Curtains (Richard Ciupka, 1983)

There are those in the acting world who like to amplify their profession's importance by utilizing words like "craft" and "method" when describing what they do for living to easily impressed lollygaggers. However, as most people know by now, acting is simply memorization, enunciation, and a whole lot of make belief; everything else is just unnecessary globs of thick gravy pored over a gelatinous mire of self-importance. Now, the realm of advanced acting and the lowly slasher flick may seem at odds with one another (serious thespians and masked killers rarely attend the same social functions). But somehow they cross paths in the wintery Curtains, a little known Canadian horror gem from the early 1980s. Theories about the title's meaning will no doubt dance through a great number of heads early-on, as it is an unusual moniker for a horror film. I figured it was about the obvious, a psychotic nutcase who wraps up his or her victims in clumps of unfitted window coverings after they've murdered them (the killer's parents own a drapery shop on the outskirts of Wawa). Then I had this strange idea that the film was about female genitalia. Of course, I was wrong on all accounts (well, to be fair, my second theory is sort of on the money, as the film does have a slight vaginal flavour at times), the word "curtains" is a euphemism for death and also pertains to the end of a theatrical play. In other words, it's the perfect name for this particular endeavour, which involves Jonathan Stryker, a pompous director played by John Vernon (Savage Streets), auditioning five actresses for the lead in his latest film at his palatial home out in the wilds of Northern Ontario.

The film in question is called Audra (a melodrama about a demented woman presumably named Audra) and was expected to star Samantha Sherwood (Samantha Eggar) a veteran actress of stage and screen. It's obvious she's not gonna be the star because Stryker has left her to languish in a mental asylum (she committed herself for research purposes), and has begun looking for other actresses to fill the prestigious role (yeah, he's a bit of a dick).

Things get a little prickly for the sleazy director when the scorned actress escapes and shows up at the audition with a huge "what the fuck" expression on her face. How will the director contend with six actresses from varied backgrounds at an isolated house in the middle of somewhere? I'm no expert, but I think someone is gonna get stabbed, or worse, prodded violently with a sharp object.

The first half of the film involves Samatha Eggar's stay at the psychiatric hospital (a place where strait-jackets and lobotomies are still on the menu). Leggy, sophisticated, slightly English (the clop of her high heels on the crude Canadian concrete sent a clear message to the hoards of unworthy suitors who dared to look at her with horny intentions), Miss Eggar does a tremendous job at portraying an over privileged actress thrust into an undignified situation.

The middle focuses on a seventh actress who doesn't quite make to the audition. Sporting a football jersey (#88) and a mane of freshly combed hair, Deborah Burgess dreams about finding creepy dolls at the side of the road, enjoys acting out rape fantasies with her boyfriend, taking bubble bathes that expose her well-shaped knees, and is the first to see the dreaded mask of the killer. Which, I must say, is one of the most unpleasant looking masks I've seen worn for killing and stalking purposes. Everything after this takes place at the house in the woods.

The six actresses are getting a feel for one another (you know, exchanging pleasantries and making subtle threats), when all of the sudden, the director asks Christie Burns, the youngest out of the six, if she brought her skates. This question seemed odd, but I didn't really pay much attention to it. That is until Burns herself asks, "Has anyone seen my skates?" That's when I knew something was up. Donning a white toque and carrying a boombox, Lesleh Donaldson stumbles through the snowy forest on her way to do some skating on a frozen pond. Thus, the stage is set for one of the most memorable encounters in slasher movie history.

The sound of a crow cawing, Burton Cummings' "You Saved My Soul," and blades on ice are all were hear until the music stops and a doll with outstretched arms is found buried in the snow. What happens next is pretty sweet. I think the mask (with its wrinkled skin and flowing locks of blonde hair), the grunting sound that accompanied each slicing motion, and the fact the killer is wielding a scythe (a menacing looking weapon) are the main reasons this scene so great. Also, the pristine setting, the sunny skies, and well executed direction are a factor as well.

It's hard to top the brilliance of the ice skating sequence, but Curtains diligently soldiers on. With the exception of Miss Eggars, most of the actresses playing the other actresses are Toronto born, and the one that stood out for me was Lynne Griffin. Best known as the gal whose spent most of Black Christmas in the attic wrapped plastic (and as Bob's girlfriend in Strange Brew), the charming actress plays Patti O'Conner, the so-called "funny one" of the group, and gave the film an unexpected frothiness with her nervous wisecracks and a strange Queen Street West style edge when it came to dealing with intimidating Jonathan Stryker.

In addition, the nightie-based legginess of the elegant Linda Thorson (The Avengers) when she discovers a severed head in her toilet and the extended stalking sequence in the prop house are also worth singling out.

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Serial Mom (John Waters, 1994)

Inadvertently causing pussy willows to appear more erotic than they have any right to be, and, not to mention, causing one to reassess their opinion of what kind of damage a leg of lamb can do to a stationary human head if struck multiple times, Serial Mom is a yet another hilarious ode to the sublunary of suburbia and spontaneous homicide from the commonsense mind of John Waters, the patron saint of dementia and difficult to maintain facial hair. Whenever I find myself perusing the aisles of my local supermarket in search of low cost ham and nearly expired couscous, I can't help but observe the staggering amount of female mothers doing the same thing with their smallish offspring in toe and wonder: why aren't they going berserk and killing everyone? Well, this film dares to wonder that exact same query. The stresses of motherhood are put under some sort of microscope type thingy and explored with a playful sense of exaggeration from start to finish, as we follow the murderous inclinations of Beverly Sutphin: mother, passionate sex partner, telephone prankster, and a friend to garbage men everywhere. Putting the names Mink Stole and Patricia Hearst on top of each other in the opening credits was just beginning of the sheer amplitude of excellence this film put forth in its simplistic objective to appall and entertain. Sure, my innate desire to see Mink and Patty aggressively make-out with one another while caressing each other's thighs went unrealized, but they do share the same atmospheric state at one point, so it wasn't a total loss. The bizarre fantasies of a dick-wielding lesbian notwithstanding, the unabashedly perpendicular performance of Kathleen Turner as Miss Sutphin is the pragmatic pith of this particular picture show. (My strap-ons, by the way, are always laced with a non-irritating brand of tenderness.)

Nature loving, environmentally friendly, the affectionate mother of two can turn psychotic, ungentle, and vicious at the mere sight of a slighted family member. While it may seem like Beverly Sutphin's fits of rage are grossly disproportionate, the deranged warmth Kathleen brings to the role makes her violent indiscretions look reasonable, and, to be honest, downright justified at times.

Only a committed actress of the calibre of Miss Turner could make Beverly's bloodlust seem warranted. I'm sorry, Suzanne Somers, but your TV movie version of Serial Mom was probably the equivalent of a wet-nurse who isn't even close to being wet. And the reason being: you're not as awesome as Kathleen Turner.

The art direction and the general coolness of the pop culture references peppered throughout Serial Mom were a constant joy to wallow in. However, they weren't just a bunch of names being dropped in overly smug sort of way. No, when John Waters makes an allusion to something, it's done out of a pure love for the thing or person, not some self-satisfied attempt to appear hip and edgy. Anyway, I loved the scenes that featured Joan Crawford's axe swinging from Strait-Jacket, Justin Whalin reading a Bettie Page magazine (guys who touch themselves to Bettie are neat), the Pee-wee Herman doll, the posters for Connie Stevens' Scorchy and Traci Lords' Shock Em' Dead, and the painting of Don Knotts.

Epic in its succinct depiction of a telephone prankster working at the top of their game, the phone battle between Kathleen's serial killer admiring Beverly Sutphin and Mink Stole's pussy averse Dottie Hinkle is the stuff of unhinged and potty-mouthed legend. I don't know what was sweeter, the sound of Kathleen saying "cocksucker" or the sound of Mink saying "cocksucker." You see, Kathleen says "cocksucker" with an extreme form of self-confidence, while Mink says "cocksucker" with a kind of quiet dignity (plus she looked adorable while saying it). Either way, the way they both said "cocksucker" brought fudge-flavoured tears to eyes.

The always alluring Mink Stole, while taking a bit of a backseat to the almighty Kathleen Turner, does bring a terrific unbalanced neuroticism to Dottie Hinkle, a gardening enthusiast who steals parking spaces and is reluctant about cursing. This is of course all changes when Beverly goes on finally trial for her alleged crimes, as Dottie, in a funny scene, lets the expletives flow freely from her sexy gob.

Looking on, and appearing hotter than ever, was the delectable Patricia Hearst as Juror #8. It's true, Traci Lords' modest role as "Carl's Date" seemed like a letdown in the meatiness department, but Patricia's stellar seated work in the jury box more than made up for the Traci deficiency. Garbed in white pumps (with matching hosiery) and a series of smart business suits, the ravishing Miss Hearst may not say much in terms of words or sentences, but believe me when I tell you that her presence was always felt.

Hell, even Kathleen's character seemed to feel it. Then again, I think the fact that juror number eight was wearing white shoes after Labour Day is what bought her to the accused murderers' attention (she thinks it's a major fashion faux pas). That being said, the constant shots of Patricia's pardoned gams being crossed and uncrossed were greatly appreciated.

In closing, Serial Mom is the funniest Matthew Lillard movie ever made. Oh, and keep an eye for Bess Armstrong (Jekyll and Hyde... Together Again) as a dental nurse.

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Black Christmas (Bob Clark, 1974)

On top of boasting some of the most authentic cold weather in cinematic history, Black Christmas (a.k.a. Silent Night, Evil Night) is also one of the most effective slasher films ever made. Brilliantly utilizing first person camera angles, director Bob Clark let's the audience view the action through the eyes of the demented perpetrator, as he carefully makes his way up the lattice (wheezing like a menstruating fiend) and into the junk-laden attic of a sorority house. Unseen for a large chunk of the film, the confused culprit skulks up there, lying in wait for his victims to cross his path. He's kinda like a spider that way, except this slayer enthusiast is a strong proponent of using household items as instruments of violence and has an intense proclivity for making extremely local telephone calls. I mean, can you picture a spider, or any ambush-based predatory insect for that matter, dialing a phone? I can't, and I'm borderline certifiable. (Quirky fun-fact: I thought I was a Danish banker named Espen for a large chunk of the early 1980s. Hell, I even made myself a modest patch of blonde crotch hair out of some loose pubes I found languishing in a dumpster behind a recently condemned Dairy Queen to appear more authentic.) Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, the fact that the sorority girls are unwittingly reveling during the season known as Christmas (a religious holiday of some importance) while one seriously unhinged dude is hiding above them makes the proceedings all the more terrifying. Tinsel, colourful lights, caroling and good tidings severely clash with the agenda of a mangling maniac. In fact, they don't go together at all. Hence, the superfluous feeling of dread.

The sick twist, in addition to being shadowy, is also quite the talker, as he introduces himself to the girls by making a series of obscene phone calls. Elaborately coarse in their filthiness, the calls unsettle coeds Jessica (a gorgeous in yellow Olivia Hussey) and Clare (the adorable Lynne Griffin).

On the other side of sorority, the feisty Barbie (a potty-mouthed Margot Kidder) shrugs off the dirty calls with a blase aplomb, and Phyliss (future comedy legend Andrea Martin) nervously laughs at her antics (Barb taunts the phone prankster). These four actresses, by the way, were all first-rate in terms of being sexy while scared. Well, except for Margot, her character ain't scared of shit. However, her drunkenness and obsession with the mating habits of turtles may have something to do with her dauntless disposition.

Speaking of brave, John Saxon, one of the handful of Americans in the cast (Keir Dullea being the other), is a real bad ass as the film's chief investigator. I liked his no-nonsense approach to law enforcement. It also made for a nice contrast with Douglas McGrath's incompetent desk sergeant.

Now, the uninvited lurker's telephone etiquette may be a tad uncouth, but at least he offered mouth-to-vulva resuscitation as a part of his deviant repertoire. Think about it, while most perverts are obsessed with their own gratification (tickle my this, taste my that), this one was thinking about the pleasure of others. Sure, it's the only positive thing I say about this wacko, but at least it's something.

Since I don't have an inner-necrophiliac (I think having sex with dead people is wrong, and a tad rude, if you think about it), my fetish for women with their faces wrapped in cellophane while sitting in rocking chairs will have to suffice. Perched in the attic like a recently asphyxiated angel, the performance by this actress (I won't say which one) is surprisingly strong despite her inherent deadness. The image of her rocking back and forth with her mouth agape is one the film's most indelible.

The use of the lowly rotary phone as tool for terror in Black Christmas was an unexpected treat. While modern cell phones make chirpy sounds that do nothing to warrant the expulsion of fearful pee, the rotary phone, on the other hand, is a shrill behemoth. The unpleasant nature of the calls being made and the shockingly archaic manner of tracing said calls, the thunderous ring that intrusively reverberates from its hard plastic shell is one of the most piercing noises ever devised by humankind. Adding to the intensity of the ringing was the constant sound of creaking of wood, a slight thudding noise, and the howling wind.

Apparently the house where this film was shot is just a short subway ride away. I should drop by one of these days... in January of course.

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Population: 1 (Rene Daalder, 1986)

The greatness of a nation when extolled by a citizen of the very country being glorified is jingoism at its most obnoxious. On the other hand, when an outsider is doing the extolling, the results can be electrifying in their profundity. Such is the nationalistic situation that arises with Population: 1, Rene Daalder's psyche vaporizing chronicle of the United States of America. A Netherlander doing a punk and new wave infused musical about the history of America, as filtered through the imagination of the last American on earth, is one of the most subversively constructed ideas to ever land squarely on my optical dinner plate. Making one misty-eyed over the idea of America, Rene Daalder has cobbled together a strange tribute to the world's most powerful republic. Sure, it's a tribute to a country that's been completely destroyed in a nuclear suicide pact and left with only a single resident, but it's a tribute nonetheless. How did things get so dilapidated and underpopulated so quickly? Well, you see, the government estimated there would be around thirty million causalities. However, there was obliviously a bit of a miscalculation on their part and the whole shebang up in smoke. Ironically, Mr. Daalder uses footage of cities the U.S. had a hand in flattening and its own urban decay to represent its destruction. Left to fend for himself, Tomata du Plenty, the world's last American, spends his days locked in a subterranean bunker equipped with all sorts of electronic doodads. Filled with a heightened sense of purpose, the scrawny du Plenty sees this isolation as an opportunity to commemorate America by forging a musical ode utilizing the memory his beloved Sheela (Sheela Edwards) and anyone else his cerebral cortex can conger. And if that means a twelve year old Beck playing the accordion and a torch carrying Vampira getting swept up in a flood, then so be it.

Combining my unfathomable devotion for all things post-apocalyptic, bizarre musical numbers, measured approaches to being goth in public, garishly chromatic costumes, synthesizers run amok, and anything sporting a tinge of the surreal, the extremely agile endeavour is the epitome of aesthetically pleasing.

Call it new wave pornography, call it juicy nectar for the flamboyant soul, the film rises above its high-minded premise and bursts forth with creativity, as snippets of vintage nudity, newsreel clips, flashy animation effects, and uncomplicated dance choreography commingle to make one seriously messed up movie. Actually, the head twirling during "Nervous" seemed pretty complicated (keeping your head still while simultaneously moving it looked rather difficult).

Along with the aforementioned Beck and Vampira, the eccentric supporting cast includes: Penelope Houston from The Avengers, Tequila Mockingbird (the "Door Tongue" from Dr. Caligari), Carel Struycken (Lurch from The Addams Family), K.K. Barrett (production designer for Cheerleader Camp and Where the Wild Things Are), and Nancye Ferguson (Rockula). They all linger in the background and give the proceedings a vibrant edge.

Not lingering for a single moment, however, is the up-front forcefulness of Tomata du Plenty as the solitary American. Aggressive in a punk rock sort of way, yet sporting a new wave playfulness, the lead singer of The Screamers is deranged and charismatic from get-go, and gives an unrelenting performance as the pugnacious sole survivor. The unbalanced vocalist also handles the film's many pro-American monologues with a sincere flair. It's true, some of the dialogue has a hint of European snarkiness. But I thought Tomata balanced these two distinct attitudes excellently.

Boasting a cracked front tooth, a mop of electrified black hair, and enough goth-based moxie to make Lydia Lunch and Nina Hagen feel grossly inadequate in the female weirdness department. Sheela Edwards is an under championed revelation as Sheela, the lost love of Tomata du Plenty. Her wonderfully shrill voice does a wonderful job of attacking a multitude of musical genres explored in Population: 1. Whether she's spewing blood during "Jazz Vampire" (her animated fangs were to die for), or swinging out on "10 Cents a Dance," the exquisitely pale Sheela sings with an enthusiastic brand of gusto.

The black and white photography (there's a great shot of the New York City skyline) and overall decayed temperament of film's opening number, "Armies of the Night," did a tremendous job of accentuating Sheela's unique allure. I also liked the mismatched stockings and scratchy film stock; very film school-like, but quite chic.

The thought that permeated my mind throughout Population: 1 was: "Why hasn't this film been hailed as a bohemian classic by the demented elite and their midnight movie attending allies?" I mean, it has all the ingredients of a cult film. Well, for one thing, it's a musical, and secondly, it was made during the 1980s.

These two things alone should qualify it as a must-see hunk of underground cinema, but the fact that it's saturated with such a wide array of so-called "out there" moments (the image of Tomata being harassed by his bathroom appliances immediately springs to mind) and features one kooky mix of a supporting cast should guarantee its place alongside the likes of Forbidden Zone (colour version) and Liquid Sky.

I don't know what a simple peasant like myself can do to make this film the next Rocky Horror Picture Show (the sight of audiences showing up in mismatched stockings, carrying red barbells, and wearing old school army helmets isn't that far-fetched), but I will do my best to increase its profile.

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The Van (Sam Grossman, 1977)

Sporting no gimmicks whatsoever, The Van is about a van and that's that. However, it would be foolhardy to think that this van-centric story is solely about a van, even though I just said that it's about a van. Confused? Well, hop in the back of the van I'm figuratively sitting in right this second and I'll do my best to convince you as to why this particular van tale is not only one of the best van movies ever made, but simply the finest piece of cinema this planet has ever created. A groovy product of its time, the film, directed by Sam Grossman and written by the duo that brought us the totally awesome Malibu Beach, may seem old fashioned by today's excessively strident standards (the more shrill you are, the more successful you seem to become), but there's a liberating purity at work here that transcends style and fashion. Implying that hard work and a profound sense of purpose are worthwhile enterprises, this film is a stark reminder to those who expect everything for nothing. Sure, the aspiration to own a van might sound a tad wonky, but that's beauty of living in an anarchical society; you can blow your wad on anything you see fit, because you've earned it. Now the mythic allure of the four wheeled vehicle known in most cultures as "the van" has been studied by anthropologists for centuries, yet it still manages to baffle and amaze those who seek to unlock its many secrets. It's essentially a giant metal box on wheels propelled by fossil fuels and a whole lot of gumption. That is, of course, the conclusion you'll come to if you look at the van from the point of view of a child or someone who just doesn't know a lot of stuff.

Looking at it from a deeper, more philosophical angle, you'll no doubt see the potential the van possess as humanities principal tool for propagating itself in the apocalyptic future of tomorrow.

The lack of shelter and the scarcity of food and water in this future will require that people remain mobile at all times, and the van is the perfect vehicle for this upcoming bleak period of time.

The happy-go-lucky Bobby (Stuart Goetz), a recent high school graduate and car wash attendant, is obviously totally in tune with this desolation to come. In that, he hopes that his acquisition of a van will improve his standing with the ladies that populate his spiritual orbit. And in doing so, spreading his seed and prolonging humanities existence for a little while longer.

Equivalent to a male peacocks feathers, or the massive bulge in and around a ballet dancer's crotch (fives cups of penis with a dash of hubris), the fact that Bobby's van is not only tricked-out to an insane level (water bed, refrigerator, toaster, and an 8-track player), but painted bright yellow with arrows running along the sides is quite telling. For instance, Bobby's mother literally spews a knee-deep deluge of female ejaculate all over driveway when she lays eyes on the gaudy splendour that is the van (she even envisions herself having a romantic evening in its cozy confines).

On the other hand, Bobby's father calls it "obscene" and looks at it with a disdainful glare.

Once the van is obtained, the shy Bobby finds no trouble finding woman to fornicate with in the back of his van. An armada of brunettes with big butts (Lillian McBride, I think) and blondes with big boobs (Connie Hoffman) jump at the chance to press their naked flesh up against the bashful Bobby. As you would expect, this newfound studliness saturates the young van enthusiast with a renewed sense of self.

Only problem is that Tina (Deborah White), the woman he actually loves, doesn't want to fornicate in the back of his van. Every time he tries to paw at her with his hands (the same hands he drives his beloved van with) or invade her personal space with his puckered lips (the same lips he kisses his beloved van with), the self-assertive Tina would gently coat his ego with a slight spurning sensation.

This refusal to engage him on any sort of romantic level confounds the fledgling sex fiend like you wouldn't believe. The very thought of the van's vagina humidifying prowess not working on her causes Bobby to reevaluate his opinion of the boxy behemoth.

This thoughtful period is when The Van breaks free from its seemingly unenlightening trajectory, and steers toward a realm full of subtle nuances. In fact, it starts to boast actual moments of graceful refinement.

The unsophisticated Bobby learns that van ownership alone can't solve all of life's problem, and that conversing with someone, not molesting them before you even say hello, is the best way to get to know a person. It's true, I knew all these things beforehand, but I couldn't help but nod along as the film's succinct message oozed from my viewing screen.

The sight of pre-Taxi era Danny DeVito playing Andy, the owner of the car wash where Bobby works, was a bit of a weirdly distracting thrill. However, his role basically takes a backseat to the grinning mug of Stuart Goetz' Bobby, who does a first-rate job channeling the intensity of a young man who desperately wants to own a van. Also, he excelled during his scenes with the lovely Deborah White, especially the one where they are seen inspecting vans at some kind of van exhibit to the strains of Sammy Jones' "Chevy Van."

Rounding out the cast: The musclebound Steve Oliver plays Dugan Hicks (a role he would reprise in the equally brilliant Malibu Beach), the main antagonist of piece (remember kids, don't ever call Dugan a turd); the Reed Diamond-esque Bill Adler (Bobby from the equally awesome Van Nuys Blvd.) shows up as one of Bobby's dickish co-workers; and Marcie Barkin, who plays Sue, a woman who, unlike the choosy Tina, will pretty much have sex with anyone.

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