House of Self-Indulgence

In order to get in the mood to write about Desperate Teenage Lovedolls (word on the street is, the film was originally titled "Desperate Teenage Runaways," but Kim Fowley, former manager of The Runaways, threatened to sue), I've been listening to "Survive" by The Bags on repeat (and by "repeat," I mean two times in a row). Okay, before you say, "aren't you special," the song is featured in the movie; just in case you were wondering why I was randomly namedropping this classic slab of L.A. punk rock. In all honesty, what I'm really trying to do is summon my inner punk. And, yes, I have an inner punk; his name is Steve, he likes the Suburban Lawns, eats nothing but Doritos® Fromage Mordant, wants to perform cunnilingus on Sharon Mitchell in the worst possible way, and spends most of his time sniffing glue underneath the Santa Monica Pier. The reason you initially doubted whether or not I had an inner punk was probably because I rarely ever need to tap into him. In fact, the only time I ever seem to require his services is when I'm watching Repo Man; which is something I try to do at least once year ("Ordinary fucking people. I hate 'em"). In other words, Steve's not a big part of my life. However, I needed him desperately (no pun intended) when it came time to watch this micro-budget tribute to the L.A. punk scene (the only punk scene I subscribe to). And after listening to "Survive" by The Bags multiple times, I feel like I'm ready to delve into this gritty, shot on super-8, cult, trash, camp masterpiece.

It's a good thing I did, because I was immediately put off by the lack of synthesizers on the soundtrack; I kept telling myself: "Relax, man. Not every film can have synthesizers." Nevertheless, the film does use the music of SPK to punch up the drug trip gone awry scene. And, as most people know, SPK are one of the few bands that can be truly call themselves "industrial" (most so-called "industrial" bands make house music with distorted vocals slapped over top of it - not that there's anything wrong with that).

Reminding me of Ladies and Gentlemen - The Fabulous Stains, Breaking Glass, and Smithereens (films that sport ambitious female characters who crave fame and fortune, but quickly find out that both are not all that they're cracked up to be), Desperate Teenage Lovedolls, written and directed by David Markey (founder of the punk zine We Got Power! - I'm a wealth of information today), tells the tale of The Lovedolls, an all-girl punk band who become unwitting victim's of their own success.

When two long lost friends, the leggy Kitty Carryall (Jennifer Schwartz) and the exceedingly brunette Bunny Tremelo (Hilary Rubens), reunite at a bus station in Venice, California, they both agree that now is the perfect time to put The Lovedolls back together.

Even though it's still early, I'm having no trouble whatsoever picturing the members of Sleater-Kinney and Bikini Kill watching Desperate Teenage Lovedolls on their respective tour buses.

The third member of The Lovedolls, it turns out, is locked up in a mental hospital. Which, surprisingly, isn't going to be that big a problem, as Alexandra (Kim Pilkington) is planning her escape as we speak. Smashing her guitar over the head of her doctor (Jordan Schwartz), Alexandra makes a run for it.

Meanwhile, out in suburbia (our trip to the burbs is accompanied by a cheeky music cue taken directly from The Brady Bunch), Kitty, who is wearing a kick ass green sweater dress (if you don't think sweater dresses can kick ass - well, they totally can), and Bunny are rehearsing. When Kitty's mom (Jordan Schwartz) starts hassling her, Bunny decides to bail. Chilling in her room, showing off her amazing legs (which are tastefully encased in a pair of light purple pantyhose), Kitty is shocked to find Alexandra hiding under some blankets.

After telling her mom to "go fuck herself," Kitty and Alexandra leave in a huff. Well, actually, Kitty does the majority of the huffing during their exit. What I should said was, after hurling a series of fuck-based insults in the general direction of her mother, Kitty, along with Alexandra, leaves in a huff. I guess that's better. Either way, Kitty is now a teenage runaway.

While hitchhiking with Alexandra, you'll notice that Kitty is now wearing black pantyhose. Granted, you'll have pause the movie in order to properly appreciate the magnitude of the hosiery change. But trust me, her light purple pantyhose have been replaced by a pair of jet black pantyhose.

If you don't believe me, watch the outtakes. In them, you'll come across an extended version of the hitchhiking scene. And in this extended version you will clearly see that the shapely stems jutting out from the bottom half of Jennifer Schwartz's kick ass green sweater dress have been lovingly re-poured into a pair of super-tight, jet black pantyhose. To make matters even more titillating, there's a run in her hose (a long run that starts on her left thigh and goes all the way down to her knee).

You think that's titillating? Wait until you see the part where Jennifer Schwartz tells Kim Pilkingston to stop wasting her time using her thumbs to hitch a ride and proceeds to lift up the bottom of her kick ass green sweater dress to reveal even more pantyhose-ensnared leg. They're going to be mopping you off the floor.

And get this, she actually says, "The thumb trick doesn't work, but the pantyhose does," while hiking up her kick ass green sweater dress. Now, the only reason I think of as to why this scene didn't make it into the final version of the film was because of bad pantyhose continuity. Like I said, Kitty Carryall is wearing light purple pantyhose when she leaves in that huff I mentioned earlier, and seconds later, she is wearing jet black pantyhose. People who leave in huffs don't usually have time to change their pantyhose. If she had left in say, a casual and relaxed manner, then I would have bought the pantyhose change. But not in a huff. It doesn't pass pantyhose muster.

Which is a shame, really. Because there's nothing sexier than a leggy woman, or in this case, a leggy teenage runaway, who knows how to harness the power of her shapely stems.

Most people when talking about Desperate Teenage Lovedolls seem to go on and on about the controversial scene where Kim Pilkington shoots heroin...for realz. Yet, here I am, rambling, semi-coherently, about, what is basically, a deleted scene. Oh, well.

As expected, Alexandra's drug habit prevents her from becoming a Lovedoll (you're supposed to develop a debilitating drug habit after you become famous, not before). Nonetheless, that doesn't stop Kitty, who hits the streets in search of a new drummer. Running into Patch Kelly (Janet Housden) while putting up flyers, Kitty asks her to join the band. Of course, not before thanking her for killing her mother. Here's a sample of the dialogue heard during Kitty and Patch's first meeting: Kitty Carryall: "Thanks for killing my mother." Patch Kelly: "No problem."

After stealing a guitar from some homeless guy in an afro wig, The Lovedolls soon find themselves on the road to superstardom. Only problem being, their manager, Johnny Tremaine (the amazing Steve McDonald from Redd Kross), is a bit of a scumbag (he rapes Bunny, puts Boy George on hold, and thinks a Beatles reunion with Kevin DuBrow from Quiet Riot as John Lennon's replacement is a good idea). And, oh, yeah, there's this all-girl gang called the She-Devils who are still pissed over the fact that Kitty killed their leader, Tanya Hearst (Tracy Marshak-Nash), with a switchblade during a violent confrontation on a Venice beach.

You could tell that Kitty and Bunny had finally "made it" just by looking at colour of their tights (colourful tights = success). Lounging around their mansion in Brentwood, Kitty, whose legs are fashionably sheathed in purple tights, and Bunny, who's rocking a pair of pink tights, have a contented air about them. However, as anyone who has ever watched a movie like this before knows, it all could fall apart at any moment. Meaning, the hottest band on the planet could be washed up in a matter of months. Scratch that, they could be washed up in a matter of days.

Despite its extreme low budget (the film purportedly cost around 350 dollars to make), Desperate Teenage Lovedolls manages to overcome its financial difficulties by fully embracing the D.I.Y. spirit of the L.A. punk scene. Boasting a campy edge (Steve McDonald's drug trip while wearing blue spandex trousers and his talk back while watching Dawn: Portrait of a Teenage Runaway are pure camp) and moments of violence (at least seven people are murdered in this film), the film isn't your typical tale of a couple of gals who go from the gutters of Venice to glamour of Beverly Hills. Uh-uh, it earns its status as a cult classic through sheer moxie and hard work.

video uploaded by Dave Markey

How do you go about making a sequel to an underground classic when most of the principal characters from the original were murdered? Well, according to David Markey, the writer-director-producer-editor of Lovedolls Superstar, his epic follow up to Desperate Teenage Lovedolls, all you need is a long lost hippie twin brother, a Ritz-cracker eating socialite bent on revenge, a demented Lovedolls super-fan, a brunette ghost, and you should be good to go. When I use to word "epic" to describe this film, I ain't kidding around. Sure, it contains all the drug use, violence, gore, music, and, not to mention, the multiple shots of Jennifer Schwartz's surprisingly shapely legs sheathed in colourful tights we've come to expect from The Lovedolls franchise. But this chapter seems determined to outdo its predecessor. First things first, they definitely had more money to work with this time around. Granted, it's still not a lot, especially when compared to other low budget movies. But that being said, all you have to do is take one look at the artists who contribute songs to the soundtrack (Sonic Youth, Meat Puppets, Dead Kennedys) to realize there's something different in the air. Mocking the music industry (a record company executive is brutally murdered by a mob in a scene straight out of an Italian cannibal movie), crazy religious cults, Bruce Springsteen/Rick Springfield, flower children, feminist television hosts, and celebrity culture, the film, while retaining the campy tone that made part one so enjoyable, has a developed a bit of a satirical edge since we last tuned in.

While all those topics and subjects are ridiculed to maximum effect, it's crazy religious cults that get skewered the most in the early going. You won't believe this, but Patch Kelly (Janet Housden) is now "Patch Christ," the not-so charismatic leader of a group of mindless followers. I know, you're asking yourself, who's this Patch Kelly/Patch Christ person? If you recall, she was the drummer of The Lovedolls who killed Kitty Carryall's mother; Kitty Carryall (the sexy Jennifer Schwartz) is, of course, the charismatic leader of The Lovedolls who fell on hard times at the end of Desperate Teenage Lovedolls. Anyway, most people will agree that Patch Kelly wasn't much a factor in the first film; okay, to be blunt, she was barely in it.

She might not have been memorable in the first flick, but Patch Kelly/Patch Christ is the reason Kitty Carryall is able to extricate herself from the Venice day spa she is currently wallowing in. And, no, being in a "Venice day spa" isn't as nice as it sounds; Kitty Carryall was ankle deep in sewer water when Patch and her gang of thieving juvenile delinquents happen upon her (she was giving herself an e. coli mud facial).

Made up of ex-fans of The Lovedolls, the cult steal, and sometimes kill, for Patch Kelly, who can pretty much make them do anything her heart desires. After hearing The Lovedolls on the radio, Kitty, who has since taken a shower (I dug the pink ribbon she wore in her hair to signify her newfound cleanliness), and Patch decide to put the band back together. Only problem being, they don't have a guitar player. If you recall, Bunny Tremelo (Hilary Rubens) met with an "unfortunate accident" at the end of Desperate Teenage Lovedolls.

While wandering the streets of Hollywood, Kitty and Patch bump into Alexandria (Kim Pilkington), the blonde junkie whose heroin habit hampered her attempt to become a rock star in the first film; remember kids, if you're going to develop a trendy heroin habit, wait until your rich and famous first. Working as a hooker with her red beret-wearing friend Shabu (Cheri Land), under the watchful eye of their pimp, Slick (Jordan Schwartz), Kitty and Patch convince Alexandria to drop the "trashy whore" routine and join the band as their guitar player.

Just because Johnny Tremaine (their former manager) and Tanya Hearst (leader of the She-Devils) aren't around anymore to hassle The Lovedolls, doesn't mean that outside forces are not conspiring against them. You wouldn't think it by looking at him, but Johnny Tremaine's twin brother Rainbow (Steve McDonald) is about to become The Lovedolls' primary nemesis. Living on a New Mexico commune called "The Freedom School" with a bunch of hippies (including Vickie Peterson from The Bangles), Rainbow decides to visit L.A. to see what his brother is up to (he has no idea he's dead).

Actually, Rainbow Tremaine is pretty harmless compared to what Patricia Anne Cloverfield (Tracy Marshak-Nash, a.k.a. Tracy Lea) has in store for The Lovedolls. Landing at LAX, Patricia, we soon find out, is Tanya Heart's mother. And if you're wondering why Patricia, who is sitting crossed-legged, suddenly stops eating her Ritz crackers, it's because she just found out her daughter was killed by The Lovedolls.

If that wasn't enough trouble for The Lovedolls, we're introduced to Carl Celery (Jeffrey McDonald), an obsessed fan of the group. If he's so into The Lovedolls, he should join their cult. Why should he? When Kitty Carryall visits him and instructs him to murder Bruce Springsteen. Don't worry, Kitty Carryall is not really making appearances in his squalid hellhole masquerading as a home, Carl is delusional.

Let's recap: The upstart band have not one, not two, but three antagonists to deal with in this chapter of The Lovedolls saga. And it would seem that Bruce Springsteen has an antagonist as well.

It's a good thing The Lovedolls have a cult to back them up this time around. And they come in handy almost immediately when The Lovedolls go up against a sleazy (which should go without saying) record exec named Slim Crowley (Bob Moss). Instead of simply leaving his office after being rejected (he basically calls them has-beens), The Lovedolls sick their cult on him. That doesn't sound so bad. He was roughed up in the parking lot to the music of Sonic Youth, big deal. Roughed up? They stomp his guts out and drink his blood. So, yeah. You better cancel his ten o'clock with Madonna, he ain't gonna make it.

After only being in L.A. five seconds, Rainbow Tremaine (he should get together with Rainbow Harvest from Mirror Mirror fame - you know, because they have the same first name) is already feeling the effects of the city's corrupting influence (the flowers in this town are soaked in pesticide and the granola is chock-full of artificial flavours). And not only that, a newspaper boy (Robert Wecker) informs Rainbow that his brother is dead, and tells him that The Lovedolls were the one's responsible. Meanwhile, Patricia Anne Cloverfield has bought herself a gun and has formed an alliance with Matt (Mike Glass), Tanya's boyfriend, and Switchblade Suzy (Annette Zilinskas), a disgruntled She-Devil.

Possessed by the spirit of Gene Simmons, Carl Celery, wearing the appropriate makeup, shows up at a Bruce Springsteen concert carrying the gun given to him by Kitty Carryall. Hey, check out the Courtney Cox (Modi Frank) wannabe in the front row (she sort of looks like Bunny Tremelo). At any rate, as Bruce (Jordan Schwartz) is finishing up an lyrically altered version of "Dancing in the Dark," Carl rushes the stage.

Speaking of people who sort of look like Bunny Tremelo, the ghost of Bunny Tremelo (complete with Linda Blair from The Exorcist sleepwear) appears in Kitty Carryall's bedroom. Warning her about the dark forces that are out to get her, the ghost of Bunny Tremelo gives Kitty the skinny on all the threats that are currently manifesting themselves against her.

Whether she takes heed or not is anyone's guess. In the meantime, Kitty and Patch appear on Women On Women, a feminist talk show hosted by Gloria Biaz (Carmel Moran). The great thing about this sequence, besides the fact that Kitty and Patch fail to live up to Gloria's idea of what a feminist should look like, was Kitty Carryall's crossed legs sheathed in red tights. In addition to looking fabulous on her, the red tights are good indication that The Lovedolls are well on their way. Remember what I said in my review of Desperate Teenage Lovedolls? You don't? Well, let me repeat it: Colourful tights = success. You could also add: Crimped hair = success to the equation, as the more successful The Lovedolls become, the more crimps seem to appear in Kitty Carryall's hair.

In the coming scenes, Jennifer Schwartz can be seen in blue, footless tights (she wears them during her confrontation with Mrs. Cloverfield), a one piece bathing suit with Argentine theme (it reminded me of the flag of Argentina) with matching blue shades (she wears both during her pool side confrontation with Carl Celery), and a purple feather boa (which she wears during The Lovedolls show at the forum).

You'll notice I didn't mention Kitty Carryall's confrontation with Rainbow Tremaine during my Kitty Carryall fashion round up. Well, let me just say two words: Suicidal Tendencies. Oh, and my favourite Rainbow-ism uttered during this period was: "I have become semi-rebellious!" And it's no wonder, the city of Los Angeles. is no place for wide-eyed idealists, it warps your soul.

Just like the first film, Lovedolls Superstar was shot on super-8. However, the sequel has a more polished sheen to it. Yet, the film has somehow managed to retain its gritty aesthetic. Depicting Hollywood as the cesspool that it probably is, Dave Markey (best known for, I guess, directing 1991: The Year Punk Broke) has made farcical romp that ridicules the city, while, at same time, celebrates its many quirks. My only complaint would be that Kitty Carryall doesn't get a love interest in either film. Call me a romantic sap, but I wanna see Kitty's luscious thigh's gingerly groped by a tattooed gentlemen caller whilst in the throes of consensual, Patti Smith-approved passion.

video uploaded by Dave Markey

The woefully untalented want to exploit you, the exceedingly powerful want to violate you. Or is it the other way around? Whatever. Is there any end to the degradation the creatively blessed must endure in order to get their voices heard in a world controlled by mindless vulgarians and their child-molesting allies? If it's not one thing, it's something else. And if it is in fact something else, when will something completely different come along and show us what something else looks like? Art. What is it? And what makes it so darned artistic? These, and many other non-erroneous questions, are answered in Gentlemen Broncos, a film by a bunch of people who live and work in and around an area known as the Utah-Idaho Conglomeratic Atmospheric Territory, a.k.a. U.I.C.A.T., or Ewww-eee Kaht, as it's pronounced on the mean streets of suburban Boise (its de facto capital). Even though the land the territory sits on is millions of years old, that doesn't mean Jared Hess (human deadpan dispensary) is over his head. Sure, he's only been alive in the U.I.C.A.T. for a fraction of that time, but that doesn't mean he hasn't been carefully observing the sheer ridiculousness of the regions current inhabitants. An unopened love letter to fashion and science fiction, the qu...Don't do it! Do what? Use the q-word in correlation to Gentlemen Broncos. What are you talking about? I've always been respectful to the LGBT population. Not queer, you uncoordinated fanny bandit. I'm talking about "quirky." So, using quirky to describe a Jared Hess film is a no-no? A huge no-no. I mean, you had an interesting take on the film going and you had to go and ruin it by using the q-word. Well, you called me an uncoordinated fanny bandit. Yeah, but I was trying to be edgy. Kinda like those unjustifiably disaffected teens who post pictures of SS officers and car accident photos on their tumblrs.

On their tumb-what? Never mind. Anyway, while I loved Napoleon Dynamite, for some strange, or maybe, not-so strange, reason I skipped Nacho Libre (Jack Black as a Mexican monk/Luchador trying to save an orphanage rubs me the wrong way). Well, I'm happy to report that Jared Hess and the house that dang built are back doing what they do best. What that is exactly has yet to come to me. But I'm sure sometime over the next five or six hundred paragraphs I'll be able to succinctly state what it was that made this vomit-laden, hand cream-stained film stand out from the crowd.

Kicking things off with a cool opening credits sequence, one where the cast and crew are represented by the covers of various sci-fi paperbacks (if you watch the film a second time, you'll notice the covers are all pretty apt), we're quickly shown the makeshift cover of "Yeast Lords," the sci-fi novel that will alter the course of the lives of a small group of quir...I mean, eccentric characters who call Saltair, Utah home (it says here that Carnival of Souls was shot in Saltair).

Boasting a picture of a weaponized deer as its cover, the book is the work of Benjamin Purvis (Michael Angarano), a gifted teen who lives with his mother Judith (Jennifer Coolidge), a fashion designer, in their dome-shaped house. Invited to attend something called "Cletus Festival," a writer's camp for young writers–it's the best writer's camp in the state according to Todd Keefe (Josh Pais)–Benjamin starts his journey of self-discovery by getting on a bus; but not before being told by his mother, "Remember who you are and what you stand for." You should think about this line a bit when it's uttered, as it sums up this film's message in a nutshell.

On top of being budding writers, it would seem that all the kids on the bus are homeschoolers; which is...yeah, a thing, I guess. School at home, eh? Who would have thunk it?

The moment we've all been waiting for is...I'm sorry, I meant to say, the moment I've been waiting for is about to occur. And here it comes. Yes! We have Halley Feiffer! Boom! Exploding onto the screen like an angelic mist, Halley Feiff...Whoa, hold on. Who the fuck is Halley Feiffer? The hell? I can't believe you just interrupted my flow like that. Well, I'm not going to let you start blathering incoherently about some actress we've never heard of without giving us some clues as to where she fits into the Gentlemen Broncos universe.

Fine. As he's about to start eating his lunch at the Kozy Cafe, Benjamin is introduced to a vision of loveliness named Tabatha Jenkins (Halley Feiffer), a fellow author who specializes in French mysteries. Even the name, Tabatha Jenkins, sets my heart on fire. And why wouldn't it? I mean, "Tabatha" is alluring and exotic. Yet, "Jenkins" contains just the right amount of Welshness. Huh? You see, a Welsh name like, "Jones" doesn't contain enough Welshness, while "Llewellyn" contains too much...Welshness, that is.

Gesturing toward her lady area with a sheepish brand of self-assurance, Tabatha Jenkins asks Benjamin if she can borrow some money to buy some tampons. Are you sure she asked to "borrow" some money to buy some tampons? Oh, I'm sure.

How about Tabatha Jenkins' sheepish lady area gesture, did that really happen? You better believe it did. Hot Diggity! I think I'm falling in love with Tabatha Jenkins as well. Like you, I find tampons to be titillating to the max. Oh, and just in case you're wondering, a tampon is a plug of soft material that is inserted into the vagina to absorb menstrual blood. They should make a male tampon, because I just creamed my jeans.

Jumping Jehosaphat!!! Tabatha Jenkins didn't buy some tampons. She and her filmmaker pal Lonnie (Héctor Jiménez) bought snacks instead. I don't understand. She says they were out of tampons. But I'm not buying that. After all, Utah's state motto isn't the Tampon State for nothing (check their license plates if you don't believe me). Just kidding, the state's motto is "Industry." Which, actually, in a strange sort of way, is still tampon-esque, if you think about it. According to Medical News Today, the feminine hygiene product market is worth billions of dollars every year.

If hearing Tabatha Jenkins say the word "tampons" wasn't hot enough for ya, you should see her when she gets an impromptu hand massage from Benjamin while her orally endowed dandy fop of a friend breathes on her exquisite neck. It's downright orgasmic. Are you sure this film was made by Mormons? I know, right?

Once settled in at Cletus Fest, Tabatha Jenkins comes over to Benjamin's room to hang, or, to use her words, "get to know you better." (Even the way she stood in the doorway of his room was erotic.) Telling him that he won't get anywhere as an author unless he let's people beside his mom read his work, Benjamin reluctantly allows Tabatha Jenkins to read Yeast Lords, the epic tale of Bronco (Sam Rockwell) and his equally epic struggle reclaim one of his gonads, which has been stolen by Lord Daysius (Edgar Oliver), an evil mad scientist who commands an army of cyclopses.

As she starts to read Benjamin's manuscript on his bed, we're quickly ushered into the sci-fi world of Yeast Lords. Strapped to a table in a lab, the hirsute Bronco is bemoaning the loss of one of his gonads. Stolen by Dennis (who is also played by Edgar Oliver from Oddities), one of Lord Daysius' clones, Broncos' gonad is apparently going to be used to breed a new race of super-soldiers. Breaking free thanks to his pet Lynx, Korlaxx, Broncos grabs the jars that may or may not contain his missing gonad, and then...well, Tabatha Jenkins stops reading at this point.

Played with pompous perfection, right down to the bluetooth earpiece (which he never uses), the mom jeans and bizarre accent, by Jemaine Clement (Flight of the Conchords), sci-fi author/artist (the man draws a mean cyborg harpy) Dr. Ronald Chevalier is Benjamin's hero. At Cletus Fest to be a judge (the winning manuscript will be sold in select bookstores nationwide) and teach a class on suffixes ("The Power of the Suffix"), Dr. Chevelier reads "Yeast Lords" after spotting it on the floor of his hotel room.

Why was it on the floor, you ask? Well, his publisher had just rejected his latest book (some claptrap about a moon foetus), so he threw all the manuscripts on the floor in a fit of rage. While all the manuscripts had bland notebook covers, the one with the battle stag on the cover caught his eye. Picking it up, we're sucked back into the world of Yeast Lords where Bronco is trying to sew his junk back on. Approached by a bald woman named Vanaya (Suzanne May), Bronco is, at first, weary of the top heavy cue ball. However, after smelling her breath (it smells like homemade licorice), Bronco agrees to let her and her brother Kanaya (Johnny Hoops) tag along.

Just as Bronco, Vanaya, and Kanaya are about to lay siege to Lord Daysius' primary yeast factory, Dr. Chevalier stops reading. The look on his face says it all. Two people, besides his mother, have now read parts of Yeast Lords, and it's safe to say both think it's fucking awesome. While Tabatha Jenkins and Lonnie Donaho buy the film rights to Yeast Lords, Dr. Chevalier straight-up plagiarizes it. Using his talent with suffixes, Dr. Chevalier simply changes Bronco to Brutus, and proceeds to call the book his own.

If you thought Sam Rockwell was great as Bronco, you should see him as Brutus. Replacing his long beard with a neatly trimmed blonde mustache, Dr. Chevalier's version of Sam Rockwell is preening ninny who hates cyclopses. Actually, I think Brutus hates surveillance does just as much as he hates cyclopses.

It should go without saying, but I thought Halley Feiffer did a terrific job as Tabatha Jenkins, the complex woman who takes a liking to Benjamin, or, I should say, takes a liking to Benjamin's book. Don't worry, she realizes the error of her ways by the time the comeuppance is being handed out. At any rate, I recommend that you pay special attention to the trailer that appears before the screening of Lonnie Donoho's ultra-low budget version of Yeast Lords, as it gives you a taste of Halley Feiffer's range as a performer. In the trailer, for a film about a ranch hand, Logan (Michael Angarano), who is pursued romantically by Daisy (Halley Feiffer), the sister of his fiance, Halley rides a horse, wears a scrunchie face while submerged in a hot tub, ingests pills in a nightgown, and reclines on a sports car in what some might construed as an excessively leggy manner; I would never construed that, but I can see how some people might view it as excessive.

As she finished doing all these things, I decided right then and there that if Halley Feiffer isn't in a movie, I ain't watching it. Of course, this only applies to movies made after the year 2000.

Sure, things start to go off the rails once Mike White shows up in a blonde wig (he plays Dusty, Benjamin's guardian angel), but the film's message about staying true to yourself remains loud and clear. Altering the content of his book (which was written as a tribute to his father), Benjamin eventually stands up against the forces that are trying to exploit him; and he does so while wearing one of the pieces from his mother's nightgown collection, "Decent Beginnings." Filled with scatological humour (snake poop, dog poop), vomit (Tabatha Jenkins swallows puke while wearing a fur vest at one point and Bronco uses pink, fire hose-quality projectile vomit to defeat a battle stag), Gentlemen Broncos is profoundly stupid, yet at the same time, a wonderfully entertaining and heartfelt movie.

Have you ever wondered where all those energetic young people carrying backpacks are going when you see them walking around during the early morning hours? If you have, let me fill you in. They're headed to these large buildings filled with hallways that are lined with little metal boxes (if they want, I suppose they can put their backpacks inside these little metal boxes). What they actually do once inside these asbestos-filled buildings is anybody's guess. But after four years, some of them head over to another building to do a, I guess, variation of the same thing they did in the building they just left. Oh, and like the previous building, they usually spend about four years there. Why, you ask, did they spend such a huge chunk of their lives cloistered away in these unsightly structures? Well, to the best of my knowledge, they did it in order earn the opportunity sit in buildings that contain something called an "office." However, unlike the other buildings, where you're allowed to leave during the time of year when the weather is warm, you're stuck inside this ghastly place for the rest of your life. That is, if you don't end up being murdered by a mousy co-worker or get fired for staring lustfully at Molly Ringwald's legs for a longer than normal period of time; which, according to the guidelines that dictate office behaviour, can be no longer than two seconds. Two seconds?!? You can't possibly expect the bank where I keep the majority of my spank-related images to be able to work with just lousy two seconds worth of visual stimuli? It's an erection nonstarter. Besides, when you say, "staring lustfully at Molly Ringwald's legs," you're speaking metaphorically, right? Right? Hello? I'm sorry, I was just thinking about the question. No, it's not a metaphor. The film is Office Killer, and it's the place for fans of mid-90s Molly Ringwald to get their sultry redheaded kicks.

If you have always wanted to see a film where Carol Kane, Molly Ringwald, and Jeanne Tripplehorn act nasty to one another in an office environment (and who hasn't?), Office Killer is definitely the movie for you. Well, truth be told, I think Molly Ringwald provides most of the cattiness. And I would say that Jeanne Tripplehorn is mostly responsible for giving the project the clothes-adjusting awkwardness it desperately needs. What about Carol Kane? She does the shy murderess who's trying to figure out e-mail thing. Either way, they all end up bringing some much needed camp to the table.

Oh, and if you're wondering what "clothes-adjusting awkwardness" is, it's those subtle moments in the film when Jeanne Tripplehorn tries to adjust the fit of her ill-fitting office attire.

Holy crap! I can't believe I just mentioned the word "camp" without it being adjacent to Barbara Sukowa, who plays Virginia Wingate, a.k.a. "The Nicotine Queen," a.k.a. "The Asthmatic Bitch," the editor-in-chief of Constant Consumer magazine. While sitting in her office, Virginia, who is being annoyed by Nora (Jeanne Tripplehorn), gives us our first taste of camp when she opens her mouth and begins to laugh. I know, that doesn't sound very campy. But you should have seen her. No-one laughs while holding a cigarette like Barbara Sukowa does. It also helps that she has long, black fingernails, likes to wear leather blazers, and is covered with about ten pounds worth of gaudy gold jewelry.

The office is thrown into chaos when a serial killer starts to...Just kidding, downsizing is the first thing to strike fear into the hearts of the employees of Constant Consumer, and it's Nora's job to hand out the letters telling certain workers that their hours have been reduced. You know the letter is going to be trouble just by looking at the way it starts: "Dear Colleague." To make matters worse, a new computer system is being introduced to the office, which is being installed by Daniel Birch (Michael Imperioli), a computer expert; when I think of computer experts, I think of Michael Imperioli. Am I implying that an Italian-American can't be a computer expert? No, I'm implying that Michael Imperioli can't be one. In other words, I didn't buy him for a second as the office's resident Steve Wozniak.

Eww, see what you what you made me do? I just name-dropped Steve Wozniak. How pedestrian. Quick, start typing words about Molly Ringwald's first scene. Like I said, Molly Ringwald brings some much needed cattiness to the proceedings, and displays this cattiness right from the get-go by mocking Jeanne Tripplehorn's pink, two-sizes too big suit. To be fair, though, Jeanne Tripplehorn does make fun of Molly Ringwald's eye shadow first. Nonetheless, Molly's insult was totally justified (she's right, her suit is awful), while Jeanne's dig was way out of bounds (Molly's eye makeup is sublimely applied).

You can't really see what Molly Ringwald's Kim Poole is wearing in her opening scene. But later on you can definitely see that that she has on this sparkly silver-grey number. Sprawled out in a leg-friendly manner on a desk as Jeanne Tripplehorn and Michael Imperioli played with the office's new laptops, Molly Ringwald establishes early on that she and her many saucy headbands mean business.

After accidentally electrocuting her sleazy boss, Gary Michaels (David Thornton- Mr. Cyndi Lauper), office drone Doreen Douglas (Carol Kane), who, unlike Kim Poole, needs a few pointers about proper makeup application, decides to take him home with her instead of calling the police. Don't worry, that's not a spoiler, it's obvious that Doreen is the "office killer." Unfortunately, Kim Poole is the only one in the office who suspects there's something not right about this Doreen person. And while everyone loves to watch Kim strut around the office in her short skirts and black pantyhose, she's not exactly the most trustworthy (she's an ambitious go-getter who tells it like it is). This lack of trust causes a bit of a problem when Kim Poole tries to sound the alarm.

Besides, who's gonna buy that a waifish woman with irregular eyebrows, one who takes care of her disabled mother (Alice Drummond), is the one bumping off employees? To add insult to injury, Jeanne Tripplehorn and her frighteningly imprecise bangs befriends Doreen. Which makes Molly Ringwald come off as a bully. When, in truth, she's the film's plucky heroine.

My favourite Molly Ringwald outfit is the grey skirt/black pantyhose/white pumps/tropical-themed top ensemble she wears during the bulk of the film's meaty middle section.

The runner-up being her post-I just got fired look. For someone who was recently fired, and, on top of that, nearly strangled to death in a dark stairwell, Kim Poole is looking pretty stylish, and, dare I say, relaxed, lounging in her skimpy, purple and blue paint splatter dress.

While I admire Molly Ringwald's attempt re-invent herself as an actress by playing the office skank in a slasher film directed by famed photographer Cindy Sherman, it's the underrated Carol Kane who steals the show with her demented portrayal of an undervalued employee who keeps dead girl scouts in her basement.

When they show that Doreen had in fact murdered the girl scouts who came to her door to sell cookies, I let out a "yes!" Not because I was glad they were dead. On the contrary, I think all little girls deserve to grow up to live long and productive lives. But because the film had the guts to "go there."

Now, of course, some might say it's easier to play demented as supposed to skanky (Molly Ringwald), or even bang-heavy (Jeanne Tripplehorn), but I thought Carol Kane did an excellent job balancing her character's demented side with her more mousy tendencies.

Expertly photographed–and it should be given the level of the talent behind camera (including Todd Haynes)–Office Killer, while lacking the gore most horror fans crave, should be celebrated. Why? How often do you come across a film that star Carol Kane, Jeanne Tripplehorn, and a mid-90s era Molly Ringwald? That's right, not very often. So, yeah, the film should be celebrated. Just don't go into it thinking it's going to be a splatter-fest. The only splatter you'll find in this movie, is the paint on my second favourite Molly Ringwald outfit. If you're a horror fan who prefers camp to gore, and fashion to spine-tingling thrills, check this flick out immediately.

In a perfect world, every movie would be about parasitic, worm-like creatures who live inside the vaginas of gap-toothed French women with killer curves. But alas, the world is not perfect. However, when a film comes along that does feature bloodthirsty demon slugs and the roomy gashes they call home, you should jump on that cinematic grenade without even thinking. Sure, they will end up turning your insides into chop suey, but your spirit will thank you for having done so. Don't believe me? Just ask my spirit, it just watched Baby Blood (a.k.a. The Evil Within and Look Who's Talking 3: The Quickening), and it's been thanking me non-stop for the past two days straight. Speaking of insides blowing up, after viewing this film–which was directed by, what's it say here, Alain Robak, okay, Alain Robak–I've come to the sensible conclusion that arterial spray is the only true art form in existence. If you're wondering how I came to this conclusion, you need look no further than the soon to be bloodstained surfaces that litter in this fist pump-inducing film. Each person on the planet has enough blood coursing through their veins to create a masterwork. All you have to do is stand next something flat, a wall should suffice, open up your jugular with a sharp object (a knife seems to do the trick), and watch as the crimson splatter becomes a mind-altering work of art right before your dying eyes. A quick warning: You only get one chance to make an impression this way, so make it count, because you'll be long dead before the reviews of your blood painting start pouring in. In fact, you'll probably be dead before you hit the ground.

Just like snowflakes, each arterial spray is unique. Depending on the manner you're cut, you could see a lot blood come out all at once, or you could see it come in short, controlled bursts. Also, diet plays a key role in the quantity and trajectory of your blood spray. If, say, you have a high fibre diet, you should expect a veritable gusher of blood (it's raining blood! hallelujah!). If, however, you eat nothing but sugary and fatty foods, your blood shower will be drizzly and sporadic at best.

What I think I'm trying to say in my own awkward sort of way is that there's a lot of blood in this film. And why wouldn't there be? Funny you–who is actually me–should say that, as I was just thinking to myself as I watched the first victim crawl on his belly after being stabbed, where's the blood? Now, I'm not the kind of person who craves their movies to be filled with gore. But I do appreciate it when stabbing victims in movies bleed blood after being stabbed. It's just the way I was raised.

Nevertheless, after he was finished crawling in agony, and our "pregnant" protagonist decides to feed her chatty vagina monster his red nectar, I saw a torrent of blood that was beyond a gusher, it was a blood monsoon.

Even though I was fully on board with the film and its kooky premise the moment the creature burst its way out of an agitated circus leopard and entered the vagina of a shapely, gap-toothed woman with tempestuous thighs, it wasn't until our gap-toothed (les dents du bonheur) heroin was drenched in eight pints of blood that I really started to nod to myself with an obnoxious brand of self-satisfied glee.

Scratch that. I was on board the moment we get a close up shot of Yanka's panties.

Anyway, a new leopard has just been delivered to the Cirque de Lohman, a travelling circus currently performing somewhere in northern France, and you don't have to be an animal expert to figure out that its presence is agitating the other animals.

The woman attached to Yanka's panties, by the way, is a circus performer named, strangely enough, Yanka (Emmanuelle Escourrou), who lives in a trailer with Lohman (Christian Sinniger), the "Lohman" in Cirque de Lohman. Their relationship is a tad rocky; he's extremely jealous and she's been impregnated by a million year-old worm demon. No, actually, she's not pregnant yet. But she will be soon. After the leopard explodes, something slithers out of the cage and decides that Yanka's vagina would make a great new home.

Noticing a slight weight increase the following morning (she weighs herself everyday), Yanka heads over to the local clinic to get tested. The shots of Emanuelle Escourrou walking, her thick thighs making mincemeat out of the puny French asphalt, from the clinic, her equally thick mane of brunette hair blowing in the wind, are exceptional.

Packing a few things in a suitcase and grabbing a fist full of cash, Yanka hops aboard a train. Tracking her down to some squalid hellhole on the outskirts of town, Lohman confronts Yanka. Big mistake. Stabbing him the stomach, Yanka goes to finish him off, but she can't do it. As she cowers naked (her red robe fell off during the initial stabbing) in the other room, we get our first taste of the voice. That's right, the thing growing inside Yanka's uterus speaks. However, unlike Aylmer from Brain Damage, only Yanka can hear him. And what the vagina monster is saying at the moment mostly has to do with feeding it blood.

Voiced by Gary Oldman, the vagina monster says, "I want the blood of the man you killed. I need it to grow." I loved the way the vagina monster kept saying, "slit his throat" over and over again. After much coaxing, we're treated to a scene that can be pretty much summed this way: Stab. Spray. Scream. And repeat.

You'll notice that I call the thing living inside Yanka's vagina a "monster." Well, even though he says several times that he is in fact not a monster, I can't think of any other word to describe him. I mean, he forces gorgeous, gap-toothed, curvy women to stab men so that he may feed on their blood. And, in my book, that's pretty monster-like. Yeah, I know, you just want to be born. But do so many people have to die in order for that to happen? Humans kill over 100 million sharks each year. Are humans monsters?

The vagina creature tells Yanka to leave the slum (it's unsafe), but not before she tries to drown herself. After being dumped at a gas station by a lothario-esque trucker (he decides to trade in one shapely, gap-toothed brunette for two German ladies who both look like amateur porn stars), Yanka eventually gets a job as a waitress.

I like to call this period of Baby Blood: The Shapely Trimester. Using her man-puddle-creating curves to wrangle potential meals for her unborn demon child, Yanka sets her sights on Richard (Jean-François Gallotte), a frequent patron at the diner she works. Even though he's supposed to be going steady with a stylish (I dug her new wave-friendly outfits) cashier named Rosette (Roselyne Geslot), Richard can't help but be transfixed by Yanka's voluptuousness.

When Yanka's belly gets too big, she puts aside her sex appeal, and gets a job as taxi driver. Taking out bespectacled joggers, Andy Kindler clones, kindly old women (the only death in the movie that involves a woman and no arterial spray), guys who give blood at mobile blood banks, and paramedics, Yanka is determined to bring her baby to term. In her mind, she might as well get it over with. Considering the amount of crap she's had to put up with over the last nine months, it only makes sense for her to want it to go smoothly. Whether she feels the same way after its born is another story all together.

Channeling Isabelle Adjani from Possession, the alluring, gap-toothed Emmanuelle Escourrou is fearless as Yanka, the plucky soon-to-be mom who kills for her unborn demon child. Giving one of the best blood-face performances in film history, Emmanuelle sets the bar pretty high for all those who want to come off as convincing while covered in six pints of blood.

Oh, and when I refer to Emmanuelle as "gap-toothed," I don't mean to imply that it's a negative. On the contrary, Emmanuelle's gap is one of the film's strongest attributes (the gap is used to great effect during the journey that takes us inside Yanka, as the camera zooms through her gap). The same goes for her shapeliness. You hardly ever see a woman who looks like Emmanuelle in so-called mainstream movies. Which is a shame, because Emmanuelle is the kind of woman most honest heterosexuals are drawn to. Yet, the powers that be seem to think they prefer malnourished boy-mannequins.

If you're like me, and you're a fan unruly vaginas and the shapely women who wield them, and you have a soft spot for arterial spray, and think gap-toothed chicks are the bee's knees, you need to see Baby Blood. It's French. It's disgusting. And, most importantly, it's awesome.

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If a movie causes you to check your body for Satanic tattoos after it's over, you know it's doing something right. Hey, you know what they say? Post-consumption bodily self-inspection is the cornerstone of fine art. I'm also curious to know how many pairs of black, almost knee-high boots were sold after All the Colours of the Dark (a.k.a. They're Coming to Get You) hit the faces of the boot-loving populace back in the early 1970s. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if they [the boot manufactures] had a booth set up in the theatre lobby. And why not? I mean, who wouldn't want to emulate the stylish sophistication Edwige Fenech exudes throughout this giallo thriller with supernatural overtones? Sure, some of us can only dream of being a chic brunette with a blemish-free T-zone and a pair of legs that are creamy enough to be poured into the blackest, almost knee-high boots money can buy, but that's where Italian cinema comes in. Designed to plug up the gaping holes that litter our pathetic, non-boot-adorned lives, writer-director Sergio Martino (Torso) has created a fantastical world jam-packed with the kind of images that will make you swoon like a baby that was just secreted from the wart-laden slip 'n slide that is your average witch's birth canal. Funny, I didn't know witch babies liked movies that featured Satanic rituals, freaky dream sequences, blue-eyed dagger enthusiasts, and angelic women with dark hair who writhe a lot? They should, but they don't. Then again, I was speaking metaphorically. Actually, the film is pretty sparse when it comes to scenes that involve Satanists doing what Satanists do best, and that is, of course, worshiping Satan. And, come to think of it, the film seemed to be lacking in the freaky dream sequence department. But as far as blue-eyed dagger enthusiasts and angelic brunettes go, this is the film to see to get your fill of both.

Even though I thought his eyebrows could use a bit of a trim, Ivan Rassimov makes his presence felt almost immediately as...well, he's credited as "Mark Cogan," but I like to call him the blue-eyed dagger enthusiast. Why is that, you ask? Well, for starters, his eyes are blue. And secondly, he's always carrying a dagger in a manner that struck me as enthusiastic. Which got me a thinking. If you put those two distinct character traits together, you get: Blue-eyed dagger enthusiast.

I don't think I have to explain why I called Edwige Fenech's character an angelic woman with dark hair. Don't forget, an angelic woman who also writhes a lot. Yeah, yeah, who writhes a lot. If you want me to explain why, I'll be more than happy to. Hmmm, judging by your frantic head shaking, I'll take that as a no. Your loss.

Don't be fooled by the serenity that greets us right off the bat (the opening credits are an unbroken shot of a pastoral pond), because things are are about to get sick, brainsick, that is.

Suddenly, a clock appears out of nowhere. A crazed old woman with bad teeth screams (for added creepiness, she's dressed like a little girl). A naked pregnant woman with a large black afro lies on a table ready to give birth. Then we're shown a close up of a pair icy blue eyes, followed by some quick shots of a dagger in motion. What's going on? I haven't the slightest idea. But when all is said and done, everyone, including a naked brunette lying on a bed, are covered in stab wounds. Transported to a country road at night, the sequence ends after a car crashes into a tree. The second the car is about to hit the tree, Jane Harrison (Edwige Fenech) wakes up in her London flat and wanders in a daze towards her London bathroom.

Just like Winona Ryder's character in Heathers, Jane showers with her clothes on when she's stressed out. And just like Winona Ryder, Edwige Fenech is so gorgeous, it's scary. As you watch Edwige Fenech in the early going of All the Colours of the Dark, you can't help but think: How is it physically possible for someone to be this attractive. I mean, it's unreal. Anyway, her boyfriend, what's this guys name? Oh, yeah, Richard (George Hilton), shows up just in time to comfort her by caressing her naked body and feeding her vitamins.

Neither seem to work, however, as Jane has the stab dream again. Leaving her flat (a cool art deco apartment complex), Jane is accompanied by her sister Barbara (Nieves Navarro), who, by the way, is the exact same height as Edwige Fenech, to see Dr. Burton (George Rigaud), a shrink; despite Richard's objections (he thinks they're all a bunch of quacks).

Guess who Jane sees in the waiting room? She sees Ivan Rassimov's blue-eyed dagger enthusiast, that's who. On top of being enthusiastic about daggers, it would seen that he also enjoys lurking and stalking. Wait a minute, did you say he enjoys lurking and stalking? Yes, I think I did. You won't believe this, but I have "enjoys lurking and stalking" listed on my Match.com profile. Except, I have it listed as "stalking and lurking," not "lurking and stalking."

Of course, Dr. Burton doesn't believe Jane when she tries to tell him that she saw the blue-eyed dagger enthusiast who enjoys lurking and stalking, and stalking and lurking, in the waiting room. But don't worry, Barbara corroborates Jane's story that there was in deed a blue-eyed dagger enthusiast sitting in the waiting room at one point. You should have seen me the moment when Barbara backs up Jane's story, I was all like: In your face, Dr. Burton! You should spend less time leering at Edwige Fenech's fetching knees, and more time listening to your patients problems.

Though, I have to admit. If you're going to leer at a woman's knees, you can't beat the knees attached to Edwige Fenech. I mean, c'mon. They're fantastic.

After being told by Dr. Burton that she is "quite sane," Jane heads down to the subway. Sitting crossed-legged, the exposed leg skin languishing between the bottom of her skirt and the top of her boots no doubt causing many trouser-related irregularities to occur in the London underground that day, Jane can't help but overhear an asinine conversation being conducted by a typical English family. When her car eventually empties out, Jane notices that she and a man in a tan trench coat are the only ones left. No worries, right? Wrong. It's the blue-eyed dagger enthusiast. And every time the lights flicker, he seems to get closer. Realizing that it's only a matter of time before he is sitting on her not yet damp lap, Jane makes a run for it.

It might seem weird now, but back in the early 1970s lot's of people were joining Satanic cults on a whim. And Jane is no different. When she arrives home after being harassed by the blue-eyed dagger enthusiast, Jane meets Mary (Marina Malfatti), her blonde upstairs neighbour. The two hit it off immediately. While walking through the park, Mary suggests to Jane that she should join the Satanic cult she belongs to–you know, to clear her head. Like I said, nowadays, no-one wants to join a Satanic cult, but Jane seems open to the idea.

In fact, she's so open, she agrees to attend today's meeting. But first, she's got to get attacked by the blue-eyed dagger enthusiast; it's in her contract. When the attack, complete with crazy editing and the kick ass music of Bruno Nicolai, is over, it's ritual time, baby! You can tell just by looking at him that Mr. McBrian (Julián Ugarte) is the leader of this particular Satanic cult. How could I tell? Well, for starters, check out his beard. And secondly, the long fingernails and the gaudy, eyeball-centric jewelry are dead giveaways.

While watching her drink fresh fox blood, and be inundated with many kisses, I think it's safe to say that Jane is now in league with Satan. Will this new allegiance help quell Jane's nightmares? Who's to say? It doesn't, however, mean that the blue-eyed dagger enthusiast is ever going to leave her alone.

Quick question: Why is Lisa Leonardicredited as "Girl with dog"? Yeah, she's walking a dog. But don't you think "Girl with killer gams" would have been more appropriate?

Repeatedly told that, "you belong to us," Jane soon finds out that Satanic cults are easier to join, than they are to unjoin. And not to mention the eyeball triangle tattoo that all the Satanics get is a pain in the ass to remove, especially if you get one on your ass. Dripping style (short skirts and killer production design) and replete with trippy thrills (if you're going to be chased around London by a creepy dude with piercing blue eyes, you can't beat Ivan Rassimov, he rocks), All the Colours of the Dark is so chic it hurts. Great locations, awesome soundtrack, yeah, yeah, there could have been more gore, but Sergio Martino makes stalking seem cool again; not that it ever went out of fashion. A gorgeous leading lady and an effective villain make this Italian giallo worth a look-see.

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Special thanks to ido for recommending this chichi film.
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Is anyone mentally sound in the cloistered world of In the Folds of the Flesh? I, for one, hope everyone is completely meshuganah. But then again, I prefer to watch movies where a large percentage of the cast are playing characters that have been recently diagnosed as clinically insane. Strangely enough, the only people who seem to have their mental shit together in this movie are the seemingly unending concourse of creeps and lowlifes who show up at the door of the only family on the block who have a room set aside solely for the disposal of dead bodies. Come for the incest and squawking vultures, stay for mid-rape decapitations and sickly subterranean acid baths. In fact, if everyone wasn't so stylish, I would have probably ran straight for the nearest exit the second the crazy chick in the blonde wig started to freak out when I tried to touch her "hair." If you must know why I tried to touch it, I guess I was just curious to know how soft it was. One guy paid the ultimate price for touching her "hair," as his head is no longer sitting atop the area where human heads normally sit. That's right, it was forcibly removed seconds after he pulled her wig off and proceeded to do the "I've got Falesse's hair" victory dance (I'll explain who Falesse is in a minute). Then again, what do you expect from a guy who wears an orange turtleneck sweater in the middle of the day? My sentiments exactly. Speaking of gaudy clothing, like I said, everyone in this film who is not a creep or a lowlife is stylish, and the best example of this stylishness are the shirts worn by Emilio Gutiérrez Caba. Making my eyes bleed a syrupy, chic-like substance every time they appeared on-screen, the shirts worn by this sick twist were off the charts in terms of busyness. At times he looks like he should be selling bongs in Haight-Ashbury, while other times he looked like he should be playing bass in the Zombies, especially when he's wearing that turtle green Nehru shirt-jacket. Wait, if this particular garment is "turtle green," shouldn't he be playing bass in the Turtles? I'd appreciate it if you didn't contradict me in front of everyone like that. Whatever.

Either way, you're both wrong. You see, the Turtles dressed like slobs (at least they did in the pictures I've seen), and the Zombies usually wore beatwear (natty suits with skinny ties). No, what I think you're looking for as far as allusions go is Strawberry Alarm Clock, as I can totally see the shirts Emilio Gutiérrez Caba wears throughout In the Folds of the Flesh (a.k.a Nelle Pieghe della Carne) being worn by the "Rainy Day Mushroom Pillow" band at the height of their...pillowiness.

All right, now that we've cleared that up. Is it okay if I go ahead and try to decipher the convoluted head trip/fashion show/pseudo-giallo that is this movie? Are you talking to me? If so, than, yeah. Go for it!

First off, who keeps vultures as pets? This family's taste in pets is almost as quirky as their fashion sense. *snap* At any rate, don't ask me happens what goes on during the film's pre-opening credits body burying montage, 'cause I have no idea what Lucille (Eleonora Rossi Drago), the brunette alpha-milf who seems to be the one in charge when it comes to disposing the myriad dead bodies that seem to always need burying at this palatial villa located on the outskirts of a fever dream.

Told via flashback, Lucille is digging a hole for yet another decapitated man, when, all of a sudden, a fugitive from justice named Pascal (Fernando Sancho) wanders onto her property while trying to evade capture. Noticing a sexy woman burying something in the woods, Pascal stops to watch as she dumps what looks like the body of a male human in the hole she just dug. Eventually caught by the police, Pascal gives Lucille the stink-eye as he is being lead away in handcuffs. Even though Pascal doesn't tell the cops what he saw, you know he'll be back to cause trouble.

Who knew it would take thirteen years. But that's exactly what occurs, as we flash-forward thirteen years to find Lucille, looking the same as she did when we first met her, doing what she does best. No, not burying headless bodies. Gardening in black clothing.

Unexpectedly, it's Michel, not Pascal, who's the first to pay Lucille a visit. A man with some sort of connection to the family, Michel meets Lucille, who, like I said, is a sexy brunette, her son Collin (Emilio Gutiérrez Caba), and her daughter Falesse (Pier Angeli). While they're getting acquainted, Michel's German Shepherd is getting all up in the beaky grills of Kiki and Kyoko, Lucille's pet vultures. Seriously, who keeps vultures as pets?

While Pier Angeli makes an electrifying first appearance (she's wearing a yellow fur number), I was disappointed by what Emilio Gutiérrez Caba had on in his debut scene as an adult (we see him briefly as a child during the film's opening sequence). Never fear fans of outre fashion, Emilio is seen wearing that turtle green, Nehru-style shirt jacket (with a bling-friendly gold necklace) that I mentioned earlier once the action moves inside.

As I was admiring the cut of his shirt jacket (actually, I think it's more of a jacket, than it is a shirt, but really, who cares?), I couldn't help notice that Collin was mock devouring one of Falesse's feet. Aren't they supposed to be brother and sister? Maybe I'm being prudish, but I don't think siblings should mock devour anything. Nevertheless, I dug Collin's look, and the slinky polka-dot number Falesse has since changed into.

Spoiler alert. Is that correct way to do it? Just say, "spoiler alert"? Should I write in all caps? Whatever. I've never seen anyone strangle a dog to death before. And I must say, it's pretty messed up. However, to the surprise of virtually no-one, Falesse stabs Michel while he's wearing the world's gaudiest bathrobe. Why she did it, I'm not sure. Nonetheless, the sight of Pier Angeli hovering over Michel's dead body holding a dagger in her hand was kinda awesome.

Another man named Alex, a friend of Michel's, wearing an orange turtleneck, shows up the following morning. I wonder what's going to happen to him? Get real, you know exactly what's going to happen to him. While we're being real, let's be frank as well. If you're a man and you happen to wander onto the property belonging to Lucille, the queen of the ice milfs, there's a good chance your genitals will be soaking in a giant vat of acid when all is said and done.

It should be pointed out that Pier Angeli wears a yellow top with a yellow neck scarf (check out the matching yellow pumps) and a leopard-print vest and skirt. If that sounds like the greatest ensemble ever to be assembled in an Italo-Spanish co-production, one that opens with a Sigmund Freud quote, you're right, it absolutely is.

Even though Alex is a "parasite," Collin's words, not mine, I liked the way he owned his parasitic nature. Telling Falesse straight up that he plans on seducing her, the way his says, "I'm no amateur... I've got technique" made my skin crawl. But in an odd way, I admired his confidence.

While entertaining Alex for dinner, Falesse has since changed into a belly revealing all-black number (one that includes black nylons). But it's Collin who steals the show with his puffy shirt covered in swirling waves of orange and red. As I watched him touch his sister in a manner that could best be described as "inappropriate," I had this sudden urge to listen to some King Crimson on my aging hi-fi. Yeah. In fact, I want to wear this particular shirt while listening to "Moonchild" sitting cross-legged in the vicinity of a babbling brook.

Note to self: If I'm ever in bed with Falesse, make sure to keep an eye on her at all times. She will cut your head off when you're not looking. But most importantly, don't touch her hair; only her father can touch her hair. Okay, if you do end up touching her hair, which is actually a wig. Whatever you do, don't pull it off. If you start doing a dance while holding her wig that is clearly designed to ridicule her, then you're just asking to have your head cut off.

Mental illness was obviously viewed differently in 1970. All you have to do is take one look at the brief looney bin montage that appears at the film's midway point to figure this out. Despite the fact that most of the women are merely misunderstood lesbians with wild imaginations (in other words, completely sane), this short segment, on top of giving us concrete proof that there is in deed life beyond the walls of the villa, acts as an excellent showcase for costume designer Giuseppe Cesare Monello, the real hero in the In the Folds of the Flesh universe.

Misunderstood lesbian #1: Snowflake Girl. Outfit: An orange cardigan paired with a saucy black beret. Ideal location for a first date: An ice rink. Misunderstood lesbian #2: Paperdoll Girl. Outfit: Brown and gold floral blouse. Ideal location for a first date: An arts and crafts trade show.

Misunderstood lesbian #3: Toga Girl. Outfit: A purple and orange toga. Ideal location for a first date: The Danforth. Misunderstood lesbian #4:Nana Mouskouri Girl. Outfit: Glasses and a black dress with black boots. Ideal location for a first date: Duh, The Danforth. Misunderstood lesbian #5: Laughing Girl. Outfit: A brown sweater. Ideal location for a first date: The movies.

Misunderstood lesbian #6: Doll Girl. Outfit: A floral dress that features at least three types of blue. Ideal location for a first date: Toys "R" Us. Misunderstood lesbian #7:Lili Taylor Girl. Outfit: A red cardigan over a black turtleneck. Ideal location for a first date: I'm going to say, something Lili Taylor-related (Mini-golf with a John Cusack type). Misunderstood lesbian #8: Glove Girl a.k.a. Eurotrash Maureen McCormick (María Rosa Sclauzero). Outfit: Pastel-coloured dresses and white gloves. Ideal location for a first date: Church or Brady Fest '95.

When Pascal, the brutish fugitive from thirteen years ago, finally does show up at the villa, it's been sufficiently established that all male visitors are doomed to have their heads chopped off. In other words, it's Pascal, not Lucille, Falesse (nicknamed "Chickadee" by Pascal), and Collin (Pascal simply calls him "Brat"), who we should be worried about. Only problem being, all the men who seem to show up are basically scumbags. Nonetheless, as Pascal's blackmail scheme gets underway, we learn more about this family's demented past. Sexual abuse, tartan skirts, vultures, swings, mobsters, cynanide baths, shoot outs, and Nazis, they're all trotted out for our psychosexual amusement. If you like your camp high, your fashion bold, and your women batshit crazy, you should definitely check out In the Folds of the Flesh; I give it five busy shirts out of twenty-five, and eleven gaudy bathrobes out of forty-two.

uploaded by StrangeVice1

I'd like to start off by saying, Happy Canadian Thanksgiving! Of course, on this side of the imaginary line that separates the U.S.A. and Canada, it's simply called "Thanksgiving," but I like to emphasize the holiday's nationalistic component whenever addressing an international audience; hello to my equally imaginary friends in Mordovia and Transnistria. While I realize it's technically not Thanksgiving today, that doesn't mean we can't pretend it is. Besides, I'm not going to let some kitschy wall calendar dictate my behaviour. As everyone knows, I despise award shows (they're vulgar and crass), loathe political speeches (they're filled with insincere nonsense vocalized by non-practicing child molesters), and can't stand calendars (they're...well, they're just plain stupid). Greetings. The reason I'm currently spewing semi-nonsensical vitriol is because I'm trying to reconnect with my inner disaffected teen. Why am I doing this, you ask? Isn't it obvious? Having just watched You Killed Me First from start to finish for the very first time, I would like to get into the mindset of Elizabeth (Lung Leg), or, I should say, "Cassandra," the sullen teen at the centre of this Richard Kern-directed slice/slab/piece of so-called "transgressive cinema." If you thought it was easy for me to identify with Cassandra, you would be wrong. Sure, I saw a lot of myself in Lung Leg's portrayal of alienated youth; hanging around my room all day listening to Wiseblood's "Motorslug," destroying my clothes (i.e. making them "cooler"), and acting like a total brat at the dinner table. But I'm not that person anymore. What's shocking is, how much I identified with Karen Finley as Cassandra's mother. It's true, I mostly envied the fact that David Wojnarowicz (Cassandra's dad) got to plow into Karen Finley's vagina with his penis on a regular basis (whether that "basis" was semi-regular or not is still open to debate). Yet, part of me empathized with her motherly distress.

Will wonders never cease? I just remembered the reason I started off on that tangent about Thanksgiving: You Killed Me First begins and ends on Thanksgiving. Yeah, yeah, they don't actually mention the t-word, but it's clear, judging by the large turkey on the table, that it's Thanksgiving. Anyway, what we see in-between these dinner scenes is some of the best teen angst ever to be captured on film.

Speaking of teen angst, remember how sad you felt when you heard that My So-Called Life had been cancelled? No? Well, I do. And the acerbic tone Richard Kern strikes in this film is the direction I would have liked to have seen My So-Called Life take if Angela Chase and the gang had made it to season two. Come to think of it, My So-Called Life and You Killed Me First already have a lot in common. Just replace Claire Danes' flannel-heavy get-up with a torn Scrapping Foetus Off The Wheel t-shirt, and you're already two-thirds of the way there.

"Lately, I can't even look at my mother without wanting to stab her repeatedly." ~ Angela Chase

Upon further inspection, it would seem that the Thanksgiving dinner from Hell that opens You Killed Me First is the same dinner that closes the film. How do I know this? Well, for one thing, all the actors are wearing the same clothes. And secondly, what occurs after Lung Leg's incoherent rant is an extended flashback sequence that tries to explain how we ended up in this sticky diaphragm of a situation.

Sitting down for turkey dinner on Thanksgiving, mom (Karen Finley) and dad (David Wojnarowicz) seem worried about their daughter Elizabeth (Lung Leg), who is constantly dropping her fork on the floor. On the other hand, their other daughter, Deborah (Jessica Craig-Martin) is a model of Ronald Reagan-approved docility. Asking her if she washed her hands, Elizabeth answers by saying, "fuck no." I like this chick already. When the topic shifts to Elizabeth's boyfriend, her father starts throwing around words such as "scum" and "slime."

Just as her mom is about to lose it (the lovely Karen Finley rocks when it comes to losing it at the dinner table), Lung Leg launches into this long tirade. Her piercing eyes filled anger, Lung Leg tells her parents how much she really hates them. As she's about to finish her diatribe, we go back to a, now, I don't want to say "happier time," let's just say, a different time. Doing what most teenage girls did in 1985, Elizabeth plays with her puppets while listening to industrial music.

It's when Elizabeth introduces her shady-looking boyfriend to her parents that we learn that she wants to, from now on, to be called "Cassandra."

You gotta love the scene where Karen Finley gives Lung Leg a haircut. Telling Elizabeth that she's giving her "the wind swept look," the kind you see in "Mademoiselle Magazine." She also calls it "the new wave look," and compares it to the hairdo Liza Minnelli sported at the time. Of course, Elizabeth/Cassandra does not approve of this. Which, I have to admit, I didn't quite understand. I mean, who doesn't want to look like Liza Minnelli?!?

Things continue to go downhill when Karen Finley buys Lung Leg a sweater at the local shopping centre. As expected, Lung Leg is horrified by this shitty garment. But get this, Karen tells her that she bought the cheapest one because she knew that she would probably end up ripping it up and writing "fucker anarchy" all over it. Awesome, eh? I wouldn't have guessed it, but Karen Finley is a cool mom.

Now, normally this is where I would declare the hair cutting and sweater buying scenes to be my favourite parts of the movie. But I can't do that. Not when there's a scene in the film where Karen Finley wears black stockings while being fucked from behind.

After a series of scenes that involve praying (Karen Finley in a pink dress), mock gun play (foreshadowing, baby), dead bunny rabbits, puking puppets, and art criticism (Karen Finley in a red dress), we're back where we started, the dinner table.

Spoiler alert: Shouting, "My name is Cassandra! You killed me first!" Lung Leg shoots Karen Finley in the head. This may sound like hyperbole, but I'm declaring Karen Finley's death in You Killed Me First to be the best movie death in film history. Why? The way she screams (which is complimented by some subtle arterial spray), pauses for a second, then violently rocks back and forth a couple of times (she almost falls out of her chair), before finally expiring was inspirational; I get goosebumps and half-moist just thinking about it. Call me a sick twist, but I could watch Karen Finley's death scene in You Killed Me First over and over again.

Timing it so that when the new prisoners (a.k.a. "the new fish") are brought in, it's the first thing they see, Rosalba Neri makes sure they get an eyeful of her reclining in her black stay-up stockings. It's obvious that Zoe (Rosalba Neri) knows exactly what she's doing. Fiddling with the tops of her stockings the same way a car mechanic fiddles with an engine, Rosalba Neri has powerful stems, and it's clear from the get-go that she isn't afraid to wield them in a manner that will help her curry favour with others. When incarcerated in a prison located on an island off the coast of Panama, some people use their wits to survive, others use brute force. Well, I got news for you, honey, Rosalba Neri, a.k.a. Prisoner #76, uses her gams. You would be surprised how much one can get done when you own a shapely pair of Italian legs. Who needs cigarettes when you've got legs for miles. If you think it's strange that I've mentioned Rosalba Neri four, wait, make that, five times, even though I have yet to mention the name of the film, you clearly have no idea who you're dealing with. To not open with a bit on Rosalba Neri's stocking-encased legs as they appear in 99 Women, the Jess Franco (R.I.P.) movie that became the blueprint for almost every women in prison flick that followed it, would be an act of pure dishonesty. Staring me square in the face at all times, to not comment on the full-court leg show Rosalba Neri puts on in this film would be a tell tale sign that I have completely lost my mind. And, as you can plainly see, judging by the content of some of the words I've assembled so far, my mind is not even close to being lost. In fact, you could say, my mind is sharper than its ever been. And to think, I have Rosalba Neri, and her scrumptious calves, her smooth thighs, her pert feet, and, not to mention, her sturdy knees, to thank for keeping my mind in tip-top shape.

After Bruno Nicolai's "The Day I Was Born" has finished being awesome on the soundtrack, and the new prisoners have been processed, Rosalba Neri's Zoe greets Helga, a.k.a. Prisoner #97 (Elisa Montés), who shows up dressed like a Las Vegas showgirl, Natalie Mendoza, a.k.a. Prisoner #98 (Luciana Paluzzi), a heroin addict in a red sweater, and Marie, a.k.a. Prisoner #99 (Maria Rohm), a naive blonde, by taunting them with her sturdy, black stocking-covered legs.

Her legs dangling seductively from a drab, oversize, blueish work shirt, Rosalba Neri tells them, "Welcome to the club," while boasting a catty smile. Adjusting the makeshift ties that keep her stockings up as the new fish find their bunks, it's obvious that Rosalba Neri enjoys her stockings just as much as I enjoy writing about them.

You have to wonder, though, why does Rosalba Neri get to wear stockings? I mean, Helga enters the prison, which has been nicknamed "The Castle of Death," wearing a pair of showgirl issue fishnet pantyhose, yet you don't see her wearing them after she's been processed. Her legs are just as unadorned as everyone else who is not named Rosalba Neri. Why is that? What is so special about Rosalba Neri? You kidding, right? Oh, I know, she's gorgeous beyond belief. Yeah, but, Thelma Diaz (Mercedes McCambridge), the prison's sappho-aligned superintendent, doesn't seem like she's the kind of person who would allow such rules to be violated. And it's obvious that this prison has a strict dress code.

In fact, violating the dress code is the sort of thing that would land you in one of the prison's infamous "punishment cells."

Are Thelma Diaz and Rosalba Neri's character super-secret lovers? Maybe. The superintendent does seem to go easy on her. No, think about it. Even though Rosalba Neri is caught fighting on several occasions, I don't ever recall seeing her in one of the punishment cells. Good point. But did it ever occur to you that Thelma just wants, like any sane individual, to see Rosalba Neri's wheels sheathed black nylons around the clock?

After all, Rosalba Neri was the hottest stripper in the underground lesbian bar scene. In other words, dykes dig her. Interesting. What's interesting? Nothing. No, c'mon. Tell us. Okay, I couldn't help but notice that you used the past tense when describing Rosalba Neri's time as a stripper. Right. Well, for one thing, she's currently in prison. But even if she wasn't, in prison, that is, I don't think she would doing much stripping at bars that cater to discerning lesbians. You see, we learn, via flashback, that Rosalba Neri worked at as a stripper at an underground lesbian bar. You already mentioned that. Oh, yeah. The woman who hires her, a sophisticated lesbian named Grace, is pissed that Rosalba Neri plans to marry her boyfriend.

Angry that Rosalba Neri is about to waste her hotness, and, not to mention, her first-rate stems, on some heterosexual man with a penis, Grace confronts her with a gun.

As we soon find out, Rosalba Neri is not someone to be trifled with. A struggle ensues, and, after one thing leads to another, the gun goes off, and just like that, Rosalba Neri finds herself in a drab work shirt with the number seventy-six written on it.

The great thing about the Rosalba Neri flashback sequence is that it's quite lengthy (it fleshes her character out more than all the other cast members combined), and it wonderfully showcases her beauty in a non-prison environment. Seriously, if you thought Rosalba Neri looked good in a drab work shirt and black hold-up stockings, you should see the candlelight stripetease number she performs for a small gathering of lesbians; it's out of sight.

If I wasn't convinced that Rosalba Neri was leggy cognizant before the stocking flaunting scene, the scene where she shows Marie her leg in a boastful fashion sealed the deal for me. Recovering from the injuries she suffered in a fight (one that Helga totally started) in the prison's infirmary, Rosabla Neri, who seems to have hurt her left leg during the melee, hovers menacingly over Marie, who is crying in her bed.

Telling her, well, telling her first to, "shut up," Rosalba Neri then says, "You hurt my leg. My beautiful leg." And as she is saying the second part, she extends the damaged gam (revealing the full force of its gammage) and mock gestures towards it like it were a new car waiting to be won on The Price Is Right.

It should go without saying, but Rosalba Neri's ostentatious leg display in the infirmary scene is probably one of the greatest leg moments in film history. And the fact she is still wearing a stocking on her uninjured leg makes it even greater.

Struggle, straddle. Straddle, struggle. Light jazz. Rinse and repeat.

In a veiled attempt to make this look like a legitimate movie review, here's bit about the film's plot: The prison's stern superintendent, Thelma Diaz, is being evaluated by an idealistic woman named Leonie Carroll (Maria Schell), a young up-and-comer in the cut-throat world of women's corrections. Dismayed by Thelma's harsh treatment of the prisoners, Miss Carroll tries to placate her harshness with a softer, more humane approach to incarceration. While these two butt heads with one another over their respective rehabilitation techniques, the island's governor, Governor Santos (Herbert Lom), is mainly concerned with satisfying his carnal lust.

To the surprise of virtually no-one, Miss Carroll's kid gloves approach fails miserably, as Marie, Helga, and Rosalie (Valentina Godoy), a short-haired redhead with a wonderfully round bum, flee into the jungle when no-one is looking. And why was no-one looking, you ask? Ask Miss Carroll. It was her bright idea to take the guards off night watch. In her mind, the prisoners won't want to escape if you treat them with respect. Anyway, I started to lose interest once the film turned into a jungle fugitive flick. I mean, if you're not going to bring Rosalba Neri along, what's the point? Exactly. There isn't one. No Neri, no watchy. It's that simple.

Lacking the graphic violence of its cinematic cousins, such as Bare Behind Bars, Women's Prison Massacre, and Jess Franco's own Barbed Wire Dolls, 99 Women has quality acting (Mercedes McCambridge and Herbert Lom are both excellent) and old school titillation (two words: Rosalba Neri) on its side, as the film trades over the top gore for thrills of a more subtle nature.

Don't be alarmed, though, the film still packs quite the wallop, as they say. It's got a cruel warden, a piggish governor who dresses like a German World War I officer, a naive new girl who doesn't know the ropes, cat fights (no shower fights, or shower scenes, for that matter, but one of the girl brawls is water-based), and one helluva dyke bar flashback. Employing words that are slightly different than the one's I just used, it's got all the ingredients any reasonable person could possibly need to make one delectable women in prison treat.

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While it might look like an insignificant slab of concrete to some, the parking lot in Heavy Metal Parking Lot is no mere slab...of concrete. No fucking way, man. When dotted with a bunch of inebriated devotees of British heavy metal band Judas Priest, the ground percolates with anthropological significance. It's Saturday May 31, 1986, and we're immediately ushered into the parking lot of The Capital Centre in Largo, Maryland, U.S.A. Why we're in this place at this particular time isn't quite clear yet. But over the course of the next fifteen or so minutes, you will wish you had been there when all is said and done. It doesn't matter if you like heavy metal, the honesty depicted in this film will blow your mind. Unfortunately, over the course of the last, oh, let's say, twenty-five years, I've been exposed to a shitload of insincere nonsense. And even though I try my best to avoid being infected by the unending deluge of disingenuous pap that is our current cultural landscape, tiny bits still manage collide with my cerebral cortex. Well, after watching this inexplicable document of a seemingly innocuous event, I think I can safely say that my faith in humanity has been restored. Oozing–yeah, that's right, I said, "oozing"–tiny dew-shaped droplets of uncut authenticity from every square inch of their probably clogged pores, the young people who appear in this tribute to life, love and getting wasted are a shining beacon to all those out there wallowing in a pre-dug pit of their own self-pity. Banding together to hear loud guitar-based noise, filmmakers John Heyn and Jeff Krulik manage to capture these strange creatures in their natural habitat. Which, like I said, if you can believe it or not, is the parking lot of The Capital Centre, where a Judas Priest concert, with special guests Dokken, is about to take place.

Oh, and my use of the term "natural habitat" is in no way meant to be degrading. The kids in this film are not animals, they're human beings. And, I must say, they're some of the most genuine human beings ever to be captured on film.

Actually, the reason I used the expression "natural habitat" was because of all the zebra-print I saw in this film. The zebra's natural habitat are the temperate grasslands of Africa, and their black and white stripes help them allude predators. In other words, they use their stripes as camouflage. Your average heavy metal fan, on the other hand, uses zebra-print to get noticed. However, instead of trying to avoid being devoured by, let's say, a lion, the headbanger fitted with zebra-print markings wants to be devoured. And since lions aren't indigenous to Maryland parking lots, the only devouring going on here will most likely involve pockmarked penises plowing ever-so-gently into voracious vaginas.

They came, they saw, they stood around a bit, they got fucked up, they became legends: The Top Ten Heavy Metal Parking Lot Characters.. Whoa, whoa! Hold on there, buddy. Ten?!? I ain't listing ten characters from a seventeen minute movie. Break that shit down a tad and I'll get back to ya.

Okay, how about this. List the top five Heavy Metal Parking Lot characters. In other words, characters who are just plain awesome. And then, when you're done doing that, list the top five metal babes that appear throughout the film. Yeah, I can do that. Woo-hoo! Yeah! Judas Priest!!!!!

The Top Five Heavy Metal Parking Lot Characters: #1 -- Zebraman. Who else would it be? Take away Zebraman, and your film...Ahh, you know what? I don't even want to think about it. Just the mere thought of Heavy Metal Parking Lot without Zebraman gives me the willies. Who is Zebraman, you ask? Great question. Even though I disagree with almost everything he says during his time onscreen, Zebraman expresses himself in such an eloquent manner, that you too will think that all that punk shit sucks and that Madonna is in fact a dick by the time he's finished his Jack Daniels-assisted diatribe.

#2 -- David Helvey. "I'm David Helvey. I'm twenty years old. I'm ready to rock." And with those words, the blonde man in the aviator shades makes his presence felt almost immediately. Standing by his car with his "ladyfriend" Dawn (in a stylish zebra-print top), and two other chicks, David Helvey's love for Judas Priest is unwavering.

#3 -- Graham. You know, like, gram of dope. Shirtless and confused, Graham, while not as succinct as Zebraman, puts forth his ideas in a way that's endearing, yet at the same time profound. Oh, and "Joints Across America" is a brilliant idea.

#4 -- Timmy's Friend. Every film, whether it be Xanadu or The Apple, needs a showstopper, and Heavy Metal Parking gets its when one of the directors asks "Timmy's Friend" to tell them the long story pertaining to how she and her friends managed to obtain backstage passes. What comes out of her mouth will shock and amaze those who have been wallowing in irony for most of their adult lives. When Timmy's Friend, who would have made the metal babe list had her speech not been so stirring, gets to the heart of Timmy's tale, I nearly dropped my bong (don't worry, it wouldn't have broke, as my wall-to-wall shag carpeting would have surely cushioned its fall).

#5 -- Glen Burnie. At first, I thought her name was "Glen Burnie," but apparently that's the name of the place she's from. Anyway, even though the "Hell yeah" chick from Glen Burnie, MD has an inordinate of amount of inappropriate questions thrown in her general direction ("inappropriate" because no-one that fucked up should be forced to think on their feet like that), I thought she handled herself with a subtle grace. Woooo! Judas Priest rules!!!!

The Top Five Metal Babes in Heavy Metal Parking Lot: #1 -- Leg Scab Girl. Without being asked, Leg Scab Girl lifts up her white dress to show the cameraman her sex-related leg scab. "Sex-related"?!? Yeah, it would seem that Leg Scab Girl banged her knee while engaging in rough coitus with her headbanger boyfriend in, what I assume was, a large, heavy metal-friendly automobile. And while she's showing us her leg scab, she warns the members of the audience to "don't ever 'get it' in a car."

#2 -- Exceedingly Attractive Dokken Fan. When the camera crew ask a group of intoxicated young people who they're there to see, they all yell "Judas Priest" in that overly excited fashion that I have, unfortunately, become accustomed to. However, a voice of reason pops her gorgeous head into the frame, leans toward the microphone, and, in a calm and rational manner, says, "Dokken," the rarely mentioned opening act. A levelheaded contrarian at heart, E.A.D.F, who seems to be channeling tennis star Gabriela Sabatini and Italian pop sensation Sabrina Salerno simultaneously, proves in one fell swoop that not all metal babes are drunken morons.

#3 -- Kelly: The Heavy Metal Virgin. It might be the cheerful blonde's first heavy metal concert, but that doesn't mean you can bump into her while she's trying to relay an important message to the audience. I liked the way she says, "please," when telling an unwashed headbanger to get away from her. Oh, and she's rocking a pair of white suspenders like nobody's business.

#4 -- Trippin' Jack Daniels Girl. Well, first of all, she knows Zebraman. And secondly, well, she's a metal babe goddess. Why is she called "Trippin' Jack Daniels Girl"? Well, according to Zebraman, she's doing just that, trippin' on Jack Daniels, and, in his whiskey-soaked mind, "It all rules... all that shit rules."

#5 -- Leggy Hatchback Girl. When it comes to lounging in an excessively leggy manner in the back of hatchbacks, no-one, I repeat, no-one, can top the leggy shenanigans being put out there by the Leggy Hatcback Girl in Heavy Metal Parking Lot. You would be a fool to even try.

As most people are want to do after they watch Heavy Metal Parking Lot, I started wracking my brain trying to think of all the other parking lot-style movies you could make. Sadly, I kept hitting a brick wall. The reason? Bands like, Zoviet France, Gina X Performance, and even Skinny Puppy don't play shows at venues that have large parking lots. And speaking personally, I don't think I ever attended a show that had parking, let alone an entire parking lot. Nevertheless, I still wouldn't mind seeing something like, A Flock of Seagulls Parking Lot or Missing Persons Parking Lot. You know, just for the clothes and hair alone.

video uploaded by HMPL

The first, and hopefully the last, women in prison film ever to be narrated by the general manager of an insurance company, Women Behind Bars (a.k.a. Des diamants pour l'enfer) is her to enlighten, horrify, titillate and entertain that thankfully small segment of the population who like to watch movies that feature women who are forcibly confined to a single location for extended period of time. And, of course, as everyone knows, the location best suited to show ladies in this state is a hellish correctional facility on the outskirts of a syphilitic nightmare; one that is preferable run by a corrupt sadist or a lustful lesbian. While I would much rather the warden to be the latter (according to my sources, lustful lesbians are the cat's pajamas), I'd be willing to watch just about anyone degrade female inmates over the course of a sleazy undertaking such as this. Which just goes to show you that maybe I've gotten to a point where I've endured way too many of these flicks; so much so that I can't even seem to muster the energy to protest the fact this film, which is, of course, directed by Jess Franco (Faceless), doesn't even have a lumpy butch lesbian as its villain. But for some strange reason, I can't seem to stop. The allure of the incarcerated female is stronger than ever. You could call it a sickness, but the only problem with that is, I don't feel sick. If you wanna know the real reason why I keep coming back to this morally repugnant genre, all you have to do is look into the eyes of actress Lina Romay, the frequent star of Jess Franco's WIP output, and I'm sure you'll come to the exact same conclusion I did. What do you mean you didn't come that conclusion?!? Stare longer, dammit! Whether you come to it or not, if you peer deep into Lina's dark eyes for hours on end like I have, you will find all sorts of unexpected riches. And this film showcases those riches in a manner that was both profound and exhilarating.

Now, I've seen Lina Romay with long black hair (Lorna The Exorcist), I've seen her with short black hair (Ilsa, The Wicked Warden - "Lick my culo!"), and I've even seen her sport a blonde bob (Macumba Sexual), but the black bob hairstyle she dons during the period when she made Women Behind Bars has to be my all-time favourite Lina Romay look. The reason the black bob is my preferred Lina hairdo is that it frames her angelic face perfectly. Whereas the long hairstyle makes her look naive, the short do is a tad too boyish, and the blonde bob is just plain awkward, the black bob gives her a sophisticated aura; which is something she desperately needs if she expects to survive a session of genital electrocution in the prison's notorious punishment cell.

It's the 15th of May, 1975, and a group of thieves have just made off with a suitcase of uncut diamonds that were locked in a safe on a Chinese junk (owned by Rufus Hackerman, a wealthy businessman) floating in the harbour of an unnamed city in South America (the beautiful city of Nice, France subs for this unnamed city). After the lead thief, Perry Mendoza (Raymond Hardy), dispatches his accomplices (he shoots them on a rocky beach), he meets his girlfriend, Shirley Fields (Lina Romay) in the basement of a closed casino. When Perry discovers the suitcase is empty, Shirley pulls out a gun and kills him. Immediately after she does this Shirley places a phone call to the police, and confesses to Perry's murder.

However, the reason she states for killing him has nothing to do with diamonds. No, she tells them it was strictly a crime of passion. Receiving a sentence of six years in prison, Shirley is sent to a prison run by Colonel Carlos (Ronald Weiss), a bearded fella in a black Nero jacket with hardly any charisma; how someone so unappealing ended up becoming the warden of an all ladies correctional facility is beyond my comprehension. Anyway, if you thought Shirley's trip to the big house happened rather quickly, that's because I skipped over the part where Milton Warden (Roger Darton), the general manager of an international insurance company, arrives in town and gets a hotel room. Oh, sure, his scenes are semi-important as far as moving the plot forward went. But in terms of entertainment value goes, he's a bit of a dud when it comes to, well, just about everything.

Even though they both take place in a woman's prison and share some the same cast members, that's where the similarities between Barbed Wire Dolls and Women Behind Bars end. Boasting an unnecessarily complex narrative structure (the former had none whatsoever), the latter overwhelms the viewer with its storytelling devices, that you often get the impression that you're watching a real movie at times; a sensation, I'll admit, that has become somewhat foreign to me.

Speaking of similarities, you'll notice that Lina Romay is wearing the exact outfit she wore when she arrived at the prison in Barbed Wire Dolls; a pair of tight peach-colured trousers with a matching vest. The only difference here being, she shows a little more cleavage and doesn't enter the prison alone. Well, she doesn't enter the prison right away, she first arrives at Colonel Carlos's lavish villa. Along with an ethnically diverse trio of fellow inmates, a black chick named Laurel (six month sentence), a Latino gal named Rosa (two year sentence), and a Filipino woman in mirror shades named Maria (life in prison). Whoa, life in prison?!? I wonder what she could have done that justify her getting such a stiff sentence; Shirley murdered her boyfriend and she only got six years.

I liked conversation between Colonel Carlos and Shirley Fields that occurs after he dismisses the other girls, as it's obvious that he knows she's up to something. You see, he's not buying this whole "crime of passion" nonsense. He thinks Shirley knows the location of the missing diamonds (they were never recovered) and is determined to find out where they are. The same goes for Bill (Jess Franco), a shady associate of Rufus Hackerman working alongside Milton, the insurance guy. At any rate, the exchange - Colonel Carlos: "I'm afraid you seem a bit racist." Shirley: "Only idiots are racist" - is, in my mind, legendary.

Unable to win her over with cigarettes, Colonel Carlos sends Shirley to her cell along with the other new fish. And you know what that means? That's right, it's time to see what our shapely inmates will be wearing over the course of this surprisingly tame entreprise. As most of you know, my all-time favourite WiP ensemble were the one's worn by the ladies in Bruno Mattei's Women's Prison Massacre (a drab gray shirt dress paired with charcoal gray hold-up stockings). Okay, so, were the outfits worn by the Women Behind Bars cast able to usurp Ursula Flores and co.? What are you kidding? Nothing will top the drearily dull allure of a bunch of ambiguously European women in charcoal gray hold-up stockings. That being said, the prison uniforms featured in this movie were still pretty impressive. Check this shit out: Each inmate is a given a black shirt dress and a pair of chunky platform heels, and that's it.

Oh, and, yeah, you heard right, platform heels. Go back and peruse all the pieces I've written on women in prison movies, and I guarantee the words "platform heels" aren't mentioned once. Okay, maybe I can't exactly "guarantee" that, but there's a good chance they have never been mentioned.

It's at this point in the film when Colonel Carlos decides to unleash a WiP classic, and that is, the stoolie. Telling a prisoner named Martine (Martine Stedil), while she lies seductively on his bed (her inexplicable tan lines from a bikini she doesn't have lighting up the room like a Christmas tree), that it would be in her best interest to spy on Shirley. I was mildly amused by how Colonel Carlos attempts to butter his snitch up by informing her that he "prefers cute little blondes with sexy asses," as it came off as desperate and sad.

When the Filipino serving a life sentence says, "stoolies make me want to puke," you know Martine is going to have work cut out for her, as the ethnically diverse inmates who were processed with Shirley make it clear that they intend to protect her from the forces that wish to harm her. But if there's anyone who can convince Shirley to spill the proverbial beans, it's Martine and her sexy ass; and, not to mention, a pack of cigarettes. As you would expect, cigarettes are the prison's primary currency, and the best way to make friends.

Sooner than you can say, "Dang, your thigh's are soft," Shirley and Martine are lesbian gal pals. Speaking of lesbians, you know how I said there were no lesbian authority figures in this film? Well, I think better back track from that statement as Miss Shapiro, the prison mistress, had a definite sappho vibe about her. Unfortunately, she only appears in a couple of scenes. The one where she catches Shirley reading a note in the prison's mess hall is her best, as it does an excellent job of showcasing her harsh yet delicate features. I also dug the white blouse she wears in the mess hall scene, it flattered her neck in a way you don't often see in the neck-adjacent world of blouses.

Despite the fact that I initially chalked up her appeal in this film to the shape of her hair, I'd to clarify that there's much more to Lina Romay's loveliness in Women Behind Bars than simply a well-coiffed haircut.

It's hard to believe, but you're gonna have to wait until at least the forty minute mark to see any cruelty in this film. Now, I'm not saying I was craving cruelty or anything like that. I'm just saying forty minutes is a pretty long time to wait to see some cruelty in a women in prison film, especially one that is directed by Jess Franco (if you remember, it's takes one whole minute for the cruelty to kick in in Barbed Wire Dolls). Anyway, an inmate, one who was caught starting a fight in the yard, is whipped by the male guard we normally see escorting prisoners and visitors alike through the long, dark tunnel that connects the prison to the outside world.

Evidence that Women Behind Bars isn't your average chicks in prison flick, I was quite taken with the aforementioned tunnel. You were what? Yeah, that's right, the tunnel was awesome. Sure, the irregular footwear, the genital torture, the lesbianism, the zoom lens shots (I like way Jess Franco's camera has a tendency to zoom in on both nature and hairy vaginas), and Jess's ridiculous accent were all highlights, but there was something about that tunnel. In fact, if you watch the featurette that comes with the Blue UndergroundDVD, you will notice that the tunnel is still there, so, make sure to drop on by the next time you're in Nice. And tell them Jess Franco and Lina Romay sent you.

She's not a prostitute, she's a whore. What's the difference, you ask? How the hell should I know? No, actually, I do know what the difference is. You wanna know what it is? Oh, I see. Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. The reason I know is because I just watched Streets. Yeah, that's right, fucking Streets, a.k.a. Straßen des Schreckens. Yeah, that's right, fucking Straßen des Schreckens, a gritty tale about a deranged motorcycle cop who spends an entire day roaming the mean streets of Venice, California looking for a wayward Bundy. While to us, the difference between a prostitute and a whore might seem unimportant. But to Dawn (Christina Applegate), a teenage runaway who never had anything to runaway from in the first place, it's not a question of semantics, it's a question of dignity. If my vaginal and rectal cavities are never rented out to irregular cock on a basis that some might construed as semi-regular, but my mouth and hands are, am I not a prostitute? According to Dawn, no, she is not. When confronted with the question: What do you do? The street smart blonde seems to bristle when you try to label her a "prostitute." Without missing a beat, Dawn calls what she does to get by "whoring." In her mind, the difference between stroking the cock of, oh, let's say, a sheepish Tangerine Dream fan, with your hand, and between fucking the cock of, oh, let's say, a sheepish Tangerine Dream fan, with your pussy and/or asshole is astronomical. Blessed with the freedom to stick as many dicks in as many holes as she sees fit, Dawn is a pioneer when it comes to reducing the amount of cock traffic clogging up her sacred passageways at any given moment. So much so you'll be hard pressed to find any evidence of stretching or tearing. In fact, the insides of her creamy fissures are so pristine, you could stick your penis in them.

You can declare your corporeal corridors closed for business all you want, that doesn't necessarily mean everyone who approaches you to obtain the limited services you do provide is going to adhere to the strict regulations you have laid out regarding what you will and what you will not allow to be done to your body. For example, you can scream, "I don't do anal," until the cows are sleeping snugly in their beds, there are always going to be those who are going to ignore the rules. And looks like Dawn is about to meet one of the these people right this minute.

After making Stripped to Kill and Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls, writer-director Katt Shea probably wondered to herself: What did the strippers in my epic stripper saga do before they found salvation on the pole? All arriving in Los Angeles at one point or another with a resounding thud, the women must have wanted to do something other than stripping. I don't mean to sound like I'm putting down stripping; I happen to think it's a noble profession. I just don't think they came all that way to be leered at by strangers. Bullshit, man. What's the difference between being leered at in a stripeclub and leered at on a movie screen? I'll tell you what. It's the same difference between a prostitute and a whore. Anyway, providing no easy answers or solutions, Katt Shea has made her most intelligent and heartfelt movie to date.

Wearing what looks like a scraggly veneer, one that drips pure, uncut exploitation, Streets is, if you peel away the layers of scum, a deep and meaningful piece of work.

You know how I said Dawn bristles when you call her a prostitute? Well, I bristle when I hear sappy piano music. However, since the sappy piano music that opens Streets features E.G. Daily on vocals, I'm going to look the other way. Why is that, you ask? Um, E.G. Daily is awesome. Duh.

Carrying his Yamaha keyboard on the handlebars of his bike. Nah, I don't like that. How about this: Armed only with his trusty bike, a Yamaha keyboard, and a dream, Sy (David Mendenhall), a teenage runaway, has no idea how drastically his life is going to change the moment he decides to take shelter underneath a Venice pier that fateful morning. Hearing a struggle taking place, Sy jumps to his feet to help a prostitute, I mean, a whore in need. It would seem that Dawn (Christina Applegate) didn't appreciate the aggressive demeanour of her blonde trick, and to show her lack of appreciation, she withdraws from him. Of course, this guy isn't making it easy for Dawn, so she scratches his face and and throws sand in his eyes. Not one to take a hint, the trick rips her earring out and starts shooting at her with his revolver.

When the shooting starts, that's when Sy does his thing. Rescuing Dawn from drowning, Sy helps her up a ladder, as the trick runs off (a cop on horseback spooks him). If you're wondering why Dawn seems spooked by the cop as well, it's because she's "working." Obviously a tad on the naive side, Sy doesn't understand right away what "working" means. When it does finally come to him, that's when the whole debate about the difference between "prostitution" and "whoring" takes place. In Dawn's mind, a prostitute is pro. She is, as she would say, "just whoring, it's different."

Which, if you think about it, sounds like great ad copy. "Are you tired of being beaten by unruly pimps? Sick of the irritation brought on by genital warts? Try whoring. It's different."

As the two soaking wet teens are drying in the morning sun, the blonde trick is at home grabbing his homemade double-barreled silent shotgun from its secret hiding spot. We can all agree that this is not good, especially for Dawn and Sy, who are still in the process of getting to know each other. Lending her a dry pair of pants, Sy and Dawn ride along the beach passing all sorts of off-kilter people of all shapes and sizes. It's here where we meet Dawn's intricate network of lowlifes and equally troubled youths.

First off, let's meet some of the lowlifes, shall we? Well, no Streets review would be complete without mentioning Bob (Patrick Richwood), a "flamboyant" drug dealer/infrequently washed man about town who seems to act as Dawn's protector. I wanna call him Dawn's pimp, but don't forget, she's not a prostitute, she's a whore; and, as we all know, to quote Heather Mooney from Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, "There's a difference. There's a difference." Another lowlife is Roach (Aron Eisenberg, Nog from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine), a kinda Mr. Fix-it. And we wouldn't want to forget the lovely Sheryl Bence as "Punk Girl," now would we? No way, man. She has a blonde mohawk and is wearing a studded leather jacket at the beach. Call me a silk shirt, but impractical beachwear makes me randier than a pre-op double-crested cormorant.

If you're starting to feel sorry for deadbeat Dawn, don't. She lives in a drainpipe. In other words, she's living the dream! Wait, that didn't come out right. She may live badly, but at least she doesn't have to work to do so. I don't like that either, but it's the best I come up with to make Dawn's existence not sound so shitty. Anyway, she lives in the drainpipe with Julie Jay (credited as "tattooed roommate") and Kady Tran (credited as "blonde roommate"), and things couldn't be better.

Don't tell Dawn this, but do you remember that blonde trick whose face she scratched underneath the pier? Yeah, well, it turns out he's a cop, a motorcycle cop. His name is Lumley (Eb Lottimer), and he's a by the book psychopath. Meaning, he doesn't mess around when it comes to inflicting pain and suffering on others.

And do you remember all those lowlifes and troubled teens I mentioned earlier? Well, there the one's who are going to bear the brunt of Lumley's rage first, as he pays each of them a visit while looking for Dawn. Some get off easy (street urchin Mel Castelo gets her hand stood on), while others aren't so lucky. I would like to go into detail about one of the so-called unlucky ones, but it too ghastly. In fact, just thinking about it makes my rectum quiver with fear.

Playing a drug-addicted (heroin is her drug of choice), street smart, illiterate (though, she knows the word "ineffable") teen prostitute (if you get paid to have sex, even if it's just "blow jobs and stuff, with strangers, you're a prostitute), Christina Applegate makes a valiant attempt to shed the Kelly Bundy image she fostered so memorably on Married With Children; and when I say "memorably," I'm referring more to her hair and wardrobe than her actual performance (I was never a fan of the show, as I found it to be asinine). You can tell that Christina took the role seriously just by looking at her appearance. Robbed of her trademark big hair and skimpy acid wash skirts, Christina Applegate has to depend on her acting talent, and that alone, to get by. And, I must say, she does a pretty good job.

My favoutite Christina Apple moment in the film occurs when Dawn is about to service Alan (Alan Stock), one of her regulars, in his yuppie-fied automobile (I don't know what kind of a car it was, but it was definitely something a yuppie would drive). Telling him that she can't suck his dick because she just had a root canal (which is a lie, whores don't have dental plans), Dawn offers to give him a hand-job instead. Clearly crestfallen by this news, Alan agrees to the handy, but only if he can touch her legs while she strokes him off. He may be yuppie scum (ewww, his car has its own phone), but his priorities are rock solid.

Kudos to David Mendenhall for doing his own stunts. That nasty spill he takes on his bike while fleeing from Lumley looked like it hurt big time. Oh, and fans of the original Stripped to Kill should keep an eye out for Kay Lenz, who makes a cameo as Cody Sheenan. It's true, Lumley doesn't exactly call her by that name (he calls her "Sargent"), but I like to think that Katt Shea was making a subtle shout-out to his previous masterwork. Essential viewing for Christina Applegate fans and Katt Shea completests.

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They say there's nothing scarier in this world than a child who has been consumed by the forces of darkness. However, they, the people who spout such two-toed gobbledygook, probably have shapeless mounds of pallid flesh for genitals, and, in most cases, should be shunned by society. No, what's really scary, in a "my breakaway sweatpants have become inexplicably soaked in urine" kinda of way, is a fully-grown woman writhing on her bed in a fit of spiritual and existential torment. Oh, and if she could foam at the mouth while doing so that would be terrific. Just to let you know, I'm not just saying this because the whole bed writhing thing slides neatly into my cinematic comfort zone, it's what I genuinely believe. Seriously, though, if your demon possession movie doesn't have a distressed adult woman at its core, you'll probably find me camping at a level that can best be described as unhappy when all is said and done. Well, I can declare, with absolute confidence, that Abby, the finest the devil lives in my wife's body movie directed by William Girdler (Grizzly) to come out in the mid-1970s, meets this strange yet totally real criteria and then some. Don't believe me? Okay, let's check the facts. First off, is there a bed? Yes. And not only that, there are two; one in the bedroom and one over at the hospital. Nice. I like that. Two beds. Fantastic! All right, how's the writhing? In other words, does the woman doing the writhing fulfill all your frightfully specific spasticity needs? I don't know. I'm think going to have to access my writhing database. What the fuck? Who put all my writhing-based memories under "squirm"? They're supposed to be in the writhe section. Just a second, I need to fix this. And...done.

What was the question? Oh, yeah, the writhing. It's all nightgown-centric, so there are not a lot of opportunities for legginess to occur. But I would say that I was content with how the writhing went down in this film. I mean, the actress doing the writhing, who I'll get to in a moment, convulsed with just the right amount of gusto. You don't want to writhe with too much gusto. What is this, amateur hour? Yet, you don't want to under-writhe, either. You need to strike a balance. Which, I must say, can sometimes seem like a tightrope act; in that, you never know which way the quality of the writhing is going to fall.

The possession? What about it? The demonic possession, did it, you know, scratch your notoriously finicky demonic possession itch? Fuck yeah it did. I'm sorry. What I meant to say is, the demonic possession scenes in Abby were indicative of how fragile our collective psyches can become when the mental health of a loved one is at stake.

Would it surprise you to learn that the possession in Abby comes courtesy of Eshu, the Yoruba Orisha of chaos and trickery? It wouldn't? Dang, you're hipper than you look. Okay, mister hipster pants. Would it surprise you to learn that the possessed party lives in the suburbs of Louisville, Kentucky? That's what I thought. Though, I'll admit, suburban Louisville was the last place I expected to see a first-rate demon possession movie take place as well. It just goes to show you that evil can strike anywhere.

Just before heading to Nigeria to study the religion of the Yoruba people (one of the largest ethnic groups of Sub-Saharan Africa), Dr. Bishop Garnet Williams (William Marshall) is saying farewell to some of his students on the campus of, oh, let's say, the University of Kentucky. After discussing the cult of Eshu, his students give Dr. Williams a huge silver cross necklace, which he puts on immediately; I'm not a big fan of crucifix-based jewelry (hail, Satan!), but even I thought the cross necklace his students gave him was pretty kick ass.

When the film is finished regaling us with authentic footage of Louisville street-life, we're swept into a cave in Nigeria, where we find Dr. Williams and a couple of locals poking around its craggily nooks and crannies. Finding a weird-looking box, Dr. Williams opens it. Unaware of the sinister force he just unleashed (though he should be, the sinister force threw him and his men halfway across the cave), Dr. Williams basically shrugs off the box-opening incident and goes about his Nigerian business.

Meanwhile, back in Kentucky, Dr. Williams' son, Rev. Emmett Williams (Terry Carter), and his marriage counselor wife, Abby (Carol Speed), are about to move in to their new home. As she's being helped by her mother, Momma Potter (Juanita Moore), and her brother, Det. Cass Potter (Austin Stoker), Abby, who's wearing blue jeans and a red bandana on her head, pauses for a second outside the house. Is she just stopping to bask in the moment (moving into a new house is a big deal for a young couple), or is something else going on, something...sinister? Either way, the next few scenes feature lot's of playful dialogue, as Abby and Rev. Williams get settled in.

It would seem that evil doesn't waste its time, as their first night in their new home is fraught with unexplained events (loud banging sounds, cold wind, noises of an eerie nature).

It's hard to pinpoint that exact moment, but I think the sinister force enters Abby either while she's taking a shower or while she's doing laundry in the basement. I'm leaning more towards the latter, because we see these quick flashes of a green, demonic, heavily-browed face every so often. Nonetheless, other than her brother's glass breaking mysteriously during dinner, the new Abby doesn't reveal herself right away.

Slowly but surely, Abby begins to change. After cutting her arm with a kitchen knife and engaging in some hysterics at church (she vomits on some guy with glasses in the middle of one of her husband's sermons), Rev. Williams decides to call his father in Nigeria to ask him for some advice.

Right after kicking him square in the crotch while declaring, "I'm not your ho" (I had no idea, by the way, that "ho" was being used as a variation of "whore" as far back as 1974), we get our first taste of "the voice." What is "the voice," you ask? Well, I don't think Abby would have been the horror classic that it is without "the voice." You see, while Carol Speed is a tremendous actress, she probably couldn't pull off a semi-convincing demon voice (some people can do demon voices, some people can't). In order to fix this, they hired voice artist Bob Holt to provide the mellifluously malevolent tones that make the demon voice in Abby so memorable.

Asking Abby, "Whatever possessed you?" Not about the impromptu kick to the balls, but about the incident involving a couple she was giving marriage counsel to (she threatened to "fuck the shit" out of the husband), she ignores the question and proceeds to straddle Rev. Williams in a menacing fashion. If you don't think it's possible to straddle someone in a "menacing fashion," you've obviously never been straddled by someone who laughs like a demented Yoruba trickster god.

While Carol Speed needed a little help from Bob Holt to add some punch to her demonic dialogue (no-one says "motherfucker" quite the way Bob Holt does in this film), someone who doesn't need any help in that department is William Marshall, whose commanding voice gives the film, especially during the epic exorcism scene, some much needed gravitas.

I liked how when Dr. Williams does finally confront Abby (it took his son three calls to Nigeria to get his ass back to Louisville), it doesn't take place in a bedroom or a dusty church basement. No, the showdown between Dr. Williams, who is carrying a bag filled exorcism supplies, and Abby, who wearing a yellow dress, occurs at a sleazy nightclub.

Breaking out of the hospital (her possession results, as expected, were mostly negative), Abby, after changing into that yellow dress I just mentioned, hits the Louisville club scene with a slutty brand of enthusiasm. What's funny about the iconic yellow dress is that we have no idea she's wearing it until much later. You see, she's wearing a white mini-trench coat and a white scarf, so we can't see the yellow dress. Anyway, if anyone knows if Carol Speed is wearing white nylons during her debauchery spree, please think about hesitating to tell me; I dig the fact that there's a sense of mystery surrounding her gams.

Oh, and the reason I couldn't tell probably had something to do with the fact Carol Speed is clearly wearing makeup (her skin looked ashy at the height of her disco confrontation), and I have a feeling they covered her legs with makeup as well to create an air of ashen consistency.

Nylons or not, the exorcism scene is an awe-inspiring spectacle. Even though I pretty much attributed the bulk of her performance's success on Bob Holt, I must say, Carol Speed gives it her all during the climatic battle between good and evil. After all, Carol's the one wearing the bushy eyebrows and spewing milky foam from her mouth. And, at the end of the day, that kind of commitment needs to be commended. If you like you're exorcism movies to have a Yoruba edge to them, you definitely need to make a date with Abby, the Cadillac Coupe de Ville of demon possession flicks.

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If I took one thing, and one thing only, you know, as supposed to two things, away from Dolly Dearest, it was this: Don't open a doll factory in Mexico. What are you doing? What? Call me overly sensitive, but that sounds a little bit racist. Really? "Don't open a doll factory in Mexico." I guess it does...in a weird, politically incorrect sort of way. Just to be on the safe side, let me rephrase that. Are you ready? If I learned one thing from watching Dolly Dearest, it's that one should think twice before opening up a doll factory that's located next to the ancient burial tomb of a 900 year-old demon baby. Yeah, I like that. You totally didn't even mention Mexico this time around. Sweet save, my unctuous friend. Although, it does make you think about why the film is set in Mexico in the first place. I mean, don't they have demonic dolls in the United States of America? Then it dawned on me. The film, co-written and directed by former exploitation actress Maria Lease, isn't really about a possessed toy, uh-uh, it's about outsourcing. It's the only logical explanation I think of at the moment. C'mon, I highly doubt that. Excuse me? Don't play dumb. You've got plenty of explanations rattling around inside that brain of yours as to why this film exists. Yeah, that's true, they're rattling around in there all right. In fact, I'm pondering one of them right this minute. But, I have to say, I'm a tad bashful when it comes to expressing myself in a manner that might lead others to think I'm mentally unwell. Ah, poppycock! You know you want to. Besides, hardly anyone is watching. Okay, fine. I'll share one of my theories. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The main reason as to why this film was made has nothing to do with outsourcing or some kind of sick doll fetish, it was primarily made to showcase the gorgeousness that is Denise Crosby in a non-American setting. I know, that doesn't sound too strange. Who doesn't like Denise Crosby? Exactly, she's a beloved figure. So, let me clarify my position. Everything involving the dolls, the ruins, and even the nuns was just a veiled excuse to film Denise Crosby in various summer-friendly outfits. You shouldn't view Dolly Dearest as a horror film. It's more of say, a ninety minute fashion show interspersed with footage of creepy dolls acting...creepy, and, of course, Rip Torn going "Ha!" (just like he did on The Larry Sanders Show) while carrying a backpack.

I know, just the mere thought of Rip Torn being in the same room with a backpack gives me the willies. But it occurs multiple times throughout Dolly Dearest, the only film to sport a backpack-carrying Rip Torn, or your money back.

Other than the fact that "Dolly" wears a red dress with a white petticoat and Rip Torn carries a backpack, you probably won't remember what anyone else wears, or carries, in this movie.

Wearing a grand total of eight outfits, Denise Crosby, who plays Marilyn Wade, the wife of doll entrepreneur Elliot Wade (Sam Bottoms), and the mother of Jimmy Wade (Chris Demetral) and Jessica Wade (Candace Huston), starts off the movie in a long, flowy white skirt and a turquoise top. The perfect attire for flying, Denise looks fabulous when she and her family land in Mexico. Why are they there? Well, her husband plans to manufacture dolls at a local factory, and, yeah, that's basically it.

I must say, I couldn't help but notice how great Denise Crosby's skin looks in this movie. I mean, she's practically glowing. And the casual nature of her clothing does nothing but accentuate her epidermal luminosity. The first time I noticed this was when she stares wistfully at the large dollhouse located in the backyard of their beautiful new house.

I'm afraid the same can't be said for Elliot's doll factory. To call it dilapidated would be the understatement of the year; imagine if my referring to the shoddy shape of the doll factory in Dolly Dearest was in fact the understatement of the year. How sad would that be? Anyway, while Elliot tries to look on the bright side, Jimmy pokes around the archaeological excavation site next to the doll factory and Jessica has her eye on something. Pointing to one of the dolls located on one of the dusty shelves, Jessica says, "May I have one, Daddy?" When Elliot sees the dolls, the first word out of his mouth is, "fabulous."

Um, hello? You're wife is fabulous. The dolls are just, well, they're lifeless dolls. Or are they? Putting Jessica to bed, Denise, who has since changed into grey one piece and tamed her short blonde locks with a headband (her hair may be short, but her bangs are long - I think that makes sense), asks her daughter about her new playmate. Her name is Dolly, and she is creeping me out. To make matters even creepier, Dolly turns her head slightly when no-one is looking. Personally, I thought the twelve minute mark was way too early to employ a creepy doll head turn. But then again, what do I know. Maybe the twelve minute is the perfect time to imply that there's something off about these dolls.

The next morning, we see Denise Crosby, who is now wearing a bright yellow dress, chopping veggies and talking turkey poop with their live-in maid, Camilla (Lupe Ontiveros). Check this out, I was so enamoured with Denise Crosby's yellow dress, that I failed to spot Dolly's reflection in the mirror. I know, big deal. Dolls have reflections, so what? Yeah, but it was standing there one moment, and when Denise Crosby, who was unpacking her things, returns into frame, Dolly was gone.

If I'd seen this film during my pediophobia period (ages six through eight). Forget about it. I would have freaked out. Hell, just the sight of the poster alone would have probably sent me over the edge.

Speaking of freaking out, Jessica does just that when she arrives home as a local priest is blessing the house. Maybe it was the yellowness of Denise Crosby's yellow dress or the fact that Dolly was there, but Jessica eventually calms down (dolls and the colour yellow are miracle workers when it comes pacifying demon-based temper tantrums). As she is walking inside, though, Jessica gives Camilla the stink-eye. If you thought getting the stink-eye from an adult was bad, you ain't smelt anything until you have been stink-eyed by a child holding a creepy ass doll.

I think it's safe to say that something sinister is going on over at the Wade house (even though the credits list them as the "Read family," their name is clearly Wade). Sure, it's easy for you to say that "it's safe to say," but Camilla is the only who knows what's really going on. And you know what that means? That's right, Dolly needs to take care of her. You mean? Exactly. She needs to get her Chucky on.

Until that happens, let's enjoy the sight of Denise Crosby in a robe. If you look carefully, you can spot her thighs briefly when she goes outside to investigate some weird noises that emanating from the backyard. Despite her valiant effort to keep it cinched with her hand, Denise's robe blows open a couple of times during her trek to the dollhouse.

The next day, Denise Crosby's skin, as usual, is glistening with health and vitality. Maybe it has something to do with the moisturizer she's using or maybe it's her diet, but Denise's aura is on fire. That's great and all, but what is she wearing? Oh, yeah. While Jessica and Dolly continue to clash with Camilla, Denise Crosby can be seen in a white dress; a dress that is eerily similar to the one Marilyn Monroe famously wore in The Seven Year Itch, which is apt since Denise's character's name is, after all, Marilyn.

If you thought Denise Crosby looked amazing in her white dress, you should see her in a pleated yellow skirt. Officially known as "outfit #6," despite the fact that hardcore Dolly Dearest fans like to call it, "pleated yellow perfection," Denise Crosby searches for Jessica in this getup (if you listen carefully, you'll hear the pitter-patter of demonic doll feet scurrying across the hardwood floors). Oh, and the lightning effects really seemed to bring out the wrinkledness of the dresses pleats.

When the legendary pink non-dotted top paired with a floral skirt ensemble makes its appearance, Denise Crosby is well on her way to becoming the most sensible-dressed mom in horror film history.

If only Dolly Dearest made the same sense as Denise Crosby's wardrobe, as the film starts to spiral out of control when she dons her final outfit, a black and brown number. Even though they showed the doll moving all by itself way too early, I thought the doll was effectively creepy. However, that all changes once the dolls start to have expressions. Losing their creepiness in an instant, the moment the faces of the dolls began to move, and they started to talk, was when the film became a bit a joke. Which would have been fine had the entire film been like that. But the sudden change from it being a creepy doll thriller to a campy doll thriller was quite jarring. On a positive note, Denise does get to utter the line, "I am not losing my daughter to a God-damned, nine-hundred-year-old goat-head!" In other words, it wasn't a complete waste of time.

uploaded by tboy24

Reprobates ruin everything. Whether you're a woman, a werewolf, or a werewolf woman, there always seems to be a reprobate lurking behind every door just waiting to squash your happiness. You would think that the werewolf woman at the centre of Werewolf Woman (a.k.a. La Lupa Mannara), a hit and miss piece of Italian mishegas about a statuesque blonde woman who thinks she's a statuesque blonde werewolf, killed a bunch a people, judging by the way she's treated in this movie. I don't mean to contradict you mid-spiel, but the woman in question, the statuesque blonde woman, does kill a bunch of people. And, if memory serves me correctly, she even stabs your favourite character in the neck with a pair of scissors. Oh, yeah. Well, so what? That doesn't mean she deserves to be violated every five seconds with whatever uncircumcised cocks are on hand. I wasn't implying that she deserved to be violated. I was just saying that she seemed to go out of her way to be, oh, let's say, difficult. I think we can all agree that the statuesque blonde woman who thinks she's a werewolf has issues. Some might say that her actions were totally justified; every non-stuntman she meets either wants to rape her or throw her in the loony bin. Oh, and, don't think things will be rape-free once she's locked up in a mental institution on the outskirts of a fever dream. I have twelve words for you: Leggy hypersexualized bisexual lesbians who can't apply make-up to save their life. Others might say she went too far.

Personally, I land squarely somewhere in the middle. I thought her crushing of those two rapists with a scrapyard crane was the correct and rational course of action; and rather ingenious, if you ask me, as in, I like to see you coerce two rapists into the car your about to crush with a scrapyard crane. However, biting the neck of that "peasant girl" totally crossed the line. All she wanted to do was have regulation barnyard intercourse with her boyfriend, which you let her do. But you had to go and destroy her post-coital bliss with some impromptu neck biting. The consensual cum currently coagulating in her cunt will never be able to conceive a child now, you selfish, dream-wrecking hosebeast.

You might have noticed that I used the expression "hit and miss" to describe my overall feelings toward this Rino Di Silvestro-directed enterprise. Well, that's because some parts were awesome, while others were...not-so much. Don't hold back, spit it out. Okay, some parts were downright tedious. There, I said it. In fact, any scene that involved Tino Carraro, Frederick Stanford, and Elio Zamuto talking about Annik Borel's Daniela Neseri, a mentally unwell woman who goes insane whenever there's a full moon, was beyond dull. If think what you're trying to say is, any scene that didn't boast the lovely Annik Borel was beyond dull. Yeah, I guess that's another way of putting it.

I don't know what it is about the men in this movie, but they all seem to want to control Daniela (Annik Borel), a woman who thinks she's related to a werewolf woman from the 18th century. Her father, Count Nerseri (Tino Carraro) thinks she's mad, her doctor (Elio Zamuto) has this kooky theory that the moon is affecting her brain, and Inspector Modica (Frederick Stanford) simply wants to lock her up. Since when has it become a crime to run naked through woods? I know it was probably against the law in 1785, but this is the 1970s, baby; writhing naked underneath a tree is mandatory.

We get a firsthand look at how important writhing naked in the vicinity of a tree is to a werewolf woman when the film opens with just that: lot's of naked dirt writhing. Starting off somewhere in 18th century Europe, Annik Borel plays a woman who isn't afraid to hurl her blonde pussy to and fro like an under-stuffed rag doll. Dancing naked in the middle of a flaming circle, the woman eventually grows hair and starts to howl at the moon. Interrupting her howling session are a group of reactionaries in tri-cornered hats wielding torches and axes. When one of the reactionaries gets too close to where the hirsute woman is hiding, she bites him on the neck. Realizing that neck-biting is hard work, the woman finishes him off by axing him in the head; why bite when you can axe?

Ultimately caught by the mob, the werewolf woman is burnt at the stake. Just as her screams of agony were starting to pierce the night air, Daniela wakes up in a fright. Disturbed that her daughter is having nightmares about a long dead ancestor who may or may not have been a werewolf, her father consults a physician. The next morning everything things seem fine, as Daniela and her father are lounging by their pool. This scene gives us our first daytime look at Annik Borel's stunning frame, which is adorned with a skimpy black bikini. It's too bad their leggy maid had to come over and upstage her, because Annik had the audience eating out of the palm of her hand; no fooling, I felt like a goat at a petting zoo.

The reason the leggy maid, who I think was called Anna, intruded on Daniela's sunbathing was to tell them that her sister Elena (Dagmar Lassander) and her boyfriend Fabian are coming over tomorrow. And judging by the annoyed expression on her face when the news is delivered, Daniela is not looking forward to their visit. You think she's annoyed now. Wait until she finds out that her sister's boyfriend looks exactly like the guy her ancestor axed in the head back in the 18th century.

To call Daniela's demeanour around Elena, who's wearing a chic turquoise gown, cold and detached would be understatement. While Elena and Fabian have sex in the guest room, Daniela is giving herself a self-massage while wearing a diaphanous nightgown in the hallway. The cool thing about Daniela's nightgown, besides being diaphanous and junk, was the large the slit that allowed easy access to her thighs and vagina. And, of course, Daniela takes full advantage of this. Oh, and before she goes into the hallway to touch herself in an erotic manner, Daniela is visited by a ghost with bloody arms and is groped by a lizard.

If you thought Daniela's diaphanous nightgown looked great in a hallway setting, you should see it out in the woods. Luring Fabian into the aforementioned woods with the lankiness of her naked body, Daniela bites him on the neck. Scratch that, "bites him on the neck" sounds to quaint. No, what Daniela does to Fabian was akin to a good old fashion throat ripping.

After dumping his body in a gully, Daniela is found unconscious in the woods. Covered with red splotches, Daniela wakes up in the hospital surrounded by doctors. Hey, doc. Maybe she wouldn't be covered with so many red splotches if you didn't insist on poking them, you glorified pervert. Actually, the doctor loses all his pervert cred when he casually dismisses the flirtatious advances of the crazed patient in the hall. It's obvious that the crazed patient in the hall has been camped out on that spot waiting for the good doctor to stroll on by. And when he does, finally stroll on by, that is, she whips out her right breast. Showing it to him with a sense of pride, the crazed patient in the hall asks the doctor, "Pretty nice, huh?" Gesturing toward her naked breast with the full force of her expressive eyebrows. As she is boasting about her realness, "I'm a real woman," the doctor tells to her to go bed.

To add insult to injury, the doctor says, "Breasts, legs, they're all the same to me. I'm a doctor." What the... I don't often use the h-word, but I fucking hate this guy. The manner in which the doctor ignored the crazed patient in the hall's advances depressed the hell out of me. I know, doctors aren't supposed to have sex with their patients. However, if you're doctor, and you happen to find yourself in a movie called "Werewolf Woman," you're totally allowed to have sex with your patients, especially if they're crazed and have a tendency to stand seductively in hospital hallways.

Growing increasingly inpatient with the whole being strapped to a hospital bed thing (her blonde pussy is aching to run free in the woods), Daniela starts to writhe and hurl insults at the staff; even her sister gets an earful when she attempts to pay a visit ("I hate you! You whore!").

You know what Daniela needs? She needs to feel the loving embrace that only the crazed patient in the hall can provide. Stalking the halls in a skimpy black negligee, the crazed patient, who has tried to make herself more pretty by applying make-up to her face (I'd give her impromptu make-up job four handjobs out of five), tiptoes toward Daniela's room. Entering gams first, the crazed patient can't believe her luck. Lying before her is probably the most glorious hunk of womanhood she has ever stumbled upon. Unsure where her groping focus should start, the crazed patient molests Daniela's body with a chaotic brand of impishness.

When Daniela bites the crazed patient's hand (like I said, her groping-sphere was erratic), the crazed patient begins the realize that maybe she's not the one who's crazed.

Now, I don't want to give away what happens next. But let's just say I was none too pleased. Anyway, Daniela escapes from the hospital, and hits the open road. Killing almost everyone she comes in contact with (rapists, random women), Daniela eventually settles down with a stuntman (Howard Ross), who is living in a house located on an abandoned western-themed movie set. How long will Daniela be able to resist the urge to rip out the throat of her new beau? Only time will tell. But like they say, once a werewolf woman, always a werewolf woman.

What I liked most about Werewolf Woman, besides Annik Borel's fearless and outre performance (she gives new meaning to the word gusto) and the killer soundtrack, was the fact that Daniela wasn't really a werewolf, or was she? Sure, she liked to bite people, but she managed to do so without the aide of fur or fangs. No, what Daniela represents is a new breed of woman; one that likes the outdoors and one that happens to enjoy tearing out throats. You could call the film a feminist allegory. But I won't be doing that. Why? Because I don't feel like it. If you were to edit out all the dull scenes that featured men discussing Daniela's condition, you would have a classic on your hands.

Oh, and if anyone knows the name of the actress who plays "the crazed patient in the hall," please, don't hesitate to let me know.

trailer uploaded by SuperDavidgc

Hey, you. Yeah, you. Come here. Go away. You, come here. Go away. Go away. Come here. No, seriously. Come here. Do you like movies about werewolves? What am I saying? Of course you do. What about women in prison flicks, do they scratch your fancy and tickle your itch? Judging by the intensity of your nodding motions, I'll take that as a yes. Well, I have sort of good news for you. Someone finally decided to get off their hairy ass and make a werewolf in a women's prison movie. Oh, and if you're wondering what this werewolf in a women's prison masterpiece is called, wonder no more. It goes by the ingenious name: Werewolf in a Women's Prison. I know, pretty clever, eh? Actually, now that I think about it, I don't really have to type anymore words. It's all there. Where, you ask? Just read the film's title aloud, and you're already halfway to comprehension town. You're probably thinking to yourself, aren't you worried that your imaginary boss is going to get upset by the lack of words? Not at all. The cool thing about having an imaginary boss is that they're imaginary. In other words, you don't have to listen to a word they say. Why? Well, for one thing, they're not real. But don't worry, I'll think of something to say. Sure, everything you need to know about Werewolf in a Women's Prison can be found within its straightforward title. But you don't think I'm going let Eva Derrek's shapely nooks and Phoebe Dollar's dynamic crannies wiggle through my steely grasp without getting the lavish tongue bath they so rightly deserve? I don't think so. Speaking of tongue baths, you don't think I'm going to let the tongue bath scene off the hook when it comes time to dole out praise? You'd be a fool to think otherwise. Besides, while there's so much less to this film than meets the eye, there's also so much more.

You might have noticed, or you might not have noticed all-together, what do I know, that I said, "sort of good news," as supposed to saying just "good news," when referring to the existence of this genre mash-up from writer-director Jeff Leroy and writer Vinnie Bilancio. Well, that's because the film doesn't quite live up to its title. Don't get me wrong, the film has its Jess Franco in the right place, it's just that I'm not a big fan of digital splatter. I like my stockings tight, my green tea lukewarm, and I like my arterial spray to be practical. Meaning, every time I saw gore that was obviously rendered using one of them newfangled computers, I slowly felt myself being sucked out of the picture.

That being said, the werewolf was a guy in a suit and the women were completely natural. Yep, the werewolf has real fur and the women have real breasts (yes, I'm leering at you, Yurizan Beltrán). Funny, I could have sworn I heard someone yell, "Hallelujah," as I typed the part of about the breasts being real. There it is again. Someone just shouted "Hallelujah." It would seem that whenever I put the words "real" and "breasts" in the same sentence, that's what I hear. And, I must say, as a stem enthusiast, it's fucking annoying.

Keep your ugly fuckin' goldbrickin' booby-lovin' ass out of my leg appreciating beach community.

Now that I got that out of the way, welcome to Campuna! Come for the camping, stay for the confined cunnilingus. And a youngish couple, Sarah Ragdale (Victoria de Mare) and Jack (Vinnie Bilancio) have done just that. Except, nowhere in the brochure does it say anything about being attacked by werewolves. It's too bad they didn't heed the warning of that gas station employee they mocked openly during a moment of pre-coitus levity, because they're about to regret the day they ever decided come to Campuna.

Attacked by a werewolf while investigating a noise outside their tent, Jack is brutally mauled. Leaving Sarah to fend for herself, she unwittingly manages to kill the beast by dousing it with vodka that's been laced with silver flakes and setting it alight. And, as we all know, werewolves are deathly allergic to silver.

Unfortunately, she was bitten on the shoulder during the altercation with the werewolf, and eventually passes out. Where do you think Sarah wakes up? Welcome to Campuna Prison. Come for the confined cunnilingus, stay for the...actually, confined cunnilingus is the only thing on the menu in this joint, so, it looks like you're coming and staying for the confined cunnilingus.

Damn, girl. I wish I could wake up tied to a metal table, bloody and bruised, and still have lips to die for. What am I babbling about? Yo, V.I.P., check out Victoria de Mare's lips during the metal table scene, they're freaking fabulous. I wonder what the exact name of that particular shade of pinkish red is? I wonder if she mentions the colour on the DVD commentary track? I wonder the stupidest shit sometimes. By the way, the reason Sarah Ragdale is tied to a metal table is because the authorities think she killed Jack. Okay, that makes sense. But why is Mistress Rita (Jackeline Olivier) rubbing Sarah's nipples and manhandling her thighs? You're obviously not from around these parts. It's a traditional Campunian greeting. Just kidding, Rita likes to feel up chicks; it's kind of her thing.

Slapping a ball gag over her mouth, Rita takes Sarah, who, besides the ball gag (I hope it doesn't ruin her lipstick), is wearing nothing but a white thong and these cute little ankle socks, to see Juan the warden (Domiziano Archangeli). After her attempt to convince them that a werewolf killed Jack goes nowhere, Sarah demands that she see a lawyer. This request is met with laughter and prankish derision, and she is taken to her cell.

Oh, I almost forgot, before being taken to her cell, Mistress Rita takes some pictures of Sarah picking up coins in nothing but a pair of skimpy jean shorts for her website, prisongirlsgonebad.com.

As an inmate named Angel (Meredith Salenger) is being felt up by Rita (seriously, feeling up chicks is her thing) for cigarettes, Sarah bonds with her leggy roommate, Rachel (Eva Derrek, Miss Germany International 2002).

Remember when I said that Werewolf in a Women's Prison had its Jess Franco in the right place? Well, it's also got its John Landis in the right place. Using the similar storytelling technique employed in John Landis' An American Werewolf in London, they have a bloodied Jack visit Sarah every so often to give her advice on how to handle "the curse."

Ignoring his advice, Sarah shows the first signs of "the curse" when she discovers that her bite wound has already healed. The next comes when she confronts the Eva Derrek-esque Crystal (Kristan Zaik) and her goons, including Serina (Berna Roberts), in the prison's courtyard after they start to harass Rachel. Tossing them aside like they weren't even there, Sarah makes short work of them. Eventually tranquilized by a guard named Garcia (the Krumholtzian Neto DePaula Pimenta), Sarah and Rachel are punished.

Please tell me that their punishment involves being chained in the desert and forced to wear nothing but a pair of white panties? It does. Yes! And not only that, to survive, Sarah and Rachel resort to licking each other's sweat. This movie not only has its Jess Franco and its John Landis in the right place, it has its reticulated crotch in the right place as well.

It's only a matter of time before Sarah goes on a killing spree (there's a full moon tonight), and when she does so, it's a cornucopia of flesh-tearing ghastliness. It's hard to put my finger on my favourite gore effect during this orgy of violence, as they're all awesome (even the scene where Sindy Lange is torn in half). But if I had to choose one, it would be the part where they implied that the scumbag who the warden let rape Rachel (who is chained to a pole) continued to thrust long after his head had been removed by Sarah's shewolf. What can I say? I'm a big fan of scenes where men are killed during sex. I like how their dead bodies desperately try to continue thrusting like nothing ever happened.

I'll admit, I started to lose interest in the film the moment Sarah and Rachel attempt to flee the prison. But that always seems to occur when I watch women in prison films. I guess I get so used to the characters being confined, that I can't quite adjust to them being in the outside world; the same thing happens whenever I watch Logan's Run. Thankfully, they're captured by The Badger (Al Burke) and brought back to the prison. In case you're wondering, the reason Juan the warden doesn't kill Sarah is because he wants to make money off her affliction–you know, Welcome to Campuna Prison. Come for the confined cunnilingus, stay for the werewolf women.

Even though I thought Victoria de Mare and Eva Derrek were amazing as the film's two leads (the latter actually reminded me of Rosalba Neri - I know, that's high praise), I couldn't keep my eyes off Phoebe Dollar as "Maria," a.k.a. Girl with Chain. Since the prison population was decimated by Sarah's rampage, Juan the warden decides to replenish the ranks. And that's where Phoebe Dollar comes in. Brought into the prison with two other women, Charlene Harding and Natalie Stone, Phoebe Dollar sort of just stands around at first. But I knew she had something the moment I saw her. And she proves I wasn't wrong when she attempts to take on Sarah's werewolf armed only with a chain.

Now, her confrontation with the Sarah's werewolf doesn't quite live up to the hype (the way the director builds up the tension surrounding their showdown was a bit of a letdown), but Phoebe Dollar does get several close-ups. And judging by what I saw during these close-ups, I think it's safe to say that I want more Phoebe Dollar in my life.

video uploaded by Jeff Leroy

Everyday, millions of people pay good money to watch the bodies of their fellow human beings penetrated by bullets fired from guns; and do so, I might add, with a relaxed ease. Yet, if you enjoy watching the bodies of those very same human beings penetrated by, let's say, nails fired from a nail gun, you're a bed-wetting psychopath with a ten-inch taint. What's the difference, you ask? Both are pointy pieces of metal used to penetrate various objects. If you think about, what's more sick: A projectile that is specifically designed to disrupt the operational integrity of little Bobby and little Sally's vital organs, or a small metal spike that is primarily used to keep things together. I, for one, am more perturbed by the item that was made to hurt, maim and kill. However, what I think the majority of people find most disturbing about the whole tools being used in ways they weren't originally conceived phenomenon is that it's not natural. Tell someone you used a high-powered assault rifle to murder a bunch of people, they'll probably give you a medal. On the other hand, if word gets out that you used a nail gun to kill a bunch of working class rapists, you could be looking at some serious jail time. You see, by utilizing a weapon that is considered unorthodox by a society that is obsessed with guns threatens the normalcy of violence. Kill with the right tool, and we will look the other way. Kill with the wrong tool, and it will be your partially decomposed body they'll be fishing out of the river come sundown. Holy crap! My initial reaction to watching The Nail Gun Massacre, a grisly tale of revenge, boobies, and improbable defensive wounds straight out of the wilds of Texas, was off the charts in terms of profundity. You could argue that I put more thought into the first three or four sentences of this review than any scene that takes place in this movie. But I'm not going to do that. Filmmakers Bill Leslie and Terry Lofton should be commended, not ridiculed, for what they managed to accomplish with just a black motorcycle helmet, a gold-coloured hearse, a vocoder, a nail gun and a shitload of sticktoitiveness.

Why anyone in the right mind would make a horror film where the killer at its centre didn't use a nail gun is beyond the reaches of my limited brand of comprehension. Think it about. Bullet wounds are so boring. They're just bloody holes. And get this, they're totally empty. Audiences the world over are being entertained by empty holes. How apropos.

The holes created by a nail gun are a different story all-together. And it's pretty simple to make a nail gun wound. All you have to do is get a bunch of nails (a trip to the local hardware store should suffice). Cut them in half using a saw (another trip to the local hardware store should suffice). Throw the pointy ends away, or donate them to charity. Glue the now pointless nail to the part of the body you want to imply was penetrated. Smear the effected area with a suitable blood substitute. And voilà, you have yourself a bloody wound that was created by a nail.

In order to justify the use of a nail gun as the weapon of choice for your revenge-laden massacre, something pretty terrible had better have occurred. And boy, does it ever in the opening scene of The Nail Gun Massacre. Even though the synthy synth flourish that accompanies the heinous act that kick starts this film was the synthiest slab of synthesizer-related goodness to ever synth its way into my synth-loving subconscious, the gang rape of Linda (Michelle Meyer), a lumberyard employee, by six construction workers on a mound of dirt still managed to shock and appall.

Pay close attention to the faces of the men doing the raping, as you'll be seeing them soon. Even the one's who appear to be only watching? What are you talking about? Only watching? They were the one's holding her down. Either way, they deserve what's coming to them. Yeah, okay. Fine. But what about all the people who are killed that had nothing to do with the gang rape? Good question. The seemingly random way the nail gun killer chose his or her victims was what made the film so compelling. And, yes, the gender of the nail gun avenger is a bit of a mystery. And not just because their wearing a black motorcycle helmet with black tape over the visor. You see, the nail gun killer uses a synthesizer or "vocoder" to disguise their voice. And if that sounds awesome. You're absolutely right, it fucking is.

While we don't get any lingering shots of any of the rapists, I'm not having any trouble whatsoever believing that Leroy Johnson (Jerry Nelson) could be construed as a rapist, as he practically oozes rape. Okay, we get it, he's a rapist. Move on. Yeah, but I have this theory I want to share about the correlation between hairy shoulders and sexual violence. Save it for another day. At any rate, as far as killers go, you can't get any cooler than the sight of a man, or a woman, in a black motorcycle helmet, black combat boots, and a camouflage jumpsuit wielding a nail gun. The coolest aspect about their ensemble was the yellow air tank and matching chord that powered the nail gun, as the colour yellow gave the killer's look some much needed pizazz.

You''ll notice that most of the victims of nail gun avenger are killed via defensive wounds. Meaning, if you put your hand up in a veiled attempt to block the swirling mass of nails that are about to come your way, there's a good chance the nails will go through your hand and into the place you were originally trying to prevent the nail from going. For example, if I was going to put my hand up to shield my eyes from being riddled with nails, the nails would go through my hand and into, you guessed it, the very eyes I was trying to shield. Well, this happens to Leroy. Except, the fatal nail that enters his hand winded up going between his eyes. Which prompts the nail gun avenger to say something about the worst headaches being the one's that occur between the eyes.

You might not know it by looking at them, but the nail gun avenger is a master when it comes to dispensing puns squarely onto the nail-adorned laps of his victims. The quips uttered while standing over Leroy's nail-ridden body are just beginning the of the flurry of one-liners that are about to be hurled throughout this movie.

On top of zingers, the nail gun avenger's laugh is also quite memorable. Do you remember when the members of Skinny Puppy and à;GRUMH... teamed up to form A Chud Convention, a side project that produced one 12 inch single? It's okay if you don't. Anyway, the nail gun avenger's laugh reminded me of A Chud Convention. Now, the fact that the nail gun avenger's laugh caused me to think of an obscure Skinny Puppy/à;GRUMH... side project doesn't make me better than you, it just means that I'm hooked up differently.

Speaking of being hooked up differently, at this point, most people would say that the nail gun avenger's confrontation with Leroy in his kitchen was synonymous with every other scene that takes place in The Nail Gun Massacre. In other words, it would be foolhardy to continue writing about a film that can be easily summed up by looking over the words I just typed about the Nail Gun Avenger vs. Leroy the Rapist confrontation. However, I have chosen to soldier on, as the film is much more than a pathetic excuse to show topless women brushing their hair while their boyfriends go off to chop wood, it's a way of life.

After instructing his top heavy girlfriend (Staci Gordon) to play doctor with herself, Mark (Mike Coady) heads out to the woods to cut wood with his buddy Brad (Randy Hayes). You can pretty much guess where this is going. As Brad is about to pull down Mike's pants and begin massaging his cock with the inside part of his manly mouth, the nail gun avenger...Just kidding. Mike and Brad are strictly there to cut wood, and to get murdered by a mysterious figure carrying a nail gun.

While a wide array people come and go in The Nail Gun Massacre universe, the Sheriff (Ron Queen) and Doc (Rocky Patterson) are, besides the nail gun gun avenger, the film's main characters. Which is kinda unfortunate, because they're not that interesting. In fact, the actor playing the Sheriff can't even stand still in a convincing manner. As the Sheriff and Doc are hovering over the nail-ridden bodies of the two totally not-gay wood cutters, we're introduced to John (John Price), Tom (Charlers Ledeate), and Maxine (Joann Hazelbarth) as they're buying groceries. Again, like the scene where the Sheriff and Doc stand around the nail-ridden bodies of Mark and Brad, this one doesn't seem to go anywhere.

Things seem to pick up in the next scene when we get our first glimpse of the nail gun avenger's golden hearse. Stopping to pick up a hitchhiker (Thom Meyers), the nail gun avenger proceeds to fill him full of nails. Why this guy deserved to be nailed to the road, I'll never know; I don't recall seeing him at the gang rape. But it does give the nail gun avenger the opportunity to unleash some pithy one-liners. My favourite being: "Hitchhikers are all alike, stuck on the road."

I must say, I like the pace in which the characters are killed off in this movie. I mean, just as I was getting tired of them, they're filled with nails and quickly replaced. However, the next group of nail gun victims do overstay their welcome somewhat. That being said, this group does feature Connie Speer as the easily frazzled Trish, a Ritz cracker-loving biker chick. What's so great about her? Well, I tell you. She's the only person in this film who knows how to act.

Left alone in a clearing while her friend Ben (Michael Bendall) goes looking for their other friends, Hal (John Rudder) and Ann (Shelly York), who have yet to return from their tryst in the woods, Trish eagerly awaits their return with bated breath. Growing increasingly concerned about her own well-being, Trish proceeds to lose her shit gradually over time. The way the camera stays on her during the entirety of her meltdown created a real sense of dread. Sure, we know exactly what happened to Trish's friends, but she doesn't. And Connie Speer was able to sell this fact rather convincingly. If you need further proof of Connie Speer's talent. Oh, what's that? You don't need further proof. Oh, well, nonetheless, check out John Price's pathetic attempt to console Trish in her time of need, as it's clear which of them has any talent; let me give you a hint, it's not Mr. Price.

While the prize for acting in The Nail Gun Massacre universe definitely has to go to Connie Speer, the hottie award sees Kit Mitchell as "Lover on Car #2" and Taleesa Van-Tassel as "Waitress #1" battling it out during the film's drive-in/lover's lane sequence. Though, I have to say, Kim Mathis, who plays the daughter of one of the construction site gang rapists (he's nailed pool side, landing on top of a lit barbeque - ouch!), does look amazing in a bikini.

One of the construction site gang rapists, Lover on Car #1 (Roger Payne), decides to take his "date," Lover on Car #2 (Kit Mitchell), to get a grilled cheese sandwich and some fries at a local drive-in. Sounds innocent enough. Only problem is, Car on Lover #1's girlfriend works there. Actually, I'm not quite sure what the status of the relationship between Lover on Car #1 and Waitress #1 (Taleesa Van-Tassel) is exactly. But I do know this, Lover on Car #1 is having second thoughts about pulling into this particular drive-in.

The reason I'm having trouble deciding who wins The Nail Gun Massacre hottie award is because both Kit and Taleesa looked so good in white short-shorts. I guess if you like big breasts, Kit would be the obvious winner. But Taleesa looked so scrumptious in that red and white cowboy shirt. Damn. Talk about your tough decisions.

After nailing two ladies who were taking a stroll (the nail gun avenger has long since deviated from their original mission statement, which was: to kill rapists) and nailing a couple of morons who were having a nail gun fight at a construction site, the nail gun avenger finally runs out of nails. No, actually, they seem to have plenty of nails. In reality, I don't think there's anyone left for the nail gun avenger to kill. Which isnot the case, either (they could still kill/nail the Sheriff and Doc). What I think I'm trying to say is, the film ends just about when it should end. Boasting plenty of nail gun kills and, oh, let's just say, some interesting acting choices, The Nail Gun Massacre is the low budget horror at its finest.

Wait. No one is going to buy that. If you like films that feature genderless avengers in motorcycle helmets who wield unorthodox weaponry set to synthesizer music, you can't do better than The Nail Gun Massacre. How about this: I loved it so much, I bought a Nail Gun Massacre t-shirt at Fright-Rags the very next day. All right, now that's an endorsement.

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Just recently, I decided to cease watching a culturally irrelevant reality show that I had been diligently tuning into for the past twelve years. (I know, what a colossal waste of time). Now, I don't want to say the name of the particular program, especially not out loud, as I would rather not sully this space with its stupid ass name. But let's just say, it's one the original shows that launched the so-called reality show craze that has been infecting our attention deficit disorder-laden consciousness like a bad head cold for nearly a decade and a half. Am I attempting to compare my decision to stop to watching a television show to heroin withdrawal? No, I am not. What I'm doing is, I'm trying to tap into the mindset of an addict. You see, I'm not addicted to anything. Sure, I'm addicted to glamour. But then again, who isn't? Seriously, though, forced Party Monster references aside, I can't picture myself getting to a place where I'm desperate enough to sell my Universal Indicator (Red) 12 inch to a guy on the street for seventeen bucks in order to feed my debilitating drug habit. Well, at least not when I was fourteen. And that's exactly the age of the protagonist who wanders, well, staggers, she mostly staggers, the austere nooks and crannies of the Bahnhof Zoo in Christiane F., the gritty West Berlin-set drug addiction movie that manages to depress and inspire in equal measure. Yes, I'm afraid, as downbeat as this film is, it will cause a fair amount of inspiration. Of course, I'm not implying that the film, directed by Uli Edel and based on the non-fiction book Christiane F. – We Children from Bahnhof Zoo, will motivate young people to dabble with intravenous drug use and teenage prostitution. What I am saying is, it will inspire young people to become David Bowie fans. And the powers that be don't want that, as they fear The Thin White Duke. They fear him? The guy who's married to Iman and sang "China Girl"? I can see them fearing Judas Priest or Motörhead, but David Bowie? You bet they do. Bands like the one's I just mentioned inspire nothing more than uncouth behaviour in parking lots. On the other hand, David Bowie inspires creativity and open-mindedness in others.

Unfortunately, none of that occurs to a Berlin teenager named Christiane (Natja Brunckhorst), who contradicts everything I just said about David Bowie fans by going on the world's most dramatic downward spiral. "Oh my T V C one five, oh oh, T V C one five."

When we first meet Christiane, she seems like the last person you'd expect to see turning tricks to buy junk. But that's the power of liquid sky, it can alter the DNA of even the most innocuous of souls.

Looming large over the proceedings, the music of David Bowie drives the early scenes of the movie (the eerie "V-2 Schneider" opens the film). However, it's a poster for a niteclub called simply "Sound," Europe's latest discotheque, that pushes Christiane toward her date with cult movie infamy. Using a well-connected friend, Kessi (Daniela Jaeger), Christiane is able to enter its neon-adorned doors with minimal hassle (the age requirement to enter is apparently sixteen, but they don't seem that interested in enforcing it). Surveying the scene with a wide-eyed sense of wonder, Christiane orders a "cherry juice" and absorbs the glossy splendour percolating before her very eyes, as David Bowie's "Look Back in Anger" ("waiting so long, I've been waiting so...") blasts triumphantly in the background.

On top of being the place to listen to David Bowie music while sipping on cherry juice, Sound also has its own movie theatre. Playing Night of the Living Dead, Christiane is set up with some guy who is all hands. Unimpressed by his pawing antics, Christiane heads to the washroom to try the acid she was given. As she's doing so, she spots a guy passed out in one of the stalls with a needle sticking out of in his arm. Thinking he's dead, Christiane runs out of the club, where she proceeds to vomit.

Remember when Christiane was surveying the scene? Well, you'll notice as she's doing so that she shares a brief yet telling glance with a guy with a teenage mustache. Now, I didn't think much of it when it occurs, but that glance actually spoke volumes. Guess who's there to hand Christiane a napkin after she's finished throwing up? That's right. It's faint mustache boy. And from now on, he's not faint mustache boy, he's Detlev (Thomas Haustein), the second most important character in the Christiane F. universe.

Oh, and the guy in the toilet stall wasn't dead. Sure, he may look like a living corpse, but he ain't dead.

What kind of person gives a David Bowie fan "Changesonebowie" as a present? I guess it's the thought that counts (the boyfriend of Christiane's mother gives her the album as a gift).

Is there anything more exhilarating than a bunch of unruly teens running through an empty shopping mall to the sound David Bowie's "Heroes"? Epic. Iconic. Badass. On a personal note, the moment I first heard "Heroes" back in the day was when I first realized that David Bowie was cool. You see, when I was introduced to David Bowie, it was via "Let's Dance" and "Modern Love." Don't get me wrong, they're good songs, but they don't quite reach the coolness level of "Heroes." And the way the song used in Christiane F. only managed to solidify its coolness.

Worshiping him as if he really were a hero, Christiane looks up to Detlev; she even gives herself the same exact hand tattoo as him. Only problem is, Detlev doesn't seem to feel the same way about her. Spotting him with another girl at Sound, as David Bowie's "Station to Station" (the "it's too late" part is doing its Bowie thing on the soundtrack), Christiane soon realizes that everyone, and I mean, everyone, in the joint is strung out on heroin. She comes to this conclusion when she looks into the eyes of Axel (Jens Kuphal), one of Detlev's drug buddies.

This realization becomes even more apparent at the David Bowie concert. As bikers brawl and "Boys Keep Swinging" plays over the venue's P.A. system, Christiane asks Axel, "Apart from me, am I the only one who doesn't shoot up"? Or maybe he asks him that after the concert. Before or after, it doesn't matter, you don't have be a genius to figure out that Christiane feels left out. The decision to start a trendy heroin habit is the hardest decision a teenager has to make. Think about it, once you start, there's no turning back.

The seconds leading up to Christiane's decision to try heroin are some of the film's most intense. You want her to go home; you might even find yourself yelling "go home" at the screen. But there's nothing you can do to stop a teen who desperately wants to fit in. Hell, even Axel tells her, multiple times, that it's not a good idea. To emphasize the whole "there's no turning back" motif, we're shown a long, dark tunnel after Christiane takes her first hit (instead of shooting up, she snorts it).

Even though Detlev objects to the fact that Christiane is copying him (the hand tattoo, the trendy heroin habit, etc.), he accepts her into the fold. In other words, Christiane's plan worked perfectly. The downside being, trendy heroin habits cost money. If you're wondering how Detlev manages to afford a trendy heroin habit. He explains to Christiane that he gives men, or "punters," as they're known, handjobs in exchange for cash. And most of these handjobs are performed in and around the Bahnhof Berlin Zoologischer Garten, a.k.a. the "Zoo."

You know it's only a matter of time before Christiane is shooting up (snorting is for amateurs) and giving handjobs like the rest of her friends. And you know what that means? Cue the downward spiral. If you thought spending all your birthday money on heroin was the definition of rock bottom, you're in for a nasty surprise. When she's not injecting heroin directly into her bloodstream, Christiane spends most of her time looking for her next fix. That's right, heroin addiction is a full-time job. Firmly ensconced within her family of underage drug addicts, including Babsi (Christiane Reichelt), Stella (Kristin Richter), and Bernd (Jan Georg Effler), Christiane seems to be on the road to ruin.

Despite being hard to watch, there is a glimmer of hope for Christiane and Detlev when they both decide to withdraw together; a harrowing sequence replete emaciated bodies twitching, wallpaper ripping, cramping in the foetal position, and projectile vomit. However, it's obvious that their flirtation with sobriety will be fleeting at best.

To give everyone a sense of the magnitude of the problem, we follow Christiane as she walks through the subway (David Bowie's "Sense Of Doubt" is playing on the soundtrack), where we get a firsthand look at the sheer size of the city's heroin epidemic. Walking in a perpetual haze, the wide-eyed Natja Brunkhorst we met in the film's opening scenes has long since been replaced by a dark-eyed shell of her former self. Unrelenting in its portrayal of the so-called "lost generation," Christiane F. is beautifully bleak. Yeah, I like that, "beautifully bleak." Not to toot my own horn too loudly, but I think that sums up the appeal of the film perfectly. It's not often that you come across a film that manages to suck you into its frightfully specific universe, but Chrsitiane F. is definitely one of those rare instances where art and tragedy collide to make cinematic gold together.

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I'm no junkie, but I don't think it's safe to inject heroin directly into your eye. Hell, I don't think it's safe to inject heroin into half the places it's shot into in Hanna D. - The Girl from Vondel Park (Hanna D. - La Ragazza del Vondel Park), the grittiest film about drug-addled teen prostitutes to ever find its way onto the polluted, dingy as fuck shoreline that is my perverted mind. Even though needles filled with heroin are inexplicably crammed into every orifice imaginable, I'm not going to be one of those non-Italians assholes who sits on their throne of smugness picking apart Italian cinema like it were some sort of ill-conceived game. My aura, much like this film's protagonist, needs sleaze to survive. And, I must say, the film, written and directed by Rino Di Silvestro (Werewolf Woman) and edited by none other than Bruno Mattei (Hell of the Living Dead), delivers so much sleaze, that needed to stop the film every so often to catch my breath. Based the novel...um, I don't think this movie is based on a novel. All right, how 'bout this: A loose collection of thoughts and ideas that were floating around inside the heads of Rino Di Silvestro and Hervé Piccini, the downward spiral the titular character takes will shake you to your very core. Yet, at the same time, it will also cause your genitals to become engorged with blood. And depending on the genital model you received when you were born, you might feel as if someone has shoved a small stick, or a large branch (I don't want to discriminate), down your pants. What you do with the frightfully hard appendage languishing in your trousers as a direct result of watching this awe-inspiring slab of cinema is completely up to you (it's one of the few freedoms we have left in this increasingly fascist society). But the fact that you're able to contemplate such a decision with any semblance of poise or dignity is the biggest complement you can give an Italian made, Amsterdam set exploitation film.

Most films, depending on their fetishistic girth, will induce you to plunge one, or both (I don't want to discriminate), of your hands down your pants almost immediately (no plunging necessary for all you sweatpants enthusiasts out there out in Slackistan - that's funny. no, not the "Slackistan" bit -- that was stupid -- you rarely ever see the words "sweatpants" and "enthusiast" used in the same sentence). In fact, most, films, that is, are designed to promote hand plunging during the actual film (no waiting required, plunge at will). But not this film, it drags you through so much muck, that you'll want to take a shower (a sort of upright bath) before you think about plunging your hand(s) down anything.

Quick question: Shouldn't it be "Sweatpantsistan"? Sweat what? I don't think so. But they're not wearing slacks, they're wearing sweatpants. Hence, Sweatpantsistan. Oh, I see. No, it's called "Slackistan" because they're slackers. I don't get it. You see, people who wear sweatpants in a non-athletic environment are often seen as lazy. And slacker is just another word for lazy. And "Slackistan" sort of sounds like Pakistan, and therein lies the humour. Whatever. It's still stupid.

You would think, from the way I'm describing it, that there wouldn't be much leeway in this film when it comes to plunging hands into arenas that once boasted slumbering genitals. Oh, really, I say sheepishly to myself, knowing full well that my memory bank contains many images that contradict the crux of the writer's opening salvo. Wait a second, I need a hit of oxygen.

I have fifteen words for you: Prostitutes fighting one another in naturally inclement weather while wearing heels, stockings and fur coats. Are you sure that's fifteen words? Who gives a flying fuck? Did you see the words I just typed?

Look them over carefully. Study them. Read them aloud if you have to. It's what awesome looks it.

Just the mere fact that the weather was naturally inclement was enough to make me employ three celebratory fist pumps in quick succession. Really? The weather made you do that? It's not just weather, it's naturally inclement weather. Oh, yes, there's a difference. One of my biggest pet peeves about movies is how phony the weather is. Nothing annoys me more than the over the top rainfall used in most movies. And, believe me, I've seen a lot of fake rain over the years. However, on that rare occasion when I do spot inclement weather that seems to be occurring naturally the way nature intended, I get excited. And in Hanna D - The Girl from Vondel Park, the weather is naturally inclement as all get out.

In order to make Hanna D. - The Girl from Vondel Park seem more like Christiane F. - We Children from Bahnhoff Zoo, the film starts off in a train station. But that's where the similarities end. Wearing a saucy beret, a grey skirt, and white knee socks, Hanna Daniels (Ann-Gisel Glass), or "Hanna D.," is innocence personified. Or is she? Aboard a train docked, or are they parked? Whatever. Aboard a train in Amsterdam, it would seem that Hanna D. is a prostitute and the train she's on is a kind of makeshift brothel.

Ushering tricks into her rail car by her kindly pimp (he winks at her to reassure her every so often), Hanna D. does the naive schoolgirl routine for a wide array of perverts and lowlifes. Entering her rail car on this occasion is Nikolai (who is not played by James Garner), a man who wants to explore the subtle peaks and valleys of Hanna D.'s undercarriage, which are currently being suffocated by a wispy pair of white panties.

Sitting with her legs crossed while reading a comic book, Hanna D. teases Nikolai by slowly uncrossing them. In doing so, she reveals a hint of her panties. Unbuttoning her shirt while Nikolai's focus is primarily on her crotch, Hanna D. gently caresses her boyish nipples with her fingers. After all he's been put through, you'll be surprised to learn that Nikolai doesn't want to have sex with Hanna D. Actually, he probably wants to, it's just that he doesn't...have sex with her. Anyway, as her next client is being brought into her rail car, Hanna D. grabs a doll from her bag and starts to play with it. Like I said, the naive schoolgirl routine is her stock and trade.

Why does Hanna D. have to work as a prostitute, you ask? Well, don't look now, but we're soon going to find out. She's blonde, she's shapely, and she's an alcoholic. Meet Hanna D.'s mother, Pearl (Karin Schubert), the most erratic parent or guardian this side of Utrecht. Drinking alone in her white fur robe after being ditched by her in-house boy-toy Hans (Hanna D. gives Hans - who Pearl calls a "clap-giver" - an upskirt peepshow on the stairs as he's on his way out), Pearl welcomes Hanna D. home with a nonsensical helping of verbal diarrhea and milfy staggering.

Since Hanna D. can't eat milfy staggering for dinner, she takes a shower while Pearl complains to herself in the mirror. Admiring the exquisite lumpiness of her robust body, yet bemoaning its very lumpiness simultaneously, Pearl is, to put it mildly, a mess.

With so much domestic distress, it's no wonder Hanna D. turns to the dark side. And where is this dark side, exactly? Just follow the trail of used syringes and broken dreams. In a dilapidated building on the outskirts of town, we meet, oh, let's call him, Peter (Fausto Lombardi), because he reminded me of Peter Weller, a drug dealer, as he's giving a customer a free sample of his latest product. As he sends the junkie packing, he says to her, "Have a good trip..." but mumbles to himself "to Hell." I thought this scene was quite telling, as it implies that the drug dealers are fully aware that the drugs they sell are bad. You thought that was telling, eh? Well, aren't you special.

It's funny that you should mock my specialness, as am I about to be rewarded with one of the most lopsided hooker brawls in film history. On top of being lopsided, the sequence where a tarted up Hanna D. takes on four of her fellow streetwalkers (one of them played the bellissimo Donatella Damiani) is a lingerie bonanza. Boasting stockings, animal print dresses, leather, garter belts, and furs (all supplied, according to the credits, by Francesco Casini), everything about this scene is sexy. And get this, the scene even makes an allusion to spaghetti westerns at one point (the camera shoots between Donatella's legs as if it a wild west showdown). Except instead of cowboys, we get to see a bunch of fur-draped floozies square off against one another.

Four leggy whores vs. Hanna D. (whose legginess has increased tenfold since ditching the schoolgirl look). Yikes. I don't like her chances. Luckily, a guy named Miguel (Tony Serrano) shows up on his Honda motorcycle just in time and drives her to safety. Oh, and the reason the four hookers had a beef with Hanna D. was because they didn't like the fact that she was honing in on their territory.

You have to ask yourself, what did Miguel rescue Hanna D. from exactly? I mean, she still has to deal with her insane mother. Upset that she rejected Hans' late night advances, which caused him to eventually leave, Pearl and Hanna D. get in an argument. One that leads to my favourite line, "I'm nobody's pussycat!" Which Hanna D. utters before a slap hug. "Pussycat" is what her mother calls her and a "slap hug" is when you slap someone in the face and then immediately hug them after you have slapped them.

Either way, being called "pussycat" every now and then and getting slap hugged sounds like a picnic compared to what Miguel is about to put her through. Convincing her to let him be her "manager," Miguel has big plans for Hanna D., and I don't think he only wants what's best for her.

Oatmeal-quality vomit, inhalant abuse (huff that tool shed gas, you underage whore), syringes jabbed into her head, mouth and eyes, jail time, rectal heroin smuggling (I want to lick that hairy...shut your mouth...I'm just talking about placing my tongue on the unkempt asshole attached to a curly-haired Italian women), faucet fellatio, more slap hugs than Mommie Dearest, ferry rides with authentic-looking punks, red stockings seen both at night and during the day, and a romantic montage that will no doubt cause your spirit to soar, the amount of crap Hanna D. puts up with in this movie will make your stomach feel queasy by the time it's over. That is, if you have an aversion to things that are inherently super-terrific. And the last I checked, I don't...have an aversion to things that are...well, you get the idea.

Featuring two of the stars of Rats: Night of Terror (Ann-Gisel Glass - who played the hysteria prone "Myrna" - and Fausto Lombardi), the composer of Rats (Luigi Ceccarelli), the cinematographer of Rats (Franco Delli Colli), and the director of Rats (Bruno Mattei, like I said before, is the film's editor), Rino de Silvestro's version of Christiane F. is the sleaziest slice of garter belt adjacent gimcrackery to hit me in the face in donkey's years. In other words, it has restored my faith in cinema. If only every film I watched had a similar, more single-minded approach to delivering "the sexy," life would be so much easier.

Oh, and the reason Karin Schubert's performance was so intense in terms of uncut meshugganah was because her voice was dubbed by none other than the late great Carolyn De Fonseca. Whenever I'm watching an Italian exploitation film that's been dubbed into English and I hear Carolyn's distinctive voice coming from one of the characters, I know I'm in goods hands.

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Happy third anniversary to Cinema Gonzo, the premiere movie blog for reviews of films such as: Tainted Image, Out of Bounds, and Satan's Blade.

As I sit and stare at this blank slab of nothingness, trying desperately to come up with something clever to say, the scene from Roboforce (a.k.a. I Love Maria) where the female robot swoops in to rescue her male companions from certain death just in the nick of time is currently playing over and over again in my head. I think the reason this particular scene stands out from the rest is because I secretly wish I had a robot girlfriend, one who quotes Romeo and Juliet, drinks oil from a soda can and fires rockets from her wrists. Now, I realize what I just said is probably the dorkiest thing ever to be written in this site. But I don't care. I want a robot girlfriend, and I want it now! Oh, and if she could look exactly Sally Yeh, that would be great. I'm surprised you didn't go with robot Susan Tyrrell or robot Mary Woronov. Yeah, that was a tempting idea. However, I'd like to stick with the Sally Yeh model I saw in this Category III flick, directed by David Chung and Tsui Hark. Besides, I don't think Miss Tyrrell or Miss Woronov have the right temperament to play robots; they're too headstrong. At any rate, while I wouldn't exactly call myself a Category III expert, I think it's safe to say I have seen enough of them to know what to expect. And one of the main things I look for is weird shifts in tone. What I mean is, Hong Kong films made during this period seem to mix genres in a way that could be construed as haphazard. For example, one minute your watching a family-friendly action sequence where a buffoonish Tong Leung is attempting to take photographs of giant robot reeking havoc on a downtown street, and the next you're watching a forthright Sally Yeh put a bullet through the back of the head of some dweeb in a lab coat.

Sometimes the shifts in tone occur onscreen simultaneously. The film's many bar scenes are prime example of this, as they mix slapstick comedy and over-the-top violence rather seamlessly. This style of filmmaking can be jarring to those who are not used to it; my first Category III film, Robotrix, is famous for being all over the map when it comes to tone (it's The Terminator meets Porky's). But I like said, now I think I'm better prepared to handle what they throw at me. And, believe me, you need to keep your eyeballs frosty while watching these films, as they will overwhelm and disorient the uninitiated.

While not as awesome as Naked Killer (then again, nothing will ever be as awesome as that film), nowhere near as sleazy as Jailhouse Eros or Red to Kill, and not even close to being as insane as Robotrix, Roboforce (I actually prefer the title "I Love Maria," but decided at the last minute to go with the more generic-sounding "Roboforce") does have its moments. It's true, none of these moments include a big-boobed Amy Yip openly mocking the laws of gravity, but don't discount the gorgeous Sally Yeh, her bulletproof bosom will melt your heart and arouse your genitals. No, seriously. You haven't lived until you have seen Sally Yeh tilt her head slightly to the side in a decidedly robot fashion.

I know, almost every actor who has ever played a robot or cyborg has done the head tilting thing. One of my favourite head tilters being Hallie Todd as Lal, Lt. Data's android daughter in the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode titled: "The Offspring" (my eyes get moist and junk just thinking about that episode - dork!). Nevertheless, I thought Sally Yeh, who, according to her bio, was raised in Victoria, B.C., brought an inquisitive grace to her head tilting. Which is one of the keys to becoming successful in the cutthroat world of non-competitive head tilting. Think about it, head tilting is the physical manifestation of curiosity.

The moment you stop tilting your head, is the moment you stop living.

More on the art of head tilting in a second, a giant robot, one who doesn't tilt their head, is causing a shitload of havoc in the city's downtown core right this minute. A so-called "Van" that is owned and operated by a gang who call themselves "The Hero" is about to make off with an entire bank vault, and there's nothing the police can do about it. Taking pictures of the Van, which is not really a "van," but an unstoppable killing machine, as it brushes aside of the large police force assembled to prevent it from stealing the vault, is Ching (Tony Leung), a bumbling newspaper reporter.

When the Van returns home to base, we meet Maria (Sally Yeh), the number two in The Hero, who is clearly upset with her scientists. As she is instructing the lead scientist to fix the Van, one of his underlings decides to make a run for it (apparently the scientists are being forced to work for The Hero). After the wayward scientist's body is riddled with gunfire, Maria pulls out her pistol and finishes him off with a bullet to the back of the head. You might be asking yourself, what kind of neck movements did Sally Yeh employ in this scene? Whoa, slow down, Billy. This version of Sally Yeh is not a robot. She's a human being. However, since you asked, Sally moved her neck, which is attached to her head, in a normal manner. That is to say, in a way that seemed direct and filled with purpose. If Sally Yeh wants to gaze upon something that is currently out of her field of vision, she will totally turn head to get a better look at it.

Meanwhile, back at police headquarters, Ching is trying to ask the police chief a question. As he's being told no comment, he runs into Curly (John Sham), a self-proclaimed genius who works for the police as a weapons designer. Telling his boss that he has developed a laser cannon that can pierce the armour of any robot The Hero throw at them, it's obvious that Curly is excited. Only problem is, as he's leaving, he overhears his boss mocking his invention to a group of police scientists. The reason he mocks his gun is because it totally works. In other words, he shuns his invention because he's jealous. Funny you should mention jealousy, Maria isn't pleased that their leader, The Saviour (Ben Lam), has created Van II, a more human-looking robot.

Heading down to the local bar to drink his troubles away, Curly, a man who is bullied constantly at work, comes to defense of a drunk named Chu (Tsui Hark), who is being tormented by...well, pretty much every in the bar; even the bartender is getting in on the act. Eventually getting the better of the unruly mob, with the help of Ching, Curly and Chu (whom Curly nicknames, "Whiskey") stagger out of the bar. He doesn't know it yet, but Curly has just befriended a member of The Hero. However, like Curly, Chu/Whiskey is a bit of an outsider. Actually, you could say the same thing about Ching.

In fact, I think I just figured out what this film is really about. No, it's not about robots. It's about three friends, wait, make that four friends (they get an addition to the group later on), who are all underdogs. Yet, at the end of the day, they're the one's who end up being the real heroes. Individuals who lash out against corrupt or apathetic agencies, join up with like-minded souls, and rip the system.

Anyway, if you thought Maria was jealous of Van II before, wait until The Saviour shows her his latest upgrade. You guessed it, he's put Maria's face on his new robot. And the Maria-bot's first order of business is to kill Chu, who The Hero spies recently spotted consorting with a cop; though, I wouldn't exactly call Curly a "cop." Nevertheless, he works for the police, and The Hero don't like that. A rooftop battle between the Maria-bot and Chu (who has a crush on the real Maria) and Curly ensues where, surprisingly, the latter actually come out on top. The reason I said it was surprising that Chu and Curly managed to defeat the Maria-bot was because she can shoot rockets from her arms and they can't.

Packing up a bunch of scientific doodads, Chu and Curly hit the road (it's no longer safe in the city) and head out to the country in a car that seemed like it was a combination of the Back to the Future car and the ambulance from The Ghostbusters. To eat dog or to not to eat dog, that is the question.What?!? Never mind.

Unbeknownst to Chu, but Curly has re-assembled the Maria-bot behind his back. Hold up in an old monastery, Curly programs the new and improved Maria-bot to only respond to the command "I love Curly." Which makes sense because that last thing Chu wants to say out loud. After overcoming his distaste for the expression, "I love Curly," Chu eventually gains control of Maria. Unfortunately, the real Maria and her henchmen have tracked them down.What ensues is an awesome robot fight, one that is way better than anything that appears in those stupid Michael Bay movies (could you be more specific? no, I can not), a scene that features excessive grappling hook usage, a flying motorcycle, and more of that sweet Sally Yeh-based head tilting (mmm, Sally Yeh-based head tilting, it's what's for dinner). Tilt that head, you mechanical seductress.

If you listen carefully, you can hear a slight clicking sound every time Sally Yeh tilts her head. Speaking of listening, if the sound effects used for the robots in Roboforce sound familiar, that's because the noises were taken from Aliens (exosuit cargo-loader) and RoboCop (ED-209) respectively.

While it may seem like the film mostly about head tilting and grappling hooks, Roboforce (a.k.a. I Love Maria) is an inspirational film about friendship and loyalty. And, like I said, a true underdog story. If you watch it with a group of friends, I guarantee you'll be hugging and giving each other high fives each by the time it's over.

video uploaded by Idjitz

Desperate Teenage Lovedolls (David Markey, 1984)

Lovedolls Superstar (David Markey, 1986)

Gentlemen Broncos (Jared Hess, 2009)

Office Killer (Cindy Sherman, 1997)

Baby Blood (Alain Robak, 1990)

All the Colours of the Dark (Sergio Martino, 1972)

In the Folds of the Flesh (Sergio Bergonzelli, 1970)

You Killed Me First (Richard Kern, 1985)

99 Women (Jess Franco, 1969)

Heavy Metal Parking Lot (1986)

Women Behind Bars (Jess Franco, 1975)

Streets (Katt Shea, 1990)

Abby (William Girdler, 1974)

Dolly Dearest (Maria Lease, 1991)

Werewolf Woman (Rino Di Silvestro, 1976)

Werewolf in a Women's Prison (Jeff Leroy, 2006)

The Nail Gun Massacre (1985)

Christiane F. (Uli Edel, 1981)

Hanna D. - The Girl from Vondel Park (Rino Di Silvestro, 1984)

Roboforce (David Chung, 1988)