House of Self-Indulgence

It's hard to believe, but there once was a time when I was indifferent to elder abuse. Every other a week, it would seem, I'd be walking down the street and stumble upon an old person who looked like they had just been beaten, I'm assuming, by a loved one. Since I had less important things to do, I would usually step over their withered bodies with a casual elan and continue on my merry way. Well, that all changes today, for I have seen The Granny, the only film, at least to my knowledge, that takes elder abuse seriously. It's true, I still won't stop to help any of the injured seniors I come across during my daily travels (like I said, I got less important things to do), but I'll try to look at them in an empathetic manner as I step over them. You're probably thinking to yourself: Why are the elderly treated so shabbily by members of their own family? Given that I just watched The Granny, I'm easily the most qualified person to answer this question. That being said, I'll try to do so utilizing my trademark modesty. At any rate, it's quite simple, really. The reason old folks are constantly being fucked over by their so-called "loved ones" is because of money. You see, in order to get their grubby little mitts on the senior's money and/or property, they must die first. And in order to expedite this process, they start acting like total dicks.

Of course, some take the whole acting like total dicks thing a little too far, and end up trying to murder the senior they want to fleece. But this only happens on rare occasions, as it's difficult to enjoy your inheritance if you're serving a life sentence. No, what they usually do first is slowly degrade the senior's sense of self-worth over time. This typically involves putting them in a shitty senior's home on the outskirts of a pending lawsuit. If they can't manage to swing this (old people can be stubborn some times), they settle for head games and verbal abuse. If that doesn't work, that's when the beatings begin.

In this film, directed by Luca Bercovici (Rockula), the greedy family members decide that murder is the only way to get at grannies money. I know, I just got finished explaining how murder isn't to wisest course of action when it comes to collecting inheritance. But the granny at the center of this campy, and, at times, gory enterprise, doesn't seem to want to die.

In fact, she's so dead-set against being dead, that she orders a magic elixir. And, of course, said magic elixir is delivered to her door on the day her not-so loving family plan on putting poison in her soup.

Make sure to pay close attention to what Namon Ami (Luca Bercovici), a moderately hunky shaman/snake oil salesmen, is blathering about in the film's flashback cold opening. Taking place, oh, let's say, three hundred years ago, the flashback shows Mr. Ami scolding a family for not flowing his instructions before they let their daughter drink the magic elixir. Well, it's too late now, as their daughter (the luminous Janelle Paradee) just put dad in a scissor hold.

Any doubts that may have been plaguing me in regard to this movie's quality were washed away in an instant when the clearly possessed young woman tells dad: "I promise, I have no teeth down there," before plunging his head between her legs. Granted, the film could still suck pretty hard. But I was comforted by the early inclusion of vagina-based violence.

We're quickly whisked to modern times... Well, actually, the opening credits do drag on for a bit. So, I wouldn't say, "quickly whisked." Nevertheless, we're eventually whisked to modern times, and into the home of Anastasia "Granny" Gargoli (Stella Stevens), an old woman who lives in a giant house with Kelly (Shannon Whirry), her granddaughter, and Wolfgang, her cat.

My first impression of Kelly is that she looks like a porn star/pin-up trying to pass as a librarian. Now, I'm not saying this is a bad thing (I like porn stars, I like pin-ups). It's just that it didn't really make the scenes where her greedy and treacherous family members mock her for being nerdy and awkward seem authentic.

Since it's Thanksgiving, the family drops by for dinner. We have Uncle David (Brant von Hoffman), Albert (Sandy Helberg), Kelly's father, Andrea (Patricia Sturges), a milfy mink stole enthusiast, Antoinette (Heather Elizabeth Parkhurst), a bosomy and leggy brunette, Junior (Ryan Bollman), an unruly teen, and Amy (Samantha Hendricks), Albert and Andrea's youngest daughter.

Their collective attitude can be summed up by Andrea, who says, "I intend on staying drunk the entire weekend," upon entering Granny's home.

I liked how Andrea reminds Kelly to hang her coat on padded hanger not once, but twice. She might been a drunken hosebeast, but she treats her wardrobe with the utmost respect.

Remember Namon Ami? Yeah, the guy from the opening scene. Well, he just showed up at Granny's door. And does anyone want to guess what he has tucked underneath his coat? That's right, the magic elixir. Given her poor health, Granny has decided to go the magic elixir route in order to get better. Except, the magic elixir doesn't simply make you "better," it grants you immortality. That is, if you follow Mr. Ami's instructions correctly.

Hey, Mr. Ami. No wonder no one follows your instructions before taking your magic elixir, your presentation is so dull. Seriously, I nearly dozed off during your explanation regarding the instructions. All I heard was keep the elixir out of direct sunlight and make sure to perform a "cleansing ritual" before drinking it.

Speaking of drinking, as the family is eating prime rib together (would you look at that, Antoinette is giving Uncle David a foot-job underneath the dining room table), all eyes are on Granny as she is about to take a sip of soup. A common occurrence, to be sure (old people love soup), but little does she know, but her soup has been poisoned. Spooked by her family's eagerness for her eat her soup, Granny spits it out and tells her son Albert, "You're a load I should have swallowed." Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner. I don't think anything can top that line.

It's true, I did emit a faint laughing sound when Junior says, "Fuck you, Granny!" But the load I should have swallowed line is pure gold.

Poisoning her soup was apparently unnecessary, as Granny manages to off herself. Not one to follow simple instructions, Granny dies after drinking the tainted elixir (not only did she leave it in the sun, she didn't perform the cleansing ritual). Or does she? Die, that is.

Coming back to life as a spry demon, one without a hint of sciatica, Granny sets in motion a series of events specifically designed to inflict maximum discomfort on her family.

I don't know which event I liked better, the one where Andrea is gnawed to death by an army of rabid mink stoles or the one where Uncle David's penis is cut off with a pair of scissors. Hmm, that's a tough one. On the one hand, I love rabid mink stoles. But I do a soft spot for arterial spray, especially when it's cock-related. I don't know, I guess I'll declare it a draw for now.

Getting murdered by Granny doesn't mean you collect your check and start looking for other acting gigs. Uh-uh, when Granny kills you, you come back a demented freak. Anyway, as expected, Kelly is the last woman standing, and must shed her nerdy ways if she expects to defeat Granny and the demented freaks, who are currently participating in a bizarre dinner party.

Did I mention that Heather Elizabeth Parkhurst has huge tits? Let me see... Oh, yeah, I called her "bosomy" not so long ago. Well, in case you don't know, bosomy is another word to describe a woman with large breasts. And the breasts attached to Heather Elizabeth Parkhurst are definitely large (well, they used to be... a now blonde Miss Parkhurst was featured on a recent episode of Botched). In a way, that's all you really need to know about this movie... you know, if you're into that kind of thing. As for everyone else, if you like your horror campy and your seniors to be active, The Granny is a movie that may or may not satisfy your needs. Oh, and stop elder abuse and neglect. Old people are people too. [Special thanks to Sam Arshawsky for recommending this movie.]

According to the unofficial film criticism handbook, there are precisely two options you can choose when attempting to construct a review for Joseph Minion's Vampire's Kiss (a.k.a. Поцелуй вампира). The first, and most obvious one, involves feigning mock disbelief over the sheer zaniness of Nicolas Cage's performance as an unhinged yuppie named Peter Loew. Here's an example of what you might stumble across in a review of this type: "The film's biggest surprise comes in the form of Nicolas Cage, whose go for broke performance as mid-level literary agent Peter Loew is a thing of over the top beauty." While I would love to extol the many virtues of Nicolas Cage's "go for broke performance" (it's features Nic Cage at his most Nic... Cagey), I think option number two is more my style. What's that? I haven't said what option number two entails yet. Isn't it obvious? Oh, wait. I said number one is obvious, and both can't be obvious, can they? Actually, option number two is pretty obvious, but only if you're in any way familiar with how my brain works. If you are, then you know what I'm about to say next.

Option number two revolves around Stephen Chen, who plays "Fang Vendor," i.e. the man who sells Nicolas Cage his vampire fangs.

Now, you're probably thinking to yourself: How does one construct an entire film review around Stephen Chen's "Fang Vendor"? Well, you can't. In fact, no one can. That's because I'm kidding (despite my reputation for being ultra-serious, I like to kid around every once and awhile). Anyway, all kidding aside, option number two involves black stockings. I know, what a shocker.

With the exception of Maria Conchita Alonso, every female character who appears in this film wears black stockings. Hell, I bet even Debbie Rochon, who plays Bar Girl #2, is wearing black stockings, and I don't even think I saw her (she apparently appears somewhere in one of the nightclub scenes). But let's be realistic, no woman would be caught dead at a nightclub without black stockings attached to her legs... in 1988.

Nowadays, you're lucky if they're wearing shoes (part of me dies whenever I see someone at a nightclub wearing shorts and flip-flops).

You know what else the film is? It's a feminist allegory, or maybe it's an anti-feminist allegory? It's hard to say. The film is very schizophrenic that way. Nevertheless, keen observers will notice that Nicolas Cage rarely interacts with men in this film. His co-workers are women, his psychiatrist is a woman, his girlfriend is a woman... his "imaginary" vampire lover is a woman.

I don't know why I put the word imaginary in quotes, as it's clear that Rachel (Jennifer Beals) only exists inside Peter Loew's head. I guess part of me kind of wishes she was real. I mean, who doesn't want a biracial woman, whose legs, don't forget, are never not sheathed in black stockings, to come over every once and awhile to suck blood from your neck? Actually, now that I think about it, maybe it's not such a good idea after all. No, not the biracial woman in black stockings part (I'm in favour of both), the blood sucking part. It sounds painful. Of course, maybe pain is your thing.

It wasn't always like this. There once was a time, believe it or not, when Peter Loew dated women who simply wanted to have no-nonsense sexual intercourse at the end of the day. And one of these women, Jackie (Kasi Lemmons), seems quite taken with Peter Loew. So much so, that she agrees to go home with him. Unfortunately, the sexual intercourse they engage in when they get there is anything but no-nonsense. And, no, I'm not referring to speed in which Jackie removes her black stockings, I'm talking about the bat that flew into Peter's apartment as they were getting it on. Yeah, a bat. Talk about nonsense.

While most people would lose their wood during an incident like this, Peter tells his shrink, Dr. Glaser (Elizabeth Ashley), that he was turned on by the bat confrontation. She tries to tell him that his erection was simply a hold over from being with Jackie (residual hardness, if you will), but Peter quickly points out that his aroused state was strictly bat-based. In other words, it was a brand-new boner.

Meanwhile, at work, Peter is having a different problem all-together. You see, there's this contract that he can't seem find. Not wanting to waste anymore time looking for it himself (he's got stocking clad vampires to shag), he assigns a woman named Alva (Maria Conchita Alonso) to look for it instead. I think most of you will agree that this subplot probably shouldn't take too long to resolve itself.

So, did you hear? A mid-level literary agent finds bats to be a turn on. Isn't that crazy? I mean, talk about your... Wait a minute. It would seem that Alva is having trouble finding the contract. That's odd. Did she check the right file? (I wasn't gonna say anything, but it could have been misfiled.) Misfiled? How does someone misfile something? What could easier, it's all alphabetical. You just put it in the right file... according to alphabetical order. You know, A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, Z! Huh? That's all you have to do! I wanted to watch a movie about female vampires in black stockings, not one about misfiling.

To take his mind off the whole filing fiasco, Peter heads down to a nearby bar to unwind. There he meets Rachel, a sexy vampire. Of course, he doesn't know she's a vampire. But he gets a clue that she might be when she bites him on the neck during clothed coitus. The cool thing about Rachel, besides being a vampire, is that she never takes her stockings off. Her stockings, by the way, are like her heart, black as the night sky.

Now, granted, Jackie always wears stockings, too. But she takes hers off occasionally *gasp!* and she isn't a vampire... so, Peter literally ditches her. At an art gallery, no less. He tries to make it up to her, but the lure of a woman who never takes off her stockings is too much for Peter to ignore.

While Nicolas Cage, the cockroach scene, and the glut of black stockings have always gotten the bulk of the attention over the years, I think New York City is the real star of the show. Director Robert Bierman (a Brit) manages to make the city seem more alive than usual. Yeah, I realize that it being 1987-88 (the height of the city's power of as a cultural mecca - The Tunnel is featured in this movie, yo) has a lot to do with it. But I have to say, Vampire's Kiss is definitely up there with movies that make me love New York City.

On a sort of related note, I used to despise the modern, Bloomberg/Giuliani/Fallon corporate cesspool version of New York City (I blame shows like, Girls, Friends and Sex and the City), but Broad City has softened my contempt for the place somewhat, the "St. Marks" episode in particular.

If you're not a prostitute, a pimp, a John or a run of the mill lowlife, I'm afraid there's no place for you in Streetwalkin', the second best movie about a demented white psycho-pimp on the warpath. The best, of course, is Vice Squad. However, this film, co-written and directed by Joan Freeman, does away with the cop subplots and the ham-fisted moralizing. You heard right, there are no police and no-one tries to teach us a valuable lesson, it's just prostitutes, pimps, Johns, run of the mill lowlifes and nothing else. What's that? Is there a place for leggy junkie whores in this movie? Even though they fit under the prostitute umbrella, I can assure you, leggy junkie whores are more than welcome. In fact, if I happened to be cruising the streets for affordable poontang in this particular section of New York City during the mid-1980s, I know exactly which leggy junkie whore I would choose. I think you all know which leggy junkie whore I'm talking about. Let's all say her name together, ready... 1, 2, 3, Phoebe!!! That's weird, most of you yelled "Cookie," the name of the naive floozy played by Melissa Leo. While I adored Cookie's predilection for white stockings and pink mini-skirts (an awesome combination), I'm sucker for Annie Golden, especially when she plays–that's right, you got it–leggy junkie whores.

Now that I've established which prostitute I want to go on a "date" with, let's move on to another topic. Just kidding, there are no other topics. Actually, that's not entirely true. The film does shed a fair amount of light on the importance of choosing a pimp. I know, that's not really another topic, but it's got nothing to do with Annie Golden's nylon-ensnared thighs shimmering in the neon slime, and that's something.

As I was saying, selecting a pimp that fits your hooking style is the most important decision a whore has to make during her lifespan. Whether you're a rookie like Cookie or a been there, done that old timer like Queen Bee (Julie Newmar), you need think carefully before settling on a pimp.

Since most pimps get off on the power, you need to stir clear of pimps who are megalomaniacal.

If you have a drug habit, you need to go with a pimp who will tolerate your constant nagging for a fix. And judging by the pimp Annie Golden's Phoebe has representing her lavender-scented cooze, she has chosen wisely. Call me misguided and a tad on the deranged side, but I can tell that Finesse (Antonio Fargas) pimps with a chivalrous grace. And I'm not just saying that because his name is "Finesse." No, I'm saying this because his wardrobe is on point... and he keeps tiny packets of smack in the brim of his hat.

As for Cookie, she chooses unwisely. Now, granted, she didn't really have a choice when it came time to pick a pimp (she's turned out at the bus station). That being said, she should have known that letting Duke (Dale Midkiff) be the one to turn her out was going to end badly. Of course, I'm not saying that all white pimps are sick in the head. But let's get real, white men don't pimp because of socio-economic reasons. They pimp because they're usually sadistic twists who feed off the misery of others.

Not to brag, but I knew Duke was trouble the moment I laid eyes on him. And we're talking trouble with a capital 'T.' Unfortunately, Cookie doesn't see what I see. Instead, she sees Duke as her savior when he approaches her and Tim (Randall Batinkoff), her younger brother, at the bus station.

Given that the film is a Roger Corman production, the cast and crew have very little to work with as far as resources go. However, the makers of this film have one thing that money can't buy. That's right, they have all of New York City–in the mid-1980s–at their disposal. Shot entirely at night over the course of twenty days, the film captures the city during the height of its reign as the cultural center of the universe.

It's true, the majority of the run of the mill lowlifes who appear in this film have no idea they're living through a cultural renaissance. But when they (the run of the mill lowlifes) look back at this particular period of time years later, they'll be able to fully grasp the importance of the era with a little more clarity. That is, if they somehow managed to not get murdered, or overdose, or die of AIDS, or accidentally fall down a manhole.

Since the film doesn't have the time or the budget to show Duke and Cookie getting know each other, they simply show that Cookie keeps a photo-booth photo of her and Duke posing as a couple in love spanning time on the wall of her apartment. Oh, and if you're wondering how Cookie managed to get her own place so quickly, you can thank Duke for that, and, to lesser to extent, you can thank Cookie's pussy. What am I saying, "to a lesser extent." If anything, Cookie's pussy is doing the bulk of the heavy lifting.

Do you see that box of Twinkies Cookie is putting away? Yeah, Cookie's pussy paid for those Twinkies. And the great thing about Cookie's pussy is that she doesn't even have to insert anything into it to get paid. What I mean is, she can make men ejaculate sperm simply by flashing her pale, white stocking-adjacent thighs at them.

As Cookie is making men cum their corduroys without even touching them, Duke is beating up Heather (Deborah Offner), a fellow prostitute and Cookie's roommate. As you might expect, the reason Duke is doing this is because of money (he thinks Heather is holding out on him).

After Cookie takes an unconscious Heather to the E.R., she probably starts thinking to herself: Maybe this Duke fella isn't the best pimp for me. Enter Jason (Leon), a charming pimp who's tough yet fair. Actually, I have no idea if he's "tough yet fair." I do know this, Cookie wants him to be her pimp. I also know this, Duke isn't going to be pleased when he finds out his biggest earner has defected to the competition.

It might be awhile before he finds out, as Duke is too busy trying to steal Star (Khandi Alexander) away from Finesse, a suave pimp whose talent for cooling hos out is the stuff of pimping legend. Taking place at an after hours pimp club, Duke makes a play for Star right front of Finesse. Finesse's other ho, Phoebe (Annie Golden), is there, too. But she's too stoned to notice.

What I liked most about the scenes at the after hours pimp club was the use of "I Want To Be Real" by John Rocca (it's song that's playing when Duke walks in), the part where Duke's sleazy sidekick, Creepy (Greg Germann), tries to pick up a woman at the bar, the abundance of neon, and, of course, Annie Golden acting high as fuck.

Even though I mentioned her earlier, I can't believe it's taken me this long to refer to Julie Newmar's outfit. Okay, here it goes, Julie Newmar, who, like I said earlier, plays Queen Bee (a streetwise older whore), wears red stockings and... that's pretty much it. Oh, sure, she's wearing a red teddy type leotard thingy. But let's get real, her red stockings are not to be trifled with. Dominating every scene she's in with a leggy aplomb, Julie Newmar's 50 year-old gams sheathed in red stockings manage to steal every scene they're in. It also helps that Julie Newmar gives a funny performance as an aging hooker who hopes to save up enough money to get in the "horse business."

People, like me, who mostly know Melissa Leo as Det. Howard from the '1990s TV show, Homicide: Life on the Street, might find the sight of her making dumb decisions in sexy lingerie a little hard to swallow. But after awhile, I kind of got used to it. The reason it took some getting used is because her role on Homicide is the complete opposite to Cookie. We're talking no make-up, no mini-skirts, no BDSM. And, yes, there's a great BDSM scene in Streetwalkin' where Cookie and Star are paid to rough up a John in a cheap motel.

To surprise of no-one, Duke becomes enraged when he finds out that Cookie has joined up with Jason. Enlisting the help of Creepy, Duke doggedly pursues Cookie for the majority of the film's final third. And if that means getting in fist-fights with every other pimp in the city, so be it, as the Wings Hauser is strong in this one. Wait, did I just make a Star Wars reference? Ugh. Hopefully nobody will read this far. Anyway, did I mention that Streetwalkin' is a great movie? (You sort of did... in your own convoluted way.) Cool.

I'll get to the meat and potatoes this off-kilter slice of Soho-shot weirdness in a minute. I just want to give a quick tip to all those who want to avoid seeing Harvey Keitel's penis. When I saw that Fingers starred Harvey Keitel, I went ahead and assumed that his penis would make an appearance at some point or another. In light of this assumption, I decided to turn on the closed captions... you know, figuring that they might obscure Harvey Keitel's penis from view. And you know what? I think it might have worked. Now, granted, Harvey Keitel's penis could have remained hidden in the shadows (where it belongs) with or without the closed captions switched on, but I wasn't going to take any chances, as I've been forced to look at Harvey Keitel's penis in countless other movies. Just in case your version of this movie doesn't come with closed captions, I recommend looking away from the screen during the urologist scene, as the chances that Harvey Keitel's penis might show up in this scene are pretty high. I mean, I'm no doctor, but I think "urologist" literally means dick doctor in Latin. Oh, and in case you're wondering, yes, I play bass in a Portland-based punk band called Harvey Keitel's Penis. We've opened for PMS 84 (I have a major crush on the bass player) and The Sweaty Taints a couple of times over the past year and have been described as a cross between Smash Mouth and the Dayglo Abortions. In other words, we're pretty awful.

Okay, that takes care of that. Now, let's talk a little about Fingers, shall we? First off, what I liked most about it was the fact no-one acts like a normal human being. It's true, I'm a sucker for films that shirk normalcy, but this one, written and directed by James Toback, shirks it more than I'm used to.

Hell, even Jim Brown, who plays a pimp named "Dreems," doesn't seem to be playing with a full deck. And it's got nothing to do with the fact that he's wearing a pink shirt either. There's just something about him that seems off.

As the former running back's scene with Harvey Keitel went along, this thought would repeatedly pop into my head: Why hasn't Jim Brown punched Harvey Keitel in the face yet? If I was Jim Brown, I would have punched Harvey Keitel in the face the moment I laid eyes on him. Though, to be fair, if I was Jim Brown, I would be punching people in the face left, right and center. But he doesn't... punch Harvey Keitel in the face. And this, as you might expect, vexed the living shit out of me.

Of course, I don't mind being vexed. However, some viewers might find these kind of unorthodox shenanigans* to be off-putting.

It's one thing to have characters behave strangely, but to have them do so in a mob movie is another story. Of course, it's not really a mob movie. Sure, half the cast is made up of actors who either appeared in The Godfather or would go on to star on The Sopranos, and the film takes place in New York City, but I don't know that many mob movies that feature lead characters who carry around a cassette player blasting songs by The Drifters, The Jamies and The Chiffons.

Mob debt collector by day, concert pianist also by day (he sleeps at night), Jimmy (Harvey Keitel) has two passions: Classical music and pop music from the 1950s and 1960s. Well, he three passions. The one's I just mentioned, and sex.

At first I thought that Jimmy preferred to have sex with women. But then I saw the way he eye-balled those guys at the bar while having lunch with Ben (Michael Gazzo), his shylock father. Is he gay? Or is he merely bi-curious? Who knows. I do know this, Ben's "cream" suit is blindingly yellow, his girlfriend (Georgette Mosbacher) is stacked, and he's got two jobs for his son.

The first job involves collecting four thousand clams from Luchino (Lenny Montana), a hulking pizzeria owner. Not that I sit around listening to 1960s pop music, but "Angel of the Morning" by Merrilee Rush and the Turnabouts will never be same for me after seeing Jimmy pistol whip Luca Brasi in the kitchen of his pizza joint in front of his son as the song blares from his boombox.

The second job... Um, this job, it turns out, is going to be a little more complicated. Sure, it basically involves collecting money that is owed. But Patsy Riccamonza (Tony Sirico) is no pizza chef.

In the meantime, Jimmy tries to enlighten a fellow restaurant diner about music after he tells him to turn his stereo off while having lunch with his father. I know, who in their right mind would confront Harvey Keitel over something as trivial as loud music? But you've got to remember, this is New York City, and it's 1978. In other words, everyone is either mentally-ill or has a severe death wish.

Telling the irate diner: "This is the Jamies, man! 'Summertime, Summertime!' - the most musically inventive song of 1958!" doesn't seem to placate the situation, as a mild shoving match ensues.

His father backs him up, but he does question the logic of playing "Summertime, Summertime" in the middle of winter in the next scene.

The other key relationship, if you can call it that, at the center of the movie is the one between Jimmy and Carol (Tisa Farrow), a mysterious sculptress, who James Toback describes as having a "distracted luminosity." Personally, I would classify Carol's disposition more as having an aloof radiance. Nevertheless, she's a strange bird. However, since Jimmy is just as strange (he consoles distraught homeless women in his spare time), they're technically made for each other. The key word being "technically." Nothing in Fingers is straight-forward.

As he's trying to procure his pop's money from Riccamonza and penetrate Carol's [hopefully] diaphragm-free pussy (don't ask), Jimmy is agonizing over an upcoming audition at Carnegie Hall. While 1950s/1960s pop music plays a vital role in the film, Bach's Toccata in E minor (the piece he's scheduled to perform), it turns out, is the bane of Jimmy's existence.

Figuring that he's pretty much got the Bach piece down pat, he shifts his focus back to Riccamonza. Or, I should say, he shifts his focus to Tanya Roberts, Riccamonza's main squeeze. Tracking him down to a fancy hotel, Jimmy decides to... I'm at a loss for words here. I mean, how does one accurately describe the "sex scene" between Jimmy and Tanya Roberts? Oh, wait. I got it. The "sex scene" between Jimmy and Tanya Roberts in Fingers is one of the worst, most awkward "sex scenes" in movie history. In fact, it's so repellent, I don't even feel like extolling the skimpy virtues of Tanya's super-chic dusty rose bikini.

If you thought that was repellent, wait until you see Jim Brown knock two women's heads together (Three Stooges-style) in a later scene. You know what? I take that back. The sight of Jim Brown roughing up his "bitches" in a comical manner has nothing on the Jimmy-Tanya Roberts "sex scene." I mean, my God, that was some ugly ass shit. Even his pick up line, if you could call it that, made my skin crawl.

Just to let you know. While, yes, I'm currently using a ton of negative-sounding adjectives in correlation with this movie. This, believe it or not, is still a positive review. To put it another way, I loved this movie. Genital warts and all. Seriously, I think Harvey Keitel's character has genital warts. Since we don't get an eyeful of his cock and balls, an exact diagnosis is not forthcoming. At least not from me. And I think everyone should be thankful for that.

* I'm slowly reintroducing the word "shenanigans" back into my vocabulary (the movie Juno turned me off the word to such a degree, that I had it banned)

Given that they have countless options at their disposal to convey to others that they're not a bunch of squares, I was repeatedly surprised that the characters in The Loveless weren't constantly collapsing under the sheer weight of their own coolness. And I'm not just saying this because they're wearing leather jackets in Georgia... in the summertime (the hottest weather I've ever experienced was in Georgia). These cats have the market on coolness cornered, and no small town is going to cramp/undermine their style. Whether they're lighting a cigarette or dragging a comb through their greasy hair, everything they do has the potential give off an air of cool. In a way, I kind of feel sorry for those saddled with the task of being cool nowadays. I know, nothing's technically been cool since at least 1985, okay, maybe 1986, but that doesn't stop people from trying. I see them all the time. Why, just the other day, I was watching this guy on the bus stare at his state-of-the-art smartphone, looking away only to take the occasional sip from his corporate latte. I'm afraid to say it, this pathetic display was the furthest thing from cool. I'd even go as far as to say that this guy practically oozed lameness.

Now, I'm not saying smoking cigarettes and drinking vending machine Coca-Cola from glass bottles is cooler than what the guy on the bus was doing, but... Wait a minute, that's exactly what I'm saying.

Of course, all this talk about cool might sound a tad strange coming from someone who's supposedly not the biggest fan of the 1950s aesthetic. But I do have a soft spot for the greaser lifestyle. If you don't believe me, I have three torn ticket stubs from the thirtieth anniversary re-release of Grease to prove it. And the soundtrack album... and the remastered VHS and a poster.

However, whereas Grease is a light-hearted romp filled with mirth and shit like that, The Loveless is a dead serious slice of greaser angst served up in a stark and straight-forward manner. That's right, I said, "greaser angst," daddy-o. You got a problem with that?

Propelled by a rockin' soundtrack (Eddy Dixon's "Relentless" is the bee's knees) and a star-making turn by a fresh-faced Willem Dafoe (To Live and Die in L.A.), the film may be short and sweet, but it nails the look, feel and attitude of the era.

Granted, the film, written and directed by Kathryn Bigelow and Monty Montgomery, is a tad slow in places. However, you gotta love a film where Willem Dafoe's drives his Harley-Davidson along Route 17 while narrating lines like, "I was ragged... way beyond torn up." and "The endless blacktop is my sweet eternity."

Fresh out of storage (meaning, fresh out of prison), Vance (Willem Dafoe) is the coolest motherfucker currently living on planet earth. He knows it, his biker pals know it... Hell, even the squares who desperately want to destroy his way of life know it.

When we first meet Vance, he's driving on his beloved blacktop. While helping an ultra-smoking hot milf (Jane Berman) change the tire on her T-Bird, we learn that Vance doesn't do a whole lot. Oh, sure, he can change a flat tire in the Georgia heat dressed head-to-toe in leather in a few seconds flat, but he's not interested in staying in the same place for very long.

After waiting longer than usual to be served at a nearby diner, Vance asks Augusta (Elizabeth Gans), the sexiest waitress in all of south-east Georgia, using his most derisive tone, "People live here"? I half-expected her to shoot back at him, "What are you rebelling against"? But she doesn't. She just says something about her dead husband.

Since it would be insane for someone who looks like Vance to travel through 1950s Georgia all by himself, he's brought along a few friends. They're not with him at the moment, but they should be cruising on by any minute now. In the meantime, Vance enjoys his coffee and eggs.

Okay, here come some of them now. My first impression of Davis (Robert Gordon) was, Dave Gahan circa Speak and Spell called, he wants his look back. As for La Ville (Lawrence Matarese), his sideburns looked like hockey sticks.

On the other end of the spectrum, Debbie (Tina L'Hotsky), or, I should say, "Sportster Debbie," who rides on the back of Davis' Harley, is the gold standard when it comes to biker chicks. Tough yet elegant, the feisty blonde doesn't take no crap from anyone. Not that the people in this wretched armpit of a town would dare give her any... crap.

If you must know, the reason they're spending so much time in this place is because one of their bikes needs fixing. However, as you can clearly see, all their bikes seem to be running fine. The bike that needs repairing actually belongs to Buck (Ken Call), and wouldn't you know it, here he comes now (his broken bike is on the back of a truck).

Oh my God. Who is that riding with Buck? I think I'm in love. He's so pretty. Am I crazy, or Ricky the most beautiful man who has ever lived? I know, my taste in men can be somewhat, oh. let's say, off-kilter (Roger Watkins in Last House on Dead End Street is my ideal man). But seeing Ricky, his leather cap tilted to perfection, for the first time sent my brain into a homoerotic tailspin. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your point of view, I was unable to get out of this tailspin. In other words, I remained enamored with Ricky for the duration of the movie.

Played by Danny Rosen (Downtown 81), Ricky is not only cooler than Davis, La Ville and Buck, he gives Vance a run for his money. Seriously, everything about him is cool. Everything from the way he walked (a snotty shuffle) to the way he talked (he reads aloud from the classifieds at one point) churned my butter in the right direction.

This might sound a little gay, but if I saw him dancing to "The Anvil" by Visage, at The Hellfire Club (in New York City's Meatpacking District), I would wait until the song was over, approach him, in a non-threatening manner, of course, and ask him if he would like go shopping for leather pants in the East Village.

What? You didn't think I was going ask him to let me tug on his cock, did you? I'm not a total slut.

While the boys and Debbie hang out at Johnny's Garage (and play some weird knife-throwing game), Vance picks up some teenage hellion in a red Corvette. Or did the teenage hellion pick up Vance? Either way, Vance takes Telena (Marin Kanter, Ladies and Gentlemen - The Fabulous Stains) for a ride. And by "ride," I mean, a ride in her Corvette and sexual intercourse at a local motel (it's a double entendre). They also pick up two cases of Dixie and four bottles of Thunderbird for his pals.

The exchange between Vance and Telena that leads to their ride together highlights the reason I dug this movie so much. Vance: "What does a bum have to do to drive this thing? Telena: "Turn the key."

Maybe Vance is cooler than Ricky. I mean, I doubt Ricky could have pulled that off, bagging Telena the way he does. But then again, I don't think Ricky is all that interested in women. If you know what I mean. What I mean is, I think he prefers to fuck men... in the ass. *fingers crossed*

The movie, while not as gay as I've made it out to be, tries to hetero things up a bit by having Augusta do a sexy lingerie dance at a local dive bar. As you might expect, all I could think about as I watched the seams on the backs of Augusta's stockings shimmer in the sleazy glow of the bar's neon lights, was Ricky. Don't get me wrong, I loved Augusta's routine, it's just that Ricky cast a spell on me.

As far as pacing goes, The Loveless could have, well, picked up the pace in places (there are huge chunks were nothing really happens). However, you're not going to see a more gorgeous film. Everything, from the props to the clothes, to the hair and the music was spot-on in terms of authenticity. Of course, given that the film is a hyper-stylized take on the 1950s aesthetic, some might dismiss it as wankery. I, on the other hand, ate up every inch of this film's shaft-like housing with gusto.

Oh, and I'm no math whiz, but if Monty Montgomery (who played "The Cowboy" in Mulholland Drive) was born in 1963... that means he was 17 years-old when he produced, co-wrote and co-directed this movie. That can't be right, can it?

This movie doesn't know how close it came to being shunned. And by "shunned," I mean not reviewed... by me. While most film critics show their disdain for the movies they don't like by writing a "bad review." I, on the other hand, show my disdain by not writing a review at all. I know, some of the most entertaining/enlightening film reviews can be the ones for so-called "bad movies," but I have less important things to do than waste my time writing about them. And that's what almost happened to The Night Before (a.k.a. Eine verrückte Reise durch die Nacht), another in a long line of "all night movies." When word gets out that Lori Loughlin's character has been sold to a pimp named Tito (for a measly 1500 bucks), I thought to myself: I like where this going. However, I quickly followed up that thought we this thought: If I don't see Lori Loughlin (The New Kids) in hooker clothes by the time the end credits start to role, I ain't reviewing it. I don't care if Keanu Reeves (Flying) wears black and white monk vamp buckle creepers during the film's final third. I'm not typing a word unless I see Lori Loughlin dressed like a floozy.

Now, given that I'm currently typing words about The Night Before, it's obvious that Lori Loughlin donned hooker clothes that met with my approval. But I have to say, it was touch and go for awhile there. I mean, I nearly had a heart attack when Lori Loughlin dismisses the tube top and black vinyl mini-skirt she's given to wear as unsuitable. I know, you're thinking, "unsuitable"? Call me crazy, but that outfit sounds pretty fucking suitable. In other words, stop making sounds with your mouth hole, Lori, and put those skanky ass clothes on.

The reasons as to why Lori Loughlin doesn't want to wear a tube top and black vinyl skirt are too complicated to get into at the moment. But she does eventually put them on. Oh, and the cool thing about her sleazy ensemble is that it comes with a pair of handcuffs and an iron headboard. I know, you're thinking, huh? Well, I told you it was complicated.

You could say it's convoluted as well, but I think complicated and convoluted pretty much mean the same thing. I know the word I'm looking for. It's absurd! In fact, the movie on the whole is pretty absurd. And a little racist, too.

In the middle of the night, a dark-haired teen from–I'm assuming–the suburbs named Winston Connelly (Keanu Reeves) wakes up in an alleyway in East Los Angeles. Unaware of where he is or how he got there, Winston, who is wearing a white blazer with a pink carnation on the lapel, tries desperately to piece together the events of his, as we'll soon find out, wild and crazy night.

Told via flashbacks, the film employs an unusual storytelling style in the early going. Jumping back and forth between different times frames, Winston slowly learns how he ended up in this particular part of Los Angeles.

Yeah, I know, an owl fridge magnet is what caused the read-out on his dashboard compass to say that he was going west. But that still doesn't explain how he ended up in that alleyway.

Staggering to a nearby coffee shop, Winston, after ordering a coffee and a donut, asks the waitress where he is. Since informing half-wits from The Valley where they are is not part of her job description, the waitress (Pamela Gordon) instructs him to dial 411.

After burning his lip on the coffee, a flood of memories come rushing into Winston's head. The prom!, he shouts. It would seem that Winston had a prom date with Tara Mitchell (Lori Loughlin). I know, you're probably wondering, how did the vice president of astronomy club manage to get a date with a girl who was recently voted Galleria Teen Model of the Month? If I told you, you wouldn't believe me. Actually, you might. Yeah, of course you might. You see, there was this bet Tara had with her friend Lisa (Suzanne Snyder). While I don't recall the exact details of the bet, I do know this, the loser has to go to the junior/senior prom with Winston.

Just as they're about to leave, Tara's father, Capt. Mitchell (Michael Greene, Rubin and Ed), tells Winston that grave bodily harm will come to him if anything happens to his little girl. If that wasn't enough, Tara warns Winston that she will bail on him the moment things get weird.

Excuse me, honey. But women in white lace fingerless opera gloves have no right to accuse others being weird.

What's that? Interesting. I've just been informed that women in white lace fingerless opera gloves do in fact have the right to accuse others of being weird.

As we're being brought up to speed as to how flashback Winston got to where he is now, the other Winston, the one currently lost in L.A., has just learned that he owes a lot of money to a man named Tito (Trinidad Silva). Of course, when he's told this, Winston yells, "I don't even know anyone named Tito!"

In a strange twist, both Winstons end up at the Rat's Nest bar at the same time. Let me rephrase that. The way the scene is edited makes it seem like they're there at the same time. In reality, however, they're there at different times. Flashback Winston is there with Tara when it's packed with people, and the other Winston is there when it's closed. To be honest, I think I'm making this seem more tangled that it has to be. I actually liked the way the film jumped all over the place, as it gave the proceedings a disorienting quality that mirrored what the protagonist was going through.

The Rat's Nest sequence is by far the film's strongest. For starters, the band is lead by George Clinton and Bootsy Collins. And the bartender is played by Tommy 'Tiny' Lister. If that wasn't enough... Oh, and the band's female keytar player was wearing a pair of four buckle (western-style) winklepickers/pikes. As I was saying, if that wasn't enough, Winston and Tara perform an extended dancer number.

It's some time after this dance number that Winston accidentally sells Tara to a pimp named Tito for 1500. Enlisting the help of a hooker named Rhonda (Theresa Saldana) and an unnamed gardener (Clifton Wells), Winston must act fast or else Tara is going to be shipped off to Morocco.

Personally, I would have cut the scene with the toys thieves (these guys reminded me of Cheech and Chong from After Hours - a film I plan on reviewing one of these days). I don't know, but the film seemed to drag to a halt during this sequence. However, since the film would have only been seventy-something minutes without it, I would have added more scenes that featured Lori Loughlin handcuffed to a bed in her bra and panties. When in doubt, add more Lori Loughlin tied up in her underwear is what I always say.

I loved, by the way, the fact Lori Loughlin refuses to remove her bra when she eventually agrees to wear the tube top. Sure, wearing a bra with a tube top is basically one of the worst fashion crimes you can commit. But Lori Loughlin makes it abundantly clear that she doesn't like tube tops. In other words, she isn't going to be pushed around by some funnel-shaped piece of fabric. And, at the end of the day, that's the message I took away from this film. Stay true to yourself. And also that, according to this film, people of colour are mainly pimps, criminals and prostitutes.

Talking penises named "Colin," stocking clad claymation spider legs and craw-fish anal sex. Damn you, Marquis. Damn you for being so awesome. And it's no wonder, you were made by Belgians. (It says the film is a Belgium-France co-production.) Whatever, the director, and some of the cast and crew are Belgian, and that's all that really matters. Anyway, I don't know what's weirder, the fact that this film, by Belgian director, Henri Xhonneux, depicts the Marquis de Sade as having a talking penis or the fact that his name is "Colin." Call me blissfully unaware and junk, but the Marquis de Sade's penis doesn't strike me as a "Colin." No, I think René or Jean would more appropriate names for the chatty cock attached the Marquis de Sade. And therein lies the rub. If this movie did what was appropriate, it would lose a large amount of its appeal. Hell, just the mere thought of something transpiring in this film in an everyday manner makes me nauseous. Did I mention that all the actors wear animatronic animal masks and have had their voices dubbed by other actors? That's odd, as it should have been the first thing out of my mouth. Hold on. Everyone knows that it's mandatory that all reviews of Marquis start off by mentioning the talking penis. And, as you can clearly see, that's what I did. On the other hand, there isn't really any wrong way to begin a review of Marquis, as the film gives you so many options to choose from.

My favourite options, of course, are, Colin (Valérie Kling), the Marquis de Sade's talkative trouser companion, the stocking clad claymation spider and the craw-fish anal sex scene. Embrace these three things, and you should be well on your way to fashioning yourself a pretty entertaining review of Marquis, the best film to boast garrulous genitalia since Chatterbox. However, unlike the loquacious labia in that film, this wordy wang has a face and everything.

It should be noted, before I continue, that the reason Bastille guard Ambert (Michel Robin) is being fucked in the ass by a craw-fish instead of something less crustacean-like is because Colin, the Marquis de Sade's dick, doesn't want to be inserted into Ambert's foie gras-stained anus. I know, you're thinking to yourself: Didn't the Marquis (François Marthouret) and Colin have a deal? One that stated: If you hump the crack in the wall, I'll allow you to put me in Ambert's poop-chute so that Lupino (Roger Crouzet), an imprisoned revolutionary, and Pigonou (Bob Morel), a pig-man charged with pork fraud, may escape. Well, it would seem that the Marquis and Colin have different ideas when it comes to fucking holes.

You would think that Colin, being a cock and all, would be willing to penetrate anything as long as it contained a cavity of some kind. But he doesn't. And you would think that the Marquis, being a man and all, would be just willing, even more so (men love holes). But that's not the case at all.

While Colin is a pragmatist, the Marquis prefers to let his imagination run wild. And he's going to need it, as the Marquis and Colin are currently locked in the Bastille, the infamous prison run by Louis XVI of France.

Charged with "undermining religion and society" (i.e. defecating on crucifixes), the Marquis spends the bulk of his time writing, talking to Colin (who thinks the Marquis uses too many verbs) and shunning the advances of the aforementioned Ambert, who finds the Marquis to be "hard and lithe." This routine is threatened when a fellow prisoner, Lupino (the former chief of police who busted the Marquis), asks the Marquis to help him escape.

His routine gets threatened even more so when the rooster-esque Gaetan De Preaubois (the governor of the Bastille) and camel-headed Don Pompero (the Bastille's confessor) try to pin the rape of Justine, a naive cow-woman who insists she was raped/impregnated by the king, on the Marquis.

Speaking of cow-woman, Juliette, an attractive cow-woman, who is secretly a member of the outlawed Patriotic Citizen's Club, is having a femdom relationship with Gaetan De Preaubois. But don't worry, she doesn't really like him. She's just yanking on his wattle for political purposes. Who among us hasn't yanked on the wattle of a 6' 4" rooster for the greater good?

In the film's most disturbing scene, the Marquis muzzles Colin with his foreskin so that he can tell Justine a story without being interrupted. As you might expect, Colin nearly suffocates. And even though Justine manages to revive him with mouth-to-mouth (a.k.a. a blow-job), Colin is pissed.

People who own penises will be able to relate to the turbulent relationship between the Marquis and Colin in this film. In a constant tug of war over almost every aspect of their day-to-day lives, the Marquis and Colin must learn to live with one another. Or maybe they don't have to. I mean, Colin does threaten to leave the Marquis on several occasions. Either way, I hope these two kooky kids can't work things out. For one thing, it would be a shame if the Marquis missed out on using Colin to penetrate Juliette's creamy cow vagina. Seriously, the sight of Juliette storming the Bastille in kinky black lingerie (we're talking tons of straps) would make even the most jaded of penises hard as a rock.

It should go without saying, but Marquis is a weird ass movie. And if I was, oh, let's say, a seven year-old Albanian boy named Pëllumb, those freaky animatronic animal masks would have scared the Albanac crap out of me. [Special thanks to Sam Arshawsky for recommending this movie.]

I've always said, if given the opportunity to choose the method of my own execution, I would want to be asphyxiated by Linda Blair's thighs circa Roller Boogie. Well, after seeing Grey Gardens, I think might have found even better way to go. I know, you're probably thinking to yourself: Better than being asphyxiated by Linda Blair's thighs circa Roller Boogie? That's pure poppycock. But you won't feel that way once you get a gander at the substantial gams attached to Little Edie, the sexiest socialite/ex-fashion model/cabaret performer/shut-in this side of the Long Island Expressway. Of course, only a small number of people will be able to back up my claim that Edith 'Little Edie' Bouvier Beale is the the sexiest socialite/ex-fashion model/cabaret performer/shut-in this side of I-495 because the film is not that well-known within the straight community. Oh, sure. A smattering of film buffs and Criterion Collection completists have seen it, but the documentary, directed by Albert and David Maysles (and edited by Ellen Hovde, Muffle Meyer and Susan Froemke - Ellen and Muffle also credited as directors), is what we in the cult movie racket like to call a "camp classic." Which is code for movies that gay men and drag queens like to watch over and over again. And the reason they like to watch it over and over again has nothing to do with the pleasing shape of Little Edie's middle-aged lady stems whilst ensnared in various shades of no-nonsense pantyhose. It's because Little Edie is a staunch character who plays by her own rules. And I'll tell you, there's nothing card-carrying Friends of Dorothy and their drag allies like more than a woman who is a S-T-A-U-N-C-H character.

However, since I'm beloved by all the aforementioned communities. I think it's safe to say that I'm the most qualified person to over-analyze this haunting documentary about two sane people living on the fringes of high society.

That's right, I said, sane. All right, I suppose Edith Bouvier Beale, Little Edie's elderly mother, could be viewed as a tad on the senile side. But after watching Little Edie do her thing for ninety minutes straight, I'm convinced she's a genius. Or, at the very least, one of the most interesting women who has ever lived.

After a brief forward that sheds some much needed light on the properties history, Little Edie, the first cousin of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, greets filmmakers, Albert Maysles and David Maysles, in "the garden" of their dilapidated 28-room mansion in East Hampton, New York. It's here that we get our first taste of Little Edie's unique personality when she explains (in awesome detail) the thought process that went into selecting her outfit/costume for the day.

Seemingly unaware that punk and disco were getting ready to explode over in New York City (the year is 1975), Little Edie still manages to chart her own fashion course. Pairing one-piece bathing suits with a wide array of head scarfs (towels and sweaters), Little Edie, despite her isolation, is a true original.

Actually, not knowing what's going on outside her demented play-world is probably what allowed Little Edie's unorthodox fashion sense to flourish.

Seriously, I've never seen anyone dress the way Little Edie does in this movie. She's a genuine fashion icon.

The brown army jacket-blue towel head scarf-gold broach look she wears during her staunch character monologue is so fashion forward, it hurts. I'm calling it: Steampunk fortune teller chic. If you poke around the extras on the Criterion DVD, you'll come across an interview with fashion designer Todd Oldham. And in that interview they show a couple of pieces that he designed that were clearly inspired by Little Edie's staunch character look.

You might have noticed earlier that I put the word garden in quotes earlier. Well, that's because Little Edie's nonchalant approach to gardening was not yet in vogue. Nowadays, Little Edie's jungle-like garden might get a few complaints here and there. But back in the mid-1970s, overly manicured lawns and bushes were all the rage. Meaning, Little Edie's natural garden becomes front page news for all the wrong reasons. To be fair to the 1970s garden fascists, the house itself is a bit of a mess. Okay, that's a huge understatement. The place is a dump. But look at Little Edie. Do you think someone who is this fabulous has time to dust? I don't think so.

Relieved that they're not being evicted (the health department threatened to kick them out if they didn't clean things up), Little Edie and her mother seem excited whenever the Maysles drop by to film them. Well, Little Edie seems excited. Her mother, on the other hand, just sits on her garbage-covered bed eating ice cream and cooking corn on the cob for The Marble Faun (Little Edie's nickname for the enigmatic Jerry the handyman).

Spending the last twenty or so years living with her mother in this house has obviously had a negative effect on Little Edie. Unhappy with the direction her life has gone, Little Edie seems filled with regret. But that doesn't dampen her spirit. And you can see that spirit on full display when she shows the Maysles her "best costume for the day" and when she openly longs to one day snag herself a reasonable Libra husband. She might be a 56 year-old woman living in a squalid hellhole surrounded by a sea of leaves, but her enthusiasm for life is infectious.

What isn't so infectious is the codependent nature of Little Edie's relationship with her mother. Which is on full display when Little Edie needs Mrs. Beale to sign the cheque in order to pay the gardener. And, yes, believe or not, the Beales have a gardener. Anyway, Mrs. Beale needs Little Edie to hire the gardener, but Little Edie needs Mrs. Beale to pay him.

While almost every nook and cranny of "Grey Gardens" is explored by the filmmakers, the bulk of the action takes place inside Mrs. Beale's yellow-walled vomit stain of a bedroom. Looking at old photo albums, singing songs and listening to Norman Vincent Peale sermons on the radio, the Beales bicker constantly as about a half a dozen cats sit and watch with cat-like indifference.

The aforementioned Jerry the handyman (who likes to drop by every now and then) and Little Edie's frustration over her path in life are the main points of contention. The latter because Little Edie feels threatened by Jerry (she thinks he's trying to come between her and her mother) and the former... Well, who isn't frustrated even a little by the way their lives have turned out? Except, Little Edie blames her mother for sabotaging her relationship with Eugene Tyszkiewicz, a man twenty years her junior (the fact Little Edie pronounces "Tish-Kyeh-Vich" correctly multiple times is sexy as hell).

Yet, despite all the animosity and resentment between them, the unhinged back and forth that Little Edie and Mrs. Beale repeatedly engage in is strangely compelling. I'd even go as far as to call it addictive. And the film only seems to get better upon repeat viewings. Which, as most people know, is an absolute must if you want your movie to become a genuine cult classic. Which Grey Gardens is. You can see recent evidence of this status on IFC's Documentary Now (Saturday Night Live alumni Bill Hader and Fred Armisen play the Beales) and on Rupaul's Drag Race, where season five winner Jinkx Monsoon plays Little Edie in a parody of Match Game called "Snatch Game." Oh, and I just found out a Grey Gardens musical is currently being produced.

#CRITERIONBLOGATHON HQ

According to my browser history, in preparation for writing this review for Teenage Caveman, I searched for material related to the cast, the crew and industrial rock band Gravity Kills. Now, I can understand wanting to bone up on the cast and crew, but why Gravity Kills?!? It makes no sense. Oh, wait. I know why. When I saw Richard Hillman's flamboyant, drug-addled character saunter on-screen with a foppish dandy fop approved aplomb for the very first time, I thought to myself: The members of Gravity Kills called, they want their pants back. Yeah, I know, that's pretty hilarious. At any rate, I think the reason I was looking up Gravity Kills was to check to see if the members of the band did in fact wear the kind of pants Richard Hillman wears in this movie. Then it dawned on me. Who cares if Mr. Hillman's pants and the pants favoured by the members of Gravity Kills aren't similar, people will be laughing their heads off at what is a pretty arcane/awesome reference. I mean, who references Gravity Kills, especially in 2015? Exactly, no-one. Unfortunately, as the film progressed, I began to realize that this was turning out to be yet another Larry Clark wank-fest. In other words, I hope you like watching boyish teenage boys and boyish teenage girls solving problems while wearing bland underwear, 'cause that's what you're going to be getting for the next ninety or so minutes.

When I saw the close-up shots of the youthful cast's youthful body parts as they slept, I started to panic. I was like, if Larry Clark continues to make these kind of ill-advised and off-putting choices as a director, I'm going to have to write a review that alludes to the fact that I find Larry Clark's taste in just about everything to be repellent. And since I don't want to write a review like that, I had no choice but to abstain from writing one.

As I was putting the movie out of my mind, I... What's that? No, the movie didn't slowly start to grow me. What happened was, I remembered the bit about Richard Hillman's pants reminding me of Gravity Kills. What I think I'm trying to say is, I'm not going to let Larry Clark's nauseating aesthetic ruin what I think most people will agree is a pretty top-notch Gravity Kills reference.

I know, you're probably thinking to yourself: Why Gravity Kills? Why not, let's say, Stabbing Westward? Or Filter? Or 16 Volt? Or Hell, why not Engelbert Humperdinck? Trust me, Gravity Kills is the funnier reference. Well, Engelbert Humperdinck is the funnier reference. But as everyone knows, Engelbert Humperdinck doesn't go anywhere without a tuxedo. And I can pretty much guarantee that the members of Gravity Kills wouldn't be caught dead in tuxedos.

Anyway, since I've already made my much ballyhooed reference to Gravity Kills, where do we go from here?

I guess I'll do some customary plot recapping until I think of something that's close to being as a clever as my reference to Gravity Kills.

What's the plot of this movie entail again? Oh, yeah, I remember. Set some time in the not-so distant future, a group of teenage cave people, lead by David (Andrew Keegan), runaway from their anti-sex, patriarchal cave community and end up in what looks like the Big Brother Bulgaria house. Except, instead of being greeted by the Bulgarian equivalent of the Chenbot, they come face-to-face with Neil (Richard Hillman), a hedonistic drug addict/orgy enthusiast.

After racking my brain trying to figure out who Neil who reminded me, I ultimately decided that he was a cross between James Van Der Beek circa The Rules Attraction and Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Yeah, I like that.

When you think of great movie character introductions, names like, Blade in Blade, the T-Rex in Jurassic Park, Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia and Pauly Shore in Son in Law immediately spring to mind. Well, you can add Richard Hillman's name to that list. So what if his character just so happens to appear in what I consider to be one of the most stylistically erroneous films ever made, Richard Hillman's genetically modified Neil knows how to make a grand entrance.

Though, to be fair, Neil's black military-style coat is doing a lot of the heavy lifting, grand entrance-wise. The way he manipulates his coattails during his intro (swooshing them to and fro with a dandified brand of indignation) was one of the key ingredients that went into making it the great entrance that it is. In fact, I was so enamored with his jacket, that I looked to see if it was for sale after the movie was over (add it to my wardrobe, perhaps?). Sadly, I couldn't find it. I did, however, come across the military-style jacket that Maggie Grace wears in The Fog remake.

That's weird, I thought I reviewed The Fog remake. I distinctly remember lavishing a shitload of praise on Maggie Grace's military-style jacket (the film is nowhere to be found in the HOSI archives). Nevertheless, while Teenage Caveman and The Fog remake might be giant turds as far as movies go, they both get high marks for their military-style jackets.

Anyway, when Neil is finished introducing himself, he introduces the cave people to Judith (Tiffany Limos), his genetically modified partner. After that, they bathe together, they have sex together, they play shirtless basketball together, they... Wait a minute. To call someone "shirtless," they have to be seen wearing a shirt for a period of time longer than five seconds, and, according to my watch, that doesn't happen in this film.

As I was saying... They do cocaine together, they explode together, they do everything together. Actually, that's not entirely true. They explode at different times. And thanks to the miracle that is bad CGI, these explosions are rendered mildly amusing.

Should I mention the rest of the cast, i.e. the other explodees/underage underwear models? Yeah, why bother. I've said way too much already. This movie is, um... kind of... Oh, I will mention Tara Subkoff, she plays one of the cave people. You might remember her, she played the chick in the leg brace in Freeway and was in that riot grrrl coming of age movie All Over Me.

What starts off as a gripping horror movie, Mahakaal ("The Monster") slowly morphs into a sweeping romantic spectacle filled bright colours and... Oh, wait. Now it's morphing into a lavish musical complete with jeeps, fake movie rain and beach balls as far as the eye can see. Hold on, it's not a lavish musical. At least not right now it isn't. You won't believe this, but the film, directed by Shyam Ramsay and Tulsi Ramsay, has yet again morphed into something completely different. It has now morphed into a martial arts movie and... Just a second, never mind that, it's now a college-set comedy. Is this how most Indian films play out? Or does this just to apply to the films of Shyam Ramsay and Tulsi Ramsay? I know a lot of them are required by law to feature lavish musical numbers, no matter what the genre is. But this is ridiculous. And I mean that in a good way. Like any normal/relatively sane person, I was preparing to bestow copious amounts of perv-adjacent praise on the ultra-gorgeous Archana Puran Singh and her mouth-watering thighs. But for some kooky ass reason, Mahakaal decided to throw a ton of curve balls at me. So many in fact, that it almost hampered my ability to appreciate Archana Puran Singh's thighs. The key word there being "almost." Seriously, as anyone who has seen Archana Puran Singh in action will tell you, it's nearly impossible to hamper one's appreciation her shapely, out of this world organic structure. You're going to have to do more than make a horror/musical/martial arts/comedy/romance to cause me overlook the mind-altering beauty that is Archana Puran Singh in Mahakaal.

I think the reason Shyam Ramsay and Tulsi Ramsay tackle so many genres and tend to focus on Archana Puran Singh's legs has a lot to do with the fact that they're working in India. Given that they have a billion people to entertain, they have more people to please. And by mashing so many genres together, Shyam Ramsay and Tulsi Ramsay eliminate the possibility that they might alienate a segment of the audience.

As for Archana Puran Singh's legs. Even though it's the nation that gave us the Kama Sutra, I'm going go ahead assume that India, like, The United States of America and Canada, is a tad on the conservative side when it comes to depicting images of the female anatomy (a single bare nipple can cause riots in some parts of the U.S. and Canada). However, for some strange reason, this has never applied to legs.

In Hollywood, depictions of women's legs have been widespread going back to the silent era. What I'm getting is, no matter what year it is, women's legs have been front and center throughout the medium's history.

Well, the same logic seems to apply to Bollywood. Of course, I haven't seen as many Bollywood movies as I have Hollywood movies. Either way, judging by the way Shyam Ramsay and Tulsi Ramsay shoot Archana Puran Singh's legs in this movie, whether they're jutting delectably from myriad chic jean skirts or creamily dangling from a seemingly unending concourse of skimpy nightshirts, you can tell that Indian society has deemed lady leggage to be not only on the level, but totally tenable.

Unfortunately, the film ends up running well over two hours. Don't worry, I'm not blaming Archana Puran Singh's legs for the film's bloated running time. You see, in order to please everyone, every genre Shyam Ramsay and Tulsi Ramsay decide to tackle needs to be tackled multiple times. Meaning, we have to endure three musical numbers, two kung-fu brawls, two or three dating scenes, and, of course, the asinine antics of Johnny Lever, who plays Canteen, a Michael Jackson super-fan/Puma sweat suit-wearing/gay hetero-curious ass-clown.

In fact, the movie is so overstuffed with content, that I would occasionally forget that Mahakaal is essentially a horror movie about a deformed, knife-glove-wielding killer who stalks college students in their dreams.

Actually, the film has three kung-fu brawls. I completely forgot that Canteen battles rapists, as his alter ego, Shahenshah, in a crowded restaurant. I have since learned that the Shahenshah scene was lifted from another movie.

Anyway, when the film gets underway, it's pure horror. We're talking rattling chains, smoke and sinister music. Wandering through this nightmare-verse is Seema (Kunika), a woman who appears to be dreaming. Stalked by a demon wielding a knife-finger glove, Seema wakes up just as she is sliced on the arm. But wait, when Seema wakes up, the wound on her arm is still there. Oh, shit!

Meanwhile, Seema's pal, Anita (Archana Puran Singh), is putting a picture on the wall in a jean skirt. You heard right, I said a jean skirt! Anita's boyfriend, Prakash (Karan Shah), seems to be on the exact same page as me when it comes to Anita and jean skirts. Unable to control himself, Prakash grabs Anita, and starts carrying her around the room in a frenzied manner.

I like when Prakash greets Anita's parents, Kulbhushan Kharbanda and Reema Lagoo, he says, " Namaste." He might be a tad on the grabby side when it comes to chicks in jean skirts, but Prakash knows how to greet people in a respectful manner.

We're quickly ushered to the college campus, where we find Anita, Prakash, Seema and her boyfriend, Param (Mayur Verma), chilling in the cafeteria. It's here we're introduced to Johnny Lever's Canteen, and given our first dance number. Well, it's not really a dance number, but Canteen does show us some of his moves. As Canteen entertaining the students, in walks Randhir, a.k.a. "Boss" (Dinesh Kaushik), the biggest douche on campus. Other than Canteen planting a big sloppy kiss on Randhir's mouth (much to his chagrin), nothing much happens after this.

What am I saying? Nothing much happens? Um, Prakash and Anita declare their love for one another via a long musical number. How long is this musical number, you ask? I didn't time it, but the fact it goes from being daytime to nighttime during the song is a good indicator of the its length. Now, I'm not complaining, as we get to see Archana Puran Singh prance around in a black bikini, a short black shirt and a bright yellow shirt (with no pants, of course) for an ungodly amount of time, it's just that I get it... Prakash and Anita are fond of one another, let's move on.

Uh-oh, I don't think Prakash is going to like the way Randhir is eyeballing Anita's thighs during class. Busting him for not paying attention, the teacher scolds Randhir in front of the entire class. Which, I'll admit, is pretty embarrassing. However, I was too busy admiring Param's white Siouxie and the Banshees sweatshirt to notice what the teacher was saying. Yep, you heard right, I said a Siouxie and the Banshees sweatshirt. Not a t-shirt, a sweatshirt! A SWEATSHIRT!!!!!

Since it's been awhile since anything horror-related has occurred, we're taken inside one of Anita's dreams. At first, her nightmare involves visions of Mohini (Baby Swetha), her dead sister. But her dream slowly starts to resemble one that Seema had. Meaning, lot's of rattling chains, smoke and sinister music. And, of course, a demon wearing a knife glove.

After getting sliced on the arm, Anita wakes up screaming. And like Seema, the wound is all too real.

As Anita is poking at her arm wound while sitting on the lush campus lawn in a tight orange dress, Randhir and his thuggish friends force themselves on her. Not to worry, though, as Prakash and Param swoop in and a karate brawl ensues. The fight choreography may be sloppy, but I have to say, I'm impressed by the sheer amount of entertainment currently being tossed in my general direction.

All that punching and kicking has clearly stressed out Anita and her friends. In order to rectify this, it's suggested that they have a picnic. And since one doesn't simply go on a picnic in this film, a long musical dance number about said picnic gets underway. One that features Archana Puran Singh in splashing around in the water while wearing skimpy swimwear.

Forced to stay at a hotel because of car trouble, Anita and her friends are shocked when one of them is murdered in their room. Of course, no one thinks a knife-glove wielding demon is the one responsible. Personally, I think Kulbhushan Kharbanda, Anita's police chief father, knows more about this than he's leading on.

The film's strongest horror-centric scene transpires soon afterward, when Anita and the demon come face-to-face in an ice factory. Not only is the scene suspenseful and junk, it features some of Archana Puran Singh's best jean skirt work yet. Seriously, I could watch Archana Puran Singh be chased by demons while wearing a jean skirt for hours on end.

While the film's comedic and romantic elements slowly melt away as the film progresses, the singing, the dancing, the kung-fu fighting and the knife-glove slashing continue unabated. It's true, I was somewhat exhausted after witnessing the second brawl between Prakash and Randhir, but the possession subplot and the nightclub song and dance sequence (featuring the killer Linda Blair-esque thighs of Asha Patal) are top notch in terms of enjoyment.

Sure, you could call it bloated, overstuffed and nonsensical, but you can't say it's not fun. And that's not something I can say about most films. No foolin'. While the majority of films are dreary and a real chore to sit through, Mahakaal is the complete opposite, as it is chock-full of nutty goodness. Singing, dancing, Porky's-style humour, rape-revenge, possession, jean skirts, rattling chains, creepy atmosphere, multiple brawls, beach balls, hedge clippers, Linda Blair-esque thighs (Archana Puran Singh and Asha Patel should have a thigh-off... judged by Linda Blair, of course) and a Siouxie and the Banshees sweatshirt! This film has it all.

Oh, and since I watched Mahakaal before Wes Craven's A Nightmare on Elm Street, I won't be able to review that film. Why? Well, Mahakaal and A Nightmare on Elm Street have eerily similar plots, and I don't feel like reviewing the same movie twice. Besides, Mahakaal is a hundreds times better. I mean, does Johnny Depp wear a Siouxie and the Banshees sweatshirt in the original A Nightmare on Elm Street? No, he doesn't. I rest my case.

If anyone can expose the hetero-erotic subtext that lies beneath the surface of A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge, it's me. Hey, what can I say? Uncovering Hollywood's super-secret heterosexual agenda is sort of my thing. (Um, I don't mean to cut you off while you're on a role, but don't you mean, homosexual agenda?) Why would I mean that? It's obvious to anyone with a brain that kinda functions that A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge is the gayest non-gay porn movie to come out of the 1980s. (Even gayer than Night Warning?) Way gayer. When I read that A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge had a reputation in some circles for being pretty gay, I thought to myself: I'll be the judge of that. Well, it took me maybe, oh, I don't know, two or three seconds to decide whether or not this film, directed by Jack Sholder (Crawlspace), was in fact the gayest thing since assless leather chaps. (So, is it mega-gay or what?) Oh, I'm sorry. I thought I made myself clear. Anyway, when a shirtless Mark Patton wakes covered in sweat after the opening dream sequence (a non-burnt Fred Krueger drives our dreaming hero over a cliff in a school bus), I threw up my hands and said: I give up! In other words, fasten your seat-belts, things are about to get fab-u-lous! *snap* That being said. I'm still going to do my darndest to uncover this film's murky heterosexual underbelly. After all, the film's female lead is played by none other than Kim Myers (State Park), and her freckled gorgeousness will not go unappreciated by this viewer.

Even though Kim Myers' Lisa Webber has got that alabaster skin thing going for her, and, not to mention, the shapeliest, creamiest legs in the entire tri-state area, Mark Patton's Jesse Walsh has not only got his gym teacher, Coach Schneider (Marshall Bell), trying to fix him up with Ron Grady (Robert Rusler), the school's hunkiest bad boy, but he's got this child killing burn victim in a crumpled fedora making a serious play for the ownership of his gay sex worthy organic structure.

You could say that Jesse and Grady were destined to be together. Nevertheless, Coach Schneider (a gay leather enthusiast/gay teen matchmaker), makes sure, just in case, by having them do push-ups and running laps together.

As for Fred Krueger (Robert Englund), the aforementioned child killing burn victim, his job is to make sure Lisa's pussy is sufficiently clam-jammed at all times. Meaning, whenever Lisa seems close to snagging herself a pristine piece of oh-so delicious boy-cunt, Fred would step in and deny her of her firm reward. And who do you think Jesse will turn to for comfort? That's right, he runs straight to Grady.

Sure, he would sometimes run straight to Ron's Place, the coolest gay industrial goth leather bar in town (despite the fact that Coach Schneider is a regular). But trust me, he would rather be with the man he loves.

Oh, Grady! Penetrate my freshman asshole with your thick cock underneath your brand-new Limahl poster.

While it's true that Jesse loves Grady. Don't underestimate Lisa's resolve. She's got a few tricks up her sleeve. What am I talking about? A few tricks? She could definitely fit more than a few tricks up her sleeve. (What on earth are you babbling about?) It being 1985 and all, the style of shirts Lisa likes to wear are pretty generous when it comes to material. So, if she wanted to shove some tricks up there, she could stuff a healthy amount.

If you don't remember what I wrote in my review for A Nightmare on Elm Street, that makes perfect sense, because I didn't write one. I was going to write one, but there was hardly anything in the film that struck my fancy. Don't get me wrong, it's a well-made film, but it's no A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge. Seriously, this movie rules. In fact, I'm gonna go ahead and declare it to be the best film in the Freddy franchise. It's true, I've only seen the original and Mahakaal (the Bollywood remake) so far. But I don't think any of them can touch Freddy's Revenge in terms of quality.

If you don't believe me. Check out the scene where Lisa tries to put the moves on Jesse in the change room at her backyard pool party. Not only does it feature twenty-something teenage girls frolicking pool-side to Bobby Orlando's "Whisper to a Scream," the gay tension in that change room is so thick, you could cut it with a beadazzled switchblade.

While it might seem that Fred Krueger has been reduced to playing Cupid to closeted LGBT youth, his motives are still sinister and shit. In other words, I wouldn't underestimate him. Tormenting Jesse Walsh, whose family just moved into the house featured in the first film, via his dreams... his sweaty homoerotic dreams, Fred hopes to take over the gay teens body, so that he can start killing teens in the real world. After asking him politely to use his body (Jesse says no), Fred resorts to demonic chicanery.

He may not be, to quote Grady, "mounting her nightly," but Jesse has an ally in the form of Lisa Webber, a classmate he drives to school in "The Deadly Dinosaur," the nickname of his 1966 Dodge Dart GT convertible. Actually, to call Lisa Webber an ally is a bit of an understatement. She not only finds the diary of the girl Fred hassled in the first film, she tells Jesse about Fred's origins as a child killing serial killer and eventually confronts Fred in a final girl-style showdown in a factory filled with steamy valves.

In a strange twist, the film is chock-full of dudes being butchered (okay, chock-full is somewhat of an exaggeration... two dudes and a couple of guys at the pool party are butchered). Nevertheless, it still manages have, like the first film did, a strong female heroine at its core. It's true, Lisa Webber is, thanks to screenwriter David Chaskin, surrounded by gayness (Jesse's late night trip to Don's Place looked like an outtake from Cruising), but she's not going to let the fact that her boyfriend is gay get in the way of preventing a knife-glove-wearing psychopath from consuming his soul.

Like I said earlier, I'm kinda new to the Freddy franchise. However, I must say, I thought A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge is not only better than all the Friday the 13th movies I've seen, it's one the best films of 1980s. Granted, a big reason I think this is because of the film's homoerotic subtext. But when you combine that with Kim Myers (who is hands down one of the most attractive/alluring final girls of all-time), Mark Patton (who gives a surprisingly strong performance) and some of the song choices ("Touch Me... All Night Long"), you can't deny its place in the pantheon of great '80s horror movies. Or maybe you can... what do I know?

Oh, and even though I don't think the words "dream" and "job" really go together, my "dream job" is to be the girl's archery teacher at the high school in this movie. If you look closely, you'll notice the girl's archery teacher is wearing, along with a pair of sunglasses, a green "Kill 'Em All... Let God Sort 'Em Out!" t-shirt. In other words, where do I sign up?

To be fair, Heather Langenkamp's Nancy Thompson was only sixteen or seventeen years-old in the first movie (even though, according to her, she looked twenty). In other words, I shouldn't have expected too much, as far as sophistication goes, when it came to her clothes and make-up. Unwilling to cut her and her movie a break, I deemed A Nightmare on Elm Street as un-reviewable after it was over. Not giving me much to work with when it came to style and fashion, I rejected the film on that basis, and that basis alone. Don't get me wrong, the film, written and directed by Wes Craven (The People Under the Stairs), is definitely well-made. It just failed to move me. On the other hand, A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge did nothing but move me. Seriously, I love that movie. With my interest in the Freddy K. saga reinvigorated thanks to the gayest horror sequel the 1980s ever produced, I was ready to continue my journey down Elm Street. Unfortunately, the first name listed in the opening credits for A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors was Heather Langenkamp. This caused me much alarm, as I feared that part three would be a repeat of what happened in the first film. Sure, this one is directed by Chuck Russell, who also made the amazing remake of The Blob. But that being said, my expectations, I have to say, were pretty low as things got underway.

My mood perked up almost immediately, however, as Chuck Russell's immense talent as a filmmaker is clearly evident in the opening scene. Which features Patricia Arquette's Kirsten Parker wandering through a creepy nightmare-world. It's true, all the films in the series so far (even Mahalkaal, the Bollywood remake of the first film) boast opening scenes that feature frightened dreamers exploring the sinister confines of their own nightmares. But the scene that opens A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors is way more polished than the others.

So, like I said, I was in a good mood. What I mean is. I'm not going to let Heather Langenkamp's lack of flair in the fashion department ruin what could potentially be a pretty effective horror sequel.

After Kristen Parker's weird dream is over, her mega-milf of a mom, Elaine (the smokin' hot Brooke Bundy), finds her in the bathroom in the process of slitting her wrists. Even though we know that Fred Krueger (Robert Englund) is the one responsible for the wrist cutting, her mom sends her to a juvenile psych ward run by... YES!!!! The juvenile psych ward Kirsten is sent to is run by Craig Wasson, who played the white pantie-loving, porn-curious voyeur in Body Double.

Just as an orderly named Max (Larry Fishburne) is finishing up giving the audience a tour of the ward, we hear a commotion transpiring down the hall. It would seem that Kristen is having a bit of a conniption fit. Grabbing a scalpel, Kirsten threatens to cut anyone, including Craig Wasson's Neil Gordon and Max the orderly, who stands in her way.

As she's singing the One, Two, Freddy's Coming For You nursery rhyme, and about to really go off the deep end, an über-chic woman walks in the door and defuses the situation with a devil may care brand of elan. Hugging the über-chic woman, as the hospital staff look on with amazement, Kristen... Hold on. I don't believe this. The über-chic woman is Heather Langenkamp!

I don't know what happened between the first movie and this one, but Nancy Thompson is no longer the gawky teen with terrible taste in clothes we once knew. No, what you're looking at now is a modern woman who knows how to throw together an ensemble in a pinch.

We're talking blazers, skirts with slits, pumps, hats, shawls, pearls, lipstick, earrings, and blouses... lot's of blouses. (Don't forget, she carries a purse now.) Oh, yeah. She carries a purse. You see, teenagers don't have much use for purses. Adult women, however, need purses. After all, where else are they gonna put their experimental anti-psychotic medication?

Oh, haven't you heard? Nancy Thompson takes this drug to keep Fred Krueger at bay. She suggests to Neil that his patients, including Kristen; Kincaid, a.k.a. "Cool Breeze" (Ken Sagos); Joey (Rodney Eastman); Phillip, a.k.a. "The Walker" (Bradley Gregg); Jennifer (Penelope Sudrow); Will, a.k.a. "The Wizard Master" (Ira Heiden); and Taryn (Jennifer Rubin), take the drug as well, but he's a tad hesitant, as he doesn't buy the whole "a knife-glove-wielding serial killer is tormenting the children of the parents who burned him to death in their dreams" story.

During her first night at the hospital, Kirsten is confronted in her dreams by Fred Krueger. Except, instead of simply slashing her to death with his knife-glove, Fred transforms himself into a giant worm. As the Fred worm is consuming Kristen, she decides to yell out Nancy's name. And lo and behold, Nancy hears her, and, get this, enters Kirsten's dream to help her. (Wait, she can do that?) Apparently. It's a pretty cool addition to the mythology.

The next day, all the patient characters I mentioned earlier and Nancy and Neil partake in a group session, where "straight-talk" is encouraged. Other than Taryn's weird hand gestures, the only other thing worth noting about this scene is that Phillip has a lot of dialogue. Hmm, I wonder if he's going to be Fred's first victim.

As Nancy and Neil talk Hypnocil (an experimental anti-psychotic medication) at Springwood's best and only Thai restaurant, and Joey and Will sleep in shifts (the logic being, they can wake each other if their dreams get too intense), Phillip begins to sleepwalk through the ward. Sounds innocent enough. Except, Phillip, a guy who makes marionette puppets in his spare time, is being controlled by Fred. And instead of using puppet string, Fred is using Phillip's tend... You know what? I can't finish talking about this scene. It has to be one of the most disturbing things I've ever seen.

While not as disturbing as the tendon puppet scene, the TV room scene is just as memorable. It also causes you to start paying attention to what the characters are saying. You see, Phillip mentions that he likes to make his own puppets, and he's killed in the manner I alluded to earlier. And the TV room character says something about wanting to be on television someday.

Well, I guess you can't really pay attention to what Joey says, as he doesn't talk. But he does openly lust after Nurse Marcie (Stacey Alden), who, for some strange reason, doesn't wear white stockings (she does wear a white thong, though). Meaning, you can expect Fred to use Joey's thing for Nurse Marcie when it comes to time to fuck his shit up.

Anyway, the fact that each character's run-in with Fred corresponds with an aspect of their personality is one of the film's strong points. My favourite run-in, of course, being Fred's back-alley confrontation with Taryn, whose dream persona is a double switchblade-wielding punk rocker.

When I first saw Taryn (moping the halls of the hospital like a unkempt rag-doll), I was like: Why is she so goddamn frumpy? I mean, someone lend this girl a hair brush, stat. Little did I know that they were going to give her the punk makeover to end all punk makeovers later on in the movie.

Oh, and being that she's a recovering drug addict, Taryn should expect Fred to use her addiction against her when the time comes.

When it becomes obvious that Freddy plans on bumping off the youthful patients one by one, Nancy, Kristen and those not killed yet, decide to confront him as a team, or, you could say, confront him as "dream warriors."

While I'll admit, I have a major soft spot for A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge, I can't deny that A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors is superior in almost every way imaginable. Now, granted, it doesn't have part two's gay subtext, but there's more to life than gay subtexts. Seriously, the so-called "kills" are so wonderfully inventive, that you'll have no choice to look past the fact that it has zero gay subtext. Or maybe it does (have a gay subtext), and I just missed it. Nah.

I've noticed recently that after each subsequent "Nightmare" film has ended, I've gotten into this weird habit of checking to see if there's a sequel (I know they made a lot of them, but I'm not quite sure how many exactly - Eight? Ten? Fifteen? Who knows?). And when I would discover that there was in fact a sequel, I would think to myself: Okay, if this one's lame, that's it, I'm pulling the plug on my self-imposed A Nightmare on Elm Street marathon. As you might expect, when it came time to sit down and watch A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master, I thought for sure that my days as a chronic A Nightmare on Elm Street watcher were coming to an end. Well, will wonders never cease. Not only was A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master worthy of my time, it's whole premise is based on the Freddy-stopping power of a magic spiky bracelet. Initially worn by a big haired Dynasty fan/exercise enthusiast named Debbie (Deb to her friends), the magic spiky bracelet is given to "The Dream Master," who proceeds to use it to extract the souls of her dead friends from the body of one Friedrich von Krüger. Okay, maybe I'm overstating the importance of Deb's spiky bracelet. But what happens to Deb the moment she takes off the spiky bracelet? That's right. She gets turned into a cockroach. Now, I can't guarantee that wouldn't have occurred had she kept the spiky bracelet on. However, and most entomologists will back me up on this one, the only surefire way to prevent human to insect metamorphosis is to decorate your wrists and arms with ornamental bands, hoops and chains that sport studs and spikes. It's not only fashion, it's science.

While we get see Deb (Brooke Theiss) talk trigonometry with Toy Newkirk, work the lunch counter at a local diner, attend the funeral of a fellow teen and pump iron in her garage, the film, directed with an unnecessary amount of flair by Renny Harlin, is actually about a twitchy blonde and a daydreaming redhead.

Remember the Kristen/Kirsten character from A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors? Well, this film continues right where Dream Warriors left off. Except, Kristen (the twitchiest blonde of the franchise... so far) is now played by Tuesday Knight (Patricia Arquette portrayed Kristen in the previous chapter of the Freddy saga). Granted, it takes a few moments to get used to Tuesday Knight as Kristen. But once I saw her smoking a cigarette by her bedroom window in a leggy manner, I totally accepted her. Gooble-gobble.

The fact Tuesday's aura in this film was eerily similar to that of Wendy Lyon, the star of Hello Mary Lou: Prom Night II, was also a deciding factor. I love Wendy Lyon in that flick.

Oh, and did I mention that Tuesday Knight sings the film's theme song, "Running from this Nightmare"? Well, she does. And it's great.

Since no one really wants to watch a complete rehash of the previous film, we're introduced to Alice (Lisa Wilcox), the daydreaming redhead. The sister of Rick (Andras Jones), Kristen's boyfriend, Alice does the bulk of her dreaming– you guessed it–during the day.

Worried that Freddy is coming back from the dead... again, Kristen starts to harass Kincaid (Ken Sagoes) and Joey (Rodney Eastman), her fellow survivors from part three, by bringing them into her dreams. Clearly irritated by this unwelcome blast from the past (their attitude is, been there, done that), Kincaid and Joey try to convince Kristen that Freddy's dead. Good luck with that, fellas. This chick sees Freddy everywhere. Seriously, though, she can feel his presence.

Of course, when Kincaid wakes up in the Freddy's junkyard burial ground and Joey is confronted by a topless Hope Marie Carlton in his bedroom, things start to get real. Well, not too real. The deaths of two teens doesn't seem to phase anyone in this movie. Sure, Kristen tries to sound the alarm, but no one seems to be in the mood for some twitchy blonde's bullshit.

Imagine how different these movies would have been had Hope Marie Carlton played Freddy instead of Robert Englund? At any rate, the cool thing about Joey's confrontation with Hope Marie Carlton is that implies that Joey still has a thing for hot blondes (Joey, if you remember, is sexually attracted to the blonde nurse from part three - she ties him to a bed with sentient tongues).

If they won't listen to Kristen, maybe they'll listen to Alice, who, like Kristen, seems to have strange powers. Fat chance. I mean, if Kristen's mom won't listen, no one will (unless she wasn't paying attention to what happened in part three). Which reminds me, Kristen's mom is yet again played the gorgeous Brooke Bundy, whose milfy allure is just as milfy and just as alluring as it was in the previous film.

Did any of what I just wrote make any sense? No, not the Brooke Bundy part, her milf-appeal is pretty straight-forward. I'm referring to the part of about Kristen and Alice's strange powers. Ah, it doesn't matter.

One of my favourite things about this franchise is how the police are hardly ever involved. Featured in the first film, the police, since then, have obviously found better things to do than spend their time solving a series of murders involving teens. Truthfully, they would just get in the way. Of course, knowing my luck, the next movie is most likely going to be crawling with cops.

No, I like how the adults, other than Fred Krueger himself, rarely ever effect the trajectory of the plot. And because of this, extra pressure is put on the film's youthful characters to put a stop to Freddy's murderous ways. You could view these films as a cautionary tale about the dangers of vigilantism. After all, if it wasn't for the actions parents of the dead "Elm Street" teens from the previous movies, all those kids would still be alive.

Yeah, I understand that Fred Krueger would have continued to murder children had they (the parents) decided not to set him on fire. But... Actually, why was Fred not in jail? I remember hearing something about him getting off on a technically, but still, that doesn't make a lot of sense. It just proves my point that the police in this town are completely useless. Maybe the films aren't a "cautionary tale about the dangers of vigilantism," maybe they're pro-vigilantism. They were filmed during a time when vigilantism was all the rage. And it's probably no coincidence that the first film came out around the same time Bernhard Goetz was gunning down muggers in the New York City subway (late 1984).

On a less profound note, I thought the scene where Deb is turned into a cockroach was freakin' sweet and the part where Rick practices martial arts to Dramarama's "Anything, Anything" was oddly inspirational.

Even though I'm probably only halfway done with these movies, I think I can safely declare that the Nightmare series to be the best horror franchise in movie history. I know, that's a bold statement. But I can't find anything to complain about. Whereas, the Friday the 13th movies are filled with stuff to complain about (to be fair, the Friday the 13th films are downright awful). The Freddy movies, on the other hand, seem to be brimming with creativity. And they're well-directed and they fully embrace the spirit of the 1980s (the fashion, music and culture of the decade are always on display... at least they are in the sequels).

Of course, I probably should have waited until I'd seen a couple more of the sequels before making a statement like this. Nevertheless, I just wanted to point out that A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge, A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors and A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master are some of the least annoying horror sequels I've ever seen. Oh, if you don't see any reviews for the nightmare sequels that followed part four posted in the not-so distant future, it's probably because they sucked. Either that, or I choked to death on a sausage roll. Happy Festivus!

Did Paul Muller's character in She Killed in Ecstasy (a.k.a. Sie tötete in Ekstase) seriously just tell Soledad Miranda to leave her alone after she asked him for a light? Is that what just happened. Please tell me there's a logical explanation for this, as I just saw Soledad Miranda get shutdown by a middle-aged Euro-creep. Forget that, I don't need no stinkin' logical explanation. What I just saw was unacceptable. I don't care if Paul Muller's character knows for a fact that Soledad Miranda plans on knifing him in the dick (multiple times, mind you), you still give her a light. That being said, who doesn't want to be murdered by Soledad Miranda? Exactly. Nobody. Okay, while I can't speak for straight women, I'm positive that most gay men, straight men and lesbians would agree that being murdered by a vengeful Soledad Miranda would be the greatest thing to ever happen to them. Or how 'bout this. Let's say there's some kind of after life, and you're sitting around swapping stories with your fellow dead. Suddenly, the topic of how you died comes up. When everyone else has finished boring the group with the details surrounding their pathetic deaths, you get to stand up and say, in a loud and steady voice, I died as a direct result of being stabbed multiple times by a lingerie clad Soledad Miranda. Trust me, you will be the envy of the after life.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I happen to think that Soledad Miranda is an attractive woman. And the only director I can trust to capture her attractiveness in a manner that I deem satisfactory is Jess Franco. (So, does he manage to capture her attractiveness in a manner that you...) I'm sorry to cut off like that, but you must already know that the answer is... yes. Of course, I'm not saying Soledad Miranda should be allowed to murder the scientists who fucked over her hunky scientist husband just because she looks like Soledad Miranda. No, what I am saying is that the scientists should be thankful that their final moments on planet earth are being spent straddling a half-naked Soledad Miranda. In other words, if you have to be murdered, wouldn't you want Soledad Miranda to be the one holding the knife that plunges deep into your worthless, improperly utilized genitals?

Now that I've established to the best of my ability that being murdered by Soledad Miranda isn't all that bad, can we talk about the top Mrs. Johnson (Soledad Miranda) is wearing when her husband, Dr. Johnson (Fred Williams), shows her his lab?

Looking as if she cut off a chunk of a chandelier and taped it to her chest, Soledad Miranda's top is too ridiculous for words.

I'm not kidding around, Soledad Miranda's chandelier top left me speechless. So much so, that I didn't hear a single word Dr. Johnson said as blathered on and on about his research. Or, I should say, groundbreaking research.

Unfortunately, Dr. Johnson seems to be the only one who thinks his research is "groundbreaking." Submitting his research to a panel of his fellow scientists, Dr. Johnson is devastated by what they have to say about it. Words like, unethical, immoral and criminal are bandied about as Dr. Johnson's colleagues eviscerate his work.

If you're wondering what Dr. Johnson's research entails exactly. I'm sorry, I can't help you. As I said earlier, Soledad Miranda's metallic steampunk chandelier top was too distracting.

How does she manage to keep that thing on?!? There are no sleeves and there are no straps visible. It sort of just hovers there.

Nevertheless, the film's opening credits features words written in a frosty pink font, foetuses in jars, and the funkiest, the trippiest, most psychedelic music you'll ever hear.

If that wasn't enough to convince me that Jess Franco plans on delivering the goods, he then shows a forlorn Soledad Miranda running down multiple flights of stairs in jet black stockings (you get a glimpse of them with every other step) and a crocheted purple cape.

The reason Soledad Miranda is forlorn is because she misses her dead scientist husband. Oh, sure, she still has sex with him every now and then. But it's just not the same.

Driven to suicide by his fellow scientists (their harsh words of disapproval haunt his very existence), Dr. Johnson slits his wrists.

Instead of calling the authorities to haul away his corpse, Soledad Miranda holds on to it. You see, instead heading down to local pub to find another hunky scientist to marry, Soledad Miranda decides to murder those who caused her husband so much pain.

The first target on her list is Prof. Walker (Howard Vernon), a kinky blowhard with a thing for beige suits and degrading sex. This is guy is relatively easy for Soledad Miranda to snag, as all she has to do is flash the tops of her stockings and... boom. Look who's escorting you to his hotel room for some femdom fun. Well, there's fun to be had in the early going. But I think even the most ardent of femdom enthusiasts would frown upon being stabbed so forcefully in the junk.

When word of Prof. Walker's grisly demise gets out to the other scientists, nothing much happens. It's true, Jess Franco's Dr. Donen organizes an impromptu scientist meeting on a secluded beach to discuss the situation. But none of them changes their routine. Just look at the way Dr. Crawford (Ewa Strömberg) hits on Soledad Miranda while on vacation. Actually, I think the reason Dr. Crawford was so bold was because Dr. Donen tells them that a "vulgar brunette" was seen leaving Prof. Walker's hotel room on the night he was murdered, and, as we can clearly see, Soledad Miranda is not a vulgar brunette. Thanks to a short blonde wig and a well-worn paperback, Soledad Miranda has transformed herself into a bookish blonde who is itching to smother to death a smug blonde lesbian with a giant translucent pillow.

Which reminds me. Are you tired of not being able to see the face of the person you're murdering as you smother them to death with a pillow? Well, here at Giant Translucent Pillows, we want you experience the full magnitude of your victim's suffering by allowing you see them gasp for air in graphic detail. So, the next time you're thinking about smothering to death a loved one, or that pesky smug blonde lesbian lady scientist who caused your hunky scientist husband to kill himself, make sure to have a Giant Translucent Pillow handy.

If Soledad Miranda didn't have a Giant Translucent Pillow handy, she could have simply killed Dr. Crawford by plunging her face into the shag carpeting. Seriously, I've never seen shag carpeting so thick. I know, it's 1971, and such carpet-based anomalies were quite commonplace back then. But damn, that was some bushy shag.

Maybe I was a little harsh on Paul Muller's Dr. Houston earlier when I scolded him for not being receptive to Soledad Miranda's advances. I mean, if I saw Soledad Miranda eye-balling me the way she eye-balls people in this movie, I, too, would be somewhat hesitant. What I think I'm trying to say is that Soledad Miranda's eyes are like dark whirlpools filled with nothing but rage and contempt.

While Prof. Walker and Dr. Crawford were unable to pick up on this (the rage and contempt), Dr. Houston spots it almost immediately. However, even the most perceptive of scientists have their weaknesses. And like most men, that weakness is black silk stockings. In other words, flash a little thigh, and you'll have them eating out of the palm of your hand in no time.

If you think about it, that sums up the effect the film's of Jess Franco have on his audience rather nicely. The sensation one experiences while watching a Jess Franco film, when he's firing on all cylinders, is unlike anything in the known universe. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see if I can buy myself one of them metallic steampunk chandelier tops on Etsy.

Here it is. The review for the movie that started it all. I know, you're probably thinking to yourself: Started what? Well, if you must know, Vampyros Lesbos was the first Jess Franco movie I ever watched. The time, the late 1990s. The place, Showcase (a Canadian specialty channel that used to air arty sleaze from around the world after 11pm). The movie, Vampyros Lesbos. While I'll admit, I didn't become a Franco-phile immediately after viewing his trippy tale of vampires and lesbians. The film did, however, act as a sort of gateway drug that would ultimately lead to more Jess Franco in the not-so distant future. Of course, I had to wait for the DVD explosion of the early 2000s to get my hands on more of that sweet Jess Franco nectar. But thanks to companies like, Blue Underground, Mondo Macabro, Redemption and Severin, I was able to bathe my eyeballs in copious amounts of Jess Franco juice. Unfortunately, the DVD for Vampyros Lesbos (put out by Synapse) wasn't readily available (I think it went out of print rather quickly). Anyway, fast-forward to modern times, and I'm sitting here holding a brand new edition of Vampyros Lesbos (put out this time by Severin). And you better believe I'm chopping at the bit to crack open my brain and see what spills out in correlation to this funky masterpiece.

Oh, and one more thing before I start cracking open my brain. After having watched countless Jess Franco films over the years, I'm kind of glad Vampyros Lesbos was my first, as I personally think it encapsulates everything I like about Jess Franco. In fact, if I were to recommend a Jess Franco flick to someone thinking about diving headfirst into the sleazy/wonderful world of Jess Franco, I would suggest that they go with Vampyros Lesbos. Either it, or Lorna the Exorcist, as both seem to capture the director's essence perfectly.

The reason I would give Vampyros Lesbos a slight edge is simply because the film's soundtrack, by Manfred Hübler and Sigi Schwab, is hands down one of the greatest ever created. Seriously, this review almost had to be postponed due to my overplaying of the soundtrack.

Of course, the fact that I was also staring at pictures of Soledad Miranda writhing around on the floor in black hold-up stockings didn't help matters.

This won't come as a shock to anyone, especially to those with genitals that are on the cusp of being functional, but it's difficult to look away when Soledad Miranda is writhing. Hell, it's difficult to look-away when Soledad Miranda is doing anything.

On top of writhing, Soledad Miranda slithers, skips, slinks, saunters and skylarks throughout this movie. Okay, maybe she doesn't skip or saunter, but she definitely slithers. As for slinking? I don't think you're ever going to come across a performance that is this slinky. I'd even go as far as to say that Soledad Miranda is slinky as fuck.

Just in case the late 1990s version of me happens to stumble across this review after they accidentally fall into a wormhole, "as fuck" is a phrase that is usually added to adjectives in order to increase their power. For example, I'm cool as fuck, or, those winklepickers are fierce as fuck. And by saying that Soledad Miranda is "slinky as fuck," just means that she's extremely slinky.

Now that we've cleared that up, let's move on to the subject of writhing. While writhing typically occurs while one is trying to get a good night's sleep, the majority of the writhing that takes place in Vampyros Lesbos is a direct result of psychosexual trauma.

You see, the person doing the writhing desperately wants to feel the caress of another human being. And when these caresses are not forthcoming, the consequences commonly manifest themselves in the form of more writhing. And you know what they say? More writhing means more unabashed lesbianism, and more unabashed lesbianism means more passion. And more passion means more unabashed lesbians writhing in the throes of unabashed lesbian passion.

Should I even bother to continue to write words? I mean, that right there is some clever ass shit. Nah, I better keep going. It's just that people like, Nicole Elizabeth "Snooki" Polizzi and Kimberly Kardashian have had books published, yet here I am languishing on the fringes of the internet. At any rate, the reason I better keep going is because someone has to got to talk about the red yarn ceiling or Soledad Miranda's monster sunglasses. Think about it. If I don't talk about them, no one will.

Even though nothing seems to phase me when it comes to fashion and interior design from the early 1970s (I've seen it all, baby), the clumps of red yarn that dangle from the ceiling of the foyer in the bungalow that belongs to Countess Nadine Carody (Soledad Miranda) had me flummoxed like you wouldn't believe. Resembling strands of bloody hair, the red ceiling yarn is just one of the many flummox-worthy sights that are peppered throughout this movie.

As for Countess Carody's monster shades. All I can say about them is this: Damn, girl. Those are some big ass sunglasses.

After watching Countess Carody perform her porn-esque performance art at a local club in Istanbul, Linda Westinghouse (Ewa Strömberg) and her dull boyfriend Omar (Andrea Montchal) go home to sleep in the same bed.

Suddenly, Linda hears a voice calling out her name. Linda! Linda! Linda, the voice cries out. After that we get shots of a kite flying through the air, a scorpion strutting by the pool, a moth trapped in a fishing net and blood dripping down a window.

What does all this mean, Linda wonders? She tries to get some answers from her shrink, Dr. Steiner (Paul Muller), but he's too busying doodling in his notebook. In other words, he doesn't give a rat's ass. Personally, I thought the scorpion represented Countess Carody (the seductive predator) and the moth trapped in the fishing net represented Linda (the damsel in distress), but I don't think you should try to comprehend too much of what appears in this film.

A sort of estate agent who works for a company called Simpson and Simpson, Linda's finds herself having to travel to a remote island to take care of some business for a Countess Nadine Carody. Yep, the very same woman from the writhing-heavy performance art show and the one whose been calling out her name for the past few days.

While we've seen her writhe in black stockings and watched her call out a dim blonde's name while sporting a face that can best be described as dour, the scene where Nadine comes face-to-face with Linda, is our official introduction to the countess. Who has to be the sexiest vampire in movie history. I know, what kind of vampire wears a white(!) bikini and goes swimming in the middle of the day? Well, that's just it, Vampyros Lesbos isn't your average vampire film. In fact, I don't think there's a single scene in this movie that takes place at night.

Other characters soon enter the story as Nadine's hold over Linda grows stronger. An occult expert named Dr. Seward (Dennis Price) tries to figure out what's wrong with Linda during her brief stay at his clinic, but he gets nowhere. The same goes for another patient named Agra (Heidrun Kussin), as all she does is writhe on the floor sans pants. As I watched Agra writhe in this movie, I couldn't help but think of Catherine Lafferière's superior writhing work in Lorna the Exorcist.

To give the film more creep-appeal, we're introduced to Jess Franco's Memmet, a hotel bellhop/saw-wielding serial killer/sleazy weirdo, and the Nadine's loyal henchmen, Morpho (José Martínez Blanco). In a classic scene, a cornered Nadine calls out: Morpho! And Morpho leaps into action, taking care of Nadine's problem without fail. Oh, how life would be so much easier if everyone had their own personal Morpho.

Screw Morpho, I want my own personal Soledad Miranda. It should go without saying, but Jess Franco's camera loves Soledad Miranda. Say what you will about his films from a technical point-of-view, the man knows how to shoot leggy women under duress in exotic settings. Whether they be slithery brunettes or slinky brunettes, the women in his film's always look amazing. What I think I'm trying to say is, Soledad Miranda looks hot in this movie. And, yeah.

In order to convince the audience that Kathy Ireland is a colossal dork in Alien from L.A., director Albert Pyun has her wear glasses. Done, and done, right? Wrong. Taking the tried and true method of making a conventionally attractive woman less attractive by putting her in glasses one step further, Albert Pyun has a bespectacled Kathy Ireland crouch on the beach in oversize t-shirt next to a radiant Kristen Trucksess. You see, by doing this right away, Albert Pyun was able squash any doubts we might be having when it came to buying Kathy Ireland as a colossal dork. Of course, Albert Pyun could have just told Kathy Ireland to act like a "colossal dork." But since this was Kathy's film debut, you can understand why he put her in glasses. At the end of the day, it wasn't necessary at all, as Kathy Ireland gives a nuanced and understated performance as Wanda Saknussemm, a Vista Verdes drive-in waitress with low self-esteem and Daddy issues. On top of those things, Wanda also has bad hair, she walks funny, her voice is annoying, her clothes make her look frumpy and she doesn't like to travel. Oh, and just to clarify, this isn't me talking, this is what her surfer boyfriend tells her as he's breaking up with her.

The actual list of things Robbie (Don Michael Paul) thinks is wrong with Kathy Ireland's Wanda Saknussemm goes a little something like this: "You never want to go anywhere... your glasses make you look stupid, your hair is ugly, you dress like a nerd, you walk like a clod and your voice gives me a headache."

While what he says might sound a tad on the way harsh side, it actually serves as the kick in the pants Wanda needs. Of course, there's not much Wanda can do about changing her life at the moment. It's true, there is indeed room to move as a ~~fry cook~~ drive-in waitress, working at Saks Drive-in alongside her Auntie Pearl (Linda Kerridge) isn't moving her anywhere right this minute.

This all changes when Wanda gets a letter from "Africa." Informed that her father, Professor Saknussemm (Richard Haines), an explorer/adventurer, fell into a bottomless pit, the letter contains a plane ticket. Why does her father's colleague/friend/sidekick/gay lover want her to travel all the way to "Africa"? Doesn't he know that she's deathly afraid of flying? That's right, he doesn't.

Nonetheless, recalling what her surfer boyfriend said to her before he dumped her, Wanda musters up all her courage and hops aboard the next flight to "Africa."

Every time they would refer to "Africa," as if it were a country, I would cringe. Thankfully, all references to "Africa" cease the moment Wanda arrives in... "Africa." Judging by the climate and architecture, I'm guessing she's going to Egypt or Tunisia.

Oh, and, by the way, I looked up Zamboanga, the so-called city in Africa where Wanda's father went missing. And the only Zamboanga I could find is in Mindanao, Philippines.

It doesn't matter, because Wanda isn't going to spending that much time on the surface world. What's the "surface world," you ask? Why it's the world that exists on top of a super-secret subterranean mega-city.

Remember the 1980s? Yeah, well, remember how totally awesome they were? Well, get this, the residents of the super-secret subterranean mega-city at the center of this movie act like it's 1980s all the time. (Yeah, because it is the 1980s.) You don't get it, man. These cats take living in the 1980s to a whole 'nother level. (I get what what you're saying, but it's still the 1980s.) What I think I'm trying to say is, the residents of this particular super-secret subterranean mega-city will be living in the 1980s long after the 1980s are over.

Let me give you an example of what I mean. Remember when everyone, for some strange reason, started wearing flannel and listening to Creed? Well, that doesn't happen in the super-secret subterranean mega-city. Uh-uh. Instead of cutting the decade off at the knees, they continue to expand on what its progenitors envisioned in 1980. Meaning, we get men in make-up, peacock feather eye-patches, Japan albums, neon clothing and welding goggles... lot's of welding goggles.

Oh, and don't bother looking for any actual welding in this movie. Welding goggles are worn as everyday eye-wear in Alien from L.A., and I couldn't be more pleased.

If you're thinking about wearing welding goggles as everyday eye-wear, never buy them from a boutique. If I see a "Cyber Goth" or an "Industrial Goth" wearing welding goggles that have been obviously purchased at a boutique, I give them the stink-eye. I know, you're thinking to yourself: Then wear do I get my welding goggles from? I got two words for you: Hardware store.

Eventually falling down the same bottomless pit her father did, Wanda finds herself in Atlantis. Yep, it would seem like the pit isn't bottomless after all. Either way, she stumbles upon Guten Edway (William R. Moses), who is in the middle of arguing with some trolls. Seeing that Guten is outnumbered and is about to be killed by the trolls, Wanda decides to lend Guten a hand.

I have to say, this was a pretty impressive display. I mean, just yesterday Wanda was being scolded for not wanting to go anywhere, and now she's throwing rocks at trolls. And not only that, she's throwing rocks at trolls in an underground wasteland near the center of the earth. I think it's safe to say, that Wanda is well on her way to becoming a well-rounded human being.

Tagging along with Guten, who she calls "Gus," Wanda hopes to find her father in Atlantis. Unfortunately, the city is a quasi police state that is ruled by Govco. In other words, people from the "purported surface world" (the state run media deny their existence) are not welcome in Atlantis.

She might not be milfy, and she might not be a scientist, but Shank (Janie du Plessis) is definitely a lady and she's clearly wielding a syringe filled with iridescent liquid. Instead of calling Shank a milfy lady scientist who wields a syringe filled with iridescent liquid, I'd say she's more of a demonic Trad Goth who wields a syringe filled with iridescent liquid.

Roaming the streets of Atlantis looking for surface folk to drug and kidnap, Shank overhears Wanda talking about Malibu Beach, and decides right then and there that she's from the surface and needs to be drugged and kidnapped, and brought to Membino (Deep Roy), the boss of bosses, for 400 shiny ones.

Judging by Shank's Trad Goth wardrobe and Membino's giant red eyelashes, I would say that a lot of effort went into the costumes and make-up seen throughout this film. And it doesn't stop there, the set design (very Blade Runner) and the production design is noteworthy as well. In fact, the "do-a-vator" (a device used to put on make-up) looks like something straight out of Life on the Edge (a.k.a. Meet the Hollowheads).

Okay, if the film has great costumes, make-up, set and production design, why was it featured on Mystery Science Theater 3000? The only reason I'm mentioning this because I recently watched City Limits, another movie that doesn't deserve to be featured on MST3K, and I'm slightly annoyed that these films are being unfairly dismissed as bad. Trust me, I know bad movies, and these movies are not even close to being bad. Sure, Kathy Ireland isn't the most accomplished actress in the world, but I thought she handled herself rather admirably.

Speaking of handling oneself in an admirable fashion... (You're not done writing about this movie?) Just one more thing. Speaking of handling oneself in an admirable fashion, most of the principle actors play multiple roles. Take Janie du Plessis, for example, who plays the aforementioned Shank, she also plays General Rykov, a Govco stooge (I loved it when she tells a fellow Govco stooge that his pantyhose are on too tight). And remember Linda Kerridge as Aunt Pearl? Well, she shows up later as Roryis, the owner of Roryis' Saloon. There are a couple of other prime examples of multiple role mischief, but I've already said too much. In closing, if you like Radioactive Dreams, Vicious Lips (both directed by Albert Pyun) and The Dark Backward, you'll like Alien from L.A.

When a pajama clad Linda Blair bolts from her parents' house in Grotesque, I thought to myself: Yeah, baby. This is when the movie starts to get good. By running through the snow-covered woods, Linda Blair (Roller Boogie and Chained Heat) is making a valiant effort not to get killed by a gang of unruly "punkers." Little do these "punkers" know, but Linda Blair is not someone to be trifled with. Think about it. It's just a matter time before Linda Blair stumbles upon a crossbow and replaces her jammies with one of the "punkers'" leathery outfits. After drinking a well-deserved cup of cocoa, the now leather clad Linda Blair is ready to fight back. Oh, man. These "punkers" have no idea what they're up against. This is going to be sweet. I don't know 'bout you, but I'd be quaking in my designer combat boots if I was them. If you've seen Savage Streets, you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you haven't seen it. Let's just say, Linda Blair knows a thing or two about comeuppance. Hm, I don't get it. (What?) Why is Linda Blair still running through the snowy woods in her pajamas? I mean, she should be totally killing "punkers" with her newly-acquired crossbow by now. Weird.

I'm not worried. I'm sure Linda Blair will eventually stumble upon that crossbow and procure herself some punk-friendly threads.

Okay, I have some good news and some bad news. I guess I'll mention the bad news first. Remember that crossbow Linda Blair was supposed stumble upon? Yeah, well, she doesn't stumble upon any crossbows in this movie. The same goes for the punk clothes. So, you can forget about seeing Linda Blair slaying punks in tight leather pants.

I'm sorry, the thought of Linda Blair is tight leather pants caused me to lose my train of thought. What was I saying? Oh, yeah. The good news. The good news is that Grotesque turned out to be a pretty awesome horror punksploitation thrill ride.

I know, how can a movie be considered awesome if it doesn't feature Linda Blair doing the things I want her to be doing while wearing the clothes I want her to be wearing? Well, that's simple, really. The film, directed by Joe Tornatore, takes a bizarre turn near the halfway point that will leave even the most jaded of cinephiles slack-jawed and bewildered.

Setting itself up as your standard home invasion flick, Grotesque starts off like Punk Vacation meets House On the Edge of the Park. But then it slowly morphs into a strange amalgam of Deliverance and The Burning. Sure, I was somewhat disappointed that the characters played by Linda Blair and Donna Wilkes (Angel) didn't fight back the way I wanted them to. But still, I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised by the way it all played out. Plus, don't forget, the film has plenty of punks.

Granted, these punks seem to have gotten the bulk of their inspiration from Mad Max. In other words, they're not the type of punks you see panhandling outside The Yarn Barn. Nevertheless, they're punks, and they look like they're itching to harass some squares.

How can I tell? The way Shelly (Michelle Bensoussan) yells at Lisa (Linda Blair) and Kathy (Donna Wilkes) as they drove along a scenic road in the country practically screamed square harassment. Sticking her head out of the passenger side window of their VW Bus, Shelly threatens Lisa and Kathy with physical violence. Now, if you saw Shelly, who looks like she just parachuted in from the set of Future-Kill, and heard what she said, you might think twice about continuing down this particular road. But not Lisa and Kathy. No, they continue on their merry way.

(What's Linda Blair wearing? I mean, she can't be wearing pajamas, can she?) No, Linda Blair isn't wearing pajamas. She's wearing this long pink coat with a matching shirt. The cool thing about the shirt is that she's wearing a collar necklace and pearls. I thought these items gave her overall look the right amount of pizzazz.

As for Donna Wilkes... Her outfit, if you can call it that, isn't really worth examining.

Anyway, getting back to the Linda Blair. The scenes that lead up to Lisa and Kathy's confrontation with the "punkers," are the best ones for admiring Linda Blair's duds. Sure, the scenes, which feature Lisa and Kathy eating at a restaurant, getting coffee at the Burger King drive-thru and snagging a complementary bag of chips at Jim Fulton's convenience store, are pretty much filler, but you're not going to find a better showcase for her outfit.

On top of that, the scenes also allow us to witness Linda Blair's unique sense of humour. As Lisa and Kathy are approaching Jim Fulton's convenience store, a little girl, who obviously knows Lisa, introduces her to her new dolly. When Lisa asks what's the doll's name, the little girl replies: "She's an orphan... she doesn't have a name." To which Lisa responds: "That's nice." The way Linda Blair delivers this line and the face she makes while saying said line is classic Linda Blair. Funny, gorgeous, and not the type of woman to put up with little girl-fostered bullshit, Linda Blair is a national treasure.

Oh, and when I say, "national treasure," I'm not simply talking about the United States of America or Republika Hrvatska. I'm talking about the entire world. If that's the case, I should have called her a "global treasure." Whatever.

On their way to Lisa's parents' house in the woods, Lisa and Kathy run into the punks again. Having a bit of car trouble, the lead punk, Scratch (Brad Wilson), tries get them to stop and help, but ultimately fails to achieve this goal. Nonetheless, the car trouble scene gives us our first good look at all the punks.

Fans of cult and horror movies will notice right away that Robert Z'Dar (Samurai Cop) is playing one of the punks. Unfortunately, he doesn't really do that much in this film. Which is weird because he's Robert Z'Dar! If I made a movie with Robert Z'Dar, it would be all Z'Dar, all the Z'Time (this gag never gets old... or I should say, this gag never gets z'old).

As Scratch is ranting and raving, and Gibbs (Nels Van Patten) is laughing at his own jokes (he's like a coked up hyena), you will no doubt notice a vision of ghastliness in the form of Belle, a punk/goth chick in a long black coat. Hands down my favourite punker in the movie, Belle, like Robert Z'Dar, isn't given all that much to do. Which is a shame because the monkey noise she makes during the height of the home invasion scene is definitely one of the film's high points.

Oh, and I almost forgot, the actress who plays Belle is credited as "Bunki Z." I'll let that sink in for a bit.

All right, I'm back. When she's doing bit parts on Dynasty, she goes by the name "Bunky Jones." But when she's playing goth-punks in movies like Grotesque, she's Bunki Z! Yeah, baby!

It would seem that Lisa and Kathy and the punks have a date with destiny, as guess which house the punks decide to rob? That's right, Lisa's parents. Believing that Lisa's father, a horror film director named Orville Kruger (Guy Stockwell), has a stash of money and drugs hidden somewhere in his house, the punks show up unannounced during the night and demand that he hand over the goods.

When these "goods" are not handed over, things get a little hairy. It's at this point that the film takes a twisty left turn, when Patrick (Robert Apisa), Lisa's deformed brother, makes his presence felt. The action quickly moves outside, where Lisa and the punks must survive the elements. And, of course, the latter have to contend with Patrick, who wants to tear the punks apart.

There's a lot to like about the outdoor scenes. But I think most of you will agree that the fact the snowfall was genuine was the film's greatest asset in terms of creating actual suspense. Seriously, when I saw that it was really snowing, I started to feel concerned about the actors. This is especially true when it came to Linda Blair, who, like I mentioned earlier, is wearing nothing but a pair of pajamas. Now that's what I call commitment to one's craft.

If this twist wasn't enough, Grotesque gives another one when Tab Hunter (Polyester) literally runs onscreen. At first I thought Tab was running because someone had just told him that his paycheck had bounced. But that wasn't the case at all. Playing Lisa's "Uncle Rod," when Tab Hunter shows up the film goes in a completely different direction all-together. It's true, if you took away all the filler scenes and jettisoned the pointless fake out opening and the ultra-lame fake out ending, the film would barely run twenty minutes long. That being said, it's a pretty entertaining twenty minutes. Well, not really. But, hey, it's got punks, real snow and Linda Blair, what more do you want?

On the surface, this might look like yet another film that features ambiguously European men of European extraction trying to figure out what's going on inside Isabelle Adjani's head at any given moment. But it's not. It's called Subway, and it's directed by Luc Besson, and it stars Jean Reno as a rock drummer, Jean-Hugues Anglade as a roller-skating purse snatcher, Richard Bohringer (The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover) as a roving flower salesman, Michel Galabru as a gruff Métro cop and Christopher Lambert as the suavest bleach blonde safecracker this side of Toulouse Lautrec's quivering ball-sack. In other words, if I'm going to watch a movie where a bunch of ambiguously European men of European extraction are bewitched by Isabelle Adjani in the Métro de Paris circa 1985, it's going to be this one. Though, I have to say, it's a good thing Isabelle Adjani's character is played by Isabelle Adjani, or else I would have had a difficult time believing that such a large number of ambiguously European men of European extraction would lose their escargot-soaked minds so thoroughly over a woman. To be fair to all the ambiguously European men of European extraction who appear in this film, it's primarily Christopher Lambert's Fred who uses up the most energy trying to figure out what Isabelle Adjani is thinking.

Now, you would think, given the sheer amount of pure, undiluted sophistication he exudes throughout this movie, that Fred would have a no problem whatsoever figuring out what makes Isabelle Adjani tick. But not even he can crack this nut. Personally, I would have succumb to his charms the moment I saw his bleach blonde hairdo. That being said, I'm not Isabelle Adjani. (No shit.) What I mean is, Isabelle Adjani is probably the most powerful force in the known universe.

Okay, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. But I'm telling you, don't ever underestimate the power of Isabelle Adjani, especially when she's acting surly and sporting a DIY Iroquois hairdo (more on that in a minute).

It just dawned on me that other than the car chase that opens the film, the majority of the action takes place in the Métro de Paris. In fact...

(I'm really glad that dawned on you and all. But I want to hear more about Isabelle Adjani being all moody and junk with kooky hair.) I thought I'd build to that. In the meantime, maybe I'll talk about how the film manages to create the sense that the world outside doesn't exist and that everything important is taking place in this self-contained subterranean community that lives on the fringes of a once flourishing society. (Fuck that shit, man. You always do that. No, start jibber-jabbering about a cranky, Mohawk-sporting Isabelle Adjani, like, right now.)

I'm afraid I can't do that, unnamed voice in my head. There's more to Subway than Isabelle Idjani's (justifiably) unpleasant attitude and her punky hairstyles. It's sleek and modern. It's arty and new wave. It's funky and fresh. It's stylish and urbane. Let me put it this way. It's the kind of movie that makes you feel cooler for having watched it. And believe me, not a lot of films can say that.

After the aforementioned car chase has concluded, Fred (Christopher Lambert) takes refuge in the Métro de Paris. While down there, he meets all sorts of quirky characters. Even though he's credited as "Le Roller" (the first quirky character Fred meets), Jean-Hughes Anglade's character's name is actually "Jean-Louis." How do I know this? Um, he uses this name when he introduces himself to Isabelle Adjani. Duh. Anyway, with the help of Le Roller, Le Fleuriste (Richard Bohringer) and Le Batteur (Jean Reno), Fred manages to allude the goons who work for Isabelle Adjani's husband and Le Commissaire Gesberg (Michel Galabru), the head of the Métro cops.

The Métro cops want him because he's a thief, while Isabelle Adjani's husband wants back what he stole from his safe. Since Isabelle Adjani's Héléna was the one who invited Fred to the black tie affair at their house the previous night, they figure she's the one most qualified to reason with him. Big mistake, Isabelle Adjani's husband. You don't let your wife hang around a bleach blonde Christopher Lambert in the Métro de Paris circa 1985.

(Okay, I can understand not wanting her to hang out with a bleach blonde Christopher Lambert, and I even get the Métro de Paris thing. But what does 1985 have to do with anything?)

Take a look the people walking through the Métro de Paris. What do you see? That's right, not one man is wearing baggy Adam Sandler-approved shorts with flip-flops. You see, back in 1985, people had self-respect. Oh, sure, people have self-respect nowadays. But these people clearly don't ride the subway. Which reminds me. I've seen things you people wouldn't believe down there. I've seen sweaty tourists in fanny packs. I've seen grown men in beige cargo shorts. I've seen black ankle socks paired with the brownest of sandals. All these moments, unfortunately, won't be lost, in time... like [chokes up] tears... in... rain.

When Héléna's 10pm meeting with Fred to discuss her husband's "papers" goes badly (one of her husband's goons tries to handcuff him), Fred goes deeper underground. Jumping down onto the tracks, Fred makes his way through the bowels of the Métro de Paris (while the sinister yet beautiful music of Eric Serra throbs on the soundtrack). Still wearing the handcuff one of the goons tried to snag him with, Fred discovers a world unto itself.

Don't worry about the handcuffs dangling from Fred's wrist, Le Roller knows a guy, a guy named Big Bill, who specializes in unwanted handcuff removal.

With the thought of Héléna's black nylon-adorned legs never far from his mind, Fred seems determined to drag this out for as long as possible, as he has, to the surprise of no-one, fallen for the leggy enchantress. The big question is, however, does Héléna feel the same way?

She clearly isn't happy with her husband. But is she willing to jeopardize her cushy existence? If the attitude she displays at a dinner party thrown by some of her husband's annoying friends is any indication, she's definitely open to the idea.

It should go without saying, but Isabelle Adjani's hair during the dinner party fiasco is to die for. Punk chic, anyone?

While the film has some pretty energetic action scenes here and there, and guns are pointed at people in anger every once and awhile, the film is essentially a modern romance, one with, get this, two musical numbers (in an effort to go straight, Fred decides to start a rock band). If you don't believe me, check out the scene where Fred and Le Roller take turns dancing with Héléna in the food court. It's filled with whimsy and tenderness. Which shouldn't come as a surprise, as a lot of Luc Besson's films have moments like this. But still, I wasn't expecting to be so thoroughly moved.

How's this for a fun-fact: The Belgian EBM band à;GRUMH... have a song called "Drama In The Subway," and Jean Reno's Le Batteur character reminded me of SΔ3 Evets, à;GRUMH...'s founder. [Special thanks to Digital Orc and Keenan at Eyesore Cinema for recommending this movie.] Film Review Links, A-Z

A spine-tingling taint-moistener of the highest order, Hellgate is a fever-inducing nightmare come to life for one reason, and one reason only. No, not because the film, directed by William A. Levey (Skatetown, USA) and written by Michael O'Rourke, features women who walk through walls. And not because a biker gets axed in the head. No, the reason this film had me toweling off so many damp areas after it was over was because I saw Ron Palillo, Arnold Horshack from TV's Welcome Back Kotter, naked. I know, you're thinking to yourself: So what if you saw Ron Palillo, Arnold Horshack from TV's Welcome Back Kotter, nude for a brief second as his character, oh, let's say, got into the shower. Well, that's just it. He's not naked for a "brief second." I didn't have my stopwatch handy, but I'd say Ron Palillo, Arnold Horshack from TV's Welcome Back Kotter, is naked for at least three minutes. And get this, he's naked in a manner I've never seen anyone naked before. Straddling his naked girlfriend on the bed after they just had sex on, Ron Palillo, Arnold Horshack from TV's Welcome Back Kotter, proceeds to give her a back massage. Think about it. You're lying naked on your stomach with Ron Palillo's jizz-spent cock and balls pressing tightly against your recently waxed coin-slot. How weird is that? It's highly irregular, if you ask me.

It wouldn't shock me to learn that Ron Palillo's razor-wire-esque pubic hair caressed her buttery anus with a forceful yet gentle swooshing motion. I know that's not the image most of you want rattling around inside your heads at the moment. But you've got to remember, I'm not the type of person to shirk the sight of a naked Ron Palillo, Arnold Horshack from TV's Welcome Back Kotter, straddling a naked woman for an extended period of time. If anything, I'm the type of person who welcomes the sight of a naked Ron Palillo, Arnold Horshack from TV's Welcome Back Kotter. I say, bring it on.

In an expected twist, three women make plays for Ron Palillo's cock in this movie. It would have been four, but Bobby (Joanne Warde) is a staunch lesbian. More on Bobby in a second. Playing Matt... Actually, two women make plays for Ron Palillo's cock, one of the women, Pam (Petrea Curran), already owns Ron Palillo's cock.

As I was saying. Playing Matt, a college student of some kind, Ron Palillo must fight the urge to have sexual intercourse with a diner waitress played by Kimberleigh Stark (Cyborg Cop and Cyborg Cop II) and a mysterious woman named Josie Carlyle (Abigail Wolcott), an apparition who thinks she's leggy as all get out.

(She's not leggy as all get out?) Oh, don't get me wrong, she's leggy. I just don't think she's as leggy as she thinks she is. Plus, she seems to think that she has pretty hands. (Huh?) Just watch the way she moves her hands in this movie. You'd think she was modeling gloves or something. I, on the other hand, have pretty hands. Yet, you don't see me constantly shoving them in people's faces, practically begging the meaty-pawed masses to bask in the ethereal creaminess of their ghost-like delicacy.

Anyway, while Josie uses her leggy, but not as leggy as she thinks they are, legs to snag herself some rarefied Horshackian boy-cunt, the diner waitress uses clothes and make-up.

Now, most people who lived during the 1980s utilized the styles of the decade quite sparingly. A neon scrunchie here, a pair of parachute pants there. Your average citizen, though, merely dabbled with the 1980s. The diner waitress in Hellgate, however, said, fuck that, and told the clerk at the 1980s store to give her everything the decade had to offer.

Meaning, her character is walking advertisement for the 1980s. Yet, despite her commitment to the 1980s, she is, like Josie, unable to secure herself a juicy slice of Palillo's pasty penis for penetration purposes.

What is it about Ron Palillo circa 1989 that makes him so damned desirable to human females?

Remember that scene in The 40 Year-Old Virgin where Seth Rogen tells Steve Carell to act David Caruso from the movie Jade before hitting on a bookstore employee played by Elizabeth Banks? Yeah, well, Seth Rogen could have easily told Steve Carell to act like Ron Palillo from Hellgate instead and not lost one iota of douchebag-adjacent swagger (the majority of humans currently walking the face of the Earth owe their very existence to douchebag-adjacent swagger).

When the film opens, we're introduced to three friends, Bobby, Pam and Chuck (Evan J. Klisser), who are telling scary stories by the fireplace in their cabin in Sierra Forest. What struck me about the opening scene was the actresses who play Bobby and Pam. While reciting scripted dialogue in a convincing manner isn't exactly their strong suit, they both have certain qualities about them that I found appealing. This bodes well for the rest of the movie, as no matter how putrid things get, at least two of the film's female leads are interesting to look at.

Getting back to the ghost stories. Unsatisfied with the caliber of ghost stories Chuck was telling, Bobby decides to share with the group the tale of the "Hellgate Hitchhiker."

Taking place in the 1950s, the story involves a woman named Josie and an unruly gang of bikers. Entering Jay's Diner with a moronic elan, Josie... Seriously, Josie. What were you thinking? The way she just saunters into diner without making sure the diner isn't crawling with unruly bikers beforehand was beyond aggravating. I know, she's there to pick up an apple pie for her father. But still, the steady stream of customers fleeing the diner after the unruly bikers arrive should have clued you in to dangers that lay ahead.

That being said, if Josie never did enter Jay's Diner, there would be no Hellgate. You know what that means, right. (We wouldn't get to see Josie running around an authentic 1890s ghost town in her black panties.) Well, yeah, that. I was thinking more along lines of: We would never get to see Ron Palillo naked. Either way, a lot amazing things wouldn't have occurred if Josie had never set foot in Jay's Diner. So, thank you, Josie. Thank you for setting in motion the events that ultimately lead to your death.

Actually, death isn't the right word for what happens to Josie. You see, Jonas (Victor Melleny), an employee who works for Lucas Carlyle (Carl Trichardt), Josie's dad and the owner of Lucas Carlyle's Hellgate, an 1890s-style ghost town, finds a magic crystal while poking around in the town gold mine. And like any good employee, Jonas dutifully bringing the magic crystal to Lucas. When it's discovered that the magic crystal can bring dead things back to life, Lucas heads down to the local cemetery to resurrect his dead daughter.

However, instead coming back normal, Josie is doomed to wander the roads luring men, and, I suppose, women, to Hellgate.

Anyone care to guess who Zombie Josie is going to lure tonight? That's right, it's Ron Palillo's Matt Coleman. Who, if it weren't for Chuck's wonky directions, would be at the cabin straddling Pam.

Oh, and before Matt meets Zombie Josie, he flirts with Kimberleigh Stark's diner waitress. I was being serious, by the way, when suggested that Miss Stark bought everything at the 1980s store. In fact, she looks like one of those people you see nowadays who dress up in so-called "80s clothes" for Halloween. In other words, it comes across as a little too '80s, if you know what I mean.

Instead of taking Matt to Hellgate, Zombie Josie has him drive her home (which is in Hellgate, but not in Hellgate proper). There, Zombie Josie shows Matt her leggy, but not as leggy as she think they are, legs. Just as they're about to kiss, Matt remembers Pam, his interesting looking girlfriend, who, I'm sure, isn't going to be all that thrilled when she learns that he's been out cavorting with a blonde zombie.

After escaping from Zombie Josie (Lucas nearly zaps him with his magic crystal as he casually flees the scene), Matt scolds Chuck for giving him wonky directions. "You know you're an asshole," he tells him. Matt reaffirms this by saying, "You really are." To hit the point home, Matt adds, "I mean it."

Kooky fun-fact: The whole, "You're an asshole... You really are... I mean it," bit is used a total of three times over the course of the movie.

Technically, the movie should be over. But for some strange reason, Bobby, Pam, Chuck and Matt all decide to go to Hellgate. (The place where Matt was nearly killed?) The very same. On the bright side, Bobby, thanks to an impromptu can-can number, discovers that she's a lesbian. While the film doesn't really come out and say it, it's obvious to anyone with half a brain that the scene where Bobby watches five women kick up a storm can-can-style is her coming out scene.

Now that I think about it. The reason Bobby, Pam, Chuck and Matt decide to go to Hellgate is because they're drawn to it. Much in the same way Candace Hilligoss is drawn to the Saltair Pavilion in Carnival of Souls. Now that I think about it some more. The plot's of Hellgate and Carnival of Souls are eerily similar. The biggest difference of course is that Hellgate has a naked Ron Palillo, a cunnilingus scene, a mutant exploding goldfish, and a pretty sly reference to Miami Vice. Film Review Links, A-Z

Watch out Rambo, Indiana Jones and 1980s-era Dire Straits, Weird Al Yanković is about to mock your ass with extreme prejudice in the mildly amusing UHF, the Fran Drescher film with not as much Fran Drescher as I would have liked. Don't you just hate it when that happens? No, not when 1980s-era Dire Straits gets made fun of by Weird Al Yanković. I'm talking about when you sit down to watch a Fran Drescher movie, but what you get instead is a Victoria Jackson movie. Granted, Victoria Jackson isn't in this film all that much either. However, as most sane people will tell you, any time screen time is taken away from the never not adorable Fran Drescher, Yum-Yum gets angry. Oh, and, yes, you're not seeing things, Victoria Jackson is the female lead. I know, who in their right mind would cast Victoria Jackson in anything, let alone the lead in a major motion picture? This is Orion Pictures (Desperately Seeking Susan and Making Mr. Right) we're talking about, not some dinky ass TV show on public access. At any rate, think about all the people who could have played Weird Al's girlfriend instead. Personally, I would have gone with Julie Brown or Judy Tenuta, as they're both... well, they're both awesome. But in reality, just about anyone would have been a better choice. I know that's a harsh thing to say, but Miss Jackson is about as interesting as a shoddily upholstered chair that only comes in beige.

On the bright side, we do get four separate and distinct Fran Drescher outfits in this movie. Yeah, yeah, we get at least five separate and distinct Fran Drescher outfits in your average episode of The Nanny. But I'll take whatever I can get, Fran Drescher outfit-wise.

Of course, I realize that back in 1989, when this film came out, it wasn't promoted as the film to see that summer for fans of Fran Drescher's unique sense of fashion. But this isn't 1989, is it? No, it isn't. Which means if I want to judge the film strictly from a Fran Drescher-related point of view, I'm going to. Who's going to stop me? Exactly. Nobody.

In fact, Fran Drescher is all I could think about, as I watched a fake commercial for Spatula City, a store that only sells spatulas, and a post-Fridays Michael Richards blast children in the face with a fire hose. Actually, this applies to my everyday as well, as Fran Drescher is never far from my mind. Can you believe that I don't own the complete series of The Nanny on DVD? What the hell is wrong with me? Don't answer that, by the way, it's one of them rhetorical question thingies.

If the idea of Michael Richards blasting children in the face with a fire hose sounds sexual to you, then I'm afraid you ain't hooked up right. Believe or not, I'm talking about an actual fire hose. And get this, it's the reward you get for finding a marble in a kiddie pool filled with oatmeal on Stanley Spadowski's Clubhouse, a re-tooled version of Uncle Nutzy's Clubhouse, a kids show on Channel 62, a struggling UHF television station.

Well, I should say, formerly struggling UHF television station. You see, when George Newman (Weird Al Yanković) and his friend Bob (David Bowe) take over Channel 62, it's in shambles. But that all changes when... Well, um, actually, it's not all that bad. I mean, look who's working at the front desk... (Let me guess, is it Fran Drescher?) Careful, man. I'm not digging your derisive tone. But, yeah, it's Fran Drescher.

Playing the delightfully named Pamela Finklestein, Fran Drescher openly complains to George and Bob upon their arrival about the lack of advancement at this TV station (she figures, since she's worked there for two years, that she should be the station's lead roving reporter by now).

I'm not sure about this, but the way the camera would focus on George and Bob's stunned faces every now and then as they listened to Pamela whine about her lack of advancement seems to imply that Fran Drescher's voice is annoying. They, co-writer and director Jay Levey and co-writer Weird Al Yanković, wouldn't do that, would they? Nah, they wouldn't do that. Even if they did, so what? She has the voice of an angel.

I don't mean to alarm any Frannies... What? No good? How 'bout Dreschers? Franophiles? No, Frannies is the way to go. As I was saying, I don't mean to alarm any Frannies (fans of actress Fran Drescher) out there, but Fran Drescher doesn't appear in UHF (a.k.a., believe it or not, "The Vidiot from UHF") until the sixteen minute mark. Of course, any true Franny worth their weight in gourmet mustard would already know that.

In the meantime, we have to endure a steady barrage of lame sight gags. I will say this, I did make a laughing sound when George Newman drops a dog in the punch bowl at a party. He just drops it... in the punch bowl. Classic.

The reason he drops the dog in the punch bowl is because his Uncle Harvey (Stanley Brock) and Aunt Esther (Sue Ane Langdon) have some good news for him. Well, I don't know if it's good news. Nevertheless, Uncle Harvey is going to let George run the rundown television station he just won in a poker game.

After checking out the place, and meeting Philo (Anthony Geary), the station's eccentric chief engineer, George, along with his pal Bob, set about turning around Channel 62's fortunes.

And... we have Fran Drescher! What a relief.

While the scene where George hand delivers a package that was supposed to go to Channel 8, a network affiliate, seems pointless at first. It does set the stage for the meeting between George Newman and Stanley Spadowski (Michael Richards), the second most important character in the UHF universe. Do I have to say who the most important character is? I didn't think so.

On top of establishing that the owner of Channel 8, R.J. Fletcher (Kevin McCarthy), is a dick (he thinks people like Stanley Spadowski should be put to sleep), and that Stanely Spadowski loves mops, the scene shows that treating people shabbily can have unforeseen circumstantial consequences. Fired as the Channel 8 janitor for misplacing a file he didn't misplace, Stanley Spadowski ends up working as Channel 62's janitor. Which sets the stage for Channel 8's downfall.

I know, you're thinking to yourself: How can a slightly retarded janitor with an unhealthy obsession with mops bring down the number one television station in the city? It's simple, really. After being dumped by his girlfriend Teri (Victoria Jackson), he stood her up on her birthday, George is too depressed to perform as Uncle Nutzy on Uncle Nutzy's Clubhouse (a demented kids show). As he's heading out to a local bar with Bob to drink his troubles away (one blueberry daiquiri, please), he suggests that Stanley Spadowski finish the rest of the show.

To everyone's surprise, Stanley Spadowski is quite the performer, and the show, now obviously titled, Stanley Spadowski's Clubhouse, becomes a smash hit. Brimming with confidence, this new-found success causes George to create more hits shows, such as: Wheel of Fish (hosted by the hilarious Gedde Watanabe... "Stupid! You're so stupid!") and Raul's Wild Kingdom (an animal show hosted by Trinidad Silva from his apartment... "We don't need no stinkin' badgers!").

Getting back to Fran Drescher for a second. Unless Fran Drescher's character is dating Noodles the cameraman (Billy Barty) behind everyone's back, why doesn't George ask her out? With Teri now out of the picture, this is the perfect time for him to make play for Fran Drescher. If I had to point out one major flaw in UHF, it would have to be George's taste in women. Granted, some people will tell that Fran Drescher and Victoria Jackson are equally annoying. But you can't sit there and tell me with a straight face that you would rather hook up with Victoria Jackson over Fran Drescher. Of course you can't.

When word gets around that Channel 62 is now number one in the ratings (thanks to shows like, Strip Solitaire and Bowling For Burgers), Channel 8's R.J. Fletcher plans to put Channel 62 out of commission once and for all. The fact that R.J. Fletcher didn't laugh maniacally when he hatches his plan seemed out character. Anyway, will George Newman and his plucky band of boob-tube troublemakers be able to resist the corporate shenanigans of Channel 8? Probably.

For the best results, make sure to watch UHF alongside Tapeheads, as these films are like kindred spirits. Colourful films that satirize and/or ridicule pop culture from the late 1980s, these movies are your best bets for understanding the spirit/mood of that particular period of history. In order to make it a trilogy (why watch two films when you can watch three?), I'd throw Earth Girls Are Easy in there as well. Yeah, why not? And unlike UHF and Tapeheads, Earth Girls Are Easy had the sense to cast Julie Brown (though, to be fair, she did write that movie). Seriously, though, what were you thinking, Weird Al? No Julie Brown?!? Unacceptable!

The Granny (Luca Bercovici, 1995)

Vampire's Kiss (Robert Bierman, 1988)

Streetwalkin' (Joan Freeman, 1985)

Fingers (James Toback, 1978)

The Loveless (1981)

The Night Before (Thom Eberhardt, 1988)

Marquis (Henri Xhonneux, 1989)

Grey Gardens (Albert and David Maysles, 1975)

Teenage Caveman (Larry Clark, 2002)

Mahakaal (Shyam Ramsay and Tulsi Ramsay, 1993)

A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge (Jack Sholder, 1985)

A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors (Chuck Russell, 1987)

A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master (Renny Harlin, 1988)

She Killed in Ecstasy (Jess Franco, 1971)

Vampyros Lesbos (Jess Franco, 1971)

Alien from L.A. (Albert Pyun, 1988)

Grotesque (Joe Tornatore, 1988)

Subway (Luc Besson, 1985)

Hellgate (William A. Levey, 1989)

UHF (Jay Levey, 1989)