They Saved Hitler's Brain (David Bradley, 1963)

Incompetent in every way imaginable, They Saved Hilter's Brain is in fact a real movie; and judging by the mixed-up thoughts dancing around in my head, I apparently watched it utilizing my own freewill. It's weird, but for a minute there I had this wild idea that I'd been forced to view it (you know, by some sort of faceless cabal of sadists who coerce upstanding citizens like myself to watch awful movies for their own sick and twisted pleasure). However, the fact that my wrists and ankles were free of rope marks (I wasn't bound), and that my urine (pee pee) sample came back negative (I wasn't drugged), has lead me to believe that I must have temporarily lost my mind. I mean, how else can one explain this situation? My taste is impeccable and my intuition regarding all things artistic is as sound as they come. I'm telling you, I'm at a loss here. Well, however it got watched doesn't really matter now, because I don't think much of anything will be able to erase the memory of seeing Adolf Hitler's smirking head in a fish-bowl (yeah, that's right, this body-free Führer likes to smirk). Actually, to be fair, the shots of Señor Hitler's head under glass were the only aspect that had any entertainment value, as the rest of the film is a jumbled mishmash of bad continuity and breathtaking acting, all held together by a ludicrous premise.

The idea of saving Hitler's brain–or this case, his whole head–makes no sense whatsoever. The main appeal of Adolf Hitler was his penchant for making hand gestures when he spoke. Take away his ability to wave his arms about and what are you left with? Just some angry Austrian dude with an irregular mustache. If I was a fledgling Nazi trying to reinvigorate the national socialist brand in the early sixties, I would have gone with Alfred Naujocks' brain, or better yet, Otto Skorzeny's brain. In other words, Nazis who were not only alive at the time, but ones who actually were able complete their tasks in a semi-competent manner. (Naujocks single-handedly started the honky part of World War II and Skorzeny rescued Italian dictator Benito Mussolini in a daring alpine raid.) Either way, this Hitler fella was a bit of a dick, and the new Nazi's would have been better off chucking his brain...head, whatever, in the nearest dumpster and gone antiquing instead.

Stitched together like a hobo's improvised underwear, this version of They Saved Hitler's Brain is actually The Madmen of Mandoras from 1963 combined with footage shot in the early seventies. Let me explain, the film starts off by following Toni (a sexy structure sporting Tari Tabakin) and Vic (???), two secret agents on the look out for the killers of a prominent scientist. And judging by the bushy haircuts and short hemlines, I would say the year was 1970. (Despite what the picture of President Eisenhower on the wall would have you believe.)

After that the film turns into a stodgy tale about another secret agent named Phil (Walter Stocker) and his wife Kathy (Audrey Caire) going down to Mandoras (a fake South American country with only one hotel) to investigate the disappearance of his wife's scientist father that is obviously set in the early sixties (the Eisenhower picture is still out of date). Now, to say that the two parts don't mesh well together would be a massive understatement. Nevertheless, the fact that someone had the balls to make an already crappy movie longer by adding footage shot ten years later has to be commended. In all honestly, I thought the new footage had a strangely charming quality (the contrived bickering between Toni and Vic was wonderfully awful). However, once their segment is over and we revert to the original "Madmen" footage, the film becomes a huge chore to slog through.

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Eating Raoul (Paul Bartel, 1982)

Nowadays, people are killed, or, as my combat instructor Tiffany likes to say, "dispatched," by guns, axes, hellfire missiles, and sharpened toilet bowl handles laced with plutonium. But twenty-five years ago, everyday items like hippie beads, fine-toothed combs, bug zappers, and frying pans were employed out of respect to the victim. I mean, who doesn't want to be murdered by a frying pan? I know I wouldn't mind. In the darkly humourous, Eating Raoul, that's the question debauched swingers across Los Angeles repeatedly ask themselves during their final moments of brain activity, as the trauma that comes with being hit in the head with a frying pan catches up with them and death consumes their immoral shells. I'd say a solid eighty percent of filmed entertainment is rendered unwatchable because of its high-principled stance against murder. The seemingly unending lesson that Hollywood and their overly earnest allies having been teaching us... you know, that the taking of a human life is wrong and stuff, has plagued me for a good chunk of two centuries. The only instance where homicide is accepted seems to be then perpetrator is wearing a tin hat. Well, in this deeply satirical film about Paul and Mary Bland, murder is not only rewarded, it's glamourized. Deadpan to the point of nonexistence, Paul Bartel and Richard Blackburn have created a script so wicked, so spiritually enriching, that I still can't believe they were allowed to get way it after all these years. Promoting the unlawful slaying of deviants and miscreants from start to finish, Eating Raoul is one of my all-time favourites because it makes its predators, the Bland's, seem so normal on the surface.

However, underneath lies a subtle layer of flavourless perversion. All it takes is just one look at the Bland's apartment and you'll begin to notice that something just ain't right. The erotic artwork, their fabulous collection of 1950s furniture, the matching pajamas, and the twin beds make one stop and pretend to think.

Summed up in a succinct manner by Paul Bland (played by writer, director, and male pattern baldness enthusiast Paul Bartel) at an orgy, the unsuspecting couple lure swingers to their apartment and murder them for their money.

Now this murderous binge may have been brought on by accident (their flat is crawling with swingers and a couple end up getting bludgeoned to death after straying into their place of residence), but the desire to acquire enough capital to open a restaurant causes them to ditch conventional means of raising money and to focus on killing full-time.

Only problem is a professional thief named Raoul Mendoza (a hunky Robert Beltran) is onto to the Bland's scheme. And since Raoul isn't a card carrying pervert, the Bland's don't kill him. Instead, they team up with him. (The Bland's kill, while Raoul is in charge of disposing of the bodies at the dog food factory.) Of course, to Paul, this awkward alliance is a tad shaky from the get-go, as indicated by the shameless flirting that takes place between Raoul and Mary Bland. You can't really blame Raoul in that regard. I mean, if I found myself suddenly thrust into the shapely presence of the sexy Mary Woronov, I, too, would be engaging in a nonstop barrage of lame come-ons and ill-conceived wooing.

The sublime, extremely talented, wonderfully gap-toothed Susan Saiger plays Doris The Dominatrix, a woman Paul employs in order to help him expose Mary and Raoul's secret sexual alliance.

Giving what I consider to be one of the leggiest performances in cinematic history, Mary Woronov wields her extra leggy gams like they were a pair of deadly weapons. Fraudulently seducing the likes of hippies, middle-aged weekend Nazis, a creepy man-child, unruly patients, and fake Latino locksmiths (the locksmith part is fake, not the Latino part), the svelte superstar proves that even the squarest of squares can induce erections in the pants of others with a nonchalant ease. Sure, she can't seem to tell the difference between a dead swinger and a merely unconscious swinger (which is weird being a nurse and all), but as a Naughty Nancy and Cruel Carla, she's the bee's knees.

Seriously, her knees alone are actually worthy of a couple of grammatically obtuse sonnets.

The brilliance of Eating Raoul is plainly obvious during the murder scenes (they evoke a time when murder was fun and a valued activity). However, it's seemingly throwaway scenes, like the one that takes place in the sex shop, that make the film purr so efficiently. The repartee Paul Bartel engages with an apple devouring sex shop salesmen (John Paragon), for example, is wonderfully perverse. I like how Paul offends the clerk by asking for the cheapest vibrator he's got "Hey, there's nothing cheap about my store, don't you mean inexpensive?" It's those kind of touches that keep me coming back to this twisted masterpiece at least once year.

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Party Monster (Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato, 2003)

Mixing fabulousness with murder is always a risky endeavor. Yet that's the challenge the mildly entertaining Party Monster has to contend with on a regular basis, as it celebrates hedonism while scolding it at the same time. A disco pulsating enterprise that technically should be my favourite movie all-time, the Fenton Baily-Randy Barbato directed muckle is too blemished for me to love unequivocally. No, my adoration comes with reservations. Which is rare, because when I take a liking to something, I usually go all out or not at all. However, the fact that the dead are people are real kinda put a damper on the self-indulgent thrill ride my inner tight trouser wearer was looking to freebase on. The biographical film, based on the book, Disco Bloodbath by James St. James (the self-described "original club kid"), tells the story of a group of extroverted club goers who became moderately famous for their extravagant clothing and drug-fueled antics in Manhattan during the late '80s-early '90s, and of how their self-appointed leader, the loathsome Michael Alig (Macaulay Culkin), ended up killing a drug dealer/hanger on named Angel Melendez (Wilson Cruz). Anointing himself the new Andy Warhola after the famed Ruthenian dies, the brattish Alig quickly moves up the city's social food chain by utilizing the advice given to him by the more even-tempered James St. James (Seth Green) and sucking up to the Canadian born owner of the Limelight, a New York City nightclub renowned for its cutting edge music and drug scene.

Incompetent in terms of basic storytelling and severely lacking when it came to maintaining a cohesive structure, the film relies solely on its music and costumes in order to propel it towards the finish line. Actually, it also depended on these fluky little scenes that somehow managed to perk up the proceedings. The doughnut shop encounter where club kid extraordinaire James St. James begrudgingly teaches neophyte wannabe Michael Alig how to be fabulous, for example, was a delightful nugget of a scene that sort of just creeps up on you and reminds us that great things can be learned at doughnut shops.

A delightfully mishmash of old school new wave sounds and new school house and electro grooves, the Party Monster soundtrack is one of the most exhilarating I've heard spring forth from the sound system of a modern movie. Every track is used perfectly. Whether it be "Go" by Tones on Tail or Waldorf's "You're My Disco," the thumping nature of the songs heard throughout the film numbed much of the horribleness that was washing over my eyeballs. Besides, I can't stay mad at a film that depicts the music of Stacey Q as some sort of sonic solution that can miraculously resolve the world's problems simply through the act of listening to it.

Giving one of the most annoying performances in the history of cinema, Macaulay Culkin takes a character that is already obnoxious to begin with it, and somehow manages to increase his obnoxiousness to an almost astronomical level. The third quarter addition of a leggy Chloë Sevigny to his side did alleviate a small portion of my vexation towards him. But by then it was too late, the damage had already been done.

Luckily, Seth Green is on board to show everyone how to act flamboyant without irritating the audience. Playful when it came to dolling out quips ("I'm not addicted to drugs, I'm addicted to glamour."), and a real trooper in the outrageous costume department (I adored his bloody bride ensemble), the smallish actor strikes a fabulous pose as the fabulous James St. James, the reluctant sidekick in Michael Alig's sick and twisted buddy movie. His DJ advice to a wooden Wilmer Valderrama, the drinking pee face made to the strains of Stephen Duffy, zany haircuts, Stacey Q dancing, and overall impishness was joy to immerse oneself in. It's a shame the film couldn't have been solely about Seth's James, and featured more Mia Kirshner, and hell, found away to add the saucy Lisa Edelstein (a real life club kid back in the day) to the wacky blend. Now that would have been a great film.

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The Creeping Terror (Vic Savage, 1964)

A precursor to esteemed cinematic works like, A Taste of Cherry and Dear Emma, Sweet Böbe (a precursor, in that, they are works of cinema that were created after 1964), The Creeping Terror (a.k.a. The Crawling Monster) is a film that I felt like I not only watched, but also endured. An engrossing parable about the dangers of lethargic aliens from outer space and an invaluable teaching tool on how not to flee from a slow-moving monstrosity, the sensations I felt while viewing this film were indescribable in their oddness. Shocked, yet strangely enamoured by its incompetency, I was book smartishly in awe of the sheer ineptitude that was unfolding before me. Everything from the creeping to the terror was extremely out of whack. Sure, I haven't the slightest idea what "whack" is. But whatever it is, this flick is completely out of it. It was almost as if director-star-con man Vic Savage (credited as A.J. Nelson) had no clue as to what he was doing. Now, unlike most people, I'm no expert when it comes to acting, cinematography, dramatic pacing, creature effects, lighting, sound design, and basic storytelling, but even I know that a film shouldn't be narrated from beginning to end like that... you know, unless it's a documentary about chlamydia or squirrels. The narrator bluntly informs the audience what's going on in a terse, matter-of-fact manner every step of the way. Apparently, the film was shot without sound, and only a handful of lines were dubbed in later. Which would explain why the narrator narrates even while the characters are talking with one another. This off-kilter approach to dialogue gave the film a real unfinished quality. For instance, a bizarre subplot that promotes the benefits of married life (yard work followed by efficient intercourse) comes literally out of nowhere, and does nothing but perplex the viewer. So much so, that you begin to forget that there's a slothful space fiend on the loose outside.

Landing in the hills of Angel County via stock footage of a rocket taking off played backwards, shambling creatures from another world slowly begin to devour every person it comes in contact with. Luckily (for the otherworldly creature), the extraterrestrial beasts' slowness isn't a hindrance, as it seems to have landed in a zip code where all worst runners live. One of the aliens is trapped in its spaceship, while the other is out and about eating people. Looking like a large soiled blanket crossed with a recently fisted anus, the creature, its flailing centipede head covered with coiled tentacles, consumes its human victims whole, and does not discriminate. The only thing standing in its way are newlyweds Martin (Vic Savage) and Brett Gordon (Shannon O'Neil), a man of science (William Thourlby), and a smattering of helmeted soldiers.

The lack of basic fleeing skills displayed by the characters in The Creeping Terror was embarrassing to say the least. In fact, some of these "flee-jects" seemed to hurl themselves into the space monster's gaping maw. It's one thing to stand still and get eaten, as the spiritual upheaval one must go through as they're about to be chewed to death must be intense. I mean, coming face-to-coiled-tentacle with a large soiled blanket crossed with a recently fisted anus is not an everyday occurrence for most people. However, to willingly throw yourself into the creature's mouth hole doesn't make a lick of sense to me. If anything, you should attempt to run away upon seeing the creature. Seriously, there's no reason why the contents of an entire hootenanny should have been masticated by a lurching behemoth. I kept yelling, "Run, you stupid motherfuckers, run!" But they didn't listen. At least the lead hootenannier went out like a hero; crashing his guitar feverishly into the creature's blanketed anus.

Running deficiencies aside, the film does have one bright spot, and that spot is the chaos-laden dance hall sequence. It's true that the film doesn't really explain how the glacially paced monster was able to enter the dance hall unnoticed (two words: cover charge), or even how it opened the door (it doesn't have hands). Nonetheless, it got in there, and I'm glad it did, as we're treated to some authentic early sixties dance moves (the woman in the tight gold lame trousers really knew how to shake it) and some of the sexiest devouring I have ever not she-bopped to. The sight of faceless female legs futilely kicking air (their taupe stockings flailing to the point of sane madness) while being consumed by a colossal expanse is the stuff erotic fantasies are made of.

The director may have botched a million things in this film, but the decision to spend an inordinate amount of time focusing on the dangling legs of the dancers being eaten was such a sublimely perverted one. It almost made the experience of watching the film worth while. The key word there being "almost," as all the shapely, stocking-encased legs dangling sexily from a recently fisted anus in the world couldn't save this dud from being the unmitigated disaster of galactic proportions that it actually is.

video uploaded by The Creeping Terror
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Little Darlings (Ronald F. Maxwell, 1980)

New friendships are born, and early on a random guy gets kicked squarely in the testicles, which out of these two things do you think is gonna be the main focus of Little Darlings? If you think about it, they both seem applicable, given the title, but the realm of friendship is where this tender tale of adolescent awakening spends most of its time. I don't know about you, but I'm kinda glad the film's narrative decided to follow the girls to summer camp, as the prospect of watching the tragic aftermath of a vicious violation of ones right not to have his or her balls stomped on isn't very appealing. Anyway, a seemingly straightforward endeavor that examines the budding relationship between two girls from different socioeconomic backgrounds, the film takes the horny teenagers at camp story and gives it a girly edge. Instead of a bunch of boys trying to get laid in a forested setting, this particular woodsy lark is about a group of girls who make a bet to see which virgin will have sexual intercourse with a male human first before the summer is over. The competitors being the disaffected Angel (Kristy McNichol) and the equally disaffected (but for completely different reasons) Ferris (an elegant Tatum O'Neal). The original group who made the unsavoury wager split up into two camps: the Angel camp lead by Dana (Alexa Kenin), who encourage Angel as she makes a play for Randy (a dopey, yet oddly suave Matt Dillon), and the Ferris camp, lead by the cattish Cinder (the lovely Krista Errickson), who help the blue-blooded teen attain the penile devotion of the much older Gary (Armand Assante), a camp counselor with healthy eyebrows.

This separation of the girls gave the film more room to breath (the eight of them in the same room together was a bit much). It also gave the film's two stars a chance to shine on their own, as I found their initial hatred of one another to be awkward and forced. While Kristy's scenes had a weighty tone about them (lot's of meaningful looks and hushed longing), Tatum's were a tad creepy, but kinda playful at the same time. (The reason Armand looked much older than Tatum was because he was...much older.)

Nonetheless, Tatum's puckered lips waiting to be kissed was giggle worthy and her giddy nocturnal jaunt across the field as she left Gary's cabin was on the cusp of being enthralling.

Displaying a quiet intensity, Kristy McNichol is a sullen delight as Angel, a tough chick who smokes, wears pink tank tops, and glowers like a deranged loner. Sporting a hairstyle that defined a generation, the subtly alluring actress maintains a cool veneer as the contentious teen. It's true that both Kristy and Tatum aggressively pursue the men they want to be deflowered by, but the manner in which Kristy went about acquiring her fella was downright sexy. Her persistence when it came to bagging Matt Dillon's Randy was quite the role reversal. I mean, Angel trying to get 'em drunk, the way she picked him up in that canoe, and her flirtatious demeanor when they first met all seemed like the tactics of some unlubricated Lothario, not a feisty virgin.

At any rate, the boathouse scenes are where Miss McNichol's performance shows its mettle, giving Little Darlings the prestige it so rightly deserves in the annals of teenage camp movies.

Oh, and it should be noted that Sunshine is in the Ferris camp as well. Played by an adorable Cynthia Nixon, this particular girl had a distinct hippie vibe about her, as she openly refers to the karma of others and handed out vitamins to people she had just met.

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Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael (Jim Abrahams, 1990)

Viewed more times than Killer Klowns from Outer Space and Valley Girl combined, the wonderfully hokey Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael is the most watched movie in my celluloid arsenal. At the moment, I'm not quite sure why I continue to bask in its pinkish glory at an alarmingly rate. (I'd say I've watched it at least twice a year since 1992.) I hope, well, in the next few paragraphs, anyway, to shed some much needed light on the inexplicable phenomenon that is me and this movie. The most obvious reason I find myself repeatedly returning to the town of Clyde, Ohio can be summed up by two simple words: "Winona" and "Ryder." However, that can't be the only reason. I mean, she's appeared in lot's of movies, and I don't, for example, watch Mr. Deeds on an annual basis (once was plenty enough). No, there has to be something else beyond Winona, and, not to mention, Thomas Newman's effervescent music score and Ava Fabian's wet naked bum exiting a swimming pool in slow-motion. Teen angst, the most potent of cinematic elixirs, has to be one of the deciding factors.

The appeal of watching disaffected adolescents yammer and complain has always been a weakness of mine, and in the freak-friendly figure of Dinky Bossetti, I think may have found my patron saint. The diminutive outsider with the healthy penchant for black clothing is so outside the mainstream, that kids hurl rocks at her as she rides down the tree-lined streets of her inconsequential, under-deodorized armpit of a town. And on top of that, she gets scolded and mocked for reciting erotic poetry in class.

As you would expect, I was quite taken by this extreme form of collective ostracism. The residents shun her because she's different, much like they did the titular Roxy Carmichael fifteen years ago.

Except, Dinky isn't different in an obnoxious way. Unlike the so-called weirdos who pretend to be depressed and cool nowadays, she doesn't buy her grim wardrobe at chichi boutiques or insipid chain stores. Uh-uh. She brings a genuine punk aesthetic to her ghoulish style. In that, she wears whatever she finds. I distinctly remember being rather taken by Dinky's do-it-yourself approach to late twentieth century goth fashion, and recall employing many of her techniques.

The dichotomy between Dinky Bossetti's black motif and the frothy pink of Roxy Carmichael was also integral to the film's charm. Take, for instance, the scene where Dinky explores the bedroom of Roxy's old house (which has been turned into a museum), the sight of the morbidly attired teen poking around the aggressively pink confines of that particular room provided quite the contrast in styles. This commingling of contradictory colours was definitely a major influence on me. Actually, I think I just hit the nail on the head.

You see, the colours black and pink are the only two colours that are both revered by the heterosexual and homosexual communities. And since I've always seen myself as an arbitrator between the two distinctive groups, that means Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael is responsible for developing a good chunk of my world famous personality. (I think just blew my own mind a little bit.)

Eye-rolling her way into the gooey confines my fickle heart like a disgruntled rash, Winona Ryder is the main reason this film manages to succeed on any normal level (I'm sorry Jeff Daniels, but your moping just isn't cutting it). The pale actress from Winona, Minnesota imbues her Dinky with enough teen-based frustration to last twenty life times.

Paired with, what has to be, the most unconventional leading man of her career, Winona has terrific chemistry with the floppy-haired Thomas Wilson Brown. Whether they were talking about the gaps in his teeth or pining while Melissa Etheridge wailed in the background, I found their scenes together to be weirdly compelling.

Sporting one of the most subtle lesbian subplots in Hollywood history (it was so subtle, that I don't think I even noticed it until my fifth viewing), I love the same sex relationship between the bitter Evelyn (Dinah Manoff) and a cutie named Libby (Sachi Parker). Actually, I thought Dinky and the lithesome guidance counselor were on the cusp of making out a couple times as well. So, let's see, make that two subtle lesbian subplots, two Melissa Etheridge songs, and an actress named "Manoff." Wow, this film is more Sappho than two doily dykes necking at a Cinémathèque screening of Mädchen in Uniform.

The supporting cast is rife with so many familiar faces, that not a day goes by without spotting one of them in something or another. The ubiquitous Stephen Tobolowsky bookends the film nicely with his trademark dorky charm as Clyde's mayor, Graham Beckel is great as Dinky's sympathetic dad, Frances Fisher makes stacking carpet samples seem sexy as Dinky's indifferent mother (I loved the unabashed womanliness of her physique), and Heidi Swedberg (Susan from Seinfeld) displays an unhinged quality as a hurried tailor.

Proving that I've matured slightly when it comes to ogling actresses, I was pleasantly surprised by how tantalizing I found Laila Robins to be in this film. I mean, I always thought her character was attractive and stuff, but there was clearly something different about her as I gazed upon her this time around.

Playing Elizabeth Zaks, the aforementioned guidance counselor who befriends Dinky, Miss Robins brings a dignified professionalism to the proceedings, and of course, some much needed legginess. Which I can't believe I didn't notice the other gazillion time I watched this, her legs, that is. I guess, like every other sane person, my focus was on Winona's performance.

Anyway, utilizing my newfangled predilections and curiosities, my revisiting of this film was, as expected, a resounding success.

video uploaded by DinkyDean23

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Clueless (Amy Heckerling, 1995)

Reinventing the way words are uttered and clothes are worn for an entire generation of open-minded men and stylish women, Clueless remains the pinnacle of teen cinema. Bubbling over with every conceivable colour in the known universe and sporting life lessons of a synergetic nature, the film, written and directed by the super-cute Amy Heckerling, deftly mixes the moronic with the profound, as it follows the adolescent ups and downs of one the most engaging and complex characters to ever grace the screen that I watch stuff on. The exalted character I'm referring to is, of course, Cher Horowitz (Alicia Silverstone), the patron saint of unintentional magnificence. An angelic shopaholic in strappy heels, a stem exposing humanitarian, if you will, who aimlessly transverses the trendy quagmire that is Beverly Hills, California, Cher is an inspiration to all those who are willing to look fabulous on the outside, while oozing a social conscious on the inside. This agreeableness manages to shine through despite the fact she appears to be an overly shallow, uninformed brat, and that her father (the occasionally hilarious Dan Hedaya) makes money off the misery of others. You see, in most movies, Cher would be the villain, a vixenish hosebeast bent on destroying the integrity of some plucky brunette. But in this strange, rearwardly universe, the vacuous prevail.

It's not an opinion set in stone, but I'd say Cher is the closest cinematic representation to what I consider to be absolute perfection when it comes to teenage adolescence. Sure, she might have a couple of flaws here and there, but it's those little blemishes that make her so appealing as a character. So much so that my central nervous system melts whenever she puts the words "as" and "if" together. Displaying no talent whatsoever when it comes to operating a motor vehicle, yet exhibiting a world-weary gumption when it comes to deciding what kind of juicy cock she wants sporadically traveling through the rarely visited confines of her special area, Cher is not only a fashion icon, she also helps the less fortunate find romance.

This selfless desire to find other people dates is the nitty-gritty of Cher's plight, as she neglects her own dating needs to her detriment. The film's title actually refers to her incompetence when comes to her own romantic instincts, not her intelligence. Which is lacklustre from a scholastic point of view, but judging from an unconventional plain of existence, Cher is one smartest characters I've come across in years.

Anyway, while secretly motivating middle-aged teachers to fuck and giving makeovers to new students who dress like farmers, Cher discovers that her gaydar is nonexistent and that Josh (the absolutely dreamy Paul Rudd), her college age, non-blood-related stepbrother (their parents were married for a little while), who comes over every once and while, is starting to look pretty darn hunky.

Call me full of expired eyeliner, but I could have sworn that Alicia Silverstone was getting more cute as the film progressed. At any rate, the film's sharp writing definitely had a hand in molding Cher from archetypal teen bimbo into the eloquent voice for millions of disenfranchised daughters of overpaid litigators. But it was the sheer gusto of Alicia's performance that elevates the proceedings to the sphere of excellence. Spewing her lines with what seemed like a grating bluntness, the scrunchy-faced actress tackles the unique dialogue with a poetic flair.

Fashion froward to an almost extreme level, the clothes in Clueless dominate every scene with an aggressive temperament. The fashion riskiness is best represented by Amber, Cher's friend/rival. Made flesh by the gorgeous Elisa Donovan, the "whatever" character sports some of film's most "out there" outfits. Which include: irregular tights, faux fur, and subversive footwear. Alicia Silverstone and Stacey Dash, while just as tight-obsessed as Amber, their looks seemed to play up their inherent legginess, as skirts of a skimpy nature rule the day.

The adorable Brittany Murphy plays the pint-size Tai, an outsider who finds herself thrust into the spotlight when Cher makes the new student her pet project, and manages to make "Rollin' With My Homies" seem romantic. It's hard to believe this is the same actress who would go on star in movies where she's called upon to tell Mickey Rourke that he is a "fucking fuckface fucker" in Spun.

Stand-outs on the soundtrack include: The Muffs' version of "Kids in America," "Shake Some Action" by Cracker, Jill Sobule's sobulic "Supermodel," and "Need You Around" by a band called The Smoking Popes.

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