House of Self-Indulgence

Why does Keanu Reeves go uncredited as 'Ortiz the Dog Boy'? The only reason I ask is because I happen to think that this is probably the best performance of his career. If you're wondering why I say that it's "probably" his best performance instead of saying that it's "hands-down" his best performance is because I haven't seen Bram Stoker's Dracula since it came out on home video. I know, his performance as Jonathan Harkness was universally panned. But I have a sneaking suspicion that time has been kind to his performance in that particular motion picture and now is the perfect... What's that? You say time hasn't been kind to Keanu Reeves' performance in Bram Stoker's Dracula. Huh. Well, if that's the case. I can confidently declare Keanu Reeves' turn as Ortiz the Dog Boy in Freaked to be the best Keanu Reeves performance of all-time. Yes, I realize that Keanu Reeves is still alive and could technically still top his performance in Freaked. But let's get real, people. This is Ortiz the Dog Boy we're talking about. In other words, this is as good as it gets, Keanu-wise. Wow, where did that come from? I never in a millions years would have I guessed that I would open a review with such a surplus of Keanu-based jibber-jabbering. I initially wanted to get in a fake argument with myself about Michael Stoyanov's ethnicity. But my inner UN Secretary-General (Ban Ki-Yum-Yum?) has informed me that I should tread lightly when it comes to matters that involve Balkan-centric ethno-cultural identity. So, I put the subject on the back-burner. I still think he's Macedonian... (Bup-bup. Tread lightly.)

Anyway, I can't believe Keanu Reeves got mentioned before pus. Which is weird, because I love pus. And I also love projectile vomit. And loud Styrofoam cups. And leggy stewardesses named, oh, I don't know, Francesca. And worms that dream of wiping they're own asses. And trolls named Stuey. And TEC-9-toting Rastafarian eyeballs. And, of course, references to Jake and the Fat Man.

Oh. My. God. When freak show impresario Elijah C. Skuggs (Randy Quaid, my favourite Quaid, by the way - don't let the "Hollywood Star Whackers" bring you down) mentioned Jake and the Fat Man, I nearly lost it.

After about three straight minutes of J.A.T.F.M.-based losing it, I eventually found it. And when I did, I was shocked to discover that this movie is actually quite awesome. Sure, the film doesn't fully explore the gender identity crisis (a.k.a. gender dysphoria - which is something I'm going through big time at the moment*) that Ernie (Michael Stoyanov) and Julie (Megan Ward) face throughout the bulk of this movie. Nor do they fully explore the gender identity crisis that Mr. T's Bearded Lady goes through, either.

He's told flat out that he would be better off without a dick. But is he? Is he better off? Honestly, I don't know. At least Elijah C. Skuggs lets her keep the beard... which was nice of him. He might be a weirdo, but he cares about his freaks. Well, sort of.

At any rate, imagine being attached to Megan Ward, like, all the time. Yeah, it sounds great on paper. But what if Megan Ward doesn't like you? And not only that, what if Megan Ward shows her dislike for you by punching you in the face? Even those who are adept at taking multiple punches to the face will grow tired of being repeatedly pummeled by an attractive blonde in a red beret. Oh, and don't bother running away. Wherever you go, Megan Ward goes. You know, because a mad scientist/card carrying weirdo glued you together using a controversial substance called Zygrot-24.

One of the perks of being the best friend of a successful television star is that you get to act like a douchey jackass on airplanes. The downside being, when said TV star decides to pursue/woo an attractive blonde environmentalist in a red beret (one who is down in South America protesting the very product your TV star friend is supposed to be promoting), you're the one who's probably going to feel a slightly coolish sensation on your hip area when the aforementioned mad scientist/card carrying weirdo starts slathering iridescent sludge all over it.

Actually, screw coolish, that iridescent sludge looks like it burns like a three-toed motherfucker.

Coolish, not coolish. The point is, being Ricky Coogan's best friend has its advantages and its disadvantages. Oh, Ricky Coogan. You greedy tool, you.

Played by Alex Winter, who also serves as the film's co-writer and co-director, Ricky Coogan is the star of the television series, Baker's Dozen, and Ghost Dude, a semi-successful movie about a... ghost... dude??? (the film's plot is never revealed).

Hoping to capitalize on his celebrity, the suits (i.e. William Sadler - the rest of the "suits" are skin-covered elderly puppets) over at E.E.S. (Everything Except Shoes) want Ricky to go to South American nation of Santa Flan (named after the patron saint of creamy desserts) to promote a banned fertilizer named–you guessed it–Zygrot-24.

Now, you would think that Ricky would be mucho eager to get down to the business of promoting Zygrot-24 given that he stands to earn five million dollars. But Ricky is too distracted by Megan Ward's Julie to focus on the task at hand. Down in Santa Flan to protest Zygrot-24, Julie is at first repulsed by Ricky, as he represents everything she's against in this world.

In a ironic twist, however, Julie starts to develop feelings for Ricky after he's transformed into a hideous freak.

It should be noted that Ricky's soulmate is actually Stuey Gluck (Alex Zuckerman), a loudmouth miscreant whom he shares a psychic connection with. Of course, the fact that Stuey (a.k.a. The Troll) is an obnoxious little kid will probably mean their relationship will be strictly platonic in nature. But still, I liked how Stuey goes out of his way to help Ricky in his time of need.

You could argue that the real star of Freaked isn't Alex Winter, Megan Ward or Brooke Shields as talk show host, Skye Daley, but special make-up artist, Screaming Mad George. Creating the looks for not one, but at least half a dozen freaks, Mr. Mad George's make-up work is astounding (I particularly liked the way Ricky Coogan's ghastly side glistened in the light of the moon).

And to make sure each freak is properly introduced, the film has a scene where an impromptu game of Hollywood Squares breaks out. Hosted by Keanu Reeves' Ortiz the Dog Boy, the game gives us our first look at many of the film's signature freaks.

Let's see, there was, Worm (Derek McGrath), Cowboy (John Hawkes), The Eternal Flame (Lee Arenberg), Rosie the Pinhead (Patti Tippo) and Bob Vila (Nicholas Cohn). Hold on, I don't think Bob Villa was a freak, he was just there to confuse audience members born after 1995.

In fact, there's a lot in this film that will confuse and bewilder people born after 1995. Yes, I realize that almost every film made before 1995 has the potential to confuse and bewilder today's youth. But not every film made before 1995 has a sly reference to Jake and the Fat Man. Or a Morgan Fairchild cameo, for that matter. Nonetheless, I would rather a film confuse and bewilder its audience than bore and anesthetize, that's for damn sure. And Freaked, the best merger of Freaks and The Great Escape to come out during the early 1990s, is definitely not boring. Not even close, bud!

* "At the moment"?!? Ha! Talk about being dishonest. More like the last twenty-five years. Extreme avoidant personality disorder + dysphoria = Pure hell. I'll be okay... hopefully.

Since my opinion regarding the quality of Abel Ferrara's King of New York might get lost in a half baked haze of nonsensical wordplay revolving around leggy floozies. I think I should state right up front that this movie rules. Sure, the extended gun battle/car chase sequence goes on a little too long, but the film is sexy, stylish and wonderfully violent. Okay, now that we got that out of the way, let's talk leggy floozies, shall we? After showing Christopher Walken's charismatic crime boss, Frank White, being released from prison, we're whisked inside some kind of bordello. The film has barely got underway, and I'm already up to my ears in leggy floozies. And not only that, one of the leggy floozies is wearing white stockings. At first I thought the leggy floozy in white stockings was played by Phoebe Legere (The Toxic Avenger Part II)–you know, since I've yet to see her in a movie where she doesn't wear white stockings. However, it's obvious that Phoebe Legere, who is credited as "Bordello Woman," is the floozy sitting at the piano. Well, whoever plays the leggy floozy in the white stockings in the bordello scene near the beginning of King of New York, I thought she did a bang up job at... being a leggy floozy. I mean, I really got the sense that she was leggy (the white stockings helped) and that she was a floozy (she's slobbering all over some pimp like he was a chew toy).

It should be noted that when the pimp goes outside to make a phone call at a nearby phone booth, he's gunned down by a gang of thugs. It would seem that the gunmen work for Frank White, who is already making his presence felt (he's only been out of prison for a few hours).

While I'll miss the leggy floozies who worked for the pimp who was filled full of lead, we're quickly introduced to Raye (Theresa Randle) and Melanie (Carrie Nygren), Frank's go-to leggy floozies. Or are they? Don't get me wrong, they're definitely leggy, especially Raye. But I wouldn't call Raye and Melanie floozies. And I wouldn't even call them gangster's molls. No, the services Raye and Melanie provide Frank go way beyond anything I've seen women do in a movie of this type.

Usually relegated to lounging sexily in the background, women are rarely given much to do in movies about gangsters. Well, I think it's safe to say that Frank White isn't your typical gangster. And this irregular approach also applies to the women in his life.

Integral to the day-to-day operation of his criminal empire, which he runs out of a suite in the Plaza Hotel, Faye and Melanie act as his Frank's bodyguards and do his bookkeeping on a pair of 1989-era computers. If you're wondering which of them Frank is fucking, don't be crude. If you must know, he ain't fucking either of them. No, Frank is actually dating Jennifer (Janet Julian), who also happens to be his lawyer. So, you see, women play a big role in Frank's life. Which, I must say, is something I found quite refreshing.

Some might argue that the pronounced role that women play gives the film an unrealistic air. I say, poppycock to that. If you want to see a bunch of guys doing gangster shit in and around New York City, watch one of them Martin Scorsese flicks, or better yet, try the Godfather films. If you want to watch a New York City gangster movie that has a slightly oft-kilter vibe to it, watch an Abel Ferrara film. Hell, even the two episodes of Miami Vice he directed ("The Dutch Oven" and "The Home Invaders") have a slightly oft-kilter vibe about them.

However, and this should come as no surprise, the bulk of this particular film's oft-killer vibe can be attributed to Christopher Walken, whose performance is... well, it's... you know. Let's just say, it's more Walken-esque than usual. In other words, he glares, he dances (to Schooly-D), he shoots people... repeatedly. It's classic Walken.

The fact that his character is so beloved by the likes of Laurence Fishburne (Jimmy Jump, yo), Giancarlo Esposito and Leonard L. Thomas, who play Frank White's fiercely loyal lieutenants, does nothing but add to the film's already surreal temperament. Oh, and it doesn't hurt that Steve Buscemi plays Test Tube, Frank White's "chemist." I love the scene where Fishburne (whose performance is beyond manic - he can't even order chicken without incident) and Buscemi team up to take down a gang of rival drug dealers. Sadly, Buscemi's character goes AWOL just as Frank is about to consolidate his power.

Oh, did I mention that the leggy floozy in the white stockings from the bordello scene was wearing a peaked cap? I didn't? That's weird. Well, I'm mentioning it now.

Which is also a good time to mention the woman sitting behind Frank and Jennifer at a play. You see, she's wearing a peaked cap as well. Was this a trend or something back then? Either way, I'm digging it.

With the exception of the cops, played by Victor Argo, Wesley Snipes, David Caruso and Frankenhooker's James Lorrinz (I love this guy), everyone in this film is impeccably dressed.

Speaking of Frankenhooker, Lia Chang, who plays one of the hookers (her butt, if memory serves me correctly, becomes a part of "Frankenhooker") is the gangster's moll to a drug dealer named Larry Wong (Joey Chin). Seen at a screening of Nosferatu and again during a shoot-out in a Chinatown alleyway, Lia Chang always has this knowing smirk on his face that churns my butter in the right direction, if you know what I mean.

I almost forgot. Like Raye and Melanie, Lia Chang is no mere leggy floozy. She gets in a back-alley SMG battle with Christopher Walken while wearing a super-tight black mini-dress. And trust me, it's as awesome as it sounds.

Filmed at a time when New York City was still the coolest place on Earth (the spring of 1989), King of New York, despite the cliched subject matter (I'm not a fan of mob/gangster movies - I find their antics to be distasteful, overly macho and boring as fuck), manages to stand out from goombah/gangsta crowd. Anchored by Christopher Walken, and, to a lesser extent, Laurence Fishburne, who both give wonderfully unhinged performances, the film is, like I said earlier, sexy, stylish and violent. Oh, and apparently the word "fuck" is uttered a total of 90 times.

Warning: This review may contain ramblings of a deeply personal nature. Viewer discretion is advised. I've always wondered what compelled me to see Orlando three times in theatres back in the early 1990s. Of course, my first trip to the multiplex wasn't that unusual (I was quite the avid cinema-goer back then - if it looked halfway decent, I'd go see it). But what prompted me go a second and a third time? The lavish costumes? Hmm, maybe. The detailed production design and stunning cinematography? Perhaps. How 'bout that haunting score? Nah. Don't get me wrong, it's good. But I don't think the score was the catalyst that lead me to keep coming back. Oh, I know. It must have been the otherworldly presence of the great Tilda Swinton. After all, she is amazing in this (and she better be, the talented Scot appears in every single scene). Or did it, and this might be a bit of a long-shot, have something to do with the fact that the titular character, who starts off the film as an English nobleman, wakes up one morning to discover that their gender is now female? Well, hot dog! We have a wiener! The sight of Tilda Swinton switching genders from male to female seemingly overnight must have been a liberating sight for me and others who have always felt deep down that they were meant to be women. (Wait. What the fuck?) In case you didn't know, I've been struggling with gender identity my entire life. In recent years, I've noticed a sudden uptick in my desire to begin my transition from male to female and start living more authentically (the desire to transition right this minute is as intense as its ever been). But every time I attempt to do so, I find myself paralyzed by my old friends, fear and anxiety.

The sad truth is, it looks like my childhood obsession with Boy George (I still can't believe my parents allowed a ten year-old "boy" to adorn "his" bedroom wall with hundreds of pictures of Boy George... it baffles the mind), my days as a teenage crossdresser ("I Was a Teenage Crossdresser," now there's a movie I would watch), that brief period when I wore black leggings with black shorts and Doc Martens to goth-industrial clubs (much to the chagrin of my so-called friends - to them it looked like I was wearing pantyhose - they eventually stopped returning my calls) and my predilection for using female avatars whenever playing video games or posting on blogs, message boards and social media will have to be the extent of my flirtation with womanhood. *sniff*

Or will it? Don't tell anyone, but I've started wearing women's clothing again. And if you ask me, there's no better therapy. Seriously, one should never underestimate the healing power of a sequin mini-skirt (just so you know, you can usually find me browsing the skirt aisle at Value Village, a.k.a. Savers, every Tuesday). And thanks to diet and exercise, my body has a slightly feminine appearance to it. In other words, I can still rock a sequin mini-skirt like nobody's business. Oh, and not to brag (even more), but my skinny, relatively blemish-free arms are to die for. And someone told me earlier this year that my hands look like the hands of a woman. Which made me extremely happy (even though I think they were trying to insult me).

However, my patchy five o'clock shadow causes me to experience nightmarish amounts of dysphoria. Meaning, I probably won't be passing as a woman anytime soon. Which is kind of a bummer, as I feel like I'm running out of time and would really like to ~~die~~ live the rest of my life a woman. Or, at the very least, ~~die~~ live the rest of my life as a closer version of what I believe to be my true self.

Let's get back to Orlando for a second, shall we? I'm starting to get depressed (just thinking about not being able to transition makes my eyes expel a strange watery substance). Shifting back to review mode in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. The film must have had a profound impact on my youngish mind when I first saw it. I mean, to change genders by simply waking up in the morning. Think about that. Life would be so much easier. At least for me it would. It should be noted that most of the film's other points about love, poetry, politics, society, sex and birth probably went straight over my head during those initial viewings. That being said, I do pick up new things from the film, which is written and directed by Sally Potter and based on the novel by Virginia Wolf, upon every subsequent screening of the film (I try to watch it at least once a year). It's like a Merchant Ivory Production crossed with a Derek Jarman/Peter Greenaway film, but with a feminist edge and tons of camp-appeal.

Have I mentioned that the film is sumptuous as all get out? No? Well, it is. The scenes that take place entirely on a frozen lake during the reign of King James I are especially sumptuous. The sight of royal servants in impractical clothing skating across the ice is one of the film's more ridiculous fashion moments. Which is saying a lot, as the film seems to repeatedly relish in exposing the impracticality of Western European fashion trends from the 1600s, 1700s and 1800s.

In fact, watching people try to do things other than sit and stand in these outfits is the film's best reoccurring gag. And we're talking men and women in chunky high heel (buckle-adorned) shoes, giant wigs, feathery hats, olive tights, frilly shirts, puffy shirts, ornate blazers, super-wide skirts (hoop petticoats), and ruff collars as far as the eye can see.

The other interesting fashion aspect of the film is that when Lord Orlando (Tilda Swinton) switches to being Lady Orlando (also, of course, played by Tilda Swinton), the transition isn't that far-fetched.

I'd argue that Orlando's clothing as a Lord was more feminine than her Lady outfits. Now, if I had to criticize the film about one thing, it's that we don't get to spend much time with Lady Orlando. Sure, both genders are granted three chapters each (boy mode gets "Love,""Poetry" and Politics" and girl mode gets "Society,""Sex," and "Birth"), but I feel Lady Orlando gets short shrifted (though, the way Sally Potter conveys the passage of time during the Lady Orlando hedge maze sequence is kind of brilliant). That being said, I've always appreciated the film's spry pace, as Orlando never seems to drag. Which is a common criticism leveled at period dramas.

Then again, Orlando isn't your average period drama. Need proof? Tilda Swinton is constantly breaking the forth wall. Quentin Crisp(!) plays Queen Elizabeth I and the film is bookended by Jimmy Somerville of Bronski Beat (his distinctive falsetto opens and closes the film). Oh, and Lothaire Bluteau (Jésus de Montréal) plays a Turkish khan. And get this, Billy Zane's in it! I know, 'nuff said, right?

The film is, to put it bluntly, gorgeousness personified. No film has ever spoken to me this profoundly; it's basically pure bliss. So, yeah. Hold up. Did I just out myself as a trans-woman? I think I just did. Weird. Well, no one reads anymore. That is to say, my secret is probably still safe with me (coming out in a movie review for a movie no one other than me and maybe two other people cares about is rather ingenious, if I do say so myself). If people do end up reading this, so what? I mean, what is gender, anyway? It's meaningless, that's what it is. You know what else is meaningless? Labels. (You go, girl!)

Ha! Ha! Ha! (What's so funny?) It just occurred to me that my name is Yum-Yum; talk about being girly. Speaking of which, I wish there was more Yum-Yum in me out in the real world. As Yum-Yum, who is pretty much the epitome of fearless, forthright and fabulous, would tell my gender dysphoria and all my other hang-ups to go jump in the proverbial lake. At any rate, it would be cooler if it was easier to transition; my AvPD causes me to languish in a perpetual state of self-imposed isolation, so I'm pretty much on my own (what I need is a Trans-Helper, which is kind of like Hamburger Helper, except, instead of helping hamburger, they help Trans people). And it would be even cooler if I stopped making excuses (Wah! I'm too old... or... I won't make an attractive woman... Boo-hoo!). Confused. Terrified. And filled with doubt. Yay!

Oh, and before I go. I'd like to give a quick shout-out to all the people who have transitioned and are happier for doing so. You inspire me and give me hope that one day I'll be able to join you. Until that day comes, I just want to say that I love you all. *hugs*

Hey, would you look at that. This film, by showing us a close-up of a Pennsylvania license plate, is actually trying to convince us that it takes place in... well, Pennsylvania. That's funny, because the film, Tango of Perversion (a.k.a. Tango 2001), is so Greek it hurts. Okay, maybe it's not as Greek as say, oh, I don't know, Zorba The Greek, but it's... (Um, that movie, in truth, is a U.K./Greece co-production, where is Tango of Perversion is full-on Greek.) Whatever. I'm not going to let the film's lame attempt to trick me into thinking that this movie is anything but Greek dampen my enjoyment of what is a pretty sleazy enterprise. And I mean that as a compliment. Anyway, it was, I must say, refreshing to see a piece of filmed entertainment that boasted characters I admired. In the majority of movies I watch, the people in them are doing crap I don't care about. Talking to each other in a respectful manner, engaging in heterosexual intercourse, saving the galaxy from the forces of evil and/or darkness and not doing shitloads of cocaine, these people make me sick. This flick, however, is chock-full of chronic nail biters, floppy-haired voyeurs, willowy slutbags, needy drug addicts, milfy skanks, suave gigolos, dentally-challenged whores, impotent necrophiliacs, slinky hosebeasts, filthy lesbians and pearl necklace-adorned goddesses. In other words, people I can relate to.

Wait just a gosh darn minute. I just realized that the list of so-called relatable people I just made includes "impotent necrophiliacs." Now, I would like to point out that I, in no way, condone the practice of necrophilia (even the impotent variety). If someone dies, dump their body in the woods. Don't, I repeat, don't, have sex with them. Unless, of course, the person who is about to be dead tells you it's okay. Then have at it, my corpse boning bubala. But otherwise, always dispose of human remains in an orderly fashion. If you find yourself in a bit of a pickle, I suppose it's okay to put the body in a car and push it over a cliff.

Which is exactly the kind of pickle Joachim (Vagelis Voulgaridis) finds himself in on several occasions over the course of this movie. To be fair, I wouldn't call two body-related pickles to be "several." But I think most people will agree that it's more than most people have to deal with during your average week.

Wouldn't you know it, it turns out that Joachim is the impotent necrophiliac I alluded to earlier. And he's a floppy-haired voyeur to boot. Well, at first he was just an impotent voyeur who happened to have floppy hair. It wasn't until his "friend," Steve (Lakis Komninos), a suave gigolo, started accidentally murdering filthy lesbians that Joachim discovered his impotence only applied to the living. Meaning, blood rushes directly to his penis the moment someone shapely dies.

You see, given that Joachim has a swanky pad on the outskirts of town, Steve and Rosita (Dorothy Moore), a filthy lesbian, manipulate him on a regular basis into letting them use his place to shag the women they meet at The Tango nightclub. Completely aware of what Steve and Rosita plan on doing in his home, Joachim has devised a way to watch (and film) their trysts without them knowing it.

Using a one-way mirror, Joachim watches and films Steve and Rosita go at it with a multitude of partners. Things get somewhat complicated when Steve and Rosita want to have sex with the same woman. Angry that Rosita has taken a needy drug addict named Joanna (Erika Raffael) back to Joachim's place, Steve shows up and starts slapping both of them around.

While Joanna manages to run away, Rosita isn't so lucky. While it's obvious that Steve didn't plan on killing Rosita. That's exactly what happens. Instead of calling the police, Steve simply leaves. Cue Joachim's necro-awakening.

Curious to know what Joachim did with Rosita's body (like I said, he just left her there), Steve is shocked to learn that he's playing it cool. Meaning, not only did Joachim not report it to the police, he took it upon himself to get rid of her body. Of course, Joachim doesn't tell Steve that he had sex with Rosita's dead body before he put it in her car and rolled it off a cliff.

This brings up an important question: Who's worse? A man who accidentally murders lesbians, or a man who has sex with said accidentally murdered lesbians after their dead? I have to admit, that's a tough one. Both are kinda scum, but in totally different ways.

On the one hand, Steve represents the worst the 1970s has to offer. Smug, arrogant and totally pompous, Steve treats everyone around him like garbage. While Joachim is shy and nerdy, the complete opposite. That being said, I don't know that many nerds who wear brown leather and crushed purple velvet suits. To be fair, nerds were different during the 1970s. In fact, besides a few social deficiencies here and there, nerds weren't all that dissimilar from normal people back in the 1970s.

Remember earlier when I said that this film was, and I quote: "Chock-full of willowy slutbags, milfy skanks, dentally-challenged whores, slinky hosebeasts and pearl necklace-adorned goddesses"? Well, I was actually talking about the same person. Now, you're probably thinking to yourself: Damn, this woman has to be pretty freakin' special to be described as a "milfy skank"and a "slinky hosebeast." Well, Jennifer Wynne is pretty freakin' special.

Playing, oh, let's call her, "Magda," Jennifer Wynne's classy sugar mama character is a big fan of Steve's cock, and wants to feel its indisputable hardness pounding inside her vagina on a semi-regular basis. Oh, and how do I know she's "classy"? Um, she wears backless dresses in the middle of the day. Duh. And, of course, these day time backless dresses sport humongous slits.

Despite her piss poor taste in cougar hawks (her lilac-laden vice grip masquerading as a pussy is totally unworthy of Steve's fleshy trouser abomination), Jennifer Wynne still manages to ooze class and sophistication. Unfortunately, Tango of Perversion was Jennifer Wynne's only film appearance. I know, I usually prefer it when actors only do one movie. But I need more Jennifer Wynne.

I mean, look at her. She's fucking fabulous!

Taking place at a time when... Wait a minute. Have I mentioned that this film is good and junk? (Sort of... I guess.) Just checking. It's just that I sometimes get carried away talking about a particular aspect of a film, that I forget to mention if the film is worthwhile or not. Well, it's clear that Tango of Perversion is worthwhile. For starters, the film is called "Tango of Perversion." Seriously, though, if you like Jess Franco and early 1970s Euro-fashions, there's a lot for you to love in this movie.

Quick transition update: Other than my brain continuing to flood my system with copious amounts of fear and doubt, there's nothing new to report (which isn't that shocking... I am, after all, the shyest person in the known universe - I plan on coming out to my mother in 2021 ;)). Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks to all the people who left positive comments on my Orlando review (the hardest review I have ever written). If you want to stay updated on my progress, you're probably better off checking my tumblr, Radioactive Lingerie (which is not, by the way, a porn blog... never has been... it's a fashion, aesthetics, Pac-Man puffy sticker and music blog). #Personal #Living Authentically #Transgender Stuff

Under most normal circumstances, I watch a movie, then I review it. Done, and done. In the case of this film, however, I watched it, and then decided right then and there that's there's no way I'm reviewing this. It's not that the film, directed by Elem Klimov, is lacking when it comes to boasting things that I'm interested in. I mean, it's got lots of shots of swampy forests (Polesia, baby), it has a super-cute Belarussian girl with strong Slavic thighs and it's filled with tons of authentic-looking Nazi scum acting all egregious and junk. Hell, it even has stocking tops and death slumping. I know, stocking tops and death slumping! Talk about having it all. On the other hand, it's been well over twenty-four hours since I watched Come and See (Иди и смотри or Ідзі і глядзі), and I still can't seem to shake it. Now, that's usually the sign that a movie has made an impression on the viewer. But that's just it, I don't want movies to make an impression on me; at least not the ones I normally review. For the most part, the movies I watch are typically forgotten five, maybe ten seconds after they're over. Sure, I might remember a few things here and there (especially if they're stocking top-related). But generally speaking, the whole thing becomes a bit of a blur. Hence the reason I like to watch the movies I review a second time in order to jog my memory of them. Well, as I already sort of implied, I'll never forget Come and See, as it will probably stay with me for a very long time.

It's not like the film is particularly violent or gory. There's just something oddly compelling about Flora's hellish journey through the untamed wilds of Nazi-occupied Belarus circa 1943. Oh, don't get me wrong, the film is definitely violent. But the violence is more psychological than anything else. Take, for instance, the scene where Flora (Aleksey Kravchenko), a wide-eyed teenage partisan in training, and the angelic, shapely as all get out Glasha (Olga Mironova) return to the former's village. Finding it abandoned, Flora, curious as to where his family might be, begins to run away from the village. However, as Glasha is running after Flora, she looks back and sees a pile of bullet-ridden naked corpses pilled against the side of a nearby house.

Even though we only get a brief glimpse of the violence that befell Flora's family, that's all that was needed to convey to the audience that something truly horrific had just happened.

The decision to keep the Nazi threat lingering in the shadows for as long as possible also added to the overall sense of dread. And, on top of that, it gave their eventual unveiling all the more power. In fact, and I think most viewers will agree, the sequence where the lowlifes belonging to the Oskar Dirlewanger-esque division of Waffen-SS men, a rag-tag collection of collaborators, common criminals, foreign volunteers and true believers, revel themselves in the harsh light of day to Flora and the audience for the very first time is the film's most jarring.

Loosely based on the Khatyn massacre (not to be confused with the Katyn massacre, an earlier event that saw thousands of Poles executed by the NKVD), where the Dirlewanger Brigade rounded up the all the civilians and herded them into barns, which they then set alight and blasted with rifle and machine gun fire, the build up to the actual massacre has a frenzied unrelenting quality about it that will paralyze some viewers.

Of course, some might say that being paralyzed by a movie is a bad thing. Personally, I find the idea of watching war movies, principally movies about World War II (a.k.a. The Great Patriotic War), as entertainment to be vulgar. So, I have no problem with the film's bleak tone. I'd even go as far as to say, the bleaker the better. And you can't get anymore bleak than Come and See.

Most so-called "Westerners" seem unaware that some of the most important battles of World War II were fought on the Eastern Front. And I'm glad movies like these exist in order to illuminate those who buy into the myth perpetuated by the racist Hollywood propaganda machine that John Wayne and those of his ilk defeated Hitler all by themselves.

Now, I wouldn't hold it against you if you were dismiss this film as Soviet propaganda sight unseen. After all, it was made in the Soviet Union (mind you, at the height of mid-1980s Gorbachevian glasnost). But the film rarely ever reeks of Soviet-style agitprop. Which, I'll admit, is something I expected it to do; I'm wary of any movie whose script needs government approval before going into production. But it doesn't... reek, that is. It's simply cinema at its most masterful.

It should be noted that one of the main reasons the film is so memorable has a lot to do with Aleksey Kravchenko's intense performance as Flora. Managing to project the anguish of his character with a simple look, the multiple shots of Aleksey's face reacting to the chaos swirling around him are some of the film's most indelible. In truth, it's Aleksey's trauma-laden face that will stay with me the longest. That, and the sight of that sexy Nazi chick (complete with swastika earrings - note to self: get ears pierced) death slumping against her recently crashed BMW R75, the stress of collision causing the tops of her jet-black Nazi stockings to become visible. I'll always remember that. Damn. I can't believe I just reviewed Come and See. I'm so freakin' versatile... it's not even funny (Witty, adorable and versatile... I'm, like, amazing). Oh, and for more on "death slumping," see my review of The Mad Foxes, a.k.a. the death slumpiest movie of all-time.

If you listen closely, you can still hear the crowds outside the theatres that were screening Timebomb way back in 1991 chanting: "What do we want? More Tracy Scoggins!!! When do we want her? Now!" over and over again. What's that? You say they were no crowds chanting anything of the sort outside the theatres that were screening this action-packed, early 1990s thrill ride? That's weird, I could have sworn there were crowds. But then again, my Tracy Scoggins-soaked medulla oblongata might have just conjured up these so-called crowds out of thin air out of frustration over the fact that there wasn't enough of her in this movie. Playing Ms. Blue, the lone female assassin in a group of brainwashed super-assassins with colourful code names, Miss Scoggins' icy turn as a ponytail-sporting government killer is, no pun intended, to die for. Sure, we might only get, oh, let's say, maybe half a dozen scenes that feature Tracy's slinky assassin character. But trust me, each one is worthy of a thousand ill-conceived sonnets. Despite the fact the picture I'm currently painting seems to be that of a film that lacks the horse sense to give Tracy Scoggins more screen time, Timebomb is actually a top-notch slab of filmed entertainment about, get this, a watchmaker who rides a bike to work.

Of course, there's more to it than that. But still, I like the idea of an action film that boasts a bike riding watchmaker as its central character. And it gets better. The watchmaker is played by Michael Biehn.

I know what you're thinking. And Patsy Kensit's blandly cute Dr. Anna Nolmar is thinking the exact same thing. When Dr. Anna walks into the vintage watch repair shop where Michael Biehn (Deadfall) works, you can tell right away that she wasn't expecting to find someone so youthful fixing antiquated time pieces. To be fair, Michael Biehn, whose character's name is "Eddie Kay," thinks the exact same thing about about Patsy Kensit when he finds out she's some kind of psychotherapist. Given that both "Eddie Kay" and Anna are in professions that are typically reserved for those who are a tad on the older side, you would think they would stop what they're doing and fuck... heterosexual style. But, surprisingly, they don't... fuck... heterosexual style. No, she gives him a watch to repair, and leaves. Though, she does hand him her business card. I know, it's so he can call her when the watch is ready. But deep down these two definitely have the hots for one another.

Anyway, after a long day of watch fixing, "Eddie Kay likes to unwind at Al's Diner, and... Hey, would you look at that. The waitress working behind the counter is played by none other than Julie Brown. I know it's early, but I like this movie already. I mean, Julie Brown and Tracy Scoggins? This is going to be good.

After awkwardly flirting with Julie Brown (who looks sultry as all get out in her waitress uniform), an explosion in a building across the street shakes the entire block. As the ensuing fire begins to spread, it's obvious that some people are still trapped inside. Without giving it much thought "Eddie Kay" runs into the burning building and saves a mother and her probably stupid baby.

As you might expect, Eddie Kay's heroics make the news. And that's when things get real for Eddie Kay. You see, the people who brainwashed Eddie in the 1970s are still out there. And some of them watch the news. One of these "people" turns out to be Col. Taylor (Richard Jordan), who immediately ensembles a team of assassins, including Tracy Scoggins' Ms. Blue and Mr. Brown (Billy Blanks), and starts making plans to murder Eddie's ass.

The only problem with this plan is that Eddie is also a trained assassin. The twist, however, being that Eddie is the only one who doesn't seem to know this. The scene where Billy Banks attempts to stab Eddie to death while he slept will no doubt remind some of viewers of The Bourne Identity. The look of surprise on Michael Biehn's face as he manages to stave off Billy Banks' attack is similar to the one Matt Damon sports after he subdues those Swiss cops in the park. Now, before you start accusing Doug Liman and the Bourne producers of ripping off Timebomb, you should remember that The Bourne Identity is based on a book that came out in 1980 and was also made into a TV movie in 1988 (Richard Chamberlain plays the titular Bourne).

The same goes for accusing Quentin Tarantino, and his film, Reservoir Dogs, of ripping off the idea for having characters with colour-themed code names. That idea originally came from The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3.

After each attempt to murder him goes awry, Eddie Kay slowly begins to realize that he's a bona-fide badass. The scenes that have Eddie Kay dragging Dr. Anna around L.A. will probably remind some of people of Michael Biehn's Kyle Reese from The Terminator, as both are desperate men fighting against overwhelming odds.

My favourite out of all the murder attempts that go awry has to be Michael Biehn's confrontation with Tracy Scoggins in the underground parking garage. (Why?) Oh, I'm sorry. I was just thinking about the slit on the back of Tracy Scoggins' skirt. So, yeah, I liked the way the slit enabled Tracy to move more fluidly as she tried to fuck Michael Biehn's shit up. And, of course, the multiple leg-friendly camera angles and the way her ponytail looked when it was bathed in shadowy, ponytail-enhancing darkness.

The shoot out at the most luxurious porno theatre ever (a porno theatre with stadium seating and a balcony?!?) was pretty great, too. Sure, Tracy Scoggins isn't in this scene, but I did enjoy the sight of Jim Maniaci's Mr. Grey crawling around on the sticky floors with a machine gun. In fact, I would put Mr. Grey's love of guns just behind Tracy Scoggins' Ms. Blue and Billy Banks' Mr. Brown in terms of things I loved about this movie.

Wait, did I say, "just behind"? Let's get real, people. Mr. Grey and Mr. Brown are miles behind Ms. Blue when it comes to delivering the awesome . If I had my way, I would have made Ms. Blue the focal point of the entire film. And, on top of that, I would have made her character a cyborg. (How do you know she wasn't a cyborg?) Excellent question. After all, the brainwashing process did look kinda cyborgy (it's like Tetsuo: The Iron Man meets Ghost in the Shell). As I was saying, I would have kept Billy Banks (he has great screen presence in this), but I would have given Tracy Scoggins more to do (way more).

And I definitely wouldn't have put her in a pair of jeans for her final scene. I mean, she wears skirts for the entire movie, but to then have her wears jeans all of a sudden? Outrageous! Maybe I ain't hooked up right, but the sight of Tracy Scoggins in jeans made me physically ill.

Despite the jean fiasco (Jeans?!? For God's sake. What were they thinking?), Timebomb is a slick action thriller with cyberpunk undertones that proves yet again that some the best movies from the 1980s were actually made during the early 1990s.

According to my not even close to being exhaustive research, when the labia majora is visible through a pair of tight pants, it's called a "camel toe." Isn't that weird? I mean, how did they come up... What's that? Why am I talking about vagina-based indentations in correlation with Missile to the Moon? Oh, I don't know. I just felt like illuminating all you fine folks about what I consider to be one of the kookiest slang terms the English language has to offer before I started yakking about space and junk. Wait. Now that I think about it. Camel toes and this movie actually have a lot in common. For one thing, the movie is chock-full of cunt bulges of the bumpy kind. And, on top of that... Actually, there is no "top of that." This film, directed by Richard E. Cunha, is mucho generous when it comes to vulvic protuberances. I know, it clearly states that this movie was made during the Eisenhower administration (the height of post-war puritanism). But trust me, the movie is pretty much wall-to-wall venus mound displacement, and I couldn't be more pleased. I say, "pretty much," because there isn't much as far as crotch wedging goes in the early going. But once the titular missile lands on the titular moon, it's vedgie city, baby!

When the instances of cameltoeitis began to commence, I thought myself: Maybe I should start watching more films from the 1950s. But then it dawned on me. This is probably more of a fupa fluke than anything else. Either way, don't be surprised if you see more films reviewed on here that were made during the squarest period in modern American history.

Truth be told. Missile to the Missile, despite the plethora of smooshed lady genitals, is a hundred times sexier than most of the sci-fi, comic book drivel being made today. Sure, there are no close-up shots of thick twatrods entering snarling gashes, or hazardous/structurally unsound butt-holes, for that matter, but I'll take good old fashion legginess over crass orifice penetration any day of the motherhumpin' week. And believe you me, this film has legs.

Seriously, I ain't kidding around. There must have been at least eleven so-called "moon girls," and each of these "moon girls" owned a pair of legs. Meaning, there were times when there were close to twenty legs on screen at any given moment. And I ask you, can the latest piece of fermented horseshit produced by the white supremacist child molesters who run Hollyweird be able to say that their movie has twenty shapely female legs on-screen in a single shot? I didn't think so.

The story goes something like this: Some rocket scientist cock-muncher named Dirk (Michael Whalen) is upset that the U.S. government has decided to use his newfangled rocketship for their own purposes. When Dirk discovers two escaped convicts, Lon (Gary Clarke, who sounds like Nick from Café Flesh) and Gary (Tommy Cook), hiding in his rocketship, he hatches this zany plan to force them to help fly his rocketship to the moon. However, just as they're about to take off, a government official, Steve (Richard Travis), and his girlfriend June (Cathy Downs), stumble abroad, and end up blasting into space along with the disgruntled rocket scientist and the two escaped convicts.

You would think that being forced (at gun point, mind you) to blast into space would dampen the spirits of Steve, June, Lon and Gary. But they seem cool with the idea. It just goes show. While the people who lived in post-war America during the 1950s might have been colossal squares, they weren't a bunch of whiny crybabies.

In other words, the impromptu space mission goes off without a hitch. Well, that's not exactly true. Sadly, Dirk dies during a meteor storm. Nevertheless, the mission goes on without him and they eventually land on the moon. Woo-hoo!

Donning space suits, Steve, June, Lon and Gary, after they avoid being crushed by rock creatures, explore a network of moon caves. Once inside, they quickly discover that the air in there is fit to breathe. Hiding their space gear behind some boulders, Steve, June, Lon and Gary come face-to-face with The Lido (K.T. Stevens), the leader of a race of blue-skinned moon women.

Since Steve is wearing the medallion Dirk gave him before he dies, The Lido assumes that Steve is Dirk. I know, how does The Lido know Dirk? I have to assume Dirk's been here before. Which, I must say, is quite impressive. Either way, the reason The Lido doesn't realize that Steve isn't Dirk right away is because she has since lost her eyesight.

Skeptical when it comes to these newcomers is The Lido's wonderfully conniving second in command, Alpha (Nina Bara), who thinks Steve's story is a bunch of Earth balderdash. Anyway, on top of having the film's most pronounced camel toe, Alpha is also the film's best character. Bringing the film some much needed camp-appeal, Nina Bara's deliberately exaggerated performance is the non-camel toey/non-leggy reason this film is still remembered to this day. Rendering Missile to the Moon as first-rate sci-fi trash.

Oh, and since I've already established that Alpha is the clear winner when it comes to having largest camel toe, I guess I should go ahead and declare the stunning Sanita Pelkey (Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow) to be the clear winner when it comes to legginess. Damn, girl. Those are some fine ass legs. Mhm! Wow, who knew writing about camel toes and lady legs could be so therapeutic... I feel like a brand new woman.

Mmmm, black leotards pressing oh-so firmly against succulent space lady crotches. Oh, the tightness. The exquisite tightness. Those succulent space lady crotches didn't stand a chance. You know, because of the tightness. The exquisite tightness. What I wouldn't give to be a vulva-adjacent mole on the groin-adjacent loins of any of the moon women who appear in Cat-Women of the Moon. I mean, the air inside those the black leotards after a long day of seducing stupid Earth men must have been so dewy and damp. And to think, this movie was made in 1953! If ever there was a period in American history that was devoid of anything groin-related, it's the early 1950s. Of course, I'm not saying crotches didn't exist in 1953. It's just that you didn't often see them bandied about with such a reckless form of abandon as they are in this Arthur Hilton (Lassie) directed mini-masterpiece. Sure, the fact that the leotards worn by the moon women were black did obscure some of that sweet, sweet exquisite tightness I alluded to earlier. But if you use your imagination correctly (and I always do), you can savour the intense marriage of leotard and crotch this flick repeatedly conjures up without expelling too much mental effort. And isn't that a sign of great cinema? Seriously, who wants to think while watching a movie? I know I sure don't. And Cat-Women of the Moon required me to think very little.

Of course, you're going to have to endure at least thirty minutes of drab, low budget 1950s-style space travel before any leotard-ensnared space lady crotches can be relished to any extent. But trust me, it's worth the wait.

Clearly the inspiration for "Animala" from The Lost Skeleton from Cadavra (both films boast the music of Elmer Bernstein), the moon women, or, as Kip (Victor Joy) calls them near the end of the movie, "Cat-Women," all boast black leotards, funky eyebrows, and have their hair pulled back into delicious ponytails.

Living on the dark side of the moon in the valley of the shadows, the cat-like women of unknown origin manage to manipulate Helen (Marie Windsor), the navigational officer of an Earth rocketship, via feminine telepathy (all women, no matter what species they belong to, can communicate this way). The other part of the plan involves luring the Earthlings to their ancient moon city, distracting the male crew members by hypnotizing them with the swaying motions of their mouth-watering girl-crotches, and stealing their rocketship.

As you might expect, their plans go somewhat awry when a crew member named Doug (William Phipps) and a slinky cat lady named Lambda (Susan Morrow) fall in love. Since Doug is the first man she's ever seen, Lambda goes ga-ga for the nondescript space traveler. The leader of the cat-women of the moon, Alpha (Carol Brewster), had no way of predicting this... or did she? Either way, the plan to turn Earth into a feminist utopia is in danger of failing before it even gets underway.

If only the other male space travelers were as easy to manipulate as Walt (Douglas Fowley) was, then the plan would have gone off with zero hitches.

What I liked about the male space travelers is that each of them had their own distinct personality. The aforementioned Doug is a sucker for love and creamy vaginal intercourse, and the equally aforementioned Walt is a greedy opportunist who may or may not have a soft spot for creamy vaginal intercourse as well.

Then there's the aforementioned, but not as recently aforementioned as those other two aforementioned guys, Kip. He's a cynical bastard who has a thing for Helen and thinks these cat ladies are full of hooey. And last but not least is Laird, played by Johnny Carson punchline favourite, Sonny Tufts. The ship's captain, who does things strictly by the book, Laird, who also has a thing for Helen, is just as gullible as Walt, but he displays an advanced form of something I like to call "post-war swagger."

However, like I said earlier, Helen, not the men, is the key to the success of the cat-women's plan. Now, was I disappointed by the fact that Marie Windsor doesn't don a black leotard at any point during the film? Hell yeah I was. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the scenes where Marie Windsor struggles to resist the lure of the cat-woman. Sure, she's struggling against her own self-interest (her rights in the cat-women's feminist utopia version of Earth would have been greater). But then again, who wants to live on a planet filled with nothing but sexy, black leotard clad women with kooky eyebrows and more robust than usual ponytails? Wait. That didn't come out right.

Made during one of the most oppressive periods in modern American history, at least for anyone who wasn't a white heterosexual male who fought in World War II, Cat-Women of the Moon implies that anything that threatens social norms should be shot in the back of the head. Actually, it's not that bleak. Predicting the rise of the women's rights movement (the National Organization for Women would be founded a decade later) and embracing Beatnik fashion well before it was in vogue (the term "beatnik" didn't become common until the late 1950s), Cat-Women of the Moon is, in truth, full of revolutionary ideas. You just gotta look beneath the surface, daddy-o.

Speaking of Beatniks, I miss Off Beat Cinema (straight outta Buffalo, NY)... it's where I saw Night of the Living Dead for the very first time. Keep watching the skies.

While it's not quite Heathers 2, Hudson Hawk is, by far, the only film that I've come across that comes anywhere close to doing a half decent job of capturing Sandra Bernhard's face-melting beauty in a manner I would deem satisfactory. What's that? Why did I compare this action-adventure film to the non-existent sequel to Heathers? Oh, because it's directed by Michael Lehmann and co-written by Daniel Waters. Now, it's easy to dismiss the film's Michael Lehmann did after Heathers (40 Days and 40 Nights... ugh). But the fact that Daniel Waters (Happy Campers), the reason Heathers is remembered so fondly to this day, is involved caused me to think that their follow up might be just as magical. (You are aware that the film stars Bruce Willis and Andie MacDowell, right?) Yeah, I'm aware. However, the prospect of watching Sandra Bernhard and Richard E. Grant spew campy/mildly glib dialogue that was written by Daniel Waters piqued my interest. Sure, it took me over twenty years for my interest to get so piqued that I actually sat down and watched it from start to finish. But still, better late than never. (Are you sure it isn't "peaked"?) Nah, I think it's "piqued." Anyway, on top of boasting Sandra Bernhard at the height of her sexiness (she lounges in a leggy manner at one point while listening to "The Power" by Snap! on a Walkman - I know, 'nuff said), the film features David Caruso in Andie MacDowell drag and...

(Stop right there. You need to back the fuck up. Did you say, David Caruso in Andie MacDowell drag?) Yep. (Call me a sexually confused armadillo, but my genitals just exploded.) Is that a good thing? (Oh, you better believe it's a good thing.) Okay. But I should warn you, David Caruso is only in Andie MacDowell drag for about ten seconds.

Personally, I would have cast David Caruso as Anna Baragli, a nun who works undercover for The Vatican, and would have cast Andie MacDowell as... well, I wouldn't have cast her in the first place... you know, because she sucks. But that's neither here nor there. I think most people will agree that David Caruso would have been amazing as this film's Andie MacDowell-esque romantic lead.

As I was saying.... On top of Sandra Bernhard at the height of sexiness and David Caruso in Andie MacDowell drag, what else does this film got going for it? Damn, that's a good question. Maybe I should have thought this through.

Oh, if you mention a song to Bruce Willis' titular character, he'll tell you its exact running time. (Huh?) Let's say someone blurts out the title of a song, like, oh, I don't know, "Rhythm Is a Dancer" by Snap!, he would say, without much hesitation, five minutes, thirty-two seconds. It's a cute character trait. And it kept things interesting while we waited for Sandra Bernhard to show up.

The same can be said for Bruce Willis' obsession with cappuccino, his beverage of choice. Which he can never seem to enjoy in peace (circumstances beyond his control always seem to interfere just as he's about to take his first sip).

What else? Um. You know what? Until I come up with some other things I liked about this film, here's a brief-ish recap of the film's plot.

All set on becoming a spatula salesmen upon being released from prison, cat burglar extraordinaire Hudson Hawk (Bruce Willis) is immediately harassed by mobsters and other underworld types who want to exploit his unique talents for they're own personal gain. Teaming up with his partner in crime, Tommy Five-Tone (Danny Aiello), Hudson's first job involves stealing Da Vinci's Sforza, a horse statue.

Oh, and instead of showing Hudson and Tommy simply steal a statue, they have them do so while singing "Swinging on a Star." Which, I'll admit, was somewhat entertaining. It definitely put a new twist on the cliched movie heist sequence.

For reasons that escape me at the moment, the action quickly moves to Rome, where Hudson Hawk is embroiled in a conspiracy to steal even more Da Vinci artifacts. Working simultaneously for the C.I.A. (lead by James Coburn) and two self-described super-villains named Darwin (Richard E. Grant) and Minerva Maryflower (Sandra Bernhard), Hudson Hawk constantly struggles to keep the two groups off his back as he tries to woo Andie MacDowell, a Vatican spy masquerading as a tour guide.

If he can't woo Andie MacDowell, he can always settle for David Caruso in Andie MacDowell drag. Playing a C.I.A. agent called "Kit Kat" (his fellow agents are all named after candy bars), David Caruso's character is a master of disguise and can be seen in multiple disguises throughout the film. My favourite, of course, being his Andie MacDowell costume.

Speaking of costumes, legendary 1980s costume designer Marilyn Vance (Some Kind of Wonderful, Streets of Fire, Fast Times, etc.) has a field day sheathing Sandra Bernhard's lithe frame in a series of killer frocks.

Wearing a total of five outfits (six, if you include the bondage get-up she can be seen wearing in a slideshow), Sandra Bernhard wears wide brimmed hats, turbans, and funky earrings. And dresses that expose her collarbone and rib cage.

(What about her legs?) Relax, I'm getting to those.

Never not the focal point of the five scenes she's in, director Michael Lehmann does an admirable job of making sure Sandra Bernhard's yummy stems are always on display. Which, according to my logic, is reason enough to recommend Hudson Hawk.

Now, I know this film was ravaged by critics and a box office flop when it hit theatres in 1991. But I can't help the masses of the early 1990s had no clue how to properly appreciate the off-kilter splendour that is Sandra Bernhard. Seriously, though, her character's sort of heterosexual relationship with Richard E. Grant is a wonder to behold. In fact, if I was a studio exec, I would have said, fuck the box office, we're green-lighting a spin-off about the wacky adventures of Darwin and Minerva Mayflower and Bunny, their ball-obsessed dog. In conclusion... (Thank God.) the movie isn't as terrible as I thought it would be. Which, I guess, is a good thing.

If this film is really from 1991, then why does Sharon Hughes' hair look exactly the way it does in Chained Heat... from 1983? Of course, I found out later that Ted V. Mikels'Mission: Killfast was actually shot in the early 1980s but not released until 1991. But still, the amount of 1980s stuff in this film (big hair, Uzis, Jewel Shepard's puffy nipples, etc.) threw me for a loop. I know, I've said in the past that 1991 is more '80s than some years that appeared in the actual 1980s. But this is 1983, or maybe even 1982, we're talking about. Anyway, after clearing up the whole year thing, I decided that I was going to accuse Ted V. Mikels (Corpse Grinders) of ripping off Andy Sidaris. But thanks to the year debacle, it looks like that's not going to happen now (I had this idea that Ted V. Mikels was trying to replicate Andy Sidaris'Girls, Guns and G-Strings formula). Nonetheless, the film, whether it's an Andy Sidaris clone or not, is still a garbage. However, there were certain parts that I did enjoy. Though, I have to say, the film's annoying habit of killing off my favourite female characters did test my patience. I mean, at least four hot babes are murdered in this movie. Either way, the film's fixation with showing Shanti modeling bikinis was wonderfully bizarre. Why is it "wonderfully bizarre"? It's simple, really. You don't often see mature models in movies. Yet, this film features a woman (with, mind you, a shaved head) in, oh, let's say, her early fifties, modeling bikinis... in the middle of the day!

When I saw Shanti (a.k.a. Wendy Altamura) modeling '80s-style swimwear pool side (like I said, in the middle of the day!) at around the eleven minute mark, I thought to myself: Damn, I might have to review this piece of shit.

Then I saw Shanti sending a fax using a fax machine (duh) while wearing a kufi and red thigh-high boots. When I saw this, I was like, Stop it, movie. Don't make me review your stupid ass.

The film ultimately left me no choice when it showed a bikini-clad Shanti posing for photos at the beach. If I didn't have a soft spot for mature women with ultra-short hair, I would have tossed this movie's bloated corpse in the nearest dumpster.

Or would I have? You see, the film introduces us to Sharon Hughes' Catt Valone pretty late in the game. And, I think most people will agree, she's the best non-Shanti thing in this movie. For starters, she's a real actress. And secondly, she has big hair. Think about that. She can recite scripted dialogue in a semi-convincing manner and she has big hair.

I'm afraid the same can't be said for the rest of the chuckleheads who appear in this movie.

The film's supposed "star,"Tiger Yang, is adept at kicking people in the face and that's about it.

As for the actors who play the seemingly never-ending cadre of lumpy, middle-aged henchmen, they bring nothing to the table. Hell, one of these lumpy fucks is repeatedly upstaged by a never not pool side leggy blonde floozy. Clearly told by the director to fawn all over this lumpy fuck, the never not pool side leggy blonde floozy gets nowhere with him. Yep, this Crisco-scented tub of reticulated ass-fuckery just sits there as a leggy angel in a black one-piece bathing suit acts circles around him. Or maybe she was overacting? Nah, it was all that tubby asshole's fault. To make matters worse, they have two scenes together.

On the bright side, the never not pool side leggy blonde floozy is the only female character who doesn't die horribly in this film. Yay?

Should I bother doing a synopsis of the film's plot? Um, sure, why not. Let's see if I remember what happens, plot-wise.

A unnamed big-haired brunette steals case containing detonators for an atomic bomb. When the big-haired brunette tries to sell the detonators to a gang of criminals, she winds up dead (she asks for too much money). Not wanting the detonators to fall into the hands of terrorists, the government (lead by Ronald Gregg) enlists the help of Tiger Yang, a retired C.I.A. agent turned martial arts instructor. Detonators. Terrorists. Tiger Yang. Yep, that pretty much covers it.

Did I mention the criminals who steal the detonators run a magazine called "Scam"? No? How strange. At any rate, some of the film's best scenes involve the running of this magazine. Mainly the scenes, where, you guessed it, the milf-tastic Shanti poses for photos.

Fans of older women in headbands will love the fact that Shanti's headbands always match her outfit. (Get the fuck out of here. They can't always match.) Trust me, they always match. Always.

If you're wondering if Jewel Shepard's headband matches her outfit, stop wondering. Her character, in a shocking twist, doesn't wear clothes. (Not even a headband?) Man, you guys and your obsession with ladies in headbands. No, she doesn't wear a headband.

Even though Mission: Killfast is a colossal failure as an action movie (even the explosion effects are laughably bad), the film will definitely satisfy fans of Andy Sidaris/Amir Shervan-style action-adventure films. In other words, if you like gross incompetence and '80s fashion, you might want to check out this out. At the very least, fast-forward to good parts, i.e. the scenes featuring the unknown big-haired brunette, Shanti, Jewel Shepard and Sharon Hughes.

Other people talk about movies that shaped them as children with a nostalgia-laced glee. Unfortunately, I didn't really watch movies as a child. Oh, sure. I saw one or two a year, but they didn't really make that much of a lasting impression on me. Now, you might be thinking to yourself: If you didn't watch movies as a child, what did you do instead? Um, duh. I was out frolicking in the woods. What were you doing? Which brings me to the amazing, the one of a kind, the wonderfully lush and the creepy as all get out, Eyes of Fire. A movie that not only scratched the living fuck out of at least seven of my primary itches, it managed to reinvigorate my love of the forest. (Wait. I thought you despised nature?) Nah, I love nature. Granted, I'm not a big fan of jungles. But that's mostly to do with my dislike of dank, humid weather and khaki-coloured clothing. Anyway, even though I'm drawn to the city, the forest is where I'm most comfortable. Which, in a way, explains why Avery Crounse's sinister ode to devils, ghosts, magic, fairies and witchcraft is the first film to remind me of my childhood in a long time. In fact, you could view it as an eerily accurate documentation of my early days growing up in the wilds of suburbia. You see, whereas most suburbs are simply a collection of bland subdivisions, mine was surrounded by a glacial ravine that formed after the last Ice Age. Isn't that rad? Well, I think it is.

Enough about my childhood. You know why so many prayers go unanswered in North America? That's because their religion probably doesn't work here. In order to make your particular brand of voodoo function properly, you need to practice it in the place it originated. For example, if your belief system was founded in, oh, let's say, the Middle East, you're going to have a better chance of getting it to work over there.

It's true, I first got wind of this theory from a mentally-ill man who used to scream at shoppers near Yonge and Dundas in Toronto, Ontario. Nevertheless, I think this nut-job was onto something, because the Christian characters in Eyes of Fire come face-to-face with "The Great Spirit" of The Shawnee and things don't exactly go their way.

It should be noted, however, that the pious characters have an Irish faerie in their midst. Meaning, her voodoo originated in Ireland. Which, as most of you know, is closer to North America than the Holy land. You see what I'm getting at? The shock-haired Leah, "Queen of the Forest" (Karlene Crocket), has a better chance of defeating the devil witches that populate the pristine woodlands of 1750's America than Will Smythe (Dennis Lipscomb) and his puffy-shirted brand of Christendom.

Of course, I'm not saying that every forest in 1750's America was crawling with devil witches, and, not to mention, deformed tree people. It just so happens that the forest that Will Smythe and his wives and children decide to call their promise land is home to the spirits of the dead.

Everything that enters this deceptively serene valley is eventually absorbed by the forest. If you look closely, you can see human faces peppered across the trunks of the trees in the early going. Or, at least, I saw faces. Don't forget, I spent the bulk of my childhood inside an ancient glacial ravine. In other words, I some times have trouble distinguishing trees from people and vice-versa.

The Shawnee, despite the intrusive nature of the settlers, try to warn outsiders by draping the entrance to the valley with white feathers. But Will Smythe dismisses it as Native American poppycock, and continues on his merry way. Come to think of it, I think the feathers were put there to warn other Shawnee, not wayward white people. Either way, Will Smythe ignores the warning.

Quirky fun-fact: Most European settlers during this period didn't view themselves as intruders, but as pioneers.

Stumbling upon the ruins of a previous settlement, the pompous preacher/polygamist declares it to be their new home.

Shocked to discover that his wife and daughter have fled into the wilderness with a perverted preacher, Marion Dalton (Guy Boyd), a rugged frontiersman, catches up with them just they're about to put down roots in the valley.

While Leah and Marion (who is quite knowledgeable when it comes to Shawnee folklore) are keenly aware of the evil that surrounds them, Will Smythe and his followers remain blissfully ignorant to the danger. The big question being: Will Marion be able to convince his wife and daughter that this Will Smythe guy is a fraud in time before the forest absorbs their souls? Probably. I mean, I hope so.

Nonetheless, the foreboding atmosphere the film manages to maintain throughout its spry running time is the film's strong suit (we only get brief shots of the ghosts at first). The film's unique (Ken Russell-esque) special effects are also an important factor, as they add an almost surreal element to the proceedings.

As expected, out of all the characters, I related to Leah and her pale knees the most. Call me crazy, but the shots of her acting weird and slightly demented in the woods were like looking directly into a mirror (minus, of course, the 1700s nightshirt and large mane of curly red hair).

I don't know if I still have this ability, but there once was a time when could hear the trees talking to one another (using a series of creaking sounds). I'm almost tempted to revisit the glacial ravine of my not even close to being misspent youth to see if I still have the power. What I think I'm trying to say is, I miss the woods. And Eyes of Fire managed to rekindle my desire to lose myself within its verdant splendour.

Oh, and to my surprise, the film isn't Canadian. Believe it or not, it's American (shot in Missouri). Nonetheless, it has this strange Canuck vibe about it.

First off, I think it's a tad weird to watch a Jess Franco film where things like, mobile phones and computers not only exist, but are actually used. And in the case of Snakewoman, rather frequently (seeing people pump gas was weird, too). It's weird because people in Jess Franco movies don't usually communicate via technology, they do so, for the most part, by writhing. That's right, I said, writhing. What you do is, you take off all your clothes (if, of course, you're wearing stockings, you keep those on... if you don't I will hunt you down and murder you... just kidding... but seriously, don't take them off). At any rate, once you've removed your clothes, lie down on a bed (or a couch/sectional) and start writhing. And depending on the gusto of your writhing, you should be communicating with sex-starved vampire lesbians with boyish hips in no time. What's that? What if you don't want to communicate with sex-starved vampire lesbians with boyish hips? Don't be silly. I know you're simply playing devil's advocate, but I don't think there's a man, woman or child on this earth who doesn't want their clit eaten out by a sex-starved vampire lesbian with boyish hips. Oh, and when I say "eaten out," I'm not kidding around, she will eat your motherfucking clit... for lunch, breakfast and dinner. I know, you're thinking to yourself: But Yum-Yum, I don't have a clit. You don't, eh? Do you see that skin-covered protuberance dangling from the middle portion of your blotch-covered crotch? Well, that's your clit, you gutless worm.

Enough with the anatomy lessons. Let's talk about the reason we're all here. If you remember my review of Jess Franco's Broken Dolls, you will recall that I was justifiably fixated with late career Franco starlet Christie Levin. Calling her, "one of the sexiest women ever to appear in the Jess Franco universe," I was obsessed with the saucy minx with the giant eyes and pillowy, bee-stung lips.

Informed by a loyal reader that Christie Levin's turn in Snakewoman (2005) was just as sexy, I made the watching of this film a top priority. Or did I? Sitting on my shelf for what seemed like an eternity, I made severally attempts to watch Snakewoman over the past year. Tired of waiting for Christie Levin to appear on-screen, I found myself fast-forwarding to her scenes out of frustration. And when Christie Levin stopped appearing all-together, I usually turned off the film.

After doing this three or four times, I gave up. That is, until, I found myself with nothing to watch one week (even my emergency stash of Taija Rae porn had dried up). I wondered to myself: What would Snakewoman be like if I watched it at regular speed?

Is it dull, tedious, amateurish and asinine? Sure. I mean, twenty minutes is a pretty long time to watch two lesbians unenthusiastically grope one another. I don't care if one of the lesbians is played by "one of the sexiest women ever to appear in the Jess Franco universe," I've got less important things to do. Nevertheless, the film still manages to project that uniquely oft-kilter Jess Franco vibe that I've come to love.

Utilizing the minimal resources at hand, Jess Franco updates his vampire lesbian trope for a whole new generation. Creating a world where low-key dread and cunnilingial distress collide with one another on a semi-regular basis, the film retains its otherworldliness, or, I should say, its Franconess, despite its obvious deficiencies when it came to just about everything.

The film's plot, like, Vampyros Lesbos, Female Vampire and, to a lesser extent, Lorna The Exorcist, involves a straight-laced woman, Carla (Fata Morgana), becoming enchanted by a female vampire. Even though she's got big vaginas to fill, Carman Montes does a capable job in the role of the film's primary enchantress, an ageless Hungarian flapper with a large snake tattoo that snakes across her torso like a... snake. A staunch lesbian and an even stauncher vampire, Oriana Balasz haunts the grounds of her palatial home, which, from the looks of it, is now some kind of monastery/mental asylum.

Run by a grizzled monk, Franco regular Antonio Mayans, the monastery/mental asylum is where Christie Levin's "Alpha" spends the bulk of her time writhing. Usually seen wandering the around in a long white nightshirt, like, Catherine Lafferière's character in Lorna The Exorcist, is under the spell of a female demon.

The reason Carla is at the home of Oriana Balasz is because the production company she works for would like the purchase the rights to her films and music. Produced mainly during the 20s and 30s, Carla's employers think they can make a fortune off Oriana's erotically-charged work. Of course, things get complicated for Carla, who is, for some reason, wearing a judogi, when she starts seeing the always naked Oriana in her room. Which, as you might expect, distracts her from completing the task at hand. Or maybe it actually helps her, as asking Oriana to sell her the rights to her work directly would probably make things a whole lot easier.

Though, I have to say, she might not be able to hear you given that she's currently gnawing on your clit. Ouch. Anyway, I think that pretty much covers the plot.

While the decision to have Carla wear that judogi-inspired outfit for the bulk of the movie was beyond aggravating (get this woman a frilly white blouse, a tight red leather skirt, a pair of jet black fully-fashioned stockings and some chunky cherry-red stripper heels, stat!), the inclusion of synth flourishes made things a little more tolerable. That's right, Snakewoman is chock-full of synth flourishes. I was taken aback, as I don't usually associate Jess Franco movies with synthesizers.

Even though she only gets two measly close-ups, Christie Levin still manages to ooze resplendence as a mildly deranged lesbian mental patient. Whether ambling through a field of sunflowers or massaging a lesbian vampire's hairy labia, Christie knows what fans of Jess Franco want to see. (And that is?) And that is, attractive women with humongous eyes and bulbous lips teetering on the brink of a total and absolute psycho-sexual breakdown. Only problem being, you're going to have to wade through an awful lot of uneventful nonsense to see Christie Levin do her thing. And trust me, this film is filled with shitloads of uneventful nonsense.

According to my exhaustive research, the cyberpunk genre is known for depicting a world where high tech collides with low tech. And while this particular film does meet some of that criteria (computers are used by degenerates), I would classify the overall aesthetic as steampunk. It's not really that big a deal. It's just that I see the word "cyberpunk" bandied about so much in correlation to Shozin Fukui's Rubber's Lover that I feel the need to point out that it's not really a cyberpunk movie. The film's fetishistic obsession with old technology practically oozes steampunk. Or, I should say, it literally oozes steampunk, as almost everything in this oozes something at one point or another. Gauges ooze, people ooze, it's one big ooze-fest. Get it, "ooze-fest," Ozzfest, the heavy metal festival tour... (I don't want to interrupt your flow, but I must commend you for not using the phrase, "what the fuck," or the equally obnoxious, "what did I just watch"? in your review.) Well, it's still early. But thanks, nonetheless. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, the film literally oozes steampunk. No matter what aesthetic it oozes, Rubber's Lover will, no doubt, test the patience of some viewers. Unfolding in a manner that is, let's just say, unorthodox, the film is pretty much ninety minutes of spastic twitching. My God, there's a lot of spastic twitching in this movie. However, you'd twitch too if you were repeatedly subjected to Digital Direct Drive (a.k.a. D.D.D.) and pumped full of ether whilst sheathed in rubber. And not only would you twitch, you would spew copious amounts of viscous liquids from every orifice possible.

If what I just described sounds in anyway appealing to you. Congratulations, you're this film's target audience. As for the rest of us, we could be in for a long ass ninety minutes.

Thankfully, there's a scene where Kiku's corporate pantyhose are torn asunder by a psychotic, muscle-bound scientist named Motomiya (Sosuke Saito). Wait, that didn't come out right. The scene is deplorable. It's just that I wasn't sure if Kiku's legs were adorned with nylons, and Motomiya's assault enabled me to properly assess what was going on with Kiku's shapely gams. And it's clear, judging by Motomiya's frenzied tearing motions, that he was clawing at her corporate pantyhose.

In a similar vein, Akari's white knee-high, garter-assisted stockings also served as a sort of tonic. Even though Akari (Mika Kunihiro) spends the bulk of the movie injecting Shimika (Norimizu Ameya) with industrial-strength ether, I was comforted by the fact that the lower portion of her legs were encased in white stockings.

What I'm doing right now is exactly what I recommend all you non-masochists out there do while watching this film. I know, you could simply not watch it. But you could use that logic when approaching every film in existence. I mean, why watch anything for that matter? What's the point? Unless it's Liquid Sky or How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, there's no real reason to bother with other movies.

As I was saying. What non-masochists need to do is focus on something that interests you. As you can tell, I've chosen to focus on the nylons worn by the film's two female characters, Kiku (Nao), an employee who works for some shadowy organization, and Akari, the assistant to a trio of demented scientists.

If, for some bizarre reason, nylons aren't your thing, you could try focusing on all the antiquated technology that appears throughout the film. Honestly, I have no idea what half the machines (all covered with knobs and switches) are supposed to do in this movie. But I'll admit, watching them overheat and spew smoke was kind of interesting.

The film's bondage aspect will definitely appeal to some viewers. Every scene seems to feature one character dominating another. And one of these characters (typically Shimika) is usually dressed in rubber... and wearing the latest in steampunk headgear (the shots of Shimika wearing these elaborate props are some the film's most indelible).

Speaking of headgear, I gotta add Akari's welding goggles to the list of things I liked about this movie. The way the Test Dept. vibe of her googles clashed with the Gothic Lolita temperament of her overall ensemble was quite alluring.

Despite all things I liked about this movie (the harsh industrial/techno score by Tanizaki Tetora is amazing), Rubber's Lover is still a bit of a chore to sit through. Basically ninety straight minutes of torture, the film is best suited to be played on a loop at a long closed industrial-goth nightclub. In other words, I cannot recommend it as the kind of movie you sit down and watch from start to finish... while sober.

Even though Sorority House Massacre brings absolutely nothing new to the well-worn formula established by John Carpenter's Halloween way back in the late 1970s, it's still, I must say, a pretty effective slasher flick. Wait, did I just say, "slasher flick"? I meant to say, fashion... flick. We're talking baggy jean jackets, winklepicker boots and the mother of all movie dress-up montages. Oh, don't get me wrong, the film is still a minor horror classic along the lines of House on Sorority Row and Happy Birthday to Me, it's just that the only reason for anyone (i.e. me) to watch this film is to study the fashion. Take, for example, Angela O'Neill's baggy jean jacket. I vaguely remember when teenage girls and some grown women started wearing baggy jean jackets, and I remember being vaguely horrified... you know, by the sheer bagginess of it all. I am, of the opinion, that jean jackets should fit snugly against the body and should never hang too far below the waist. Well, not only does Angela O'Neill's jean jacket break all these rules, she roles up the sleeves, exposing the inner denim. I know, the horror. While it might sound like I'm ragging on her jean jacket game, I'm actually reveling in its awfulness to a point unseen in any previous review of Sorority House Massacre. Anyway, do you remember the killer in the eerily similar Slumber Party Massacre? Now that guy knows the proper way to rock a jean jacket.

Now, you would think I would have nothing but praise for Pamela Ross and her pointy winklepicker-style boots, as they are pretty much my favourite shoes/boots in the whole wide world. However, I have to question the clothes she wears with said pointy winklepicker-style boots. Or do I? After giving it some thought, I've decided to get behind Pamela Ross' decision to pair her Goth footwear with bright and breezy new wave mall threads.

I mean, think about it. While her feet are practically screaming, "Undead, undead!" the rest of her ensemble looks like something Cyndi Lauper would wear on a cruise. Sporting a pink blazer paired with a tropical fruit-themed, mid-riff exposing two piece (a white headband and a funky necklace are added to the mix to create even more drama on campus), Pamela Ross' look signaled to me that her character was worth rooting for.

Sadly, the chances that Pamela Ross will be breathing on her own by the time the end credits start to roll are not that high. While the film may be lacking when it comes to originality and character development, it lives up to its title. Meaning, there's going to be a massacre at a sorority house. And if a character shows an interest in fashion or sexual intercourse, odds are they're going to get their stylish/horny asses massacred.

As for mopey asexuals with an affinity for loose-fitting denim, they're probably going to not get stabbed to death. Which is totally unfair, because they're the reason everyone is killed in this movie. Okay, that was a tad on the harsh side. But seriously, if she had just gotten murdered when she was five years old along with the rest of her family, all this sorority house madness could have been avoided.

However, since there would be no movie had Angela O'Neill's Beth not survived her brother Bobby's killing spree (and we wouldn't want there to be no movie), I'll let it go... for now.

While it's obvious to anyone with eyes and ears that work to some degree that Beth is repressing the memory of her families slaughter at the hands of her deranged brother, she seems to think that the person stalking her in her dreams is just some random psychopath. Unbeknownst to her, this "random psychopath" is all too real and languishing at a poorly run mental hospital just down the road from sorority row.

As Bobby is planning his escape, co-eds, Sara (Pamela Ross), Tracy (Nicole Rio) and Linda (Wendy Martel) are planning to engage in the ultimate dress-up montage. With their house mother away for the weekend, the girls decide to raid her closet. And oh my god, do they raid the living shit out of it.

You know how when you see a parody of the 1980s nowadays and they always seem to go overboard in terms of its 80s-ness? Well, the dress-up montage in Sorority House Massacre is so 80s that even the 80s was like: Whoa, tone it down, girls. Screw the 80s, I was even shocked by how insanely 80s this sequence was.

The only thing that dampens the mood is the fact that the camera occasionally cuts to gloomy Beth, who is watching the dress-up extravaganza from a nearby bed. Yeah, I get it. She's having nightmares about being killed by a knife-wielding maniac, and is a little too preoccupied to care about clothes. But does she have to ruin it for everyone else? I mean, it's the 1980s. You're supposed to try on brightly coloured clothes to the synthesizer music... it's in the decade's freakin' charter.

After they're done playing dress-up, Pamela Ross' Sara dons a shirt that pretty much solidifies the film's standing as a fashion classic. An ill-defined patchwork of shapes and colours, Sara's shirt dominates the film's final third with a breathtaking ease. Worn with black leggings, the shirt not only dominates, it upstages the other actors. Now, under normal circumstances, you would have to classify this as a negative. Seriously, what kind of film is overshadowed by a radiant garment? However, in the case of Sorority House Massacre, the vividness of Sara's shirt makes an otherwise insipid movie less so.

Granted, the shirt is nowhere to be seen when the girls and their lame boyfriends (c'mon, Craig... I mean, jeez) eventually come face-to-face with the killer. But I think most people will agree that the shirt, along with the baggy jean jacket, the pointy boots, and, of course, the dress-up montage are more than enough to override the film's more tiresome bits.

I'll admit, after the mini-debacle that was the first Sorority House Massacre, I wasn't all that thrilled with the prospect of watching the same exact movie again. What's that? How do I know the sequel is going to be exactly the same as the first one? That's easy. Fresh ideas are hard to come by and I doubt the makers of Sorority House Massacre II are going to be the one's stumbling upon any anytime soon. Hold up, it says here that part two was directed by Jim Wynorski (Demolition High). Which means... Actually, this does not bode well, either. As Mr. Wynorski's track record when it comes to delivering the goods is a tad sketchy at best. For every 976-EVIL II and Chopping Mall, there are dozens of stinkers. While not exactly his best, this film is the forerunner to his Hard to Die (a.k.a. Sorority House Massacre III). Meaning, we should expect to see scantily clad bimbos running up and down stairs in bad lingerie. I know, what is exactly constitutes "bad lingerie"? I mean, how can lingerie ever be bad? Right, that's pure, unadulterated kooky-talk. Well, I have news for ya, fellas. The lingerie in this film pretty god awful. Though, I shouldn't be surprised, as I distinctly recall the lingerie in Hard to Die being pretty god awful as well.

For one thing, none of the women are wearing nylons. Seriously, there's not a single pair of stockings in the entire film. We do, however, get two jean skirts, one pair of jean shorts and a single pair of jeans. (Wow, that's a lot denim.) You got that right. And I'm still shaking my head over it. I can sort of see two of the women wearing denim of some kind, but four out of five? That's ridiculous.

What do we want? Less denim in Sorority House Massacre II! When do we want it? Um, now would be nice.

Since Dana Bentley's "Janey," is the only co-ed not wearing denim during pre-lingerie stage of the film, I immediately gravitated towards her. Of course, she's probably going to be the first to die. But I don't care. I'll take a gothy brunette dressed in all-black over four denim-slathered blondes any day of the motherfuckin' week. To make matters worse, when she does die, it will most likely be done off-screen, as I don't think this film was given much to work with as far gore budgets go.

Anyway, just like in Hard to Die, we're told the story of the Hockstatter murders that took place in Slumber Party Massacre. Yeah, I'm confused, too. After watching an entire scene from Slumber Party Massacre (narrated by one of the girls), the girls come face-to-face with Orville Ketchum (Peter Spellos), the large (creepy) man who lives next-door. Oh, and before you ask if Orville is the killer. Remember this, this is Jim Wynorski we're talking about, not Fred Olen Ray. In other words, expect the unexpected.

Other than Gail Harris' first-rate panties and Dana Bentley's shunning of denim, I would say that Orville Ketchum is the best thing about this movie. Yeah, that's right. The scary-looking fat guy who enjoys lurking and eating raw meat. He gives, believe it or not, a nuanced performance as the neighbour who can't be killed.

It's a shame the same can't be said about the rest of the cast, who all give the same variation of your typical stupid and confused late '80s co-ed.

You might have noticed that before I singled out Dana Bentley's denim snub, that I alluded to Gail Harris' first-rate panties. Which might seem odd, as you might recall, I pretty much dismissed every stitch of lingerie that appears in this film.

Well, I'm making an exception for Gail Harris' panties. Now, some of you might be thinking yourself: You only liked her panties because they wore you out. What I mean is, they were onscreen for such extended period of time, you grew to tolerate them.

While, yes, it's true. Gail Harris' panties, and, I suppose, her crotch and buttocks region, are featured quite heavily throughout this movie. I did fall madly in love with them the moment they appeared onscreen. But make no mistake, this was purely a pantie anomaly. Everything else is an abomination. (Even the black one-piece Dana Bentley puts on during the film's lingerie phase?) If it had been paired with stockings, I might have given it a pass. But black lingerie without stockings is unacceptable in my book.

I'm currently in love with a woman who has a port-wine stain on the left side of her face. She's beautiful and fierce as fuck. (I'm happy for you. But what's this got to do with the movie you're currently reviewing?) Oh, sorry 'bout that. If you look closely, you'll notice that Gail's panties have a port-wine bloodstain on them at one point. And I say, "at one point," as the bloodstain seems to change in-between shots. In one of the shots, her panties appear completely devoid of blood. Did she wash them while going from the living room to the kitchen? I doubt it.

I wonder who was Gail's pantie wrangler on this flick. Now, that's what I call a dream job. Although, I bet a large part of the job involves keeping the cross-dressing crew members from trying them on in-between takes (I hear precum stains are a nightmare to get out, especially on white panties). Oh, and who am I kidding, this film didn't employ "takes." If it did. Wow, that's pretty sad. No, this film looks like it was shot over a couple of days. The only one who seemed to put in any real effort was Chuck Cirino, whose score is top-notch, as usual.

You remember when a leggy and wonderfully muscular-armed Angela Bassett lip-syncs Tina Turner's "What's Love Got to Do With It" as Tina Turner at the end of the movie of the same name? Well, that's what most normal people think of when they hear that song playing, oh, let's say, while browsing the frozen food aisle at their local corporate supermarket. Us abnormal people (a.k.a. cult movie fans), however, whether we want it to or not, have to contend with the dizzying image of a naked, belly chain-sporting, recently turned female vampire dancing up a storm to the song immediately popping into our heads whenever the classic '80s jam decides to make its presence felt (while, of course, we're out buying frozen peas). Unfortunately, most folks won't be able to enjoy the sight I just described as they probably won't make it to the end of the ultra-strange Sexandroide, come for the scantily clad torture, stay... as far as away from this movie as you possibly can. Seriously, no good can come from you watching it. The way I see it, the Tina Turner/"What's Love Got to Do With It" sequence that ends the film is the reward for those who were able to slog through such a heinous exercise. (It can't be that be that bad, can it?) Trust me, it can. For starters, two pairs of stockings, one red, one black, are torn asunder in this flick. (Oh, I thought you were going to mention the nipple piercing scene.) Yeah, that's pretty awful. But seeing two perfectly good pairs of stockings ruined was too much for me.

The Michel Ricaud-directed film, which is, thankfully, barely fifty minutes long, opens with a faceless man/woman/creature of unknown origin opening an envelope that contains a photo of a blonde woman. Without wasting any time, the faceless individual starts abusing the photo. Meanwhile, a blonde women (who looks like the blonde woman from the photo) in red stockings is sitting (with her legs crossed) at a bar...

(What kind of dress is she wearing?)

It's a simple dress, but the colour is nothing but. If I had to describe it, I would call it red hot poker-esque, as it mixes yellow and red in a similar manner as the flower of the same name.

While in the ladies room, the woman suddenly feels sick and vomits in the sink.

After she's done throwing up, she suddenly feels a force tearing at her clothes. While I was somewhat saddened to see her red stockings and matching garter-belt removed in such a violent manner, the sequence itself is kind of awesome. In fact, if the entire film had been a series erotic vignettes involving lingerie-clad women struggling to prevent their clothes from being torn off by an unseen entity, I would have no choice but to declare Sexandroide to be one of the greatest films of all-time.

In a way, the film does adhere to that basic principal. But the middle "vignette" is so disgusting that... Though, I have to say, it's only vignette where the stockings make out pretty much unscathed. And the twist ending was a pleasant surprise... Actually, now that I think about it, the film isn't all that bad.

Note to self: Try to decide whether or not you like a film before you start reviewing it, not during.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, the blonde in the washroom was being tortured by an unseen individual wielding some kind of voodoo-style power. After they're finished with the photo, the unseen individual starts poking a doll with needles. As expected, the blonde, whose sexy legs used to be sheathed in red stockings, begins to bleed from the places that are being poked on the doll.

I don't know why this happening to her, or why I'm watching it for that matter, but I have to give it up to the actress portraying the washroom blonde. She had me convinced an invisible presence was fucking up her shit big time. Kudos to you, unnamed actress from the opening scene of Sexandroide, your unorthodox thespian skills did not go unnoticed by this viewer.

If you thought the blonde's thespian skills were unorthodox, the lithe brunette in the black hold-up thigh-high stockings takes unorthodox acting to the next level.

After descending a staircase in a dramatic, unorthodox fashion, the lithe brunette stumbles upon a red carpeted room. Wait, why did she shoot that hooded figure and why is she setting her hands on fire? This movie has taken a bizarre turn. Oh, sure, it was bizarre before. But this is ridiculous. Whatever, um. Removing her black dress, the lithe brunette (who is sporting a bob-style haircut) begins to whip herself with a cat o' nine tails.

Interrupted by a ghastly man-thing in Frankenstein leisurewear, the lithe brunette finds her skinny ass in serious danger, as the ghastly man ties her to a chair. Sticking nails in her nipples and tongue, the ghastly man removes one of her eyes and eats it... Ugh... this is disgusting.

(Yeah, it's fucking gross. But look at her stockings... there's not a scratch on them.) It's true, the fact that her stockings make it through this unspeakable nightmare unsullied was worthy of a smidgen of uncut giddiness. But still...

Again, I have to ask: Why is this happening to her and why am I watching it? Never mind that. The twist ending is surprisingly romantic. Yeah, I know, how can eyeball-eating and self-disembowelment be romantic? If anyone knows how to make those things seem romantic, it's the makers of Sexandroide.

The final vignette contains the same amount of garment-tearing and general unpleasantness as the previous two chapters in the Sexandroide saga. But alas, this one features the infamous "What's Love Got to Do With It" dance number.

It starts off with (yet another) a lithe brunette in sexy goth funeral clothes mourning over a casket that contains what looks like a vampire. Suddenly, without warning, the vampire springs from the casket and begins to rip off the lithe brunette's clothes. Damn, those were some nice black stockings. But just like that, they're gone. It's a fucking shame, I tell ya.

Biting her on the neck, the lithe brunette collapses against the coffin, the end. Oh, wait. The lithe brunette is a vampire now. Which makes sense, I guess. What doesn't make sense is why is the lithe brunette vampire chick dancing to Tina Turner's "What's Love Got to Do With It"? Or maybe it does... make sense. Either way, Sexandroide is, to put it mildly, a fucked up movie. Sure it's gory and sleazy, like hundreds of other films. But there's just something off about it that I can't quite put my finger on. And it's this "off-ness" that makes the film sort of worth watching. SORT OF.

What the hell? It says here that I'm about to review "The Shining." That can't be right. Wait, did Jess Franco direct this? No, I don't think he did. So... What gives? Actually, I think everyone knows "what gives." This movie, not directed by Jess Franco, but by Stanley Kubrick, happens to feature what I consider to be the greatest depiction of motherhood in the history of cinema. And, of course, that mother is played by none other than Shelley Duvall. (Um, sorry to burst your bubble, but isn't Shelley's Mrs. Torrence a needy, chain-smoking dolt who dresses like a deranged kindergarten teacher/beet farmer?) I guess. But none of the things you mention take away from the fact that she is an amazing mother. Well, I suppose exposing your child to toxic clouds of secondhand smoke is kind of negligent. Though, it should be noted that kids loved secondhand smoke back in 1980. In fact, it was their favourite thing right behind lead paint and asbestos. Anyway, I think most people will agree that Winifred "Wendy" Torrence's biggest test as a mother comes when she has to deal with her psychotic husband, a surly author who snaps while acting as the off-season caretaker of the Overlook Hotel, a massive hotel located in the snowy wilds of Colorado. Hold on a second. Did I just describe the plot of The Shining? Ewww, I think I just did. Speaking of ewww, am I currently reviewing a Stanley Kubrick film? (It looks that way.) That's fucking gross.

Well, at least I'm reviewing the only one of his films that's halfway decent. Just kidding, sort of. (You mean to tell me you don't like A Clockwork Orange?) Yeah, I like it... but only the first thirty or forty minutes. Let's get back to Shelley Duvall, shall we? I mean, let's be honest, she's the only reason any of us are here right now.

Of course, I'm sure there are a lot people who think she's completely miscast, not conventionally attractive, and just plain annoying. But those people are, let's face it, just plain wrong.

Miscast? What does that even mean? Who would you cast instead? Dolly Parton? Of course not... Actually, I'd watch The Shining if it starred Dolly Parton, in a motherfucking heartbeat. That's a bad example. Whatever, hey, call me old fashion, but if Jack Torrence is trying to hack down a door with a fire axe, I want Shelley Duvall on the other side of that door screaming at the top of her lungs in a purple bathrobe and taupe-ish turtleneck sweater.

Not conventionally attractive? Again, what does that even mean? "Conventionally attractive"? That has got to be one of the worst expressions out there. Not to get all social justice warriory on you, but that's cisnormative nonsense at its most cis-heinous. Call me two cans short of a six pack, but if I'm looking into my wife's eyes for comfort, they had better be the size of freakin' saucers. (And Shelley Duvall's eyes meet with these standards?) You're joking, right? They're glimmering dinner plates festooned with ocular splendicity.

Just plain annoying? Yeah, I can sort of see this. However, it should be noted that her husband is unhinged. (Yeah, the hotel makes him go crazy.) Does it, though? I thought Jack seemed a little unhinged right from the get-go. What I think I'm trying to say is, you'd be annoying too if you had to deal with the amount of hyper-masculine codswallop she puts up with in this movie.

By the way, the look on Shelley Duvall's face when Jack tells her to "get the fuck out of there" breaks my heart every time.

If you think about it, Jack Nicholson is the one of who's miscast. I didn't buy for a second that Stuart Ullman (Barry Nelson), the guy who runs the Overlook Hotel, would hire Jack Nicholson's version of Jack Torrence as the joint's off-season caretaker. I did buy, however, Wendy and Jack as a couple, as their body language when they're being lead on a tour of the hotel practically screamed loving heterosexual married couple circa 1980.

(You're just saying that because you secretly wish that it was you who was married to Wendy.) Yeah, so. Who wouldn't want to married to Wendy? (A lot of people, apparently.) Well, what do they know?

Okay, now that I've established, without a shadow of a doubt, that Shelley Duvall is the epitome of the bee's knees. Let's shift our attention to the film's most controversial aspect. And that is, Shelley Duvall's eccentric wardrobe.

Unique to the point of distraction, everything Shelley Duvall's character wears in this movie makes a statement. I know, you're probably thinking to yourself: How does wearing an olive overall dress make a statement? Trust me, they just do. The same goes for the gingham dress she wears over a red onesie.

It also helps that Shelley Duvall has the grace of a worn out a rag-doll. While this sounds like a bad thing. It actually tricks the audience into thinking that she will be a push over when rivers of blood start flowing down the hallways. That reminds me, isn't the hallway blood effect the coolest? What's that, you think the creepy little girls and the old lady in the bathtub scenes are the coolest. Actually, the film is chock-full of scenes that are pretty fucking cool.

Hell, even the shot of little Danny (Danny Lloyd), Jack and Wendy's "very willful boy," riding his low-riding tricycle down the hallways is pretty fucking cool (the way the sound of the plastic wheels is suddenly muffled by the hotel's distinctive, and, dare I say, iconic carpet is strangely therapeutic - it's like audio bubble-wrap).

Speaking of "very willful boys," in terms of acting and overall creepiness, my absolute favourite scene is the one where Jack and Delbert Grady (Philip Stone) chat in the (very red) men's room. I don't know, there's something about the way Philip Stone delivers his lines that is very appealing to me. And, if I may be so bold, I especially like the way his character says the word "corrected."

The same can be said about Jack's interactions with Joe Turkel's Lloyd the Bartender. I liked the way Jack's demented brand of playfulness and Lloyd's uber-calm demeanor meshed with one another. Now that I think about it, the film is essentially one amazing scene after another (all set to this wonderfully sinister music - Wendy Carlos, yo). And the great thing about these so-called amazing scenes, is that no matter how many times you watch them, you always manage to see something new. So, yeah, The Shining is without a doubt my favourite Stanley Kubrick film. And it's definitely the one I've seen the most. I don't know, I think I must have seen it at least twenty times. And each time, no matter what, I keep rooting for Scatman Crothers to save the day... but we all know how that turns out.

Oh, and I watched Room 237... It was awful. I hope it doesn't taint future viewings of the movie itself.

On a personal note. I was asked just recently by my counselor/clinician what kind of woman do I envision myself being. And, I, without hesitation, said Shelley Duvall in The Shining. I know, talk about your easy questions. I mean, yeah.

Don't you just hate it when a movie doesn't list the names of actors and the roles they play? Well, that's exactly what Violence and Flesh (Violência na Carne) does and I'm not too happy about it. Sure, I might have been able to piece it all together if I was at all familiar with Brazilian celebrities from the late 1970s/early '80s. But I'm not. So, that means I'm going to have to give names to the eleven or so characters who populate this film's cramped universe. The first six characters we meet are a trio of criminals, who, from the looks of it, just broke out of prison and/or robbed a bank, and two lesbians and their lean live-in boy-toy. Now, the lean live-in boy-toy is going to be called just that, "Lean Live-in Boy-Toy." Did you just ask, why? Okay, well. Um. He's lean, oh, man, is he ever lean. He's a boy. And he lives in a house with two lesbians (I'll explain the "toy" part later on, if there's time). At any rate, instead calling the lesbians, long-haired lesbian and short-haired lesbian, I've decided to call the long-haired lesbian, "Staunch Lesbian,"'cause she seems more invested in her Samba-soaked brand of lesbianism, and the short-haired lesbian, "Reluctant Lesbian,"'cause she comes across a tad less, oh, how should I put this... (Less dykey?) Um, no. Well, yes. I was thinking more along the lines of "less lesbiany." Either way. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. When the film opens, the Staunch Lesbian and the Reluctant Lesbian are smooshing their tan-line adorned bodies against one another for strictly orgasm-related purposes, while the Lean Live-in Boy-Toy is doing Brazilian yoga on the beach.

Meanwhile, the aforementioned trio of crooks are planning their getaway. Since they set their getaway car on fire (with one of their partners in crime in it), they need to find a new set of wheels. And they find some when they steal the car belonging Hand Wound McGillicuddy. What's that? Why did I call him that? Let's see. He sports a hand wound throughout the film and I like the name "McGillicuddy." It's that simple.

As for the criminals themselves. This was a little more complicated. I was going to name their idealistic leader, "Reluctant Rapist." But I don't think that properly reflects his character. No, I'm thinking that the leader of this band of misfits and ne'er–do–wells should be called the "Doomed Dreamer." Mainly because he desperately wants Brazil to be better country. But forces beyond his control seem determined not to allow this happen.

The other two were easy to name, as they wear their heinousness on their sleeves. While the Doomed Dreamer is a complex idealist with a conscience, Redneck Raúl and Brazilian Peter Lorre are pretty much rapists and murderers. Though to fair, Brazilian Peter Lorre does take a moment, in-between raping the Lean Live-in Boy-Toy, to talk about his mother, which was on the cusp of being touching and junk. However, make no mistake, these two are the worst humanity has to offer.

As bad luck would have it, the Doomed Dreamer, Redneck Raúl and Brazilian Peter Lorre (with Hand Wound McGillicuddy in tow) show up at the door of the Staunch and Reluctant Lesbians. In an act selflessness, the Lean Live-in Boy-Toy tells the Lesbians to hide before the crooks come bursting in. Unfortunately, their ruse doesn't last long, as Brazilian Peter Lorre eventually finds the lesbians hiding in a closet.

The reason the fugitives decide to hold up at this particular beach house is because they're expecting a boat to come ashore that will hopefully whisk them away to freedom.

Since you can't really have a home invasion with only six characters (well, I suppose you could...), we're introduced to three more. Two women and a man, the women are both actresses, both brunette and both possess shapely booties. That being said, they do have distinctive personalities. I've chosen to call brunette #1 "Juanita Stockholm" because she falls in love with the Doomed Dreamer.

As for brunette #2. I was going call her Miss Yellow Dress, for obvious reasons. But then she goes ahead and changes into a tight pair of white satin disco pants midway through the movie. So, yeah. How 'bout this, I'll call her Miss Yellow Dress. But just remember that she changes into a pair of tight white satin disco pants later on.

Did anyone else let out an audible gasp when it's revealed that the yellow dress that Miss Yellow Dress is wearing is actually two pieces? Call me, oh, I don't know, fashionably challenged, but I could have sworn that it was one piece. As per usual, I kept imagining what I would look like in the dress. Despite the fact that yellow isn't my colour (even though marigold, butterscotch and canary are in right now), I decided... (What about the guy the actresses was with?)

Who? (You mentioned a man.) Oh, him. Fuck that guy. (I agree. But still, you should name him.) Okay, fine. The guy traveling with Juanita Stockholm and Miss Yellow Dress is "Johnny Not Raped."

Now, let's get back to that dress, shall we? Can you believe it wasn't one piece? I mean, I was, like, whoa. I did not see that coming. (Why is he called, "Johnny Not Raped"?) Well, if you must know. All the guy does for the entire movie is whine and complain, yet he's the only one who isn't assaulted. Hell, even Hand Wound McGillicuddy is shot in the hand, and he's forced to watch his beloved boy-toy raped by Brazilian Peter Lorre.

And get this, Johnny Not Raped has the nerve to blame Miss Yellow Dress for being raped. I know, what an asshole. Men who blame women for being raped are pure scum. So, fuck you, Johnny Not Raped. You worthless piece of shit.

Does Hand Wound McGillicuddy blame Lean Live-in Boy-Toy for his rape? Of course he doesn't.

Goddamn it! Just thinking about Johnny Not Raped is making my blood boil.

Yeah, I know. I should reserve some vitriol for Redneck Raúl and Brazilian Peter Lorre. But those two are unabashed low-lifes. In that, I expect them to be cruel and heartless. Johnny Not Raped, on the other hand, is supposed to be a good guy. Ahhhhh! This movie is so awesome, yet so awful at the same time.

Speaking of awful, Redneck Raúl and Juanita Stockholm prove once and for all that overalls look terrible on both men and women equally. Unless you're pitching hay, I don't want to see you in overalls. Wait. Six on Blossom can wear 'em. But that's it! No more overalls in non-farm, non-Blossom environments.

In conclusion (yeah, I'm afraid I'm done writing about this movie), Violence and Flesh is an excellent slab of Brazilian exploitation. Sure, it's basically a home invasion flick. But it's got enough unique flourishes to make it worthwhile. I'd recommend watching it alongside the sleaze-tastic Bare Behind Bars. Which is not only one of the best women in prison films ever made, it's Brazilian as well. Oh, and since there are no clips or trailers for this film on youtube (which is odd, as I thought everything was on youtube), I've decided to embed this clip from Bare Behind Bars instead. Edit: The entire thing can be found here.

On the third occasion when Goth introduces herself to a Goth couple by saying, "Hi. I'm Goth," and the Goth couple respond, "So are we," I threw my hands up in mock surrender. Meaning, despite this films numerous flaws, I can't stay mad at a film that is this Goth. I know, you're thinking to yourself: Oh, Yum-Yum. You of all people should know that this film, written and directed by Brad Sykes, isn't Goth. For starters, it's directed by a guy named "Brad" (the least Goth name, like, ever). I see where you're coming from, my black clad friend. But I've recently decided that labels like, "Goth" and "Industrial" and others like, "Mathcore,""Liberal" and "Aggrotech" are pretty much meaningless. Seriously, what is Goth? Well, according Goth (Phoebe Dollar), the lead character in the aptly named Goth, in order to be truly Goth, you need to follow the three rules of Goth. Since there might be a handful of you out there who don't know what these rules are, I'll go ahead and list them. And they are: 1. Embrace the darkness. 2. Kill your fears. And 3. Live for death. Follow these three simple rules and you'll be well on your way to being a better Goth in no time. Of course, it doesn't hurt that to have a kind of "Goth Whisperer" to help guide you on your journey to becoming the Goth you've always wanted to be. Personally, I want to be a skinny-armed Goth princess... but that's, um, a different kettle of onion rings all-together.

Just for the record, I've never heard of any these so-called "Goth rules." Maybe because I never had a "Goth Whisperer." But did I really need one? I mean, I own Christian Death's first two albums and "First and Last and Always" by The Sisters of Mercy for criminy's sake. In other words, what else do I need? Okay, owning a pair of pointy buckle boots would be a start. But other than that...

According to Goth, Goth is more about attitude than fashion and music. Actually, she seems also to think that sex, drugs and murder are the keys to being Goth. And she foists this sinful trifecta into the PVC-slathered laps of two Goth posers named Crissy (Laura Reilly) and Boone (Dave Stann) at a Goth concert.

I will say this about Goth's approach to Goth, it re-injects an aspect of danger into the Goth subculture. Hampered by the barf-inducing whimsy of some of Tim Burton's lame-ass movies and the Evanescencification of the scene in general, I think Goth has lost its way in recent years. While I think stabbing people with knives is totally uncool, I think drug abuse and kinky sex are acceptable... in moderation of course.

Personally, I think Goths should subsist on a steady diet of Coil albums and the films of Rinse Dream. But that's just me.

Meeting, like I said, Crissy (black lip stick/purple streak in her hair) and Boone (black lipstick/mesh tank top), at a Goth club, Goth offers to give the couple a sneak preview of new drug called "White Light." While waiting for Goth to show up with the drugs she promised, Crissy and Boone are confronted behind the club by a couple of muggers. Not to worry, though, Goth makes short work of the muggers just as they were about to rape Crissy (they switched from being muggers to rapists when they realized they didn't have any money).

In case you're wondering, Goth is wearing black boots, a red leather skirt and a black PVC top. She also has a funky forehead tattoo and the word "Goth" tattooed on her chest. And she made "short work" of the muggers/rapists by employing the three Goth rules I mentioned earlier. I can't believe owning a pair of pointy buckle shoes and/or boots isn't one of the rules. Weird. But then again, I don't think pointy shoes and/or boots would have helped Goth against the muggers/rapists.

After doing a couple of lines of White Light, Crissy and Boone wake up in the back of Goth's van. Adorned with skulls, red lights and Goth band flyers, Crissy and Boone are obviously still trippin' balls something fierce.

Oh, and when Crissy is reluctant to snort the White Light, Goth throws this gem her way: "I thought you were Goth." Actually, that line sums up this movie in a nutshell. The whole movie is basically Goth telling Crissy and Boone they're not Goth if they don't do what she says.

You can't really blame her for thinking that way. Other than Siouxsie Sioux and Rozz Williams, I don't think there's ever been anyone more Goth than Phoebe Dollar. You can complain about this film's low budget and suspect acting as much as you want, but there's no way you can deny that Phoebe Dollar isn't Goth. Hell, she oozes Goth from every orifice (eww).

Having to settle with seeing her languish in dinky roles in movies like, Werewolf in a Women's Prison and Rat Scratch Fever, I was pleased to finally see that a movie that allowed Phoebe Dollar to display her talent as an actress. She utters the bulk of the film's dialogue and is on screen pretty much the whole time. So, if you're like me, and desperately need more Phoebe Dollar in your life, Goth is the movie for you.

The film itself isn't that bad, either. The soundtrack is wall-to-wall industrial rock and the score features pounding synths of the creepy variety. The gore is okay (the members of an indoor heterosexual hootenanny spit copious amounts of blood after being repeatedly stabbed with a knife wielded by a Goth). They mention the word "Goth" at least fifty times. And the chubby redhead Boone is "forced" to bone during the massage parlor scene was sexy as hell (she was wearing a PVC garter belt!!!!).

Though, I have to wonder: Who was driving Goth's van? They never reveal who the driver was. Wouldn't it have been cool if, say, Robert Smith was the one driving. Or maybe Peter Murphy. Or Andrew Eldritch. Or... well, you get the idea. Oooh, Patricia Morrison and David Vanian! Anyway, talk about a missed opportunity.

My expectations going into Tangerine were, I have to admit, kind of low. Preparing myself for what was surely going to be ninety straight minutes of life-affirming, humour-challenged, Sundance-approved twaddle, I folded my beautiful arms and said: Bring it. Huh? Why were my expectations so low? Oh, it's because so-called indie movies seem to have lost their edge in recent years. And in the case of this film, I was anticipating yet another movie about people who don't spend the bulk of their day turning tricks, doing drugs and riding public transit. (Don't tell me, the characters in Tangerine do all three of these things?) You got that right. Granted, they don't do all three at the same time. Nevertheless, the amount of relief I felt the second I discovered Sin-Dee Rella (Kitana Kiki Rodriguez) and Alexandra (Mya Taylor) were sex workers struggling to survive on the sun-baked, tangerine-coloured (hence the film's title... I think) streets of Hollywood was astronomical. Of course, I realize that there have been countless movies made about sex workers over the years. But I think most people will agree that you probably haven't seen a hooker movie like this before. First things first, look at the leads. That's right, they ain't white. Every other hooker movie I can think of, at least the one's I've reviewed, always feature white prostitutes (Angel and Hanna D. are two that immediately come to mind). Sure, some of them feature black or Asian women. But they're never more than "the white lead's friend" (Streetwalkin') or worse, ethnic window dressing (Vice Squad). So, you could say, that the film, co-written and directed by Sean Baker (Greg the Bunny), is revolutionary.

However, it's not pompous tripe. It's dirty, cheap and the lead characters aren't always likable. I know, how can someone as winsome as Sin-Dee be not likable? Um, she drags (by the hair) a fellow streetwalker across town simply to make a dramatic point to Chester (James Ransone), her boyfriend/pimp. Yes, I understand the boyfriend/pimp needed to be taught a lesson, but that poor woman was basically flung to-and-fro like a rag-doll for a huge chunk of the movie.

In the grand tradition of other single-night/single day in L.A. movies (Miracle Mile, Modern Girls, Into the Night and The Night Before - the Keanu Reeves one), Tangerine depicts the city as a dangerous place filled with desperate people living on the fringes of society. Or maybe I thought it was dangerous because I'm deathly afraid of the sun (the giant ass sphere of hot plasma is so motherfuckin' bright in this movie). Either way, I found the scummy realism of the street scenes to be quite appealing.

It also helped that Kitana Kiki Rodriguez and Mya Taylor were not only believable as best friends, but believable as the kind of sex workers who hang out at donut shops; there's nothing phony about their depiction of bottom tier whoredom.

The plot basically goes like this: While a newly reunited Sin-Dee and Alexandra (the former just got released from prison) are chatting at their favourite donut shop, Alexandra accidentally lets slip that Chester, Sin-Dee's boyfriend/pimp, has been cheating on her with a sex worker whose name begins with the letter 'D.'

As you might expect, Sin-Dee is furious, and embarks on an exhaustive search for this D-woman that takes her all across beautiful downtown, I'm guessing, West Hollywood. That being said, while her search might be "exhaustive," that doesn't prevent her for supporting Alexandra, who has a singing gig booked later in the evening. Did I mention it's Christmas Eve? Anyway, seeing Sin-Dee multi-task (supporting her friend and getting back at Chester simultaneously) was mildly inspirational.

In order to keep things interesting, we're introduced to Razmik (Karren Karagulian), an Armenian cab driver with a thing for a certain type of prostitute. (He likes black chicks?) Yeah, um, uh.... I guess you could say that. Anyway, when he discovers that the sex worker, played by Ana Foxx (Black Girl Gloryholes 12), he just picked up is lacking in one crucial area, he goes looking for Alexandra, who isn't... lacking (their car wash hook-up is strangely romantic).

After much poking around, Sin-Dee finally finds the D-woman, a scrawny blonde afab named Dinah (Mickey O'Hagen), and sets in motion her plan to confront Chester, her, like I said, boyfriend/pimp... (Wait a second. Her pimp's name is Chester?) I know, what kind of name is that for a pimp? I don't know if this was done on purpose or not, but it was so sad to see Sin-Dee, who is pretty much the cutest person, like, ever (she puts on a one-woman adorable clinic while sitting on a bus stop bench), wasting her time on that Chester asshole.

Women who can rock white cut-off jean shorts with black hole-ridden pantyhose don't date guys named Chester. At least they don't on my watch. Then again, judging by the men who populate this film's glaring (seriously, I grew to appreciate shade even more after watching this film) universe, her choices are rather limited.

I know I was hard on Sin-Dee earlier for her harsh treatment of Dinah, but I did tear up a little bit when Sin-Dee takes a moment to fix Dinah's makeup. Call me a total sap, but the lighting, the music, and the overall temperament of the scene acted as sort of tonic for me, as it briefly reminded me that hos, and people in general, should be nicer to one another.

Despite its gritty exterior, Tangerine is clearly a film, even though it pains me to say so, that is on the cusp of being life affirming. It's true, things get somewhat ridiculous when Razmik's mother-in-law shows up at the donut shop (the scene is like a Three's Company episode... one, mind you, that was directed by John Waters), but not even that can ruin the core of this movie. Which is, the friendship between Sin-Dee and Alexandra. Beautiful, touching, funny and vital as fuck, I kind of loved this movie. Oh, and, yes, it was apparently shot on an iPhone.

Freaked (Tom Stern and Alex Winter, 1993)

King of New York (Abel Ferrara, 1990)

Orlando (Sally Potter, 1992)

Tango of Perversion (Kostas Karagiannis, 1973)

Come and See (Elem Klimov, 1985)

Timebomb (Avi Nesher, 1991)

Missile to the Moon (Richard E. Cunha, 1958)

Cat-Women of the Moon (Arthur Hilton, 1953)

Hudson Hawk (Michael Lehmann, 1991)

Mission: Killfast (Ted V. Mikels, 1991)

Eyes of Fire (Avery Crounse, 1983)

Snakewoman (Jess Franco, 2005)

Rubber's Lover (Shozin Fukui, 1996)

Sorority House Massacre (Carol Frank, 1986)

Sorority House Massacre II (Jim Wynorski, 1990)

Sexandroide (Michel Ricaud, 1987)

The Shining (Stanley Kubrick, 1980)

Violence and Flesh (Alfredo Sternheim, 1981)

Goth (Brad Sykes, 2003)

Tangerine (Sean Baker, 2015)