House of Self-Indulgence

As we open in the murky depths of the waters just off the coast of Noyo, California, we can't help but notice a scaly, webbed hand pawing at a fishermen's net. Don't worry, I'm going to get into a heated debate with myself over who has the nicer set of thighs, Denise Galik or Lynn Theel, it's just that I would like to make this point. [Ten minutes pass] And that is? Oh, I'm sorry, I was just thinking about the prospect being sandwiched between Miss Galik and Miss Theel's luscious thighs. The point, man, make the bloody point! As I saw the scaly, webbed hand pawing at the net, I thought to myself: Great, not another cheesy monster movie where the creature rarely ever appears onscreen. And I didn't think this because I thought the filmmakers were trying to create an air of mystery around the creature, but because their monster–to put it bluntly–probably sucks a ton of ass. Even though we have to wait quite some time to see the "humanoids" in Humanoids from the Deep (a.k.a. Das Grauen aus der Tiefe), when do finally show up I was shocked by the level of craftmenship that went into their creation. Then, as the end credits were rolling, I saw name Rob Bottin listed as the creator and designer of the "humanoids." The name seemed familiar, so I did a little digging. And guess what? He designed the gooey monstrosities in The Thing! In other words, he's responsible for what I consider to be the gold standard when it comes to creature effects. This didn't change my opinion of the "humanoids" in this film, as I already thought they were awesome, it just added an extra layer of goodwill. Aww, what a cute story. Big deal, you like slimy monsters. Can we talk about you know what? You mean the Galik-Theel thigh-off? In a minute.

I'd like to mention director Barbara Peeters. Hey, wait, ain't "Barbara" a ladies name? It is (nothing gets past you). While it's not typical for a woman to direct a film about a bunch of upright sea monsters who terrorize a small fishing village, you can totally tell that Humanoids from the Deep was directed by a woman. How? I have two words for you: Hand holding. I don't get it. Lot's of movies have characters that hold hands. Yeah, romantic comedies. The amount of hand holding in this film, which features multiple scenes that involve sea monster rape, is off the charts. So, what you're saying is, because Barbara Peeters is a woman, there's more hand holding than usual? That's exactly what I'm saying. Chicks dig hand holding. It's a bonding thing.

While we're on the subject of women, the character of Johnny Eagle (Anthony Pena) seemed to have a strange feminine energy about him. But the film was written by a couple of men. Hear me out. Playing a First Nations resident of Noyo, California, Mr. Eagle opposes the building of the canning factory (fishing is the town's life blood) on so-called "Indian land." Of course, all the white folks in Noyo approve of the canning factory, as they think it will create jobs for the locals. Anyway, the stoic manner in which Johnny Eagle carried himself reminded me of one of those burly Harlequin cover models. Okay, now you're just being silly. Am I? Actually, you're right, it is kind of silly. But I got to admit, if I was a straight woman, I'd be swooning over Johnny Eagle left and right.

The scene where Johny Eagle, oozing righteous indignation from every single pore, carries his dead dog into the gymnasium where the locals are dancing to pseudo polka music made my p-p-p-pussy wet.

Remember that bit about how great it was that a woman directed Humanoids from the Deep? Yeah, well, I'd like to backtrack from that statement. Don't get me wrong, I still think Barbara Peeters did a terrific job. It's just that it has recently come to my attention that she had nothing to do with the scenes that I liked so much. Which scenes are those, you ask? Well, I'll tell which. Any scene that involves an attractive woman being attacked by a "humanoid" was apparently shot by second unit director James Sbardellati.

Okay, now that I cleared that up. Who is killing all the dogs in the fishing village of Noyo, California? Baron, the dog belonging to a no-nonsense fishermen named Jim Hill (Doug McClure - you might know him from such films as Tapeheads and Shenandoah) and his tough as nails wife Carol Hill (Cindy Weintraub), is torn apart by a slimy creature. How do they know it's slimy? For starters, there's a trail of slime leading to the beach where they found Baron's mutilated body. That's not the important part. What is, however, is the fact that Carol says, "let's follow it," when she sees the slime trail. I have to say, Jim picked a real winner with Carol. I mean, she wants to follow a trail of slime.

Getting ready to attend a party that is in conjunction with the 75th Annual Salmon Festival, Peggy Larson (Lynn Theel) and her luscious thighs are about to be unleashed on an unsuspecting populace. So proud of the upper portion of her shapely legs, Peggy can be seen hiking up her skirt while making out with her boyfriend Jerry (Meegan King) in the parking lot. Judging by the way they're pawing at one another, I don't think they're going to make it to the party. They didn't miss anything. The president of a canning company gave a speech and we're introduced to Dr. Susan Drake (Ann Turkel), a lady scientist hired by the canning company to assure the locals that the salmon population will not decrease as a result of the canneries opening.

Most of the excitement, in fact, takes place out in the parking lot, where Johnny Eagle gets in a fight with Hank (Vic Morrow), a racist reactionary, and his goons, over the death of his dog (Johnny's dog was the only dog not killed under mysterious circumstances). Since one vs. six isn't exactly a fair fight, Jim and his brother Tommy (Breck Costin) jump in to help Johnny even the odds a little bit.

Speaking of fair fights, are you ready for the battle between Denise Galik, who plays Linda Beale, a leggy artist, and Lynn Theel, who, like I already said, plays Peggy Larson, over who has nicer thighs? You are? That's wonderful. It's too bad the battle wasn't more spirited, as Lynn Theel's thighs blew Denise Galik's out of the water. Seriously. It was no contest, as Lynn is packing a pair of Ann-Margret-quality thighs.

I have to say, though, Denise Galik does look amazing while sitting cross-legged on a rocky beach. But this contest is all about thighs, and Lynn Theel is the clear winner in that regard.

Is she, though? Is she what? The clear winner? I don't know what you mean? After kicking Linda's ass in the thigh contest, Peggy decides to splash around in the water. Can you blame her? She wanted to cool her thighs, because... yeah, yeah, they're smoking hot. While frolicking with Jerry, who is wearing a skimpy pair of jean shorts (you're welcome ladies), in the water, Peggy is on top of the world. Winning made-up contests and looking good in a bikini has its advantages, it also has disadvantages. Really?!? Horny humanoids from the deep will want to mate with you.

Bursting out of the water, a humanoid rips a chunk of Jerry's face off (great gore effect) and proceeds to drag an unamused Peggy ashore so that he may rape her on dry land.

Soon afterward, a tent-dwelling bosomy brunette in a red headband (Lisa Glaser) is the next to be raped; I like how her boyfriend's ventriloquist dummy continues to move its eyes long after her boyfriend's hand has been removed from his wooden tuckus.

It would seem that the men of Noyo are being killed, while the women of Noyo are being raped; there's a scientific explanation for this. Anyway, putting their differences aside, the town decides to band together to find out who's responsible for these brutal attacks.

If you thought you had seen the last of Peggy's substantial thighs, think again. Stumbling across a human leg sticking out from a pile of seaweed, Dr. Susan is shocked to discover that it's Peggy's leg, and that she is still alive. Don't get too excited, Dr. Susan, who is teamed with Jim and Johnny, has to fight off wave after wave of pissed off humanoids.

When they realize that tonight's the big salmon festival, and that there are literally hundreds of humanoids roaming around out there, they hurry back to warn the others. Who's bright idea was it to carry on with the salmon festival? Who do you think? The mayor; all he cares about is money. To the surprise of no one...well, that's actually not true, Miss Salmon (Linda Shayne) looked genuinely surprised, as did Mad Mike Michaels (Greg Travis) of K-FISH. Okay, let me rephrase that. To the surprise of some, the humanoids lay waste to the salmon festival the only way they know how. And that is, of course, by employing their number one skill: Flesh tearing.

Oh, look. Miss Salmon is about to be raped by an humanoid. Yawn. Wait a minute, what's this? She's fighting back?!? Go, Miss Salmon! Go! Yeah, bash its head in with a rock, you plucky sex object. That will teach them not to mess with Miss Salmon. I'm afraid the same, however, can't be said for everyone else, as the humanoids are killing and raping Noyo residents left, right and centre.

If you're wondering what happened to Carol Hill, and why I described her earlier as "tough as nails"? Well, wonder no more. Left alone with her infant son (her husband is busy shooting humanoids near the town's ferris wheel), Carol Hill must battle a long-armed humanoid using whatever she can find lying around the house. And I must say, even though Peggy and the bosomy brunette in the red headband don't put up much of a fight, I liked how the female characters, like, Carol Hill and Miss Salmon, stood their ground in this film. I've read that it's traditional for female characters to be tough in Roger Corman produced horror movies, but I like to think Barbara Peeters had something to do with the moxie the women display when faced with mortal danger in this film. I guess I'll end on that note. No, wait. I'll end like this: Do you like films that feature female empowerment interspersed with sea monster rape? You do?Well, what are you waiting for? Watch this movie!

Just a second, I want to listen to the theme music from this film one more time before I officially begin. And...done. Because I just did that, I have to change my plans. You see, I was all set to fire my opening salvo of hyperbolic praise in the general direction of costume designer Massimo Lentini–and I still plan on doing so... lavishing praise on them, that is–but to ignore the music of Franco Bixio, Fabio Frizzi and Vince Tempera in Lucio Fulci's The Psychic (a.k.a. Seven Notes in Black) right out of the gate would be foolhardy, as it dominates the proceedings with an atmospheric elan. Okay, now that I got that out of the way, let's talk about that fall, shall we? Didn't you think the tone of the cliff suicide scene that opens the film was a little misleading? Holy crap, I was thinking the exact same thing. Yeah, yeah, most directors, when filming a scene like this, would show a close-up shot of the face of the distraught individual about to jump to their death and then pull back just when they're about to leap. But not Lucio Fulci. He knows the person doing the jumping will probably hit their head, or, in this case, their face, on the jaggedy cliff as they plummet towards the rocky beach below at a high rate of speed. And in order to capture these hits, he makes sure we see every thud in lurid detail. Of course, your initial reaction to such a scene might be disgust. However, you've got to remember, the jumper's daughter can see everything; she is, after all, psychic. And in order to highlight the impact (no pun intended) this event will have on the jumper's daughter in coming years, we're shown the grisly results of every face-ruining smash. Oh, and the reason I said the scene was "misleading" was because there's nothing else in the film that comes close topping it in terms of over-the-top, Fulci-friendly gore.

Don't fret, horror fans, Lucio Fulci has decided instead to deliver a highly effective psychological thriller that boasts a fashion-forward female protagonist at its core. I'm no expert on such matters, but I think horror fans prefer gory mayhem to films that boast fashion-forward female protagonists. They do?!? If that's the case, they should start fretting then. Hell, they might even have to sit this one out. I, on the other hand, will happily gnaw on this film's asparagus-flavoured burlap crotch in their place; they can use the free time they have from not watching this film to iron their horror shirts.

I'll admit, given Lucio Fulci's reputation, I was hoping for a bit of a gore-fest as well. On the other hand, when I realized this wasn't going to be your typical Lucio Fulci film (even though he's made film's in almost every genre imaginable, he was best known for gory horror flicks during this particular period), I quickly adjusted my attitude to one that fit the overall tone this film was putting out there.

Since I've already spent a fair amount discussing it, I'll simply say, the film opens with a little girl in Florence, Italy back in 1959 having a vision of her mother jumping off a cliff in England. "Mommy!" she screams out, as her mother steps over the edge. Fast-forward to mid-1970s and that little girl now looks like the über-stylish Jennifer O'Neill. How a freckle-faced redhead grew up to be an elegant brunette who drives a Rolls-Royce is anyone's guess. Either way, Jennifer O'Neill is Virginia Ducci, the clairvoyant wife of Francesco Ducci (Gianni Garko), a man who has his own private jet; I know, ooh-la-la.

As Virginia and Francesco are driving, in their aforementioned Rolls-Royce, to the air field, "With You" by Franco Bixio, Fabio Frizzo and Vince Tempera is playing on the soundtrack. Why am I mentioning this? Well, it's a great song, that's why. One of the ways I like to stand out from the crowd when it comes to movie reviews is to occasionally point out the things I liked and disliked about the film I'm reviewing, and the song "With You" is definitely something I liked.

After watching Francesco's plane take off, Virginia attempts to drive herself back to the house. "Attempts"? Yeah, it would seem that Virginia and long, dark tunnels don't get along so well. It's during the tunnel sequence, by the way, that we get our first close-up shot of Jennifer O'Neill's eyes; a Fulci trademark.

While driving through the tunnels, Virginia has a vision, one that includes a man with a limp, bricks being laid, a cigarette resting on the edge of a blue ashtray, the bloody face of an old woman, a magazine with a dark-haired woman on the cover, and a distinctive-sounding watch tone.

Clearly frazzled by the ordeal, Virginia goes to see her psychologist friend, Luca Fattori (Marc Porel), a handsome fella who likes red sweaters and seems proud of his reel-to-reel tape player. I wonder if Francesco minds that his smoking hot... Hey! Don't be crude. What? You don't call a woman like Jennifer O'Neill "smoking hot," it's beyond vulgar. What should I call her then? I've already described her as "über-stylish" and "elegant." What about "fashionable"? Okay, so, does Francesco mind that his fashionable, Bulgari jewelry-adorned wife is spending so much time with her hunky shrink? It doesn't seem so.

More psychic weirdness takes place when Virginia is checking out an old property they apparently own. As she's tidying up, she notices that the room she's in is eerily similar to the one from her vision. Fixated on a part of the wall located behind a table of some kind, Virginia grabs a pick-axe from the basement and starts whacking at the brick and plaster with all of her might. Just as she was about to give up (she may be fashionable, but she ain't no contractor), she spots a human finger amidst the rubble.

Doing what any normal person would do when they come across walled up skeletal remains, Virginia calls the police. Little does she realize, but she's made her husband the prime suspect; after all, it's his house; Italian law dictates that if you find skeletal remains, or regular remains for that matter, on your property, it's your problem.

I liked it when the policeman questioning Virginia at the scene asks her why she didn't have a contractor or a decorator with her when she was inspecting the house, and she forcefully declares, "I am a decorator!" Yeah! You tell him, girlfriend.

Even though it's blocked by a couch for most of the scene, my favourite Jennifer O'Neill article of clothing has to be the long, and I mean, long, white pleated skirt she wears during that brief period between the discovery of the walled up skeletal remains and Francesco's arrest. Now, most people would bemoan the fact that Jennifer O'Neill's body is always draped/sheathed in clothing. Well, there won't be any bemoaning on my part. I was actually quite taken with Virginia's tendency to remain covered; it also helped that her clothes, thanks to costume designer Massimo Lentini, were too chic for words.

This also applies to Francesco's sister Gloria Ducci (the fabulous Ida Galli - dig the fur hat) and Luca's secretary Bruna (the adorable Jenny Tamburi), as they remain covered up as well. Oh, and when I say, "covered up," I mean everything except their face is covered in clothing. If you're wondering about their necks, they cover them, too; thanks to a seemingly endless supply of turtleneck sweaters and scarfs.

Immediately after her husband is arrested, Virginia goes into sleuth mode. Determined to uncover the truth, Virginia attempts to piece together, with the help of Luca, Gloria and, of course, Bruna (on top of being cute as fuck, her sleuthing skills are second to none), the events of her vision. She soon discovers that what happens in her vision didn't occur in the past, but is something that is about to occur...in the future. And not only that, the events are going to happen to her.

How does one avoid being murdered, or, more specifically, walled up in a wall, when you know exactly how it's going to happen? The answer will surprise you. I don't want to even imply what I'm getting at. But let's just say the theme music I alluded to at the beginning of this review plays a significant role in relation to whether or not Virginia will live or die. I get chills just thinking about how the theme music is used in this movie; it's so freaking effective. Which is a weird thing to say, given the fact that I usually associate Lucio Fulci films with eyeballs being stabbed, not semi-intelligent plot twists. Anyway, I came away from The Psychic with a new-found respect for Lucio Fulci, as this film proved to me that there's more to Italian cinema than just gore, legs sheathed in stockings, and half empty bottles of J+B Scotch Whisky. Oh, and the theme from this movie was used in Kill Bill Vol. 1; hence the reason it might sound familiar to some of you.

What does one see when one views the human condition through the lens of a microscope? If you don't know the answer to this query, you clearly haven't been touched by The Room. Its surface might not be tactile (hell, it might not even exist at all), but those who have been touched by it, and those who are thinking about being touched by it, know exactly what I'm talking about. Now, I'll admit, I was somewhat skeptical about the prospect of allowing myself to enter the mind of writer-director-star Tommy Wiseau with the full force of my chi. I was all like, where did this strange creature come from? And why am I letting him hold sway over my spiritual well-being for such a lengthy period of time? I mean, do I really want someone who looks like they have been purposefully crossbred with Blixa Bargeld from Einstürzende Neubauten and Phil Hatrman's Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer to be in charge of my spiritual future? Well, to answer my first question, I can only guess that Tommy Wiseau is eitherfrom Bukovina or Transnistria (not that there's anything wrong with that). As for his stranglehold on my spiritual well-being/future? Have at them, Tommy. In other words, prepare to be irreparably altered by his heartfelt tribute to the wonders of love, 'cause you'll never be the same again after you have been touched by The Room. (Uh, don't you mean, irreparably damaged?) You see, that's what wrong with your generation. When you're not cloaking yourself in a translucent layer of irony, you see everything as a threat to your mollycoddled psyches. You know how long it's been since I tossed a football with someone? (Aren't you going to finish the point you were making about what's wrong with today's youth?) Well, I was about to about finish it, but someone interrupted me. (You're talking about me, right?) Yes. (Whoops, sorry about that. Do continue.)

Where was I? Oh, yeah, football. It's been years since I tossed, and, using deductive reasoning, caught, a football (unless the person I'm throwing the football to decides to be a dick and not throw it back). And during all those years, never once did I think to myself: Gee, I wish someone would throw me a football. Well, I have news for you, after being by touched by The Room, I wanted someone to toss me a football so bad, I could smell Fred Quillan's taint sweat on my fingers.

(What's your point?) Do I have to spell it out for you? The Room made me want to play sports? That's a pretty big deal. (Aren't you just saying that because there's an inexplicable amount of football tossing in this film?) You could be right.

(On the other hand, you could be using football as a way of dampening your love of Juliette Danielle's Lisa, a woman, who we'll soon find out, is the epitome of heterosexual desire.) Why would I want to dampen my love for Lisa? It's obvious you haven't been touched by The Room. That being said, the sheer amount effort it took me not to go ga-ga from the get-go about Lisa was extraordinary. (Why are you trying to stop yourself from expressing your true feelings?) Don't you see? That's the power Lisa has over men. (She can't be that powerful, can she?) Don't make me mock you for not having been touched by The Room a third time. And, yes, she can be that powerful.

In fact, I kept hoping the many men in her life would get run over by a trolly, so that I could fly to San Francisco and take a crack at being used and abused by Lisa.

Speaking of trollies, the film opens with a cool director cameo, as we clearly see Tommy Wiseau riding on a trolly in the first scene. (Wait a minute, director cameo? How can a director have a cameo if he's the star of the movie?) Good point. But then again, we don't know that yet. (What are you talking about? His Bargeldian/Unfrozen Caveman face is larger than life on the film's poster.) Okay, fine, it's not really a director cameo. I just liked the fact that Tommy Wiseau can be seen riding one of San Francisco's iconic trollies.

"Wow! You look so sexy, Lisa." And with that line, we're introduced to one of the most alluring female characters in film history. (Are you serious?) I'm deadly serious. Actually, I'd like to alter what I said about Lisa being the one of the most alluring female characters in film history. (Thank you. I mean, even you have got to admit that's kooky talk.) What I should have was: When Lisa (Juliette Danielle) gets up off the couch, her bottom half sheathed in a black skirt with a massive slit up the side, her upper half adorned in a tight blue top, to greet her boyfriend Johnny (Tommy Wiseau), we're introduced to one of the most alluring characters in film history. (Except for some unnecessary details, what you said sounds exactly the same.) Um, hello? I removed the part where I made reference to Lisa's gender.

Oh, and "unnecessary details"?!? Since when are black skirts with massive slits unnecessary? They will always be necessary. Always.

Enjoy the sight of Lisa in her black and blue slit-friendly ensemble while you can, because she's about to change into the red slip Johnny bought for her. (Maybe that's where Johnny was going on the trolly in opening scene, to buy Lisa a red slip at the local lingerie store.) You could be right. But I don't want to focus on that at the moment, as Lisa is about to come down the stairs wearing the very red slip Johnny gave her. Damn, Johnny's right, she does look sexy.

(Who's that mentally retarded kid with the floppy hair salivating over Lisa?) Oh, that's Denny (Philip Haldiman), he lives in Johnny and Lisa's building and likes to pop over from time to time. (Yeah, okay, but why is Johnny letting him ogle Lisa in her red slip?) Oh, that's easy, Denny, like Johnny, is a big fan of Lisa's soft, supple flesh, and one of the best ways to appreciate its mind-blowing contours is to ogle it. (I guess that makes sense. I still don't understand where Denny fits in with all this, but I'm sure it will be explained at a later date.)

If you don't mind, Johnny and Lisa are now going to have semi-tasteful sexual intercourse in their bedroom. (Okay, but why is Denny in bed with them?) He just wants participate in their pillow fight foreplay. I'm sure he'll leave when the time comes for Johnny to gingerly insert his pockmarked penis into Lisa's rose petal-dusted vagina.

Now, I realize that I've used the expression, "pockmarked penis," many times in the past. But I think most of you will agree, it has to be applied to Johnny's penis. I mean, there's no way it's not covered in pockmarks.

My favourite part about the film's first sex scene wasn't the music, the candles, the rose petals, the awkward humping, or even Lisa's tantalizing breasts, it was when Lisa's blonde hair goes from being up to down, to up again, within the span of five seconds.

It may have been pockmarked, and it might take weeks to get all the rose petals out of her vagina, but Lisa's post-coital demenour after being on the receiving end of about a dozen or so soft focus wayward thrusts oozes an air of satisfaction.

However, that satisfied demenour actually masks an unmistakable layer of uncut dissatisfaction, as we quickly learn that Lisa doesn't really love Johnny. In fact, she thinks he's downright boring. (You mean to say that while Johnny is out earning money to pay for red roses and red slips, Lisa is badmouthing him to her mother?) That's exactly what I'm saying. Judging by the series of scrunchy faces she employs during her mother's forthcoming lecture, Lisa is no mood to be told what to do; her mother thinks she should stick with Johnny, as he's good for her.

Her delicious curves were designed to seduce men, not to be periodically prodded by the pelvically challenged on weekends. Realizing this, Lisa calls Mark (Greg Sestero) and tells him to come over so they can "talk." It's obvious when Mark arrives that Lisa's got more on her mind than talking. (Hey, isn't Mark Johnny's best friend?) So? Forget about Johnny. Stop trying to put Lisa in a box. Look at Lisa's organic structure. Look at it. It's soft, shapely, and full of nooks and crannies you didn't even know existed. It needs to be shared with the world. And part of that world is located between the fork-shaped area where Mark's probably not pockmarked penis spends the better part of its day contemplating about pussy and honeysuckle.

(I don't know about this.) What's to know? (Yeah, but, won't Johnny be upset that Lisa is having stair sex with his best friend?) Screw him. You heard Lisa, she doesn't love him anymore and he's boring to boot. (But he buys her roses and red slips.) I think Lisa needs more than roses and red slips to make her happy.

Speaking of roses, Johnny is about to pick up another dozen as we speak. Quick question: If Johnny is such a regular customer at the flower shop, shouldn't he know the name doggy that always sits on the counter? Maybe the dog's name is "doggy." Get the fuck out of here.

Given that Johnny and Lisa have been together for five years, that means he's roughly spent over 400,000 dollars on roses during their relationship.

Instead of simply breaking up with him, Lisa starts a campaign of deception and deceit. On top of that, she gets him drunk (Johnny is straight edge), tells people he hit her, and asks him if he wants her to order a pizza after she had already placed an order for one.

Just before sex scene #3, the second involving Johnny and Lisa, is about to take place, a drunk Johnny informs Lisa that she has nice legs. This statement is probably the most sensible line Johnny utters in the entire movie, as the rest is a haphazardly assembled series of grunts and non-sequiturs.

Call me callous and weird, but the scene where Lisa's mom informs her that she has breast cancer is the hottest scene in the movie. In order to prevent the mawkish dialogue from interfering with my autoerotic activities, I turned the sound down. Oh, and the reason the scene is so hot is because Lisa is wearing black pantyhose as she sits and listens to her mother blather on about how she's dying.

In terms of drama and dramatic acting, Juliette Danielle shines during Denny's rooftop confrontation with Chris-R (Dan Janjigian), a toque-wearing, gun-totting drug dealer. When Johnny and Mark usher Chris-R off the roof, Lisa demands to know what kind of money Denny owes Chris-R and what kind of drugs he's using. Dissatisfied with the answers Denny gave regarding both of her clearly worded queries, Lisa repeats the questions over and again. I get chills just thinking about the intensity of this scene. It's pretty heady stuff.

Boasting the body of Lydia Lunch, the mind of Nancy Spungeon, and the face of an angel, Juliette Danielle is sexy and awesome as the alluring Lisa. Having seen my fair share of movies that feature multiple men fighting over a single woman over the years, I'm always unconvinced that the men in question would be so love in with the object of their affection. The women, for the most part, just don't have anything going on in terms of physicality and personality. Whereas Juliette Danielle has everything going on; and, yes, I'm mean everything. Meaning, I totally believed that Johnny, Mark and Denny would be in love with her. It's a testament to Juliette Danielle's fearlessness as a performer that she was able to believably convey to the audience that everyone loves Lisa.

(Fearlessness?!?) Um, she makes out with Tommy Wiseau. (Right, 'nuff said.)

Forget about Lisa tearing Johnny apart, I want to tear Lisa out of those button fly jeans. Rawr.

I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Juliette Danielle used Barbara Stanwyck's performance in Double Indemnity as an inspiration, as she is that good at being duplicitous under pressure.

Tuxedo football, dark alleyway football, rooftop football, and even park football, there sure is a lot of football in this movie. However, to quote Lisa, I don't want to talk about it.

A sort of how-to guide on how not to break up with the unfrozen frontman of a West German industrial band in the Bay Area circa Operation Iraqi Freedom, The Room will baffle some, but it will titillate many. The first fully-formed erotic drama of the 21st century, Tommy Wiseau has created, whether it was on purpose or not, a movie that totally exists. Oh, and don't forget, leave your stupid comments in your pocket, and always remember to XYZ (examine your zipper) before you leave your place of residence.

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.

On top of being the perfect con, it was supposed to be his last con. But what if the perfect con turns out to be not-so perfect? Well, if that's the case, the chances that the not-so perfect con will be your last con are pretty slim. (You can say that again.) The chances that the not-so perfect con will be... (No, it's just an expression. You're not actually supposed to actually say it again. Anyway, how does one go about making the perfect con your last con as well?) I don't know, but not many films have the guts to contemplate such a common con-based conundrum. Then again, the electrifying Deadfall is not many films. A jet black film noir replete with actors, dialogue and sets filled with furniture (tables, chairs, lamps, etc.), this hard-boiled thriller about life on the wrong side of the tracks from writer-director Christopher Coppola will literally blow you away. Everything about a this film drips a gritty form of grittiness. If I didn't know going in that this was only a movie, I could have sworn I had been magically transported to a murky world where even the pretzel vendors are leading double lives. (You mean Mickey Dolenz from The Monkees isn't just peddling pretzels?) Are you kidding? Nothing again is ever as it seems once you enter the dark underbelly that is this two-fisted tale of love, sex, betrayal and Nicolas Cage. (Hey, wait a minute, since when has Nicolas Cage's name been applicable as a noun?) Um, since always. Have you seen a Nicolas Cage movie from the past thirty years? The Nicolas Cage movie is a genre unto itself. Now, this isn't the Nicolas Cage of Valley Girl or even Leaving Las Vegas, subdued strains of Nicolas Cage, that, while entertaining in their own right, lack a certain bite to them. On the other hand, the Nicolas Cage that appears in this film is pure, uncut Nicolas Cage; in other words, it's pretty potent stuff, snort with caution.

(Aww, c'mon. You sound like one of them fedora-wearing smart asses who repeatedly make exaggerated claims about the power of Nicolas Cage--you know, like he's some kind of scenery chewing monster hell bent on destroying cinema as we know it.) While I'll admit, I'm a tad uncomfortable about the sarcastic tone I'm using at the moment. However, you have got to remember, I'm currently not talking about a leggy Sarah Trigger in black stockings in order to express my opinions regarding the human clusterfuck that is Nicolas Cage's performance in this movie, so, yeah, it's a big fucking deal.

(Hmm, Sarah Trigger. Why does that name sound so unfamiliar?) Oh, I don't know, maybe because this is your first Sarah Trigger experience. (Yeah, I think you're right. By the way, that was an interesting choice of words you used to describe the act of watching a Sarah Trigger movie for the very first time.) You mean, "experience"? It's very apt, as you simply don't just watch a Sarah Trigger film, you experience it. While Nicolas Cage and, to a lesser extent, Charlie Sheen think they're walking away with this picture, it's actually Sarah Trigger who ends up dominating the proceedings.

I'll explain, in lurid detail, how she goes about doing this in a minute. But first, I'd like to introduce you Joe Donan (Michael Biehn), a con man who uses his All-American good looks to swindle pigeons out of their hard earned cash. When we meet him, he's in the middle of conducting a drug deal for a low level gangster (Michael Constantine) at a rundown warehouse. (I thought you said he was a con man?) He is. (No, he sounds more like a drug dealer.) Oh, I see. The drug deal is all part of an elaborate con. Or I should say, an elaborate con that blows up in his face when the gun that was supposed to contain blanks fires real bullets into the chest of Mike Donan (James Coburn), Joe's con man father.

Crestfallen over the fact that he killed his father, Joe is comforted by Pete (Peter Fonda), one of his father's henchmen. Just for the record, there's no real reason for Peter Fonda to be in this movie; he must have had bills to pay or owed someone a favour.

At the funeral, a mysterious redhead in black shows up to leave a single rose on Mike Donan's grave. I don't know who that is, but check out the slit on her skirt, it's so freakin' substantial, it hurts.

As a result of both movement and the environment, the slit flaps open every once and a while. And when it does, it reveals black nylon-adorned gams.

(Hey, pervert.) Who... me? (Yeah, you. Do you mind not going on and on about that lady's slit, Joe is trying to grieve over here.) But she's currently crouching. Are you aware how sexy that is? Crouching on a breezy day is a slit-lovers dream come true. (I don't care, Joe's father is dead.) Well, maybe he should have checked the gun to make sure it had blanks in it before he shot his father point blank in the chest.

I'm sorry, that was I uncalled for. (You see what you did. You made Joe take off for the west coast.) I said I was sorry. Hopping on a bus, Joe, with the help of his father's address book, decides to look up Lou Donan (James Coburn), the uncle he never knew he had. And just like his dad, his uncle is apparently a pretty big deal in the world of organized crime.

In order to get in touch with Lou, Joe must first find him. And he does this by hanging out at the local market. Would you look at that, Clarence Williams III (Link from The Mod Squad) is selling veggies, Mickey Dolenz from The Monkees is hawking pretzels, and Adrienne Stout-Coppola is offering cups of coffee in exchange for money.

Never mind them, wearing a pea green suit and a black Beatle wig, Eddie (Nicolas Cage) makes his presence felt in the Deadfall universe in an abrupt manner by instructing Joe to pick a card from the deck of cards he presents before him. Clearly not interested, Joe eventually gives in to his badgering, and picks a card. Even though he's only been onscreen for five seconds, Nicolas Cage has already performed two Elvis Presley-esque hand gestures.

After these hand gestures have been employed, Eddie takes Joe to see Lou, who, much to Joe's surprise, looks exactly like his dad; hence the reason James Coburn plays both parts. While Joe and Lou seem to be hitting it off, it's obvious that Eddie is none too pleased by the burgeoning nature of their chummy relationship. When Lou tells Eddie to take Joe clubbing (show him a good time), Eddie throws Lou a thumbs up. But there's a hint of anger and resentment in the way Eddie threw his thumb in an upwardly direction. This does not bode well for Joe, as Eddie doesn't look like the kind of person you want as an enemy.

Standing on the balcony of her suburban home, Diane (Sarah Trigger) saunters down the stairs with a refined elegance. Her sexy body sheathed in a slinky red dress, her legs lovingly poured into a pair of black nylons, Diane is a bombshell and the definition of trouble. In other words, she's perfect woman for Eddie. Though, I have to wonder, what kind of woman leaves the house without a purse? (Are you sure she wasn't carrying a small clutch?) No, I didn't see a clutch, either. (Well, that is strange.)

Anyway, a purse-less, and, apparently, clutch-less, too, Diana gets in Eddie's convertible, and the threesome hit the road for a night of, to quote Eddie, "fun-time family fun."

When they're finished grifting a bartender (Talia Shire) out of two hundred dollars with the old missing bracelet trick, Eddie, Diane and Joe visit a sleazy strip club. Oh, and before they do that, Joe and Eddie share a moment alone in Eddie's car. The use of neon in this scene was actually quite effective when it came to creating an air noirish cool.

You can tell Diane gunning for Joe's All-American cock, but you have to question her seduction skills. I mean, what kind of femme fatale shows up without nylons attached to her legs? According to the femme fatale handbook, you're supposed to be waiting for the man you want to seduce in his motel room (preferably sitting in the dark). Which you did. But you forgot to wear nylons. Big mistake. Miraculously, you were still able to entice your mark. But you were forced to drag out some sob story in order to lure Joe into your web of deceit.

(How do you know Diane's feelings for Joe aren't genuine?) Well, if look closely, you'll see Diane smile briefly the moment she gains Joe's confidence. (Maybe she was just happy.) Nah, her smile smacked of malicious intent.

Someone should check the record books, because I think Nicolas Cage's utterance of the word "fuck" during the film's second strip club scene might be the longest in film history. (What do you mean, "longest"?) An agitated Eddie yells the word "fuck" for a period of time that was longer than usual. (What's usual?) It shouldn't take longer than 0.5 seconds to say, "fuck," but Eddie takes close to five maybe six whole seconds to finish saying the word. (Fuck.)

I have to say, Diane regains her femme fatale cred when we see her lounging on her bed in a black slip and black heels whilst holding a stiff drink. She gets even more femme fatale cred when pulls a gun on a deranged Eddie moments later.

The contrast between performance given by Michael Biehn and the one unleashed by Nicolas Cage isn't even worth examining; Michael Biehn seems half asleep most of the time, and Nicolas Cage is basically acting like a coked up mental patient. (Is it Tuesday already?) Exactly. However, the contrast between the performance given by Charlie Sheen as ultra-suave pool shark Morgan "Fats" Gripp and Nicolas Cage is quite telling. Like his turn in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Charlie Sheen manages to steal the movie he's in with minimal effort. Even though I'm a tad uncomfortable saying this, but Charlie Sheen in Deadfall is a straight-up badass. It's a shame Charlie Sheen has become a bit of a reoccurring punchline as of late, because this Charlie Sheen, the one wearing the shiny blazer currently schooling Joe at billiards, is pretty great.

After being schooled at billiards, Joe begins to set the groundwork for his latest con. Only problem being, it bears a striking resemblance to his last con--you remember, the not-so perfect one where he accidentally killed his father. Involving selling a case of uncut diamonds to the claw-handed Dr. Lyme (Angus Scrimm), this con will definitely test Joe's commitment to the grifting lifestyle. When all is said and done, Joe will probably wonder why he didn't just get a job a the post office and settle down with Adrienne Stout-Coppola's coffee pusher. The moral of the story: Never trust leggy blondes. They're trouble with a capital 'T.' Roll credits.

While most people seem obsessed with the scene where Michele Soavi's wide-eyed girlfriend literally pukes her own guts as a direct result of staring at a demonic priest for far too long, I'd like to focus on eyebrows, or, more specifically, on how they're filmed throughout City of the Living Dead (a.k.a. The Gates of Hell), the Italian zombie film about some weird shit that goes down in a town called Dunwich. However, before I continue down this hair raising path, let me check outside to make sure the apocalypse isn't taking place. It seems no less hellish than usual. Oh, what's that, why did I just look outside to make sure the my bird bath wasn't filled to the brim with blood and acidic pus wasn't oozing from the trees? It's simple, really. I didn't want to be writing about eyebrows as the world ended. But now that I know everything is fine, I can continue in a calm and rational manner. (You think everything is fine?!?) Okay, maybe it's not fine. Let's just say it's on the cusp of being fine and move on. Now, where was I? (Eyebrows!) Ah, yes. Do the actors who appear in Lucio Fulci films, especially the one's made during this period, ever feel self-conscious about their eyebrows after they watch the way the camera gets all up in their brow-zone over the course of these films? Of course, the lovely Catriona MacColl isn't going to feel self-conscious, as her eyebrows are so immaculately groomed, you could eat off them. (Eww, why would anyone in their right mind want to consume food that's been served on Catriona MacColl's eyebrows?) First of all, I said you "could" eat off them. And secondly, I was speaking metaphorically.

It would seem that I lost my train of thought again. Could you help a brother out? (Eyebrows!) Ah, yes. The men in this film, on the other hand, would probably think long and hard about buying a pair of tweezers after they saw the unruly nature of their eyebrows in this film. Quick question: Can you purchase tweezers individually, or do you need to get them with a bunch of other items, like a manicure set? I've always wondered about that. If you think I'm crazy to spend so much time yacking about eyebrows, then I'm afraid you haven't experienced this film with the full force of your eyeballs. (Huh?) What I mean is, if you haven't seen this film, you won't know what I'm talking about. However, if you have seen this film, and you happen to think my eyebrow fixation makes me crazy, you clearly didn't watch the same movie I did.

My obsessive interest may lay squarely at the bushy, rarely trimmed feet of eyebrows, but Lucio Fulci's primarily interested in what lies just beneath them. (He's interested in nostrils?) No, silly, he's interested in the eyes of his characters. Though, imagine if he was obsessed with nostrils, how weird would that be? (Yeah, you would be going on about how you could eat a whole catered lunch off Catriona MacColl's nostrils and how the guys in this film should start thinking about investing in a nose hair trimmer.) I know for a fact, by the way, that you can buy nose hair trimmers individually, as I've seen them listed in old-timey catalogues. For my money, you're better off going with an all-purpose hair trimmer, as you get more value for your buck.

The eyes are the window to the soul, or so they say. When Lucio Fulci zooms in close to the eyes of his characters, he's not trying give us any insight as to what they're thinking, he wants us to fear what could happen to them if they were prodded with a sharp object. While no eyeballs are perforated in the classic sense in this film, many an eyeball does ooze blood. (Bleeding eyes? Awesome.)

(Wait a minute, how do you make an eyeballs bleed if you don't prod them something?) Prepare to have your mind blown, you make eyeballs bleed by staring into the eyes of the living dead. If I'm going eat anything off Catriona MacColl, it's going to be... (Oh-oh, here we go.) Why do you always think I'm going to say, "vagina"? Sure, I wouldn't mind eating some chicken fricassee off her spacious pussy area, but I was actually thinking about eating something off another part of her body all-together.

Do you see that giant swath of pale skin located above her eyebrows. (You mean her forehead?) Yeah, her forehead (you should be a doctor). Well, I want to eat a regular-size bowl of ice cream and use her massive forehead as a makeshift lucite table. (Interesting. Why ice cream, though?) Don't you get it? Her eyes in this movie drip strawberry sauce. (On your marks, get set, yum!) Um, I hate to break it to you, but that ain't strawberry sauce, it's blood. Now that I've established that Catriona MacColl has a big forehead and that I'm certifiably insane, I can safely move on to less idiotic ground.

A seance is taking place in New York City and a priest hangs himself in a cemetery in a town called Dunwich (Yeah-ea-eah!). No, this is not the set up to some lame joke, it's serious business. The spiritual well-being of the planet is jeopardy, and the only person with the power to make things right has just died. Yeah, you heard right, Mary Woodhouse (Catriona MacColl) is dead. Seeing a priest hang himself in a vision was too much for her and she died. The end. Oh, and according to Theresa (Adelaide Aste), one of Mary's psychic friends and a big fan of The Book of Enoch, something "horrendously awful" is about to occur. (You mean the actor who plays the detective who interviews those who were present when Mary died is about to start acting?) While he could be described as "horrendously awful," I was actually referring to the army of zombies that are currently amassing in a town called Dunwich.

I don't know 'bout you, but this film could really use some Giovanni Lombardo Radice (Cannibal Ferox) right about now. And wouldn't you know it, there he is, in all his awesome glory. I won't mince words, I love this guy, as he makes everything better. Anyway, don't ask me what his deal is in this movie, 'cause I have no idea. Playing Bob, Giovanni, when he's not playing with blow up dolls, can be usually seen wandering around the wind swept streets of Dunwich in a daze.

Since the film needs more than dead psychics and blonde buffoons to move its story along, we're introduced to a New York reporter named Peter Bell (Christopher George, Pieces), Sandra (Janet Agren, Eaten Alive!), a Dunwich artist with sharp cheekbones, and Gerry (Carlo De Mejo, The Other Hell), a bearded shrink. In fact, these three, along with Mary, do the majority of the film's heavy lifting when it comes to advancing the plot. (Wait, what do you mean, "along with Mary"? She's dead.)

It will take a lot more than being declared clinically dead to keep Mary down. In the film's first great scene, Peter Bell frees Mary, who was sort of buried in her coffin (one of the gravediggers, by the way, is played by Michael Gaunt, A Women's Torment), by using a pick-axe. Thinking that he hears screams coming from Mary's partially buried coffin, Peter debates with himself whether or not to investigate. The way Peter's indecisiveness combined with Mary's panicked screams was pretty intense (even more so if you have a fear of enclosed spaces).

(Why did they bury Mary if she wasn't dead?) It doesn't matter. What does matter is, she's well-rested and she's ready to close the gates of hell. She better hurry, though, All Saints Day is fast approaching, and, according to The Book of Enoch, if the gates aren't closed come midnight, the dead will rise from their graves and take over the world.

Bumming a ride with Peter Bell, Mary heads down to Dunwich to stop all this from happening. Meanwhile, one of the citizens of Dunwich is about to experience the worst case of irritable bowel syndrome ever. Earlier I called the actress who vomits up her guts as "Michele Soavi's wide-eyed girlfriend." This was an error on my part, as Daniela Doria deserves to be lavished with copious amounts of praise for the ordeal she is put through in this movie. As the larger organs start to spill forth from her mouth, it's obvious they're using a dummy mouth. However, in the early going, when the intestines begin to spew, it's clear that Daniela Doria has a mouth full of real entrails.

If you're starting to envy Michele Soavi's character (who is sitting next to Daniela Doria as she pukes her guts out), don't. He suffers the first of the film's many brain grabbings. And believe me, it's as nasty as it sounds. Though, it's not as nasty as the face drilling scene. Now, I won't say which character suffers this unpleasant fate, but let's just say it wasn't a bit player. And that what makes City of the Living Dead such a harrowing ordeal, anyone can be killed (i.e. have their brain grabbed) at any given moment.

Maggot storms, gut puking, face drilling, brain grabbing, and bleeding eyes might ~~grab~~ get all the headlines, but the film, thanks in part to the excellent score by Fabio Frizzi, is actually quite atmospheric in places. I'm not comfortable declaring this to be my favourite Lucio Fulci film (it is severely lacking in the perversion department and fashion-wise the film is a bust), but it's definitely in the top three.

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.

When Jack Mack of Jack Mack and the Heart Attack sings the line, "T-U-F-F, you're so tuff," he ain't talking about the guys in this film. No way, man. He's referring to the vision of loveliness in the black fishnets sporting the gigantic mane of recently crimped hair. Now, those of you who have already seen Tuff Turf know exactly where this is going. In other words, let's stop jerking each other around, shall we? You know, I know, hell, even the blind guy* who panhandles near Bloor and Spadina knows, the bulk of this review is going to focus on the inspirational performance given by Kim Richards as Frankie Croyden. To pretend otherwise would not only be frightfully dishonest, but it would be an insult to all those who depend on my aura to ooze pure righteousness around the clock. I don't know why I'm acting all defensive and junk, everything that occurs in this film is a direct result of Frankie Croyden. And why wouldn't it? I mean, look at her. No, seriously, look at her! In order to justify the drastic actions being carried out by the two young men currently fighting for the privilege to be with with this goddess in lacy fingerless gloves, the actress who inhabits her specific skin must have a certain quality about them to warrant this kind of attention. And? And what? Does she have what it takes? You better believe she does. To put it another way, Kim Richards rules! That being said, imagine if she didn't? Ahh, I don't want to think about it. Though, you have to wonder: How did such a cool chick end up with the kind of guy Clint Eastwood and/or Charles Bronson usually blows away at the end of most of their movies. Huh? I don't get that reference. He's a scumbag who doesn't deserve to breath the same air as her. Gotcha.

And while you're getting that, get this, this unworthy pustule uses her fishnet adorned gams and wavy strands of recently crimped hair to lull the victims of his switchblade-assisted brand of petty larceny into thinking their special before he, and his unctuous band of sycophantic goons, rob them of their valuables. I know, what an asshole.

I don't know 'bout you, but I think Kim Richards needs a little James Spader in her life. What I think you meant to say was, Frankie (Kim Richards) needs a little Morgan Hiller (James Spader) in her life. First of all, Frankie doesn't need anyone. And secondly, her fashion-forward sense of style is the stuff of legend at her Los Angeles high school. Meaning, actually, I don't really know why I added that second part; I guess I just wanted to emphasize the magnitude of her role as her school's resident trendsetter.

It's true, she doesn't need anyone. But this is James Spader we're talking about (put a wig on him, and I'll fuck him in a heartbeat - you know what, forget the wig, let's get it on right now). Oh, she's well aware that this Morgan Hiller fella, a recent transplant from the wilds of Connecticut, looks like James Spader, she's just not in that much of a hurry to jeopardize her cushy position as the girlfriend of the school's toughest hoodlum.

If you're wondering why the school's resident trendsetter needs to date the school's toughest hoodlum, look no further than the clothes on her back. Let me give you an example. Do you see those kooky belts that decorate the midsection of her many outre outfits? How do you think she pays for them? That's right, Frankie's expansive wardrobe is made possible thanks in part to petty crime. And wouldn't you know it, Frankie is about to help facilitate one of these petty crimes as we speak.

Leaning against the wall of the Reseda Yarn Shop, Frankie, who is using her left foot (which is wrapped in a red pump) for yarn shop leaning leverage, is stalking her prey.

Slowly approaching her victim, Frankie stands next to a man waiting at the bus stop (Francis X. McCarthy) and makes sure he gets an eyeful of her shapely black fishnet stocking-adorned legs and wavy strands of crimped hair. Meeting his penetrating gaze every so often, Frankie toys with the hapless rube for a few minutes. Convinced that she has him right where she wants him, Frankie goes in for the kill. Asking the man if he has change for a five, Frankie, when she notices that he's carrying a wad of cash, signals to her friend Ronnie (Olivia Barash), who, in turn, signals to Nick Hauser (Paul Mones) and his gang, who are browsing the magazines at a nearby all-night newsstand.

Springing into action, Nick and the boys bolt across the street, opening and closing their switchblades for dramatic effect. However, as their robbing the bus stop guy, Morgan Hiller comes rolling by on his bicycle. Disrupting their criminal act by spraying beer at the would-be robbers (you'll notice not a single drop of beer lands on Frankie), Morgan temporarily blinds them, causing the bus stop man to get away unscathed. Even though they still got their loot (the aforementioned wad of cash), Nick is not amused by this ill-conceived act of bike-based heroism/tomfoolery.

On the other hand, Frankie is clearly impressed by this brazen display of ill-conceived, bike-based heroism/tomfoolery. It's still early, but the look on Frankie's face as Morgan peddled off into the night spoke volumes. What I mean is, she's probably thinking to herself: Who was that striking blonde man on the bicycle? And why am I hanging around outside a yarn store on a Sunday night with a bunch of two-bit lowlifes?

I'll admit, I was also quite taken with the sight of James Spader riding his bike at night, especially when they show him peddling to the strains of "Love Hates" by Marianne Faithfull.

The reason I called Morgan's brazen display "ill-conceived" was because he had to know that he would run into Nick and the boys sooner or later, as it's the first day of school tomorrow. Did it ever occur to you that maybe Morgan doesn't give a shit? Wow, I didn't think of that. And besides, you can't woo a woman like Frankie by being timid.

In order for you to get noticed by someone like Frankie, you need to stand your ground, or, this film's case, stand your turf. Which he does when Nick and Frankie start messing around with Morgan's bike after class. He might be new at this school, but he already has an ally in the form of Jimmy Parker (Robert Downey, Jr.), who offers to let Morgan borrow his switchblade to defend himself. Of course, Morgan doesn't need no stinkin' switchblade. No, he simply confronts Nick in the parking lot. Sure, his bike is wrecked during the confrontation, and, not to mention, gets sprayed in the face with red spray paint for his troubles, but Morgan made his point.

The moment when Frankie's smirk slowly disappears from her face as a direct result of Morgan's hunky parking lot leering reminded me of the scene from Rebel Without a Cause when Natalie Wood loses her smirk under similar circumstances. Oh, and while you're enjoying the similarities between the two films, make sure keep an eye out for the extra in the Repo Man t-shirt. Out of all the people he could have befriended on his first day at a new school, how did Morgan end up becoming best buds with the drummer for The Jim Carroll Band?!? It's true, Jimmy Parker is the one who pursues Morgan. But still, talk about dumb luck. Either way, Morgan is invited to check out Jimmy's band, who are playing a warehouse near a row of porno shops later tonight.

How's he going to get there, his bike was wrecked, remember? I'm sure he'll figure something out. In the meantime, The Jim Carroll Band, with Robert Downey, Jr.(!) on drums, are in the middle of performing "It's Too Late" for an enthusiastic audience. While a lot of the credit has to go to the charismatic Jim Carroll, who seems to be channeling The Thin White Duke, major kudos have to go to choreographer Robert Banas for the amount of energy he brought to the dancing in this scene.

Reminding me of films like, West Side Story and Streets of Fire, the warehouse concert sequence in Tuff Turf is probably my favourite scene in the entire movie.

Wearing a tight grey dress, lacy fingerless gloves, a red headband, and an unamused sneer, the moment the stylish Frankie, with her equally stylish gal pals Ronnie and Feather (Catya Sassoon) in tow, enters the warehouse with a new wave thud, is when this sequence solidified its status as my fave scene. No-one, and I mean, no-one, makes an entrance quite like Frankie. I'm surprised everyone continued to dance, as I would have thought the sight of Frankie, in all her chic glory, would have caused a rift to occur in the space-time dancing to Jim Carroll music continuum.

The choreography goes into overdrive when Morgan grabs Frankie, who obviously doesn't want to be grabbed at this particular juncture, and forces her to dance with him. On several occasions, Frankie does attempt to flee his grasp, but the extras seem extra determined to prevent her from doing so.

After some mildly convoluted circumstances involving a stolen Porsche, Morgan and Jimmy take Frankie and Ronnie to a country club in Beverly Hills. Are any of them members? Nope. But thanks to his experiences living Connecticut, Morgan knows the lingo, and manages to talk his way into the club.

And, yes, I'm well of aware of the irony of this scene. You see, apparently, Kim Richards is now best known for being on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. So, to see James Spader give Kim Richards a tour of Beverly Hills (set to "Breaking the Rules" by Lene Lovich) was kind of prophetic. Anyway, I tried watching an episode of that loathsome franchise once, I think it was The Real Housewives of Orange County, and, let's just say, it didn't go well; the show slowly sapped my will to live.

That being said, no matter what Kim Richards is up to nowadays, I will not allow it to taint my view of her. As, in my mind, she will always be the new wave hellcat who causes James Spader's guts to go gooey in Tuff Turf. End of story. I mean, the scene where she cuts loose to the music Jack Mack and the Heart Attack is how I want to remember her.

As expected, Nick is not too pleased when he finds out that Frankie has been spending so much time with Morgan. Culminating with a showdown at the warehouse where the Jim Carroll concert took place, Morgan and Nick settle the Frankie issue once and for all.

You'll notice that Frankie's hair is shorter and no longer crimped during the film's final third. Now, was I disturbed by this unexpected change? Of course not. In order to remain on the cutting edge of fashion, you must be willing to change your look every so often. And judging by the look she sports near the end of the film, she has obviously decided it was time to go in a different direction. More power to her, I say. I want to say, "You go, girl!" But I'm trying to exorcise that expression from my vocabulary.

Make sure to stay through the closing credits. And, no, not just because Jack Mack and the Heart Attack perform another song, but because of the credit: "Synthesizer Realization by Jonathan Elias and Michael Morris." I love the idea that this film has "synthesizer realization."

* Oh, and I think the blind beggar on Bloor might be faking; I saw him sifting through the trash the other day and he was clearly looking at the items he was sifting through.

She manages the annual Easter Egg hunt; she's leading the charge to make Pottsville, Idaho smut-free by the end of 1983; she hosts opera recitals in her home (much to the chagrin of her opera-hating husband); and she investigates strange noises with a curious, long-chinned, Z'darian aplomb. What I think I'm trying to say is, is there anything Ruth Buzzi can't do? I'm sorry, but I nearly fried my brain thinking about that particular question. I mean, it's quite the mind-scrambler. Is it just me or does Ruth Buzzi always play shrill women who spend most of their waking hours fighting against the evils of pornography? First of all, Ruth Buzzi is never shrill; she has the voice of an angel. And secondly, I think you're thinking about the character she plays in Skatetown, U.S.A., who, if memory serves me correctly, was a bit of a square. (You could say Ruth Buzzi is a colossal a buzzkill in that film, the second greatest roller disco flick after the indomitable Roller Boogie -- Get it? Get what? Ruth Buzzi. Buzzkill. Both contain "buzz.") Anyway, Ruth Buzzi's campaign to rid Pottsville, Idaho of filth doesn't seem to be working, as the film currently playing at the local drive-in theatre features a naked woman painting her toe nails. Now, I don't know what the name of the lascivious slice of campy horror playing the local drive-in theatre is called, but I do know that it appears in The Being, Jackie Kong's directorial debut about a one-eyed radiation monster who terrorizes a small town in Idaho. Did you say, Jackie Kong? The very same Jackie Kong who made the brilliant Blood Diner? You know it.

Call me someone who is easily impressed, but I think it's swell that... no, wait, scratch that. Let me put it this way: I'm in love with the concept of an Asian-American woman directing a film about a bunch of potato-farming hillbillies who are devoured by a slim-covered aberration. I know, hardly anyone who is killed in this film is actually associated with the state's lucrative potato industry, or even a hillbilly for that matter. I just like the idea that someone named Jackie Kong is making cheesy horror flicks. Why must horror be solely the domain of white men named Steve? It doesn't. So, you go, Jackie Kong!

Just because I like the idea of an Asian-American woman directing a film that seems to be a homage to old school monster movies from 1950s, doesn't mean the film itself is entirely successful. And The Being is definitely a film that fits into that category, as it is severely lacking in several key areas.

A tell-tale sign the film doesn't quite pass muster in the awesome department can be found in the opening salvo of one of the above paragraphs. If I'm rambling about Ruth Buzzi right out of the gate like that, you know something rotten is afoot. Don't get me wrong, I adore Ruth Buzzi, she has certain je nais se quois that I find appealing, it's just that most people don't start off their reviews of The Being with so much Ruth Buzzi-based jibber-jabber.

I don't mean to burst your bubble, but you're not most people. In fact, you're none of those people. Don't apologize for being you. If you want go on a long, some might say, slightly misguided tangent about Ruth Buzzi in The Being, than I say, have at it. And speaking as an unbiased observer, you're absolutely right to focus your attention on Ruth Buzzi, as she's easily the best thing about this movie.

You don't know how relieved I am to hear you say that. Glancing over my imaginary notes, I can't help but notice that words "Ruth" and "Buzzi" are repeated ad nauseum.

After the opening credits have finished informing us that Kinky Friedman makes a "special appearance," and the DJ/narrator tells everyone that Pottsville, Idaho is the spud capital of the entire universe, we watch as a wayward teen is decapitated by a slimy creature while driving a car he stole from a local junkyard. Hiding in the trunk a la Repo Man, the slimy creature then grabs a mechanic while Det. Lutz (Bill Osco) isn't looking. Leaving nothing but a trail of green slime, the bearded, baseball hat-wearing detective is at a loss as to what [the fuck] is going on.

I don't know if he realizes it yet, but Det. Lutz is clearly in a monster movie. The sight of Martin Landau talking about the safeness of radiation on the six o'clock news is a sure sign he might be in one. However, I think he's going to need a little more proof than that. It's too bad he didn't go to the drive-in this evening, as a couple of drive-in goers are about to get attacked by a monster that is eerily similar to the one attacking the blonde woman in tonight's feature.

Again, like the previous encounters, all Det. Lutz finds at the scene are puddles of green slime. It's not until Det. Lutz goes home and finds green slime in his bed that he figures out that the green slime is a result of a creature that exudes green slime. It also doesn't hurt that the creature is hiding under his bed. Chasing him all the way to the railroad tracks, Det. Lutz manages to elude the creature by utilizing his natural born athleticism.

Hey, man, I thought you said Ruth Buzzi was in this flick? She is. Okay, so who's this Det. Lutz asshole? He is, whether you like or not, the star of the movie.

Speaking of which, Ruth Buzzi's first scene is coming up. It's Easter morning and Virginia Lane (Ruth Buzzi) is in charge of overseeing the Easter egg hunt for the children of Pottsville. Don't tell me one of the kids is about to get devoured by a radioactive fiend. One of them does come close to getting eaten (the director's own daughter), but the film doesn't quite go there. If this was, say, Blood Diner, I would have definitely expected one of the Easter egg hunters to buy it, but not here. Though, the being in The Being does start off as a precocious child, Dorothy Malone's precocious child to be specific; the blonde actress spends most of the movie wandering the streets and radiation dump sites in a half-crazed daze.

When she's finished overseeing the Easter egg hunt, Virgina Lane heads down to main street to lead a protest against the ills of pornography. I had no idea Pottsville had a protest-worthy pornography problem. It doesn't, thanks to the Sweeper Committee For Stomping Out Smut: Keeping porn out of Idaho is our business.

Just as I was about to give up on The Being, we're treated to a bizarre black and white dream sequence. Featuring Bill Osco and Martin Landau flying a small airplane, it culminates with the electrifying sight of Ruth Buzzi flying on a broomstick. Filmed utilizing the classic witch ascending on a broomstick profile shot, Ruth Buzzi slowly turns her head, smiles, and tells Det. Lutz that "it's all in your mind." The fact that her eyes are bleeding as she tells him this adds an extra layer of weird to an already weird sequence. Of course, I don't know what the dream sequence is supposed to represent exactly , but I appreciated its inclusion nonetheless.

As more and more townspeople go missing (three anti-porn hillbilly types are dispatched with very little fanfare) and Ruth Buzzi's opera recital finally gets underway (José Ferrer, Ruth Buzzi's husband has taken refuge in the garage - he's not an opera buff), the film gradually begins to overstay its welcome. And I'll admit, I was downright exhausted by the time Bill Osco takes on the monster in an abandoned warehouse. Despite sapping me of all my strength, I would recommend The Being to fans of throwback monster movies and Ruth Buzzi completists.

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.

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.

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.

Her arms--sheathed, no doubt, in sleeves that are puffy in nature--always hang stiffly at her side, especially when she investigates strange noises in her apartment. And her tongue has a peculiar habit of periodically protruding from her mouth whenever she finds herself wearing a saucy beret in the vicinity of The Magickal Childe. Who am I describing, you ask? Why, I'm talking about Caroline Capers Powers, a woman who winds up on the fast-track to becoming an oracle in Roberta Findlay's spine-tingling The Oracle. (Are you sure the reason your spine felt tingly didn't have something to do with fact you watched the film without a shirt on an itch-inducing couch?) Ha, ha. Very funny. No, I'm sure the only plausible explanation for my lumbar-based predicament is the frightful temperament of this supernatural masterwork. Exact causes relating to backbone distress, notwithstanding, I have to say, Caroline Capers Powers is a pretty cool name for a character. What's that? You say the name of the character at the centre of The Oracle is actually Jennifer, and that Caroline Capers Powers is the name of the actress. (If that's the case, why did you imply that Caroline Capers Powers was the character's name?) Oh, I don't know, I just kind of wish it was. Either way, that doesn't diminish the fact that Caroline Capers Powers gives a breathtaking performance as a suddenly clairvoyant fashion icon. (First of all, "breathtaking"? You're aware that this film is listed as Caroline Capers Powers' lone screen credit to date? And secondly, "fashion icon"? She dresses like a matronly schoolmarm; one who looks like she just fled a sparsely attended square dance being held on the outskirts of a poorly run polygamist compound.) You sniveling little weasel. How dare you talk about Caroline Capers Powers that way. Why, I ought a pound you. (Calm down, buddy.) Okay, I'm sorry. Let me gather my thoughts and come back at a latter date to make a staunch defense of my new favourite actress. How's the next paragraph sound? (Perfect.)

Since when does an actor have to appear in dozens of movies in order to be called "breathtaking"? (Yeah, but, if she's so "breathtaking," as you claim, why didn't she appear in any other movies?) Again, genius doesn't work that way. And besides, maybe Caroline Capers Powers felt that she had hit the peak of her acting game with her breathtaking turn in The Oracle and decided to go out on top. (Actually, that's a pretty sensible theory.)

The real reason I got so upset was because you had the unmitigated gall to call Caroline Capers Powers' wardrobe square. You cellar-dwelling reprobates and your unhealthy obsession with cleavage, when will you ever learn that's there more to sexiness than fissure-exposing low-cut garments? Not one to follow the trends, Caroline Capers Powers dances to a different beat when it comes to fashion.

Filled with frilly collars, stuffed with puffy sleeves, not bereft of berets and chock-full of chokers, Caroline Capers Powers' closet is the closest thing to perfection. What I mean is, her closet is the envy of the world. (Did you happen to see the red overalls she wears in her first scene? I don't envy them at all.)Yeah, but, to be fair, though, those were her, "I'm doing laundry in the basement" overalls.

Looking for the laundry room in the new building she and her reporter husband have just moved into, Jennifer (Caroline Capers Powers) stumbles upon some boxes containing the belongings of a fortune teller/oracle who, according to the building's superintendent, Mr. Pappas (Chris Maria De Koron), disappeared recently.

Taken with a mysterious box she finds in a trunk, Mr. Pappas informs Jennifer that it let's you speak to the dead. Since it's the Christmas season, Mr. Pappas generously allows Jennifer to keep the box. And so begins Jennifer's ardous relationship with the planchette. (A plan what?) A planchette. It writes notes written by ghosts and demons. (How does it work exactly?) Well, let's see... No, wait, Jennifer will give us a demonstration in a minute.

In the meantime, we're introduced to a fascinating character named Farkas (Pam La Testa), a woman who is currently scouring 42nd Street in search of low cost poontang. A three hundred pound lesbian assassin with severe mental problems, Farkas looks like she just wandered off the set of an early John Waters movie. Channeling the likes of Divine, Nancy Parsons, with a little Joe Spinell thrown in there for good measure, Pam La Testa is the gift that keeps on giving, as her bizarre performance is just what this movie needed.

Picking up prostitute named Tammy (Alexandria Blade), a Marlene Willoughby-esque vision of loveliness in shiny, black thigh-high boots, Farkas takes her to a cheap motel and proceeds to stab her repeatedly with her trusty switchblade. As you might expect, the mess she leaves behind is quite grisly (the bed and the walls are covered in blood).

If you're wondering why Farkas' voice sounds strange throughout the film, it's because Roberta Findlay, who thought Pam La Testa's real voice was too girly(!), decided to change its pitch to a much lower octave during post-production. You really get a sense of how odd her altered voice is she's talking on a payphone at a diner. In an ironic twist, the Pam La Testa's new voice has a distinct Baltimore flavour to it (all of John Waters' films take place in Baltimore).

This is Joan Leonard, she plays the diner waitress. She wears pink lipstick and chews her gum in a nonchalant manner.

You know how I mentioned earlier that Caroline Capers Powers is a bit of a fashion inspiration? Well, while Farkas was out killing hookers and the diner waitress was out chewing gum in a nonchalant manner, C.C.P.'s Jennifer was debuting the first of her many awesome shirts.

The shirt she wears on Christmas Eve--her husband, Ray (Roger Neil), have invited their friends, Cindy (Stacey Graves) and Ben (G. Gordon Cronce) for dinner--is my favourite, as it combines all the attributes that make her shirts the must-have items of the season. This particular one is not only frilly, it has puffy sleeves as well. And get this, she's wearing a choker with it, too. (Wow, I guess you call her shirt a triple threat.) You got that right, voice in my head. If you had hands, I'd give you a high-five.

(Not to rain on your shirt admiration parade, but didn't you find the fact that Ray and Ben had the exact same mustache to be somewhat distracting?) Now that you mention it, I did find it somewhat distracting. Here I am, trying to drink in the majestic splendour of Jennifer's shirt, and along come these two mustachioed prats doing their darndest to kill my shirt buzz. Assholes.

(Since your shirt buzz is already starting to wane, I should inform you that Mr. Pappas and a soon to be introduced male character all have mustaches as well.) What the...

Dying to show Ray, Ben and Cindy her new toy, Jennifer breaks outs the planchette. A box containing a pad of paper, a creepy bluish hand and quill (which you attach to the creepy bluish hand), Jennifer invites them to partake in a demonstration. This, however, doesn't go as well as she had planned, as Ray, Ben and Cindy act like a bunch of goofballs. I don't know if Ben knows this or not, but he ain't getting any tonight because of his goofy behaviour. (You mean no Christmas Eve pussy?) Nope.

It's too bad the planchette store is probably closed on Christmas, as I would have suggested that Ben try to make it up to Jennifer by buying some paper for her planchette.

(Why would the planchette need paper, she just got it?) Well, first of all, you can never have too much planchette paper. And secondly, the planchette is going to be writing up a storm over the holidays.

Getting written messages from a dead man named William Graham, Jennifer learns the truth regarding how he really died. Contacting his widow, Jennifer slowly but surely pieces together what really happened the night he died of carbon monoxide poisoning in his car. Guess who's front and centre in one of Jennifer's visions? Yep, it's Farkas. Except, Jennifer thinks she's a man.

In order to speed things up, the planchette causes weird shit to occur. (What kind of weird shit?) Well, let me tell you. Despite its length, the scene where Jennifer is blown around her apartment is my favourite of these occurrences. Mainly because Jennifer wears a check shirt with puffy sleeves (dig the red belt, girlfriend). And, to a lesser extent, because we get out first real taste of Caroline Capers Powers' powerful shriek. Now, those with sensitive ears might be put off by Caroline's unique manner of screaming, so be careful when watching The Oracle. I, other other hand, got used it after awhile.

Remember when I said that Tammy the prostitute sort of looked like Marlene Willoughby? Well, Marlene makes a bit of a cameo in The Oracle when we see a brief clip of A Woman's Torment playing on the television Jennifer is watching in bed.

You know the film is about to get good when Jennifer dons her sauciest beret and heads down to The Magickal Childe for some free advice. If you didn't think Caroline Capers Powers' performance was interesting enough already, she starts doing this strange thing with her tongue. Wasn't there someone, like, Roberta Findlay, to tell her not to do that? Actually, what am I saying? I'm glad she sticks her tongue, once outside the magic shop, and once inside the magic shop, as it does nothing but elevate the cult status of her performance.

Who wants to watch a film that features a female protagonist whose scream doesn't hurt your ears, who wears shirts with sleeves that are not even close to being puffy, and never sticks their tongue out like a lizard who is tasting the air and the temperature of their environment? (Oh, you're asking me? No, I don't want to watch that film.)

As expected, the deeper Jennifer gets involved, the more her life is danger. However, Jennifer is a lot harder to kill than you would think. Don't believe me, just ask Farkas; Jennifer goes all Eating Raoul on her chunky ass during their confrontation in her kitchen.

Boasting an eerie atmosphere, authentic New York City locations, a memorable villain, effective gore, great shirts, and an unorthodox female lead, The Oracle, despite the abundance of mustachioed men, is low budget horror done right. In fact, I'd be comfortable putting this film alongside the work of Tim Kincaid. I know, you're thinking to yourself: Is it that good? You better believe it is.

For some time now, I've been guilty of employing overly crude wordplay to describe the act of making love. You know what I'm talking about, I have a tendency to use unorthodox language when it comes to sexual intercourse. (Don't be so hard on yourself. You're just being saucy.) I know, but I'd like to be known for other things as well. (Like what?) Oh, I don't know. But something other than stiff jimmies slamming into soft, magnanimous pussies, that's for sure. (I hate to break it to you, but you have definitely picked the wrong day to change your prose.) Why's that? (You're kidding, right? You do realize that you're in the middle of reviewing Yasuharu Hasebe's Assault! Jack the Ripper.) Yeah, so what? (It's a whimsical romantic comedy from the equally whimsical nation of Japan about a shy pastry chef who falls for a chubby waitress with a booty that just won't quit.) Yikes! I don't know how to put this, but this film is the Citizen Kane of stabbing vagina movies.) The Citizen Kane? (Okay, maybe it's The Magnificent Ambersons of stabbing vagina movies. Either way, you can't avoid the fact that this film features at least eight stabbed vaginas.) When you say, "stabbed vaginas," you're speaking metaphorically, right? (I'm afraid not.) So, you're not talking about wet lady holes being stabbed repeatedly with manly meat sticks? (Well, yes and no. Yes, the film does feature conventional coitus from time to time. But mostly, no. You see, the serial killer/mild-mannered pastry chef in this film can't engage in conventional coitus unless he's stabbed a vagina first.)

Eww, please don't tell me he penetrates bloodied labia wounds with his penis. (No, he doesn't do that. He has a chubby vision of loveliness lying off to the side with her shapely legs aloft in the air waiting for him to insert the full-force of his penile predicament into her squishy secretion factory.)

Don't you see what this film has done to me? I mean, "penile predicament" and "squishy secretion factory"? Just when I thought I was out, Assault! Jack the Ripper pulls me back in.

Just kidding, I have no problem whatsoever wallowing in the filth I wallow in on a regular basis. (Um, don't you mean, "semi-regular basis"?) No, I'm cool with the level of my wallowing basis. (Are you sure about that?) Yeah, my basis when it comes to wallowing in filth is definitely regular.

Wow, that was sort of cathartic. (Does this mean you're going to stop being a neurotic crybaby, and maybe start describing what the crotch-compromising oomph emanating from Tamaki Katsura's tantalizing hindquarters did to your not even close to being fragile psyche?) You betcha.

When I first saw Tamaki Katsura appear onscreen I thought she was merely an extra, or worse, she was going to be the lead's kooky best friend. I know, Tamaki's face is on the poster. But I didn't really look at the poster before I watched the movie. Anyway, as we see Tamaki's skinny co-workers at the restaurant she works going about their business waiting tables, I thought for sure we were about to start following one of these less chubby women. However, when the camera began to follow Tamaki, I let out an inaudible shriek. After the inaudible shriek had subsided, I thought to myself: Tamaki can't be the star of this movie, she's too unique, she's too fabulous.

(Hold on, I can understand how being "too unique" might hamper her ability to land starring roles -- blandness always seems to trump uniqueness when it comes to casting lead roles, but since when has being "too fabulous" been considered a burden?) You would be surprised to learn how the act of being fabulous in frowned upon in Hollywood. Well, that's just it, this film wasn't made by the puritan pukes who run Hollywood. Uh-uh, baby. This is a Nikkatsu film.

Now, I won't profess to know how being a "Nikkatsu film" makes it superior to the dreck Hollywood produces. But given that I have just experienced Assault! Jack the Ripper, I feel that there's a little more awesome coursing through my veins than there was before I sat down to watch this stylish ode to stabbing vaginas and kinky sex.

Remember Betsy Russell's black Brillo pad hairdo in Tomboy? You don't?!? May I ask what's wrong with you? Never mind that. The first thing that struck me about Tamaki Katsura was her Betsy Russell in Tomboy-esque hairdo. But after being struck by her hair, I was struck by other things.

Wearing her light blue waitress uniform (with white trim), Tamaki is the personification of surly. Rude to the customers, Tamaki clearly hates her job.

One day, Tamaki can be seen stomping leggily down the stairs in a more disagreeable huff than usual.

(And?) And what? I just wanted to make sure that I pointed out Tamaki's legs whilst in the process of stomping...leggily. And now that I've done that, we can move on.

(Call me crazy, but I think you might have a crush on Tamaki.) What? You're crazy. (Hey, who are you calling crazy?) You said "call me crazy." (Oh yeah.) Am I, though? Crazy, that is. (You're obviously in love with her.) Can you blame me? She's perfect. (Um, I think you might want to wait until at least the opening credits have finished before you start making wedding plans.) I don't see why I should do that, as I will love her no matter what kind of monkey shines she gets up to during this film.

(What if I told you that she's the type of gal who can only enjoy sex after her partner has plunged a knife into the vagina of another woman?) Well, I'll admit, that is a tad unorthodox, but I'm sure it's just a phase. (Yeah, it might be a phase for her, but what happens when her partner becomes so obsessed with stabbing the vaginas of others, that he can't think of anything else?)

That's a little far-fetched, don't you think? (Is it? Just ask Yutaka Hayashi, the meek pastry chef who works at Tamaki's restaurant, if that's "a little far-fetched." Oh, you know what? You can't ask him right now. You want to know why? He's out stabbing vaginas.) So, what you're saying is, she's insane? (You could say that. But in a weird way, it's Yataka who's the insane one. It just took Tamaki's mouth-watering curves and malevolent disposition to bring Yukata's insanity to the forefront.

In a scene that seemed like lifted straight out the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Tamaki and Yutaka are driving home from work on a rainy night, when all of a sudden, a mentally disturbed woman appears in the middle of the road. Giving her a ride, Tamaki... (Wait a second, why did they pick her up if she's, as you put it, "mentally disturbed"?) Oh, that's because they didn't realize she was mentally disturbed until she got in the car. Removing her top (though, the fact that she was wearing what looked like hospital clothes should have been a dead giveaway as to the exact temperature of her mental state), the woman starts smearing cake all over her chest.

Concerned but not alarmed by this odd display, Tamaki and Yutaka continue on their way. Grabbing a baking knife, the woman starts cutting herself while giggling maniacally. This is the breaking point for Tamaki and Yutaka, as they stop the car and throw the woman out. Long story short, they end up killing the woman (she wouldn't let go of the car as the drove away) and dumping her body in a nearby junkyard.

Soaking wet as a result of the torrential down pore, a naked Tamaki is toweling herself off in full view of Yukata. The sight of Tamaki's ample booty undulating while she dries herself causes the usually mild-mannered Yukata to jump to his feet and begin to devour every square inch of her plump frame.

Unfortunately, they can't seem to replicate the orgasmic passion they managed to induce on the night they killed that mentally disturbed woman. Figuring that murder is the only way to improve their sex life, Tamaki and Yutaka begin a murderous reign of terror. Stalking women, murdering them (Yutaka usually stabs them in the vagina), and then having mind-blowing sex nearby, Tamaki and Yutaka seem to have found the perfect formula for maintaining a healthy relationship. Or have they?

Shapely without even trying, Tamaki Katsura is a chubby goddess as the unnamed waitress who loves mini-dresses and strappy heels. And major kudos need to be thrown in the general direction of whoever decided to cast her as the lead. It should go without saying, but I want more Tamaki Katsura in my life.

Refreshingly pornographic in places, Assault! Jack the Ripper is a rip-roaring good time to be had at the movies. Ugh. How 'about this, it's the best serial killer flick to feature a man and a woman since The Honeymoon Killers. I don't know, "serial killer flick"? That seems to do the film an injustice. Here's another, more apt term to add to your vocabulary: "Pink Eiga," a Japanese erotic film that usually features sex and violence. Yeah, I like that. Pink Eiga. Even though I've seen only seen a handful of Pink Eiga films, this one is surely the most entertaining.

Is that a baking knife in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?

Since I'm still, hours after having watched The Watcher in the Attic (a.k.a. Edogawa Rampo ryōkikan: yaneura no sanposha -- I think that's right), trying to wrap my head around the part of the film where the lovesick chauffeur of a leggy fancy lady spends time inside a comfy red chair, let's begin there, shall we? (First of all, I'm currently trying to wrap my head around what you just said.) Huh? (Okay, I get the part about the chauffeur having the hots for the leggy fancy lady; on top of being attractive, she has a tendency to wear every article of clothing a woman can technically have on in the early 1920s --she even sports veils. But you lost me when you mentioned the comfy red chair.) Well, it looks like we agree, 'cause that's the part I'm trying to get my head around as well. I think the lovesick chauffeur feels the only way he can get close to the leggy fancy lady is by entering her favourite chair. (I'm sorry, but the chair doesn't look big enough to house a lovesick chauffeur. Are you sure he wasn't hiding behind the curtains when the leggy fancy lady converses with the chauffeur chair?) I'm going to have to check the replay, but I don't think the room had any curtains. (Is he a little person?) No, I'd say he's regular-size. Besides, the red chair seems to move whenever the chauffeur breathes. (You didn't mention that the chair breathes.) Yeah, it has a distinct respiratory rhythm. (Well, if that's the case, he's definitely in the chair.) In addition to wanting to get closer to the leggy fancy lady, the lovesick chauffeur is jealous of the chair. However, instead of sulking like a crybaby, the lovesick chauffeur joins forces with the chair, so he too can experience the crotch-expanding sensation that can only come after being sat on by a leggy fancy lady.

(While I dig the way you were able to get through the opening paragraph of your review with a straight face, I have to take issue when you call the woman everybody wants to have sit on them a "leggy fancy lady." You're right, she's fancy, her wardrobe is far-reaching in terms of femininity. And she's obviously a lady - whoa, whoa whoa, she's obviously a lady. But are sure she's leggy?) What did you just say? (Um, I wouldn't necessarily classify Junko Miyashita as "leggy," per se.)

It's clear you have no idea what words mean. And one of those words is evidently "leggy." You're probably thinking to yourself, how can a 5ft 3" woman with tiny doll legs be designated as "leggy." Well, for starters, legginess has nothing to do with length, it's all about attitude. Secondly, presentation is the key to establishing a leggy aura. And even the leggy averse have got to agree that Junko is putting on a leggy clinic in this Nikkatsu Roman Porno. I hope that puts an end to anyone else who dares doubt the structural fortitude of Junko's mouthwatering stems in this movie.

In a rare case of me speaking from a literal point-of-view, at least two men dine on Junko's legs like they were a tasty treat. "Were" a tasty treat?!? What am I talking about? They are a tasty treat, and don't you forget it.

You could also call Junko's gams a deadly treat. You know how Margaret in Liquid Sky kills with her cunt? Well, Junko kills with her legs; to be more specific, she kills with her calves.

This may come as a surprise to you, but the film, directed with an artful elegance by Noboru Tanaka, isn't only about lovesick chauffeurs who like to be sat on by leggy fancy ladies. Uh-uh, it's about voyeurism, lust, urban malaise and murder.

The landlord, at least I think he was the landlord, of a nondescript housing complex in early 1920s Tokyo one day discovers that his building has an attic that allows him to peer into the lives of his tenants via small peepholes in the ceilings.

While inspecting the attic, the landlord, Mr. Goda (Renji Ishibashi), declares it to be "perfect." As he's declaring this, he notices a woman walking towards his building. Carrying a white umbrella, the fancily dressed woman, a one Lady Minako (Junko Miyashita), is there to meet a clown (Shiro Yumemura) for sex. (Are you sure Lady Minako isn't a prostitute?) I don't know, I couldn't quite figure that out. Nonetheless, Lady Minako instructs the clown to undress.

If you think this sounds like an easy task, think again, the clown and Lady Minako are wearing a shitload of clothes. Call me deficient in the brain department, but I think Lady Minako was even wearing pantaloons.

After mock strangling him with her stocking encased legs, Lady Minako allows the clown to go to town on her inner thighs and vagina. And just as the clown's tongue strokes were starting to push all the right buttons, Lady Minako notices an eyeball staring at her through a small hole in the ceiling.

Instead of recoiling in horror, Lady Minako's orgasm seems to grow stronger when she realizes that she is being watched.

Judging by what occurs in the next scene, I think Lady Manako is married to Koichiro (Hiroshi Chô), they can be seen eating frog meat together. At first I thought he was a John, but that doesn't seem right. If anything, she's his mistress. Anyway, while being driven home by their chauffeur (Toshihiko Oda), Koichiro insists on rubbing Lady Manako's stocking-covered thighs with his cane in the backseat. This bit of pre-sex foreplay doesn't seem to work, as Lady Manako simply lies there motionless as Koichiro smothers her with kisses. As he's doing this, Lady Manako stares longingly at the ceiling.

(Did you say, "longingly"?) Yep. And you know what that means, right? (Lady Manako can't achieve sexual satisfaction unless Mr. Goda is watching from the attic?) Exactly.

As the lovesick chauffeur is driving Lady Manako back to Mr. Goda's building, we learn why the word "lovesick" is in his name. Telling her that he is jealous of piece of furniture, the lovesick chauffeur explains to her that he has made a few modifications to the red chair that sits near her bed.

You'll notice when Lady Manako arrives at Mr. Goda's building that there's no clown waiting there to perform cunnilingus on her. The reason there's no clown waiting is because Lady Manako plans on putting on a private show for the pervert lurking in the crawl space. Wearing a white veil with white gloves, Lady Manako puts down her white umbrella, hikes up her orange dress and starts to fondle her legs and torso-based erogenous zones while staring directly at the small hole in the ceiling.

When Mr. Goda tries to recreate the experience of being with Lady Manako by dressing up as a clown during his encounter with another prostitute (Aoi Yashiro), it falls flat.

Since it's obvious that Mr. Goda and Lady Manako are made for each other, it only makes sense that they meet face-to-face. And if you thought their relationship was weird before, wait until they start murdering people; she using her much-ballyhooed gams to asphyxiate her victims, he using poison administered via an eyedropper.

Despite the fact that she's forced to remove some of clothing, I liked how Junko Miyashita managed to still seem fully-clothed during the film's many sex scenes. And since the idea watching naked people fornicate makes my skin crawl (I would rather watch dogs fuck in the park), I was totally down with this film's approach to erotica. Dreamlike and, thanks to Junko Miyashita, sexy as hell, The Watcher in the Attic is arty smut at its finest. With only a handful of dull patches, I would highly recommend this film to people who prefer their porn to be a tad more cerebral.

Humanoids from the Deep (Barbara Peeters, 1980)

The Psychic (Lucio Fulci, 1977)

The Room (Tommy Wiseau, 2003)

Suburbia (Penelope Spheeris, 1983)

Deadfall (Christopher Coppola, 1993)

City of the Living Dead (Lucio Fulci, 1980)

Dudes (Penelope Spheeris, 1987)

Tuff Turf (Fritz Kiersch, 1985)

The Being (Jackie Kong, 1983)

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)

The Oracle (Roberta Findlay, 1985)

Assault! Jack the Ripper (Yasuharu Hasebe, 1976)

The Watcher in the Attic (Naboru Tanaka, 1976)