Van Nuys Blvd. (William Sachs, 1979)

On the surface, it looked like just another strip of nondescript asphalt baking in the midday sun. Yet to the sexy residents of Southern California circa 1979 (the last days of disco), it was the road to paradise. Piercing the darkness like an iridescent dashboard, the titular roadway in the righteous masterwork Van Nuys Blvd. (a.k.a. Kadun kulkurit), the crowning achievement in the cinematic realm of hot chicks and cool vans, represented a shining beacon to the countess number of disaffected and apathetic citizens that populated the tight-panted morass that was the known universe. Skillfully depicting the aimlessness of youth with an understated panache, writer-director William Sachs (Galaxina) has created not only an extremely playful film, but also a surprisingly insightful one. Letting us tag along with a casually assembled group of leggy van enthusiasts, over the hill hot rod junkies, svelte car-hops, and lustful half-Italians, the rambunctious film perfectly captures the flighty tone and attitude of the era. Teeming with a life affirming message and sporting a spontaneous outlook when it came to affairs of the heart, I couldn't help but be transfixed by these dopey characters and their staunchly anti-fascist views when it came to personal freedom.

The lure of the infamous boulevard literally pulls Bobby (Bill Adler from The Van and The Pom Pom Girls) off the glistening body of his perennially naked trailer park girlfriend (Susanne Severeid) and into warm embrace of the street that doesn't know the meaning of the expression "fuel efficient." A van lover, who dreams of souped-up engines and consensual intercourse, the wide-eyed Bobby arrives on Van Nuys with his head full of metaphysical vinegar (a pseudo substance that nourishes adolescent woolgathering).

After a food-based sexual encounter with Wanda (Tara Strohmeier), a lithesome waitress, Bobby meets Moon (Cynthia Wood from Apocalypse Now) and Camille (Melissa Prophet), a couple of fellow van drivers (sexy female van drivers) and challenges them to a drag race. (Every conversation, by the way, usually ends with a drag race challenge.)

Thrown in the slammer by the power-tripping Officer Zass (Dana Gladstone), Bobby and the girls meet the moustache-adorned Chooch (David Hayward), an aging rebel in a hot rod, and Dennis Bowen's adventurous Greg, a character who had already tried hitting on Camille earlier in the evening, so he sees this co-ed jail cell reunion as fate.

Anyway, Bobby and Moon start to make goo goo eyes with one another in-between their van-centric posturing; Greg's flirting with Camille intensifies; and the easy-going Chooch is, for now, just content with being Chooch. The unlikely fivesome eventually become a mirthful force of nature and embark on a freewheeling adventure that will change their lives forever.

The moment this freewheeling adventure is implemented is the moment when Van Nuys Blvd. really comes alive and breaks out of its shell. That's not to say that the film was tedious beforehand. I mean, I wouldn't call Greg's guileless sexual encounter with "Motorcycle Girl" (Di Anne Monaco) tedious, or the car smash up scene, for that matter. It's just that when we see these people riding roller coasters, merry-go-rounds, and winning stuffed animals, it brings a fair amount of perspective to the proceedings.

Amusement park rides as a metaphor for life's ups and downs are terrific, but it's when the foursome (Chooch is done for the day) enter the discotheque and we see The Kansas City Kings Glitter Girls hit the floor, that whimsy level goes through the roof. The film as a whole depicts disco music in a positive light, but once in the nightclub, the positivity is downright groovy, baby.

This sequence is brilliantly directed, as simple camera angles capture all the disco action. The fact that the strobe lights were allowed to blink unfettered was also a deft move on Mr. Sach's part. I'd definitely rank this as one of the finest portrayals of disco music and culture in a modern motion picture.

The rivalry between Bobby and Moon dominates the film, and rightly so, it's the film's emotional centrepiece. Coming in second in terms of importance is Camille's desire to fuck Greg in her parents' house (with them home of course). These story-based nuggets are well acted and contain enough romance and humour to fill up a smallish jar.

However, the character I enjoyed the most was Wanda. Played by the insanely gorgeous Tara Strohmeier (the angel in the gold lamé jacket from Malibu Beach), the character of Wanda may not have been in the original quintette that met in prison, but she is integral to the lives of the main participants during their night of fun.

Using her striking beauty and propensity for deviant sex, Wanda manipulates Bobby and Officer Zass to get what she wants. Yet, in the process, she causes them to evolve, to grow. Which, when you think about it, is what the film is all about.

Oh, and the relationship Wanda develops with Chooch was freaking adorable. I could watch them play air hockey and Super Bug together until the end of time.

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Malibu Beach (Robert J. Rosenthal, 1978)

Exploring the tenets of freedom, and I mean actual freedom, not the pretend version they hawk in national anthems and on game shows, Malibu Beach is one of the most dangerous movies I have ever seen. Tantamount to a wet, sloppy air kiss in the general direction of anarchy, the esteemed Robert J. Rosenthal (The Pom Pom Girls and The Van) has created a film so subversive, that it attacks intellectualism at every turn (show an interest in something that doesn't involve partying at the beach and you will quickly find yourself on the outside looking in). Boldly promoting its hedonistic agenda with a wanton disregard for socialites loosely held up moral infrastructure, the characters in this film have no interest in gainful employment, politics, or the community at large. Now, if that's not a recipe for bedlam, I don't know what is. Sure, the film's main female protagonist works as a lifeguard, which in some cultures is considered a real job, but she's been warned not to wear a bikini while on duty, and yet, she knowingly ignores this rule, proceeding to piss on it with a casual nonchalance. It should be said that she's the exception to the rule, as the rest of the characters that populate this free-and-easy plane of existence take listlessness to whole another level of lazy.

Even the police, usually the most uptight and caustic in a genuinely free society, are anarchists at heart.

This sun-baked strain of rampant lawlessness and self-indulgence has even infected the animal kingdom. This furry, and sometimes feathered group, are normally only interested in acquiring food, mating, and the act of sleeping. Well, you can add bikini tops to that list, because a dog who likes to hang out at the film's titular sandy shore has developed a taste for the stringy garment. The women he or she stealthy takes the tops from seem upset by the theft and usually give chase.

However, the success of their pursuit, in most cases, depends on the ample nature of their breast weight (the smallish seemed to run with a greater ease than the ones with an extra bit of jiggle on board). The mysteries of mammary distribution aside, the women always fail to reacquire their skimpy chest coverings from the swimwear pilfering pooch.

Anyway, back to the realm of humanity, Malibu Beach is basically about nothing. Yeah, that's right, nothing. On top of being anarchistic, the film has nihilistic overtones. The chiseled Bobby (James Daughton) and the wiry Paul (Michael Luther), two blonde American males, who have just escaped an educational prison of their own making, boast no interests beyond having sex with their blonde counterparts and driving mindlessly through the energizing warmth of their beachfront community in their massive jeep.

The guy's minimalist outlook is eventually complemented by the equally vacant Dina (Kim Lankford) and Sally (a super-cute Susan Player), the former being the aforementioned lifeguard. I say, "eventually," because the initial pairing had its share of bumps and kinks. The fact that they failed to create sparks with their first choice in sex partners gave the film its most poignant moments. I mean, who knew the shy and the extroverted could work so well together? It's this kind unexpected illumination that keeps me coming back for more moving pictures.

Repeating the same songs over and over again on the soundtrack gave the film a wonderful carefree edge to it that unashamedly thumbs its nose at those paying attention in audience. In reality, the producers probably realized they were out of songs midway through the film and decided to just recycle the ones from the first half. Nevertheless, I chose to see this repetitiveness as yet another act of cinematic subversion.

All this talk of anarchy and repetition has caused me to forget about the rivalry the forms between James Naughton's Bobby and the musclebound Dugan Hicks (a mildly hilarious Steve Oliver) over the affections of Dina the lifeguard. Conventional face punching is employed on a number of occasions, but the swaggering twosome turn the machismo up a notch in a series of death defying challenges. Don't worry though, this feeble attempt at plot-based storytelling doesn't interfere with the film's central theme, which is carelessness in the late twentieth century.

A film that makes me long for the feeling of warm air on my neck, Malibu Beach is cinema in its purest form; lowbrow nectar for the soul, if you will (if you won't, I'll fuck your shit up, old school).

Celebrate nothingness and go to the beach. I won't be waiting for you. Uh, I don't tan well, and I'm deathly afraid of large bodies water. But I'm sure others will be there.

You know, like, Tara Strohmeier (I can't believe I almost forgot to mention her). At any rate, go now, go!

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Sorority Boys (Wallace Wolodarsky, 2002)

The weighty issue of gender identification coalesces fluently with on-campus transvestitism in the deceptively nonsensical Sorority Boys, yet another in the long line of movies that exploit cross-dressing in order to obtain comedy gold. Now, dudes dressing like chicks for entertainment purposes is nothing new (Kardashi warriors in the twelfth century were known to wear frilly, crotch-free panties when they performed acts of non-consensual zoophilia for each other in-between pillaging and texting friends). However, the twist here is that the guy's inherent unattractiveness as women is actually beneficial as suppose to being a hindrance. You see, the contrived threesome in this film are trying to blend in with a female frat that contains nothing but misfits and outcasts, so the less appealing they are physically, the better. Besides, the transvestite world hasn't been the same since Dave Foley first donned a pair of heels and lipstick on The Kids in the Hall twenty years ago. The sheer power of Dave's alluring aura when dressed as a woman was so all-encompassing, that most men now think twice before tucking their junk in front of rolling cameras. Yep, I'm afraid the legacy of Mr. Foley's overweening sexiness has ruined drag for the rest of us. I mean, ruined it for other actors, who, you know, appear in drag movies. (Just for the record: I'm not into drag. No, I prefer to watch sweaty men kick balls around in short-shorts and drive my car really fast.)

Anyway, the film is starts off being mean-spirited and a tad hateful, which, I'll admit, had me worried for a second there. (Who wants to watch a raunchy college set comedy that demeans bitches for ninety minutes straight?) Fortunately, things begin to pick up, comically and spiritually, once the guys get their girl gear on. Turns out, the first fifteen minutes were just a clever set up to show how malicious boys can be in fraternity atmosphere, and that redemption and comeuppance are just around the corner. And not only that, but we learn a thing or two about honesty, integrity, and what it means to be slightly unattractive as a different gender.

Don't worry though, it's not all about gaining knowledge and enlightenment, there are multiple shower scenes (it's true, the soap suds were strategically placed, but at least they were naked), an inadvertent lesbian relationship is formed (a gawky yet luminous Melissa Sagemiller showed some spunk during these scenes), jokes about heavy-flow, a drag queen brouhaha breaks out (complete with a staircase dildo sword fight), a really tall girl (a statuesque Kathryn Stockwood) increases her self-esteem, a couple of decent montages are implemented, and a girl-on-girl football game is played that featured plenty of unnecessary roughness.

However, the question that permeates Sorority Boys like a virus is of course: Which of the guys is the most attractive as a woman? The fact that some people fail to answer or even ask this question is a travesty. Sure, you could easily just dismiss all three of them as being ugly as woman and walk away. But that's a cop out. I, on the other hand, took the time to stare at each guy, judging every aspect of their artificial womanliness with the intensity of a jewel appraiser.
Whereas, instead of peering at a precious stone, I was eyeballing homely dudes, and having a whole lot of fun in the process.

Well, for starters, you can cross Barry Watson off the list (despite having super sexy man legs). Moderately hunky as a fella, his Daisy was cursed with broad shoulders, had no shape whatsoever, and sported a hairstyle that was rather unbecoming. And even though I liked the Kathy Griffin wig, Toronto-born funny man Harland Williams' strange Hedwig/Mrs. Doubtfire hybrid was more creepy than anything else. On the other hand, Harland screaming in pain after being kicked in his nonexistent vagina was pretty hilarious (which is important, since the film is technically a comedy).

No, I'd have to say, the most appealing guy in drag was Michael Rosenbaum as Adina. The only actor brave enough to wear high heels, I thought Rosenbaum was on the cusp of being convincing as an overly mannish woman on several occasions. I also found his concern about the largeness of his ass to be quite touching and affinity for pastel colours to be endearing. See, appreciating beauty in a trio of "barkers" who look nothing like Dave Foley wasn't hard at all. In fact, it was a little too easy. I guess I need to start watching more sports on television.

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Weekend with the Babysitter (Don Henderson, 1971)

Taking place on land, in the air, and out on the high seas, for a movie that is reputedly about spending the end of the work week with a spur-of-the-moment childcare provider, the characters in Weekend with the Babysitter seem to rack up a lot of travel miles. Motocross dirt is shredded, alpine snow is stepped upon, and rickety piers are scaled, everything except the act of babysitting seems to transpire in this busy film. Misguided nitpicking aside, an older gentlemen actual does spend an extended period of time with a female teenager who did intend on watching some brat (there was a scheduling error). So, the title isn't misleading; I just didn't expect it to be so action-packed. Either way, the irrepressible Don Henderson and the wishes he was debonair George E. Carey (the geniuses behind the 1969 barn burner The Babysitter), have re-teamed to give us this hep tale about middle-aged squareness coming face-to-face with the era's new brand of cool. Movie producer Jim Carlton (Carey) and his actress wife Mona (Luanne Roberts) are fighting about absurd nonsense like they always do, when suddenly, their inordinately sexy babysitter, Candy Wilson (Susan Romen), arrives at the door yearning to babysit. Only problem is, neither of them had called her. Jim sees this snafu as an opportunity (why waste a sitter?) and asks Mona if she wants to go out to dinner. She rejects this idea, explaining vehemently that she already has plans.

Leaving Jim all alone with the tautly bodied Candy, the two talk about his latest film script. She thinks the youthful dialogue is phony and invites him out to see how real young people interact. Opening his eyes to the world of psychedelic rock, ganja usage, and motocross, Candy introduces the button-down Jim to a totally different outlook on life. Mona, on the other hand, it turns out, is in cahoots with a gang of heroin pushers.

An addict herself, Mona is pressured into letting her drug dealing associates "borrow" Jim's boat in order to smuggle some smack from Mexico (no boat, no fix is their sales pitch).

With Mona strung out and in deep doodoo at sea, and Jim canoodling with Candy and learning how to smoke reefer with a group of friendly hippie bikers sporting names like, Mary Mary (Gloria Hill), A.K. (Bob Bernard), and Snitch (Steve Vinovich), how will the day be saved? I mean, there's no way Jim can save Mona. Well, for one thing, I wouldn't underestimate Jim. If there's one person who can bang the babysitter while rescuing his junkie wife from a trio of dangerous drug fiends, it's Jim.

A middle-aged fantasy taken to the extreme, George E. Carey has created a sort of square superhero in Jim Carlton. Giving him the ability to master any kind of motorized vehicle at the drop of a hat, Mr. Carey has made himself out to be the envy of an aging generation. The carefree manner in which his character was able to adapt to the hippie way of life must have been an inspiration to those on the brink of doddering in the audience.

While not as wonderfully perverted as The Babysitter, the titillation factor in Weekend with the Babysitter is still quite strong. You only have to look the film's apparent obsession with motorbikes, May-December romances, drug use, and lesbianism to the realize that Don Henderson is the one calling the shots. Unfortunately, all the time spent out on that boat was kinda tedious (despite Annik Borel's scintillating drugged out dyke schtick), and the trip to the mountains was a tad too showy. Come on, man, what am I doing here? Watching a thoughtful travelogue or a sleazy exploitation picture?

Sexy without even trying, Susan Romen is a visual treat as the ubiquitous Candy Wilson. Sure, she's nowhere close to being as impish as Patricia Wymer was in The Babysitter, but Romen does have a refined charm about her, especially when she's walking around in those knee-high boots of hers. Actually, to be honest, I found some of her yammering about the wonders of being a hippie to be self-important, and the constant blank look on her face didn't exactly inspire confidence. That being said, her uninteresting facial performance did make this film a pleasant waste of time.

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The Babysitter (Don Henderson, 1969)

She may look shy and innocent. But don't be fooled, this is one babysitter you don't want to mess with. An extremely perverted premise that is handled, and fondled slightly with the docile guardianship of a reluctant serial subway groper, the aptly named The Babysitter is a tender and surprisingly gritty tale about forbidden lust, marital stress, personal freedom, and biker-based blackmail. Pulling no punches when it came to portraying the generational divide that existed at the time between the taco-eating hippie youth and their more conservative, bridge-playing parents, the film directed by Don Henderson is an out of sight quick fix for those suffering from the mid-life crisis blues. Nagged to the point where his man-sack has gone on permanent vacation, fancy prosecuting lawyer George Maxwell (the workmanlike George E. Carey) is having marital trouble. His wife Edith (a wonderfully shrill Anne Bellamy) is always insisting they go out and socialize with her lame ass friends, while all he wants to do is stay home and repeatedly prod her sloppy vagina with his ten pound penis. On shaky ground to begin with, their estranged routine is forcibly turned upside down when the supple legs of their vivacious babysitter skip playfully through their front door.

Attached to these fleshy sex sticks is the rambunctious Candy Wilson (Patricia Wymer), a sweet morsel just waiting to be defiled. Actually, it's not as unseemly as it sounds. I mean, Candy isn't childlike at all. In fact, she's so full of gumption, that she invites a rock band (complete with naked go-go dancers) over to play the Maxwell's basement while there away for the evening. I know, talk about a groovy chick. Anyway, while it may seem like Candy and George are flirting with one another during the car ride home, it's actually the youthful dumpling in the mini-skirt who makes all the moves (George is literally putty in her hands). Her impromptu taco eating seminar, by the way, was an excellent metaphor for the bane of improperly executed cunnilingus during the post-war era.

Complicating matters is Julie Freeman (Kathy Williams), the "old lady" of a biker accused of murder. Luckily for her, Julie is friends with George's no-nonsense lesbian daughter, Joan (Sheri Jackson), and plans on taking photographs of Joan licking and caressing her alluring girlfriend (Ruth Noonan) pool side. You see, George is prosecuting Julie's biker beau and wants to blackmail him with the salacious photos. Of course, with the middle-aged lawyer now cavorting with the babysitter, compromising pictures of closeted lesbians won't be necessary (or possible - the blurry glass of the sauna door impeded her attempts to get any pictures of them together), as the scurrilous Kathy sets her sights on George and Candy.

Now, the whole babysitter being intimate with her much older employer is one of the most well-worn stories around (there wouldn't be modern pornography without it, so I've been told). However, whereas as most babysitter plots are more creepy than they are titillating, there's a real playfulness to The Babysitter. Boasting coltish montages that involve light petting and small-scale nudity, the film isn't about cheap erections and unearned provocation. It's just about two people who dig one another from different sides of the counterculture, and I can't be against that, no matter how hard I try.

Reminding me of Drew Barrymore circa Poison Ivy mixed with the wide-eyed innocence of Melanie Hutsell circa how the fuck should I know, Patricia Wymer (The Young Graduates) imbues her mischievous babysitter with enough moxie to destroy the synapses of a thousand deviants (I bet she could do this with just a single look). Extolling the virtues of personal freedom and demanding the most out of life, Candy is the expected voice of her time.

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Cindy and Donna (Robert Anderson, 1970)

Straightforward and shameless to the point of absurdity, Cindy and Donna, Robert Anderson's salacious ode to youthful indiscretion, is heterosexual catnip for the unloved soul. Infecting all those who dare gaze upon its fleshy surface with an intense desire to rub up against anything with a pulse, the film, with what has to be one of the bluntest mission statements ever, saturates its peachy keen canvass with enough unapologetic nudity, experimental lesbianism, succulent thigh bruises (I would lick the thigh bruises I saw in this until the cows came home), nonchalant incest, recreational drug use, back dimples, coming of age groping, and couch-based heavy petting to last a relatively short and rather unexciting lifetime. An authentic look into the swinging sexual awaking of a couple sisters living right smack dab in the middle of the liberated age of low-priced copulation, herbal cigarettes, fabric-challenged miniskirts, and unclothed lady legs, this sordid tale about a shy redhead's struggle to come to grips with her sprouting womanly wants and needs will leave you breathless. A voyeur at heart, Cindy (a leggy Debbie Osbourne) watches her slightly older sister Donna (a leggy Nancy Ison) fornicate and fraternize with boys on a nightly basis. Acquiring knowledge from afar, however, has its limits. In addition, observing her sister and father exchange naughty touches is corrupting her fertile young mind, not illuminating it.

The carnal expertise of a lithesome classmate, Karen (a leggy Cheryl Powell), is sought instead.

This plan doesn't work out either, as the two hook with a couple of random guys at the beach. A hesitant Cindy finds the constant pawing to be more annoying than pleasurable, and leaves her gentlemen caller sans ejaculation. The gung-ho Karen, on the other hand, straddles her fella with a professional grace.

During some downtime, Karen and Cindy smoke some weed, listen to the popular music of the day, and explore each others bodies for hidden delights. This flirtation with lesbianism must have aroused Cindy, because the next morning she finds herself craving a resilient cock.

While all this self-discovery is going on, Donna is cavorting with a couple of horny photographers, Cindy and Donna's mother (a leggy Sue Allen) is striking out at the local watering hole, and their father is pining over Alice, a stripper/model/prostitute with ample, gravity-defying breasts and an ass to die for.

Unfortunately, the name of the actress who plays Alice is unknown to me at the moment. Update: The name of the actress who plays the stripper/model/prostitute is apparently Alice Fredlund, which is good to know, because her innate gorgeousness needs to be properly recognized by the titillation community.

Anyway, while that may seem like a lot of plot, Cindy and Donna is actually quite threadbare when it comes to narrative elasticity. The only reason I can think of as to why this film exists, is to satisfy the rational cravings of those who like to dance to a perverted beat.

Any enlightenment extracted from this film has to be purely accidental. Starkly put, this film is about nudity, female nudity.

Anybody who tries to convince you otherwise is obviously lying.

Taking place during a time when the word "groovy" was uttered in a non-ironic way and unprotected intercourse grew on trees, the anti-intellectual film is a glorious tribute to the female form circa 1970.

Either the nonexistent hemlines of the era just happened to be at their shortest in human history, or director Robert Anderson (The Young Graduates) has the levelheaded leg fixation to end all levelheaded leg fixations.

No fooling, the amount of naked leg skin in this flick blew my mind. For some strange reason, I tried to ignore it and act like it wasn't there. However, I failed to do this at every turn. The combination of skimpy late sixties-style outfits and the depraved lounging of the titular girls destroyed any semblance of dignity I was attempting to prop up and communicate outwardly.

The acting in the Cindy and Donna is not even worth mentioning, as none of the characters are really given an opportunity to engage in a normal conversation. Though, I have to say, Sue Allen (whose thigh bruise were to die for) does come the closest to depicting an actual person at times as the girls' always drunk mother. Despite her intoxication, she says all her lines in clear and intelligible manner. Whereas, the rest seem to mumble there way through the picture. Of course, I didn't mind this acting incompetency, because like I said, this film is all about leggy babes behaving badly. Pure and simple.

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