The Stuff (Larry Cohen, 1985)

A cautionary tale for all those who enjoy consuming dessert products on a regular basis, The Stuff is a hokey horror farce that manages to skewer everything from mindless consumerism to cold war paranoia, and yet, still be a movie about homicidal yogurt not from outer space. Now I could take the crude route when describing this gooey undertaking – you know, use a lot of vulgar innuendo and tawdry wordplay. But instead, I've decided to take a more classy approach; the kind the whole family can enjoy. Erupting from the fertile mind of writer-director Larry Cohen, this sticky satire is basically: Attack of the Thick White Fluid. Expect, unlike The Blob and other ooze-based creatures, the titular stuff enters the human body without any resistance. Masquerading as a sort of creamy mouthwash, it lures you to inhale its milky load thanks to its sweet taste and the symmetrical hardness of its outer shell. You see, all the intended victim has to do is firmly grab the shaft-like container with one hand, while gingerly manipulating the circular opening with the other, and after a short period of time, the deepness of their throats will be awash with a tasty non-dairy treat.

Of course, you'd think that ingesting the pasty fluid orally would somehow hamper its effectiveness – after all, I've never heard of anyone getting in trouble for swallowing goo. However, that what makes the stuff so potent, it prays on your inherent hunger for coagulated seepage.

Mocking advertising, corporate greed, and giving Michael Moriarty (Q: The Winged Serpent) a chance to practice his shoddy Southern accent, this tale of sentient food gone amuck is loaded biting social commentary. The stuff in The Stuff literally comes out of the ground, and since it tastes good, it's immediately rushed into stores nation wide. The speed in which The Stuff becomes a success alarms the members of the ice cream guild. In response, they hire Mo Rutherford (Moriarty), an overconfident industrial saboteur whose job it is to find out what makes "The Stuff" so popular. (The ingredients are mystery.)

This investigation uncovers a conspiracy involving shady FDA employees (Danny Aiello), crazed stockholders (Garrett Morris), an equally crazed army Colonel (Paul Sorvino), and Nicole (Andrea Marcovicci), an attractive ad director; in fact, Nicole is the one who came up with the name and designed the chic tub it comes in.

On the domestic front line of this confectionery invasion is a boy named Jason (Scott Bloom), who, after observing some irregular movement inside his refrigerator at 4AM, is quickly wise to The Stuff's sinister agenda. The enlightened scamp takes this new-found knowledge to the nearest supermarket and proceeds to kick the living gunk out of every tub of The Stuff he can get his little Stuff-hating hands on.

Without a doubt, the finest sequence in the entire film, the sight of a severely pissed off child of 1980s laying waste to an entire dairy section was downright enthralling. I mean, a movie about a deadly wad of mucilaginous paste was the last place I expected to see such an anti-corporate message. Sure, on the surface it seemed like it just your average scene involving a boy busting up the dessert aisle, but there was definitely something cathartic about watching a child, the biggest dupes when it comes to being targeted by advertising, lash out against the system.

The effects in The Stuff were primitive, yet highly effective. Besides, how hard is it to make white sludge appear menacing? The best Stuff usage was when The Stuff attacks Moriarty and the lovely Marcovicci in their motel room. The way it sprayed against the wall had a real spastic flavour to it; reminding me of something I saw in John Carpenter's The Thing, except a tad more whitish.

The ads for The Stuff that played sporadically throughout the film were scary; in that, they were a little too authentic looking. So much so, that I had a serious hankering for some Stuff on several occasions.

Anyway, as far as movies that feature sentient food with world domination on their to-do list, you can't do better than The Stuff, an icky cinematic treat that comforts the body, mind and soul.

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Neon Maniacs (Joseph Mangine, 1986)

When the members of Whodini rapped: "The freaks come out at night. (The freaks comes out.) The freaks come out at night!" way back in the day, I always thought their funky declaration to be an unfair vilification of the much maligned increment of time. Sure, most freaks do prefer to come out when it's dark outside (the night air is much more forgiving when it comes to aggravating their contusions), but all they want to do is party and have fun – you know, just like everybody else does. Well, any progress the freak community might have made after that bubbly jam first hit the airwaves is instantly dashed with Neon Maniacs (a.k.a. Evil Dead Warriors), a bizarre and slightly nonsensical horror film about a throng of mindless killers who live under the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, California, U.S.A. Lurching out of their cavernous hideout the second the sun goes down, the act of slaughtering humans in the dark has been turned into an almost blase enterprise. Gingerly going about their bloodthirsty business with a quiet efficiency, they murder for no particular reason. Though, I should say, there was a moment near the end when I thought they wear harvesting the organs of the people they kill. But it turns out that's just the way the Maniac dressed like a doctor (a pre-Djinn Andrew Divoff) likes to dispatch his victims; he removes their organs after rendering them unconscious.

It was this deficiency when it came to explaining things that kept my head spinning throughout this mildly obscure oddity. Of course, I wasn't thinking too hard about the motivation of the Maniacs. (Contemplating the fact that their main weakness was pretty mundane took up the biggest chunk of my brain energy.) But either way, you have to admire the way director Joseph Mangine (cinematographer for Van Nuys Blvd.) managed to create an off-kilter monster flick out of a loose assemblage of hallucinogenic afterthoughts and ideas pulled out of a goblin's ass.

Unanswered questions be damned, this film features a maniac dressed a samurai struggling to walk through a turnstile (don't worry, a fellow maniac who shoots lightning from his fingers helps him out), and a battle of the bands competition as the setting for its climatic showdown. (The best part of the latter being that a nondescript teen turns out to be the leader of sleek new wave outfit called The Outlaws.)

Boasting a strange ambiance from start to finish, Neon Maniacs is like no film I have ever seen before. Everything from the staging of the murders to the dramatic pacing seemed off somehow. Chalk it up to sheer incompetence or a total lack of inexperience on the part of the filmmakers, but whatever they did, it repeatedly ended up being the correct course of action. For example, the decision to use that sinister sounding synthesizer flourish whenever the Maniacs would appear on-screen was the epitome of correctness.

The opening massacre sequence sets the kooky tone of the film early on, as a bunch of snotty teens drunkenly carrying on in a park find themselves inexplicably under attack by an organized group of monsters, freaks and unaffiliated weirdos wielding swords, crossbows and rope (yeah, rope). Since I detested the teens the moment I laid eyes on them (the sight of their de facto leader yelling a derogatory comment toward a group of punks from the relative safety of his moving van rubbed me the wrong way), I didn't feel that bad about their gruesome dismissal.

A teen who survives the park slaughter, the blandly likable Natalie (Leilani Sarelle), Steve (Clyde Hayes), a male classmate who has a thing for Natalie, and a horror aficionado named Paula (Donna Locke) team up to fight the incomprehensible menace. Actually, the younger Paula seems to be the only one genuinely interested in defeating the angry scourge at first.

The fragile Natalie appears indifferent to the mass murder of her peers (the sight of her sunbathing by her pool the next day is what gave me that impression) and Steve's main focus is clearly poontang-related. However, after Natalie and Steve are almost killed by the First Nations, Simian and Samurai maniacs while down in the subway, the two seem more willing to listen to the monster-obsessed ravings of Paula.

Oh, the fact that the Maniacs still want to kill Natalie is the probably closest thing to a conventional plot in this film. You see, the maniacs failed murder Natalie in the park, and spend the rest of the film trying to rectify this mistake. It's not much, but it's something latch on to.

Note to self: If the Neon Maniacs' first attempt to kill you is unsuccessful, don't be surprised when they try again the following night. In other words: Always be prepared.

The liberal use of iridescent slime throughout the film was greatly appreciated, as it is common knowledge that I love iridescent slime. Apparently, it's what the Maniacs bleed when they get cut. Anyway, at first it's just seen languishing in little pools on the ground (the police call it "guck"). But later on it can be seen spraying uncontrollably from the Maniacs when Natalie, Steve and Paula acquire the proper means to kill them.

The constant shots of Donna Locke sitting cross-legged in vampire makeup reminded me of the scene in Starstruck where Jo Kennedy performs "Temper Temper." How you say? Well, the way camera kept showing Ross O'Donovan beaming with pride in the front row was eerily similar to the manner in which Miss Locke beamed while Clyde Hayes (credited here as Alan Hayes) performed his musical number at the battle of the bands competition being held in their school's gym.

And finally, I must say I was quite impressed by Steve's use of the word "environment" when attempting to justify his decision to use public transit on his date with Natalie. Mostly because I didn't know the environment existed back in the mid-80s. In fact, I didn't hear the word uttered once during the 1980s. Yeah, I realize there were trees, plankton and narwhals back then, but I had no idea there were actual people who were calling it the "environment."

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She's Out of Control (Stan Dragoti, 1989)

The human activity known as "parenting" conjures up images of wholesome families laughing and smiling together in a virtual explosion of happiness. In reality, parenting involves the systematic poisoning your offspring's fertile mind. In other words, feeding them the same nonsense that's been festering in your brain for countless years in the hope that will behave the same way you do. Thus, giving you the impression that your inherent lameness will live on in a place most of us like to call "the not-so distant future." This so-called legacy dilemma just happens to be the one conveniently plaguing the lead parent in Stan Dragoti's She's Out of Control, a mystifyingly straightforward yarn about a single father who not only wants to restrain her teenage daughter's unstoppable journey into womanhood, but also desires the opportunity to suffocate her immaculate vagina with the inconsistent hardness of his erect penis.

Now, I realize that the plot description I just typed may sound a little far-fetched, and a tad offensive (you know, from an ethical point of view), but that's what I saw transpiring on-screen. And who am I to pretend otherwise? I mean, every time the father in this movie would look at his daughter screamed incest. (It didn't help that the shots of these looks were played in slow motion.) I'm sure the tone of the character was intended to be that of an overprotective father, but all I saw was a perverted baby boomer trying to keep his eldest daughter all to himself for amoral purposes.

Unintentional or not, the film's creepy flirtations with father-daughter copulation were the least of its problems, as the character of Doug Simpson, the troubled father in question, was loathsome on every level imaginable. A sniveling miscreant , who hasn't had an original thought his entire life, this revolting specimen/father of two works at an oldies radio station (ugh), drives a Jaguar convertible (vomit), and, get this, is dating a woman who looks like Catherine Hicks (lucky bastard).

Portrayed by an extremely dead-eyed Tony Danza, this stressed out dad is shocked to find that his fifteen year-old daughter Katie (Ami Dolenz) has taken a liking to wearing striped stocking socks (the kind that drive depraved men wild) in public, jean jackets adorned with bottons, and competently applied makeup. On top of that, she's gotten contacts, had her braces removed, and begun dating boys other than the neighbour kid she's known since she was six.

Unable to think for himself, the moronic dad does what any gutless turd would do, seeks help from a therapist played by Wallace Shawn. Utilizing the psychiatrist's parental self-help book, Doug befriends his daughter's shock-haired boyfriend Joey (Dana Ashbrook) in an effort to curb his bad boy appeal.

This bit of reverse psychology works surprisingly well. Sure, his Jaguar pays the price, but he has his eldest offspring under control. That is, until Katie dumps him for Timothy (Matthew L. Perry), a smirking nice guy with an unquenchable thirst for clean pussy. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that this asshole is gonna be a lot tougher to contain than the disaffected softie in the leather jacket.

The reason I saw a sexual connection between Tony Danza's inexplicably named Doug Simpson and his daughter Katie wasn't just because of the lingering way he watched her prance about like an untapped oil well in striped tights. Nor was it his intense dedication to keep her torso, face, and feet sperm-free during the Arsenion age. It was the fact that he somehow able to thwart the aggressive advances of Janet, his leggy girlfriend played by the gorgeous Catherine Hicks. This particular scene was quite the eyeopener, in that, it showed exactly where Doug's head is at. Which is, I'm sorry to say, firmly up the frilly skirt of his own daughter; his unshaven cheeks erotically rubbing up against the smooth layer of adolescent leg skin left exposed by the thigh-high limitations of her store-bought stocking socks.

The only redeeming things about She's Out of Control were Katie's makeover montage, Dana Ashbrook's hair, and Ami Dolenz' risque wardrobe. As you might expect, I was quite taken by Ms. Dolenz' commitment to striped and non-striped legwear. I say, "commitment," because she even wore them underneath her strategically ripped jeans. Anyway, like Samantha Mathis' character in Pump Up the Volume, Katie sheathes her legs in striped stockings in order to rebel against authority. Everything about her father is disgusting (his music, his car, his generational pride, his overall personality), and by wearing stripes on her legs, she is able to convey her frustration in a more subtle manner. A fuck you expressed through irregular hosiery for the ages.

Oh, and I got to give fake credit to the producers for using an obscure Yello song on the soundtrack instead of the usual one they play in most movies. Seriously, to hear "Bostich" from their Solid Pleasure album in a mainstream film is pretty commonplace, but to hear an unknown oddity like "Oh Yeah" (a.k.a. Duffman's theme) was an unexpected treat.

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Starstruck (Gillian Armstrong, 1982)

A shimmering glob of unperturbed incandescence just waiting to be devoured by a well-balanced person with discerning taste, Starstruck is an empty-headed excursion that unabashedly celebrates the music and culture of the early 1980s. After recovering from the cinematic contact high it so generously provided, and after I finished kicking myself for taking so long in getting around to viewing it, the amount of adoration I began to feel towards this monumental work of new wave capriciousness as the credits rolled was astronomical. Shot though the inherently kooky prism that is the nation of Australia, the film, directed by Gillian Armstrong (Little Women) and written by Stephen MacLean, is one of the most exuberant musicals I have ever seen. A playful tribute to those who dream big, and the underage cousins who assist them along the way, the carefree, conflict-light (the future of a popular pub is put in mild jeopardy), colourful musical has all the ingredients one could possibly need to make a genuine cult classic.

Energetically choreographed musical numbers, lavish costumes (this mostly applies to the film's main character), animals used as props, a simplistic storyline that requires hardly any mental exertion to follow, and a men's synchronized swimming routine that involves plenty of inflatable sharks.

The well-worn story revolves around an ambitious singer/barmaid named Jackie Mullins (Jo Kennedy) and her shrewd fourteen year-old cousin/manager Angus (Ross O'Donovan) trying to advance in the fickle world of popular music. And like in the similarly plotted Ladies and Gentlemen, The Fabulous Stains, the headstrong Jackie finds herself on the cusp of stardom thanks to an immensely dangerous publicity stunt orchestrated by the crafty Angus. This high-wire act attracts the attention of Terry (John O'May), a well-liked television personality, and is integral to her being invited to sing on his music-based program.

Of course, this sudden burst of fame leads her to compromise her artistic integrity and turn on her band-mates (who didn't even know she was in the band). After her disastrous television appearance, a shot at redemption arises when she and her band (they eventually patch things up) hatch a scheme to crash a music contest being held at the prestigious Sydney Opera House. The fact that the pub owned by Jackie's mum is in financial trouble, and that the contest has a rather healthy cash reward, adds an extra hint of dramatic tension to her performance.

Audaciously new wave in every way possible, Starstruck is gleefully unashamed of its overtly '80s approach to music and fashion. (Jackie and Angus spend just as much time developing her "look" than they do her "sound.") Everything from the neon splendour of Jo Kennedy's "Temper Temper" (I loved the bar slide and the red kangaroo suit) to Jo's counter top dancing during "Body and Soul" (an intoxicating blend of purple hosiery and bouncy exuberance) induced much spiritual joy to pore freely from the gaping hole that is my cheerful epicentre.

The homoerotic beefiness of the aquatic "Tough" had its moments as well. This number in particular did a terrific job of showcasing the film's uniquely Aussie point-of-view. I mean, I can't see any other kind of people being so comfortably gay while immersed in water. And the extreme quirkiness of Jackie's family was another prominently displayed staple of Aussie cinema.

A mind-blowing combination of Cyndi Lauper, Anne Carlisle from Liquid Sky, and Nancy Nova, Jo Kennedy saturates the screen with enough uncut moxie to fill a regular-sized bathtub that's been sanitized with Nina Hagen's tears. Teamed with the impish Ross O'Donovan (his unflinching loyalty to her was adorable), Jo's Jackie is an inspiration to all those who to aspire to be famous in a short period of time.

Now, part of her appeal was the sheer bizarreness of some of her outfits (the body socking complete with ample breasts immediately springs to mind). But I thought, along with doing all of her own singing, that Miss Kennedy brought a breezy, devil-may-care attitude to the proceedings that supplied the film with a nonthreatening brand of amusement. Blessed with an expressive face and a pair of legs that seemed to go on forever, Jo's profound gorgeousness also helped steer her character through the dark corridors of the soul-sucking hell that is the music industry.

Oh, and I want to make sure I give a shout out to Kaarin Fairfax as the warm usherette in pink who locks eyes with Angus near the end of the movie. Credited as "Ice Cream Girl," I was quite impressed with the overall composition of her character. In other words, Kaarin looked like the fantasy girl of every new wave guy and gal on the planet.

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Viva (Anna Biller, 2007)

A constant state of aroused puckishness is the best way to describe the act of viewing Viva for the first time. Circumventing a world where curvy organic structures, Swedish meatballs, communal nudity, gossamer clothing, resplendent orgies, wife swapping, and lush fields of pastoral pubic hair are commonplace, the prospect of looking away from this profoundly chichi ode to self-indulgence, suburban ennui and the films of Radley Metzger, for even a second, caused my aura to become severely bummed out. The stylized visual bouquet that this work of cinematic foppishness puts out there is downright addictive. Harking back to a time when men could laugh loudly at their own jokes while smoking and drinking in lime green slacks, and women could read Playboy in skimpy nighties (the kind that allow your legs to do most of the sexy talking) by the pool and openly woolgather about becoming a high class prostitute, the film makes you long for the freewheeling, uninhibited era known in some circles as the early 1970s. A fleeting increment of time, the period is painstakingly recreated in such a convincing manner, that you often forget that you're watching something that was made during the dreariness of whatever the hell right now is called.

Conventional boredom and stresses that come with suburban living have begun to take their toll on Barbie Smith (Anna Biller), a recently fired secretary with an unexplained allure. Being married to Rick (Chad "I totally look like a guy named Chad" England) and hosting the couple next-door, Sheila (the shapely Bridget Brno) and Mark (the awkwardly handsome Jared Sanford), has lost its lustre. The fact that Rick is always away on business doesn't help matters, as that is when Barbie's frustration really starts to bubble to surface.

It starts with the desire to be a model (which leads to an odd encounter with a Dorothy-friendly hairdresser and his Nordic, sugar craving neighbour), and ends with her teaming up with the equally disaffected Sheila with the single-minded goal of getting more in touch with her feminine infrastructure. Literally putting themselves out there for the world to see, the wannabe sex kittens attract the attention of Miss James (Carole Balkan), who offers to employ them as call girls. Realizing that prostitution is considered hip and cool in today's decadent society, the ladies jump at the chance to have bus shelter-quality intercourse with strangers.

Well, it's Sheila who does most of the jumping. (She basically just wants to bag an old rich dude in order to acquire a fur coat, a diamond bracelet and a white horse.) Barbie, on the other hand, is a tad more hesitant. The first guy she is paired with is a nudist named Elmer (Paolo Davanzo). Of course, Barbie is intimidated by the dangling nature of his lifestyle, and, not to mention, put off by his incessant groping. (Can you blame him? Barbie's knees are breathtakingly knee-like.) However, this brief encounter does give us a genitalia-infused peek into the inner workings of what an unclothed community must have looked like in 1972. Look closely and you'll notice a subtle (and cheeky) anachronism during the nudist sequence.

Oh, and the gender of the filmmaker (who directed the majority of movie whilst wearing a negligee) meant that the level of penis and vagina on display was spread pretty evenly between the two distinct sets of crotch junk.

Barbie's hedonistic journey become more intense when she is introduced to an artist named Clyde (Marcus DeAnda), a horny photog with a healthy rump fetish. This pompous ass man takes an immediate liking to Barbie and her sublime shape, which inspires her to reinvent herself as Viva, a take charge woman who is not afraid of pleasure. It's the Italian word for living, and that's exactly what she what wants to start doing. This doesn't mean she wants to fornicate with Clyde. On the contrary (she finds him to be mildly repugnant). No, the reborn Viva finds herself drawn to Agnes (Robbin Ryan) at a swanky party. This encounter leads to much beach frolicking and one humdinger of an orgy sequence.

The most visually stimulating film to come in contact with my cerebral cortex in donkey's years, multitasker extraordinaire Anna Biller has fashioned an ocular feast for the senses. Every appendage of this beautifully chromatic film is literally engorged with an eye-pleasing vitality. The sets are magnificently constructed, the clothes radiate with an iridescent flair, and the music throbs with a retro sheen.

Now, this may sound like hyperbolic nonsense, but I was repeatedly worried about the operational integrity of my viewing screen as the visual grandeur of Viva washed over me at an alarming rate.

Take, for instance, the sheer garishness of the bathing suits worn by Barbie/Viva and Sheila during the first of many pool side lounging scenes. They (the bright swimwear) looked as if they were causing the surface they were being projected on to feel genuine anguish. Which is high praise if you think about all the tawdry material that's been screened on there over the years. (I'm looking in your direction 1980s era Amber Lynn.) This stylistic loudness permeates every single aspect of Viva. There's not a drab scene to be found, as every square inch has been meticulously crafted by someone well-versed in the aesthetics of perversion.

In charge of not only the film's direction, costume design and art direction, Anna Biller also shines as Barbie and her sexy alter ego. Utilizing the majestic fullness of her gorgeous frame, Miss Biller gives the conflicted character the sensuous edge she needs in order to transverse this trashy landscape in a convincing manner. My favourite acting quirk of Anna's was her predilection for raising her eyebrows in a way that made her look as if she is always intrigued by something.

The acting may be campy, the sets outlandish, and its tongue planted firmly where the cheek resides, but there's nothing insincere about the film's overflowing love for the culture, fashion, and spirit of the much maligned period. A unique masterpiece from an era of styleless banality, Viva is a stunning work from an artist with a singular, wonderfully depraved vision.

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