House of Self-Indulgence

You just know something terrible is going to happen to the rotund protagonist at the centre of Billy Tang's excessively grim Run and Kill, yet another entry in my veiled, and some might say, misguided, attempt to seem less lame by watching a shitload of Category III films. Well, for starters, you used the word "grim" to describe it right out of the gate. Yeah, but remember, Billy Tang directed Red to Kill, one of the grimmest movies ever made. In other words, you shouldn't be that surprised that a film he made might come off as a little grim. Oh, man. How should I put this? This film is more than "a little grim." It's bleak, it's disturbing, it's violent, and it's dark as hell. Anyway, since I got sidetracked, I'd like to finish my original point. And, if memory serves me correctly, the point I was trying to make went something like this: I knew a terrible tragedy was about to befall this film's tubby lead judging by the overly good mood he seemed be in when he wakes up. You can just tell that this isn't going to be his day. Wait, "isn't going to be his day"? You make it sound like he's about to get the mother of all parking tickets. I would like to think that someone who is forced to watch their daughter burnt to a crisp would use stronger language than that to describe their day. How about being forced to watch a man get stabbed in the leg with a piece of bamboo? What kind of language would that entail? I don't know, but it sounds like this guy's being forced to watch a lot heinous stuff over the course of a single day. Actually, a lot of it occurs over the period of a couple of days, maybe even a week. Either way, every horrible thing you can imagine happening to a chubby Chinese man takes place in this film. And, yes, at one point he even accidentally knocks off the charred head that was once attached to the equally charred body of his recently flame-broiled daughter.

As I let that mental image sink in a bit; which, I'll admit, it's definitely something you don't see transpire that often. I'm going to try to piece together the events that led up to that shockingly awful incident–shockingly awful even by Category III standards–by walking us through the series of unfortunate decisions made by Cheng Ng (Kent Cheng), or "Fatty," as he is more widely known.

In case we had any doubts whether or not Fatty was living the good life, the films opens with a shot of a framed photo taken on the day Fatty and his wife (Lily Lee) got married. Smiling from ear to ear, the photo is a reminder of the martial bliss Fatty and his wife experienced on that day. Are things still as blissful? Well, judging by the cheerful demenour Fatty displays as he wakes up, things couldn't better. After taking his daughter, Pinky(!), to school, he heads to work. The owner of a successful petrol station, Fatty would appear to have it all: a leggy wife, a daughter who is too adorable for words, and the respect of the community (his jaunt down the street reminded me of the opening credits of The King of Kensingston).

Informed by his mother that today is his wedding anniversary, Fatty grabs a wad of cash out of a drawer. Before heading out to buy a present or some shit, Fatty drops by the apartment to wish his happy anniversary. As he enters, Fatty hears the sound of moaning. In typical Fatty fashion, Fatty begins to mimic the moaning sounds. However, the mimicry comes to screeching halt when he realizes that his wife is the one doing the moaning, and the moans are being caused by another man's cock.

Obviously depressed by what he just saw, Fatty wanders the nightclub district of Kowloon City in the mopiest manner possible. Stopped on the street by a childhood friend, scratch that, a classmate from school that he barely remembers, Fatty and the former classmate, a bi-curious ladies man, grab a tequila at the '97 Bar. (Quirky fun-fact: Tequila is the nickname of Chow Yun-Fat's character in Hard Boiled.)

I don't know how to put this, but one of the unexpected pleasures that come from watching Category III films, and Hong Kong cinema in general, are those rare moments when a white person appears onscreen. Spotting a white person standing in the background is one thing, but if they start speaking Cantonese, I lose it. White people who speak Cantonese are awesome. Don't tell anyone, but one of my favourite past times is searching the internet for videos that feature white people speaking Cantonese.

After about a dozen or so tequilas, Fatty is clearly drunk out of his mind. Since the former classmate has long since left, Fatty is reduced to mumbling to himself like an imbecile. Enter the alluring Fanny (Esther Kwan), a vision of loveliness in a saucy headband. Sitting on the stool next to Fatty, Fanny humours him by letting him pay for her drinks. Her attitude, however, changes immediately when she spots the wad of cash in his wallet (a wad he was supposed to use to pay for his wife's anniversary gift). Telling him that he should get back at his wife, Fanny grabs 5,000 from his wallet and instructs Fatty to wait here while she summons a friend who knows a thing or two about revenge.

It turns out that the friend Fanny summons is a low level gangster. And when he approaches Fatty near the john, all he can make out are the words "wife" and "dead." Putting two and two together, the low level gangster assumes that Fatty wants to put a hit out on his wife. Of course, we all know he didn't say that. Nonetheless, the low level gangster grabs 100,000 from his wallet as a down payment, and leaves Fatty in a heap.

Eventually making his way home, Fatty finds that his wife and her lover are still going at it. Unaware that assassins are about to come crashing through the door, Fatty tries to come an understanding with his wife; one that involves her not using their flat for adultery purposes. In typical Billy Tang fashion, the violence that comes through Fatty's door is swift and merciless. Knocked unconscious by the assassins during the attack, Fatty lies on the floor as his wife and her lover are murdered.

After being questioned by Inspector Man (Danny Lee) down at police headquarters, Fatty comes home to an empty apartment; oh, and, don't worry, Pinky is staying with his mother. Still oblivious to the fact that he was the one who ordered the hit on his wife, Fatty receives a phone call instructing him to come to the '97 Bar. Slowly but surely, Fatty begins to learn the truth.

Arson, blood drinking, torture, children set ablaze, impromptu puppet shows that boast puppets that are made from the corpses of charred children, hostage standoffs, porno theatre kung-fu fights (could you guys go kick each other in the face somewhere else, I'm trying to watch The Second Coming of Eva up in this Guangdong smut palace), crazy shootouts, and slit throats (complete with arterial spray) are what Fatty has in his future. Now, I don't know exactly who's to blame for Fatty's unique dilemma. But I do know one thing, a psychotic veteran of the Sino-Vietnamese War named Ching Fung (Simon Yam) is determined to make Fatty's life more of a living hell than it already is. If you doubt his life can't get any worse, than it's obvious you don't know Ching Fung. Blaming him for the death of his brother, Ching Fung does things to Fatty that will leave certain audience members aghast. Luckily, I'm not one of those "certain audience members." That being said, what occurs during the film's final third will shock even the most jaded fans of Hong Kong cinema.

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Watching drab damsels in distress running away from equally drab psychopaths for ninety minutes straight is not my idea of fun. I don't care if the latter is wielding a chainsaw, I need something with a little more pizazz, a little more pep, if I'm expected to raise my fist in the air and heartily declare what I'm currently looking at to be awesome. What if I told you there's a film out there where both the damsel in distress and the power tool enthusiast wear lipstick? On their lips? On their lips, baby. At the same time? What do you think? Well, if that's case, colour me intrigued. You know how you're always telling me how you can't stand it when the so-called "damsel in distress" dresses like a twelve year-old boy? I don't know if I'm always telling you that. But it's true, the defeminization of horror heroines is one of my least favourite things to happen to the horror genre. In fact, I'd put it up there with CGI gore/monsters, found footage, torture and grainy cinematography as things that repeatedly fail to churn my proverbial guacamole. Oh, and don't get me started on the recent spate of remakes, reboots, and reimaginings. Now, I'm not declaring Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation to be some kind of groundbreaking example of horror done right; it does a lot of things wrong, very wrong. I'm just saying that I appreciated the weird little unexpected quirks it throws our way every now and then. Of course, some people might not appreciate these "weird little unexpected quirks," as they will be too busy complaining about the film's lack of gore. But if memory serves me correctly, the original 1974 film by Tobe Hooper had no gore whatsoever. Besides, who needs gore when you have transvestitism? Transvesti-what? You know, cross-dressing.

It only makes sense that Leatherface (Robert Jacks) dress up pretty if he's going to chase women who are wearing prom dresses. Actually, I'm not sure if that makes sense at all. Think it about. I don't want to think about it. C'mon. Think. Okay, I'm thinking. Nope, I still don't get it. All right, I'll explain what I mean. If you're a reclusive cannibal with low-esteem, and all your masks are made out of skin that used to be attached to fine upstanding ladies, wouldn't you slowly start to manifest feminine attributes and characteristics over time? Judging by the blank expression on your face, I'll take it you're still not following.

You see, female skin is less coarse than male skin. And wouldn't you want the rest of your ensemble to match this new-found dermatological smoothness? Of course you would. You would be an idiot not to. If you got a vaginoplasty, you wouldn't wear men's trousers on your first post-op trip to the grocery store, you would wear a pleated teal skirt with matching pumps. Well, the same logic can be applied to people who perform amateur facelifts on themselves using the skin from the faces of the women who were unfortunate enough to stumble upon your den of brainsick degenerates.

After opening with an unnecessary forward, we get a close-up shot of Leatherface's new face. Only, his new face is still stuck on the old face, which just happens to belong to a bespectacled gal named Jenny (Renée Zellweger), a Texas teen who is getting ready for the prom. Deciding to remove the lipstick she had been fastidiously applying to her pout perfect lips (I guess she thought it was too much for rural Texas to handle), Jenny slips into her white prom dress, and waits for Sean (John Harrison), her date, to arrive.

It wouldn't be prom night without some domestic distress, so Jenny is groped and threatened with sexual violence by her sleazy ass stepfather (David Laurence) before she leaves. The problem with this scene is that it makes Jenny's multiple attempts to not get killed by a family of mentally unstable cannibals seem fruitless, as her family is just as dysfunctional. Okay, maybe they're not as psychotic as the Slaughter clan, but at least they're more out in the open about their lack of sanity.

Speaking of lacking sanity, let's all hail Carmen Nogales as "Girl in Red Dress," as her glorified cameo is a beautifully bizarre sight to behold. Appearing briefly in a scene that takes place in the hallway outside the gym where the prom is being held, Carmen Nogales treats us to some first-class crazy. Talking to her friend Heather (Lisa Marie Newmyer) about something that is clearly bothering her, Carmen puts her hand to her temple in, what I can only guess, was a veiled attempt to contain the batshit that was about to start leaking from her feverish brain, and launches into this incoherent tirade. And just like that, Carmen Nogales earns her place in the pantheon of off-kilter film performances that inexplicably make me giggle and shout.

I'm not sure if Carmen Nogales, a.k.a. The Girl in the Red Dress from Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation, already has a cult following or not. If she doesn't, I'd like to be the first to sign up as a member of the Carmen Nogales, a.k.a. The Girl in the Red Dress from Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation, Appreciation Society.

Don't worry, even though that's last we see of Carmen Nogales, another actress is about to come along to fill the Carmen Nogales void. In fact, here she comes right now. Remember that friend Carmen Nogalas was talking to outside the prom? Yeah, Heather. Well, she's going to blow your sock garters off. Really? Oh, you better believe it. Blackish stockings? Check. Tight dress? You know it. Gloves? That's an affirmative, good buddy. Is a volumizing scrunchie too much to ask? Don't be ridiculous, Heather will gladly wear a scrunchie that causes her hair to seem bigger than it really is. Wow, this Heather chick sounds amazing.

I have to ask, though. If this Heather chick is so "amazing," why is her boyfriend Barry (Tyler Cone) making out that other girl? Good question. On top of sounding exactly like Kenny Powers from Eastbound and Down, this Barry fella is what we like to call a "cad." Realizing this, Heather, after she catches Barry kissing another girl, hops in his car and tears out of the parking lot. Managing to get into the car before she leaves, Barry pleads with Heather to forgive him. When Barry starts trying to explain to Heather that he needs to have sex with other girls or else he'll get cancer, Jenny and Sean reveal themselves. I don't know why they chose the back of Barry's car to smoke pot, but it would seem that this prom has become a mobile affair.

Due to her frazzled state, and the narrow nature of the dirt road she turned onto, Heather winds up colliding with another car. Despite the fact that the driver of the other car insists that he is not hurt, he falls to the ground like a bag of dirt. Stranded on a road in the middle of the woods, Jenny, Heather, and Barry decide to go look for help, while Sean stays with the car and the unconscious teen. It's during Jenny, Heather, and Barry's hike through the spooky woods that I really began to take a liking to Lisa Marie Newmyer's Heather. Not as a dumb as we originally thought, and saying what everyone else is thinking, she tells her friends that "we're all going to die," Heather manages to maintain her sex appeal even with a cut on the bridge of her nose. If anything, I thought the cut made her even sexier.

Already boasting two memorable characters (Carmen Nogales' "Girl in Red Dress and Lisa Marie Newmyer's Heather), you wouldn't think that Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation would have enough room to fit in one more. Well, think again. After successfully traversing the woods, the teen trio stumble upon the office of Darla Slaughter, a woman with legs for miles and a chichi sense of style. Played by the alluring Tonie Perensky, Darla, who is rocking a tight purple skirt with black stockings and a matching blazer (I think she's in the real estate business), warmly welcomes the wayward teens into her bosomy fold and calls them a tow truck.

While that sounds like a kind gesture, as we'll soon find out, Vilmer Slaughter (Matthew McConaughey) isn't your average tow truck driver. For starters, one of his legs is in some kind of remote control leg brace, one that causes him to sound like a robot when he walks. And secondly, he is clearly insane.

In an effort to get back some of the thunder that was siphoned slightly by Darla, Heather tries to re-establish her status as the film's primary hottie. Declaring that she is not stupid but in fact a "bitch," Heather, who, unlike Jenny, has chosen to keep her heels on for the duration of this ordeal, accompanies Barry to a secluded house in the woods. Ditching Jenny a couple miles back, Heather and Barry wander towards the house totally unaware of the horrors that await them inside.

Sitting on the swinging bench located near the front door, Heather, in addition to providing us with a mild upskirt, finally comes face-to-face with the horror legend that is Leatherface. Now, long time fans of the world's most famous chainsaw-wielding cannibal will probably be appalled by what this film has turned Leatherface into. I, on the other hand, could have been more pleased by Leatherface's transformation from a mindless killer to a skittish transvestite. You can tell right away that this isn't your grandfather's Leatherface when we see how transfixed he is by the sparkly nature of Heather's bejeweled scrunchie. He may have been reduced to a preening drag queen, but knows a first-rate scrunchie when he sees it.

Meanwhile, around the back of the house, Barry meets W.E. Slaughter (Joe Stevens), a John Hawkes look-alike holding a shotgun. While he ain't no Chop Top from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 in terms of entertainment value, W.E.'s habit of quoting famous people and his cattle prod abuse are at least something to latch onto. People quoted by W.E. in this movie: Ulysses S. Grant, Niccolò Machiavelli, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Voltaire, William Shakespeare, John Paul Jones, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

The best thing about Renée Zellweger's performance is her ability to run in a prom dress. Actually, prom dress or not, Renée is quite the athlete in this flick. Seriously, no one will ever accuse her of "running like a girl." Which reminds me, why doesn't she run more often in movies? The only film I can think of that properly exploits Renée's athleticism is Chicago. Anyway, I'd be interested to know if Renée Zellweger and Matthew McConaughey ever run into one another at fancy Hollywood parties or pompous award shows. And if they do, I wonder if they're still on speaking terms. I mean, the amount of abuse they inflict on each other is off the charts.

My favourite Renée/Matthew abuse moment is when Vilmer mocks the wheezing sound Jenny makes when she cries. And judging by the genuinely annoyed look on Renée's face while Matthew is imitating her crying technique, I'd say his mocking was improvised. But then again, Renée's face always looks like it's genuinely annoyed. Zing!

It's a misguided dream of mine to make, or watch (I like to dream small some times), a movie that stars Carmen Nogales. The only catch being, she has to act the way she does for the twenty or so seconds she's in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation. How no one on the set of this film saw the weird energy Carmen was exuding is beyond me. The second she appeared onscreen and started ranting and raving in a red prom dress should have been the moment the writers/producers began making her part bigger. Just think about the amount of nonsensical chaos Carmen Nogales could have caused if she had been given carte blanche in this flick. Pretty amazing, right? Okay, now imagine if she was paired with Lisa Marie Newmyer's Heather (a.k.a. the girl who can't be killed) and Tonie Perensky's Darla Slaughter (a.k.a. Mrs. Black Pantyhose 1994). Judging by your silence, I'll just go ahead and assume that your head just exploded and are currently in the process of picking up the gooey pieces.

Ahh, my eye! Just once I'd like to watch a movie that doesn't feature a deranged lunatic who kills women in their apartments. What would you have them do instead? Oh, I don't know, how 'about this, instead of murdering the female tenants, they could help them put up some shelves. I'm not sure I want to watch that movie. Okay, it doesn't have to involve shelves, or any renovations for that matter; that was just the first thing that popped into my head. They, the mentally unwell fellas at the centre of these movies, could break in and rearrange their pantie drawer. Hmm, while that's a bit better than putting up shelves, I don't think that's gonna fly, either. If they the stole their panties and sold them on the black pantie market, you might be on to something. But merely rearranging them? What is this, amateur hour? Don't you think it would be better if they killed them? But every movie does that. Yeah, but in The Headless Eyes the killer removes the eyes of his victims with a spoon. A spoon, eh? A fucking spoon. And get this, someone removed the killer's eye with a spoon as well. Not convinced yet? All right, how about this, the film was directed by Kent Bateman. You mean the father of Jason and Justine Bateman? Yep, the very same. Now, I didn't really want to play the Bateman card, as I am sure most people play it hard and play it often when it comes to this film. But given that my mind has seen so much violence and degradation over the past few months, I think I deserve the opportunity to share a useless piece of information every now and then.

Getting back to spoons for a minute. Other than the oversize serving spoon Lucius jams down the throat of Saturninus in Titus, you don't often see spoons used as weapons in movies. The new wave band Spoons (the pride of Burlington, Ontario) and the television show "Silver Spoons" are technically spoon-centric. However, actual spoons aren't really involved in either of those entities beyond the plural usage of the word "spoon" in their names.

What I think I'm trying to say is, The Headless Eyes at least brings something new to the slasher table. I guess what I just said could be construed as one of them awful pun thingies, since spoons are synonymous with table-like surfaces. But believe me when I tell you, it was completely unintentional.

It should be noted that the women targeted by this film's psychopath are not actually killed with spoons. And before you start yelling: rip off! Have you ever tried to harm to someone with a spoon? Go ahead, grab a spoon from the kitchen drawer, or, if you're a heroin addict, the top drawer of your bedside table. I'll wait. You got one? Excellent. Okay, now start jabbing the spoon, either end, it doesn't matter, into your thigh. If you bruise easily, I'm sorry in advance. But as for the rest of us so-called "normal people" you'll notice the spoon has done very little in terms of damage. You wanna know why the upper part of your leg isn't a bloody mess? It's because it's a spoon; even the word itself is non-threatening.

On the other hand, the spoon is ideal for scooping stuff. And what's the one area of the human anatomy that is vulnerable to things that are designed to scoop? No, not your infrequently wiped anus. The eye? That's right, the eye. And what's the best tool for removing an eye? A spoon. Sure, a knife will also get the job done, but the killer in The Headless Eyes wants the eye to be extracted fully intact.

Intact for what purpose, you ask? Art, silly. This motherfucker is an artist. Didn't Asia Argento once say something along the lines of: Anyone who calls themselves "an artist" is basically calling themselves an asshole? She might have, I'm not sure. Well, whoever said it, they were definitely onto something, as Arthur Malcolm (Bo Brundin) is a huge artist. And I don't mean "huge" in a way that signifies success. Uh-uh. I mean he's a huge asshole. We get it, artists and assholes are one in the same.

While attempting to steal sixty-five dollars (he needs it to pay his rent) from a slumbering heroin addict, Arthur Malcolm gets his left eye knocked out of its socket by a spoon (heroin addicts always have one on hand). Staggering home, periodically stopping along the way to scream, "my eye," Arthur, his eyeball dangling near its former home like a one of them red and white fishing bobbers, is not a happy camper; no shit, Sherlock...he just got his left eye removed by a groggy woman in white panties.

Now wearing an eye-patch, you'll notice that Arthur's apartment, which, in reality, is the back of the store he runs; you know what, let's call Arthur's apartment his "living quarters." Yeah, I like that. Anyway, you'll notice that the artwork strewn about his living quarters is mostly eyeball-related. Which, given his recent experience, is not that surprising; I've changed my mind, let's call Arthur's living quarters is his workshop. How about this: Living quarters/workshop? Perfect!

Hearing a drunk couple talking loudly outside the window of his living quarters/workshop one night, Arthur, who, by the way, he keeps his own eyeball in the freezer, decides to follow them home. A mere three seconds after being let in the door, Arthur kills them both with a hammer. As they couple lay dead on the couch, their heads and faces covered in blood, I immediately thought of Herschell Gordon Lewis, whose groundbreaking work in the realm of cinematic gore during the previous decade was no doubt an influence on this film.

What compelled Arthur to kill the couple is still not quite clear. But then again, what compels anyone to do half the stuff they do? I don't know. Actually, I think the reason Arthur is killing people is in order to finish some sort of eyeball art project. Remember the eyeball-related artwork I alluded to earlier? Well, I think they were created using real eyeballs. You mean human eyeballs? Yeah, human eyeballs. And since most people in New York City come pre-equipped with eyeballs (I hear they're born with them), that means that no one's peepers are safe.

Take the blonde hooker Arthur meets on the street, for example. She had no idea that when she walked up to the strange man with the eye-patch that she would be gargling her own blood in her bathtub less than ten minutes after she approached him. Let that be a lesson to all you prostitutes out there. And no, I'm not talking about avoiding people with eye-patches; people with eye-patches deserve oral sex, too. I'm talking about staying clear of folks who walk around in the middle of the day with bloodstained hands; it would seem that Arthur forgot to wash up after his last eye job.

Either played by Kelly Swartz or Mary Jane Early (the credits are not very helpful), when Anna, Arthur's alluring, rich ex-girlfriend, shows up to pay him a visit, we gain a little insight into the artist's life was like before he became a spoon-wielding serial killer. And while this scene does provide the aforementioned insight, I was more impressed with Anna's overall look. Given the fact that it's 1971, her style still has a decidedly 1960s vibe about it. Sporting short hair, skinny arms, and dressed all in white, Anna is too chic for words. Telling Anna, who gets a couple of great close-ups during this scene, that he didn't just lose an eye, that something else has "happened" to him, Arthur sends his fashionable ex-girlfriend packing.

Determined to complete his masterwork, Arthur runs through the streets in search of eyeballs. In order to make his search all the more disturbing, the film's way ahead of its time electronic film score, which is occasionally accompanied by this squirrelly sounding guitar lick, throbs menacingly in the background.

After participating in the longest, most awkward wait for an elevator ever to be captured on film, Arthur begins to stalk a blonde model/actress/drug mule. However, a brunette art student ends up complicating matters when she shows a genuine interest in Arthur's artwork. This puts the artist in a tough spot. On one hand, the blonde, who according to Arthur, has great eyes; personally, I would have focused on her legs, but that's a different movie (May, perhaps?). Yet, the brunette offers the artist a chance to be normal. You mean to say that the well-being of the eyeballs attached to the faces of the people of New York City all depend on the decision of a crazed artist that centers around the choice between a leggy blonde and a thoughtful brunette? It looks like it. Wow, if that's not a metaphor for life, I don't know what is.

Shot on location, The Headless Eyes is 42nd Street, Rialto-style exploitation at its sleaziest. If you into films about mentally disturbed artists, like, Maniac and Colour Me Blood Red, you will definitely dig this one.

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I'm no military tactician, but I have a feeling more thought was put into what the sentries guarding Femina: The City of Women should wear than anything else. Are you sure about that? Oh, I'm sure. All you have to do is take one look at their outfits to realize that fashion was probably their number one priority. True, they were, as far as sentries go, pretty fucking chic. However, I think we can all agree that their training when it came it to hand-to-hand combat and marksmanship was probably lackluster at best. Their ability to seduce unsuspecting men to do their bidding is second to none. But can they successfully repel a lightly armed force? Judging by the pathetic display I witnessed at the end of Jess Franco's The Girl from Rio (a.k.a. Die sieben Männer der Sumuru), I'm going to say, no, they cannot. And, of course, none of the blame for the fiasco/climactic battle that ends this film, one that sees the fashion forward sentries of Femina: The City of Women take on five, maybe six, non-combat helicopters filled with thugs who work for an aging gangster, should be placed on the overstuffed shoulders of the sentries themselves. No, the person is responsible for this debacle is their ruthless leader. If she had spent a little less time lounging in mesh body stockings, and a little more time building, oh, let's say, guard towers, her loyal army of warrior women might have stood have a chance against a daytime aerial assault. I'm telling you, put a couple of well-placed heavy machine guns around Femina: The City of Women, and they could have blown those pesky helicopters out of the sky. Unfortunately, my being a man-like creature, Sumuru (Shirley Eaton), the leader of the aforementioned army of warrior women, would have most likely ignored my advice. And not only that, she would have almost certainly thrown me into one of those glass cages for daring to assume she doesn't how defend her womanly compound.

It's too bad Sumuru's hatred of men has clouded her ability to jump to sensible conclusions, because I was totally down with her cause. The first thing I would have done was, tell the sentries to not stand facing the wall while on guard duty. Think about it, when you face the wall, it makes it a lot easier for your enemies to sneak up on you. Try standing with your back against the wall. I guarantee that you will notice a pronounced improvement in your field of vision the second you turn around.

Yeah, I know, Sumuru will tell you that standing with your face toward the wall makes you look edgy and cool. But I have to ask you this, what would you rather be, edgy and cool or dead and stupid? If you said the former, I'm afraid there's little hope for you. If, however, you're a fan of being alive, I think you will find that I have a lot of wisdom to impart when it comes to managing the security of a feminist stronghold.

Someone who should never face a wall is Yana Yuma (Beni Cardoso), the wide-eyed sidekick of Sumuru (Shirley Eaton), the self-proclaimed mayor of Femina: The City of Women. The only reason I'm mentioning Yana Yuma before Sumuru in this paragraph is because Yana Yuma does the majority of the erotic heavy-lifting in the film's opening scene.

And speaking as a person who previously only knew Beni Cardoso as one of the demented redheads from Barbed Wire Dolls, this is a surprising turn of events. You see, Beni's character in Barbed Wire Dolls, also directed by Jess Franco, is so insane, that it hampered my ability to properly gauge her legginess.

Since when has a woman's mental well-being stopped you from evaluating their legginess? It doesn't usually. But the level crazy of Beni was putting out there was so intense, that everything, including gam appreciation, seemed to fall by the wayside.

Well, don't worry, Beni Cardoso's Yana Yuma, while still not quite playing with a full deck, is the perfect candidate to receive my special brand of glaze, I mean, praise, my special brand of praise.

Anyway, as Sumuru watched Yana Yuma, who is wearing a black mesh dress, toy with some shirtless asshole in a smoke-filled environment, I couldn't help but think how much better this film would have been had Sumuru been played by Lina or Soledad. What are you talking about? The film has just started. Nah, I can tell by the way Shirley Eaton was sheepishly not taking part in the murder of the shirtless asshole guy that she's not fully committed to the role. Seriously, she just stands there as Yana Yuma does all the work.

Meanwhile in Rio, a rich Playboy named Jeff Sutton (Richard Wyler) is checking in to a hotel. You'll notice as he's doing so that he is being watched by a shady fella named Carl (Herbert Fleischmann), who works for Sir Masius (George Saunders), a mob boss of some kind.

You also might have noticed that Sir Masius' girlfriend, Irene (Elisa Montés), looks amazing in a bikini. Don't be fooled, though. She may act like your typical gangster's moll, but she is actually Sir Masius' income tax adviser. While most women who happen to be dating criminals spend the bulk of the day grinding their shapely butts into the laps of their thuggish boyfriends, Irene, who, mind you, does her fair share of lap grinding, can usually be found bookkeeping. Of course, she always cooks the books, as they say, while sitting in a manner that can best be described as leggy. This is, after all, a Jess Franco film; a cinematic wonderland where everything is done in a leggy manner or your money back.

Speaking of which, it's time for a brunette Maria Rohm to make her leggy presence felt. And she does so while giving Jeff Sutton a manicure in his hotel room. Sitting with her legs crossed, Maria, who plays a woman named Leslye, notices that Jeff has put his hand on her knee. If I tried a move like that, I would be shunned by society; shunned, I tell you. But since this Jeff pratt exudes charm and douche-adjacent elegance, he's got himself a date with a leggy Maria Rohm. It's not fair.

Welcome to Femina: The City of Women. A magical place where naked midriffs rule the roost. Where pantyhose-adorned undercarriages grow on trees. The city voted the red cape capital of Brazil for the third year running by Red Cape Magazine. And the best place to find affordable cunnilingus for all you lesbians on a budget. I don't care if men aren't welcome (a misandric speech given by Sumuru during our initial tour makes that all too clear), I want to live in Femina: The City of Women.

It's morning, and after a long night of partying (Brazilian style!), Jeff and Leslye decide to take a stroll. (Keep an eye out for Jess Franco as the guitar player during their early morning jaunt.) Remember Carl? That's right, the shady fella who was spying on Jeff as he arrived in Rio. Yeah, well, he does what all good henchman do, he sicks a bunch of lesser henchman on Jeff and Leslye, disrupting the tranquility of their stroll.

The cool thing about Carl's lesser henchmen is that they all wear creepy masks and carry switchblades. On the downside, their fighting skills were a tad lacking in the being good department, and Jeff and Leslye have little trouble thwarting their pathetic attempt to harm them.

How do we know Maria Rohm puts her red stockings on one red stocking at a time? Show us, Jess. Show us how Maria Rohm puts her red stockings on. And wouldn't you know it. He does show us. I love you, Jess Franco. As Maria Rohm started to put on her second red stocking, it dawned on me that Jeff and Leslyse are discussing something plot-related.

I thought I might have heard something about ten million dollars in stolen money. But like I said, Maria Rohm is putting on red stockings when I heard this, so I can't be 100% sure what was actually said during this scene. I guess I could watch the scene again. However, I have a strong feeling that the results will be exactly the same.

Pairing her red stockings with a flashy mini-dress (the kind that cause the tops of her red stockings to appear every time she shrugs her shoulders), Leslye accompanies Jeff to the airport. If you thought Carl and his lesser henchman were going to give up trying to apprehend Jeff (it's clear they want the ten million dollars he purportedly has stashed away somewhere), you're sorely mistaken. Even though he's separated from Leslye during the kerfulle with the lesser henchmen, Jeff manages to escape aboard a plane filled with women in matching capes.

Wait, did you say, "matching capes"? Yeah, so. Don't you read Red Cape Magazine? These women are from Femina: The City of Women. And last time I checked, men, especially those who wear their cocks on their crotches, aren't welcome there.

Waking up, as most men do after they arrive in Femina: The City of Women, tied to a slab while a leggy Yana Yuma stands over you in a menacing yet still leggy fashion, Jeff finds himself to be a "guest" of Brazil's most elusive all-female society. While it's obvious her hatred of men is sincere, you wouldn't know it judging by the way Sumuru, who is wearing a black body stocking (one with feathery flourishes around the wrists and ankles), wraps her legs around Jeff's midsection. Oh, and if you're wondering what happened to Leslye, she was captured by Sir Masius and is currently being tortured pool side by his lesser henchmen.

In the grand tradition of spy flicks, whether they be campy on purpose or campy by accident, the villain of the piece gives the film's hero a tour of their headquarters and a detailed explanation about their dastardly plans. Which, of course, involve ruling the world. You have to remember, most men were fearful of the women's movement of the 1960s, and this fear seeped into pop culture in the form of movies like, The Girl from Rio -- you know, one's where women try to take over the world.

At any rate, it's during Jeff's tour of Femina: The City of Women that I noticed all the vulnerabilities in city's defenses. Instead of teaching her soldiers to be irresistible to men (an actual class taught in Femina), Sumuru should have brought in a drill instructor. And, yes, I'm sure they could find a female drill instructor listed in the Brazilian Yellow Pages.

When the tour/explanation is over, Jeff is locked in a glass box along with Ulla Rossini (Marta Reves), the daughter of some rich dude, and a bunch of other unfortunate souls.

Will Jeff be able to withstand the psychosexual torture Sumuru has in store for him? Who cares. What I want to know is, what colour, if any, are the panties Yana Yuma is wearing underneath that silver cape she wears. I mean, all that it would take is a mild breeze for us to find out.

What I really want to know is, when did Elisa Montés find the time change from black fishnet pantyhose into mauve sparkly pantyhose? As it doesn't seem like she had enough time to change. I guess that will have to remain one of those mystery thingies. Nonetheless, when the helicopter attack I alluded to earlier finally gets underway, you can tell that the production was getting low on cash. And it's no wonder, as most of the money was clearly spent on stockings and pantyhose. While Jess Franco regulars, Maria Rohm, Elisa Montés, Valentina Godoy (she plays one of Sumuru's elite guards), and Beni Cardoso all seemed at ease, it's obvious that Shirley Eaton and Richard Wyler aren't quite Jess Franco material. It doesn't take too much away from the film, but I prefer it when all the performers are fully-committed to Jess Franco's vision.

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Every pimp, no matter how successful they are, will, at some point in their life, think about turning in their hat and cane and moving to the suburbs to start a family. And the same can be said for all the non-pimps out there who are supposedly living the American dream out in those very same suburbs. Don't believe me? Well, check out this statistic: While, let's say, mowing the lawn on a Sunday afternoon, the average male thinks about chucking it all and becoming a flamboyant street pimp at least sixty times before he's finished cutting the grass. Of course, the amount of times varies given the size of the lawn they're mowing. But if there's one thing I know, it's that suburban lawns and pimp-related woolgathering go hand in hand. One of the main reasons lawns are cut in the first place is to replicate the environment of your typical pimp, as the flattened, freshly shorn grass reminds the suburban dweller of the concrete jungle he longs to hustle on. What if I told you there is a man out there who is trying to do both simultaneously? A pimp who lives in the suburbs? Impossible. It can't be done. Well, my skeptical friend, in the too awesome for words The Candy Tangerine Man, we follow a man who is attempting to do just that. Now, I'm not quite sure what his schedule looks like. I mean, is he a straight-laced businessman by day, take no shit pimp by night? Or does he only pimp on weekends? If it's the former, when does his sleep? Logistical questions aside, the pimp smack-dab in the middle of this Matt Cimber (Nevada Heat) production is my personal hero. Whoa, hold on there, little buddy. You're one of them Canadians, right? I guess; I don't like labels, man. Whatever. What kind of Canadian openly declares a violent street pimp to be their hero? I don't know what you're getting at, but I'm sticking to my mukluks... I mean, guns. I'm sticking to my guns.

Speaking of guns, you do realize that your "personal hero" shoots an unarmed female bar patron in the back at one point. I don't remember him shooting anyone in the back. Oh, he totally does. And it totally occurs during the Thriller - A Cruel Picture-style slow motion shoot out that takes place at that dive bar. Oh, yeah. First of all, it wasn't a shoot out, as none of the saps were able to get a shot off. And secondly, the unarmed woman he shot was hit in the chest first, and my "personal hero" merely shot her again as she fell off her bar stool. What you're saying is, he shot her in the back? Well, yeah, I suppose he did, but like I said... Don't you think that was somewhat harsh?

Look, it's obvious that my "personal hero," a.k.a. The Baron (John Daniels), the baddest pimp the city of Los Angeles has ever seen, decided ahead of time that he was going to kill every last fatherless mommy fornicator in that particular juke joint. How else can you explain the fact that he was packing two fully-loaded pistols? No, in his mind, everyone–even the unarmed gangster's moll sucking on a daiquiri–was fair game, as they chose to socialize with an unorganized assortment of titty-cutting scumbags.

I thought you said Ramrod from Vice Squad was the baddest pimp to ever work the mean streets of Los Angeles? I did? Okay, I'm sorry. What I should have said was: The Baron, the baaad'est pimp to ever to work the mean streets of Los Angeles. If I have to tell you what the difference between "baddest" and "baaad'est" is, then I'm afraid you don't know jack shit about pimping. You can tell right away that The Baron is pimping on a whole 'nother level when we see him cruising L.A. in his candy tangerine Rolls Royce (a car that comes with its own built-in telephone and a nasty surprise lurking underneath the hood) to the funky sounds of Smoke.

Briefly forgetting which side the steering wheel is located on a Rolls Royce, I actually started to question The Baron's pimp credibility almost immediately when I noticed that he was talking to one of his "bitches" while she sat in the driver's seat and he sat in the passenger seat. I thought to myself: What kind of pimp would allow one of his "bitches" to sit behind of the wheel of his–let's call it what it really is–pimp-mobile? I can't believe I'm saying this, but a sense of relief washed over me when I realized The Baron was sitting behind the wheel.

Telling her to "watch her money" and to "get it together," The Baron sends his "bitch" back out onto the streets. As he's doing this, we learn that The Baron is being watched by two vile vice cops, Dempsey (Richard Kennedy) and Gordon (George "Buck" Flower), from a nearby parked car. Sending in a cop, Carl, I think his name was, who is dressed in drag, to entrap The Baron, Dempsey and Gordon patiently wait for the pimp to incriminate himself. Of course, being a professional street pimp, The Baron can spot a man in drag a mile away.

Realizing that Carl, or should I say, Carla? is not who she says she is, The Baron decides to have a little fun at the expense of Dempsey and Gordon (who are listening in via a wire). Giving her the once over, The Baron tells Carla that she has nice legs. He even says, "My God they're beautiful," at one point. Not content with merely looking at her gams, The Baron begins to caress her thighs ever so gently. When the moments right, The Baron grabs her cock and squeezes it in a non-loving manner. After Carla bolts from the car in a fit of crotch-based agony, The Baron speeds off, leaving Dempsey and Gordon without a collar; which is police lingo that means "an arrest."

If you think Dempsey and Gordon are going to let a couple of swollen testicles deter them from nailing The Baron, think again. However, The Baron's got other problems on his plate. Get this, man, not only is the money not rolling in like it used to, a rival pimp named Dusty Compton has "acquired" a Native American woman named Heather (Feng Lan Linn)–a Chinese woman dressed in buckskins–and plans on turning her out. In case you're wondering where The Baron gets his information from. He relies on Bella, his secretary, and Maurice, his go-to source for street knowledge.

Determined to stop Dusty from turning Heather out, The Baron heads down to the Coach and Horses bar to take care of business. Actually, before he does that, he goes to an apartment complex to help out one of his ladies. When he arrives, he's ambushed by three men wielding switchblades. After calling him a "motherfucker" not once, but twice, the men rush The Baron. Do I even need to tell you what happens next? I will say that I loved how The Baron's hat managed to stay atop his head during the melee that ensues.

If there's one reason to get The Candy Tangerine Man digitally remastered, it's so that we can fully appreciate the eye-searing gaudiness of Dusty's powder blue pimp suit.

The sight of two flamboyantly dressed black men fighting over the ownership of a Chinese woman dressed as an "Indian" as a bunch of Italian gangsters watch is one of the more bizarre moments in this film. My favourite line during the discussion relating to the future of Heather's soon to be worn out "slot" (their word, not mine), was when The Baron says, "What do I have to do to get that thing"? Well, to get that "thing," all The Baron has to do is watch Dusty scratch the 8-ball in a game of 9-ball. As Dusty is cursing the cue ball that did him in ("white, honky motherfucker!"), The Baron is walking out with his ten grand and Heather on his arm; she is, "too fine, not to be mine." You don't think those Italian gangsters are going to let The Baron leave with such pristine piece of tail? But don't worry, The Baron blasts them with the machine guns located underneath the hood of his car.

After blowing off Dempsey and Gordon's second attempt to shake him down, The Baron drives to an undisclosed location, changes his clothes and gets into another, less conspicuous looking automobile. It's during these next couple of scenes that we learn about The Baron's other life as a married businessman/father of two named Ron Lewis who lives in the suburbs. Now, I've read some reviews that describe Loretta Terrence, The Baron/Ron's nosy next-door neighbour, as an "old lady." This is far from the truth, as I found Loretta to be a sexy slice of milfy goodness. Either way, the sight of The Baron mowing the lawn (with one of them old fashion cylinder-style mowers) in a football jersey while Loretta annoys him about trivial, suburban nonsense was quite the eye-opener.

If it looks like The Baron/Ron Lewis is doing a pretty good job at balancing his two lives, he's not. You see, while The Baron/Ron is living in the suburbs, his pimping life suffers. And the same can be said for when The Baron/Ron is doing the pimp thing, as his suburban life seems to suffer. Though, it should be stated that having your wife give your grief about yard work is nothing compared to having to deal with a bunch of sadistic gangsters who want to straight up kill your black ass.

Since The Baron is not around, the aforementioned gangsters decide to target his bread and butter instead. That's right, they go after his "bitches." Bearing the brunt of their particular brand of mid-70s-style sadism is a leggy brunette. Removing one of her breasts with a knife, the gangsters have basically put The Baron out of commission, since his "bitches" are now too scared to work for him. On a positive note, Maurice manages to score an envelope filled with non-negotiable bearer bonds. Only problem is, The Baron can't cash them, since the bank doesn't consider pimping to be a legitimate business. Not to fear, Sugar (Meri McDonald) is here. She knows a banker, and all she has to do is pee on him (he's a piss freak), and they should be good to go.

You'll notice as The Baron is putting the hand attached to Big Floyd (Patrick Wright) in the trash compactor that Brenda Fogarty is sitting on the couch. Who's she, you ask? Why, she's Brenda Fogarty–you know, Mrs. Tenny from Trip with the Teacher. It was weird seeing Miss Fogarty as a prostitute, or, as she's listed in the credits "Hooker on Couch." In that, she displays none of the headstrong qualities of her feisty teacher character; I guess that's why it's called "acting."

Is there anything sadder than watching a pimp walk in L.A.? I don't know, but I sure am glad John Daniels is the one doing the walking, as his ice cold performance is what makes this tale of a pimp living a double life so darn irresistible. Culminating in a slow motion barroom massacre and a car chase, The Candy Tangerine Man might be one of my first forays into the realm of blaxploitation, but it's got to be one of the best. And by "best," I mean that it's just the kind of sleazy, violent, misogynistic, racist trash I was hoping it would be.

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The sea giveth and the sea taketh away. Is that a famous quote or something? Don't worry, I'm going to commence describing–in excruciatingly precise detail, of course–the deceptively robust contours of Lieva Lone's shapely lower half in a matter of moments. The only reason I ask is because the expression feels strangely familiar. Either way, I think it applies to Jean Rollin's The Demoniacs (a.k.a. Curse of the Living Dead), as the sea plays a vital role in this film. One minute you're enjoying the sound of the waves as they gently crash against the shore, and the next you're fighting to keep your head above the water as chunks of slippery seaweed begin to antagonize your increasingly panic stricken extremities. While the sea can be cruel, humankind can be even crueler. Imagine surviving a horrific shipwreck only to be raped and murdered when you stagger ashore. I'm sorry if you don't want to imagine something so awful, but that's what happens. Now, make no mistake, you're tolerance for watching scenes that involve abject brutality will be tested in the early going. But the oddly beautiful and beautifully odd places this film ends up going will cause you to feel that the barrage of unpleasantness you had to endure at the beginning was worth your while. Really? Yeah, totally. And, no, I'm not just referring to Lieva Lone's tasty stems when I say, "odd and beautiful." Though, it should be noted, they're the film's biggest draw from a perverted point-of-view. Actually, according to one of them dictionary thingies, the word "perverted" usually refers to something that is sexually abnormal. And I think most of you will agree that there's nothing abnormal about appreciating Lieva Lone's legs, or any other part of her organic structure for that matter.

Anyway, my point being, this film has a lot to offer besides seaside rape and scrumptious gams. For starters, it's lyrical and haunting. Which is quite the achievement when you consider the fact that the four lead characters are admitted scoundrels. Wait a minute, don't you mean three? No, no, no, Joëlle Coeur is a scoundrel, too. Don't let her big, blue eye shadow adorned eyes fool you, she's despicable.

The reason I called the four lead characters "admitted scoundrels," as supposed to just plain scoundrels, was because they seem proud of their wickedness.

Since only a handful of people know what a "wrecker" is, we're given a wrecker refresher course at the beginning of the film. Now, some might say this so-called "refresher course" insults the audience's intelligence. I, on other hand, found the brief lesson on wrecking, and, not to mention, the backstories that fleshed out the four main wreckers, to be not only helpful, but informative as well.

Imagine, if you will, a pirate without a ship. Pretty weird, right? Well, what a wrecker does is, they lure ships to their doom by causing them run around in tide affected waters; they do so by lighting a large fire that causes those on board the doomed vessels to believe they're close to a port. And as the hulls of the wooden ships are split open by the jagged rocks of the shoreline, the wreckers simply collect whatever cargo washes ashore.

Four wreckers are doing just that on the night this film opens. Each carrying a lantern in order to see in the dark, a wrecker known simply as Captain (John Rico) leads Bosco (Willy Braque), Paul (Paul Bisciglia), both former sailors and reputed scumbags, and Tina (Joëlle Coeur), who apparently devours men with her ravenous "she-wolf jaws," scour the shore for wayward booty.

Coming across a couple of trunks, one containing a gaudy gold necklace, the wreckers seem pleased by the haul so far. When all of a sudden, they hear someone crying for help in the darkness. Staring into the empty void with the intensity of a thousand suns, the wreckers wait patiently for whoever is in need of assistance to appear. If you thought for a second that the wreckers were going to help those in need, then your faith in humanity is stronger than most.

The sight of Lieva Lone and Patricia Hermenier struggling to make it ashore is the film's first indelible image. And I say "first," because The Demoniacs is full of images that could be construed as "indelible." Anyway, my mind is currently racing, as I can't quite decide what to call Lieva and Patricia's characters. Sure, they're listed in the credits as "Demoniac #1" and "Demoniac #2," but I don't care for those names. I was thinking about calling Lieva "the shapely blonde" and Patricia "the skinny blonde," but I don't care for those, either. What I think I'll do is, just call them by their real names, as I like the idea that Lieva and Patricia's characters don't have names. And why would they? The wreckers are too busy raping and killing them to bother to asking them what their names are.

You heard right, after getting the nod from the Captain, Bosco and Paul run toward Lieva and Patricia (who are wearing long, white nightgowns, and leaning on each other for support) and proceed to rape and kill them in a scene that does not shirk from depicting their cruelty. To make the scene seem even more callous, we're occasionally shown shots of the Captain and Tina trying on clothes in a cavalier fashion as Lieva and Patricia scream for their lives.

If the object of this scene was for us to despise the wreckers when all was said and done, it totally worked. These four individuals are too loathsome for words. And, yes, Tina, that includes you as well. So don't bother waving those big tits of yours in my general direction. I am unmoved. That's right, put them away. And besides, I'll take Lieva Lone's unpretentious gams over your jiggly mammaries any day of the week.

Didn't you hear me, Tina? I said put your tits away. For some strange reason, Tina, no doubt confused by my lack of interest in her breasts, decides to hop on top of a giant rock and starts to hurl her hairy vagina in every possible direction. Apparently, Tina's hirsute crotch revue wasn't for my benefit. Get this, it was her way signalling to the Captain that she was ready to be penetrated. Just as the Captain was about to mount Tina, Bosco and Paul starting tossing Lieva and Patricia around like a couple of wet ragdolls. It should come as no surprise that Lieva and Patricia probably won't survive this ordeal. Or will they?

First of all, I would definitely hang out at a bar that had the cock-stirring Monica Swinn as one of its resident floozies. As most people know, I can be quite bashful when it comes extolling the virtues of the women I find attractive. But I have to say, Monica Swinn has got it going on in this film. However, given that her character is listed in the credits as "girl in tavern," she doesn't get anything substantial as far as dialogue goes. You just sort see in the background acting like a trollop; albeit, a leggy trollop in a sparkly choker-style necklace.

At any rate, the reason we're at this bar is because it's where the Captain likes to get his drink on. Sitting alone at a table in the corner of the bar (a bar, by the way, that has a morbid decor), sipping from a mug of beer and chomping on a cigar. If the Captain thinks the decor of his favourite bar is morbid now, wait until he sees Lieva's bloodied, lifeless body lying on his table. Bolting from his seat, the Captain, the sleeves of his puffy shirt soaked with sweat, notices a bloodied Patricia lying in the same lifeless state at a nearby table.

Are they ghosts? Are they zombies? Are they... demoniacs? Whatever they are, they're freaking the Captain out like you wouldn't believe.

If you were to ask me to provide a rough facsimile that encapsulates my aesthetic point-of-view, I would show you some stills from The Demoniacs. Which ones in particular, you ask? Well, for starters, I would go with the shots of Lieva and Patricia posing while covered in blood in the bar, as I love robotic, new romantic-style posing.

After that, I would go with anything that involves Lieva Lone and Patricia Hermenier being lead through the ruins by a leggy clown in red pantyhose.

Wait a minute, leggy trollops, leggy clowns, are you sure...don't forget, leggy demoniacs named Lieva, okay, leggy demoniacs named Lieva, are you sure this film wasn't directed by Jess Franco, a.k.a. the only director who knows how to properly shoot leggy women under duress? No, I'm sure it's a Jean Rollin joint. Besides, I can tell already Jean Rollin has a thing for scenes that feature two women, whether they be vampires or demons, standing side by side in a manner that can best be described as alluringly sinister. I don't know about that. How 'bout, seductively menacing? Either way, they're standing next to one another and they're both creeping me out and turning me on at the same time.

"Pale and covered in blood," are just some of the lyrics of a song Louise (Louise Dhour), the bar's owner/psychic madame (the place is a brothel as well), sings for the Captain, Bosco, and Paul. Disturbed that Louise seems to know exactly what just occurred out on that slimy beach, the wreckers, including Tina, are determined to kill Lieva and Patricia. I know, didn't they already do that? Well, they plan on killing them again. And they better do it fast, because according to Louise, if Lieva and Patricia make it to the ruins, some nasty shit is in store for the wreckers.

When their attempt at stopping Lieva and Patricia from reaching the ruins fails, all the wreckers can do is await their fate. I bet you're dying to know what's so important about these so-called ruins. Well, let's just say, the Devil (Miletic Zivomir) is trapped there, and all that it would take to extricate him from the ruins are one leggy blonde and one skinny blonde.

When Lieva and Patricia arrive at the ruins, they're greeted by a...let me guess, a leggy clown in red pantyhose? Damn, you're good. No, you mentioned her before. Oh. At any rate, the Clown (Mirelle Dargent) gives them a fresh change of clothes (those nightgowns were starting to fall apart) and takes them to see a character listed in the credits as an "Exorcist." Personally, I thought he looked like this guy I see every so often browsing the new age section at Seekers Books.

While that's interesting and all, what kind of clothes did the Clown give them? Yikes! Sorry about that. I can't believe I almost let that slip by. Yeah, the outfits. Well, let's see, Lieva is given a salmon shirt-dress and Patricia is given a purple shirt-dress. Actually, I don't really think they're "dresses" per se. It would seem that they were just not given pants. And, I have to say, thank you, leggy clown in red pantyhose. Thank you for making Lieva and Patricia, who were already sexy to begin with, even sexier.

I'll admit, the reason I was more drawn to Lieva Lone had a lot to do with the shape of her legs. I'm sorry, but Lieva's legs were more my thing. However, I also admired the fact that Lieva Lone does most of the heavy lifting when it came to the many scenes that involved sex, rape, and violence.

Poetic and lyrical, The Demoniacs is a must for fans of arty horror films that manage to provide the sleaze and untoward titillation us normal people crave on a regular basis. Speaking of sleaze and untoward titillation, be sure to check out the outtakes on the Redemption DVD, as they give us extended softcore sex scenes that feature Joëlle Coeur and Isabelle Copejans.

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You know you got it going on when the model–the one with the childbearing hips currently posing up a storm in nothing but a pair of black, knee-high boots–you're taking photographs of in your chic home studio elicits yawns from the unorganized morass of perverts, junkies, pimps and reprobates scattered haphazardly throughout the audience. Just kidding, no one in their right mind would yawn while looking at Béatrice Harnois pose under any circumstances; it's not physically possible. However, that still doesn't mean the sight of the face-meltingly-gorgeous Martine Grimaud snapping pics while crouching in a skimpy orange robe with brown trim didn't manage to trump Béatrice's nakedness at every turn. Even though I'm not a pervert, a junkie, a pimp or even a reprobate, I know alluring when I see it, and Martine Grimaud is probably the most alluring actress I've seen in weeks. Yes, I'm well aware that "weeks" doesn't sound like an impressive amount/chunk of time. But you have got to remember, I watch at least two(!) films a week. Meaning, I'm drawing from a pretty deep pool of alluring actresses. By the way, if you have seen Jean Rollin's Lips of Blood (Lèvres de Sang), and you have a basic understanding of how my mind works, then you won't be surprised at all that I started off my review by going on a mini-tangent about the scene where Martine Grimaud, who, as we have already established, is alluring as all get out, takes pictures of a sort of nude Béatrice Harnois; it makes perfect sense from my perspective. If, for some strange reason, you haven't seen this film, and are not aware of my particular mind-set, I totally understand your bewilderment.

You could view my preoccupation with Martine Grimaud as an indictment against the rest of the film. In other words, the rest of the film failed to peak your interest, so when it came time to type words about it, you couldn't help but play the Martine Grimaud card. Wait, you have a Martine Grimaud card? Yep. You get it by watching by watching Lips of Blood. Wow.

I don't know if you noticed, but my alter ego couldn't even seem to stay focused. Which is ironic. I know, I know, what I'm about to say probably won't seem all that ironic. But hear me out, I think I'm onto something. Are you ready? Okay, here it goes. A sort of suave individual named Frédéric (Jean-Loup Philippe)–what am I saying? he's very suave... stay focused!–is schmoozing like a purpose-driven mongoose at a swanky party. And while chatting with two brunettes, who are lounging like it's 1975, Frédéric notices someone or something across the room.

You can tell he's transfixed by whatever he sees, because he is completely ignoring the brunettes. And you wanna who plays one of these so-called "brunettes"? You guessed it, Martine Grimaud. Don't you see the irony in that? Let me break it down for you. I, the person typing these words, is, to put it mildly, obsessed with Martine Grimaud. On the other hand, Frédéric, the film's protagonist, is not. No, what he's interested in is actually integral to the film's plot. In fact, take away the person or thing that draws his attention away from Martine Grimaud, and you have no movie.

Do you think if Frédéric hadn't seen that person or thing, and kept chatting with Martine Grimaud, the film would have been more entertaining? Oooh, excellent question.

While I would love to answer your question–I'm sorry, your "excellent" question–I think I should mention that the film opens with a scene that has Frédéric's mother (Natalie Perrey) and two burly men transporting what look like corpses to a crypt in a Parisian cemetery. The reason I think I should mention this is to simply point out that Frédéric's mother is up to something. What that is exactly, I'm not yet entirely sure. But it does cause us to look at her with suspicion when we see her at the aforementioned swanky party.

Just as Martine Grimaud (her character has no name, so let's just call her by her real name, shall we?) was in the middle of saying something profound, Frédéric loses focus. I know, how does one lose focus when you're staring directly into the large, saucer-like eyes attached to Martine Grimaud's luminous face? I don't know, but he totally does. Draped in a diaphanous teal gown, Martine Grimaud is in the middle of uttering of a sentence that begins: "Scents are like memories." When all of a sudden, Frédéric wanders off to stare at a perfume advertisement. Yeah, you heard right, a perfume ad; the party, its turns out, is being thrown to celebrate the launch of a new fragrance.

I don't get it. Is this movie about vampires or perfume? Patience, my friend. Frédéric isn't interested in perfume, what has him so transfixed is the image the perfume ad uses. A black and white photo of what look like ruins, Frédéric stares at the picture with the intensity of–you guessed it–a thousand suns.

If you doubt the validity of that previous statement, you won't when I inform that Frédéric shuts down the flirtatious advances of Anita Berglund, a.k.a. the other brunette. I think I may muttered the word, "denied!" as Frédéric snubbed the attractive, but not as attractive as Martine Grimaud, brunette.

As he looked longingly at the photo, we're treated to a flashback sequence that completely justifies his yearn-laden gaze. You wanna guess where this flashback takes us? That's right, to the very ruins from the perfume ad. In the flashback, we see a little boy, who I think is supposed to be Frédéric, wandering the ruins after dark. As he's wandering, he spots Jennifer (Annie Belle), a mysterious young woman with short hair dressed head to toe in white standing next to a giant rusty gate. Gesturing to him to come closer, Frédéric enters the ruins of a medieval castle. So, what the film is saying is, Frédéric grew up near the ruins? Not necessarily. You see, he can't remember ever being there. Yet, the photo has somehow triggered all these memories that pertain to this grey, wind swept place.

To add insult to injury, Frédéric spurns Anita Berglund a second time for good measure. It makes you wonder what an attractive brunette has to do to get noticed around here. I mean, losing out to some old ruins is not going to help her self-esteem one bit. But then again, people in the mid-1970s didn't have self-esteem (my sources tell me that "self-esteem" was invented in the early 1990s), so, I'm sure she'll be fine.

As expected, Frédéric begins to grill her mother about the ruins. Despite her coyness, Frédéric seems more determined than ever to visit the ruins depicted in the perfume ad. It's almost as if the ruins are calling out to him.

The first step in finding out where the ruins are is to ask the photographer who took the picture. And, of course, you know who took the photo, right? You got it, baby! Martine Motherfuckin' Grimaud. Maybe if Frédéric hadn't been so rude to her at the party she might have stuck around to tell him. Either way, Frédéric manages to track her down at her photography studio. Crouching in a super-short orange robe with brown trim (in case you didn't know, everything in the 1970s had brown trim), Martine Grimaud is taking erotic pictures of Béatrice Harnois.

What's that? You're saying I've already described this scene? Well, I'm describing it again. I'd like to see you try to stop me. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, Martine Grimaud is taking pictures of Béatrice Harnois (who is sporting an anachronistic shaved pussy) while crouching.

When Frédéric asks Martine Grimaud where the photo was taken, she acts all coy and junk. Why does everyone want to keep Frédéric away from these ruins. I don't know about you, but I'm dying to know what's going on there. And I must say, Jean Rollin is doing an excellent job at building up the mystique of these so-called "ruins." After some mild begging and pleading, Frédéric, who is wearing a blue army sweater (I used to have one just like it, only mine was black - well, duh), manages to convince Martine Grimaud to spill the beans.

As a parting gift, Martine Grimaud shows Frédéric what her slinky body looks like when it's walking across a room without her trademark super-short orange robe with brown trim. Make sure to keep an eye on her belly chain, it will dazzle and amaze. That is, of course, if you're into slinky brunettes with wide expressive eyes who wear belly chains and are coy about the location of mysterious ruins.

Remember the young woman with short hair from the flashback? Yeah, the one played by Annie Belle (House on the Edge of the Park). Well, later that night, she starts appearing to Frédéric. As expected, Frédéric follows her. Leading him to a crypt, the very same crypt from the film's opening scene, Annie Belle somehow manages to get Frédéric to free four female vampires from their casket-based prisons.

Wearing silky transparent robes, the four female vampires, especially the blonde twins (Catherine Castel and Marie-Pierre Castel), help Frédéric get by all the road blocks her mother puts in his way; including a shrink (Paul Bisciglia), an assassin, and woman pretending to be Annie Belle (Sylvia Bourdon). Wait, why doesn't Frédéric's mother want him to go to the ruins? It's complicated. But let's just say, she has her reasons.

Surprisingly romantic, Lips of Blood is probably the perfect movie for all those who genuinely believe there's something or someone waiting for us come to along to claim them. Whether it be a place, a memory, an object, or even an alluring brunette, it doesn't matter. Just the mere fact that something we cherish might be out there gives a lot people hope. And this film captures that sense of hopefulness in a way that is both haunting and lyrical. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to look for more Martine Grimaud movies to watch.

Just to let you know, the image of Brigitte Lahaie stabbing that Max Perlich lookalike in the side with a dagger is constantly bouncing around inside my head as I start this review. If that's the case, why don't you continue down that road? I don't know, it seems a little obvious, don't you think? I mean, I watch a film that stars Brigitte Lahaie, and the first thing I do is go on some long tangent about, oh, let's say, her dark, piercing eyes. You know what, let me try a different track. If it doesn't work out, I'll go back to perving out over Brigitte Lahaie; after all, it's what I do best. If I were to tell you in advance that you were going die if you remained inside a chateau filled with hot French chicks wearing diaphanous robes when the clock strikes midnight, would you stay? The catch being, there are people outside the chateau who want to straight-up murder your French ass. The bullet they fired in anger that grazed your neck is all the proof you need to realize they're serious about setting in motion a series of events that will lead to your immediate demise. Well, that's the dilemma put in front of the nattily dressed thief at the centre of Fascination, a Jean Rollin film that begs the question: Should I stay or should I go? Stay, and you could be wallowing in the kind of vaginal riches the likes no man has ever experienced. Go, and you'll probably be shot in the face. The key word when describing the stay option is "could." Meaning, the vaginal riches are not set in stone. You could, as far as we know, be the main course on the menu that belongs to a deranged cabal of semi-shapely pseudo-vampires.

Much like the ruins in Lips of Blood, the oft-alluded to midnight gathering keeps the audience somewhat interested in the film's outcome. It's a clever technique that prevents those who are not used to Jean Rollin's lyrical brand of art-house erotic horror from bailing on the film all-together. I'll admit, when one of the characters mentions that some "friends" are coming over at midnight, I was rather intrigued. Since I'm being honest, the real reason I started watching this flick was see what Brigitte Lahaie was going to do with that giant scythe you see her carrying on the film's poster. Giving the poster the benefit of the doubt, I was comforted in the knowledge that, no matter happens, Brigitte Lahaie will be wielding a giant scythe at some point over the course of this film.

It's true, you do have to wade through your fair share of lesbian sex and ox blood taste testing to get some Brigitte Lahaie scythe action. But I'm sure almost everyone with a Brigitte Lahaie scythe fetish will agree that it's well worth the wait.

It's true, there's nothing duller than tasteful lesbian sex (no scissor position, me no likey). I am, however, intrigued by this so-called "ox blood taste testing."

I'll get to that in a second, the film actually opens with Brigitte Lahaie and Franca Maï dancing on a stone bridge. It's a great image, as they're dressed all in white and their phonograph record player acts as a sort of turn of the century boombox.

According to the doctor who is accompanying some proper ladies to the butchershop, the year is 1905, and everyone drinks blood. And not only that, it's great for the immune system. I don't know if I agree with that. But I will say this, we're only a minute into this thing and we've already had three striking images. The first, of course, being Brigitte Lahaie and Franca Maï dancing. The second is the sight of one of the proper ladies standing in a pool of ox blood. And the third is the close-up shot of one of the proper ladies rubbing ox blood over their lips. Sure, the latter two are kind of gross, but they're also strangely erotic, especially the lip rubbing one.

Meanwhile, in a nearby barn, a group of thieves are about to divvy up the loot (a satchel of gold coins) from a recent score. If one of the thieves, Marc (Jean-Marie Lemaire), the blonde dandy in the red and black blazer, looks a little out of place amidst this sea of unkempt crooks, that's because he's not with them. Don't get me wrong, they're on the same team. It's just that, I don't think they trust him. The feeling is mutual, and when Marc notices a slight shift in their attitude, Marc pulls out a gun, grabs the loot, and takes the lone female thief (Myriam Watteau) hostage.

My favourite part of Marc and the female thief's brief trip through the countryside was when the female thief tries to use her breasts as bargaining chip. What I liked about it was the way Marc laughed at her, as if to say: Put your tits away, honey. I'm an ass man. Only problem being, the exaggerated nature of his laughter allowed the female thief to get close enough to knee him in the groin and escape into the woods.

Quickly reuniting with her comrades, the gang of unruly thieves (who are basically three dudes and a lady) begin to chase Marc across the lush landscape that is rural France circa 1905. Realizing that he can't run forever, Marc heads toward this sort of creepy-looking chateau that's surrounded by a moat. Using the stone bridge that leads to the front door–the very same bridge Brigitte Lahaie and Franca Maï were seen earlier dancing on–Marc cautiously enters the chateau.

What he finds inside are two women, a brunette named Elizabeth (Franca Maï) and a blonde named Eva (Brigitte Lahaie), who tell him that they're "ladies-in-waiting." In-between the parts that feature mind games and ill-fitting old-timey underwear (no turn of the century corset can contain Brigitte Lahaie's delightful bosom), we get lesbian sex, heterosexual sex, a shoot out, and French chicks with daggers.

Don't get too excited, it's not as awesome as it sounds. No, things don't really start to pick until Brigitte Lahaie decides to head outside and take care of business, if you know what I mean. If you don't know what I mean, let me put it this way: Brigitte Lahaie has a giant scythe and she knows how to use it.

With midnight fast-approaching, Marc must choose whether to stay or go. Since there wouldn't be much of a movie if he just up and left, Marc decides to stay. And in doing so, comes face-to-face with Elizabeth and Eva's "special guests." Now, I don't want to reveal who these guests are exactly. But let's just say, they haven't come over to drink tea. Played by Fanny Magier, Muriel Montossé (Cecilia), and three other actresses who shall, for some strange reason, remain nameless, the women seem intrigued by the handsome thief.

Are they vampires? Or are they merely a bunch of, to quote Marc, "bourgeois crackpots"? Who's to say? The swagger Brigitte Lahaie displays when she goes out to "greet" the thieves was very vampire-esque. But then again, it was the middle of the day. Yeah, but since when do Jean Rollin vampires play by those silly rules? Either way, the film, while not as entertaining as say, The Demoniacs and Lips of Blood, Fascination does have a certain ethereal quality about it that was on the cusp of being appealing at times, and Brigitte Lahaie's gorgeousness is undeniable.

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Every once and awhile I like to give out free advice to the fine folks out there who work tirelessly to run our sex slave camps; the brave souls who keep our women's prisons in tip-top condition; and the faceless heroes who make our women's mental institutions, or "lesbian rest homes," as they're some times called, the envy of the galaxy. Now, I'm not saying that I'm some kind of expert when it comes to the day-to-day operations of any of these facilities. However, I do think that I have a lot to offer in terms of good old fashioned know-how. Over the past couple of years, I have lived on a steady diet of films that involve women who have been forcibly confined to a single location. And having done so, I feel I've been rewarded with a unique perspective. If you were to ask me to convince a single woman to do my bidding, the next sound you would hear would be the sound of her knee disrupting the relative tranquility of the bulbous contents that pepper my expansive groin area. Yet, if you were to ask me to convince, let's say, twenty women to do my bidding, I would have them eating birth control pills out of the palm of my hand in no time. This won't come as a shock to anyone, but individuals are much harder to manipulate than large groups. The individual is steadfast in their belief that personal freedom must be defended at all costs. On the other hand, the members of the large group are so concerned with pleasing one another that they eventually forget who they are. Of course, what does all this have to do with Slaughter Hotel (a.k.a. La bestia uccide a sangue freddo and Das Schloß der blauen Vögel), an Italian giallo directed by Fernando Di Leo that is refreshingly pornographic in places? I don't know. Nonetheless, I think most of you will agree, that it's probably one of the most profound things I've ever said. And what's weird is, it came to me after watching a film that features a bunch of guys refusing to have sex with the insanely gorgeous Rosalba Neri. I'm sorry if that last statement caused you to spit out the green tea or the high-calorie energy drink you were trying to ingest with your mouth, but it's a sort of true statement.

Why is it "sort of true" as supposed to just plain true? Well, one of the guys eventually does succumb to Rosalba Neri's seductive advances. But the fact that she had to practically beg someone to penetrate one of her aching holes with their indifferent penis was painful to watch. And get this, one of the reasons he gives her for not wanting to have sexual intercourse with her was that he didn't want to get fired from his job. And what, pray tell, do this precious job of his entail? He's the gardener at a women's mental institution. Okay, let me get this straight, he would rather pick weeds than stick his dick in...don't be crude. I mean, he would rather trim bushes than fuc...don't even think about it, mister.

As you were preventing me from employing some of my best garden-based sexual innuendos in a semi-public forum, I just remembered what advice I had for the people who the run the loony bin at the centre of this murderous enterprise. And that is, do not leave medieval weaponry lying around, especially in places where they can simply be picked up by anyone boasting the ability to pick things up. And judging by the large amount of functioning arms and hands I saw in this place, I'd say picking up stuff, and I suppose, things, as well, is something these people are all to familiar with.

Don't believe me? Oh, you do you believe me. Well, say you didn't, believe me, that is, just ask the doctor who greets Ruth (Gioia Desideri), a new patient who can't seem to stop playing with her hair. As he's giving her a tour of the grounds, Ruth spots a pile of sticks piled neatly on the ground. And like most people who find themselves walking with a doctor in the vicinity of a pile of sticks, her first instinct is to pick one up and hit the doctor over the head with it.

Okay, now imagine if it wasn't a stick. What if it was a mace or an axe? I'm no medical examiner, but an axe to the head is much worse in terms of overall trauma than a lowly a stick.

What I think I'm trying to say is, maybe it's not such a good idea to leave a shitload of deadly weapons lying around the lobby of a clinic that houses dozens of deranged women.

I've just been informed that the weapons are in fact located in the clinic's lounge. I don't understand, how is that better? It's not, I'm just saying, they're not in the lobby as I previously stated. Then why didn't you just correct yourself? Oh, that's because I didn't feel like it. Gotcha. Anyway, the weapons are still lying out in the open no matter where you think they're located. And we get a clear sense of how dangerous it is to keep your collection of medieval weaponry out in the open, when we see a mysterious figure in a dark cape roaming the halls of a chichi clinic for crazy chicks.

Grabbing an axe off the wall mid-roam, the caped stranger comes upon the room where Cheryl Hume (Margaret Lee) is practicing her naked writhing. And just as the person in the cape was about to hit her with their recently acquired axe, Cheryl accidentally rings her bedside buzzer (naked writhing can cause this to happen from time to time). Obviously not in the mood to deal with the staff, the mysterious figure in the cape takes off running. So, you mean to say the opening murder scene in Slaughter Hotel was all just one big tease? It looks like it. On the bright side, we do get to see a smattering of Margaret Lee's pubic hair. Albeit, it was mostly superfluous overlap. But still, it was thick and it was fantastic.

Since I've already alluded to Ruth's arrival, who, like I said, tries to bash a doctor's brains in with a stick mere seconds after she's dropped off by her husband (I like how the doctor, a sort of nerdy version of Peter Fonda, calmly stops her mid-swing), let's jump to the introduction of Mara (Jane Garret), a chain smoking, agoraphobic Brazilian woman. Nervously sitting on a bench, Mara is, naturally, smoking a cigarette. In other words, she's minding her own damn business. When, all of a sudden, a stunning redhead dressed as a nurse approaches her (the reason the stunning redhead is dressed as a nurse is because she is a nurse).

Played by the equally stunning Monica Strebel, Nurse Helen has one thing, and one thing only on her mind. She wants to help Mara overcome her myriad mental health problems? Huh, I didn't think of that. Well, it would seem that Nurse Helen has two things on her mind. But make no mistake, the main thing on her mind, the thing that causes her to plunge her hand down her black gossamer panties late at night, is the shape of Mara's Brazilian booty and the thought of her caressing its curvaceous contours with a reckless brand of booty caressing abandon.

After watching a group patients play croquet (though, judging by their haphazard playing style, it looked more like they were playing field hockey), we meet Dr. Francis Clay (Klaus Kinski) and Professor Osterman (John Karlsen) in the clinic's lounge. I'll admit, when I first saw Klaus Kinski appear onscreen, I thought to myself: He's got to be the killer. However, after a few seconds, I started to think: No way, it's too obvious. But then again, how can Klaus Kinski not be the killer? I mean, look at him. Well, first of all, no one has technically been killed yet. And secondly, Klaus Kinski is the ultimate red herring. Meaning, he doesn't have to act suspicious. Why is that, you ask? He. Looks. Like. Klaus. Kinski.

The moment we've all been waiting for is about to arrive, and that is, the first appearance of Rosalba Neri as Anne Palmieri, the only sane woman in this joint. What's that you say? She must have something wrong with her. Au contraire, my little turtle dumpling. Wanting to have sex with a bunch of random dudes doesn't mean you're insane. Oh, sure. Prudish pratts with penis problems will tell you that women aren't supposed to enjoy sex. But we all know that ladies like to fornicate just as much as the fellas do.

When her attempt to follow a scythe-wielding gardener (John Ely) into the woods is thwarted by Professor Osterman, she tells him, "Im not sick. I just want to make love." In order to quash her libido, Professor Osterman instructs Anne to take a shower. Calling Anne's desire to fuck everything that moves "excessive," the crotchety old man is clearly afraid of her sexuality. And I don't blame him. Wait a minute, of course I blame him. Let's break it down, shall we? You run a women's mental hospital that is home to a promiscuous Rosalba Neri, one located in the middle of nowhere, and you want her to stop wanting to have sex with every man she sees? Am I correct? So, what you're saying is, that if she curtails her sex drive, she'll be cured? That's messed up.

The question you should be asking is: Why don't any of the men in this movie want to have sex with Rosalba Neri? It doesn't make any sense. After taking a shower, which did nothing but make her more amourous, Anne is paid a visit by her boyfriend; at least I think he was her boyfriend. Either way, he refuses to have sex with her. I don't understand. It's 1971. Fuck her brains out! Right now, against that wall over there. Why are you just standing there? Touch her. Kiss her. Do something. She wants you!

I need to take a break. I mean, the idea that no one wants to have sex with Rosalba Neri is driving me crazy. I'll be back in a second.

Okay, I'm back. While walking down the hall, Nurse Helen suddenly hears the sound of a Brazilian booty being massaged. Approaching the room where the booty-centric sounds are coming from, Nurse Helen sees another nurse giving Mara a rub down. Realizing that it should be her hands that are pawing at that booty, Nurse Helen springs into action. Taking over from the other nurse, Nurse Helen seems delighted to finally have the contents of Mara's ample booty in her hands. If you're wondering why I only use the word "booty" to describe the asses that are attached to Brazilian women. It's because I feel Brazilian women are the only women on the planet who have the junk necessary to fill an entire trunk. And what's the best way to describe a trunk that has been filled to the brim with junk? That's right, booty; a big, Brazilian booty.

It would seem that Rosalba Neri, who is still wearing that black belly-revealing number (a figure eight-shaped flourish that covers her navel is the only thing that connects her top with her pants), hasn't given up in her quest to find some cock. I'm surprised Klaus Kinski didn't offer his cock to her. But then again, the Klaus Kinski in this film is not your typical Klaus Kinski. This Klaus Kinski, believe it or not, is a tad shy and has a crush on Margaret Lee. At any rate, Rosalba finally finds a willing cock in the form of the gardener. Actually, "willing" might be too strong of a word to describe his cock. Nonetheless, Rosalba wanders over to the greenhouse to get some loving.

When the gardener tells Rosalba to leave after they have finished, she refuses, as she is not even close to being done with his cock. In order to facilitate her withdrawal from the greenhouse in a more expedient manner, the gardener slaps Rosalba not once, not twice, but three times across the face. As you might expect, Rosalba's hair is tousled quite a bit after being slapped so many times. To rectify this, Rosalba flips her hair back to its previous pre-slap position with a jaunty aplomb. When she's done implementing her hair-correcting hair flip, Rosalba looks at the gardener with contempt and then slaps him back. Only once, you say? Yeah, but Rosalba's slap was much stronger than all three of the gardener's slaps combined.

As I said, Rosalba Neri is still not satisfied. She tries to acquire corporeal nourishment from two male orderlies, but they rebuff her multiple attempts to grope them.

It's after Rosalba Neri is denied sex from the orderlies, who are clearly homosexuals (not that there's anything wrong with that), that Slaughter Hotel starts to resemble a traditional horror film. With plenty of weapons and plenty women to choose from, the mysterious figure in the dark cape goes from room to room killing patients with minimal resistance. But don't worry, while the horror element is cranked up a couple of notches, the film still manages to retain its erotic flavour. In fact, the film's erotic flavour seems to get even stronger as the mayhem gets underway. Is there any explanation given as to why the guy in the cape went on a mindless killing spree? Not really. Yet, it does have close-up shots of female genitalia being pawed at and an over the top, blood-drenched climax. And, at the end of the day, I was relatively pleased by how it all turned out.

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For all intents and purposes, you can pretty much stop watching The Toolbox Murders at around the twenty-eight minute mark. Why is that, you ask? Well, other than the scene that involves a creepy/deranged Cameron Mitchell sucking on a lollipop while a bound and gagged Pamelyn Ferdin looks on in tear-stained horror, there's nothing much to cling to as far as drama goes. Oh, who am I kidding? I have no interest in drama. The problem is, no one is slaughtered after the twenty-eight minute mark. I know, that sounds like a terrible thing to say. But let's be honest, most people don't watch films with the titles like, "The Toolbox Murders," for the out of left field plot twists. No, what they want to see is attractive women, preferably one's that are on the cusp of being scantily clad, murdered with items found in your average toolbox. Since you're being honest, why don't you tell them the real reason you were upset with the direction this film took. Okay, fine. Now, I don't know what the consensus is regarding the legacy of this film, but I think most people–and by "people" I mean perverts–will agree that without the presence of the lovely Kelly Nichols (a.k.a. Marianne Walter) this film would have been a tedious slog indeed. Think about it. Imagine if this film, directed by Dennis Donnelly, didn't have the close-quarter murder sequence where a naked Kelly Nichols tries to rebuff the unfriendly advances of a nail gun-wielding maniac in a ski mask. Pretty frightening, right? You could say the reason nothing came close to matching the sheer awesomeness of the Kelly Nichols sequence was because the bar had been set too high. In other words, there was no way they could top that scene, so why even bother trying?

The latter scenes will be very appealing to those who have a thing for bondage and domination, as the film features many shots of Pamelyn Ferdin tied to a bed. However, since I pretend to not subscribe to that particular kink, I can't endorse these scenes with the fullness of my heart. No, what I think I'm going to have to do is cover the events of the first thirty or so minutes, while making the occasional remark related to what occurs afterward. Which, like I said, isn't that interesting.

Since I've decided to treat The Toolbox Murders like were a short film, that means I could end up going on and on about, oh, let's say, the shape of Kelly Nichols' soap dish. But let's hope it doesn't come to that.

Is it okay if I tell everyone that the opening scene reminded me of Night Moves? That depends. For starters, what is "Night Moves"? Well, you might know it as "Night Walk," but when I watched the "show" it was called "Night Moves." Anyway...Wait, why did you put the word "show" in quotes? That's because Night Moves wasn't really a "show," it just something that was on television. As I was saying, Night Moves was a "show" that Global TV aired from 2am to 5am on weekdays. Its premise was simple: a point of view tour of Toronto after dark set to jazz music that was apparently filmed some time in 1986. And you watched this? Yep. And get this, I did so while completely sober. I'll wait a few seconds for the gasps to subside. 1, 2, 3. So, yeah, the opening of The Toolbox Murders reminded me of Night Moves.

A mysterious figure is making his way through an L.A. neighbourhood in a large automobile, when, all of a sudden, we're treated to a flashback detailing the aftermath of a deadly car accident. Flopping out of the wrecked car is the lifeless corpse of Kathy Kingsley, a teenager who had her whole life ahead of her; or maybe she didn't, what do I know. Either way, she's dead, and her father, Vance Kingsley (Cameron Mitchell), blames society for what happened to her. Egged on by one of them radio preachers, Vance shows up at El Patio del Sequoia, a large apartment complex, with an equally large toolbox. Don't tell me. Oh, I'm telling you.

When he enters the apartment of Mrs. Andrews (Faith McSwain), a drunk, divorced floozie with a thing for country music, we're shocked to find out that she seems to know the man carrying the large toolbox. And not only that, she's doesn't run screaming when he pulls a drill out of his large toolbox. Her blue bathrobe is no match for his drill, and neither is her skin, as it tears through both with an alarming ease; they don't call them power drills for nothing.

After putting the finishes touches on Mrs. Andrews, Vance puts on his trademark ski mask. Hold on, if it's his trademark, then why wasn't he wearing it when he dispatched Mrs. Andrews? I guess he didn't want to arouse suspicion. Nevertheless, he's not done this evening. And judging by the amount of time we spend with her as she goes about her routine, I would say Debra (Marciee Drake), or "Debbie," as her girlfriend likes to call her, is next on Vance's hit list.

Just as I was about to question Debra's decision to step into the shower with her clothes on, Vance knocks her unconscious and drags her into the nearby stairwell. Before I continue, the reason Debra stepped into the shower with her clothes on was in order to get a shot of Debra with her top off. Still, I don't know why she couldn't have just turned the water off from outside the shower? I mean, if you're worried about getting your shirt sleeves wet, simply roll them up, baby. I don't think you heard me. This was done for sole purpose of us giving us a glimpse of Debra's naked breasts. Are naked breasts that important that they would make a semi-intelligent character behave in such an illogical manner? Yes. Yes they are. Good to know.

As Debra lies dead on the floor, the back of her head bashed in with a hammer, next to her dead girlfriend Maria (Evelyn Guerro), her guts stabbed with a screwdriver, Vance stares menacingly out the window at the apartments belonging to Dee Ann (Kelly Nichols) and Laurie Ballard (Pamelyn Ferdin), two young women who live decidedly different lifestyles. Nonetheless, both will, if the staring is any indication, end up being the target of Vance's next foray to El Patio del Sequoia.

Did you happen to notice the last name of Pamelyn Ferdin's character? Yeah, it's Ballard. Like author J.G. Ballard. Where are you going with this? Don't you see, Vance's daughter was killed in a car accident. And one of J.G. Ballard's most famous books is called "Crash." Didn't you think the flashback sequence pertaining to Kathy's accident was a tad on the erotic side. No? Well I did. Anyway, car crash fetishism aside, Vance decides that he wants Laurie Ballard to be his new daughter. You mean he doesn't want to shoot her through the head with a nail gun? No, he's saving that tool for someone extra special.

If you thought Vance had problems with a drunk milf and a couple of closeted lesbians, wait until he meets Dee Ann, a chronic masturbator/exhibitionist with pillowy lips, his ski mask will probably burst into flames. Unfortunately for Dee Ann, Vance's ski mask doesn't burst into flames. Thankfully for us, however, we're treated to one of the greatest slasher film set pieces in movie history.

Clocking in at around eight minutes long, the sequence that pits Vance, who is wielding a battery operated nail gun (one that can apparently penetrate concrete), vs. Dee Ann, who is wielding nothing but her pert tits, is the stuff of horror legend. Why is that, you ask? Well, for one thing, Cameron Mitchell and Kelly Nichols are fully committed to the scene. In other words, no one half asses it. On top of that, the nail gun is probably one of the worst horror weapons currently on the market. Sure, it's basically no different than your average gun, but there's something about it that just doesn't sit right; it shoots nails...through concrete.

In the middle of washing her knees in the bath, Dee Ann, who is listening to the aptly titled "Pretty Lady" by George Deaton on the radio, begins to rub her soaking vagina. After awhile, it's obvious that Dee Ann is no longer "taking a bath." As Dee Ann is busy pleasuring herself, Vance enters her apartment. Standing in the doorway of her bathroom, Vance points his nail gun at Dee Ann. Jumping from the tub like a bolt of lightening, Dee Ann makes a run for it.

The dichotomy between the two combatants is rather striking. Whereas Dee Ann, minus a few stray bits of soap, is completely naked, every inch of Vance is covered with some sort of article of clothing. This gives the scene an extra layer of unpleasantness it didn't really need. Given the unfair nature of the fight, Vance eventually comes out on top. Yet, even Kelly Nichols' final moments are drenched in awesomeness.

Well, I'm afraid that's it. I know, we're only twenty-eight minutes into this thing, but you're not going to find anything that comes close to topping the sight of a bloodied Kelly Nichols leaning against a wall that boasts a poster of...Kelly Nichols!

The film soon morphs into a forced confinement movie, as Laurie Ballard is kidnapped by Vance while enjoying a Diet Pepsi. Now, the detective in charge of the case, a Det. Jamison (Tim Donnelly), will tell you that Laurie was enjoying a Pepsi when she was kidnapped. But it was clearly a Diet Pepsi. What's my point? My point is this Jamison fella isn't a very good detective. Someone else who probably realized that Det. Jamison wasn't up to the task was Laurie's brother, Joey Ballard (Nicholas Beauvy), who starts own investigation along with his friend, Kent Kingsley (Wesley Eure). And yes, I'm aware that Kent has the same exact last name as Vance. Nonetheless, many yawns are expelled whenever Joey and Kent are onscreen.

If I were to single out a scene worth checking out after the twenty-eight minute mark, it would have to be the one where Cameron Mitchell enters Laurie's new room singing, "L-o-double l-i-p-o-p spells lollipop." Railing against the evils of the world while sucking on a lollipop, Cameron Mitchell's monologue while a bound and gagged Pamelyn Ferdin listens is pretty chilling stuff. I love the way he says "unnatural" three times in quick succession. Not to be out done, Pamelyn Ferdin describes heaven as a purple lollipop. Which makes perfect sense given the fact her psyche has been inundated with lollipop-related imagery over the course of the last five or six minutes. In fact, I was dying to suck a lollipop after the film was over. But don't worry, I didn't succumb to my craving, and my twenty year streak of no lollipops remained in tact.

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If you want me to grin while nodding approvingly, or even smirk while nodding approvingly, during the act of watching your motion picture, it would be in your own best interest to fill the screen with plenty of low level camera angles. I know, you're thinking to yourself: What could possibly happen if I [the director] failed to include any low angle camera angles in my movie? What could possibly happen? I'll tell what...could possibly happen. Nothing, that's what. While that doesn't sound so bad. It does mean I won't be grinning/smirking while nodding in a manner that could best be described as "approvingly" as I watch your movie. Film directors the world over are dying to get my toothy nod of approval, and Aussie filmmaker Stuart Simpson has decided to make El Monstro Del Mar! in a veiled attempt to illicit positive reinforcement via the movement of my head. Does he succeed? Well, even though I'll try–over the course of the next twenty-five or so paragraphs–to employ a series of words–arranged in a fashion that will hopefully be legible–explaining whether or not he was successful, the act of simply scrolling through the pictures that I painstakingly selected to represent the visual bouquet that is this movie will give you a pretty good idea as to where this film's head is at. If you need to scroll through the pictures a second time, please, feel free to do so. I'll wait. Did you see the tall woman in the black fishnet pantyhose? You did? Excellent. Okay, are you sitting down? She's in almost every scene. And get this, she never takes them off. Takes what off, you ask? Oh, what's that, you didn't ask? Silly me. Of course you didn't. And why would you? It's obvious I'm still talking about fishnet pantyhose. Stay focused.

Was I a tad disappointed by the fact that the legs attached to other three women in the movie weren't adorned in a similar style? No, not really. And I'll tell you why. You see, Nelli Scarlet has serious gams. Meaning, she has the leg-based sex appeal of at least four women combined. Are they that serious? You better believe they are. As someone who spent the last four days thinking about nothing but her creamy thighs, I think I can safely say that they were carved and sculptured to perfection by thigh-making artisans. And the unholy tightness of the fishnet pantyhose they were constantly ensnared in only managed to make them even more mouth-watering.

Glancing occasionally over what I have written so far, it might seem like I'm some sort of perverted weirdo with an irrational fixation with women's legs. When, in reality, the exact opposite is true. Which brings me back to low level camera angles I alluded to earlier. Of course, I have no way knowing how a so-called "normal mind" will react to the images this film puts out there on a semi-regular basis. But I've got to believe that even they would agree that this film is as leg-obsessed as your average Jess Franco film. It's that leggy, eh? I'd even go as far as to say that it's more leggy. Okay, now you're talking crazy. No, seriously. Check out the amount of low level (i.e. leg-friendly) camera angles in this film, it's ridiculous.

Now, when things first get underway, I thought I'd unwittingly walked into a tribute to Russ Meyer, as the film's tough chicks in the desert motif had a definite Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! vibe to it. Shot in black and white, El Monstro Del Mar! in the early going has a definite Russ Meyer vibe to it. Except, instead of shot after shot of ample breasts being bandied about with reckless, flimsy bra strap compromising abandon, the first thing to appear on-screen are a couple of tight calves jutting out from a pair of black denim Capri pants. Even though the film has just gotten underway, the approving nods are already starting to raise and lower their pretty little heads.

The tight calves in question are attached to a scrappy chick named Blondie (Karli Madden), the most impulsive member of a trio of murdering hellcats. Leaning against a car in a manner that clearly accentuates her calves, Blondie seems bored. Noticing this, Beretta (Nelli Scarlet), a vision of loveliness with didactic thighs, decides to pop a cassette into the car's tape player. While the music wakes Blondie out of her funk, Beretta had no idea it would lead her to start dancing on the hood of her car. But then again, she should know this about Blondie; after all, she is impulsive.

What's the bang-tastic Snowball (Kate Watts) doing during all this, you ask? She's just chilling in the backseat.

If Blondie's calves are tight, and Beretta's thighs are didactic, what did you take away from Snowball's legs? Even though I'm asking myself this question, I have to say, as far as questions go, it's pretty awesome. Anyway, getting back to Snowball's legs. What did I take away from her legs? Let's see. I want to lick her knees. So, what you're saying is, you found Snowball's knees to be lickable? Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.

Tight calves, didactic thighs, lickable knees. I don't know 'bout you, but I think this film is going to be a real winner. And get this, the opening credits haven't even started yet. Oh, boy. I have a feeling El Monstro Del Mar! is going to wipe the floor with me.

Even I'll admit, something has got to happen, and happen fast. 'Cause I'm in no mood to watch three heavily tattooed chicks hang out in the Australian Outback for ninety minutes straight. Thankfully, a couple of blokes show up just in the nick of time to offer the ladies some roadside assistance. Or, I should say, a couple of blokes show up to offer the blood coursing through their necks. Are you implying that I'm about to be drenched in arterial spray? I guess I am. Oh, goodie. I love arterial spray. It's true, the two blokes don't exactly "offer" them the blood coursing through their necks, but that doesn't stop the ladies from taking it anyway.

As their blood starts to spew all over the hood and dashboard of Beretta's car, the film switches from black and white to colour.

Dumping their bodies behind a tree, Beretta, Blondie and Snowball hop in their new car and continue on their not-so merry way. As I watched the blokes struggle to come to grips with the fact that their throats had just been cut, I thought to myself: That was a tad harsh. I'm no human behaviour expert, but they seemed pretty harmless to me. However, as we'll soon find out, thanks to an up coming flashback sequence, Beretta, Blondie and Snowballs are psychopaths. They can't be. I mean, look at Beretta. She is clearly wearing a black cowboy shirt (one with western-style flourishes on the shoulders). So? Well, it's been my experience that people who wear black cowboy shirts are usually some of the most well-balanced individuals society has to offer. You don't say? It's true, ask anyone.

Arriving at their seaside destination (a seaside home/shack that belongs to a friend), Blondie and Snowball decide to go for a quick swim. And, yes, you're absolutely right to assume that I was annoyed by the fact that Beretta chose not to join the others in the water. While watching her friend's pale, overly tattooed bodies flail around in the water, Beretta notices an old man in a wheelchair (Norman Yemm) giving her the stink-eye. It turns out the old man wasn't giving Beretta the stink-eye, that's just his everyday expression. Nonetheless, the old man is just as annoyed by their loud, water splashing antics as I was by the fact that Beretta's didactic thighs remained dry.

Muttering to himself, "Bloody girls muck everything up," the old man is joined by his granddaughter Hannah (Kyrie Capri), who has just come home from school; her gingham style school uniform, by the way, looked like something you might see in a women's prison film. When Blondie overhears some of the old man's mutterings, she nearly looses it. Clenching her fists, Blondie is about to beat the old man to death, when Beretta steps in at the last minute. It would seem that nothing happens unless Beretta wants it to. In other words, she's large and in charge.

As the freckle-faced Hannah, who's just as leggy as those, to quote the old man, "bloody girls," is talking about reverse mermaids with her boyfriend James (David Gannon), Beretta, Blondie and Snowball are drinking beer, sitting cross-legged in fishnet pantyhose, playing loud music, and doing cocaine in their seaside shack.

In the film's hottest moment, Beretta licks the beer she spilled on Snowball's foot.

Even though she instructed her to do so, the look of surprise on Snowball's face (a face that boasts a small sexy scar) when Beretta grabs her beer soaked foot and begin to lick it was beyond awesome.

When the old man sends Hannah over to tell those "bloody girls" to be quiet, he doesn't realize yet, but has set in motion a series of events that will lead to his granddaughter's spiritual awaking. Told all her life to stay out of the water, Hannah, thanks to corrupting influence of Beretta, Blondie and Snowball, decides to go in anyway. However, as we'll soon find out, the old man has good reason to want to keep his granddaughter out of the water, as it's home to a large, bloodthirsty sea creature.

A tender coming of age story, a gory monster movie, a cautionary tale about water safety, and a veiled instructional film on how to shoot trashy chicks from angles that cause one to produce cinematic works of leggy importance all rolled into one, El Monstro Del Mar! is campy, deranged, violent, titillating fun. Let me put it another way: If you like to watch films that feature temperamental women with sturdy thighs and taut calves crouching in the vicinity of haphazardly strewn body parts, then you need to see this movie.

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Try to refrain from teasing Doberman Pinschers and always make sure to check the pulse of demented serial killers after they have supposedly slit their own throat with a razor. I don't know 'bout you, but I think these two pieces of advice will probably help four, maybe five people in the audience. In other words, they're not the kind of situations most of us will encounter over the course of your average day. However, there are literally millions of dark-haired Italian women out there, most likely dressed in all white, who will watch Tenebre in the hope that they might be able to pick up a few tips here and there on how to survive an attack by a razor-wielding psychopath with a grudge against society. Unfortunately, judging by the number of dark-haired Italian women who are stabbed, slashed and sliced to death in this movie, you could view it as a sort of guide pertaining to what not to do when confronted with a faceless killer wearing black gloves. I was going to suggest that maybe the dark-haired Italian women should arm themselves–you know, with a weapon of some kind. But then it dawned on me, in the film's most famous death scene involving a dark-haired Italian woman, the dark-haired Italian woman in question is holding–what I presume–is a loaded hand gun. The poster-girl for serial killer preparedness, the dark-haired Italian woman holding the loaded hand gun–get this–ends up losing the very hand she is holding the loaded hand gun with. I'm no forensic pathologist, but you can't cut off someone's hand with just one swipe from a razor. It's true, you can't. But who said the killer is using a razor? Uh, you did. Oh, yeah, that's right, I did. Well, the killer is now using an axe. And, as we all know, axes are perfect for chopping off hands. They're also perfect for redecorating a bland-looking white wall. Come again?!? I'm not following.

You see, when the axe cuts through human flesh, torrents of blood spew through the air. And if the person whose been hacked with an axe is standing next to a wall–preferably a white wall–it will instantly turn red. Getting back to my original point, if you're a dark-haired Italian woman and you were hoping to get some helpful pointers on how to survive an elaborately staged murder scene in a Dario Argento film, you're plum out of luck.

According to this film, which features the talented one two punch of Lamberto Bava (Delirium: Photo of Gioia) and Michele Soavi (Stage Fright) as first and second assistant directors (the latter appears as an actor as well), you're only chance for survival is to stand near a pointy avant garde sculpture and hope it falls in a manner that ends up putting the assailant permanently out of commission.

Why are you trying to give dark-haired Italian women tips on how to survive a Dario Argento film? I don't like to see people killed, especially attractive, dark-haired Italian women. Really? I don't buy it. In fact, the only reason you're watching this film is to see attractive, dark-haired Italian women murdered. I'm shocked that you would think that. Okay, try to imagine Tenebre without its four signature murder sequences. Oh my God! I'm not watching that. Fine. I like to watch attractive Italian women with dark hair murdered on film. Is that so wrong? You know what, don't answer that.

Besides, just as many men are murdered in this film than women are. I know, that doesn't exactly make things any less awkward. But still, it's comforting to know that men are murdered as well. Of course, the scenes involving men are nowhere near as stylish or exhilarating as the one's that feature dark-haired Italian women buying it.

Oh, in case you're wondering, the reason I call them "dark-haired Italian women" is because that's what they are. But the real reason has more to do with the fact that I don't know their names yet. What I mean is, I'm not familiar with the actresses who play the victims, and each time I call them "dark-haired Italian women" I feel as if I'm getting closer to knowing who they really are.

The film opens with a writer Peter Neal (Anthony Franciosa), one who specializes in sleazy murder mysteries, ridding to the airport, oh, let's say, LaGuardia, on his bike. As he's about to get on a plane to Rome, we notice that Jane (Veronica Lario), a dark-haired [possibly] Italian woman dressed all in white, is watching the author with much interest.

Meanwhile, in Rome, Elsa Manni (Ania Pieroni), a dark-haired [definitely] Italian woman dressed all in...wait a minute, her skirt is clearly pink. Whew! That's a relief. I thought for a minute there she was about to get murdered. Why are you looking at me like that? I thought you said only dark-haired Italian women dressed all in white are the one's who get brutally murdered in this film. And, from where I'm sitting, Elsa is not wearing all white. Let the scene play out first, you'll be pleasantly surprised.

Caught shoplifting a copy of Peter Neal's latest book "Tenebre," Elsa manages to weasel out of being charged by promising to have sex with the store's detective at a later date. Hitching a ride home on the back of a friend's motorcycle, Elsa's troubles aren't over as she has to contend with the grabbing hands of an unwashed derelict. Kicking him in the balls with her dark pumps, Elsa is able to get behind the gate of her home in time before the unwashed derelict can start grabbing at her again. Taking off her dark pumps (the real hero in the altercation with the unwashed derelict - Dark pumps. The very best there is. When you absolutely positively must kick the balls of every last unwashed derelict in the room, accept no substitutes), Elsa proceeds to remove her...

Stop! Don't remove your pink skirt that's pleated near the bottom. Don't you get it? Once you take off your pink skirt that's pleated near the bottom, you'll be wearing nothing but clothes that are white. Bah, what's the worst that could happen? Don't say I didn't warn you.

Wearing nothing but a white top, Elsa notices her phone isn't working. And just as she's about to turn around to do something Italian, a razor is being held to her throat and black gloved hand is stuffing pages of "Tenebre" into her mouth. I don't think I have to tell you what happens next.

Greeting Peter Neal at the airport in Rome is his agent, Bullmer (John Saxon), and a group of reporters, including Tilde (Mirella D'Angelo), a staunch lesbian who doesn't like the fact that her girlfriend, Marion (Mirella Banti), fucks dudes for money on the side.

You know this film needs? It needs some Daria Nicolodi. Oh, wait, there she is. Playing Anne, Peter Neal's secretary, Daria Nicolodi, you'll notice, has red hair, yet she's dressed in all white. I'm confused. I mean, it doesn't say anything here about redheaded Italian women dressed all in white. Oh, man. I don't know what to think now.

At any rate, when Peter Neal, Anne, and Gianni (Christian Borromeo), Peter Neal's youthful assistant, arrive at the hotel, two detectives, Det. Germani (Giuliano Gemma) and Inspector Altieri (Carola Stagnaro), are waiting for them. Informing the writer about the gruesome manner in which Elsa Manni was murdered (like I said, pages from his latest bestseller were stuffed into her mouth), the police also show him a menacing note from the killer that was sent to his hotel room.

While technically not a brunette, the gorgeous Eva Robin's (Bad Inclination) appears during these strange flashback sequences that take place on a beach; hence the reason she's credited as "Girl on Beach." Dressed in a white dressed and wearing red pumps, Eva Robin's is surrounded by a bunch of faceless boys. One of them slaps her hard in the face, causing the other boys to tackle him. As they pin him to the sand, Eva Robin's strolls over and proceeds to shove the heel of one of her red pumps into the mouth of the boy who slapped her. (Red Pumps. The very best there is. When you absolutely...) I don't know what this has to do with anything. But I'm guessing it's a painful memory pulled directly from the mind of the killer.

All right, I think I've waited long enough. The electro score by Goblin is one of the best I've ever heard. Seriously, I'd put it up there with Wang Chung's To Live and Die in L.A. score and Chuck Cirino's score for Chopping Mall in terms of synthy greatness. And while we heard the theme from Tenebre during the opening credits. It doesn't really get a chance to display its utter awesomeness until Mirella D'Angelo and Mirella Banti are confronted by the killer in their swanky home, where the former is attacked while putting on a t-shirt–a white t-shirt–and the latter is attacked while wearing a towel–a white towel.

However, before the attack occurs, we given an extended tour of the roof of their house. And it's during this tour that I really started to appreciate the throbbiness of Goblin's score. It can't say enough good things about the music in this film, as it's the type of music I wish every movie had as its soundtrack. And when I say "every movie," I mean, every movie. Even Driving Miss Daisy and Edward Penishands.

You would think that the confrontation between the killer and the two dark-haired Italian women in their home would be the pinnacle of this film's greatness. Think again, pal. Sure, the camera angles, the music, the intensity of the violence featured in the previous scene are nearly impossible to top in terms of being iconic, but a plucky actress named Lara Wendal and a resolute Doberman Pinscher are going to try, nonetheless.

Playing Maria Alboretto, the daughter of the landlord of the building Peter Neal is currently living in, Lara Wendel's decision to taunt the Doberman Pinscher that barks at her during her walk home from a disastrous date with her boyfriend (Michele Soavi) will come back to haunt her.

She doesn't know it yet, but the Doberman Pinscher she is currently poking at with is a stick is the dog shit when it comes to jumping fences. After multiple attempts, it finally makes over the first fence, and just like that, the best dog chase sequence in slasher film history is underway. Now, some audience members might be shocked to learn that dog in question is 100% real. That's right, there's no CGI tomfoolery to be found during this epic chase.

Even though I might have missed a few along the way, I think at least four fences are scaled during this particular chase. Well, actually, if your numbers are correct, that's not entirely true, as Maria doesn't quite make it over the fourth fence. Oh, yeah. She doesn't, does she? Yeah, I forgot about that. Either way, the music cue that occurs when a black gloved hand lifts a razor in anger is fantastic. And the piece of music that accompanies the final leg of Lara Wendel's ordeal is called "Flashing" and it's just as amazing as the film's theme song.

Granted, I've seen and appreciated many forms of cinematic arterial spray over the years. But the type employed during the film's bloody finale was simply ridiculous. And I mean that in a good way. To call it "spray" doesn't seem to do it justice, as it's more like an arterial gusher. At first, I felt sort of bad for all people murdered in this film. Then it dawned on me. No, I don't feel sorry for them, I actually envy them. That's right, envy. Think about it. Who wouldn't want to be killed in such an elegant manner? To be killed in the gruesome mode the people are killed in this movie would be a honour and a privilege. I know, murder is wrong and junk, but if you're going to go, why not go in style?

While I'm currently in the process of re-watching some of Dario Argento's essential films, I can't imagine any of them coming close to topping the icy perfection of Tenebre. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to crank the film's soundtrack while slowly pacing back and forth in a menacing fashion. I do have a pair of black leather gloves, but I don't own an open razor. So, instead, I'm using an old feather duster. Watch out dark-haired Italian women the world over, I'm going to straight up dust your ass.

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Don't you just hate it when you're trying to make out with your new girlfriend–on, where else, your orange avante garde sofa–and your pet kitty cat won't stop staring at you? I can't speak for you, or even you–yeah, you, the guy jacking it on the fire escape in nothing but a slightly charred pair of teal oven mitts, or I should say, teal oven mitt–but there's nothing creepier than pets who like to watch when you engage in lustful activities. Nothing creepier, eh? You have obviously never been stabbed to death by an attractive Italian woman wielding a large set square. I'm going to have to respectively disagree. Watching a cat mimic my pelvic thrusts out of the corner of my eye like it was sitting centre court at a tennis match is creepy. Being stabbed by an attractive Italian woman, on the other hand, is a dream come true. Add the fact that she is wielding, what did you say she was wielding? A what? A set square?!? Good gravy, don't people stab one another with knives anymore? Anyway, add the fact that she was wielding something you might find lying around the offices of your average architectural firm only makes matters that more dreamier. Now, I don't want to cause you to lose too much of your metaphorical shit, but I'm about to add something to the mix that might provoke you to engage in some mild celebratory gesticulation followed by a pre-planned joy-based conniption fit. The attractive Italian woman wielding the set square was born with a cock. Hello? Are you still there? Oh, hey. I'm sorry, I must have passed out or something. Did you just say there's a giallo floating around out there that boasts an attractive Italian transgender woman wielding a set square as a weapon? Why haven't I watched this movie? Oh, but you have. I have? When? Take a look at the title of the movie your currently typing words about. You mean, Bad Inclination, a.k.a. Cattive Inclinazioni? Remember the look on Chazz Palminteri's face when he realizes who Keyser Söze is in The Usual Suspects? Well, that's the look I'm currently sporting at the moment.

Except, instead of feeling royally duped. I'm rolling around on the floor like a giddy school girl who just found out that Jonathan Taylor Thomas is going to be signing autographs at the mall this weekend. After the film, a stylish ode to the Italian giallo thrillers of days gone past directed by Pierfrancesco Campanella, had finished, I was already meticulously planning a lavishly verbose tribute to Eva Robin's's Nicole Cardente, a pop star; fashion-forward lesbian; a walking, talking fabulous dispensary; and camp icon all rolled into one. Let's just say, my plans went into overdrive when I finished reading Eva Robin's's bio.

In a bizarre twist of fate, I initially had this almost sane scenario bouncing around in my head that involved me wishing that the gorgeous/leggy Elisabetta Cavalotti had a cock.

Who needs to fantasize about being penetrated by Elisabetta Cavalotti's imaginary cock, when I can have Eva Robin's's real cock resting in my hands lickety-split. Am I right, fellas? Fellas? Where are you going?

Anyway, don't let Gianna Paola Scaffidi's beige blouse and equally beige curtains lull you into thinking you're about to watch a drab melodrama about a school teacher with womanly hips. Uh-uh, baby, this film has something to say. And it does so in a highly intelligent manner. Okay, maybe that's pushing it a bit. Nonetheless, the film is good. In fact, I'd go as far as to call it, Creatures from the Abyss good. Whoa, is it that good? You better believe it is.

Keep your panties affixed to your undercarriage, I'm gonna get to Eva Robin's in a minute. What I'm doing right now is laying the groundwork. At any rate, as I was saying earlier, Gianna Paola Scaffidi is wearing a beige blouse in her Italian apartment, when, out of the blue, a gloved hand knocks her unconscious with a karate chop to the head; which is ironic since she had just finished chopping veggies in her Italian kitchen. Waking up on the floor of her living room, she can't help but notice that the mysterious gloved figure is currently investigating her garter belt region with a series of invasive groping actions. Somewhat relieved that the mysterious gloved figure only wants to inspect her lingerie, Gianna seems to relax for a moment. Unfortunately, the lingerie inspection turns deadly when the mysterious gloved figure stabs her with a set square in the area located just above her frilly garter belt.

Except for being brunette, Detective Rita (Mirca Viola) has nothing really going for her in terms of pizazz. Which is a shame, really, as I thought her struggle to work within a system that is run by a bunch of incompetent boobs–I'm looking in your general direction, Chief Visconti (Antonio Petrocelli)–was on the cusp of being interesting.

The other tenants of the building where Gianna was murdered are obviously on edge. Well, all except Mirta Valenti (Florinda Bolkan), an artist who is dressed in the kind of clothes a fortune teller might wear on their day off. You mean, fortune teller casual? Yeah, I like that. The way her red embroidered vest offset the harshness of her yellow shirt was quite ingenious. She looked like a giant canary, one, of course, that had just been run over by a gay tractor.

The reason she doesn't seem bothered by what happened in her building is because she sees the murder as an opportunity to promote her artwork, which, judging from what I've seen so far, is quite morbid in nature. And not only that, she sells fake artifacts to naive collectors; which upsets Gabriella (Rosaria De Cicco), Mirta's live-in maid; or at least I think she was her maid. Whatever, take special note of Gabriella when she's dipping into the cooking cherry, as I'm sure it will pay off later on down the road.

While collecting a suitcase filled with cash for the fake artifacts she sold earlier in the day, Mirta catches one of her former students (she apparently used to teach an art class) trying to steal a bunch of stuff from her mini-van. Telling Mirta that she needs the money, Donatella (Elisabetta Rocchetti) has supposedly had it rough since they last met. While appearing sympathetic, you just know that Mirta is thinking of ways to exploit the wide-eyed wretch, who, like, Detective Rita, has got nothing going on in the pizazz department.

You know who does have pizazz? (Please say, Eva Robin's.) The gorgeous/leggy Elisabetta Cavallotti, a slinky drink of confident water who walks with the swagger of a young milf. Approaching the now infamous apartment (it's all over the trashy tabloid television talk shows) with the aforementioned swagger I just alluded to, Elisabetta, who plays Otilia, bumps into Premio (Guido Berti), a handsome new tenant. I'm no body language expert, but it's obvious that Otilia and Premio have the hots for one another.

After she's finished flirting with Premio, Otilia enters the apartment. What does she find when she gets inside? No, not another woman who was stabbed with a set square, but one of the most beautiful women on the planet. Don't you mean one of the most beautiful women in the greater Rome area? Uh-uh, I'm talking about the entire planet. Lying on her bed in a corset, Nicole Cardente (Eva Robin's) is Otilia's "friend." Oh, wait, they just shared a passionate kiss. In other words, they're more than just friends. Judging by their conversation, Otilia is helping plan Nicole's comeback. You see, Nicole, on top of being my new style hero, is a pop star who's career could use a firm kick in the underpants.

While Otilia plans Nicole's comeback, Mirta is already well on her way to exploiting the murder that occurred in her apartment. Painting a picture of a naked woman with a set square through her neck, Mirta is hoping her proximity to the murder scene will increase the value of her art. If you thought Mirta was going to limit her exploitation to the art world, think again. She's got murder on her mind, and plans to use Donatella as her weapon. Of course, all she needs to do now is head down to the set square store to pick up set square and she should be good to go.

Quick question, won't the police being monitoring all purchases of set squares that take place at the set square store? You would think so. But you have got to remember, the police in Bad Inclination are idiots.

Meanwhile, over dinner, Otilia and Nicole start to hatch their own plan to exploit the set square murder. Only problem being, Otilia has a thing for Primio. And Nicole, judging by the size of her hair and her demented disposition, doesn't look like the type of person to let something like this slide.

It's doesn't matter, 'cause in the next scene, Primio is demanding that Otilia dig her heels into his hairy Italian calves. Ooh, baby, pierce those hairy calves, you leggy vixen. Pierce them with your heels!

Even though she doesn't know about the calve piercing incident, you can tell Nicole thinks something is fishy when she spots Primio crouching next to his motorcycle.

Whether walking her cat in pink pantyhose or relaxing with her cat in taupe pantyhose, Eva Robin's is camp personified in this movie. Playing a high maintenance pop singer, lesbian murderess, Eva Robin's injects the proceedings with the correct amount of crazy.

You would think that a movie filled with so many duplicitous characters, that it would be hard to find someone to root for. Well, I don't care what anyone says, I was rooting for Eva Robin's's Nicole. Besides, if you found out that your leggy girlfriend was having an affair with a man with hairy calves, wouldn't you want to murder her with a set square and then try to pin it on said man with hairy calves? If you said yes, you're obviously my kind of people. If you said no, well, it's clear your taste in fashion-forward chicks with dicks is not as impeccable as I thought it was.

A parody of our murder as entertainment-obsessed society (and by "our," I mean the nation of Italy), Bad Inclination is a smart giallo that will definitely appeal to fans of Faceless and Strip Nude for Your Killer. And, yes, I realize that this film is best known in some circles for being the one Franco Nero briefly appears in as a "vagrant." But if I'm watching a movie that features Eva Robin's and Franco Nero, the former will always receive the bulk of my attention, it's just the way I was raised.

video uploaded by MediaB

What would you rather see destroyed by an army of giant rats from outer-space: A computer-generated version of Los Angeles, or a model version of Los Angeles? While you're thinking about your answer, let me tell you which one I would rather see. Put me down for the model version. Why? It's simple, really. The model version is actually destroyed. Sure, it might not look all that realistic. But for all intents and purposes, the version of L.A. being wiped out in Rat Scratch Fever appeared as if it took quite a pounding. Whereas, the computer generated version is basically not even there. In other words, nothing is really at risk. And, if nothing is at risk, why am I watching? What I think I'm trying to say is, I appreciated the amount effort filmmaker Jeffy Leroy (Werewolf in a Woman's Prison) clearly made to recreate the mayhem that would most definitely occur if giant space rats did in fact attack Los Angeles (via Griffith Park) using nothing but practical effects. And one of the best practical effects employed in this movie are the miniatures. With the exception of the truck the male lead drives, the majority of the vehicles driven in this film were remote control models. You mean, toys? I guess you could call them "toys." But from where I was sitting, they looked like fully-functional mobile rocket launchers and radar systems. Now, some might be surprised to hear me talk about a film from a special effects point of view–you know, since I usually to prefer to spend my time highlighting a film's human element. However, this film is different, in that it tries to emulate your typical big budget sci-fi action movie. Only problem being, they obviously don't have anything close to resembling the budget of a big budget sci-fi action movie.

Yet, that doesn't seem to stop Jeff Leroy, who takes elements from Alien, Lifeforce, Night of the Living Dead, The Wild Bunch, Godzilla, and Rats: Night of Terror and mixes it together with his own unique brand of gore-based action to manufacture something truly special.

It's true, the buildings and the vehicles might be models, but there's nothing artificial about the people that populate this rat-infested universe. Which reminds me, the rats were mostly real as well. "Mostly," because rat puppets were no doubt used during the scenes where the rats needed to get up close and personal with their human victims. But in every other instance, the rats were real. And according to end credits, no rats were harmed during the making of this motion picture. If that's correct, then it's one of them minor miracle thingies, as the amount shit that is blown up in this movie while adjacent to live rats is off the charts.

The city of Los Angeles is still standing when Rat Scratch Fever gets underway, as we're immediately dropped onto Planet X, a rogue planet that is apparently orbiting all rogue-like near Mars. On this so-called rogue planet, a group of astronauts are busy being chased by giant rats with large, glowing red eyes. Little by little, their ranks are decimated by the seemingly unending wave of blood-thirsty rats. If you're wondering why the rats–except for the fact that their huge and their eyes glow and junk–look exactly like the rats we have on Earth, that will be explained later on in the film.

In the meantime, an astronaut named Sonja (Tasha Tacosa) is the lone survivor. Somehow able to get back to the ship in one piece, Sonja blasts off, leaving the rat-infested planet behind. A bit of a snag occurs when a dozen or so baby rats (i.e. regular-size rats) manage to sneak abroad the ship. One, in fact, does more than sneak aboard the ship, it scurries up Sonja's pant leg and makes her cozy vagina its new home away from home. Or, I should say, its new... Don't go there. Go where? I know what you were going to do. You were about to use the c-word. What? That's kooky talk. No, I know you. Call me crazy, but I could see the c-word rising in your loins. Well, can I still use the c-word? Sure, go ahead. But make it quick.

A resourceful rat manages to swoop into Sonja's cozy vagina, making the calamitous crevice its new home away from home, or, I should say, its new cunt away from cunt. [Nailed it.]

Just in case some us were having doubts as to what Tasha Tacosa's name is in this film, the always alluring Phoebe Dollar says, "This is ground control to Sonja. Come in, Sonja. Can you read? Come in, Sonja," over and over again. Now, some might say this was a tad on the gratuitous side. I, on other hand, appreciate it when a character's name is uttered ad nauseum, as it lessons the chances that I will forget it at a later date. Anyway, the reason the always alluring Phoebe Dollar is trying to contact Sonja is because she works as some sort of communications expert for Steel Space Corporation, an independently run space program with a base just outside of Los Angeles. The "Steel," by the way, in Steel Space Corporation is Dr. Steel (Randal Malone), a cyborg who literally runs things with an iron fist.

Instructing his ground control crew, including the always alluring Phoebe Dollar, to destroy Sonja's craft, which is about to enter Earth's atmosphere. When their efforts to destroy the craft fail, Dr. Steel orders his mobile rocket launchers to blow it out of the sky. This, of course, upsets Sonja's boyfriend, Jake Walsh (Ford Austin), an ex-special ops...guy, who doesn't want to see his girlfriend killed and junk.

Determined to prevent Sonja from infecting Earth with whatever weird disease she might have picked up on Planet X, Dr. Steel throws everything he's got at her wayward spaceship. Unfortunately, Sonja manages to evade the missiles, and hops in an escape pod before her ship crashes into the S.S.C. command centre. While Dr. Steel is angry by this turn of events, Jake Walsh couldn't be more pleased. Little does Jake know that the downfall of the human race is about to get underway, and his girlfriend is the catalyst.

If you remember correctly, Sonja is carrying space rats in her cozy vagina. Actually, they're not in her cozy vagina anymore. They're slowly making their way up to Sonja's brain. Trapped in the arid, extra dry underbrush located near the S.S.C. command centre with intergalactic space rats burrowing their way through her intestinal tract, Sonja struggles to survive as she is pursued by Dr. Steel's mobile rocket launchers.

It would seem that the space rats want her to survive as well. During a moment of hopelessness, Sonja tries to commit suicide by shooting herself in the head using the gun that used to belong to one of them mobile rocket launcher guys (she ripped out his throat with her teeth). Unfortunately, the bullet, while creating a massive hole, fails to kill her. That's right, it looks like the space rats will be the one's deciding when Sonja dies.

While the always alluring Phoebe Dollar–whose character has since joined the hunt for Sonja–is hands down the film's most attractive cast member, I found myself bewitched by Tasha Tacosa's dynamic face. Given the fact that Jeff Leroy's camera is constantly all up in her dynamic grill for the duration of the film's arid, extra dry chase sequences, it's no wonder this bewitchment occurred. But still, the way her dynamic face was shot in Rat Scratch Fever turned out to be my favourite non-miniature aspect.

Speaking of miniatures, the battle between Sonja, who has commandeered a mobile rocket launcher truck and is now sporting a jaunty S.S.C. cap (she can't walk around with the back of her head blown off), and the mobile rocket launcher trucks still under Dr. Steel's command is pretty fucking cool.

Even though this space rat controlled version Sonja proves she can handle herself, Jake Walsh eventually comes to rescue her from Dr. Steel's goons. Hey, don't call the always alluring Phoebe Dollar a "goon." How about "henchpeople"? Henchpeople, eh? Yeah, that will do. Taking her to "Sonja's Place," a bar Jake plans to open in honour of Sonja (I liked how the name of the bar is on the inside of the door - I guess it's to remind the drunks of where they had just been drinking as they stagger out of the place). Unaware that Sonja's brain is filled with space rats, or that she's missing the back, and some of the side, of her head, Jake does everything he can to make her stay at Sonja's Place as comfortable as possible.

If Sonja's face wasn't so damned dynamic, I would start to doubt Jake's sanity, as his devotion to her is Wiseau-esque. However, before you give him "The Boyfriend of the Year Award," remember this, he's the one who pretty much dooms humanity. And that's the message I ultimately took from this film. Never underestimate the power of love. Even when it involves red-eyed rats from outer-space living inside your girlfriend's cozy vagina/brain. When Jake finally realizes the error of his ways, it's too late, as Los Angeles is overrun with giant rats. The sight of the rats running wild across L.A. is an excellent metaphor something. What that metaphor is exactly is anybody's guess. Either way, Rat Scratch Fever is a celebration of old school monster movie mayhem. Oh, and it should go without saying, but I want more Phoebe Dollar; and this film didn't have enough of her to satisfy my hunger for the always alluring enchantress/actress.

video uploaded by Jeff Leroy

Okay, I've stalled long enough. It's time to talk about Tiptoes. You were stalling? Wasn't I? Think about it. Aw, man, don't make us think. It's not a good look for us. No, hear me out. Call it aught-phobia, call it achondroplasiaphobia, call it a nice greasy pork sandwich served in a dirty ashtray, but I always avoided this movie like it were the plague or The Big Bang Theory. Everyone once and a while, I would come across the film's poster and think: This looks like a giant piece of shit. To add insult to injury, the way the film's poster combined the colour green and Matthew McConaughey reminded me of The Wedding Planner. However, upon further inspection, I noticed that something weird was going on with Patricia Arquette and Kate Beckinsale's hair. The former's hair was in braids and the latter's hair had this Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula vibe about it; to make matters even weirder, Kate was standing next to what looked like a regular-size Gary Oldman. More on Oldman's size in a minute. Either way, their respective kooky hairstyles caused me to do a little research. Well, it turns out, this movie, which, like I said, is called "Tiptoes," was directed by Matthew Bright, that's right, Squeezit/Rene from the Forbidden Zone and the guy responsible for Freeway and Freeway 2: Confessions of a Trickbaby . How does that explain Patricia Arquette and Kate Beckinsale's hair? If you have listened to director's commentary track on the DVD for the first Freeway movie, like I have, you're well aware that Matthew Bright had a hand in creating the various hairstyles seen throughout that now classic movie. And using my keen powers of observation, I can only assume that Matthew Bright was just as hands on when it came to the hairstyles in this movie as well.

Armed with the knowledge that Matthew Bright was the person who oversaw the follicle direction of this decidedly off-kilter project, I dove straight into its freckled coin slot with just the right amount of gusto. I know, the film probably had a team of hairstylists on the payroll. (It even says here that Kate Beckinsale had her own personal hairstylist.) But nothing gets put on film unless the director approves it first. In other words, I like to think that Matthew Bright had the final say when it came to hair.

Remember that big ass word I used earlier? Achondroplasiaphobia? Yeah, that's the ticket. It means the fear of little people. I don't have it, and I don't know anyone who has it, but apparently it's a real thing. Do you recall when I said that Gary Oldman looked "regular-size" on the film's poster? Yeah, well, how should I put this? He ain't so "regular-size" in the actual movie. That's right. The man who brought to life: Lee Harvey Oswald, Count Dracula, Sid Vicious, and Ludwig Van Beethoven is Rolfe, Matthew McConaughey's twin brother who penetrates Bridget The Midget's irregular pussy with his regular-size cock on a semi-regular basis.

I know, there's nothing "irregular" about little people pussy. In fact, I've been told it's the complete opposite of irregular. I was just being...What was I being again? Oh, yeah. I was being a dick; a dick, by the way, that is seemingly always on the outside when it comes to little people pussy.

While on their way to a meeting being held by the Little People Defense League, two little people, Rolfe (Gary Oldman), a normal-size actor wearing little-people-face, and Maurice (Peter Dinklage) a French Marxist with a grudge against society, stop to pick up a hitchhiker named Lucy (Patricia Arquette), a leggy free spirit, who, from the looks of it, was recently kicked off a bus. Hopping on the back of Maurice's trike chopper (Rolfe is driving one as well), the newly christened threesome continue on their way.

Meanwhile... You know what? I need to get something off my chest before I continue. I just want to say that I loved Patricia Arquette's overall look in this movie. Now, I might expand on these feelings later on down the road, but I just wanted to make it clear that Patricia Arquette's overall look in Tiptoes was a breathtaking sight to behold.

As I was saying, meanwhile, over at the loft where an artist named Carol (Kate Beckinsale) and Steven (Matthew McConaughey), a guy who trains firefighters, live together, a family secret is about to be revealed.

Well, the family secret in question is not going to be revealed to any of film's characters as of yet. However, we soon learn that Steven's entire family is made up of little people. Oh, and unlike Gary Oldman, Matthew McConaughey is playing his own height. I don't know why I felt the need to point that out, as Gary Oldman is the only actor not playing his own height. I guess I just didn't want people to think that all the actors were playing heights that weren't their own. So, you say, Matthew McConaughey's family is little, eh? And by "little," I mean in stature, not in the size of the actual family. No, I would say the family's size is quite normal in that regard. Not to imply that being little is somehow abnormal.

Anyway, judging by the way he interacts with the folks at the meeting of the Little People Defense League, hosted by Jerry Robin Jr. (David Alan Grier), he seems, despite the obvious height difference, to get along with everyone, including his parents, Bruno (Michael J. Anderson - The Man from Another Place) and Kathleen (Marcia de Rousse), and his siblings.

I would crawl across the muscled expanse that is Matthew McConaughey's acne-free shoulder blades to get the chance the chat up Tiffany (Cherub Freed), his smoking hot sister. I know, the Goldie Hawn-esque (Lucy's description, not mine) Kitty Katz (Debbie Lee Carrington) thinks she's the hottest little person in the room, even Bobby (Ed Gale), the guy who runs the Little People Defense League, seems to think so. But I have to say, I found myself drawn to the teenage angst bullshit Tiffany was putting out there. Oh, and like all the female characters in this movie, she has amazing hair.

"The asshole is the strongest muscle in the human body," and with that nugget of wisdom, Lucy, along with Rolfe and Maurice, arrives at the L.P.D.L. meeting. While Lucy and Maurice go inside, Steven and Rolfe, who walks with the aide of a cane, get reacquainted in the parking lot. I guess the people who the run the L.P.D.L. didn't approve of Lucy and Maurice's plan to steel their weight in food, as they are kicked out almost immediately.

"People just explode. Natural causes."

What is this film actually about? I mean, other than the fact that Matthew McConaughey's shoulder blades are free of acne and that Cherub Freed is freaking adorable, you haven't done a very good explaining why this film exists. First of all, since when do films need to justify their existence. And secondly, you sound like a "film critic" when you talk like that. Ewww, I think I'm going to puke.

You see, Carol–you remember, Kate Beckinsale's character–doesn't know that Steven's family is made up of little people, or, as she calls them, "midgets." So, when Carol tells Steven that she might be pregnant, his reaction to the news isn't exactly positive. You could say, he's downright hostile to the news. As you can imagine, things get even more complicated when Carol finds out Steven's little secret. Get it, "little secret." Neither of them want their baby to grow up to be a little person.

However, that all changes when Carol immerse herself in the little person scene. Wait, there's a little person scene? Sure, why not? It's tough being little. While Carol is open to idea of having a little person baby, Steven remains against it. You would think that Steven would the one open to idea, as he's spent his whole life around little people. Whereas, Carol was using the word "midget" just a couple of days ago. That's the brilliance of Tiptoes, it... Stop! "The brilliance of Tiptoes"?!? What are you nuts? Gary Oldman is acting on his fucking knees. Peter Dinklage's French accent is a joke. And... Again, you're starting to sound like a "film critic." Why can't a movie where Gary Oldman plays a little person and Peter Dinklage sounds like Pepé Le Pew be brilliant? You're right. Carry on.

Actually, I think I'm about done. In terms of having the best hair. I'm gong to say Kate Beckinsale's little person party look was the best -- you know, the one with the two large buns tied with a black ribbon. Wow, I thought for sure you would have said Patricia Arquette's blonde braid look. While I dug the braids, there was something about Kate's buns that sent me over the edge. On the other hand, I will give the denim/gold lamé outfit Patricia sports in the film my highest rating. Unfortunately, there's no director's commentary on the Tiptoes DVD, so we can't gain any insight into the making of this bizarre film. Nonetheless, I highly recommend listening to Matthew Bright's commentary Freeway DVD. I also recommend Matthew's commentary on the Fantoma Forbidden Zone DVD, the way he perves out every time Gisele Lindley appears onscreen is probably one of my favourite things in the world. Quirky fun-fact: The commentary track on the Fantoma Forbidden Zone DVD is the only commentary track I've listened to more than once.

Where the hell is Aunt Martha? How do you a sequel to the original Sleepaway Camp without her? I mean, what gives, man? Hold on, I don't care for tone I'm currently using. In fact, I'm starting to sound like one of them "dweebs" who complain about trivial nonsense on the internet. And speaking as someone who owns albums by Asmus Tietchens and The Hafler Trio, this is not a good look for me. Rise above it. You're cooler than this. Seriously, though, the reason I'm so concerned about the lack of Aunt Martha in Return to Sleepaway Camp, the long-awaited second feature by Robert Hiltzik, the writer-director of the first chapter in the camp horror saga, is because I was afraid the film wouldn't contain any of the original's off-kilter charm. If you remember correctly, Aunt Martha (played by the luminous Desiree Gould), despite appearing in only two scenes, brought a fair amount of campy weirdness to the first film. Which begs the question: Who's going to step up to the plate and provide me with the uncut campy weirdness I so wantonly crave? Looking over my nonexistent notes, it says here, what the...? This can't be right. What does it say? What does it say? It says here that someone named "Michael Gibney" is this film's saviour when it comes to dolling out the uncut campy weirdness I so wantonly crave. You mean, Alan? The chubby slob who all the other campers refer to as "Fatty" and "Blow Job"? Yep, that's him. You're joking, right? You mean to tell me that the character who prevents Return to Sleepaway Camp from being a complete waste of time was that obnoxious kid who has an annoying habit of informing others that their asses stink whenever he leaves the room? That's exactly what I'm telling you. Why do you look so shocked? It's just not what I expected. Well, what can I say? Your ass stinks!!!!

Don't get me wrong, the film is odd in other places as well–the head camp counselor played by Vincent Pastore is madly in love with his pet cockatoo. However, I think most people will agree that Michael Gibney's ultra-bizarre turn as Alan is the festering cherry sitting atop this crazy ass stink of a movie.

I'll get to the scene where Miles Thompson (Me You and Everyone We Know) lights his own farts as the bespectacled Pee Pee (Paul Iacono) watches while clutching his security blanket in a minute. In the meantime, how about that the theme song, eh? Call me a squirrel with wonky ears, but I thought "Return to Sleepaway Camp" by Goat and Friends was pretty catchy.

Okay, now, where was I? Oh, yeah, lighting farts. A bunch of younger campers at Camp Manabe are spending a quiet evening together lighting their intestinal gas, when all of a sudden, Alan (Michael Gibney), a heavy set fella with low self-esteem, bursts into their cabin demanding that he be allowed to partake in the fart lighting festivities. Noticing that the others aren't too impressed with the amount flame his flatulence produces, Alan grows angry with them. And just as his anger is about to get out of hand, Randy (Brye Cooper), a camp counselor, breaks things up.

It's at this moment when we first hear Alan utter the immortal words: "Your ass stinks!" Or, in this scene's case, "Hey, Randy! Your ass stinks!" Which Alan says as he's exiting the cabin. Keep an eye on Miles Thompson and Paul Iacono near the end of this scene. After Alan leaves, Randy sees that Pee Pee is chewing on his security blanket, so he grabs it away from and throws it toward Miles. No big deal, right? Yeah, but when Randy leaves, Miles gives the blanket back to Pee Pee almost immediately. Question my sanity if you must, but I thought the part where Miles gives Pee Pee back his security blanket was one of the most touching moments in cinema history.

Oh, and, by the way, when I say, "cinema history," I'm referring to the movies I watch on a regular basis.

The following morning, or, it could have been midday (they were, after all, eating chicken), we enter the cafeteria or "mess hall" of Camp Manabe. And it's here where we're introduced to a slew of characters. Everyone I already mentioned is there, including Alan, who seems agitated, as usual, and Frank (Vincent Pastore), the head camp counselor. In addition to them, we meet some of Alan's primary tormentors: The leggy Linda (Jackie Tohn), a camp counselor who fills the shoes of the great Kim Fields (who played the evil, occasionally side-ponytailed Judy in the first film) as the camp's head hosebeast; a take no guff camper named Bella (Shahidah McIntosh), and T.C. (Christopher Shand), who is your typical bully. Meaning, he's got plenty of spineless sycophants, one's with names like, Spaz (Jake O'Connor) and Chooch (Lucas Blondheim), to back him up. Oh, crap. I almost forgot. Even Alan's stepbrother, Michael (Michael Werner), is one of his tormentors.

On top of meeting his tormentors, we're also introduced to the alluring Alex (Ashley Carin), or "Doll," as Frank likes to call her. It should be noted that Alex knows how to make a room full of unruly campers shut their traps and looks amazing in a red, Baywatch-style one-piece bathing suit (which makes perfect sense, as she's the camp lifeguard). A couple of Alan's defenders make their first appearance as well. The plucky Petey (Kate Simses), a camp counselor who repeatedly sticks up for Alan, and Ronnie (Paul DeAngelo), a camp counselor who you might remember from the first film. The great thing about Ronnie is the fact that he is still wearing shorts. Wait, that doesn't make any sense. Let me try again: The great thing about Ronnie is that his shorts are the same length they were back in 1983. And I liked how none of the other characters ever called attention to the profound shortness of his shorts.

The reason Alex needed to quiet the campers so abruptly was so that Sheriff Jerry could address the kids in order to tell them about the dangers of smoking. Forced to speak via an electrolarynx thanks to laryngeal cancer, Sheriff Jerry is made fun of for the way he speaks. However, he seems to take it in stride. Someone who takes nothing in stride is Alan, who gets in another fight with Randy over a piece of chicken. Which, as you might have guessed, ends with Petey coming to the rescue and Alan telling Randy that his ass stinks.

When Alan goes to the kitchen to get something else to eat (Ronnie said it was okay), he is welcomed with open arms by the camp's chef (Isaac Hayes). The chef's assistant, Mickey (Lenny Venito), on the other hand, is not-so welcoming. In fact, he's downright hostile towards Alan. After Mickey throws a few eggs at him, Alan heads over to his secret hiding spot in the woods to commune with his friends. And by "friends" I mean a bunch of frogs.

Purple nurples, nose flicking, pelted with eggs and spit balls, verbally abused, shot with paintballs, beaten with a croquet mallet, wedgied over a lake, tricked into smoking a joint made from cow shit, public humiliation, intense crotch grabbing, the sheer amount of pain and suffering Alan is put through in Return to Sleepaway Camp is off the charts in terms of physical and emotional abuse.

Granted, Alan can be a bit of a bully himself at times; Alan is constantly picking on Pee Pee and the adorable Toby (Lindsey Hiltzik); I dig those glasses, girlfriend. But still, I've never seen a character endure so much anguish over the course of a single camp-based horror film.

You would think that Alan's crush on a top heavy camper named Karen (Erin Broderick) would bring the tubby lad a silver of solace. But even his crushes seem to lead to more torment, as T.C. and the gang use his infatuation with Karen to degrade him in front of the entire camp.

Just when I thought the film was turning onto a depressing exercise in adolescent cruelty, other campers and staff start getting killed in ways that can best be described as gruesome. Flayed, deep dried, set ablaze, penetrated by household items (weaponized broomsticks and bunk beds), eaten by rats, castrated with fishing line attached to jeeps, strangled by barbed wire, and crushed by cars, the quality of the kills in this film is a marked improvement over the kills featured in the first film.

Suspecting that Angela (Felissa Rose), the killer from the original Sleepaway Camp, is the one behind the latest spate of summer camp murders, Ronnie grows increasingly paranoid. So much so that he accuses Petey of being Angela (she's always helping Alan). Hell, even Ricky (Jonathan Tiersten), Angela's brother, is tracked down at one point.

Including the three instances where Matilda, Frank's cockatoo, says it, the line, "You ass stinks," is uttered a total of seven times over the course of the film. And according to my research, Frank's ass stinks the most, as Alan and Matilda both tell him that his ass stinks three times. (When Matilda says the line, Franks starts yelling, "You corrupted my bird" over and over again. I think I might have made several laughing sounds during this particular scene.) Next in the your ass stinks sweepstakes is Randy, who is told twice that his ass stinks. Rounding out the bottom of the list are Bella, who becomes aware that her ass stinks during a croquet match, and Ronnie and Jenny (Jaime Radow) are informed by Matilda during the film's bloody finale.

Maybe my brain ain't hooked up right, but I had no idea who the killer was right up until the big reveal. I'll admit, my mind was mostly elsewhere as watched this film (obviously counting the amount of times "Your ass stinks" was said aloud and trying to picture Ashley Carin in her red, Baywatch-style one-piece bathing suit). But I was genuinely surprised by the ending. Sure, it's nowhere as shocking as the original film's ending. Yet, I thought it was pretty chilling...in a tongue and cheek sort of way. It's hard to believe, but Robert Hiltzik has somehow managed to recreate the exceedingly strange atmosphere that made the first film so memorable. Oh, and make sure to stay to the end of the credits, as there's a cool bonus scene. If you don't, well, your ass clearly stinks.

What is it about the way Mr. Jonathan handles a hair dryer that has the women of Los Angeles falling over themselves to get an appointment at his windowless, nondescript beauty salon? I wish I could tell you, but we never actually see Mr. Jonathan use a hair dryer in Black Shampoo, a cautionary tale that shines a fair amount of light on the risks that could arise when you unwittingly hire an ex-gangster's moll to be your new beauty salon receptionist. Oh, sure, we occasionally see him carrying one around, but does he know how to even turn it on? Are you implying that the women who are dying to get their hair done by Mr. Jonathan have more than voluminous curls and straightened bangs on their minds when they enter his salon? When did I imply that? All I said was, I found it rather suspicious that we never see Mr. Jonathan use a hair dryer. However, now that you mention it. The only thing we actually see him do as far as hairdressing goes is wash a blonde woman's hair in the film's opening scene. And judging by his lathering technique, I don't see what all the fuss is about. Okay, enough of this coy act. You know exactly why the women keep flocking to his salon in droves. They're there to absorb the brunt of his well-timed pelvic thrusts. I don't know, do women like well-timed pelvic thrusts that much that they're willing to settle for a mediocre wash and set? I doubt it. Are you sure about that? I mean, if they really cared about the performance-based characteristics of the follicle components that litter their greasy little scalps, wouldn't they ask the beauty salon's two resident Friends of Dorothy to do their hair instead?

If you had mentioned earlier the fact that the beauty salon at the centre of this strange oddity from mid-1970s employed not one, but two Friends of Dorothy, I would have cut you off sooner. Why is that, you ask? Do I really have to explain why? Besides, don't you think the film, directed by Greydon Clark (Joysticks), perpetuates the stereotype that all women thirst exceptional cock and that all gay men are mincing, world class hairdressers? Not really. Lot's of women love cock, lot's of gay men love dressing hair. Actually, I was somewhat surprised, given the time period, how respectful the film was towards its two gay characters. It's true, they're the epitome of flaming. All the same, I thought Mr. Jonathan (John Daniels), the macho proprietor of Mr. Jonathan's on Sunset Blvd., treated them with kindness. And why wouldn't he? After all, they do most of the hairdressing in this joint.

Do you think The Baron, John Daniels' character from The Candy Tangerine Man, traded in his pimp cane for a hair dryer? I know, John Daniels is playing a totally different character this time around. But, I have to ask, are really that different? Think about it. Both live in L.A., they both do well with the ladies, and both are two of the most imperturbable motherfuckers the big screen has ever seen.

If you're wondering why Mr. Jonathan's beauty salon is so dark when we first enter its doors, that's because we're actually in the back of the joint. What goes on back there, you might ask? Well, the back is where Mr. Jonathan gives certain customers "special treatment." When you say, "special treatment, you're talking about his cock, right? I thought we already established that. Yes, I'm talking about his cock. Oh, if only the leopard-print adorned walls of his private salon area could speak, the erotic stories they could weave.

Who knew washing hair could be so titillating. As he's lathering the hair of a blonde customer, Mr. Jonathan starts to notice that she is beginning to convulse in a manner that could best be described as "amorous." After Mr. Jonathan finishes, he slowly removes her head from the shampoo bowl. Sitting upright, the blonde's eyes go crotchward almost immediately. Curious about the marvel of genital engineering lurking behind his white trousers, the blonde unzips his pants, let's out an inaudible gasp, and, I can only assume, begins to slather the bulge-like contents with everything her white lady mouth has to offer.

Suddenly, a limo pulls up outside the salon, and out steps a milf goddess of epic proportions. Boasting a massive slit in the front–that's right, I said, the front–of her long black skirt–one that goes all the way up to her mid-1970s era bikini zone–Mrs. Simpson (Heather Leigh) saunters towards the salon's entrance with a forceful, apple-booty compromising aplomb.

Again, judging by the way she talks to the receptionist, Brenda St. John (Tanya Boyd), I don't think she talking about wanting to get her hair done. Okay, this is the last time I'm going to say this. None of the women in this film want Mr. Jonathan to do their hair, they want his cock!

Unfortunately for Mrs. Simpson, Mr. Jonathan's cock is currently busy exploring the soft nooks and the hard to reach crannies attached to Sally Carruthers. Wait, Sally who? Sally Carruthers. Don't ask me who plays "Sally Carruthers," as she's not listed in any of the credits I've seen.

Looking fierce with her hands on her womanly hips, Mrs. Simpson, who, like, Sally Carruthers, is blonde, waits while Brenda tries to summon Mr. Jonathan. Hearing the sound of moaning over the salon's hi-tech intercom, Mrs. Simpson says, "I guess she's enjoying her wash and rinse." You go, girl!

Realizing that she won't be getting "serviced" any time soon, Mrs. Simpson asks Brenda to ask Mr. Jonathan if he does house calls. And, after much begging and pleading, Mr. Jonathan agrees to pop by later on to do her "hair."

I'll admit, I was somewhat relieved when Mrs. Simpson was finally able to convince Mr. Jonathan to come over to her house, as my nonexistent pussy was beginning to throb like you wouldn't believe. However, I'm sad to say that Mrs. Phillips (Anne Gaybis) won't be getting any "special treatment," as she shows up at the salon just as Mr. Jonathan was about to leave. Sitting in the salon's waiting area for only a few seconds, Mrs. Phillips stands up and declares, "If he won't do me, nobody will." I wonder if the other hairdressers, Artie (Skip E. Lowe) and Richard (Gary Allen), were hurt by what Mrs. Phillips said? Nah, they probably know, just as I do, that she wasn't talking about her hair. Besides, if I was serious about getting my hair done, I would want it done by Artie and Richard, as they seem to genuinely care about aesthetics.

Meanwhile, over at the receptionist desk, Brenda is confronted by Maddox (William Bonner), Jackson (Bruce Kerley), and a character known only as "Chauffeur" (Sheldon Lee), three thugs who work for a lowlife named Mr. Wilson (Joseph Carlo), a white collar criminal of some sort. Apparently, Brenda used to work for this Mr. Wilson fella, and it would seem that he isn't happy with the way things ended. Anyway, when Brenda refuses to come with them, Maddox, the Judd Apatow-lookin' motherfucker, instructs Jackson, the Questlove-via Mean Joe Greene-lookin' motherfucker, to rough up Artie. In order to placate the trio of hoodlums in her midst, Brenda agrees to give Mr. Wilson a call.

Imagine if Mr. Jonathan was there when all that shit with Judd Apatow went down, I bet things would have turned out differently. But he wasn't. No, Mr. Jonathan was too busy driving around the suburbs. Armed only with his trusty hair dryer, Mr. Jonathan is no match for Meg (Kelly Beau) and Peg (Marl Pero), Mrs. Simpson's teenage daughters. Wielding their low centres of gravity like bazookas, Meg and Peg overwhelm the macho hairdresser. Dressed in pinkish peach-coloured bikinis, Meg and Peg inundate Mr. Jonathan with their no-nonsense curves.

Now, I don't know which one was Peg or Meg (they're never actually called by these names), but the short one with the long, dark hair tied in a ponytail has it going on. Hot damn.

You just know that the short one is fully aware of how foxy she is by the way she puts her hands on her hips and thrusts out her shapely buttocks in a booty enhancing manner. And it's obvious that the short one picked up the whole hands on hips thing from her mother.

Unable to prevent these "pushy little chicks" from coming on to him, Mr. Jonathan simply gives in after a while and let's them have their way with him. You can tell Mr. Jonathan has been in this type of situation before. Either way, it must be tough–you know, having attractive women of all ages throwing themselves at you on a regular basis.

After Brenda tells Mr. Jonathan about her run-in with Mr. Wilson's thugs, we're treated to a romantic montage set to the strains of "Can You Feel The Love" by Gerald Lee. Hold up, so, are Mr. Jonathan and Brenda St. John a couple? And if so, how does Mr. Jonathan get away with some of the shit he pulls in this movie? I mean, judging by the depth and the circumference of her afro, she doesn't look like the kind of woman who would tolerate such behaviour. Never mind that, since no one is minding the salon (it's difficult to engage in a romantic montage and run a successful business at the same time), Judd Apatow and the boys ransack the place, breaking mirrors and tossing bottles of conditioner all over the place.

If you thought Mr. Jonathan was pissed before, wait until he sees the mess they made. Will Mr. Jonathan be able save his "beloved" Brenda from the evil clutches of Mr. Wilson? What are the chances that the western-style barbecue thrown by Artie and Richard will cheer Mr. Jonathan up? Is a chainsaw an effective melee weapon? Did Mr. Wilson just shove a curling iron up that guy's butt? Speaking of which, did Mr. Wilson just cup Brenda's purposefully pronounced booty? Even though I know the answers to most of these questions, I can't wait to re-watch the film. You don't care about the answers to those question, you just want to watch the film again so you can awkwardly salivate over Mrs. Simpson's teenage daughters. Guilty as charged.

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What might look like a ninety minute how-to-video on how to change a fuse, is actually an expertly made documentary detailing what life was really like in Scarborough, Ontario circa 1989. Just quick warning before I continue: This review is going to contain a number of references that only people from Scarborough, Ontario will be able to comprehend. If this bothers you any way, I recommend that you stop reading immediately. On the other hand, if you're curious about Scarborough, Ontario, hop aboard the next #86 bus leaving Kennedy Station, and prepare to be dazzled, amazed, and bored silly. Nowadays, you can drive around Scarborough for hours and not come across a single male individual who has a head of hair that falls past the nape of his neck. However, back in the late 1980s, you'd be picking them off like flies. Mullet profusion aside, I felt like I was staring directly into a mirror as I watched...Wait, scratch that. Let's do that over again. It was as if I was staring directly into a mirror as I experienced Things for the very first time the other night. Sure, I never once came across any mutant vagina ants with serrated knives for teeth during my many parlous hikes along the unforgiving nightmarescape that is Ellesmere and Morningside. But everything else in the film is eerily accurate. Now, do you have to have first-hand knowledge of Scarborough's "culture" to be able to understand and appreciate the off-kilter artistry that filmmakers Andrew Jordan and Barry J. Gillis are putting out there on a semi-regular basis in this film? Of course not. Yet, given that I have actively participated in some of the bizarre rituals seen throughout this stunning masterwork, I feel I have a distinct advantage over all the other sycophantic smart asses, Queen West hipsters, reformed goths, and the litany of non-practicing Satanists who happen to stumble upon this outre relic of cinematic importance.

Capturing the profound feeling of ennui that was prevalent all across Scarborough during this particular period/chunk of time, Things is best viewed as a satire on suburban angst. It's worst viewed as an action-packed, sci-fi horror thrill ride in the grand tradition of The Deadly Spawn or Creatures from the Abyss. And, I'll admit, I did initially view the film as the latter. Which is the biggest mistake one can make when attempting to experience Things for the very first time.

There's a scene near the middle of the film where two of the main characters can be seen meticulously exploring a bathroom with the aide of a flashlight. Why am I mentioning this particular scene, you ask? Well, it was at around this time that started to feel like I was melting. Yeah, you heard correctly: melting. Struggling to keep my organic structure from spilling all over the floor, I found myself in a constant state of cerebral discombobulation. In order to combat this made-up-sounding but all-to real condition, I devised this clever technique where I would periodically scratch that itchy slab of psoriatic skin located behind my right ear with a screwdriver. This not only prevented me from turning into giant puddle of maple syrup, but it also seemed to enhance the Things experience.

When it comes to experimental and transgressive cinema, names like, Stan Brakage, Alejandro Jodorowsky, Jean Cocteau, Derek Jarman, Béla Tarr, Kenneth Anger, Paul Morrissey, and Rainer Werner Fassbinder immediately spring to mind. Well, you can add Andrew Jordan's name to that list, as he, along with Barry J. Gillis, have made the ultimate experimental/transgressive film. Of course, whether or not they were aware that they were making "the ultimate experimental/transgressive film" at the time is another question all-together. In fact, if it turns out they didn't know what they doing, you could argue that makes what they created even more unbelievable, as there's nothing worse than contrived weirdness.

The film opens with a woman doing her laundry in a devil mask. In other words, just another typical day in Scarborough, Ontario. Or is it? It's not the devil mask that's causing me to doubt the day's typicality, it's the fact Doug Drake (Doug Bunston) is asking the devil mask woman to have his baby. I'm always taken a back when I see children running around Scarborough. I mean, who in their right mind would want to raise their offspring in Scarborough?!? It doesn't make any sense. The same goes for whenever I see people exercising in Scarborough. I think to myself: Why are you trying to extend your life by exercising? You live in Scarborough! At any rate, the scene with Doug and the devil mask woman is just a dream. Waking from the dream, or, I should say, nightmare, just as the demon baby the devil mask woman was carrying lunges at him with its claws, Doug goes to the medicine cabinet to fetch his sick wife, Susan (Patricia Sadler), her pills.

As the opening credits were rolling, I swore I recognized the street they were filming on. Call me crazy, but it looked like Plug Hat Road, a small thoroughfare near the Pickering border that connects Meadowvale and Beare Rd. I used to ride my bike in that area, hence, the reason it looked familiar. Wait, you exercised in Scarborough?!? Ha! Ha! You're such a hypocrite. What can I say? I was young and stupid. Whatever. According to the opening credits, the Things theme was composed by Stryk-9.

The reason we were taking a scenic drive across Plug Hat Road was because we're driving along with Don Drake (Barry J. Gillis) and his buddy Fred Horton (Bruce Roach) as they make their way to Doug's cabin out in the wilds of Scarborough. Enjoy the memory of Plug Hat Road, because it's basically the last you're going to see of the outside world for quite some time. C'mon, man. You're scaring me. The film can't be longer than an hour. Oh, it can't, eh? Well, I got news for you, buddy. It's ninety minutes long. Just ninety, huh? Trust me, by the time Things is over, you will feel like you had just spent eight hours sitting in Doug's kitchen.

While I am exaggerating to a certain agree, the amount of time we spend in Doug's kitchen is nothing to scoff at. Seriously, the majority of the damage caused by Things is a direct result of the excessive amount of time we spend in Doug's kitchen. Now, I'll admit, I've spent a lot time in various kitchens all over the G.T.A., but there's something extra bleak about a kitchen that's located in Scarborough. It's almost as if time stands still in a Scarborough kitchen. If you know someone who has a kitchen in Scarborough, ask them to let you sit in it, I guarantee that you will want to shoot yourself in the head at around the two minute mark; which in Scarborough kitchen time is about six days.

Since God doesn't exist in Scarborough, the makers of Things have recast God as Amber Lynn, an omnipotent being with big hair who oversees the spiritual well-being of the suburb's residents with a motherly grace. Every once and awhile, Amber Lynn, who is wearing a blue dress with giant shoulders, will appear onscreen to inform the viewers of what is going on in the world. Though, you have to wonder, is Amber Lynn really the one who's running things, as she always seems to looking off to the side. Who is she looking at? Ginger Allen Lynn, perhaps? Either way, you have to admire a film that casts Amber Lynn as God. It's a bold move.

It's a good thing Amber Lynn's God is here to spruce Things up, as the time we spend in Doug's kitchen with Don and Fred is starting to take its toll on me. In-between finding a tape recorder in the freezer along with a sketchbook that contains quotes from Aleister Crowley and diagrams that are, according to Don, "sick," and tapping on a plastic mini-swordfish, Don and Fred are clearly just as bored as we are. In fact, Fred expresses this boredom at one point by declaring that: "This place is boring." You said it, Fred.

Meanwhile, over in Grizzly Flats, which, I guess, is supposed to be Ajax, Dr. Lucas (Jan W. Pachul) is performing grisly experiments on his human test subjects with the help of a female assistant. Unfortunately, this is the last we see of Dr. Lucas' female assistant, as it's time to go back to Doug's place. Nooooo!

Did you know that Doug's place gets the bestiality channel? And not only that, Doug doesn't even know where the stations come from. After watching "The Ground Hog's Day Massacre," throwing bottle caps at one another, eating cockroach sandwiches, playing with a drinking bird, watering down beer (this part made no sense whatsoever), and appreciating art (Doug has an original of Salvador Dali's "The Devil' Daughter"), Don, Fred, Doug (he was home after all), and the dog (let's call him Wendel), are confronted by an army of ant-like creatures.

Bursting out of his wife's vaginal region, the creatures cause Doug to lose some, if not all of his shit. Luckily, Don is there to regale us with a story he read in a sci-fi novel about a creature who ate every torso in a small Scottish town. Unamused by Don's feeble attempt to "ease the tension," Doug calls Don a dick. Anyway, just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, Fred is sucked into the third, fourth, and fifth dimension. Slowly but surely, Things starts to resemble a filmed nightmare. Bathed in a menacing red hue, Don and Doug spend the next five to ten minutes looking for Fred.

To the outsider, a lot of the antics the characters get up into this film might seem bizarre, or, in most cases, downright stupid. But as someone who has studied the Scarborough mindset for many years, the behaviour seen throughout this film is actually pretty accurate. However, I can't make the same excuse for Jan W. Pachul, as his performance as Dr. Lucas is some of the worst acting I have ever seen. Nonetheless, if you're genuinely interested in Scarborough from a sociological and anthropological point of view, you will definitely want to endure/experience Things, as it's the only truly authentic depiction of life in suburban Toronto ever to be captured on film.

When it comes to writing about The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave (a.k.a. La notte che Evelyn uscì dalla tomba), what aspect of the film should receive the full force of my world class attention: A) The many pairs of colourful trousers worn by the male lead; B) The part where a handicapped woman is devoured by foxes; C) The catchy music score by Bruno Nicolai; or D) The fact that Anthony Steffen's character, "Lord Cunningham," has a thing for redheads and thigh-high leather boots? Don't you mean redheads in thigh-high leather boots? Isn't that what I just said? No, you made it sound like he has a thing for redheads and thigh-high leather boots separately. When it's obvious he likes them together. Meaning, he has a thing for redheads who wear thigh-high leather boots. Anyway, which is it? Which is what? Which aspect should I focus on, A, B, C, or D? Duh, squared! Go with D, man. Why are you pretending that you're going do otherwise? I don't know, I guess I just wanted to see you squirm a little bit. Well, I hope you know, you almost gave me a heart attack. I'm sorry about that. Just for the record, the protagonist's obsession with redheads in thigh-high leather boots was always going to be the centre of my attention. Hell, even before I sat down to watch the film, directed Emilio Miraglia, I knew the redheads in thigh-high leather boots angle was going to be the focal point of my interest. How did I know? Let's just say a little bird told me that the main character had a thing for redheads. But get this, the smallish bird-like creature said nothing about thigh-high leather boots. You know what that means? Exactly.

Actually, I have no idea what that means. Nevertheless, prepare to be bombarded by an unending concourse of creamy, unblemished thighs poking out from the tops of thigh-high leather boots. Truth be told, Emilio Miraglia is no Jess Franco. In other words, I thought the parts of the film that involved thigh-high leather boots could have been more perverted, more pornographic. Don't let that get you down, though. The film is still pretty sleazy.

Does the fact The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave opens with "Lord Cunningham," Alan, to his friends, trying to bust out of a mental asylum mean that everything that occurs throughout this film is only taking place within the overcrowded confines of his Thorazine-soaked brain? Wow, I never thought of that. It does explain the fact that half of what goes on in this film doesn't make a lick of sense.

At any rate, after the loony bin break out scene, which ends in failure, by the way, and the Bruno Nicolai scored opening credits have finished, we meet a more dapper-looking Alan as he's putting the finishing touches on a redheaded prostitute named Polly (Maria Teresa Tofano). What do I mean, "putting the finishing touches on"? Well, before Alan can seal the deal, as they say, he first must check to make sure Polly isn't wearing a wig. Instead of politely asking Polly if that is in fact her real hair, Alan simply pulls on it. Of course, Polly is none to pleased by this act of follicle grabbiness. Nevertheless, it's important to Alan that the women he's paying to have "sex" with him be genuine redheads.

Paying Polly two hundred quid (the film takes place in England) to come home with him, and three hundred extra to perform something "special," Alan takes her to his castle in the country. While the inside of the castle looks like a gothic nightmare, Alan insists that some of the rooms are habitable. And, boy, he wasn't kidding. Declaring it "marvelous" and "so chic," Polly is amazed when she enters this swinging bachelor pad straight out of a successful drug dealer's subconscious.

When Polly complains that she's got nothing sexy to wear, Alan flings open about four closets worth of lingerie; I dig this guy's style. If you liked that, you'll love his sadomasochism room. Remember that extra three hundred pounds I alluded to that involved Polly performing something "special"? Well, it turns out special means sadomasochism. With a record player already cued to play Bruno Nicolai music that is sado-friendly, Polly begins to dance for Alan, who is sitting on a throne. Grabbing a whip, Polly starts snapping the whip in a playful manner. Obviously growing tired of her antics, Alan instructs Polly to drop the whip and put those boots on. When Alan said this, I was like, yes! Put those thigh-high leather boots on, you redheaded harlot. Telling her "you're exciting with boots on," Alan is clearly a fan of redheads who wear thigh-high leather boots. You don't say? It's true, it's kind of his thing.

Is stabbing redheads in thigh-high leather boots kind of his thing, too? "Cause that's totally what he's doing right now. It should be noted that before anyone gets stabbed, Alan has a brief hallucinatory vision about Evelyn, his redheaded wife who apparently died not-so long ago.

Concerned for his health, Alan's doctor pal Dr. Timberlane (Giacomo Rossi-Stuart) tries to get him to live a more active lifestyle. Having none of it, Alan, who is wearing a red trousers with a matching blazer, decides conduct a séance, complete with a crazed-looking woman named Miranda, in order to free himself from this nightmare existence. Attended by his cousin George (Enzo Tarascio), an unabashed swinger, and Aunt Agatha (Joan C. Davis), who seems to view wheelchairs the same way Guy Caballero does ("for respect!), the séance ends with Alan fainting.

The next morning, out near the fox pen, George, ever the enabler, tells Alan that he should go to London, as the city, according to him, is crawling with redheads.

Taking his advice, Alan goes to a London nightclub where Susie (Erika Blanc) is about to perform her burlesque show. Brought out in a coffin, Susie emerges wearing pink panties and lacy blue stockings. However, I don't think Alan was interested in her panties or her stockings. No, Alan is clearly drawn to the large (made even larger with the help of a scrunchie) mane of red hair that sits atop her gorgeous head.

As Erika gyrated to the groovy music, I thought to myself: Now this is what Eurosleaze is supposed to look like.

After the show, Alan has a drink with Susie. You know what's going to happen next. Right on schedule, Alan grabs at Susie's hair. It's real! You can forget about foreplay, as Alan whisks Susie straight to his sadomasochism room. Still wearing the pink panties she had on during her performance, Susie is told to put on a pair of thigh-high leather boots. I wonder if they're the same boots Polly had on during her stay in the sadomasochism room, or does he have a limitless supply of thigh-high leather boots. No, seriously, I wonder about these sort of things (it's a sickness). Whatever, Susie is zipping up the boots as we speak. Yeah, baby! Zip those boots up. Make sure they're on tight.

Realizing that he can't go on like this forever, Alan decides to take Dr. Timberlane's advice and try to find a woman, a non-redheaded woman, to settle down with. A woman who isn't a redhead?!? I know, it's pretty crazy. But apparently they're millions of non-redheads roaming around out there. Telling a woman he meets at a party that "there's something different about you," Alan is on the fast-track to matrimonial bliss.

Who's the lucky gal, you ask? Her name is Gladys (Marina Malfatti), she's blonde and she's fabulous. A fabulous blonde, eh? I don't know, this sounds like it could end badly. I mean, a non-redhead who's fabulous to boot? Sounds a little far-fetched, if you ask me.

Returning to his newly refurbished castle a married man, Alan introduces his new blonde bride to Aunt Agatha and the castle's maid staff. You'll notice that all the maids are wearing blonde afro wigs. The reason for the blonde wigs, I can only guess, is to placate Alan's obsession with redheads. Either way, the sight of five maids all in blonde afro wigs is one of the film's more memorable images.

Given Alan's shaky track record with women, how long do you think before he starts demanding that his wife dye her hair red? I give him five days. Actually, Alan's not the one everyone should be worried about. No, there's something else going on here. And judging by what I've seen so far, I bet it's going to be convoluted and weird.

What I liked about The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave is how it makes Alan's fixation with redheads seem reasonable. In fact, I noticed that I was starting feel the same way as the film progressed. The sight of Lisa de Leeuw in black suspender hose was like catnip to me after I watched this film. It's not often that you see films where the lead character has a fetish or preference for something that's got nothing to do with sports or food. And, for that, I appreciated the effort the makers of this film made to shine a little light on people whose interests are not typical.

You're an attractive redhead who's addicted to tranquilizers and has a bit of a drinking problem... You're joking, right? "A bit of a drinking problem"?!? Okay, she's got a lot of a drinking problem. And you [the attractive redhead] think you have just hit the jackpot when you decide to marry a guy who owns a company that manufactures scuba diving equipment. Well, think again, red. He didn't marry you for the shapely stems that jut out from the bottom half of your equally shapely torso. Come again? Her legs. He didn't marry her just for her legs. Why didn't you just say that in the first place? Eat my ass. It couldn't have anything to do with money, as he owns his business. Yeah, but, you'll notice that I didn't say, "successful business." Five out of ten scuba gear companies fail within the first six months of operation. Did they marry each other for love? Don't be naïve. No one married for love back in 1970. I'm confused, so who's conning who here? I don't know, but as I was watching the exceedingly Italian The Forbidden Photos of a Lady Above Suspicion, I began to wonder: does it really matter? Even though it bears several of the markings of your typical giallo, you won't find much as far as grisly murders go. In fact, I don't think anyone is stabbed in this film, unless you of course count the pulsating pussy attached to...You know what? I'm not going to finish that thought. C'mon, why not? I don't know, I'm tired of being rude, lewd, and lascivious. Okay, stop pulling my leg, I'll finish my thought. Firstly, I was nowhere near your leg. And secondly, your use of the expression, "pulling my leg," was not apt at all. Do you want me to finish my thought or not? Go ahead. In fact, I don't think anyone is stabbed in this film, unless of course you define the act of allowing a pulsating pussy to be penetrated by an erect penis as being "stabbed."

Has the groaning subsided yet? It hasn't? Dang, tough crowd. I'll wait a couple of more seconds then. In the meantime, feast your eyes on Dagmar Lassander as she soaks her dainty nooks and her sophisticated Euro-crannies in the tub in the film's opening scene.

The worst offense you'll see in this film, directed by Luciano Erocoli, besides some questionable fashion choices, is blackmail. However, on the plus side, the photos used in the film's primary blackmailing scheme are pornographic in nature.

Just kidding, by the way, about the questionable fashion choices, 'cause from where I was sitting–and, if memory serves me correctly, I was sitting pretty freaking close–there isn't a single fashion faux pas to be found in this motion picture.

Despite her determination to stop smoking, to stop drinking, and to stop taking tranquilizers, Minou (Dagmar Lassander) reneges on all three before her lavish mane of red hair has even had time to dry; she was taking a bath when she made a promise to herself to quit those particular vices. Hold on, her hair wasn't wet. Who said anything about the hair on her head? Zing! Actually, I don't think the tufts of pubic hair that surround her pinkish yet not even close to being mawkish vagina match the hair that sits atop her pretty little head. Follicle symmetry aside, Minou has Drink #1 immediately after getting dressed; tranq #1 is taken shortly after she has a drink, but I'm going to focus my attention mostly on her chronic alcoholism.

Don't focus too much, though. Why is that? You failed to mention any details when it came to Minou getting dressed. You're right, I didn't. Let's rectify that, shall we? Hopping out of the tub to the lounge-tastic strains of Ennio Morricone's "Dell'Orso," Minou puts on a robe and paints her toenails on her bed. As she combs her hair in the mirror, Minou wonders to herself if the pink mini-dress she is wearing is too conservative. With a pair of white pantyhose already pressing tightly against everything below her pristine undercarriage, Minou finishes off her ensemble by sliding on a pair of almost knee-high black boots.

I think most of you will agree, judging by her fierceness, that Minou is ready to be harassed by "The Blackmailer" (Simón Andreu), a shady sex fiend with dark hair who vexes the fashion-forward redhead throughout this stylish motion picture. And what better place to be harassed/vexed than a dark alleyway. Holding a switchblade (one with an extra long handle) to her throat, The Blackmailer, whose real name is never uttered, informs Minou that her beloved husband, the equally dark-haired Peter (Pier Paolo Capponi), is a murderer. Leaving her to absorb/contemplate this little nugget of juicy gossip, The Blackmailer drives off on his motorcycle.

Wandering in a "I wasn't just killed by a dark-haired sex fiend, but told instead that my dark-haired husband is a murderer" haze, Minou takes refuge in a nearby tavern, and orders to two small brandies. Since she ordered two drinks, does that mean Minou has two drinks? Huh? I'm keeping track of Minou's alcohol intake, and would like to know how to label each drink she has. You know what? I'm going to count the two small brandies as Drink #2. After all, she drinks them both in quick succession.

After being picked up by husband, much to the chagrin of two Carlsberg-drinking barflies, Minou is back at home with Drink #3 in her hand. Reassured that Peter wouldn't love any less because of some sex fiend, Minou puts on a blonde afro wig and heads out to a local nightclub. Sipping on Drink #4 in one of the club's booths, Minou, despite the raucous nightclub atmosphere, still looks somewhat preoccupied. If anyone can cheer Minou up, it's her best friend, the fabulous with a capital 'F' Dominique (Nieves Navarro), a chic force of nature whose arrival causes the less chic to crumble the moment they lay their not as chic eyes on her.

While taking another bath, in, get this, a different bathtub all together (the scuba gear racket has done all right by them), Minou notices that her pet turtle (oh, let's call him, Tik Tok) has inadvertently pushed one of her pink slippers underneath the shower curtain. The only reason I'm mentioning Tik Tok is because he or she actually play an important role later on in the film, and the slipper pushing incident is merely included to remind us that Tik Tok has a tendency to shove things around.

Having a drink, make that, "Drink #5," with Dominique at an outdoor cafe, Minou tells her exceedingly chichi friend all about the incident with The Blackmailer. Instead expressing sympathy, Dominique seems jealous. She even says, "I would have adored being violated," at one point. Since the table is obscuring the view of Minou's black pantyhose adorned legs, the action moves to Dominique's swanky pad, where the two friends drink booze (Drink #6) and look at pornographic photos. You gotta love a movie that features two leggy gal pals lounging in a leggy manner while looking at so-called "dirty pictures" that may or may not boast leggy models.

Just in case some of us weren't satisfied by the quality of the leggy lounging in the previous scene, Minou's pantyhose adorned legs are the focal point of the next one.

Remember when The Blackmailer told Minou that her that husband is a murderer? Well, it would seem that Minou is starting believe what The Blackmailer said was true. Growing increasingly suspicious, Minou thinks her husband might have been responsible for the death of a local businessman, one that, get this, her husband owed money to.

When The Blackmailer calls Minou in the middle of the night, she decides to have Drink #7. I wish I could tell you what kind of beverage she has every time she pours herself a drink (I'm not good at spotting booze). However, I'm guessing she's a J+B scotch whiskey kind of gal. Don't ask me why, it's just a hunch.

It's only a matter of time before Minou and The Blackmailer meet again, and they do so at his menacingly decorated apartment. Did anyone else notice that The Blackmailer didn't offer Minou a drink? I know, how rude.

Thankfully, she has plenty to drink at home. Only problem is, her husband nearly catches her in a lie. "Nearly" because a quick-thinking Dominique steps in to save the day. To celebrate a successful save, Minou enjoys Drink #8; which helps her wash down tranq #3.

Made at a time when love was a fraud, drinking was mandatory, drug abuse was tolerated, and fashion was dangerous, The Forbidden Photos of a Lady Above Suspicion might seem like a stylish morality tale about a wide-eyed redhead struggling to survive in a world filled with dark-haired sex fiends. In actuality, it's just an excuse for the director to film his girlfriend, Nieves Navarro, in various outre outfits.

Actually, the film is pretty suspenseful in places, and Dagmar Lassander gives an excellent performance as an alcoholic trendsetter who grows increasingly frazzled as the film progresses. That being said, there is some truth to what I said about Nieves Navarro, as she looks amazing in this film.

My favourite Nieves Navarro looks in this film were the black all-slit number she wears when Dominique tries to comfort Minou during a crisis (Drink #9) and the black trench coat shes dons during the action-packed climax. If you're wondering what "all-slit" means. It's when a garment has an unending slit down the side. And in the case of Dominique's slit-heavy getup, it has two unending slits on each side.

Oh, and for those keeping track at home, Minou consumes a total of 10 alcoholic beverages in this movie (the tenth one is served just before the action-packed finale). Cheers.

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