Brain Damage (Frank Henenlotter, 1988)

When you get right down to it, life is all about having blue goo swimming around inside your brain on a semi-regular basis. The big question being: How does one get the blue goo in there? I'm no brain doctor, but I don't think the blue goo is gonna inject itself. Well, if there's one person who can shed some light on this unique dilemma, it's definitely writer-director Frank Henenlotter (Basket Case). The most comprehensive cinematic guidebook for all those unfortunate souls out there who have unwittingly found themselves ensnared in a symbiotic relationship with a thousand year-old parasitic, psyche-devouring, hallucinogen spewing slug named Aylmer, Brain Damage is a touching parable about a young man who has gotten so hooked on the blue nectar, that he fears for the brains of his loved ones. You see, Aylmer needs to consume brains, while you require a steady dose of the psychedelic ooze that only Aylmer can provide. And while you're tripping out, blissfully riding a wave of colours and transcendental gladness, Aylmer might be eyeballing the skull meat of your irregular girlfriend. A disgusting worm with a large oral cavity replete of jagged teeth, Aylmer is actually a rather charming fellow once you get to know him. And, believe me, when he becomes attached to you, the chances of being exposed to his world famous charm are quite high. Fleeing the apartment of an elderly couple when he grows tired of eating animal brains, the leech-like Aylmer decides to shack up with Brian (Rick Hearst), a nondescript chap living with his brother Mike (Gordon MacDonald). Piercing his flesh with a retractable straw, Aylmer gives Brian's brain its first blue sludge hit while he's asleep.

The shock of waking up to a find that there's a small hole on the back of his neck starts to dissipate when he stops fidgeting and begins listening to the light. A vibrant kaleidoscope of bright colours and blurred shapes greets the youngster's cerebral cortex with an orgasmic thud.

Alienating himself from his brother, his adorable lady friend Barbara (Jennifer Lowry), and the world in general, Brian, after some trepidation, seems to be at ease with his newfound acquaintance. Filling his room with buckets of water and spending an inordinate amount time in the bath (Aylmer is a big fan of water), the withdrawn teen starts to bring his slimy pal out with him on nocturnal jaunts to junkyards and punk clubs.

This relaxed attitude is upset somewhat when Brian discovers that Aylmer kills people when he eats their brains (it's virtually impossible to eat someones brains without causing the brain owner a modicum of harm) . The potency of the drug sloshing its way through his noodle may have clouded his recollection of the exact moment a person's brain was eaten, but the fact that he is starting to notice that is clothes are, more often than not, covered in blood when all is said and done is an alarming trend he could do without.

Saturated with the kind of unsettling gore and freakish behaviour I've come to expect from Frank Henenlotter, Brain Damage is a disgusting, yet wonderfully deranged affair that will have you laughing and gagging at the same time. Blessed with a haunting synthesizer score by Clutch Reiser and Gus Russo (particularly the music heard during that long, unbroken tracking shot of Brian walking down the street), and fantastic special effects (I loved the throbbing meatballs that looked like brains), the film beautifully mixes moments of playful absurdity with ones of absolute revulsion.

Obviously, the scenes where Brian and Aylmer (voiced by an uncredited John Zacherle) talk to one another were rife with an indescribable oddness. How else would you describe the image of a rational man conversing with a worm-like creature that exudes a hallucinogenic substance that looks an awful lot like toilet bowl cleaner? The fact that Aylmer's voice was so friendly sounding (as supposed to the unfriendly sounding brain-sucking slugs in all the other blue sludge spitting parasite movies I've seen) did nothing but add to the film's status as a cockamamie work of demented genius.

Brilliantly deadpan, Rick Hearst (General Hospital) perfectly conveys the horror one must go through when they find themselves locked in a soul draining relationship with a debilitating entity, especially one you originally thought was named Elmer. (I can only imagine how humiliating it must be to fucked in the back of the neck by something called "Elmer.")

Whether projectile hemorrhaging from his right ear hole or having his parasitical companion receive an alleyway mouth massage from an attractive punk club patron (Vicki Darnell) in the zipper region where his penis should be, Rick does everything within his power to make Brian seem like a regular guy. But not too regular; I thought the band posters that adorned his bedroom were a nice touch, as I spotted ones for The Cramps, Bauhaus and Suicide. They gave Brian that slight edge one needs when battling a crippling addiction. I mean, who wants to watch a fan of The Replacements or Hüsker Dü come to grips with the creature injecting a blue gel directly into his medulla oblongata? I know I sure don't.

Anyway, no matter what kind of posters Brian had on his wall, there is no doubt in my mind that Brain Damage is a great film.

video uploaded by FlixTrailers

...

The Music of Chance (Philip Haas, 1993)

It's hard to believe, but there once was an increment of time when degenerate gamblers who played cards for a living were viewed as human garbage. Hence, the use of the word "degenerate" in their unofficial moniker. Though, I'm sure they prefer the pompous, "professional poker player," or the more modest sounding, "card player." Anyway, nowadays these once transient hustlers, who used to spend the majority of their time looking for saps to con in backroom poker games, have inexplicably become celebrities. (I still don't understand how sitting at a table in sunglasses warrants round the clock television coverage.) Well, in The Music of Chance (Musik des Zufalls), the image of the shady card player is still intact. Adapted by Paul Auster (The New York Trilogy) from his novel of the same name and directed by Phillip Hass (Angels and Insects), the film is a bizarre oddity about luck and the randomness of life. The act of Jim Nashe (Mandy Patinkin) picking up a bloodied and bruised Jack Pozzi (James Spader) on the side of the road sets in motion a peculiar turn of events that end with the pair being forced to construct a stonewall in the middle of a meadow using stones from an Irish castle.

Now, I don't really want to go into how they exactly wind up erecting a seemingly pointless barrier (the property is surrounded by a tall, barbed wire-laden fence), but let's just say, the charming Jack plays poker for a living (he brags that he's basically unbeatable), driving enthusiast Jim has 10,000 dollars burning in his pocket, and their so-called "marks" have been practicing. In other words, their sure thing turns into a nightmare when eccentric millionaires Flower (Charles Durning) and Stone (Joel Grey) beat Jack and propose they work off what they owe by, yep, building a wall.

It's probably a metaphor for unselective nature of luck; after all, Flower and Stone earned their fortune through the most irregular way possible: the lottery. In fact, they could have been supreme beings. I mean, they wore white and lorded over a miniature city. However, I choose to see, and enjoy immensely (its weirdness is subtle yet fully engrossing), the film as a sort of off-kilter buddy flick. One that just happens to feature two excellent performances by James Spader and Mandy Patinkin, as the desperate men at the centre of this accidental masonry story, and leaves you with a deep sense of unease afterward. (It took me days to shake the cobwebs of this film.)

Of course, I found James' more flashy work as the shifty Jack to be far more entertaining (he gets all the best lines and gets to smoke and swear a lot), but I gotta give Mandy props for his cool and calm turn as the pragmatic Jim. Supervising the pair as they work and live on Flower and Stone's land is the always great M. Emmet Walsh as Murks, the man in charge of making sure the task gets done right. The only connection Jim and Jack have with the outside world, Emmet does a tremendous job of creating a blissfully ignorant brand of evil. And since Flower and Stone have gone AWOL, it's up to Emmet to keep Spader's greasy moustache in order and make sure Mandy doesn't go overboard with the high octave singing (he indulges in one song during the celebration of a wall milestone).

The sausage festival that is this movie is thankfully broken up when Samantha Mathis' arrives as Tiffany, an Atlantic City prostitute in a tight orange cocktail-style dress hired to alleviate Jack's horniness. Even though her role basically reduced to sitting and listening to James Spader spew verbal gymnastics in her general direction (he really wants to get laid), I thought Samantha was first-rate as a vacuous, moderately clueless whore.

Yeah, sure, The Music of Chance could have used more of Miss Mathis, but her inclusion in the story seemed like a bit of a stretch to begin with, so I should be thankful she was in it in the first place; even if it was just to help assist the contents of James Spader's under-molested cock and balls to see the light of day.

Oh, and the style of poker played in the film was seven card stud, and like in the bulk of movies that feature the playing of poker, the frequency of premium hands was a little far-fetched. What they should have done was show a couple of hands being folded every now and then just to prove that not every hand was a full house or a four-of-a-kind.

...

Smithereens (Susan Seidelman, 1982)

I found it rather fitting that this film's protagonist would introduce herself by stealing a pair of sunglasses from a woman down in the subway, as it sums up her misguided temperament perfectly. Food, lodging, and other necessities are inconsequential in terms of importance, fashion, on the other hand, is paramount (looking fabulous trumps everything else). Taking place in New York City circa 1982, Susan Seidelman's Smithereens is an energetic and gritty tale about Wren, an ambitious gal from New Jersey who will stop at nothing in her quest to become famous. Capturing the creative spirit of a depressing, yet cultural significant period in the storied urban centre's history, the film's portrayal of a city that is teeming with a strange mix of artistic vigour and abject poverty is bleak and realistic. Once seen as the happening place to be, the characters that populate this not-so vibrant landscape can't wait to leave. I found this aspect of the film to be quite jarring. I mean, to see desperate New Yorkers yearning for the vacuousness of Los Angeles was a tad disheartening (some even have their hopes set on New Hampshire). But I guess a week or so of living in a van underneath an underpass will do that to a person. A shameless self-promoter (she plasters pictures of herself all over the city), Wren (Susan Berman) is a spongy mooch who leaches off everyone she comes in contact with. In other words, I thought she was freaking adorable. Adopting the new wave/punk look that was sort of popular at the time, the brazen-faced Wren hurdles through life with the singular goal of becoming a star.

The only problem is she doesn't seem to have any talent. Of course, she doesn't let a little thing like that stand in her way. Uh-uh. She sees herself more of a behind the scenes person than a musician and proceeds to harass and annoy every singer she can find; hoping they'll come to their senses and make her their manager. Falling somewhat under her infectious spell is a rocker named Eric (Richard Hell), who allows Wren to bask in his bohemian lifestyle, and be hit on by his bizarre roommate (Roger Jett). Whenever things become inharmonic with the aloof rock star, and they always do, Wren stays with Paul (Brad Rijn), a guy from Montana who lives in his van. And when things inevitably go awry with Paul, she looks up her friend Cecile (Nada Despotovich). Which ultimately doesn't work out and leads her to look up her... Well, you get the idea.

If you're wondering why Wren never seems to stay in the same place for long, that's easy. You see, she has a cute, effervescent charm about her that makes her strangely beguiling. Only problem is this charm doesn't seem to last very long and starts to rub those being charmed the wrong way. That, and being locked out her apartment because of overdue rent.

Seeing the person she's with as a mere rest station on the way to better things, Wren burns more bridges than any other movie character I have ever seen. You got to admire her pluck when comes to staying positive, but you also have to feel a little sorry for her, as she seems to go out of her way to make things worse for herself.

Daring you to love and hate her simultaneously, Susan Berman is a revaluation as the gumptious Wren. Giving the kind of in your face performance that makes my guts go gooey, Miss Berman has a definite street smart sexiness about her. Whether she's cutting in line at the Peppermint Lounge, commiserating with the absolutely stunning Kitty Summerall (even the manner in which she held her cigarette was divine), or crazy dancing to The Voidoids at a friend's apartment, Susan is a new wave siren, a punk rock girl for the ages, and an inspiration all wrapped up in a neat little package.

Helping Susan is a well-worn pair of fishnet pantyhose that seem to protect and guide the flaky new waver at every turn. A tight-fitting and clingy companion who permeates the proceedings like a pervasive poem no one wants to hear, the porous leg beautifiers pretty much become character unto itself in Smithereens, as they're literally attached to Wren from start to finish.

In fact, I thought they did such a great job of conveying Wren's frustration and failure (the many close up shots of the seams seemed to represent a kind of societal flat-line), that I'm surprised they weren't recognized in the film's credits. I mean, if Chris Noth can be credited as a prostitute, in what is essentially a blink and you'll miss it role, then Wren's fishnets should get a credit as well. I guess I'll have to take solace in the fact that the film's costume designer, Alison Lances, gets credit, and, of course, commend her for picking out such a compelling and resilient piece of hosiery.

Sticking with the credit theme, I want to make sure that I give some praise to Katherine Riley as "1st Hooker." She only appears in one scene (two if you count a brief shot of her near the end), but I loved the way she kept offering Brad Rijn's van guy her services despite his obviously disinterest (she even offered to show him her special scar for five bucks).

I'd also like to mention Cookie Mueller's brief turn as the actress being attacked by a parasitic monster in the black and white horror movie Wren and the van guy go to see on their date. I've always thought of Cookie as being the bee's knees (she has a couple of the funniest lines in Desperate Living). So to see her shrieking while covered in slime was a real treat.

video uploaded by Blue Underground

...

Mean Girls (Mark Waters, 2004)

Talk about your misleading titles, the girls in Mean Girls, the Tina Fey-scripted, Mark Waters-directed film about a home schooled outsider forced to transverse the social minefield that is public school, aren't mean at all; in fact, they're downright sweet at times. I guess all my years of watching films that do nothing but promote cruelty and violence have clearly have deadened my mean judging abilities, because I desperately wanted to see more than feelings being hurt and reputations ruined. Sure, a character totally gets run over by a bus at one point. However, that was the fault of the bus driver (no motorized vehicle should be going that fast in a school zone). No, catty remarks and unpleasant comments written in a scrapbook don't quite cut it as far as teen-on-teen abuse goes. The fact that Cady Heron (Lindsay Lohan) is supposedly from the continent of Africa was also a bit of a distraction. First of all, Africa isn't a country; if you keep referring to it as a country, more and more people are going to start believing it's a country. Secondly, her accent showed no trace of ever having lived in whatever African country she grew up in. Now, I'm not saying she should have sounded like the female version of Pik van Cleef (Emil Fouchon's principal henchman in Hard Target), but a slight accent would have helped me suspend some belief. Then again, Lindsay Lohan sporting a, oh, let's say, Botswanan drawl, isn't really something I want to see.

Using the harshness of the animal kingdom as a metaphor for the cutthroat atmosphere of your average Toronto high school (again, you can shove as many American flags into the frame as you want, you ain't fooling me), the film earnestly tries to teach us that meanness is wrong. Which I agree it is. But it doesn't exactly make for edgy entertainment.

This apparent softness will no doubt irritate fans of Jawbreaker and Heathers, as the proceedings go all gentle on us pretty quickly. That being said, there are some genuinely funny moments in the film, and plus the colourful outfits worn by The Plastics (an exclusive clique for popular girls) were excessively skimpy and an absolute pleasure to bask in.

The cast of Mean Girls is a mixed bag. In that, it's split down the middle between those who have a gift for comedy and those who don't. Surprisingly, it's Tina Fey and Amy Poehler who are the ones who stink the most at making with the ha-ha. Tina comes off as a self-satisfied know-it-all, and Amy, well, she is just plain annoying as a so-called "cool mom." (What can say? I prefer the random weirdness of Kristen Wiig for my female-based SNL yuks.)

The lead mean girl is played by Rachel McAdams (wearing an ugly blonde wig) and not once did I find her bitchy antics to be amusing. Okay, maybe when she says "boo you whore" to a fellow mean girl. But other than that...

Stealing the show as far as I'm concerned was Amanda Seyfried as Karen Smith, a mildly clueless gal whose breasts know when it's raining. Exhibiting a genuine gift for comedy, the gorgeous, ashen-legged actress does a tremendous job at playing a complete idiot. But not in a crass, unaware Jessica Simpson sort of way. Uh-uh, Miss Seyfried's craft is more akin to the works of Anna Faris and Jessica Cauffiel. I liked how Amanda played Karen as a harmless sycophant (she doesn't do a single mean thing during the entire movie). Oh, and I dug the way she looked in a short skirt, and, of course, as a slutty mouse.

While not quite on the same level as Amanda, a bronze-legged Lacey Chabert does earn some laughs with her character's misguided commitment to the expression "fetch." And former ladies man Tim Meadows has two or three moments of funny as well.

Flirting with a moderate brand of transvestitism was completely acceptable at my high school (earrings, ponytails, pointy footwear, concealed garter belts, etc), but being a card carrying Friend of Dorothy was not groovy at all. Which brings us to the flamboyant resplendence that is Daniel Franzese as Damian, an openly gay student who, along with his butch gal pal, Janis (Lizzy Caplan), helps Cady bring down The Plastics. It's weird, but to see someone so far out of the closet in a high school setting like that was so strange to me (my old-timey school would have ate him alive). Anyway, Daniel is top drawer in terms of cinematic hilarity, as almost everyone of his lines garnered a chuckle, especially: "You go Glen Coco!"

video uploaded by that1foo18
...

To Live and Die in L.A. (William Friedkin, 1985)

On the surface, To Live and Die in L.A. (a.k.a. Police fédérale, Los Angeles) may appear to be your average crime picture, but it doesn't take that long to realize that there's something utterly unique going in-between all the macho posturing. I mean, I can't think of any other police procedurals that boast interpretive dance sequences (with a definite Liquid Sky vibe) and tortured painters who burn their own artwork. Well, first of all, there ain't no police in this movie. The shady protagonist may look like a cop on the edge (his propensity for jumping off bridges does nothing but foster this edgy perception), but he's actually a federal agent who protects the President of the United States when he or she is in town. When the so-called Commander-in-chief is not in town, he and his fellow agents are in charge of busting up counterfeiting rings. Anyway, this is one of few films of its type that I watch on a regular basis. The uniqueness I was alluding to before I got sidetracked is the main reason I keep coming back this energetic thriller about a reckless agent hellbent on avenging the death of his partner at the hands of an inflexible forgery artist. With no obvious "good guy" to root for, the William Friedkin-directed film, based on the book by Gerald Petievich, has an uneasy quality about it. Of course, I found this ambiguity to be very appealing, as the prospect of watching a battle between two clearly defined versions of good and evil is something I'm not that interested in.

Probably not the first, and definitely not the last film to feature a scene where a bedraggled government employee on the cusp of retirement verbally communicates his frustration over the fact his physically demanding job and advanced age are at odds with another to a younger, more rambunctious co-worker. But when smeared in the gaudy veneer of Los Angeles circa 1985, as photographed by Robby Müller, things that would normally come off as trite are rendered fresh and exciting.

The city of L.A. is presented as a rundown, unorganized mess. (I loved the constant shots of the industrial landscape.) However, the city also comes across as a beautiful and strangely surreal place.

An overly spry William Petersen leads the manly contingent of the cast as the vengeful Richard Chance, a federal agent who wants bust a ruthless counterfeiter so badly, that he is willing to break the very laws he's been hired to enforce. Backing up him is the squirrel-like John Pankow as John Vukovich, Chance's new by-the-book partner. These two are great at spouting tough guy dialogue and what not, but it's their intense acting during the film's most famous sequence: the extended car chase, that deserves the majority of the praise. Actually, the amazing work of the stunt drivers is probably the real key to the chases' success. Nevertheless, I thought they played up the confusion as to who they were being chased by perfectly, as Mr. Pankow's incoherent blubbering and Mr. Petersen's icy determination gave the reckless pursuit an added sense of danger.

Proving that his bad guy chops are impeccable in the underrated Streets of Fire, Willem Dafoe tackles another scumbag role in the form of Rick Masters, a counterfeiter/artist/sadist. While not as overtly sinister as Raven (his Streets of Fire character), his turn as the unbending producer of funny money is just as ominous. The fact that Willem's face, when photographed from an unflattering angle, has a real mask-like quality to it that just screams "I'm one depraved motherfucker!" really helped in the demonization department.

Engaging in some of the best scantily clad lounging I have ever witnessed in a motion picture, Debra Feuer and Darlanne Fluegel (Eyes of Laura Mars)are the principal ladies in the lives of the troubled men that populate To Live and Die in L.A. Similar in function, yet totally different when it comes to temperament, Debra and Darlanne not only provide the film with some much needed sexiness, but also manage bring out the guy's softer sides.

The statuesque Fräulein Feuer plays Bianca Torress, the dancer/partner/girlfriend of Rick Masters, and carries herself with a dignified air (even when a mute Jane Leeves is giving her a foot massage). While the lithesome Juffrouw Fluegel (by the way, I love their vowel-heavy f-names) plays Ruth Lanier is Richard Chance's informant/fuck buddy, and is not dignified at all (her day job as a strip club cashier doesn't exactly help this dignity deficiency). Either way, I thought the both were tremendous at conveying the stresses that come with being the girlfriend's of men who live their lives on the wild side (which is in the same zip code as "the edge").

The amount of daring it took to allow Wang Chung to score the film cannot be quantified. A music score that is almost a character onto itself at times, the new wave band, probably best known for their nonthreatening brand of pop rock, create an invigorating soundtrack that repeatedly injects the proceedings with an added oomph. A chaotic mix of drum machines and synthesizers, their bold sound is inexplicably in perfect harmony with every scene. Frantic during the film's many chase sequences, restrained during the quieter moments.

It's true, that some find their music to be distracting... a nuisance, if you will. Yet, I can't imagine the film without it. Take the scene where we see Willem Dafoe's Rick Masters doing what he does best, for example. The way their thumping beats accompany the counterfeiting process was seamless. Now, I wouldn't say that Wang Chung is the sole reason the film doesn't end up being another in a long line of benign thrillers, but it does help solidify its standing as one the most electrifying action flicks from the 1980s.

video uploaded by dangoist

...

Mannequin (Michael Gottlieb, 1987)

Inanimate objects like, plastic combs and wooden spoons serve their purpose with a lifeless diligence every time they're implemented by the user. Whether straightening tangled hair or stirring a spicy sauce, their commitment to the task at hand is resolute. On the other fingerless glove, the department store mannequin is an inanimate object whose man function is to mimic the shape of a person in order to sell them fabric-based coverings to conceal, or, in some cases (depending on the virtue of your particular neighbourhood) accentuate the periodically engorged regions of their dirty flesh. Intentionally sculpted to look human, the people looking at these frozen figures often drift into a dreamlike state, where the desire to aggressively lick and caress the motionless embodiments of humanity in their nonexistent naughty places soars persistently through their little heads. This unconventional want comes to fruition for an artist named Jonathan Switcher (Andrew McCarthy) in the vivid and life affirming Mannequin, a film about not being afraid to blur the line between perversion and true love, and failing to care what others think about you and your offbeat fetish. The amount of mental excursion involved may be minimal, but the mental reinforcement one gets from this film is insurmountable in terms of enlightenment, and, not to mention, the sheer quantity of unmitigated joy obtained through the simple act of staring at it. Meticulously crafted by screenwriter Edward Rugoff and writer-director Michael Gottlieb, the film is a tribute to all those who believe that love lasts forever. Dressing it up as a loopy satire about the unscrupulous world of retail politics, deep down the heart of the film is in fact a thoughtful meditation on the meaning of human existence.

On the surface, the screwball farce appears as if it takes place solely in the chichi aisles of two rival department stores, Prince & Co and Illustra. However, the universe of Mannequin is much bigger than that. Spanning a thousand of years of human history, Edward Gottlieb and Michael Rugoff have created a breathtaking origin story, one that equals any work of classic fiction. Commencing with the sight of an attractive woman arguing with her mother about dating in a well-lit crypt in ancient Egypt, and then proceeding to bob and weave its way through the next millennia via a hauntingly beautiful animated opening credits sequence, the journey inexplicably settles in late 1980s Philadelphia.

Cursed to remain inactive until she finds true love, Ema 'Emmy' Hesire (Kim Cattrall), the attractive woman from the well-lit crypt, finds herself lifelessly standing in the window of Prince & Co in a pink ensemble that is absolutely to die for. Going through a bit of a funk of his own, Jonathan Switcher (Andrew McCarthy), a motorcycle riding sculptor, is having trouble staying employed (he can't help but bring his artistic nature to every job) and his sexy girlfriend Roxie (the gorgeous Carole Davis), a junior executive at Illustra, is embarrassed to be seen with him (his motorcycle and overall poorness are hurting the yuppie image she is trying to maintain).

In a series of weird, yet totally believable circumstances, the wide-eyed artist lands a job at Prince & Co by impressing its owner (Estelle Getty), and soon finds himself face-to-face with Emmy, his creation.

The gainfully employed Jonathan, thanks to his piercing stare, somehow manages to arouse Emmy from her mannequin slumber and the two proceed to engage in what has to be the love story of the century. All that's standing in the way of their pursuit of happiness is Mr. Richards (an extra oily James Spader), a slimy Prince & Co administrator secretly working for Illustra, and a bumbling night-watchman (G.W. Bailey) and his dog Rambo. Luckily, their ludicrously evil performances are counterbalanced nicely by the excessive flamboyance of Meshach Taylor's Hollywood, who is not only a Friend of Dorothy, but her BFF. Anyway, Meshach and his many pairs of outlandish sunglasses look out for Jonathan and is accepting his relationship with a piece of plastic. You see, only Jonathan can see Emmy move and stuff. So, to everyone else, it appears as if he's tonguing a dummy.

Since perversion is best explored at after hours, Jonathan and Emmy's love for one another comes alive when the store is closed. This, of course, leads to some of the film's finest moments. Some of which include a spellbinding montage set to "Do You Dream About Me" by Alisha, a miraculous glider flight, and a mock beach party complete with the application of suntan lotion and some mild straddling.

Peppy montages and gliders are swell and all, but having an actress that is worth animating is probably the important ingredient to making a successful romantic comedy that revolves around a mannequin. I mean, what if she was just as stiff while awake? Fortunately, there's no chance of that happening with the effervescent Kim Cattrall in the role of Emmy. An actress who knows how to use her killer body simultaneously with her winning personality, the leggy Miss Cattrall wields her supple frame like it were a deadly weapon.

On the receiving end of these dangerous stems is a boyish Andrew McCarthy, who bounces between naive and cocksure with a subtle ease.I really thought he sold the whole "I can't believe my favourite mannequin is alive" segment quite well. It's essential that the audience's doubt is properly massaged before Jonathan starts accepting the fact that a walking and talking mannequin is redecorating her tonsils with his lukewarm man-glaze.

video uploaded by korfafla

...