Grease 2 (Patricia Birch, 1982)

Bursting onto the screen like an unwanted skin condition, Grease 2 is a film that exists solely as an excuse extract money from saps and half-wits. However, since I just watched it for free for the first time on a channel that caters to saps and half-wits, I wasn't given the opportunity to throw any cash in its general direction. Which is something I will no doubt regret for the rest of my life, as the peppy sequel is a phenomenal example of to properly convey whimsy and frivolity in a cinematic context. (You see what did there? I started off like I was gonna trash it, then I switched gears and began to extol its virtues.) A dangling branch–a life preserver, if you will–to those drowning audience members who felt John Travolta was too narcissistic and Olivia Newton-John too pristine, this Patricia Birch-directed do over tries to not only to correct those faults, but attempts to improve on the magic of the first film. Jettisoning everything that made the original flick soar into the stratosphere (catchy songs, sneaker-assisted choreography, poodle skirts, sexual innuendo and tight pants), this version's success is exclusively dependent on the probably creamy shoulders of an unknown named Michelle Pfeiffer (Into the Night). She plays a reluctant Pink Lady named Stephanie Zinone, an attractive high school student who is on the outs with Johnny Nogerelli (Adrian Zmed), the leader of the T-Birds (a pretty lousy bike gang, if you ask me).

You might remember that The Pink Ladies wore pink jackets and were mainly made-up of women, hence the name. But the real reason they're called that is because their plausibly pulsating pussies are as pink as a prickly porcupine that has been spray-painted pink. (Just a little kernel of knowledge I felt like flinging.)

Anyway, as someone who has never been impressed by Michelle Pfeiffer or her unamused expression (though I hear she's quite funny in Married to the Mob), I thought she was borderline charming as the senior who desires a "cool rider." Increasingly indifferent towards Johnny and his sycophantic followers (their suck-uppery was embarrassing at times), Michelle's Stephanie expresses this boy frustration through the majesty of song. Picking up on this song-based frustration is Michael Carrington (Maxwell Caulfield), a fresh faced student from England.

The handsome, but slightly awkward newbie doesn't stand a chance with Stephanie as is. (Just for the record, I thought his handsomeness should have been enough to win over her over.) However, if he buys a motorcycle, never leaves the house without goggles, and gets in touch with his inner rebel, he should be able to attain the keys to fair young maiden's heart. It would also help if he sang songs and romped about gayly while wearing jeans. Chicks dig guys who can dance in denim. In fact, it's the cornerstone of western civilization (look it up).

Now, is Grease 2 as good as Grease? I have no clue. I mean, they both have catchy songs and feature choreographed dance numbers where counterfeit high school students frolic in unison. But other than that, they're pretty much the same. Only difference is the first film has the advantage of being deemed a classic by some unaffiliated group of pompous piss drinkers, while the sequel has been relegated to the pop culture dustbin. Which is, like, totally unfair. The amount of multicoloured pantyhose worn by Lorna Luft, Maureen Teefy and Alison Price alone should at least elevate the film's status to misunderstood cult oddity.

I think the fact that Pamela Adlon (nee Segall) was underutilized as the spunky Dolores Rebchuck (a Pink Lady wannabe) was the sequel's downfall. Early on, the pint-size Pamela shares a moment with Maxwell Caulfield outside the bowling alley that was, of course, cute as hell, but also sharp in terms of dialogue and overall tone. I'm probably the only person who thinks this (and this contrarian stance fills my aura with smugness), but I thought Pamela should have been the lead, not Michelle. Sure, the age and height difference between Pam and Maxwell would have made things kinda creepy. But creepy sells tickets, or at least it does in my neck of the woods.

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Death Machines (Paul Kyriazi, 1976)

If you happen to find a little red Buddha statue languishing amongst the strands of spaghetti you have yet to consume with your mouth, then you, my friend, are about to come face-to-face with the death machines. Killers without remorse, these racially harmonious hit men in black undershirts are the future of murder. Taking their orders from the mysterious Madame Lee, the assassins in Death Machines, a film about kicking people in the face really, really hard, and recent amputees trying to come to grips with their love of cute nurses who look absolutely scrumptious in tartan vests, are extremely competent at what they do. Oh, sure, they'll forget to dispatch a witness here and there, but their effectiveness is second to none in the overcrowded field of homicide for hire. Whether employing the shrapnel-laden goodness of a rocket launcher or the blunt force of their fists, the tongueless trio are mean, lean killing machines. Now, so far I've pretty much painted a picture of a film that is basically about a trio of killers who kill people with a quiet efficiency. But is it any good? Hard to say. While I enjoyed the plethora of face kicking that takes place in this film, some of dramatic scenes seemed to be a tad off in terms of not sucking and there were a couple of moments where the pacing could have been tighter. That being said, the goofy charm of the fight sequences, the silly yet plausible premise, and the wicked synthesizer music that thunderously throbbed during all the scenes that featured Madame Lee and her mustachioed henchman were all inexplicably awesome.

Attempting to corner the apparently lucrative assassination market, the shadowy Madame Lee (Mari Honjo) trains a white man (Ron Marchini), a black man (Joshua Johnson), and an Asian man (Michael Chong) to be fiercely obedient killers with the goal of rubbing out all her competitors. In order to test her killers out in the real world, she offers her services to a local mob boss and helps him take care of a couple of the items on his "people I want murdered" list. Problems arise when a witness is left right handless yet very much alive after a rambunctious hit on a karate school instructor, as it brings a lot unwanted attention to the wordless assassins.

The lone survivor of this massacre, Frank (John Lowe), is determined to get revenge. A nurse (the name of the actress who played the nurse, like the majority of the supporting cast, is nowhere to be found in the credits) constantly makes goo goo eyes with Frank, but unfortunately (for the sake of his rarely touched penis) the sight of the racially diverse threesome violently crashing through the window of the karate school is all he can think about it at the moment.

There are a lot of cockamamie action scenes in Death Machines worth mentioning, but the one that stands out in my mind is the aforementioned tussle at the karate school. An epic and disorderly brouhaha involving swords, spears, and plenty of kicked faces, the sight of multiple martial arts students being cut down by the death machines was a gloriously over-the-top display. I'd say there were at least six pupils in white karate outfits being slain at any given moment. Seriously, they were going down like winged insects; it was strangely shocking and hilarious all at once. I liked the zany energy of this sequence, and the fact that one student is stabbed through a bookcase.

Ruling over the proceedings like a demented patriarch, Mari Honjo dominates with her icy stare and bold proclamations. The fact that everyone else in the film was laughably bad shouldn't take anything away from the amount of unbalanced vigour Mari brought to Madame Lee. Always accompanied by these sinister sounding synthesizer flourishes, Miss Honjo seems to relish in her evilness, and, in doing so, creates a memorable piece of villainy (the large mop of hair and thin eyebrows didn't hurt her appeal, either). I loved the look of annoyance she sports after being brushed by the white death machine on the stairs, and the smirking contest she engages in with her henchman.

Oh, and, of course, I was surprised when I found out that this was Mari Honjo's only film role of note. I mean, I figured she would have numerous acting roles to her credit, given how compelling she was a Madame Lee. But, alas, I'm forced to savour Death Machines as the only cinematic evidence of Mari Honjo's amazing onscreen presence.

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Fright Night (Tom Holland, 1985)

A vampire movie with so much bite, that even the title has teeth. Fright Night is in a class of its own in terms of deftly combining horror, comedy and erotica. Three distinct genres of cinema that have a lot in common, but for some strange reason, they're not thrown together that often. Any overzealous deviant whose mind has been properly warped on a steady diet of game shows and beef jerky can make a film that features nothing but wall-to-wall bloodshed. However, it takes a fair amount of skill to create a film that is not only gory, but sexy and funny, too. And that's what writer-director Tom Holland has somehow done with this particular effort; he's made what appears to be your typical teenage vampire movie, yet underneath lies a simmering cauldron that is bubbling over with an efflorescent stench. In other words, it's got more depth to it than you'd expect. The plot of Fright Night can be pretty much summed up by listening to the song "Fright Night" by The J. Geils Band, as it covers almost every plot detail from start to finish. If, however, you happen to have an aversion to Mr. Geils and his stupid ass band, I'll help you out by saying the film is about a high school student named Charley Brewster (William Ragsdale) who thinks his new neighbour is a vampire. Shunned by the police and dismissed by his friends, the alarmed teen seeks the help of Peter Vincent (Roddy McDowall), the host of a late night horror movie program called "Fright Night," in the hope that he can utilize his expertise in the realm of the undead. Of course, Charley fails to realize that Mr. Vincent is an actor, not an actual vampire slayer.

It doesn't matter how you become moist, laugh, or express fear, there's something for everyone it this wondrous tale of suburban paranoia. The idea of a vampire moving in next-door is something we all can relate to, as we've all had undesirable neighbours at one time or another. I mean, whether it's playing obnoxiously loud music or puncturing the necks of topless women with their elongated incisors in full view of your adolescent offspring, the discourteous bane that is the annoying neighbour is a universal one.

The nightclub scene at "Club Radio" where Jerry: The Vampire (a suaver-than-suave Chris Sarandon) and Amy: The Girlfriend (the alluring Amanda Bearse) get more familiar with one another has always been a favourite of mine, as supplies the film with its erotic quota. Sporting no nudity whatsoever, nor any scenes that feature excessive vaginal penetration, the club sequence is hands down one of the most titillating, most captivating things I have ever seen. The moment Chris Sarandon (sporting a chic sweater) and Amanda Bearse (a silky blue shirt with the collar up) see each other across the dance-floor, and the synthesizers kick into gear on Ian Hunter's "Good Man in a Bad Time," is the epitome of new wave sexiness.

The give and take nature of their ritualistic conquest of one another is what makes the scene work so well. I mean, if Jerry had dominated the seduction, it would have seemed predatory (which it still is in some respect), but the moments when Amy would rebuff, and sometimes toy with the vampire, made it downright hot. It's weird that a scene featuring a foppish bloodsucker (with a male roommate) and a closeted lesbian would gel so well in a heterosexual capacity. But there they are, inducing a plethora of aroused feelings with their enticing disco embrace.

Providing the bulk of the film's humour is the giddy presence of Stephen Geoffreys as the wacky Evil Ed Thompson, a close friend of Charley and Amy. Boasting a truly demented laugh and superb comic timing, Mr. Geoffreys' has created one of the most memorable horror characters in film history. His scenes with a game Roddy McDowall were freaking hilarious, as every line he utters is rendered iconic thanks to his unique delivery. It's no wonder that his "Oh, you're so cool, Brewster!" is still quoted to this very day (well, by me, anyway).

And I must say, I liked how no one dies pleasantly in this film. Well, actually, that's not quite true, the lady who got necked by Jerry the fruit-eating vampire seemed to go in a pleasant enough manner (the grisly aftermath is kept from us). But as for everyone else, they go nastily. Oozing torrents of green goo, twitching uncontrollably while impaled with furniture, and bursting into flames are just a mere pittance of the pre-death symptoms that plague the unfortunate few in this film. Add a top-notch wolf-to-human transformation and a hand stabbed by a pencil to the mix, and we're talking about a masterpiece up in here.

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Don't Answer the Phone! (Robert Hammer, 1980)

The seediness of Hollywood circa 1980 is yet again explored with a graceless morass in the inappropriately titled Don't Answer the Phone! Inappropriate because the act of picking up a ringing telephone will not endanger your life in this film (the original title The Hollywood Strangler is much more apt). Anyway, it seems like every other movie I watch nowadays is either set in Hollywood or involves some sort of sordid underworld. And why not? I mean, the city has much to offer in terms of fostering the sleazy and the deranged, and it also serves as a magnet for all kinds of wide-eyed folks in search of the American Dream. It's when these two distinct forces collide with one another that the potential for exploitative drama really comes to the forefront. A slasher/stalker/irregular pantyhose usage film, writer-director Robert Hammer has made an unpleasant and deeply disturbing work of trashy cinematic art. Boasting elements that were genuinely gripping and others that were straight up awful, the extremely gritty endeavour is repeatedly rendered tolerable thanks to the outlandish and wonderfully insane performance of one Nicholas Worth (Swamp Thing), the excellent synthesizer score by Bryon Allred (Night of the Comet), and a bevy of alluring victims who all screamed and thrashed about in a realistic and convincing manner.

On the other hand, making things difficult for those of us who like their movies not to suck was everyone involved in the police procedural section of the film. Oozing a banal haze at every turn, the detectives played by James Westmoreland and Ben Frank left much to be desired in the not being total asswipes department, and almost singlehandedly managed to make one root for the serial killer. Even though I'm sure that some of the sicker twists in the audience were already down with his confused Modus operandi.

Oh, and I didn't like the way they mocked pornography, pimps, prostitution and psychology.

Similar to the plot of Angel, except without the occasional brushes with my old pal whimsy (no wisecracking drag queens or gruff yet lovable lesbians, either), a serial rapist/murderer is strangling his way through Hollywood's female workforce. Using a pair of pantyhose–with a large coin inside for choking leverage–the killer sneaks up on nurses in their homes and lures unsophisticated models to his photography studio.

In-between stalking, the killer calls in to a radio show hosted by Dr. Lindsay Gale (Flo Gerrish) to chat about his headaches.

The aforementioned detectives are the ones in charge of catching this lunatic, but like I said, their stance against the four P's (pornography, pimps, prostitution and psychology) and overall asshole aura really cramped my desire to see the strangling enthusiast get his comeuppance.

Attacking the role of Kirk Smith: pornographer by day, lady strangler by night, with the sweet tang of a demented tollbooth attendant with daddy issues, the late great Nicholas Worth chews up the scenery as the unbalanced war veteran. The scenes where Worth is alone in his studio lifting weights, talking to himself in the mirror and practicing his choking technique were definitely the highlight of Don't Answer the Phone! in terms of acting and overall creepiness.

Creating a terrifying portrait of a man who has lost touch with reality, the rotund actor gives it his all. Whether sweating profusely during his pimp beating tirade (a very Travis Bickle-esque moment), or getting ready to strangle yet another unsuspecting victim, Nicholas has to commended for elevating the lurid material. Seriously, the thought of watching this film without Nicholas Worth makes me shudder ever so slightly.

As it happens with the majority of films of this nature, the ability to enjoy the sexiness of its many attractive actresses was severely hampered by the fact they were constantly being murdered under chaotic circumstances. However, that doesn't mean I failed to relish their performances from a technical point-of-view. You know, like, who writhed the best or who twitched with the most conviction.

In terms of being gorgeous while having their breathing suppressed without their written consent, I'd have to go with Pamela Jean Bryant (Playboy Playmate April 1978).

Nevertheless, as far as being choked the best, the duo of Gail Jensen (ex-Mrs. David Carradine) and Joyce Ann Jodan were the most compelling when it came to dying at the hands of a serial killer.

The stunning turn by Denise Galik, a shy patient of Dr. Lindsay's, should not go unmentioned, as her demise was painful to watch. Also, the strong kitchen table work of Dale Kalberg as a nurse, and the post-mortal twitching of Susanne Severeid (Van Nuys Blvd.) as a strung-out hooker were both first-rate.

I know all this talk of being murdered in an appealing manner smacks of tastelessness, but I can only judge what I see on-screen. I will say that the whole business at the massage parlour did add a bit of goofiness to the proceedings. Mostly because I spotted Don Lake (Bizarre, SCTV, Littlest Hobo) as "Man in Plastic" and a woman who looks exactly like the luminous Susan Saiger (Doris the Dominatrix from Eating Raoul).

A blog entry dedicated to Dale Kalberg's character in "No Contestes al Teléfono" can be found at Vivir en Tucson.

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Freeway II: Confessions of a Trickbaby (Matthew Bright, 1999)

Combining my misguided adoration for undrinkable liquids, spray paint-fueled road movies, women in prison flicks, public handjobs and prompt necrophilia, Freeway II: Confessions of a Trickbaby is another in a long line of films that seem to exist solely as nourishment for my increasingly debased cinematic desires and suspect proclivities. An extremely brash follow-up to the first chapter's skewered take on Little Red Riding Hood, writer-director Matthew Bright (Forbidden Zone) sets his cockeyed sights on the fairytale Hänsel und Gretel. Of course, I don't know much about the Germanic yarn beyond the title (and the non-German industrial duo - Hanzel und Gretyl), but I was able to pick out little details here and there. Like, for instance, a trail of crack cocaine replaces the classic trail of breadcrumbs, and the old witch is now a Mexican nun who may or may not have one of Vincent Gallo's penises positioned as her primary penis. In any case, prior knowledge of the original source material is completely unnecessary. Sure, it may give the thinkers in the audience a smug sense of satisfaction, but this film is more about not puking on the pussies of other people, than it is about children lost in a forest. An exquisite tribute to induced vomiting and the vaginal expanse, the film is a touchingly funny tale of a friendship between two young fugitives who love to barf and eat pussy. It's true, that the so-called "strange dick" referred to in the first film is fraudulently chased to a certain extent–especially when the action ends up in Tijuana, where lots of strange dick is not consumed. But its main mission is to follow White Girl (Natasha Lyonne) and Cyclona (María Celedonio) as they make their way through the unkind morass that is modern society.

The toilet bowl-loving White Girl just wants to find a quiet place to honk chunks in peace, while the psychopathic Cyclona desperately wants something, anything, to prod her melted candle in a loving manner. However, both their destinies seem to involve Sister Gomez (Vincent Gallo), a Mexican nun who Cyclona thinks can cure her of her "angry demon" (she likes to murder people and then have sex with them). White Girl, on the other hand, could stand to get ride of her "hungry demon" (she suffers from an profound case of Bulimia nervosa).

Bragging about the blondeness of her pubic region as if it were second nature, and exaggerating about the scrumptious flavour of the wet contents underneath her lightly shaded follicles like a seasoned professional ("It tastes just like candy"), Natasha Lyonne is a deranged angel in thigh-high hooker boots sent froth from some sort of magic kingdom of sleaziness to quell the aching souls of reprobates the world over.

Appearing bored and sounding more deadpan than usual, the oddly attractive actress is easy to connect with, not only because she would date you, but because her indifference seems sincere. The genuine nonchalance causes her to unwittingly ooze a rare form sex appeal, the kind that goes beyond the surface and comes at you on a more glandular level. And by repeatedly putting herself out there, Natasha makes White Girl seem like the ultimate accidental heroine.

Attacking the film's raunchy and slightly inappropriate dialogue with an elegant ease, María Celedonio's Mink Stole-esque performance is a deranged work of art. Always masturbating, and always advocating the wonders of female-owned genitalia, the svelte actress promotes her unhinged character's ludicrous philosophy with a truckload of gusto.

The sheer amount of reprehensible behaviour that Cyclona engages in during this film was shocking, yes, but somehow María managed to make her likable. Maybe it was her heartfelt enthusiasm for girl brisket, or maybe it was the manner in which unabashedly fed her addiction to spray paint. Well, what ever it was, María turned a serial killing necrophiliac into someone who looked adorable while prancing around Tijuana to the music of Juliana Hatfield and Veruca Salt.

The fact that Vincent Gallo's Sister Gomez, an androgynous spiritual leader, isn't the strangest character in the film is a testament to María's commitment to Matthew Bright's off-kilter fixations. However, that's not to say that Gallo is by any means sane. On the contrary, his performance is still pretty messed up. It's just that we've spent over hour with a paint huffing pussy fiend, and our tolerance for weird has become quite hardened. Which is pretty good way of summing up the experience of watching this film. Only difference being, I'm always hardened. In that, I possess the courage of a nail that is about to be struck.

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Fat City (John Huston, 1972)

The old "could have been a contender" routine is given a bleak makeover in the gritty Fat City, John Huston's straightforward, naturalistic and little viewed tale about a down on his luck boxer named Tully. I'm not gonna lie, my knowledge of boxing is pretty much nonexistent. All I know is that the main objective is to render your opponent unconscious through a series of punches to the face. Sure, body blows are important as well, but the closer you hit to where the brain is stored, the more effective you will be in terms of causing unconsciousness. But other than that, I'm definitely a neophyte. So as you can see, my credibility when it comes to declaring this to be the best boxing movie I have ever seen is a tad on the iffy side; you know, with the fact that beyond the recent Million Dollar Baby, I haven't seen that many boxing movies. (I've only seen the iconic bits from Rocky and Raging Bull.) However, like most movies about sports and the athletes who compete in them, the actual activity itself is just a convenient metaphor for life's numerous ups and downs, and can be enjoyed on a number of non-sport related levels.

Spearheaded by two wonderful performances by Stacy Keach and Susan Tyrrell (the principal reason I watched this in the first place), the film is about Tully (Keach), a washed-up prizefighter living near the poverty line in Stockton, California. One day, the out of shape Tully meets Ernie (Jeff Bridges) at the Y.M.C.A. and is mildly invigorated by the youthful punch thrower after they spare a little. He thinks the kid's got talent and sends the wide-eyed 18 year-old to see Ruben (Nicholas Colasanto), his old trainer, while he continues to pick onions in the hot sun (life ain't easy for worn out boxers). Tully's mundane existence is spruced up when he falls for a shapely rummy named Oma (Tyrrell). Their relationship is contentious from the get-go, and threatens to complicate the fighter's comeback attempt.

I was surprised to learn that Stacy Keach wasn't nominated for an Oscar for his dishevelled turn as the boxer/day labourer. He gives a centred, yet quiet performance that doesn't have a false note (his hopelessness was exquisite). On the other hand, I wasn't surprised when I found out afterward that always wonderful Susan Tyrrell got nominated for her spunky work as Oma, a loquacious barfly with abandonment issues. Giving raving lunatics and adorable lushes a good name, Susan chews up the scenery left and right, spouting emasculating put-downs and using her inherent cuteness as a weapon. I loved the way she would repeatedly test the limits of Tully's sanity. Which is pretty risky when consider that she's living in a cramped room with a boxer.

Capturing the more unglamourous side to organized athletics, Fat City is teeming with unhappiness. And I mean that in the best possible way. There's an authenticity at work here that separates it from the majority of movies that revolve around sports. Whether it's the scenes with Stacy Keach and Susan Tyrrell moping around their dingy apartment (their insidious argument over dinner is the film's most compelling), or the carefree manner it went about depicting the boxing sequences, the film oozes truthfulness (I loved how Tully didn't even realize he'd won a fight). Now, this honesty is probably more of a reflection on the decade it was filmed than anything else (unflinching realism was big in the 1970s), but either way, there's a definite at purity at work here that should appeal to fans of small town boxing, morose drama, and, of course, the fantastic Miss Tyrrell.

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The Specialist (Howard Avedis, 1975)

Is this some kind of misguided attempt at artistic legitimacy, or the just dullest legal drama ever devised by barely sentient humans? It's hard to say exactly what director Howard Avedis (credited here as Hikmet Avedis and Russell Schmidt) and producer Marlene Schmidt (The Teacher and The Stepmother) were trying to convey with this tepid tale about a shady lady known as The Specialist. But I do know one thing, that they have somehow managed to make paranoid lawyers, blandly furnished courtrooms, overweight judges, and horny bailiffs seem more uninteresting than they already were. A film that is not quite sleazy enough to be redeemed by gratuitous nudity and wanton violence, yet not competent enough in the acting and storytelling department to be considered a normal movie, this amateurish enterprise will no doubt leave fans of debased cinema and so-called "prestige pictures" severely disappointed, as it repeatedly fails to satisfy the needs of each distinct group. The sordidly minded amongst you will notice that there is very little in terms of seediness going on in this film (yeah, there was nudity, but it wasn't shameless enough for my taste), while your typical sane viewer will surely be put off by the sluggish place, and, not to mention, the sheer number of scenes that seem to go nowhere.

The film's plot is basically about one lawyer trying to screw over another lawyer. Recently fired big shot lawyer, Pike Smith (John Anderson), hires a sexy juror (Ahna Capri), through his underworld connections, to seduce his rival, Jerry Bounds (Adam West), during a court case involving a former client. You see, the idea is to get him disbarred (apparently attorneys and jurors aren't supposed to fraternize outside the courtroom), but of course things get complicated and don't go exactly as planned (he gets caught canoodling with the coquettish con-woman). Well, they do go exactly as planned, except the lawyer being entrapped by the shapely fake juror isn't going down without a fight. Along with his attractive, and apparently very forgiving, wife Elizabeth (Marlene Schmidt), the dishonoured lawyer will do just about anything to clear his name.

Wow, that sounds like a pretty exciting movie; you know, for something that's crawling with lawyers. But trust me, it's not. I think the biggest flaw with The Specialist was the specialist. In that, I didn't think she was that special. I bet a lot people who see this film will use the same lame pun I just did, but there's no getting around the fact that Ahna Capri's Londa Wyeth was not worth the hype she receives during the film's early going. I mean, all this talk about how great she was when came to her seductive prowess did nothing but inflate the audiences expectations of her. And when she does finally decide to appear, I was letdown by the fact that she was just some blonde chick with big boobs.

Now, I realize that's all it takes in some circles to classified as "special." However, if I'm expected to believe that the counties best attorney is gonna throw his career away just because some large breasted woman with a well-stocked picnic basket and orange panties flirts with him by the drinking fountain, you got to at least make her personable. And I didn't get that from Ahna. Her seduction of Pike's artist son, Hardin (Harvey Jason - think Gene Wilder's gayer brother), was more plausible in that regard (he would have sex with anything with an active central nervous system). I just don't see a cagey lawyer falling for her hackneyed charm so easily.

Never one to let me down in terms of being fabulous, the gorgeous Marlene Schmidt is totally alluring as Elizabeth Bounds, the fiercely loyal wife of the set up lawyer. The fact that Marlene is a major hottie, even while wearing in a purple turban, was yet another reminder of how contrived this film's premise was. I understand that attractive people get cheated on as well. But come on, man, she's Marlene Schmidt, Miss Universe 1961! Anyway, even though she was playing the dreaded spurned wife character, I thought Marlene did an excellent job of looking tremendous in a serious of chic outfits (yeah, including the purple turban). Which, if you ask me, is a pretty hard thing to do in 1975 (a nightmare year for fashion).

Okay, let me see: dull film, not very seedy, titular character isn't special, gayer version of Gene Wilder, and Marlene Schmidt is sexy. Yeah, I think that pretty much covers everything. The section on Adam West's cool manner of speaking will have to be rescheduled for another day.

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Rockula (Luca Bercovici, 1990)

Well-oiled drum machines pump out their righteous beats with a disjointed nonchalance, a rhinestone prosthesis is secretly acquired under the cover of darkness, and, while in the middle of a performing song on stage, a musically inclined vampire orders Chinese food; these are just a mere pittance of the colossal awesomeness on display in the uproariously funny Rockula, a film that spoke to me on a number of unwell levels. Seemingly lost in the pitiless void that is cinematic indifference, the physical act of discovering this headphone thumping rock masterpiece was a minor miracle. Yet another in a long line of entertainment slabs that have been gestating in an obscure funk just waiting for me to come along and overly bask in their nutritious glow. Bold and audacious at every turn, filmmaker Luca Bercovici has somehow managed to not only create the world's lone rock and roll vampire comedy starring Toni Basil and Thomas Dolby, but he has somehow managed to create the world's greatest rock and roll vampire comedy starring Toni Basil and Thomas Dolby. Replete with lavishly modest musical numbers that come and go with a delightful randomness, mirror-based tomfoolery, comical funeral advertisements, strange swords fights that employ even stranger swords, and the most clean shaven protagonist in the stubbled history of onscreen grooming, the film is a bizarre mishmash of things that shouldn't be mashed together. However, it all inexplicably commingles with one another like a first-class stew.

Making one long for that kooky period of time when the 1980s were starting to run out of gas, Rockula reeks of a decade on its last legs. It's this desperation that gives the batty opus its nonrepresentational sense of urgency. It is obvious that the powers that be will not be allowing so-called "creative types" to make musicals about virginal vampires who must save their true love every twenty-two years from a ham bone wielding pirate in the near future. So the time for action is now, and boy, did they ever act. The amount of sheer wrongness that takes place in this film is baffling. Nevertheless, this wrongness is always counterbalanced through the double-dyed commitment to excellence of the cast and crew. Which is important, because a movie like this doesn't make itself, it needs to be nurtured by the hands of skilled craftsmen.

Funny in a self-deprecating sort of way, Dean Cameron and his first-rate eyebrows shine bright as the Ralph LaVie, the world's lamest vampire. Cursed to see Mona, the love of his life, repeatedly killed by a pirate over the past three hundred years (it's a complicated curse), the lonesome vamp decides enough is enough, and tries to save Mona this time around by thwarting the murderous buccaneer through the power of rock.

The sarcastic Dean injects a witty charm into proceedings as the lovelorn bloodsucker, and has a terrific rapport with the more confident version of himself that lives inside reflective surfaces. He is also solid when comes to being romantic and junk with the lithesome Tawny Fere (Angel III: The Final Chapter) and belting out the rocking songs that are featured throughout the film (the nocturnal duet with Tawny blew me away and the Elvis tinged number was glorious).

He even shows off his rapping skills on, you guessed it, "Rapula." Sure, there's a mild cringe-like sensation at first, but when he sincerely raps the line "He's the DJ, I'm the vampire," but that cringe quickly turns to genuine laughter. Oh, and having the always amazing Susan Tyrrell (sporting a blonde bowl cut) manning the wheels of steel and Bo Diddley rocking the spandex didn't exactly hurt, either. Speaking of spinning wax, the attractive Nancye Ferguson mans the switchboard for Tawny's erotic number, "Turn Me Loose."

An absolutely scrumptious Toni Basil opens up a major can of fabulousness as the divine Phoebe LaVie, Ralph's animated mother. Putting the likes of Christian Death, Aqua, Bauhaus and The Sisters of Mercy to shame, the incomparable Miss Basil manages to out-goth them with a breathtaking ease while performing "The Night," a self-choreographed showstopper that renders all previous attempts at coquettishness inert and extremely flabby. Similar to the feeling one gets after being dipped a carnival dunk tank full of pure, undiluted sexiness, the act of watching Toni dance, cavort, and camp it up in this movie was beyond heavenly.

The misguided sense of privilege I felt as I watched Rockula unfold and hurtle headfirst toward that inevitable moment where the evil Stanley (a hilarious Thomas Dolby) receives his comeuppance was unfathomable. This movie needs to be savoured, not shunned. Like I said, at first glance, it may appear to be seeped in wrongheadedness, but deep down beats a heart that is truly awesome.

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