House of Self-Indulgence

For once I'd like to see a Skinny Puppy reference that is actually pertinent to the film being "discussed" on this site. Oh, really? And another thing, I'm getting tired of this, "Oooh, I liked Skinny Puppy in the '80s, I'm so cool," schtick of yours. All we want from you is for you to describe, in intricate detail, of course, the delicate smoothness of Soledad Miranda's thighs and that's pretty much it. We don't want to hear about how the killer in some bargain basement slasher flick reminded you of a super-obscure Skinny Puppy side project that you and maybe five other dweebs know about. Okay, you make some salient points. But what if I told you that the film I just watched features a cameo by the members of the actual group? Get out of here. No, it's true. They were in it. Well then, I guess you have no choice but to mention them. That's all I needed to hear. To the surprise of virtually no-one, Skinny Puppy make their acting debut, credited as "Skinny Puppy," in Gregg Araki's The Doom Generation, the rectal-obsessed road movie that defined a decade. Wait a second, I don't think this film necessarily defined any decade. If anything, it's anti-grunge, pro-Cocteau Twins stance was the complete opposite of what the decade in question eventually stood for. Yeah, I know. It's just that I've always wanted to attach that almost alliterative tag to something, and why not gently lick its festering bottom and stick it to this flick. Just in case you don't know what decade I'm referring to, I'm talking about the 1990s, the caustic puke stain of numerically labeled chunks of time. Oh, please. You loved the '90s. Whatever. Eat my fuck.

Oops! It looks like I let the "eat my fuck" out of the bag earlier than I originally intended. Well, since it's already running around inside your brain like a verbal typhoon, I might as well mention that, "eat my fuck," the infamous line uttered by Rose McGowan during the film's first, of many, convenience store scenes is probably one of my favourite expressions ever. While people were trying to figuring out how Donnie Darko would go about "sucking a fuck," Rose McGowan was telling folks to eat her fuck five years before any fucks would be sucked by anyone who was a real fuck-ass.

"Eat my fuck." It has a certain disorienting dignity about it. I can only imagine what a kind of damage a phrase like that might do to the psyche of the person unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of such a perplexing remark. And make no mistake, it will flummox, hell, it may even discombobulate, those who hear it, especially those who haven't heard it before.

Nowadays, people use fuck in all sorts of different and creative ways. Why, just the other day while riding the subway, I heard a little girl call her mommy a "fucking fuckface fucker." Which she probably got from Brittany Murphy in Spun. But where did Spun get the courage to mix it up fuck-wise? You guessed it, they got it from Gregg Araki, a man who sees crass insults not as flavourless mush to be spread on the whitest bread sixty-six cents can buy, but as an opportunity to stretch his linguistic muscles.

Most writers view vulgarity through a narrow prism, Gregg Araki on the other hand approaches language with a playful zeal. Sure, it can come across as pompous at times, some might even say it sounds forced in places. But it's obvious, when you listen to the dialogue carefully, that a real effort has been made to make sure each word comes across as a unique ray of oral sunshine.

The film opens on Rose McGowan's gorgeous face bathed in red light as "Heresy" by Nine Inch Nails blasts over the sound system at some lame ass nightclub. Hey, why are you calling it "lame ass"? What are you kidding? I don't want to hear Nine Inch Nails. Okay, I'll tolerate "Sin," but I don't want to hear angst-ridden lyrics sung in a voice that hasn't been distorted. Anyway, Amy Blue, the name of Rose McGowan's character, agrees with me, and tells her mentally-challenged boyfriend, Jordan White (James Duval), that she would like to vacate the premises immediately. Only, she doesn't say it in such a calm and rational manner. In fact, nothing Amy does in this film could be construed as calm or rational.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that Gregg Araki is a huge Slowdive fan. Since my favourite Gregg Araki film, Nowhere, starts off with a Slowdive song, "Avalyn II," it only makes sense that he include "Alison" during Amy and Jordan's drive-in sex scene. Well, they sort of have sex. What I'm saying is, they don't fuck at all. In Jordan's defense (who currently feels like a gerbil smothering in Richard Gere's butt-hole), I would have been too distracted to have car seat intercourse with Rose McGowan as well. Oh my god! You better be making one helluva point, because what you're saying so far sounds downright stupid. Don't worry, it's not. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. I couldn't focus on penetrating Rose McGowan's pussy because I would be too tempted to pet her bangs every time I attempted to mount her utilizing my primary thrusting platform. Just for record: my p.t.p. has been humping vaginas since the late 1960s. See, I told you. That wasn't stupid at all.

"Wake up, cocksucker! Time to die!" Whoa, did Nivek Ogre from Skinny Puppy just quote Brion James from Blade Runner? Let me check. Holy crap. He did just quote Brion James from Blade Runner. Sure, he put a little mustard on it (Brion James doesn't say, "cocksucker"), but it's essentially the same line. Oh, and in case you're wondering why he said that: The members of Skinny Puppy assault Xavier Red (Jonathan Schaech), a cum-licking reprobate who will test the horizontal fortitude of Amy and Jordan's long term relationship (they have been together for three months). Finding refuge in Amy's car, Xavier escapes their murderous rage. Why did the members of Skinny Puppy want to kill Xavier? Well, as we'll soon find out, I doesn't take long for someone to get to the point where they want to do harm to Xavier's organic structure. What can I say? He brings out the worst in people.

If you thought Amy Blue was disagreeable before, you should see her when she's has X breathing down her neck. Oh, and he's now called "X." Why? Um, let's just say Jordan found the name "Xavier" to be way too complicated from a letter arrangement point-of-view. After making one too many crude references to her genitals, Amy kicks X out of the car.

Hearing her girlfriend's birth canal called practically everything listed in the Big Book of Cunt Euphemisms has made Jordan a tad peckish. In order to alleviate this peckishness, Jordan suggests they head to the nearest Quickiemart for some grub. It's at this point in the film when all your taint hairs should be standing at attention. Why's that? What do you mean, "why's that"? Isn't it obvious? Rose McGowan is about to say, "Eat my fuck."

Told by the Quickiemart clerk, Nguyen Suk Kok (Dustin Nguyen), that there's no smoking allowed in his store, Amy obliges and throws her cigarette on the floor and extinguishes it with one of her black Doc Marten-adorned feet. When the clerk insists that she put the improperly discarded butt in the trash, Amy, without hesitation, tells him to, "Eat my fuck." I get teary-eyed just thinking about it. It's probably one of the most inspirational moments in the history of cinema. Forget about, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn" or "Here's looking at you, kid." "Eat my fuck." is the greatest movie quote of all-time.

When Jordan and Amy discover they don't have the 6.66 to pay for his disgusting hot dogs and slush-based beverage, Nguyen Suk Kok pulls out a shotgun and points it at them. Don't worry, X shows up just in the nick of time and blows Nguyen's head off; much to chagrin of Mrs. Suk Kok, played by Margaret Cho. After that act of violence, The Doom Generation morphs into a kind of demented road movie, where X, Amy and Jordan become fugitives. Well, sort of. There's not much of a police presence in this movie. But their violent antics, or, I should say, X's violent antics (Amy and Jordan don't actually do anything wrong) do make the evening news; anchored by Lauren Tewes and Christopher Knight.

Hopping from one cheap motel to another (cheap, they may be, but the interior design of each room is stunning), and consuming a lot of bad food, X, Amy and Jordan fuck, kill and eat their way across America.

My favourite encounters during their cross country journey being their confrontations with Amy's ex-boyfriend, a Carnoburger cashier played by Nicky Katt, and Brandi (Parker Posey), Amy's secret lesbian lover. The highlight of the confrontation with Nicky Katt, besides his Devo-inspired Carnoburger uniform, was when Nicky says the line, "My pearly dewdrops drops." Now, I don't know if Nicky Katt knew where that line originally came from. But the fact that characters in this movie use the names of Cocteau Twins songs as dialogue is pretty awesome.

Besides John Hughes, are there any other filmmakers out there who come close to touching Gregg Araki when it comes to music? I don't think so. And I'm not just saying that because his obsession with industrial music and shoegazer bands of the early '90s eerily reflected my taste at the time. Okay, maybe I am. So what? You still can't deny that his music choices add a lot of unexpected appeal to his movies. In addition to that, I also like the fact that he prefers to include remixed or extended versions of the songs he uses.

The act of heading downtown to buy, oh, let's say, the latest Nitzer Ebb 12 inch, is something that I miss greatly. And The Doom Generation, strangely enough, manages to capture that sense of loss perfectly. Watch closely, as you can see it in the face of Rose McGowan as she stares longingly at "1983–1991," the This Mortal Coil box set, during a stop at a record store.

When Rose says, "I miss my records," I nodded slightly in agreement. In fact, I agreed so much, that after the film was over, I went and spent some quality time with my records. Sure, I have nothing to play them on, but I nestled each one gently against my bosom.

Just when you thought this film couldn't get any more relatable, Jordan tells X all about that time they lost his mom's car while attending a Thrill Kill Kult concert. It's true, I didn't lose a car at the Thrill Kill Kult concert I attended way back when. But I do remember the band being four hours late, and that my shoes (creepers with skull buckles) were killing my feet. Didn't you have some shoe issues at that late '90s Sisters of Mercy show? Hey, you remember that. Cool. Yeah, I always seem to experience shoe problems whenever I go to concerts. You try to look your best, and what happens? You either end up standing there for hours on end (my shoes weren't designed for standing) or some guy would step on them (I'm looking you, white guy with dreadlocks at the Spooky-era Lush concert).

Anyway, enough of my jibber jabbing. Just like Nowhere, I seemed to enjoy The Doom Generation more the second time around. I don't know, the reoccurring 6.66 gag didn't seem as lame, the belt buckle scene was adorable (Jordan "tards out" over X's holographic rodeo themed belt buckle), the Heidi Fleiss cameo was better than expected (she says "6.66" the best - half asleep with an air malice), the sex scene between Rose McGowan (whose skin is immaculate in this film) and James Duval (who was at the height of his cluelessness) set to "On" by The Aphex Twin was hotter than I initially remembered. Oh, and, of course, "Eat my fuck" will never lose its appeal.

If Anna, Isabelle Adjani's character from Possession, saw Iwona Petry's "The Italian" walking down the street, she would probably think to herself, "Girl, you ain't hooked up right." Or, "Girl, you need to take it down a notch." And, as anyone who has seen Possession can attest, that's a little like the...I'm gonna have stop myself for a second, because I don't want to use that idiom that involves a talking pot and a dark-coloured kettle. But let's just say, Anna from Possession is a bit of a hypocrite. I mean, who is she trying to kid? She's the queen of acting unhinged in an urban setting. Though, in all seriousness, I did wonder what would happen if Anna, a deranged brunette in an indigo dress, and The Italian, a deranged brunette in a leopard-print dress, were to run into each other on the street. Which reminds me, wouldn't it have been great if Isabelle Adjani made a cameo appearance in this film? Nothing too fancy, just show the look on her face as she watched The Italian eat a plate of cow brains at an outdoor cafe. Actually, now that I think about it, that kind of cuteness has no place in the enigmatic world of Szamanka (The Shamen), Andrzej Żuławski's erotic clusterfuck about the healthiest relationship this side of Wrocław. (Oh, and, by the way, if you pronounce it "Wrock-claw," I get to kick you in the crotch. It's pronounced, "Vrots-waf." Learn it. Know it. Live it.) Even though you will occasionally see people, Polish people, to be ethnically specific, doing things that could be construed as normal. Make no mistake, nothing that occurs in this film comes close to being normal. And, to make matters even less normal, I'm the person who's been selected to watch it. Let me give an example of how the pairing of me and this exceedingly odd slice of Euro-reared art-house meshuganah is a spastic hissy-fit just waiting to happen. Every time Iwona Petry would appear onscreen in her trademark black leather cap, I would start to sing the lyrics to "My Time" by Ann Steel, a catchy disco song from 1979.

What's the reason for this seemingly random connection? Damn, there are so many. You know what? I'll give you two reasons. The first one is obvious, both Ann Steel and Iwona Petry are wearing similar hats. Sure, the one Ann Steel wears in the video for "My Time" is yellow and the one Iwona Petry is wearing is clearly black, but they do have the same Alpine jauntiness about them.

The other, less obvious one, has to do with the line in the song, "Stored on the shelves of my memories, my thoughts are in perfect array." Now, you could say that this particular passage summarizes Iwona Petry's intellectual temperament. However, if you did use that line to describe Iwona Petry's "The Italian" (a.k.a. Włoszka), you would be openly mocked by cinema snobs and jackbooted geriatrics alike, as her thoughts are nowhere near being "in perfect array." People who eat cow brains on purpose don't have their thoughts in perfect array. If anything, their thoughts are in perfect disarray.

The only non-zombie film in existence to begin with brain eating and to end with brain eating, Szamanka will frustrate and confuse most viewers. I, on the other hand. Yeah, yeah, we get it. You're cooler than the rest of us. What I was going to say was... Actually, now that you mention it, am I pretty cool. I mean, look at me. I'm typing words about an Andrzej Żuławski film in the most flippant manner possible.

Cue the part of the review where you go on long this tangent about how you wish Iwona Petry's "The Italian" was your girlfriend. Am I that predictable? Truth be told, I was drawn to The Italian, as I found her erratic behaviour to be bewitching at times. Yet, she also made a tad uneasy. I know, me? Uneasy? Poppycock. It's testament to the brilliance that is Iwona Petry, who, unlike Isabelle Adjani, isn't a professional actress. Seriously, though, the herculean effort she puts forth in this film is off the chart that registers such things.

Careening through the streets of Warszawa like a culturally inept marathon runner who's afraid of clowns, The Italian (Iwona Petry), called so for her talent for making pizza, bumps into an anthropologist named Michael (Bogusław Linda) at the train station. Trying in vain to convince his brother not to sell his apartment, The Italian somehow manages to get Michael to take her there.

Once inside the apartment, The Italian and Michael engage in the first of many sex scenes that are featured in Szamanka. However, unlike most films, the sex scenes in this film are quite different. Oh, you can say that again. You can tell right away that things aren't going to be ho-hum as far as cinematic humping goes when the music of Andrzej Korzyński starts to blast on the soundtrack. Blast? Yeah, blast. It's akin to the music of Laibach or Test Dept. In other words, lot's of heavy drumming and operatic vocals.

Keep a close eye on Iwona Petry's face as her vagina is being penetrated by Michael's probably Polish penis. The sly smile she throws him the moment Michael reveals his "I'm currently ejaculating sperm from the tip of my penis" face, was awesome beyond belief. And what makes the sly smile even more awesome was the fact that she was already smiling at the time when she threw it. As for the reasoning behind the smile? My only guess is that The Italian realizes that she's the one who's going to be the dominate force in this relationship. And, as we all know, their relationship has just begun.

As The Italian, who is supposedly a student of some kind, goes about her daily routine, one that includes, trying to avoid the grabbing hands of pervy passengers on public transit, having unfulfilling sex with her doctor boyfriend (what makes it even more unfulfilling is the fact that he won't give her any money), trashing her mom's house, vomiting, reapplying smeared lipstick, and taking a piss by a lake, Michael and his team of scientists have discovered the perfectly preserved corpse of a 2,500 year old shaman at a dig site.

Frustrated by the way her day has been going so far, The Italian attempts placate this frustration by tracking Michael down. Shouting, "Where is anthropology?" at almost everyone she comes in contact with (my favourite response was "anthropology is everywhere"), she finally finds him giving a lecture about shamanism to a group of students. As I watched her hump and French kissing a glass display case while she waits for him to finish, it's clear that The Italian wants to fuck something. Warm synths, spit licking, and weird face touching precede their eventual corporeal commingling.

After losing it at a cafe, The Italian, who must lose her shit at least five times a day, goes home to eat cat food and smear ice all over her face. In-between attending classes and working at her father's slaughterhouse, The Italian is brought to the birthday party of one of Michael's friends, or it could have been his father's birthday. Either way, Michael tells The Italian to wear a skimpy leopard-print dress paired with black pantyhose (his logic being, she can't attend a fancy party that's being attended by so-called "normal people" dressed like a gothic hobo).

Does performing an impromptu voodoo-style tribal dance at a birthday party count as losing your shit? The only reason I ask is because I think I might have missed the mark on the amount of times The Italian behaves erratically (a.k.a. loses her shit) over the course of a single day. Truth be told, I have a feeling she acts this way all the time. So, trying to pinpoint the exact amount of times she acts insane in a single day is a fruitless endeavour.

The examination of the body of a two thousand year-old shaman covered with mystical tattoos and boasting a rectum full of two thousand year-old sperm, a train toilet sex scene where the male participant extols the virtues of his dead gay priest brother in-between moans, and the sight of leggiest woman ever to walk past a graffiti-covered wall are all what greet us over the next few scenes. Oh and if you liked The Italian's leggy graffiti walk, a similar walk occurs later on in the film as well.

All the film's sex scenes, and there are plenty of them, have this raw, animalistic quality about them. Sure, they thrust their basin-shaped trunks one pelvis at a time like everyone else, but their sexual jabs seem to have an apocalyptic urgency about them.

Featuring one of the most perplexing performances in film history, three instances where brains are consumed, and two leggy walks (three if you include the leopard-print pantyhose walk), Szamanka, despite being chock-full of pompous gobbledygook half the time, is unlike anything I have ever seen. It's true, almost anyone can make a film that has mentally unhinged characters doing mentally unhinged things in an urban setting. But Andrzej Żuławski seems to be able to create worlds where everyone, even the extras, have decided to stop taking their meds. That's right, everyone is crazy in this film; The Italian's antics are just magnified. You would move in an irregular fashion as well if everyone you came in contact with was trying to paw at your supple flesh.

If you like your romantic comedies to have a metaphysical bent, this isn't the film for you; it's not a comedy. However, if you like watching deranged Poles fornicate to industrial music, and who doesn't? Then you need to watch this film.

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Special thanks to Thomas Duke (Cinema Gonzo) for recommending this "crazy and awesome and crazy awesome and sexy as balls" film.

What do the letters C.H.U.D., when placed in that comical-sounding order (no-one can say the word "chud" without giggling a little bit), stand for exactly? That's easy, they stand for "Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers." Next question. Really? Yeah, they're just a bunch of drug-addicted derelicts running around the vast network of underground tunnels that snake through the bowels of New York City. Sure, they occasionally like to eat human flesh (hence the word "cannibalistic"), but they mostly consume their fellow derelicts. In other words, they don't eat "real people." You know what? I'm not buying that. And you wanna know who else isn't buying that? I know I'm going to regret asking this, but who? I'll tell you who. Do you see that crazed-looking individual standing over there? You're going to have to be more specific. After all, this is New York City: If you ain't crazed-looking, you ain't from around here. Okay, see that dishevelled guy in the stained t-shirt? The tall, lanky fella? Yeah, him. What about 'em? His name is Daniel Stern and he's not buying any of your bullshit. Oh, he isn't, eh? Why the hell not? According to Daniel Stern, who, in actuality, is playing a character named A.J. Shepherd, a.k.a. "The Reverend," this whole thing about homeless cannibals running amok in the sewers is all a part of an elaborate cover-up, a smoke-screen, a ruse, a vast conspiracy, if you will. No, there's something sinister afoot. And the only people who seem to care enough to expose the truth are a fashion photographer, a model, a guy who runs a soup kitchen, and a police captain.

If you think that's an odd group of people, wait until Graham Beckel starts waving his big knife around in a soup kitchen setting. Wait a second, Graham Beckel. Why does that name sound familiar? He played Winona Ryder's dad in Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael, one of the most unfairly overlooked entries in Winona Ryder's teen angst filmography. That was him? Yeah, yeah, that was him. He looked so different. Well, that's because he's playing a mentally-ill homeless man living on the mean streets of New York, not a Clyde, Ohio carpet salesman. It's called acting.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. The motley crew assembled to uncover to the conspiracy at the centre of C.H.U.D., a surprisingly intelligent eco-horror flick, will stop at nothing to prevent their beloved city from becoming overrun with radioactive sewer monsters. Actually, A.J. (Daniel Stern), the soup kitchen guy, and Captain Bosch (Christopher Curry), the police captain guy, have the most the lose if these subterranean creatures start popping up topside.

They're not coming up yet, but they will be soon. In the meantime, stay clear of manhole covers. Telling New Yorkers to stay clear of manhole covers is like telling sophisticated Ukrainian milfs to stay clear of borscht. In other words, it's not going to happen. Besides, no-one is telling them to stay clear of manholes. They should be, but they're not.

Unfortunately, "they" don't even know what they're dealing with. And neither does the woman (Laure Mattos) seen walking her dog late at night during the film's opening scene, as she is pulled into a manhole by an unseen entity. Judging the dermatological makeup of the hands that grabbed her, I'd say the chances that she survived the ordeal with all her body parts in tact are pretty slim.

Speaking of dermatological makeup, oh, to be a pimple on Kim Greist's ass. What?!? She mentions that she has a pimple on her ass. What did you expect me to think? At any rate, Kim's introduction to the C.H.U.D. universe is pretty memorable. Wearing a pair of pink and white panties with a short-sleeved orange turtleneck sweater with white sleeves, and a black belt, Kim Greist plays Lauren Daniels, a fashion model, who lives with her fashion photographer boyfriend, George Cooper (John Heard); though, I should say, "former fashion photographer," as he seems to be making the transition from snapping fashion pics to taking more arty shots.

Unable to resist the twinkling eyes peering out from underneath her frizzy blonde bob, George agrees to take some fashion pics of Lauren for a perfume ad.

Lounging in a leggy manner is a good look for Kim Greist, as it brings out the aforementioned twinkle in her eyes.

Meanwhile, down at the 33rd Precinct, Captain Bosch is trying to understand why a bag lady (Ruth Maleczech) tried to steal the gun from one his officers. (The officer, by the way, is played by none other than Sam McMurray. Also, keep an eye out for John Goodman and Jay Thomas, they play police officers as well.)

Why is a police captain so interested in this bag lady? I don't know, it seems beneath him. Sure, attempting to steal a police officers gun is a serious offense, but I don't think it warrants the attention of a police captain. No, I think something fishy is going on. It gets even fishier when Captain Bosch heads down to the local soup kitchen to respond to a missing persons report made A.J., the guy who runs the joint. We soon learn why Bosch is so concerned about a bunch of homeless people (mostly "undergrounders," called so because they live primarily underground) have gone missing over the past couple of weeks.

The indifference displayed by Bosch's superiors surrounding the disappearance of the so many undergrounders reminded me of the indifference that greeted the AIDS epidemic in early-to-mid 1980s. Now, whether that was the film's intention is debatable. But it should be noted that Daniel Stern and Christopher Curry, who are great together (the former uses the expression, "This Ain't No Disco" at one point - a blatant Talking Heads reference, if I've ever heard one), re-wrote much of the script themselves.

You can clearly see the influence of their rewrites in the scenes where Daniel and Christopher are trying to get expose the government's, or more specifically, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, or N.R.C.'s, wrongdoings. The highlight being when Bosch and A.J. bring their evidence to a meeting with the chief of police, the mayor, and the head of the N.R.C. (played by the always evil George Martin). In fact, this particular scene is Daniel Stern's shining moment, as he gives good paranoid hippie (only, his paranoia is completely justified).

Another instance where their rewrites are obvious was the scene where Lauren tells George she's pregnant. I liked how they used the word "alternative" instead of abortion when discussing their plans for the future.

I'm not complaining, but I started to wonder when this movie was going to start living up to its name. I mean, it's called C.H.U.D., "Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers," not C.H.U.D., "Caring Human Urban Drama."

Which reminds me, out of all the movies to do a reference to A Chud Convention, the obscure one-off side project between Belgium's à;GRUMH... and Canada's Skinny Puppy, it should have been this one. Why can't you reference A Chud Convention in as many movie reviews as you want? I don't know. I guess don't want to overplay my A Chud Convention card. At any rate, the reason to allude to A Chud Convention in a movie review for C.H.U.D. actually goes beyond the fact that they both use the word "chud." Are you sitting down? There's a C.H.U.D. convention in C.H.U.D. No, really. Daniel Stern stumbles across a bunch of C.H.U.D.'s convening together in what could be construed as a convention. Did it ever occur to you that the members à;GRUMH... and Skinny Puppy named their side project "A Chud Convention" after watching the C.H.U.D. convention scene in C.H.U.D.? After all, Skinny Puppy are famous for their love of horror movies.

Judging by the frazzled look on your face, I'll take it that I just blew your mind a little bit. If you really want to repair damage I caused, you should try to imagine Kim Greist lounging in a leggy manner in Central Park. Even though I'm mentally unsound, I find it to be the best remedy for curing a blown mind.

Did you know that film's amazing synth score was composed by Martin Cooper of OMD fame? It's true. And it reminded me of the Liquid Sky score on several occasions.

As the glow-eyed creatures start to emerge for their subterranean lair, C.H.U.D. becomes more of a conventional horror film. Again, I'm not complaining. It's just that you can totally tell that producers probably insisted that there be, to quote The Simpsons (who reference C.H.U.D. like it were a bodily function), less chat and more splat. And we get it, more splat, that is, when Kim Greist goes mano-a-mano with a C.H.U.D. in her apartment. A cautionary tale about the dangers that can arise when one cut corners when storing radioactive waste (radioaktivität), while, at the same time, yet another entertaining New York City set horror film, C.H.U.D. isn't as dumb as its name would suggest.

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If you're like me, and you were a little confused by what transpires during the final moments of Happy Birthday to Me, a slasher film with more Canadian content than, oh, let's say... don't you dare say Annie Murray's vagina. Uh... with more Canadian content than... Ahh, my brain isn't working properly. I know, it's a slasher film with more Canadian content than Cynthia Dale's vagina. Yeah, I like that. If you're know the identity of Cynthia Dale's husband, than that line about the contents of her vagina is pure gold. However, if you have no idea who Cynthia Dale is, and, using common sense, you probably have no clue who her husband is either, than I'm afraid I can't help you. What I should have said was: this film is very Canadian, and moved on. But no, I had to show off. Look at me, my references are so off-kilter, please love me! Anyway, like most Canadian exploitation movies from 1970s and 1980s, this particular entry in the slasher free-for-all that was the early '80s tries to hide its Canadian-ness like it were a festering neck boil. Throbbing just beneath the collar of your polo shirt, it's Canuck temperament is just waiting for someone to come along and say the immortal words: Do you want me to squeeze that unsightly nodule pulsating on the back of your neck? You do? Okay, just let me score this game-winning goal against the Soviet Union in the Canada Cup and I'll be right with you. Unfortunately, no one comes along to squeeze your boil. In other words, the film's true Canadian character remains hidden from view. Yeah, hidden from view to those out there languishing in a pit of Canadian ignorance. I, on the other hand, have never spent anytime in that pit. Oh, sure, I don't watch hockey, I rarely ever wear flannel, and I've never been inside a Tim Hortens, but I do know that Lenore Zann, cult movie queen and the voice of Rogue on X-Men: The Animated Series, is the MLA for Truro-Bible Hill.

Meaning, my knowledge of Canadian culture goes deeper than any of you could possibly imagine. And I can prove it. Now, making smug allusions to my childhood is not something I'm comfortable doing, but I did watch The Hilarious House of Frightenstein as a kid. I know, eh? 'Nuff said. Getting back to my original point, the luminous Lenore Zann is one of the stars of Happy Birthday to Me. That's right. All that blathering I did just was actually pertinent to the movie I'm currently writing about.

Hell, even the bit about Cynthia Dale was pertinent. How so?!? I'll tell you how so. You see, Cynthia Dale starred in Heavenly Bodies, the greatest leotard-centric movie of all-time. You mean to say that Cynthia Dale is in Happy Birthday to Me? I wish. But not quite. You didn't let me finish. The writer-director of Heavenly Bodies, Lawrence Dane, and the film's male lead, Richard Rebiere, both appear in this film as actors.

While all that is fascinating stuff, let's stir this ship into more conventional waters, shall we? Welcome to Crawford University, where the so-called "top ten" rule the roost. Oh, look. Here comes one of them now. While I can't see any evidence of a roost being ruled, they do have a certain swagger about the way they walk. Maybe it has something to do with white tights that are currently holding her legs in a nylon stranglehold, or maybe it doesn't; please have something to do with her white tights, I don't ask for much.

Anyway, if you're a fan of watching Lesleh Donaldson get murdered, you'll love the film's opening scene, as she totally gets murdered in it. And like her legendary date with slasher movie infamy in Curtains, Lesleh's demise is long and drawn out. In other words, it's just the way we like it. Playing Bernadette O'Hara (you can tell she's in the top ten by her purple and grey striped scarf), Lesleh is choked by an unseen assailant in her car (remember, kiddies, always check the backseat for leather-gloved strangers before starting your car). Thrashing her white nylon-adorned legs about the car's interior with a reckless, "I'm about to be straight-up asphyxiated up this here Buick," kind of abandon, Bernadette makes a valiant attempt not to get strangled to death. And you know what? That effort sort of pays off. Sort of? Yeah, she eventually gets her throat slasher with a razor. But you got to hand it to her, she's in, or, she was in, the top ten for a reason.

Where was Bernadette going before she got killed, you ask? She was heading over to the local university watering hole to have a pint with the other members of the top ten, that's where. Well, as we all know, she doesn't quite make it. The exalted top ten have already been reduced by one, and the film has barely gotten started. And get this, Bernadette was apparently friends with the killer.

Did you just say...yeah, Bernadette recognized the killer. No, the other part. The top ten have been reduced to nine? Yeah, that part. You mean to say that I've got to keep track of nine characters? It looks like it. Fine. Well, they better kill off a bunch of them over the next ten to fifteen minutes, because there's no way I'm going to be able keep track of all these snobby pricks. You do realize that you just called Lenore Zann a snobby prick? What? Oh, crap. You're right. She's in the top ten. I didn't mean that. What I should have said was, I can't believe Lenore Zann is friends with these assholes.

After nearly starting a riot with a group of drunk Shriners, the nine members of the top ten spill out onto the street. Hearing that the nearby bascule bridge is about to open, they jump into their respective vehicles, assign each vehicle a number, and proceed to race toward the bridge. A variation on the classic game of chicken, Etienne (Michel-René Labelle) hops aboard his motorcycle and makes the jump with relative ease, then Rudi (David Eisner), with Maggie (Lenore Zann) sitting next to him, makes it safely in his car. Following closely behind Rudi is Ann (Tracey Bregman), who clears the bridge. The final two cars have Steve Maxwell (Matt Craven) behind the wheel of his car and Greg (Richard Rebiere) behind the wheel of his Trans Am. However, unlike Steve, Greg has two passengers, Amelia (Lisa Langlois) and Virginia (Melissa Sue Anderson), a girl who is clearly not into this.

Um, before I continue. I would like to do a quick head count–you know, to see if I missed anyone. Okay, I counted eight. The reason there are eight instead of nine is because Alfred (Jack Blum) didn't participate in the jump. Now, you would think the reason he didn't jump with the rest of them might have something to do with his outsider status in the group (despite being in the top ten, the others seem to pick on him). But the more logical explanation probably had something to do with the fact that he drives a scooter. And there's no way a scooter would come close making it over the bridge.

Backing out at the last minute, Steve watches Greg, who seems determined to make it, shoot past him. Oh, sure, they make it. But nevertheless, Virginia freaks out (she gives hissy-fits a bad name). As we'll soon find out, Virginia and the bascule bridge have a bit of a history with one another; a tragic history. In fact, you could even say it's a secret history, as the movie has many things in common with the Donna Tartt novel of the same name.

Even though Happy Birthday to Me is directed by J. Lee Thompson (10 to Midnight) and has Timothy Bond (One Night Only) listed as a co-writer, you won't find much to savour if you happen to be a pervert. The only reason I mention this is because the film's lone pervert moment, besides the opening scene with Lesleh Donaldson, takes place when Virginia runs home after the bridge incident. After having a dull chat with her father (Lawrence Dane), Virginia, or "Ginny," as her dad likes to call her, goes to her room to change for bed. She doesn't know it, but Etienne has followed her home and is lurking in the bushes. Oh, wait, no, he's moved from lurking to stalking. Yep, he's now outside her bedroom window. All this, by the way, is a veiled attempt to paint Etienne as a suspect. And you know what? I ain't buying it.

At any rate, there's a close up shot of Ginny's not even close to being granny panties languishing on the carpet of her room during the Etienne stalking sequence. Actually, the pantie close up is, believe or not, integral to the plot, as the very same panties are seen later on in the film. So, technically, the pantie close up wasn't gratuitous. Which, I have to admit, fills me with great sadness. I guess I'll have to take solace in the swooshing nature of the long, scholarly skirts Melissa Sue Anderson and Tracey Bregman wear to science class the very next day, 'cause this film seems to be going out of it's way not to be sleazy. Mmmm, look at those skirts swoosh.

Speaking of swooshing, there's a scene where the top seven attend a soccer match (two are players, the others are spectators). You mean the sight of David Eisner in tight purple shorts? Actually, that's not what I'm referring to. Though, speaking as a guy who has seen Sleepaway Camp more than six times, I do like men in shorts, especially the super-short variety they wore in the early '80s. No, I'm talking about are the Crawford cheerleaders. Oh, yeah, the cheerleaders. If memory serves me correctly, and it usually does, there are upskirts aplenty in that scene. Exactly. And there's nothing more perverted than leering at a cheerleader (I had my eye on the cheerleader with the letter 'A' on her chest) with the hope that her skirt might rise as result of all that cheer-based jostling they tend to get up to when cheering. And given the skimpy nature of their skirts, it doesn't take much cause them to rise.

If you noticed that I said top seven as supposed to top nine. Congrats, you're obviously paying attention. No, you see, two of their ranks have gone missing. Well, they think they're missing, we all know that one of them had their face torn up by a motorcycle engine (here's some free advice, don't work on your motorcycle with the engine running while wearing a scarf) and another had their throat crushed by a barbell. However, don't expect all the kills to be this inventive. I mean, other than a nasty encounter with a shish kebab and that horrible flashback sequence involving brain surgery, you're not got going to find much as far as gore goes. As for the story. Well, we get a ton of misleading plot twists.

Hi, my name is Alfred. And I'm the biggest red herring the horror genre has ever seen. (Call me crazy, but I thought Alfred was hot. He's got that Keith Gordon/Ron Mael thing going for him.)

These plot twists all lead us to the film's big Scooby-Doo-style ending. Which, I guess, was sort of satisfying (if anything it explains the film's title). Do I think the film could have had more scenes that featured Lenore Zann? Of course I do; she's awesome. But I have found that you can't always get you want. This is especially true when it comes to Canadian horror films that pretend to take place in New England, but were actually shot in Montréal (according to my exhaustive research, the car stunts were filmed in Phoenix, New York).

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One by one, a seemingly unending concourse of leggy women are volunteering to be a part of the elaborate stage show being put on by Montag the Magnificent, the grandiose illusionist at the centre of The Wizard of Gore, a film that needs to be seen by both shiftless gorehounds and connoisseurs of fine acting. Since I'm neither, I wonder what will be the crux–the primary focus, if you will–of my review of the latest Herschell Gordon Lewis splatter-fest. I wonder. Anyway, as the female volunteers saunter leggily toward the stage, the first thing you'll notice is the plethora of loud, inaudible gasps coming from the audience as they start to make their ascent. Why are they gasping, you ask? I mean, from where I was sitting, it's clear as day that Montage the Magnificent hasn't done anything yet. Oh, hasn't he? Oh, wait a minute, you're right. He hasn't done a single damn thing. Unless you count acting pompous in a top hat to be a thing. Don't be silly. They're not inaudibly gasping in a pronounced manner because of anything Montag the Magnificent has done. No, the audience is gasping because of the shortness of dresses worn by the female volunteers. It being 1970 and all, you would think the general population would be used to seeing mini-dresses by now (it was invented way back in, oh, let's say, 1964 - yeah, that could be right). However, according to the ill-defined tenants of heterosexuality, mini-dress, mini-skirt, and micro-skirt appreciation will never go out of style. Of course, I'm well aware that hemlines lengths are constantly evolving. Yet, there's one thing that always stays the same. And that is, people will gasp at the sight of an attractive woman wearing a garment with a hemline that goes well beyond the knee. It's science.

Don't look so surprised. You didn't really expect me to write about something as tasteless as gore, did you? I don't watch Herschell Gordon Lewis films for the ragù-inspired ghastliness, I watch them for the clothes. And as far as that criteria goes, The Wizard of Gore did not fail to fulfill the hopes and/or expectations of this fashion conscious viewer.

If you want to see one of the skimpy dresses I've been alluding to, I'm afraid you're going to have to sit through the long-winded speech currently being given by Montag the Magnificent (Ray Sager), master of illusion; defyer of the laws of reason. I must say, even though his speech about the greatness of his act is a tad on the loquacious side, he does use the word "asunder" at one point, and I love the word "asunder." What's he tearing asunder, you might ask? Well, I'll tell you. He's only tearing asunder our concept of reality. Cool.

As his not-so lovely assistants (these guys look like hired goons) help set up his next illusion, Montag the Magnificent prepares the audience for the mind-blowing butchery that, according to him, is about to take place right before their very eyes. Holding a chainsaw above his head in triumph, Montag the Magnificent says he will slice a female audience member in half. But get this, he plans to do without the aide of a box. In other words, his sawing will take place right out in the open.

Staring into the crowd with a grey-browed intensity (Fuad Ramses from Blood Feast just called, collect, mind you, and he wants his eyebrows back), Montag the Magnificent seems to be attempting to put them in a trance. Suddenly, a leggy vision in a puke stain floral mini-dress walks toward the stage. Say hello to Stage Girl #1 (Karin Alexana), the first of Montag the Magnificent's gam-tastic volunteers.

Strapped to a table (one of the hired goons removes her shoes), Stage Girl #1 is, before you know it, being sawed in half. Or is she? The blood-splatter, the oozing entrails, and the screams all would indicate that she is indeed being cut in half. But then, after Montag the Magnificent has finished playing with her guts, she seems perfectly fine. What do you mean, "perfectly fine"? People who get sawed in half and words "perfectly fine" don't exactly go together. Well, whatever just happened, Stage Girl #1 doesn't have a scratch on her.

After the show, Stage Girl #1 can be seen at a nearby restaurant (being nearly cut in half has obviously made her hungry). While the maître d' is perplexed by her trance-like state, she still somehow manages to get a table without saying a word. Everything seems to be going fine, when I giant wound suddenly appears across Stage Girl #1's midsection. You mean? Yep, the wound is located in the same place where Montag the Magnificent sawed her

The way Karin Alexana falls out of her chair and onto the floor of the restaurant was strangely erotic. No one flashes her panties while sliding off a chair quite like Karin Alexana. No one!

Meanwhile, outside the theatre, the delightfully symmetrical Sherry Carson (Judy Cler), the host of Housewife Coffee Break, and her sportswriter fiance, Jack (Wayne Ratay) are talking about the show. While Sherry was wowed by Montag the Magnificent, Jack appears to be not that impressed. As they're walking, they come across a large crowd milling about outside a restaurant. That's right, it's the very same restaurant where Stage Girl #1 succumbed to the injuries she didn't appear to have when she left Montag's show (her insides didn't look like overcooked ravioli when she vacated the theatre). Keep an eye on Sherry's hand. It brushes against Stage Girl #1's bloody hand; this hand brush will play an important role in the film as it progresses.

Raving about Montag's act on her show the very next day, Sherry, who's sitting with her legs crossed and wearing a yellow skirt, can't seem to get enough of his illusions. In fact, she was enamoured with his act that she pays Montag a visit at the theatre. Attempting to chat with him backstage, Sherry finds Montag to be rude and a tad standoffish. A tad? Okay, he's very standoffish. Telling her, "I don't grant interviews," Montag is about to give the leggy talk show host the old heave-ho, when he notices the blood stain on her hand (it appears then disappears). I told you the blood stain would have an important role to play (we believed you).

Anyway, his demeanour changes completely after noticing the blood stain. He even apologizes and gives her two tickets to tonight's performance. Hmm, I wonder what he's up to?

You know who's not going to be thrilled when he finds out he's got to attend another one Montag's shows? Sherry's fiance, Jack, that's who. And you can see the annoyance on his face as Montag begins to give the same speech from last night's show. Except, instead of cutting a woman in half, Montag plans to drive a metal spike through the head of Stage Girl #2 (Corinne Kirkin), a leggy blonde in a dark blue mini-dress with bits of red string around the collar and near a waist-level pocket for added flair. To prove the spike is made of metal, Montag asks a member of the audience to come up and validate his claim. As expected, Jack jumps to his feet and rushes the stage.

While Montag waved Stage Girl #2's brains at the audience, I couldn't help but notice that sitting with her legs crossed is Sherry Carson's preferred method of sitting.

When Montag tells Sherry and Jack backstage after the show that what they just saw was nothing but an illusion, they inform him that Stage Girl #1 was murdered at a nearby eatery. As this news is being relayed to him, Montag turns to the camera, smirks a sly smirk, and says, "How very unfortunate."

Giving a performance that reminded me of Mal Arnold's creepy turn as Fuad Rames in Blood Feast, Ray Sager gives bluster a good name as Montag the Magnificent, as he commands the stage with a hucksterish glee.

It's too bad he's overshadowed by a cavalcade of leggy volunteers, or else he could have, oh, I don't know, landed a role on General Hospital. Well, that's not exactly true; the leggy cavalcade, not the General Hospital part. Whoever decided to let Stage Girl #3 (Monica Blackwell) wear those gaudy-looking trousers on stage should be flogged. No, wait. That's too harsh. They should get a stern talking to. Yeah, someone should tell them that the sight of Stage Girl #3, a.k.a. Punch-press Girl, in trousers made me cry.

As more and more mutilated bodies of volunteers (stage girls) start showing up at the morgue (bodies that Montag winds up stealing and taking to a super-secret crypt located just outside town), Jack and Sherry go into sleuth mode. Determined to get the bottom of this gory hullabaloo, they set up an elaborate sting operation involving the cops and some of Jack's co-workers. The plan is to follow the volunteer home so that they can catch their killer in the act. Only problem is, Montag's forth show features two volunteers. You heard right, say hello to Stage Girl #4 (Sally Brody) and Stage Girl #5 (Karen Burke). Now, I don't know which one is which. But I do know that one wore a purple skirt and the other one was sheathed in a floral dress. Both are forced to swallow swords, and, as usual, it's a pretty grisly sight. I'd say the sword swallowing scene was the film's most ghastly in terms of, well, ghastliness.

In terms of acting, I'd say Wayne Ratay's "Greg! Your hand, it's bleeding! Our hands. Look at your hand. Greg! Our hands are bleeding." was my absolute favourite non-gore-related, non-leggy moment in the entire film. It stands on its own as one of the most ridiculous scenes in film history. In fact, the scene is so awesome that it's included in the Something Weird Video montage intro thingie that plays at the start of all their fine video products.

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A maniac wearing a giant owl head chopping up actors with an axe, a disgruntled aerobics instructor who kills people with the aide of a large safety pin, and a mysterious figure in a black motorcycle helmet slaughtering a wide assortment of three-toed yokels and trucker hat-wearing reprobates with an air-powered nail gun. These are what I consider to be the gold standard when it comes to onscreen psychopaths. You could also include driller killers who do their best stalking while wearing a jean jacket, but I think the three I mentioned are more than enough. Are you ready to add an old lady in a blue bathrobe who murders college age women with the spiky part of her walking stick to the long list of iconic horror movie icons? Am I reading that right? Are you sure the killer wasn't just a man wearing an old lady mask and that his cane wasn't just a hatchet in disguise? No, it was old woman with a cane, all right. Hey, since when do the fine folks doing the hacking and the slashing in horror flicks have to be demented men who use garden tools in a manner that can best be described as unorthodox? Why can't the killer be an older woman? I mean, they have axes to grind, too (no pun intended). Yeah, but don't you think an old woman hunting down and murdering seven sorority sisters in a single night is a little far-fetched. Not at all. And besides, what is this, a documentary? I can tell you right now that it's not. It's a film called The House on Sorority Row, the decrepit hosebeast vs sorority girls extravaganza with one of the least appealing final girls in slasher film history. Ouch! That was a tad harsh. Well, what can I say? I thought she was a major buzzkill. And I knew she would be one the second she made her first appearance. I was like: Oh, man. This chick is going to be no fun at all. And I was right. Now, you would think that I'd be a fan of a character who repeatedly goes against the will of the majority. But everything she objected to was fine in my book. Check this out, she was against getting wasted, being fixed up on blind dates, and, most importantly, she was against pulling an elaborate prank on their overbearing house mother. I know, she clearly states in a toast that she likes getting wasted. But I didn't buy that for a second.

You have your doubts about the killer and you didn't care for the final girl, is this anything you did like about this film? First of all, I didn't say I had any doubts about the film's killer. I was just stating that some horror fans, the close-minded variety, might have trouble excepting the fact that an elderly woman, who's not actually that old when you think about it, is the film's primary object of menace. And another thing, there are those who won't be able to grasp the idea of a woman killing other women, as it goes against everything they've been taught about gender dynamics and horror films. Which goes something like this: Men kill women. Women kill men. Monsters, on the other hand, kill everyone.

Doesn't the walking stick killer dispatch a man first? Oh, yeah. You're right. They do rub out some guy who was wondering the woods near the sorority house in the film's title. I don't know why they killed him, as he had nothing to do with the prank that lead to their decision to take up serial killing. I guess they, writer-director Mark Rosman, included it in order to make us think that anyone, even random dudes wondering the woods, could be targeted at any given moment.

Oh, and, by the way, walking stick killer?!? What? They kill people almost exclusively with a walking stick. Hence, they're the walking stick killer. Hey, if they can use a hatpin in Murder Rock, why not a walking stick?

Opening with a prologue that takes place in 1961, June 19, 1961, to be specific, we watch as a woman is told that the baby she just gave birth to is dead. Call me paranoid, but I think this incident is going to play a major factor over the course this film. Mark my words, it will play a factor. There's no need to mark your words, we believe you. Oh.

Jump forward to 1981, and it's graduation day for seven seniors. Wait a minute, don't tell me I'm going to have to keep track of seven white women? Please tell me one of them is at least Nepalese? Nope, there are no Nepalese chicks in this flick. Great. This is all I need.

(Left to right): Jeanie (Robin Meloy Goldsby), Diane (Harley Jane Kozak), Stevie (Ellen Dorsher), Vicki (Eileen Davidson), Morgan (Jodi Draigie), Liz (Janis Ward), and Katherine (Kate McNeil)

I guess that sort of helps. In meantime, we're treated to a montage that includes girls packing up their clothes, girls putting on makeup, girls painting their nails, and girls shaving their legs. It would seem that everyone preparing to leave the campus. All but the seven I listed above. Why are they staying, you ask? That's simple, they want to use the sorority house to throw a party.

Wearing those square-shaped academic caps, six of the girls are sitting in a circle drinking champagne out of giant beer mugs. Hold on, I thought you said there were seven of them? Well, that's because Vicki's off gallivanting with her boyfriend (his name is not important at this juncture, nor will it be at any junctures in the not-so distant future). During the circle drink, we learn a little about the girls. Like, for instance, Stevie plans on being a flight attendant for Pam-Am (despite the fact she's afraid of flying), Jeanie uses the phrase "fullest capacity" (not sure what she meant by that), and Diane is wearing a black CBGB t-shirt, which automatically makes her the coolest chick in the group.

The most attractive sorority girl is Morgan, a ditzy blonde with a thing for slinky nighties. She also has a thing for booze. Which she's vomits up when Mrs. Slater (Lois Kelso Hunt), their house mother, shows up unexpectedly. Putting an abrupt end to their fun, Mrs. Slater scolds them for using her house for such debauchery.

You think drinking champagne without pants is bad, wait until she hears Vicki having waterbed-quality sexual intercourse with her condom-sporting boyfriend, she's going to flip out. She expresses her outrage by slashing Vicki's waterbed with the spiky part of her walking stick mid-coitus. You mean they were still going at it when Mrs. Slater attacked Vicki's waterbed? You bet she did. Oh, man. I'm no behavioral specialist, but Vicki's going to be super-pissed.

As everyone knows, Vicki does her best scheming while wearing jean shorts by an unclean swimming pool. In-between the moments when she wasn't tossing half-eaten pieces of fried chicken into said unclean swimming pool, Vicki plans her revenge. Though, it should said that Vicki isn't hatching the ultimate prank all by herself. No, the other girls are helping her. Some are even pitching her ideas. Well, everyone is helping except Kate. She thinks all this prank talk is juvenile, especially for a group of women who have just supposedly graduated from a prestigious college that may or may not be located in the state of Maryland.

However, beyond throwing Vicki several disapproving looks, Kate is powerless to stop the prank. In other words, sorry, Kate, the mob has spoken. The next morning, Mrs. Slater wakes up to find that her trusty cane is missing. Ooh, it looks like the prank has already begun. Told to go look for her cane down by the unclean swimming pool, Vicki and the gang, including Kate, follow Mrs. Slater as she angrily stomps towards the prank infamy.

I don't have to tell you what happens next. As with most pranks, they seem funnier during the planning stage than they do when they're actually being implemented. And just like that, Vicki, Morgan (who looks leg-tastic in those purple short shorts), Jeanie, Liz, Diane, Stevie, and even Kate are dumping Mrs. Slater's lifeless body into the unclean swimming pool.

Now that that's taken care of, who's ready to party? Clearly Freshman Girl #1 (Ruth Moss) Freshman Girl #2 (Hilary Crowson) and Freshman Girl #3 (Nanna Ingvarsson) are ready. I mean, look at them.

And get this, the sorority girls have hired 4 Out of 5 Doctors to play their party. Who are they? Why, they're just the best new wave band currently rocking the sorority house party circuit. My vagina is going to explode if they play "Modern Man." Seriously, though, I'd put 4 Out of 5 Doctors appearance in The House on Sorority Row up there with the likes of The Wigs in My Chauffeur and Paula E. Sheppard's rendition of "Me And My Rhythm Box" in Liquid Sky as far as live music acts who perform in movies from the 1980s.

With Mrs. Slater's body languishing in the unclean swimming pool, the party should go off without a hitch. That is, if no fat guys decide to take a late night swim. And wouldn't you know it, here comes a fat guy now. And, of course, he's wearing nothing but a pair of garbage bag size tightie whities. Meaning, he's down for some night swimming. Won't he see the that pool is A) Filthy. And B) The makeshift watery grave of the soon-to-be bloated corpse of Mrs. Slater? Don't worry, the girls are way ahead of you. Their concern, however, was all for naught, as Mrs. Slater's body is no longer languishing in the unclean swimming pool.

Where could Mrs. Slater be? I'll never tell. One by one the girls are stalked and killed by a killer wielding a cane. The end. Wait a second, before you go. You should know that all the rooms in the sorority house were designed by Vincent Peranio, the film's art director. Do you mean the Vincent Peranio? The guy who designed Mortville in Desperate Living? The very same. Wow, this little nugget of information, along with Diane's CBGB t-shirt, 4 Out out of 5 Doctors, Morgan's hotness and Jeanie's white pleated skirt (perfect for cowering in washrooms), has caused The House on Sorority Row to move up a few pegs on the slasher meter. I also liked how I had never seen any of the actors in anything before, even Kathryn Davidov, who plays "Girl at Party." I wish more movies would use unknown or, as I like to call 'em, one movie and out, actors in their movies, as I sometimes get sick of seeing the same stupid, Apatow-approved faces in every other movie.

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I'm having trouble deciding, was my mental well-being irreparably damaged or was it enriched beyond belief after it (my mental well-being) got roped into viewing The Last House on Dead End Street (a.k.a. The Cuckoo Clocks of Hell), the snuff film extravaganza about a dreamy ex-con in a leather jacket who dives headfirst into the seedy world of exploitation movie-making after being released from the joint. And by "roped," I mean using the breadth of my own free will (nothing ropes me). Well, which was it? Oh, yeah. I'm sorry. I was just trying to imagine the sight of me tied up with rope. You know, since nothing ever ropes me, I was wondering what it must feel like to be bound with movement-hampering chunks of rope. Mmm, movement-hampering chunks of rope. Okay, now I'm dying to know, was your mental well-being irreparably damaged or enriched beyond belief? Quit stalling. I'm afraid it was neither. I was way too busy hiding behind this giant taupe couch cushion to be either damaged or enriched. You could say the cushion protected me from the negative and the positive effects of this movie; call me crazy, but there were times when I thought the taupe energy emanating from the cushion was coating my aura with a thick layer of industrial strength ambiguity. However, no piece of upholstery, no matter how magical, could protect me from the innate foxiness that was Roger Watkins, the...just a second, I need take a deep breath. All right, I'm ready. Let me start over. Nothing could--not even the thickest taupe couch cushion known to man--protect me from the innate foxiness that was Roger Watkins, the star (credited as Steven Morrison), the director (credited as Victor Janos), the writer (credited as Brian Laurence), the editor (credited as Brian Newett), the post-production supervisor (credited as Bernie Travis) and the producer (credited as Norman F Kaiser) of this extremely enriching motion picture.

Hey, I thought you said this film was neither damaging or enriching? I did? Well, whoever said that was clearly lying. This film is one of the most enriching things I have ever seen. Which is saying a lot, as I am someone who seen both Mannequin and its totally awesome sequel Mannequin: On the Move. Besides, how can a film that features a scene where a white woman in blackface is whipped by a guy pretending to be a hunchback not be enriching? Getting back to Roger Watkins' innate foxiness for a second. It was love at first sight the moment I laid eyes on Terry Hawkins, a man with not only a grudge against society, but one with a plan, a dastardly plan.

Actually, before you go on about your misguided crush on Roger Watkins/Terry Hawkins, would you care to share your on thoughts on the film's soundtrack? I guess I could do that. Now that you mention it, since the eerie music featured throughout this movie is the first thing we experience, it only makes sense to touch on its importance right out of the gate. Do the names, Nurse With Wound, Coil, Zoviet France, Current 93, Lustmord, and Norturnal Emissions mean anything to you? No? Okay, how 'bout Throbbing Gristle? Oh, and, by the way, I'm not just showing off my knowledge of early '80s British industrial music for the hell of it, I'm trying to make a point. And that is, the film's industrial soundtrack was fucking awesome. Whether it was the rhythmic thumping or the sinister droning, The Last House on Dead End Street is one of the most evil sounding movies ever made. I have no way to prove this, but I could have sworn that Current 93 used some of the same sounds heard in this movie on their epic "Falling Back in Fields of Rape" from the album, Dogs Blood Rising.

Make no mistake, the audio output can't hold a candle to the film's visual boutique, which we get a brief sneak peak of when we see a man holding aloft a handful of bloody intestines while kneeling on a table in a surgical mask. But as far as capturing the film's misanthropic temperament, the music is pretty much perfect.

In-between the quick flashes of some unfortunate soul being disemboweled, we meet Terry Fuckin' Hawkins (Roger Watkins); just for the record, I added the "fuckin'" to Terry Hawkin's name, as his real middle name is not revealed during the film. Nevertheless, Terry Hawkins is out of prison after doing a year for selling drugs. Circling a large house, one that may be the last one at the end of a dead end street, in a menacing manner, Terry, via narration, tells us that he plans on getting back at society for the way it was treated him over the years. It should go without saying, but everything Terry Hawkins does in is done in a menacing manner.

How does Terry plan on getting back at society? How do you think? By making movies, weird movies. And he's already recruited two potential "superstars" to help him realize his dream in the form of Katherine Hughes (Kathy Curtin) and Patricia Kuhn (Pat Canestro), a couple of hippie chicks who will do pretty much anything Terry asks of them. Hey, Kathy and Pat. Yeah, I was wondering. Could one of you take this severed deer hoof and pretend it's your cock? If one of you could do this, that would be great. The scenario I just described probably happened. So, when I way say that Kathy and Pat will do "pretty much anything" Terry asks them to, I ain't kidding around.

After acquiring his female leads, Terry Hawkins heads over his to see his friend, Ken Hardy (Ken Fisher), a lowlife who seems know a lot about the porn industry (he's got connections). Informing him that no one is interested in erotic cinema anymore (sex on film is boring), Terry, who, apparently dabbled with porn and pimping at one point, explains to Ken that he plans on doing something that hasn't been done before.

With two actresses and a producer/actor on board, all Terry needs now is a cameraman. And, of course, he knows exactly where to find one. Even though Bill Drexel (Bill Schlageter) seems reluctant to talk to Terry, he eventually convinces to join the team. Say what will about Terry Hawkins, he's one suave motherfucker.

Meanwhile, at a party across town, the "connections" Ken alluded to are having a little fun. Well, not all of them are. A porn director named Jim Palmer (Edward E. Pixley) is moping around upstairs with a cat while his wife, Nancy (Nancy Vrooman), is busy being whipped by a man who is pretending to be a hunchback. Now, I can understand why Nancy would choose to be whipped in pink panties, as I hear that's a popular shade of pantie to wear when it comes to being whipped in public. But what's the deal with the blackface makeup? Oh, and the fact that the whip was handed to the hunchback impersonator by a young boy added an unneeded layer of strange to an already outre situation.

Tired of watching the whipping, Steve Randall (Steve Sweet), a film producer, heads up upstairs to talk business with Jim. It's during this particular sequence that Roger Watkins takes some of his best swipes at the porn industry. Screening a couple of scenes he recently filmed, Jim shows Steve a loop where a woman takes a bath and two women kiss each other while a dog wanders around the room. And let's just say Steven isn't thrilled by what he sees. Finding his films to be boring (he doesn't want art, he wants action), Steve scolds Jim for the lacklustre footage he brought him.

What Steve wants is something different, and he thinks he might have found something different in the form of Terry Hawkins, who, according to word on the street, is making films unlike anything anyone has seen before. Handing out plastic masks to his cast and crew, we see Terry making one of these films as we speak; a movie where his two female actresses molest a bound blind man while Terry strangles him to death in a large Greek tragedy mask.

Choking the blind is nothing compared to what Terry and company have in store for Steve, Jim, Nancy, and another woman named Suzie (Suzie Neumeyer) at that house at the end of the street. I'm kinda hesitant to describe what they have cooked up for them. But I'm sure I'll overcome this. Instructing Steve to meet him at the aforementioned house at the end of the street, a dead end street (telling him it will be worth his while), he's greeted by these bright lights (which confuse and disorient the bearded film producer) and is knocked unconscious by one of Terry's superstars.

What occurs over the course of the next, oh, let's say, fifteen or so minutes, will shock even the most jaded fans of exploitation cinema. The most frightening, in terms of atmosphere, has to be the ordeal that Terry Hawkins puts Suzie through, as she is subjected to this eerie sing-song passage; something to do with a virgin bride. The masks, the lights, the throbbing electro-pulse, the knife, it's a downright terrifying sequence.

At other end of the spectrum is Terry's dealing with Jim Palmer, the inept porn director. Trading in the creepiness that made Suzie's scene so memorable, Jim's scene is definitely more comedic in nature, well, it's more darkly comedic. Call me a sick twist, but I was mildly aroused by the sight of Roger Watkins beating Jim to death while shouting "I'm directing this fucking movie!" over and over again. He might be a deranged lunatic hopped up on crystal meth, but there's no denying that Roger Watkins has an intrinsic allure. If I was in the market for a boyfriend, I'd want him to be exactly like Terry Hawkins (pull down my tropical-themed panties and grab my quivering haunches, you handsome scumbag, you). As a bound Steve and Nancy are debating whether this is real or not, Terry chimes in by saying, "you bet your ass it's real."

I don't often find myself looking away from the screen, but when I do, it's usually for a good reason. And I can't think of a better time to do so than the dismemberment scene that takes place near the end of The Last House on Dead End Street. You might want to turn the volume down as well, as the sound of that saw cutting through bone will probably haunt your dreams for years to come. I knew things were about to get grim when I first a caught a glimpse of the ghastly accoutrements they had laid out at the end of the dissecting table. When the screaming finally subsides, it's time to move to that not-so kooky realm where forced deer hoof fellatio and some well-rehearsed head drilling rule the day. The shot of a triumphant Terry Hawkins and his crew standing before their final victim is the stuff black metal album covers are made of. Sheathed in his trademark leather jacket, Terry in this moment is the personification of evil. And, I have to admit, it's a beautiful thing.

According to Newman, the air in Hawaii is so dewy-sweet, that you don't even have to lick the stamps. And after enduring my third, or was it my fourth? Who has time to count? Anyway, after enduring yet another Andy Sidaris film, I think Newman might be right. The air in Hawaii does seem more moist than...Hold on, did I just say, "enduring"? Let me check. Yeah, it looks like I just did. That's not right. What I should have said was "enjoying," as there's no denying that, despite what they might lack in terms of everything, the films of Andy Sidaris are always enjoyable. Sure, you think they're enjoyable now. But wait until you're writing about your tenth Andy Sidaris film. He made ten movies?!? More than that, actually. Holy crap! So, yeah. Talk to me after you have watched Fit to Kill and Hard Hunted, then we'll see how committed you are to the cult of Andy Sidaris. Hey, as long as they all have hot chicks prancing around in mini-dresses, I'll be fine. What about your world famous aversion to big boobs and bad acting? When did I say I had say I had an aversion to big boobs and bad acting? I think you might have misheard me or something. I don't like fake boobs, which are usually big boobs. As for bad acting? I love bad acting. But I'm not a fan of bad bad acting. Let give you a quick example: The sort of symmetrical Dona Speir is a bad bad actress; she has no charisma, she can't smoke a cigarette in a convincing manner, and she thinks her stupid tits are all that. On the other hand, the adorable Hope Marie Carlton is a good bad actress; her face has pep and she does a killer Mae West impression. Wait, you thought H.M.C.'s Mae West impression was killer? I'd say it was average at best. Okay, maybe it wasn't a "killer." But at least she tried, and that's more than I can say for some of the dolts and dunderheads that appear in Picasso Trigger, the two-pronged action thrill ride with more unexpected explosions than an ill-conceived diarrhea awareness convention. Aren't all diarrhea awareness conventions ill-conceived? Touché.

Taking his Playboy Playmates shooting automatic weapons in a tropical environment formula and not changing it one bit, Andy Sidaris expands his global reach with this film about double-crossing spies. Stop for a second. Is Andy sticking with his usual game plan, or is he mixing things up? Which is it? Actually, I think he's doing more of the latter in Picasso Trigger, as the film opens in Paris, France of all places.

I wonder if Andy Sidaris and his crew actually flew to Paris to film the opening scene? Which, like I said, takes place in Paris, France. You don't wonder that. You're right, I'm more concerned about Cynthia Brimhall, Roberta Vasquez, Kym Malin, and Hope Marie Carlton. I mean, how long do I have to wait until I see their shapely bodies onscreen?

The Picasso Triggerfish is known for its survival skills, and so is Salazar (John Aprea), codename: Picasso Trigger. However, after donating a painting of a Picasso Triggerfish to a Paris art gallery, Picasso Trigger is gunned down by a sniper while leaving the gallery. Who would want him dead? The question you should be asking yourself is, who wouldn't want him dead? I have a nagging suspicion that a drug lord named Miguel Ortiz (Rodrigo Obregón) had something to do with his death. But what's nagging me even more is the fact that Miguel and Salazar looked like they were in cahoots with one another; Miguel sends Salazar a taped message informing him that the plan to avenge the death of his brother is "in motion."

Meanwhile, at the Sands Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, Kym (Kym Malin) and Pattycakes (Patty Duffek) are putting on a show. Dressed up like untamed cowgirls of the wild west, Kym and Pattycakes dance erotically while Juan (former Mr. Universe, John Brown), an undercover agent, Shiavo (Nicholas Georgiade), a snuff film director, and a chubby dude and a blonde guy with a ponytail attentively watch from the audience. When you get right down to it, the only real reason this paragraph exists, besides explaining the nefarious makeup of the Sands audience, is to point out that Kym Malin is an attractive woman. And now that I have done that, we can safely move on. That doesn't mean I'm not going to bring up Kym Malin's attractiveness at a later date, I just wanted to make sure I didn't skip over her, as I've noticed that a lot of Picasso Trigger reviews seem to fail to mention Miss Malin, who is easily in the film's top three when it comes to sex appeal.

Oh, and remember those two guys? You know, the chubby one and the blonde guy with the ponytail? What about them? Well, one of the associates of the snuff film director puts a homing device on their person as they're leaving the casino. Tracking them in a helicopter, the snuff film director associate kills them in the middle of the desert with some sort of rocket launcher. Tracking devices? Helicopters? Rocket launchers? It all seemed so overly complicated. I mean, couldn't they just have shot them? You obviously haven't seen that many Andy Sidaris films. People in his films are always dispatched in this manner. Okay, maybe not always. Take the next scene, for example, as two assassins target two federal agents in Molokai. They were simply shot while walking on the beach. But for the most part, all the violence in his films usually involve helicopters, toy planes, toy cars, jet skis, hovercrafts, airplanes, boomerangs, medical prostheses, speedboats, you name it. Spear guns? Sure, spear guns.

Funny you should mention toy planes, as federal agents Donna (Dona Speir) and Taryn (Hope Marie Carlton) are about to be targeted for assassination. Someone tries to kill them with a toy plane? Exactly. Except, they were off snorkeling when the toy plane (one packed with explosives) destroys their boat.

It would seem that someone is bumping off federal agents. And it's not just agents in Molokai and Las Vegas, they're even being targeted in Texas. Just ask L.G. Abilene (Guich Koock), who is nearly blowed up real good at his ranch. If the name "Abilene" sounds familiar, that's because L.G. is related to Travis Abilene (Steve Bond), the cousin or brother of the Abilene's who appeared in Malibu Express and Hard Ticket to Hawaii. And just like those other Abilene's, Travis is no marksmen, but he is a hit with the ladies.

Enter Pantera (Roberta Vasquez), the leggiest, most badonkalicious federal agent currently in the spy game. She apparently worked undercover with Salazar, and, so, Travis decides to bring on board the team he's assembling to stop the bloodletting that is currently afflicting much damage on the federal agent community. But won't Donna be upset that Travis is working so closely a woman he once dated?

When Travis gets one look at Pantera's legs, he'll be saying, Donna who? Seriously, look at her legs. Look at them!!!

After taking in some line dancing at Cowboys, the premiere club for all your synth-flavoured country and western needs, and engaging in some against the wall intercourse, Travis and Pantera drive, in his red Ferrari, to Uncertain, Texas, to meet up with L.G. at the Big Pines Lodge.

While I admire you attention to detail. But what I really want to know is, what is Roberta Vasquez wearing? Oh, I'm sorry. She's only wearing the tightest pair of white leopard print pants ever to exist on this or any other plane of existence.

The sight of Roberta Vasquez's ample booty encased in those ridiculously tight pants are the real reason to watch this movie.

Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise, obviously has a different opinion than mine. And I respect that. But come on. You have to admire its oomph-like panache.

After an extended speed boat chase (yawn), we see Pantera leaning against Travis's Ferrari in a manner that practically screams Whitesnake.

As she leans, a hush suddenly falls over the audience. Will Pantera turn around once more and give us one last look at her robust ass sheathed in those super-tight pants? Spoiler alert: She totally does. And the crowd goes wild.

Instead of ending on a high note, Picasso Trigger inexplicably continues for another forty or so minutes. After all the agents are briefed in Las Vegas, Donna and Pantera get in a bit of pissing contest over the ownership of Travis's American cock. In reality, Donna's non-existent booty wouldn't stand a chance against the junk Pantera is packing in her trunk. But Travis ends up spending the night with Donna. Boo! You suck, Travis!

You might be thinking to yourself, what does Cynthia Brimhall get up to in this flick? Well, let me tell you. On top of sporting a tight stripped number on the tarmac of some airport, Cynthia's Edy Stark teams up with Jade (Harold Diamond) to take down one of Ortiz's associates. The kicker being, that Edy and Jade dress up as the least convincing telephone repairmen in the long, storied history of the fake telephone repairman ruse to do so; they look like a couple of strippers, all that was missing was their boombox blasting out "Wild Thing" by Tone Lōc.

Hot tub sex, Liv Lindeland's milfy legs strutting pool side, weightlifting sex, boxy blazers (it must be murder for Mr. Universe to find a jacket that fits), a motorbike chase (one that involves Bruce Penhall), Hope Marie Carlton wielding an uzi, and a crutch-zooka (a combination crutch/bazooka), Picasso Trigger checks all the boxes you want to be checked when faced with an Andy Sidaris film. Mind you, that doesn't mean it's a good movie. I'm just saying it provides everything you've come to expect from the jacuzzi-obsessed director. Personally, I thought Roberta Vasquez's bum in those leopard print pants, Kym Malin's untamed cowgirl theatrics, and Cynthia Brimhall's overall gorgeousness were enough to satisfy my frightfully superficial needs and wants.

As usual, we're treated to a coda where our "heroes" drink champagne to celebrate yet another successful mission. And in terms of making a lasting impression fashion-wise, I have to give Hope Marie Carlton's pastel outfit the prize for being the most fabulous, as she looks amazing (dig those unattached sleeves, girl).

video uploaded by asidaris

Why does Paul the photographer look so sad when he is ultimately forced to sever all his personal and professional ties with one of his top models? Is the answer: A) His erect penis will no longer be allowed to penetrate her wet pussy on a semi-regular basis B) His camera will no longer be allowed to take pictures of her succulent organic structure...on a semi-regular basis C) He knows what sort of degradation lies ahead for the wispy massage parlour employee turned fashion model with the creamy thighs that bruise easily, or D) All of the above. If you answered 'D,' then you my friend know that 1980 is a dangerous place for a 5'1" no-nonsense brunette who dreams of becoming a fashion model. Actually, we never really get to know what Lisa (Samantha Fox), the title character in Her Name Was Lisa, was aspiring to be. And it's no wonder, she's dead. Um, hello? Hows about giving us a heads up next time? You mean a spoiler warning?!? Eww, how vulgar. Truth be told, I don't think a spoiler warning is really necessary in this film's case. You see, the film, which is directed by Roger Watkins, a.k.a. Richard Mahler (The Last House on Dead End Street), opens with a shot of Lisa lying dead in a casket, so, yeah. And besides, the film's title uses the word "was" as supposed to "is." Meaning, this film tells its story through flashbacks that document how Lisa eventually wound up in that casket. And judging by her youthful vigor, slender frame, and the twinkle in her eye, I'm going to go ahead and assume that she didn't die of natural causes. No, I'd say the excesses of the era and the selfishness of others are what lead to Lisa's ultimate downfall.

First things first, Samantha Fox, not to be confused with the British pop singer/glamour model of the same name, looks amazing in this film. She exudes a tough, streetwise attitude yet she can also be soft and elegant at the same time. In other words, she is very sexy, especially when she's holding a whip while her waist area is being lassoed by a leather garter belt. However, I have a feeling some people might have trouble buying Samantha as a fashion model. Why's that? I don't know, but I think it might have something to do the toughness I just alluded to. On the other hand, you shouldn't really apply today's freakish standards to the models of yesteryear. Oh yeah. I'm sorry about that. I keep forgetting that models weren't always emaciated string beans with trendy cocaine habits. That's right. They used to be diminutive porn stars with trendy heroin habits; there's a big difference.

Giving a performance that reminded me a lot of Dorothy LeMay's turn in Nightdreams–in that, her moist holes are poked and prodded in almost every scene–Samantha Fox's bruise-laden thighs tell no lies, as her tight little body oozes truth from every pore.

Naked, dead, and wrapped in plastic, how did Lisa, a feisty brunette with her whole life ahead of her, end up in a wooden box? Well, I guess it all began when Paul (Rick Iverson) wandered into the massage parlour where Lisa works. Telling the woman sitting behind the desk that he would like a "massage," Paul's instructed, after paying twenty bucks, to choose from the ladies that have been haphazardly assembled before him. Unimpressed by what he sees during his initial head turn, Paul suddenly notices a brunette sitting with her back to him smoking a cigarette like she were Greta Garbo. It takes the clerk couple of tries to get her attention, but she eventually turns around and acknowledges Paul's presence.

Insisting on calling him "Buddy," Lisa, who is wearing a dark red leotard, orders Paul to take off all his clothes, and informs him that he has fifteen minutes. However, it's clear right away that Paul has no interest in getting a massage. It would seem that he's a photographer and he's there not to get a rub and tug, but to ask Lisa if she would interested in posing for some pictures.

In order to prove that Paul isn't joking around, we're treated to a surprisingly chic photo shoot sequence that features "The Robots" by Kraftwerk throbbing on the soundtrack. Very stylish and filled with...Hold the phone. Did you say Kraftwerk?!? The Kraftwerk? The guys from Düsseldorf? Yeah, that Kraftwerk. How is that physically possible? I don't know, but the photo shoot sequence in Her Name Was Lisa totally features "The Robots" by Kraftwerk in all its techno-pop glory. Anyway, boasting blood-stained faces, boobies, and pistols, Lisa wanders into Paul's studio just as the shoot was winding down.

After the other models leave, Paul uses the phrase "my girls" when offering Lisa a job as a model. Big mistake, Paul, as Lisa hates that term (she's nobodies "girl"). Either way, Lisa is dancing to disco in nothing but her gold panties in no time. Heaving and thrusting her realistic crotch in every possible direction, Lisa eventually stops dancing in order to place Paul's cock in her mouth. Returning the favour, Paul pulls off Lisa's dusty gold panties and plants the bottom half of his face squarely into her ass. As Paul plows his erect penis into one of the crevices where his face once was, you'll notice that Lisa's panties are desperately hanging onto her foot and that Samantha Fox has a great fuck face.

During their after sex chat/smoke, Lisa tells Paul that what they just did was strictly business. What I liked about their post-coital conversation, besides the fact that Lisa is one tough cookie, is that Paul uses the word "sarcastic." And since I've never heard that word used in an erotic movie before, I was quite taken aback by its unexpected usage.

When not modeling, not giving massages, or not taking any sass, you can usually find Lisa hanging out at a local spa. She does what most people do when they visit the spa (swim, walk around in a towel). But Lisa, I noticed, likes to use her spa time to try out her side ponytail; Lisa only wears her hair in a side ponytail while at the spa.

Hey, why is Paul the photographer so glum? Well, it would seem that his time as Lisa's photographer of choice is about to come to an end. Enter Stephen Sweet (David Pierce), a sadistic magazine publisher who wants Lisa to be his, uh...Actually, I'm not quite sure what he wants with her. All I know is that Mr. Sweet wants her and there's nothing Paul the photographer can do stop him. Ordering Paul to get them some food (he basically tells him to scram), Stephen starts to molest Lisa the second the photog vacates the premises. The see-through nightie Lisa was wearing for the photo shoot quickly falls by the wayside, as Mr. Sweet pulls down his pants and waits for her full lips to latch onto his manhood.

While Lisa and Mr. Sweet were doing the sex thing, I couldn't help but notice a couple of things. 1) If Mr. Sweet is so "punctual," why doesn't he wear a watch? (Mr. Sweet often brags about his punctuality) 2) For a man who professes to be powerful, Mr. Sweet's penis and the milky syrup it occasionally produces do not reflect this power at all.

Taking Lisa to his swanky apartment, Mr. Sweet tells her to make herself at home. She might not know it yet, but Lisa is no longer a model, she's Mr. Sweet's live-in sex slave. Told to put on the clothes that are lying spread out on the bed, Mr. Sweet informs her that he'll be back at ten. And since he's punctual, he shows up at ten on the dot. Waiting for him in black stockings, a black leather garter belt, a studded choker, and black leather bra, Lisa says, "take your clothes off" in authoritative manner. As she is strapping him to the bed with leather restraints (she forces him to wear a leather mask as well), the sound of "Will-o' the Wisp" by Passport starts to pummel us with its jazz funk brand of awesomeness. What this film lacks in buckets of opaque fluid, it more than makes up for it with its killer soundtrack.

"Don't come back until your tongue grows six inches longer," says Lisa, who is clearly not satisfied with Mr. Sweet's annilingis technique.

If you thought it was odd that Mr. Sweet allowed Lisa to be so cruel to him (she throws recently extinguished matches at him at one point). Don't worry, Mr. Sweet has something nasty in store for her. And their names are Male Rapist #1 (Bobby Astyr) and Male Rapist #2 (Randy West), two friends that Mr. Sweet wants Lisa to treat "especially nice." I don't think I need to tell you what happens next when Male Rapist #1 and Male Rapist #2 show up at Mr. Sweet's door.

Covered in bruises, Lisa is comforted by Carmen (Vanessa del Rio), a fellow spa enthusiast. And by "comforted," I mean Carmen performs cunnilingus on Lisa's haggered pussy.

Wondering why Lisa is dressed so "un-provocatively," Mr. Sweet, whose drink has been drugged, is confused by the behaviour of his live-in sex slave. Just as Lisa is putting the finishing touches on her striptease, Carmen enters the room wearing black stockings, a black leather garter belt, a black bra, and a black leather trench coat. Even though he's kind of out it, Mr. Sweet seems pleased to see Carmen, who is brandishing a whip. After Lisa does what any sane person would (sprinkle Vanessa del Rio's stocking adorned legs with many kisses), Mr. Sweet busies himself with Carmen's pussy. While Mr. Sweet is occupied, you'll notice that Lisa is attaching something to her crotch. It's almost as if she is strapping something on. It couldn't be? Could it? It is! She's putting on a strap-on dildo. I'm surprised she bothered to slather it with lube, because Mr. Sweet's unexplored asshole doesn't deserve the mucusy goodness that only a healthy dollop of lube can provide.

Anyway, Lisa officially ends her relationship, if you can call it that, by sticking the dildo in Mr. Sweet's ass to the strains of "Gimme Some Lovin'" by Kongas (a song that was ruined in the 1980s when a slightly altered version was used in an ad for Molson Canadian). How did a 5' 1" brunette manage to penetrate a hulking magazine publisher? I've got two words for you. Wait, make that three words: Vanessa del Rio. If anyone can pin a hulking magazine publisher to the ground so that a smaller woman can fuck him in the ass with a strap-on dildo, it's her.

If you think Lisa is out of the proverbial shag carpeting, think again. Her trip to rock bottom has just begun. Actually, that's not true; rock bottom was visited when Lisa is raped by Male Rapist #1 and Male Rapist #2. Either way, things don't get better for Lisa after shacking up with Carmen. In fact, things only get worse, as she develops, no thanks to Carmen, a debilitating heroin habit. Dealing with issues such as mortality, drug abuse, and rape, Her Name Was Lisa is an adult movie made for adults. Aren't most adult movies made for adults? Yeah, I guess. But this one seems more mature than your average fuck film; it has an air of sophistication about it that most adult films seem to lack.

Holy crap! I almost forgot, how did the producers manage to put Led Zeppelin's "Dazed and Confused" on the soundtrack? I know, they probably didn't even bother to ask permission. But still, I'm surprised they able to get away with it, as I hear the band is quite protective when it comes to other people using their music.

video uploaded by the super-terrific Casey Scott

When I finished watching Savage Beach, the sort of sequel to Hard Ticket to Hawaii–sort of, in that, they both take place in the same dew-laden universe and even feature some of the same characters–I briefly flirted with the idea of copying what I wrote about Hard Ticket to Hawaii and simply passing it off as a review for Savage Beach. Of course, I would change a few minor details here and there. But for all intents and purposes, it would be the exact same review. Then it dawned on me. Not only would that be unfair to Hope Marie Carlton (Slumber Party Massacre III), Dona Speir, and writer-director Andy Sidaris, it would also be unfair to my millions of fans out there. I know what you're thinking: Millions?!? Don't you mean billions? Oh, you weren't thinking that. Then what were you thinking? Never mind. It's funny you should bring up the whole copying thing, as there are plenty of moments in this film that caused me to think: I can't write yet another nonsensical word collage about Hope Marie Carlton's cuteness, I need something else. Actually, my saviour shows up immediately in the form of a leggy redhead, one that provided me with all the necessary visual nourishment I require to be able to get through this khaki-short saturated exercise pretty much unscathed. Now, I promise to expand on my feelings toward this so-called "leggy redhead." But in the meantime, let's talk about Magnum P.I., or I should say, let's talk about how this film is basically a ninety minute episode of Magnum, P.I. It's true, this film features more naked breasts than your average episode of Magnum, P.I.; in fact, I don't remember seeing any naked breasts on Magnum, P.I. However, neither does this film. Sure, it's got naked breasts, but they're mostly shot from the side. You mean? Yep, side-boob. Even when they are filmed from the front, their usually obscured by fizzy hot tub water. Obscured by fizzy hot tub water? That's a bloody outrage. Actually, it didn't bother me at all.

Getting back to Magnum, P.I. for a second, didn't that show have an episode where they come across a remote island where a Japanese soldier believes the war is still going on? I know, I could easily get to the bottom of this by doing some research. But people who don't get paid to wax poetically about leggy redheads don't do research. And besides, I'm going with my gut on this one, and my gut tells me that Magnum, P.I. did a Japanese soldier still fighting World War II thirty-five years after the war ended episode. Even though I'm probably thinking about an episode of Gilligan's Island.

Judging by the all this talk about Japanese holdouts, I think it's safe to say that's exactly what the plot of Savage Beach entails. Aren't we perceptive. Yes, there's a Japanese holdout. Yet, the film is more about greed, honour, and leggy redheads than anything else. You see, there's this box filled with stolen Filipino gold, and a dying Japanese navel officer has decided the time has come to reveal its location. Well, sort of. He has a general idea where it could be. In other words, the actual location is still a mystery.

You know what means? There's going to be a lot of nefarious characters coming out of the woodwork who will want to get their grubby little hands that gold. And who's more nefarious than Al Leong? Al who? The balding Asian guy with the long Fu Manchu mustache who's in every American action movie from the 1980s. Okay, maybe he's not in even American action movie. But he's in Big Trouble in Little China and Die Hard (he's the pseudo terrorist who helps himself to a pre-shootout candy bar), and that's plenty in my book. Either way, he plays Fu, yeah, that's right, Fu, a freelance scumbag with a severe hankering from some buried treasure.

You know who else is nefarious? The guy representing the government of The Philippines, that's who. Now, I don't want to question the hiring practices of government of The Philippines, but are you sure you want Martinez (Rodrigo Obregón) representing you? I mean, I know The Philippines and Spain have historic ties with one another, but this guy doesn't look Filipino at all.

Actually, the fact that he doesn't look Filipino isn't what makes him so nefarious, it's the fact that he's a communist insurgent, and, most nefarious of all, his girlfriend looks like Teri Weigel. You wanna know why his girlfriend looks like Teri Weigel? It's because she is Teri Weigel. Oh, sure, she's playing character named Anjelica, but her temperament is pure, unadulterated Teri Weigel.

Add Captain Andreas (John Aprea) of the U.S. Navy, and a blonde C.I.A. agent, Bruce Christian (Bruce Penhall), to the mix, and you got yourself quite a diverse group of treasure hunters.

How Donna (Don Speir) and Taryn (Hope Marie Carlton), federal agents posing as employees of Molokai Cargo, fit into this convoluted game of international intrigue isn't clear yet.

In meantime, Donna and Taryn are about to the bust up a heroin smuggling ring (the bastards are using hollowed out pineapples to transport their illicit product).

You mean to tell me that two blonde women in khaki shorts are going to put a gang of drug dealers out of business all by themselves? 'Cause, if that what you're telling me, I'm out of here. Don't be silly. They have back up. And it comes in the form of a leggy redhead named Rocky (Lisa London), the tallest, most exquisite leggy redhead on all of Molokai.

Shouldn't you mention that Rocky has a brunette partner? Yeah, yeah, Rocky is paired with some chick in pink bicycle shorts named Pattycakes (Patty Duffek), I know, what a stupid name. But let's stop beating around the bush and talk about Rocky, shall we?

Arriving at the warehouse that's suspected of being the nerve centre of the drug dealer's operation on motorscooters, Rocky, and her friend, Pattycakes, flirt with the two guards standing outside the entrance.

The plan is to use Rocky's lengthy gams, which are sheathed in red and black striped tights (don't worry, she's wearing a matching top), to distract them so that Donna and Taryn can more easily sneak inside.

On top of using her lanky figure, Rocky charms them with her droll wit and the promise of free mai-tais.

Pairing up with a guard each, Rocky and Pattycakes continue to keep the guards busy. When, all of a sudden, gun fire can be heard coming from inside the warehouse. Grabbing her badge, which she had tucked away (I won't say where), Rocky tells the guard she was flirting with that he's under arrest.

Is Rocky the kind of gal who is just gonna lie there and feel sorry for herself after you push her to the ground? Um, I don't think so.

Pulling out of her gun, which she also had tucked away (I won't say where), Rocky gets back on her feet, which are being supported by a saucy pair of black pumps, and proceeds to lend a helping hand to Pattycakes, who's currently being manhandled by the guard she was flirting with.

When Rocky points a gun at you, where on your body do you think she like to aim? If you said, the crotch, you would be correct.

To celebrate yet another successful bust, Donna, Taryn, Pattycakes, and Rocky all take a soak together in a hot tub. If you thought that was awesome, which I didn't, by the way (topless hot tub parties are so passé), you probably won't appreciate the scene where Rocky, who has since changed into a reddish mini-dress, gets an automatic breadmaker delivered to her restaurant; which, of course, is called Rocky's. Now, you could say ending a film with the delivery of a breadmaker is a risky move, but it perfectly encapsulated the wonky appeal of this here motion picture.

Just a second, I've been handed a note. What the... it says here that the film is not even close to being over. In fact, there's apparently more than an hour still to go. Well, that's just great. And as I was coming to this realization, Donna and Shane Abilene (Michael Shane), a fellow pilot, are about to engage in some of the most cringe-worthy dialogue I have ever heard; they, to sort of quote Bon Jovi, "give double entendres a bad name."

Anyway, while delivering a serum, one that will help a bunch of needy children, to a hospital on the Marshall Islands, Donna and Taryn are caught in a nasty storm. Forced to crash land on a remote island in the middle of the Pacific, Donna and Taryn inexplicably find themselves caught in the middle of a desperate hunt to find a box of filled with gold bars. If that wasn't enough, the gold is being guarded by a Japanese holdout (Michael Mikasa), who, of course, killed Taryn's grandfather while he was surfing there in 1940s. I'm not making this shit up.

In-between the poorly-staged action sequences (the kung-fu fights are piss poor in terms of choreography) and the hokey dialogue scenes, Teri Weigel, of all people, manages to make the film interesting as a sexy communist. Sure, she engages in two saxophone accompanied sex scenes with Rodrigo Obregón's Martinez (one in a hotel bed and one in the backseat of a car), but it was her delivery of the line, "My ideology means far more to me than fame and adulation. The good of the party is my reward," that impressed me the most. Truth be told, it's probably the best line in the entire movie. I also liked the manner in which she stood while standing on a boat, as her posture oozed confidence. And the black bra/top she wore while standing on a boat was pretty cool as well, especially all those the shiny metallic thingies that covered it; très Rhythm Nation.

When the time comes for us to find out why the beach is so savage, I'm afraid to say that my interest in this film had long since waned. And it's no wonder. I mean, with Lisa London's Rocky languishing in Molokai and Teri Weigel relegated to looking fashionably fierce while standing on boats, there's nothing much to latch onto in this film once the action moves to the [savage] island. Oh, and, make sure, if you do manage to make it all the way to the end, to check out the final scene. The super-tight orange two piece outfit Hope Marie Carlton is wearing will cause you sock garters to burst into flames. I know, Hope's orange getup doesn't quite make up for all the lameness that proceeded its appearance, but it does alleviate some of the pain. Lick.

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A hitman for the mob sits in a sleazy hotel room and reflects back on all the mistakes he's made over the course of his life. One of the mistakes, no doubt, was that time that he and a large breasted woman stood on a balcony overlooking New York City. I know, that doesn't sound like the kind of thing you might regret one day. Okay, how about this, the woman, whose large breasts have just been fondled by the hitman, initiates oral sex, but he tells her, "I'm not in the mood." After the hitman refused to have his genitals orally massaged by a large breasted woman, one who was wearing a black nightie, no less, I sat there in awe of what the hitman just did. And, no, I wasn't in awe of the hitman's herculean brand of self-control, but because never in all my years of watching sleaze have I seen a man stop a woman–who was in the middle of implementing her descent to crotch-town, mind you–from performing fellatio on his slumbering member. Anything, whether it be intentional or not, that interrupts the flow of seminal fluid makes me happy. You heard me. Any film that causes the self-abusers in the audience to lose the ability to masturbate in the manner in which they're accustomed is doing something right in my book. And the gritty Midnight Heat is definitely one of those films. You want to make sperm? Grab the Sears catalogue, flip to the pantie section (use the handy index if you have any trouble finding the pantie section, but knowing you, that shouldn't be a problem), stare at the seemingly unending array of pantie-covered undercarriages by employing your eyes (don't bother looking for camel toes, as they have been air-brushed into oblivion), and, well, you know what to do next. However, if you want to watch artful smut with a hint of menace, Roger Watkins (Her Name Was Lisa) is here to provide you with a stimulating alternative.

Am I tired of seeing Jamie Gillis' scrotum under constant mouth-based duress? You bet am I. On the other hand, I'm not entirely sure what a "scrotum" is to be honest. It's true, I could look it up. But I think I've past the point in my life where looking up the definition of scrotum is a viable option. Every man comes to what I like to call a "scrotal impasse," and looks like I just hit it. Either way, if you were to show me a picture of Jamie Gillis' scrotum, I could probably identify it without much difficulty.

Most x-rated movies, or "fuck films" as they're sometimes called, seem only interested in showing you the mechanics of sex. But what if these so-called "mechanics" were accompanied by shots of destitute souls wandering the streets of New York City during a rain storm? How would your raging hard on and/or perspiring clitoris feel about that? I think I can safely say that I bet they would be none to pleased to see their pornography treated that way. Well, you know who doesn't care about you or your poronography? The writer-director of Midnight Heat, that's who; hell, I bet cinematographer Larry Revene doesn't care, either.

On top of his scrotum, you better get used to the sight of Jamie Gillis staring out a window, as it's where Alan, a hitman for the mob, does his best thinking. And besides, why wouldn't you look out the window? You live in New York City. I mean, the idea of someone watching television in New York City doesn't make sense to me. Anything happening outside in New York City at any given moment, especially in 1983, is a thousand times more interesting than any show on television.

Opening with Alan sitting by a window, no doubt doing some of that thinking I alluded to earlier, when suddenly, he receives a call about a job. Utilizing a point-of-view camera angle, we find ourselves walking down the hallway of what looks like an office building. Coming to a doorway, a man sitting at a desk asks Alan, "What are you doing here"? Without saying a word, Alan calmly pulls out his gun, points it at the seated man, and shoots him.

To celebrate yet another successful hit, Alan heads over to the apartment of his milf-tastic mistress (Dixie Dew), who is smoking a cigarette in an old school lingerie, for a little informal fornication, if you know what I mean. Yeah, we know, they're going to have sex. You know how I implied that all the sex scenes were peppered with these grim shots of authentic New York City street life? Well, this particular sex scene features shots an older gentlemen driving a car. In fact, this "older gentlemen" looks exactly like the guy in the picture that was standing upright on the milf-tastic mistress' vanity–you know, before she turned it face down (I guess she didn't want him looking at her as she brushed her teeth with Jamie Gillis' darkish cock). You mean to say that the guy in the car is the milf-tastic mistress' husband? Yep. And he's coming home.

What are the odds that the milf-tastic mistress' husband is also Alan's boss? I'd say they're pretty high. And since Alan works for the mob, that would make his boss a "mob boss." Instead of getting angry, the mob boss plants a big wet kiss on Alan's face. It would seem that Alan's days are numbered (he received "Il bacio della morte"). In order to delay his fate, Alan decides to hide out at a cheap hotel.

As he sits on the chintzy-looking bed, Alan reflects on his past mistakes. Well, I wouldn't call having sex with Tish Ambrose a mistake, exactly. However, when you take in account that Tish is playing Susan, the boss's daughter, the decision to do so seems fraught with more danger than usual. Oh, haven't you heard? Danger is Alan's middle name. It's true, I'm not even sure what his last name is, but I bet his middle one is Danger.

Anyway, after Tish Ambrose's mobster's daughter uses the word "facetious" in a sentence, Jamie Gillis pulls out his wiener. There's no lingerie in this scene, but Tish's terrific backside and the birthmark on her left breast are both prominently displayed. And she wears whites pumps throughout her encounter with the junk attached to Jamie's scrotum.

While flipping through the hotel room's Bible, Alan comes across a flyer for "Mr. C's Escort Agency: "Beautiful People for Friends." And before you know it, Shirley (Joey Karson), a sexy blonde, and Diane (Cheri Champagne), a quiet brunette, are knocking on his door.

Telling the women that he likes to watch, Shirley and Diane perform the sixty-nine position on his bed. The erratic nature of the seams on the back of Joey Karson's fishnet stockings was the sexiest thing about this particular scene. I also liked Cheri Champagne's red satin garter belt; very classy.

When they're done, Alan asks Diane to stay. While Shirley protests at first, she eventually agrees to leave Diane, who is relative newcomer to the whoring business, all alone with Alan.

Proving that "Danger" is in fact his middle name, Alan, while looking out the window, of course, tell Diane that "danger motivates people."

In another flashback, we see Alan and his wife (Sharon Mitchell, fuck yeah!), sharing a passionate embrace. This so-called "passionate embrace" leads to oral and vaginal sex. The great thing about this scene is the way Sharon Mitchell's nose looks whilst filmed in profile.

During their post-coital chat, Sharon informs Alan that she is leaving him. Standing by a window, as usual, Alan seems unmoved by what his wife just said, as he basically shrugs his shoulders and says, "Do what you want, I can't stop you."

Just when you thought the film couldn't get anymore cynical and dark, we hear Alan, again, standing by a window, utter the line, "There's a lot of fucking weirdos out there." Of course, this line is accompanied by some street level shots of New York City that look like they were filmed with a hidden camera. As I watched the "fucking weirdos" shuffle down the street to classical music, I thought to myself: Is this film the most depressing porno ever made?

The film does nothing to counter its bleak reputation when we see, Diane, who gets her own flashback, waiting for her husband (Michael Bruce) to come home. Wait, that doesn't sound so bleak. Yeah, but the sex they have is not even close to being erotic. In fact, he pretty much treats her like a piece of meat.

It would seem that it was a prostitute, played by the alluring Susan Nero, who suggested that Alan join the mob. Now, typically, after Susan Nero tells Alan that the mob is currently hiring, this is the point in the film where Jamie Gillis and Susan Nero begin to have sex. But Midnight Heat seems to shun convention at every turn. Even I was shocked when Susan Nero's pussy didn't get properly poked and prodded. Actually, if you think about it, Alan, as we learned during the scene with Shirley and Diane, has a no-sex rule when it comes to hookers. So, his not having sex with Miss Nero was in keeping with his character's unique temperament. However, that doesn't mean he can't break his own rules, as we'll see during the film's disturbing, and, of course, bleak finale.

As with all the Roger Watkins/Richard Mahler directed films I've seen so far, I would have loved to have seen the looks on the faces of the movie patrons as they filed out from the 42nd Street theatres that were showing this movie; what a confused lot they must have been.

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If ever there was a movie that lived up to its name, it isn't Guns. Oh, sure, it's got guns, plenty of guns; it's got guns up the wazoo. But I think the title sells itself short. This film, Andy Sidaris' latest attempt to make Dona Speir a movie star, has more going for it than just guns. It's got opera glove-wearing nightclub singers, magic shows, brunette-on-brunette violence, ninjas, stockings, and dyke bar-quality oil wrestling. Though, it should be noted that the so-called "opera glove-wearing nightclub singers" scene involves guns to some degree (the lyrics, and the song's title, for that matter, are both gun-centric), and the brunette-on-brunette violence involves guns, too. In fact, everything I just mentioned, even the stockings, involve guns in some shape or form. I guess I better just except the fact that this movie is called "Guns" and move on. I know you implied that you were going to move on, but how on earth does one combine stockings and guns? If there's anyone who knows how to mix stockings and guns, it's Andy Sidaris. Now, I'm fully aware that this the first Andy Sidaris film since Malibu Express to feature nylons of any kind. But you have got to remember, all the films made in-between Malibu Express and Guns take place almost exclusively in Hawaii. And, as most people know, Hawaii and hosiery don't exactly go together. Just in case you're not most people, the reason they don't get along is because of the island's climate. You see, it's humid in Hawaii. In other words, it's not the most nylon-friendly environment to wear stockings, pantyhose, or even socks. Don't believe me, pay close attention to all the scenes in this film that take place in Hawaii, you won't see a single pair of nylon-ensnared gams or knee-sock adorned feet anywhere.

You know what else I missed seeing during the last two Andy Sidaris films? Wow, you know me all too well. That's right, I'm missed the rampant transvestism. Okay, I wouldn't call Malibu Express and Hard Ticket to Hawaii films that are drenched in cross-dressing (mmm, films drenched in cross-dressing). I wish they were, but they ain't. However, at least they dealt with the subject. If you remember correctly, both films feature male characters who dress in drag, and surprisingly, given the film's action movie pedigree, both treat the subject in a respectful, nonchalant fashion. You could even say the films are trans-positive. But let's not get carried away.

Much to my chagrin, the two previous Andy Sidaris filmswere totally lacking when it came to cross-dressing. Well, I'm happy to report that Guns finds transvestism back where it belongs. An Andy Sidaris film without cross-dressing is not a true Andy Sidaris film. And I'm even happier to report that it's back in a big way in Guns. How so? I got two words for you: Transvestite assassins!

When you ask the average slob why they watch Andy Sidaris films, they'll tell you that they watch them for the hot chicks. I, on the other hand, watch them for...the hot chicks. Just kidding. I watch them for the off chance that one of them might boast a pair of transvestite assassins. And Guns delivers two of the most memorable transvestite assassins in film history.

Just so you know, I love the words "transvestite" and "assassin," so be prepared to hear the two words repeatedly slammed together over the course of this...whatever, the hell this is.

As I watched the Andy Sidaris films that proceeded Guns, I would always think myself, why doesn't Andy give Cynthia Brimhall a bigger role? (She wasn't even in Savage Beach.) Clearly more attractive and more talented than any of the other mouth-breathers that appear in these movies, to see Cynthia constantly relegated to the sidelines was unacceptable. Well, fear not fans of people who are clearly more attractive and more talented than Dona Speir, Cynthia Brimhall is about to get her chance to shine.

Headlining the Rio Casino in Las Vegas, Cynthia Brimhall's Edy Stark has finally hit the big time. No longer stuck greeting restaurant patrons in Molokai while wearing pastel-coloured mini-dresses, Cynthia is on stage performing "Guns" for a captive audience. Sure, the audience is mostly made up of degenerate gamblers and mid-level mobsters, but this Las Vegas, baby! And you know what? She ain't bad. I mean, I was totally humming the line, "Don't play with guns / They ain't no fun" after the film was over. It also helped that the song is heard again over the closing credits. But still, it was catchy and Cynthia has definitely got the goods. It didn't hurt that she was wearing a cleavage-accentuating bra, opera gloves, and a sparkly blue thong while she performed the song in question.

After the show is over we meet Juan Degas, a.k.a. the Jack of Diamonds, a semi-suave gun runner. Do you want to know who plays this semi-suave gun runner? You do? Okay. Are you ready? The semi-suave gun runner is played by none other than Erika Estrada! That's right, Ponch himself. Look at me, acting like I'm the world's biggest Erika Estrada fan. My memory of CHiPs is foggy at best, and I don't think I've ever seen him in a movie before. But I have to say, his performance in Guns is outstanding.

You know how it didn't hurt when Cynthia Brimhall decided to wear that sparkly bra/thong combo when she performed the film's titular ditty? Well, it didn't hurt that Erika Estrada's right hand man throughout Guns is played by Danny Trejo. I'm telling you, if you thought the sight of Erika Estrada acting duplicitous was awesome, try picturing him acting like that while Danny Trejo is standing next to him. It doesn't get any better than this.

Oh, really? It doesn't get any better than that, eh? It's obvious you never seen Kym Malin walk down the streets of Lake Havasu City in a pair of super-tight sea green trousers before.

Anyway, after informing a couple of would-be assassins that the 's' in his last name is silent, Juan Degas tells the would-be assassins, Cubby (Chu Chu Malave) and Tito (Richard Cansino), that he wants to hire them.

Much to my displeasure, it's not Donna (Dona Speir) that he wants dead, but her new partner, Nicole Justin (Roberta Vasquez). Hey, what happened to Hope Marie Carlton? She's not in this movie. In fact, Savage Beach was the last Andy Sidaris film she ever appeared in. Did they explain what happened to her character? Nope. Man, that blows. Well, at least Rocky (Lisa London) is back. Um, yeah, about that.

If you remember, I was quite taken with Miss London's brief appearance in Savage Beach (yeah, I remember). And it looks like she's still "busting heads and baking bread." Speaking of remembering stuff, do you recall the scene in Savage Beach when Rocky gets a bread making machine delivered to her restaurant? No? Well, I do. And I appreciated the fact that there's a reference to Rocky's bread making in Guns. These films have a tendency to reward attentive viewers.

You won't believe what happens next. How should put this? Let's just say Rocky has baked her last loaf of bread. You mean? Yep. On the bright side, she's killed by two guys dressed in drag. How is that on the bright side? I don't know, people say weird shit when they're in mourning. At any rate, instead of killing Nicole, Cubby and Tito, who, like, I said, are dressed in drag, put a bullet in the head of an another brunette (Allegra Curtis), one who just happened to be wearing the same dress Nicole was wearing.

"We're born naked, and the rest is drag." ― RuPaul

As Cubby and Tito are changing out of their clothes, Juan Degas is testing out a new Chinese made sub-machinegun. How did I know it was "Chinese made"? Oh, I don't know, the guy selling them was Chinese. (The reliably Chinese George Cheung, a.k.a. the limo driver from The Beach Girls, plays a Chinese gun salesman.) Wrong. It was because the gun had a red and gold, communist-style star on the handle. Wait. What kind of idiot would put a giant red and gold star on a gun? Let it go, man. It's only a movie.

Spotting the assassins leaving the women's washroom, Nicole has a hunch that the Rocky's killers weren't women, but guys dressed as women. This hunch leads to an extended helicopter-airplane chase (yawn). But don't worry fans of transvestite assassins, Cubby and Tito get away. As expected, this tragic event leads to Lucas (William Bumiller), the leader of a secret network of federal agents, to assemble a team in order to stop Juan Degas' dastardly plan, which, I guess, involves guns.

Finding Edy Stark is a piece of cake, since Lucas, and his sidekick Brown (John Brown), who still hasn't found a jacket that fits him properly, are stationed in Las Vegas. Am I seeing things, or do Cynthia Brimhall's boobs look bigger than they were in Picasso Trigger? Hmm, interesting. Either way, I'm placing Kym Malin at the top of this film's hottie list (she looks amazing in this film). It's funny you should mention Miss Malin, as Lucas and Brown find Kym (Kym Malin), a.k.a. "Kyller Kym," and her glistening torso, wrestling against Hug Higgins (Donna Spangler) at "Oil Mania."

Also on the team are Bruce Christian (Bruce Penhall), Shane Abilene (Michael Shane), and Abe (Chuck McCann) and Ace (Liv Lindeland), who perform a magic act at the Rio Casino.

It's during the team's meeting in Lake Havasu City that we get to see Kym Malin in those super-tight sea green trousers I alluded to earlier. Call me, oh, what should I ask others to call me today? Oh, I know. Call me a cantankerous cold sore with three months to live, but I'd rather watch Kym Malin strut about in those super-tight sea green trousers, than watch any of the exhaustive action scenes that take place in this film. Also, the sight of Kym Malin cruising drag bars in a leather bra and fishnets (keep an eye for Sidaris regular Rodrigo Obregón as "Large Marge" during the drag bar sequence), guarding the casino's rear entrance during the film's finale, or the part where she contradicts Dona Speir (contradict that narcissistic hosebeast) all made Guns a worthwhile experience.

How are Juan Degas and Tong (the actual name of Danny Trejo's character), going to be able to stand up to the team Lucas has assembled? I mean, two guys against ten federal agents? It doesn't seem fair. Well, Juan Degas has a leggy surprise in store for them. A leggy surprise, you say? A leggy surprise. Her name is Cash (Devin DeVasquez), and she desperately wants to kill something. Remember that brunette-on-brunette violence I mentioned earlier? It rears its full-bodied brunette head when Devin DeVasquez (Society) and Cynthia Brimhall go toe-to-toe with one another. Their first encounter involves cattiness, the second involves mirrors, a yellow towel, and a couple of silenced pistols.

Don't forget, Juan Degas still has Cubby and Tito on the payrole. How could I forget them? What's cool about Cubby and Tito is that they dress in drag in their spare time as well. Hold on. You thought they only dressed in drag when they killed people? No, no. They take cross-dressing very seriously.

If it couldn't get any worse for Dona Speir, she has to endure being upstaged by the gorgeous Phyllis Davis (Sweet Sugar), who plays the attorney general of Nevada. And get this, we're supposed to believe that Phyllis Davis is Dona Speir's mother. Even though Phyllis is at least twenty years older than Dona (so, yeah, the math adds up), I thought, well, let's just say, their roles could have easily been reversed. Instead of seeing that as yet another slam against Dona Speir, I have chosen to view it as a compliment to Phyllis, who looks terrific with blonde hair. I also dug the pencil skirt/black stockings combination she wears throughout the film, as there's nothing sexier than a confident woman in her late forties who dresses for success.

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Blue stockings, red stockings, black stockings. Is there any significance to the order in which the stocking-clad women who greet a confused businessman in the ultra-creepy, ultra-weird Corruption? Why do blue stockings come before red stockings? And why do black stockings come last? Is the colour blue meant to represent something? Maybe the colour was used to give the scene a sort of a cool, detached flavour. In other words, you can looking at my legs encased in blue hold-up stockings, but don't you dare touch them. Yeah, that makes sense, as the next pair of nylon-clad legs are sheathed in red stockings. And we all know that red represents fire, the complete opposite of cool. What about black? Good question. What does black mean? Hey, sorry to interrupt this nylon-based chromatic dissertation you having with yourself, but isn't this kind of movie you're supposed to masturbate to? First of all, I wouldn't call what I was doing a "dissertation," they're way longer than a few sentences strung together; incoherent blather would be a more apt description. And secondly, "masturbate to"? Don't be vulgar. This film was made by Roger Watkins (The Last House on Dead End Street), one of the few visionaries working in the consecrated cesspool that is x-rated cinema. You don't masturbate to his films, you clasp your hands by your chin and nod ever-so slightly as you soak in the artistry. Nevertheless, getting back to my original point, there is definitely a hidden meaning behind the colours of the stockings. I mean, there has to be. And get this, the colour of the lingerie matches the walls as well. Don't tell me, is this one of those flicks where a character goes from room to room, having sex with scantily clad women along the way? It is, isn't it?

One of the pleasures of watching an x-rated film that was clearly made by an artist, and make no mistake, Roger Watkinsis an artist, is picking out all the subtle details that the raincoat crowd would surely miss. Oh, that reminds me. One of the primary reasons I responded so positively to Corruption, besides the fact that the film features the pleasing shape that is Tish Ambrose's ass, was the fact that the so-called "raincoat crowd" (a.k.a. dedicated patrons of erotic movie houses) probably despised this film. And, no. It's not because they dislike things are awesome. Mainly because a pussy isn't penetrated by a penis until we're well into the production. Oh, sure, fingers and tongues come close on several occasions to hitting vaginal pay dirt in the early going. But the raincoat crowd is going to need to see a lot more than a slight labia dusting to achieve the liquid-based satisfaction they so wantonly crave.

And they're definitely not going to get it by watching the opening scene, as Mr. Williams (Jamie Gillis) tries to reassure a seated Mr. Franklin (Michael Gaunt, a.k.a. Larry the Lineman from A Woman's Torment) that he "believes in business." From the looks of it, Mr. Williams was given something by Mr. Franklin and his associates, and they seem to expect something in return. What it is they want from Mr. Williams exactly isn't quite clear. But I'm guessing it involves power. And what represented power during the 1980s? That's right, a nondescript briefcase. It doesn't matter what's in it, just as along as you're holding one.

You know how I said that Mr. Franklin has "associates"? Well, it would seem that Mr. Williams has some as well. And one of these "associates" is entering a mysterious building while electronic music throbs on the soundtrack. The music heard during the build up to this scene sounds like it's from The Thing, but I'm not 100% sure about that. Anyway, this "associate," who is probably more of an errand boy that an associate, is actually a man called Alan (George Payne), and he's about to go on a strange erotic trip.

In order to go on this "strange erotic trip," he must first get past the "person behind the desk," a.k.a. "woman at desk." Played by Samantha Fox ("Lisa" from Her Name Was Lisa), the woman behind the desk confuses Alan with cryptic language. You'll notice that Samantha Fox is reading Cosima Wagner's Diaries 1878-1883. Which makes perfect sense since Roger Watkins' porn nom de plume is Richard Mahler, an amalgamation of the names of classical composers Richard Wagner and Gustav Mahler. Well, enough about that, Alan is about to enter the first room. Why is he going in there? The woman behind the desk told him that if he wants what he's looking for, he's going to have to enter that room to get it. Okay, that sounds simple enough. Oh, you're so naive. I'm talking about Alan, not you, by the way.

Told immediately to sit down, Alan is greeted by the "Woman in Blue" (Tanya Lawson). And by "greeted." I mean she proudly flaunts her hairy pussy (which is beautifully framed by a pair of blue stockings) with much fanfare. Itching to show off her vagina in a more flattering light, the "Woman in Blue" sits down on a blue chair and spreads her legs (a surefire way to get your genitals more word of mouth). Instructing him to "do nothing," the "Woman in Blue" pulls down the breast-covering mechanism attached to her blue corset and begins playing with her nipples. When she's done doing that, she beckons him to smell her pussy; that's right, smell. When she feels that he has experienced everything her cunt has to offer odor-wise, the "Woman in Blue" pushes him away, and proceeds to finger herself for an extended period of time.

If you're confused by what just happened, you're not alone, as Alan seems more perplexed than ever. After the extended period of time I alluded to earlier runs out, the "Woman in Blue" informs Alan that what he's looking for is beyond that door. You mean? Yep, another room, and another colour-coordinated lingerie-enthusiast to contend with. This time it's a woman in red lingerie, oh, let's call her the "Woman in Red" (Marilyn Gee), who greets Alan. However, unlike the "Woman in Blue," the "Woman in Red" wants Alan to do more than smell her pussy. You guessed it, she wants him to eat it.

Sliding off her red panties in a gingerly fashion (she obviously doesn't want to disrupt the structural integrity of her equally red stockings), Alan seems to relish this opportunity to get his face smeared with vaginal wetness. His relish is rewarded when she puts his cock (the male equivalent of a pussy) in her mouth. Of course, she doesn't just leave it in there, she removes it every so often, like she was sucking on a Popsicle. As she is, as the kids like to say, "blowing him," Roger Watkins gets in touch with his inner Jess Franco by giving us a gratuitous leg pan. Just as he's about to deposit his load skyward, or downward, depending on the viscosity of his wad, the "Woman in Red" removes his cock, denying him the opportunity to spew his seed. What are you trying to say? Let me put this way, there will be no clean up necessary in the red room on this day.

Even though the women who have greeted Alan so far have been alluring in terms of sex appeal, nothing could have prepared me for the shapely perfection that is Tish Ambrose's pale ass. If that wasn't enough, the scene where Alan meets the "Woman in Black" (Tish Ambrose) starts off with a top-notch synth flourish. Up there with the likes of Rinse Dream and Gregory Dark, Alan's "confrontation" with the "Woman in Black" is as dark and twisted as porn can get it. Oh, don't get me wrong, the sex itself is pretty straightforward. It's that the atmosphere is so off-kilter. Lounging in black stockings, the "Woman in Black" asks if Alan is ready to renounce love. See what I mean? There's no love in pornography.

In the 1980s, power was more important than love, so Alan has no trouble whatsoever renouncing it. In return for renouncing love, Alan is allowed to penetrate the "Woman in Black" with his long suffering penis. Before he does that, however, he removes her black panties, in a gingerly fashion, of course, and throws his face in the general direction of her clitoris. If you listen carefully, you can hear a mass sigh of relief fall over the audience when Alan's penis finally enters her vagina. In my mind, waiting eighteen minutes doesn't seem that long a time to wait for a penis to be inserted into a vagina. But to the raincoat crowd, it must have seemed like an eternity.

As Alan plows into the "Woman in Black" doggy style (the blackness of her stocking's garters tear across her ashen thighs like crumpled bolts of polyester lightning with every thrust), it occurs to me that I need more Tish Ambrose in my cinematic life. Everything from her wide, expressive eyes to the birthmark on her left breast (they're nature's tattoos) was appealing. Nearing the end of his thrusting capacity, the "Women in Black" tells Alan, "Don't cum inside me!" After dispensing his future stain across her ample backside, she curtly instructs him to leave. Ending up back where he started, Alan notices a briefcase sitting on Samantha Fox's desk.

Meanwhile, Mr. Williams, the guy who sent Alan on that crazy errand in this first place, is at home with his wife Doreen (Tiffany Clark). Since this film is technically a pornographic film, Jamie Gillis and Tiffany Clark have sex, but not before exchanging some esoteric dialogue. In order to placate said esoteric dialogue, a scene where Mr. Williams watches (through a crack in the door) his wife's younger sister, Felicia (Kelly Nichols), masturbate on her bed in purple panties and white hold-up stockings. While the scene with Felicia feels superfluous, it actually sets up her character and the voyeurism of the next few scenes rather nicely.

When Mr. Williams finds out what Alan has done (the contents of the briefcase are his), he heads down to a local bar to ask his half-brother, Larry (Bobby Astyr), for help. In keeping with the film's odd tone, the bar is a sort of a cross between the Bang Bang Bar in Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me and the joint from Café Flesh. Dancing on a stage is, to quote Larry, "a half-wasted broad shaking her ass," named...actually, she doesn't have a name. Well, despite that, she's played by Nicole Bernard, and she continues to dance as Mr. Williams and Larry discuss the whereabouts of Alan.

Similar to the scenes where Alan goes from room to room, Larry takes Mr. Williams to a subterranean hallway that contains three red doors. Now, what lies behind these is not anyone's guess, as each door is equipped a reverse peephole. Telling Mr. Williams that he must watch what takes place behind each door before they can continue, the frustrated businessman is subjected to bathroom lesbianism (a wonderfully bruised Alexis X and Sabrina Vale); dungeon-based sadomasochism, a dominatrix in fishnet stockings (Melissa Strong) demands that a man in a leather mask lick her boots; and, believe or not, necrophilia. While the lesbianism behind door number one is a pleasant diversion, what Mr. Williams sees through the other two doors will cause him quite a bit of distress.

A true work of subversive art, Corruption, with its total and utter disregard for the needs and wants of your pathetic genitals, is a rare of example of what porn can become if put in the hands of a thoughtful director. On top of that, the acting by Jamie Gillis, Samantha Fox, Bobby Astyr, Michael Gaunt, and Vanessa del Rio (who shows up near the end of the film) is excellent across the board. I would compliment Tish Ambrose on her acting as well, but I was too busy admiring the smoothness of her backside to notice her acting. Just kidding, her lines are read with just the right amount of forcefulness.

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Well, it's official. I'm tired of seeing Dona Speir topless. If I have to watch another movie that features a bunch of braindead chicks with unattractively large breasts being chased across the desert by incompetent assassins, I'm going to scream. I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you don't have to watch anything. What are you talking about? Don't watch them. Yeah, but, the collection I received boasts a total of twelve movies. You know you don't have to watch them all, right? Oh, I'm aware that I don't have to. But what if the Andy Sidaris film I decide to skip is the one that has a gaggle of tiny-tittied women with shapely legs shooting small calibre pistols at helicopters from the relative discomfort of a moving jeep? Tiny tits? Shapely legs? You might come across the latter, but there's no way Andy Sidaris would allow a woman who has small boobs to appear in one of his films. If memory serves me correctly, I recall seeing several women in Malibu Express who had smallish breasts. You're right, but that film came out in 1985. In other words, it was a different time; natural was in then. This, however, is 1991, and skinny women with no hips and enormous jugs are, unfortunately, all the rage. You can wade through the rest of Andy's expansive oeuvre hoping you might stumble across something that scratches your particular brand of perverted itchiness. But to be honest, you're probably better off firing up season one of Silk Stalkings again. You know what? As long Cynthia Brimhall is in these movies, I'm going to continue to watch them. Anyway, what's this one called? Oh, yeah, it's called Do or Die, and sadly, it has nothing to do with The Human League song of the same name. Do they even play the song in the film? Don't be ridiculous. I'll admit, that was pretty ridiculous. I mean, really? The chances of hearing the music of The Human League in an Andy Sidaris film is about as plausible as seeing Dona Speir do anything in a semi-convincing manner.

Is every paragraph of this review going to start and end with a spiteful comment directed towards Dona Speir? Maybe. What's it to you? Nothing. It's just that you should really think about not watching anymore film's that star Dona Speir. Yeah, I guess that would be the sensible thing to do. But I'm not going to let Dona Speir, or Pandora Peaks for that matter, ruin my self-induced Andy Sidaris marathon. You know that almost all his films star Dona Speir? Yeah, the keyword there being "almost." There's going to be a time when Dona Speir stops appearing in Andy Sidaris film, and when that time comes, I'm going to be there, dancing up a Dona-free storm.

I don't know who told Dona Speir she was sexy, but the swagger she exudes does not reflect the level of hotness she is putting out there. The same goes for Roberta Vasquez, who displays none of the tight-panted allure she exuded in Picasso Trigger. In fact, you could say that Roberta is getting less appealing with every subsequent film. Maybe she's been hanging around Dona Speir too long? Now that's just mean. Though, I have to say, I like this new catty vibe you're putting out there.

What can I say? Not everyone deserves to be on the receiving end of the unique brand of praise I dole out on a regular basis. Some people are awful, and Do or Die is filled with people who are just that, awful. I would even go as far as to say that this is the worst Andy Sidaris film I've seen so far.

You can tell right away that this entry in the Andy Sidaris canon is going to lack the qualities that made his previous films so enjoyable by the rushed nature of the opening scene. Taking place at some kind of luau, one that featured authentic-looking Hawaiian dancing and costumes, Donna (Dona Speir) and Nicole (Roberta Vasquez) are confronted by Kane (Pat Morita), and his two henchmen, Lew (James Lew) and Chen (Eric Chen), who tells the ladies that he plans on killing them. Why? For causing him so much misery and grief. Duh. Seriously, though, I guess they hamper his ability to perform illegal activities with comfort level in which he is accustomed.

Instead of killing them right then and there (that would, as he says, "undermine my reputation for fair play"), Kane informs them that six teams of assassins (none of which are transgender) are going to be unleashed on their asses.

What's the first thing Donna and Nicole do after they have been told that they're in a "do or die situation"? They jump in the hot tub. Getting in touch with Lucas (William Bumiller), the big cheese, via their hot tub adjacent satellite phone, he recommends that they head over to Las Vegas.

Meanwhile, Kane, with the help of his lovely assistant Silk (Carolyn Liu), sends the first team of assassins their way. But don't worry, two guys in a helicopter, Duke and Woody, are no match for Donna and Nicole, who blow them out of the sky with their cane/rocket launcher. If you're wondering how Kane is able to keep tabs on Donna and Nicole (the first team of assassins found them rather easily), he planted a tracking device in Donna's watch when she wasn't looking. And every time the assassins would fail to accomplish their task, and believe me, they all fail in spectacular fashion, Silk's computer would beep.

I'm officially declaring the exasperated look on Pat Morita's face every time Silk's computer would beep to be my favourite thing about Do or Die. Why's that? It's simple, as he's usually in the middle of giving or receiving a shiatsu massage when the beeping occurs.

The sight of Carolyn Liu sitting at her computer in clothing that is atypical of computer usage is up there as well (she wears mini-dresses and pearls, as supposed to stain-covered sweatpants). Though, it should be said that Carolyn at her computer and Pat Morita's exasperation face kind of go hand in hand.

You would think that Ava Cadell as an assassin named Ava would be up there in terms of greatness. But other than putting on a white thong-tard and a pair of leather trousers in a seductive manner and uttering the line, "you drive, I'll shoot," Ava is a bit of a bust (no pun intended).

I didn't care for Erik Estrada as Rico, an army officer Lucas hires to help protect Donna and Nicole. I much prefer it when he's the bad guy, as the smirking jack ass he plays in this film was no fun at all. The same goes for Bruce Penhall as Bruce Christian, Michael Shane as Shane Abeline, and even Chu Chu Malave and Richard Cansino as a couple of bumbling assassins. You sort of expect Penhall and Shane to suck, but Chu Chu and Richard were so memorable as the transvestite assassins in Guns. That being said, Chu Chu and Michael do exchange a fist bump at one point. So what? People bump fists all the time. Yeah, but, I had no idea people were bumping fists in 1991, as I always thought the custom was a more recent invention.

The film's four sex scenes, even the one that takes place between Cynthia Brimhall and William Bumiller, were tired and lame. Free tip: If you fast-forward past the sex scenes, the film goes from being a ninety minute slog to a spirited hour long jaunt through the woods. Wait a second. Fast-forward past the sex scenes?!? What a novel idea. Yeah, it's great. Try doing it with pornography. Anytime a sex scene starts up, just hit that fast-forward button. You'll be amazed by how much time you can save.

Where's Kym Malin when you need her? Where's who? You know who. The hot chick in the super-tight sea green trousers from Guns, the untamed cowgirl from Picasso Trigger, and the...well, you get the idea. I'm afraid she's not in this movie. What the fuck? Now, I don't know if the blonde with the huge tits is supposed to be Kym's replacement, but this Pandora Peaks person is probably the least talented woman to walk the face of the earth. I wonder why Andy Sidaris decided to cast her? She can't even stand still right. Bizarre.

Luckily, Cynthia Brimhall shows up just in the nick of time to perform a country and western song called "Down on the Bayou" in a sexy white cowgirl outfit. Yee-haw! White stockings! Yee-haw! White garters! You rock, Cynthia!

Believe or not, nothing really of interest happens in Do or Die after the scene at the country and western bar until Cynthia Brimhall tries to operate a microwave oven.

The biggest let down about Do or Die were the assassins. That, and the fact the film takes place mostly in the woods outside Shreveport, L.A. No offense to Lake Caddo, but it doesn't have the same picturesque quality as Molokai. Getting back to the assassins for a second, they're so bland. And get this, out of the ten assassins thrown Donna and Nicole's way, only one was played a hot chick. I mean, that right there should tell you that this film is not running on all cylinders. A rare misstep from the fine folks at Malibu Bay Films.

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I'm not a big fan of nuns. And I'm certainly not a fan of nunsploitation movies. This dislike, by the way, has nothing to do with some sort of traumatic experience I had as a child/sticky-fingered miscreant. Beyond the fact that nuns were used in the ads for a chain of dry cleaning joints, Sketchley Cleaners, I haven't had much experience with nuns. Wait, I think Sketchley Cleaners used penguins in their ads. What I think I meant to say was Cadet Cleaners. Great, now I'm confused. At any rate, I just don't like their whole holier-than-thou attitude. Just kidding, I could careless about that. No, what I'm not a fan of is their outfits; they're not sexy. Aren't you a little bit curious about what's going on underneath all those thick layers of pious fabric? Hell no. However, if you were to put say, the luminous Franca Stoppi (Beyond the Darkness) in a nun's habit, and have her appear in a convent-set film written by Claudio Fragasso and directed by Bruno Mattei (Hell of the Living Dead), then I might have a change of heart. Don't tell me, there's a film floating around out there that just happens to adhere to the frightfully specific standards I just finished laying out? Hot dog! And what's this? I'm being told that I just watched it. Woo-hoo! It's called The Other Hell (L'altro Inferno), and, of course, it sort of sucks ass, but it's also kind of great, too. And that, in one of them nutshell thingies, is the main reason I will continue to beat myself over the head with Bruno Mattei cinema. You could say I enjoy the mind-altering headache that inevitably comes after I have inflicted a Bruno Mattei movie on myself. At first, you'll notice that it stings a little bit. But after a while, you get used it. So much so, you'll be wishing that every movie was directed by Bruno Mattei, a.k.a. Stefan Oblowsky. Oh, and don't forget Claudio Fragasso; yeah, he should definitely write every movie.

A cautionary tale about what might happen if you inexplicably decided to put Franca Stoppi's demon baby in a pot of scalding hot water, The Other Hell is possession, murder and forbidden lust wrapped in an exhaustively precise package. It is? Oh, it totally is. And get this, Franca Stoppi's face is always framed by her black and white nun head covering. Hold on, head covering? There must be a better name for it than that. How about headpiece? Headpiece. Headpiece. It's better than head covering, I'll give you that. But I need something with a little more pizazz. I think I got it. Are you sitting down? Yeah, yeah, what is it already? Wimple. Let it sink in. Wimple. You know what? I like it.

I'm gonna give the whole face framing thing another go, as I would like to use the word "wimple" in a more organic-sounding fashion. Shot from every angle possible, Franca Stoppi's beguiling mug is always framed by her wimple, a medieval piece of clothing that covers the head, as well as the neck.

I can't stress this enough: The wimple is the perfect garment for an actress like Franca Stoppi, as it accentuates her strongest feature. And that is, of course, her gorgeous face.

Don't get too excited my fellow Franca Stoppi fans. In order to see our beloved Franca Stoppi glower from the inside of a nun's habit, you're going to have to watch The Other Hell. Well, duh, we kind of figured that out already. No, I don't think you understand. You're going to have to watch this movie. Hmm, when you put it that way, it doesn't sound so easy.

Never fear, Goblin is here. It's true, the Goblin music heard throughout The Other Hell is simply the score from Beyond the Darkness. Nonetheless, it was comforting to hear their unique brand of synth-rock every now and then, as it perked up the film's many dull patches.

"The genitals are the door to evil!" You can say that again, sister. Notice how she said they were "the" door and not "a" door. Mildly fascinating. Down below in the convent's basement laboratory/crypt, one nun, let's call her Sister Assunta (Paola Montenero), is telling another nun about the wickedness that lies beyond the labia. And just as she's wrapping up her anti-pussy diatribe, a set of glowing red eyes appear from out of the darkness. These eyes, of course, cause Sister Assunta to stab the other nun to death.

If what I just described sounds out of the ordinary for a nunnery, I have to say, it's pretty standard stuff for the convent that's run by Mother Vincenza (Franca Stoppi), as acts of nun-on-nun violence are par for the course at this place.

Don't believe me? Just ask Boris (Franco Garofalo), the convent's resident creepy gardener. If he sees a nun ranting and raving about the devil while bleeding from the mouth, he will simply shrug his shoulders and continue trimming the bushes.

While Mother Vincenza and Boris the gardener (he also runs the dog pound/chicken farm next-door) seem indifferent to the convent chaos, the members of the clergy seem to think otherwise. When the doltish Father Inardo (Andrea Aureli) is unable to get to bottom of things (his attempt to pray the evil away is met with mixed results, and by "mixed results," I mean it was met with complete and utter failure), the church sends in Father Valerio (Carlo De Mejo), a sort of ecclesiastical detective who solves problems by using reason and logic.

As he arrives, Mother Vincenza is forcing the other nuns to burn all of Sister Assunta's things; he's also nearly mauled by one of Boris' dogs. So, right from the get-go, it's clear that they have something to hide. But what could it be? Frankly, I don't really care what they're hiding, as the film is not providing me with anything I can use from a perversion perspective. Oh, you poor thing. Is this nun-based supernatural thriller lacking in the titillation department? Yes. Yes it is. Well, suck it up, and stop being such a baby. Not every film is going to cater to your debased needs. Why not? The world doesn't work that way. What you should have done was not watch the film. Now you tell me.

That being said, I did like the hanging dolls. Hanging dolls? Yeah, the attic was filled with naked dolls hanging from the rafters. If you add the music of Goblin to the sight of the dolls dangling, it creates a pretty effective sense of dread. You know what? You're right. The sight of the dolls dangling to the music of Goblin is pretty dread-inducing.

And as far as perversion goes, check out the scene where a prematurely grey nun (Susan Forget) chokes Father Valerio in her room. No offense, but I'm not really into strangulation. No, pay attention to the part where she collapses on top of him mid-choke. What am I looking for? Look at her legs. Oh, they're sheathed in black nylons. Nice. I'm glad you pointed them out, because I was just about to declare The Other Hell a nylon-free zone.

You know what else needs pointing out? What? The fact that the guy dubbing Carlo De Mejo's voice sounded exactly like Dean Learner from Garth Marenghi's Darkplace. Are you serious? I'm deadly serious. Wow, this little nugget of information just upgraded The Other Hell from lame to not-so lame.

What about Franca Stoppi? What about her? She must do something besides look delightfully sinister in her habit? Let me see. Oh, yeah. There's this flashback sequence that has Franca Stoppi employ one of the most trouser-moistening head turns while holding a recently scalded baby in recent memory. Imagine being on the receiving end of one of Franca Stoppi's trademark head turns, I would do more than just pee my pants (too much information?). It should go without saying, but the synth flourish that accompanies Franca Stoppi's head turn was awesome. As was the part where Franca Stoppi tells Father Valerio that men only emit empty screams when they're stabbed, yet when women are stabbed, they produce children. I couldn't have said it better myself; pure poetry.

Ending like you would expect (with lot's of nuns screaming), The Other Hell will probably be my last nunsploitation film for quite some time (what can I say? the genre is not habit forming). I'm not giving up on the genre entirely, but I am going to be a lot more careful when it comes time to choose my next foray.

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Your sister is blind, your ex-brother-in-law has no legs, and you work at a casino in Macao. What else could possibly go wrong with your life? Hey, what's so bad about working at a casino in Macao? My mother worked at a casino in Macao. Oops, sorry about that. I guess I should have made myself more clear. What I should have said was: Your sister is blind, your ex-brother-in-law has no legs, and you work at a casino whose idea of entertainment is can-can dancing. What else could possibly go wrong? Nailed it. Aren't you worried about offending can-can dancers and enthusiasts of can-can dancing? Nope. Sure, I like the fishnet stockings, the garter belts, the constant skirt lifting, and the general legginess of it all, but that music they dance to is beyond obnoxious. It's so grating and repetitive, that it's enough to drive you mad. Well, if you think can-can music is bad, you obviously haven't been told that you have gonorrhea by a doctor with the world's worst bedside manner. First of all, gonorrhea is not AIDS. And secondly, you shouldn't yell, "You've got AIDS!" over and over again at your patients; not only is it uncool, it's...no, it's just plain uncool. On top of that, I've never seen a doctor diagnose AIDS simply by looking at the patient's genitals, so, Her Vengeance is a bit of an eye opener in that regard. But it's also a first-rate rape-revenge thriller; a Category III rape-revenge thriller, I might add. And you know what that means? That's right, wheelchair kung-fu! Why the sad face? Oh, you were hoping for some gratuitous shots of Pauline Wong Siu-Fung's sexy feet. Don't worry, my fiendishly foppish fraternity of fakakta foot fetish fanatics (foo fuch?), this Cat III flick (yeah, I sometimes like to say, "Cat III," it's kinda my thing now) has got you covered. And get this, it's totally central to the plot. What's central to the plot? What's central?!? The lingering close-ups of Pauline Wong Siu-Fung's sexy feet. Man, are you guys that obsessed with feet, that you can't even read a simple foot-related sentence without spacing out?

Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah. Feet. You know what? Let's save the praise for Pauline Wong Siu-Fung's feet for a later date. I know, boo, I'm such a foot tease. In the meantime, let's talk about gang rape and gonorrhea, shall we?

Welcome to Casino Lisboa, the most happening casino in all of Macao. Come for the slots, stay for the can-can dancing (nine shows a day). Let me get this straight, the can-can dancers lift up their skirts and kick up their feet for the entire show? Don't they do anything else? Well, I guess some of them do the splits. Anyway, five rapists burst out onto the street looking for trouble. How did I know they were rapists? Oh, believe me, they're rapists, all right. You can just tell.

After engaging in a bicycle taxi food fight (would a gaggle of non-rapists behave this uncouth in public? I don't think so), the rapists, Hon Yee-Sang (Billy Chow, Robotrix), Long Fellow, a.k.a. Army Jacket Rapist (Shing Fui-On), Chan Ging, and Tse Fook-Yiu, enter Casino Lisboa and... Wait, one of the actors who plays one of the rapists is named "Tse Fook-Yiu"? Yeah, so? Tse Fook-Yiu? Did I stutter? Should that mean something to me? No, not really. I don't know why, I just like saying, Tse Fook-Yiu! Well, knock yourself out. Please, Tse Fook-Yiu. I'm begging you. Tse Fook-Yiu!!! This is your last warning, Tse Fook-Yiu!!!

Okay, that's enough of that. Where was I? Ah, yes, the rapists have entered the building, I mean, the casino. The staff tolerate their presence at first, but things start to deteriorate when they begin acting like, well, rapists. Shouting and carrying on in a manner that is unbecoming of the Casino Lisboa name, the rapists are politely asked to leave by an usher. When they dismiss her request, Chieh Ying (Pauline Wong Siu-Fung), a sort of pit boss, takes over. Only problem is, they don't listen to her either. Repeatedly ignoring her requests to vacate the premisses, one of the rapists, the one in the gaudy jacket, slaps Chieh Ying in the face. This action prompts security to step in. Realizing they're not welcome, one of the quiet rapists (who, by rapist standards, is usually the worst rapist), corals his fellow rapists toward the exit.

As they're leaving, however, the tubby rapist gives Chieh Ying the stink-eye. Or, as its known in North America, the Charles Bronson "This ain't over" face." After buying ten bucks worth of chestnuts, Chieh Ying makes her way home along the cobblestone streets (you really get a sense of the influence the Portuguese had on the island's architecture during her walk home). Hearing one of her discarded chestnut shells go crunch as result of being stepped on causes Cheih Ying to pick up the pace. Unfortunately, she is overpowered by the five rapists who drag her to a nearby cemetery to do that dastardly thing they do.

I'm surprised Cheih Ying bothered to show up for work the very next day. Or maybe it was a week later. Either way, while backstage with the can-can dancers Cheih Ying feels a pain in her pussy. She doesn't have AIDS (the doctor who diagnoses her is clearly a quack), it's more likely gonorrhea (he even tells her that her hymen is slowly decaying). Nonetheless, after beating the doctor up with his microscope, she declares that she will have her revenge.

Egged on by her blind sister (Elaine Kam), Chieh Ying hops abroad the next ferry to Hong Kong with the intent of killing some rapists (she is able to track them down thanks a lighter one of the rapists dropped during the cemetery gang rape). The lighter leads her to Kimberley Street (an actual street in Hong Kong), but there are no rapists to be found. After being unable to find a place to stay, Chieh Ying stays at this guy's apartment, let's call him, Chieh Ying's non-boyfriend (Kelvin Wong Siu), who always seems to be running into her. Even though he acts like he's stalking her, he seems harmless.

How do I know he's harmless? Excellent question. There's no seminal fluid on Chieh Ying's feet when she wakes up after spending the night on his couch, that's how.

While getting some grape juice at the 7-11, Chieh Ying thinks she spots one of the rapists. Following him to the San Francisco Night Club in the city's Wan Chai District, Chieh Ying approaches the guy she thinks is a rapist and introduces herself by hitting him over the head with a bottle. Only problem is, he's not one of the rapists. He's just a guy who happens to look like one of the rapists. Embarrassed and about to be slapped silly by the non-rapist, Hung (Lam Ching-Ying), the owner of the club, steps in to help Chieh Ying.

After smoothing things over with the non-rapist, Hung, who just happens to be Chieh Ying's sister's ex-husband, offers her a job (one that involves cleaning puke off the club's jukebox). Though, Hung does tell her that vengeance isn't a good idea, and that she should really think about going back to Macao. However, she's come too far to give up now. Besides, who wouldn't want to be Sit Chi-Lun's roommate? She's a major hottie. Oh, and just for record, Sit Chi-Lun plays a...wait, is she a prostitute? I'm not sure. Well, anyway, she works at the San Francisco joint and...you know what? Let's call her an escort. Yeah, I like that.

Just to show what an uphill battle Chieh Ying has ahead of her, we're shown the rapists robbing an armored van using the old banana in the tailpipe trick.

You'll notice that none of the rapists use guns during bank van heist. Which is odd, especially in a town made famous by the likes of John Woo and Ringo Lam. In fact, there are no firearms at all in this movie. Instead, Chieh Ying uses scissors, homemade spears, acid, a pickaxe, and a MacGyver-esque crossbow to dispatch her enemies. And, of course, she uses her shapely Cantonese gams to lure at least one of them into submission.

Don't forget wheelchair wheels. Oh, yeah. How could I forget that. He may not look like it, but Lam Ching-Ying's Hung is a badass. What do you mean he doesn't look like a badass? He's Lam Ching-Motherfucking-Ying! I'm sorry, but in my mind, he's just the guy from Roboforce. Either way, he rocks in this movie. Even more than Pauline Wong Siu-Fung's shapely Cantonese gams? Well, let's not get crazy. Nonetheless, the sight of the Lam Ching-Ying's grey-templed, double amputee night club owner kicking ass in a wheelchair was off the charts in terms of unexpected badassery.

You heard right, Lam Ching-Ying does the majority of his ass kicking whilst in the seated position. There's even a training sequence where Lam Ching-Ying prepares for battle (he has since agreed to help Chieh Ying take on the rapists) on the rooftop of some building.

Bleak yet hopeful, well, it's not really all that hopeful. Let's try that again. A bleak film that contains brief moments that could be construed as being hopeful, Her Vengeance is a pretty straightforward rape-revenge movie. That being said, unlike most rape-revenge movies, this one was has wheelchair-fu and Cantonese gams.

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Let's get this out of the way first, shall we? The only thing American about this cinematic nightmare is that crumpled wad of American cash resting on the nightstand of the wonderfully flat-chested prostitute played by Alexandra Paul; who is American herself, so let's say, there are two things American in this film (money and small tits). And both are nowhere to be found after the five minute mark; well, there are plenty of small tits after the five minute mark, just not American small tits. Everything else is pure 100% Toronto-reared sleaze (mmm, slice it thick, ma). Since "Toronto Nightmare" isn't nearly as catchy, they went with American Nightmare. And you can't really blame them for that, as the film will probably do much better in international markets with a title like that. However, to someone who knows the streets depicted in this Don McBrearty-directed slasher flick all too well, this film is hands down one of the greatest tributes to the city of Toronto I think I've ever seen. Of course, I'm talking about the Toronto of yesteryear, as the Toronto featured in this film does not exist anymore. Oh, sure, the Zanzibar is still there in all its perverted glory, but everything that was scum-laden and beautiful that used to surround it has long since disappeared. If, by the way, I'm starting to sound like a nostalgic New Yorker bemoaning the gentrification of their precious Times Square. That's good, as that's the sound I'm going for. Sick of waxing poetically about the changes that have occurred over the years in city's I've never lived in, it was refreshing to watch a movie–a gritty, sexy, violent movie with incest, cross-dressing and pimps–that boasted locations that I've actually been to. And what was cool about the way the locations were filmed in American Nightmare was that nothing, as far as I could see, was altered in order to make the various locals seem more grimy. In other words, everything in this film looked authentic.

Well, authentic to a point. I mean, would an adult bookstore/porno theatre (all adult bookstores, all the decent ones, anyways, had a porno theatre in the back) really carry Crescendo Magazine?!? If you look closely, you can see that the magazine is clearly in the miscellaneous section. Still, a magazine geared toward lovers of classical music does seem out of place in a shop that carries, or, hopefully carries, the latest issues of Razzle, Pleasure, Escort, and Whitehouse.

Opening on a pair of white panties lying in a heap on the floor of a cheap motel, American Nightmare makes an impression almost immediately. Slowly the camera moves off the panties and shows us that the panties are not alone. Resting near a some taupe pantyhose and a white bra, the panties, before they were tossed on the floor, were once wrapped snugly around the barely eighteen undercarriage that belongs to Tanya Kelly (Alexandra Paul), a prostitute with small breasts.

The reason the panties are not furnishing her crotch and buttocks with the coverage they were engineered to provide is because she needs those areas to be free of artificial barriers. Why's that, you ask? She needs them to be uncovered so that her clients, like the one who is currently in the bathroom, can enter her without there being any obstructions.

As Tanya waits on the bed in a leggy manner for her client to finish up in the bathroom, you'll notice that the television on the fritz. I have no idea if the decision to make the television's picture quality poor was on purpose or not. Nevertheless, I thought it was the correct decision. I'm not sure if I said this before, but a television with a fuzzy picture is much more interesting, from a visual point-of-view, than a television that is transmitting a clear picture.

Returning from the bathroom, the man, who is wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of surgical gloves, walks toward Tanya and... Hold on. Did you say, surgical gloves? Yeah, so? I don't have access to the hooker handbook at the moment, but surgical gloves have got to be listed as a red flag. They might be, but you've got to remember, Tanya is a young prostitute. Meaning, she probably hasn't gotten that far in the handbook yet. Well, it's not going to help her now, as the guy in the towel is slicing her neck with a razor.

What's most tragic about Tanya's death is the fact her brother, Eric Blake (Lawrence Day), a concert pianist, spends most of the movie looking for her. What I mean is, we know Tanya Kelly, who's real name is Isabelle Blake, though, I prefer to call her Tanya since she died as Tanya, is dead, but Eric doesn't. And that gives the film a real sense of hopelessness.

Despite what we know, Eric continues to look for Isabelle/Tanya. He even manages to find the apartment building (a real dump) her sister's been living for the past two years. The only person he finds is Dolly (Larry Aubrey), her Friend of Dorothy-aligned neighbour from across the hall; I loved the way Dolly played with his necklace as he chatted with Eric, as it was so flamboyantly creepy.

All Eric gets out of Dolly is that he hasn't seen her for at least two days. This leads him to reluctantly visit his father, Hamilton Blake (Tom Harvey), the owner of Uni-Save, a successful television station he runs with his right hand man Tony (Neil Dainard). Unfortunately, his father hasn't seen Isabelle/Tanya in over two years. Oh, and the reason he was reluctant to turn to his father is because he can't stand him. I'd even go as far as to say that he hates him with a fiery passion.

The reason no one was home when Eric knocked on the door is because Louise (Lora Staley) and Andrea (Claudia Udy), Isabelle/Tanya's roommates, are all down at the Zanzibar taking their clothes off for money. Actually, before we meet Louise and Andrea, we're introduced to a stripper named Tina (Lenore Zann), who is talking with her boyfriend Mark (Page Fletcher), a guy who doesn't like the fact that his girlfriend is a stripper. What I think they were trying to do with this scene is establish Mark's dislike for the stripping profession. And, in turn, make us believe that he might start killing strippers, or small-breasted prostitutes for that matter. Either way, I like the idea that Lenore Zann works at a strip club called the Zanzibar.

At first, I was impressed by the Scorchy poster the ladies had on the wall of their dressing room. But then I saw something on the wall that impressed me even more. Wait, something more impressive than a Scorchy poster? Way more impressive. Are you ready? A Marlene Willoughby poster!!! Yikes! That is impressive.

How come I don't have a Marlene Willoughby poster on my wall? It's not fair. I'm stupid enough to actually go down to the Zanzibar, which, like I said, is still in business, and ask them if the Marlene Willoughby poster featured in the early '80s slasher film American Nightmare is for sale. Hell, I'm not even sure if the interior scenes were filmed inside the actual club. Nonetheless, that still doesn't change the fact that I want that poster.

Convincing Louise that Isabelle/Tanya is in fact her brother by showing her a picture of them together, Eric manages to finally get inside her apartment. Much to Eric's disappointment, however, Louise, despite her legginess (she has the legs of a dancer), is not much help.

If you're wondering why Eric hasn't gone to the police. Wonder no more, as he heads down to the police station to inform Sgt. Skylar (Michael Ironside, yeah, baby... this guy rocks) that his sister is missing.

To make Lora Staley's Louise more likable, the writers, including John Sheppard (Flying), give her a pill addiction. I know, how does one become more likable by being addicted to pills. Trust me, it just does. It's hard to explain, but just knowing that Louise has a pill habit on the side made her more appealing to me. At any rate, she gets her pills from a pimp/drug dealer named Fixer (Michael Copeman), who "works" out of the porno theatre located in the back of an adult bookstore.

As she's buying her pills, she tries to help Eric out by asking Fixer where Isabelle/Tanya might be. But scumbags named "Fixer," one's who push pills for a living, aren't exactly the most helpful people in the world. While leaving, she notices that Eric is on the cover of Crescendo Magazine. Like I explained earlier, I thought it was strange that a place like this would carry such a classy-looking magazine.

Just a second. I know, a killer is targeting strippers and prostitutes. But Lenore Zann is about to go on. Like most strippers in the '70s and '80s, Lenore Zann's Tina has a gimmick, and hers is a devil motif. Carrying a red pitchfork (don't worry, the points have been neutralized) and wearing devilish lingerie, Lenore, with the help of a feather boa, manages to turn the wrinkled crotch meat festooned to the members of the unwashed rabble at the Zanzibar into rigid no-fly zones with minimal effort. Huh? Her innate sexiness made their cocks hard. Oh.

As she's dancing, Sgt. Skylar informs Louise that one of her friends has been murdered. With one friend missing and one friend dead, Louise turns to Eric for help. Only problem is, Eric is not that experienced when it comes to dealing with distraught strippers, and pretty much bungles the situation. Needing comfort, Louise looks to Dolly, who, as we have since learned, is a cross-dressing sex worker.

Since her apartment isn't the safest place to be at the moment (not only was her friend killer there, but she was almost killed there herself), Louise decides to forgive Eric. And just like that, the two of them become quite the effective crime-fighting team. The streetwise stripper uses her connections to the city's unsavoury underworld, while Eric uses his brawn to further their cause. Um, I thought you said Eric was a concert pianist? Yeah, well, that's because he is. Okay, it's just that the words "brawn" and "concert pianist" don't really go together. You're right, they don't. But you've got to remember, Eric isn't your average pianist.

He might be pegged to be the next Glenn Gould, but he's got a little Charles Bronson in him as well. Don't believe me, just ask the mugger who confronts Louise and Eric in an alleyway. Oh, and when asking him, make sure to fire your question toward his right ear, as Eric, the pianist, ripped off his left one when he tried to mug him and his stripper girlfriend.

Girlfriend?!? Well, not yet. But things are getting there. The sight of Louise dancing at the Zanzibar definitely showed Eric a different side to her. Which, no doubt, did a lot to speed up the wooing process. Oh, and by "different side," I'm talking about her thong-ensnared ass being thrown across the dimly lit stage in a frenzied attempt to arouse and titillate total strangers.

After a great sex scene, Eric heads over to the Sundown Motel to shakedown the manager. Now, the only reason I'm mentioning this scene is because the motel manager is played Paul Bradley of Goin' Down the Road fame. And, as most people know, that film is a Canadian classic. Which, of course, was famously parodied in an SCTV sketch called "Garth and Gord and Fiona and Alice." And what's the line most people remember from the SCTV parody? That's right, "Yonge Street!!!" It's where John Candy and Joe Flaherty would go whenever their characters would get depressed.

Both American Nightmare and the SCTV sketch capture Yonge Street when it was, for good or bad, the city's cultural epicentre. Nowadays, however, there's no real point of walking up or down Yonge Street. Unless getting a deal on a cellphone is your idea of fun. I mean, without the tawdriness, the street has lost what made it so charming in the first place. For example, the fact that no one has asked me if I want to buy drugs on Yonge Street in years is downright depressing. With no record stores, no video arcades, no porn, and no army surplus stores, Yonge Street has ceased to be the centre of the universe.

Anyway, enough of my nostalgia-based whining, if you want to see Yonge Street in all its sleazy glory check out American Nightmare, it's a well-acted slasher movie that involves strippers in peril.

Who knew Katt Shea, the writer-director of Stripped to Kill and its sequel Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls, had such long, luxurious legs? Oh, you did know that. Well aren't we special. Just to let you know, I'm fully aware that this isn't the most conventional way to start off a review for a film about a dark-haired student who has sex with his blonde-haired tutor. I'm just trying stall long enough until the film's annoyingly catchy theme song leaves my head. Wait a second, shouldn't the fact that the film's theme song is stuck in your head make it easier to type words pertaining to the film in question? You would think that, wouldn't you? But, no. It's actually having the opposite effect. It's true, I don't know who sings the song, but I do know that Webster Lewis and Arthur Hamilton were the one's responsible for writing the music and lyrics. In other words, most of the blame/credit should be hurled in their general direction. One of the main reasons the song that opens My Tutor is so irritating is because it causes me to hum it whenever I think about the bounty of leotard-adorned female crotches heaving and thrusting their way to fitter selves that greet us at the beginning of this Crown International Pictures release. Now, this may come as a shock to you, but not every movie made during the 1980s had an aerobics montage. And that's why, when I do come across a film that does boast an aerobics montage, I have a tendency to hold it against my bosom with a little more gusto than usual. Wow, I had no idea you were so fond of chicks in leotards. Yeah, it's kind of my thing. If that's the case, get ready to smother this film with kisses, because it has not one, but two montages where physically attractive women perform aerobics in an environment that is conducive to stretching, bending, jumping and lunging in tight-fitting clothing. I don't want to sound greedy, but why couldn't they have given us a third aerobics montage? I think most people will agree that the film's finale third could have used an aerobics montage.

Don't you think a third aerobics montage would have been somewhat redundant? You better be playing devil's advocate, because that's one of the most egregious things I've ever heard. No, hear me out. How many times do you need to see a woman's sweaty crotch being strangled by a thin layer of spandex? It's doesn't make sense, from a storytelling point-of-view, for the filmmaker's to go to the aerobics well a third time. In fact, the second aerobics montage was pushing it a bit. I don't know how to put this, but I think you have lost your mind. And, not only that, you're coming off as a tad square. Square, eh? Yeah, only a real square would openly refuse an extra helping of spandex-ensnared resplendence.

Speaking of ensnaring things, is Katt Shea's crotch at anytime smothered by a thin layer of spandex during this film? First of all, why do you keep mentioning Katt Shea? She's a director, not an actress. And secondly... Holy crap! It says here that Katt Shea is in this movie. And get this, she apparently plays a mud wrestler. You're obsession is slowly starting to make sense. Anyway, I'll tell you what is pressing against Katt Shea's crotch in a minute. In the meantime, let's pretend this is a normal movie review, written by a normal person.

What's strange about "You're My Tutor," the song that opens My Tutor, is how disco-friendly it sounds. Call me out of touch, but I didn't think anything that smacked of disco was allowed to be an American movie after it was declared dead sometime in 1980. Nevertheless... Actually, disco, while shunned by mainstream society, was still popular in nightclubs, and, of course, played an important role in the aerobics craze that was sweeping the nation at the time. And since California is in the nation I'm referring to, it makes perfect sense that Terry Green (Caren Kaye) can be seen working up a sweat in a striped leotard in the film's disco-friendly opening scene.

An opening scene that mixes chicks in headbands doing jumping jacks with shots of Bobby Chrystal (Matt Lattanzi) struggling to finish a French exam.

I know what you're thinking, aerobics and French exams don't exactly go together. But don't they? Hear me out. One involves a group who have gathered together in a room to improve their bodies, while the other involves a group who seem determined to better themselves as well. Except the latter involves the mind. However, and most people probably don't know this, but the mind is part of the body. And like any muscle, if you don't use every so often, it will become weak and feeble. In other words, you could say Terry and Bobby are both striving to obtain the same thing.

The only difference being, Bobby fails his French exam. This, as you might expect, causes Bobby much grief, as a high score was needed for him to gain acceptance into Yale. Comforted by his friend Jack (Crispin Glover), Bobby tries to look on the bright... What the hell! Crispin Glover is in this movie! And one of the first things out of his mouth is the line, "Kick out the jams! It's time for summertime fun!" Do you mind? You're interrupting my flow. He may have flunked French, but at least he has Bonnie (Amber Denyse Austin) to confide in. What do you mean they're not dating? Are you telling me that Bonnie isn't interested in Bobby? That doesn't make sense. This problem comes up a lot over the course of My Tutor, and I place the blame squarely on the shoulders of Matt Lattanzi. Why? Look at him. I'm supposed to believe that Matt Lattanzi is a socially awkward teen who's best friends with Crispin Glover? Have you seen this guy without a shirt? He's an Adonis.

To make matters even more ridiculous, Crispin Glover and his brother Billy (Clark Brandon) decide to take Bobby to a brothel to get, as the kids say, "laid." Why would Matt Lattanzi need to be taken to a whorehouse?!? It doesn't make any sense. He should be beating them off with a stick. On the other hand, maybe he is, after all, socially awkward. I mean, how else can you explain the fact that he falls asleep on Kitten Natividad's breasts? I guess you can be handsome and socially awkward. It's not something I've ever seen, but I guess it could happen.

It doesn't help that Crispin Glover is his best friend, as he is the king of socially awkward. Though, I was a tad surprised by how Crispin Glover reacted to being tied up and whipped by Louisa (Shelley Tayor Morgan), a blonde dominatrix. Instead of enjoying the experience, Crispin freaks out and runs screaming from the room. Yep, you heard right: Crispin Hellion Glover's character in My Tutor isn't into sadomasochism. So, let me get this straight. The über-gorgeous Matt Lattanzi, that's right, I said "über," plays a dork who likes astronomy, and Crispin Glover, the future king of the echo people, plays a guy (one who wears sock garters in the late 20th century) who's not into being whipped by sexy blondes in black stockings? It looks that way.

Since the movie is actually about Bobby's relationship with Terry Green, the freelance French teacher. It's about time we met her, don't you think? Hired by Bobby's father, Mr. Chrystal (Kevin McCarthy), Terry is told that she will get a 10,000 dollar bonus if she succeeds at getting Bobby's French grade up into the mid-80s. Of course, Bobby doesn't know about this so-called bonus, which will probably cause some drama down the road.

Did anyone else notice they way Mr. Chrystal looked at Terry's crossed legs as she was being interviewed for the tutoring job? No? Well, I did. Actually, it's not that hard to spot.

To say that Terry has her work cut out for her is a bit of an understatement, as her first pool side French lesson does not go all that well; Bobby seems more interested in Terry's social life than French verbs.

If you thought Jack and Billy were going to let the debacle at the brothel stop them from trying to get laid, you obviously know nothing about teenage boys. Taking Bobby to see Sylvia (Graem McGavin), a woman who works at a nearby burger joint, the plan is to have sex with her in the parking lot while she's on her break. I thought it was nice of Sylvia to rent out her vagina to a trio of down of their luck teens. Only problem is, Sylvia's boyfriend is in a bike gang, and they're rumbling into the burger joint parking lot as we speak.

Having failed to penetrate the pussies belonging to Kitten Natividad and Graem McGavin over the course of the two subsequent nights, Bobby is clearly itching for some poontang. Don't be crude. Uh, I mean, Bobby currently possesses a profound desire to experience a raucous bout of tasteful coitus with a willing member of the opposite sex. And you know who's a member of the opposite sex? That's right, Terry Green. And just like her interview with Mr. Chrystal, Terry induces hardness via the sight of her legs crossed. Except, instead of deploying them in a stuffy office with the aid of a modest white dress, Terry unleashes her gams pool side with the backing of a pair of pink shorts. The sight of her legs crossed causes Bobby, in a veiled attempt to cool off his inflamed genitals, to jump in the pool.

You can tell that Bobby that is more focused on his French lessons after dampening his erection in the pool. And this new-found focus can be seen in his grade (his test score went from a 55 to an 80 in under two weeks). However, as most people know, teenage boys have trouble focusing on multiple things at once, and Bobby's focus is also squarely on Terry herself. Whether watching her take midnight swims or doing aerobics down at the local health club, Bobby is obsessed with Terry.

If he's so obsessed with Terry, why is Bobby fantasizing about having sex with Jewel Shepard? Playing "Girl in Phone Booth," Jewel briefly appears in a fantasy sequence, where Bobby pulls over to the side of the road (on his red Vespa), to watch her talk on the phone. In all honesty, I can't really explain the purpose of this scene; I guess it's supposed to remind us that Bobby is still a horny teenager. Either way, as a Jewel Shepard fan, I appreciated its inclusion.

Just because Bobby's focus is elsewhere, that doesn't mean Jack and Billy are going to stop trying to get laid. And they think they have found the surefire way to achieve this goal: Exotic All-Female Mud Wrestlin'. To the surprise of virtually no one, their attempt to woo two female mud wrestlers by jumping in the ring with them doesn't exactly go as planned. The great thing about the mud wrestlin' sequence is the appearance of filmmaker Katt Shea as one of the mud wrestlers; she's the one with the insanely longs legs wearing the leopard print bathing suit.

Someone should tell Katt Shea's mud wrestler character that she's not naked, as she is clearly wearing a pair of red panties. Huh? After Billy tears off her blue dress, Katt Shea starts screaming, "I'm naked, I'm naked!" over and over again.

In a shout out to The Graduate, the film that started the whole older woman, younger man trend, a business partner of Mr. Chrystal pulls Bobby aside during his elaborate birthday party (so elaborate, that his mom, the alluring Arlene Golonka, booked a new wave band who sound like Devo and look like Spandau Ballet), to tell him the future is in "computer chips."

As expected, Bobby and Terry eventually develop feelings for one another. But, like I said, how will Bobby react when he finds out that Terry is being paid 10,000 dollars to teach him French? Nonetheless, I thought Matt Lattanzi and Caren Kaye had excellent chemistry together as the proponents of this film's non-existent agenda. Lighthearted and innocuous, My Tutor harkens back to a time when we could sympathize with the privileged son of a super-rich businessman who is too handsome for words.

Just when I thought I had seen it all, along comes Maria Rohm in Eugenie...the story of her journey into perversion, Jess Franco and Harry Towers' adaptation of Marquis de Sade's "La Philosophie dans le boudoir." Wait, you've seen Maria Rohm in plenty of Jess Franco films. What's so special about her appearance in this one? Are you ready? She doesn't wear pants. Well, that was a bit of a letdown. Whatever do you mean? Name a Jess Franco film where the Austrian actress does wear pants. No, you're not listening to me. I'm not implying that Maria Rohm doesn't wear pants when she's bathing or having sex with her stepbrother, I mean she hardly ever wears pants. And even when she does wear pants, she's not wearing pants. Okay, now that doesn't make a lick of sense. Again, you're not listening to me. There's a scene in this movie where Maria Rohm, in all her chic glory, can be seen wearing black pantyhose as if they were pants. You're joking, right? She must have at least had panties on? No, I checked. Repeatedly, in fact. And she did not have any panties on. All right, how 'bout a super-short short skirt, maybe you couldn't see it? Have you lost your mind? I mean, seriously. Do I look like the kind of person who would not notice if Maria Rohm was wearing a super-short short skirt in a Jess Franco film? So, what your saying is, Maria Rohm wears pantyhose–black pantyhose, she was wearing black pantyhose–right, black pantyhose, in the middle of the day as if they were pants? That's exactly what I'm saying. Whoa! I have to ask: How are the contents of your brain still intact after watching this righteous display? Think about it. Technically, your head should have exploded the moment you saw Maria Rohm wearing black pantyhose as if they were pants. Yet, here you are, typing words and carrying on like your usual self.

You think this is usual? Far from it. The sight of Maria Rohm's flagrant disregard for fashion orthodoxy shook me to the core. Even though quite a sizable chunk of time has passed since I watched this film, I still find myself unable to wrap my brain around her decision to openly mock society's rules and regulations that dictate proper pantyhose etiquette.

Didn't you find it strange that Maria Rohm decided to wear a crocheted poncho and a sombrero with her black pantyhose? Yes, I did find that strange. Which reminds me, are you sure the poncho wasn't a dress? You know, like a shirt-dress? Nah, I don't think it was long enough. Maybe it was supposed to be that short. After all, it was era of the non-existent hemline. Yeah, but, I could see her pussy. Sure, the nylon fabric was pressing tightly against it with the force of six tornadoes, but you could tell it [her pussy] was there. You're right, I could see her pussy, too. Well, it was worth a shot.

As you were going on about Maria Rohm's bold fashion statement, I was busy trying to figure out a way to steer this review into less perverted waters. And you know what, to quote Sulu from Star Trek, "the helm is sluggish." I know how to snap myself out of this Maria Rohm-themed pantyhose funk, mention the fact the film opens with a leggy Maria Rohm lounging in a manner that could be construed as leggy. I thought you just said you wanted to steer this review into less perverted waters? Yeah, and I said the helm was sluggish. Meaning, I've lost control of the ship. Besides, the film's opening leggy salvo features legs that are unadorned. So, yes, I'm still in pervert mode. But at least I've strayed into less nylon-obsessed territory.

Anyway, Maria Rohm plays Madame Saint Ange, a leggy aristocratic who enjoys sunbathing, toying with her guitar-playing gardener/boatman, Augustin (Anney Kaplan), diaphanous clothing, sado-masochism, and corrupting minors. Reading a book by Marquis de Sade, Madame Saint Ange envisions herself at a ritualistic murder, one that involves organ eating, in an environment that can best be described as dungeon-like. (Keep an eye out for Jess Franco as one of the creepy on-lookers.) Hosted by the ultra-suave Dolmance (Christopher Lee), the party, if you can call it that, features chanting, men in mitres, men wearing nylons over their heads ("We are Devo"), and a live reading from one the Marquis de Sade's works by none other than Christopher Lee.

Anyone remember the Art of Noise song called "Legs"? Well, every time Maria Rohm would appear onscreen in the early going of Eugenie, I would yell out, "Legs!!!"

Speaking of Eugenie and legs, we're introduced to Eugenie (Marie Liljedahl), a thigh-licious teen who just got off the phone with Madame Saint Ange. How does Eugenie know Madame Saint Ange? I mean, except for the fact that both of them have fantastic legs, they don't seem to have much in common. Either way, they know each other, much to her mother's chagrin. Wearing a short red dress, Eugenie, after rebuffing her mother's request to tell her who she was talking on the phone with, retreats to her room to act leggy while staring at Madame Saint Ange's picture.

Just in case we had any doubts as to the validity of Eugenie's legginess, Jess Franco provides us with ample evidence when he employs a not-so subtle leg pan.

Call me paranoid, but the fact that Jess Franco regular Paul Muller plays Eugenie's father does not bode well for the naive little scamp. And wouldn't you know it, my paranoia is well-founded as we see that Paul Muller is meeting Madame Saint Ange at a swanky hotel. You don't know what they're up to. Oh, I know what they're up to. And it's not just sex; Madame Saint Ange, by the way, is wearing a brown leather skirt (with a matching vest) and black fishnet pantyhose. No, there's something sinister going on, and it probably involves the spiritual well-being of Eugenie.

What kind of parent would allow their teenage daughter to spend the weekend on a remote island that belongs to Madame Saint Ange and Mirvel (Jack Taylor), her deranged stepbrother? Well, it's obvious that Paul Muller is that kind of parent, because Augustine is currently ferrying Eugenie to the island as we speak.

I would have loved to have been there when Madame Saint Ange decided to wear black pantyhose as if they were pants, a white crocheted poncho, a sombrero, white sunglasses and a pair of jewel-encrusted pumps on the day Eugenie arrives at her not-so humble abode.

Upon further inspection, and then after another inspection, one that, if you can believe it, went farther, inspection-wise, than the previous inspection, I came to the conclusion that the iconic black pantyhose/poncho/sombrero ensemble Maria Rohm wears in Eugenie wasn't as radical as I first thought. If you look closely, you'll notice that the frayed material dangling from the front and back of her poncho does provide her cunt and anus a modicum of coverage. It's just that the outfit can turn impractical in an instant whenever a stiff breeze occurs or when the wearer engages in some impromptu arm lifting.

You know, I can see how a stiff breeze might upset the structural harmony of Maria Rohm's poncho (the island is known for its breeziness). But impromptu arm lifting? I don't see that happening often. What I mean is, the character she is playing doesn't seem like the type of person who does much arm lifting throughout the day. Oh, really? Well then, how do you suppose she goes about beating Eugenie with a leather strap? I mean, have you ever tried to beat someone with a leather strap without lifting your arms? If you haven't, I'll tell you, it's damned near impossible.

Why would anyone want to beat Eugenie with a leather strap? She's so soft, so innocent. The question you really should be asking yourself is, why wouldn't anyone want to beat Eugenie with a leather strap? I can't believe I just said that out loud. In my defense, I'm simply trying to understand the mindset of Madame Saint Ange and his Marquis de Sade worshiping stepbrother (when he's not reading aloud from the works of the Marquis de Sade, he entertains himself by opening and closing the blinds in a semi-menacing manner).

Believe or not, they haven't invited Eugenie to spend the weekend with them in order to take baths together (Marie Liljedahl's Swedish bum is so freaking ebullient in its post-bath state) or smoke Turkish cigarettes while wearing expensive frocks, they have sinister plans for Eugenie. And they can be summed up by the three words: Education. Corruption. Destruction.

Whips, chains, dandies in frilly shirts, the music of Bruno Nicolai (the music cue just before Maria Rohm gets freaky with a ball and chain was awesome), Christopher Lee in a red smoking jacket; it's quite the scene, man. And the thing is, Madame Saint Ange and Mirval have somehow convinced Eugenie that all the terrible things that have happened to her have occurred not in reality, but in a dream.

How many times can Madame Saint Ange and Mirval get away with all this before Eugenie gets wise? I don't want say, but you should expect to see Marie Lijledahl running naked across sand dunes, Lina Romay in Macumba Sexual-style, before all is said and done. I know, Marie Liljedahl ran naked across sand dunes before Lina Romay did (Lina didn't do it until the early 1980s), but I saw Lina do it first. Anyway, do you like leggy Euro-babes? What am I saying? Of course you do. Then make sure to check out Eugenie, not to be confused with Eugenie de Sade (which is just as leg-friendly), it'll blow your freaking mind.

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Nowadays, the only way for your average slob to strike it rich is to either win the lottery or appear on one of them newfangled reality television shows. However, back in the 1970s, your options were rather limited. You either worked for "the man," produced porn for the mob, or you hatched an elaborate kidnapping scheme along with your hippie friends. Most people don't realize this, but around 80% of the population back in the 1970s had elaborate kidnapping schemes that were either in the development stages or on the proverbial back burner. Why is that, you ask? Well, like I said, collecting a healthy ransom was the only surefire way to extricate yourself from a life of poverty. Of course, some of you might be wondering why anyone one would need money in the 1970s. I mean, didn't people just drift aimlessly through a thick haze of pot smoke over a never-ending layer of shag carpeting? That's true, life was much simpler back then. But according to the lyrics of the cynical ditty that opens The Candy Snatchers, "Money is the Root of All Happiness." Which is ironic, because just before I started watching this surprisingly effective slice of exploitation, one that features what has to be the strangest child performance in movie history, I saw a news story about a lottery winner who was poisoned to the death. How is that ironic? The piece ends with someone uttering the line, "Money is the Root of All Evil." You see, it's the root of all evil, not happiness. Nevertheless, try telling that to the characters who exist in this film's greed obsessed universe. Hell, even the guy who works in the hospital's morgue will sell you an human ear if the price is right. To drive the point home, in case you had trouble hearing the lyrics to the film's theme song, we get a close up shot of the bumper sticker on the van the kidnappers use to transport their precious cargo. I don't think I have to tell what the sticker said. But just in case I do, it said, "Money is the Root of All Happiness."

Did you say that the kidnappers were driving a van? Yeah, I did. Oh-oh. A van in the 1970s equals trouble with a capital 'T.' Hold on a second, I thought you said the van was the vehicle of the future? When did I say that? In your review of The Van you state that the van will be, and I quote, "humanities principal tool for propagating itself in the apocalyptic future of tomorrow." Yeah, but the van in The Van is covered in decals; it's like a freaking peacock. The van in The Candy Snatchers, on the other hand, is drab and dull looking. In other words, the perfect vehicle to help foster humanities destruction.

Seriously, if you saw the van from this movie driving around your neighbourhood, you would call the police immediately. You can tell just by the way it menacingly rolls down the street that whoever is inside is up to no good.

The van in question, for those interested, is a blue and white Ford Econoline Super Van, and inside are three wannabe kidnappers wearing Groucho glasses. Actually, since the glasses lacked bushy eyebrows and had no mustache whatsoever, I would classify their disguises as "Groucho-esque." Okay, now that I've cleared that up. The wannabe kidnappers are: Jessie (Tiffany Bolling), Alan (Brad David) and Eddy (Vince Martorano). And their prey is Candy (Susan Sennett), a teen who attends, judging by her uniform, Catholic school. You could say Candy was just asking to be kidnapped if you factored in her willy-nilly approach to hitchhiking. But again, you have got to remember, this film takes place in 1973. Meaning, everyone hitched rides back then; even cute blondes in Catholic schoolgirl uniforms.

Nevertheless, Candy's devil may care attitude when it comes to thumbing rides leads her to be forced to lie face down in a mysterious van, as the wannabe kidnappers can finally drop the "wannabe" from their unofficial title, as they are now fully-fledged kidnappers. Of course, whether or not their so-called "perfect crime" turns out to be a success or not is another story.

Basking in the murky glow of their dastardly deed, Jessie, Alan and Eddy take Candy, who is bound and blindfolded, to their secret hideout overlooking some rundown part of Los Angeles. According to Jessie, she got the idea to bury Candy in a makeshift grave (complete with a breathing pipe) from watching television. While the plan seems foolproof, I doubt they any of them knew Sean (Christopher Trueblood), the extremely blonde autistic kid who lives at the bottom of the hill, was five steps ahead of them.

As with most kidnapping plots, this one involves money, or more specially, diamonds. Even though Candy's father doesn't own the diamonds the kidnappers desperately want to get their hands on, Avery Phillips (Ben Piazza) does have access to them.

Instructed to drop the diamonds off in the trunk of an abandoned car or else they will kill his daughter, Avery mulls over his options. Now, you wouldn't think they're would be any options to mull over in a situation like this. But nothing about The Candy Snatchers is straightforward. That's right, it turns out the "perfect crime" isn't so perfect.

If you're wondering why Sean hasn't told his alluring mother, Audry (Bonnie Boland), or his dad, Dudly (Jerry Butts), about the girl languishing in the makeshift grave at the top of the hill overlooking their house, it's because he can't talk. Sure, he tries several times to drag his father in the direction of Candy, but Dudly's got more important things on his mind.

You probably noticed, given your world famous habit of noticing stuff, that I called Audry, Sean's mother, "alluring." No doubt, many an eyebrow was raised and a shitload of heads were scratched the moment I placed that particular adjective next to Audry's name. At first, I thought she was just your average stressed out mother. But as the film slowly progresses, we soon find out that Audry has a bit of a dark side. Frustrated over the fact that her son is autistic, Audry is very strict with Sean. Hell, some might say she's downright abusive (she feeds him downers like they were candy). Horrible parenting skills aside, that still doesn't change the fact that Bonnie Boland is the most attractive actress in the movie. While that might sound like first-class kooky talk, you shouldn't pass judgment until you have seen Bonnie in pink hair rollers. Rawr!

As expected, the plan A goes awry when Avery fails to show up at the drop point. Figuring that Avery wasn't properly convinced that they're serious about killing Candy, plan B involves cutting Candy's ear off and sending it to her father. Altering the plan ever so slightly, Jessie and Alan head down to the hospital to procure an ear, while Eddy bonds with Candy, who has obviously been removed from the hole. The so-called ear shopping scene is darkly humourous (none of the early ears shown to them match Candy's ears) and features an excellent monologue about the perks of hanging around dead people all the day long by Bill Woodard, who plays Charles, Jessie's go-to "ear guy." It should go without saying, but when you need a severed human ear, and you need one fast, Charles is the man.

Speaking of "the man," when Eddy says something to the affect of, "I ain't working for the man," immediately after the prospect of getting real jobs is brought up after plan A fails, I was taken aback. Call me an artless pratt, but I thought "the man" was something people only said when they were trying to emulate 1970s speak. I had no idea "the man" actually existed back then.

Wonderfully acted, boasting first-rate 1970s-style music cues, featuring many twists and turns, including one doozy of an ending, The Candy Snatchers is a forgotten gem that definitely deserves to be as popular, or at least as well-known, as its exploitation cousins. I was thinking that maybe the rape scenes or the lack of any likable characters were causing it to remain the obscure oddity that is currently is today. But then it dawned on me, that pretty much describes every film from the 1970s; too much rape, not enough likable characters. No, I don't see any reason why this film shouldn't be listed alongside all the other trashy sleaze from the drive-in era.

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The Doom Generation (Gregg Araki, 1995)

Szamanka (Andrzej Żuławski, 1996)

C.H.U.D. (Douglas Cheek, 1984)

Happy Birthday to Me (J. Lee Thompson, 1981)

The Wizard of Gore (Herschell Gordon Lewis, 1970)

The House on Sorority Row (Mark Rosman, 1983)

The Last House on Dead End Street (Roger Watkins, 1977)

Picasso Trigger (Andy Sidaris, 1988)

Her Name Was Lisa (Roger Watkins, 1980)

Savage Beach (Andy Sidaris, 1989)

Midnight Heat (Roger Watkins, 1983)

Guns (Andy Sidaris, 1990)

Corruption (Roger Watkins, 1984)

Do or Die (Andy Sidaris, 1991)

The Other Hell (Bruno Mattei, 1981)

Her Vengeance (Ngai Choi Lam, 1988)

American Nightmare (Don McBrearty, 1983)

My Tutor (George Bowers, 1983)

Eugenie (Jess Franco, 1970)

The Candy Snatchers (Guerdon Trueblood, 1973)