Blue Sunshine (Jeff Lieberman, 1978)

You could look at it as a cautionary tale, one that attempts to shine some light on what could possibly happen if some of the more extravagant excesses of the hippie era ever decided to rise up from their incompetently dug hippie graves to haunt (a.k.a. feast on the brains of...) the denizens of the disco age. I'll admit, looking at Blue Sunshine, a hair-raising thrill ride written and directed by Jeff Lieberman, from that particular angle does make me feel awfully smart and junk. But as most people are acutely aware, appearing smart is not what I'm known for. If you really wanted to, you could look at this film as a sinister effort by wig manufacturers to demonize baldness. Think about it, with the fedora long out of style, the unwashed, shoulder length tresses of the aforementioned hippie era languishing in the dustbin of coiffure history, and, not to mention, the fact that the inexplicable rise of the baseball hat as a non-atheltic fashion accessory is still years away from becoming our national nightmare, the wig is ready to make a comeback. Back in the late 1970s, thick manes of jet black hair were all the rage. Thanks to celebrities like, John Travolta, Sylvester Stallone, Al Pacino, and Bert Convy, men could grow their hair long without having to look like they were auditioning to be America's next top drug-addled roadie for Blue Öyster Cult (a band who, by the way, is probably responsible for the whole non-Germans misusing umlauts trend). But what about the baldies? Well, that's where the wig comes in. Of course, the wigs will cause you to become overly sensitive to loud noises (so you can forget about heading down to your local disco to hear the fresh new sounds of the day), and, oh yeah, you might develop the urge to kill some or all of your loved ones. Actually, that makes no sense at all. If anything, the industrial wig complex would probably hate the idea that their clients might turn into disco-hating psychopaths after using their product. It's funny how that happens. You're carrying on like you know what you're talking about, when all of sudden, blamo! Your theory bursts into flames.

In my defense, the wig manufacturers at the time must have looked at Blue Sunshine with some trepidation. I mean, after all, everyone who wears a wig in the movie does eventually go crazy (some even chase small children around with kitchen knives). Which, from a public relations point-of-view, must have a been a nightmare. In other words, my theory does hold a fair amount of murky water.

The only film, at least the only one that I'm aware of, to cause the viewer to constantly question the follicular integrity of every man, woman, and child who appears onscreen–well, all except the fabulous Deborah Winters (there's no freakin' way her finely coiffed hairdo was anything but au naturale), Blue Sunshine is an extremely off-kilter look at the unexpected consequences of taking one too many hallucinogens during the period of free love, and even freer drugs. You'll notice I said "extremely" off-kilter, as supposed to just plain "off-kilter." Well, that because whenever your movie has Zalman King (Trip with the Teacher) as its star, you're bound to detect a slight upswing when it comes to your film's overall weirdness.

Doing a terrific job of sucking you into its kooky world almost immediately, Jeff Lieberman opens the film with three shots of a full moon that are paired with three separate scenes that may or may not be connected with one another. The first features the headache prone Dr. David Blume (Robert Walden) making the rounds at the hospital he works; the second shows Wendy Flemming (Ann Cooper) sitting on the couch reading the story of Rapunzel to the kids she is babysitting (the scene ends with her losing a strand of hair); and the final one has a stressed out Barbara O'Malley (Adriana Shaw)–she yells, "No More chocolate pudding!" to one of her fridge-raiding children–sitting at the kitchen table complaining to Ritchie (Bill Sorrells), a male companion, about her husband Jonhnny O'Malley (Bill Cameron), whose been acting strange as of late. How strange, you ask? Why don't you ask him? He's standing right over there. Obviously eavesdropping on their conversation, Johnny, whose pet macaw is perched on his left shoulder, seems emotionally disturbed.

Meanwhile, in a cabin located somewhere outside Los Angeles, a group of friends seem to be having a blast. And who can blame them? A man who looks like Brion James is doing an impression of Rodan (a mutated pterosaur), Billy Crystal's brother is singing Frank Sinatra's "Just in Time," Zalman King is wearing a sweater with reindeer on it, and Deborah Winters is looking super-sexy in a cream-coloured dress that literally oozed disco chic. Wow, you're right, that sounds like one killer party. Yeah, tell me about it. Oh-oh, it would seem that Billy Crystal's brother has just lost his wig. And, get this, his friends didn't seem to know that he wore one. Funny thing, though, the way Billy Crystal's brother reacts to his wig being accidentally pulled off was quite unusual. You see, instead of being embarrassed like most people would in a situation like this, Billy Crystal's brother seems borderline psychotic.

Quickly realizing that his secret's been exposed, Billy Crystal's brother, his eyes looking as if they're about to leap out of their sockets, clutches at his patchy melon with both hands and runs screaming from the cabin. Staring at each other with confused looks on their faces, the rest of the party guests decide that now is a good as any to call it a night. While most of them do leave, Jerry Zipkin (Zalman King) chooses to stay, much to the displeasure of his stylish girlfriend, Alicia Sweeney (Deborah Winters). While Jerry Zipkin, or as Alicia likes to call him, "Zippy," searches the woods for their balding friend, three women, a trio who are not quite as fashion forward as Alicia, but do have their moments (the one in the red dress sitting with her legs crossed had a snotty grace about her that was quite appealing), remain in the cabin just in case if Billy Crystal's brother decides to come back.

Unfortunately, he does come back. Seething with murderous rage, Billy Crystal's brother grabs the woman in the black dress and pushes her into the fireplace. He did what?!? Yeah, I couldn't believe it, either. As he's doing this, the woman in the red dress and her friend in the white dress try to stop Billy Crystal's brother from burning the woman in the black dress in the fireplace. But it's no use, as the three of them eventually end up in the fireplace when all is said and done. After an intense struggle, Billy Crystal's brother is killed by a truck while fighting with Zippy, who came back from his search only to find his female friends roasting in the cabin's spacious fireplace. However, it's Zippy who gets blamed for the murders. And if that weren't enough, he's shot in the arm by a trucker played by Bill Adler (Van Nuys Blvd.), who, from his point-of-view, sees Zippy as the murderer, not Billy Crystal's brother, who, as I have already stated, is currently roadkill.

Fleeing the scene, Zippy is now a fugitive from justice. The still stylish Alicia tries to convince the detectives working the case that he didn't do it, but all the evidence is pointing in his direction. Luckily, Zippy has a doctor friend in the city he can turn to treat his gunshot wound. You'll notice that Zippy's doctor friend, Dr. Blume, is the same doctor from the film's opening scene. Interesting. It's all coming together. Anyway, treating his injury and providing him with a dapper business suit (smart move, since there's an APB out for a man in a sweeter with reindeer on it, not a man dressed like a banker), Zippy begins his quest to clear his name.

One of my favourite parts of Blue Sunshine were the many clandestine rendezvous that take place between Zippy and Alicia throughout the film. Oh, and not for the reasons you're probably thinking. I liked them because they gave us a chance to savour Deborah Winters' urbane fashion sense in the light of day. Up until now, we've only got see Deborah in dim log cabin lighting. But when Zippy starts his life on the lam, things take a turn for the jaunty. Approaching Zippy at their prearranged meeting point with a brash spring in her step, Alicia makes it abundantly clear that she is going to be force to be reckoned with when it comes to exuding high style in this movie. Sporting a striped red and white turtleneck sweater and a pair of tan pants, Alicia tries to tell Zippy that running makes him look guilty, but he seems convinced there's something sinister afoot.

He's absolutely right, there is something sinister afoot. But I don't think he has any idea how dire things are about to get. Learning the details of another homicide involving a bald individual, zippy travels to Glendale to find out more. Holy crap! It would seem that the guy from the opening scene–you know, the guy with the macaw–has just killed himself and his entire family. Does this mean that everyone who is either bald or going to be bald will eventually turn into mindless killer? What about Wendy the babysitter? Her hair is falling out. Is she a killer, too? Fascinating! At any rate, I wonder if he killed his macaw? Actually, it's good thing he didn't, as the bird gave Zippy some vital information regarding the particulars of this wacky mystery.

Another clue is acquired while snooping around Billy Crystal's brother's photography studio. Leading him to Edward Flemming (Mark Goddard), an oily politician running for congress and the ex-husband of one Wendy Flemming (the babysitter who is losing her hair), Zippy has a chat with him while he's campaigning in the parking lot of a local mall. On top of introducing us to Edward (whose genial demeanour disappears the moment the words "blue sunshine" leave Zippy's lips), this scene also gives us a chance to meet Wayne Mulligan (Ray Young), Edward's ex-college football star campaign manager, and, of course, allows us to see what fabulous outfit Deborah Winters is wearing today. The ensemble she models over the course of the next couple of scenes is probably my favourite out of all of Alicia's many stylish looks. A black cowboy hat (yeah, that's right, a black motherfucking cowboy hat!), designer shades, a red turtleneck, a striped jacket, and a grey skirt with a slit down the front, this getup is bold yet conservative at the same time (which are the hallmarks of a true style icon).

It's obvious that Wayne Mulligan, despite coming across as a crude jock, knows style and sophistication when he sees it, because he sneaks away from one Edward Flemming's speeches to hit on Alicia by the side of the road. While flattered by the attention, the only reason Alicia decided to humour the hulking ex-football player was to help Zippy's cause. In addition to being a fashionable woman on the go, Alicia is the ultimate girlfriend. In fact, if you look up "girlfriend" in the dictionary, you won't find a picture of Alicia Sweeney. Which is clearly a mistake on the part of the dictionary people, because Alicia's steadfast loyalty and unyielding dedication when it came to trying to exonerate Zippy went way beyond the thinly defined parameters of what constitutes a girlfriend.

As Wayne is asking Alicia to meet him at Big Daddy's, a local discotheque, you can't help but notice that there's something fishy going on with Wayne's hair (his eyebrows seem a little wonky as well). This fishiness carries over to the scene where Zippy attempts to extract some information from Wendy regarding "blue sunshine." Of course, there was no doubt about the genuineness of Zippy's hair; in fact, Zalman King's thick mane of a dark hair was as profound a hair statement you'll ever see in a motion picture). But as for everyone else, there was definitely an air of suspicion surrounding the authenticity of their respective locks.

The only exception I made when it came to scrutinizing the hair of the characters in Blue Sunshine was whenever the gorgeous Marcy Hanson would appear onscreen as a lithesome campaign worker wearing a red vest. The sheer skimpiness of her white pleated skirt must have distracted me, because it took quite some time for me to realize that she even had a head.

Whether trying to memorize the operational mantra that came with his recently purchased Walther LP3 air pistol ("Hold the baby...") or scoring tranquilizers in the park, Zalman King is the definition of unhinged paranoia as Jerry Zipkin, the most unusual "everyman" to grace the silver screen. In most cases, the hero is typically a sane man trying to come to grips with a world gone mad. But in Blue Sunshine, it was like watching an insane man in a world that is just as insane as he is. This unorthodox technique gives the film an eerie quality that might leave some viewers feeling a tad alienated. However, those who can accept Zalman King as a dashing hero, and Deborah Winters as the woman who will do just about anything to help him out (she even utilizes the soul rejuvenating power of disco to get him out of a tight jam at one point), will find much to love in Blue Sunshine, a creepy thriller that manages to demonize baldness and celebrate Barbra Streisand in puppet form simultaneously.

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Porno Holocaust (Joe D'Amato, 1981)

Most men, when put in a situation where lives are at risk, would politely decline a hysterical woman's impromptu offer to perform guilt-free oral sex on him in a tropical setting. But then again, it's obvious from the get-go that Captain Hardy isn't your average man. Hell, he's not even your average captain. "Oral sex in the tropics," that should be his middle name, because it seems like he's on the receiving end of a sun-baked blow job for the majority of this movie. I guess you could shorten his middle name to something like, Captain "Sunny Head" Hardy, or just join together "oral sex in the tropics" to make the Latvian-sounding, "Oralseksen Thetropiks." Either way, he's getting sucked off more often than a garden hose at an insufficiently catered backyard birthday party in the middle of a heat wave. Maybe it was the way his hairless nut sack glistened as it bathed in the uncompromising glow of the sun's shimmering rays, or maybe it had something to do with his virile mustache (it's a little known fact that chicks prefer to fornicate with men with strong facial hair). Well, whatever it was, I was extremely jealous of the male lead in Porno Holocaust, Joe D'Amato's mildly racist, extremely sexist ode to radioactive poontang. Even though his wad was pretty much nonexistent in terms of voluminosity, the amount of attention his barely erect member receives in this movie is enough to drive you up a wall made entirely out of broken dreams and partially trodden on cucumber slices. I don't know why I'm reacting this way. After all, it's common knowledge that I abhor watching non-transsexuals receive head. However, I don't think it's got anything to do with dome-o-phobia, or even tonsillitis, for that matter, I think it's got something to do the frequency in which the film's captain is orally serviced. And if there's one quality I hate in a man, it's oral sex-related greed.

On one level, the film could be seen as an erotic instructional guide on how to perform cunnilingus on driftwood. Yet, on another, completely different level than the level I just mentioned, the film is a cautionary tale about the dangers of atomic weaponry in the late twentieth century. While I like the sound of those levels, the offensively titled Porno Holocaust is mostly about killing time between sex scenes. As in, how are we going to fill the chunks of time when the not quite aptly named Captain Hardy (Mark Shannon) is not getting his pee pee licked by brunette scientists with small breasts?

Driving through the streets of, oh, let's say, Santo Domingo in his jeep, Captain Hardy–you can totally tell, by the way, that he's a sailor by not only the cut of his uniform, but also by the cut of his jib–is smirking because he knows that his cock is about to be inundated with a wide array of oral and vaginal riches over the course of the next few days. Since the scene where Captain Hardy is driving around the city is still going, let me take a second to comment on the film's official theme song by Nico Fidenco. Boring its way into your head like a playful head cold, you might think that a song this catchy has no business being associated with a film called "Porno Holocaust," but it's obvious that the esteemed Joe D'Amato (Beyond the Darkness) and his committed cast have put a lot of effort into justifying their presence alongside such an amazing piece of music.

After meeting with his crew, a bunch of misogynists who think women are bad luck (wait until he tells them their passengers are not only women, but scientists, too), Captain Hardy flirts with one of these so-called "lady scientists." Lounging by the hotel's pool in a white bikini, Annie Dorman (Lucia Ramirez), a racially ambiguous (think: Laura Gemser meets Jennifer Balgobin) nuclear physicist, chats with Captain Hardy about who the fuck cares. Please excuse my indifference when came to recalling the minutes of their, what I'm sure was, interesting conversation. You have to understand, Dr. Dorcin de Saint Jacques (Annj Goren) is about to saunter onscreen, and whenever the gorgeous Dr. Dorcin de Saint Jacques, who prefers to be called "Contessa Saint Jacques," graces us with her lithesome presence, my mind turns to mush.

Walking over to where Annie and Captain Hardy are conversing with one another with a whorish brand of unfermented aplomb, Contessa Saint Jacques, a stylish zoologist who is wearing a peach-coloured string bikini like her life depended on it, seems to realize almost immediately that she's missed the boat when it comes to claiming squatter's rights to the thrusting future of Hardy's penis. It's a good thing Annj Goren is playing this role, because only an actress of her calibre would be able to convey the emotional whirlwind that the Contessa experiences in this moment. Check out her back as she listens to Annie and Captain Hardy blather on and on about the island he's supposed to be taking them to, it's a textbook example of what I like to call dignified stillness. In fact, she's so stationary, that the loose strings dangling from her bikini top seem to have a mind of their own.

The other half of the science expedition, oh, haven't you heard? a group of scientists want to visit this deserted island to run some tests, and Captain Hardy is the man they have hired to take them there. Anyway, we meet Dr. Lemoir (George Eastman) and Simone (Dirce Funari), two married scientists who are struggling to iron out the kinks of their burgeoning sex life. Let's be honest, Simone is frustrated by her husband's lack of enthusiasm during love making, and upset over the fact that his rapid expiry rate in the sack is failing to satisfy her womanly needs.

It has gotten so bad that Simone makes a joke about leaving the door of her hotel room unlocked in the hope that a man with a functioning penis might break in and rape her. Luckily, Contessa Saint Jacques shows up just in time to calm her frazzled nerves by administering some well-applied lesbian sex. Of course, judging by how hostile they were to each other, the chances of there being any lesbian sex, forget about the well-applied variety, looked pretty remote. You see, after the Contessa makes this crack about her husband's impotence, Simone returns the favour by mocking her inability to snag Captain Hardy away from Annie (who's currently being wined and dined by the Captain as we speak). The slight against the Contessa's man-luring capability causes her to slap Simone in the face. Not the type of person to be bullied by a woman with a boyish haircut, Simone hits the Contessa in the face as well.

After they have finished slapping each other in the face, Contessa Saint Jacques plunges her erect left nipple into the modestly spacious confines of Simone's symmetrical ass crack, and follows that up by devouring every inch of her nimble frame with the care of a fun-loving wildebeest. Awash with brunette hair of every shade imaginable, this not-so crazy session of lesbian make-up sex is dominated by the Contessa, as she does most of the scene's heavy lifting when it came to giving the gift of cunni and anilingus.

This heavy lifting trend carries over to the next scene when we find the Contessa paying to have her wart-covered holes poked and prodded by a couple of Dominican penises. If you're wondering why Simone isn't there with the Contessa to make sure the two male prostitutes treat her with respect, your guess is as good as mine. Anyway, with Simone off doing whatever, the Contessa is ready to get double-teamed by two guys at once. Standing fully dressed before her double dose of dangling man-candy, Contessa Saint Jacques starts off by removing her red blazer. Then she pulls down her red skirt (flinging it off camera after both her legs had broken free of its wooly grip). Moving on to her white blouse, she unbuttons all the buttons and proceeds to toss it where her jacket and skirt are currently lying in a state of crumpled chaos. And last, but not least, she doffs her black panties. Slowly hiking them down with a purposeful hiking motion, the Contessa flings them off with a cavalier grace (she is a "contessa" after all), and nakedly awaits her double-helping of dark cock.

What makes Porno Holocaust so great, besides the fact that it's called, "Porno Holocaust," is that Joe D'Amato can turn the simple removal of a woman's clothing into an erotic event. Think about it, we've already seen Annj Goren naked at this point in this film, yet he still manages to create an air of excitement around the prospect of seeing her naked again. Which, I've been told, is no small feat. Attacking her body with multiple kisses and mussing her boyish hair, the two prostitutes do to the Contessa what the Constessa did to Simone in her hotel room. Only in this case, there's eighty percent more pelvic thrusting involved. After performing duel handjobs, along with duel blow jobs, the scene morphs into your typical mfm threesome scene, as all the usual positions are employed. The great thing about this scene–you know, other than the disco music throbbing on the soundtrack and the scuffed up bottoms of the Contessa's tan pumps–was the fact that both Annj and one of the guys (the fella with the sweat-drenched hairy bum) both look directly into the camera at one point.

Meanwhile, on a nearby beach, Captain Hardy and Annie are enjoying a spot of outdoor consensual sexual intercourse. Don't bother taking a long, good look at Captain Hardy's balls as they plow toward Annie's moist undercarriage, because you'll be sick of them by the time Porno Holocaust is over. At any rate, after they're done, we're subjected to longest walk and talk scene ever to be committed to film. Okay, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. But still, as far as babbling incessantly about radiation goes, this scene is the Gettysburg Address of mobile gabbiness. Let's just say, I was plenty relieved when they finally got on board Captain Hardy's vessel. Oh, and by "vessel," I don't mean his penis, I'm referring to his boat.

Yay! After much chit chat, they finally arrive at their radioactive destination. As they're disembarking, we can't help but notice that someone or something is watching then from the bushes (the sound of heavy breathing and eerie music is added to the point-of-view lurking to emphasize the baneful nature of their ominous presence). As the menfolk set up camp, the Contessa and Simone don their skimpiest bikinis and sit facing one another on a piece of driftwood. As the waves crash against the loose chunks of wood that litter the beach, Simone starts to remove the Contessa's beach attire. Still smarting from the reaming she received at the hands of those Dominican prostitutes, the Contessa is open to the idea of Simone treating her swollen pussy with kid lesbian gloves. And faster than you can say, the circumference of Dirce Funari's ass is quite pleasing, the two of them are sitting naked, crotch-to-crotch on a huge log.

As they're busy scissoring the day away, Captain Hardy and Annie decide to do the sex on the beach thing as well. While I can't really blame him for wanting to penetrate the goodies located between Annie's chocolatey thighs instead of picking up radioactive sand crabs, I'm tired of looking at his balls. Sure, we get a wispy hint of George Eastman's genitals. But I can't subsist on wispy hints alone, I need to feel the wrinkled fullness of his haphazardly shaven scrotum sloshing around inside my herpes-free mouth. Returning from her log encounter with the Contessa, Simone, now wearing a dark one piece bathing suit, tells her husband all about the mutated algae she found on the beach. Noticing a lull in the algae-based conversation, Simone decides to fill the awkward void by pinning her husband against a palm tree. Extracting ten well-timed pelvic thrusts from her husband before his genitals began to leak semen, Simone was literally beaming with pride as she dismounted her potent steed. Unfortunately, her pride quickly turns to horror as the entity who has been watching them ever since they landed on the island finally makes his presence felt.

A disfigured man wearing rags, the so-called "ape-like creature" kills the members of Captain Hardy's crew (their forehead's resemble plates of mushy baked beans after he's through with them), and grabs Annie all for himself. Tucking her away in his cave for safe keeping, the radioactive madman focuses his energy on the other women on the island. You know how I said that Annj Goren did most of the heavy lifting during her first sex scene Dirce Funari? Well, this could be applied to the movie on the whole, as Annj's body is put through the ringer in terms of being violated in a tropical setting. You have to admire her for the way she puts herself out there. Seriously, while most of the actors appear in three or four sex scenes, Annj does her thing in five: One straight sex scene (sans cunnilingus, bastard), one mfm threesome, one rape scene, and two lesbian scenes.

While the drably attired nutcase is romancing Annie in his cave (he brings her flowers and fruit), the Contessa, Captain Hardy, and a male scientist with a beard whose name began with an 'L' are still trying to figure out what's going on. I'll admit, while Captain Hardy is attempting to cut a coconut with a machete, I thought I had accidentally changed the channel to the latest installment of Survivor. But that thought quickly melted away, as the Contessa, her breath, no doubt, reeking of Scotch whiskey, decides right then and there that she wants to have sex with Captain Hardy. Did I lose some respect for the Contessa as she went about removing her khaki-coloured clothing? I guess. But you got to give up to the Contessa, not even a million radioactive madmen are gonna prevent her from getting her, as the kids in 1998 might say, "freak on." Hey, if Captain Hardy can have sex in a rowboat, than surely the Contessa can engage in some off-the-cuff campsite sex. I mean, so what if there's a psychokiller on the loose whose funky spunk makes your junk bleed?

Am I watching a porno, or am I watching a horror movie? I was never quite sure. And that's part of the charm of Porno Holocaust, as it causes you to constantly keep tabs on your mental well-being. Of course, most people are too lazy to keep tabs on their mental well-being, as they would rather, to sort of quote Mr. Burns from The Simpsons, "wallow in a tepid pool of their own crapulence." Aroused while horrified is the ultimate form of cinematic catharsis, and Joe D'Amato provides both in equal measure. Is there anything else to say? Let me see. Cunnilingus. Driftwood. Nope, I think that pretty much covers it. Porno Holocaust, bitches!

uploaded by BastardCinema

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Cruising (William Friedkin, 1980)

Deep down, you had a feeling your leather trousers might be a tad on the tight side when you bought them, but you had no idea they would be this tight. Here's some free advice the next time you find yourself in the leather trouser section of your local supermarket: Always try them on while sporting a raging hard-on. Oh, and no half chubs or one quarter wood, I'm talking a fully erect member up in this motherscratcher. When the guys at say, the Anvil or the Ramrod, start to grind up against you on the dance floor, you want to make sure the inevitable boner you unfurl stays within the smooth confines of your leather trousers. Of course, the chances of your cock and some of your balls escaping the leathery grip of your pants are pretty remote. But still, you want to maintain an air of dickish dignity, while, at the same time, keeping the contents of your package firmly under wraps, as no-one likes a show off, especially in a place like, the Cockpit. If you think leather trousers sound complicated, honey, you ain't seen nothing yet. How do you think the ambitious heterosexual NYPD patrolman at the centre of Cruising, one who probably thinks listening to Chic automatically makes you a card-carrying Friend of Dorothy, is gonna react when he's given the opportunity to hopscotch his way to detective? Pretty excited, I guess. Wait a second, did you just say, "hopscotch his way"? Burn my "Cher's first facelift commemorative dishrag" with an acetylene torch, but that sounds a little gay? Oh, it's gay all right. In fact, it's so gay, you'll be asking Powers Boothe about the coloured-coded world of back pocket bandanas in no time. While a lot of straight men, particularly the one's who lived in New York City circa 1980, wouldn't be too pleased about the prospect of donning a black undershirt in order to catch a serial killer, I, on the other hand, would have jumped at the chance to be exceedingly fabulous at the height of disco; well, the tail end of disco.

Whether it was the height, the tail end, or even smack dab in the middle of the disco era, it doesn't matter, the opportunity to go undercover as a gay man sounds like the chance of a lifetime. Of course, we're not talking about an episode of Glee, so you can forget about mincing, frolicking, sashaying, or telling total strangers to talk to the hand, as those types of mannerisms are strictly forbidden in this universe. No, this is an ultra gritty look into New York's underground S&M bar scene. In other words, throngs of burly men in leather thongs, motorcycle caps, studded bracelets, assless chaps and biker boots are what are in store for you.

Given that film is written and directed by William Friedkin (To Live and Die in L.A.), this isn't going to be your average crime thriller–you know, the kind where a cop on the edge tries to catch a psychopathic killer. Even though it sort of starts off like your typical police procedural, the film quickly transports us to the heart of the meatpacking district where we find two patrolmen named DiSimone (Joe Spinell) and Desher (Mike Starr) cruising the streets in their radio car. After they have finished soliciting/harassing two transgender prostitutes, one of which is named DaVinci (Gene Davis), the camera follows a dark stranger in leather as he walks toward a building located across the street.

The first thing that struck me as the leather-clad man made his way to the unmarked, windowless building were the sounds he made as he walked. And I'm not just talking about the sound of his motorcycle boots hitting the pavement, there was something strangely alluring about the way his leather jacket creaked with every step. On top of that, I was also quite taken with the manner in which the metallic accessories attached to his outfit (chains, zippers, studs, etc.) seemed to jingle-jangle as he moved. Accentuated by the eerie-sounding drone music provided by composer Jack Nitzsche, the fact that the sight of this mysterious figure walking toward his equally mysterious destination was so compelling is a testament to the skill of William Friedkin as a filmmaker.

With our curiosity sufficiently piqued by this brava display of sound design, and, not to mention, monochromatic cinematography, we're ready to be sucked into the leather bound world of soggy jock-straps, wool socks, hairy chests, denim vests, and nipple licking that await us on the other side of the door. The man who we just watched enter the club, an establishment whose walls are adorned with hubcaps, exits the club just as quickly with a man with dark hair and dark eyes. After securing room at the St. James Hotel, and engaging in some sparse foreplay (the sound of creaking leather is ever-present), the two get down to business. All tuckered out after a rigorous bought of anal sex, the man who was picked up by the dark stranger awakens to find himself naked and hog tied with a knife to his throat (his leather restraints seem to get tighter the more he struggles). Suddenly the dark stranger says, "Who's here, I'm here, you're here," in his trademark creepy voice, and proceeds to stab the musclebound man with the dilated anus multiple times in the back with a kitchen knife.

Meanwhile, back at police headquarters, Captain Edelson (Paul Sorvino), who is growing increasingly frustrated by the lack of progress he's making with the case of the so-called "homo killer," decides that he needs to penetrate the leather bar scene with a more reliable phallus. Asking Steven Burns (Al Pacino), a fresh out of the academy recruit, point blank, if he's ever had his cock sucked by a man, Edelson wastes little time offering him the chance to go deep undercover to draw out a serial killer(his dark features are similar to that of the majority of the killer's victims). Of course, the catch being that he has to infiltrate a subculture he knows nothing about.

Just like with the punk and goth scenes, this process takes time. The people who make up these specific subcultures can spot an imposter like that, so you better do your homework. Taking baby steps, Steve Burns slowly transforms himself into John Forbes, an art student with a thing for black undershirts. Renting an apartment in the West Village, and making friends with his new neighbour, a playwright named Ted (Don Scardino), there's a new man on the scene and he's ready to cruise. Okay, maybe he's not quite ready to "cruise," but he's learning the ropes. Hanging out at infamous leather bars such as the Ramrod, the Anvil, and the Cockpit, Steve observes the crowd as they interact with one another.

A favourite early scene that takes place during Steve's rope learning period features Al Pacino asking Powers Boothe's "Hanky Salesman" about the handkerchiefs that are hanging in his shop. If I heard this right, a light blue hanky stuffed in your left back pocket means you like to receive oral sex, while a light blue hanky sticking out of your right back pocket indicates that you give oral sex. When it comes to green, the left back pocket signifies you're a hustler, and the right implies that you're a buyer. Moving on to yellow, the left is all about receiving golden showers, and the right means you give them. Just as he was about to explain what the colour red represents, Al's character bails. Which is a shame, because I was dying to know what the red hanky stood for. I'm gonna go ahead and assume that it had something to do with anal fisting. Anyway, like Steve, I was a little confused by the yellow hanky. And not by what constitutes a "golden shower" (people peeing on one another for erotic or malicious purposes goes back thousands of years), but by which pocket meant what.

Slightly embarrassed by the yellow hanky mix up that took place at the Ramrod, or whatever club it was (it was the one with the hubcap motif), Steve is more determined than ever to immerse himself into the gay leather bar scene. And what better way to do so than to lift weights in your apartment as "It's So Easy" by Willy DeVille kicks some serious ass on the soundtrack. And it doesn't end with sculpting his Italian-American physique. Nuh-uh. Letting guys size him up at the clubs (of course, making sure you have the correct hankie in your back pocket when said sizing up commences), developing a rapport with the bartenders, Steve is on the fast track to becoming a regular. Which is weird, because it took me a couple of months just to get to the point where I felt comfortable enough to ask the bartender at my favourite nightclub what time it was. But then again, Steve is racing against the clock (um, hello? there's a killer on the loose).

It's true, mistakes are made–Steve shows up to one of the clubs on "precinct night" not wearing a police uniform (on certain nights of the week, some of the clubs have theme nights), which is ironic, since he is a cop (he's told to leave immediately)–but for most part his gayness is strong. Only problem being, he seems to be growing bored with vaginal intercourse. How could I tell? Well, the look on his face as Nancy (Karen Allen) writhed on top of him practically screamed hetero-ennui (he reverts back to the straight world every so often to fornicate with his girlfriend). I'm not sure if this was done on purpose, but every time Karen Allen would appear onscreen I'd think to myself: What the fuck is that? Of course, it's obvious she's a human female, and quite an attractive one, I might add. But other than Karen, the film is pretty much devoid of women.

The murder sequences for the killer's next two victims, while not as gruesome as the one in the hotel, are no less effective when it came to communicating a sense of dread. The one that takes place in the park makes excellent use of sound to create its foreboding ambiance (eerie synths, crickets chirping, the sound of men moaning in the distance, and branches snapping), while the murder in the peepshow uses flickering shadows and "Lion's Share" by The Germs to spell out its terror.

If you thought being murdered to The Germs was awesome, wait until you get a load of the next scene. Wandering into the, oh, let's say it was the Cockpit, Al Pacino enters as, get this, "Shakedown" by Rough Trade is playing on the soundtrack. Whoever it was who decided to include Toronto's own Rough Trade on the Cruising soundtrack needs a raise. Seriously, Rough Trade and Cruising are practically made for one another. At any rate, Steve's gay cred is solidified once for all when he steps out onto the dance floor and begins to bust a move to Willy DeVille's "Heat of the Moment." Sniffing amyl nitrate while soaking in a sweaty pool filled with black undershirts, hairy forearms, and off to the side anal fisting, Al Pacino pumps his fists to the music as the leather dandies watch with teary-eyed admiration.

After an elaborate sting operation involving a Ramrod regular named Skip (Jay Acovone) fails to bear any fruit–though it does provide us with the sight of giant black man wearing nothing but jock strap and a cowboy hat–the film shifts into stake out mode. Following a hunch, Steve decides to tail another Ramrod regular during the light of day. Yeah, that's right, daytime. Was I saddened by the fact that the film is no longer taking place at night? Sure I was. I mean who doesn't love to watch gay men in leather jackets acting tough after dark? And, as everyone knows, the daylight is a cruel mistress, one that will eventually destroy the darkness. I think the lyrics to the Meri D. Marshall smash, "My Obsession," perfectly encapsulate my feelings on the subject: "Strangers in the daylight / Lovers after midnight / This is my obsession / I live for the darkness, I must confess."

One of the pluses that came with this shift in decor was that we finally get to see the exceedingly handsome Richard Cox in this so-called "light of day." His first appearance as Stuart Richards, which occurs during the hanky code fiasco at the Ramrod, took away my ability to breathe properly. The way he sneered at Al Pacino's character, the collar of his denim shirt brushing ever-so-slightly against chin, was so fucking hot. However, seeing him pump iron without a shirt, ride the bus, and relax in the park was, to quote myself, "tantamount to titillation torture."

The allure of black leather is so strong in Cruising, that even Karen Allen is briefly tempted by its creaking appeal (much like Det. Bayliss was drawn to leather in the Homicide: Life on the Street episode titled "A Many Splendored Thing"). Capturing the sleazy charm of the leather bar scene in late '70s New York City (the club scenes ooze authenticity), William Friedkin has made a compelling document of a period of time that will never be repeated. Sure, people still wear leather and have anal sex, but I bet they don't do it with as much gusto. No, this film is a must for anyone who loves leather, old school Al Pacino (you know, before he became Foghorn Leghorn), jock straps (especially when they're worn in a non-athletic environment), extras who nearly trip while climbing up stairs, awkward nightclub dancing, and, of course, denim vests.

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Chained Heat II (Lloyd Simandl, 1993)

A cynical person, or a warped one, depending on your point-of-view, might come to the conclusion that the sister who wasn't framed for drug possession in post-communist Czechoslovakia was just jealous over the fact that it was her sister and not her whose vaginal future was being fought over by a tall lesbian and a less tall, regular-size lesbian. You mean to tell me that the sister, the one not charged with trafficking in illegal substances and sent to the notorious Razik Prison, wasn't genuinely concerned about the welfare of her wrongfully accused sister? Is that what you're saying? Even though the actresses playing the sisters were severely lacking in the charisma department, I thought the one who was trying to bust out the one who was railroaded by the Czech justice system was totally sincere about her wanting to free her unjustly imprisoned sister. Anyone who thinks otherwise would have to be pretty sick in the head. Okay, I'll admit, I did, for a second there, think that the one sister was upset over the fact that she wasn't deemed hot enough to be convicted of drug smuggling on trumped-up charges by the proprietors of an underground sex slave racket. However, since that person doesn't work here anymore, I'm ready as I'll ever be to explore the hidden treasures that are sprinkled throughout Chained Heat II, a sleazy masterpiece masquerading as a pantie fetishist's disjointed dream. Do you enjoy films that employ competent acting and compelling story lines? You do? Well, I'm sorry, but you need to fuck off excuse yourself. What about Czech women who like to sit crossed-legged while wearing black silk stockings? Do they claw at your genitals in a pleasing manner? Judging by the intensity of your head nodding, I'll take that as one of them resounding yes thingies.

I know, I also said the film was, what did I say? oh yeah, "a pantie fetishist's disjointed dream." Yeah, don't worry, I haven't forgotten about you. It's just that "Czech women," especially one's who are in their mid-forties, "who like to sit cross-legged while wearing black silk stockings," is kind of my thing, and being that I'm mildly self-absorbed, that's the perversion my mind is currently focused on at the moment. Nevertheless, there's no doubt in my mind that director Lloyd Simandl has a thing for white panties. Sure, one of the producers, or maybe even the script writing guy, could have been the individual with the pantie obsession–I have no way knowing–but either way, someone involved in the making of this film is definitely a pantie fiend.

Oh, and please excuse the judgmental, somewhat accusatory temperament of my tone. When I watch a film, I tend to look at the screen (I find that it's the best way to see what's going on). And while I was looking at the screen that was showing Chained Heat II, I couldn't help but notice there were a lot scenes that featured young women slipping on white cotton panties.

The year is 1993, and Czechoslovakia is finally free. Ready to turn the page on a dark chapter in their history, the nation is looking forward to tomorrow. Whoa, hold on a minute. Just because one political system has been replaced with another, does not necessarily mean that all their problems will simply melt away. The prison industrial complex that terrorized its citizens for decades remains fully intact and isn't going anywhere. Shifting from housing mostly political prisoners (enemies of the state) to one's who are convicted of drug offenses that are, for the most part, completely bogus, the Razik correctional facility, a decaying remnant of a bygone era if I ever saw one, has somehow managed to flourish in the country's newfangled free market economy.

You know your penitentiary is doing well financially when its warden, Magda Kassar (Brigitte Nielsen), is seen wearing sharp power suits on a regular basis (no doubt purchased at a shop that caters to ladies who stand over six feet tall) and walking her pet cougar through the dungeon-like corridors of her hellish correctional facility. Actually, while the power suits are featured throughout the film (right up until the final scene, in fact), the cougar is only present during the opening credits. Either way, the sight of Brigitte, who is shot from the waist down (although there's no denying who owns those long, slender legs), marching around the prison grounds in black pumps with a cougar on a leash is quite the spectacle. The sound of a whip cracking, a cougar growling, and women screaming is an excellent way to open a women in prison flick, as it clearly tells me that writer-director Lloyd Simandl, the master of Czechsploitation, is fully committed to delivering the campy goods I so wantonly crave.

Since every women in prison film needs to have a "new fish," a character who is usually sent away for a crime she didn't commit, Chained Heat II, after Brigitte has finished walking her cougar, introduces us to Alex Morrsion (Kimberly Kates), an American traveling through Czechoslovakia. Just as she's about to greet her sister Suzanne (Kari Whitman) at the train station, police arrest Aelx for drug possession. You see, while she was taking a nap, two shady-looking passengers plant cocaine in her bag. Sentenced to ten years hard labour by a stern judge, Alex is sent to, you guessed it, the notorious Razik prison.

Ushered out of the back of a van with a bunch of other girls, Alex is met by the sound of barking dogs and male guards yelling instructions in Czech. After the jarring nature of her encounter with the dogs and the guards (who are all carrying submachine guns), you'd think things would soften somewhat once inside. But things only get harder for Alex, who comes face-to-face, well, face-to-thorax with Magda: The Stylish Warden, and her loyal subordinate Rosa Schmidt (Jana Švandová), who she actually does come "face-to-face" with since she is the same height as her. Anyway, if Magda and Rosa seem like they were expecting the arrival of the naive American, that's because they totally were. Pleased by what they see ("her skin is so smooth"), Magda and Rosa play good lesbian, bad lesbian with Alex as she stands before them with her fellow inmates. Playing the bad lesbian, Rosa scolds Alex for slouching, while Magda dons her good lesbian cap by praising Alex's beauty, and, at same time, throwing Rosa the occasional stink-eye for being such a bad lesbian.

Who would have thought that Jana Švandová, an actress fifteen years older and a full foot shorter than Brigitte Nielsen, would be able to outshine her lanky co-star so easily? Not me, that's for sure. Somehow managing to lure my attention away from Brigitte, Jana is sexy and evil simultaneously. And to think, it all began during the scene where Magda and Rosa inspect the "new meat" as it's about to be processed. Both are shown sitting together with their legs crossed, yet it was Jana's shapely gams encased in nylon that were the focus of my attention. It's weird, my eyes seemed to be drawn to her as she sat there. The reason I say, "it's weird," is because I know I'm technically not supposed to be looking at her (it's Brigitte Nielsen's name above the title, not Jana Švandová's), but that's where my eyes went. It's almost as if she knew she was more alluring than Brigitte, and that confidence seemed to literally ooze from the screen. Well, at least it oozed off the screen I was watching.

Have you ever wondered where all the also-ran fashion designers go after the host tells them they "no longer measure up" on Project Runway Canada? What?!? Don't tell me you haven't seen Project Runway Canada? Girl, it's like the American version, except instead of some no talent hosebeast, PRC features the truly fabulous Iman as the show's host. At any rate, when they get kicked off the show, I can easily imagine some of the more "flamboyant" designers being mistakenly thrown into a women's prison in the former Czechoslovakia. Treated as the de facto mascot of Razik prison, the reason the women look so fashionable, especially when compared with the ladies I've seen in other women in prison flicks, is because Bobo (David Buonantony) is there to design all the outfits. An artist with a flair for the dramatic, Bobo not only helps the girls of Razik look great, he also decides to assist Alex in her quest for freedom.

Usually sheathed in drab muumuus or a loose-fitting dresses, the women who populate the women in prison universe don't usually have a lot of options when it comes to being chic in the clink. However, thanks to Bobo, the uniform the women of Razik wear has three, count 'em, three separate pieces. A brown skirt with a mild slit in the back for added mobility, a white sleeveless t-shirt, and a short-sleeved bluish grey dress shirt. Never in a million years did I think that I would see the day when a women in prison film would feature this many imprisoned women who were repeatedly teetering on the brink of jauntiness. But there they were, in all their stylish glory.

How are the people who run Razik able to afford to drape their inmates in such couture opulence? That's easy, they operate a drug lab out of the basement, well, at least Rosa does, as I'm not sure if Magda knows about this subterranean cocaine factory (all the inmates, by the way, work in the nude in order to prevent employee theft). They also allow some of the prisoners to work at an unlicensed casino/brothel as prostitutes (the evening gowns they wear are all designed by Bobo). In rare cases, sadists from around the world will pay big bucks for the opportunity to torture and kill some of the more troublesome inmates. Though, I doubt they will find many who fit that description at Razik. I mean, hello? You get to wear an outfit that contains three separate pieces. Who in their right mind would want to jeopardize such a sweet deal? In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if there wasn't a waiting list as long as a socially maladjusted traffic cone to get into Razik, the Holt Renfrew of Central European girl prisons.

Okay, there's no waiting list, but there is one woman who desperately wants to break-in to Razik. Her name is Suzanne Morrison, and she'll do anything to bust her sister out. Does she care that Alex gets to wear a three piece outfit, has two lesbians of varying degrees of tallness battling for the right to smother their European faces nostril deep in her American pussy, has befriended Tina (Lucie Benesová), a fellow prisoner with curly hair, and gets free fashion advice from a Dorothy-aligned beret-wearer named Bobo? Judging by the aggressive manner in which Suzanne is trying to get the freedom ball rolling, I'm going to say, no, she does not care. Truth be told, I can't say I blame her. After all, Suzanne's sense of style reeks of Jennifer Aniston from the first season of Friends (which, you have to admit, is a near impossible feat since the show wasn't even on the air yet). If she had say, decided to channel Brigitte Bako circa the Red Shoe Diaries instead, I would have been a tad more forgiving. But Rachel from Friends?!? I'm sorry, but that doesn't work for me at all.

If that wasn't enough, Kari Whitman is a terrible actress. And I don't mean that as a compliment. As you know, in most cases, I prefer actresses who are, oh, let's say, not good (there's nothing worse in this world than being forced to watch so-called "fine acting"). However, I couldn't help but notice that Kari was severely lacking when it came time to display functions that you and I take for granted (simple things like, blinking and head swiveling were fraught with unforeseen complications). Suck at acting all you want–hell, I'll even praise your awfulness, but at least have the common decency to be entertainingly awful. Let me give you an example: In a veiled attempt to prove she isn't Detlef Schrempf, Brigitte Nielson leans back and shows the audience the smooth contours of her throat (now that's campy). You, on the other hand, are repeatedly upstaged by your bangs.

Someone who was never once in danger of being upstaged by anything as trivial as loose clumps of forehead adjacent hair was the alluring Jana Švandová, a skintight force of nature with gams for miles (the sight her stomping around the prison grounds in her trademark black skirt and matching nylons is the stuff of leggy legend). Did you know right away that Rosa Schmidt would wind up being your favourite Chained Heat II character? You bet I did. There was just something about the way she carried herself that appealed to me. Whether spanking Brigitte Nielsen's skinny behind, crouching fully clothed in the shower (mmmm, waterlogged nylons), or telling Alex, "You fuck with my plans, I fuck with your face," Jana displays a forcefulness that was not only sexy, it made you wish that you could trade places with the people she abuses. Oh, and in case you're wondering what Jana Švandová did with her loose clumps of forehead adjacent hair, she tucked them behind her ears (she's the Angela Chase of the Czech penal system).

Watching carefully, making a special note in my pantie log every time a pair of panties appeared onscreen, I thought was doing a pretty good job keeping track of many the gratuitous shots of young women putting on white panties that are peppered throughout this movie. I'd say, "overwhelming" is best way to describe the white pantie attack that is Chained Heat II, as it inundates the viewer with so much pantie-based imagery, that you will begin to see panties in your sleep. Sure, to the uninitiated, it may seem like there are only six instances when Lloyd Simandl focuses his camera on a pantie-covered bum. Which, if you think about it, is still a lot of panties. But if you dig a little deeper, you'll notice that every frame is literally saturated with white panties.

Realizing that not everyone in the audience has a thing for white panties, the pantie-obsessed filmmaker changes gears a bit by showing Rosa's junkie slave (Petra Susser) wearing black panties. Just kidding; though, Petra's black pantie moment is all too real. No, what Chained Heat II gives us is one of the greatest prison riots in WiP history. And given how many prison riots I've seen lately, I think I'm qualified to make such a bold statement. While films like, the first Chained Heat and Women's Prison Massacre seemed a little light when it came to extras, this film has got plenty girl flesh to go around. Oh, and they're not just running around aimlessly. Nuh-uh, these ladies fire submachine guns, shoot rocket launchers, and hurl grenades. Okay, the last two are both used by the same inmate, but as far as submachine guns go, these girls kick some serious ass. If you like fashion forward gals who wield automatic weapons in brown skirts, you'll definitely want to stick around for the film's action-packed finale, as it's the perfect cure-all for those suffering from white pantie fatigue.

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