Hello Mary Lou: Prom Night II (Bruce Pittman, 1987)

Out of all the Prom Night movies (there are four of them, five, if you include the frightfully lame remake), I thought for sure, judging by its flaky title and campy poster, that this one would be the worst of the bunch. Burn my legwarmers, I couldn't have been more wrong, because Hello Mary Lou: Prom Night II is an absolute blast. Encompassing everything I hold dear in the realm of inappropriate entertainment, the film, which was shot in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, and directed by Bruce Pittman, is a fanciful trip through the schizophrenic headspace of a real blonde with a scrumptiously low centre of gravity. Nothing is off limits when it comes conveying the lead characters sense of exaggerated disquietude, as everything from volley ball nets that resemble spider-webs to soul-consuming blackboards (come on in, the water's evil) have been turned into objects of unorthodox terror. The pressures that come with fitting in at your average high school are common motifs of youth cinema, but in the Prom Night series, that pressure is tenfold because you're expected to be crowned something called "prom queen" during a lavish ceremony usually held in a garishly decorated gymnasium. Obviously, the pressure to attain the crown is more pronounced if your a teenage girl (the rewards that come with being crowned "prom king" are pretty immaterial). The question this particular film asks is: What would happen if the winner of the prom queen crown (a jewel-encrusted tiara) was brutally murdered just as her victory was being savoured?

Teeming with full frontal nudity, mystical weirdness, and a totally rad array of late '80s fashions, this giddy sequel follows the vengeful antics of Mary Lou Mallony (Lisa Schrage), a garter-wearing (the sheer amount of nylon, metallic hooks, and straps lurking underneath her voluminous prom dress must have been a perverts paradise) strumpet who was accidentally set ablaze by a spurned prom date just as she was about to be crowned prom queen way back in 1957. A quick side note: She must have been wearing the most combustible prom dress ever devised by prom dress artisans, because that thing went up faster than a pile of kindling. Well, it's now 1987, and Mary Lou's back, and she's ready exact her revenge. Using the shapely body of a modern day student named Vicki Carpenter (Wendy Lyon), a wonderfully endowed Tina Yothers lookalike who owns the world's creepiest rocking horse, as a conduit, Mary Lou, on top of punishing those who wronged her in the past, has her sights on winning the prom queen crown.

One day, while poking around one a dusty storage room looking for a suitable dress to wear to the prom (her ultra religious mother won't let her buy a new one), Vicki opens an eerie-looking trunk and unwittingly unleashes Mary Lou's deranged essence via a magic cape and tiara (I don't know why they're magic, but then again, I'm not one to ask such questions). Anyway, before you know it, Mary Lou's ghostly presence is wreaking havoc in the halls of Hamilton High. And can you blame her? After all, she's still a tad miffed about the whole being setting her on fire during her prom snafu. Oh, and, of course, the humanitarian who torched her in 1957, Bill Nordham (Michael Ironside), is now the principal of the very school where she met her fiery demise.

The first target of Mary Lou's fury is Jess Browning (Beth Gondek), a stylish student who thinks all this prom business is a colossal waste of time (which is too bad, because I would have loved to have seen what kind of outré outfit the fashion adventurous student would have worn to the meaningless soiree). Anyway, unamused by the fact that Jess is messing around with her tiara (she's trying to extract the jewels) and cape in the school's sewing room, the spirit of Mary Lou sets off a gruesome chain of events that leave the fashion victim dead and all messed up.

A rival of Vicki and her best friend Monica (Beverley Hendry), Kelly Hennenlotter (Terri Hawkes), a big fan of Diet Pepsi (she's rarely seen without a can of the fizzy beverage in her hand), makes an insensitive comment about the competition being somewhat thinner since Jess' untimely death (which was ruled a suicide). Upon hearing her comment, an angry Vicki tells Kelly to "shut your fucking mouth, bitch." The retort to Kelly's snide remark, while justified, seemed a little out of character. You see, Vicki's normally a cool-headed gal who likes pink corduroy and drawing, and this outburst made it clear to the audience that something strange was afoot.

Keen observers will definitely notice that most of the characters are named after famous horror and cult movie directors. Hell, even Beverley Hendry's Monica Waters is named after the great John Waters. Oh, and just when you thought things couldn't get anymore self-referential, Josh (Brock Simpson), a nerdy kid who has the hots for Monica, uses the term "Lindablairsville" at one point (not to be confused with your ex-girlfriend Linda who moved to Blairsville, Georgia five years ago). Quirky-fun fact: Brock Simpson appears in all four Prom Night movies... of course, as different characters.

The principal of Hamilton High, Bill Nordham (the always terrific Michael Ironside), senses Mary Lou's presence the moment her trunk is flung open. What he doesn't realize is that her ominous spirit has shacked up in the curvaceous frame of Vicki, a student who just happens to be the girlfriend of Craig Nordham (Louis Ferreira). It's no coincidence that Vicki's boyfriend and the principal share the same name, they're related. As you'd expect, the prospect that the vengeful ghost of the girl he murdered in 1957 is gonna start putting the moves on his son in 1987 doesn't sit well with the balding educator.

If Hello Mary Lou: Prom Night II sounds like it ignores everything that happened in the first one, that's because it does. This sequel completely reinvents the Prom Night universe, and I'm totally cool with that. Sure, the eerie music is still here (Prom Night 1-4 are all scored by Paul Zaza) and the random shots of dark Hamilton High hallways remain intact, but this chapter drops the slashing and focuses more on the supernatural end of things to tell its macabre tale.

Whether it be implied father-daughter incest, corn-haired characters who wear yellow sports jerseys (the kind of jerseys that accentuate the wearers legs in a manner that causes them dangle better than they've ever dangled before) in a bedroom setting, or hobby horses with functioning spit glands, this film has everything one could ask for from a prom-centric sequel. Actually, the part where the hobby horse is licking Vicki's hand is the exact moment when I thought to myself: "This movie is freaking awesome!"

The tormented Vicki Carpenter is brilliantly played by Wendy Lyon, a bodacious blonde with a scrumptious pair of gams (what they lack in length, they more than make up in shapeliness). Giving an alluring and unselfconscious performance, the tantalizingly beautiful actress takes the sheer ridiculousness of the film's plot and runs with it. I mean, when she's being sucked into the paradoxical goo that is her possessed home room blackboard, I bought it wholeheartedly.

She also displays great dramatic range, especially when she's consoling Beth Gondek's Jess, the angst-ridden new wave chick I alluded to earlier–you know, the one with the teased hair and a wardrobe so eclectic that she makes the members of Strawberry Switchblade seem drab by comparison . Showing a tremendous amount of verve when it came time to vocalize dialogue with her smallish mouth, Miss Lyon, whether uttering the nonsensical "a-wop-bop-a-loo-lop a-lop-bam-boo" before crushing a classmate to death, or the more straightforward "places to go, people to kill" is a master at conveying an aura of understated menace.

I'm telling ya, I could watch Wendy apply lipstick for hours. Watching her get hit in the head with a volleyball over and over again is also something I could do for hours, but I'd rather not get into that right now.

The scene in which Wendy makes the biggest impression has to be the bare-assed roguishness of the locker room pursuit. A sequence so rife with full-frontal nudity (it was like skipping through a golden wheat field), coltish frivolity, and steam-enhanced terror, that all I could think about was the image of me purchasing the DVD the very next day. Seriously, the amount of time Wendy spends in the buff was astronomical. It is definitely one of the best shower/locker room scenes with demonic overtones to ever to be captured on film.

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The Legend of Billie Jean (Matthew Robbins, 1985)

Proving that even the most benign act can change the world, The Legend of Billie Jean is a true inspiration. A sharp critique of media sensationalism and a feisty tribute to grassroots activism, the film may appear to be only about a thrashed motor scooter (a trashed red Honda Elite motor scooter, to be exact), and the salacious circumstances centered around the unpaid restitution for said thrashed motor scooter. But the mangled moped is just a metaphor for the deep-seated malaise that was infecting the citizens of the mid-1980s. Establishing that forced sexual favours will not be tolerated when it comes to settling financial grievances, the spunky defender with the golden locks of the film's title and her mirthful band of reluctant fugitives set about making the wrong things right. Armed only with a couple of G.I. Joe walkies, a plastic handgun and the mantra "Fair is fair," the underage gang of Texas troublemakers, at first, shun conventionality (lay low and stay clear of the law). However, they soon find themselves transformed into folk heroes, as their scooter plight gains a rabid cult flowing. (Much like this film has over the years.) Prompting me to clench my fist and enthusiastically launch it in the air on numerous occasions, Billie Jean is the greatest superhero to ever beautify the big screen. Casting aside the yawn-worthy antics of say, Spider-Man; Arak, Son of Thunder; and E-Man, the accidental heroine is everywhere yet nowhere at once. Sure, she might be a tad lacking in the superpower department, but what she lacks in fancy powers, she more than makes up for with grit, moxie and humility. And that's why I prefer Billie Jean over other so-called superheroes; she knows her limitations.

 

 
Taking unsubtle cues from Joan of Arc and, to a lesser extent, Lois Ayres in The Devil in Miss Jones 3, the lithesome do-gooder doesn't want to change the world, she just wants six hundred and eight dollars and a one-way ticket to an idyllic wonderland called "Vermont." And, in an unfunny way, I respect that.
 

 
Actually, it's her brother who's obsessed with Vermont, not Billie Jean. Duly noted. In fact, he's so obsessed, that he's got a Vermont poster on his bedroom wall. I said, duly noted.

 

 
Moving on to the shaper of this champion, movie actress/lesbian icon Helen Slater dons the Billie Jean costume with the beaming confidence of a bedraggled prize fighter.
 

 
At first, she's just another attractive woman riding on the back of her brother's motor scooter (played by a bratty Christian Slater - the brother, not the scooter - like I said, the scooter is a red Honda Elite), but the moment she brandishes her do-it-yourself hairdo and slips on those fingerless gloves, Helen starts to live up to the legend. (I must admit, I felt a pronounced sense of liberation during the haircut reveal scene.)

 

 
The short hair may have been integral to the success of her performance, however, the empathic facial expressions and the plucky determination that saturated Billie's nimbus was all Helen. I also thought her scenes with unconventional hottie Keith Gordon (Static), who plays the son of the state's district attorney, elevated the story beyond your typical wrecked scooter/impromptu social revolution movie.

 

 
Permeating the proceedings like porcelain porcupine, "Invincible" by Pat Benatar is a spiky Goliath of a song. Pulsating and throbbing like a wave of robust elixir, the unclogged ditty crackles with defiance.

 

 
Now do I say "Fair is fair" whenever I find myself shortchanged by unruly carnival folk? No. (I prefer to punch people in the face.) But do I think it? Hell yeah.
 

 
Oh, and keep an eye out for the leggy Martha Gehman (her legs are tan and taut) and a forthright Yeardley Smith (Herman's Head) as Billie Jean's loyal sidekicks. And Peter Coyote and Dean Stockwell as the "grownups" who want to put a stop to Billie Jean's reign of teen terror.

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Frankenhooker (Frank Henenlotter, 1990)

How any plot-based motion pictures got made after the uncontaminated perfection that is Frankenhooker was unleashed onto an unsuspecting world in 1990 is totally beyond me. Okay, I realize that what I just said might sound a tad implausible as far as warped theories go (people are gonna continue to make movies no matter how amazing a film that combines the Frankenstein legend with New York hooker culture is). However, I should say, with its prostitute-related mirthfulness, playful leg measuring, grisly yet totally preventable lawnmower accidents, wacky depiction of indoor crack consumption, bunion filing, and multiple scenes where budding mad scientists deliver morbid dialogue in deliciously deadpan New Jersey accents, you really gotta wonder why anyone would even try to top its awesomeness. I guess it's just one of those things you've got to accept and move on. Careening wildly from the demented skull of Frank Henenlotter, the warped genius behind cinematic classics such as Basket Case and Brain Damage, this cautionary tale about a man and his collection of mangled but gout-free body parts is awash with the properties essential in the rapid creation of a mind-blowing work of art. Yeah, that's right, I used the term "art" to describe this strange undertaking. How else would you describe a film that manages to shine a light on the importance of lawnmower safety, while, at the same time feature a touching scene where an increasingly anti-social individual has dinner (pizza with a nice Beaujolais) with his beloved girlfriend's severed head? Personally, I can't think of one.

First of all, the protagonist sticks a power drill into his own head (it's a pre-drilled hole and sticking a drill in it helps him think and alleviates his "cluster headaches"). And, as most sort of sane people know, head drilling is one of the key ingredients that go into the metaphoric sauce that spices up things that lack head drilling.

Secondly, nine (count 'em, nine) harlots of various shapes, ethnic groups, and deviating levels of attractiveness are seen exploding in a semi-orderly fashion. Actually, two of them blow up "real good" simultaneously, which irked the flow a tad. But I'm not gonna be the one who complains about the manner in which hookers explode after consuming a chemically enhanced form of crack cocaine (a.k.a. super-crack).

The third, and probably most important component to the film's undeniable awesomeness, was the cut and paste hooker of the film's title. The purple streetwalker gear, chunky footwear, mismatched body parts, and delightful facial ticks all fused together to forge one of the most striking movie monstrosities to emerge from a fake movie laboratory in recent memory.

A simple man named Jeffrey Franken (James Lorinz), one who works for a New Jersey electrical company, dreams of becoming a scientist. Unfortunately, medical school's upset him, so he's pretty much stuck doing experiments in his girlfriend's mother's kitchen (when we first meet him, he's working on some sort of eyeball-brain creature). On the day of his girlfriend's father's birthday, tragedy strikes when the lawnmower they're giving him as a present runs over Elizabeth Shelley (Patty Mullen) and sends her limbs all over the backyard.

While a normal person would classify this as an accident, and move on with his life as a failed scientist, Jeffrey, sensing an opportunity to prove himself, is determined to put his girlfriend back together. Only problem being, there's not much left of her to work with (the lawnmower took care of that). Whilst dining with Elizabeth's severed head (he managed to salvage her head), Jeffrey comes up with a fiendish idea. Why not use the limbs of prostitutes? After all, Manhattan is apparently full of them. And so... the search for replacement parts begins.

Wearing his lab coat with pride, James Lorinz (Street Trash) is a comedic tour-de-force as aspiring mental case Jeffrey Franken (a.k.a. "Jersey Boy," a nickname given to him by his new prostitute pals). An amateur (mad) scientist who finds himself flirting with amorality after the untimely death of his pretzel-loving girlfriend ("I'm not killing them," his says, "I'm just placing a lethal form of crack in their presence"), James imbues the skittish New Jerseyan a complexity you don't often find in your average dead girlfriend reassembled from dead prostitute parts. Sure, a lot of the credit has to go to the film's writing, which is extremely clever at times, but I thought Mr. Lorinz's line delivery was spot-on. Plus, I just loved the way he was able to keep a straight face most of the time, especially while apologizing to a room full of unattached hooker limbs (their shapely legs still wearing their lacy socks and no-nonsense pumps as they lay scattered across the room).

Even though her role as Elizabeth Shelley is reduced to being an inanimate head floating in a freezer full of pinkish feminine fluid for the first half of the film; she's even likened to a tossed human salad at one point by a witty newswoman. Nevertheless, the moment the gorgeous Patty Mullen is reanimated and then reborn as "Frankenhooker," she injects the newfangled trollop with a zesty, almost ebullient air. The aforementioned facial ticks and clumsy walk were wonderfully realized, but it was her repetitive vocalization of non sequiturs and frank hooker come-ons that sealed the deal.

"Wanna date?"

If you thought Carissa Channing was scrumptious as a brunette on Seinfeld (she appears in "The Keys," but I mostly know her from "The Cigar Store Indian" episode), you should see her as a blonde. Yowsa!

I literally had to stop watching Frankenhooker at one point, not because of Carissa Channing's innate hotness as a blonde, but because the crack ingestion scene in Jeffrey's hotel room was too much for me to handle. Its twisted approach to wayward stimulation, the sheer amount of gyrating floozies, the focus on body parts (Jeff is definitely a leg man), the abundance of fishnet stockings, and the overall titillating nature of the scene was so awesome, that I could hardly contain myself.

I tell you, if I was five and a half years younger, and perhaps named Claudio, I would go into great detail about the physical makeup of each individual prostitute. Well, fuck age and to hell with this Claudio clown, Honey (Charlotte J. Helmkamp), the de-facto leader of the Zorro's girls, her second-in-command Amber (Kimberly Taylor), the goofy Angel (Jennifer Delora), the leggy Crystal (Lia Chang), Anise (Susan Napoli), Chartreuse (Heather Hunter), the bosomy Snow (Gittan Goding), Sugar (Vicki Darnell), and Monkey (Sandy Colosimo) deserve to be lavished with an inordinate amount of praise for their scintillating work as the hookers of Frankenhooker.

While my perverted gaze was immediately drawn to Gittan Goding as Snow (her short blonde and black opera gloves were a divine combination), all the ladies had something about them that made my spirit soar. Even though I was able to take comfort in the fact that their sexy parts were being recycled, it's a shame they all had to blow up as a result of inhaling a giant bag of tainted crack.

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The Beach Girls (Bud Townsend, 1982)

Unencumbered rays of warm, invigorating California sunshine penetrate the unclothed nether regions of a brash throng of thong-less cupcakes strewn haphazardly across the unsullied sand; a bikini-top stealing canine, who unwittingly causes pruriency in passers-by, makes off with another skimpy yet vital piece of fabric; and an accident prone gardener (Bert Rosario) is about to find his genitalia engorged with his own blood. All of these things are in the process of infringing on each others personal space in the delightfully straightforward The Beach Girls (a.k.a. La Boum En Folie), a film, written by Phil Groves and Patrick Sheane Duncan and directed by Bud Townsend (Coach), that shamefully wears its heterosexual agenda on its sleeve at all times. Which is ironic, since nary a sleeve can be found in this film. Taking place on Paradise Beach, the well-bosomed and skittishly pedantic Sarah (Debra Blee) arrives at her spacious beach house blissfully unaware of the titillating firestorm that is heading her way. She's invited a couple of friends over to keep her company over the summer, but has no idea what the capriciously-named Ginger (Val Kline) and Ducky (Jeana Tomasina) have in store for her.

You see, these girls are the complete opposite to Sarah, the wide-eyed gal with braids in her hair. I mean, not only are they anti-intellectual in temperament, they're also not-as-well-bosomed. Which on the surface could be seen as a disadvantage, but Ginger and Ducky have such an untamed whimsicality about them, that it cause such trivialities to become inconsequential. Besides, both are blessed with long, slender legs. And, in the grand scheme of things, that's all you really need.

Anyway, the playful duo (their incessant giggling would disarm even the most ardent of assholes and asswipes) are immediately shocked by the lack of boys at the beach house–they brought along a chiseled boy-toy by the name of Scott (James Daughton), but he's taken a liking to Sarah–so the girls devise a strategy to acquire enough man-sustenance to satisfy their inflated carnal desire. As you would expect, much partying ensues when various members of the dick-wielding underclass start arriving at their door. Periodically upsetting their plans is Uncle Carl (the actual owner of the beachfront residence) and a ball-bearing obsessed Coast Guard Captain (Herbie Braha).

The jokes are corny, the plot is as thin as a piece of paper, and the film is definitely a tad wanting in the cerebral department. But what it lacks in those three areas, it more than makes up for it in the realm of naked flesh. Never in all my years of film watching have a seen a film so devoted to the brandishing of tits and ass (and yes, some untanned male crack is exposed).

It is also the perfect film for prepubescent children, in that it doesn't contain any pelvic thrusting whatsoever. (I have found that the sight of a penis barging into a vagina confuses more than it does illuminate.) There's such an artless innocence about it, that it's almost educational at times. Yeah, sure, rampant drug use (garbage bags full of marijuana wash ashore) and unchecked promiscuity aren't the most positive messages to send out into the cultural stratosphere. But then again, it's better than violence and apathy.

In terms of the aforementioned naked flesh, I would have to say the vivacious Val Kline was hands down my favourite scantily clad person in The Beach Girls. She plays the force of nature that is Ginger and gives a performance that transcends time and space. Employing her femaleness like it were an unsheathed sword of shapely aggression, the gorgeous Val attacks the apprehensive libido of Uncle Carl (Adam Roarke) like a ravenous beast. (He is threatening to curb their partying ways and she uses her untapped sexiness to convince him otherwise.)

The lovely Jeana Tomasina does a competent job assisting Val when it came time to win over of Carl as Ducky, a brunette whirlwind with a cheerful disposition. An actress/model who can be seen prancing around in the majority of those popular music videos ZZ Top made during their early '80s Eliminator period, it should be said that no one in the history of cinema has ever looked better in a pair of tight red trousers than Jeana does in the red trouser-friendly, non-beach-related scenes that are liberally sprinkled throughout this movie.

It should also be noted that the always awesome Corinne Bohrer (Vice Versa and Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol) shows up every now and then as the headband-sporting, purple bikini-top-wearing "Champagne Girl." (Who, I'm guessing, is so named because her character is always carrying, and occasionally drinking from, a large bottle of Champagne. And, of course, is female. Hence, the use of the word "girl.")

The bubbly Tessa Richarde as the kindhearted "Doreen"

Oh, and Catherine Mary Stewart (The Apple and Night of the Comet) appears onscreen for five seconds at a wienie roast as "The Surfer Girl" (a character who makes it abundantly clear that she'd rather be making out with her shirtless boyfriend than surfing).

video uploaded by cinemonter

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Jekyll and Hyde... Together Again (Jerry Belson, 1982)

One of the giddiest, most hyperactive films I've seen in quite some time, Jekyll and Hyde... Together Again, the scatter-shot comedy loosely based on a novel by some asshole named Robert Louis Stevenson, caused the left side of my thoracic cavity to ache as I foolishly tried to prevent myself from laughing in an exuberant manner. (What can I say? I have super-thin walls and have always respected the nocturnal slumbering habits of my neighbours.) Seriously, though, the film's rapid fire jokes (every frame is guaranteed to be filled with something stupid) and overall politically incorrectness (two sentient African-American lawn jockeys are indifferent to a Caucasian man's ledge-based peril) had me rocking back-and-forth in the foetal position. Trying my best to wipe the self-satisfied grin off my face, the film force fed me the funny.  The story, as one would expect, revolves around dedicated surgeon Dr. Jekyll and his desire to further understand humanities more animalistic side. However, since it's 1982, and no one wants to see a movie about top hat and cloak-wearing dandy lurching down the foggy streets of London, this film's integrity plagued doctor doesn't just transform into some boring dickweed with a serious case of the grumpies. Uh-uh, his alter ego is an ultra-horny, cocaine-addicted (magic pimp powder), racially insensitive car thief with an extreme penchant for horseradish, chicken sushi, and sheer pantyhose. The electrified hairdo, the gold tooth with the word "love" engraved on it, and an unfaltering erection also add to Hyde's unique allure. The strange dichotomy between the two sides of Jekyll and Hyde's personality is also reflected in the ladies the kooky twosome choose to fondle and eat dinner with on a regular basis.

On the one lube-covered hand, Dr. Jekyll's fiancé Mary (a sexy Bess Armstrong) has a relatively bland temperament and seems to have a bit of an elitist air about her (equestrian will do that). While, on the other, more-or-less lube-free hand, Mr. Hyde's special lady friend, Ivy (an even sexier Krista Errickson) fronts a new wave band (The Shitty Rainbows), is only mildly averse to fornicating in the produce isle, and enjoys playing Pac-Man.

Of course, watching the jewelry adorned Mr. Hyde behave spastic in public and stalk Ivy in the vicinity of boxes of Apple Jacks and Fruit Loops is way more entertaining than watching Jekyll help those in distress.

Nevertheless, the sight of the hangover-ridden Dr. J jumping alongside Mary's horse did bring a figurative tear to my eye. Which is something I didn't expect in a movie that features a bra and pantie sporting Tim Thomerson and close-up shots that emphasize the soothing depth of Cassandra Peterson's cleavage.

Giving one of the most manic performances in comedy history, Mark Blankfield (Angel III: The Final Chapter) puts the "maimed cock" in cockamamie. The success of this idiotic endeavour rests solely on the bony shoulders of the curly haired comedian, and never have I seen someone succeed so righteously at bringing the zany to such a satisfying simmer.

A teaching tool for those interested in learning how to act like a complete and utter jackass on-screen, Mark's stellar work as the pimp-tastic miscreant, in my sheltered, Shetland pony humping mind, is a work of buffoonish art. Each convulsion, pelvic thrust, and irresponsible line uttered seemed so meticulously crafted, that it was like watching a master chef make a mediocre quiche taste like professional intercourse. Yeah, he's that good.

Hands down, one of the funniest pieces of filmed entertainment I have seen all week.

video uploaded by mrewel12

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