House of Self-Indulgence

Sporting the quickest turnaround in movie history, The Sentinel is a supernatural thriller that has its red pantyhose in the right place. And just where might that be? I'm so glad you asked. Actually, you cannot fathom how glad I am. In fact, I'm so glad, that I'm practically oozing gladness from every square inch of my normally clogged, glad-free pores. Excuse me, you were about to tell us where the right place is. Oh, yeah, the right place. Well, the right place is pressing tightly against Beverly D'Angelo's monsoon-like vagina. Oh, man. I should have known that's where the right place would be. If you already knew, then why did you ask? I don't know, I guess I had this strange inkling the right place might be somewhere different for a change. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but if I'm going to watch a horror film that features Beverly D'Angelo and red pantyhose they had better intertwined with one another to the point of mental and physical exhaustion. Changing the subject for a second (don't worry, I'll get back to Beverly D'Angelo and her red pantyhose in a minute), you mentioned something about a quick turnaround earlier. Yeah, so? What was that about? I'm sorry, it looks like I didn't finish my point. This isn't the first time I've gotten sidetracked by Beverly D'Angelo in red pantyhose. Oh, wait, yes it is. At any rate, the "quickest turnaround in movie history," was my way of praising the movie. You see, the film, directed by Michael Winner and based the novel "The Sentinel" by Jeffrey Konvitz, starts off with a bunch old farts hanging around in a crusty-looking building in northern Italy. I guess they [the old farts] were priests or some shit, and the building was a church. Nevertheless, they were killing my buzz big time. In other words, this isn't what I signed up for. However, the action suddenly moves to New York City.

Now this is what I signed up for. We're in New York City, it's 1977, and the lead character is a fashion model. It doesn't get any better than this. Hold on. Did you say, New York City? Yep. The Big Apple. Are you sure the year is 1977? Well, it could be 1976. But yeah, it's basically the mid-to-late 1970s. And did you say the lead character is a fashion model? A female fashion model. And get this, she slowly grows insane as the film progresses. Okay, so what you're telling me is, The Sentinel is about a mentally unbalanced female fashion model living in New York City in the mid-to-late '70s? That's exactly what I'm telling you.

I think I need to sit down. Um, you're already sitting down. Well, I need to get up and then sit down again–you know, for dramatic effect–because my knees have turned into a flavourless, gelatin-like substance.

I know what you're going to say next. But, no, I'm afraid Beverly D'Angelo, her supple lower half sheathed in the tightest pair of red pantyhose money can buy, doesn't play the aforementioned female fashion model. Don't be sad, though. After all, her character is mildly deranged, too.

Anyway, if you're somewhat discouraged by the film's opening scene (which, like I said, features elderly priests doing priestly junk in a dingy-looking building in northern Italy), don't fret, because Christina Raines is about to get her Eyes of Laura Mars on. If you don't know what getting your "Eyes of Laura Mars on" entails, that's okay. It simply means that she is about to be featured in a series of shots that are designed to enhance her innate chic-appeal.

Even though the music that plays over the opening credits isn't disco enough for my taste, it has leggy posing, artful posing, outdoor posing and stairway posing. If all that posing sounds a little redundant, we're shown brief flashes of Christina Raines and Chris Sarandon doing stuff couples used to do in New York City back in the mid-to-late 1970s: horse-drawn carriage rides, bike rides through Central Park, the act of picking up the latest issue Esquire magazine, etc.

You can tell almost immediately that The Sentinel wasn't made by some hack by the way the scene where fashion model Alison Parker (Christina Raines) and lawyer Michael Lerman (Chris Sarandon) look for apartments was edited together. Oh, and if you're wondering why Alison and Michael were apartment hunting separately (they are, after all, supposed to be a couple in love), it's complicated. Nonetheless, the editing does a perfect job of encapsulating the unmistakable tension that plagues their relationship throughout the film.

While attending a wake for her recently deceased father, Alison, who is wearing jet black nylons with her equally jet black dress, can't help but think about the time she tried to kill herself after she caught her father having a bizarre threesome with two women. Bizarre threesome, eh? Do tell? Personally, I didn't think it was that bizarre. But I guess some might think their use of a cake was a tad on the strange side as far as threesomes go.

Either way, the sight of her father's boney ass in the throes of pastry-fueled passion with a couple of not-so boney ladies causes her daughter, who is wearing a Catholic school girl uniform, to run to the bathroom to slit her dainty wrists. Oh, wait, before she runs to the bathroom, her father, who is naked and covered in cake crumbs, knocks over a birdcage and slaps Alison hard across the face.

Did I mention that Alison is wearing jet black nylons as she recalls this disturbing memory? I did? Okay, did I mention that Alison is still traumatized by this event? No? Well, judging by her frazzled body language, I'd say Alison remains haunted by what occurred on that fateful afternoon. So much so that a ghostly version of her father shows up again in a scene that caused this jaded viewer to jump in their seat; I often forget sometimes that these movies are meant to be scary.

Determined not to end up like her mother (i.e. living a miserable existence where she is forced to share a home with a gaunt chubby chaser with a sweet tooth), Alison asks Miss Logan (Ava Gardner) to show her the apartment she is selling in the city's beautiful Brooklyn Heights neighbourhood. A fully-furnished unit only twenty minutes from downtown (the vines covering the building's facade were the real selling point for me), Alison agrees, despite the presence of a creepy blind priest who lives on the fifth floor, to take the place.

We get our second hint that something ain't right with Alison, the first being the cake/chubby chick threesome suicide attempt flashback, when she collapses during a pool side photo shoot; the photographer, by the way, is played by Jeff Goldblum, whose voice has been inexplicably dubbed by another actor. "Inexplicably," because he's Jeff fucking Goldblum.

While recovering from the pool side photo shoot incident in her new apartment, Alison meets one of her new neighbours, a garrulous busybody named Charles Chazen (Burgess Meredith). Don't forget his pet budgie Mortimer and cat Jezebel. Oh, yeah, he's got a yellow bird on his shoulder and is carrying a black and white cat with indigestion.

Don't get me wrong, I loved the off-kilter energy Burgess Meredith was putting out there as the chatty neighbour, but I would much rather be focus my attention on the sight of a deaf mute Beverly D'Angelo masturbating in red tights. Why is that, you ask? Oh, I don't know, it's only one of the greatest movie scenes ever.

Introduced to her downstairs neighbours, Gerde (Sylvia Miles) and Sandra (Beverly D'Angelo), two thigh-stroking enthusiasts in leotards, Alison gets an up close refresher course on how enthusiastic Gerde and Sandra actually are when it comes to thigh-stroking.

When Gerde leaves the room to make coffee, Sandra stares directly at Alison and starts pawing at her leotard ensnared crotch with a pronounced vigor.

Even though she's probably already made the assumption that they're dancers of some kind, Alison asks them what they do for a living anyway. To her surprise, however, Gerde, without missing a beat, tells her: "We fondle each other." Which lead me to wonder if they had any positions open, 'cause I could really use the money. And I would love to have a career where fondling Beverly D'Angelo on a daily basis was part of my job description.

Speaking of job descriptions, you could view The Sentinel as the tale of one woman's struggle to land her dream job. Now, you're probably thinking to yourself: What could better than being a fashion model? It's true, the life of your average fashion model does seem pretty glamorous. Yet, you have to admit, there isn't much as far as job security goes. Guarding the gateway to hell, on the other hand, is something that always needs doing. So, what you're saying is, The Sentinel is basically a film about the world's creepiest job interview? Yeah, that sounds about right.

I've read that the casting of real life circus performers to play the deformed denizens of hell caused some controversy at the time. However, I found the fact that John Carradine (the blind priest), Jerry Orbach (the commercial director), Nana Visitor (the "girl at end"), Christopher Walken (the detective - he plays Eli Wallach's mostly mute partner), Jeff Goldblum (the photographer), and Tom Berenger (the "man at end") were all basically bit players to be the film's most contentious issue. Of course, the casting director had no idea some of these folks would go on to become household names. But still, it was weird seeing all these talented actors in nothing roles.

That being said, just because you have a nothing role, doesn't mean you can't turn it into something memorable. Don't believe me? Just ask the lovely Diane Stillwell, who plays "Brenner's secretary." Who's Brenner, you ask? It doesn't matter, Diane steals all three scenes she's in simply by employing her Betty Boop meets Lisa De Leeuw-esque charm.

My favourite Diane Stillwell moment comes when Eli Wallach grabs her arm. The, "Hey, bub, you best let go of my arm," look she throws at him mid-arm grab was awesome.

About five seconds ago, no, make that ten seconds ago, a profound feeling of relief washed over me, or was it a case of phantom scabies? No, it was definitely relief. You see, I was about to start typing words about Death Walks at Midnight (a.k.a. La morte accarezza a mezzanotte) without knowing the name of the actor who plays the cackling drug dealer/knife enthusiast in the aviator shades. This troubled me because I thought this guy brought a shitload of first-rate crazy to the table. In the back of my mind, I always knew that the innate foxiness of Nieves Navarro (a.k.a. Susan Scott) was going to be enough to sustain my interest in this convoluted, scotch whiskey-soaked giallo hullabaloo. In other words, my cerebral cortex was never in danger of being denied the fashion-forward Italo-sleaze it so rightly deserves. However, it didn't feel right not knowing who this guy was. Then it dawned on me: Why don't I just check the credits? Since there was no character listed as "blonde creep who laughs like an asthmatic hyena," I had to use my instincts. And they were telling me that the character listed as "Hans Krutzer" was probably the most likely candidate (the character has blonde hair, and, as most people know, there are a lot of blonde guys named "Hans" floating around out there in this whac-a-mole world of ours). Low and behold, my instincts were correct, Luciano Rossi plays "Hans Krutzer," the knife-wielding reprobate who made the final forty minutes of this Luciano Ercoli-directed enterprise so freaking enjoyable.

Now that I've cleared that up, I can proceed to lavish praise on Nieves Navarro in a calm and irrational manner. Don't you mean lavish praise on Dagmar Lassander and Edwige Fenech? What? Why would I... Oh, I see what you're saying. No, this film is all Nieves Navarro, all the time. If you have a problem with that, then I'm afraid you're not going to be able to handle the Nieves Navarro extravaganza that is this movie.

No longer reduced to playing the chic best friend or the stylish upstairs neighbour, Nieves Navarro is now the one whose mental well-being is put under the microscope. It should go without saying, but it's not a giallo if a woman, preferably one who works in the fashion industry, isn't on the cusp of losing her mind.

Speaking of losing one's mind, did you see the metallic wig Nieves Navarro wears near the midway point of this film? What about it? Was that a sign she was starting lose her grip with reality, or was it just another case of her being fabulous? I don't know, but as Nieves Navarro cavorted about in a wig made out of what looked like small metal tubes, I thought to myself: She can't be serious? Don't get me wrong, I loved the metallic wig. I just had trouble wrapping my brain around the thought process that must go into deciding to wear something like that on one's head.

If only Nieves Navarro had displayed this kind of style-based edginess during the film's early going. Why, what's wrong with her sense of style in the early going? Are you sitting down? She's wears pants. Yep, you heard right, pants. Call 'em trousers, call 'em slacks, Nieves Navarro's lower half is covered with pants. Black pants, blue pants, tan pants, grey pants, you name the colour, she wears 'em in this movie.

Don't be sad, a journalist who works for a magazine called Novella 2000, Giovani Baldi (Simón Andreu), is about to give Valentina (Nieves Navarro), a fashion model, a hit of H.D.S., a new drug that has just hit the streets of Rome. Why is Valentina allowing this "journalist," an albeit, hunky one at that, to inject some weird hallucinogen into her bloodstream? That's not important at the moment. What is important is what Valentina sees while tripping out on the stuff.

After going on and on about the colours she sees and even calling Giovanni a "monkey-face" at one point, Valentina witnesses a man (a creepy man) in large glasses kill a wide-eyed brunette. That doesn't so bad. After all, we all imagine seeing wide-eyed brunette's murdered by creepy dudes in glasses at one time or another during the course of our drug-addled lifetimes. Yeah, but do we imagine them being stabbed in the face multiple times with a spiky iron glove? I'll interpret your silence to mean that you haven't imagined that.

Angry at Giovanni that he published her picture for the article on H.D.S. (he promised that he wouldn't), Valentina unwittingly finds herself to be Italy's most famous drug abuser. Even though it says here Nieves Navarro was born in Spain, I must say, the way she loses her shit is purely Italian. In other words, I found Nieves Navarro's Italian ire to be quite exquisite; I wish someone, preferably an Italian woman, would get angry enough at me to feel compelled to chuck a rock at my head.

Receiving an anonymous note instructing her to show up at the building across the street, Valentina takes a break from commiserating with her husband Stefano (Pietro Martellanza) and heads out; in a pair of blue pants. Just to let you know, the reason Valentina agrees to answer the anonymous note is because she can't be choosey about the jobs she takes (everyone in the industry now thinks she's a drug abuser). Anyway, when Valentina's arrives at the location specified in the anonymous note, she realizes that it's directly across from her modestly swanky apartment (she even can see Stefano relaxing with a magazine). After she's finished realizing that, it slowly dawns on her that this is where the wide-eyed brunette was stabbed in the face with a spiky iron glove.

Just as this is dawning on her, a spiky iron glove comes bursting through the door. Panic-stricken, Valentina uses a broken mirror to heliograph Stefano for help. Of course, when Stefano comes over, there's no spiky iron glove man to be found. Apparently a wide-eyed brunette, or possibly another was murdered in this location. Only, it happened six months ago.

You would think the milfy redhead in the tan trench coat–you mean, Varushka Wuttenburg, ably played by Claudie Lange? yeah, her–might help Valentina shed some light on the situation (her sister was murdered by a man wielding a spiky iron glove, only her sister was a blonde with regular-size eyes). But she does nothing but confuse matters. It didn't help that Valentina and Varushka were both wearing tan-coloured articles of clothing during their joint light shedding symposium/mental asylum fact finding mission.

Since the police, especially Inspector Serino (Carlo Gentili), are no help at all when it comes to figuring out her unique dilemma, Valentina decides to cut lose. And how does an out of work fashion model pushing thirty cut lose? They put on their most metallic wig and paint the town red. Given that Stefano is a sculptor, do you think he made Valentina's metallic wig? I wouldn't be surprised. I mean, it doesn't look like the kind of item you'd find sitting on the shelf of your average wig shop. The wigs the members of Company B wore circa "Fascinated," on the other hand, are definitely the kind you can find at your average wig shop.

Have I mentioned that Valentina occasionally spots the spiky iron glove guy lurking about in the vicinity of her person, and that the film could be construed as a ninety minute ad for J+B scotch-whiskey? No? Okay, than I just did.

You might think one hour is a long time to wait to finally see Nieves Navarro's no-nonsense legs dangling from a dress, but it's totally worth it. Paired with an orange blazer, Nieves Navarro spends the final leg of this film in this particular garment.

Now, you're probably thinking to yourself, what kind of slit does her dress have? Don't be alarmed, but her dress doesn't currently have any slits. No slits?!? Not to worry, you slit-obsessed reprobate, a couple of scumbags named Juan Hernandez (Raúl Aparici) and Hans Krutzer (Luciano Rossi) are here to rectify that. You mean? Actually, I have no idea what you mean. Due to the nature of their scumbaggery, Juan and Hans give Valentina's dress some slits. Huh? They rip her dress in a manner that gives her non-slit dress slits. You mean, makeshift slits? Exactly. You could call them improvised slits as well.

Despite the fact that the slits on Valentina's dress had to be acquired through violent means, I am happy in the knowledge that her sturdy Italo-Spanish thighs can finally breath.

Sure, Death Walks at Midnight does drag in places; the middle section is a murky, confusing mess. However, it does culminate with a surprisingly feisty rooftop fight sequence, and, like I said, boasts some forceful third act dress alterations. On top of that, the jazzy score by Gianni Ferrio is awesome, Luciano Rossi gives snickering fiends a good name, and, of course, Nieves Navarro shines bright as the fashionable lead.

Warning: The following fake dissertation may contain an inordinate amount of words and phrases that celebrate the innate foxiness that is Dalila Di Lazzaro. If this kind of untoward gushing rubs you wrong way, please, exit the premises immediately, 'cause it's about to get fabulous all up in this turnip patch. Looking over the cast of The Pyjama Girl Case (a.k.a. La ragazza dal pigiama giallo), an Italian giallo set in Sydney–hold on, Sydney, Australia?!? (I'll get to that in a minute)–I couldn't help but notice that the majority of the actors were male. You mean it's a total sausage festival? Yeah, you could say that. But I won't, as I don't care for that expression; male genitalia should never be reduced to a slab of ground up meat. Member semantics aside, I was genuinely alarmed by the gender inequality this film's cast was putting out there. I don't mind if the gender inequality goes the other way; in that, there are more women than men. In other words, that's a sexist double standard I can get behind. However, in the case of there being more men than women, unless the men dress in drag, I'm not going to have anything to write about. Discounting the all-girl marching band that appear at the end of the film, the con artist who dresses like an out of work fortune teller, and the film's prerequisite milfy goddess, we're looking at an eight to one ratio. I'm no math whiz. Seriously, I'm not; I can barely add and subtract. Oh, well, if that's the case. Let me break it down for you. No, wait, forget about that. There are more men in this film than there are women. End of story. Didn't you say earlier that this film is a "giallo"? Yeah, so? Um, don't giallos usually feature attractive women being slaughtered by killers wearing black gloves? You're absolutely right, they do. But this isn't your average giallo.

I know, what's the point of making, and, in turn, watching, a giallo if women aren't the one's being killed? It should be noted that men are killed in giallos as well. Yeah, assholes in lime green turtlenecks who get in the killer's way when they're trying stab an attractive woman at the end of a dark alleyway. No, what we want to see when we sit in front of a giallo are super-stylish set pieces that involve super-stylish women being murdered by faceless, not-so super-stylish psychopaths wearing black gloves.

Would it shock you to learn that Dalila Di Lazzaro (Flesh for Frankenstein) is more than enough woman? More than enough woman for what? What I mean is, you don't need anymore women when you have got Dalila Di Lazzaro in your movie. So, what you're saying she's good and junk? Good? Junk? What do you think I'm doing here? Of course, she's good and junk. She's the reason I get up in the morning. Yeah, but you get up in the middle of the afternoon. It's just an expression; stop taking everything I say so literally, dingus.

There was an idiom floating around last year that pertained to a binder that was purportedly full of women. Well, you can put that binder away, Dalila Di Lazzaro is the only woman I need. Call me deranged, but that's most romantic thing I have ever heard. Someone should slap that sucker on a greeting card.

You still haven't explained how this film can be called a giallo, yet not contain any stylish set pieces–don't you mean, "super-stylish" set pieces? yeah, those–that boast women being hacked and slashed by a maniac. Haven't you heard, The Pyjama Girl Case is a one body giallo. Who's the lucky body, you ask?

To quote the late great Brittany Murphy in the trailer for that movie I forget the title of, "I'll never tell."

Even though I could tell you now, there was a period of time when I didn't know the identity of the so-called "girl in the yellow pyjamas." And I'm not talking about the period of time before the movie started. No way, man. I didn't know who the girl in the yellow pyjamas was for most of the film's running time. Either that's a testament to the film's cleverness or my own stupidity.

In my defense, it's hard to concentrate on the plot when Dalila Di Lazzaro is wearing nothing but a white sweater. Sure, the sweater might seem a tad on the long side, but it has nagging habit of hiking up whenever the wearer is looking for their panties. I know, how many times can a person look for missing panties over the course of a ninety minute movie? It might not seem like a lot, but there are a total of three separate instances where Dalila Di Lazzaro's awol panties are integral to the plot. Okay, they might not be "integral," but they are the focus of the three scenes they're featured in.

Anyone want to guess what colour her panties are? Here's a hint... No, you know what? Instead of revealing the answer, I'll just post a picture of them somewhere down below. If you guess correctly, you have my permission to head over to the corner store to pick yourself up a lollipop.

As usual, it would seem that I was yet again sidetracked by Dalila Di Lazzaro's panties. Oh, well.

Opening to the sounds of "Your Yellow Pyjama," vocals by Amanda Lear (fuck yeah) and music by Riz Ortolani (double fuck yeah), a little girl stumbles upon the body of a woman without a face in an abandoned car on a beach in Sydney, Australia.

Despite the fact that two relatively young detectives, Inspector Ramsey (Ramiro Oliveros) and Inspector Morris (Rod Mullinar), have been assigned to the case, the supposedly retired Inspector Thompson (Ray Milland) has somehow managed to get involved with the investigation (he basically begs his former boss to be allowed to work the case). While his younger peers seem obsessed with forensics and psychological profiles, Inspector Thompson uses good old fashion police work to get things done.

Meanwhile, in a nearby apartment, Dalila Di Lazzaro, who plays a gorgeous Dutch immigrant who works as a ferry waitress, is busy searching high and low for her panties while her sugar daddy, Professor Douglas (Mel Ferrer), looks on with the kind of wide-eyed amusement one would expect from an elderly gentlemen who gets to fondle Dalila Di Lazzaro on a semi-regular basis.

To the surprise of no one, Inspector's Ramsey and Morris resent the presence of this washed up relic in a Columbo-style trench coat. Using one of his sources, Inspector Thompson learns about Quint (Giacomo Assandri), a hirsute loner who lives near where the body of the faceless woman in the yellow pyjamas was found.

He might live in a squalid hellhole, but you gotta love the view. What I mean is, Quint's neighbour, credited as "Quint's neighbour" (Vanessa Vitale), likes to do her laundry outside Quint's window in black hold-up stockings. And I don't have to tell you, but doing laundry in black hold-up stockings involves a lot of bending over, if you catch my drift. If my drift is currently out of reach to you, Quint uses the sight of his sexy neighbour's panties wedging snugly against her gloriously middle-aged ass crack as a direct result of laundry-based bending to accelerate the masturbation process.

In one of the film's more lighter moments, just as he's leaving his shack, Ray Milland instructs Quint to "Have a good time" while mimicking the jerking off motion with his right hand and then blowing him a snarky kiss.

On top of having a sugar daddy and a red toque, Dalila Di Lazzaro also has a boyfriend named Roy (Howard Ross), a macho fella who works at a steel mill. I have sneaking suspicion that Roy's the one whose been hiding Dalila Di Lazzaro's panties.

Now, this might sound like an overstatement, but "Il Corpo Di Linda" by Riz Ortolani might just be the greatest piece of music ever to be featured in a giallo thriller. And get this, it's used three times over the course of The Pyjama Girl Case. The first instance its used is when one of the younger detectives wanders aimlessly around downtown Sydney; what makes the scene work, besides the music, is the fact that the streets are deserted.

The second time its used is when the chief of police decides to display the nude body of the faceless woman for the public (the idea being that someone might be able to identify her). And whereas the scene with the young detective wandering alone downtown, this particular sequence is filled with people.

My favourite usage of "Il Corpo Di Linda" is when Dalila Di Lazzaro is left in the lurch by her sugar daddy and forced to prostitute herself at a truck stop/motel. The music kicks in just as Dalila De Lazzaro and her two unctuous clients hit the stairs that lead to their modest room overlooking the highway (their underage cousin or nephew is there as well, but he just watches). The combination of the tracks unrelenting techno beat and the sleazy nature of the sex (paunchy bellies covered sweat press against her delicate frame in a desperate attempt to attain corporeal satisfaction) are what make the scene the jewel in this film's convoluted crown.

When Roy and her Italian husband Antonio (Michele Placido) discover Dalila Di Lazzaro has runaway, they team up to find her. Wait, Dalila Di Lazzaro has a sugar daddy, a boyfriend named "Roy," and an Italian husband? What can I say? The gal likes to keep her options open.

Speaking of Italian husbands, what I found strange was the fact that no one in this film has an Australian accent. All the characters, including Quint's neighbour, seem to be immigrants. Instead of seeing this as some kind of negative, I have chosen to view as a positive, as we rarely ever see the Australian immigrant experience depicted on film; well, at least I haven't.

I'll leave you with a free tip: When watching The Pyjama Girl Case, make sure to pay close attention the girl in the yellow pyjama's ass. And, no, I'm just saying that to be lewd and lascivious. I'm serious, study her ass carefully when it's on display for public consumption, as its mild badonk is the key to unlocking this film's many secrets.

Oh, and in case you haven't figured it out yet, Dalila Di Lazzaro's panties are as black as the night sky. Funny enough, the panties attached to the well-oiled undercarriage of Quint's neighbour are black as well. I wonder if there's connection? You mean a black pantie connection? I doubt it. It's probably just a coincidence.

Since the sight of Carl Crew spitting the bloodied chunks of flesh he had just bitten from the leg of Jimmy Hitler in Lisa Elaina's face is probably the funniest thing I've seen in years, it only makes sense to mention it in my opening line for my review of Blood Diner, a film so fabulously weird, that it makes my heart hurt just thinking about it. And, after skimming the over the opening line of my review of this Jackie Kong-directed masterpiece of the absurd, it would appear that I totally just mentioned it. Feel free to reexamine what I wrote in that opening line. Go ahead. See anything interesting? Well, besides the fact that whoever wrote it is severely unwell in the bumpy noodle department, no, I don't see anything interesting. Check out those names. I mean, who are these people? And this question doesn't just apply to Carl Crew, Lisa Elaina (a.k.a. Lisa Guggenheim), and the guy who plays Jimmy Hitler, the entire cast is unknown to me. Seriously, I didn't recognize a single name when the lengthy cast is listed during the end credits. Now, this might cause alarm in some, as people in general seem to take comfort in films that boast familiar faces. But not me. I've said it once and I'll say it again, I'm sick and tired of seeing the same actors in every movie. In other words, I crave new faces, and Blood Diner is filled with them. You've got Carol Katz as the film's resident "Lumerian Expert,"Tanya Papanicolas as the great and powerful "Sheetar,"Brad Biggart as "Sheetar's John," and Eva Swidereka as "Aerobics Girl." One by one, they show up in this movie and make their presence felt. And they better had, as, in most cases, this would be their lone contribution to the cinematic arts.

When LaNette La France throws her half-eaten hamburger, or was it a taco? When LaNette La France tosses whatever she was eating at Carl Crew's lumpy ass, which, at the time the mysterious food item was thrown, was being mooned in the general direction of Mrs. La France through the driver's side window of his catering van, I thought to myself: Congratulations, LaNette La France. You will forever be known as the surly police detective who splattered half-eaten food all over the left side of Carl Crew's ample posterior. The food splatter scene, by the way, is probably the second funniest scene in Blood Diner. Which, strangely enough, occurs moments after the scene where Carl Crew spits Jimmy Hitler's calve blood in the face of a virgin sitting ringside at a wrestling match.

Call me judgmental and sad, but I find it strange that you think facial blood spitting and ass cheek-based condiment splatter is so freaking hilarious. You know you're talking about yourself, right? Oh, yeah, so I am. Well, so what if I think those things are funny. I'm allowed to laugh, aren't I?

You know what else I find funny? Films about cannibalistic brothers who own and operate diners located on Hollywood Blvd. You know what? I guess a film like that could be funny. Did I mention they keep their uncle's talking brain in a jar in the body part-laden back room of their successful vegetarian eatery? No? Well, they do. It's just one of the many kooky events that take place in this sick and twisted film.

Even though I've seen a lot of wacky shit over the years, the sheer amount of insanity Blood Diner puts out there on a regular basis is mind-boggling. In fact, I'm declaring Blood Diner to be not just a film, but "filmed insanity." What does that mean? Well, I think what I'm saying is, if you want to understand crazy, and, I mean, truly understand what it means to be crazy, watch Blood Diner, as it will definitely give you a shitload of insight into what insanity looks like.

Given Lumarian amulets by their Sheetar-loving, meat cleaver-wielding, genitals grabbing Uncle Anwar (Drew Godderis), little Michael (Roxanne Cybelle) and little George (Sir Lamont Rodenheaver) are told to be good little boys and to continue worshiping the Goddess Sheetar just before he's shot and killed by police.

Where was their mother during all this, you ask? Duh, she was out buying tampons.

Fast-forward twenty years, and Michael Tutman (Rick Burks) and George Tutman (Carl Crew) are in the process of digging up their Uncle Anwar's grave in order to take his brain. Putting it in a jar, the brothers recite a chant from some book, and, boom, just like that, their Uncle Anwar is back. Sure, he's just a brain in a jar, but this brain in a jar has got big plans. And, yes, they [the plans] mostly involve the return of his beloved Sheetar.

After anointing Michael and George disciples of Sheetar, Uncle Anwar informs his nephews what they will need to do in order to bring Sheetar back to life.

Step one: Construct Sheetar by using the body parts of immoral women, the trashier, the better.

Step two: Throw a well-attended blood buffet. Hold on, don't you mean, a blood feast? No, I'm pretty sure they said "blood buffet." Actually, they mention blood buffet on several occasions. So, yeah, it's definitely blood buffet; don't skimp on the dead hooker livers.

Step three: Supply a female virgin for Sheetar to eat when she is reborn. A virgin in Los Angles? Ha! Good luck. That city is filled with nothing but lazy-eyed whores of the leggy variety.

While Michael and George were listening to their Uncle Anwar's instructions, I did a quick internet search that included the words, "Blood Diner" and "Janet Jackson," and was pleasantly surprised to find out that other people beside myself thought Detective Sheba Jackson (LaNette La France) looked a little like Janet Jackson. Anyway, she's teamed up with Detective Mark Shepard (Roger Dauer) by Cheif Miller (Max Morris), their superior officer, who, for some bizarre reason, speaks with a Middle Eastern accent. Uh, the reason he speaks with a Middle Eastern accent is because he's from the Middle East. Dumbass. No, I get that. I just found it odd that the chief of police spoke with... You know what? Never mind. I'm going to let this one go, as I'm being sidetracked from my original point. And that is, LaNette La France looks like Janet Jackson, and she's a terrible/amazing actress.

It would seem that Michael may have found a virgin in the form of Connie (Lisa Elaina), a shy cheerleader. At the Tutman Cafe, the city's premier vegetarian diner, with her skanky friends, Connie is ridiculed by them when she refuses to attend an audition for a nude aerobics show. Luckily, though, Michael is there to comfort her in her time of need.

Since you can't mention nude aerobics without at least showing us a little jumping-jack induced breast jiggling, we're taken to the very audition Connie refused to go to. And just as their light blue thongs were about to get a lost in a rectal haze, two guys in Ronald Reagan masks storm in firing uzis. It appears as though that Michael and George Tutman have decided to use the body parts of the women auditioning for the nude aerobics show to piece together Sheetar. I have to say, this was smart thinking on their part, as you want Sheetar to have a well-toned body if you expect her to rule the world with any amount of gusto.

However, I have to say, nude aerobics?!? Gag me with a leotard. That's, like, so gross. At any rate, with the body parts and the virgin ready to go, all Michael and George need to do is find the right ingredients for the blood buffet. You know what that means, it's time to hit Club Dread to pick up some trashy women. While I agree that Peggy (Effie Bilbrey) is in fact trashy. I thought her friend Joanne (Laurie Guzda) was a tad lacking in the trashy department. Let's be honest, she looked like a fortune tellers assistant. I don't get it, is that not trashy? No, it is not. Either way, Michael, who's dressed like a gay Elvis impersonator, deep fries Peggy's head, and Joanne gets chopped in half by George, who's dressed like a gay Johnny Cash impersonator.

Hot on their trail, but not hot enough to cause the Tutman boys too much alarm, Sheba and Mark consult a Lumarian expert (Carol Katz) complete with khaki shorts and a pit helmet, and the owner of a rival vegetarian eatery named Stan Saldon (Bob Loya), whose lone customer is a bug-eyed, bearded dummy that Stan talks to via ventriloquism.

Here's a fun game to play, count the number of times Connie is splattered with an icky substance throughout this film. Well, we all know she gets chunky calve blood spat in her face. So, that's one icky substance. When Michael and George are transporting Connie and the body of Sheetar to Club Dread, Michael tosses the old brain that was inside Sheetar's head in the general direction of Connie, which causes some brain gunk to splash on her. Mark that down as 'two' ick subs. And, in the same scene, when Michael takes Anwar's brain and places inside Sheetar's head, the jar that once contained Anwar's brain is sitting above Connie's head. And you know what that means? Every time the van would hit a bump in the road, some brain jar juice would spill onto Connie's head. Three icky substances!

The final instance involving an icky substance splattering on Connie occurs during the epically insane finale at Club Dread. During the ceremony to reanimate Sheetar, a shootout ensues; what am I saying, an orgy of violence ensues. And since not quite reanimated she-goddesses are fragile creatures, Sheetar vomits green slime. And you wanna guess where the majority of that green slime lands? That's right, on top Connie's pretty little head. Wow, that makes that a total of four icky substances!

Five, if you include the arterial spray that hits Connie in the face after George bites into Jimmy Hitler's leg; as we all know, he would spit a chunk of Jimmy Hitler's calve in her face moments later. You know what? Let's include the initial arterial spray that hits her in the face. So, adding it all up, that makes it a solid five times that Connie gets splashed, splattered and sprayed with an icky substance. I don't know 'bout you, but I feel tingly all over.

Bloody arm stumps spewing crimson nectar, piss poor attempts at vehicular homicide, pill-popping new wave zombies gorging on a blood buffet, exploding heads, brown-shirted guitar players, kung-fu floozies killed by wayward stalactites, and a toothy stomach maw desperate to consume virgin flesh, this is what brainsick is supposed to look like. Wrong/right on every possible level, Blood Diner should be the blueprint for every movie in existence. What's that? It's not. I know it's not. Didn't you hear what I said? It should be the blueprint. In other words, stop making pedestrian garbage and start making more movies like Blood Diner!

Special thanks to ido for pushing me in front of this delightful piece of Kongsploitation.

Holy crap! Are you sitting down? Okay, check this shit out: Big Shim and Brenda McClain are played the same actress! Isn't that crazy? I'm sorry, I know that was an abrupt way to start a movie review, but I can't believe Big Shim, the toughest bull dyke to walk the face of, oh, let's say, the motherfuckin' earth, and Brenda McClain, the richest milf in all of...wherever in the world this sweaty armpit of a movie takes place, were both played by Marni Castle. I was wondering, for what seemed like an eternity, why the actress who plays Brenda wasn't listed in the credits. Then it dawned on me (i.e. I opened my eyes), Big Shim and Brenda were one in the same. I was truly amazed. Anyway, I would put Marni Castle's duel performance alongside other great duel performances such as: Mary Huner's stunning turn in Slime City and Anne Carlisle's gender bending work in Liquid Sky. Playing on opposite sides of the sexual spectrum, Marni must ooze a rampant form of uncut Sappho and display heterosexual desire simultaneously. Which, believe me, isn't an easy thing to do. Quick question: Is this longest anyone has gone without mentioning stockings in relation to She Mob, the most nylon-friendly film in existence? I don't know about anyone, but it's definitely the longest I've gone without mentioning stockings when talking about any film, let alone one of the most nylon-friendly in existence. Which is exactly the point I was trying to make. Seriously, look how long I went without mentioning stockings. It's truly mind-blowing. Truth be told, I would have started off, like any sane individual, on a tangent about stockings, had it not been for Marni Castle and the bi-sexual tour de force that is her performance in this movie.

Even though I'll probably only come across a handful of reviews for She Mob, I'm curious to see how long they go without mentioning the word "stockings." What if they don't mention them at all? Wait, how this that physically possible? You would have to be blind not to notice the stockings in this movie. Or either that, been born without working genitals. Of course, I'm not mocking the visually impaired, or even those with wonky junk, I'm just trying to better understand the inner workings of the human brain.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume the others who have reviewed this film can see and can get hard and/or moist. And if I find out that you failed to mention, making passing reference to, or sight in anyway the nylons that appear in this movie, I'm going throw the biggest hissy fit the known universe has ever seen.

You're just trying to make everyone feel bad to cover the fact that you're a perverted closet case. Huh? You want others to think and act like you in order to mask the guilt you feel for being such a deranged fetish freak. Normally, I would agree with everything you just said, but a character in this film does change her stockings three times before the crack of noon.

Three times, eh? Don't forget, before noon. Noon, you say? Actually, I said the crack of noon. The crack? Is there any logical reason for showing her changing her stockings three times before the crack of noon? None that I could see, and I have 20/20 vision and a functioning set of store-bought genitals. Interesting. Maybe I was a little quick to judge you. No, I'm telling you, this film is the pinnacle of stocking-based sleaze.

What about that rumour that's not even close to going around about one of characters having breast implants? I know, breast plants in 1968!?! As far-fetched as that sounds, Baby's tits are totally fake, and, to put it in the bluntest terms possible, they're fucking gross. Unfortunately, thanks to some up-close camerawork, we get a bird's-eye view of her breasts and the surgery scars that stretch across the underside of her bosom like scabby bolts of fleshy lighting. Hold up, if the scars are on the underside of her breasts, how could a bird see them? Um, duh, she was lying down; and she manipulated them in a manner that would totally allow a bird to see her boob scars.

You know what? I'm tired of talking about Baby's fake tits. Let's start talking about Harry's stocking-encased legs and how this film is pretty much my ultimate fantasy in a nutshell, shall we? I thought you would never ask.

Whenever I sift through the garbage looking for cinematic trash, I usually come away brokenhearted. Either the film isn't sleazy enough, or it fails on every level to arouse and titillate. Well, She Mob is trash in its purest form, and I couldn't be more happy that its garter-belt infused aura wafted its way through my cagey cerebellum.

However, I should warn you, you're going to have to wait at least seven minutes to witness an actual garter belt suspender tearing its way across the palish thigh of an exceedingly attractive woman. Something must happen during those seven minutes. Well, you do get to see Brenda McClain (Marni Castle) wash her legs in the bathtub. That doesn't sound so bad. Yeah, but for seven minutes? After she's finished washing her legs, Brenda calls out to Tony (Adam Clyde) a total of twelve times. You counted? Of course I counted, I was bored out of my mind. After the twelfth time, Tony, Brenda's primary gigolo, decides to crawl out of bed and do what he's paid to do, and that this, placate Brenda's properly pruned and pulsating pussy with his professional penis.

After watching gallons of soapy water enter and exit Tony's ass crack as a direct result of his passionate thrusts for seven minutes straight, we finally get to see Brenda in black stockings. Judging by the quality of her gold lame business suit, I'd say Brenda is quite well off. In fact, she's probably downright wealthy if she can afford a stud like Tony. What do you mean, "a stud like Tony," what's so special about him? He ejaculates sperm one dollop at a time just like everybody else. Didn't you see the way he made sweet love to Brenda in her spacious bathtub? His humping technique was sublime. And, as the film progresses, we'll soon learn how important his cock is to the shapely women of that populate this sun-baked hellscape.

Don't you think it's time we met the "She Mob"? Um, yeah. Just as I was starting to get antsy over the fact that She Mob has yet to provide us with an actual "She Mob," we're introduced to them just as their most annoying member is about to wake up. Actually, our introduction officially begins when Baby (Eva Laurie) starts pawing at her fake tits in an erotic manner. While I appreciate the fact that she sleeps in black stockings and a matching garter belt, her fake tits are awful (yeah, yeah, we know).

Someone who obviously doesn't agree with that assessment is Big Shim (Marni Castle), the leader of the "She Mob," who puts on her pointiest leather cone bra, takes a seat in the corner of the room, and commences to sweat profusely while grabbing her girlish genitals every now and then to the sight of Baby's impromptu mid-morning fake breast inspection.

As Big Shim is she-bopping to Baby's gruesome franken-titties in the bedroom, Twig (Twig), a skinny blonde with short hair and a small bruise on her left thigh, is waking up in the living room. Grabbing her trusty radio, Twig starts bouncing around like a coked-up three year-old. This childish bouncing causes Harriet (Joy Dale), a leggy brunette with a modicum of junk in her truck, and Lorenz (Ann Adams), a leggy blonde with two moles on her chin, to wake up as well.

What is the first thing Harriet does when she wakes up? Anybody want to take a guess? Yeah you in the rainbow afro wig: Grab a cup of coffee? Nope. The guy in the Styx t-shirt: She brushes her teeth? Uh-uh. The lady in the purple poncho with the lazy eye: Punch Twig in the face? That's what I would have done, but, no. Get this, she immediately puts on her black hold-up, checker-patterned stockings. She doesn't even get up off the couch. She wakes up, takes a second to yawn, sits up on the couch, and then, boom, her robust legs are being lovingly poured into a pair of stockings.

If that wasn't awesome enough, Harriet, Harry to her friends, puts on a pair of sunglasses and proceeds to light a match using the bottom of her shoe.

Sitting next to her, a not yet stocking clad Lorenz begins to whine openly about the fact that it's been five years since she's been with a man. You see, the members of the "She Mob" have just busted out of prison, and are currently hiding out at a farmhouse located somewhere in rural Texas.

Noticing that Harry and Lorenz are complaining about the lack of cock in their lives, Big Shim tries to rectify this by making a few calls. And who do you think she ends up being put in touch with? Why, it's Tony, of course. Hold up, doesn't Tony "belong" to Brenda? I guess, but that doesn't mean he can't make a little cash on the side.

When Big Shim learns, thanks to Tony's big mouth, that this Brenda chick is loaded, she decides to hold the clueless gigolo for ransom.

In the meantime, Harry, Lorenz and Twig fight over Tony like he were the last wing in a bucket of greasy chicken. Awash with stockings and garter belts, the woman grab at Tony in a veiled attempt to attain corporeal satisfaction.

Stepping in to break up the madness, Big Shim instructs Twig to tie Tony to the bed. A ransom note is penned (Big Shim wants 100,000 or else they'll turn Tony into a choir boy), which is quickly sent to Brenda, who is just starting to wonder where her boy-toy has disappeared to. Instead of calling the police, Brenda gets in touch with Sweety East: Girl Detective (Monique Duval), the best girl detective in the business.

Carrying an ocelot and wearing a gold lame one-piece (one that accentuates her exquisite coin slot) and a saucy headband, Sweety East tells Brenda that getting Tony back shouldn't be a problem.

In order to pass the time, Big Shim decides to let the girls win a chance to have sex with Tony by playing poker (best four out seven goes first). Please let Harriet win, please let Harriet win. Yes! Harry gets the first crack at Tony. But not before Big Shim uses Tony's bellybutton as an ashtray. Ouch! Either way, you know what that means? Big butts, stockinged legs, and plenty of softcore groping.

As expected, Big Shim's caper hits a few snags along the way, as treachery, cross-dressing, castration, car chases, and shoot-outs muck things up for the "She Mob." Did someone say, "cross-dressing"? Yep, in the film's second hottest scene (the first being the one where Harriet lights a match using the bottom of her shoe), Harriet, Lorenz and Twig dress Tony in lingerie.

Taking place mostly indoors, the characters in this wonderfully putrid slab of succulent sleaze seemed to be always in a hurry whenever they decided to venture outside. Sure, they're engaging in both foot and car chases at the time, activities that are renowned for their penchant to cause those participating in such activities to move even faster than usual. Yet, I couldn't help but think the reason they were in such a rush was because if anyone found out what they were up to, they ["the actors"] would have been arrested on the spot. Which is something I totally wouldn't want to happen. I mean, just the mere of thought of this landmark production being shutdown by a shadowy cabal of puritan pukes causes my eyes to overflow with tears of unhappiness.

I'm not sad for "the actors," the crew, or even the dozens of raincoaters waiting to bask in its seedy glow, no, I'm sad for the lingerie. The terrifying prospect that the women, and the occasional unconscious male gigolo, who appear in She Mob, the only film that I know of to be filmed entirely in Garter-Vision™, would be denied the right to wear black silk stockings in a cheap exploitation flick shot in the wilds of Texas fills me with rage. Thankfully, no one, at least to my knowledge, was arrested during the filming of this scuzzy masterwork. And because no one was arrested, its existence cannot be denied. It should go without saying, but this film rules on so many levels.

My misguided attempt to watch everything in the cinematic oeuvre of Moon Unit Zappa continues abated with her brief yet integral appearance in the horror anthology, Nightmares, a film that includes four unrelated stories slapped together in a semi-haphazard, semi-entertaining manner. And they include, "Terror in Topanga," the tale of Topanga Lawrence (Danielle Fishel), a shapely teen whose virginal vagina becomes haunted by the ghost of a recently deceased serial killer named Bojangles McGillicutty (voiced by actor/game show show Bert Convy), "Bishop of Battle," a frightening...Hold up, you're not going to do a fake synopsis for all four segments, are you? Why wouldn't I? And besides, what do you mean, "fake"? That's totally what "Terror in Topanga" is about. No, I get it, "Topanga" is the name of Danielle Fishel's beloved character from the '90s classic, Boy Meets World, and when you saw the words "...in Topanga" flash on the screen, you immediately thought of Topanga's not-taciturn vagina. Don't be ashamed, I'm sure most people you're age probably thought of that too. The only problem with your joke is Danielle Fishel was only around two years-old when this film was shot. In other words, your joke has gone from being mildly creepy, to extremely creepy in the blink of an eye. I see? Okay, say Danielle Fishel was 18, don't you think a movie about a poltergeist living inside her pussy–don't you mean, pulsating pussy? fine, inside her pulsating pussy–would be a lot more compelling than one about Cristina Raines (The Sentinel) going out after 11pm to buy cigarettes? That's not the point, you should always try to review the movie that's on the screen, not the one that's inside your head. Either way, don't sell Cristina Raines late night cigarette run short.

Don't tell me, Cristina gets abducted by aliens. Not quite, but there's a deranged mental patient on the loose and she's low on gas. Is that it? I'm afraid so. Oh, I just remembered, the guy who plays the store clerk is played Anthony James (The Teacher); one of my favourite actors. Shouldn't he be playing the deranged mental patient? Technically, yes, he probably should. But the first chapter of Nightmares is filled with little twists like that. Speaking of which, another twist just came to mind.

Keep an eye on the grainy picture of the deranged mental patient that appears on the news, as he looks eerily similar to a character who shows up during this chapter's cryptic climax.

Anyway, to say that I was unimpressed with "Terror in Topanga" would be one of them understatement thingies. However, things pick up when "Bishop of Battle" gets underway. I won't lie, this chapter is the reason I watched Nightmares in the first place. And, yes, I realize it's the video age, and that I could have easily just watched this chapter and skipped the rest. But I wanted to experience the film the way director Joseph Sargent and producer/screenwriter Christopher Crowe (he wrote chapters 1-3) originally had intended. Sure you did.

It's true, I haven't checked out what the general consensus is regarding "Bishop of Battle," but I can safely say that the sight of a video game addicted Emilio Estevez hustling Chicano gang members while listening to Fear on his Walkman is pretty badass.

Getting off the bus (to "I Don't Care About You" by Fear), J.J. Cooney (Emilio Estevez) and Zock (Billy Jayne) are in Hollywood to make some quick cash. No, they're not prostitutes, they hustle unsuspecting rubes using J.J.'s talent for playing video games and Zock's talent for, well, playing the concerned friend.

Noticing a Chicano (complete with a plaid shirt, tan trousers and a hair net) playing Pleiades, J.J. approaches him and challenges to a game using his best "aw-shucks, I'm not from around here" voice. The stakes are only for a dollar, but they soon rise, as J.J. purposefully digs himself into a hole. When the Chicano posts a score of 17010, his friends let out a cheer. With the stakes at twenty-five dollars, J.J. decides to stop messing around. You know what that means, right? You got it, it's time "Let's Have a War" by Fear to blast on the punk rock heavy soundtrack.

Isn't "Let's Have a War" by Fear also on the Repo Man soundtrack? Yes it is. You do realize that Nightmares and Repo Man both star Emilio Estevez? Oh, you do. Okay, just checking.

While I've got your attention, did anyone else laugh when J.J. tells Zock that he needs to "beat the bishop"? Last time I checked, it's a slang term for masturbation. After barely getting out of Hollywood in one piece, J.J. is back on his home turf in The Valley, or more specifically, the Fox Hills Mall (which is an actual mall in Culver City).

Apparently when J.J. was talking about beating the bishop, he wasn't talking about his erect penis, he was talking about, you guessed it, the Bishop of Battle, a video game he's been trying to beat for some time now. Entering the mall's Game-O-Rama arcade with an overconfident swagger, J.J. is mobbed by his many admirers (fellow gamers who worship his gaming skills). When one of these so-called admirers yells out, "Hey, it's J.J.!" you'll notice that the alluring vision of loveliness (a short-haired goddess in a purple jacket), playing Starhawk turns her head with a rapid brand of neck turning efficiency.

It might not be obvious to the casual observer, but we're about to experience the majestic splendour that is the one and only Moon Unit Zappa.

Positioning himself in front of the Bishop of Battle game, which is located in the centre of the arcade, J.J. puts in his quarter and prepares to play. "Greetings, Earthling. I am the Bishop of Battle, master of all I survey. I have 13 progressively harder levels. Try me if you dare," says the animated floating head that represents the Bishop of Battle. Well, does he dare? Of course he does. There wouldn't be a movie if he didn't. And besides, he already put in his quarter.

Able to reach level 12 with a relative ease, J.J. can't seem to make it to level 13. This, as you would expect, frustrates J.J. to the point of madness.

The game itself is actually quite lame as far as early '80s video games go (the graphics are beyond crude), so I won't bother describing the game action. However, the look on Moon Unit Zappa's face as she watched J.J. play Bishop of Battle was anything but, as you can tell exactly how J.J. was doing, game-wise, just by watching her animated expressions.

After failing yet again to make it to level 13, J.J. has grown visibly angry. And not only that, he appears to have lost his mind. Yeah, the game seems to have consumed him. Yeah, the game has taken over his life, but I was referring to the way he treats Moon Unit Zappa, who's the only one left in the arcade (everyone else has since gone home).

Wait, he doesn't blow off Moon Unit Zappa, does he? He totally does. What an idiot. Did he not hear Moon Unit Zappa when she says: "C'mon, J.J. Let's get a pizza and talk like we used to"? It doesn't look like it. How could he not hear her? She put the emphasis on the "za" when saying "peets-zah." Oh, he heard her all right. It's just he's more interested in getting to level 13 of this stupid game than getting to second base with Moon Unit Zappa.

To be honest, I don't know exactly what getting to "second base" entails (I was raised by British people), but I sure hope it involves groping her unit. Get it, unit, her name is Moon Unit? Never mind. Anyone who makes Moon Unit Zappa sad is not cool in my book. I don't care if he likes punk rock, you don't mess around with Moon Unit Zappa's heart like that. No one ignores Moon Unit Zappa's tubular invite to get peets-zah. At least not on my watch.

I don't mean to be the bearer of bad news, but there are still two chapters left in this anthology. And it looks like you have used up your allotment of paragraphs for this review. I have an allotment of paragraphs?!? Well, not really. But you should really start to think about wrapping things up. Okay, chapter three, "The Benediction," stars Lance Henriksen as a priest who is having a "crisis of faith." After quitting the church, Lance, or, I should say, his stuntman, is repeatedly confronted by a mysterious black truck along a stretch of desert road. Think of it as Duel but nowhere near as awesome. Chapter four, "Night of the Rat," involves a suburban family, played by Veronica Cartwright, Richard Masur, and Bridgette Anderson (don't forget their cat Rosie) who are menaced by a giant rat.

Other than the sight of Veronica Cartwright (Mirror Mirror 2: Raven Dance) in a tight sweater and a couple of decent jump scares, I wasn't that impressed with this chapter. I did like how they filmed Veronica Cartwright in that aforementioned sweater from every angle imaginable.

My favourite, of course, being the view from the back, as it highlighted her domestic prowess; open those kitchen cabinets, you sexy, excellent at not being detected by pod people, minx.

Here's a wacky idea, if you don't want the nuns living in your convent to turn to the soft embraces and gentle caressing that only properly administrated lesbianism can provide, don't put them in black hold-up stockings. If you do that, you're just asking for trouble. What's that? You say the lead nun, the so-called "Mother Superior" who runs the nun joint at the centre of Joe D'Amato's Convent of Sinners, is a card carrying member of The Cunnilingus for Ladies Club? (The Cunnilingus for Ladies Club: Supplying cunt-based cunnilingus for discerning lesbians since 1569.) Well, I don't know if she's a card carrying member, but she definitely digs chicks. How can you tell? You're kidding, right? She practically throws herself at the convent's newest nun the first chance she gets. Won't that make her current girlfriend, a conniving c-nun-t who sees herself as the heir apparent, a tad upset? You better believe it will. It's this bitter conflict over the ownership of a pair of fully-engorged bee stung lips that is the meat in this nun-tastic stew. Hold up, "nun-tastic"?!? Weren't the one who just said that you were pretty much finito when it came to nunsploitation films? I would never say anything like that (especially the word "finito"). You totally did. When? In your review for Bruno Mattei's The Other Hell. Oh, well, who reads my reviews? Really? That many, eh? What can I say? I lied. Besides, if Joe D'Amato (Beyond the Darkness) makes a movie about a reluctant nun with fully-engorged bee stung lips, you bet your bottom dollar that I'm going to watch the living shit out of that movie. And like I said, this one has black hold-up stockings in almost every scene, so, in other words, I had no qualms about ignoring my no nuns allowed rule.

The reason the rule was in place in the first place was because of the fact that I don't find nuns to be attractive. Um, I don't think you're supposed to find nuns attractive, that's why they're called nuns. Even the word itself, "nun," is a turn off. Again, I think you're missing the point, nuns don't exist for the benefit of your perverted fantasies.

Then why make movies about them? I think it's an Italian thing. You see, unlike all you godless heathens out there, Italians grow up around nuns. And sometimes these nuns act badly. Which is the reason Italian filmmakers are drawn to the nunspolitation genre; they're lashing out against the very system that abused them. It sounds like you just pulled that theory out of your ass. You're right, I have no idea why anyone, let alone a bunch of Italian men, would want to make a movie about nuns. However, in the case Convent of Sinners, I'm sort of glad Joe D'Amato did, as it's probably the best the genre has to offer.

Sure, I've only seen a handful of nunsploitation films, but Convent of Sinners had more a women in prison feel to it. Instead of a shower scene, they had a mass wash basin scene. Instead of a cruel, sadistic lesbian warden, they had Mother Superior and her toadying henchnun. And instead of a... well, you get the idea. Oh, and the fact that the new nun (or in w.i.p. terms, "the new fish") constantly feels like she's a prisoner was the very appealing to me.

I don't know exactly what century this film is supposed to take place in, but I know they didn't have elastic bands or garter belts back then. Actually, they might have had garter belts, but these nuns definitely didn't have access to them. What am I babbling about? Well, what I'd like to know is, how did the nuns manage to keep their black stockings up? I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say, they held them up through the power of prayer. Quit joking around. What was holding them up? Okay, maybe they didn't use the power of prayer; even though I love the idea of keeping one's stockings up that way. But something was causing them to stay wrapped tightly to their pristine thighs, and I'm not going to rest until I find the answer.

In the meantime, we're treated to some table-based father-daughter incest. Do the white stockings Maria Susanna Simonin (Eva Grimaldi) wears on the outside represent innocence and purity, and do the black stockings she wears in the convent represent sin and wickedness? I don't know about that, but there's nothing pure about being raped by your father on the kitchen table. And, not to mention, having your mother blame you for being raped and punishing you by sending you off to become a nun at a convent run by an unruly dyke.

Did they really send her to a convent? Yep, and she's getting her habit as we speak. Is it normal for new nuns to stand on a table while the other nuns gawk at her as she gets dressed? I guess. How the hell should I know? Either way, Maria Susanna Simonin is reborn as Sister Susanna, the most pillowy-lipped nun ever to don that weird diaper-like underwear they make them wear. I dig the black hold-up stockings, but those panties are an abomination; I get a rash on my taint just thinking about them.

You would think the moment the black robe goes over Sister Susanna's head would be the last time we'll being her pert tits for quite some time. Well, think again, sister. The always horny Mother Superior (Aldina Martano) has got her eye on Sister Susanna, much to the chagrin of Sister Teresa (Karin Well), who is clearly jealous of the new nun.

As she's been shown her cell, Sister Susanna says... Hold on, cell?!? That's what the nuns call the places where they sleep. Cells are for prisoners. Couldn't they call them sleeping rooms or restrooms. Or how 'bout this, bedroom. Yeah, bedroom. I like that. It's a room that contains a bed, hence, bedroom. Anyway, after being shown where to pray and where to sleep, Sister Susanna says she'll be happy here. Happy, eh? Um, I don't think so.

You never know, she might like being a nun. I mean, check out that shirtless water boy. On top of shirtless water boys, you get free meals, and, if you happen to have pillowy lips, Mother Superior will tuck you in at night. I'm no expert when it comes to relationships, but won't Sister Teresa being upset when she finds out Mother Superior is tucking in Sister Susanna at night? How will she find out? You're obviously new around here, Sister Teresa always knows what's going on; her talent for lurking around convent hallways is second to none.

Now, I'm not sure if Don Moral (Martin Philips), the convent's father confessor, likes puffy bee-stung lips, but he's clearly taken with Sister Susanna when Mother Superior introduces him to her.

It's not like Sister Teresa needed another reason to resent Sister Susanna, but she gets one, nevertheless, when Sister Susanna gives Mother Superior and her fellow sisters an impromptu harpsichord concert. Seething with jealous rage, Sister Teresa seems powerless as she watches her influence with Mother Superior slowly slipping away. "Don't deprive me of your affection," she begs Mother Superior at one point. But it does her no good, as Mother Superior has made her choice, and that choice involves groping Sister Susanna a semi-regular basis.

Do you think Sister Teresa is going to sit idly by and watch everything she's worked for turn to shit? If you think she will, it's obvious you don't know Sister Teresa; she's what we like to call in the nun racket a "real go-getter."

You might have noticed that during the past couple scenes that Mother Superior coughs. Yeah, so, she probably just has a cold. That's true, but people who cough in the 1600s usually end up dead within a week or two. Oh, I see. How does this help Sister Teresa? Don't you see, without Mother Superior around to stick up for her, Sister Teresa can destroy Sister Susanna without having worry about the consequences. Won't the other nuns kick up a fuss? What are you kidding? Sister Teresa has slowly been currying favour with them. For example, she totally didn't punish Sister Agatha when she caught her molesting a male statue. So, what you're saying is, she's turning all the nuns against Sister Susanna? Exactly.

Don't get me wrong, Sister Susanna still has allies in the form of Don Moral and Sister Ursula (Jessica Moore). But, as we'll soon find out, they're a pretty feckless lot. In other words, Sister Susanna better watch out. And I mean, like, right now.

You know she's in trouble when Mother Superior coughs onscreen for a fourth time. Telling her that her skin is soft like marble ("fresh and beautiful"), Mother Superior enjoys Sister Susanna's body one last time, as she slowly morphs into a bedridden mess.

It starts when Teresa instructs Sister Susanna to scrub the floors, and eventually graduates to poisoning her. Don't worry, it's not a lethal dose, just enough to make her foam at that mouth, giving everyone the impression she's possessed by the Devil. Bursting into her bedroom, er, I mean, cell, Sister Teresa and her goons pussy whip Sister Susanna. They did what? They whipped the area where her pussy lives. You know, the part where... I know where a pussy is, I just never heard the expression "pussy whip" used so literally before.

Call me, I guess, sick and twisted, but liked how Eva Grimaldi's pubic hair poked out of the sides of her nun diaper as she was being pussy whipped. On top of being aesthetically pleasing, it signaled to me that Eva Grimaldi was fully committed to the role. Not that she needed to. I mean, she is, after all, raped by father in the film's opening scene. Nonetheless, I nodded ever so slightly as the nuns whipped her pussy in her cell, as I knew right then and possibly there that Eva Grimaldi is all right in my book.

After being subjected to beatings, holy water douches, exorcisms, and an extended stay in the convent's rat-infested dungeon, you would think Sister Susanna would be ready to give up. Think again. Actually, with no allies left, Sister Susanna is pretty much destitute. However, her defiance exposes the hypocrisy of the other nuns, as everyone around her so determined to protect their place in the church, that they seem to have forgotten what it means to be a Christian. And, at the end day, that's what I took away from Convent of Sinners. People, no matter how pious they pretend to be, will stop at nothing to advance their own self-centered agenda, even it means destroying a woman with fully-engorged, pillow-like, bee stung lips.

Believe it or not, but you can learn a lot by watching Class of 1984--written and directed by Mark L. Lester (Roller Boogie), co-written Tom Holland (Fright Night)--from start to finish. For example, did you know that Elm St., a smallish thoroughfare just off Yonge St. in Toronto, Ontario, Canada is rife with no good punks? It's not, but according to this film, it totally is. Wait, if it isn't rife with, what did you call them? No good punks. Right, no good punks. If it isn't rife with them, how did you learn anything? Who said anything about learning? You did! Like five seconds ago. I don't remember saying that. In fact, it sounds like something you just made up. Look, you said that you learned a lot by watching this film. Prove it. Arrgh! Hello. The sensation you're currently experiencing is similar to that in which the new music teacher at Central Tech School experiences during his first week on the job. You see, unless he can prove that a gang of no good punks are going out of their way to make his life a living hell, he's going to have to grin and bear it. I'm sorry, but I think you're reading the film incorrectly. How so? Well, I saw the no good punks as the victims, and the new music teacher–the one with the fancy house in The Annex–as the film's primary troublemaker. Really? You bet. I mean, all the no good punks wanted to do was make money selling drugs. Don't forget their lucrative prostitution ring. Oh, yeah, if you can't afford to pay for your drugs, you can sell your body to them (if it passes muster, that is). Yet, this namby-pamby music teacher seems to go out of his way to muck things up for the punks who may or may not be up to no good. Yeah, but what they're doing is illegal. Since when has enforcing the law been the realm of namby-pamby music teachers? Besides, since when has it been legal to teach troubled teens to play the clarinet? What's that? It's always been legal. You don't say. Well, fuck that noise, man. It should be illegal. Why? Because I fucking said so; clarinets are bogus.

You better be careful what you say about clarinets, your girlfriend might overhear you. Shut up. She's not my girlfriend. Yeah, right. You're totally in love with her. I see the way you look at her. The short hair, the unruly eyebrows, the stubby legs...so soft and creamy, Deneen (Erin Noble) is just your type.

First of all, we're just friends. And secondly, the girl I like plays the saxophone. The sax player? Yeah, baby. I dig her look.

Her look? Yeah, check this out. Sometimes she wears tiger-print tops, and sometimes she wears tops with a musical note theme. Big deal, lot's of chicks have tops like that. No, I don't think you understand what I'm saying. The saxophone girl wears the tops I just mentioned at the same time. You mean one over the top of the other? Again, no, she changes tops when you're not looking. Creating the illusion that she is wearing a different top every time you look at her; which, in my case, is every eight seconds.

Oh, I see what you're saying. Actually, what I think you're referring to is a continuity error on the part of the filmmakers. It happens all the time. Granted, what you just said makes a lot of sense. However, I'm going to continue to believe that the sexy sax player with the long black hair and the dynamic nose in Class of 1984 was changing tops every time the camera would turn away from her for my benefit.

Now that I've established that I am in fact completely mad, you might have noticed that during all that verbal hullabaloo that I casually chose to pretend that this film takes place in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Even though I'm the one who just said it, I have take issue with my use of the word "pretend." The reason I decided to do this is because the film does take place in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. I know, just because it was filmed there, doesn't necessarily mean it's set there. And, yes, the American flag does fly proudly atop the school's flagpole. But this film, despite the fact it was made as a commentary on the upswing in violence in American high schools, is the quintessential Toronto movie.

The opening song by Alice Cooper asks, "When does a dream become a nightmare"? I have no idea, but my dream of being inundated with teenage thighs in the process strangled by black fishnet stockings is definitely coming true.

The complete opposite of the character he played in Andy Warhol's Bad, Perry King plays Andrew Norris, a naive music teacher who's starting his fist day at Central Tech. An idealist at heart, Mr. Norris can't wait to mold some young minds. However, his enthusiasm is short-lived. In fact, he seemed disenfranchised before he even gets out of the parking lot. And who do you think is to blame for that? The great Roddy McDowall, that's who; Mr. Norris can't help but notice that Roddy's Mr. Corrigan is carrying a gun in his briefcase.

If Roddy's cynicism doesn't completely dishearten Mr. Norris, the sight of the students walking through a metal detector most definitely will. It's at the school's Draconian entrance where Mr. Norris has his first brush with the no good punks I mentioned earlier. He tries to alert a security guard when he spots one of the punks sneaking a razor past the metal detector, but both the security guard and Roddy laugh at him as if to say, big deal, narc.

As expected, Mr. Norris' first class doesn't go as smoothly as he had hoped, as he comes face-to-face with Peter Stegman (Timothy Van Patten) and his gang of [no good] punks. While Stegamn is supposed to be in this class, his pals are not, so, when Mr. Norris asks them to leave, things get a tad heated.

If you liked it when Patsy (Lisa Langlois), the lone female member of Stegman's gang, gave the security guard's security wand a playful handjob in the previous scene, you'll love it when she performs fellatio on Erin Noble's clarinet while Michael J. Fox watches.

I'm surprised you didn't try to convince us that Patsy was your girlfriend. I mean, she's leggy, she has pink bangs, she wears different size stockings on each leg, she's not afraid to use glitter, what's not to love? I think she's a lesbian. Really? Well, after getting in a rumble with a rival gang underneath the Gardiner Expressway and spraying fake blood in Mr. Norris' face outside his home in the Annex, the gang head out their favourite punk club to catch Teenage Head.

What's all this have to do with lesbianism? I'm getting to that. You see, the punk club (featuring some intense slam dancing) also acts as the gang's hangout/headquarters. And it's here where I picked up a definite lesbian vibe coming from Patsy. Waiting in the hall outside their office (the backstage of the punk club acts as their office), a line up of punks and freaks has formed. Each has their reason for being there, and the reason a female named Sally (Helena Quinton) is there is because she desperately wants to become a coke whore.

After allowing her to sample their wares, it's Patsy who suggests that Sally should take her clothes off. Wait, why does she want to become a coke whore. Haven't you been paying attention? She likes cocaine, some might say she's addicted to it. And since she has no money to pay for the stuff, whoring for Stegman's gang is a viable alternative. Anyway, the look on Patsy's face as Sally removes her black stockings and garter belt practically screamed fashion-forward lesbian in heat.

Unfortunately, Patsy won't be sampling any of Sally's shapely wares on this day, as Stegman assigns that awesome task to a male gang member; and, no, not "Drugstore" (Stefan Arngrim), my favourite male punk in this movie.

On the bright side, however, Patsy is allowed to watch. Inspecting her womanly body, the male gang member (the tall one with the slight unibrow) agrees to take Sally's pussy for a test drive, as they say. You'll notice as she's being lead away to be fucked on a [no doubt] stained mattress that she is still wearing her gloves; which, just like Patsy's stockings, are delightfully mismatched.

Long story short, Patsy digs chicks. Sexual orientation aside, her look in Class of 1984 is inspirational.

Employing a tit for tat strategy, Stegman and Mr. Norris seem determined destroy one another, as acts of vandalism and animal cruelty lead to instances involving rape, kidnapping, the guy from The King of Kensington, vehicular homicide, cafeteria stabbings, flagpole-based suicide, and eventually the granddaddy of them all, table saw amputation.

There is, it should be noted, a moment when it seemed like Stegman and Mr. Norris were bonding (the classic scene where Stegman plays the piano), but that lasts about ten seconds.

In the film's strongest scene, Roddy McDowall shows why allowing teachers to carry firearms isn't such a good idea. But then again, he does seem to get results. The greatest line in the film is uttered by Timothy Van Patten: "Life... is pain. Pain... is everything. You... you will learn!" Sure, it might not seem like much on paper, but Timothy Van Patten (who now directs for HBO - The Sopranos, Boardwalk Empire, etc.) says it with such menace, that you would be no doubt quaking in your boots if you were on the receiving end of such a line.

Fashion-wise, I would have to go with the leather number with Betty Rubble frays that Lisa Langlois wears during the final showdown; you can also see a variation of the outfit on the film's iconic poster. In fact, the poster is so iconic, it was used as the cover for a book about the history of punks in movies (Destroy All Movies).

Wrapping around your slender frame with an unpredictable cruelty, the whip lashes against your flesh at the behest of The Fantom Whipper, the primary whip-wielder in the whip-tastic Mark of the Whip, the whipping fetish movie so whip-centric that when we do finally see a Polish penis going in and out of a Slovak vagina, we can't help but look at it with a cockeyed sense of wonder and befuddlement. Hold the rotary telephone, did you just spell phantom with an 'F'? Let me check. Well what do you know, it looks like I just did. You didn't just watch another film by Roman Nowicki, did you? Who? You know exactly who, the writer-director of Fantom Kiler, the erotic slasher flick produced by Teraz Films. Why wouldn't I...watch another one of his films? Do you really want me to answer that? Don't be such a pompous prick. Sure, there are a lot of things to bemoan about his films. But I have to admit, there's also something decidedly off-kilter about them. And I think one of the main reasons can be summed up by uttering two simple words. Are you ready? Eastern Europe. What does that have to do with anything? Hear me out. Take away this film's Eastern European component, and what you're left with is, well, not really worth writing about. Actually, that's not entirely true. There is, after all, the question surrounding the masks. You see, all the men in this movie wear rubber masks. Now, I can see why The Fantom Whipper would wear a mask, um, duh, he's The Fantom Whipper, it's par for the course that he wear a mask. But the police inspector, the construction worker, and even some of the extras in the bar, why were they wearing masks? It didn't making any sense. And therein lies another reason why this movie is so appealing.

Again, if the film made any sense, it probably wouldn't be as entertaining. Imagine if you removed the Eastern European babes (and their wonky grasp of the English language) and took away the masks. What's that? You don't want to imagine that because you have no intention of watching this film. Fair enough. Nevertheless, the film wouldn't be the same.

You'll notice that I mentioned that the Eastern European babes speak English in this film; if you remember, the dialogue in the Fantom Kiler was weird mix of incorrectly subtitled Polish and Russian. What's your point? My point is, their broken English, combined with their unorthodox approach to acting, was the reason the film worked on so many levels. Really? 'Cause in my mind that sounds like a recipe for disaster.

Yeah, it sounds like a recipe for disaster, but it totally isn't. Oh, sure, when Maria Vaslova first opens her mouth to complain about being lost in the film's opening scene, a felt a wave of nervousness trickle up and down my spine. But once I got used to her wooden delivery, it was easy sailing the rest the away.

I wish I could say the same for Maria Vaslova's Sylvia, a leggy Czech woman with fake breasts, as she finds herself in the middle of woods surrounded by a haphazardly assembled throng of masked reprobates brandishing whips. You're right, that doesn't sound like easy sailing. But then again, the film is called "Mark of the Whip," not "Mark of the Easy Sailing."

The fact, by the way, that Maria Vaslova had fake breasts was a tad distressing. Not to imply that they impeded my ability to enjoy the robust whipping she receives at the hands of the masked reprobates and The Fantom Whipper; I'm not a big fan of maledom (in fact, I loathe it), I much prefer femdom. It's just that one of the reasons I like Eastern European women so much is that they haven't been tainted by the garish excesses of the body modifying phenomenon that has infected the western world.

Since Miss Vaslova hasn't reveled her fraudulent titties yet, let's enjoy the sight of her wandering the mist-laden woods in a leggy manner, shall we? Girl, you wander those woods. According to her vaguely coherent ramblings, Sylvia, who is wearing a light-coloured mini-dress, says, "My car is broke. Need to find a bridge." Using a flashlight to help find her way, Sylvia's attempt find "a bridge" is repeatedly impeded by the masked reprobates I mentioned earlier. Crowding around her, the masked reprobates start to whip Sylvia en masse. To ease the chaos of the whipping, the reprobates tie Sylvia up. This allows each masked reprobate a chance to get his licks in.

I'm not really enjoying the whipping from an erotic point of view, but I have to admit, the atmosphere is fantastic. Apparently, the reason I'm not enjoying the whipping is because the people doing the whipping are amateurs. Stepping out from the shadows, The Fantom Whipper (Conrad Bismark) makes his presence felt. Sporting a white mask, a long black coat and carrying a huge whip, The Fantom Whipper tells Sylvia: "Forgive my children, for they don't know how to whip." He actually says that? He sure does. Amazing. I'm not an expert when it comes to whipping, but I could tell The Fantom Whipper was a first-rate whipper, as he makes mincemeat out of Sylvia's mostly real organic structure.

Lying bed in the hospital the next day, Sylvia, who is wearing a ball gag for some reason, explains to Detective Carla Nowak (Hana Liska) that she was first whipped by a bunch of "ugly village retards," but then she felt the lash of The Fantom Whipper. When describing being whipped by the latter, Sylvia's temperament seems to change. Instead bemoaning the fact that she was stripped naked and whipped for an extended period of time, Sylvia sounds like she enjoyed the experience.

Telling Det. Nowak that just mere thought of being whipped by The Fantom Whipper is making her soft, sensitive pussy wet, it's clear Sylvia is addicted to the crack of his whip. Oh, and the reason the nurse put a ball gag in her mouth was to stop her yelling at her fellow patients (she kept demanding that they whip her).

When the nurse starts to apply cream to Sylvia's whip marks, Hana Liska grabs the film by its haunches and never lets go. Huh? Check out the quality of Hana's acting as she watches the nurse rub cream all over Sylvia's fake breasts. Employing lip biting and inquisitive head tilting simultaneously, Hana Liska's acting style is unlike anything I've ever seen.

Don't believe me? Well, don't worry, you get to experience more of Hana Liska's unorthodox acting style in the next scene, which finds Det. Nowak tracking down The Fantom Whipper at a local pub. Wearing a slinky black dress, Det. Nowak, who is undercover, sits next to The Fantom Whipper at the bar (check out the bottle of J+B). You mean The Fantom Whipper is just sitting there, with his mask on? Of course. Isn't that a little conspicuous? Not at all. Lot's of guys in the pub are wearing creepy masks. He even tells Det. Nowak that "he whips women" when she asks him what he does for a living.

Anyway, getting back to Hana Liska's acting. Watch Hana Liska as she listens to The Fantom Whipper explain, in lurid detail, the appeal of the lash. Displaying the same talent for lip biting and inquisitive head tilting she did in the previous scene, Hana Liska adds smoking to her ever-growing repertoire of acting tricks. It was almost as if Hana Liska had never smoked a cigarette before, as she held the cigarette in a manner that was highly irregular. While that sounds like it would a bad thing, it's not. Everything Hana Liska does in this movie, from the way she walks, to the way she talks, hell, even to the way she holds a gun and dials a telephone, was out of the ordinary.

Informing The Fantom Whipper that his whip-based soliloquy has made her cunt moist, Det. Nowak invites him to feel for himself. Spreading her legs ever so slightly, The Fantom Whipper takes his gloved hand and pokes her vagina. Bringing the gloved hand up to his face, The Fantom Whipper declares her pussy juice to be a "delicious cocktail."

Despite the delicious cocktail, Det. Nowak is still unconvinced that whipping can cause women to experience orgasm. In order to prove it, The Fantom Whipper invites Det. Nowak to come see his whipping loft.

Am I crazy or does Hana Liska have legs for miles?

Unlike Sylvia, Det. Nowak is all natural. And I must say, it's a beautiful thing. The Fantom Whipper seems to agree, as he calls her "magnificent." Which is high praise, considering the fact that The Fantom Whipper is famously stingy when it comes to giving out compliments.

As The Fantom Whipper is inserting the handle of his whip into Det. Nowak's private cubbyhole, she pulls a gun out of her purse and starts reading him his rights. Ha! Ha! Busted! Ahh, look at the way Hana Liska is holding her gun. It's so fucking singular, it makes my spirit soar. Unfortunately, this singularity allows The Fantom Whipper to turn the tables on her with relative ease. Knocking her unconscious (even they way Hana falls to the ground is unique), Det. Nowak wakes up tied to the ceiling with a ball gag in her mouth. Prepare to feel the sting of the lash, Det. Nowak, because you're about to be whipped by a professional.

To the surprise of no one, Det. Nowak, just like Sylvia, is now addicted to the lash, and is craving a good whipping the very next day. However, in order to feel the crack of his mighty whip, Det. Nowak must do something for him in return. And you know what that means? That's right, put on your nicest black fishnet body stocking, Hana, 'cause your Polish and/or Czech ass has got some jewels to steal.

If I had to hurl one criticism in the general direction of Mark of the Whip, it's that the whipping scenes go on for far too long. Sure, I liked how The Fantom Whipper's whip slowly reduced Det. Nowak's fishnet body stocking to frayed bits of netted nothingness during her post-jewel theft, nipple clamp-assisted forest whipping, but the whipping scenes were at times tedious. That being said, I dug the overall atmosphere of the film. And the fact that it seems to take place within its own universe.

Wild dogs tearing apart toddlers, shirtless skinheads sexually assaulting chic new wavers while Casey Royer looks on with a snotty brand of indifference, what has the world come to? Just kidding, I don't give a shit. Don't get me wrong, I think tearing apart toddlers and humiliating new wavers is wrong, I just don't care about the state of the world. Wait a minute, where have I heard this tone before? Oh, I know, you're trying to get in touch with your inner punk, aren't you? Yeah, so what if I am, you bleeding tosser! Ooh, "bleeding tosser," I like that. You blithering git! Even better. Fuck the world and the giant donkey dick you rode in on, 'cause I'm about to review Penelope Spheeris's Suburbia, the punkiest punk movie that ever punked its way through the spunk stained drapes that is my punk-addled subconscious. It's that punk, eh? You better fucking believe it is. Since I'm the one typing words about about this movie, I guess it's okay if I share a few punk-related anecdotes about my days as a punk-adjacent juvenile delinquent. What the hell does "punk-adjacent" mean? You know, a common vertex? Let me put it this way, I wasn't a punk, but I occasionally found myself next to punks, and inevitably some of their punkiness would rub off on me. Not so much that I started listening to The Exploited and wearing suspenders on my trousers for no reason, but enough to understand the ethos. I recall spending an entire day with a group of punks; I knew one of them, so they tolerated my presence. And there's a scene midway through this film where T.R. (The Rejected) march down the sidewalk of a suburban street in slow motion that reminded me of my day with the punks. I distinctly recall the looks on horror on the faces of the so-called "normal people" as we walked by like it was yesterday; remember, this was long before wannabe chefs on reality cooking shows had spiderweb neck tattoos and celebrity babies had mohawks.

When word got back to me that one of the punks, an oily sycophant in desperate need of a bath, didn't think I should hang out with them (something to do with the fact that I didn't have the right "look"), I was actually glad, as I've always had a deep disdain for groups of people who insist on dressing alike. Whether it be Nazis, punks, or Nazi punks, I shall reject fashion conformity whenever and wherever it rears its ugly head.

The punks in this film, however, didn't have that problem, as each seemed to bring their own unique look to the fashion table. For example, I thought their de facto leader Jack Diddley (Chris "I never thought I'd get hit" Pederson) had a ska-punk, proto-industrial tinge to his look (he wouldn't look out of place at a Selector concert or a Front 242 gig). While Skinner (Timothy O'Brien), the muscle of T.R., is rocking the skinhead look, and Joe Schmo (Wade Walston), the romantic member of T.R., is sporting a goth punk--I secretly like The Cure--ensemble.

Even though I already stated that "T.R." stands for "The Rejected," I should mention that T.R. is the name of a gang of street kids, and that the film is basically about some of T.R.'s newest recruits. A teenage runaway named Sheila (Jennifer Clay), who witnesses a toddler torn to shreds by a wild dog while hitchhiking, Evan (Bill Coyne), who is later joined by his younger brother Ethan (Andrew Pece), flees his alcoholic mother, and Joe Schmo (Wade Walston), who doesn't like the fact that his father lives with his boyfriend. These three, I mean, four, shack up with a ragtag group of their fellow teens who are squatting in an abandoned house off the 605 in Los Angeles, California. I have to say, Joe Schmo's reason for running away is pretty weak. I mean, so your dad is gay. Big deal!

Anyway, despite Joe Schmo's homophobia, which, I suppose, was accurate given the period and his age, I liked how Evan winds up with T.R. Alone in L.A., Evan spots a group of punk rockers walking down the street. Intrinsically drawn to them, Evan follows them to a punk show where Keef (Grant Miner), who, judging by his armband, is a member of T.R., slips a black triangle (his drug of choice) in his drink when he's not looking. One thing leads to another, and Jack Diddley is helping a passed out Evan into his car.

During the concert, which features a band called D.I., Skinner, the lone skinhead in T.R., rips the dress off this poor new wave-ish woman, which causes a crowd gather around her. The sight of all these vulgarians taunting her with her torn clothing as she cried for help was sickening. It's true, I was eventually able to get past this scene, but the fact Skinner was the main culprit left a bad taste in my mouth.

On a more positive note, the concert scene introduces us to T'resa (Christina Beck) and Mattie (Maggie Ehrig), my absolute favourite characters in the Suburbia universe.

Never seen apart once throughout the film, I loved how T'resa and Mattie were always together no matter what. In fact, guess what? What? Chicken butt! I'm officially declaring T'resa and Mattie's friendship to be the most adorable thing ever. Um, ever?!? Don't you think that's a little too much? Okay, how 'bout this, T'resa and Mattie friendship is the most adorable thing in this movie. That sounds more realistic. But T'resa and Mattie better watch their adorable backs. Why's that? Oh, I don't know, have you ever seen Evan's little brother sitting on a Big Wheel? Yeah, so? Lots of kids sit on big wheels. Do these "lots of kids" you speak of have mohawks? Damn, I don't even have to see a picture of that to know that's pretty freaking adorable.

All right let's change the wording, shall we? Little Ethan with a mohawk is adorable, there's no doubt about it. On the other hand, T'resa and Mattie are now officially the sexiest characters in the Suburbia universe. If that's true, then why weren't any of the punk guys–I'm looking in your general direction, Flea–constantly hitting on them? What's that? Maybe they're lesbians. I don't think so. Check out the scene where hey rush the stage and shower T.S.O.L.'s Jack Grisham with kisses, they exude uncut heterosexuality from every orifice. I guess they were just intimidated by their hotness. And besides, Flea is already in a relationship...with his pet rat. Eww.

If you want to stay at the T.R. house, a cockroach infested, graffiti-covered dump that strangely enough still has electricity, you need to get a "burn," which involves burning the letters T.R. into your flesh. Once you get a burn, you can sit around the house, watch TV, listen to T'resa and Mattie do the whole "Guess what?""Chicken butt!" joke over and over again (I told you they were adorable) and wake up to the sound of gun-totting reactionaries shooting wild dogs.

These "reactionaries" are the punk's primary nemesis, and end up causing them a shitload of grief over the course of the film. Standing in-between the two groups, the reactionaries on the one side and the T.R. punks on the other, is William Rennard (Donald V. Allen), a police officer who just happens to be Jack's stepfather. Don't tell me the reason Jack doesn't want to live at home is because his step dad is black. If that's the case, I'm giving up on these people.

After a run in with a couple of reactionaries outside a T.S.O.L. concert, T.R. become the focus of "Citizens Against Crime," a community action group made up of massive squares, puritan pukes, drunk housewives and frustrated child molesters.

It's not all tragedy and slam dancing, the film does have a few moments of levity here and there. And the one that stands out the most is when T.R. steal sod (chunks of grass) from the front lawn of some house, transport it to the mall, lay it out front of the mall's Radio Shack, sit on it, and proceed to watch television.

I wonder if Christina Beck and Maggie Ehrig still have the scarfs they wear in their hair throughout this film. Actually, I wonder if I'm the first person ever to wonder this. Actually, forget about the scarfs, I wonder if Christina Beck and Maggie Ehrig are still friends. It would be totally awesome if they were.

Despite the repugnant scene involving the new wave chick being humiliated at a D.I. concert (it goes on for excessively long period of time), I'm declaring Suburbia to be fun-filled romp. Just kidding, I found Suburbia to be a gritty, authentic look at the punk subculture of the early 1980s. Using amateur actors and real locations, Penelope Spheeris creates a filthy, depressing world that doesn't shirk from showing us the consequences that can arise when you put a bunch of teenage runaways under one roof and surround that roof with packs of ravenous wild dogs and cars filled with trigger happy reactionaries.

When the two protagonists at the centre of The Boys Next Door started discussing where they would like to go after they're done crashing their high school graduation party, I must admit, I got a little nervous. Throwing around names like, Las Vegas and Phoenix, I didn't like where this conversation was going; I wasn't really in the mood to watch a film where Maxwell Caulfield and Charlie Sheen tool around the desert to the sounds of Great White. My stress, however, began to melt away almost immediately when one of them--Charlie, I think--mentions driving to Los Angeles. Even though the city as it sits right now has no appeal to me, the Los Angeles featured in this film–the neon-adorned, sleazy as fuck, new wave/punk rock mecca that was the L.A. of 1984-85–is very appealing. I'm sorry to interrupt your love affair with mid-1980s Los Angeles, but is it okay if I ask myself a quick question? Sure, go ahead. How could they [Maxwell and Charlie] crash the party if it was for their graduating class? Why, that's simple, the alluring Moon Unit Zappa didn't invite them. Oh, and before you make a comment regarding my sanity, yes, I called Moon Unit Zappa "alluring," you got a problem with that? It's totally cool if you do happen to have a problem with that; it's a free country after all. I just want to put it out there that I am pro-Moon Zappa. More on the alluring Miss Zappa in a minute. Let's talking about unnecessarily heavy-handed opening of the film, shall we? Aw, man, do we have to? Yes, we do. If you want to come across as a normal film critic, you need to touch on the aspects of certain films that rubbed you the wrong way. And judging by the annoyed look on your face as you watched the opening of The Boys Next Door, a film directed by Penelope Spheeris, it's safe to say you had some issues with it.

Come on, dude, can't I just write about Patti D'Arbanville's lacy pantyhose? You can do that; in fact, I can't wait for you to do that. But not until you tell everyone what your problem was with the opening credits sequence. Okay, fine. I didn't like how they used the names of real life serial killers to set up the story. And? And, well, I thought it was a tad tasteless. Isn't "tasteless" your middle name? It is. But still, I thought it was kind of exploitative. I understand why they did it, they wanted to give the film gravitas. But it didn't really suit the tone of the rest film. Which is, don't get me wrong, pretty dark in places. I just thought, well, enough about that.

Despite their conventional good looks, seniors Roy Alston (Maxwell Caulfield) and Bo Richards (Charlie Sheen) seem like outcasts at their small town high school. Looking as if they had just walked off the set of Grease, or, in Maxwell Caulfield's case, Grease 2, Roy and Bo seem out of place in their plain white t-shirt and blue jean ensembles. Actually, I wouldn't use the word "ensemble" around them if I were you, as their attitude regarding the social changes that have occurred over the past twenty years seem mostly negative.

Pivoting her left leg in a manner that will surly send all the boys into a leg-appreciating tizzy/tailspin, Bonnie (Dawn Schneider), the senior class's resident blonde hottie, knows exactly what she's doing as she signs yearbooks in full view of the entire school.

If only Bonnie was a as good at remembering the names of her classmates as she was leg pivoting while signing yearbooks. What does that mean? She calls Bo, "Bob." Oh, I see. Anyway, as the alluring Moon Unit Zappa is telling Bo he's not invited to the big graduation party happening tonight at Joe's house, Roy is talking to a recruiter for The Marines. He doesn't enlist, but you're going to wish–well, at least some of the residents of Los Angeles are going to wish–the recruiter was a little more persuasive by the time this film is over.

You can sort of see that Roy ain't hooked up right during the scene with the recruiter; he basically tells him he wants to kill people. However, the part where he stares blankly at his classmates at Joe's party was when it became clear to me that there's something definitely wrong with Roy; the way the camera lingers on his face is chilling.

On the other hand, the part where the alluring Moon Unit Zappa says, "Excuse me, I think I'm going to be nauseous," while "I Ain't Nuthin' But a Gorehound" by The Cramps plays in the background, was anything but chilling, it was downright awesome. It was right then I decided that I wanted more Moon Unit Zappa in my life. In a misguided attempt to rectify this lack of Moon Unit Zappa in my life, I played Frank Zappa's "Valley Girl." Unfortunately, I couldn't get through ten seconds of it. That being said, the search for Moon Unit Zappa-related content continues unabated; wish me luck.

You mean to say that Moon Unit Zappa isn't going to Los Angeles with Bo and Roy? Ugh, like, gag me with a spoon. Moon Unit Zappa wouldn't be caught dead with these two losers. But you know who is going to L.A. with Bo and Roy? That's right, Joe's tiny dog Bon Bon. After causing a scene at the party (Roy pees in the pool and Bo asks Bonnie if she ingests seminal fluid when she performs head), Bo and Roy grab Bon Bon, hop in their grey [unpainted] 1973 Plymouth Satellite, and head to Los Angeles for a weekend of fun.

Supposedly set to start work at a factory come Monday morning, Bo and Roy see this adventure as one last blow out before becoming a couple of cogs in the wheel of industry. Renaming Bon Bon, "Boner the Barbarian," they're just about to enter the greater Los Angeles area when Roy tells Bo about this "stuff inside me." Call it rage, call them anger issues, Roy displays some of this "stuff" when he nearly kills an Iranian gas station attendant over two bucks worth of gas and a few packs of gum.

As Bo and a shirtless (yes!) Roy relax in their motel room, Detective Woods (Christopher McDonald) and Detective Hanley (Hank Garrett) investigate the crime scene they had a hand in creating.

I would love to tell you more about the detective subplot, but this woman just walked by wearing a blue zebra-print bikini.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, I remember. Getting trouble wherever they go, Bo and Roy unleash the ire of three women after Roy hits an old lady in the head with a beer bottle while hanging out at Venice Beach. The part where one of the irate women rides on the hood of their car for an extended period of time reminded me of that movie with Kurt Russell–you know, that one that begins with "Death" and ends with "Proof."

After taking a break at the La Brea Tar Pits, Bo and Roy hit the streets of Hollywood. Engaging in behaviour that was, and still might be, typical of suburbanites, Bo and Roy yell at people (a wondrous collection of authentic-looking punks and freaks) as they cruise up and down the strip. I loved it when one of the punks tells them to go back to the Valley. You loved that, eh? Wait until Bo and Roy come across Christina Beck (Suburbia) walking down the street with a friend. What happens? C'mon, tell me. Are you ready? Yeah, man, let's go! She tells Bo to eat her fuck. You mean? Yep, she says, "Eat my fuck!" But isn't that the line Rose McGowan says so memorably in The Doom Generation? That's the one. Oh, man, this changes everything. You see, I thought Gregg Araki was the one who came up with that line. And judging from what I just saw, he clearly didn't. Boy, this is awkward.

I don't think it diminishes the impact of the iconic line uttered by Rose McGowan, but it does lessen its standing as one of the greatest lines ever to be hurled in the general direction of the Asian guy from 21 Jump Street somewhat. Either way, Charlie Sheen's confused query after being told to eat Christina Beck's fuck, "What exactly does 'eat my fuck' mean," is classic. I would say, besides his cameo in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, that that particular line reading is Charlie Sheen's finest moment ever to be captured on film.

Enjoy the frivolity while you can, because it's going to get dark. Oh, sure, the darkness is lightened a tad when Bo and Roy watch street performers, the gorgeous Pinkietessa (The Blitz Club), Texacala Jones (Dr. Caligari), Maggie Ehring (Twisted Roots) and Tequila Mockingbird (she plays the wall tongue in Dr. Caligari), do their thing. But mark my words, the boys in The Boys Next Door are done fooling around.

It doesn't matter if they're hanging out at a gay bar in West Hollywood, stalking a yuppie couple, or spending time with a hippie barfly in lacy pantyhose (Pattie D'Arbanville), Bo and Roy leave a trail of death and destruction wherever they go. Or, I should say, Roy leaves a trail of death and destruction. Not to imply that Bo is some sort of innocent bystander, far from it, he's just as culpable. It's just that Roy is clearly the more deranged of the two. God, I'm starting to sound like Bo's lawyer. Anyway, featuring an excellent performance by Maxwell Caulfield, scenes of violence that were actually difficult to watch, Moon Unit Zappa, and a great location, The Boys Next Door is a definite hidden gem; "hidden" because I had never heard of it up until now.

Some might say the only genuine punk moment to take place in Penelope Spheeris'Dudes is when "Biscuit" asks "Hazekiah" (who's naming these people?) to sing "Holiday in Cambodia" by The Dead Kennedys when the latter tells his visibly annoyed audience that he does requests. Well, given the circumstances, you wouldn't expect a drunken old coot to know anything about The Dead Kennedys. And you would be right, he's not familiar with the song in question. However, I found this reference to punk rock to be a tad disingenuous. In fact, the second Biscuit mentions the song, I thought to myself: Oh yeah, these guys are supposed to be punks. The reason I forgot was because the soundtrack up until then had been nothing but Faster Pussycat, W.A.S.P. and Keel. Maybe sometime during filming Penelope Spheeris lost interest in punk rock and started get into heavy metal; after all, she would go on to make The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years soon after this film came out. It's also possible that the producers told Penelope to use heavy metal instead of punk, I don't know. But I do know the sight of three New York City punks driving through the desert in a beat up Volkswagen Bug to the sounds of Faster Pussycat is not punk. I don't care how adorable Brent Muscat is, and, believe me, he is adorable, punks don't usually go for hair metal. This is especially true for punks who spend their evenings stage diving at gigs that feature The Vandals, a punk band who appeared in Penelope Spheeris' seminal Suburbia (now that's a punk rock movie) and fighting over a salmon-gloved Pamela Gidley (Cherry 2000).

Quit your bellyaching, you sound like a freaking baby. Besides, this is one of them fish out of water thingies, so it makes perfect sense for the music to represent the opposite end of their cultural comfort zone. If that's the case, shouldn't the film be nothing but country and western songs? I mean, the film is basically a western. Good point. If I was forced to categorize this film, I would put it in the western section, as it contains all the ingredients that make up your typical western.

Still, I was disappointed by the lack of punk music in Dudes. That being said, I did take solace in the fact that Vance Colvig, Jr., the old drunk who doesn't know who The Dead Kennedys are, sings "Mexican Radio" by Wall of Voodoo at one point. Wait, did the punks request that song, too? Nope, he just starts singing it of his own volition. Awesome. Did he sing the line about eating barbequed iguana? Nah, just the "I'm on a Mexcican Ray-deeo / I'm on a Mexican whoa-oh ray-deeo" part. Nevertheless, it was a pretty cool moment. It also reminded me of that time when Kramer on Seinfeld sings "Mexican Radio" while installing a reverse peephole on his apartment door in the aptly titled episode, "The Reverse Peephole."

How can you complain about there not being enough punk in this movie when it opens to sight of Jon Cryer stage-diving to "Urban Struggle" at a Vandals concert? Yeah, I got to admit, it's quite the punk sight to behold. Bored with life in New York City, three punk rockers, Grant (Jon Cryer), Biscuit (Daniel Roebuck), and Milo (Flea) decide to move to Los Angeles. Whoa! Stop the presses. Bored with life in New York City?!? I'm sorry, but that doesn't make any sense. If you're bored in New York City, it's not the city's fault. What are you trying to say? What I'm saying is, you're probably the one who's boring. You know what? Forget about "probably," you're definitely the one who's boring.

Whether you agree with them or not, they're going to Los Angeles. Yeah, I get the whole "let's go to Los Angeles" angle, I'm a big fan of Los Angeles. It's just that they live in New York City. You know what I'm saying? Anyway, after getting in a fight with Pamela Gidley's musclebound boyfriend at a Chinese restaurant, the three punk rockers hangout in an alleyway to discuss their bleak futures. When Grant nearly falls to his death while jerking around on a pipe, those who were reluctant to sign on to Flea's idea to move to L.A. are quickly brought on board.

Hopping in their beat up VW Bug with a 1,000 dollars in cash, the punk trio hit the road to the strains of "Jesus Came Driving Along" by The Leather Nun. Now that I've had some time to think about it, I take back what I said earlier about Dudes not being punk enough. I mean, The Leather Nun song has a sort of goth punk vibe about. And not only that, Daniel Roebuck's mohawk is quite impressive when viewed in the harsh light of the open road. Believe or not, I had this strange idea in my head that it was a fake mohawk. You don't mean a faux hawk, do you? No, I wouldn't go that far. Either way, I grew to love it, no pun intended, as the film progressed.

Entering Utah (eww, that sounds kinda dirty), the punks help Daredelvis (Pete Willcox), an Elvis impersonator/renaissance man, whose trailer is stuck on the side of the road. The side of the road is also where Grant first sees Witherspoon (Cal Bartlett), his, as we'll soon find out, cowboy spirit guide.

While camping near a giant rock, Biscuit, named so because he loves dog biscuits, says the first thing he wants to do when he arrives in Los Angeles is to meet The Go-Go's. When Grant informs him that they split up, he remains defiant, declaring that he wants make babies with them. Now, that would be an amazing movie: A trio of NYC punks travel to L.A. to impregnate the members of The Go-Go's. If I had to pair Biscuit with a Go-Go, I would fix 'em with Gina Schock. Why? Oh, I don't know, he digs drummers, and she's into chubby guys who eat dog biscuits. Who cares? It would be a great movie.

You know who doesn't think it would make for a good movie? Lee Ving. You mean the singer from the band Fear? Yep, the very same. Playing a lowlife piece of human garbage named Missoula, Lee Ving and his unruly gang of thugs, including Wes (Glenn Withrow), attack the punk's camp and end up killing Flea in the process. No, not Flea! Who's going to impregnate Belinda Carlisle?

It's weird that you thought Flea and Belinda would... You know what? Never mind that. I guess Grant and Biscuit are going to have to continue onto L.A. without Flea.

Changing his mind mid-flee, Grant decides he wants to avenge Flea's death. Wanting no part of it, and no doubt still dreaming of ejaculating sperm inside Gina Schock, Biscuit refuses to go along with Grant's plan. That all changes, however, when Biscuit gets in touch with inner Native American while napping at Catherine Mary Stewart's house. It's at this point in the film when it starts to resemble an episode of The Lone Ranger, with Grant, helped by his cowboy spirit guide, as the titular lawman, and Biscuit, inspired by his tribal elders, as Tonto, his loyal sidekick. Of course, I've never seen an episode of The Lone Ranger, nor did I see the recent movie. But I'm sure it was something like this.

You probably noticed that I mentioned Catherine Mary Stewart in the above paragraph. Well, the reason I did this is because she is totally in this movie. She plays Jessie, a tomboyish tow truck driver who helps Grant and Biscuit with their Lee Ving problem.

Realizing that a rugged Catherine Mary Stewart isn't exactly going to drive teenage boys wild with desire (discerning teenage lesbians, on the other hand, will love C.M.S. in this flick), Penelope Spheeris calls upon her go-to babe Christina Beck (Suburbia) to play Lee Ving's floozy girlfriend in a brief yet pivotal scene that takes place in a Wyoming saloon.

Mixing the spirit of the wild west with punk and heavy metal might seem like a dicey combination, but Dudes is not about genre mashing, it's essentially about standing up for yourself, or more specifically, not allowing all the Lee Ving's out there to push you around. Getting reacquainted with their inner outlaws, Jon Cryer and Daniel Roebuck manage to grow a pair just in time for the climatic showdown with Lee Ving. Of course, at times it seemed like Jon Cryer and Daniel Roebuck were merely playing dress up. However, I thought they brought some unexpected pathos, along with some deft comedic touches, to their respective roles. Now, if I knew going in that the film would turn out to be a glorified western with a heavy metal soundtrack, I would have probably steered clear of Dudes. But now that I've watched it from start to finish, I can confidently say that it was a sort of worthwhile experience.

Tired of constantly being cast aside like some sort of non-leggy nonentity with some sort of hyper-contagious pussy disease, Maddy–last name unavailable due to either indifference or substandard screenwriting, though, my money is on the former, as the script is surprisingly well-written–has decided that she's had enough. Had enough of what, you ask? Well, if you watch Jon Carl Buechler's Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood, like I just did, you too can totally find out what Maddy has had enough of. You can see it brewing on Maddy's face the moment we meet her in one of the houses situated on the picturesque shores of Crystal Lake. As each new scene begins, the amazing Diana Barrows (My Mom's a Werewolf), the actress whose job it is to bring Maddy to life, slowly unveils her character's frustration with the events that are transpiring right before her equally frustrated eyes at the surprise birthday party for a friend named Michael (William Butler). Okay, I've let this charade go on for long enough. Charade?!? What are you talking about? I mentioned the title of the film. Hell, I even name-dropped "Crystal Lake." What more do you want? It's not that, it's just that I couldn't help but notice that Diana Barrows gets tenth billing or something ridiculous like that. Actually, I think it was more like, seventh or eighth. But what's you point? Are you sure she deserves this amount of attention? Am I sure? What the fuck? Listen, buddy. If it wasn't for Diana Barrows, I wouldn't have even watched this film.

Oh, sure, the fact the film also features Heidi Kozak (Society) and five, count 'em, five, songs by FM made the decision to seek out the seventh chapter in the mildly storied horror franchise a whole lot easier. But make no mistake, Diana Barrows was the sole reason I dipped my toe in Crystal Lake in the first place.

It sounds like you have never seen a Friday the 13th movie before. And if that's case, what kind of person starts off their trip to Crystal Lake by watching part seven? Wait, let me guess, you're the kind of person, aren't you? You got that right. What I'd like to know is, what kind of person doesn't start off their foray into the mindless world of Jason Voorhees by watching part seven? In my mind, part seven looked like it had the most promise. At any rate, I've been known to peruse the occasional issue of Fangoria every now and then (i.e. issues with Lina Romay and/or Barbara Crampton on the cover), but wouldn't call myself a gorehound. That being said, the kills in this film, and, believe me, there are plenty of kills (a quick look at the film's expansive cast list backs this claim up), all seem to be mostly bloodless affairs. And you know what means? That's right, no arterial spray. Hold up, I thought you said you weren't a "gorehound"? Yeah, I'm not. But I do loves me some well-engineered arterial spray.

However, like I said, this film has no arterial spray to speak of. In fact, the only thing sprayed in this film is a mouthful of beer spewed all over the back of Melissa (Susan Jennifer Sullivan), the film's resident hosebeast, by David (John Renfield), the guy who fails to notice the shapely gams attached to the adorable torso belonging to–you guessed it–Maddy; her legs will not go unnoticed.

Okay, since the gore has been neutered, no doubt by the dreaded MPAA, what do you plan to write about? Wow, that's a tough question. Just kidding. My Friday the 13th reviews are going to be all about fashion and hosebeasts.

Getting back to Maddy for a second, the reason David fails to notice Maddy's shapely stems is because he never got a chance to see them in all their shapely glory. And, if you think about it, that's the most tragic aspect about Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood. I guess you could say the fact that almost everyone is murdered is tragic, but I still think unappreciated gams are more so.

What's really frustrating, gore-wise, is that there's more gore in the pre-opening credits prologue than there is in the entire film itself. Either way, it's a good thing the prologue was there, as it gave a Friday the 13th neophyte like myself a quick refresher course on what took place in the previous movie. And it would seem that Jason Voorhees (Kane Hodder) is currently languishing at the bottom of Crystal Lake.

Cursed to keep coming back to life to kill all the teenagers and adult hangers-on who dare to disturb his watery grave (he famously drowned in the lake as a child), Jason is resurrected by Tina Shepard (Lar Park Lincoln), a psychic teen with the same genetic structure that of actress Amy Smart (Crank: High Voltage). Haunted by the fact that she accidentally killed her father as a child (she caused the dock he was standing on to collapse with her mind), Tina is brought back to scene of that traumatic event by her mother (Susan Blu) and the shady Dr. Crews (Terry Kiser), a psychiatrist who thinks Tina is ready to confront her demons in the real world.

Oh, and you wanna guess the name of the lake where Tina killed her father? That's right, it's Crystal Lake, the very same lake where Jason Voorhees met his demise.

I'm no math whiz, but that doesn't sound like a lot of people for Jason Voorhees to kill. I mean, you listed, like, three people. Don't worry, the house next to Tina's place is filled to the brim with horny teenagers. They're apparently throwing a surprise birthday party for guy named Michael, the cousin of Nick (Kevin Spirtas), a hunky guy who awkwardly greets Tina when she arrives... at Crystal Lake.

You'll notice as Nick is awkwardly greeting Tina (he drops her suitcase, causing her delicate unmentionables to spill all over the gravel driveway) that Sandra (Heidi Kozak) and Melissa are watching from the comfort of their beach chairs. Clad in bikinis and drinking the latest soft drinks currently on the market, Melissa, for dramatic effect, pulls down her sunglasses from their normal position, and makes her first catty comment. I think she says something along the lines of: "There goes the neighbourhood." Well, whatever it what was that she said, it's clear that Jason Voorhees isn't the only one gunning for Tina.

Speaking of Jason, later that night, Tina inadvertently resurrects Jason Voorhees while moping near the lake. Wait, lake adjacent moping caused to Jason Voorhees to come back to life? Well, you see, Tina's telekinetic powers are at their strongest when she's emotionally distraught. And, the last time I checked, moping near a large body of fresh water is a legitimate form of adolescent agitation.

Soaking wet and covered with wounds (dig the exposed spine, bro), Jason Voorhees doesn't waste much time finding some horny teens to slaughter. Unfortunately, the first teens he stumbles across are Michael and his denim-attired ladyfriend Jane (Staci Greason) just as they were making their way to the lake. Hold on, isn't Michael the birthday boy? Yep. Aww, man, that's a shame. He also stumbles across some campers, too; bashing the female camper against a tree while she was still in her sleeping bag. Ouch.

When Nick, unaware that his cousin has been brutally murdered by a zombie in an old-timey goalie mask, invites Tina to come over to the party, we're introduced to even more teens. Yay! More teens means more machete fodder for Jason. And, most importantly, we're introduced to Maddy (Diana Barrows), a frumpy girl who, according to her friend Robin (Elizabeth Kaitan), could use "a little touch-up work." I know, some friend, eh? But the reason for the diss was because of David, the guy Maddy and Robin both have their eye on. And what Robin was trying to do was undermine her confidence; it's what teenage girls supposedly do to one another. Anyway, an annoying wannabe horror director named Eddie (Jeff Bennett), and Ben (Craig Thomas) and Kate (Diane Almeida), a nondescript couple, are introduced as well. I'm probably missing someone, but my attention is obviously elsewhere.

Am I crazy, or is Heidi Kozak wearing the exact same outfit (a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a yellow top) that she wore in Slumber Party Massacre II? Both films were made around the same time, so it's technically possible. But still, it's highly unusual. Costume recycling notwithstanding, Heidi Kozak looks amazing in this get-up.

Remember when Robin, who I think was wearing a yellow blazer at the time, tells Maddy that she needs "a little touch-up work"? Well, that comment has the opposite effect on her, as it motivates her to give herself a makeover. Instead of wallowing on the couch in self-pity, Maddy marches upstairs and busts out the lipstick.

That's right, it's Maddy makeover time. Even though I have only one Friday the 13th film under my belt so far, I can safely say that Maddy's makeover scene and the subsequent stalking sequence are probably the greatest the franchise has to offer in terms of fashion and stalking.

After putting the finishing touches on her lipstick, Maddy says to herself, "'Need a little touch-up' my ass." Yeah, baby! Work it, girl!

Wearing a super-short light blue dress, a white belt, and a pair of white pumps, Maddy and her legs are ready to wow David. Only problem being, she can't seem to find him? Now, I don't know what lead her to believe that he might be out in the woods. But nonetheless, that's where she looks.

Call me perverted, but I could have sworn I saw the top of Maddy's stockings when she crawls underneath a tool shed door. Yeah, you know what? I'm officially adding tan stockings to Maddy's ensemble. And in doing so, I just made the Maddy vs. Jason Voorhees sequence even greater. You're welcome, perverts.

It helps that Diana Barrows, on top of being a fine actress, is also a terrific screamer.

Holding her white pumps in her hand, Maddy awaits her fate. Which is something the other characters aren't given. What I mean is, the others are merely killed without much fanfare (each is summarily executed after coitus). Whereas Maddy's death sequence contains all the elements horror fans look for in a good kill.

In case you haven't heard, I'm new to the franchise. But Tina going toe-to-toe with Jason Voorhees can't be a normal sight in the Friday the 13th universe. In fact, I've read that Tina is one of the few characters who actually fights back against Jason Voorhees (she even causes Jason to employ several "what the fuck" head turns). Using her telekinesis to thwart Jason's many attempts to kill her, I thought Tina, not Jason, was the real threat in this movie (she removes his trademark goalie mask by simply raising her left eyebrow).

Adding everything I just mentioned about Diana Barrows and Heidi Kozak, I will be genuinely shocked if any of the other movies (holy crap, it says here they made ten films) can top the erratic awesomeness that Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood puts out there on a semi-regular basis.

It was pretty obvious, judging by the words I typed, that the intrinsic allure of Diana Barrows in a short skirt was what drew me to the hackneyed glow emanating from Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood. And it's pretty obvious what drew me to Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan, the–in case you're like me, and are hopeless when it comes to Roman numerals–eighth film in the inexplicably popular horror franchise. Care to guess why I was drawn to the sequel? Anybody? That's right, Jason Voorhees, the world's most famous drowning victim, is hitting the streets of New York City, the Big Apple, baby! The city so nice they named it twice. Sick of killing horny teenagers out in the sticks, Jason sets his eyes on the people of New York City. Holy shit! This is going to be sweet. Just a second, someone wants to whisper something in my ear. - Could you hold on a second, I'm trying to write about Jason Voorhees roaming Times Square in search of supple adolescent flesh to penetrate with a wide array of foreign objects. What's that? You say it's pertinent to what I'm currently writing about. Okay, then go ahead. Uh-huh. You don't say. An hour?!? Really? - Hey, I'm back. Well, according to my whispering friend, it would appear that I'm not currently writing about Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan. What am I writing about? Would it shock you to learn that I just watched Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes East Vancouver. Oh, I see. All right, so what. They substituted Vancouver for New York City, lot's of films do that. They [the producers] save money that way. Let me rephrase that, I just watched Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Sails the High Seas. But Jason does eventually walk the rain-soaked streets of East Vancouver masquerading as Manhattan, right? Yeah, after we spend an hour aboard a rusty Panamanian freighter with a bunch of annoying teenagers.

These annoying teenagers you speak of, please tell me they're at least transplanted New Yorkers. What? No, they're not New Yorkers. Okay, so, why the hell am I watching this? And don't say fashion. I'm afraid you're watching this for the fashion. But it's 1989. What's that got to do with anything? I'll tell you what, it's probably one of the most heinous years the decade ever spawned in terms of fashion. I thought you loved '80s fashion. Yeah, I do, but 1989 is a separate entity all-together. I don't know what was going on during that particular year, but even I have to question the taste of some of these people.

However, I'm not looking at you, Saffron Henderson. Your Pia Zadora meets Chrissy Amphlett of The Divinyls with a touch of Joan Jett look was beyond topiary. Unfortunately, writer-director Rob Hedden botches your potential as a style icon at every turn. First things first, Rob, you killed her first. What were you thinking, man? Okay, technically, Saffron wasn't the first to die in the film, that honour goes to Jim (Todd Caldecott) and Suzi (Tiffany Paulson), a couple of teens who were boating on Crystal Lake. But she's the first die aboard the Lazarus, the rusty Panamanian freighter I mentioned earlier.

Secondly, there were no full body shots of Saffron's J.J. Jarrett, part-time cuttie pie, full-time rock 'n' roller. Huh? I wanted to see the entirety of her leather-friendly outfit, yet Rob Hedden failed to provide me with one.

The killing of J.J. Jarrett pretty much sums up what's wrong with these films. But you have only watched two. That's true, but I can tell already that they're made by people with little imagination. If I see something in the other chapters (if I ever get around to them) that changes my mind, I will gladly point it out. In the meantime, the handling of J.J. Jarrett, or, I should say, the mishandling of J.J. Jarrett, definitely put me in a foul mood. I mean, why introduce a character who's so appealing from a visual point-of-view, only to kill her off almost immediately? It's fucked up. Let it go, dude.

I'll let it go, but I reserve the right to complain about it later on down the road. Quirky fun-fact: Saffron Henderson is the daughter of Bill Henderson from the band Chilliwack.

Things start off promising, as we're given a brief taste of the sights and sounds of New York City after dark. Aptly paired with the song "Darkest Side of the Night" by Metropolis, the opening shows footage of punks hanging out in Times Square, junkies shooting up, yuppies being mugged, the director's sister pouring coffee for a mildly deranged customer at a diner, and commuters riding on the subway.

What's great about this opening sequence is that we'll being running into them all later on in the film. Only problem is, we have to wait a whole hour to do so. Until then, Jason Voorhees, played yet again by the appropriately menacing Kane Hodder, is resurrected by a couple of sexually active teens on a boat; some nonsense involving an anchor cutting into an underwater electrical cable. At any rate, the male teen does tell the female teen (a white pantie enthusiast with lower back dimples) the story of Jason Voorhees, which I found to be highly informative.

Since Jason Voorhees knows nothing about sailing, the boat he's on drifts toward the harbour. Disembarking from the dead teen's boat, Jason hitches a ride on the Lazarus, a freighter that's been chartered by the graduating class of some high school; Crystal Lake High, maybe?

Eww, what's with the frizzy hair? Huh? Look at their hair. Who's hair? Rennie Wickman (Jensen Dagget), a thoughtful teen who is skittish around water and Colleen Van Deusen (Barbara Bingham), her English Teacher. Their hair is atrocious. It's a good thing Rennie is wearing that crazy vest or else I would have disowned her ass; normally I would say, "shapely ass," but we don't get to see Rennie's ass in this movie, so I can't confirm if it's shapely or not, which is a shame.

I have a question: If Rennie is so skittish around water, why is she getting on a Panamanian freighter? Excellent question. And that's exactly what Charles McCulloch (Peter Mark Richman), Rennie's uncle and the school's principal, would like to know. He gives Colleen a disapproving look, but reluctantly allows Rennie and her dog to come aboard.

After a brief montage that features shuffleboard, skeet shooting, and disco dancing in denim skirts, we spot a couple making out near the ship's stern. No biggie, right? Wrong! Both are wearing blue jeans with black leather shoes and white socks! I feel like my eyes have just been scratched an armada of super-tiny rakes.

Is it okay if I skip past the next part? Why? Well, Saffron Henderson is about to appear onscreen, and just thinking about what happens to her makes me sad. Don't be such a baby. Okay, fine. Playing her pink-accented Gibson Flying V on the ship's upper deck, a leather clad J.J. Jarrett is rocking out while Wayne (Martin Cummins) films her with his hulking video camera. Deciding that her guitar will probably sound better in the engine room, J.J. heads down there unknowing that a hockey-masked killer is waiting for her.

Why didn't Wayne and his busy shirt go down with J.J. to the engine room? Well, for one thing, he's a damned fool. Excuse me, but wouldn't he have been killed by Jason if he went down below with J.J.? Good point. What I should have said was: He was a fool for not being into J.J. In the long run, however, it doesn't matter, as most of these people aren't going to make it to New York City alive. So, you mean we're still going to New York City? Yeah, but the film is taking its sweet time getting us there.

While we wait, please enjoy the sight of Kelly Wu in suspenders. And since this is 1989, Kelly wears her suspenders in an unorthodox manner.

Who's that vision of cattiness standing next to Kelly Hu? Oh, that's the wonderfully unpleasant Tamara Mason. Played by Sharlene Martin, Tamara is the film's resident hosebeast. And I must say, she does a bang up job when comes to dispensing beastly properties that are hose-like in nature. Don't believe me, check out the scene where she pretends to accidentally push Rennie off the ship. Does Tamara know that Rennie is afraid of water and is currently being haunted by the ghost of Jason Voorhees? Well, duh! Of course she knows that. Man, what a hosebeast. Yeah, tell me about it, she rules.

And get this, Tamara didn't just push Rennie into a kiddie pool or even a serene lake up in the mountains, uh-uh, she pushes her into the freakin' ocean!!!

Call me sane, but I think Tamara is my new favourite character in the Friday the 13th universe. Did I mention she does cocaine? It's true, she totally does, cocaine, that is (cocaine, by the way is cool, while crack will always be whack). A cocaine-snorting hosebeast who pushes skittish, frizzy-haired basket cases in the ocean and is best friends with Kelly mother-scratching Hu? I love Tamara Mason.

I'm not trying to make your head explode or anything like that, but Tamara draws her biology project on her body. Huh? I don't get it either. But she uses these drawings and along with a black bra and matching panties to seduce Mr. McCulloch.

Are they in New York City yet? Not quite. Jason has more people to kill. Let me guess, Tamara and Kelly Hu aren't going to make it to New York. Well, the latter is a hosebeast. And hosebeasts rarely make it to the end in these films. So, probably not.

On the positive side, when we finally do arrive in NYC, we get to witness the epic rooftop the battle between Julius (Vincent Craig Dupree), a boxer/badass, and Jason Voorhees, a former drowning victim turned mindless killing machine. Using his skills as a boxer, Julius pummels Jason with dozens of head and body blows. It doesn't make up for the fact that Tamara, J.J., and Kelly Hu didn't make it to New York, but Julius vs. Jason is definitely worth the wait. While thirty minutes in Manhattan might seem like a rip off, the scenes on the boat were not as tedious as I thought they would be. Oh, and did I mention that Tamara totally pushes Rennie into the freakin' ocean!!! The Ocean!!!

He might not eat the flesh of his victims, but you might. Come again? You see, the cannibal, or, I should say, non-cannibal, at the centre of The Cannibal Man doesn't consume the flesh of the seemingly unending concourse of brunettes who show up at his door. Um, why do these, "brunettes" as you call them, keep showing up? Well, once a brunette goes missing, invariably another brunette will turn up looking for the brunette that came before them; it's a dark, auburn-tinted vicious cycle. Coming to the realization there won't be any room left in his modest house, located in the shadow of a luxurious highrise, to store their bodies if things continue at this pace, he decides to recycle them. Do I mean bury them in the ground, in other words, does he add them to nature's compost heap? Not exactly. Does he burn them? Not quite. Okay, I give up, what does he do with them? He takes them to the slaughterhouse he works at. Yeah, that makes perfect sense. Sure, it's gross and junk, but it takes care of his body problem. Though, I must say, the movie mustn't be very long. I mean, how long does it take to transport a few bodies to the slaughterhouse? Seriously, just plop them in the trunk of your car and you should be turning Javier and Maria into ground beef in no time. What's that? You say the so-called "cannibal man" doesn't have a car. Oh boy, this could be a problem. Didn't any those nosy brunettes bring a car? What I mean is, you could use their car to take their bodies to the slaughterhouse. No? You better make sure. Check their pockets. No car keys, eh? I don't know what to say, but you better head down to the drugstore to buy some air fresheners, 'cause your house is going to start to smell in a couple of days. And to think, all this could have been avoided had it not been for Generalissimo Francisco Franco. Huh? Don't "huh" me, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Oh, wait, you probably don't.

If you have seen The Cannibal Man, directed by Eloy de la Iglesia, you know exactly what I'm talking about. But for those who haven't, let me explain. Without going into much detail about Francisco Franco, he ruled Spain with an iron fist for many years. And because of this, the people grew to fear the police. This was especially true for the country's working poor. So, you have to remember, when Marcos (Vincente Parra) tells Paula (Emma Cohen), his leggy well-to-do girlfriend/fiance, that he doesn't trust the police, he's got good reason not to.

Wow, it sounds like this film has some depth to it. You could say that. And not only that, it also has a dry sense of humour. We get a taste of it almost immediately when we see Marcos calmly eating a sandwich in the vicinity of a bunch of cows who are in the process of having their throats slit.

Quick question: Marcos' leggy well-to-do girlfriend/fiance wouldn't happen to be a brunette, now would she? Why do you ask? Oh, I was just wondering, you know, since the people killed in this film are mostly brunettes, if she's one of his victims. Don't be silly, Marcos would never harm something so leggy. Just kidding, leggy or not, he'll kill just about anyone who gets in his way.

What's weird is, his killing spree starts so innocently. After spending all day surrounded by dangling cow carcasses at Flory (the meatpacking company he works at), Marcos is looking forward to hanging out with his leggy girlfriend. Grabbing a quick bite to eat at a local diner, and flirting a bit with the luminous Rosa (Vicky Lagos), the diner's aggressively milfy waitress, Marcos meets Paula in the subway. (Is there anything more annoying than subway riders who won't let the passengers get off the train before trying to get on themselves?)

Remember when the Soup Nazi scolds Jerry and his shmoopy-adjacent girlfriend for kissing in his line? No? How come? Don't you watch Seinfeld?!? Anyway, the taxi driver disapproves of the impromptu make-out session Marcos and Paula are currently engaging in in the back of his cab. Instructing them to leave his cab immediately, an argument ensues. Get this, the cab driver expects them pay the fare. But he didn't take them where they wanted to go? Exactly. Now, did the cab driver deserve to be killed? Probably not. But the moment he started hitting Paula was a game changer. In an attempt to stop the cabbie from slapping around his fiance–his leggy fiance, yeah, right, his leggy fiance–Marcos picks up a rock and hits him over the head.

While reading the paper the next day at work, Marcos discovers that the taxi driver he hit over the head is dead. In an unexpected twist, Paula insists that Marcos go to the police. Actually, as we'll soon find out, that's not that unexpected. Like I was saying, the rich trust the police, while the poor don't. And Marcos, judging by the dilapidated state of his home, is definitely poor. After some satisfying make-up sex (the look on Paula's face as she was being repeatedly penetrated by Marcos' Iberian penis practically screamed satisfaction), Marcos and Paula are back it.

You can see the exact moment Marcos decides to murder Paula, and it occurs when Paula gives Marcos an ultimatum. Pretending to go along with Paula's plan to turn himself in, Marcos pulls the old kiss and choke routine on her. As he slowly drains the life out of her, rendering her once leggy legs limp and useless, Marcos looks sad, yet at same time, seems relieved to be rid of her.

If only the prudish cabbie hadn't disapproved of their backseat make out session. If only Paula wasn't so gung-ho about going to the police. If only... well, you get the idea. Determined not to go the police, Marcos winds up killing everyone, and I mean, everyone, who tries to expose his dastardly deeds. In every case, though, Marcos gives each victim a chance to save themselves. Of course, the victims have no idea their lives are in jeopardy when Marcos throws them a lifeline, so they, more often not, fail to change his mind, ipso facto, he kills them.

Since I don't want to go into detail about each murder, let's just say, Marcos has no qualms about killing people. Maybe he's worked at the slaughterhouse too long, or maybe this is what happens to some folks after having lived so long under a fascist regime. While the murdering part might not be a direct result of fascism, the fear he has of authority is definitely a byproduct of fascism.

Using a wrench, a knife, a meat clever, and his bare hands to dispatch the dark-haired confluence that show up at his door, Marcos turns killing people in confined space into an exact science. Only problem being, what to do with the bodies after he's killed them? Employing the aforementioned meat clever, Marcos chops a piece off each victim, puts them in a sports bag, and takes them to work. When no one is looking, he dumps them in the machine used to make broth.

You'll no doubt notice that Marcos' sports bag is rather small. Which means this could take a while. And with no let up in the nosy brunettes who keep showing up at his door in sight, and, not to mention, the intensity of the stench (wild dogs have started hanging around his house), Marcos better find a faster way to dispose of the bodies.

In-between all this ghastliness, Marcos develops a friendship with Néstor (Eusebio Poncela), a well-to-do gay man who lives in the fancy highrise that overlooks Marcos' squalid shack. Besides sexual orientation, you can tell Marcos and Néstor come from different backgrounds when the latter uses words like, "demigod" and pariah," and the former looks at the latter with confusion.

The point I was making before about the way rich and poor people interact with the police is hit home when Néstor and Marcos are asked to show their identification badges to some fascist goons while enjoying a drink at a late night cafe. While Marcos nervously struggles to get his I.D. out of his wallet, Néstor calmly shrugs his shoulders and tells them that he forgot it at home. Check out the demenour of the cops when they find out Néstor lives in one of them swanky new highrises, the way they start to fawn all over him is sickening. It doesn't justify Marcos' killing spree, or his unorthodox approach to body disposal, but it does give us some insight as to why he bristled at Paula's initial request to go to the police.

And, at the end of the day, that's the main lesson I took away from The Cannibal Man, and, that is, fascism is bad. Actually, forget about fascism. Dictatorship or not, the quality of your treatment when interacting with law enforcement totally depends on your social status no matter where it is you live. Whether it be fascist Spain or midtown Manhattan, you are what's in your wallet.

Profoundly moving, an inspirational triumph, and a fully-realized journey of self-discovery, these words, when arranged in the order I just put them in, believe or not, are actually being used in conjunction with Cabin Boy, the unfairly maligned masterpiece that makes that bloated trilogy look like a walk in the park. Bloated trilogy? Aren't most of them bloated? Oh yeah, you're right. Okay, you know the one where the short guy with big, hairy feet recycles a gaudy-looking piece of costume jewelry in a volcano at the top of Eyeball Mountain? Yeah. Well, this film, directed by Adam Resnick, makes that one look like... yeah, yeah, a walk in the park. You do realize that's quite the bold statement you just made? It is? Don't be coy, you know it's bold. I don't see how, as this film pretty much tells the same story, an arrogant fancy lad learns a valuable lesson about friendship, loyalty and life in general. Don't forget, he gets to clean his pipes all over Ann Magnuson's gorgeous blue gams. It's true, they don't show specifically where this particular fancy lad deposits his fancy wad, but let's get real, they're shapely, they're long, and, most importantly, they're blue! Do I need to repeat that? They're blue! While I could talk about making a mess all over Ann Magnuson's blue stems until the end of time, I think I better finish making that point I was sort of succinctly making about a minute ago. And what was that again? Oh, yeah, the bold statement. Wait a second, you're not just comparing Cabin Boy with the Lord of the Rings Trilogy because "Melora" means "fellowship" in Yoruba? What the fuck? That's the most preposterous thing I've ever heard. Well, am I right? You're absolutely right. It's just I'm shocked that you were able to come that conclusion so easily. We must share the same brain or something.

The best thing about Cabin Boy is that you don't have sit through over eleven hours of boner-destroying nonsense, as it clocks in at an economical eighty minutes. Besides, does the Middle Earth soap opera feature Melora Walters prancing about in a red bathing suit for a good chunk of its legendarily not-so spry running time? Don't bother checking your The Lord of the Rings: The Motion Picture Trilogy Blu-ray Extended Edition, it doesn't.

You know what else is great about Cabin Boy? I have no idea, but I'm sure you're about to tell me. It features a scene where Chris Elliott gets chewing tobacco spat in his face by a giant, floating, talking cupcake. What's so great about that? You got to be kidding me. It's subversively funny. I don't get it. Cupcakes don't talk, they don't float, and they certainly don't chew tobacco, hence, it's subversively funny. If you're not feeling the example I just gave you, even though you totally should be, there are plenty of other instances of subversive humour peppered throughout this, what did you call it earlier? An unfairly maligned masterpiece? No, not that. A fully-realized journey of self-discovery? Yeah, that's the stuff.

What is a fancy lad, and how does one become one? While jaunting up Brunswick Ave. the other night, enjoying the blooming gardens flourishing outside row after row of the overpriced row houses that line this historic street, I noticed a man wearing tight orange pants walking ahead of me. Since it was dark out, and the canopy of one-hundred year-old maple trees was blocking the light emanating from the streetlights, I used the chromatic splendour that were his tight orange pants as a beacon to help guide me through the darkness.

I know, you're thinking to yourself, what's this got to do with, well, anything for that matter? Well, I think the guy in the tight orange pants was a fancy lad. Sure, he wasn't wearing his christening wig, but only a real fancy lad would wear tight orange pants in public. What's this? I'm being told by my fashion consultant Eva von Phabülous that tight orange pants are the hottest item for men this season. Excuse me, I have to ask Eva a follow up question: Did you say, men? Oh, you did. Just checking.

In my day, before the world became inundated with Johnny come lately fancy lads, you had to go finishing school to become a fancy lad. Or, more specifically, you had to attend the prestigious Stephenwood Finishing School, modeling fancy lads since the early 1780s. And that's exactly what Nathanial Mayweather (Chris Elliott) has been doing. And when we meet Nathanial, he's learning the proper way to tip a bowler hat. You might not think a skill like that would useful in the real world. But don't forget, Nathanial is on his way to becoming a fancy lad. Meaning, he has no use for the real world, or does he?

Upon graduating, Nathanial is given a boarding pass to ride on the Queen Catherine, a luxury liner of some kind. Looking forward to working for his mega-important father in Hawaii, Nathanial's limousine is about to take him to the dock, when all of a sudden, the driver kicks him out of the car. It's implied that Nathanial insults the driver, which shouldn't be a surprise as this fancy boy is a bit of a prick. Forced to embark on his first ever brisk walk, Nathanial comes to a fork in the road. Thinking he picked the right direction, given the helpful nature of the sign leading the way and the confident spring in his step, we actually learn that he went the wrong way; all thanks to a strategically placed cow.

Ending up in a seaside town by the sea, Nathanial consults a grubby street merchant (David Letterman) selling stuffed monkeys for help. Realizing right away that he is in the presence of a clueless half-wit, the grubby street merchant uses emasculating language to belittle the wayward fancy lad. To add insult to injury, the grubby street merchant sends Nathanial in the direction of The Filthy Whore, a rundown fishing vessel.

Even though The Filthy Whore is probably nothing like The Queen Catherine, Nathanial hops aboard nonetheless thinking an elaborate prank is being pulled on him; he declares The Filthy Whore to be "deliciously chic." Greeted by the equally dense Kenny (Andy Richter), the ship's cabin boy, Nathanial makes himself at home in the captain's quarters. When the rest of the crew arrive, they'll be shocked to learn that a fancy lad is accompanying them on their three month long fishing trip.

Shocked? Ya think? Well, let's meet them, shall we? There's Captain Greybar (Ritch Brinkley), who inadvertently spends the night with Nathanial; Big Teddy (Brion James), who intentionally throws Nathanial's christening wig in the ocean; Paps (James Gammon), who, according to Nathanial, is the drunken, abusive grandfather he never had; and Skunk (Brian Doyle-Murray), The Filthy Whore's resident mythology expert.

Whereas the fresh-faced Andy Richter is deadpan perfection as the world's dimmest cabin boy (his harem girl dance is the stuff of dim legend), the rest of the crew ooze an appropriate amount of grizzled boorishness.

Don't forget Ricki Lake as the ship's stoic, weather-beaten figurehead.

Using Kenny's dimness to change The Filthy Whore's course (he wants to go to Hawaii, not spend three months on a fishing boat with a bunch of monstrously insane people), he causes them to head straight toward Hell's Bucket. And judging by its name, it's not somewhere you would want to visit. To punish Nathanial for this act of navigational incompetence, the crew drag him behind the ship on a tiny raft.

Expecting him to die, the crew are surprised when they find out that not only has Nathanial survived nine whole days on a tiny raft, but he managed to befriend Chocki (Russ Tamblyn), a flighty half man-half shark.

You know what this film needs? A little Melora Walters. Coming right up.

As far as cinematic introductions go...

...you can't get any better than Melora Walters' in Cabin Boy.

What about Omar Sharif's introduction in Lawrence of Arabia? Or Darth Vadar in Star Wars? Fuck that noise. Real cinema buffs know deep down inside that Melora Walters' intro in Cabin Boy has way more going on when it comes to being iconic and junk.

As expected, Nathanial develops a bit of crush on Melora Walters' Trina, who is, or, I should say, was, hoping to swim around the world. You see, by bringing Trina aboard The Filthy Whore, via a fishing net, her attempt to break the world's record is forfeited; something about her not being allowed to touch solid objects, and the last time I checked, The Filthy Whore is a solid object.

After a nasty encounter with an iceberg monster causes severe damage to the ship, the crew of The Filthy Whore are forced to head toward a deserted island to do some repairs.

Deserted? I hope you're joking. I was promised there would be a blue-skinned, six-armed, leggy Ann Magnuson in this film. And since there's only around ten minutes left, she had better show up soon. Don't worry, I don't know why I said the island was deserted, Ann Magnuson is coming soon. Damn straight, I didn't sit through seventy minutes of Chris Elliott acting like an imbecile to not get any Ann Magnuson.

Playing Calli, who, like I said, has blue skin and six-arms, Ann Magnuson teaches inexperienced seaman how to fuck. Don't be crude. Whoops, sorry about that. Well, it's what she does. Yeah, you could have said it in a more genteel manner. Anyway, I liked when Nathanial tells Calli that she must spend a fortune on mittens.

Imagine if Ann Magnuson's character had six legs instead of six arms? Ahh, I can't think about it. You better not think about it, or else Calli's husband (Mike Starr) might decide to cut off your head with a pair of nail clippers.

The future we lay out for ourselves is never what we expect, and Cabin Boy solidifies that unpredictableness in a manner that is both enlightening and masterful. Whether we be fancy lads or humour-challenged cybergoths, we all have choices to make, and this film's underlying message makes a pretty good argument that one should try to exist in a realm that isn't necessarily situated in the vicinity of your comfort zone. A funny, breezy film that temporarily infused my spirit with mirth, whimsy and shitload of roasted pumpkin seeds, Cabin Boy is the Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World of seafaring movies about moronic fancy lads in christening wigs.

Since my mind is still racing after having just witnessed Black Magic Rites (a.k.a. Riti, magie nere e segrete orge nel trecento...) for the very first time, I've decided to start things off at a slower pace than usual. But don't worry, there's plenty of insanity to come, as this film, directed Renato Polselli, is the epitome of de-ranged. The point I'd like to make before I lose my shit has to with the fact that I had no idea what was going on half the time. Call it filmed madness, call it a psychedelic nightmare, this flick will cause even the most hardened of movie watchers to plunge their meaty paws down the front of their trousers and start aggressively scratching the area located between their genitals and anus 'til there's nothing left but a superfluous patch of the splotchy nothingness. Then it dawned on me, what is "going on"? And why is it so flipping important to know...what's "going on"? There has to be a more eloquent way to put that. But until that way comes along and repeatedly beats me over the head with its wayward ways, it will have to do. No foolin', does not knowing what's "going on" actually enhance the viewing experience? It might matter if, say, the film you're watching is plot-based or is one of those pesky films that insist on telling a story. However, I don't see those things effecting the ebb and flow of this unsavoury slab of first-rate Eurosleaze. Truth be told, the real reason I'm dismissing the importance of knowing what's "going on" in regard to this film has something to do with the fact that I don't want to have to explain the plot. I thought you said that this wasn't those kind of films? It isn't, but there's still a beginning, a middle and an end, and the characters insist on saying words. Out loud? Totally out loud.

If you don't mind, let me take a quick look-see at the words I just typed. Hmmm, while the part about the splotchy taint seemed a little long-winded, I think I made my point.

You made your point? It looks like it. Does this mean you're going to start obsessing over the smallest details in the most over-analytical manner possible? Yeah, I think so. Awesome. Just as long as you don't expect me to make any sense. You never make any sense. Oh yeah, that's right, I don't.

When I first saw her mock pirouetting at a swanky party in a black midriff-exposing outfit with feathery sleeves, I thought to myself: Now she's oozing the kind of crazy that I like. Oh, and before I continue, you wanna how swanky this party was? I'll tell you how, I saw a couple of guys wearing sliver lamé blazers. Fuck, that is swanky. Okay, continue.

Where was I? You were about to revel the name of this perpetually off-balance vision of brainsick loveliness. While I don't think I was about to do that, I'll revel her name, nonetheless. Drum roll, please. Even though there are plenty of mentally unwell European women to worship in this film, my veneration begins and ends with Stefania Fassio as Steffy, the garrulous headcase who writhed and gesticulated her way into the rarely penetrated nooks and crannies of my jet-black heart.

Speaking of hearts, a woman in a red pleated mini-skirt is screaming "aiuto" over and over again in a dungeon-setting. Check out the way the candlelight accentuates her pantyhose ensnared thighs, it's a beautiful sight to behold. What does that have to do with hearts? Oh, I'm sorry, I guess I was distracted; pantyhose ensnared thighs illuminated by candlelight have a way of doing that.

After being tied to a slab by a bunch of bearded Satanists in red unitards, and screaming "aiuto" (which means "help" in Italian) about a thousand times, the Satanists forcibly remove her heart and drink her blood. Why are they doing this, you ask? Well, from what I could gather, they were paying tribute to Isabella, The Great Mistress, who is currently chained to the wall.

Screaming in Italian, writhing, trippy colours, almost thigh-high boots, kaleidoscopic weirdness, preheated torture tools, demonic dogs barking in the distance, kooky editing, and pantyhose ensnared thighs, I have to say, this film had me eating out of the palm of its hand almost immediately.

As the Satanists finished drinking the woman in the red mini-skirt's blood and our attention quickly turns to the writhing antics of a sultry blonde who is making mincemeat out her bed (writhing can be murder on mattresses), I couldn't help but think back to when I was attending summer school in, oh, let's say, the mid-1970s. Wait, that's too far back. Okay, how 'bout mid-1990s? Sure, that will do. Anyway, if you were to tell me, as I sat there bored out of my mind at my little desk, that one day I will be able to watch Black Magic Rites utilizing my own freewill, I would have told you that you're not playing with a full deck. What I'm getting at is, I like to think this movie has been patiently waiting for me to discover it.

In truth, though, I should have discovered it sooner, as I'm huge fan of Renato Polselli's Delirium. Featuring the same actors, Delirium, as we all know, opens with a closeup shot of Stefania Fassio's jukebox adjacent legs, which are driving Mickey Hargitay mad with psychosexual desire. Well, in Black Magic Rites, Mickey plays "Jack Nelson," who is accompanying his stepdaughter, Laureen (Rita Calderoni), to see the castle he just bought.

Meanwhile, Christia (Christa Barrymore) is standing nearby in a manner that reminded me of Laibach (the fur vest she wore and her stoic demenour in general were very Laibachian as well). If you're familiar with Neue Slowenische Kunst, you'll probably agree with that statement. If, however, you're not, I apologize for making such an obscure reference. Seriously, when Christa Barrymore, who's also in Delirium, first appeared onscreen, I thought I was watching an Opus Dei-era Laibach video.

Grab your flashiest blazer and your chicest pair of boots, Mickey Hargitay, oh, I'm sorry, "Jack Nelson" (it's hard getting used to calling him that, as he doesn't seem like a "Jack Nelson") is throwing a castle warming/engagement party for his stepdaughter, who is marrying the pratt in the silver jacket, Richard (William Darni), I think his name was. At any rate, Steffania Fassio's Steffy makes her first appearance at this hifalutin social gathering, and, boy, is it a doozy.

Twirling around in her midriff revealing outfit, Steffy says "bye" about seven times in quick succession before pirouetting out the front door with a girlish aplomb. She doesn't get very far, though, as an unseen monster apparently prevents her from leaving. Writhing on the stairs in a fit, Steffy unleashes a rapid fire barrage of crazed nonsense as the rest of the party guests look on (there's not a bland blazer in the bunch).

Since the version of the film I watched was in its original Italian, the speed in which Stefania Fassio recites her dialogue was mind-blowing. I had no idea anyone could talk that fast. And I have to say, it was quite the turn on.

Recovering from her experience with the unseen monster, Steffy is back doing what she does best, annoying creeps in gaudy blazers and being adorable.

Not one to let the men have all the fun, gaudy blazer-wise, that is, Christa shows up at the party wearing a funky ass blazer as well. Is there anything sexier than a lippy lesbian who is obsessed with transparent scarfs that tell the future? What's that? There is? Oh, well, you got to admit, Christa is looking damn sexy in her jacket and tie ensemble.

Shouldn't you mention the part where we flashback to the 14th century and watch a clearly distraught Mickey Hargitay watch a justifiably frazzled Rita Calderoni being burnt at the stake? I guess, but since you just mentioned it for me, I don't really have to, now do I? Well played my friend.

On the bright side, I can now focus my attention on Stefania Fassio, who is currently entertaining a smattering of party guests by pirouetting on top of a table while singing, "La-la-la-la-la." I can't remember how many "la's" she employs during her pirouette, but trust me, it was a lot. Falling to the floor in a heap of clumsiness, Steffy looks sad.

Cheer up, Steffy, Christa, and her redheaded gal pal Lenda (Christina Perrier), are about to experience the chromatic hell that is the torture basement, a place where every goblet emits a menacing plume of smoke or your money back. I'm not 100% sure, but I think Christa is killed during her stay in the torture basement. Does that mean no more prancing about in caramel short-shorts? Yep. No more gallivanting along the castle walls in tacky vests? What do you think? That's a shame because...

Whoa! Check out the hat Steffy is wearing at Christa's funeral, it's coven-fabulous.

Judging by that last statement, it's obvious that my viewing of Black Magic Rites has taken on a life of its own. I'm sure if I put my mind to it, I could easily figure out what this film is all about. But I have to say, the uncut adorableness Stefania Fassio is putting out there on a semi-regular basis is making me not want to.

In the latter half section of the film, Stefania Fassio spends most of her time in her bedroom with Viveca (actress unknown), her blonde "friend," and a goofy guy with a twitchy eye (actor unknown). It's during these scenes where we really get a sense of how awesome Steffy's eyelashes really are.

While Viveca licks Steffy's knees and the goofy eye twitch guy penetrates her not-so garrulous pussy, the men go insane (even the shifty guy who isn't Donald Pleasence gets in on the insane action) and start ravishing the women. Stormy weather, neck biting, writhing, screaming, nipple kissing, brunettes in pantyhose, rattling chains, hairy armpits, ritualistic chanting, headbands, flowery panties underneath forlorn pantyhose, things, as you can clearly tell, are going off the rails.

When Rita Calderoni's fiance yells, "Nothing is real anymore," I have to say, he might be onto something. Only problem is, I can't take anything seriously said by a man wearing a day-glo abortion masquerading as a blazer.

Has Satan been defeated yet? 'Cause I'd like to wrap this thing up. Hey, look, the goofy eye twitch guy is trying to remove a hair from his tongue. Oh, goofy eye twitch guy in Black Magic Rites, why do I envy you so? Um, maybe because he got to pop Steffy's cherry in the vicinity of a blonde without a chin. Oh yeah, that's right. Lucky bastard. Aiuto! Aiuto! Aiuto!

Folding my arms in a manner as if to say, entertain me, you insignificant bag of cinematic trash, I sat down in front of Godmonster of Indian Flats with the lowest of expectations. Preparing to laugh at the sheer stupidity that was about to be unfold before my very eyes, I was shocked when the film, written and directed by noted sculptor Fredric Hobbs (Alabama's Ghost), turned out to be an intelligent satire about the ills of an ill-conceived society. Oh, you mean it's one of them monster movies that imply that it's humanity, and not the giant slimy/hairy, or this film's case, flocculent creature, who is to blame for everything that is wrong with the world? I guess. But this film tackles race relations, greed, fascism, tyranny, groupthink, and the burgeoning surveillance state. Wow, that sure is a lot of topics for one film to cover. Whereas most mutant killer sheep movies seem content to point the finger at pollution, this one has many fish to fry. Didn't it annoy you that the mutant sheep plot seemed secondary to the one about the black guy who was trying to buy land in and around Virginia City, Nevada? Are you kidding? That's what made the film so weirdly appealing. You think you're watching yet another mindless movie about an upright mutant sheep with an excessively elongated right leg, but in reality, you're getting a surprisingly thoughtful lesson on how power ultimately corrupts. Did you say, "uptight mutant sheep"? If so, why is the mutant sheep uptight? Was it raised Catholic? Ha, ha, very very funny. You know I said "upright." In order to give the mutant sheep at the centre of this ~~wool~~ hair-raising enterprise a more menacing appearance, the effects wizards in charge of creating the creature have it walk upright; as supposed to walking on all fours. And judging by the genuinely terrified looks on the faces of the kids whose afternoon picnic is interrupted by a giant upright mutant sheep, they made the right decision.

Shooting the picnic scene in the middle of the day was also the right decision. Of course, most directors of these kinds of movies try to avoid filming in daylight, because, you know, the light of day is usually unkind to special effects (every flaw is magnified). However, and I think most sane people will agree, that the sight of a giant upright mutant sheep staggering across a neatly trimmed lawn on a sunny day is way more effective than hiding your creature in the shadows of the dark.

While I like the sound of a giant upright mutant sheep movie with a social conscience, does Godmonster of Indian Flats have anything else to offer? Whatever do you mean? You know, does it have something for us perverts can latch onto? This movie poses deep, philosophical questions and all you can think about is your crotch? You disgust me. Just kidding, your query makes perfect sense. I mean, who wants to watch an overly earnest movie about a giant upright mutant sheep that doesn't feature some shapely distractions for all the sleazoids out there? I know I sure don't.

Does Carolyn Beaupre play Windy? Who? The alluring pickpocket (in the period accurate floozy duds from the late 1870s) who distracts Eddie (Richard Marion) the sheep farmer with her shapely gams long enough to steal his slot machine winnings? The only reason I ask is because I want to make sure I give the right actress credit. It's definitely not Erica Gavin, as she plays the woman we briefly see at a bar in Reno. It might be Evalyn Stanley, but... ahh, stupid credits. Well, whoever she is, she provides the film with its first genuinely sexy moment.

Stealing, like I said, the slot machine winnings Eddie the sheep farmer won in Reno when he wasn't looking, Windy, a Virginia City prostitute who works for Madame Alta (Peggy Browne), stuffs the cash in her cleavage. Noticing that his money is gone, Eddie the sheep farmer puts two and two together, and figures that the leggy enchantress in the reddish lacy hose must have stole his winnings. Since Eddie is not a local, Sheriff Gordon (Robert Hirschfeld) doesn't believe the fur-vested sheep farmer in the cowboy hat. And neither does Philip Maldove (Steven Kent Browne), the mayor's right hand man, who has his goons rough up Eddie before throwing him out.

Sympathetic to Eddie's plight, the town's resident scientist, Professor Clemens (E. Kerrigan Prescott), drives the mildly beaten Eddie home. Dropping in a heap in one of his sheep pens, Eddie proceeds to have these weird hallucinations involving flying sheep and gold dust.

Curious to see how he's doing, Prof. Clemens and his lovely, and, as we'll soon find out, flaky assistant Mariposa (Karen Ingenthron), pay Eddie a visit the following morning. Finding him underneath a pile of hay, they also discover a half-formed sheep embryo laying next to him. Putting it in his truck, Prof. Clemens, along with Mariposa and Eddie, take the half-formed sheep embryo up to his lab in Indian Flats.

While Prof. Clemens, who thinks this could be a huge scientific breakthrough, starts to grow embryonic sheep in his lab, the mayor of Virginia City, Charles Silverdale (Stuart Lanchaster), is busy refusing the offer given by Mr. Barnstable (Christopher Brooks), the emissary for a rich landowner from New York, to buy up land in the area.

Soon, after much dilly dallying, the land deal and mutant sheep subplot converge with one another. But not before we have a fake dog funeral, an attempted lynching, a Cognac-infused frame job, a wild west gun fight demonstration, and a pie eating contest. Don't forget the scene where Madame Alta eavesdrops on a private moment between Eddie and Mariposa in the town's cemetery. Okay, I won't. It turns out that Madame Alta is a fortune teller and she uses what she heard at the cemetery to her advantage during her Mariposa fortune telling session.

And judging by the look on Mariposa's face, she was deeply impressed with Madame Alta's clairvoyance. But before you call Mariposa a rube for falling for the oldest fortune teller trick in the book, check out the way she communicates with the giant upright mutant sheep.

When most of us see a giant upright mutant sheep roaming the countryside, our first instinct is to run in the opposite direction. On the other hand, Mariposa isn't most people. That's right, when the giant upright mutant sheep breaks out of the professor's lab, Mariposa runs after it. Wearing a yellow dress, which is apt, since the giant upright mutant sheep owes its existence to yellow phosphorus, Mariposa catches up with the wooly beast and attempts to not only have a conversation with it, she tries to get it to dance with her.

As martial law is declared in Silverdale County, the film's satirical bent becomes more apparent. But don't worry, there's plenty of giant upright mutant sheep action as well. If you were a newly free giant upright mutant sheep, where would you go first? My thoughts exactly. Heading over to a picnic being held by a small group of children, the giant upright mutant sheep crashes it in classic giant upright mutant sheep style. If I had to summarize my thoughts on Godmonster of Indian Flats, I wouldn't, the movie is about a giant upright mutant sheep. But in some ways it's about so much more.

You have all heard the expression, "beat them off with a stick," right? Well, in Lucio Fulci's darkly humourous Touch of Death (a.k.a. Alice Broke the Mirror) the lead character takes the expression one step further. A veritable ladies man (his burly stench brings all the gorgeous, mole-covered chicks to the yard), Lester Parson (Brett Halsey) literally has to beat them off with a stick. I don't know what it is about the shape of his jib, but the women in this film definitely like the cut of it. Anyway, you wanna know where keeps his stick? You do? Why aren't we inquisitive this morning/this evening. He keeps it hidden behind a potted plant. Isn't that fascinating? I don't want to contradict you mid-tangent, but I think you're taking the expression "beat them off with a stick" too literally. No, I'm not. He literally beats one of the many shapely goddesses who desperately want to feel his manly testicles gently knocking against their chins and anuses with a scrotum-based pitter-patter with a stick. I don't care if my interpretation of the idiom's original definition is incorrect, I decide what words mean. And it's clear, judging by my steely gaze, that I've decided to change the meaning of the semi-popular expression, "beat them off with a stick" to fit my own needs. Since his milf-beating stick doesn't have a name, what should we call it? How 'bout the widowmaker? That doesn't make any sense. Yeah, but not making sense is your thing, isn't it? Very funny. If the stick was used to beat the husbands of the mature babes that populate this movie, than, yes, the widowmaker would be an excellent name. However, since the steady concourse of hot older women that prance, frolic and gambol their beautiful, probably misshapen asses throughout this film are already widows, the name doesn't really fit.

First of all, I think you're focusing too much on Lester's stick; it's only used once, and even then, it doesn't really get the job done. And secondly, you already named the stick. I did? You sure did. Take a quick glance at the paragraph you just typed. Okay, I'll do that. Well, do you see it? Milf-beating stick? Bingo! Milf-beating stick. Milf-beating stick. It's a tad crass. But you know what? I like it.

Even though the milf-beating stick fails to accomplish the very business in which it was designed to carry out, and that is, beat milfs to death, it does cause arterial spray to vomit violently from the victim's forehead. Wait, I thought arterial spray could only erupt from parts of the body where arteries are located? Oh, you silly tosser. This is Lucio Fulci film. So? So?!? Blood sprays from everywhere. Duh.

Cleft lips, mustaches, hairy moles, mutton chops, belly chains, scabs, craniofacial deformities, opera-based somniloquy (it's when people sing opera in their sleep), taxidermy swans, and pot bellies, the women of Touch of Death have got it all. Now, when most people use the language I've been using to describe the various ladies who were kind enough to grace us with their presence, they're either being sarcastic or snide. I, on the other hand, am being completely sincere when I state that I adored the women--warts and all--who appear in this film.

We meet the object of the women in this film's affection in the opening scene. Cooking a piece of meat for himself, Lester Parson sits down in front of the television to watch some homemade milf porn. Turning it off just as the curly-haired babe with the growth on her face was about to remove her panties, Lester heads downstairs to conduct some important business.

What could be more important than watching homemade milf porn while eating meat? Oh, you'll see. Holy crap! Isn't the naked woman lying on a slab in Lester's basement the same woman from the homemade milf porn video he was just watching? It sure is. Grabbing a chainsaw, Lester proceeds to cut off her arms, her legs, and her head. For good measure, he bifurcates her as well. Taking a bucket of her guts outside, Lester feeds them to his pigs.

From where I was sitting, it doesn't look like Lester lives on a farm. However, it makes sense for Lester to have pigs, as it makes the line, "She found her future in pork bellies," all the more creepy and all more groan-worthy. By the way, if you're wondering who Lester said this pithy line to, every now and then, he consults his boombox for advice. Pressing play on the cassette player, the voice on the tape, which sounds an awfully lot like Lester, helps the middle-aged Lothario whenever he finds himself in a jam.

It didn't take long, but Lester went from being a rather harmless fellow who likes steak, listening to horse races being called on the radio, feeding his cat Reginald scraps of food, and watching homemade milf porn, to a deranged psychopath who dismembers women with a chainsaw in his laboratory-like basement; don't forget, he feeds their entrails to pigs. He's also a degenerate gambler, and, like I said, has deep and meaningful conversations with his boombox.

Since he blew his chance to extort any money from the curly-haired woman with the growth on her face (he found out she was a rich widow after he killed her), Lester plans to lure another rich widow to his layer. Answering personal ad, one that was looking for a wise and mature man to have a "lusty" relationship with, Lester finds himself face-to-face with the hirsute tit moles that pepper the chest area belonging to Margie MacDonald (Sacha Darwin), a...I don't want to call a "bearded woman," as she only has a mustache and mutton chops. I know, let's call her mildly hirsute.

Anyway, after doing the nasty with Margie, Lester concocts a convoluted scheme to drug her. This goes on for quite some time, as every attempt to drug her seems to go awry at the last minute. I thought to myself as he tried to drug her, this seems like a lot of work.

When all else fails, hit her with your milf-stick. Hit her! Hit her! Je t'adore, ich liebe dich. Hit her! Hit her! Hit her! Hit her with your milf-stick. Hit her slowly, hit her quick.

Lying in a heap, her tan pantyhose stretched to the breaking point thanks to her beefy thighs, Margie's left cheek is busted open, one of her eyes falls out, and her forehead is gushing blood as a direct result of Lester's milf-beating stick. You don't think something as trivial a missing cheek, an errant eyeball and the loss of copious amounts of forehead blood are going stop a gal like Margie, do you?

The only way to truly stop Margie is to knock her unconscious and shove her head in an oversize industrial microwave, and Lester would never do a thing like that. Well wouldn't you know, he's doing just that.

Tormenting him even in death, Lester is about to get ride of her body, but Margie's feet won't stay inside the trunk of his car. This scene, like the drugging scene, is played for laughs, as the manner in which Margie's foot kept popping out of the trunk right before Lester is about to close it is quite comical.

Unfortunately, all of Margie's jewelry turns out to be worthless. So, Lester decides to seek out another milfy widow. This time he sets his sights on Alice (Ria De Simone), a soprano seeking a tenor. Singing opera in the top half of a frilly Little Bo Peep-style costume (the lower half of her ensemble consists of nothing but a belly chain and a pair of awkwardly skimpy white panties), Alice is clearly getting on Lester's nerves. After taking turns exchanging some whimsical slaps to the face, Alice and Lester go to bed. The fact that Alice sings in her sleep seems to push Lester over the edge, so he strangles her with a whip.

Unlike his previous attempt to bilk rich widows of their money, Lester manages to get some money out of Alice; which, of course, he blows at the poker table. You know what that means? It's time to find another milfy widow. Only this time, the milfy widow contacts Lester.

Having seen Zora Kerova in a handful of movies (Cannibal Ferox and The New York Ripper), I kind of knew what to expect. However, what I didn't expect was a thoughtful and engrossing performance. Playing Virginia Field, the sexy widow with the scarred lip, Zora Kerova is wonderful as the final milfy widow; I loved how her character has a thing for swans, shrubbery and dresses with puffy sleeves. I mean, talk about well-rounded.

You know how I said all the milfy widows in Touch of Death were attractive? Well, I wasn't being entirely honest. You see, Zora Kerova's milfy widow is only one I can safely label as attractive while still managing to maintain a straight face. Don't get me wrong, the others had their pluses. It's just that Zora Kerova and her scarred upper lip was so darned appealing. Of course, Lester doesn't see things this way (he is clearly repulsed by her wonky upper lip), and plans on swindling her of a large sum of money and killing her with a lobster cracker.

A weird amalgam of Eating Raoul, Beyond the Darkness, Weekend at Bernies, and Sex, Lies and Videotape, Touch of Death is a jet black dark comedy with its tongue planted firmly in its cheek, which, in case you didn't know, has been obliterated by a heartily swung milf-beating stick.

Greetings, feeble earthlings. Excuse me while I gingerly gather up the requisite amount of space-related sexual innuendos for my not-so all-nude movie review of Space Thing, the grooviest, most ramshackle chunk of science fiction to hit me squarely on my not quite dimpled chin in weeks. Okay, I've finished collecting. Wow, that was quick. Let me try one right off the bat. All right, here it goes: I would like to land my taupe-coloured skin rocket all over the surprisingly crater-free surface of Cara Peters' ample moon base. Not bad. Though, if your skin rocket is "taupe-coloured," you should really see a doctor about that. Uh, what I mean is, you should really consult a skin rocket scientist immediately. But other than that, I thought it was on the cusp of being good–you know, as far as space-related sexual innuendos go. Actually, now that I think about it, the majority of the space-related sexual innuendos I came up with during my unnecessarily extensive space-centric sexual innuendos fact-finding mission were related to my fully-engorged spackle-making spangle maker redecorating the pristine epidermal layer that covers Cara Peters' spacious buttocks. And why wouldn't they? Have you seen Cara Peters in Space Thing? What am I saying? Of course you have. After all, you're the one currently writing about the epic space adventure film, produced by the legendary David F. Friedman and written by Cosmo Politan, as we speak.

Do you like strong, forceful women with child-bearing hips? Interesting. Okay, how 'bout the substantial thighs that come prepackaged with said child-bearing hips, do they scratch your itch? I see. Where do you stand on large conical breasts? Conical?!? It's a fancy way of saying, "cone-shaped." Even more interesting. Well, I've tallied the results. And judging by answers you gave, I'm afraid to say it, but you're a heterosexual man. What the hell? I don't want to be a heterosexual man; they're so not in right now. Are you sure I'm not gay? I mean, I dig campy chicks who boss around men with hairy backs. If that isn't gay, I don't know what is. No, you're definitely straight. This is bullshit.

Stop sulking, you stupid breeder. Blow me. Oh, and when I say, "blow me," I'm speaking metaphorically. Unless your mouth is shaped like Cara Peters' sensuous gob, 'cause I don't want your thin, mannish, not even close to being bee-stung lips anywhere near my prize-winning genitals. Good golly, would you look at that, I am straight.

If that's the case, how do you explain the fact that the wall of my bedroom as a child was covered in Boy George posters? That I cannot explain. However, you're reaction to Cara Peters in Space Thing is pretty good indicator of your devotion to heterosexuality. Having said that, Cara Peters' character is also a gay icon.

You mean to say that Cara Peters' character in Space Thing is beloved by straight and gay men alike? Not only am I saying that, I'm also saying that Cara Peters' Captain Mother is the de facto leader of the gay-straight alliance I secretly run out of my Aunt Marjorie's basement in Orillia. In other words, it's her sturdy, workmanlike thighs and her dedication to being campy in a space setting that are bringing the gay and straight populations closer together.

What about lesbians? Oh, man. How could I forget them? Are you ready? Cara Peters' Captain Mother, the sexiest spaceship commander to exist on this or any other plane of existence, is, in fact, a lesbian.

Aren't you forgetting someone? Who could that be? Straight women, that's who. Oh, them. I don't think they will get much satisfaction from watching Space Thing. Unless straight chicks dig guys with hairy backs. What's that? Some do, but most don't. Yeah, that's what I figured. Well, I guess you can't please everyone.

Speaking of not being pleased, Marge Granilla (Bambi Allen) can't get her husband, James Granilla (Steve Vincent), to put down those damned sci-fi novels he insists on reading in bed long enough to make sweet, passionate love to her. Now, I was going to go on this long tirade bemoaning the fact that Bambi Allen has fake breasts, but I read somewhere that Bambi died a few years later after this film was made due to complications caused by the silicone in her breast implants. So, as you can see, to whine about her breasts would be in bad taste.

Nevertheless, Marge manages convince her husband to put down his science fiction book and the two of them finally have sex. After they're finished engaging in sexual congress (what surmounted to a ten minute half-naked hug set to bongo music), James continues to read his book.

Imagining the infinite number of worlds that probably exist in the universe during of a moment of post-coital solitude, James quickly whisks us to the far reaches of the galaxy.

It's the year 2069, and James Granilla is no longer a hairy-backed husband with a wife with fake tits, he's now Col. James Granilla, an alien spy on a mission to destroy the Terran spaceship the S.S. Supreme Erection.

Oh, and before Col. James Granilla begins his mission, we're treated to an ultra-cool opening credits sequence that features day-glo lettering written all the over the body of a tanned blonde.

Wearing a gold lamé sleeveless jumpsuit, Col. Granilla hops aboard the Supreme Erection with minimal resistance. Actually, he meets no resistance whatsoever, as the crew see him as just another human male in supersonic sneakers. The only real resistance comes in the form of the dirty look Captain Mother (Cara Peters, aptly credited here as Legs Benedict) throws in Col. Granilla's general direction.

Her voluptuous body sheathed in a skimpy black and silver one-piece, her feet adorned with a pair of silver knee-high boots and her head fitted with a silver bathing cap (one with a hole in the back to allow her ponytail to dangle unmolested), Captain Mother puts her hands on her womanly hips and ponders what to do with this unexpected passenger.

You'll notice that the rest of crew, including Connie (Karla Conway), the brassy one, Portia (Merci Montello), the sassy one, and Astrid (Fancher Fague), the overly tan one, are sporting uniforms similar to one Captain Mother is wearing, except theirs are blue and silver. To give us an idea how they get into these uniforms, we're shown Connie getting into one after taking a space shower.

Not one to waste any time, Col. Granilla immediately gets down to the business at hand. And that is, sabotaging the Terran ship. Being unfamiliar with their ways, Col. Granilla must first learn their customs if he expects to fool the Terrans into thinking he's human. Using his invisibility shield, Col. Granilla observes as Portia has sex with The Cadet (Stan Isfloride), a bitter male crew member with a hairy back. When Captain Mother finds out about this, she strips The Cadet of his rank. You see, according to her, only she is allowed to have sex with the female members of the crew.

When not barking out orders to Willie (Dan Martin), the Supreme Erection's doltish helmsmen, Captain Mother likes to lounge around in purple diaphanous clothing and to don orange headbands. Since lounging has its privileges, Captain Mother. Wait, that doesn't make sense. Let me try that again. Since being the captain of an interstellar space vessel has its privileges, Captain Mother finds herself up to her elbows in guilt-free cunnilingus on a semi-regular basis.

Declaring the men to be off limits, Captain Mother punishes Portia for her cock-based transgression by whipping her on a round bed with psychedelic bed sheets. Groovy sheets, man. Ouch!

In order to get back in the Captain Mother's good graces, The Cadet agrees to fix the ship, which was hit by an asteroid. Since the film's limited budget won't allow us to see The Cadet's spacewalk, we're instead shown the minimalist interior of the ship; check out the chairs in the mess hall, they're simply yellow trashcans turned upside down.

After multiple attempts to sabotage the Terran ship end in failure, Col. Granilla excuses himself from dinner in the mess hall, and puts the ship on a collision course. He doesn't quite get the result he intended, but his actions do force the Supreme Erection to land on a nearby planet.

Maybe my mind was clouded by the thunderous sway of Cara Peters' tantalizing hips, but I think Space Thing might be a bad movie. A what?!? A bad movie. I don't think I've ever experienced this before. Experienced what? A bad movie. What are you talking about? You've seen plenty of bad movies. Yeah, but I always seem oblivious to the fact that they're bad. This is the first time in a long time that I've been acutely aware of a film's badness.

Did it have anything to do with the fact that the chairs in the Supreme Erection's cockpit were simply bar stools? No, I don't think had anything to do with the cheap props. Chalk it up to fake boobs, hairy backs, or even overly tan blondes, but there was definitely something off about this film. That being said, there was nothing off about Cara Peters, as her performance as Captain Mother, like I said, had a unifying quality about it.

Wielding her robust organic structure like it were a ball-peen hammer, Cara Peters' fabulousness in Space Thing will drive you insane. Just insane? Okay, she will cause you to fall into a bottomless pit of epileptic madness. Yeah, I know, if only the film could match the fabulousness Cara was putting out there. But still, for a film that sucks as hard as this one sucks, Cara Peters somehow manages to make everyone in the audience feel like they didn't just piss away seventy minutes of their life. In fact, I was deeply inspired by Cara Peters' turn in Space Thing. Inspired to do what is still anyone's guess, but inspired nonetheless.

The Sentinel (Michael Winner, 1977)

Death Walks at Midnight (Luciano Ercoli, 1972)

The Pyjama Girl Case (Flavio Mogherini, 1977)

Blood Diner (Jackie Kong, 1987)

She Mob (1968)

Nightmares (Joseph Sargent, 1983)

Convent of Sinners (Joe D'Amato, 1986)

Class of 1984 (Mark L. Lester, 1982)

Mark of the Whip (Roman Nowicki, 2005)

Suburbia (Penelope Spheeris, 1983)

The Boys Next Door (Penelope Spheeris, 1985)

Dudes (Penelope Spheeris, 1987)

Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood (Jon Carl Buechler, 1988)

Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan (Rob Hedden, 1989)

The Cannibal Man (Eloy de la Iglesia, 1972)

Cabin Boy (Adam Resnick, 1994)

Black Magic Rites (Renato Polselli, 1973)

Godmonster of Indian Flats (Fredric Hobbs, 1973)

Touch of Death (Lucio Fulci, 1988)

Space Thing (Byron Mabe, 1968)