadora. You got that right. No, actually, the bathing-centric character trait pays off at the end of the film in a way that will blow your mind.

Accompanying Bobbie to the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas is Lt. Telly Savalas and some square detective named Clint Morgan (Desi Arnaz, Jr.), who have been assigned to protect her until she takes the stand. Of course, Bobbie thinks all this hubbub is totally unnecessary. In her mind, her mobster boyfriend wouldn't hurt her. Oh yeah, then how come two shady-looking fellas carrying a suspicious-looking briefcase have booked the room directly across from yours? Unfortunately, Bobbie doesn't seem to notice them. And why should she? Fresh out of prison, Pia Zadora has got places to go and things to see. Not so fast, Missy. After being allowed to play one round of Keno (a game Telly calls a "tourist trap"), Bobbie is confined to her hotel room. Boo!

While brushing her hair (you can tell she's upset by the frustrated nature of her brush strokes), Bobbie tells Clint that she wants to take a bath. On the one hand, the reason she mentions wanting to take a bath is, like I said, a subtle reminder for the audience to remember that she prefers baths. Yet, she also mentions it in order to shake Clint's resolve. Think about it, you're a man stuck in a hotel room looking after a bath mad Pia Zadora. Are you telling me that your mind is not going start imagining what Pia Zadora's soft, pruny undercarriage is gonna taste like after its been soaking in soapy water for ten, maybe twenty minutes? If your mind doesn't imagine that, then I'm afraid there's no hope for you. I'm sorry.

When the bath thing doesn't work, Bobbie plays the jailbait card while a waiter is bringing a tray of wine to their room. Given her size, Pia Zadora can pretend to be fourteen years-old at the drop of a hat. And does so in order to make Clint look like a pervert in front of the aforementioned waiter. While it might seem like an asinine thing to do, it does lay the groundwork for Clint to decide to take Bobbie dress shopping.

Of course, they can't get much with twenty dollars, so Bobbie suggests they go to the blackjack table to win some quick cash to buy a new dress (all her old clothes still smell like prison). It would seem that her system for winning involves saying the word "blackjack" over and over again. And, hey, it seems to work, much to the chagrin of Buddy Lester, the other player at Pia and Clints's table, who can't seem to catch a break.

I don't know about you, but I'm dying to know what kind of dress Bobbie is going to purchase with all that blackjack money. In fact, the whole dress subplot is the film's most suspenseful. Why's that, you ask? Isn't it obvious? She's got to get past Larry Storch. And, as most people know, Larry Storch is not someone you get past so easily.

Playing Ted King, the manager of Michelle (G. Wesley Stevens), an up and coming actress, Larry Storch injects some much needed life into the proceedings with his seedy portrayal of a clownish man in a checkered jacket. You would think it would be Telly's job to inject life into this things, but he seems too busy gambling and grabbing the asses of unsuspecting casino waitresses.

Don't worry I haven't forgotten about Pia Zadora's new dress. It's a low cut pink number with a mild slit down the side, and she looks stunning in it. As you might expect, the film's focus shifts away from the dress, as the infamous scene where a man on foot chases a car containing Larry Storch and a transwoman firing an uzi from the passenger side window takes precedence. I don't think I've ever seen a man chase a car on foot before. And I'll admit, I did make me forget about Pia Zadora for a few seconds. Which is the highest praise something that is non-Pia Zadora-related can get in this crazy, Pia-obsessed world.

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As I sit down to type words pertaining to my impromptu screening of Massacre in Dinosaur Valley, the Brazil-set jungle adventure film directed by an Italian, Michele Massimo Tarantini of Women in Fury fame, and starring an American, Michael something, the word "upskirt" is bouncing around inside my head like a superball. The reason being, I want to make sure that I remember it as I go forward with the word typing. It plays, as you will soon find out, a vital role when it comes to the film's overall distribution of enjoyment and other enjoyment-related products. You're joking, right? How could anyone forget to mention the word "upskirt"? I know, you'll probably come across millions of essays and dissertations that tackle this film that don't even bother to mention the film's flagrant upskirt abuse. But you have to remember, the people who wrote those articles are not normal. I, on the other hand, ooze normalcy. And not only that, I am able to spot upskirt abuse with my eyes closed. Upskirt abuse: What is it? And how does one spot it? Well, the former is easy, as it simply refers to the view you get when you look up a woman's skirt, or a man's skirt, or a skirt on a transwoman, for that matter (everyone wears skirts nowadays). Hence, the slapping together of the words "up," meaning something that is up as supposed to down, and "skirt," which is, to quote Lattis from The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra, a kind of "inverted cloth funnel." Okay, that solves the upskirt part of the equation. But what about the abuse? When does that occur? Discounting videos that are designed to cater directly to the upskirt community, I'd say upskirt abuse occurs somewhere around the third upskirt. Just the third? I thought you were gonna say, oh, something like, the sixth or the seventh. Oh, no. No, No, No. One upskirt is just that, one upskirt. Enjoy the view. Two upskirts is, well, that's probably an accident (or an "upskirtccident" as it isn't called). When you spot the third upskirt, you know something is up (no pun intended).

Somewhere out there a deeply flummoxed Michael Sopkiw (the American I alluded to earlier) is probably wondering to himself: Why on earth is this guy talking so much about upskirts? I mean, I wield a shotgun and have sex with Brazilian women, and not even in that order. Patience, Mr. Sopkiw, patience. I'll get to you in a moment. And besides, can't you see that I'm trying to make a point (one that could be viewed as salient) about the amount of upskirt abuse that takes place in this film.

Okay, where was I? Oh, yes. Something is definitely up when you spot a third upskirt. I'm curious, actually, I'm dying to know, how many upskirts are in Massacre in Dinosaur Valley? Are you sitting down? Oh, and before you sit down, make sure to cross your legs. You wouldn't want some pervert to catch a glimpse of your freshly laundered panties, now would you? But seriously, are you sitting down? All right, I counted a total of eleven upskirts. Eleven?!? You heard me, eleven. It's not even funny. Eleven. Are you sure about that? Let me see, one, two, three, four...yep, eleven.

How many upskirt shots does Star Wars have? I'll tell you how many: Zero. Okay. And how many upskirt shots does Massacre in Dinosaur Valley have? Say it with me: eleven. Yeah, but Princess Leia wears a gold bikini in the Return of the Jedi. Really? Well, how 'bout this, eleven.

Someone who, surprisingly, doesn't have a single upskirt moment in this film is Suzane Carvalho, the lead actress from Michele Massimo Tarantini's Women in Fury. Why's that? It's a simple matter of physics, really? Yeah, but you're a complete dumbass who knows nothing about physics. That's true. I am a dumbass. But I'm smart enough to know that even the most resourceful pervert is going to have trouble getting the upward view he or she desires when the subject's legs are in a post-crossed state. Sure, you could wait for them to be un-crossed. But look at you, you're sitting behind the subject. How are you supposed to get a glimpse of her panties from that angle? You can't. Unless you have partner who is willing to hold a mirror, you're not seeing any panties on this day.

Anyway, Eva Ibañez (the name of Suzane's character), the daughter of famed paleontologist Pedro Ibañez (Leonidas Bayer), who is sitting next to her on a hot, overcrowded bus traveling through rural Brazil, is minding her own business, when, all of a sudden, she notices that two passengers sitting behind her are scoping her legs, which, like I said, are firmly crossed. Realizing that they won't be catching a sneak of peek at her soaking wet crotch, thanks to her employment of the leg cross method of sitting and their overall proximity, she lets out a sly smirk.

Arriving at the hotel with her box intact, Eva and her father eventually go to their room. They would have had separate rooms were it not for Robbie (Roberto Roney), a fashion photographer, and his models Belinda (Susan Hahn), a vision in a blue dress, and the sultry Monica (Gloria Cristal), who ended up taking one of their rooms (they had reserved two rooms). Also arriving at the hotel is Kevin Hall (Michael Sopkiw), an American bone hunter (he collects dinosaur bones), who shows up on the back of a banana truck.

Who else is in this movie? Oh, yeah, a bickering couple, Betty Heinz (Marta Anderson, Bare Behind Bars), who looks like a demented Marilyn Monroe impersonator, and Captain Johnny (Milton Rodríguez), a grizzled veteran of the Second Indochina War, who we meet at a cock fight. A cock fight? Don't tell me, both birds die horrible deaths. Actually, the birds seemed fine. On the whole, I was surprised by the lack of animal cruelty in this film. Kudos to Mr. Tarantini for not killing animals in order to tell his story.

Hey, man, not killing animals is great and all, but what about those upskirts you were talking about earlier? Oh yeah, the upskirts. Well, five or six upskirts occur during a fashion shoot by the side of the road. Wow, five or six. In just one scene? That's right. Though, technically, you're going to have to watch the deleted scenes to see one of the film's best upskirt shots. It involves the gorgeous Susan Hahn–but then again, ninety percent of film's upskirt moments involve Susan Hahn–getting into the car, and it's a thing of beauty. I don't usually watch deleted scenes, but something compelled me to do so in this case. At any rate, a flurry of upskirts take place during the roadside photo shoot, as local models dressed a tribespeople poke at Belinda (black panties) and Monica (white panties) with their spears. And in doing so, create a...yep, flurry of upskirts (which amounts to something like, oh, let's say, five separate upskirts).

Upskirt six belongs to Monica. Now this is her last upskirt, so make sure you take the time to enjoy it. The situation surrounding its implementation is actually quite comical, as a drunk (Paul Sky) at the aforementioned cock fight grabs the bottom of Monica's dress and proceeds to lift it up with an untoward hiking motion. Taking exception with this bit of public molestation (the drunk is slobbering all over her miracle of Brazilian booty engineering), Kevin Hall steps in and throws the drunk into some tables. Only problem being, his decision to take exception with the drunk's lewd conduct has caused the drunk's musclebound brothers (Paolo Pacelli and Norton Kays) to take exception with Kevin's exception. Don't feel sorry for Kevin, though. Sure, the drunk's musclebound brothers beat the crap out of him, but was their misguided heroism rewarded with sexual intercourse with a Brazilian model at the end of the day? I don't think so.

As a result of machinations I don't feel like getting into, Kevin, Captain Johnny, Betty, Robbie, Belinda, Monica, Eva Ibañez, Professor Pedro, and their French pilot all hop abroad a plane to a remote corner of the jungle. Okay, I understand why Kevin and Professor Pedro want to go to "Dinosaur Valley," but why are the rest of them going? How 'bout this: Who gives a shit? That works for me. Crammed into the small plane like a bunch of sardines, the travelers busy themselves with various activities: Kevin eats a banana, Belinda and Monica brush their hair, and Eva and Betty exchange nasty looks.

Suddenly, the plane hits a patch of turbulence and starts to hurl toward the earth. As the dinky aircraft bounces around in the sky, so do the passengers. And no one more so than Belinda, who steps up to the upskirt plate to knock upskirt #7 and upskirt #8 out of the park (wee, I just used a baseball metaphor, woo-hoo! yay!). Struggling to remain in her seat, Belinda thrashes about like a rag doll, and in doing so, gives us two peeks up her light peach dress.

After they crash land, the survivors debate whether or not to stay with the plane. Having served three tours in 'Nam, Captain Johnny announces that he's in command, and that they're leaving. Trekking through the jungle to sound of techno pop, the survivors follow Captain Johnny, who says he's leading them to a river (don't blink or you might just miss upskirt #8 - Belinda flashes some internal skirt material while walking over a giant log). I'm telling you, this Johnny fella doesn't know what he's talking about it. I mean...Quiet. It looks like Belinda is having trouble with her shoes. Yes! It would seem that her heels are slowing her down. Say what you will about Captain Johnny's leadership skills, he sure knows how to cobble on the fly.

Sitting her down on a log, Captain Johnny grabs Belinda's shoe and proceeds to slice off the heel with his trusty machete.

Instructing her to take off her other shoe (it only makes sense to alter both of them), Belinda lifts up her leg and slips it off her foot. In doing so, she sets in motion the events that will lead to upskirt #10.

The sight of her white panties pressing tightly against her sweaty undercarriage causes Captain Johnny temporarily lose focus on the task at hand. Noticing that Johnny is starting to lose focus, Betty says, "Enjoying the view, Johnny boy?" Oh, that Betty. Her emasculation skills are first-rate.

After cutting her heels down to size, the group continue through the jungle, where they come across a bunch of heads on sticks, encounter snakes, leaches and piranhas, and engage in an epic power struggle; well, Kevin and Johnny engage in an epic power struggle, the rest just sort of watch from the sidelines.

Saving the best for last, upskirt eleven, that's right, eleven, occurs when the group comes across a pool of fresh water. Diving into the water with a reckless form of abandon, the survivors splash around for awhile before eventually taking a much needed rest. Uninterested in decorum, Belinda sits in a manner that allows the world to see how her panties are holding up. And by "world," I mean Johnny, who gets a second dose of Belinda's succulent drawers (lucky bastard).

Was I sad when Belinda was finally forced to remove her weatherbeaten light peach dress and her put through the ringer white panties? You could say that. However, I thought Susan Hahn's innate gorgeousness, no matter what she was, or, in most cases, wasn't wearing, managed to shine through the humid haze that is Massacre in Dinosaur Valley. Reminding me of Naomi Watts, Susan Hahn must have been a real trooper, as she is captured, re-captured, groped by a frizzy-haired lesbian, chased through the jungle, rescued by Michael Sopkiw (a shotgun wielding badass if I ever saw one), almost sacrificed to a dinosaur god, shot at by a slave trader with a beer gut (Andy Silas), and has her panties are leered at multiple times by a piggish Vietnam vet, and, not to mention, Carlito (Jonas Dalbecchi), a tubby fuck who drives the models to and from their photo shoots. Speaking of Carlito, make sure to check out the aforementioned deleted scenes on the Shriek Show DVD, as they help flesh out the characters, especially Carlito, a little more.

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What would you say is the best way to impress a white person in tan slacks? Oh, man, that's a tough one. Judging by the easily entertained rabble who attend NBA games on a regular basis, the forcible placement of a ball through a metal ring, or, as it's known on the street, a "hoop," seems to impress them. Yeah, they do love to watch tall black men dunk basketballs. But don't you think crushing a golf ball with your bare hands would impress them even more? Think about it. That little white ball, in a way, represents their testicles. So, in turn, you're crushing their reproductive dreams. Also, the game of golf is a subtle metaphor for evils of white supremacy. I mean, who else but white people could justify such an egregious waste of land? You just blew my mind. Seriously, when the ninja assassin at the beginning of Ninja III: The Domination crushes a golf ball with his hand before dispatching one of his target's body guards, I thought he was merely showing off–you know, look what I can do. But now I realize that he was making a point about the waning influence of white people on the global stage. Okay, smart guy. How about the scene where the assassin crushes a red billiards ball with their bare hands? How do you explain that? That's easy. Since the ninja assassin's spirit has been recently transferred to the body of a white woman, they're obviously making a profound statement about the dangers of multiculturalism. What the fuck?!? I know, I know, you're going say, "think about it." Well, yeah, think about it. What colour are billiards balls? Uh, um. Exactly, they're a mixture of all sorts of different colours. In other words, I rest my case.

All this talk about crushing balls is making me thirsty. Are you sure that's it as far as balls go in this film? Let me see, the crushing of the golf ball represents white supremacy and the crushing of the billiards ball represents multiculturism, so are they're any other balls? Interesting question. Actually, no it's not. As it's just those balls that are crushed. Thank heavens. Because I don't know how much longer I can refrain from mentioning the excruciating tightness of Lucinda's Dickey's leotard.

You mean to tell me that you've been blathering on and on about various types of balls being crushed when you could have been waxing semi-poetically about the sight of Lucinda Dickey playing Bouncer (an arcade game from the '80s) in white legwarmers? Is that what you're telling me? I'm afraid so. Then you my friend should be asham...Wait a second, you know what? I'm going to take it easy on you this time. Just promise me that you'll use the phrase "mouth-watering" to describe Lucinda Dickey's spandex-ensnared crotch in the not-so distant future. Why would I use the term "mouth-watering" to describe her, what did you call it? Oh yeah, "spandex-ensnared crotch," in a review about this film? Isn't it about ninjas and junk? Oh, you'll see. Okay, if you say so. Anyway, sure, I promise to use phrase "mouth-watering" in conjunction with a crotch that's been inexplicably ensnared in spandex.

When one of the first things you see onscreen are the words "A Golan-Globus Production" you know you're for a cinematic treat. However, it was the credit "Synthesizer Score by Udi Harpaz and Misha Segal" that got me all in a tizzy. Do I know who Udi and Misha are? Of course not. No, it was the phrase "synthesizer score" that set my tizzy in motion, as I've never seen a movie where the music is listed that way. And since I love synthesizer scores, I was dying to hear what Udi and Misha had to offer as far as...you know, synthesizer scores go.

As the dawn breaks in the desert, a golfer and a ninja were about to collide with one another; a collision that will have a profound affect on the well-being of countless individuals across the greater Phoenix area. The golfer, surrounded by body guards, and accompanied by his wife, is about to tee off, when suddenly, a ninja appears from the bushes. Picking up the errant ball the golfer's body guards were trying to locate, the ninja shows it to one of the body guards before crushing it with his hand. Dispatching the body guards with an alarming ease, the ninja then moves toward the golfer in a menacing fashion. After thwarting his pathetic attempt to flee in a golf cart, the ninja kills the golfer and his wife with his trusty sword.

The ninja's plan of attack was a flawless example of how to properly to kill a golfer (it was stealthy perfection, if you ask me). On the other hand, his escape plan needs a little work. Minutes after taking out the golfer, the Municipal Golf Course is swarming with cops. Killing about thirty of them, including three aboard a helicopter (this is one spry ninja), the ninja (David Chung) is finally surrounded by five cops wielding guns. Blasting him with everything they've got, the cops riddle the ninja with bullets. Yet, after the dust clears, the ninja is nowhere to be found.

Where did the ninja go? Oh, wait a minute, there he is. Staggering through the shrubbery, the ninja stumbles across Christie (Lucinda Dickey), a telephone repairwoman. Well, actually, it's Christie who stumbles upon the injured ninja. On top of being a telephone repairwoman (the kind that climb up and down poles), Christie is a member of the Give a Ninja a Helping Hand Foundation, a non-profit organization set up to help ninjas in need. And judging by the way he's staggering, this is one ninja who could use a helping hand. Of course, ninjas aren't the easiest people to help, so when Christie tries to assist the wounded ninja (who must have been shot over a hundred times), he's a tad standoffish.

Realizing that the shapely telephone repairwoman standing before him is trying to help, the ninja offers Christie his sword. After mumbling something in Japanese, the ninja dies. As she's holding the ninja's sword, Christie starts to see visions of the cops who shot the ninja. Which, as most people would agree, is not something that should be happening; in that, they're not her memories, they're the ninjas. Or are they?

After being questioned at police headquarters, Christie is harassed by a cop named Billy Secord (Jordan Bennett). Hitting on her in an aggressive manner, Christie finally puts her foot down and tells him that she doesn't date cops (you tell him, sister). I don't know 'bout you, but I really dislike this Secord fella. There's something about him that makes my skin crawl.

Climbing telephone poles all day and coming to the aid of wounded ninjas is hard work. So, can you blame Christie for wanting to unwind a bit? I didn't. And what better way to do so than to play video games in aerobics gear. As the camera pans down Lucinda Dickey's frame, her mouth-watering crotch laughing in the face of the tight layer of spandex currently inundating the smooth nooks and crannies of its forked housing, as she played "Bouncer," a sense of relief washes over me. Why so? Well, I had no interest in watching an action-packed ninja film that shunned Lucinda's Dickey's spandex-ensnared pussy area. Which is what I thought this film, directed by Sam Firstenberg, was going to be; yet another ninja film that fails to cater to any of my freakishly specific needs and requirements. But like I said, those fears were quickly cast aside once we enter Christie's killer pad.

An inordinate amount of praise has to go to production designer Elliot Ellentuck and set decorator Dian Perryman for the work they did in creating Lucinda Dickey's loft in Ninja III: The Domination, as her place is filled with dozens of unique pieces. Items in Christie's loft that caught my fancy: the industrial spool coffee table, the flight suit by the door, the wind turbine roof vent atop her fridge, the Patrick Nagel poster, the neon signs, the light pink Japanese-style blinds, the vintage lucite table, and, of course, the video arcade game.

You would think that working for Metro Telephone and helping wayward ninjas would eat up most of Christie's time. Think again. A buttery concourse of dimple-free crotches are thrust in our faces as we enter the gym where Christie works as an aerobics instructor. Barking exercise-based language at her students, Christie oozes fitness from every pore. As the lyrically apt "Body Shop" by Dave Powell is doing its best to induce us to sweat on the soundtrack, we can't help but notice that Officer Secord has decided to take Christie's class.

When the class is over, Christie notices four or five thugs harassing one of Christie's female students in the alleyway behind the gym. It would seem that she likes to help out non-ninjas as well, as Christie comes to the woman's aide. If you're thinking to yourself that Christie is no match for these guys. Don't worry, Christie makes short work of them. But get this, Officer Secord was watching as she almost got manhandled by five musclebound gym members. That's right, he just stood there. And to make matters worse, Officer Secord tells Christie that he could have her arrested for assault. What the...If anyone should be arrested, it's you. Um, hello? Dereliction of duty much? I don't care if you were off duty. What kind of man sits idly by and watches an aerobics instructor (one whose tightly packaged crotch brings so much joy to so many) get almost beaten up by a bunch of roided up neanderthals? I'll tell you what kind, the asshole kind.

Despite what I just said, Christie takes Officer Secord back to her stylish pad and has him drink V8 off her neck. I'm curious, did this untoward display cause use to lose any respect for Christie? Not really. I mean, sure, I don't like Officer Secord. But maybe there's more to him than meets the eye. He could, after all, have a nice cock. Yeah, but nice cock or no nice cock, did you see his shoulders? I know, he looks like an ape. And what's with the sleeveless shirts? Seriously. Someone with shoulders like that should never wear anything that doesn't come with sleeves.

If you thought Christie's apartment looked awesome before, wait until you see it when its been bathed in a thick layer of ninja mist. Oh, and don't bother checking my spelling, I said, ninja mist. You know, the mist caused by the spirit of a dead ninja? Anyway, the spirit of the dead ninja from the opening scene wants to live on through the body of, you guessed it, Christie, and does so through his sword.

Beckoning her from her closet, the dead ninja's sword floats around the room for awhile, until finally resting in Christie's hands. And since dead ninjas are famous for holding grudges, Christie must avenge the dead ninja by killing the cops responsible for his death, because she is now...ninja! She even knows where to find the dead ninja's super-secret stash of ninja goodies. Though, I don't remember seeing a black one-piece bathing suit in the super-secret ninja stash (Christie uses its thigh-accentuating tightness to kill one of the cops and a couple of floozies at a local health spa).

Does this mean Christie is going to kill Officer Secord? After all, he was one of the cops present when the dead ninja was killed. You bet it does. Woo-hoo! That being said, you just know that Officer Secord is going to be the one who stands in the way of her actualization as a ninja. And wouldn't you know it, he's taking her to see James Hong to get a ninjorcism (it's like an exorcism for ninjas) as we speak.

Which reminds me. Check this out, as Christie is taking her one way trip to Lindablairsville (Population: "Your mother sucks cocks in Hell!"), she utters the line, "You fool! Nothing can stop me! I am the nin...ja!" Pretty standard stuff as far as ninjorcisms go, right? Yeah, but get this, Officer Secord then says, "Ninja? I wanna know what that is." Hold the phone, what kind of person doesn't know what a ninja is? Granted, things would be different if it was, say, oh, 1934 (a ninja-less hellhole not replete with ninjas). But this is 1984, and ninjas are fucking everywhere.

If given the choice between watching Lucinda Dickey work out to new wave music in nothing but white panties and a pink t-shirt, or, say, watching Sho Kosugi (a ninja with an eye-patch) kick orderlies in the face, I will always choose the former. But thankfully, Ninja III: The Domination dispenses both in a manner that I found both tolerable and acceptable. It's true, some of the fight scenes were repetitive, especially the final showdown. But the film's bizarre The Exorcist meets Heavenly Bodies temperament was enough to allow me to look past its cliches, and enjoy it as the dumb action movie that it truly is.

Can you believe that Officer Secord? What's a ninja? Hee-hee. What an asshat. An asshat who is currently lapping up the figurative contents swirling around Lucinda Dickey's mouth-watering crotch. I hate you, Officer Secord. You hairy-shouldered bastard.

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If the sight of Ted Raimi, brother of Drag Me to Hell director Sam Raimi, running around a vacant lot to industrial music wearing the skin of another man wasn't messed up enough. The makes of Skinner, the only film in existence to feature Traci Lords' little seen Carl McCoy impression, have decided to up the ante a couple octaves by having Ted Raimi run around a vacant lot to industrial music while wearing the skin of a black man. Taking "blackface" to whole new level of creepy and awkward, Ted Raimi totally wears a suit made entirely from the skin of a black man. It's true, he does wear the skin of white women as well. But there's something really disturbing about the sight of a white man wearing the skin of a black man. The fact that he acts out what he interrupts as "black mannerisms" is what makes the scene even more disturbing. What's so disturbing about that, you ask? You're joking, right? Sure, wearing other people's skin is sick and twisted, but people, especially white people, act out the mannerisms of other races and cultures all the time. Anytime you hear a white man say the word "yo" while wearing a baseball hat that's been purposefully positioned to sit atop his head in an irregular manner, they're just imitating what they saw a black man do on television. Wow, when you put it that way, it doesn't sound creepy and awkward at all. Exactly. What Ted Raimi's character is doing is he's just taking cultural co-option one step further. Forget about wearing their clothes, adopting their mannerisms, or even burrowing their language, the evolution of white people will involve skin theft. Mark my words, human skin will be a major commodity in the not-so distant future.

I don't mean to be rude, but I didn't understand a word you just said. Yeah, I can see that; after all, it's pretty ridiculous as far as theories go. Actually, my lack of understanding had nothing to do with your theory; which, looking back at it, is, like you said, pretty ridiculous. No, I lost the plot somewhere around the time you uttered the line, "Traci Lords' little seen Carl McCoy impression." In fact, that's exactly when I started to tune out. Why's that? Are you for real? You don't mention Traci Lords and Carl McCoy in the same sentence and expect people to simple shrug their shoulders and go about their business.

Do people even know who Traci Lords and Carl McCoy are? Okay, now you're stating to annoy me. Sorry about that. But seriously, do people know who Carl McCoy is? Probably not. However, I bet Traci Lords knows who he is. While watching MTV some time in the early 1990s, Traci happened upon a music video for a band called the Fields of the Nephilim. And while watching the video (for, I'm guessing, the song "Moonchild"), Traci thought to herself: Man, my pussy is sore. And, after getting an ice pack from the freezer, she thought to herself again: If I ever get the chance to play a woman who desperately wants to exact revenge on a serial killer who tried to steal her skin, I'm going to use Carl McCoy, their charismatic frontman, as my inspiration.

Standing in the middle of a stream, Traci Lords raises her head and mutters the line, "He'll come back here...he's a creature of habit." You'll notice as she raises her head to say that line that Traci Lords is wearing the perfect hat for dramatic head raising. A black hat with a wide brim, one that is adorned with netting, Traci's hat practically screams Fields of the Nephilim. While her hat is screaming, "Out of mind / A righteous dream" (the lyrics to the aforementioned "Moonchild"), Traci's body language is giving off a decidedly Stevie Nicks vibe. Okay, so Traci's hat is Carl McCoy of the Fields of the Nephilim, and her body language is Stevie Nicks. Is that it? Let me see. Oh, and the way Traci's hair fell over her face reminded of Veronica Lake's famous peekaboo hairstyle.

It's obvious that Traci Lords is harbouring a grudge against someone. Who that someone isn't so clear. Though, I have a feeling it might be Ted Raimi, who we see wandering the very same stream we saw Traci Lords doing her Carl McCoy/Stevie Nicks/Veronica Lake impression. Wearing a pair of black Converse sneakers and carrying a bag of knives, Ted Raimi's Dennis Skinner seems to have a thing for water. Water?!? That's what I said. Anyway, as he's walking through the stream, the music of Contagion ("Scratch!") can be heard on the soundtrack. An industrial band who were sort of big in the early 1990s, Contagion (who I saw open for Front Line Assembly when they were called Bioharzard PCB) provide the right amount of eerie synth sounds for the film's plethora of lurking scenes.

Since he can't wander around in the water forever, Dennis Skinner shows up at Ricki Lake's house, with his big bag of knives, to inquire about the room for rent. Desperate to rent out their spare room, Ricki, I mean, Terry Tate, convinces Dennis to take the room, despite the fact that her husband, Geoff (David Warshofsky), is away being a trucker; I wonder how Geoff's going to react when he finds out that Ted Raimi is sleeping in the room down the hall?

She might look at home standing in the middle of a stream, but Traci Lords needs some place dry to spend the night as well. Given that Ricki Lake's room off the market, Traci, I mean, Miss Heidi, decides to get a room at a sleazy hotel. After grabbing the key from Eddie (Richard Schiff), the hotel's equally sleazy desk clerk (he likes industrial music and playing solitaire with nudie-cutie playing cards), Heidi limps to her room. Carrying a briefcase filled with syringes, Heidi takes the newspaper she just picked up and proceeds to cover the room's mirror with the pages; I guess she doesn't like to look at herself.

The newspaper Traci's character picks up, by the way, was the only real proof that the outside world exists in this film. Taking place in a universe that seemed otherworldly at times, the characters appear, in some ways, to be the only people on earth. Whether this was done on purpose or not is irrelevant, as the effect it creates is rather disquieting. Whenever I see extras in films I always wonder who are they are, and, in some cases, make up elaborate backstories for them. In Skinner, however, there are no extras, the film's realm belongs to the characters and to them alone. My favourite realm is the graffiti-laden concrete river bed that Dennis Skinner likes to wander in his spare time.

Replete with prostitutes, the graffiti-laden (the artists who tagged the walls have long since died as a result of drug overdoses) concrete river bed is a veritable candy store. Except, instead of candy, this store mostly stocks stocking-clad sex workers. Asking a hooker wearing a white mini-skirt and black fishnets if she's "for sale," Dennis Skinner and the brunette prostitute head off to conduct their business in a more secluded area (though, you can't get more secluded than a graffiti-laden concrete river bed).

Oh, and by "their business" I mean, flaying. In other words, someone is going to get flayed tonight. Don't you mean "laid"? No, no, "flay." You see, this Dennis fella is a serial killer, one who removes the skin of his victims, sews the pieces together, and wears them like a suit. That's gross. Yeah, I guess it is. But as far as graphic footage of this act goes, we're spared from seeing any of the grisly details, for now. A quick shot of a knife slicing into flesh and a bloodcurdling scream is all we get for the brunette in the white mini-skirt.

As you would expect, Geoff isn't too pleased to find that a creepier-than-usual Ted Raimi has moved into his house. This causes to Geoff to rebuff Ricki Lake's sexual advances; are you insane, man? Look at her! She's wearing nothing but an oversize white t-shirt. Speaking of impromptu nightclothes, Traci Lords is currently writhing, Lina Romay-style, on her bed. In an earlier scene, we see that Traci's legs and arms are covered in bumpy lesions; hence her decision to wear knee-high boots and opera gloves at all times. When she's not writhing or injecting herself with drugs, Traci is either starring angrily at a picture of Dennis Skinner she carries around with her or wading ankle deep in a nearby stream.

The reason Heidi is always hanging out down by the water is because she knows Dennis Skinner will show up there sooner of later, as he seems drawn to water.

I don't know what it is about the graffiti-laden concrete river bed that attracts prostitutes, but Dennis Skinner stumbles upon yet another one while wandering around down there. Unlike his previous encounter, this prostitute approaches Dennis (she seemingly appears out of nowhere), asking him if he's "looking for a girl"? Wearing a pink dress and black stockings, the prostitute gives Dennis the lowdown on the service she provides and their respective costs. Rattling through the usual choices, Dennis' eyes light up when she says, "kinky is extra." Curious, Dennis asks, "How much is extra"? To which she responds, "Depends on how kinky." I know, this is awesome stuff.

You think that's awesome, eh? Check out what happens next. Just as the prostitute, who is slightly older than your average streetwalker, is about to take her stockings off, Dennis says, "No! Don't take those off."

I get teary eyed just thinking about how correct Dennis was to prevent the prostitute from removing her stockings. The reason I brought up the fact that this particular prostitute more advanced in years was because I thought, given the amount of experience she's had on the street, that she would be smart enough to not allow Ted Raimi to tie her up. I know, she stated that kinky was one of her specialties. But still, you don't let Ted Raimi tie you up; no good can come from it. I mean, weren't you a tad alarmed by the fact that he brought his own rope?

Well, it's too late now, as Dennis Skinner has just emerged from the bathroom wearing the skin that used to be attached to the body of one of her hooker peers. And, like I said, no good can come from this.

After finishing his nightly allotment of creepily lurking in the moonlight without the aid of a shirt, Dennis Skinner searches the graffiti-laden concrete river bed for another prostitute. When he does find one, a blonde in a tight pink dress and black stockings, Heidi is waiting for him. While her sting operation doesn't go quite as planned, Dennis Skinner now knows that Heidi is gunning for him. However, that doesn't stop him from removing the prostitute in pink's skin. And unlike his previous encounters, her flaying in shown in graphic detail. Talking aloud while removing the hooker's back skin, Dennis Skinner gives us a little insight into the inner workings of his warped mind.

In case you're wondering why the skinned hooker's pimps aren't out there protecting their product from a crazed, water-obsessed Ted Raimi, the prostitutes do eventually seem to get wise and avoid the graffiti-laden concrete river bed. Nevertheless, that doesn't seem to stop a seemingly random cavalcade of attractive women from entering the flaying fray, as a brunette in a floral dress is unceremoniously dumped there by her boyfriend.

Oozing–no scratch that. Percolating–nah, I don't like that either. Drenched–that will do for now–in enough foreboding atmosphere to keep even the most jaded of slasher fans happy, director Ivan Nagy (ex-boyfriend of Heidi Fleiss) has created a wonderfully ominous world filled with dark nooks and shadowy crannies. Which is pretty amazing when you think about it, as the film has basically just three locations: Ricki Lake's house, Traci Lords' hotel room, and Ted Raimi's graffiti-laden playground on the wrong side of the tracks. It just goes to show that you don't need lots of money to make an effective horror film. All you really need is Ricki Lake (whose character seems to dress like a twelve year-old girl, one who is constantly forced to go church), Traci Lords (who gives a brave performance as the damaged Heidi - "brave" because her bread and butter - her smoking hot bod - has been blemished on purpose), Ted Raimi (a man who does creepy right), and an unending concourse of stocking-clad prostitutes and dumped girlfriends (Blaire Baron, Roberta Eaton, Christina Engelhardt, Frederika Kesten and Sara Lee Froton). Get them and the film will pretty much direct itself. It also helps to have one of your actors channeling Carl McCoy, Stevie Nicks, and Veronica Lake simultaneously.

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If you don't think the sight of an exceedingly voluptuous Annie Sprinkle getting a glass of water for her sister's fiance is the height of drama, then you might want to think twice about watching Satan Was a Lady, the Doris Wishman-directed psycho-sexual thrill ride/ugly couch showcase that begs the question: Actually, the question it begs is currently not available. We ask that you please bear with us. However, if the sight of a, yeah, yeah, an exceedingly voluptuous Annie Sprinkle getting a glass of water for some guy–let's keep this thing moving–does appeal to you, then you my friend are in for a real treat. You mean to tell me there's a film out there that features an exceedingly voluptuous Annie Sprinkle getting a glass a water for a man who's about to marry her sister? I don't know. All this talk of retrieving water while being exceedingly voluptuous sounds a little too good to be true, if you know what I mean. I don't, know what you mean, that is. But I can tell you this, an exceedingly voluptuous Annie Sprinkle does in fact do exactly what I says she does in this quiet meditation on greed, sex and gaudy furniture. And not only that, but Bobby Astyr mock consumes Annie Sprinkle's pulsating pussy for five whole minutes. While I like the idea of a man sopping up the consecrated wetness congealing in the vicinity of a clean-shaven cooter, especially in 1975, a time when vaginal baldness was a bit an an anomaly, I wanna hear more about this glass of water. Are you fucking with me? The only reason I mentioned any of that business involving Annie Sprinkle (whose voluptuousness is never in doubt in this film) and the glass of water she fetches for her sister's fiance is because I'm an idiot. Or, to put it another way, I like the idea of someone taking the time to write words about a seemingly innocuous scene in a film filled with hirsute ball sacks and damp hatchet wounds.

Now, the act of you, who is really me, telling me, who is really you, that you wanna hear more about the infamous glass of water scene in Satan Was a Lady is the definition of enabling. It's true, I am messing with you to a certain degree. But then again, that's what I...Hey, wait a minute. I just noticed that you put the word "infamous" before the words "glass of water scene." How come? Well, thanks to my incessant blathering about the glass of water scene, the glass of water scene has now become, you guessed it, infamous. Truth be told, anyone can do it. Just watch a movie, preferably one that no one has heard of. Then after it's over, just type a bunch of words–you can arrange them in a manner you wish–about any scene that tickles your fancy, and, boom, you have laid the groundwork for making a movie scene infamous.

Since the sight of Annie Sprinkle's curvaceous frame stomping oh-so erotically from the living room to the kitchen to get a glass of water occurs later the film, I suppose, in the meantime, I'm going to have to talk about the events that lead up to its infamous retrieval.

Opening your film with a scene that features a man removing a woman's stockings is, from my perspective, the best and worst way you can begin your movie. On the one hand, you've got legs sheathed in tan stockings in your face right from the get-go. Unfortunately, the guy pawing at the woman in the tan stockings decides to remove them. If you imagine real hard, you can almost hear the perverts in the audience groaning with displeasure by this act of untoward unsheathing. What perverts? You know, the guys and gals who went to see this film when it played on 42nd Street throughout the mid-to-late 1970s.

Oh, how I would have loved to have attended the premiere of Satan Was a Lady back when it opened in New York City in 1975; the atmosphere must have been electric.

Anyway, getting to back to the tan stockings. After they're removed, Victor (Tony Richards) lifts Claudia (Bree Anthony), the woman who was wearing tan stockings, off the sleazy rug she's currently resting on, and proceeds to put her body in a position that will be more conducive for sexual congress. Telling him, "This is wrong, Victor," Claudia is somewhat reluctant to allow him to penetrate her with his penis (she thinks they should wait until they're married). It's obvious that Claudia has had a change of heart regarding the whole penetration situation, as Victor's penis is clearly plowing into her birth canal utilizing a series of sharply implemented jabbing motions.

Just as I was beginning to tire of being immersed in the untamed undergrowth that is Victor's palustrine scrotal no-man's land, Claudia's sister Terry (Annie Sprinkle) appears in the doorway. How did you know she Claudia's sister? Excellent question. As Terry stares at her fornicating sister, employing a facial expression that can best be described as exasperated contempt, she thinks to herself, "My little sister Claudia. My sick little sister."

Call me perceptive, but I think the reason Terry didn't wait until Victor ejaculated sperm all over Claudia's stomach (she left during the cowgirl stage of their sex act) was because she has the hots for Victor as well.

Quirky fun-fact: The voice used to verbally express Terry and Claudia's thoughts is provided by none other than Doris Wishman herself.

Frustrated by what she just witnessed, Terry sits on a putrid-looking couch, crosses her legs, and begins to admire to floral patterns that pepper her bluish skirt. Only problem with that is, her mother, Ada (Sandy Foxx), is crouching by the television, which is located between two equally putrid-looking chairs. Why is that a problem, exactly? Well, you see, Terry's mother is constantly nagging her about her unladylike behaviour. And, as you might expect, this annoys Terry like you wouldn't believe. Leaving the room in a bit of a huff, Terry decides to make a phone call.

If you thought the sight of Annie Sprinkle fetching a glass of water was compelling, you should see her dial a touch-tone telephone. Hubba-hubba.

Calling up Bobby (Bobby Astyr) on said touch-tone telephone, Terry arranges a meeting. If you thought Terry wanted to meet Bobby in order to discuss macrame, you would be wrong. Noticing that she is admiring the bondage gear hanging above his bed, Bobby suggests that she strap herself in.

Willing, to use her words, "to try anything once," Terry is suddenly naked on his bed with her wrists and ankles bound with leather restraints.

Spread eagle, Terry finds the smoothness of her shaved pussy at the mercy of Bobby's inquisitive tongue. Gaining in ripeness with every lick, Terry quivers with delight as Bobby dines on her pinkish maw. It's only a matter of time before Bobby's penis is saying hello to Terry's throbbing box, and, to no one's surprise, it enters its slippery housing with an eel-like ease.

Meanwhile, Claudia is wandering around in the park. The sex scenes are great and all. But there's something wonderfully off-kilter about the film's non-sex-related ones. The phone call scene, the brief exchange between Terry and Ada, and Claudia's stroll in the park are all marked by an idiosyncratic awkwardness that I can't help but lap up with a spoon.

Standing by a chain link fence, Claudia suspects that "something strange is going on," and wonders if she should tell her mother that she and Victor are getting married. While Claudia's commitment to her fiance is unwavering, Victor clearly isn't, as committed, that is. What do you think Victor's doing while she's ruminating in the park? That's right, he's placing his boy thing between Terry's ample breasts.

If I had to point out a single flaw in Satan Was a Lady, it would have to be the fact that no-one has sex with Sandy Foxx. You mean the actress who played Ada, Terry and Claudia's mother? Yeah, her. She's got a tight little body on her and she knows exactly how to drive men crazy. Don't believe me? Check out the way the she crosses her black pantyhose-adorned legs. Her sitting technique will reduce your pathetic genitals to a mound of shapeless goo. Anyway, I guess I'll just have to take solace in the scenes that feature Sandy stirring the contents of a cooking pot, crouching in a grey skirt, and the one where she tells Terry to put some clothes and to "act like a lady," as there all we get as far as Sandy Foxx-based titillation goes.

The sisterly bound between Terry and Claudia is obviously a fractured one. All you need to do is take one look at them sitting on that war crime of a couch together and you will fully understand the tenuous nature of their relationship. In all honesty, I was somewhat surprised I was able to pick up on the tension. I mean, the fact that Annie Sprinkle is wearing a pink, frilly, Little Bo Peep-style prom dress was kind of distracting, as my mind was inundated with thoughts such as: Why is she wearing that? And: Who dresses like that around the house? To which Terry would probably reply, "Leave me alone."

With two slabs of hearty vaginal cornmeal already on his plate, you wouldn't think that Victor would be able to handle three vaginas at once. Think again, Skippy. Not only does he juggle three women simultaneously, one of them is played by the sophisticated C.J. Laing, a woman who literally oozes a Sharon Mitchell-approved brand of spunk appeal. As Terry and Claudia are not chatting with one another on that guacamole stain masquerading as a couch, Victor is busy inserting his cock inside C.J. Laing's warm, wet and inviting pussy. Despite their obvious drunkenness, Victor and C.J. manage to execute a series of well-timed thrusts. Though, it should be noted that when it came time to for C.J. to carry out her thrusting end of the bargain, I couldn't help but notice that the close up shots of her pussy were replaced with what looked like Bree Anthony's pussy. How do I know this? It's simple, really. While Bree's pussy is shaved, C.J. is rocking a full bush, and the pussy in the scene between Victor and C.J. is clearly shaved.

When the film's jaw-dropping climax is about to get underway, Victor, Claudia, Ada and Terry all gather together in the living room. And, yes, that putrid couch and those ghastly chairs are front and centre to witness the greatest twist ending in cinematic history. Appearance-wise, you wouldn't think something "jaw-dropping" was about to happen. But trust me, some weird shit is about to go down. It all starts when Victor asks Terry to get him a glass of cold water. I won't say anything else, as I don't want to ruin the surprise. Which is a shame, because I was looking forward to heaping a fair amount of misguided praise on Alex Mann, who shows up during the finale as a doctor, a doctor who wears a red blazer (he's constantly adjusting the sleeves) and sounds like a mobster.

It just dawned me, by bringing up the fact that Sandy Foxx doesn't appear in a sex scene, and, not to mention, letting the cat out of the bag in regard to the C.J./Bree pussy switcheroo, I'm in danger of making this film sound like a piece of crap filled with nothing but errors and goofs. When, in reality, the exact opposite is true. A genuine camp classic if I ever saw one, Satan Was a Lady, with its odd shifts in tone, its dedication to long, protracted shots of inanimate objects, and, of course, its tawdry approach to interior design, this film will satisfy the hunger that lies within all those who love their pornography to include elements of horror and melodrama. If watching Annie Sprinkle lounge around in nothing but black stockings and a matching corset is more your thing, then you'll love the film, too. I'm just saying, there's something peculiar about this film, and that's the main reason to seek it out.

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I didn't know guys with hairy taints performed cunnilingus in 1925. But according to Come With Me My Love (a.k.a. The Haunted Pussy), it was being dolled out like copious amounts of cotton candy. Which reminds me, it's not everyday that you see an erotic horror film that includes a prologue that takes place in the 1920s. But then again, Doris Wishman isn't your everyday kind of filmmaker. She sees things from a decidedly cockeyed point-of-view, and this film is proof of that. A supernatural thriller interspersed with scenes involving sexual intercourse with ghosts, the film is an epic tale about lust, jealously, desire, and revenge. And just like her previous masterpiece (and I use the word "masterpiece" sheepishly with a dash of sincerity), Satan Was a Lady, this film, featuring the groundbreaking cinematography of C. Davis Smith, takes place entirely inside a modest apartment building located near the park. However, its premise is bold and daring. Covering the topic of life after death in a thoughtful and intelligent manner, the film begs the question: Do the curtains match the drapes? If you have ever had the pleasure of watching a Doris Wishman film, then you know that's a loaded question. The chances the curtains would match anything, let alone the drapes, is highly unlikely. You see, Miss Wishman likes play around with our perception of what constitutes tasteful interior design. Pushing the limits of home decor to the outer reaches of gaudiness, this film will test the integrity of your eyeballs. But don't worry erection/wetness fans, the film is also filled with the kind of mid-70s-style fucking and sucking that will keep the contents of your respective crotches on their crotchety toes. Just thought I'd throw that out there just in case anyone was worrying that the film was exclusively an exercise in tawdry feng shui.

There are three separate events that occur before the ghost of a spurned husband from the 1920s can begin to have sex with a drugged woman that looks exactly like his dead wife. First, the curtains begin to ripple as the result of an eerie breeze. Second, we can't help but notice that the sky looks like it's on fire. And last but not least, the blurry shape of mustached man suddenly appears in front of a wall covered with garish red and white wallpaper. And judging by the number of times the dead guy from the twenties has sexual relations with the 1970s version of dead wife's doppelgänger, we're going to see a whole lot of that wallpaper.

Welcome to Kenmare City. Where? You know, Kenmare City. Actually, to be honest, I've never heard of Kenmare City. It says here that there's Kenmare in North Dakota. But nothing about a Kenmare City. Here's an idea, maybe Doris Wishman simply made it up. Anyway, it's 1925, and Randolph (Jeffery Hurst) is creeping up the stairs; the black and white picture quality is grainy to give the film a 1920s feel. Opening the door to his apartment, he stumbles upon his wife (Ursula Austin) canoodling in the buff with a guy (Terry Austin) who is supposedly Randolph's best friend. They don't see him standing there, so they continue to canoodle. After awhile their canoodling morphs into the realm of oral sex. Oral sex?!? In the 1920s?!? Blow jobs I can see, as men have always liked to have their cocks orally serviced. But cunnilingus?!? I'm telling you, I just can't picture it happening back then. Really? You can't picture men going down on women during the so-called roaring twenties? Okay, maybe you're right. Forget everything I just said about oral sex and 1920s.

Visibly annoyed, okay, more like, enraged, Randolph interrupts them, pulls out a gun (maybe he didn't "stumble upon" them, after all), announces his displeasure, and proceeds to shoot his best friend in the chest. You would think that this would be the moment when Randolph's wife would start to scream (she just watched the guy whose face was just all up in her pussy shot to death). But no, she throws her wedding ring off in disgust and basically tells Randolph to go fuck himself. As she did that, I thought to myself, yeah, you go, girl. After shooting her in the head, Randolph turns the gun on himself.

Welcome to Kenmare City... Hey, man, didn't you already say that? Can't a brother finish a sentence? I'm sorry, go ahead. Welcome to Kenmare City, it's 1976, and Abby (Ursula Austin) is walking up the stairs to her new apartment. Dressed like Little Edie from Grey Gardens and carrying the world's reddest suitcase, Abby enters her new digs, which we get a brief tour of thanks to a spinning camera shot.

Meanwhile, at another apartment building, a guyed named Patrick (Robert Kerman) and a blonde woman, oh, let's call her, Beatrice (Nancy Dare), are engaged in the 69 position, when Lola (Vanessa Del Rio) shows up. Asking if them if she can join them, Robert Kerman pulls his face out of Beatrice's ass and replies, "Sure, come on over." I don't know what these people have to do with the plot. Nevertheless, they provide the bulk of the non-ghost sex in this movie. Oh, I remember, Abby knows Lola somehow, and she calls her every now and then. It doesn't quite justify they're presence, but at least they're loosely connected to the story.

Since Abby can't call Lola on her phone (the one in her apartment isn't hooked up yet), she uses her neigbour's phone instead. And you know what that means? That's right, it's time for Annie Sprinkle to make her shapely presence felt. Yay! I love Annie Sprinkle! Oozing a naive exuberance, Annie plays Tess Albertino, Abby's helpful next-door neighbour, like her life depended on it. She does what? Yeah, she has urgency about her that practically screamed quiet desperation. If you say so.

Maybe it's the new apartment (the carpet is blood red) or maybe it's the eerie creaking noises, but either way, Abby is having trouble sleeping. Suddenly, a bottle of sleeping pills magically appear on her nightstand. Doing what any normal person would do, Abby takes one of the mysterious pills, removes her sea green nightie and goes to bed. What occurs next is a sight we're going to be quite familiar with by the time this film is over, and that is: Curtains, sky, wind, wallpaper, and ghost. When you see these five things show up in this order (the "wind" is usually represented by the sight of Abby's hair being jostled by a stiff breeze), you know you're about to see something truly out of this world. Or more specifically, tiny droplets of ghost jizz sloshing around on Abby's naturally flat stomach with nowhere to go.

Emerging from the red wallpaper, Randolph's ghost walks up to Abby's bed and begins to grope her flesh. Besides the fact that he came out of the wallpaper, how do you know he's a ghost? Well, for starters, Doris Wishman shows us what's being in reflected in Abby's mirror. And what do we don't see? We don't see two people engaging in a raucous bought of mid-1970s-style sexual intercourse, we only see Abby, who, according to her mirror, appears to be hugging/humping no-one. The sight of Abby having sex with the air is hands down the film's most haunting image.

Wandering in the dark with only a candle guide her way (the lights in her apartment stopped working for some strange reason), Abby is trying to find the fusebox. What she finds instead is Tess' Movie Date (Levi Richards), who startles her by grabbing her arm. Taking him back to her apartment, Abby offers to get Tess' Movie Date a drink. She makes it all but four feet, when Tess' Movie Date grabs her again (this Tess' Movie Date guy, he's one grabby motherfucker), and steers Abby the direction of her bedroom where they engage in, you guessed it, a raucous bought of mid-1970s-style sexual intercourse.

If you're wondering what Tess doing during all this. Wonder no more, because I'm totally about to tell you...for some inexplicable reason. Waiting in her apartment for Tess' Movie Date to show up, Tess, who looks sexy in a slinky black dress, taps her fingers on her hips and paces back and forth like a caged animal. Call me someone who is one gourd sort of a six pack, but I'd rather watch Annie Sprinkle act frustrated in a gaudily furnished apartment, than watch Levi Richard's unkempt ball sack bounce around inside Ursula Austin's mouth.

She might not kill with her cunt, but terrible things seem to happen to all those who enter its gaping expanse. Case in point, Tess' Movie Date leaves Abby's apartment the following morning, and goes home. While Abby did a pretty good job washing his genitals, you should really take a bath, you know, just to be on the safe side. Only problem is, your radio is sitting on the edge of your bath tub. Meaning, you're practically inviting a jealous ghost, one who is none too pleased that you just had sex with a woman who looks exactly like his dead wife from 1920s, to push the radio in the water. Oh, Tess' Movie Date, when will you ever learn?

Am I crazy, or does the 69 position really bring out the luster in Ursula Austin's thighs? What's that? You're saying I am crazy?!? Interesting. And here I thought I was being perfectly sane. At any rate, the curtains, the wind, the sky, the wallpaper, and the ghost return, as Abby is visited yet again by Randolph's phantom cock.

Oh, and don't feel sorry for Tess. Sure, she was stood up by Tess' Movie Date, but she has plenty of suitors who want to rake her proverbial cornfield. Inviting a slab of brainless man-candy (Roger Caine) over to fuck her on a drawer, Tess gets the ripe dicking she deserves. Even though the wallpaper nearly steals the scene, nothing beats the sight of Annie Sprinkle in black stockings, chunky black shoes, and a black garter belt. Nothing, I tell you. Nothing!

In the film's most bizarre sequence, Abby wanders the park during a blizzard. If the weather wasn't bad enough, some ponce starts throwing snowballs at her. What? Yeah, snowballs. Three to be exact. You're being inundated with paranormal penis on a nightly basis, so you go to the park to clear your head. When you get there, this asshole decides use you as target practice. That's some fucked up shit, if you don't mind my saying so. To make matters worse, when she gets home, a wedding ring suddenly appears on her finger. And, of course, she can't seem to remove it.

The curtains, the wind, the sky, the wallpaper, and the ghost appear four more times before all is said and done, as more hairy balls are gargled and more people end up dead. With Ernie Hudson nowhere in sight, will Abby be able to resist the horny ghost who lives inside her wallpaper? Who's to say, but Come With Me My Love is Doris Wishman at her most sinister. An erotic horror classic for the ages, the film is a must-see for fans of hairy taints, hairy balls, hairy vaginas, let's just say, hairy everything. Though, Annie Sprinkle's pussy is surprisingly hairless, and... Let me start over. If you like a pinch of horror with your porn, then you will want to go see Come With Me My Love. If this film is not currently playing at your local erotic theatre, make sure you tell the manager that you want them to screen Come With Me My Love.

If you don't have a fetish for women's gloves. May I ask, why the hell not? Seriously, what's wrong with you? They're gloves. What's not to like? I tell you what, I'm going to leave the room for a second, and when I get back, I wanna see a fully-developed fetish for women's gloves sitting on my proverbial desk. If not, then, well, this isn't gonna work at all. See you in, oh, let's say, ten seconds. Okay, I'm back. Do you get sexually aroused by the sight of an attractive woman who is wearing gloves? I'll interpret your sheepish silence to mean, yes, you have in fact acquired a fetish for dainty hands sheathed in gloves. I won't lie, it's good to have you on board. How you were able to obtain the attributes necessary to convincingly exhibit the wide array of symptoms that come front-loaded with this particular fetish so quickly is nothing short of a miracle. Nevertheless, now we can proceed to talk about Naked Killer (a.k.a. Chik loh go yeung) in a calm and rational manner. Just kidding, nothing I've ever done could ever be construed as "calm" or "rational." We're going to analyze the hyper-stylized fashions that are worn throughout this violent, Category III film about lethal lesbians and genital distress in early 1990s Hong Kong using the most exaggerated language possible. You don't have to ask yourself, but I'm going to make you ask anyway, when the female assassin that is eventually going to kill us all comes knocking at your door, what kind of gloves do want her to be wearing when she pulls the trigger on the gun aimed at your precious genitals? ("Precious" because they're the genitals you use to masturbate and occasionally use to have sex with.) Since you're not saying anything (this sheepish schtick is yours is starting to get tiresome), I'll step forward and say that I want my junk blown off with a gun that is fired by a hand that is encased in a glove that doesn't stray too far past the wrist, that is, of course, tight, very tight, and feminine. And as for the colour? Put me down for tiger print.

I'm surprised you didn't want to be castrated by a gun that was being wielded by a hands that were wearing fingerless gloves or even opera gloves, as they're usually the type of glove in your glove fetish wheelhouse. What can I say? No fooling, what can I say? I'm at a lose for words. No, wait. I just got some. What can I say? I'm sucker for animal print. And, the last time I checked, a tiger is an animal.

Eloquent as always, but what about the pantyhose?!? There's pantyhose in this film? Again, just kidding. I always notice pantyhose, and like the gloves, Naked Killer (赤裸羔羊) is stuffed with the sheer stuff your eyeballs crave.

In fact, a couple of shapely legs poured into a pair of fishnet pantyhose and a pair of gloved hands working a compact disc player are some the first images thrown at us in the bizarre mishmash of genres. Let's see if I can recall the sequence of the images that greet us during the film's ultra-stylish opening montage. There were definitely three women in silver masquerade masks. What else? Oh yeah, a string of pearls, red curtains, legs in fishnet pantyhose kicking up a storm, a woman performing a hair flip, a lesbian kiss, some topless stabbing, and, yeah, that's all I remember. Either way, as far as first impressions go, Naked Killer is pushing all the right buttons.

The correct buttons continue to be pushed as we follow a woman in red walking the rain-soaked streets of Hong Kong after dark. Apparently being pursued by a man wearing fingerless gloves, the woman, whose face is partially obscured by a red and yellow hat, fumbles with her keys, but eventually enters her apartment safe and sound (seconds later, her black glove-adorned hands can be seen putting on a CD). But wait, are we sure that it's her apartment. What?!? Yeah, it would seem that guy in the fingerless gloves is the one who is danger tonight. Finding a naked woman, one who will soon be known to us as Princess (Carrie Ng), taking a shower in his bathroom, the man is about to ask what she is doing in there, I mean, it's his shower, when, all of a sudden, she shoots his kneecaps out with a gun, smashes his head with a dumbbell, and shoots him in the balls.

Even though the scene where the cops investigate the scene of the crime failed to push any of the buttons I alluded to earlier, it does introduce us Tinam (Simon Yam), a cop on the edge. Actually, I don't think Tinam was on the edge. Oh, sure, he's definitely near an edge, all right. I just don't think he's on the edge. Anyway, still traumatized by the fact that he accidentally shot and killed his brother some time last year, Tinam is thrown off the case after insisting that the killer of the guy with the fingerless gloves and the killer behind a series of other murders that involved testicular perforation were carried out by a female assassin; his commanding officer thinks his theory is pure poppycock.

It's true, we saw her during the film's opening montage, but the hair salon scene is our first chance to see the gorgeous Chingmy Yau up close. Getting her hair done, Chingmy, who plays Kitty, takes exception with the way a male customer treats her black fishnet pantyhose-wearing friend (he kicks her in the stomach), and shows her displeasure by thrusting the pointy end of a pair of scissors into his crotch multiple times. Whether her frenzied stabbing motions managed to snag any Hong Kong cock is unclear. But either way, this Kitty chick is not someone to be trifled with. Of course, Tinam just happened to be getting a haircut when all this went down.

Running after Kitty, who is wearing black boots, black shorts (the kind that help foster legginess), and a red blouse, Tinam tries to persuade her to press against charges against the stomach kicking guy. As you might expect, this conversation doesn't go exactly as planned, as Tinam almost vomits and loses his pager. Finding his pager, Kitty uses it to track down Tinam, and shows up at his work (wearing fishnet pantyhose). Telling his commanding officer how helpful he was in doing something that was...obviously helpful, Tinam finds himself back on the case; he was briefly assigned to the forces anti-porn squad.

The next thing you know, Tinam is dry humping Kitty against a parked car. On a date together, Kitty, who is wearing red booty-gripping short shorts with black thigh-high boots, and Tinam seem to getting along swimmingly. And why wouldn't they? Her thighs are spectacular! And he, well, he's got that whole Chow Yun-Fat in A Better Tomorrow thing going for him. Unfortunately, Kitty's stepmother's lover murders her father. Wait, that doesn't sound right. Let me double check that. No, that's right. At any rate, angry over the fact some yuppie scumbag killed her father, Kitty shows up at the offices of Bee (Ken Lo) wielding two guns. (Who looks like Chow Yun-Fat now?) She may look like Chow Yun-Fat, but her aim isn't as true. After being kicked in the cunt multiple times by Bee, Kitty eventually gets the better of him, blasting him to kingdom come.

Stumbling out the office, her cunt no doubt black and blue from the stomping it just received, Kitty must now contend with Bee's henchmen. And since this is film was made in Hong Kong, the number of henchmen is off the charts. In no condition to battle hundreds of henchmen, Kitty looks like a goner.

Or is she? Hello, I'm Sister Cindy. And I'm 50! That's right, 50! I'm 50 years-old. And I can kick...and stretch...and kick! And I'm here to help. And boy, does she ever. Taking care of the henchmen that had Kitty cornered in the building's parking garage with a milfy aplomb, Sister Cindy (Wai Yu), the tight grip of her age appropriate pantyhose pressing tightly against her resilient labia like an elastic band, ushers the amateur assassin to safety.

Waking up in nothing but a sports bra and panties, Kitty doesn't know it yet, but she's on the fast track to becoming a professional assassin. I don't know, I guess Sister Cindy, a professional assassin herself, saw potential in Kitty when she happened upon her misguided attempt to take out her father's killer. Giving her a new identity, Sister Cindy starts to train Kitty to be a hit woman. At first, Sister Cindy has her practice on the limitless supply of child rapists she keeps locked in her basement. And then she teaches her an important lesson. "It doesn't matter whether your tits are big or small." In other words, a woman doesn't need a weapon when she has her body. This causes Kitty to wonder if she's being trained to be a killer or a prostitute.

What about Kitty and Tinam? Oh yeah. I completely forgot about them. How will Kitty's new lifestyle effect their relationship? It pretty much kills it, no pun intended. Which is sad, when you think about it, as I thought Kitty and Tinam had a good thing going. Nonetheless, that doesn't mean Tinam is going to give up on Kitty, or whatever she is calling herself now. Their love is too strong to be destroyed by a middle-aged hit woman who uses her shapely legs to get men to let their guard down or a deadly lesbian assassin who wears tiger print gloves and smokes fat cigars.

You really get a sense of the influence Basic Instinct had on this film during the scene where Kitty, who is pretending to be Vivian Shang, crosses her legs while being questioned by police. It's true, people cross their legs in movies all the time. But there was something extra deliberate about this particular leg cross. It was almost as if Kitty/Vivian was trying to say to the world, Hey, look at me. I'm crossing my legs. I'm crossing my legs. Which, I'll admit, was totally justified, as it's a pretty awesome leg cross.

Fighting with Sister Cindy, who wants her to kill Tinam, and doing battle with Princess (a former student of Sister Cindy), who wants to fuck her, it's clear that Kitty is in one sticky pickle of a situation. And, not to mention, she has to contend with the jealous glares emanating from Baby (Madoka Sugawara), Princess' adorable apprentice. How adorable is Baby, you ask? Well, she wears pink stockings over black pantyhose at one point. Wow, you're right. That is adorable.

Blending high octane Hong Kong-style action with eroticism, Naked Killer should technically be the blueprint for every movie in existence. That's not to say that the film is perfect. Take for instance, the club scene. Look, I love early '90s rave culture as much as the next guy, but even I was slightly embarrassed by the scene where Kitty and Sister Cindy go to a nightclub to kill a Japanese gangster (the whole thing is too cheesy for words). But other than that, the film's sexy babes in nylons to chaotic shootouts ratio was surprisingly well-balanced. And I don't think I have to mention how impressed I was by the amount of gloves seen throughout this movie.

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they describe the plot of Naked Killer. If they put an emphasis on the action, they're usually straight men between the ages of 13-105. If they seemed obsessed with the film's erotic flavour, they're usually straight men between the ages of 13-105. If they go on bizarre tangents about gloves and hosiery, they're, well, they're usually me. I give Naked Killer five taupe opera gloves out of five.

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If you mess with Ming-Ming, Yum-Yum will fuck-fuck your shit up. I'll admit, when I first came up with that line, I was beaming with pride. Poking gentle, non-racist fun at the repetitive nature of the lead character's name, I thought to myself: Now that's how you kick off a review for a brutal rape revenge flick. Then it suddenly dawned on me, Rob Schneider had already beaten me to the punch. You see, in the Rob Schneider vehicle, The Hot Chick, the incomparable Jodi Long says, "Ling Ling, don't forget your bling bling," to her jewelry-forgetting, bi-racial daughter. As you'd expect, my heart sank the moment I recalled this line's existence–a line, by the way, that is probably one of the most memorable lines to be uttered in a movie so far this century. I mean, not only does the line have two words that are repeated, "ling" and "bling," but both words rhyme. In hindsight, I should have went on that pre-planned tangent about Ming-Ming's red panties; which I still might do, as red panties are in my wheelhouse. However, I don't regret my misguided fling with that whole Ming-Ming-Ling-Ling thing. It just goes to show that nobody should underestimate the comedic genius that was Rob Schneider circa 2002. Enough about my grammatical angst, let's talk about Red to Kill, yet another nasty slice of Category III goodness/cinematic unpleasantness to land squarely on my non-existent desk with a resounding thud. As with the majority of Category III films that have crossed paths with my eyeballs so far, this particular film, directed by Billy Tang, is filled with the sex, the violence, and the inappropriate humour I've come to expect from early '90s Hong Kong cinema. In other words, it's your typical Category III film.

Whoa! Hold on there, buddy. Where do you get off calling Category III films "typical." I'm sorry, but I don't like this jaded version of you. Yeah, you're right. That did come off as a tad jaded. Don't worry, it won't happen again. Let me try to muster some of my trademark wide-eyed enthusiasm. But remember, not too much enthusiasm. Why's that? Oh yeah, the film is about raping tards. Fuck yeah, "raping tards." Now that's the kind of un-PC language I like to hear. Yeah, but that's what the film's about. It doesn't matter. I liked the blunt manner in which you stated it. Anyway, there's nothing "typical" about Red to Kill, it's an in-your-face horror film about a mentally challenged woman who is tormented by a psychopath who goes all Roy Batty at the end of Blade Runner ("Six! Seven! Go to Hell or go to Heaven!") whenever he sees a woman wearing the colour red. Similar to the way a bull gets agitated by a matador's cape, the sick fuck at the centre of the cinematic bullring wants to gore women in red not with his horns, but with his erect penis.

The film's opening scene prepares us for the brutality to come, as a woman in red is raped by a musclebound assailant whose face is obscured. While the victim's unconscious body twitches as a direct result of the rapist's unasked for thrusts, a mother jumps to her death, taking her young son with her on another floor. In the case of the latter incident, Ka Lok Cheung (Money Lo), a woman who works for the welfare department, tries to stop the woman from jumping, but her attempt obviously failed.

Rape, murder, suicide, I'm only five minutes into this thing and I'm already depressed. Don't worry, Ming-Ming (Lily Chung), the mildly retarded girl who can turn the world on with her mildly retarded smile, is about to make her first appearance. And if there's anyone who can cheer you up, it's Ming-Ming! Oh, great. It seems the only reason Miss Cheung is going to see Ming-Ming is to tell her that her dad is dead. And get this, she breaks the bad news to her just as Ming-Ming is about to feed her fish. Poor Ming-Ming.

Since there's no-one to take care of her, Ming-Ming is sent to stay at the very same building where rapes and murder suicides are a nightly occurrence. Introduced to the kindly Mr. Chan (Ben Ng), a man who helps run a sort of retardation retreat for wayward tards, Ming-Ming soon learns that she will be packing balls for the Kowloon Ball Factory. While she puts on a brave face, Ming-Ming doesn't really want to work with balls. No, what Ming-Ming really wants to do is dance. And since she can't dance, Ming-Ming runs away. Finding her at hiding in her old apartment, Miss Cheung convinces Ming-Ming to return to the retardation retreat/ball packing factory by promising her to help train to be a dancer.

Her dream is to qualify to compete in a dance competition being held in Belgium. And if anyone dares stand in her way of realizing that dream, I'm going to throw the world's biggest hissy fit.

Packing balls and practicing her dances moves, Ming-Ming seems to be adjusting well to her new surroundings. Sure, a chubby pervert comes close to feeling her up in the ball room, but Ming-Ming is so innocent and pure that she doesn't even realize that she almost got molested. Do you think the chubby pervert is one raping the women in red? Nah, this guy is all flab, the rapist in question is ripped. Besides, the chubby pervert just wants to squeeze Ming-Ming's perky melons.

In order to remind us that there is in fact a rapist out there, a woman in red is attacked on the stairs. It could have been Miss Cheung (she was wearing a red t-shirt), but the woman who was actually attacked came along just in time. Thankfully, this attack isn't shown in graphic detail. Like I said, it's just thrown in there as a gentle reminder.

Even though she's only been there a week or so, all the other tards love Ming-Ming. And why wouldn't they? She's Ming-Ming: the epitome of adorable.

Pleased by the progress Ming-Ming has made as a dancer, Miss Cheung can be seen beaming with pride. While Ming-Ming is right to thank Miss Cheung for helping her, it's Miss Cheung who should be thanking Ming-Ming, as Ming-Ming enriches the lives of everyone she comes in contact with.

While I'm happy as a clambake gone awry by Ming-Ming's turnaround, the film insists on showing us a dark figure stalking the halls of the building to eerie synthesizer music. This cannot bode well for Ming-Ming. At any rate, remember that chubby pervert? Well, he's beaten by a mob, a tard-fearing mob, who accuse him of trying to rape a little girl, one who just happened to being wearing all red. However, we all know he's not the rapist. Again, this cannot bode well for Ming-Ming. Hello, this is your captain speaking. We should be landing in Saskatoon in about four hours. In meantime, please enjoy our in-flight movie: Red to Kill, a Hong Kong thriller about a sexy special needs woman who is tormented by a musclebound rapist. Oh, and just reminder. When you see Ming-Ming, the lovable retard with the legs of a dancer, wearing red panties, this will not bode well for her.

Why, Ming-Ming, why? What compelled you to wear red panties on the same day you decided to roll around on the floor (rolling on the floor, by the way, is one of the leading causes of accidental red pantie exposure) in front of a rapist whose raping ways are triggered by retards and non-retards in red clothing? Sure, they [the red panties] went with your outfit, but your outfit was...Ahhh, Ming-Ming!!! You stupid tub of unfrozen...Whoa, back off, buddy. No one talks about Ming-Ming that way. Not on my watch. Your watch?!? Your watch is my watch. Oh yeah. Whatever, man. It sounds like you're blaming Ming-Ming. And I should inform you that blaming the victims of rape for being raped is not even close to being cool. In fact, it's downright heinous.

What kind of retard wears red panties around a rapist who rapes women who don the colour red? Well, first of all, she doesn't know he's a rapist. And second, the rapist's proclivity for reddish clothing is not a well known fact. In other words, I don't want to hear anymore of this nonsense about it being Ming-Ming's fault. You of all people should know that Ming-Ming is the personification of human goodness; her face should be added to Mount Rushmore.

So, does Ming-Ming get raped or not? Uh, I'd rather not say. Okay, this is awkward. Tell us a little something about the trial? What trial? The trial of Ming-Ming's rapist. Yeah, you know, nah. It's too painful. All right, how 'bout the pube-shaving scene? You're joking, right? I'm not describing that. Let me see. Oh, I got it. Do you know the part where Miss Cheung tries to lure the rapist into a trap by tempting him with a red dress complete with red opera gloves? Yes. Well, could you possibly go on a nonsensical tangent about that? Nonsensical, eh? I think I can swing that.

Sitting at the bar of a local tavern, the musclebound rapist is enjoying a post-mistrial pint of lager when, all of a sudden, a woman in red orders a bloody mary. The woman ordering the bloody mary has her back turned, so the rapist has no idea who this woman in red is. However, that all changes the moment she does turn to around to reveal that she is Ming-Ming's number one fan, Miss Cheung. As you would expect, the rapist is not amused by this ruse. Nevertheless, he can't help but be turned on by the way the red dress hugs Miss Cheung's Cantonese curves. Toying with the rapist, Miss Cheung employs a subtle leg cross to get his juices flowing. The leg cross becomes not-so subtle upon further inspection, as Miss Cheung's legs are clearly sheathed in pantyhose that sparkle. Pantyhose can sparkle? You bet it can. And Miss Cheung hopes that her glimmering, shimmering, twinkling hose will send the rapist over the edge.

Even though he resists her initial attempt to entrap him, the rapist does end the evening by shoving an entire tray of ice cubes down the front of his underpants. Baby steps, as they say. At any rate, talking about Money Lo and her glittery tights was good therapy for me, as it briefly allowed me to forget the painful horrors that this film puts out there on a regular basis. Oh, Ming-Ming.

I'm kicking myself. And, no, not because I just spent the last twenty or so years languishing in a pathetic state of having not seen Flesh Eating Mothers, but because I just spent the last twenty or so minutes trying to figure what kind of drum machine composer Hayley Moss used to create this film's awesome score. What's so bad about that? I mean, I'm sure lots of people are curious to know what kind of drum machine was used in this film. You're joking, right? They don't care about that. The reason they're here is find out more about that cow print skirt worn by one of the flesh eating mothers. And, get this, I'm not even 100% sure the skirt was cow print. If you listen really carefully you can hear people gasping the world over as I typed that last line. It probably went a little something like this, "I'm not even 100% sure the skirt was cow print." Now, quick, imagine a loud gasp being uttered by ten million people simultaneously right after the words "cow print." Pretty great, eh? Anyway, it looks like... Just a second, you mean to tell me you just spent the last twenty or so years not watching Flesh Eating Mothers? It looks that way. Man, you're so fucking lame. I'm sorry, but there's no other way to put it. Yeah, I'm lame, can I continue? No, you're fucking lame; there's a difference. Okay, I'm fucking lame. Let's move on; there's a skirt print that's yet to be classified. In the grand tradition of Frankenhooker, Psychos In Love, Street Trash, and Slime City (i.e. American horror movies that don't suck ass), Flesh Eating Mothers, directed by James Aviles Martin, is the flesh eating movie that milf lovers have been waiting for. Well, most real milf lovers probably saw the film some time in the late '80s. You, on the other hand, didn't see until some twenty or so years later.

In fact, if I came up to you in, oh, let's say, 1998, and asked you if you had seen Flesh Eating Mothers, you would have stared at me with one of those looks of bewilderment you like to bandy about whenever you're challenged by a superior intellect. Forget about 1998, the same exact thing would have happened in 1995, 1996, 2000, 2002, 2006, and, hell, even in 2010. Yikes! I may be fucking lame, but at least I'm not a fucking asshole.

Now, where was I? I think you were busy being big baby. Just kidding, you rule. I've always wanted see a movie where a couple of crazed flesh eating mothers work together to tear apart a stray cat in order to feed on its entrails. And you know what? Flesh Eating Mothers provided me with that and then some.

After a brief prologue that involves the town's police commissioner, Commissioner Dixon (Ken Eaton), losing an arm and shooting his wife, Elisa (Lori Gustafson), in the face while hunting in the woods, we're treated to a catchy little ditty by Sherri Lamar that promotes the greatness of the suburbs. Boasting lyrics such as "trash is carted away weekly in suburbia," and "nothing can go wrong in suburbia," the song plays over the image of what looks like a child's drawing; one that, like the song, seems to go out of its way to depict the suburbs as some kind of blemish-free utopia.

You better get used to the sight of Roddy Douglas (Louis Homyak) lying in bed with one milf-tastic woman after another, because that's what he does for a living. Wait a second, that didn't come out right. I didn't mean to imply that it's Roddy job to have hot, throbbing, bed sheet ruining sexual intercourse with the town's milf population. No, what I should have said was that Roddy seems quite adept when it comes to convincing the town's milfy contingent to have sex with him. When we first meet Roddy, he's putting the finishing touches on the well-worn vagina that belongs to Booty Bernett (Grace Pettijohn), a woman whose vaginal wall was in desperate need of a new coat of...don't you dare finish that thought.

I liked the way Flesh Eating Mothers introduces us to its characters at the beginning of the film. It's true, most films use this technique as well, but Flesh Eating Mothers is, nonetheless, doing an excellent job of introducing its characters. Don't believe me? Well then, check this out: Rinaldi Vivaldo (Neal Rosen), a tough kid confined to his room (it looks like he's grounded) is promptly introduced to us. Nice to me you, Rinaldi.

Sticking with the prompt introduction theme, we're suddenly introduced to Officer McDormick (Mickey Ross), who shows up at his ex-wife's house to deliver his child support cheque. Quirky fun-fact: Fans of Goodfellas will probably recognize Officer McDormick's ex-wife as Mrs. Carbone (Marie Michaels). Unfortunately, there isn't word on the street that Martin Scorsese cast Marie based solely on her leggy performance as Officer McDormick's ex-wife in Flesh Eating Mothers.

I don't know about you, but I think it's time we met more of the film's teens. Walking to school, best friends, Linda Douglas (Donatella Hecht) and Joyce Shepard (Valorie Hubbard), bump into Jeff Nathan (Robert Lee Oliver), thanks to a football that was tossed in his general direction by a troublemaker. Since Linda bears the brunt of Jeff's bump, she immediately calls him a spaz. And just like that, three more characters are on board.

When Linda gets home, we discover that Roddy, the milf enthusiast, is her dad. Do you think Linda's mom, Sylvia Douglas (Katherine Mayfield), knows about her husband's milf obsession? I don't know. But you gotta love Roddy's "Hands Across America" t-shirt. You just gotta.

When we meet the Nolan brothers, Timmy (Terry Hayes) and Johnny (Douglas James), the latter is punching the former in the face in full view of Mrs. Nolan (Ginger Anselmo), their structurally interesting mother. I thought the matter of fact way Johnny punched Timmy in the face perfectly encapsulated the film's darkly comedic tone. To makes things even more absurd, the pummeling is stopped by the sound of an ice cream truck, as the two combatants jump to their feet to ask their "mommy" for ice cream money.

I also liked how excited they seemed to get when they first hear the ice cream truck, as it's the complete opposite to the way I react when I hear the monotonous din of an ice cream truck's cloying ditty; annoyance mixed with anger are the only flavours I'm interested in when I hear that jingle. "If I had a rocket launcher..."

You know who also likes ice cream? Linda and Joyce, that's who. And not only that, Joyce is dating Frankie Lemmonjello (Tony DeRiso), the ice cream man. Does that mean that Joyce, and, I guess, Linda, get free ice cream? I have no idea. What I do know is that Donatella Hecht's face is a work of art. My mind was trying to juggle a lot of things while it watched Flesh Eating Mothers. But every time Donatella would appear onscreen, my mind seemed to go into anaphylactic shock. While that may sound like a bad thing, it's actually quite healthy. You see, whenever Donatella would show up, my aura would crackle with creativity. There's something about the shape of her face that I found inspirational. Which, I suppose, is the highest compliment you can give someone.

Anyway, her face first came to my attention as its mouth sucked on a Frozen Neptune, one of the many treats available from Frankie's truck.

Some faces, however, don't get fed ice cream or inspire garrulous reprobates, some get beaten. And, no, I'm not talking about the brotherly beating Johnny unleashes on Timmy's face, I'm talking about domestic violence. Now, you can call Flesh Eating Mothers a lot of things: stupid, dumb, idiotic, asinine. But the one thing you can't accuse it of being is: cowardly. Taking on the scourge that is domestic violence in a thoughtful yet straightforward manner, writers James Aviles Martin and Zev Shlasinger don't shy away from the real horrors that lie underneath the rosy facade that is suburbia. The scene where Jeff Nathan's mom, Mrs. Nathan (Grace Gawthrop), cowers on the kitchen floor, after being assaulted by her husband does a pretty effective job of capturing the hellish existence of your average victim of abuse.

The dichotomy between real domestic violence and the exaggerated brand that the flesh eating mothers eventually employ is the film's strongest trait. Which reminds me, this film is about flesh eating mothers. Really? I wouldn't have guessed that. Okay, I'll bite. How do the mothers end up acquiring a taste for human flesh? It's funny you should ask that, because according to Dr. Felicia Dodd (Carolyn Gratsch), the town's most statuesque female physician, there's a virus going around the causes mothers to eat people. You mean to tell me that my mutha could eat my brutha? Exactly. What are the chances of my mutha eating my fatha? Pretty good. Wow.

Quick question: Why are you spelling the words "mother," father," and "brother" that way? Oh, haven't you heard. This flick was shot in Upstate New York. So? Don't you see, that's how they talk up there. The entire exchange between Jeff Nathan, Rinaldi, Timmy, Joyce, and the gorgeous Linda Douglas (whose stunning visage is even more inspirational at night) that revolved around their cannibalistic mothers was hilarious. And it was mainly due to the fact to the way Robert Lee Oliver said, "mutha," "fatha," and "brutha."

How will the teens stop their muthas, I mean, mothers, from laying waste to their once quiet suburban community? It's hard to say, but I have a feeling a statuesque blonde in glasses will be involved somehow (her microscope is filled animated venereal weirdness).

Speaking of words that end in "esque," who else was visibly moved by the crazy-paving-esque patterns on Mrs. Nolan's skirt? Anybody? Nobody, huh. Well, I was moved. Moved, I tell ya. Boasting a mild a slit up the side, Mrs. Nolan's skirt was the talk of the town. And by "town" I mean the fizzy contents sloshing around inside my head. I wonder if Ginger Anselmo (whose character is credited as Mrs. Olson - I'm assuming they meant to say, "Mrs. Nolan") is acutely aware of how foxy she looked in Flesh Eating Mothers. I wonder. No, seriously, her foxiness sort of crept up on me. Even though she's no Donatella Hecht in terms of inspirational attractiveness, I was floored by her loveliness. In all honesty, I was prepared to be floored by Alley Ninestein, the actress who plays Joyce's mother, as she had a Frances Conroy vibe about her. But then Ginger Anselmo came along and managed to bully her way into my heart with her green, short-sleeved sweater and black and white crazy-paving-esque pencil skirt. And just like that I was saying, Alley Ninestein who?

Whether tearing a chunk out of the arm of the duplicitous Officer Hitchcock (Morty Kleidermacher)–it's a good thing her crazy-paving-esque pencil skirt had a mild slit in it or else she wouldn't have been able to attain the right amount of leverage when it came time to pull the officer's arm out of its socket–or wondering, mid-cannibalistic rampage, if she left the iron on, Ginger Anselmo is an utter delight. And just like Donatella Hecht, she didn't feel the need to appear in anymore movies after making Flesh Eating Mothers. If anyone knows if Ginger and Donatella do the horror convention thing, please let me know, as I would love to meet them so that I could thank them in person for inspiring me in such a profound manner, Donatella for her face and Ginger for her wardrobe and winning personality.

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A kindly British couple on holiday on the Greek island of Mykonos find themselves at the mercy of deranged painters, adulterous landlady's, flamboyant gays, heroin-addicted lesbian bartenders, mysterious men in red turtlenecks, vile hippies, and an unending concourse of leggy milfs in the absolutely heinous Island of Death (a.k.a. Ta Paidia Tou Diavolou), a film where even squared away goat rectums aren't safe. How will these two upstanding citizens of Great Britain ever survive the swarthy terrors that await them in this sun-baked hellscape? Wait a second, someone wants to whisper something in my ear. Whaaaat? Are you serious? Damn. Well, it would seem that I have totally misread what this film is actually about. Don't get me wrong, it's got leggy milfs, the guy in the red turtleneck, he's definitely in this movie, the two flamboyant gays, goat rectums, and even the heroin-addicted lesbian bartender is in it. But my initial take on the film, directed by Nico Mastorakis, was completely wrong. It turns out that the so-called "kindly British couple" are brother and sister. Which, on paper, doesn't sound like much an oversight. I mean, a lot of siblings who go vacation together get mistaken for couples. Oh, yeah? Do most siblings have fully-clothed sexual intercourse inside Greek telephone boxes in the middle of the day? No, they do not. Okay, so there's a little hanky panky going between the brother and sister duo at the centre of this fiendish fiasco. Big deal. First of all, I despise the expression "hanky panky." And secondly, they get up to more than just incest in this film. Believe me, much more.

Speaking of expressions, are you familiar with expression, "Tennis, anyone?" Well, after seeing Island of Death, I would like to popularize a similar-sounding expression. You wanna hear it? Okay, here it goes: Watersports and bulldozer decapitation, anyone? It's pretty catchy, right? I know, you're asking yourself, what does that mean exactly? It's what assholes say to one another when they want to play tennis. Oh, you mean the watersports/bulldozer one. It's when you pee on a leggy milf and then chop her head off with a bulldozer. Whatta ya think? Does it have what it takes to be the next, "Really?!?," or "Don't go there"? Yeah, I'll admit, it's a tad on the weird side, but I like it.

Truth be told, I wasn't feeling Island of Death for a good chunk of its modest running time. I don't know, some of the scenes, particularly the one's that involved stalking, seemed to drag a bit. And the grey skirt worn by Jane Lyle at the beginning of the film was nowhere to be found during the second act. However, all that changed when Robert Behling started to urinate on Jessica Dublin during a not-so erotic encounter. As she futilely tried to block the golden liquid that sprung forth from his unseen penis by swatting at the steady stream with both hands, I thought to myself: I dig where this is going. Of course, I was also shocked and appalled by what was transpiring in front of me. All the same, it was at that moment when I realized that I was in the presence of, okay, maybe not greatness. But I was definitely in the presence of something special, something different.

Landing on the island of Mykonos, Christopher (Robert Behling) and Celia (Jane Lyle), two nondescript British tourists, are looking for a place to stay. After getting some help from Paul, the "flamboyant" owner of an antique shop, they end up renting a room at a house run by a dark-haired woman named Anna; "a dark-haired woman," in Greece? What a shocker. Whatever. Eager to hike up Celia's grey skirt in order to gain access to the riches that lie beneath its funneled housing, Christopher decides to have sex with her in a telephone booth. Which is not unusual, telephone booths are, I mean, were, the ideal spot for young lovers to practice fornicating while standing up. What is unusual, however, is the fact that Christopher calls her mother in London during sex and makes her listen to their moaning.

What Christopher and Celia don't know is that a man named Foster (Gerard Gonalons) is eavesdropping on their "conversation" (like I said, it mostly involving moaning and the sound of an English woman in curlers saying, "hello" over and over again) via a hidden listening device located somewhere in his mother's flat. Why this Foster fella is so interested in knowing where Christopher and Celia are calling from is still unclear. But it does make us look at the couple with some suspicion.

If you thought being pursued by a mysterious black man in a white raincoat was suspicious, wait until you see what Christopher does the following morning after Celia refuses to have sex with him. What? Tell me! What does he do? Are you ready? He walks out to the courtyard, picks up a goat, and proceeds to penetrate its anus with his penis. And after he's finished, Christopher stabs the goat multiple times with a knife.

Wearing her lucky Saints tuque, Celia...Hold on, her lucky what?!? You know, the New Orleans Saints, the football team. No, what the hell is a "tuque"? Oh, that's another word for a knit cap. Actually, I was shocked to see NFL gear worn in the 1970s. As I always associate NFL gear with the late 1980s (I think the trend started when N.W.A. starting wearing Raiders gear in their music videos).

Getting back to Celia for a minute, she's come to help Jean-Claude, an artist she met at a restaurant the night before, paint a church (the island is apparently home to over three hundred churches). Or has she? Of course she hasn't (people who hang around people who rape goats don't help people). As Celia and Frenchy screw out in the open (ride his French cock, Celia! ride it!), Christopher can be seen lurking off in the distance taking pictures with his trusty camera.

To give the scene an added sense of humourous disquietude, we get the occasional shot of Anna calling out the name of the goat that was just raped and murdered mixed with the sight of Christopher hammering nails through Jean-Claude's hands. After nailing him to the ground, Christopher pours a bucket of white paint into the Frenchman's mouth for good measure.

I don't want to judge them too early, but I don't think Christopher and Celia are nice people. Oh, sure, they except Paul's invitation to his wedding with a smile. But deep down, you know they're planning something sinister. I did like how Celia asks Paul, "who's the lucky girl?" after he informs her that he's getting married. "Lucky girl"? Oh, Celia. You're so naive. Forget about having wonky gaydar, you'd have to have no gaydar whatsoever to not be able to pick up the Dorothy-aligned vibrations Paul was putting out there.

Haunted by a reoccurring dream that involves her being raped by an unshaven shepherd, Celia tells Christopher she wants to leave. On top of the reoccurring dream, Celia is also worried about Foster; who, by the way, is making his way to Greece as we speak. In the meantime, Christopher tries to placate Celia's fears by taking her on a scenic bike ride.

I'm looking for two English people, a man and a woman, anyone seem them?

In addition to the mysterious black man in the white raincoat, Christopher and Celia have to contend with Patricia (Jessica Dublin), a leggy milf, Leslie (Jannice MacConnell), the island's resident lesbian bartender (the way her mouth-watering hips spilled out from the top of her panties was simply to die for), two hippies (actually, I think they were just run-of-the-mill dirtbags), a nosy novelist (Nico Mastorakis), and their landlady. All of them, except for the novelist, are taken care of in their own unique way.

My absolute favourite out of these unique ways, of course, being the watersports/bulldozer decapitation sequence. As I watched the bulldozer slice off the head that was attached to the torso of the leggy milf, it dawned on me that this film seems like it was made purely to offend people. You could say the film is a veiled attack on British imperialism. But I'm not going to say that (any evidence to the contrary is pretty weak). No, Island of Death is basically a loosely assembled series of violent and degrading scenes designed to upset and/or shock the audience. And when you slap some catchy folk rock songs (all written by Nico Mastorakis) onto the soundtrack, the film actually resembles a travelogue; albeit, an extremely gruesome one with more goat rape than usual.

Oh, and I almost forgot: Watersports and bulldozer decapitation, anyone? Think about it, I have the legs of a 22 year-old Slovene ski instructor.

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Do virgins wear leopard-print skirts? Do virgins snort cocaine? Do virgins look like LeeAnne Baker? Breaking down the stereotypes of what constitutes a virgin in today's lackadaisical labiascape, Breeders is here to smash your preconceived notion of what female celibacy looks like. Yet, while it's doing all that, it also titillates, horrifies, and, most importantly, it entertains like a ten pound mothersbaugh. Cascading like a mucus-laden waterfall onto the crease-filled lower back of a dilapidated blonde, sci-fi horror/exploitation auteur extraordinaire Tim Kincaid (Bad Girls Dormitory, Mutant Hunt, Robot Holocaust, etc.) has decided to tackle the festering blight that is human reproduction. As an old-school Friend of Dorothy, Mr. Tim Kincaid (a.k.a. Joe Gage) views mating as that vulgar activity straight people like to engage in every so often. While he appreciates their tendency to make new gays, he finds the act itself to be obscene. Nowadays, though, that attitude has softened somewhat, as everyone, even Lance Bass and, N.P.H., seem to be using their sperm for reproductive purposes. But there are still those out there, the hardcore, the unflappably fabulous, who equate copulation with farm animals and white supremacists. And this film, made in, where else?, New York City circa 1986, encapsulates that anti-intercourse principle in the most succinct terms possible. Sure, on the surface, the film might seem like it's about a slimy alien life-form who collects virginal Manhattanites in order to mate with them. But having closely examined this film from every angle imaginable, it's obviously about much more than that. For starters, are there that many women in New York City who are still virgins? I doubt it. No, what Tim Kincaid has done is he's replaced the gay men–in other words, guys who rarely ever see the inside of a functioning vagina–with a bunch of straight women who have never seen the inside of a functioning cock–and by "inside," I'm referring to the seminal fluid it dispenses, not the blood and spongy tissue that keep the cock cock-like.

As far as theories go, that's probably one of the most intelligent things I have ever read. You think? Oh, yes. It's true, a mentally challenged unicorn could have figured out that a film called "Breeders," a film that was written and directed by the man who brought us Kansas City Trucking Co., El Paso Wrecking Corp. and L.A. Tool and Die, might possess a slightly negative stance when it comes to the subject of birthing and babies. However, you laid out your theory in a manner that was easy to digest. And for that, I salute you. Why, thank you. I appreciate that.

Even though I mentioned her right off the bat, it was hard for me not to go on a wordy tangent that lavished an insane amount of praise on the creamy shoulders of LeeAnne Baker, who plays Kathleen, the statuesque nurse who thinks something "spooky" is going on at the Manhattan hospital she works. Yeah, what was up with that? I mean, don't you usually start off your Tim Kincaid movie reviews with a creepy, yet mildly endearing tribute to LeeAnne Baker, the finest actress the video screen has ever seen? I guess. I don't know. It all depends on how big her part is. And in Breeders she's merely a supporting player.

The real star of Breeders, believe or not, is Tim Kincaid himself, as he has made, what I think, is his masterpiece. Teaming up with his go to makeup artist, Ed French, the guys who did the music for Mutant Hunt, Don Great and Thomas Milano (the so-called "theme from Mutant Hunt" is featured throughout this film), and his usual assortment of Tim Kincaid regulars, all the elements seem come together in this film.

One of those Tim Kincaid regulars I just alluded to appears in the opening scene as film's first victim. Getting out a taxi cab in disgust, Donna (Natalie O'Connell) turns toward the cab and starts yelling at her date. While I didn't quite catch every insult she hurled in his direction (he obviously did something to piss her off), I did hear her say something about a "second rate Italian restaurant." Either way, alone in a weird part of the city, with only her fishnet pantyhose to keep her warm, Donna finds herself in a precarious situation. Don't worry, though, a kindly old German man walking his dog will make sure she makes it home safely, or will he?

Just like the slit on her leopard-print skirt, kindly old German men are unpredictable. What the hell does that mean? Well, you see, when the wind hits the slit on Donna's leopard-print skirt, it causes it to flap haphazardly from side to side in a manner that can best be described as unpredictable.

I'm still not following. It would seem that the kindly old German man isn't as kindly as he initially lead on. Okay, I got it. Waking up in the hospital, Donna was apparently the victim of a bizarre rape; "bizarre" because her vagina was not filled to the brim with the sperm of a not-so kindly old German man, but with an organic matter of unknown origin. The doctor in her care, Dr. Gamble Pace (Teresa Farley), and the detective assigned to her case, Det. Dale Andriotti (Lance Lewman), are both at a loss. The doctor, who is wearing a white lab coat with a taupe skirt, is at a loss because she's never seen anything like this, and the detective, who is wearing a brown blazer, can't understand why Donna is having trouble remember anything about the attack.

Meanwhile, over in the fashion district, a slinky brunette is putting on a modeling clinic at a nearby loft. Posing in a variety of different bathing suits (my favourite being the black and white bikini), Karinsa (Frances Raines) is doing her best to make sure Gail (Amy Brentano), a fashion photographer, gets all the angles she needs; with a little help from Alec (Adriane Lee), a makeup artist, and Ted (Matt Mitler), a hair stylist.

It's one thing for me to believe that a woman who wears a leopard-print skirt with fishnet pantyhose is a virgin, it's another thing all together for me to believe that a fashion model who does cocaine and likes to do aerobics in the nude is a virgin as well. Oh, didn't I mention that Donna was a virgin before the attack? Well, she was. And so is Karinsa, a coked-up model/former gymnast from Wisconsin.

Popping a tape into her boombox, Karinsa snorts a couple of lines of her beloved cocaine and removes the blue bikini she was wearing when the photo shoot ended (Gail, Alec, and Ted have gone out for Thai food), and proceeds to stretch in the nude. Hey, look. Ted's back. How embarrassing. Covering herself up with a towel, Karinsa stands awkwardly to the side as Ted retrieves his wallet; oh, that Ted is a sly one, using the old forgotten wallet trick to get him a look-see at Karinsa's beautiful backside. Um, hello? Ted's a hair stylist who lives with his mother. Yeah, so, that doesn't mean he can't appreciate Frances Raine's rotund bum.

It doesn't look like Ted's in the mood to appreciate any ass today, as he has starts to convulse on the floor of Gail's studio. Looking on in horror, well, sort of, she looks more stunned than anything else, Karinsa finally begins to scream when blood starts erupting from his mouth and chest. And just like that, Karinsa is no longer in the presence of a wallet-forgetting hair stylist who lives with his mother, she is now face-to-face, at least I think it had a face, with a slimy creature covered in dark nipples.

Don't get me wrong, I love Frances Raines, she gorgeous to the max. And the deadpan style of acting that Teresa Farley is employing is, to put it mildly, off the charts in terms of being impassively matter-of-fact in a hospital setting. Oh, and I'm totally down with the leopard-print skirt-related antics of Natalie O'Connell; her New York accent is adorable. But we want LeeAnne Baker, and we want her now. Be patient. I'm sure she's gonna come along soon.

In the meantime. No! Fuck the meantime! We want LeeAnne Baker! You have given me no choice. What do we want? We want to see LeeAnne Baker's long legs encased in white stockings or pantyhose! When do we want it. Um, now? If it's not too much trouble. Fine. Towering over Dr. Gamble Pace on the roof of the hospital, Kathleen (LeeAnne Baker), a nurse who works at...yeah, yeah, she works at the hospital, get to the part where you tell us what she's wearing. Man, you're quite the...just do it! Wearing a dark coat over top her white nurses uniform, which includes a nurse's cap, a white shirt, a white skirt, white nylons, and a pair of white pumps, Kathleen tells Dr. Pace that she's afraid. Concerned about the recent spate of attacks on young women, Kathleen is clearly on edge.

In order to quell her fears, Dr. Pace tells Kathleen that she's a "big girl." In other words, stop being a baby and focus on the task at hand.

As Kathleen leaves the roof, we get a great shot of the back of LeeAnne Baker's white nylon-adorned legs in motion. Less importantly, we can't help but notice that the creature who attacked the leopard-print virgin and the coked-up virgin was lurking nearby as Kathleen and Gamble spoke. Since Donna (the leopard-print virgin) is still out of it, Dr. Pace and Det. Andriotti decide to interview Karinsa (the coked-up virgin). Unlike Donna, Karinsa remembers who attacked her. Yelling, "it was Ted," Karinsa's half-crazed outburst has given Det. Andriotti his first break in the case. But then again, most LeeAnne Baker fans probably didn't catch any of these plot developments, as they were probably too busy watching LeeAnne Baker, who was standing in the background for the duration of the scene.

There's nothing to distract LeeAnne Baker fans in the upcoming scene, as Breeders becomes "The LeeAnne Baker Show" for the next ten or so minutes. If the sound of her white pumps hitting the pavement as she walked home wasn't exquisite enough, her walk gets its own music. As the music, which we'll call, "Kathleen's Walking Home Theme," plays while she walks, I could help but notice that she has one of the sexiest walks I have ever seen. Now, was her jaunt in white nylons as iconic as her black stockings stroll in Necropolis? Not quite. Nonetheless, LeeAnne Baker + Walking + Nylons = Cinematic Heaven.

After watching LeeAnne Baker walk in white nylons as seen from the front, the side, and the back, it's time to see them being taken off in a slow, deliberate fashion. Entering her kitchen, LeeAnne Baker/Kathleen grabs a giant pot from the fridge and places it on the counter. Having accomplished this feat with flying colours, LeeAnne Baker/Kathleen turns her attention to the removal of her nurse's uniform. And you what that means? We're about to find out what kind of hosiery she's wearing.

Removing her jacket first, then her nurse's hat, LeeAnne Baker/Kathleen pauses for a moment, before continuing to disrobe. Unfastening the buttons on her short sleeve nurse's shirt, LeeAnne Baker/Kathleen pauses yet again. It's obvious she senses something is wrong. Well, whatever it is, her skirt and nylons aren't going to remove themselves, so she rectifies this with an abrupt hiking motion.

And, if you ask me, it was a little too abrupt. In fact, it was so abrupt, that I didn't get a chance to see LeeAnne Baker's thighs being gripped by the tightness of her nylons.

Instead of getting angry about the abruptness of the hiking motion, I've decided to use my imagination. Okay, I'm imagining LeeAnne Baker. She's standing in her kitchen. The camera pans down to her feet (which still are adorned with white nylons and a pair of white pumps) to reveal a white skirt dropping to the floor around her ankles. Putting her right foot on top a chair, LeeAnne Baker proceeds to unattach, not before caressing her right legs with both hands, the suspenders that are keeping her white stockings up. After both stockings have been removed in this fashion, a naked LeeAnne Baker heads towards the bathroom.

Unlike the disrobing scene, LeeAnne Baker's artful profile filmed from every possible angle as she showers. Capturing her Lois Ayres-esque beauty in a manner that will satisfy even the most ardent of LeeAnne Baker fans, the soapy shower scene (lather those perky breasts, you svelte sex goddess), much like the kitchen scene, features many pauses. Does she have a reason to be skittish? I don't know, but LeeAnne Baker is now clean as whistle and sporting a towel.

Who am I kidding? You know something slimy and gross is coming her way. And I don't mean her boyfriend, Brett (Mark Legan), a real jackass who must have been standing on a milk crate when he stood next to the statuesque nurse wearing a towel, as there's no way he's taller than LeeAnne Baker; after all, she is, to quote Dr. Gamble Pace, "a big girl."

All women have something slimy and gross coming their way, and the six women, seven, if you include the bag lady (Rose Geffen), who appear in Breeders are no different. As expected, Gail, the photographer, and Alec, the makeup artist, are both visited by an alien sex fiend; the latter's encounter involves legginess (don't underestimate the intrinsic allure of a virginal makeup artist's gams) and the world's unluckiest rapist.

As the film goes underground (follow the red brick road), Breeders enters what I like to call, it's mucus pit phase. In other words, if you enjoyed watching adult female virgins wandering around naked, you're gonna love seeing them all together in a giant vat of mucus. And, yes, you know who is front and centre in the sticky nest. Actually, she was placed in the back of the giant vat. Remember kids, LeeAnne Baker is a big girl. Always place her at the back when filming a group of naked ladies writhing in a pit filled to the brim with mucus, as you don't want her to block the other women.

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Isn't it funny how some people in 1960s seemed to be living in the future, while most people today seem to be living in the past? Well, at least I thought it was funny. Of course, not in a ha-ha sort of way, but in a way that causes a shitload of self-induced neck-dependent nodding to occur. Desperate to be apart of a future they will never see, certain individuals living during the era of free love wanted to live like it was 2050. A world full of newfangled gizmos that helped make life not only more enjoyable, but easier as well, the future couldn't come soon enough for those who could afford to pretend it was already here. Only problem is, and The Frightened Woman (a.k.a Femina Ridens) shines a hip and happening light on this problem better than any film I've seen in quite some time, the majority of the people who had the money to make their vision of the future a reality, nine times out of ten, would abuse their power in order to satisfy another need all together. I know, you're thinking to yourself, what could be more important than living in the future during the 1960s?!? Like most folks who watched scorpions have sex as kids, I thought the fact that the female scorpion ate the male scorpion after they had finished exchanging fluids was pretty cool. However, there are those who view the scorpions violent mating ritual as a direct threat to their masculinity. You see, in their mind, it's only a matter of time before human females start killing human males after coitus. And instead of using his swinging pad of the future, complete with his and her walk-in body dryers and a room dedicated solely to sadomasochism, for good (orgies, acid parties, and face painting), the man at the centre of this trippy ride into the jaws of femininity wants to use it for purposes of a psychosexual nature.

And you know what that means? Exactly. Poison-tipped daggers, unasked for Jean Seberg makeovers, BDSM, forced foot massages, and whimsical photo shoots. No, not whimsical photo shoots. Anything but that. Actually, things start to lighten up a bit when the photo shoot that may or may not be whimsical comes along.

We're a long way from seeing anything occurring that could be construed as "whimsical" when The Frightened Woman (a.k.a. The Laughing Woman) gets underway. It may not be whimsical, but the film's opening is too chic for words. Groovy music, groovy colours, groovy sets, and groovy...well, you get the idea, the films starts off by taking us on a tour of a large sculpture that features two giant, rainbow-coloured legs spread wide to reveal a toothy vagina.

Sticking with the legs theme, the film then shows a prostitute (Mirella Pamphili) applying ointment to her bruised thighs while riding in the car of an affluent trick. Which begs the question: Why don't more movies have scenes that feature prostitutes applying ointment to their bruise-laden thighs. Um, I don't think that question was being begged. Hmm, that's interesting. 'Cause I could have sworn I heard it being begged. Either way, the film is off to a cracking good start: Vagina dentata and thigh-based ointment application. Yeah, baby!

The prostitute, for those interested, has curly blonde hair, is wearing red knee-high boots and is carrying a purse that goes with her curly blonde hair. Oh, and after her affluent trick pays her (with a cheque), she gets into a white Rolls-Royce, which takes her to a house where she talks on the phone in pink pearls and tries on fur coats. I'm not sure what all this has to do with the movie, but I'm enjoying her self-absorbed antics, nonetheless.

Speaking of being not sure and junk, look at that creepy guy with the strapless eye-patch. What about him? He's creepy, man.

A redheaded woman wearing a smart grey suit walks past the creepy strapless eye-patch guy and enters the office of one Dr. Sayer (Philippe Leroy), a blonde man with brown eyes. Introducing herself as Maria Edström (Dagmar Lassander), a journalist working on an article about male sterilization in India. Asking what she thinks about male sterilization, Maria says that she's for it. This causes Dr. Sayer to go into a bit of tirade, calling male sterilization "barbarous." Anyway, she's there because she wants to look at some of Dr. Sayer's research. Unfortunately, he doesn't have it with him, so they head over to his other office, where Maria spends most of her time admiring his "charmingly decorative" wall of diseases; artwork made via microscopic images of viruses such as typhus, carbuncle, bubonic plague, leprosy, cholera, diphtheria, and, of course, rabies.

Stopping for a moment (he was flipping through an issue of Life Magazine), Dr. Sayer decides to show Maria his dagger collection. At first, I thought it was a knife collection. But since Dr. Sayer seems to go out of way to call it his "dagger collection," I'll respect his wishes. Of course, one of the daggers has been dipped in a mild sedative. Why did you say, "of course"? Haven't you heard? Everything in this movie, drinks, cutlery, wash clothes, fingernails, cigarette lighters you name it, has been drugged.

Waking up barefoot and shackled against a wall covered in metal bars, it looks like Maria is being held captive by Dr. Sayer, who has decided to bathe the room in red light; most captors want to make a good first impression, and the decision to go with the red light motif is an all-time classic within the captor community.

As he watches her struggle, Dr. Sayer tells Maria that, "from aesthetical point of view," that her position is perfect. I don't want to sound like I agree with Dr. Saya, but he is right, Dagmar Lassander looks perfect bathed in red light. Fearing that the women of the future will simply extract sperm from men, freeze it, and then discard the man like a piece of trash. To put it another way, he fears parthenogenesis. A world where women can peruse aisle after aisle of neatly labeled vials of sperm like they were picking out a new pair of gloves.

After Maria's first escape attempt goes nowhere (she makes a run for it after blondie leaves the room), we're properly introduced to Dr. Sayer's swanky pad. An astonishing example of outre interior design, his home comes equipped with everything a single pervert/serial killer/neat freak/misogynist/sadist could possibly need. Wow, that Dr. Sayer sure likes to wear a lot of hats. Yeah, he's got issues. Speaking of which, he's got a lifesize dummy that looks exactly him. In fact, at one point he makes Maria, who's basically his slave, kiss it; "Kiss him...on the mouth," he tells her. "With more lust! More desire!"

If you thought that was great dialogue, you should hear the stuff that comes out Dr. Sayer's mouth after he finishes hosing her down (she tried to stab him while he ate an apple). While showing her a slideshow presentation that featured photos of his previous victims posed in morbidly erotic positions, Dr. Sayer goes on this wordy tirade about how much he gets off on the sight of a "woman in the grip of fear." When Dr. Sayer tells Maria that he can only achieve orgasm by killing his partner at the moment of climax, she starts to realize that he's probably going to kill her. Since she doesn't want to die, Maria tries her best to convince him not to murder her.

When reason doesn't work, Maria tries something a little different. Wrapping certain parts of her body with gauze, Maria dances around his house to hip-sounding music. While watching Dagmar Lassander dance, in a segment that goes on for a pretty long time, I couldn't help but feel sorry for all the other filmmakers who have ever tried to be chic. I mean, I don't think anything has come close to being this chic before, as the sight of Dagmar Lassander dancing to the music of Stelvio Cipriani in an outfit made entirely from gauze was too much for me to take. Add the stunning production design of Francesco Cuppini to the equation, and we're talking about a chicness overdose.

Kudos to Enrico Sabbatini for his equally chic costumes. His decision to put Dagmar Lassander in a white pleated skirt and a pair of white lacy knee-high socks was much appreciated, especially during the foot-job scene and the drive through the countryside; while taking a nap in Dr. Sayer's aqua-car (amphicar) the camera focuses on Dagmar's legs (the area between her lacy socks and pleated skirt) slapping together as a result of the bumping road.

Wait, did you say, "drive through the countryside"? Yeah, the action doesn't take place exclusively inside Dr. Sayer's house of the future. Which should be relief to those who don't want to stay cooped up inside all day.

Now, I don't want to say exactly how Dr. Sayer and Maria ended up outside. But let's just say The Frightened Woman takes many unexpected turns as it reaches its chic conclusion. And, yes, the ending is chic, too. Actually, forget about Dagmar's gauze dance, the film's last five minutes are definitely more chic. If you can point me in the direction of something that more chic than the final five minutes of this particular film, please let me know, as I'm dying to see how someone could top this film's overall chic appeal. Bring it. A must-see for fans of sadomasicism, feminist cinema, late 1960s interior design, leggy Euro babes, and, of course, fans of things that are excessively chic.

uploaded by Criterion Dungeon

We all have racially ambiguous, mentally unstable women in our lives. They live in our attics, they blather incoherently in our parks, and they teach our children to read. It's a testament to our growth as a liberal society that we allow racially ambiguous, mentally unstable women to roam free across this great land of ours. However, in the mid-1970s, attitudes were much different. In most cases, people kept their racially ambiguous, mentally unstable women hidden from view. Sheltered from the prying eyes attached to the faces of small minded sycophants and hopelessly out of touch reprobates, racially ambiguous, mentally unstable women (or "R.A.M.U.W.," as they're sometimes not called ) were unfairly maligned by a world that wasn't quite ready for their sexually liberated brand of gesticulation-heavy psychosis. In the erotic horror masterpiece, A Woman's Torment, we get a highly compelling look at the plight of a dark-haired R.A.M.U.W. named Karen (Tara Chung), as she struggles to make sense of a society that shuns her kind with a moderately extreme form of abandonment. Wielding her low centre of gravity like it were a serrated dildo made out of three different types of cheese, Karen uses her moist pussy (the crown jewel of her organic structure) to woo those who are still on the fence regarding R.A.M.U.W. rights. As each penis plunges deep inside her carnivorous cubbyhole, the scrapping sound the cocks make as they rub against her labia grows louder with every thrust. In fact, if you listen carefully–and I mean, really carefully, so carefully that your ears might disown you and move to Moldova–you can almost make out the sound of a crowd chanting: We're here, we're racially ambiguous, mentally unstable women, get used to it!

Let me get this straight, you heard a crowd chanting that? No, actually, you know what? I'm going to let that slide; much in the way Maestro Fresh Wes instructed us to let our backbone's slide in the late 1980s. You wanna know why? Sure. It's because you're the one who's starting to sound like they're mentally unstable. These racially ambiguous women you keep referring to are coming off as perfectly sane compared to the extra-strength batshit you're putting out there.

While I might sound unwell in the brain department, make no mistake, Karen is racially ambiguous. I mean, what is she? Is she Chinese? I'm confused. How about Indonesian? Danish, maybe? Either way, she's definitely mentally unstable. Look at her, she's trying to hump the beach. And you what else Karen is? That's right, she's a woman. How do I know this? You kidding, right? Well, for starters, she masturbates in the shower. And you wanna know why she masturbates in the shower? No? Whatever, I'm going to tell you anyway. Two words: Shower nozzle.

Need further proof that Karen is a woman? No, I'm good. Okay. Do you need further proof that Karen is insane? Yes. Yes, I do. Just look into her eyes. And, thankfully, writer-director Roberta Findlay gives us plenty of close-up shots of her eyes whilst in throes of madness.

Oh, that reminds me. Do you know how I knew A Woman's Torment was written and directed by a woman. Um, because the director's name is Roberta? No, actually, she's credited as "Robert W. Norman." The exact moment I knew A Woman's Torment was directed by a woman was when Estelle Vorel (Jennifer Jordan) tells her husband, Dr. Otis Vorel (Jake Teague), "you didn't make love to me, you masturbated inside of me," as no man would write a line like that. You see, Estelle tries to point out the substandard quality of her husband's thrusts during sex, but her mid-hump concerns fell on deaf ears as Otis continued to insert his chemically unassisted penis into her silky smooth vagina with a self-indulgent glee.

Cleaning his nonexistent wad off her stomach with the sheets (get this failure stain off my stomach), Estelle starts to cry. He may be a lousy lover, but Otis is one hell of a psychiatrist. Or, at least he thinks he is. Placating Estelle's misery with a pat on the head and a "there there," he tells her to "get dressed" (they're supposed to go to a party later on). Totally seeing through his attempt to calm her down, Estelle eventually agrees to get dressed. But not before accusing him of having an affair. She thinks the woman Otis is having an affair with will be at this party. And you know what? She's probably right.

We get our first glimpse of the real reason Otis wanted to go to the party so badly holding court in the middle of the living room. A chichi force of nature if I ever saw one, Francis Compton (Crystal Sync) is one of the most alluring women 1970s has ever seen. Unfortunately, Francis, who is wearing a tight, sparkly gold dress, decides to end her affair with Otis mid-grope. It's for the best. Besides, there's no way Otis deserves to be with a woman who is that stylish and elegant.

The other topic of conversation at the party is the whereabouts of the mysterious Karen, Francis' step sister-in-law. A nosy party-goer asks about her at one point, to which Francis responds, "she's resting." We all know that's not entirely true, as we get the occasional shot of Karen sitting in a rocking chair holding a pair of scissors in a poorly lit room upstairs.

You want to know who else agrees with my assessment of Francis Compton? Her husband, Don Compton (Jeffrey Hurst), a hirsute fella with exceptional taste. When Don calls Francis a "beautiful...cock-stirring sight" after the party, I nearly strained my neck as a result of nodding too much in agreement. Of course, as the foxy Francis reluctantly hops aboard her husband's cock, we notice that Karen is still rocking back and forth in an adjacent room.

You want more proof A Woman's Torment was written by a woman? As Don and Francis are schtupping, they discuss whether or not they should have a baby (procreation is the last thing on a male director's mind when shooting a sex scene). In hindsight, though, I don't think ejaculating sperm all over your wife's stomach is correct way to conceive a child. But then again, they didn't really make a clear cut decision regarding the baby.

Now that I have established that A Woman's Torment was written and directed by a woman, we finally head out to the beach house. Located on a remote island somewhere off the coast of Long Island (Fire Island, perhaps?), the beach house will be the film's primary location from now on. Staggering along the beach, Karen dumps her suitcase in the ocean and makes her way to a house that presumably belongs to Francis and Don. The first thing Karen does is turn on all the lights and open the curtains. As she wanders the house in a daze, we start to hear the voices in Karen's head. While taking a shower, Karen imagines herself being stabbed by a masked assailant. It's clear that Karen, on top of being racially ambiguous, is mentally unstable.

I just hope no one decides to drop by unannounced, as Karen's brand of mentally deranged lust isn't really meant for public consumption. Of course, someone does decide to drop by. If they didn't, it wouldn't be much of a movie, now, would it? Though, I could watch Karen shower and act deranged for hours on end. Well, most people don't think like you, so Larry the Lineman (Michael Gaunt) shows up in Karen's kitchen. Grabbing a knife and clutching the top of her bathrobe, Karen is visibly shaken by the sudden appearance of a man in a green hardhat. As Larry the Lineman pokes around a bit (chatting her up as he does so), Karen starts to hear voices.

The sight of a R.A.M.U.W. holding a knife with a disturbed expression on her face would cause most men to run for the nearest exit, but not Larry the Lineman. In fact, he becomes even more aggressive. While making a fire in the fireplace, Karen's eyes become less wide-eyed and more focused. You know what that means? Throwing her robe off like it wasn't even there, Karen is tosses a couple of couch cushions on the ground and instructs Larry the Lineman to start fingering her pussy. Which he does.

After his fingers become stiff and achy, Larry the Lineman decides it's time for his cock to get some attention. In no mood to be penetrated by Larry the Lineman, Karen resists his attempt to mount her. Unable to stop him, Karen eventually stabs Larry the Lineman with a knife just after he finished spewing cum all over her stomach. Seeing a man convulsing as a result of being stabbed while his urethra was still moist with jizz was pretty awesome. Funny thing, just as Larry the Lineman is being stabbed, we get a quick shot of Francis, Don, Estelle, and Otis having cocktails on the roof of their building. You have to laugh when the line, "there's nothing seriously wrong with Karen" is suddenly uttered. Nothing wrong, eh? I don't know about that.

Channeling Edith Prickley and Little Edie, the immensely talented Marlene Willoughby (Waterpower) dons a head scarf, a yellow raincoat, sunglasses, white gloves, and smeared lipstick to play Fannie Grudkow, the nosiest neighbour in movie history. Her loud knocking at the door causes Karen to move Larry the Lineman's body underneath the deck. After awhile, Miss Gudkow gives up waiting for someone to answer the door and leaves. But not before shaking her fist in the beach house's general direction (she's upset over the fact that all their lights are on in the middle of the day).

Just as I was thinking that this film could use more Marlene Willoughby, Fannie Grudkow returns later that evening. Proving that she is a terrific actress, Marlene recites a huge chunk of dialogue, as a confused-looking Tara Chung looks on. Bullying her way inside, Miss Grudkow continues to badger Karen, mostly about the energy crisis. Am I seeing things, or did Fannie Grudkow just steal one of Karen's lightbulbs? Anyway, Karen's wide-eyed indifference soon turns to homicidal rage. Informing Miss Grudkow that her "cunt is on fire," Karen tries to grope the garrulous busybody with mixed results. It should go without saying, but the area underneath Karen's deck is starting to get a tad overrun with corpses.

Itching to fuck something, Karen heads out to the beach to hump the sand. As she's doing that, we're introduced to a young couple, Tom (actor unknown) and his fiancee, let's call her Stacey (Clea Carson, also from Waterpower), floating in a small pleasure craft out on the water. It's not quite clear yet what these two have to do with Karen. But you know something sinister is afoot.

If you had any doubts about A Woman's Torment and its status as a horror film, you need look further than the confrontation between Karen and the young couple.

Dripping with equal amounts of blood and cum, A Woman's Torment is probably one of the best erotic horror films ever made. And while I love Marlene Willoughby and Crystal Sync, who are not only two of the most attractive actresses working the fuck film circuit, their acting is top notch, I have to say, I was deeply impressed by the performance given by newcomer Tara Chung. Giving crazy a much needed shot in the arm, Tara's fearlessness is evident in almost every scene. Whether masturbating in the shower or stabbing Larry the Lineman in the back, Tara Chung is the queen of the R.A.M.U.W.-style of acting, and the main reason this film is the non-classic it is today.

video uploaded by MarleneWilloughbyFan (sorry, I couldn't find a trailer for the film)

Sex, money, rape, and murder all coalesce into one mighty fine stew in...The Tiffany Minx, Roberta Findlay's logical follow up to A Woman's Torment. Wait a second, follow up?!? Wasn't A Woman's Tormentmade in 1977? Yeah, so? Well, you have...The Tiffany Minx listed as coming out in 1981. Again, yeah, so? What I'm trying to say is, that's not exactly what I would call a "follow up" (four years is practically an eternity in erotic horror terms). In today's fact-deficient culture, who really cares about release dates? I mean, Marlene Willoughby's willowy frame and Crystal Sync's succinct cunt are patiently waiting to receive the fawning praise they so rightly deserve, and here I am talking about release dates? That's–and I'm sure most of you will agree–some pretty fucked up shit. Besides, it's obvious A Woman's Torment and...The Tiffany Minx were made at the same time. How so? I'll tell you how so, Crystal Sync wears the same dress in both films. And not only that, Jeffrey Hurst's back is hairy in both films as well. Think about it, if it was really 1981, don't you think that Jeffrey wouldn't have gotten it shaved, or, at the very least, trimmed a bit, by the time 1981 rolled around? No, these films are both products of the mid-to-late 1970s (and they have the hairy ass cracks to prove it). Um, that's great and all. But what about Marlene Willoughby's willowy frame and Crystal Sync's succinct cunt? Oh, yeah, I almost forgot about them. Just kidding, those two things are never far from my mind.

When I first saw the trailer for...The Tiffany Minx, I thought to myself: I need stop what I'm doing and go see...The Tiffany Minx. Brilliantly edited and narrated by a woman who seems to whisper all her lines, the trailer immediately sucked me into its melodramatic world of sex and violence. Oh, and the reason I pause every time I say...The Tiffany Minx, is because that's what the voiceover lady does in the trailer, and I just like the way it sounds. Anyway, the trailer's biggest draw was Marlene Willoughby's willowy frame and stunning face. In fact, every time Marlene Willoughby would appear in the trailer my guts would go gooey. I don't know, there's just something about her that brings out the animal in me. And by "animal," I mean a small woodland creature with low self-esteem.

The moment I saw Marlene Willoughby's brief appearance in Waterpower (you might remember, she played the nurse who assists Dr. Eric Edwards with the film's first enema), I knew right away that there was something special about her; I'm convinced that the shape of her face has healing powers (though, it should be said, that I feel the same way about the faces that belong to Sharon Mitchell and Lois Ayres). After a lengthy period of time that boasted no Marlene Willoughby, I saw her again in A Woman's Torment. Unfortunately, her role was a non-sex-related. On the bright side, she does deliver a deftly comedic performance as the nosy Fannie Grudkow. While it was nice to see Marlene Willoughby in a film again, it was obvious, judging by my naked writhing, that I wanted more.

Will...The Tiffany Minx provide me the Marlene Willoughby that I so wantonly crave? Stay tuned to find out, as I, and by "I," I mean, "we," delve once again into the cinematic meat grinder that is the world of Roberta Findlay, and carefully examine the erotic tour de force that is...The Tiffany Minx.

Why is Carter Stevens, sans pants, cutting the garter belt attached to a passed out Robin Sane with a pair of scissors? I have no idea, but it's 2:30am and the fun has apparently just begun. Entering the room with a forceful swagger, a black hold-up stockings/satin panties clad Samantha Fox is ready to get fucked. Accompanied by her brunette boy toy (David Morris), Samantha asks Carter Stevens if they can violate the pussy of his passed out companion. While Carter Stevens goes to the kitchen to get a snack, Samantha Fox and David Morris proceed to rape the unconscious Robin Sane (who, according to Carter Stevens, drank two bottles of champagne). In order to get her in the mood, the brunette boy toy licks Samantha's pussy through her satin panties ("I like the feeling of satin rubbing against my pussy"). As the boy toy is giving Robin and Samantha each a piece of his cock, Carter Stevens is on the phone.

As far as opening scenes go, the one in...The Tiffany Minx is pretty confusing. I mean, who are these people? None of them look like Marlene Willoughby or Crystal Sync. Well, Carter Stevens' phone conversation is the only aspect that's integral to the film's plot (the identity of the person on the other end of the line isn't revealed). Everything else is just Samantha Fox in black hold-up stockings-related gravy to feed the raincoat crowd.

Woo-hoo! The luminous Crystal Sync makes an appearance immediately after the boy toy had finished dispensing his future stain onto Samantha Fox's chest. Standing by the pool in a white bikini, Jessica Grover (Crystal Sync) is talking to her husband, Paul (Jeffrey Hurst), on the phone. While I can't remember exactly what the topic of their conversation was (I was too busy drinking in Miss Sync's sexiness), I bet it's got something to do with Anne.

Who's Anne, you ask? She's a woman who works with Jess's husband (real estate is his game). And not only that, Jess thinks Paul is having an affair with her. This Anne woman would have to be pretty spectacular to drive Paul to cheat. I mean, let's get real. His wife looks like Crystal Sync. It all starts makes sense once we get our first look at this Anne character. Do I have to spell it out? Anne is played by–yeah, you guessed it–Marlene Willoughby. Wait a second. You mean to tell me this Paul fella is married to Crystal Sync and is having an affair with Marlene Willoughby? Paul is my new hero.

Don't put your dick in Paul's ass just yet. You see, he's got a scheme going. A scheme? Yeah, a scheme. His wife is loaded. And according to the rooftop chat we're privy to that takes place between Paul and Anne, there's plan afoot to bilk her of her family fortune.

In meantime, Paul and Anne consummate their sinister alliance with a little bedroom sexual intercourse. Ah, bedroom sexual intercourse. It's where straight people fuck. You mean? Yes, we get to see Marlane Willoughby's slender body in the throes of passion. Tasty. Spoon position, moan, "I want it," your pussy looks like Gene Shalit, skinny arms, doggie style, blow job, moan, spoon position, male orgasm, pubic hair/stomach. I like the way Marlene Willoughby would occasionally look over her shoulder in order to keep tabs on what her lover's cock was doing to her shalit-esque pussy.

While Anne's 'O' face managed to retain its 'O'-ness throughout her encounter with her lover's cock, the same can't be said for the intruder/rapist who decides to pay Jess a visit. His 'O' face quickly turns to his 'Ow' face, as Jess plunges a pair of scissors into his back mere moments after he spewed his rape wad on her stomach. And get this, the intruder/rapist was played by Carter Stevens. You mean the same guy from the opening scene? The very same. Wow, I mean, wow. That's weird, wild stuff.

Calling her husband immediately, Anne comforts Jess (Marlene Willoughby and Crystal should hug more often) as Paul handles the police. Still stressed about the rape, and the fact that she killed a man, Jess tries to put it all behind her. Of course, seeing the newspaper, headline, "L.I. Woman Kills Rapist," isn't helping matters. To make things even worse, the byline reads: "Cool Canadian Air Due Overnight." That's it, blame Canada for all your troubles.

The alluring Marlene Willoughby gives the first of her many evil eyebrow lifts during a phone conversation with Paul. If you haven't guessed by now, they're up to something. Anyway, I dug the manner in which Marlene Willoughby says, "Yes, an accident...a fatal accident." The instant she says this, I preformed a mental fist pump. As in, yeah, baby! *mental fist pump* You're thin, you're fabulous, you're a colossal hosebeast, and you're campy as fuck. In other words, I love you.

A surprise birthday party for Jess doesn't go as planned as she loses her shit during the cake cutting ceremony (knives still creep her out). Realizing their plan is "on the verge of being a rousing success," Paul and Anne celebrate their duplicity by kissing one another. Little do they know, but Jess spots them swapping mouth fluid. Busted! Keeping what she saw to herself, Jess agrees that it's a good idea for her go some place quiet and secluded. Oh, I know where she should go, the Fire Island beach house from A Woman's Torment. It's almost as if she was reading my mind, because that's exactly where she decides to go.

A weird scene involving a guy named Matt (Robert Kerman) and two women, a blonde (Merle Michaels) and a brunette (Candida Royalle), fills the space between Jess's decision to go the beach house and her eventually arrival. After the blonde and brunette finish sixty-nining each other, Matt receives a blow job from the blonde.

We soon find out why Matt has been added to the mix, as he's in cahoots with Pinky (Jennifer Jordan), who just happens to be the woman who lives in the beach house next to the one Jess will be staying at. To welcome Jess to her new digs, Paul let's Jess sit on his cock, or I should say, Jess let's Paul put his cock where Jess sits.

I'm curious. How did Anne feel about all this cock sitting? Why don't you ask her? She's sulking in a slinky blue nightgown in the room next-door. Whatever. Even while sulking, Marlane Willoughby manages maintain her fabulousness.

In the blue corner, weighing in at a hundred pounds soaking wet, wearing the green head scarf, from Detroit, Michigan, Marlene Willoughby. Willoughby!

And in the red corner, weighing in at none of your fucking business, wearing the white bikini, from parts unknown, Crystal Sync. Sync!

When we see Jennifer Jordan's Pinky sitting cross-legged on the deck of Jessica's beach house, are her shapely legs sheathed in: A) Hold-up stockings B) Stockings attached to a garter belt C) Suspender hose, or D) Pantyhose? To find out the answer to this question, you'll have to watch...The Tiffany Minx.

Every time Pinky says her signature line, "If you know what I mean," you have to take a sip of tea. Did you just invent a... The Tiffany Minx drinking game? 'Well, whatta ya know? It looks like I just did.

Who is...The Tiffany Minx? Personally, I think it's rather obvious. Nevertheless...The Tiffany Minx packs an emotional punch, with a twist ending that will leave you in awe. Okay, maybe that's a little on the strong side. Let's just say, the film's tag line, "the first adult film for adults," isn't that far off, as the film is surprisingly intelligent (the plot is as tight as Marlene Willoughby's mouth-watering pussy), it's violent, it's well-acted (the five principal actors are all uniformly excellent), and is quite sophisticated in places. The unedited trailer for...The Tiffany Minx can be found on the Roberta Findlay Cult '70s Porno Director DVD and the Doris Wishman Cult 70's Porno Director DVD. Beware...the minx.

an edited version of the infamous tiffany minx trailer has recently been uploaded by permateen (major kudos to them)

We all have one, lurking somewhere in the back of a rarely opened closet. Waiting patiently to be used, but not in the way you'd think. Your average vacuum cleaner has one thing, and one thing only on its mind. And that is, to the hear the sound of your floppy genitals struggling to maintain their structural integrity as they get sucked up through the nozzle connected to their primary sucking hose. Are you implying that the vacuum cleaner at centre of Over-sexed Rugsuckers from Mars is gay? When did I imply that?!? You said "floppy genitals," as supposed to non-floppy genitals. And, as everybody knows, floppy genitals are the type of genitals men carry around with them on a regular basis. I know the difference between floppy and non-floppy genitals, I'm not an idiot. Besides, did it ever occur to you that the film's principal vacuum cleaner could have been a cock-devouring female? Yeah, but the cleaned up, tuxedo-wearing derelict who sort of looks like Alejandro Jodorowsky said the vacuum cleaner was gay. In fact, you could say that the vacuum cleaner had recently come out of the closet. "Objection, your honour. The prosecution is attempting to perform stand up comedy" (an actual line from the movie). I don't know much about gay vacuum cleaners from outer space, but I do know they tend to shy away from pussy. For all we know, the gay vacuum cleaner was merely experimenting when he forcibly tried to suck the vaginal viscosity out of a Neiman Marcus-obsessed housewife and a wannabe rock star/former mail order bride with expertly sculptured legs. Did you ever think of that? You didn't? Well, you should have, as it's as plain as the fay way its rainbow-coloured power chord dangled two and fro from its plastic housing like a paisley-draped dandy fop.

Speaking of forcibly trying to suck stuff, I want to inhale, if it's all right with her, the contents of Jean Stewart's zebra-print pumps. And, no. I don't want to inhale them after only a few hours of casual wear. Uh-uh. I want to plant my face all up inside Jean Stewart's zebra-print pumps after a full day's worth of walking. Nothing would please me more. Well, that and a large corned beef on rye (don't skimp on the mustard).

"Just take off your shoes. Just take off your shoes. You've nothing left to lose. Just take off your shoes." ~ Tiga

Since everyone else is thinking it, I'll just go ahead ask: What the hell are you babbling about? Whatever do you mean? Oh, the shoe sniffing thing. Yeah, well, Over-sexed Rugsuckers from Mars is a lot of things: It's stupid, it's got a frightfully low budget, it's mildly satirical, it was made during the late 1980s, and it's funny in places. However, would you have guessed that this film is leading cause of shoe and foot fetishes in the United States, Canada, and probably El Salvador? No? Well, it is.

How do I know this? For starters, I just watched it (which gives me a distinct advantage over the people who haven't watched it). And secondly, I have a keen eye. It's true, my keen eye doesn't work like your average keen eye. But the manner in which it [my keen eye] is able to uncover a perverted agenda will blow your mind. You say your mind isn't susceptible to being blown, eh? (Much in the same way your on the cusp of being heterosexual husband isn't when he visits a bus station restroom for non-urinary expulsion purposes.) I was acutely aware of this film's pro-shoe and foot fetish agenda the instant Dr. Welling drops to the floor and begins to imbibe the unseen riches swirling around inside the left brown pump of a female colleague.

I don't mean to poop donkey dicks on your didactic gay pride parade, but even a blind monkey with a faux hawk could have figured out that writer-director Michael Paul Girard was promoting shoe and foot fetishism when he filmed that scene. Yeah, I guess you're right. Oh, well. At any rate, who would have thought a guy with a name like, "Michael Paul Girard" would end up being the brains behind a film called "Over-sexed Rugsuckers from Mars"? I don't know 'bout you, but something seems out of whack.

You think that's out of whack?!? Honey, you ain't seen nothing yet. Reminding me of the opening of Voyage of the Rock Aliens, except with 100% more anatomically correct claymation aliens, the visitors from another planet in Over-sexed Rugsuckers from Mars become "over-sexed" and "rugsuckers" for myriad reasons. Arriving on planet earth to see how much humans have evolved over the past ten million years, the first human they come across is Vernon Conelli (Dick Monda), a derelict sleeping outside near a pile of trash overlooking beautiful downtown Los Angeles.

Disgusted by what they see, the aliens decide to create human/vacuum hybrid, a vacusapien, if you will, so that humans will be more motivated to clean up after themselves. How do they [the aliens] go about mating a human being with a vacuum cleaner, you ask? Why, that's simple. Two of the aliens enter the dustbag attached to a vacuum (luckily, there's one over by that garbage can) and basically take control of it. Waking up in a drunken haze, Vernon takes a swig of gin (gin that has been spiked with alien piss) and proceeds to make out with the sentient vacuum cleaner. After gently caressing its handle, Vernon fingers the slight tear in its dustbag. When the foreplay is over, Vernon mounts the vacuum with a hobo-rific vigor, and penetrates its dustbag with his large, unnaturally jet black penis.

As Vernon's hobo thrusts are piercing the crisp morning air overlooking downtown Los Angeles, Tom Oxlitener (Billy Bob Rhoads) is in the bathroom of his Bel Air home watching his leggy neighbour across the street, Rena Dushay (Jean Stewart), shave her leggy legs in a leggy manner. Just as he's about to grab some to suntan lotion to ease the friction that is about to occur when the rapid motions of his hand meet the tender surfaces of his British cock, his wife Beverly (Lynne Guini), who, of course, was just vacuuming, starts knocking on the bathroom door. Telling Tom that the vacuum cleaner is broken, Beverly demands that he go out and buy her a new one, preferably at Nieman Marcus.

While Tom is messing with Rena's car (he's up to something), we get some great shots of Vernon and the alien possessed vacuum cleaner walking through the city; if you look closely, you'll notice a woman wearing heels with dark hose stops to look at Vernon and vacuum with bewildered amusement.

Ending up at some kind of welfare office, Vernon, who is forced to leave his vacuum outside, sits in the waiting area with fresh dollop of bird shit on his forehead. While he waits, Dr. Welling (Jeff Wilson) is begging Bertha (Darlanne Something), a woman who sits on the board supervisors, to give him a second chance to prove that he can improve the life one wretched individual. When Bertha finally agrees to give him a second chance, Dr. Welling drops to the floor, pulls off one of her shoes, and starts to rub it all over his face. Now, I don't want to say too much about Dr. Welling's reaction to being given a second chance. But let's just say, I nodded ever so slightly as he breathed in her foot-based bouquet.

Of course, out of all the lowlifes sitting in the waiting area, Dr. Welling is assigned to help a man who has just started dating a vacuum cleaner. While Vernon is telling Dr. Welling his sob story (before hitting rock bottom, he used to own a flower shop and drove a station wagon), a street hustler carrying a boombox offers to sell Tom (who's stopped at an intersection) a number of goods and services. Not wanting anything he's selling (watches, stereos, cars, toaster ovens, etc.), Tom remembers that Beverly wants a vacuum, so he casually asks if he has any vacuums for sale. And don't forget, Vernon left his vacuum outside the welfare office. So, you know what that means? The next image we see is Tom bringing Vernon's vacuum into the kitchen and presenting it to Beverly with much fanfare.

When Vernon discovers that his vacuum is missing, he cries out, "Dusty!" It would seem that Vernon, who has recently gotten a makeover thanks to Dr. Welling, has named his vacuum. As a newly cleaned up Vernon (shave, haircut, shower, tuxedo) searches the streets for Dusty, Beverly is wondering why Tom's British cock tastes like suntan lotion. After sucking up some Weeping Wanger (a type of herbal tea that acts as an aphrodisiac), Dusty, the alien vacuum cleaner, attacks Beverly in her kitchen.

Sad that his wife was raped and murdered by a vacuum cleaner, Tom goes over to Rena's for emotionally support. Unfortunately, Tom learns that Rena has a boyfriend, Charlie (Bill Monsour), a yoga-obsessed health nut, and ends up leaving. After being raped by the vacuum himself, Tom's arrested for his wife's murder. The Humphrey Bogart-esque Lt. Kane (Ralston Young) suspects a vacuum cleaner might have had something to do with Beverly's death (there were dust particles found in her pubic hair), but he's going to have a hard time convincing his superiors that he wants to put an APB out for a homicidal vacuum cleaner.

Hopped up on Weeping Wanger, Dusty heads across to street pay Rena Dushay a visit. Fully-fashioned black stockings, zebra-print pumps, and crimped hair fill the screen as Dusty lunges toward Rena in a menacing manner. As Rena is struggling to get away from Dusty, our eyeballs are bathed in a veritable cornucopia of perversion-friendly images. Do you like hot chicks in fully-fashioned stockings? This scene has got you covered. How 'bout stocking-covered feet? If that's the case, you're in for a treat, too. Are you more of a one shoe on, one shoe off kind of guy? Don't worry, Monsieur Girard hasn't forgotten about you.

Do zebra-print pumps turn your crank? Grab a seat, you're about to spank it. Don't like being told what to do? Stand, sit, I don't give a shit. Either way, these zebra-print pumps will give your clit fits.

Do you like to watch lingerie clad women sexually assaulted by vacuum cleaners? You do? Then my next question has be: What's wrong with you? No, seriously, if you do, Over-sexed Rugsuckers from Mars is here to provide you with the visual stimulation you need in order for you to do that nasty thing you do three times a week. Hell, if you like to watch Humphrey Bogart impersonators and guys who sort of looks like Alejandro Jodorowsky chase one another using shopping carts, this film is dementia from heaven.

Will Vernon and Dusty ever be reunited? (Their love is a powerful allegory against the ills of materialism.) How many blow jobs will Rena have to perform on her boss Mr. Lipschitz before he agrees to take on Tom's case? (I'm guessing: fifteen.) Why can't Lebanon Vice be a real show? And is Lt. Kane really married to a sheep named Veronica? To find out the answers to these and many other baffling questions, make sure to watch this film from beginning to end. It's like Eating Raoul and Liquid Sky made sweet love to the Zapruder film, and out popped Over-Sexed Rugsuckers from Mars nine months later. Oh, and don't just watch it, masturbate to it. Your floppy and non-floppy genitals will thank you in the morning.

As I'm sure most of you know, safe and clean drinking water and sanitation has been recently declared a human right. Really? That's not even close to being fascinating. Excuse me? Don't you think every human on earth deserves to have access to clean drinking water? I guess. But people didn't click on your review of Drainiac! to be lectured about water rights. Okay, if you're so smart guy, tell me, why are they here? Two words: An adorable, ticklish blonde named Samara Doucette. Um, that's actually more than two...You know what? Never mind. They want me to type words about Samara Doucette, eh? Hell yeah they do. You see, this waterlogged monstrosity masquerading as filmed entertainment was Samara Doucette's only full-length screen credit. So what? So what?!? Don't you get it? There are not literally millions of people across this stupid ass globe right this minute who are depending on you to lavish copious amounts of hyperbolic praise on Samara Doucette's performance in this equally stupid ass movie. Seriously? If you don't praise her, who will? You're absolutely right. It's up to me to praise her. Forget everything I just said about clean water being a human right (we already have), I've got me a blonde thespian to lavish copious amounts of hyperbolic praise on. Don't forget to get some on her feet. What?!? Her feet, don't forget to praise her feet. Oh, all right. For a minute there I thought you were talking about jizz. Don't be vulgar. I'm sorry, seminal fluid. That's more like it.

Being the only blonde in a sea of dark hair is tough. How do I know this? Well, I just watched the trials and tribulations of Tanya (Samara Doucette), the only blonde in the entire state of New Hampshire. And, I think it's safe to say, I understand her pain and suffering all too well. Of course, I'm not a blonde. But I do know what's it like to not fit in. I hope you got some tissues handy, because what I'm about to tell you will probably cause your eyes to become soaked with tears. Are you ready? During my teenage years, I elected to wear Pointed Toe Buckle Creepers. Now, I know what you're thinking, that doesn't sound so bad. Yeah, but get this. Everyone else in my peer group wore non-buckled, non-pointy footwear. Non-buckled, non-pointy footwear?!? Damn. You must have been ridiculed on a daily basis. Hmm, not really. Well, the beatings you must have endured were no doubt horrendous. I don't recall any beatings. No, their shoes were just different than mine. Oh.

Anyway, a very blonde Tanya is friends with a bunch of brunettes, and is constantly being picked on for being a blonde. Oh, sure. I didn't actually hear any blonde-related slurs hurled in her general direction over the course of the film. But I could totally tell that were making fun of her in their own condescending, brunette way.

The film's prologue, by the way, is probably one of the worst prologues I have ever seen. Yet, as two derelicts argue with one another in the woods on Christmas Eve, I couldn't help but notice that it was snowing. I know, snowfall is quite common in the Live Free or Die state, but it just looked so pretty; and you rarely see real weather in movies anymore. Whatever, as the two derelicts, Todd Poudrier ("melting derelict") and Andrew Osborne ("dumb derelict") are fighting over a bottle of booze, they stumble upon a house in the woods; a creepy house in the woods, which, I guess, should go without saying. Then why did you say it? Lick my taint.

Entering the house via a basement window, the melting derelict is called the "melting derelict" because he melts after touching some green slime that was dripping from a pipe. And let that be a lesson to all you kids out there: Don't enter creepy houses in the woods and learn how to share your booze. What about touching green slime? Yeah, don't do that either.

Jumping forward to modern times (the derelict sequence was apparently a flashback), it's, oh, let's say, 1996, and a teenage brunette named Julie (Georgia Hatzis) is returning home for the evening. Don't worry, the house she enters wasn't the creepy house in the woods from the prologue. Even though you only hear him shouting at her from another room, I can already tell that Julie's dad (Steven Bornstein) is going to be a bit of an asshole. Did I say "bit"? What I meant to say was, huge asshole; Julie's father is a huge asshole.

Changing into a Tufts t-shirt, Julie turns in for the evening. Unable to sleep, Julie shows off her leggy writhing technique. And as an expert when it comes to leggy writhing, I have to say, Georgia Hatzis, whose name rhymes with Nazis (c'mon, you're all thinking it), is quite adept at writhing while leggy. Suddenly, without warning, slimy hands grab Julie's arms and legs. Just as the slimy creature attached to those grabby, slimy hands is about to suck her neck, Julie wakes up.

Pausing at her mother's grave (she committed suicide about a year ago) during her morning jog, Julie enjoys a moment of quiet reflection. I hope she did in fact enjoy it, because her dad is waiting for her when she gets back. Telling her to get in the car, Julie's father wants her to come help clean up an old house he recently purchased. As they're pulling out of the driveway (her dad wouldn't even let her take a shower), Julie's friends pull up in a car.

Okay, what do we have here? The guy behind wheel, that's Jake (Ethan Krasnoo). Riding shotgun is a brunette named Lisa (Alexandra Boylan). And sitting in the backseat is the cutest blonde I've seen all week. Winning me over almost immediately with her top-notch "I'm annoyed" face, the luminous Samara Doucette plays Tanya, a platinum-haired breath of fresh air in this frightfully stale universe. When she catches wind that Lisa is hinting that she wants to help Julie and her dad, Tanya flashes her first annoyed face while saying something to effect of: "Yeah, like, that's how I wanna spend my Saturday."

After employing a flurry of annoyed looks and a smattering of eye-rolling, Julie and her friends eventually go their separate ways. To the surprise of virtually no-one, the house Julie and her dad are supposed to clean up is the very same dump from the derelict melting prologue.

Meanwhile, over at USA Subs, Tanya is showing her friends, Jake and Lisa, the proper way to look adorable while sitting in a sub joint. The key to Tanya's adorableness is the white scarf she wears in her blonde hair, as it gives her already jaunty demenour an added layer of jauntiness. Isn't she in danger of becoming too jaunty? Hell, no. Just asking. Crashing Tanya's makeshift adorability symposium is a jerk named Wade (Rob Gorden), a floppy-haired punk in a green army jacket. As Wade is stealing food off Tanya's plate, she tells him, "Get your own food, asshole!" Yeah, baby! To which Wade responds, "Tanya! You're so damned cute!" Stealing her food was definitely a dick move on his part. However, he does know unadulterated cuteness when he sees it; you gotta give him that...you just gotta.

I must admit, the amount of energy I'm expending extolling the virtues of Samara Doucette's performance as Tanya is off the charts in terms of misguided enthusiasm. However, I'm starting to feel as if it's not entirely justified. Don't get me wrong, from a visual stand point, Miss Doucette is the best thing about Drainiac! (her perky, colourful look is way more interesting than the two bland brunettes sporting ho-hum ponytails and their asexual companion). It's just that the film itself is basically a teens in peril flick. Except in this film's case, the machete-wielding madman has been replaced by the kitchen sink.

Don't lose hope. At least not now. Why's that? Well, look. Huh, it would seem that Tanya, Lisa, Jake, and Wade have decided to pay Julie a visit after all. (They agreed to bring her lunch - Wade shows up uninvited - That's So Wade.) This could be interesting. If you're in a film called "Drainiac!," the last thing you want to do is to wander off on your own to wash your hands. Surprisingly, the results of Tanya's hand washing adventure are actually quite comical. While attempting to wash her hands in the kitchen sink, Tanya is splashed with water. Screaming, "the faucet exploded," Tanya alerts her friends to the kitchen. What makes the scene so humourous is that when Julie, Lisa and Jake are discussing the faucet, Tanya periodically interrupts them to say, "I'm wet here." The look on face on Tanya's face as she tries to pass this information along to her friends is priceless.

The same can't be said for the film's other confrontations with plumbing fixtures, as Julie's frightening encounter with some gooey tentacles while taking a bath and Wade's similar one involving a toilet (his attempt to expel the urine that's accumulated in his bladder goes somewhat awry) aren't funny at all. Well, seeing Wade's crotch blood go splat all over the walls of the downstairs bathroom was sort of comical, but I digress. Anyway, the only difference between the two fixture pickles being, Julie's bath-tub nightmare was just that, a nightmare (the real horror, me thinks, is taking place inside her head).

This is what Samara Doucette's feet look like without shoes or socks. You're welcome.

You could accuse writer-director Brett Piper being a lot of things. I, on the other hand, have chosen not to take that road. He has somehow managed to make an entertaining film about a dilapidated fixer-upper that kills its occupants with faulty plumbing. And he should be commended for what he was able to achieve this with little-to-no money. That being said, if I ever bumped into Mr. Piper on the street, I would give a stern tongue-lashing for not giving us any clear shots of Samara Doucette's teal-ish (they could have been turquoise) Mary Jane-style Doc Martens. Yeah, yeah, I appreciated the shot of her feet (see above), and the tickling/spanking scene, but I think most people will agree with me when I say: We want to see her shoes!

video uploaded by popcinema

When you think of the all great synth flourishes that have occurred throughout the history of modern cinema, the sight of Gene Davis stalking the rooftops of Los Angeles in 10 to Midnight and Joe Spinell lurking in the dark alleyways of New York City in Maniac are the two that immediately spring to mind. And it's no wonder, both films feature what I consider to be two of the most finely crafted synth flourishes ever created by human hands. Well, I think they're ready for some company, as the synthy goodness that accompanies Jim Van Bebber, the writer, director, special makeup effects artist, editor, stunt coordinator, and star of Deadbeat at Dawn, as he plays around with his nunchucks in a Dayton, Ohio cemetery is definitely a worthy addition to the pantheon of great synth flourishes. Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You're putting the synth flourish that occurs in a Dayton graveyard on the list of great cinematic synth flourishes, a list that includes synth flourishes that transpire in films that take place in Los Angeles and New York City, is that what you're telling me? It looks that way. It would seem that everything Les Nessman, news director of WKRP, has said about Dayton over the years has been false. Apparently, and I was shocked to hear this just as much as you are, Dayton is not a place for a faint of heart. It just goes to show that you shouldn't believe everything an accident prone, fictional newsman has to say about cities in Ohio. Just ask, well, just about everyone who appears in this film, and they will tell you, living in the Day-to-the-T.O.N. isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Rife with gangs, destitution, despair, and in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint, the Dayton depicted in Deadbeat at Dawn is a desolate, Dickensian dishrag, one that's been soaking in a giant vat of socioeconomic distress for ten days straight. In other words, no, actually those words, despite the mild alliteration abuse, are a pretty accurate when it comes to describing the Dayton that appears in this flick.

A singular vision, in that, it comes from the mind of just one man, Deadbeat at Dawn makes The Warriors look like an after school special. Again, I've never seen an actual after school special. But trusted sources tell me that, in this particular case, the idiom is quite apt. Anyway, why is it apt, you say? All right. I'll tell you why: The film is violent, gritty, no-nonsense cinema at its most visceral. And I feel I should emphasize the word "gritty," as the film is probably the grittiest thing I've seen in years.

After leaving a meeting with a fellow psychic, Christy (Megan Murphy)–a woman who is so proud of her mouth-watering thighs, she has torn her jeans in a manner that accentuates their scrumptiousness–is confronted on the street by Danny (Paul Harper), a mask enthusiast/lowlife who leads a gang of scumbags called The Spyders. Luckily for Christy, a cop comes by just in time (from the looks it, Danny was preparing to rape her before the cop came along). Unable to get his rape on. Hold up, "rape on"?!? What? No good? That's a horrible expression. Okay, uh. I got it. Unable to set in motion the loathsome events he had envisioned, Danny decides to have rough sex with his girlfriend instead.

I wonder if that's the main reason Goose (Jim Van Bebber), the leader of The Ravens, and Danny, who, like I said, leads The Spyders, don't get along so well. Yeah, I like that. Danny is jealous of Goose for having a sexy, cool, psychic girlfriend. I noticed you threw the word "cool" in there. Why not? I mean, how else would you describe a girlfriend who dutifully attends your rumbles? Did you see any other girlfriends at the cemetery rumble that kicks off Deadbeat at Dawn? No. But maybe all the other guys are gay. I guess. Either way, The Ravens and The Spyders face off with one another in a local cemetery.

At first, both their leaders confront each other with guns; Goose is carrying a rifle, while Danny is wielding a pistol. In order to keep their fight on the down-low, they decide to use knives instead. A brutal knife fight ensues, with both Goose and Danny getting cut up pretty bad. However, I'd say Goose was the one who came out on top.

Standing over his vanquished foe, Goose tells Danny, "fuck your noise." As he's saying that, a Spyder pulls a gun on Goose. Don't worry, though, Goose blows his hand off with a tiny pistol he had hidden in his jacket.

Proving that she's an even cooler girlfriend than I had previously imagined, Christy tends to Goose's wounds. That being said, after he's recovered, Christy starts to put pressure on Goose to leave The Ravens (not cool, Christy, not cool). Trying to make him wear this weird-looking cross necklace (a Wiccan cross, maybe?), Christy, who seems to be wearing a red sleeved blanket, seems extra determined to extricate Goose from the gang lifestyle. As expected, Goose resists her attempts to change him, and he refuses to wear the cross.

Frustrated, Goose heads over to the cemetery to clear his head. As he starts to play with his nunchuks, the synthy, Detroit techno-eque music of Ned Folkerth and Mike Pierry starts to percolate on the soundtrack.

When he gets back, Christy is still no mood for Goose's tough guy bullshit. You go, girl! Don't let this "fuck up" get you down. To the surprise of almost everyone, even Christy seems shocked, Goose decides, just like that, to leave The Ravens. According to Goose, what he and Christy have together is too special to ruin, especially over something as trivial as a street gang. To signify their love, we're treated to a romantic montage that reminded me of an ad for Wrangler jeans–you know, if their were trying to appeal exclusively to headbangers who collect ninja stars.

Breaking his ties with The Ravens, who are now being lead by Keith (Ric Walker)–who had the gall to make an alliance with The Spyders while Goose was frolicking in the woods–and making one final score (he sells some heroin to some local gangsters), things are looking up for Goose and Christy. In fact, I predict a long and fruitful relationship for the pair. Where's my knife? I wanna carve something into that tree over there.

Goose + Christy - Together forever!

Yay! That was one of the most heartwarming love stories ever captured on film. Roll credits. I said, roll credits. What do you mean there's forty minutes left? I don't understand. Wait. Why am I watching Danny talk to a guy called Bone Crusher? Oh, man. It looks like Danny has decided to target Goose. It would seem that Goose is now a marked man (being a member of The Ravens offered him a certain amount of protection). I guess the wedding plans will have to be put on hold.

I hope you understand, but I'd rather not go into much detail about what happens when Bone Crusher (Marc Pitman) pays Christy a visit when Goose is out selling drugs; I'm way too distraught. Let's just say...no, forget it, I'd rather not say anything. When a guy called "Bone Crusher" shows up at your door, nine times out of ten, something messed up is about to occur. We get a taste of what Bone Crusher is all about when Marc Pitman delivers the misanthropic monologue to end all misanthropic monologues: "I hate people! I don't care! "I'm the baddest motherfucker you ever saw!"

On the road to rock bottom, Goose wanders aimlessly across the open air thrift store that is Dayton, Ohio. After a bizarre scene involving Goose's heroin-addicted father ("You took my last beer!"), Goose heads over to a local dive bar. Nursing a pitcher of beer, Goose is suddenly approached by a vision of loveliness named Iris (Maureen Allisse), a brunette goddess who knows all the angles. The type of woman who never has to pay for anything, Iris, using her slinky frame, which is sheathed in a super-tight zebra-print two piece number (a leather jacket and boots tie the rest of her ensemble together), tries to extract a free drink out of the disgraced former gang leader.

When she realizes that Goose is not worthy of her attention (he's got no money), she quickly moves on to someone else. As I watched her shake her zebra-print encased butt in the direction of another bar patron, it became clear to me that Iris knows exactly what she's doing.

Just as Goose was about to hit rock bottom, he's given a second chance. Invited to re-join the Ravens/Spyders (they want him to participate in an elaborate armoured car heist), Goose reluctantly agrees. While the heist itself goes relatively smoothly, the aftermath doesn't. After an act of treachery decimates the ranks of The Ravens, Goose yet again has to fend for himself. Which culminates with a totally awesome brawl that takes place at a train station.

The word "gritty" can't be used enough to describe the atmosphere of Deadbeat at Dawn. Taking place in a world where almost everything is broken, Jim Van Bebber, who directed the music video for the Skinny Puppy song "Spasmolytic," simply points his camera and let's the decrepitness speak for itself. On the other hand, he also uses dream sequences and these kaleidoscopic intros thingies to give the proceedings a touch of the unreal. Gritty, gory, sexy (don't forget, Maureen Allisse is stunning in zebra-print), and surprisingly romantic, this is bleak, action-oriented exploitation at its best.

Oh, and it should go without saying, but Jim Van Bebber is a badass.

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It should go without saying, but Parker Posey can come over and reorganize my record collection any time she wants. You call two lousy milk crates a collection? Are you making fun of my records? Not really. I just don't think five Nitzer Ebb 12-inch singles and a handful of Skinny Puppy LPs hardly constitute a "record collection." C'mon, man. I've got more than that. Haven't you heard? I've got the Repo Man soundtrack on vinyl. So, don't be so quick to mock my record collection. What I think I was trying to say was, I don't think you really want Parker Posey to come over and reorganize your records. No, what I think is, you just want to watch Parker Posey crouch in striped pantyhose. You're crazy. Who would watch a movie just to see Parker Posey prance about in an urban setting wearing various types of unorthodox hosiery? Um, you would. Besides, I never said anything about a movie. In fact, I was merely referring to the hypothetical record reorganization scenario you were putting out there. Right. But now that you mention it, is that the real reason you finally decided to watch Party Girl, the film that mixes godmother-goddaughter relationships, hunky falafel stand vendors, house music, high fashion and the Dewey Decimal System? I'll say it again, you would have to be pretty demented to watch a movie for the off chance you might see Parker Posey's lanky, unpretentious legs encased in chromatic tights. You're joking, right? "Off chance"? You know Party Girl is listed as being one of the most nylon-friendly films ever made. Really? I did not know that. Get out of here. You knew. No, I swear. I like Parker Posey and I like house music. In other words, it made perfect sense for me to watch it.

You ain't fooling anyone. So why don't you stop kidding yourself, and just admit the truth. I loved how the film, while boasting many terrific club scenes, contained a pro-literacy message. Quit stalling. Okay, fine. I watched Party Girl for the chromatic tights. There, are you happy? Yes. But the more important question is, are you happy? You know what? Ever since I admitted my real motivation for watching Party Girl, I feel as if a giant weight has been lifted off my creamy, and, for the first time since 1989, acne-free shoulders.

The question that is probably on everyone's mind is: Does Party Girl manage to live up the hosiery hype? You better believe it does. Get this, her legs are covered in nylons in almost every single scene. And this film, co-written and directed by Daisy von Scherler Mayer (now that's a fucking name), isn't one of them flicks that take place over the course of a single night, either. Uh-uh, Parker Posey's gams are sheathed in a seemingly never-ending concourse of chromatic tights.

Worn throughout a tumultuous year in the life of a fashion-obsessed club kid, one who becomes inexplicably enamoured with the New York Public Library, or, more specifically, the Dewey Decimal System (a.k.a. The Dewey Decimal Classification), and, not to mention, develops a bit of an addiction to falafels drenched in hot sauce, Mary (Parker Posey) wears her tights in a way that can best be described as: defiant femininity.

If she's not going to let the scourge that is grunge dampen her love of house music, she's certainly not going to let it define the manner in which she displays her legs to the public.

Yeah, you go, girl! Wear your one of kind Gaultier outfits with pride. And remember, just say no to flannel.

After being busted for operating an illegal social club (she threw a rave-style party in the stairwell of an apartment building), along with a number of other charges (pirated video cassettes of Paris is Burning and Who's That Girl were found in her possession - they didn't list the actual films that were on the bootlegs, but I bet those two titles were located somewhere in the pile), Mary places a call to her godmother, Judy Lindendorf (Sasha von Scherler), and just like that, she's back on the streets.

She must have gone home to change, because she is looking fab-u-lous. Not that she didn't look fab-u-lous when she was arrested. I'm just saying, she's looking even more fab-u-lous, if that's humanly possible. What's this? I've just been instructed to stop using hyphens when writing the word "fabulous." Yikes. Tough crowd. Anyway, accompanied by jazzy horn music, Parker Posey saunters down the street (in case it isn't obvious, this film takes place in New York City) in a leopard-print coat, a red skirt, red lacy pantyhose, sunglasses, red gloves, and a pair of purple heels. Carrying a rainbow-coloured purse, Parker stops at a falafel stand and places her usual order: A falafel with hot sauce with a side order of baba ganoush and a seltzer.

When Mustafa (Omar Townsend), a guy who used to be a teacher in his native Lebanon, finally stops grousing over the fact that a rival falafel vendor is doing brisk business, he starts to flirt with Mary (her gives her some complimentary Turkish delight). And who wouldn't? Flirt, that is. She looks like Parker Posey. If that's not enough. She's wearing lacy red nylons and a leopard-print coat. What more do you want? Just so you know, one of my imaginary gay friends nearly had a heart attack when he first saw Parker strolling down the street in that outfit.

Somehow convincing her godmother to hire her as a clerk at the library she works, Mary is on the fast track to becoming a responsible adult. Nah, I'm just kidding. She's nowhere near becoming one of those things. I know what you're thinking, why doesn't Mary just get a job as a waitress? Well, for one thing, she's not a waitress ("I'm not a waitress!"). And secondly, no, that's basically it. She seems to take offense whenever the 'w'-word is mentioned, so, it's best not to bring it up again.

You know how I have imaginary gay friends? Well, like all single gals living in New York City, Mary has many real gay friends. Her main gay friend is Derrick (Anthony DeSando) and he always seems to be there when Mary is either trying on clothes or thinking about trying on clothes. Truth be told, his real purpose is to simply stand there, in a stereotypically gay sort of way, while Parker Posey whines and complains about her life while, of course, she tries on clothes (her wardrobe, by the way, is massive).

On top of having a gay friend, Mary also has a non-gay friend named Leo. Played by the adorable Guillermo Diaz, Leo is determined to make it as a DJ, and has enlisted the help of Mary, who, in case I haven't mentioned it yet, has a lot of connections within the city's vibrant club scene. The one's she uses to help Leo are her ex-boyfriend, a bouncer/bartender named Nigel (Liev Schreiber), and Rene (Donna Mitchell), a surly club owner who seems to have a problem with any music that was produced by Teddy Rogers (if you want to spin at her club, you better not play his stuff - it's not really explained why she doesn't want his music played in her club, I'm guessing he done her wrong).

If you should happen to hear "Lick It (Mood II Swing 'No Afro Sheen' Vocal Mix)" by Karen Finely playing at your local nightclub, try to imagine Rene running towards the DJ booth wielding a broken bottle.

Using the Myth of Sisyphus as its basis ("it's a metaphor for life...it's famous"), Party Girl is a surprisingly intelligent look at the directionless that afflicted a large number of twentysomethings during the mid-90s. Anchored by an endearingly campy performance by Parker Posey, the film (which could be called the Lady Miss Kier story - she worked as an art gallery receptionist at one point) wonderfully captures New York City during one of its many awkward transitional phases. You could call the film a precursor to the Sex and the City phenomenon that was still years away. But there's no way I'm doing that. The Lady Miss Kier comparison is not only more apt ("Music Selector Is the Soul Reflector" by Deee-Lite is featured on the soundtrack), it's way less lame.

The only film to have a Dewey Decimal System montage and a falafel stand montage, Party Girl is the perfect film to watch with a group of your real and imaginary gay friends.

Oh, and just because I can tell that your dying to know. My favourite Parker Posey ensemble worn during the totally awesome falafel stand montage was outfit #3 (there were a total of five outfits). I thought the purple tights-leather shorts combination made Parker Posey's gams come alive.

I've been known for going on these long tangents about a certain fleshy appendage, especially when they appear in the cinematic works of Jess Franco. If the exaggerated language that is typically used to describe these stem-like entities has caused many a reader to question my sanity, than so be it; I'd rather be insane than live in a world without Jess Franco-approved legginess. When I first approached Countess Perverse, with my usual usual mix of arrogance and stupidity, I knew exactly what to expect: Gorgeous European woman cavorting about in a slightly surreal paradise as Howard Vernon stands creepily in the background. And, yes, it delivers all that and more. However, I had no idea what a profound impact the slits that adorn the dress worn by Alice Arno would have on my fragile psyche. Now, I've seen a lot of slits over the years (large slits, small slits), but never have I seen a slit like this. The moment I first saw it, I thought there might be something wrong with my television; in that, there's no way that slit can be real. When I realized that there was nothing technically wrong with my television, I started to panic. How can a slit like that actually exist? I asked myself as I lay curled up in a ball underneath my coffee table (a.k.a. a piece of glass supported by two milk crates) mumbling a disturbing mishmash of slit-based gibberish and profanity-laden nonsense. After taking a brisk walk to clear my head, I returned to the scene of the slit. In other words, I re-watched the scene where Alica Arno first appears in the now infamous slit-heavy garment. As I watched Alice's massive slit flap erotically in the wind, I knew almost immediately that the slit in question would take up the bulk of my time whenever I got around to typing words about this particular film.

If I didn't broach the slit subject right out of the gate, I wouldn't be able to look myself in the mirror. And now that I have, I believe I can continue in a calm, rational, non-slit obsessed manner. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm still going to give the slit its due in the coming paragraphs. It's just that I wanted to get some slit out of my system before moving on to less slity ground.

What's great about Countess Perverse, besides the slit on Alice Arno's slit-tastic dress (hey, behave yourself), is the fact that Talia Busselier (Isla, the Wicked Warden) wears pants in the opening scene. Are you serious? Pants?!? That's exactly what I thought. Pants plus Jess Franco is an equation I never want to see scribbled on the nylon-infused blackboard that is my sick and twisted subconscious. You didn't let me finish. What's great about it is that Talia Busselier's tantalizing lower half is encased in pants (a bland pair of dark blue jeans), yet seconds later, she's wearing brown bikini bottoms. Maybe she changed when you weren't looking. Get out of here. She's clearly wearing pants when she runs down to the beach with Bob (Robert Woods), her male companion, to collect the naked body of a woman who has just washed ashore (an everyday occurrence in the gauzy world of Jess Franco). When she changed into a brown bikini is anyone's guess. Either way, I'm happy the pants fiasco is over and done with.

Carrying the naked body belonging to Kali (Kali Hansa), a woman who looks like the lovechild of Mary Woronov, Karen Black and a frisky Siamese cat, into their swanky bungalow on the Mediterranean, Moira (Tania Busselier) and Bob try to figure out where she came from. Suddenly, Kali starts rambling about this strange-looking house that sits atop a hill on a desolate island. After she's finished her bungalow-based rambling, a more coherent Kali begins to tell us why she went over to the island in the first place. Traveling by boat, Kali, who, on top of wanting to find her missing sister, is wearing a red floral shirt, is instantly troubled by the rocks that cover the island's shoreline. Even though she hasn't made much sense so far, I have to agree with her when it comes to those rocks, as they straight-up give me the willies. In order to hammer home this point, Jess Franco films the rocks from a number of different angles; okay, we get it, Jess, the rocks are willie-inducing monstrosities.

Greeted on shore by a man and a woman, Kali, who eventually changes into a blue dress with a red stripe across the top, finds herself the guest of Countess Ivanna Zaroff (Alice Arno) and Count Rabor Zaroff (Howard Vernon), two eccentric aristocrats with an unorthodox approach to fine dinning.

As they sat at the dinner table to eat something Rabor describes as "different and unique," I couldn't help but notice that both Alice Arno and Kali Hansa have sexy biceps.

Alluring arms aside, Alice proceeds to show Kali her hunting trophies. Are some of those heads supposed to be human? If they are, they don't look very convincing. Nonetheless, Ivanna and Rabor rape Kali. After employing some mild lesbian groping, Ivanna steps aside to to allow Rabor the opportunity to plunge his probably pockmarked penis balls deep into her forlorn vagina.

Later that night, Kali wakes up to find that she's been chained to the wall of their dungeon. Just as she begins to scream, Kali wakes up again. But this time, she's back on Moira and Bob's couch. Giving her a sedative to help her sleep, Bob asks Moira what she thinks they should do with her. Without missing a beat, Moira says, "Take her back to the island." You mean? Yep, Moira and Bob are in cahoots with the aristocratic cannibals. Well I never. They seemed like such a nice couple. Hey, man, times are tough. Some times you have to do things you wouldn't normally do to make ends meet. That's true, but luring young women to an island so that they can be eaten by a couple of aristocratic cannibals? That's low.

Well, Moira and Bob don't seem to think so, as they have already got another hot, underage piece of fresh meat for the Zaroff's ready to go.

Since telephones are for trailer trash housewives and acne-scarred bed-wetters, they place their order for fresh young girl patty via heliograph.

Please let the hot, underage piece of fresh meat be played by Lina Romay. Please let the hot, underage piece of fresh meat be played by Lina Romay. Please let the...Yes! Lina Romay is on the screen. I repeat, Lina Romay is on the screen. Wearing a busy red shirt dress with a pair of white [almost] thigh-high boots, Lina Romay is Silvia Aguado, a naive young woman who...Wait, Lina Romay is playing someone who is naive? That's strange, I don't think I have ever seen Lina play "naive" before. In fact, she usually plays strong, independent women who don't take no guff from anyone. This should be interesting.

If you think Tania Busselier is going to stand idly by and let Lina Romay steal her thunder, think again. I ain't kidding around, think again! Has another thought been thunk yet? Good. In an attempt to stay relevant, Tania Busselier allows herself to be filmed lounging on the deck in a manner that can best be described as "leggy." Sipping a tropical beverage through a straw, Tania, her legs resting on the deck's railing, seems to get a perverse thrill out of knowing that perverts the world over will be drinking in every nuanced nook and cream-filled cranny of her sun-baked gams in forty years time thanks to the miracle of home video.

In order to milk her stems for all they're worth, Jess Franco zooms in on Tania's feet, then proceeds to pan across her reclining legs in a slow, deliberate fashion.

After some yawn-inducing lesbian sex (yeah, that's right, yawn-inducing), Bob, Sylvia, and Moira head over to the island. Hardcore fans of Jess Franco will probably notice that Lina Romay is sitting exactly like Soledad Miranda does in Eugénie de Sade (hugging her legs while resting her head on her arms) during the boat ride over. At any rate, as expected, Sylvia, like Kali before her, starts to feel a tad uneasy when they come upon the rocks. Who would have thought that a bunch of rocks would turn out to be more interesting than lesbian sex? Weird, wild stuff.

Speaking of weird and wild, I think we're about to get our first glimpse of the infamous dress that may or may not contain the largest slit ever to appear in a motion picture. Here it comes. Boom! Now that's a slit. Slicing its way all the way up to her armpit, the slits on the dress worn by Alice Arno, as she watches Tania and Lina frolic naked in the sand (both, by the way, have similar bums), are, to put it bluntly, fucking insane. And just like Tania Busselier's reclining leg pan, Jess Franco makes sure we get to view her slit from every angle imaginable.

Here's a close-up shot of the slit from an angle that practically screams slit.

The dress itself is white and is covered with green, blue and gold dots, but it's the massive, atypical slits that appear on either side that grab our attention. Of course, you can't wear panties with a dress like this. In other words, the contents of Alice Arno's crotch were at the mercy of the wind. And let's just say, the wind was not kind on that day, my friend.

Realizing that she is in a losing battle with the wind, Alice Arno decides to let her slit flag fly, and stands for a moment on the stairs that lead to the front door of her creepy ass home. You can tell that Alice Arno is totally at ease with the winds mockery of her slit-generous garment as she stands there in defiance of nature. It was almost as if she was saying, "Yes, the slits on my dress are ridiculously large, and, not to mention, impractical. And, yes, everyone can see the colour of my cunt. But you wanna know what? I don't care. I'm more fabulous than you. Deal with it."

If you should come across a review of Countess Perverse that doesn't mention the slits on Alice Arno's dress, question their sanity right away. Of course, I'm not saying they should devout three or four paragraphs just to slits. No, I'm just talking about a single mention. As in, "the luminous Alice Arno plays Ivanna Zaroff, a cannibalistic countess with an affinity for nude archery and dresses with overreaching slits."

Fashion must be cyclical, because I could have sworn I saw the same black frilly robe Alice Arno gives Lina Romay to wear to bed in the window of my neighbourhood Gucci store the other day. At any rate, as is the custom in Europe, when Alice Arno gives you frilly sleepwear, you must thank her by licking her ass. What a continent!

I was shocked when the infamous extra high-slit dress makes its second appearance; I assumed that cannibalistic aristocrats rarely ever wore the same outfit more than once. But then again, they do live on an isolated island. Meaning, unlike my neighbourhood, there's no Prada, Zara, Escada, Max Mara, Chanel, Guess, or Louis Vuitton to shop at. Anyway, Lina Romay suddenly realizes that her blemish-free thighs are in serious danger of becoming a tender, succulent roast, and the film goes into naked hunt mode. Replacing her slit-bountiful dress with a belt and a determined sneer, Countess Zaroff chases Sylvia (who is completely naked) through the arid underbrush with a bow and arrow. Will anyone step in to help Lina Romay? Who's to say? All I know is, I want to go to Calpe, Spain (come from the creepy rocks, stay for the free-range cunnilingus), and, of course, get my hands on Alice Arno's slitful dress. Slit sliding away.

video uploaded by RobertWoodsFanPage

Always encased in the tightest fishnets money can buy (though, truth be told, I sincerely hope she shoplifts them), the supple legs attached to the torso belonging to the irascible Lydia Lunch (Vortex) will severely test the durability of the synthetic material that covers your pathetic crotch. Unless, of course, you're wearing sweatpants. If that's the case, may your bulge be large and fruitful. If, however, you happen to have self-respect, and are wearing real pants when you watch this film, then may god have mercy on your groin and its uphill battle to stay lukewarm and well-ventilated. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about all you ladies out there. Dangling in a manner that will no doubt drive discerning lesbians wild with cunt-drenching desire, Lydia Lunch's powerful, Smithsonian-worthy stems will surely compromise the impermeability of the fabric that surrounds your soon to be damp pussy. Either way, whether being poked with unplanned hardness or drowned in wave after wave of tepid vagina water, your stain-laden pants are going to have to be put in the wash after they get through watching Fingered, a sleazy, disgusting film that begs the question: Does Lydia Lunch moisturize her thighs, or are they just naturally creamy? Mmm, creamy thighs throbbing on my plate, oozing thickness from every pore. Um, yeah, anyway. I know, pants can't watch movies (they don't have eyes, or a central nervous system, for that matter). But they're going to feel like they have after they experience the Lydia Lunch-a-thon that is this short but sweet trip to Scumbagville, U.S.A., population: Who gives a shit.

Told to stomp, kick, straddle, run, twitch, and some times told to just plain walk, Lydia Lunch's gams are put through their shapely paces in this film. The person instructing her legs to stomp, kick, straddle, etc. is none other than underground filmmaker Richard Kern, a man who probably knows a thing or two about photographing Lydia Lunch's world famous organic structure whilst under duress.

After being subjected to a lengthy disclaimer, one that includes the words, "shock," "insult," and irritate," Fingered opens with a shot of Lydia Lunch–whose character's name is never mentioned, so let's just call her Lydia Lunch–talking on the telephone. Asking one of her regular phone-sex customers for their credit card number, Lydia Lunch slowly starts to lose patience with him. "The fucking credit card number," she yells at him at one point. When the card number is finally divulged, the caller (Emilio Cubeiro) goes on this long tirade about "human garbage" and "human excrement." I guess he didn't like the sarcastic tone she used when she said, "yes...mommy's here." Hey, you call Lydia Lunch for phone-sex, you're bound to get some sarcasm. At any rate, Lydia Lunch hangs up on the caller after his three minutes are up.

While I liked the weird energy of the opening scene, and I could have sworn the "human garbage" line was sampled on a Skinny Puppy song (Velvet Acid Christ, perhaps?), I thought we spent too much time in the caller's squalid apartment and not enough with Lydia Lunch, who looked super-foxy in her black see-trough negligee.

The self-proclaimed "hottest slut in town" has no trouble getting another caller on the line. Bent over a table, Lydia Lunch tells Marty Nation all the wonderful things she would do if she had access to his genitals. Stroking his cock in, what looks like, an auto-body shop, Marty Nation can't wait to stick his "fat juicy cock" in Lydia Lunch's "greasy little hole." Call me sane, but I love the way Lydia Lunch says "cock" in this movie. It's one of my favourite words, so to hear it uttered by one of the sexiest women on the planet was a real treat.

You know these two aren't going to be fully satisfied until they meet face-to-face, or, in this film's case, hand-to-muff, so they arrange to rendezvous with one another. Sitting on a table, her black heels gripping its surface with a quiet desperation, Lydia Lunch hurls her fishnet pantyhose/black panties-adorned crotch two and fro in an attempt to unfurl the hopefully bulbous contents that lie on the other side of a complex series of jagged metal teeth. Teasing a clearly flabbergasted Marty Nation, the owner and chief proprietor of said hopefully bulbous contents, to the point of madness, Lydia, who is also wearing black opera gloves and black vinyl footless suspender tights over top of her black fishnet pantyhose, ceases to mock thrust her dewy undercarriage.

Pulling out his trusty switchblade, Marty Nation cuts a path to Lydia Lunch's vagina. Declaring, "I want your pussy now," Marty Nation plants his face in her lap just as Lydia Lunch instructs him to "take it."

When they finish with the foreplay, Fingered starts to live up to its name.

"Words all fail the magic prize / Nothing I can say when I'm in your..." ~ "Add It Up," The Violent Femmes

The black suspenders attached to Lydia Lunch's vinyl, footless leggings tear across her pale hindquarters like bad gothic poetry.

When a guy waiting for a bus asks Lydia Lunch, who has since changed into a short black skirt and a black short-sleeved blouse, where her "faggot boyfriend" is, Marty Nation sneaks up behind him and slits his throat with his aforementioned trusty switchblade.

Getting into his 1950s-style automobile, Marty Nation and Lydia Lunch, as my spirit animal Frank Booth would say, "hit the fucking the road."

You're not going to find a more beautiful image of Lydia Lunch than the sight of her arguing with Marty Nixon (who looks like Paul Barker from Ministry from certain angles) in the passenger seat of his car. Her hair is perfect. Her legs are crossed. Her earrings are divine. She's wearing fishnet pantyhose. And, most importantly, her trademark sneer is in top form.

When Marty Nation stabs his redneck friend in the leg after dry straddling Lydia Lunch for longer than he was comfortable with, I started to get the impression that is Marty Nation fella is a bit of an asshole. What am I saying, "a bit of an asshole"?!? He's a fully formed asshole. Which got me a thinking, why is Lydia Lunch hanging around this guy? He's repulsive.

Take the next scene, for example, where he shoves the barrel of a gun into Lydia Lunch's vagina. I mean, that was totally not cool. Then it dawned me, Lydia Lunch loves his cock. Only problem being, she has to put up with a lot of his "macho bull shit" to get it. Now, I realize being raped by a gun isn't your typical "macho bull shit" by any means. But the world of Fingered is anything but typical.

As a visibly annoyed Lydia Lunch and a more smug than usual Marty Nixon are talking about his revolting cock, we're introduced to a frazzled hitchhiker played by the luminous Lung Leg. Looking like she's been through hell, Lung Leg gets into their car. I know, she couldn't have picked a worse car to bum a ride from, but that's life. Sometimes we're picked up by Donnie and Marie Osmond, and sometimes we're picked up by Lydia Lunch and her sleazy as fuck boyfriend.

While I don't really want to go into what happens next , but let's just say Lung Leg is quite the trooper. Thrown around like a dishevelled ragdoll, Lung Leg gives a frighteningly real performance as an emotionally fragile woman on the brink of a complete and utter mental breakdown. The final minutes of Fingered had a sort of snuff film vibe about it. Not that I know what a snuff film looks like. But I imagine it would look something like this. Ugly, grimy, sick and twisted. It's slowly dawning on me that I just watched Fingered.

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Nevada Heat (Matt Cimber, 1982)

Massacre in Dinosaur Valley (Michele Massimo Tarantini, 1985)

Ninja III: The Domination (Sam Firstenberg, 1984)

Skinner (Ivan Nagy, 1993)

Satan Was a Lady (Doris Wishman, 1975)

Come With Me My Love (Doris Wishman, 1976)

Naked Killer (Clarence Ford, 1992)

Red to Kill (Billy Tang, 1994)

Flesh Eating Mothers (James Aviles Martin, 1988)

Island of Death (Nico Mastorakis, 1977)

Breeders (Tim Kincaid, 1986)

The Frightened Woman (Piero Schivazappa, 1969)

A Woman's Torment (Roberta Findlay, 1977)

The Tiffany Minx (Roberta Findlay, 1981)

Over-sexed Rugsuckers from Mars (Michael Paul Girard, 1989)

Drainiac! (Brett Piper, 2000)

Deadbeat at Dawn (Jim Van Bebber, 1988)

Party Girl (Daisy von Scherler Mayer, 1995)

Countess Perverse (Jess Franco, 1974)

Fingered (Richard Kern, 1986)