House of Self-Indulgence

Even though there are subtle hints that punk and new wave exist in the world depicted in Thunder Alley. It's safe to say that bland, middle of the road rock music is the dominating force. Call it the macho version of Ladies and Gentlemen, The Fabulous Stains, call it the eyeliner-free version Breaking Glass, I'd even go as far as to call it the winklepicker-less Scenes From the Goldmine. Anyway, call it what you will, this movie, directed J.S. Cardone, might lack the visual flair of the flicks I just mentioned. But it's still a pretty good rise, fall, and then rise again redemption-heavy '80s rock movie. Sure, the movie's band, Magic, doesn't have a synth player, but... Wait a minute, they do have a synth player. In fact, he's using a Yamaha DX7. I think the reason I thought Magic didn't have anyone on keyboards was because the first few songs I heard of theirs seemed to be devoid of synths (which annoyed me like you wouldn't believe). Or maybe the synths were just drowned out by the bands obnoxiously straight-forward guitar rock sound. Either way, their soon-to-be drug addicted synth player can definitely be heard during the songs they play while touring the dive bar circuit. Only problem being, the quality of his keyboard playing begins to suffer as the band starts to gain traction. Why, you ask? Um, it's simple, really, he's addicted to drugs. I know, you're thinking to yourself, his substance abuse problem shouldn't effect his playing. Granted, it might ruin his life in other ways. But I think most people agree, drugs make you a better musician.

While that might seem like a controversial statement. Think about all the great albums in your record collection. Do you think they were made by people who weren't high on cocaine? I don't think so.

I think the reason the drugs had a negative effect on Magic's keyboard player was because he was, well, a keyboard player. Falling over guitar amps in a foggy haze or pounding maniacally on a drum-kit are synonymous with drug-fueled rock stardom. On other hand, keyboard players need to remain focused. Seriously, has a rock keyboard player ever died of a drug overdose? (I recall the touring keyboardist for the Smashing Pumpkins dying of a heroin overdose back in the 1990s.) Okay, that's one. That being said, it's still not that common.

Another factor, of course, was the anti-drug hysteria that was sweeping America at the time. And this hysteria was reflected on the big screen in the form of plot lines that featured illegal drugs as the primary antagonist.

A holdover from the hedonistic 1970s, drugs, like, heroin and cocaine, were viewed as the worst, most evil things in the universe.

As per usual, women and the morbidly obese are to blame for the drug addiction that threatens to cut Magic's meteoric rise off at the knees. You see, the woman typically gets the drug from the morbidly obese individual, who, in turn, passes the drugs onto unsuspecting rock stars in training. It should be noted that the woman uses the confines of her silky vagina as a lure as well. And who among us can resist the confines of a silky vagina?

Uh, I'll tell you who can. Richie (Roger Wilson), that's who. The guitarist and occasional frontman for Magic is offered a tasty slice of chlorine-soaked pussy at a pool party (hence, it being chlorine-soaked), but turns it down. Partly because he's currently "seeing" the Phoebe Cates-esque Beth (Jill Schoelen), the counter-woman at the local sundae stand. But mainly because she looks like trouble.

In case you're wondering, the reason I called Richie the ""occasional" frontman of Magic is because Skip (played by the always awesome Leif Garrett) is supposed to be the bands frontman. Their rivalry, intensified by the fact that Skip didn't want Richie to join the band, is what drives the plot in the early going. However, once Skip realizes that Richie is a major talent, he puts his jealous feelings aside and begrudgingly accepts Richie into the fold. I mean, if Benjamin Orr and Ric Ocasek of The Cars could share singing duties back in the '70s and '80s, why can't Magic?

At first, Donnie (Scott McGinnis), the band's keyboard player/chief songwriter, and the reason Richie became a member in the first place, reaps much pleasure from the fact Skip is constantly irritated by Richie's presence. This backfires big time when Donnie starts to resent Richie. And, you guessed it, Donnie resorts to drugs and guilt-free groupie poontang (ignoring his soda jerk/new wave girlfriend in the process) to dull the pain.

While a lot of the bands success can be attributed to Richie's guitar playing and songwriting prowess, you shouldn't discount the advantages that come with having Clancy Brown as your road manager. Don't believe me, just ask the club owner who tries to pay the band with a cheque. Not only did Clancy cause him to piss his pants, they got paid in cash, yo.

What I think I'm trying to say is, Clancy Brown is a bad-ass. (Duh, squared!) Yeah, I know. It should go without saying. But I don't think I've ever reviewed a Clancy Brown film on here.

At any rate, you're probably wondering about the fashion in Thunder Alley. Well, I can tell you this, it's not all blue denim and white t-shirts paired with sneakers. In fact, if you look closely, you can spot the odd punk here and there.

Watch when Richie and Donnie are walking through an alleyway ("Thunder Alley," perhaps?) on their way to The Palace (the exalted concert venue that looms large throughout the movie), you can see a couple of punk chicks leaning against a wall.

As for new wave duds, both Carol Kottenbrook (who works at The Palace) and Cynthia Eilbacher (Donnie's girlfriend) wear short skirts with studded belts and funky sleeveless tops.

While not as flashy as the movies I mentioned earlier (Breaking Glass, for example), Thunder Alley is still a solid '80s rock movie. If you liked Eddie and the Cruisers, you should definitely check it out.

In case you're wondering, "Can't You Feel My Heartbeat" is my favourite Magic song. Oh, and special thanks to chyneaze for recommending this movie.

Judging by the film's goofy poster (i.e. video box), you would think that Just One of the Girls was going to be yet another puerile slab of frat boy-approved horndog twaddle. Sure, it's got scenes that practically scream frat boy-approved horndog twaddle (a male character in drag hits himself in the nuts with his mop while scoping naked chicks in the girls' shower). But the film, directed by Michael Keusch, has a lot to say about gender identity. Seriously, it does. While the lead character, played by Corey Haim, initially embraces cross-dressing in order to not become a victim of bully-based violence, his decision to do so has far-reaching repercussions. Who should we begin with? Oh, let's start with my favourite character, Kurt Stark (Cameron Bancroft, a good Winnipeg kid). His character not only has the film's most interesting arc, Kurt's the only character with an arc. Think about it. He starts off as your stereotypical bully (a casualty of heterosexual peer pressure if I ever saw one), then he inadvertently falls in love with a cross-dresser (though, I like to think he knew all along that he was in love with a cross-dresser), and eventually... well, I won't spoil what he eventually becomes. But I will say this, it's quite shocking. Yes, shocking. I mean, I don't know if anyone remembers what life was like for gay and transgendered people back in the 1980s and early 90s, but I recall it being quite hostile.

Just for the record, I'm talking about suburban Toronto (the atmosphere was so anti-LGBTQ+, you risked life and limb by simply wearing the colour pink - screw pink, anything that wasn't blue, white or grey could land you a severe beating). And get this, these so-called suburbanites would pack themselves into cars and drive up and down Yonge St. yelling "fags" and "faggot" at random people walking down the street.

Anyway, as I was saying, the evolution of the Kurt character from a thuggish lout to a sensitive, fair-minded champion of love and compassion was a thing of beauty. Personally, I thought Kurt's growth as a human being usurped the novelty of seeing Corey Haim in women's clothes.

And I'm not just saying that because I found Corey Haim's wardrobe choices to be atrocious, I genuinely found Kurt's journey to be much more satisfying in the long run. What's that? Why did I find Corey's wardrobe to be atrocious? I hated the fact that they kept putting Corey in baggy shirts. They made him look like he was wearing football pads. And don't get me started on that bulky wig and those awful cowboy boots.

They're called pumps, Corey. Like, seriously. Someone get this girl some heels, stat.

Not to harp on it, but what's the point of cross-dressing if you don't wear heels? Exactly, there isn't one. It's true, finding heels that are your size can be a bit of a challenge (trust me, I know). But that's no excuse. At the end of the day, I'll just chalk up Corey Haim's multiple drag fails as minor quibbles, as the film itself is still breezy and on the cusp of being funny at times.

And it doesn't hurt that Molly Parker plays a bitchy cheerleader (head cheerleader, no less) and a pre-Jagged Little Pill Alanis Morrisette plays a pop singer named Alanis ("Always too hot never too cold / You make your best shot too hot to hold").

You're probably asking yourself: How does a seemingly straight, cisgender vest enthusiast end up being a gender-bending cheerleader? Well, that's easy. Desperate to attend a school with a kick ass music program, Chris Calder (Corey Haim) tricks his father (Kevin McNulty) into signing the registration form. Only problem being, a bully named Kurt is gunning for Chris. Unable to attend school of his dreams, Chris decides trick Kurt by dressing in women's clothes.

Wait, why doesn't Chris simply enter the school through the back or one of the many side doors? I mean, Kurt and his goons can't be everywhere at once.

Actually, I think the reason Chris doesn't use the back and/or side door is because he secretly wants to wear women's clothes. And this whole Kurt situation gives him the perfect excuse. In addition, it allows him to get close to Marie Stark (Nicole Eggert), the girl he has a crush on. Of course, the plan hits a bit of a snag when Kurt falls for the girl version of Chris, or "Chrissy," as he likes to call him/her. Not to mention, the whole Marie thing is bound to backfire. How long can Chris keep his gaff in place before Marie finds out he's a dude? (What's a gaff?) It's a device some women use to tuck their dick and balls between their legs in order to hide their junk-bulge. I've read that you can make your own gaff by simply using the waistband of a pair of pantyhose and by cutting the top piece off a sock... Search the YouTube by typing in "How to tuck" for more info.

Surprisingly, the whole to tuck or not to tuck issue isn't raised once during the course of this movie, which was filmed, by the way, in Vancouver, B.C. (hence the surplus of Canadian actors, Haim and Bancroft included). Now, I'm not saying that this is a flaw or anything like that (the lack of gaff humour, not the fact that the film was shot in Vancouver thing). It just seemed like a missed opportunity, as I'm sure a ton of tuck-related comical situations could have been mined. Oh, well.

Speaking of which, the situation Chris' father is put in is definitely comical. First he tries to teach his son to box, then he finds out he might be gay, after that he learns that he's a cross-dresser. Talk about your emotional roller-coaster.

I think that just about covers everything... Hold on. Did I mention that there's a ton of first-rate female nudity? Including shots of bush? I think I did... But anyway, if you're a guy or girl who digs naked women, you'll appreciate these scenes. Oh, the film's dance/housey soundtrack (which includes three Alanis songs) is pretty club/gay-friendly.

When the leading lady in Doris Wishman's Satan Was a Lady decides to exploit the secretary who works for the man she's currently blackmailing for monetary gain, I thought to myself: Now we're getting somewhere. Don't get me wrong, I loved the kooky vibe the film was putting out there up until this point. And I even loved the songs by Glyn Styler, who plays "Ed Baines," the lead character's musician boyfriend. But the film was missing that certain something. That all changes when Cleo Lauren (Honey Lauren), a self-described whore, tells Lotte (Laudet Torres) that if she hands over the names of her boss's richest clients, she will give her a makeover. My eyes lit up like a rotten Christmas tree, one of course that's been set on fire and tossed off the roof of a recently condemned Denny's, when she says this. I was like, oooh, I can't wait to see what Cleo's got in store for Lotte. Seriously, someone cue the makeover montage. Unfortunately, Lotte refuses to hand over the names of her boss's clients. Which is a freakin' shame. Or was it? Think about it. Lotte doesn't need a makeover. Her glasses, her hair, her mousey clothes are pretty much perfect. In other words, I wouldn't change a damn thing. As for Cleo. She's the last person who should be giving fashion and style advice. I mean, for starters, look at that mane of unkempt hair sitting atop her head. It's a fucking mess. Um, hello? Helena Bonham Carter called. She wants her hairdo back. Zing!

If you're wondering if this film is in anyway connected to Doris Wishman's Satan Was a Lady from mid-1970s. You can stop right this minute. Other than the fact that they're both directed by Doris Wishman, the film's have nothing really in common. (So... why do they have the same title?) Your guess is as good as mine. It does make sense, if you think about it. Who else would remake their own movie some thirty years later and have them be totally different movies? I'll tell you who, Doris Wishman.

While it was somewhat troubling to see a Doris Wishman film that employs live sound (most of her classic films were shot without sound), you can still see subtle flourishes here and there that prove that she's still got it.

Got what, I'm not quite sure. But it's blatantly obvious whose behind the camera. This sleazy exploitation noir/musical practically oozes Doris Wishman at times.

While the production design isn't as gaudy or as heinous as it is in her other films. The furniture, the wall art and the decor in general is still pretty egregious. And, of course, I mean that in the nicest way possible. If I want to see uninspired production design, I'll watch any random porno film made during the last fifteen years. On the other hand, if I want to see furnishings that will make me gag by simply looking in their general direction, I'll watch a Doris Wishman film.

And, judging by the words I'm currently typing, it looks like I just did. It's just too bad every other film I watch couldn't be a Doris Wishman film, as they are simply better than most of the crap I watch. Okay, maybe "better" isn't the right word. But they're definitely more interesting.

Take, for example, the way Glyn Styler combs his hair. It's a thousand times more interesting than 99% of the stuff I see in most movies. I ain't kidding around. In fact, I would put Glyn Styler's floppy side part up there with the likes of Kyle MacLachlan's floppy side part from Showgirls. (Didn't you say that just the mere sight of Kyle MacLachlan's floppy side part in Showgirls gave you a yeast infection?) Yeah, so? (Aren't yeast infections bad?) Are you kidding me? I would kill for a yeast infection, especially one that was induced by a floppy side part.

Speaking of Showgirls, the strip club scenes are a real hoot and a half. Mainly because the strippers strip in reverse. That's right, they start off naked, and slowly put their clothes on... to the cool, hip, way-out songs of Glyn Styler.

In case I forget, the plot basically about a Miami whore who dreams of buying a fur coat. Wait. There's got to be more to it than that. Let's me see. A Miami whore, low on funds, decides to blackmail one of her clients in order to buy a fur coat. Um, yeah, that's pretty much it. Of course, this plan of hers hits a few roadblocks along the way; she eventually turns her attention to her clients' son (Hans Lohl, a.k.a. the worst actor ever). But that's the gist of it. Oh, and the actor who plays the client the Miami whore is blackmailing is called "Edge." No, not The Edge, just Edge. Is that crazy or what?

As far as other Doris Wishman-fostered anomalies go. I would say the cat with bum paw and lesbian strip club bartender were my favourite. The sight of Cleo's cat limping around her shitty apartment will break your heart. And while there's nothing really that odd about a lesbian strip club bartender, the part where she's turned down by that sun-baked whore with the long blonde braids was kinda off. I mean, what kind of person says no to what will surly be a night of super-wild lesbian sex? It makes no sense.

Oh, and who wears fur in Miami?!? Though, it does explain why Cleo's hair looks like an abandoned bird's nest most of time. (Huh?) The humid weather in Miami isn't exactly hair-friendly. (Oh.)

Anyway, Doris Wishman, who was pushing 90 when she made this, proves that you're never too old to make sleazy trash. Oh, and Glyn Styler rocks.

You know what this movie really needs? (A sense of humour?) No... Well, yeah, it could have been funnier. Now, I'm not saying it should have been Romy and Michele's High School Reunion funnier, but still, a little levity would have helped the film's ultra-earnest temperament go down a whole lot smoother. Damn, why did I bring up Romy and Michele? Now I want to watch it. Seriously, I don't even know why other movies bother to exist, as nothing will ever top the sheer awesomeness that is Romy and Michele's High School Reunion. Maybe instead of watching it, I'll just fold scarves or whatever. Anyway. What was I saying? Oh, yeah. You know what this movie–which, I might as well mention, is called Born in Flames–really needs? That's right, it's needs Lydia Lunch. I ain't kidding around, it needs her sneer badly. Well, to be fair, Adele Bertei's sneer is nothing to sneeze at. Nonetheless, the film, directed by Lizzie Borden, could have really used some Lydia Lunch. (Yeah, well. She's not in it... so, get over it.) Okay, now that we got all that nonsense out of the way, let's see how many "isms" I can use while describing this movie. The most obvious and most important one is feminism, as it permeates the proceedings like an estrogen haze. Mmm, an estrogen haze. Oh, to have rivers of uncut estrogen coursing through my veins. Yum. Soften my wiry skin, you sweet, sweet elixir, you. Make my nipples... (Focus!) Huh? Sorry 'bout that.

Yeah, you could say the film is definitely pro-feminist. It's also pro-socialism, anti-racism, pro-lesbian, anti-classism and pro-Bogosian (the film marks the acting debut of writer Eric Bogosian and, for some reason, the acting debut of Strange Days director Kathryn Bigelow).

You could say the film is kinda anti-Mark Boone Junior as well. I mean, to see a non-bearded Mark Boone Junior cock-blocked on the subway by a couple of a vigilante lesbians was beyond infuriating. Wait a minute. No it wasn't. In fact, it was the complete opposite of infuriating. There's nothing I despise more than watching men trying to talk to women in public. It would be fine if both parties wanted to talk to one another. But the woman doesn't want to talk to you, so leave her the fuck alone. I can't tell you how many times I've watched men try to strike up conversations with women on the subway. And every time it happens, I want to crawl under the nearest pile of garbage and die. It's just so embarrassing.

Luckily for the subway riding woman in Born in Flames, her Mark Boone Junior-related problems are solved by a couple of members of a radical feminist group that may or may not have ties the Women's Army. Of course, Mark Boone Junior is just doing what the patriarchy has repeatedly allowed and encouraged him to do. And that is, openly suppress women.

Now, you would think that equality would reign supreme in the New York City portrayed in this film. After all, the so-called "Social Democratic War of Liberation" was apparently won ten years ago. And even though, the U.S. is currently a socialist, Bernie-approved paradise, women, minorities and the working poor are still being screwed over.

With rape, racism and unemployment running rampant across the country, it leaves Isabel (Adele Bertei), the host of a pirate radio show called "Radio Ragazza" and Honey (Honey), the host of "Phoenix Radio," no choice but to fight back against this oppressive society.

While the ideas bandied about in this film are large in scope, the execution is actually quite minimal. Saddled with a minuscule budget, Lizzie Borden, using stock footage of riots and civil unrest and clever editing techniques, has made a low-budget epic with science fiction overtones. Or, I should say, slight sci-fi overtones.

Although the world depicted in this film might have seemed far-fetched in 1983, it's like watching a documentary when compared to today's current political climate.

In fact, some of the dialogue sounds eerily similar to discourse I regularly hear in the media nowadays. Which, in a way, makes Born in Flames all the more relevant. Of course, that doesn't mean the film isn't overbearing at times. The characters don't really talk to one another, it's more like they speechify at one another. That being said, the film is definitely a must-see for fans of punk rock (the film's scrappy theme song is a snotty riot), NYC in the early 1980s (the film would make an excellent double-bill with Downtown '81 or Vortex), leftist radicalism and hardcore feminism.

How am I supposed to learn how to apply makeup in a tarty manner if they don't show it being applied? (What the hell are you babbling about?) The sexual deviant/serial killer/C.I.A. assassin, played by the striking Judson Scott, at the centre of I, the Jury likes to slather his female victims in heavy makeup before killing them. (Yeah, so?) So? We never see how he applies the makeup. And another thing, does he carry around the makeup with him? It's revealed later on in the film, directed by Richard T. Heffron (the film's writer, Larry Cohen, was set to direct but was apparently fired for some reason), that he carries around a bag that contains a red wig and a switchblade. So, I can only assume he keeps the makeup in that bag as well. Either way, I would have liked to have seen him put the makeup on the women he murdered. I know, there are literally thousands of videos out there that can help you apply makeup to your face. But those videos are mostly about cis women applying makeup in a competent manner. I, on the other hand, want to know how to apply makeup in an incompetent manner. What can I say? I'm a tart at heart. In case it isn't obvious, the Judson Scott subplot of this film, loosely based on the novel by Mickey Spillane (his debut, if I'm not mistaken), was my favourite aspect of this NYC-set detective movie.

Unfortunately, Judson Scott doesn't appear in the film right away. Sure, you get to see some of his handy-work in the early going (a tarted up, red wig-adorned woman is found dead in the park). But the film is mostly made up of car chases and Armand Assante's [thankfully] always clean shaven Mike Hammer whining about his pet fish dying (every time he enters his office, one, or some times even two, of his fish are lifelessly floating in his fish tank). Actually, I kind of liked the dead fish gag.

Anyway, I would say a good chunk of this film, especially the first half, had the feeling of an expensive TV pilot. However, that all changes when the orgy gets underway. Yep, I said, orgy. Investigating the murder of a one-armed army buddy (they served in Vietnam together), Det. Mike Hammer, with the help of his sexy secretary Velda (Laurene Landon), uncovers a vast conspiracy involving the mafia, the C.I.A., serial killers, sex clinics and mind control.

As you might expect, the serial killer/sex clinic plot line scratched me where I itch the most. What can I say? I'm a... deviant, I guess.

I don't know what this says about me, but I was rapidly losing patience with this film during the early going. And it didn't help that the Al Pacino-lite macho asshole vibe Armand Assante was repeatedly putting out there rubbed me the wrong way. Granted, I grew to accept, and eventually admire, Armand Assante's brutish performance as Mike Hammer (he is someone you don't fuck with... big time). But I wasn't having any of it at the beginning.

While the orgy scene I alluded to earlier is an obvious indicator that the tone of the film had changed. I would say the scene where Mike Hammer and a fellow detective played Paul Sorvino stand over the dead body of that tarted up woman lying at the base of the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central park was the exact moment I started to realize that this film might have some sleaze potential. I mean, the way the camera lingered voyeuristically (that's a word, right?) on her dead body was definitely exploitative in nature. And I dug that.

What? You don't think I watch movies to see finely woven plots unfold in a semi-clever manner. Uh-uh. I want to see the bloated, pockmarked underbelly of humanity exposed, warts and all. And I want to see bright colours and fashion. Sadly, there isn't that much fashion in this film. Nevertheless, the sudden uptick in this film's sleaze factor not only pleased me, it guaranteed that it would be worthy of a review.

And judging by the words I've typed so far in correlation with I, the Jury, it's clearly being reviewed.

I don't want it to seem like I'm obsessed with the orgy scene, but I think I would remiss if I didn't mention that the bulk of the orgasm faces used in the close-ups were provided by porn legends Samantha Fox (Her Name Was Lisa) and Bobby Astyr (Corruption).

The actual plot, in case I forgot to mention, involves Mike Hammer investigating the murder of... No, wait. I already mentioned that. Nevertheless, the part of the plot where we learn that the C.I.A. has employed/brainwashed a sex-crazed serial killer to murder America's enemies is kind of interesting. Think about it. The C.I.A. can kill anyone they want without it being connected to them. Just as long as the killer can get his victims to wear a red wig and tarty makeup and get them to profess their love for him in a sincere manner, they're good to go... murder-wise.

A prime example of what can happen when 1970s-style grittiness/paranoia is mixed with together with the burgeoning urbanity of the 1980s, I, the Jury is the best of both worlds: a glossy action-thriller with enough sleaze to satisfy fans of both 1970s and 1980s cinema.

First off, how about a round of applause for Freya Mavor's freckles? If you thought Natalya Rudakova's freckles were off the hook in The Transporter 3, you'll love Freya Mavor's freckles in The Lady in the Car with Glasses and a Gun... (Hold your horses, that's the name of the movie? And secondly, do people still say, "off the hook"?) Yes, that's the name of the movie. As for "off the hook." Fuck these so-called "people." Besides, who still says, "hold your horses"? Talk about lame. Anyway, as of writing this, I have purchased a total of six dresses at my favourite thrift store (it's on Bloor St. and it's the only place I feel comfortable shopping for clothes). Now, given that I'm rather new to buying dresses, I'm still trying to figure what my size is. At first I thought I was in the 9-10 range. Then I started to think I was more of a 7-8 kind of creature (edit: 3-4 seems about right). Either way, deep down I feel as if the garments I'm getting all a tad on the small side. That is until I saw what Freya Mavor wears as Dany Dorémus is this strange retro road movie from France. Even though she mainly wears the same outfit from start to finish, every outfit she does wear is pretty skimpy. And given that Freya and I are both 5' 9", I was thinking that maybe the dresses I'm buying were in fact the correct size. Oh, and it's not that they don't fit, it's that they seem a little short. However, since Freya and I, like I said, are both 5' 9", and we both have great legs, I've decided to conclude it would a crime for us to not wear short dresses and skirts.

As for the quality of this movie. Now, that's a different story all-together. Of course, only someone who is completely dense in the appreciating beautiful women department would deny that Freya Mavor, a Scottish-born actress who is fluent in French, is gorgeous. That being said, the movie itself doesn't quite live up to lofty standards put forth by Miss Mavor (the lady). Neither does it live up to the blue Ford Thunderbird (the car). As for the her trademark glasses. Hmm, I'd say it's a tie. Everything is better than the gun. Seriously, the movie becomes a huge chore to sit through when the gun finally appears on-screen.

Traditionally, the gun is supposed to represent action and danger, but all it does in this movie is elicit yawns and/or groans. For one thing, it's a rifle. Yet it sounds like a pistol. To make matters even more aggravating, they keep referring to it as a shotgun.

Enough about the gun, let's talk about Freya Mavor and that car of hers. Well, it's not really her car. Uh, I'll get to that in a minute. Nevertheless, the pairing of Freya Mavor and that blue Thunderbird is an intoxicating combination. Add the fact that she's wearing glasses and a short light beige dress, and the combination gets even more potent.

The decision to set the film during unspecific time period was also rather ingenious. There's not a single item, phrase uttered or object that betrays what year the film takes place in. It also helped that phones are never used in the film, as nothing dates a movie faster than a phone, especially a mobile phone.

The car is timeless, the clothes are timeless, the John Carpenter-esque soundtrack is kinda of timeless, hell, even the typewriter is timeless, I loved the film's overall vagueness when it came to style. Parts of the film screamed the 1960s, while others had a 1970s vibe. Even the film's protracted title has a certain 1970s exploitation hint to it.

It's too bad the film doesn't really earn its title. I mean, those expecting to see a sleazy revenge movie along the lines of Thriller: They Called Her One-Eye or I Spit On Your Grave are going to be severely disappointed.

While I'll don't normally care about revealing plot points. Since this movie is relatively new, I'll refrain from doing so. I will say this, Freya Mavor, a tall, lanky drink of leggy water, plays Dany Dorémus, the secretary of a business named Michel Caravaille (Benjamin Biolay). After completing some important typing for Michel, Dany is asked to drive her boss, and his wife and daughter to the airport, and then drive the car back to their house.

However, instead of driving it, a blue Thunderbird, to their house, Dany decides to go on a bit of a joy ride and heads toward the sea. Of course, this decision has unintended consequences, as things get more and more stressful for Dany and her long, slender legs.

Unsure as to why all this weird shit is happening to Dany, the audience is left to figure out... No, wait. All the film's mysteries are explained in, what felt like, a twenty minute plot wrap up sequence at the end of the movie. This may sound harsh, but the final twenty minutes are terrible. As the film's unique flavour is basically flushed down the toilet. (Wow, that was harsh.) Well, the film up until this point had a sort of surreal vibe about it that was quite appealing.

Add the fact that it had a sexy chick, a cool car and a some times synthy soundtrack, it had the potential of becoming a future cult classic alongside the likes of The Duke of Burgundy and It Follows. But it doesn't... (Don't forget the killer shopping/dress-up montage.) Oh, yeah. There's a shopping/dress-up montage. Of course, Dany doesn't wear any of the clothes she ends up purchasing (the skimpy beige dress that may or may not be two sizes to small for her is what she wears from start to finish). But still, you gotta love the fact she takes the time to try on clothes. Or you don't. Either way, the movie is... all right, I guess.

I don't know 'bout you, but the super-long car chase/shoot-out that opens Dangerous Seductress better have a decent pay off, because that was seven of the most painful minutes of cinema I have ever endured. Sure, it's seven painful minutes of hyper-insane Indonesian cinema, but there's only so much H. Tjut Djalil (Lady Terminator) can bring to car chases and shoot outs (two of the most overplayed tropes in movie history). Of course, given that this review is currently in the process of being hatched, it should come as no surprise that the film delivers on so many levels. And begins to do so immediately after the pink getaway car belonging to three jewel thieves crashes in front of the Jakarta mansion belonging to Linda (Kristin Anin), a blonde fashion model. While the police do their best to collect the mangled body parts that litter the crash scene, a severed finger manages to allude them. And you know what that means? Right, the finger is absorbed by an ancient compact mirror, and then burrows itself into ground. After some mild rumbling, a skeleton emerges. Slowly but surely, the skeleton begins to grow flesh. Eventually the skeleton transforms into... "The Evil Queen."

Don't worry, I'm sure nothing bad will happen. I mean, so what if there's a "dangerous seductress" loitering on the front lawn of the suburban Jakarta mansion belonging to a blonde fashion model? Just as long as a Guinean anthropologist doesn't give the blonde fashion model a book about Indonesian mysticism for her birthday, and just as long as the blonde fashion model's blonde sister, Susan (Tonya Lawson) doesn't decide to read from the book out loud while standing in front of a mirror, everything should be fine.

However, things don't turn out fine, now do they? Or do they? Unless you're proponent of heterosexual men and their equally heterosexual penises, everything actually will be fine. You see, when everything I stated earlier does happen, this leads to many deaths within Jakarta's burgeoning douchebag community. Boo-hoo? I don't think so.

And like said, it all happens thanks to a weird con-flux of events. In a way, you could blame Susan's asshole rapist of a boyfriend. While "The Evil Queen" is drinking dogs blood on Linda's Jakarta front lawn, Susan is trying not to get raped by her asshole rapist boyfriend on the dining room table. Thanks to the shoddy quality of the table (it collapses under the weight of the violence), Susan manages to escape.

Desperate for help, Susan turns to her sister in Jakarta, who is celebrating her birthday with her husband Bob (John Warom), a decent human being with suspect taste in blazers. Inviting Susan to stay with her in Jakarta, Linda helps her battered and bruised sister recover (her attack was extremely brutal).

It's when Linda goes to Bali for a photo-shoot and leaves Susan all alone that things begin to go nuts. Now, I don't know what compelled Susan to read that book on Indonesian mysticism aloud like that (I didn't get a strong likes to read books vibe from her). But nonetheless, the passages she reads lead to her becoming the unwitting pawn of... "The Evil Queen."

Was I annoyed that Susan's post-possession dress-up montage was three minutes shorter than the obnoxious car chase/shoot-out that opens the film? A little. That being said, I think most people, well, most sane people, will agree that Susan's dress-up montage is fucking fantastic. Seriously, I lost track of how many different outfits she tries on.

She even tries on red stockings!!!

Eventually settling on a little black dress, Susan hits the streets in search of sustenance. And by "sustenance," I mean douchebag blood.

I know it says that this film was shot in the mid-1990s. But everything practically oozes the mid-1980s. Maybe it's because Jakarta was a little behind when it came to keeping up with the latest fashions. Or maybe Jakarta circa 1995 is just plain awesome. Either way, the scenes in the nightclub contained everything I look for in a good club sequence.

(You mean fashion-forward leggy floozies and synthesizer music?) Exactly.

This place was crawling with fashion-forward leggy floozies.

And there's no better leggy floozy than Susan herself. A thousand times hotter than her sister, Susan and her sturdy legs and ample breasts make short work of the heterosexual men in this joint.

Settling on a lanky fuck in grey bikini briefs, Susan allows this oily twerp to escort her back to his boat so that she can extract his blood. Using a fishhook at first, Susan ultimately decides to use the spiky heel on her shoe to withdraw his... crimson nectar. Yum.

While I feel bad using the term "douchebag" to describe what are essentially man-shaped globs of yuppie scum, those three guys Susan lures to a meat locker on the outskirts of town were definitely douchebags. Again, using her sturdy legs and ample breasts, Susan manages to score three bodies worth of blood for... "The Evil Queen."

You might be thinking to yourself: Is anyone trying to stop Susan's reign of righteous terror? Well, there's this cop. But he seems more interested in hassling Linda, who he thinks might have stole some jewels from the corpses of the jewel thieves. But other than that, it looks like Susan and... "The Evil Queen" are pretty much in the clear as far as achieving their goals. Which is, I think, to restore... "The Evil Queen" to her original glory. And with Susan, a walking, sort of talking blood bag in heels, on her side, they should be unstoppable.

Of course, since not many movies openly promote the advancement of evil, I'm totally sure someone is going to come along to fuck up their plans. In meantime, however, we can relish in how close Susan came to undermining heterosexuality in Jakarta. Think about it. All she needed to do was kill two or maybe three more guys, and women throughout the city would have been free of unwanted harassment for, like, forever. Okay, maybe not forever. But a solid two weeks for sure.

It should go without saying, but Dangerous Seductress delivers the brain-sick and then some. The film is sexy, gory and the special effects are... uh, let's just say, they're uniquely Indonesian. Personally, I would have trimmed the opening car chase/shoot-out scene and done the same to Linda's Bali scenes; don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the bikini modeling scenes, it's just that the parasailing stuff was tedious. But other than that, the film is a glorious piece of trash.

What the fuck?!? What the fuck?!? Seriously, Furious. What the fuck?!? Reluctant to watch your stupid ass because, you know, you're a martial arts movie. I hunkered down for what was surely going to be yet another movie where bad actors kicked one another in the face for ninety minutes straight. Boy, was I wrong. Sure, people do get kicked in the face plenty of times during the course of this movie. But damn, there's something definitely off about Furious. Like I said, I didn't really want to watch this movie. And obviously didn't want to review it. But the movie repeatedly gave me no choice. I mean, you simply can't ignore some of the weird shit that takes place in this movie. I just couldn't believe what was transpiring on-screen half the time. It's also true that I lost track of the plot at about the two minute mark. Nevertheless, the sheer quality of the unvarnished meshuganah that writer-director's Tim Everitt and Tom Sartori put out there is a sight to behold. Again, I feel I should point out whenever possible that this film is a martial arts film. Meaning, it's basically wall-to-wall fight scenes. However, there's nothing ordinary about the way these fight scenes are staged. Of course, to the untrained eye, it will look like your standard chop-socky fair. But I'm telling you, this film is insanity personified.

Should I mention the chickens? (I think you better. I mean, a Furious review that fails to mention the chickens isn't really being honest with itself.) Yeah, you're absolutely right. The chickens are the pinnacle of this film's bat-shit appeal.

The lead bad guy, Master Chan, I think, has a henchman with a Fu Manchu mustache who shoots chickens from his hands. Wait, that can't be right. Let me double check that. Yep, he sure does... shoot (live) chickens from his hands. And get this, he's pig, too. A garrulous one to boot (he lays down a huge chunk of exposition for our hero to consume). Of course, the piggy spiel didn't help me understand what was going on. But still, a talking pig who used to be a Fu Manchu mustache-sporting, live chicken shooting henchmen. Now that's fucked up.

How about that Devo-esque band who are seen playing inside of Master Chan's steel and glass lair? Fucked up.

Or that old lady eating chicken? Yeah, that was fucked up.

Don't forget the guy in the fur hat. What was his deal? Sure, that was fucked up, too. I mean, who does kung-fu while wearing a fur hat? Madness, pure madness.

While the film asks more questions than it answers. You can't help but admire the oft-kilter manner in which it implements its idiotic ideas.

Should I attempt to recap of the film's plot? I'm kind of curious to see what I come up with. Truth be told. There's no plot to recap. Well, that's not entirely true. From what I gathered, a martial arts teacher named Simon (Simon Rhee) wants to avenge the death of her sister at the hands of bunch fur hat wearing hosers who yell "Coo loo coo coo, coo coo coo coo" every now and then.

After the last fur hat guy standing takes away Simon's sister's magic horn, things become a bit of a blur. Hold on, I seem to recall Simon, and three white friends, fighting a bunch of people outside a Chinese restaurant.

Granted, I have no clue why they were fighting. Which is usually a bad thing when it comes to action movies. But it doesn't really matter at the end of the day. It doesn't make a lick of sense, and there's no fashion or anything that could come close to being construed as sleazy, but I'd put Furious is up there with likes of Roller Blade, "GETEVEN" and Miami Connection in terms low budget genre films that manage to create unique, lived in worlds that percolate originality, verve and good old fashioned gumption.

Even though this warning might be a little too late (the film is over twenty-five years old). I still think people should be told not to go overboard when it comes to doing research about the eccentric cast of characters who appear in Jennie Livingston's legendary documentary, Paris is Burning. Why? Um, isn't it obvious? Like I said, the film is over twenty-five years old. Meaning, you shouldn't be surprised when you find out that a large number of the cast have passed on. (A large number? They're all dead!) Okay, calm down. The film isn't really about that, it's a celebration of a unique subculture that emerged out of New York City. And that culture is called ball culture. (Isn't this that Madonna movie about voguing or some gay shit like that?) Ugh. Can you believe this? It's almost as if my inner-jagoff is trying to get a rise out of me. To answer your question: No, this isn't that movie. Sure, voguing was an important part of ball culture, but it's about more than striking poses and letting your body move to the music. The film, like all great documentaries, exposes a rarely seen part of life, specifically, LGBTQ+ life. And, for a change, it shows black and Latino gays and trans people doing stuff in an actual movie. Hell, I bet even most New Yorkers at the time had no idea what was going on in their own city. I mean, to call the people seen throughout this movie marginalized would definitely be an understatement.

My favourite non-ball element of the film was the director's constant juxtaposition between the late night balls and daytime New York City. The shots of white New Yorkers going about their business was shockingly awful. Seriously, some of the people they showed walking down the street looked like they were going to a 1980s costume party. Granted, I love the '80s. But even I was like, damn, that's way too much hairspray, girl. And it didn't help that some of the men looked like poster boys for a new strain of diarrhea-causing douchebaggery.

The other of part of the juxtaposing (that's a word, right?) I liked was how it showed that the ball-goers were clearly not welcome in the day-to-day world of late 1980s Manhattan. However, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for themselves, they banded together to create a community. A mini-microcosm where fabulousness is not frowned upon, but celebrated.

Actually, I think that's a bit of an understatement. These people are basically living Liquid Sky, but for real. (You're probably the first person to compare Paris is Burning and Liquid Sky.) I don't know about that. But both films do have a lot in common. Mainly, they're both about groups of people living on the fringes of society who reject traditional gender roles and like to express themselves via jerky dance moves.

The only difference being, I don't recall anyone in Liquid Sky receiving a trophy for giving the best shade. (The best what?) Shade. According to Dorian Corey, a veteran ball queen, it's when you don't have to tell someone they're ugly because they already know they're ugly. That's shade.

Shade is just one example of the unique phraseology used throughout this film. Of course, most viewers will no doubt be bewildered by some of the language. I know I sure was. Thankfully, each phrase is given its own chapter.

Did you know, that before you throw shade someone's way, you usually "read" them first? It's true. Reading is when you point out someone's flaws in a witty manner. Reading then shade. Remember that, kids. As for "realness." That's when a ball performer is able to pass as heterosexual. Sub-categories of "realness" include "thug,""executive," and "schoolboy." And, of course, there's "mopping." Which is basically someone who is obviously wearing an outfit they shoplifted.

If the sense of community wasn't enough. Each ball performer belongs to a "house." Which is a kind of a group or family. And if the leader of the house is, let's say, named Willi Ninja, all other house members adopt "Ninja" as their surname.

So, as you can tell, the film is not only entertaining, it's educational as well. (Then why did you look like you were on the verge of tears at the end?) Oh, you know, I like watching queer people acting fierce and junk. (No, there was something else going on.) Okay, fine. Her name is Venus Xtravaganza (a member of the House of Xtravaganza ) and her story broke my heart. I should have known, given that this was a LGBTQ+ movie, that things would end tragically.

Yes, most of the (main) cast have passed on, which is tragic, too. But Venus Xtravaganza doesn't even make it to the end credits. Now, I don't want to say exactly what happens to her, but... Ahh, fuck. It's just so depressing. Being that she was a trans woman sex worker in late 1980s New York City, it shouldn't come as a shock (in other words, her life was basically always in danger). But still, hearing what happens to her was like a punch to the gut. I'm sorry to end my review on such downer, the film is pretty uplifting in places. Plus, it takes place in New York City in the 1980s. But the death of Venus Xtravaganza was... you know... *takes a deep breath* devastating.

André Christian, Dorian Corey, Paris Duprée, Eileen Ford, Junior Labeija, Pepper LaBeija, Benny Ninja, Sandy Ninja, Willi Ninja, Avis Pendavis, Freddie Pendavis, Kim Pendavis, Sol Pendavis, Stevie Saint Laurent, Octavia St. Laurent, Anji Xtravaganza, Venus Xtravaganza

The freaks come out at night / The freaks come out at night / The freaks come out at night / (the freaks come out!) I know, everyone and their Uncle Gary's third left nut like to start off their reviews of Wong Kar-Wai's Fallen Angels by quoting Whodini's "Freaks Come Out At Night," from their 1984 album, Escape. But I'll be damned, it sure is apt as a motherfucker. You see, the whole movie takes place at night, and I couldn't have been more pleased. Oh, sure, daytime probably still exists in this film's neon-adorned universe. But Wong Kar-Wai has no interest in what goes on during the day. And why should he? His characters are, no doubt, all asleep during the day. And like I said, I couldn't be more pleased. Think about it. Who wants to watch Michelle Reis do stuff during the day? I know I sure don't. In fact, just the mere thought of Michelle Reis doing anything during the day makes my skin crawl. (Are you sure that isn't your seborrheic dermatitis acting up again?) No, it's definitely the prospect of watching Michelle Reis, oh, I don't know, mail a letter at ten in the morning. Ugh. (So, what you're saying is, Michelle Reis looks good while doing stuff at night?) Duh. Haven't you been paying attention? Yes, Michelle... Hell, the whole cast look good while doing stuff at night. And since legendary Hong Kong cinematographer, Christopher Doyle, is filming them, they look extra good.

However, none of the cast can hold a candle... (Yeah, yeah, Michelle Reis looks amazing. We get it.) You don't seem to understand. I want her body, I want her hair, I want her wardrobe... I even want her swaggering insolence. (Wow, "swaggering insolence," eh? I think just popped a lady-boner.) Tell me about it. I'm curious. Is your lady-boner currently pressing oh-so tightly against your panties? Wait, don't answer that. I'm just going to go ahead and assume that it is and move on.

Of course, I don't know if I want her overgrown bangs and disgusting smoking habit. But then again, taking away Michelle Reis's overgrown bangs and nicotine addiction would be a little like asking Eugene Levy to trim his eyebrows or telling Beyoncé to stop being so fierce.

While I'm not a big fan of smoking, there's no denying that cigarettes make movies more... well, cinematic. Okay, imagine this. What if someone, like, oh, how 'bout those pricks George Lucas or Stephen Spielberg, decided to go back and digitally remove every cigarette from every movie in existence? Exactly. It would render all those movies unwatchable. Well, if you took away Michelle Reis's cigarettes, you would not only ruin the movie, you would radically change the temperament of her character.

As for her overgrown bangs... Actually, I shouldn't talk, as my bangs are technically overgrown as well. You know what? Forget I said anything disparaging about Michelle Reis's bangs. What's that? You already have? That's terrific.

Since I recently decided to radically change my life for, hopefully, the better, I've noticed the need to do stuff outside in full view of other people has increased. What I mean is, I can't expect things to change if I continue to avoid other people. While I've made some progress on-line and in the so-called "real world," being social is extremely difficult for me. Well, as I watched the lonely characters that populate this film's nocturnal universe, I couldn't help but relate to their struggles to connect with... other people.

The film essentially follows three characters. An assassin (Leon Lai), his partner/agent (Michelle Reis) and He Zhiwu (Takeshi Kaneshiro), a mute doofus who pretends he works at businesses that are closed.

It would seem that Michelle Reis sets up Leon Lai's "jobs" for him, so, that when he pulls out his guns and goes all Chow Yun-Fat on his targets, things go smoothly. Though, I don't think cleaning his apartment and masturbating in his bed while wearing fishnet and fully-fashioned stockings are really necessary. Or maybe they are. What do I know?

Either way, the shots of them setting up jobs, using public transit, navigating the gleaming rain-soaked streets with a noirish elan, hanging out in bars and doing other gangster shit are gorgeous beyond belief.

The film gets a dose of romantic comedy-style whimsy when Karen Mok, sporting reddish-blonde hair, shows up and forces Leon Lai to be his girlfriend. Okay, it doesn't exactly go down like that. But there's no denying it, Karen Mok does charm the pants off Leon Lai. And it's no wonder, she's a one-woman adorable symposium. Which is what I need to start doing. (You mean be more adorable? That's impossible... you're adorable as fuck.) Yes, I mean, no, I need to start putting myself out there more. In other words, I need to start acting more like Karen Mok in Fallen Angels, and less like... (The little kid from Room?) Sure.

Things go from being romantic to downright goofy when Takeshi Kaneshiro's subplot kicks in. Playing an aimless individual, who, like I said, pretends to work at closed businesses (he forces a man with a ponytail to eat ice cream at an ice cream stand... he doesn't work at), Takeshi, like the other characters, struggles with loneliness, and tries to alleviate it by being obnoxious. I know, being obnoxious sounds like an awful plan. But is it? See all those happy people doing stuff outside. Do you really think they got where they are by not being obnoxious? Of course they didn't.

Now, I'm not saying you should take it to the level that Takeshi does. Nevertheless, a little obnoxiousness doesn't hurt. After all, Takeshi does manage to sort of woo Charlie Yeung, an attractive yet easily agitated woman.

Stylish and brimming with vitality, Fallen Angels is... (Wait, are you done?) Yeah. I'm wrapping this sucker up. (What about Michelle Reis's outfits?) Like I said, I want to wear them all. But if I could only choose one, it would definitely be the shiny black dress with the massive slit she wears when we see her cleaning Leon Lai's apartment for the very first time. I also loved her black fishnets and black rubber gloves. Anyway, this flick is pretty fucking great.

The plucky intrepid photojournalist from Emanuelle In America is back, and this time it's, um... I wouldn't say it's personal, as being forced to watch a dog rape a woman or a shapely milf show mild discomfort over the fact that her garter belt clip is digging into her thigh aren't exactly things I'd call "personal." Think about it, she is not an active participant, she is merely a spectator. No, I'd say it's more unsettling than anything else. I mean, imagine a world where stockings caused pain. Exactly, it's not a world I would want to live in, either. Now, granted, dogs raping women in Macau is pretty heinous. But I think most sane or close to sane people will agree that the sight of a milfy blonde experiencing garter-based distress is much more disturbing. To make things even more disturbing, her step-son and Emanuelle are hiding in a nearby closet. Luckily for the milfy blonde, she has her girlfriend by her side to alleviate her hosiery troubles. And what happens after this nylon dilemma has been solved? Duh, cunnilingus. It's true, I'm trying to focus on one of the few scenes in Joe D'Amato's Emanuelle Around the World that doesn't end in an orgy of degrading sexual violence in order to maintain my mental health. But how long can I continue to talk about a five minute scene that revolves around stockings and cunnilingus?

I don't know, but I think I just gave myself a challenge. Let's see, where does the stocking scene fit in the overall scheme of this odious slab of Italian trash?

As most of you already know, Laura Gemser's Emanuelle is a reporter who travels the world in order to expose corruption and criminality of the unsavory variety. While in Rome, she convinces two women to join a sting operation to bring down a sex slave operation run by a deformed man with pus-laden right eye.

Never one to go into a sticky situation without a solid plan B, Emanuelle enlists the help of a mildly hunky motorcyclist. When the mildly hunky motorcyclist comes through in the clutch, Emanuelle decides to repay him the only way she knows how. That's right, she uses the soft confines of her buttery vagina to thank the mildly hunky motorcyclist for his services.

Well, she would like to do so. But she can't at the moment, as the mildly hunky motorcyclist's step-mom just came abroad the boat, with her girlfriend in tow, just as they were about have European-style sexual intercourse.

It's this exact moment when the mildly hunky motorcyclist's milfy step-mom begins complain to her girlfriend that the clips on her garter belt have begun to dig into her legs. While removing the stockings is the only logical way to alleviate her discomfort, the sight of her stockings being removed caused me to become quite enraged.

Actually, is it, though? (Is it what?) Is removing the stockings the only logical way to alleviate her discomfort? I mean, I'm sure two reasonably intelligent Italian women can figure out a way to solve this garter quandary without having to resort to drastic measures.

Nevertheless, the mildly hunky motorcyclist's milfy step-mom is rewarded with guilt-free cunnilingus. And at the end of the day, that's all that really matters. Though, I have to say, the cunnilingus, from my point of view, anyway, would have been a million times sweeter had the mildly hunky motorcyclist's step-mom's girlfriend's head, no doubt, bobby and weaving in the throes of performing hearty cunnilingus, been framed by the mildly hunky motorcyclist's step-mom's creamy, stocking-encased thighs as the mildly hunky motorcyclist's girlfriend dined heartily on her throbbing Italo-clit. I'm just... yeah.

It should go without saying, but all the women who appear in this film are gorgeous. As for the men, they are a disgusting bouquet of creeps and low-lifes. In fact, I would go as far to say that's there's not an attractive one in the lot.

I mean, it's pretty much one dysphoria-causing bearded face after another.

Seriously. Don't these scumbags know how to shave?

Oh, hello. Who are you? Now that's a sexy man. (Who are you talking about?) While Emanuelle is hiding in the closet with the mildly hunky motorcyclist, her partner, Cora Norman (Karin Schubert), visited by some shady characters. Anyway, I didn't feel dysphoric at all while their leader was on-screen. Sure, his bearded henchmen made me want to chop up my disgusting body and toss the pieces into the nearest active volcano, but still... I dug this guy. Of course, I disagree with what he and his henchmen do in this film (as you might expect, it's monstrous), but... yeah.

Have I mentioned that this film is refreshingly pornographic? No? Damn, I must be slipping or something. At any rate, I wish more films had a sprinkling of porn in them. Though, if you're going to use a body double for the lead actress when it comes time for a hardcore close-up, the least you could do is get someone who has the same skin colour. The woman they got to portray Laura Gemser's vagina as it plowed into a cock during an orgy wasn't close to being Gemser brown. I don't why they couldn't have just painted her crotch and butt brown. I'm sure they had some brown paint leftover from the can they used on George Eastman, who plays an Indian guru.

Moving on. Whether you like it or not, the film's main theme by Nico Fidenco, which plays close to six times over the course of the film, will not leave your brain willingly. Neither will the dog rape scene, the wooden dildo party, the New York bum rape scene (a group of derelicts rape Miss Ohio for the amusement of a bunch of rich fucks) or the banana penetration scene.

It's not all beastly and foul, the lesbian scene between Laura Gemser and Brigitte Petronio (The House on the Edge of the Park) is kind of tender, as is the well-documented scene that takes place on the boat (ahoy! cunnilingus!). So, yeah. It's beautiful and unpleasant at the same time. Win-win.

Oh, and keep an eye for the cameo by adult film legend Paul Thomas (The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning), he plays a truck driver (it occurs during the first few minutes).

Let's see. How should I describe the gang of L.A. street toughs who manage to repeatedly bewilder the living bejesus out of Pierce Bronsan's bearded, French-accented anthropologist character in Nomads, John "Die Hard" McTiernan's lone stab at making an Andrzej Żuławski-style urban thriller? Middle-aged troublemakers? Mature mutants? Cretins of a certain age? Or how 'bout this: Nomadic punks... who aren't exactly youthful? What I think I'm trying to say is, I loved how the punks at the centre of this bizarre tale were all over thirty, or, in some cases, forty. Technically, I should be able to dress anyway I want. However, society has made-up a bunch of rules that dictate what people should wear. And one of these rules involves people over thirty not being allowed to dress like punks and goths. Or, in some rare cases, goth punks. Well, not only did this film make it seem okay, it somehow was able to temporarily soothe my anxiety in a way that no other film that features Remington Steele beating the lead singer from Adam and the Ants with a tire iron has ever done. You see, I feel like my time is running out when it comes to becoming the goth princess of my dreams. Yet, seeing a thirty-ish Josie Cotton and a forty-something Mary Woronov strutting around L.A. in sleazy, goth-friendly punk rock threads managed to placate a modicum of my fear. Of course, it's going to take a lot more than a non-ageist movie from the mid-1980s to fix what's wrong with the universe. But I have to say, seeing Mary Woronov dance erotically in a black slip was like receiving shot of uncut estrogen directly into my bloodstream. In other words, it made me feel good and junk.

What's weird about the gang Mary Woronov belongs to is that none of them speak. (Not even their leader?) No, their leader, played by Adam Ant, doesn't say a word. This muted display on their part gave the film a surreal, almost European quality to it. While it's obvious the film takes place in Los Angeles, no one in the film behaves like your typical L.A. resident. In fact, I'd say no film, other than maybe Into the Night or Miracle Mile, has ever made L.A. seem this odd before. But then again, a character does call L.A. the world's largest beach parking lot at one point. So, it shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that L.A. is rife with free-roaming punks and freaks...

Let's recap, shall we? Adam Ant, Mary Woronov, Josie Cotton, Frank Doubleday and Héctor Mercado play the mute members of a nomadic gang of street punks who mystify an anthropologist who is studying nomadic peoples...

How a leggy E.R. doctor, Dr. Eileen Flax (Lesley-Anne Down), ends up being a part of the story is a tad convoluted, but she... ("A tad convoluted?) Okay, fine. It doesn't really make a lot of sense.

Nevertheless, watching Pierce Brosnan and Lesley-Anne Down struggle to come to grips with their unique dilemma was pretty entertaining.

Should I take another shot at explaining the plot? Um, I don't know. Personally, I would much rather focus my attention on Mary Woronov, as this film is an outstanding showcase for the lithe actress. Of course, it does seem strange that she doesn't have any dialogue (her voice is one of her best features). But you gotta love any film that gives Mary Woronov four distinct close-ups.

The first MW close-up comes when Pierce Brosnan's Jean Charles Pommier tracks down the street punks that keep spray painting graffiti on walls of the house he and his wife, Niki (Anna Maria Monticelli), recently moved in to, to the beach. While secretly taking pictures of them, we get a great shot Miss Woronov sitting on a beach-adjacent bench.

Wearing a beige sweater over a black slip, torn black stockings, black fingerless gloves and studded bracelets, Mary looks like a middle-aged punk goddess. It's clear that she doesn't give a fuck. And why should she?

The second MW close-up comes when Pierce, who is still stalking the street punks, tracks them down in an alleyway later that night. Still wearing what she had on at the beach, Mary takes off the beige sweater and does a sexy dance for Pierce on the hood of a parked car.

It should go without saying, but Mary looks amazing during this sequence. Oh, if only my legs looked as good as Mary's legs do in this movie. Oh, if only... Wait a minute... my legs not only look as good as Mary's legs look in this movie, they look, dare I say, better. Who would thought I would turn out to be a leggy milf. Crazy world.

The third MW close-up comes when Lesley-Anne Down's friend/potty-mouthed co-worker, Cassie (Jeannie Elias), is confronted by Mary in her car. Approaching Cassie's car, Mary pretends to be selling flowers. But we all know that's merely a ruse. No, something sinister is going on. Sinister or not, this scene gives us our best view of the multitude of silver rings that adorn Mary's fingers.

The forth and final MW close-up comes when Lesley-Anne Down and Anna Maria Monticelli are hiding in the attic. Thinking they're safe from the punk onslaught that has befallen them, Mary Woronov suddenly comes crashing through the ceiling... or is it the floor? Whatever. The sly grin she gives them is classic Mary Woronov. Not allowing her character to speak is not going to prevent her innate charisma to shine through.

What's that? Why were Lesley-Anne Down and Anna Maria Monticelli cowering in the attic? How the hell should I know? I told you, the movie isn't your typical slab of 1980s era punksploitation.

Are you ready for this... the punks may or may not be related to an Inuit demon who wants to possess Pierce Brosnan's soul.

I know, what are Inuit demons doing in Los Angeles? I mean, shouldn't they be hanging out in Arctic or something. Hey, I'm just the messenger. In other words, I didn't write this flick. That being said, the film, while confusing at times, does manage to maintain an effectively creepy atmosphere for most of its running time.

Even though the film's hero dead-names Babette at least twenty times over the course of Killer Condom (Kondom des Grauens), you can't help but root for him in his quest to exact revenge on the killer condom that ate his left nut. Huh? What's "dead-naming"? Oh, that's when you use the birth name of someone who has changed it to something else. In the case of Babette (Leonard Lansink), a former cop turned sex worker/lounge singer, her birth name is Bob. And every time Luigi Mackeroni (Udo Samel) dead-named her, I would cringe. While it's clear that Luigi, a chain-smoking New York City cop who was born in Sicily, doesn't respect Babette's decision to transition, their scenes together are worthy of a shit-ton of GLAAD awards. (I don't think this is the type of movie they usually give awards out to.) Really? Well, that's a shame. While the film, directed by Martin Walz and based on the comic by Ralf König, practically oozes politically incorrectness from start to finish, it's one of the more pro-LGBTQ+ genre movies I've ever seen. For one thing, the film has a gay hero. That right there is something you hardly ever see, especially in a horror film. And get this, he's not some cute little glee-esque angel with floppy hair who gives fashion advice to lonely cis women. No, this guy is a balding loutish lump who is unabashed when it comes to his love of fucking other dudes in the ass with his giant cock. In one particularly memorable scene, he explains to his homophobic partner, Sam (Peter Lohmeyer), why he prefers men over women. Oh, and the word "homophobic" is used in the film. Which I thought was strange, as I don't remember it being a common an expression back in the mid-1990s. Or maybe my memory of the mid-1990s isn't as sharp as I thought it was.

Either way, social justice aside, the film is still about condoms that kill. Normally viewed as items that are designed to save lives, Killer Condom, "The Rubber That Rubs You Out!," turns that whole concept on its head by making the popular prophylactic a pointed predator that preys on pockmark-laden pricks.

(Oh, come on. How do you know the cocks attached to the multitude of men who have their junk masticated by a sentient rubber were "pockmark-laden"?)

It's simple, really. Judging by the sleaziness of the hotel at the center of this masterpiece, I would guess that 90% of the penises were covered in pockmarks.

If you're wondering why everyone in New York City speaks German, stop... wondering that. Did you know German almost became the official language of the United States back in the 1700s? Well, it might have. You see, I can't confirm or deny it (it sounds like an urban legend). Nevertheless, in this version of the United States, or at least New York City, German is the official language. And the sooner you accept this, the quicker you'll be able to suspend belief. I've heard of that some people are unable to accept the fact that all New Yorkers speak German, and thus hampering their ability to enjoy the scuzzy spectacle that is this movie.

Which, if you think about it, is kind of sad. I mean, you can accept the fact that an armada of cock-chomping contraceptives are wreaking havoc across New York City. But you can't accept a New York City where everyone is fluent in German. That's fucked up.

Playing like a conventional murder mystery, Killer Condom adds a twist to the genre by having cocks be the primary victim. Usually attacked during coitus, the authorities initially blame the sex workers for the cock-noshing, but Luigi Mackeroni knows better.

For one thing, he likes to frequent the hotel where the bulk of the attacks have taken place. Why, you ask? Um, anonymous gay sex? Duh.

Just as he was about to plunge his giant schlonge into the anal cavity belonging to a yummy prostitute named Billy (Marc Richter), Luigi feels something gnawing on his genitals. Thwarting the toothy condom's attempt consume the entirety of his package in the nick of time, Luigi manages to survive the altercation. Unfortunately, he lost a portion of his testicles in the fracas, his left ball to be testes-specific.

This encounter with the ravenous dinger gives Luigi an unique perspective, as the majority of his co-workers doubt the string of dick-related homicides were caused by murderous cabal of sheath-like inanimate objects designed to hold vagina-bound dick-jizz.

Frustrated by the lack of support of his fellow cops, Luigi must battle these "killer condoms" all by myself. If that wasn't enough, Luigi must contend with Babette, his transgender ex, and the desire to mount Billy... like I said earlier, his initial attempt to mount Billy's butt was hindered by a psychotic prophylactic.

(Are you sure Babette isn't merely a cross-dresser?) That's what I thought at first. But Luigi mentions the "fake hormones" coursing through Babette's veins at one point. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think cross-dressers go through hormone replacement therapy. (Okay, but why is Babette so hairy?) Didn't you get the memo? Trans women who are hairy are valid. Bigot.

Call me overly sensitive, but when Luigi eventually calls Babette "Babette" without being told to do so, I got a little teary-eyed. Yeah, that's right. I cried while watching Killer Condom, you got a problem with that? I didn't think so.

A poorly-worded German love letter to New York City when it was a sleaze-soaked paradise, Killer Condom breaks ground left, right and center. Sure, it's mildly transphobic and homophobic. But I can't stay mad at a film that boasts a Cruising tribute (the hanky code, baby) and multiple scenes that feature dudes getting their genitals eviscerated. No, transphobia and homophobia aside, the film... Oooh, they mention the internet, too! And cybersex! Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. This film is basically a must-see for fans of Frank Henenlotter's NYC-set body horror flicks.

Special thanks to Katie for recommending this movie. *hugs*

At first I was like: Just give him the damn shoes! Then it suddenly dawned on me. Fuck no. Don't give that motherfucker your shoes. Sure, you can buy another pair once the welfare checks start rolling in, but those are your shoes. I know, it's kinda unorthodox to talk about the final scene at the beginning of a movie review. But if you've seen Paul "Women in Revolt" Morrissey's Trash, you know the final scene is probably one of the most important scenes in film history. Well, at least it is to me. While Holly Woodlawn's decision not to give her dandy-ish caseworker her silver shoes in exchange for welfare might seem illogical to some, I totally understood where she was coming from. You see, Holly has struggled to get everything she owns. Whether it be the bathroom sink (which also doubles as a toilet) or the chest of drawers (which also doubles as a bassinet), Holly has earned the right to be proud of her possessions. In other words, she's not merely going to hand any of them over to some Joan Crawford-loving, welfare check-dangling Friend of Dorothy. And this includes her fabulous silver shoes.

Fab shoes aside, when you get right down to it, Trash is basically about a junkie named "Joe" (Joe Dallesandro) who doesn't get his cock sucked by a shrill cadre of women with irregular eyebrows. Actually, he gets his cock sucked... for awhile. Let me explain. When it obvious that Joe isn't able to transform his flaccid penis into an erect penis, the shrill, irregularly eyebrow-ed women [usually] cease massaging his cock with their mouths. I mean, what's the point, right?

Wait a minute, Holly Woodlawn is one of these cocksucking women. And most people will agree, Holly Woodlawn ain't shrill. In fact, I would go as far as to declare Holly Woodlawn's performance in Trash to be one of the greatest ever to be captured on film. (She's that good, eh?) Are you kidding me? She's amazing.

Seriously, every time she would appear on-screen, the not even close to being feckless audience that lives inside my head would let out an audible gasp.

Sadly, we have to wait eleven minutes for Holly to first appear. (Eleven minutes? That's not too bad.) Yeah, I guess. But watching Joe, who, like I said, is a junkie, talk with a go-go dancer named Geri Miller was pretty painful. On the plus side, we do get to observe Joe's cock as it napped peacefully on his pillowy ball-sack. That being said, after about five minutes, I had grown tired of watching these basket cases not have sexual intercourse.

The same goes for Andrea Feldman's LSD-obsessed "rich girl." Even more shrill and annoying than Geri the go-go dancer, watching these two brainless twits discuss drugs and...uh. All I remember is her screaming about wanting some acid. Anyway, I was getting restless.

Don't get me wrong, I love the film's gritty, nasty, sleazy vibe. But these women are causing me a shitload of emotional distress.

Of course, things get a whole lot better when the gorgeous Holly Woodlawn and her slender jet black pantyhose-adorned legs show up.

The story goes something like this: Transgender legend and one of my biggest inspirations, Holly Woodlawn, who met producer Andy Warhol at a screening of another movie some time before filming, was only supposed to have a bit part in Trash. This changed, however, once Paul Morrissey saw Holly in the dailies.

Realizing that she was more talented than the rest of the cast combined, Paul wrote a bigger part for Holly on the spot. And his instincts paid off big time, as Holly gives a funny, touching and sexy performance as a woman who turns tricks to pay for her boyfriend's heroin habit and has a talent for finding furniture on the side of the road.

Now, you're probably thinking to yourself: Side of the road? Where I come from, that's called garbage. As Holly would say, "Just because people throw it out and don't have any use for it, doesn't mean it's garbage." What can I say? You can't argue with that kind of logic, now can you?

Frustrated that Joe, the man she provides drugs and free furniture for, doesn't slip his erect penis into any of her moist orifices with any regularity, Holly resorts to using a beer bottle instead. This, as you might expect, causes her to become despondent and a tad cranky. I mean, a beer bottle is no substitute for a hot juicy cock. Am I right, ladies? Ladies? Hello? Oh, hey. There you are. I couldn't see you in the corner. At any rate, I am right. It's no substitute.

Blaming the drugs for Joe's impotence, Holly plans to get him on methadone. She also plans to adopt her sister's unborn child in order to qualify for welfare. If all goes to plan, Holly should be up to her eyebrows in welfare checks and succulent cock.

Well, she would be if she wasn't so attached to her shoes. Then again, who needs welfare checks and succulent cocks when you've got a killer pair of shoes? (Can't she use the money she gets from welfare to buy another pair of killer shoes?) Haven't you been paying attention, those her shoes. Gawd.

Containing several laugh out loud moments. Meaning, it boasts multiple instances where laughter occurs. Trash is a scummy look at New York City back when it was filled with junkies and whores. Helping matters greatly is the fact that the film's primary junkie and main whore are played Joe Dallesandro and Holly Woodlawn. Watching them wallow in the filth of that dingy room of theirs brought me a surprising amount of joy. His laconic brand of indifference meshed with her unhinged style of acting (I've read that most of her lines were improvised) in such a way, you would have thought they had been married for years.

Warning: The film features close-up shots of intravenous drug use, women with irregular eyebrows in almost every scene, ass acne and sex with a beer bottle.

This is what happens when you leave Australians unsupervised for a few minutes. Am I right? New Zealanders know what I'm talking about. Just kidding, the Aussies in Metal Skin wish they were as loopy as their Aussie movie brethren. No, the wonderfully long-haired fellas that populate this not quite lawless version of Australia are just plain annoying. Oh, in case you're wondering. The reason I called them "wonderfully long-haired," as supposed to just plain long-haired, is because I'm sick of seeing people with undercuts. Sure, I used to sport one for what seemed like forever, but the moment I saw a smallish child on the subway rocking an undercut was when I finally decided enough was enough. So... what was my point? Oh, yeah, I liked how the two main guys in this movie had longish hair on every part of their head. Meaning, it was the same length on top, on the sides and in the back. And I think I speak for everyone when I say, the fact that the two male leads didn't have undercuts was the film's strong suit. (Um, aren't you forgetting something?) Okay, the drag racing was pretty strong, too. (No, not that, silly. The goth chick.) Uh, she wasn't goth. For starters, I didn't see any goth band posters on her bedroom wall. And secondly, her footwear wasn't pointy... at all. Of course, these aren't hard and fast goth rules. But just because you're a woman with a thing for dark makeup and witchcraft doesn't make you goth. Seriously, though, does this chick even own a Sisters of Mercy album? I doubt it.

Way too busy trying to cast love-spells on douchebags with great skin and even greater hair, non-practicing Satanist and full-time nut-job Savina (Tara Morice) spends the bulk of the movie acting like a boy crazy nincompoop. I'm sorry for using such harsh language, but that's what she is. Think about it. No self-respecting goth would repeatedly demean themselves the way Savina does in this movie. And even if they did, I like to think they'd choose someone a little less... (Douchey?) Yeah, all right... a little less douchey as the object of their affection.

Granted, this particular douchebag, Dazey (Ben Mendelsohn), like I said, does have great skin and hair, and he drives a cool car. But still, there are so many less douchey options out there. Or are they? You would think the obvious choice would be Joe (Aden Young), a co-worker at the warehouse-style mega-supermarket they all work at. But she, for some reason, decides to put Joe in the dreaded friend-zone.

If you take away all the character's quirks, it's essentially Pretty in Pink crossed with The Fast and The Furious (the DVD artwork for this movie tries to capitalize on that franchises blockbuster success). Except replace the high school setting with the Aussie version of Costco. And while you're at it, switch out Vin Diesel and Ludacris for a couple of floppy-haired Aussie gits.

While I would date Dazey in a heartbeat (his skin is so smooth), I can't quite see what the appeal is for the women in this movie. Take Roselyn (Nadine Garner), for example. It's implied that Dazey's reckless driving is the reason Roselyn can't wear a bikini to the beach anymore (there was apparently a terrible traffic accident some years ago). So, why does she still allow him to hover around the way he does?

The film is basically a critique about the toxicity of male-based rejection. While most guys handle rejection with either whiny griping or a series of indifferent shrugs. A small number tend to act out in a destructive matter. Now, a "small amount" might not seem like a lot. But all it takes is five or six spurned men to destroy the earth. In other words, a man whose recently been rejected by a woman has the potential to be a danger to all those around them.

And Davey and Roselyn learn this the hard way, when Joe decides one day that their aloof brand of smugness needs to be altered in an extreme manner. And given that the film is Australian, it only makes sense that these alterations be legislated via vehicular violence.

However, it should be noted that there are only a handful of car chase/car race scenes in this movie. This, I'm sure, will irk some viewers. No, the majority of the film centers around the dating ups and downs of the four main characters. So, if you were hoping this was going to be the Mad Max of the 1990s, you're going to be severely disappointed. Personally, I found their antics to be more irritating than anything else. That being said, if you love Aussie weirdness, illegal street racing, annoying non-goth chicks and guys with floppy-hair, Metal Skin is the film for you.

Special thanks to Ian Butt for recommending this movie.

Look at me, I'm drowning in women, and I couldn't be more pleased. Seriously, I needed Greydon Clark's Angels' Brigade (a.k.a. Seven from Heaven and Семеро с небес) for sanity reasons. It was like receiving a shot of sweet, sweet estrogen right to the forehead (oh, and, yes, I'm currently obsessed with estrogen - I might have mentioned the stuff in my Nomads review). You see, earlier in the week I found myself in the company of five men. Don't ask me why, I just did. And after about two minutes of listening to their macho-based jibber-jabbering, I started to feel uneasy. Now, I wouldn't say I felt threatened by them (I hammered a nail with a hammer just the other day). But I did not like being around all that testosterone one bit. Well, I didn't have that problem at all while this film prattled along in a very non-threatening manner. Sure, Jack Palance and Peter Lawford, two guys who are as macho as they get, play drug dealers. But other than... Oh, I almost forgot... Yes, The Skipper and Thurston Howell, III are in it as well, the former plays Michelle Wilson's manager and the latter plays the bumbling leader of a right-wing militia. But trust me, this flick is wall-to-wall women. And that alone caused me to feel relaxed. In addition, the women are introduced one at a time, or, I should say, recruited one at a time. If you're wondering why attractive women across Los Angeles are being recruited to join an underground women's only vigilante group, get in line behind me, because I have no idea as well. Wait. I think I remember a disco singer named Michelle Wilson (Susan Kiger) saying something about her son or brother being beat up by a drug dealer/Leif Garrett-look-a-like contest winner over some stolen PCP, and that they need to put these drug pushers out of business by blowing up their supply warehouse.

What I don't understand is: What's wrong with children using PCP? Seems perfectly acceptable to me. Okay, maybe I should have looked up "PCP" before writing that last sentence, as it turns out PCP is quite the central nervous system depressant. Either way, I think children in 1979 should be allowed to experiment with powerful hallucinogens. If you ask me, it builds character.

The drugged out, beaten up son and/or brother of a blonde disco queen's teacher, Maria (Noela Velasco), proposes to Michelle Wilson that they assemble a team of foxy chicks (one's who possess unique talents) to take out the people responsible for flooding the streets of L.A. with PCP.

And by "take out," I mean drop a bomb down the chimney of the building that makes the child-harming stuff.

Since a disco queen and an elementary teacher can't really destroy a PCP operation all by themselves, they set about putting together a team.

The first woman they approach is Terry Grant (Sylvia Anderson), a Hollywood stunt performer. Tall and slender, the inclusion of Terry not only increases the team's bad-ass quota by a huge percentage, it signifies that Michelle and Maria are serious about stamping out the city's PCP problem.

Next on the list is Kako Umaro (Lieu Chinh), a karate expert. I know it's 1979, but the cast of Angels' Brigade is already a thousand times more diverse than most movies and TV shows made nowadays. Okay, maybe that's a tad unfair. But still, it's kinda groundbreaking. If the next woman they recruit turns out to be a Pakistani demolitions expert, I'm going to freak the fuck out.

While the next three recruits are white chicks, Policewoman Elaine Brenner (Robin Greer), is gorgeous beyond belief. I know, April Thomas (Jacqueline Cole), a busty fashion model, is supposed to be the "gorgeous one." But I'm telling you, Elaine's beauty has a way of creeping up on you. What I mean is, you'll be looking at her, and then all of a sudden... Bam! She will throw you this seductive look that will leave you hypnotized. (So, what you're saying is, she's an attractive woman?) Well, they're all attractive women. It's just that Elaine seems have that an extra twinkle about her.

Anyway, I don't think Elaine and Trish (Liza Greer), one of Maria's students, were actually meant to be recruits. I think they just joined of their own accord.

Needing guns, the women decide to use April's cleavage to acquire some from a right-wing militia. Now, this scene is just plain pointless. And, no, I'm just saying this because Officer Elaine is nowhere to be found. No, the scene is an overlong, unfunny waste of time. Fans of Gilligan's Island might get a kick out of seeing Thurston Howell, III (Jim Brackus) as a deluded militia leader. But that's about it.

The next step is finding out where the PCP is delivered and intercepting the shipment before it hits the streets. After torturing the Leif Garrett clone for information, the women head to the beach. And you know what that means? That's right, bikinis!!!

While the beach scene is just as stupid and unfunny as the militia stuff, it does feature... (Yeah, yeah, we get to see the women in bikinis.) Well, yeah.

Well... Elaine doesn't actually wear a bikini, she wears a caramel one-piece, but still...

Oh, and while delivering the confiscated goods to her boss, Elaine can be seen wearing a pair of white shorts over top of her caramel one-piece. Which, I must say, is a great look for her.

After watching a montage where the ladies turn their ho-hum van into a battle wagon of estrogen-fueled death, the seven women eventually launch their assault on the PCP factory. The end? Not quite. The film gives us a bonus action sequence after the PCP factory battle. Which, I guess, was nice of them. But I was pretty much done with this movie after the beach scene.

And why wouldn't I be... done with it, that is? The film's anti-drug message and overall tone is kinda square. Plus, the film has zero nudity and hardly any graphic violence. I know, what gives, Angels' Brigade? Granted, the film's pro-feminist slant was very much appreciated. But c'mon, give us some tits 'n' gore. I mean, yeah, seriously. (Don't forget the fact that the acting is atrocious.) Oh, yeah, there's that, too. I did like "Shine Your Love on Me," the disco-tinged song that opens the film and the fact that Susan Kiger lip syncs the song (Patty Foley is the actual singer) while wearing sequined outfit with a massive slit down the side.

Wow, I've heard of makeshift slits, impromptu slits (slits on the fly), and even accidental slits, but never have I seen a slit made with a chainsaw. (What on earth are you babbling about?) Chainsaw slits, you bleary-eyed motherfucker. That's what I'm babbling about. And where, by chance, did I see a slit made with a chainsaw? Why, I saw it done in a movie called... What the... It says here I saw it done in a movie called: [REC] 3: Genesis. What kind of made-up nonsense is that? Seriously, what does that even mean? And what's with the brackets? Maybe it's because I haven't been keeping up with current events or maybe it's because I'm an idiot. Whatever the reason, I've never heard any of these "rec movies." That being said, can you blame me? I mean, I'm trying to transition here. In other words, I've got more important shit to worry about. At any rate, you might be wondering how I stumbled upon this kooky slice of Spanish horror. What's that? You're not wondering about that. Hmm. Nevertheless. If you looked at the DVD covers for the so-called "rec movies," which one do you think I would choose to watch based solely on the box art? That's right, I'd pick the one that boasted the attractive woman wielding a chainsaw in a wedding dress. Now, if you would have told me that the slit on her wedding dress was created by the very chainsaw she was holding, I think I would have fainted. Of course, you're probably thinking to yourself: Fainted? What kind of gay ass shit is that? It's true, admitting that you might faint is some pretty "gay ass shit." But don't forget, I'm a... (Yeah, yeah, you're trans... we get it). Nevertheless, gay ass shit comes with the territory. And I couldn't be more pleased.

Anyway, enough of this shit, gay ass or otherwise. Let's talk chainsaw slits and the skinny armed goddesses who make them. Or, more importantly, how does a woman go from being a blushing bride at a congested Spanish wedding to a chainsaw-wielding zombie killer?

It's simple, really. If you push a Spanish bride too far, she will drop-kick your rotting ass into next week.

Separated during her wedding due to zombie-related circumstances beyond her control, Clara (Leticia Dolera) must battle her way through an angry mob of blood-spewing fiends in formal wear in order to be reunited with Koldo (Diego Martin), the love of her life.

Though, I should point out the film, directed by Paca Plaza, is kind of annoying... in the early going. Starting off as a "found footage film," ugh, [REC] 3: Genesis is basically Cloverfield 2: The Wedding. And like the original Cloverfield, the shaky camera work began to make me feel nauseous.

Probably realizing the audience is getting sick and tired of seeing that little red "rec" icon in the top right corner of the screen, Paco switches to proper cameras after around the twenty minute mark. Free from having to adhere to the rules that govern the found footage genre, the film, well, becomes more cinematic... more, er, um, watchable.

Sure, grainy footage is still employed now and then (security camera footage mostly), but for the most part the film resembles your typical zombie flick. Which is a good and a bad thing. It's bad because I'm so over zombies (I recently gave up on The Walking Dead). It's good because who wants to watch poorly shot cam footage of Leticia Dolera fighting zombies? Not me, that's for sure.

Of course, given that I haven't seen any of the other "rec movies," I was kind of confused as to where the zombies came from. Just kidding, I couldn't care less.

From the looks of it, I would say the groom's uncle was the one who started the whole zombie mess (he has bandage on his hand that covers a bite mark). That being said, when the groom's uncle eventually starts biting wedding guests, all these other zombies or "infected" enter the reception hall and make with the neck chomping and the blood spewing. So, yeah, the wedding is crawling with zombies in no time.

And, like I said earlier, the bride and groom are separated during the chaos of those first few minutes.

It's when Clara discovers that Koldo is still alive that the film.... Hold up, I almost forgot. There's a character named "Sponge John" or "John Esponja," that should be given his due. Unable to call himself "Sponge Bob" for legal reasons, Sponge John (Miguel Ángel González), whose been working weddings and birthday parties for over ten years, is probably my second favourite character behind Clara.

In fact, when Rafa (Ismael Martínez), a sleazy scumbag/wedding guest asks Sponge John why doesn't he just take his Sponge John costume off when he implies that it is impeding his ability to accomplish simple tasks, his reasoning caused me to emit a substantial laughing noise from my primary mouth hole. It was either a "ha" noise or a "hee" noise. I'm not sure. Either way, the sight of Sponge John running around with a shotgun in the fake movie rain brought me a shitload of temporary joy.

It should be noted that, yes, Rafa is a "sleazy scumbag." However, without his help, Clara's chainsaw slit would have never come to be. You see, in order for Clara to cut into her wedding dress with any success, someone needs to hold the dress still. And that someone turns out to be Rafa. So, I guess, special thanks are in order. Determined to be reunited with Koldo, Clara slices and dices her way through a half a dozen zombies in, like I said earlier, formal wear to get to him. Now, could it have been gorier? I guess. But I did appreciate the way Clara's pluck gradually increased over the course of the film.

While the first twenty or so minutes are torture to sit through (it's basically a wedding video), the film eventually becomes the kind of trashy campy fun I like. So, I would, and I can't believe I'm about to say this, recommend [REC] 3: Genesis. It's reckless, rectum-tingling cinema at its sort of finest.

Special thanks to Joaquin Guirao for suggesting this flick... And, yes, you're right, it did remind of me of Álex de la Iglesia's early stuff.

At first I was comfortably prepared to declare that the three actresses who appear in Boardinghouse are wearing the same pair silky smooth black satin disco pants. But as of right this minute, I'm not so sure. Why? It's simple, really. Unless director/star John Wintergate is a master when it comes to employing camera tricks, I doubt they would be able to make it appear as if two women were wearing the same pair of silky smooth black satin disco pants in the same scene (I doubt he even knows how to turn on a camera). No, what I think happened was, each of the three actresses who appear in silky smooth black satin disco pants decided to wear their own silky smooth black satin disco pants to the set, and no one batted an eye over the fact this flagrant display of trouser-based uniformity might cause a certain someone to lose an uncertain amount of shit some thirty-plus years later. What I think I'm trying to say is this: I want a pair of silky smooth black satin disco pants. Granted, I'm currently working on attaining the curves necessary to wear such a garment. But mark my words, my soon to be shapely butt will be housed in a pair of silky smooth black satin disco pants in the not-so distant future. Oh, you better believe it. (Um, hello? I'm sorry to keep asking this... But what on Earth are you babbling about?) Um, I'm clearly talking about silky smooth black... (Yeah, I got that. But why are you talking about them in a review for a shot on video horror classic?) Um, it's what I do. I watch a movie. Then after it's over, I type words pertaining to said movie. Duh.

And sometimes, if I'm feeling extra saucy, I like to describe the position the movie caused me sit as I watched said movie. And Boardinghouse had me on the edge of my seat the whole time. Though, to be honest, the reason I was sitting on the edge of my seat had nothing to do with the film's overall intensity, it was mostly upholstery-related. You see, the chair I was sitting on was poorly upholstered. Unable to provide me and my not yet shapely butt with the support I/it needed, I started to favour the outskirts (or the edge, if you will) of the tumbledown piece of furniture. Thus, creating the illusion that the film was scaring some but not all of the bejesus out of me.

In reality, the film, which, like I said, was shot on video, mostly confused and bewildered me. However, I'm not one to let confusion, or even bewilderment for that matter, ruin what is essentially an on the cusp of being watchable hot chicks in a haunted house picture.

If you're like me, and you have a soft spot for films that feature attractive women doing asinine nonsense pool-side in the early 1980s, Boardinghouse will deliver in that regard.

While most viewers will look at the seemingly-unending gaggle of semi-elegant ladies who end up at the boardinghouse at the centre of this cinematic mind-scrambler, and think to themselves: I would love to engage in state-sanctioned sexual intercourse with one or more of these women. I, on the other hand, simply want to possess their physical characteristics.

Oh, to be ensconced in the soft, flow-y glow-y mire of womanhood. Ensconced in womanhood. Ensconced. Womanhood. Mmmmm. Hey, would you look at that, the wind is causing my robuster than usual ponytail to sway to and fro like a pendulum.

(Hey, snap out of it.) What? Sorry 'bout that. I must have drifted off or something.

So, yeah, Boardinghouse is about this super-lean, mildly douchey guy named Jim (John Wintergate) who inherits the Hoffman house, a large residence on Mulholland Dr. with a dark past (many people have died mysteriously there over the past ten years).

Deciding to rent it out almost exclusively to hot young women, Jim goes back to astral projecting in his downtown office. No, wait... Jim has chosen to live with his tenants. At first I thought this was odd, as landlords don't usually live with their tenants. But judging by his pronounced pantie bugle, I'd say Jim's penis has somehow persuaded Jim proper to take advantage of the situation.

When the women do arrive and start moving in, a wave of relief washed over me. You know, because I want to be ensconced... (Yeah, yeah, ensconced in womanhood... we get it.) Even though it was difficult to tell at first, I'd say around six or seven move in.

If there's one thing I don't like about these types of movies, it's that they don't make it easy for us to distinguish one hot chick from another. Sure, having one "black chick" and one "Asian chick" made it somewhat easy. But still, I have to wade through three brunettes and a shitload of blondes. I know, life is hard.

A latecomer named Debbie (Lindsay Freeman), an English blonde, shows up and eventually gets a room. Things seem pleasant enough at first (nothing but non-stop pool parties and pie fights). But that all changes when a forthright brunette named Victoria (Kalassu... you heard me, I said, Kalassu) starts having weird visions. In fact, most of the women start having weird visions. But Victoria's weird visions seemed extra... weird. And I think it has something to do with the fact that she has recently taken an interest in astral projection (she checks out a ton of books on the subject at the library). Which, of course, she picked up from Jim (she watches Jim move a bar of soap with his mind while taking a bath).

In order to protect the squeamish, director John Wintergate has devised a method to shield easily triggered audience members from harm. And he does this by flashing a warning (the image of a black leather glove) accompanied by a synth flourish.

Let's be honest. The warnings, apparently titled, "Horror Vision," were kinda unwarranted. I mean, other than some spewing fake guts and some self-induced eyeball popping, the gore in this movie is pretty tame. But then again, I'm sucker for synth flourishes. So, yeah, it's got that going for it.

Don't let gore-hounds or shot on video aficionados fool you, Boardinghouse is all about hot babes under duress in a domestic setting. Some wear silky smooth black satin disco pants, some wear short shorts (which were just called shorts back then), some wear studded bracelets... Actually, some wear silky smooth black satin disco pants and studded bracelets. I know, talk about your win-win.

Anyway, if you're like me and want to be surrounded by as many women as humanly possible at all times, you can't do better than Boardinghouse. (Are you sure about that?) Not really.

This review, by the way, is a review of the 98 min theatrical cut. There's a "rare" 157 min on the second disc that comes with the 2013 Slasher // Video release of this film. Surrounded by women or not, I don't think I have the stamina to make through a 157 minute version of this movie. I'm sort of curious... Nah, I better not. My brain cells need a break.

I'm no math whizz, but I'd say 99% of the movies I watch are devoid of anything of value. What I mean is, they contain things I'm not interested. Of course, if the people who make these movies had the slightest interest in the things I'm interested in, I wouldn't have to start every other review in this manner. But this is the universe we live in. One where the majority of films released on any given day are severely lacking in the appealing to me department. However, it's not all bad. In fact, there's this movie I might review one day that actually features a ton of stuff I'm into. You know what? Screw one day, I'm reviewing this film right this minute. It's called Domino and... OH MY GOD, it's so fucking... appealing. Seriously, I just sat there in awe of the sheer amount of Euro-approved stylishness being shoved in my face at any given moment... it was glorious. Synths, black PVC skirts, gloves in almost every scene, wigs, neon, compact discs, indoor wind chimes, mannequins, phone sex, white lace body stockings, delivery boys who accept smiles from leggy dames in lieu of money, and... well, I could keep listing shit for hours. Granted, the plot is kinda stupid and some of acting is a tad on the suspect side, but.... then again, who cares about non-stupid plots and quality acting in a movie where Brigitte Nielsen talks to her jewel-adorned pet turtle? That's right, Brigitte Nielsen has deep, meaningful conversations with a bejeweled turtle.

And she has a live-in mannequin. Which she also talks to. Let me put it this way: Imagine if Stephen Sayadian had directed Obsession: A Taste for Fear. Well, if he had, it would look something like this. I know, that's sounds pretty awesome. Any film that can invoke the name Stephen Sayadian, a.k.a. Rinse Dream, has to be doing something right.

Even though I was down with director Ivana Massetti's Rinse Dream-esque aesthetic right from the get-go. The moment I heard the sci-fi-ish swooshing noise the door to Brigitte Nielsen's apartment makes when it opens and closes was the exact moment I declared this film to be a straight-up masterpiece.

Again, and I can't stress this enough, the film is chock-full of nonsensical gobbledygook. Yeah, the movie I'm currently praising is a total mess when it comes to the basic tenets of cinematic storytelling. And the acting is atrocious in places. But holy crap, does it look good.

It also helped that the film doesn't seem to take place in any realm I'm familiar with. And if anyone has read any of my other reviews, you'll know I'm a big fan of films that seem to take place within there own universe. Sure, the words they utter and the objects they manipulate are recognizable, but there's just something off about this world.

And from where I was sitting, Brigitte Nielsen's Domino seems to be at the centre of this world/universe. Meaning, the world seems to revolve around her. And why wouldn't it? She has a killer wardrobe, a seemingly endless cadre of suitors, a swanky apartment (did I mention that the doors make a sci-fi-ish swooshing noise when opened and closed?), and she owns a plethora of wigs.

Desperate to get funding to make a video about Billie Holiday, an artist named Domino is harassed by a mysterious stranger who insists on calling her on her cordless telephone. She's also being spied on by someone who lives in the building across the street.

Despite the fact that she seems content to be alone with her live-in mannequin (and her bejeweled pet turtle), Domino must contend with multiple violations of her privacy.

And, yeah, that kind of sums up the plot. Like I said, she has many suitors (all douchebags from I what I could see).

Oh, and from I could gather, it would seem that poor air quality is causing Domino's arm to itch. I think this was the film's subtle way of reminding the audience that things in this world are not as rosy as they seem. And, if you listen closely, every time Brigitte is outside, you can hear helicopters flying overhead. I took this to mean that Domino is living in a surveillance state.

While it might not come right out and say it, anyone with a half a brain can figure out on their own that this film is about isolation. Putting a number of different barriers between her and the outside world, Domino is desperate to find love, yet she craves the comfort that only a solitary existence can bring.

When it becomes increasingly clear that the people harassing her might not be real, Domino begins to lose her grip on reality.

Personally, I don't know why Domino didn't pursue a relationship with Geretta Geretta's Gabriele, a self-proclaimed whore who works at a strip-club called Eye. I guess Domino found Gabriele's lifestyle too overwhelming; in a classic scene, Domino ceases to masturbate to Gabrielle's striptease show and runs from the booth (complete with a toilet roll for easy clean-up) in a stylish huff.

Which, should go without saying, as everything Domino does is stylish.

Frankly, I have no idea how I managed to make through this film in one piece. As it seems to go out of its way to be cartoonishly chic. At times I thought I was watching a parody of the 1980s by some hipster comedy troupe who possess only half-remembered fragments of what the 1980s were really like. But I wasn't. No, Domino is a real movie, made during the 1980s. Cherish the movie and treat it with the respect it deserves. Of course, many of you will still mock and deride it using whatever passes for sarcasm nowadays. But you can't deny that it earns its place in the pantheon of mildly ill-conceived movies that end up being more amazing than anyone involved in its creation could possibly comprehend.

In fact, I would place Domino alongside the likes of Liquid Dreams, Shredder Orpheus, Skinner, the aforementioned Obsession: A Taste of Fear (this and Domino would make a sweet ass double-bill), and, of course, the granddaddy of them all, Dr. Caligari.

Oh, and you'll notice I didn't once complain about Brigitte Nielsen's breast implants. Well, that's because I don't do that anymore. If a woman wants breast implants, who am I to deny her the right to do so? After all, it's her body, not mine. I am, however, against breast implants, or any other cosmetic surgery for that matter, if the woman is forced to do so by someone other than herself.

Special thanks to Silk Stalkings Stills for recommending this movie.

Damn, it's cold! Who knew the winters (hell, the springs, too) in Canada could be so chilly? Speaking of which, whose bright idea was it to continue removing my arm hair throughout the winter months? Brrrr. What's that? Yeah, dysphoria is a real thing and it doesn't simply go away once it starts getting colder. I know, I could just put on a sweater... Wait a minute, if I had a leopard print blazer like the one Rainer Werner Fassbinder sports as Polizeileutnant Jansen in Kamikaze 1989, that would solve all my problems. What I mean is, if I owned a leopard print blazer, I could express myself through fashion and remain warm at the same time. Win-win. Anyway, this West German film, based on the book, Murder on the Thirty-first Floor by Per Wahlöö, about a 50-something detective working in a grim yet stylish totalitarian state is a... Huh? You're telling me Rainer Werner Fassbinder isn't 50-something. He was actually 37 when he shot this? Really? Wow, kudos to the makeup department for making Fassbinder look so much older than he really is. You say he's not wearing makeup? Hmm. Well, let that be a lesson for all you kids out there. If you continue to smoke and drink booze to excess, you'll end up looking like Rainer Werner Fassbinder does in this movie. Don't get me wrong, the movie is a visual/audio feast to behold, it's just that Fassbinder doesn't look so good. It's true, he would die soon after filming this Wolf Gremm-directed movie. But still. It's a stark reminder to take better care of yourself.

When Polizeileutnant Jansen tells Anton (Günther Kaufmann), a fellow detective, to: "Refrain from unnecessary remarks" for the very first time during the first of their many conversations, I thought: Huh, that's a nicest way I've ever heard to tell someone to shut the fuck up. When he instructs others to "Refrain from unnecessary comments" and "Refrain from unnecessary questions," I thought: I love this guy. Sure, his scraggly beard was mildly triggering. But as far as being an onscreen detective goes, I dig Jansen's style.

In his defense, he does make a, if feeble, attempt to trim his scraggly beard at one point.

Nevertheless, telling people to refrain from using extraneous phrases while saying words out loud while wearing a leopard print jacket and leopard print trousers is, you have to admit, pretty bad-ass.

Did I mention that the handle of his snub-nosed revolver is leopard print as well? Yeah, well, it totally is.

It should be noted though that Jansen's kooky blazer game isn't limited to the gruff detective. No, it would seem that the entire country of Germany, which has apparently unified in 1989, has gone kooky blazer mad.

In fact, I don't think I spotted a single drab, ho-hum or bland blazer during the entire film's running time.

It wouldn't surprise me to learn that the film's wardrobe department didn't plunder the wardrobe of The Apple, as a lot of the outfits worn throughout Kamikaze '89 had a distinct disco science fiction vibe/stench about them. And, as you know, The Apple was shot in West Germany, well, West Berlin. Which makes my theory even more plausible.

Actually, if I had to compare Kamikaze '89 to just two movies, I would have to say, The Apple and Blade Runner are the two that spring to mind immediately. Yes, there's some A Clockwork Orange sprinkled here and there as well. But the tone and look are purely The Apple and Blade Runner. Which, of course, is a good thing.

A hard-boiled detective story set in a garish cyberpunk universe, Kamikaze '89 will have retro futurism enthusiasts scrambling to suck on their inhalers. Granted, the story itself is a tad convoluted. In other words: Refrain from unnecessary complexities.

Let's see, the plot involves a plot to blow up the head quarters that belong to a ruthless tyrannical entity known simply as "The Combine." Brought in to help solve this mystery is Polizeileutnant Jansen, a cop who is considered to be the best in the business. Sure, he's a little rough around the edges, but if there's anyone who can penetrate the shadowy confines of The Combine, it's Jansen.

Of course, the further he penetrates these confines, the more confusing things become. While the confusion that inevitably comes might be a turn off, the film is never not interesting to look at. Nor is it never not interesting to listen to, as the soundtrack by Edgar Froese is a synth-lovers dream.

Along with top-notch production values, a fascinating lead performance by Fassbinder... Wait... Fascinating? Fassbinder? That was totally not on purpose. Ugh. Where was I? Oh, yeah. The film looks and sounds amazing. Highly recommended.

(What about those gender non-specific assassins?) Yes. Thanks for reminding me. Yeah, these assassins try to rub out our unhealthy-looking hero at one point and they do so while wearing ski-masks and stockings.

Well, one is wearing black fully-fashioned stockings, and the other is wearing what looks like black fishnet pantyhose. I can't believe I almost forgot to mention that scene. I'd go as far as to say it alone makes this film worth watching. But like I said in the above paragraphs, there's so much to savor in this film.

Thunder Alley (J. S. Cardone, 1985)

Just One of the Girls (Michael Keusch, 1993)

Satan Was a Lady (Doris Wishman, 2001)

Born in Flames (Lizzie Borden, 1983)

I, the Jury (Richard T. Heffron, 1982)

The Lady in the Car with Glasses and a Gun (Joann Sfar, 2015)

Dangerous Seductress ( H. Tjut Djalil, 1995)

Furious (1984)

Paris Is Burning (Jennie Livingston, 1990)

Fallen Angels (Kar-Wai Wong, 1995)

Emanuelle Around the World (Joe D'Amato, 1977)

Nomads (John McTiernan, 1986)

Killer Condom (Martin Walz, 1996)

Trash (Paul Morrissey, 1970)

Metal Skin (Geoffrey Wright, 1994)

Angels' Brigade (Greydon Clark, 1979)

[REC] 3: Genesis (Paco Plaza, 2012)

Boardinghouse (John Wintergate, 1982)

Domino (Ivana Massetti, 1988)

Kamikaze 1989 (Wolf Gremm, 1982)