House of Self-Indulgence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's about time I watched a movie that is not only life affirming, but one that is spiritually enlightening as well. And, yes, I am fully aware that I'm currently talking about The Mad Foxes (a.k.a. Los violadores), a film that contains more exploding uncircumcised penises than you can shake a pair of bloodstained hedge clippers at. What can I say? If you don't find the thighs attached to Andrea Albani to be life affirming and/or spiritually enlightening, than I'm afraid there's little hope for you. Not to worry, though, if Andrea's killer thighs fail to evoke any response (seriously, you'd have to dead for them not to), I'm sure the ample booty attached to the ample booty chick from Cannibal Terror (a.k.a. Terreur cannibale) will do the trick. Oh, and the reason I call her "the ample booty chick from Cannibal Terror" is because I'm not quite sure what her name is. I'm thinking it could be "Mariam Camacho," but that name is not listed in the credits. In order to prevent further confusion, from now on I'm just going to call her Shapely Lina. Why, you ask? Well, Lina was the name of her character in Cannibal Terror, and she was, of course, shapely... Man, was she shapely. Mhhhm!).

Now, this might come across as pure, undiluted kooky-talk, but a film needs more than mouth-watering thighs and accommodating trunks filled with inordinate amounts of junk to be considered a true masterpiece.

At the behest of a colossal douche-nozzle who drives a Neufeld Chevrolet Corvette Stingray C3, a brief war is waged between a gang of Nazi bikers and the members of a non-prestigious karate school. If you need more than that, I don't know what else to say. It's got Nazi bikers, karate, thighs and big butts. End of story.

Did I mention that it's got uncircumcised penises? I did? Where? Oh, yeah. I made reference to exploding uncircumcised penises a couple of minutes ago. Well, anyway, I think I must have spotted at least five uncircumcised penises in this movie. If you're wondering if this is a good thing. Trust me, it is... a good thing. I don't know if you know this, but uncircumcised penises are awesome.

It looks like I need to revise my list. It's got Nazi bikers, karate, thighs, big butts and uncircumcised penises. End of story. You know what? I'm going to hold off on the whole "end of story" thing, as I'm probably going to come up with a dozen more things that make this movie the righteous piece of Euro-sleaze that it is.

It should go without saying, but the reason I called the war between the Nazi bikers and the karate school rejects brief is because the Nazi bikers wield machine guns, while the karate school rejects... do not.

It all starts, like I said earlier, at the behest of a colossal douche-nozzle. His name is Hal (José Gras), and his desperately wants to lick up and down the legs that belong to Babsy (Andrea Albani), an eighteen year-old hottie with thighs that don't know the meaning of the word quit.

As he's taking Babsy to The Big Apple nightclub in his Corvette Stingray, Hal is confronted by a biker and his biker buddies while stopped at a red light. He doesn't know this, but one of the biker's biker buddies is killed moments after Hal drives off. I wonder if the biker and the rest of his biker buddies will hold Hal responsible for their friend's death? Nah, they seem like reasonable chaps. Now, who's up for some swing dancing?

I know, swing dancing?!? The Big Apple looks like your typical Euro-disco. In other words, I don't see any swing dancing transpiring here anytime soon. Boy, was I wrong. At first I thought: Why are they showing couples dancing enthusiastically to swing music? I mean, is this same club? About midway through the extended swing dance number I gave up trying to figure out why this was happening, and just sat back and soaked in the bat-shit.

After chatting with a woman who is wearing way too much denim, and ordering a bottle of champagne, Hal escorts Babsy to a backroom lounge (complete with car seat couches).

In the spirit of transparency, the only reason I elected to watch this movie was because I saw a picture of a leggy brunette lounging leggily on a car seat couch.

And, of course, my instincts were absolutely correct. The sight of Andrea Albani sitting in a white, see-through, slit-heavy dress as she waited for José Gras to procure more booze is one of the most arresting images in the history of cinema.

Unfortunately, The Mad Foxes isn't about Andrea Albani lounging about in various Barcelona nightclubs. (It's not?) No, it's about Hal trying not to get killed by a gang of Nazi bikers.

Assaulted by those very same Nazi bikers outside The Big Apple, Hal, after a brief stay at the hospital, goes home, fixes himself a stiff drink, lights a cigarette, and calls up his friend who runs a non-prestigious karate school located on the outskirts of a gay fever dream.

I wasn't really paying attention, but I think the plan to get back at the Nazi bikers involves Hal and the karate guys attacking them during the funeral for their dead comrade. Nevertheless, the ensuing rumble is an epic battle of... Oh, who am I kidding? The fight between the bikers and the karate school assholes has got to be one of the lamest movie brawls I've ever seen. Hell, I've seen better fight choreography at my local playground. Not to imply that I like to watch kids playing at my local playground. In fact, I don't think there is a playground close to where I live. I suppose I could take the bus to one... Um, I don't like the direction this is review has currently taken, so, I'm going to stop typing words for a minute.

And... I'm back. After the bikers massacre the karate rejects at their dojo (they didn't stand a chance), they come looking for Hal. Narrowly escaping the biker's attempt to murder him at his apartment, Hal hops in his Stingray and flees to the country. Picking up a female hitchhiker (Laura Premica) along the way, Hal takes refuge at his parents house; a palatial home complete with a maid staff, a stable boy and a gardener who sort of looks like Antanas Guoga.

How long do you think it will take for the bikers to find out where Hal hiding out? Judging by the way the morning light is illuminating the light dusting of jet black hair that peppers the surface of Hal's workmanlike buttocks as it helped foster his pelvic region plow his erect penis in and out of the hitchhiker's pussy while out hunting, I'd say two, maybe three hours. I know, what I just said doesn't make a lot of sense. The point I'm trying to make is this, hiding from a gang of psychotic Nazi bikers at your parents house is a terrible idea.

While the resulting murders are pretty great, the aftermaths are even greater. What I mean is, the death slumping in this movie is top notch. What's death slumping? Well, death slumping is something a murder victim does immediately after their organic structure is met with violence. Instead expiring right away, the victims make one last valiant attempt to appear not dead.

My favourite valiant attempts to not appear dead occur in Hal's house (a machine gunned maid slumps against a kitchen cabinet just before dying) and during Hal's revenge spree (a black stockings-clad Nazi dominatrix slumps beautifully against a wicker basket after getting shot in the abdomen - it's too bad her Nazi corset wasn't bulletproof).

This might sound a tad odd, but I was kind of disappointed that we never got to see Shapely Lina, the shapely bartender Hal tries to pump information out of, slump before dying. While I'm not even sure her shapely ass is killed, I still would have loved to have seen her make a valiant attempt to not appear dead after being shot or stabbed. Oh well.

Book-ended by the two Krokus songs ("Easy Rocker" and "Celebration"), The Mad Foxes is sexploitation done right. Okay, maybe opening and closing your movie with Krokus songs isn't exactly the right thing to do, but doing the right thing isn't what makes the sexploitation genre so darned appealing. Violent, sexy and stupid as fuck, this is what exploitation cinema should look like.

What are you doing with those wires, Christopher Atkins, star of The Pirate Movie and The Blue Lagoon? Don't you know you're going to shock Shakma, the simian star of Shakma, if you continue down the path you're currently leading? Okay, now that I got the obligatory "Shock the Monkey" reference out of the way, we can safely move on to less pedestrian ground. At around midway point, the thought, "Wow. This movie sucks," started to rear its scabies-laden head. Struggling to remain interested in this tale of a crazed baboon running amok through the halls of a teaching hospital, I began to get restless. Then I remembered something Ari Meyers tells Christopher Atkins near the beginning of the film. Informing Atkins that she has a surprise in store for him, I thought to myself: I've got to see this surprise. I mean, if I know one thing, it's that Ari Meyers (Kate und Allie) is the master when it comes to surprises. In all honesty, I kind of had an idea what her surprise entailed. Nevertheless, I waded through another forty or so minutes of intense, door humping baboon action in order to see this surprise.

Well, I have to say, not only was her surprise worth the wait, the film as a whole started to improve as well. I'm not kidding, the midway point thought, "Wow. This movie sucks," was soon replaced with, "Wow. This movie is awesome."

Granted, all that business involving drab-looking med students using walkie-talkies ad nauseam while playing some elaborate role-playing game was still kinda lame. ("All that business"? Don't you mean, "all that monkey business"?) But once you see Ari Meyer's surprise, you'll totally forget about that silly game. Of course, if there was no game, there would be no surprise. You see, since the med students are playing a role-playing game that revolves around saving a princess, Kim (Ari Meyers) decides to bring an extra layer of authenticity to the proceedings by dressing as an actual princess.

Not wanting to spoil the surprise, Kim keeps her plan a secret. If you look closely, you can see that Kim is carrying a large bag (a bag that no doubt contains her princess costume) when she enters the hospital. It should be noted, however, that Kim's decision to dress like a princess has nothing to do with authenticity. No, the only thing Kim is interested in is impressing Sam (Christopher Atkins), a blonde yet sensitive med student.

Only problem being, Sam is seeing Tracy (Amanda Wyss), a fellow med student. Well, there are actually two problems. In addition to the fact that Sam and Tracy are an item, there's a killer baboon ripping people's faces off on the fifth floor.

The kooky thing is, only half the characters in this film seem to realize that they're unwitting stars of a deranged baboon movie. In fact, Gary (Robb Edward Morris), "the black guy," doesn't find out that he's in a deranged baboon movie until the hour mark.

Anyway, when I saw Ari Meyers practicing crossing and uncrossing her legs in her princess outfit in the teacher's lounge, I immediately began to map out the long-winded spiel I intended unleash in its honour. But like I sort of implied earlier, while Ari Meyer's surprise princess get-up is the reason this review exists, the movie itself managed to slowly win me over.

The top-notch performance by the Chacma baboon at the center of this ape-tastic tale and the many despondent looks Christopher Atkins sports after discovering a mauled friend lying in a pool of their own blood were two of the main non-Ari Meyers dressed as a princess-related reasons this film gets my stamp of approval.

And, yes, you heard right. I called the baboon's performance "top-notch." What other expression would you use to describe the simian acting in this movie? There's no simple way around it, this is one talented cercopithecinae. Whether he's smashing violently against a locked door or smashing violently... against a locked door, it wouldn't surprise me if the baboon's fierce, go for broke attitude caused a number of people in the audience to expel a smallish amount of urine from their primary pee-holes.

Personally, I just sat there with mouth agape (my primary pee-hole was as dry as the Mojave desert), as I watched the baboon try to break down yet another locked door.

Okay, now that I got the prerequisite baboon door crashing talk out of the way. Let's get back to discussing Ari Meyers' princess outfit.

When we first meet Ari Meyers' Kim, she's dressed like your typical square dance attendee. Wearing a dress that goes all the way down to the floor(!), Kim, despite her conservative wardrobe, seems excited to play the princess in "The Game," a Dungeons and Dragons-style game that involves finding keys and solving puzzles.

Unfortunately, Kim's brother, Richard (Greg Flowers) must have overheard her talking about "The Game," because he manages to weasel his way into being a part of the fun. Seeing this as a way to ingratiate himself with Sorenson (Roddy McDowell), the lead doctor/animal torturer/'game master" at this particular teaching hospital/research center/polytechnic, Richard forgoes a night that is guaranteed to be filled with copious amounts of heterosexual intercourse to play this stupid game.

All right, maybe "copious" is pushing it, but it's clear that Laura (Ann Kymberlie), Richard's girlfriend, wants to fuck him pretty badly. The look on her face when she finds out the reason her pussy isn't going to be repeatedly stuffed with Richard's cock is because of some game is classic.

She's probably thinking to herself: The walls of my vagina are as smooth as expired creamed corn, yet you want to hang out with your frumpy sister and a bunch of dorks. Be my guest. *cough* Loser! *cough*

Enough about Laura's velvety box. Even though we get a couple of brief glimpses of Kim's princess outfit at around the midway point (the first comes near the forty minute mark), that doesn't diminish the impact of the scene where Sam gets his first look at Kim dressed as a princess. Sadly, it would seem that Sam is in no mood to compliment her, or even unfurl a half-chub, for that matter. If anything, Sam seems annoyed.

Sure, he's been busy watching his friends get killed one by one by a door-hating baboon, but would it kill you to at least tell Kim that she looks nice. Jeez.

Let's see if I covered everything. Ari Meyers looks amazing as a princess. The Baboon doesn't like doors. Laura has an agreeable vagina. Excessive walkie talkie usage. Black guy doesn't realize he's in a psychotic baboon movie for a solid hour. Uh... Did I mention that Amanda Wyss brings nothing to the table, wardrobe-wise? I didn't. Well, she doesn't. I mean, c'mon, Amanda, give me something to work with here. I'm not saying you have to dress like a princess. But the least you could have done was put on a jean skirt. Gawd. Other than forgetting to scold Amanda Wyss's wardrobe, I think that pretty much covers it.

Did anyone else find it odd that a black man, a black American man, is greeted at the airport by two women without booties? (They must have had some booty?) I don't think so. Aerobicized to the point of nonexistence, the booties attached to the two blonde Australian women who welcome Carl Weathers to Gold Coast by handing him a stuffed Koala Bear and giving him a peck on the cheek were as flat as a board. Now, I'm not trying to body shame these two ladies by pointing out the minuscule nature of their respective booties. I'm just saying, Carl Weathers looks like the kind of guy who likes a little junk in the trunk. If you know what I mean. (Yeah, I think we all know what you mean. You openly ridicule two Aussie women from 1992 for not having "booties" and you're a racist who thinks all black men like big butts.) Hey, man. I'm just going by what esteemed linguist Sir Mix-a-Lot taught us back in, coincidentally, 1992. (He actually raps, "I like big butts." Not, "All black men like big butts.") True, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and declare that Carl Weathers' character, Billy Ray 'Hurricane' Smith, in Hurricane Smith likes his asses to be as thick as Tallahassee molasses.

You can clearly see it on his face every time an Australian person would say to him, "No worries, mate." I mean, if anything, he's got nothing but worries. Think about it. The first women he comes across on this kooky continent are sporting absolutely no oomph in the bum department (which does nothing for his slumbering trouser anaconda). But most worrying of all, his sister is missing. So, no worries, mate? More like, lot's of worries, mate, or, a shitload of worries, mate.

What the Gold Coast airport lacks in big bootied greeters, the rest of the city makes up for it with its robust leggy floozy population.

Of course, I don't mean to imply that the entire city is teeming with leggy floozies (on the contrary, the city seems to have a nice balance between those who are leggy floozies and those who are not... leggy floozies). I'm just saying, Billy Ray 'Hurricane' Smith seems to have hit the leggy floozy jackpot. Check this out: the first house he stumbles upon upon arriving in Queensland happens to contain the mother of all leggy floozies.

While most non-leggy floozies like to lounge around their places of residence eating Aussie Cheetos (each bag comes with a complementary tub of Vegimite - mmm, dark brown food paste) in hole-ridden sweatpants and ratty bathrobes (watching Neighbours, no doubt), leggy floozies like to slink about in black lace teddies and black nylons... and black heels.

Lucky guy. I mean, one moment he's a humble construction worker from Marshall, Texas, U.S.A., the next he's in Australia playing two-up, wooing leggy floozies and being called a "septic" by the locals. Now, you could classify Billy Ray 'Hurricane' Smith (Carl Weathers) as your classic fish out of water. But I wouldn't recommend doing that. You see, Billy Ray wants to find his sister (who was last seen in the resort town of Gold Coast), and, by the looks of things, he's in no mood for overused idioms.

Using clues he obtained from his sisters letters and postcards, Billy Ray ends up at the door of Julie (Cassandra Delaney, Fair Game), a leggy floozy/prostitute. Well, it's not really her door, she just works there... Anyway, Julie, who initially mistakes Billy Ray for a client, seems willing to help the handsome septic in the white jean jacket find his sestra ("septic," by the way, is Aussie slang for Americans and "sestra" is the Ukrainglish word for "sister" - Orphan Black is my shit!!!!). After all, Julie and his sestra, I mean, sister, knew one another before she went missing. However, just as Julie is about to fix Billy Ray a drink, Shanks (David Argue), Julie's "manager," storms in and sends Billy Ray packing.

If you're wondering what the difference between a leggy floozy and prostitute is. It's simple, really. A leggy floozy is what you call a female prostitute when she's not having sex for money. So, if you see a prostitute sitting in, let's say, a bar, she's actually a leggy floozy. On the other hand, if you spot the very same leggy floozy in the alleyway behind the bar she was just sitting in inhaling a man's cock with her mouth, she's now a prostitute. Any questions?

Oh, and the reason I didn't call Shanks Julie's pimp is because I didn't want to make Charlie Dowd (Jürgen Prochnow), Julie's actual pimp, cross. Trust me, he's not someone you want to make cross. Besides, I don't think Shanks has what it takes to be a pimp. I mean, look at how understanding he is when Julie tells him that she doesn't feel like having sex with Mr. Nelson, a regular who had an appointment. Pimps are not understanding.

Undeterred by what transpired at Julie's brothel, Billy Ray breaks into Charlie Dowd's beach house to look for clues. Only problem being, Charlie Dowd, Shanks, some henchmen and a ton of leggy floozies show up for a party.

As Billy Ray is poking around upstairs and Charlie Dowd is giving Shanks a refresher course on how to be a pimp, you'll notice that you can see the stocking tops of one of the leggy floozies. At first I thought: Oh, the reason you can see the tops of her stockings is because she's sitting in a manner that is conducive to stocking top display. But that's just it, she wasn't sitting down.

You know what that means, right? Exactly. The top portion of the stockings attached to the legs that belong to Rochelle (Suzie MacKenzie), "Ro" to her fellow leggy floozies, are always visible. Yep, you heard right. I said, always visible.

Whether she's changing a flat tire, doing jumping jacks in the rain, cramming for an algebra exam... in the rain, buying a new toothbrush, listening to the radio while lying in a hammock, painting a self-portrait, or putting another shrimp on the barbie, the tops of Ro's stockings will always be visible.

In an ironic twist, Ro can be seen sitting at a bar in the next scene. How is that an ironic twist, you ask? Well, if you had been paying attention earlier, you would have noticed that I basically said that sitting at a bar is what leggy floozies do best. And, I have to say, after watching Ro sit at a bar for a minute or two, I'm going to have to agree with myself. Leggy floozies and bar sitting go hand and hand.

Getting back to the plot for second. When Jürgen Prochnow (I didn't buy that his name was "Charlie Dowd" for a second - Jürgen is such a Jürgen) gets wind that an American is snooping around his criminal enterprise, and that Julie might be helping him, he sets in a motion a series of events designed to stop these unwanted incursions into his affairs.

Animal lovers beware, one of these so-called "series of events" involves the murder of an Australian cattle dog.

While I'm happy to report that no leggy floozies were harmed during the making of this movie, the same can't be said for stylish gangster's molls with fluctuating loyalties. It should come as no surprise, but it would seem that dating German-accented Aussie crime bosses who pimp on the side can be bad for your health.

Oh, and if you doubt my claim that she's stylish. All you have to do is take a look at the red blazer she wears at the horse track.

Sticking with fashion. Fans of volumizing scrunchies will want to keep an eye out for the blonde extra who appears in two scenes. That's right, I said two scenes.

You can see her in a crowd when Billy Ray and Julie are walking down the street and again when Billy Ray and Julie stop at a cafe to discuss strategy.

In closing: I like Carl Weathers, I loved the sudden influx of leggy floozies, David Argue is funny at times as Shanks (the fact that he wore a Warrant t-shirt helped a bit - Warrant apparel = Comedy gold), Cassandra Delaney is hot and I learned a little bit about Aussie culture.

You know the future is bleak when the majority of the world's population are wearing welding goggles as everyday eye-wear. You could say, the future's so bleak, that you gotta wear welding goggles. But I won't say that. Why won't I being saying that, even though I sort of just did, you ask? Trust me, the key to attracting a younger demographic is not achieved by making references to Timbuk 3. The same goes for Digital Poodle (their lead singer, Mouth 392, was famous for wearing welding goggles as everyday eye-wear back in the day). No, if you want to attract young people to whatever it is you're doing (whether it be music, film or literature), you need to constantly talk about nylons, the colour taupe, Uzi's, leggy floozies, iridescent liquid, industrial bands from 1980s (preferably of the Belgian variety), and, most importantly, welding goggles. In other words, things young people like. Do these things, and I guarantee you'll have the Miley Cyrus generation eating out of the palm of your taint. And that's another thing, talk about your taint a lot. Kids love that. Anyway, looking over the things I listed that one should mention when trying to lure young people, it would seem that Álex de la Iglesia's Acción Mutante, while it doesn't feature all of them, it does boast two of the most important ones. And those are, of course, nylons and welding goggles.

You could say that nylons and welding goggles are the perfect metaphor for the class war that takes place in this film. Depicting a world where the poor are all members of heavily armed criminal gangs (who all wear welding goggles even when not welding), and the rich throw lavish parties complete with robot security guards, and, if you're lucky, a fully functional, fully fabulous Rossy de Palma (everyone's legs, including Rossy's, are sheathed in the silkiest nylons lot's of money can buy), writer-director Álex de la Iglesia covers some of the same ground he did in the equally awesome Perdita Derango. And, yes, trust me, Acción Mutante is awesome.

Now, I could easily list a bunch of movies that clearly influenced the Spanish director. But I don't feel like doing that at this particular juncture. And besides, most of the movies are the kind I don't want sullying my... Okay, I'll mention RoboCop... and The Ice Pirates. Yeah, those are all right. As for the rest, fuck them.

Either way, none of the films that influenced Álex de la Iglesia come anywhere close to matching the sheer insanity he manages to throw at the screen. Call it Almodóvar in space (Almodóvar, by the way, is listed as a producer), call it the Spanish Mad Max, call it what you will, Acción Mutante has more than enough going for it to be able to stand tall next to the greats of cult cinema.

Accidentally killing the rich fat fuck they planned on kidnapping by suffocating him with a ball gag, the leaderless members of Acción Mutante, a gang of thugs who repeatedly kick society in the culo (at least they try to), are clearly in a bit of a funk as of late. Unable to carry out a mission without screwing up, it's obvious to anyone with half a brain that they need a leader.

The answer to their prayers arrives shortly after the botched kidnapping attempt when their fearless leader, Ramón Yarritu (Antonio Resines), is released from prison (he just finished serving a five year sentence).

Picking him up from prison in an ice cream truck are Alex and Juan Abadie (Álex Angulo y Juan Viadas), Siamese twins; César 'Quimicefa' Ravenstein (Saturnino García), who floats on a hovering platform; José Óscar 'Manitas' Tellería (Karra Elejalde), an engineer of some kind; Amancio 'M.A.' González (Alfonso Martínez), the gang's muscle and, apparently, the owner of the world's lowest I.Q.; and José 'Chepa' Montero (Ion Gabella), a gay hunchback little person.

Ahh, so many Spanish names. At this moment my brain probably resembles an under-cooked pile of paella.

Judging by what we see as Acción Mutante's ice cream truck cruises through town, it would appear that they're living in a police state.

Wasting little time, Ramón, who, from looks of it, has been hatching this plan for quite awhile now, puts forth a scheme to kidnap Patricia Orujo (Frédérique Feder), the daughter of Mr. Orujo (Fernando Guillén), the owner of one of the country's biggest bakery companies, on her wedding day.

Pretending to be bakers, the idea is to bring a giant cake to the wedding. It's simple enough plan, when the Siamese twins play "Aires de fiesta" by Karina on the jukebox, that's M.A.'s cue to turn off the lights. When this occurs, the gay hunchback little person should pop out of the cake with guns blazing. As the gay hunchback little person is filling the guests (including Rossy de Palma) with lead, Ramón is supposed to grab Patricia and then make a clean getaway.

Of course, none of it goes according to plan. Oh, sure, lot's of people are filled with lead and Patricia is eventually kidnapped, but... You know what? Despite a few minor hiccups here and there, I think everything worked out for the best. I mean, the plan involved kidnapping a leggy bakery heiress, and that's exactly what they did.

(Wait, you didn't say anything about the bakery heiress being leggy.)

Do you really think I would bother reviewing a movie if it didn't feature a leggy bakery heiress? C'mon. You know me better than that.

Taking unexpected turn, Acción Mutante suddenly becomes an interstellar space adventure, as we're whisked aboard the Virgen del Carmen, Acción Mutante's giant spaceship. The second part of the plan involves rendezvousing on some planet with Mr. Orujo so that he can pay the 100 million dollar ransom. Only problem being, Ramón told the members of Acción Mutante they were getting 10 million. Actually it only becomes a problem when they hear about the 100 million dollar ransom on the news. Anyway, this, as you might expect, causes some serious trust issues to arise.

Even though Ramón reassures the rest of Acción Mutante that the media were merely trying to cause dissension in the ranks, he decides right then and there that he no longer needs them.

If you're wondering what happened to the concept of "honour among thieves"? It's obvious that spending the last five years watching nothing but tabloid television in prison has warped Ramón's value system. You could view this as Álex de la Iglesia's way of saying that the media can corrupt anyone; even the leader of Acción Mutante.

When the Virgen del Carmen crash lands on a womanless mining planet, Ramón throws Patricia out of the ship like a ragdoll, grabs her by the hair and proceeds to drag her to the Garcia Bar (the location of the planned rendezvous with Mr. Orujo).

Given that the crash caused the staples that kept Patricia's mouth shut to fall out, Patricia begins to express herself verbally for the first time since she was initially kidnapped. Much to the chagrin of Ramón, who just wants to collect his ransom and be on his merry way.

In order to complicate Ramón's journey to Garcia Bar, the script throws a few roadblocks at him to keep things interesting. My favourite roadblock being Patricia's sexy legs. I know, it's not really a roadblock in the classic sense of the word, but I like to think Patricia's sexy, stocking-encased legs were the cause of at least some stress.

Still wearing her wedding dress, the sight of Patricia's begrimed white stockings (with grayish tops) glimmering in the desert heat is what makes Acción Mutante the classic that it is today. It's as simple as that. Oh, and the other roadblock, the one involving a lovesick Alex (Juan, his Siamese twin, was murdered by Ramón), was cool, too.

Who's ready for some Aussie horror fun from the early 1980s? Okay, you might not be, but I know I sure am. I've got a comically large can of Fosters. I'm wearing my lucky Akubra. Hell, I've even picked up some extra shrimp just in case some asks me to throw another shrimp on the barbie. Let's do this, mate. And... wait a minute. Why do these guys sound like yanks? At first I thought that Strange Behavior (a.k.a. Dead Kids) was going to be about an American father who moves down under with his teenage son after his wife dies. Then it dawned on me, everyone is American. It just goes to show that you shouldn't assume that all Aussie movies are going to be about Australians. Speaking of Aussie movies, remember my review for the Aussie body melt movie called Body Melt? Of course you do. Well, do you happen to recall what my biggest problem with that film was? No, it had nothing to do with the film itself. You might recollect that I spent a good chunk of my Body Melt review scolding my massive readership for not making me aware of films that boast milfy lady scientists wielding syringes that contain iridescent liquid.

Now, I don't want to sound like a broken record. But what the fuck, guys? Strange Behavior is probably the ultimate film in the milfy lady scientists wielding syringes that contain iridescent liquid genre. Think about it. Not only is Gwen Parkinson (Fiona Lewis) a lady, she's milfy, and, judging by her lab coat, she's definitely a scientist. On top of that, it looks like she's holding a syringe in her hand, and the liquid inside said syringe has a iridescent sheen to it. So, I'll say it again, what the fuck, guys?

Please, for the love of God. If you know of any other movies that boast milfy lady scientists wielding syringes that contain iridescent liquid, don't hesitate to inform me of their existence. I want to watch as many films that boast milfy lady scientists wielding syringes that contain iridescent liquid as I possibly can. Thank you.

If being a film that boasts a milfy lady scientist who wields a syringe that contains iridescent liquid wasn't enough, Strange Behavior has so much more going for it. I know, who needs more when you have a milfy lady scientist who wields a syringe that contains iridescent liquid in your motion picture? But I think most of you will agree that slightly chubby gals with a penchant for dismemberment compliment milfy lady scientist who wields a syringe that contains iridescent liquid perfectly. As do wild costume parties that feature choreographed dance numbers.

It should be noted that I'm a tad uncomfortable calling the gal with the penchant for dismemberment "slightly chubby." Truth be told, she is slightly chubby when compared to, say, Dey Young, but the way she's characterized as "fat" and "overweight" by the authorities irked me like you wouldn't believe. Personally, I loved her shape. I mean, the way that purple dress hugged her curves was mind-blowing.

What's that? Why were the authorities characterizing her as such in the first place? It's simple, really. It had nothing to do with her size (which, like I said, could be described as "slightly chubby"), it was because of her penchant for dismemberment. You see, the authorities tend to frown upon dismemberment, especially human dismemberment. As you might expect, when word gets out that a slightly chubby gal with a penchant for dismemberment is roaming around Galesburg, Illinois doing just that, dismembering people while being slightly chubby, the authorities spring into action.

You're probably thinking to yourself: What could possibly cause a slightly chubby gal to develop a penchant for dismemberment? I have nine words for: Milfy lady scientists wielding syringes that contain iridescent liquid. Seriously, was there ever any doubt that a card carrying milfy lady scientist was the main reason why a slightly chubby gal developed a penchant for dismemberment? I didn't think so.

If you were to judge this film based solely on its opening scene, you would be forgiven for thinking that it was going to be yet another lame teens in peril horror film. Sure, the fact that the film's youthful screenwriter, Bill Condon (Gods and Monsters), plays the the first victim does make the scene a tad more interesting. But I only found out that was Bill Condon after the fact. At any rate, as far as opening scenes go, I'd have to declare the one that opens Strange Behavior to be lackluster.

As I was thinking about what movie to watch next, the dark synths of Tangerine Dream began to percolate on the soundtrack. In all honesty, I think their music is the first thing we hear as the film begins. Either way, once I noticed the music of Tangerine Dream, I immediately put my plans to watch another movie on hold.

Lacking money, two Galesburg, Illinois teens, Peter Brady (Dan Shor) and Oliver (Marc McClure), decide to earn some quick cash by allowing themselves to be experimented on by scientists at the local university. Since Oliver's already been once, he takes Pete over there to meet Fiona Lewis' Gwen Parkinson, the ultimate milfy lady scientist. An appointment is set up for Pete for the following day. In the meantime, who's ready to party?

If there was any doubt as to whether Strange Behavior was worthy of my time, there isn't the moment Pete and Oliver knock on the door of a suburban house and Nicole Anderson (dressed as the Flying Nun) answers it. After she declares that she isn't wearing any panties, Peter and Oliver enter just as Lou Christie's "Lighten' Strikes" is starting to play.

As if the sight of a bunch of teens dressed in wacky TV character themed costumes dancing enthusiastically to "Lightin' Strikes" wasn't enough, the enthusiastic dancing slowly morphs into a choreographed dance number.

I have to admit, I'm having a bit of trouble deciding if the party sequence in Strange Behavior is one of the greatest scenes in film history or simply the greatest scene in film history. Nevertheless, the fanciful, on the cusp of being surreal tone of the party scene officially made me a fan of this movie. And get this, the scenes where a milfy lady scientist wields a syringe filled with iridescent liquid and a slightly chubby gal with a penchant for dismemberment makes with the dismembering are still to come.

The fact that the party scene also features a pretty decent slasher sequence is basically icing on the cake; a knife-wielding killer in a Tor Johnson mask chases a young party guest (Elizabeth Cheshire) across a lawn, famously hacking at her heels.

Despite the grisly events that took place at the party, Pete manages to keep his appointment with the milfy lady scientist (they're going to pay him a hundred bucks). After taking a pill (one that will supposedly make him smarter), Pete goes on a date with Dey Young, who plays Caroline, the lab's receptionist. Hey, would you look at that. It would seem that pill is already starting to work, as Pete is literally charming the pants off Dey Young.

Overwhelmed by the string of murders that have been plaguing Galesburg, Illinois as of late, the chief of police, John Brady (Michael Murphy), Pete's father, asks for help from Chicago, who send a detective who looks like he stepped right out of a 1940s film noir.

It looks like he's going to need all the help he can get, as Mrs. Haskell (Beryl Te Wiata) comes home to find some kid named Timothy dismembered in a bathtub. Now, I'm not sure what Mrs. Haskell's relationship is to Timothy (she's seen doing dishes for Pete and his father in an earlier scene), but nonetheless, her confrontation with Paula (B. Courtenay Leigh), a slightly chubby gal with a penchant for dismemberment, is downright sexy. (Um, Sexy?!? Paula stabs Mrs. Haskell with a knife, then chases her downstairs, where she slits her throat.) What's your point? I find the sight of slightly chubby women murdering women who not even close to being slightly chubby to be extremely arousing. You got a problem with that?

I also like it when milfy lady scientists inject iridescent liquid directly into people's eye sockets. Which is exactly what happens to Pete when he shows up for his second appointment.

Call me crazy, but I think the drugs the milfy lady scientist is giving to her test subjects are somehow connected to the recent spate of homicides. (You already came to that conclusion fifty paragraphs ago.) I did? Oh well.

At any rate, if you're into American-Australian horror films that are made in New Zealand that sport milfy lady scientists who wield syringes that contain iridescent liquid, slightly chubby gals with a penchant for dismemberment, the band Pop Mechanix ("Jumping Out a Window" and "The Ritz" are both on the soundtrack), Tangerine Dream, the sight of Louise Fletcher (Kai Winn from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine) holding a yellow slip while wearing a purple dress, and choreographed dance numbers, you'd be insane not to watch this movie at least once.

Don't worry, I'm going to talk about Shanna McCullough's killer thighs and what is easily the best ~~porn~~ movie theme song of all-time, I just want to discuss the A-Busters' business model before I go any further. Oh, and, just in case you're wondering, Shanna McCullough's killer thighs and the best movie theme song of all-time both appear in Gregory Dark's White Bunbusters, the zany poop-chute compromising fuck-flick that bills itself as: "The World's First All Double-Penetration Shocker!" Okay, from where I was sitting, it would seem that the A-Busters provide a service. As to what exactly this service actually entails is still a bit of a mystery to me. Sure, they have an office. They have tools. They even advertise (their radio spot is heard during the film at one point). But what do they do? They will tell you that they help women overcome their reluctance to allow grown ass men to insert their erect penises into their brownish assholes. But all I saw was a couple of rapists who force their mostly female victims to endure a steady barrage of condom-free cock in every orifice imaginable. Granted, there is an instance where a porn star named Cha-Cha (Rachel Ryan) enlists the help of the A-Busters (she says something about wanting them to loosen her rectum before a big shoot), but more often than not, The A-Busters basically show up at your door (wielding an inordinate amount of crap pipe-related gear and equipment) and sexually assault you... in the ass.

Of course, the reason I think the A-Busters are glorified serial rapists, and not entrepreneurs, is because I'm not currently existing in 1985. You see, back in 1985, door-to-door anal rape startups were seen as no big deal. But in today's outrage obsessed nothing-verse, companies like, The A-Busters; Rectally Yours; Sphinctersoft (softening your sphincter since the mid-1970s); and All Up In Your Bum, Inc., fail within the first two months. And not because of poor business acumen on the part of the owners. But because door-to-door anal rape is frowned upon. And I, for one, I'm glad it's frowned upon, as there's nothing funny about door-to-door anal rape. On the other hand, that doesn't mean I can't enjoy a thoroughly repugnant, occasionally hilarious hour long ode to the door-to-door anal rapists of yore. And that's exactly what this is.

Besides, even the most humour-challenged, politically correct nincompoop will love the film's catchy theme song. Written by Johnny Jump-Up (a.k.a. Antonio Passolini) and Wavy Dave, the song, which is playful, funny, clever and frightfully stupid all at once, will bore its way into your brain, and remain there for the rest of your life. Seriously, it's the kind of song that can and will pop into your head at any given moment.

"I'm going to call the White Bunbusters. And no matter where you are, they're going to bust your fucking buns. White Bunbusters, they're really going to bust some buns. White Bunbusters, they will fuck anything but nuns. "They're the WHITE!!!! Bunbusters! WHITE!!!! Bunbusters! Call White Bunbusters!

The almost five minute long song plays over the opening credits, which boasts a montage of all the wacky degradation we'll be "enjoying" over the next hour or so. If you don't like what you see during the opening credits, you might as well tap out now, as the montage is a pretty accurate sampling of what's to come. However, you would be a fool to "tap out." Unless, of course, you have an aversion to killer thighs. You don't, right? Have an aversion to killer thighs? That would be sad if you did. Anyway, the prospect of being rewarded with the sight of Shanna McCullough's shapely thighs encased in red fishnet stockings is worth any mental anguish you might suffer at the hands of this double-penetration opus.

An opus that opens with John Doe (Tom Byron) plowing into his wife's vagina with his cock. Utilizing the missionary position, John's bunny slipper-wearing wife, Jane (Shanna McCullough), doesn't seem all that responsive to the humping her hubby is putting forth for their mutual benefit. Checking her nails in-between his lackluster thrusts, Jane looks like she would rather be somewhere else.

Noticing this, John decides to mix things up, and sheepishly tries to insert his cock into Jane's anus. This hangdog attempt to penetrate her chocolate starfish does not go over well, as Jane protests by telling John, flat out, that she doesn't want his dick in her ass. Realizing he's in a no win situation, John backs down, and says to Jane: "Will you at least suck my penis." After thinking it over for two, maybe three seconds, Jane agrees and takes John's dingle-doodle tonsil deep until it spews tiny droplets of cum all over her face and hair.

At work the next day, John and Bob (Greg Rome), his friend/co-worker, are sitting around the offices (their desks, by the way, are made out cardboard boxes) of ACME Proctological listening to Dark Brothers radio (the official radio station of the Dark Brothers). When the topic of anal sex comes up, Bob tells John all about the A-Busters. Actually, the ad for the A-Busters that airs on Dark Brothers radio does most of the legwork when it came to explaining the A-Buster's modus operandi. Either way, it's obvious that John is intrigued.

We get more information about their unique methods in the next scene, when we're whisked into the offices of the A-Busters. From what I could gather, the A-Busters seem to be two guys, Tex (Marc Wallice) and Doc (Steve Powers), who share an office (like ACME Proctological, their desks are made out of cardboard boxes). And every once and awhile, their phone would ring. This usually prompts them to yell "Ayyyyyyy-Busters!" When they do this, you can almost guarantee that some poor woman is about to get her buns busted.

Since it wouldn't be a Gregory Dark movie without Jack Baker, the animated actor appears briefly as a man whose wife (Erica Boyer) won't let him fuck her in the ass. When the A-Busters show up, wearing their trademark orange-tinted goggles, work boots, yellow suspenders and orange baseball hats, they grab Erica Boyer and begin to violate her. Eventually, the A-Buster's cocks wind up in Erica Boyer's vagina and butthole simultaneously. I thought it was odd that the A-Busters felt the need to penetrate Erica Boyer vaginally as well. I mean, they're the "A"-Busters," not the "V"-Busters." Whatever, they ejaculate seminal fluid all over Erica Boyer and Jack Baker pays them. Wait, did Jack Baker just pay two guys dressed like gay disco plumbers to rape his wife? Again, I'm not quite sure what kind service the A-Busters actually provide.

After the A-Busters are finished busting Erica Boyer's buns, you'll notice that Tex and Doc spray their flaccid bun busters with some kind of liquid. I'm guessing it's disinfectant. Sort of like, Lysol Antibacterial Kitchen Cleaner. Except instead of spraying it on counter tops, they spray it on their cocks.

Since Jane still isn't providing John with the anal delights he desires, John decides to stick his cock in the ass that belongs to Bobette (Keli Richards), Bob's wife. However, as Bob clearly states, this is a one time deal. The look on John's face when Bob says, "I can't let you come over every night and fuck my wife in the ass," spoke volumes, as I bet he genuinely thought that this could be a regular thing.

When a budding secretary (Jennifer Noxt) shows up at ACME Proctological for a job interview, John and Bob pepper her with questions: "How's your typing? Do you take shorthand? Dictation? Do you take it up the ass?" Anyone care to guess what happens next? That's right, they fuck her in the ass. Well, one of them fucks her in the ass, the other one makes his home in her vagina.

The great thing about this scene, beside the fact that both cocks move during the double-penetration phase (in scenes like these, one cock typically does the bulk of the thrusting, while the other one just sort of sits there languishing in a vaginal/colon stew), is that Jennifer Noxt's Velveeta is the only woman who is seen standing in this film. Come to think of it, they actually showing her walking at one point. This blew my mind. Seriously. Standing and walking? Madness.

After the A-Busters are done busting the buns of a new wave punk porn star named Cha-Cha (Rachel Ryan), she has sex with some guy (Dick Rambone) she had hidden under her bed (talk about filler).

Will John call the A-Busters, and get his rectal reward... Hold on. Let's say he does call them, and they come over and penetrate Jane's a-hole with their cocks. What happens next? Call me crazy, but what I think the film is trying to say is this: After the A-Busters have "serviced" your wife, she will allow you to penetrate her anus with your penis. Personally, if my husband did this to me, I would call the police. That being said, this is the type of film that shows a woman standing and walking for a split-second, while the rest of the time they're usually lying spread eagle or on all fours with their asses in the air. In other words, good luck getting the cops to be on your side.

On the bright side, all the women, except for Erica Boyer, wear lace fingerless gloves, stockings, high heel shoes during their sex scenes. And I did laugh when Shanna McCullough says to John: "My Mama told me, Jane, don't stick things in your ass." [If you want to be cool like me and watch White Bunbusters, head on down to Eyesore Cinema and they will hook you up. Tell 'em Yum-Yum sent ya.]

After watching Monty flex for what seemed like ninety minutes straight, I wondered if my Lippy (Lip Service) stretch f**kin' jeans still fit me. Having not worn them in quite some time, I feared that my not being able to zip them up would cause me to fall into a shame spiral. What did I get myself into, I thought to myself, as began to slide them on. Well, I'm happy to report that not only did they fit, they fit like a glove. And here I was, all ready to blame the wonderfully not normal Flexing with Monty for my sudden uptick in poor body image. However, the opposite occurred, as my sense of self seemed to improve. In fact, I felt so good, I decided to take my jet black Lippy stretch f**kin' jeans (worn with a pair of black seven-hole Getta Grips; a black, mildly frilly Eternal shirt; and my trademark black military-style jacket) for a walk along Queen Street West to celebrate. Unfortunately, no one seemed notice how I amazing I looked in my jeans, as they were all too busy staring at their portable glowing rectangles to care. When I got back from strutting unnoticed, I turned on the television (a sort of stationary version of the portable glowing rectangle) and watched Flexing with Monty again. While a small part of me wanted to watch the film a second time in order to thank it for boosting my self-esteem, the part of me that is made up of mostly chunks of brain matter wanted to take another stab at trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Actually, I think I should rephrase that. It's not that I didn't know what was going on (the plot is on the cusp of being straight-forward at times), it's just that the film, written and directed by John Albo, goes about implementing its ideas in a manner that is, let's just say, highly unorthodox. How 'bout I put it this way: If the film I'm watching starts to remind me of Dandy Dust and Dr. Caligari, you know some seriously unorthodox shit is transpiring onscreen.

Questions like: Did that woman just lay an egg in a marsh? And: Why is Trevor Goddard humping that stuffed bear in a pair of assless chaps? will no doubt tumble from your lips as you're watching this movie. And that's okay. Just as along you don't say: "What the fuck did I just watch?" I'm not a fan of that expression.

Just to let you know, the reason I was reminded of Dandy Dust is because there's a scene that features a bald, bloodied woman covered in bandages dismembering a body in a bathtub. As for Dr. Caligari. Well, I was reminded of that film because it features a smallish cast acting real meshugenah and junk all within the sinewy confines of the gayest gay wet dream in existence.

In a weird twist, it just so happens that the gayest gay wet dream in existence also boasts the leggiest leggy floozy to hit the gay wet dream circuit in donkey's years. Except, this here leggy floozy utters words from her talking hole unlike any leggy floozy I've ever seen. But more on her in a minute. To properly understand this so-called "Domestic Symphony," you need to start at the beginning.

Anyone care to guess what Monty (Trevor Goddard) is doing when the film begins? (Railing against "faggots and dyke feminists," who are, according to him, ruining the country?) Well, yeah, he does do that. Here's a free tip, whenever someone asks you what Monty is doing at any given moment, say he's exercising. You wanna know why? That's right, because he's probably exercising. You don't get a body like Monty's by sitting around all day eating Cheetos.

Truth be told, when we first meet Monty, he's using a blowtorch on a hunk of metal. However, I don't think he's actually making anything. No, what I think he's trying to do is give all the guy's in the audience man-boners. While I would love to tell you what he's trying to do to all the women in the audience with this display of fire-based machismo. In all honesty, I have no idea what's going on down there (female genitals confuse and frighten me).

Sharing a loft/gym with his brother, Bertin (Rudi Davis), Monty is from Australia and is really into physical fitness. So much so, he's the phys-ed teacher at the local university. It's only a two credit course, but Monty hopes to become head of the athletic department in two years.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, the exact moment I started to feel inadequate was when Monty began to crouch walk around Bertin while carrying a large barbell. Simply put, the man's a machine. However, this feeling inadequacy began to lesson a bit after seeing Monty have sex with a lingerie-clad blow-up doll while viewing a slide-show that featured photos of himself flexing.

Meanwhile, in another less gym-like part of the loft, Bertin, who's a student at the university Monty works, is trying to keep his new exotic pet a secret from his brother. Of course, in true Flexing with Monty fashion, this exotic pet turns out to be some kooky-looking dude in a cage.

In-between all the brotherly horseplay (which there is a lot of), we learn more about Monty and Bertin's complex relationship, and Granny (Gwen Van Dam), their eye-patch sporting grandmother. I don't know what's more disturbing, the sight of Monty holding his hand over Bertin's naked, writhing buttocks as he slept, or the sight of Granny giving Monty a massage. Actually, the sound of Bertin's aborted foetus crashing into that metal bucket takes the cake, disturbing-wise.

While Monty clearly hates the gays. That doesn't stop him from placing ads in the classifieds that offer his services as a male prostitute. Telling Bertin that he's going to visit a "sick friend," Monty puts on his best leather duds, hops on his motorcycle and heads over to the house of a man who responded to his ad, which boasts, among other things, that he has a nine and a half inch cock (cut) and a firm bubble-butt. When he gets there, he finds a coked up fairy Goth who looks the non-existent third member of Suicide.

It's true, I've seen enough so far to convince me that Flexing with Monty is a unique motion picture worthy of my attention. But the scene where a nun (Sally Kirkland) comes over to Monty and Bertin's loft, asking them to donate money to help restore people's skulls, is when the film really starts to get kinda awesome. For instance, the dialogue that centers around Monty's biceps (which are, according to him, "pregnant with power") is simply to die for.

If that wasn't enough, a leggy floozy (Michelle Zeitlin) comes over to drink wine, talk about books and dress up like a horse, or was it a cow? No, I think it was a horse. Either way, I loved the seams on the leggy floozies nylons and the creaking sound her dress would made whenever she moved.

Oh, and I almost forgot. As Monty and the leggy floozy are getting to know one another, Bertin is making a pie. That's right, a pie.

At this moment, I have no idea what's going to happen next, but the leggy floozy, the pie, the literal horseplay are all leading up to something. While it might not be profound, I bet it's going to be strange.

Propelled by a charismatic performance by Trevor Goddard (he makes you like him, despite his dickishness), and a leggy one by Michelle Zeitlin, Flexing with Monty is the definition of a cult classic. While the product that appears onscreen is enough to cement its status as a "cult classic," reading about the film's troubled history (they began filming in 1994) will no doubt inflate this status even more.

I know this expression is a little outdated, but am I being punk'd? To go even one step further, outdated expression-wise, am I on Candid Camera? Seriously, am I? What's that? I'm not. So, what you're saying is, I just watched a movie about a disaffected D.A.F. fan who never leaves the house without making sure the tops of her stockings are showing? No, this can't be happening. Oh, and just to be clear, when say, "D.A.F.," I'm not talking about the Dutch trucking company. Uh-uh, I'm talking about Deutsch Amerkanische Freundschaft. To make matters even more insane, I could have called the character played by Maika Monroe (who, by the way, is the same age as most of my clothes) a "Front 242 fan" or a "Clan of Xymox fan." (Hey, these bands sound familiar. Which reminds me, aren't you the one who is always going on and on about Front 242 and about how cool industrial music is? And don't you have this weird fixation with the tops of stockings?) Duh! Where have you been for the last twenty-five years. These things are not just in my wheelhouse, they're freakin' foundation of my wheelhouse. In fact, take away industrial music and stocking tops, and you'll be looking at one pretty glum Yum-Yum.

The film I'm talking about, in case you haven't figured it out yet, is called The Guest. And while on the surface it might seem like your standard thriller about a handsome stranger with a dark past, underneath lurks a movie that...

Holy shit, the movie has two D.A.F. songs and two Front 242 songs! What the hell is going on here?!?

And get this, none of the Front 242 songs are "Headhunter." Yep, you heard right. "Headhunter," the uninspired go-to track of lame goth-industrial DJs the world over is not one of the two 242 songs. Oh, sure, I dug the song when it first came out (and the arty Anton Corbijn-directed music video), but I must have heard it a million times since then, and have grown to despise it.

While the producers deserve all a lot of praise for not using "Headhunter," the movie actually has a lot more going for it than a kick ass soundtrack. (Yeah, we know. It's got absolute territory up the ying yang.) Of course, it's got that going for it. What I was going to say was, it's got Maika Monroe.

Now, I have to admit, I had never heard of Maika Monroe before seeing this movie (I'm a bit behind when it comes to keeping up with the current crop of actors/celebrities). However, after seeing her as Anna Peterson, she kind of reminds me of Chloë Sevigny's cooler little sister. I know, how can anyone be cooler than Chloë Sevigny. Trust me, once you see the quality of the disaffection Maika puts out there in this film, you'll agree that she's a hundred times cooler. Besides, Maika's disaffection has a goth-EBM soundtrack.

If that wasn't enough, Maika's Anna Peterson sleeps all day in thigh-high socks, yellow and white polka dot panties and, are you sitting down? A Current 93 t-shirt. Of course, her shirt might not have been a Current 93 t-shirt... but it featured an unicursal hexagram, and that's good enough for me. Quirky fun-fact: The number 93 plays a big role in Thelema, the religious philosophy founded by Aleister Crowley.

The reason Anna is asleep during the day is because she works the late shift at a local diner. Oh my God, would you look at her waitress uniform. The way the yellow and white gingham collar (and sleeves) and the powder blue base compliment one another is to die for.

Oh, and as she's heading to off to work, she notices that her mother (Sheila Kelly) is talking to some guy with dreamy eyes. It turns out that this guy's name is "David" (Dan Stevens), and, get is, he just showed up out of the blue. And while it's interesting that "David" knew her dead brother (he died, I'm assuming, in some war), I'm sure he'll be on his way by the time her shift at the diner is over.

Oops, it would seem that I was a tad off when I assumed that "David" would be leaving right away. And it turns out that Anna is just as shocked as I was to see "David" drinking beers with his dad (Leland Orser) and helping his younger brother Luke (Brendan Meyer) do his homework. Personally, I wouldn't have even answered the door in the first place. I mean, who answers the door anymore? Nevertheless, it looks like this "David" fella is going to be staying with the Peterson's for at least a couple of days.

What's the worst that could happen? (You do realize that Dan Stevens is holding a gun on the film's poster, right?) You're right. I'm naive to think that "David" is Captain America. He's actually more like Jean-Claude Damme in Universal Soldier... or maybe he's more like Dolph Lundgren? I've never seen any of those movies, so I don't know which Euro-meathead is the supposed to be the bad super-soldier.

Either way, he kind of starts off like Captain America. He beats up Luke's tormentors from school and carries kegs of beer for Anna's friends. But when Anna overhears one of "David's" conversations, she goes into sleuth mode. And that alerts Lance Reddick, who plays the head of some sort secret military project.

Whoa, I'm getting ahead of myself. Shortly before going to into "sleuth mode," Anna takes "David" to a party. While on the surface it's looks like your average Halloween party (beer and dope are liberally consumed... sexual intercourse is... intercoursed), the music is nothing but. When I heard "Moldavia" by Front 242, I was like, yeah, Front 242, baby! The next song we hear is, "I Want To Go To Hell" by Hocico. I'm more old school when it comes to EBM, but I like 'em. After that, things get somewhat ridiculous, when "Der Mussolini" by D.A.F. starts blasting on the soundtrack. It's ridiculous because I'm hearing the music of my youth in a movie starring the guy from Downton Abbey!

I've read that director/editor Adam Wingard selected the songs from a pile that were given to him by a goth-industrial music fan named "Anna." Now, I don't know what this person's full name is, but they deserve all the credit for making The Guest a one of a kind experience. Of course, I'm not saying every movie should have a goth-industrial soundtrack... or maybe I am? Whatever, man, it was refreshing to hear music that I genuinely like in a relatively mainstream movie.

As they're driving home, "David" tells Anna that he likes the song she's playing on the car stereo. It was this scene and the song, "Masquerade" by Clan of Xymox, that solidified my opinion that Anna is one of the coolest film characters in recent memory. And I haven't even mentioned the fact that she's wearing a greyish black skull tank-top, a corset, I think (complete with garter straps), black stockings and a pair of undone Dr. Martens. Badass.

A quick side-note: In the Encyclopedia Gothica (by Liisa Ladouceur), Clan of Xymox are described as the band who will be mostly remembered as the group whose name starts with the letter 'X' (they briefly dropped the "Clan of" during the late 1980s). Well, I think that entry should be updated. Clan of Xymox, a Dutch darkwave band, who have three, count 'em, three songs on The Guest soundtrack. My favourite Clan of Xymox song, "A Day," by the way, plays during the film's epic gymnasium showdown.

Anyway, I think the question that's on everyone's mind is... (Is The Guest a good movie?) I was going to say: Where does Anna buy her legwear? But I guess that's an important question, too. Well, to answer the whether The Guest is good or not question, I'd say, yeah, it's good. In fact, it's very good. Speaking of good, "Alles ist gut" by D.A.F. is heard during the film's epic showdown as well.

As for Anna's legwear. Even though she probably got most of them at American Apparel, those bone socks had to have been gotten somewhere else. I'm thinking she ordered them from Etsy or Ipso Facto. However, since the movie takes place in New Mexico, I suppose she could have got them at either the Hot Topic in Albuquerque, or the Hot Topic in Santa Fe, or the Hot Topic in Clovis... Damn, how many Hot Topic's does the Land of Enchantment have? Just to let you know, that's a rhetorical question. They clearly have three. In closing, if anyone has an ideas as to where Anna buys her legwear, feel free to share it with the rest of the class.

Looking back, I think I might have been a little hard on 1995 in my review of Powder. If any year deserves to be mocked for having no discernible character whatsoever, it's 2002. Seriously, 2002, you are one bland motherfucker. And the cast of 2002's Swimfan encapsulate this blandness by being one of the most boringly-attired groups of people I've ever laid eyes on. There is, however, one exception. And that is the film's heroin, Madison "I'm Not Going to be IGNORED" Bell. Played by Erika Christensen, the round-faced, shapely non-suppressive person wears leather skirts, trench-coats, argyle sweaters and heels, lot's of heels. To be fair, her peers are mostly jocks. In other words, their wardrobes are 99% hoodies and sweatpants. But still... What's that? What does the other 1% of their wardrobe consist of? Oh, that is usually made up of something black. And, no, they're not closet Goths... though, I kinda wish they were (Hey, bro. Wave-Gotik Treffen is going to be off the chain this year... now let's go drink Mountain Dew and play sports). Uh-uh, the reason they have a black outfit in their wardrobe is so that they will have something to wear at their friend's funeral when they're justifiably beaten to death with a baseball bat. Yep, you heard me. I said, "justifiably beaten to death." You got a problem with that? Good, let's move on.

On top of being a fan of brown leather skirts, Madison Bell likes it when the globs of soft tissue that line her vaginal wall seize the erect penis of a man who loves her. Arriving at a new school, one that is filled with penises to clasp onto vaginally, Madison applies some lip gloss to her lips (her facial vulva), and selects the cock she wants to fuck.

Given that Madison prefers it when the men attached to the cocks she wants to fuck are relatively hunky, she selects Ben Cronin (Jesse Bradford), a former drug addict/bad boy turned star swimmer/straight-up dullard.

Since she can't go right up to him and say, "I want you to insert your chlorine-soaked penis into my dank cubby-hole-esque vagina, and then I want you to fall in love with me." She concocts some cockamamie cock and bull story about not being able to get her locker open. Realizing that Ben can't use his cock to open the lock, she makes sure that he can clearly see the hair clip in her hair.

Seeing the hair clip, Ben asks Madison if he can use it. Of course, Madison agrees, and she proceeds to watch Ben repeatedly cram her hair clip into her lock until it pops open.

Now, most people will view what just happened as a simple act of kindness. They saw a relatively hunky fella help a round-faced teen with womanly hips out of a non-life threatening pickle of a jam, and that's it. On the other hand, what Madison Bell and I saw was something else all-together. He might not know it yet, but Ben just passed the most important test he will ever take. Think about it. Thanks to his impromptu locksmith skills, Ben is about to be taken on a wild, wild vaginal ride, one I hope his chlorine-soaked penis is prepared to make.

What's that? You say Ben already has a girlfriend. Nah, that's his little sister. Wait, maybe you're right. When I first saw Amy (Shiri Appleby) and Ben making out in his truck in the opening scene, I thought: Hmm, they seem close. But then it dawned on me, brothers and sisters don't usually open mouth kiss one another with such reckless abandon; at least not this far north. Nevertheless, I hope Ben let's Amy down gently when he kicks her to the curb. I mean, it's the least he can do given that she has no booty whatsoever to cushion her fall when she lands on the unforgiving curb concrete after Ben kicks her there.

Unfortunately, no such kick is forthcoming. I know, the fact that Ben took the time out of his busy swimming schedule to help Madison open her lock is all the evidence you need to prove that he doesn't like Amy anymore. But Ben has this idea in his head that he can continue to date Amy and mount Madison on the side. First of all, Madison is not the type of woman you mount on the side (if you're going mount her, you better mount her with everything your pelvis has to offer). And secondly, why haven't you kicked Amy to the curb yet? Drop that clingy bint. Do it now!

If you need further proof that Ben has round-faced shapely chicks with ultra-smooth calves on his mind, look no further than the scene where he's driving home. Spotting a round-faced shapely chick with ultra-smooth calves walking down the street, Ben, as he gets closer, notices that the round-faced shapely chick with ultra-smooth calves isn't Madison. However, as he's realizing this, Ben nearly runs over another round-faced shapely chick with ultra-smooth calves, who turns out to be–you guessed it–Madison.

Did anyone else think Madison actually hired the other round-faced shapely chick with ultra-smooth calves in order to distract Ben? I know, it's a little far-fetched. But Madison, as we'll soon find out, is pretty crafty. I can picture her ad in the classifieds: Wanted: Curvaceous round-faced woman with ultra-smooth calves for convoluted seduction purposes. Bring your own raincoat.

If Madison didn't hire the other round-faced shapely chick with ultra-smooth calves, she definitely left her notebook in his truck on purpose.

As Ben is heading out to return Madison's notebook, his mom asks him why he's dressed so fancy. To which Ben replies: "It's pants and a shirt, mom." Isn't that disgusting? In this universe, Ben is considered nattily dressed. Can you believe this? Someone needs to drag all these slovenly dressed losers over to Trash and Vaudeville to get better wardrobes. Ask for Jimmy, he'll hook you up.

Anyway, the classic leave behind trick works like a charm, as Ben and Madison end up hanging out. And by "hanging out," I mean, making love in the pool at their school. And by "making love," I mean, fucking Showgirls-style in the pool's deep end.

You would think that now would be the perfect time to kick Amy to the curb. But what does Ben do, he tries to act like nothing happened. Well, let's just say, Madison has a few tricks up her sleeve. In other words, Madison is going to make sure Ben knows that she's not one to be trifled with when it comes to matters of vaginal jurisprudence. Let me put it this way: If you enter her pussy, you better be prepared to enter it again and again and again and again and again. Or else.

Oh, sure, "or else" initially entails leaving her panties in his truck (an oldie but a goodie). But things are gradually ratcheted up as the film progresses. We're talking pop ins, chat room trolling, e-mailed selfies, calve flashing, switching meds, pager spamming, urine sample tampering, baseball bats to the head, vehicular homicide, drowning, and even kidnapping. Of course, none of this seems to phase Ben, who still insists on dating Amy. I know, what a tool.

Call me someone who ain't hooked up right, but I think this film is trying to tell us that round-faced shapely chicks with ultra-smooth calves are unworthy of being loved. And as someone who's always been pro-round-faced shapely chicks with ultra-smooth calves, I found the film's message to be offensive and gross.

Granted, that doesn't mean I don't think anyone should watch it. I'm just saying, if you're like me and totally on Team Madison, be prepared to be outraged.

As the milfy goddess at the center of this sumptuous tale of moths, mannequins and cunnilingus slowly began to hike her skirt up as her maid gave her a foot massage, I wondered to myself: Whose pussy is this supposed to benefit? To someone who just happened to stumble upon them on a lark (ooh, look... a clothed lesbian is touching another clothed lesbian's feet), it's obvious that the milfy goddess is the main benefactor. But to someone (okay, me) who has seen The Duke of Burgundy from start to finish (multiple times), I can safely state that both are getting something out of this impromptu foot-based rub-down. I know, the maid is acting like she would rather be out collecting butterflies. But believe me, she is loving every minute of this. Such is the off-kilter dynamic of Evelyn and Cynthia, who partake in, what has to be, one of the healthiest relationships ever captured on film. Call it BDSM, call it... Well, let's just call it BDSM (bondage, dominance/submission and sadomasochism) for now. As I was saying, the relationship depicted in this film, written directed by Peter Strickland (Berberian Sound Studio), caused me to feel strangely at ease.

In most movies that feature characters who engage in some sort of relationship (whether they're simply dating, noncommittal fuck buddies or a married couple), I find their antics to be repulsive. Sleeping in the same bed together, respecting each other (no one, for example, is locked in a trunk overnight), pretending to be interested in what in the other one is blathering on about, these people make me want to puke. This, thankfully, didn't happen once over the course of this film. In fact, I found myself nodding in agreement to most of what I saw transpiring in front of me.

I liked how the relationship in this film was two women, as opposed to a man and a woman. What I mean is, I'm glad it wasn't a man dominating a woman; I can't stand maledom. And while it's true, I do prefer femdom. The relationship depicted in this film can't really be classified as "femdom," as it doesn't properly identify who the dominate party is, and both parties are women. Now, I didn't come up with this term (though, I wish I did), but the best way describe "the thing" between Evelyn (Chiara D'Anna) and Cynthia (Sidse Babett Knudsen, Borgen) is lezdom.

Since the primary relationship is a lezdom one, this eliminates the need for men. Sure, you could show men lingering in the background, but what would be the point of that? No, Peter Strickland's decision to have an all-female cast was the correct one. Of course, I happen to think that all movies, with the exception of gay porn and John Carpenter's The Thing, should have female only casts, but that's just the way I was raised.

If it sounds like I'm implying that there are other lezdom relationships being carried out in this film's estrogen rich universe, that's because I am.

As a carpenter (Fatma Mohamed), one who specializes in making custom-made bondage furniture, is telling Evelyn about the ins and outs of her new bed (one that confines one of the users in a box), she mentions making a similar bed for a woman who lives nearby. When the carpenter said this, I let out a mild chuckle. Then I came to the realization that everyone in this film was either in or striving to be in a lezdom relationship.

You know the expression: Who's wearing the pants in this relationship? Well, in The Duke of Burgundy, it goes more something like this: Who's wearing the seamed tan pantyhose in this relationship. To the layman, it's evident that Cynthia is the one wearing the seamed tan pantyhose in this relationship, as witnessed by the jet black seams currently tearing up the back of her tan pantyhose adorned legs.

However, as it's hinted at later on in the film, it would seem that Evelyn is the one who purchased the seamed tan pantyhose. Which begs the question? Who's dominating who?

Have I mentioned that this film is lush as all get out? I haven't? That's weird. Well, it's lush, all right. In fact, it's so lush... (Don't tell me, you listened to the band Lush after the movie was over.) While the manner in which you interrupted me was a tad on the dickish side, you're absolutely right, I popped on some Lush, Gala-era Lush, to be unnecessarily specific.

Which is actually ironic, because the film's lushness is on full display during the opening credits. What's that? Why is it ironic. Oh, because the lush visuals are accompanied by the dreamy music of Cat's Eyes, who sound like they belong on 4AD. And, as most people know, 4AD was Lush's record label.

After watching Evelyn ride her bike during the lush opening credits, she finally arrives at Cynthia's house. Judging by the way Cynthia starts ordering Evelyn around, it would seem that... Would you look at that, the seams on Cynthia's tan pantyhose are blacker than I initially thought. Amazing. And check this out, her skirt has a mild slit in the back. Wonderful.

Huh? Oh, yeah, it would seem that Evelyn works for Cynthia. But as I implied earlier, nothing in this film, even the seams on Cynthia's tan pantyhose, is as it seems. Get it, seems, seams. Aren't homonyms fun?

Anyway, I didn't expect a pair of unwashed panties to be the catalyst for Cynthia to pee in Evelyn's mouth. While we don't exactly see Cynthia do this (the bathroom door is closed), she is shown drinking a lot of water beforehand (in order for a human to discharge urine, they first must ingest a liquid of some kind). Meaning, I think the panties were unwashed on purpose. Which means everything we have witnessed so far is an elaborate form of lezdom foreplay.

This "elaborate form is lezdom foreplay" isn't just reserved for every other Tuesday. No, this is something they do everyday. The only break they seem to get is when they attend female only Lepidopterology seminars. (Lepi-what?) You know, Lepidoptera, moths and butterflies. Truth be told, I don't even think "Tuesday" exists in this film's universe. Which is a good thing, as I'm not a fan of films that insist of having times, dates, countries, flags, money, cars and men. All they do distract us from what is important. (Which is?) Duh, golden showers, face-sitting, bike riding, boot polishing, nylons, seams, slits, heels, cunnilingus, moths, butterflies and... Monica Swinn.

(Wait. Did you say, Monica Swinn?) Yeah, so. (Monica Swinn. The actress who appeared in countless Jess Franco movies during the mid-1970s?) Yeah, that's her. (Just checking.) What I liked about Monica Swinn's surprise return to the silver screen is that it seems designed purely to delight Jess Franco fans. I mean, who else is going to appreciate this? Don't believe me. Well, her character's name is "Lorna," as in, Lorna The Exorcist. 'Nuff said.

Actually, there is an increment of time mentioned in this film. Eight weeks. The amount of time it will take Fatma Mohamed's "The Carpenter" to finish the confinement bed that Evelyn desperately wants. Unfortunately, Evelyn was hoping to get her custom made confinement bed for her birthday (which is in two weeks). There's talk of getting a human toilet instead, but you can tell that Evelyn has her heart set on getting a confinement bed.

The look on Evelyn's face when "The Carpenter" says, "Would a human toilet be a suitable compromise"? speaks volumes, as it's clear to everyone that she wants to sleep in a box underneath Cynthia.

The whole sequence with "The Carpenter," if you couldn't tell already, is fantastic. My favourite moment is when "The Carpenter" can't remember the name of the woman she made a confinement bed for who lives down the road, yet she remembers that her house had a wisteria porch and a yellow colonnade.

In a weird twist, Cynthia hurts her back while lifting a box into her bedroom for Evelyn to sleep in in the meantime. With Cynthia not being able to carry out her lezdom duties with her usual pep, Evelyn starts to eyeball the boots of another milfy moth and butterfly enthusiast.

I don't know 'bout you, but I'm hoping these two kooky kids can work things out. Granted, polishing another woman's boots might not seem like a big deal, but to them, it's worse than catching your girlfriend scissoring with another woman in a kiddie pool filled with grape jelly behind a non-existent Jiffy Lube. However, once you expel pee-pee into another person's mouth, you and that person share a bond that is greater than the universe itself. In other words, everything is going to be fine.

Call me crazy, but I think The Duke of Burgundy is the best film of 2014. Hold on, let me quickly check something... Okay, I'm back. Other than maybe The Guest, I don't see anything else that comes close to topping The Duke of Burgundy. I missed the Oscars this past year, but I'm gonna go ahead and assume that it must have won a shitload of trophies. The acting, the art direction, the dialogue, the costumes, the music, they all deserve to win awards. I know I could check the results, but I'd rather remain in the dark. No, as far as I'm concerned, The Duke of Burgundy is the best film of 2014.

If you stumbled upon this review of The Heroic Trio hoping to read a long-winded tribute to either Michelle Yeoh and Anita Mui, I'm afraid you have come to the wrong place. No, this here, my friend, is Maggie Cheung country. Oh, Maggie Cheung in The Heroic Trio, let me count the ways. Of course, I don't mean to imply that Michelle and Anita are unworthy of praise. But let's get real, people. This is Maggie Cheung we're talking about. When she's not wearing goggles, she's wearing a headband. When she's not throwing sticks of dynamite from a moving motorcycle, she's gunning down henchmen with a M-60 machine gun. When she's not showing the tops of her stockings, she's... Wait a minute, Maggie Cheung is always showing the tops of her stockings. Now, when I first caught a glimpse of Maggie Chung's stockings in Johnnie To's The Heroic Trio, I thought to myself: Great. If I ever decide to do a review of this film, at least I'll have something to talk about. Then it dawned on me. Maybe I shouldn't write a review for this film. I mean, people might start to get the impression that I'm some kind of pervert, one who is obsessed with seeing the tops of actresses' stockings in pornographic and non-pornographic movies.

Then it dawned me... again. I will not let what others think undermine my unique brand of idiocy. Embrace your fetishes with the full force of your salubrious nimbus and shun the self-doubt feeding monsters that only exist to cause people to lose confidence in themselves.

It would seem, however, that this particular movie was giving me the impression that it was determined that I review it. Sure, the movie as a whole is basically nonsensical trash/fluff (babies fall on spikes, flying guillotines are used, kittens are rescued). That being said, the producers must have known that by having the tops of Maggie Cheung's stockings be visible from start to finish that I would have no choice but to review it.

Every once and awhile, I'll think to myself: Why can't there be more movies that feature characters who wear stockings in a manner that allows the viewer to clearly see the tops (and a hint of garter strap) for an extended period of time? Well, I'm happy to report that The Heroic Trio is the first film to do exactly that.

Again, though, and I'm probably going to have to bring this up about six or seven more times, while I appreciated the copious amount of Maggie Cheung-centric black stocking-adjacent thigh that I witnessed in this movie, I thought it could have been sleazier.

Of course, I'm not just saying this because I wanted to see more of her black stocking-adjacent thighs, I genuinely thought that the film could have featured more Maggie Cheung. Seriously, every time she's onscreen, the film radiates life, vitality, passion and junk.

Her introduction scene, for example, is downright bad-ass. You would think she was Sylvester Stallone in Cobra or David Bradley in Cyborg Cop 2 judging by the way she takes over a sticky hostage situation. Armed with a shotgun, a fist full of dynamite and enough moxie to fuel a forest fire, Maggie rides up on her motorcycle, shoots a couple of punks, blows some crap up and rescues the hostages. Done, and done.

Noticing how efficiently she handled the hostage-takers, the Chief of Police (Paul Chun), asks Thief Catcher (her character's name is THIEF CATCHER!!!! Ha! Ha! Ha! That is so.... Ahhh, that's so weirdly awesome), if she can track down his infant son, who was snatched from the hospital by Michelle Yeoh's Invisible Woman.

As the film gets underway, we quickly learn that at least eighteen babies have been snatched this way. The reason why is quite simple, the Evil Master (Shi-Kwan Yen) wants to find the next emperor of China. Anyway, since the police are having no such luck stopping this baby snatching epidemic, they look to Wonder Woman (Anita Mui) for help.

Her introduction scene, while not as bad-ass as Thief Catcher's, does, once and for all, prove that pre-handover Hong Kong cinema is vastly superior to all other types of cinema. I know I've said this before, but the amount cool ass shit they (HK filmmakers) manage to throw at the screen is unbelievable. Running across a row of power-lines (in slow-motion), Wonder Woman, whose secret identity is married to Inspector Lau (Damian Lau), ultimately fails to prevent the Invisible Woman from stealing the Chief of Police's baby.

While taking the baby to the Evil Master's underground lair, the Invisible Woman has a brief dust up with... Yes! It's Anthony Wong!!! Playing Lau, a mute kung-fu master who guards the entrance to the Evil Master's lair, Anthony Wong loses a finger during his fight with the Invisible Woman (who wasn't invisible, she took off her invisibility cloak). And, in true Anthony Wong fashion, he picks up his severed finger, smells it, then eats it. Yum.

Meanwhile, in another part of town, the cops are dealing with a sticky hostage situation. Wait, where have I heard this before? Oh, yeah, this is the scene where we're introduced to Maggie Cheung's Thief Catcher. Wearing goggles, knee-pads, a leather jacket, fishnet hose and a playful smirk, Thief Catcher crashes the party, Cybergoth-style, and blows away the hostage-takers with a shotgun and few sticks of dynamite. Excuse me for a second, I need to take a breather. I mean, just the mere thought of this scene gives me the vapors. It's got everything: Goggles, leather, fishnets, knee-pads, a motorcycle, and over the top cartoon violence.

Hold up. Why is Thief Catcher stealing a baby?!? I thought that was The Invisible Girl's schtick? From what I gleamed from the dialogue, apparently the Evil Master is not only an evil master, he's a master manipulator. In other words, he's managed to convince Thief Catcher to do his bidding... I think. The plot can be confusing at times.

It's true, you can't really see the tops of Maggie's stockings during her much ballyhooed introduction. But that all changes during the baby snatching/warehouse fight sequence, one that pits Wonder Woman against Thief Catcher and The Invisible Woman. It's stocking top city from this moment on, baby.

Eventually teaming up to fight the Evil Master, Thief Catcher, Wonder Woman and The Invisible Woman are, simply put, an inspiration to little girls and perverted grown men the world over.

Seeing three strong female superhero-type characters battle one another got me a thinking about a recent article I read about the lack of female-centric comic book movies being made in Hollywood. Sure, they mention Catwoman and Elektra (both disasters, critically and financially) as one of the main reasons, but look at this movie, it was made way back in 1993, and it's a thousand times more awesome than any superhero movie Hollywood has ever produced. (Even Guardians of the Galaxy?) Ugh, I saw that and I didn't remember a single thing from it afterward.

You could also blame Sucker Punch for this estrogen deficiency. Oh, and thanks to it, we'll probably never a see another film where stocking tops and goggles are so front and center. Fucking Sucker Punch, is there anything you haven't ruined?

Oh, well. As long as I keep coming across gems like, The Heroic Trio, my thirst for films that feature strong female characters who wear stockings, knee-pads and goggles will never go unquenched. Did I mention that the film's theme song by Anita Mui is catchy as fuck? No? Well, it totally is. In fact, it rocks so hard, that I wouldn't hesitate to add it to my hypothetical DJ playlist.

Powder (Victor Salva, 1995)

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

Less Than Zero (Marek Kanievska, 1987)

Hardcore (Paul Schrader, 1979)

Doom Asylum (Richard Friedman, 1987)

L'Amour Braque (Andrzej Żuławski, 1985)

Party Line (William Webb, 1988)

Nightmare Beach (Umberto Lenzi, 1989)

Primal Rage (Vittorio Rambaldi, 1988)

The Mad Foxes (Paul Grau, 1982)

Shakma (Tom Logan, 1990)

Hurricane Smith (Colin Budds, 1992)

Acción Mutante (Álex de la Iglesia, 1993)

Strange Behavior (Michael Laughlin, 1981)

White Bunbusters (Gregory Dark, 1985)

Flexing with Monty (John Albo, 2010)

The Guest (Adam Wingard, 2014)

Swimfan (John Polson, 2002)

The Duke of Burgundy (Peter Strickland, 2014)

The Heroic Trio (Johnnie To, 1993)