Vibes (Ken Kwapis, 1988)

A cynical person will probably approach this stunning masterwork and declare it to be the primary reason as to why no other romantic comedies about bickering psychics in South America were made after it quickly came and went from theatres back in 1988. However, a deeply rational person with a sensible sense of self and the ability to appreciate fingerless gloves from afar will no doubt see a film that is literally oozing with the correct kind of moxie. Now, I'm not saying that I'm one of these so-called "sane people." (I am totally objective and base my opinions on the linear teachings of Rhonda Shear.) But even the dullest spoon in the tool shed can clearly see that the kinetic Vibes is conspiring on a completely different level when it comes to handing out the nonsensical charm. Making a competently made film, one that intelligent humans slobber over like an orgasm-inducing virus, is quite easy. On the other hand, making a film that always seems a tad off is extremely difficult. And that's how I would categorize this Ken Kwapis directed psychic adventure. I mean, there's definitely something wrong going on here. Yet, it's this wrongness that makes the film such a bizarre pleasure to roll around in.

A kooky mix between The Treasure of Sierra Madre, The Holy Mountain and any movie where a man and woman initially dislike each other but gradually learn to endure one another's quirks, the beautifully photographed endeavour is a flighty throwback to the adventure films of the 1930s. It's true, I haven't seen any of those films from the 30s, but I'm gonna pretend I have, you know, just for the sake of my point.

Anyway, unlike those particular adventure films, the imperialist scum who want to plunder the indigenous people of their natural riches are a tad more discreet in their plundering. Actually, when you think about it, they're not discreet at all. Nevertheless, the fact the filmmakers got permission to film in Ecuador really enhances the proceedings. This gave the film an inexplicable authenticity. Which is weird, especially when you consider how stupid it is at times.

The casting two of the strangest... okay, three of the strangest – Peter Falk ain't exactly perpendicular and junk, isn't necessarily the wisest course of action when setting about producing a romantic buddy movie about clairvoyant New Yorkers scouring the mossy mountains of Ecuador. That being said, I couldn't imagine this film without Cyndi Lauper and Jeff Goldblum as the duped psychics who are forced to help greedy treasure hunters find a shitload gold at the location of some lost Incan city.

The sight of the impish Cyndi as Sylvia Pickel, an astral projectionist with an invisible friend named Louise, and the lanky Mr. Goldblum as Nick Deezy, a second-sighted museum curator who can tell where an object has been just by touching it, wandering around Ecuador together is something you couldn't possibly concoct unless you were totally high. Without their cockamamie chemistry, I think Vibes would have probably expired tonally before it even got around to making the journey to the south.

Sure, the brief appearance of Jennifer Balgobin (Dr. Caligari) and Steve Buscemi (Ghost World) at a New York raceway, the even briefer turn by Max Perlich (Homicide: Life on the Street) as a busboy, and the sultry work of the gorgeous Elizabeth Peña (Lone Star) as a femme fatal in uncomplicated lingerie might have sustained the film from falling completely off track for a little while. But come on, who are we kidding here? The film is only barely on the cusp of being bearable because of what Cyndi and Jeff brought to the psychic table.

My favourite scene between the two was when Cyndi compliments Jeff's legs in the tent. The way Jeff struggled to return the compliment was factually adorable. I mean, I, too, would struggle to praise Cyndi's shapely, underrated legs if I was in such close proximity to them.

Delightfully oddball to outer reaches of tolerableness, Cyndi Lauper simultaneously channels the hard-nosed gumption of a street hustler, the Queens-reared surliness of an overworked tollbooth attendant, and the vixenish glee of a re-animated Jean Harlow. Listening to her enunciate words in Vibes was like eavesdropping on what heaven, or some heaven-like facsimile, must sound like when it's at its most loud and grating. Gentling caressing my auricle area is one thing, causing my eyes to wet themselves is quite another.

The many different outfits Cyndi sports in this movie were a flat out assault on my cerebral cortex. No wonder the elemental plot was so hard to follow. Whether she was summoning dead relatives in glimmering nightclothes, eating fries in a blue backless cocktail dress, or being dipped on the dance-floor in one of her many pink ensembles, Cyndi brought an uniquely sexy aura to all her looks. It got to a point where the anticipation over what she'd wear next would consume the marrow of my very existence.

The collaboration between Cyndi and costume designer Ruth Myers must have been explosive in terms of creative cohesion. Though, I have to say, I did doubt their couture-based cohesiveness when it came time to shift the action from New York to Ecuador. I thought: "Oh, great, say goodbye to the magenta, and say hello to bland hiking clothes." But all my fear was for naught, as her wacky style remained pretty much the same in both locals. Which has to be a testament to something; it's just gotta.

video uploaded by amy5cents

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Streets of Fire (Walter Hill, 1984)

Starting your movie by flashing the words, A Rock & Roll Fable" on the screen and ending with the epic bombast of "Tonight Is What It Means To Be Young" are just two of the many attention-getting touches that elevate Streets of Fire (Walter Hill's phenomenal ode to music and machismo) beyond the realm of store-bought vapidity. Played extremely straight at times, this potentially hokey tale about a trench coat-wearing tough guy who fights for love and money has just the right amount of sincerity to it, that it avoids being a parody at every turn. Filled with neon signs, rain soaked girders, forthright loners and lots of leather, the world Mr. Hill is wallowing in is sort of similar to the one he orchestrated in The Warriors in that there's a kind of dreamlike unreality permeating the proceedings. However, the raucous period piece, that takes place during a nonspecific mishmash of the 1950s and the 1980s, is quite different. For starters, the gang in this film is just one guy. Sure, he employs others to complete the task at hand, but the way he man handled those Roadmaster wimps proves that he doesn't need help from anyone, as it was a thing of ass kicking beauty. (I would wager that at least two of those chumps died of embarrassment during their long slunks home.) And secondly, the soundtrack makes its presence felt from start to finish. From the boisterous crowd pleasers that bookend the film to sweaty biker rock of the Torchy's sequence, the music drives the simplistic narrative hard and fast in the general direction of its righteous conclusion.

The disaffected Tom Cody (Michael Paré) is called upon to retrieve Ellen Aim (Diane Lane), his rock star ex-girlfriend, at the request of his wide-eyed sister Reva (Deborah Van Valkenburgh) after she is kidnapped by Raven (Willem Dafoe), the leader of the Blasters Bombers, a gang of unruly motorcycle enthusiasts. Even though he's proven that he can handle himself in almost any situation, Tom brings along Billy Fish (Rick Moranis), Ellen's manager, who knows the neighbourhood, and the equally disaffected McCoy (Amy Manigan) as backup.

On top of being fraught with danger (the bikers are renowned for their unpleasantness), their rescue mission will include run ins with The Sorels (a singing group lead by Stoney Jackson), police roadblocks, and adorable groupies (E.G. Daily plays a hanger-on named Baby Doll). Of course, none of the people I just mentioned get along with one another, which leads lots of bickering, humourous put-downs and male posturing.

A colossal slab of uninhibited manliness, Michael Paré's Tom Cody ("Pleased to meet you") is one of the most straightforward, no-nonsense anti-heroes in cinematic history. My pussy seemed to get wetter than a Cambodian toilet every time he would annoyingly turn around to utter uncomplicated verbiage at someone who dared to interrupt his rigorous brooding regiment. In other words, his tough guy act is the stuff erotic dreams are made of. I mean, to be rescued by such an unabashedly masculine figure must have been tantamount to titillation torture to those who saw it during their developmental stage.

Viewed from an expandable penis point of view, the exuberant dancing of Marine Jahan at Torchy's was the definite highlight from a heterosexual male angle. Actually, I think almost everyone, no matter what the shape of your equipment, can appreciate what Miss Jahan brought to Streets of Fire, as the wildly physical dancer swayed and thrust the air like a deranged humping machine.

The sheer villainy of Willem Dafoe as Raven was a menacing tour de force. (Mmmm, leather overalls... and the prerequisite back acne that comes with them.) And the fight between Tom Cody and Raven with those axe/hammer things was topnotch in terms of brute strength and unflashy swinging. The weapon itself was rather frightening. I wouldn't want to be struck by it that's for sure.

To be honest, I don't exactly know what perverted subgroup this particular section is geared towards. But I know for a fact that people who have a rational proclivity for women in fingerless gloves will go nuts for the amount of fingerless-ness that goes on in this flick. This tight-knit cabal who love it when fingers poke through gloves that are purposely missing the material of the glove where the fingers normally go will get to see Diane Lane, Marine Jahan and E.G. Daily all appear in a state of being completely fingerless at one time or another.

All bring the digit-based sexy, but if I had to give the sexy edge to someone, it would have to be Miss Lane. The way the light hit her fingers as she mouthed the words to "Nowhere Fast" in those long leather babies was quite the ethereal sight.

I think that covers everything. Let me see: Michael Paré creates the kind of moisture that your house plants have no use for, Willem Dafoe is an asshole, but looked cool in shiny overalls, Marine Jahan proves that you don't need long hair and large chest melons to be sexy. Fingerless gloves. What else? Oh yeah, I thought E.G. Daily's character could have been fleshed out a bit more. But then again, her Baby Doll technically should have kicked to the curb the moment Rick Moranis told her to scram. And you know what they say, a little E.G. is better than no E.G.

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Sleepaway Camp III: Teenage Wasteland (Michael A. Simpson, 1989)

I can't believe I had to wait a whole year for it to get made (man, was 1988 a crazy year), but it's finally here: My favourite transgender, camp-based murderess is back and chipper than ever in the gloriously straightforward Sleepaway Camp III: Teenage Wasteland, an unabashed kill-o-rama from respected filmmaker Michael A. Simpson. To put it simply–now that I have seen three of them–this is my horror franchise. The hockey mask guy and the menacing nut-job in the jumpsuit are lame ass punks compared to Angela Baker, the bloodthirsty nitty-gritty of these series of films that give camping a bad name. Yeah, that's right, she makes those mask-wearing crybabies seem like a bunch of pussies. The gender confused camp enthusiast (she must love camping by now) is the essence of cinematic murder, as she kills when she is wronged and for sheer fun of it. This lax criteria when it comes to selecting victims means that no one safe while in her presence. You could be the nicest guy or gal in the world and Angela will somehow find a reason to kill you. And she won't just kill you willy-nilly, uh-uh, she'll put some serious fucking thought into your pathetic demise. Sure, the campers and staff being killed by her can't really appreciate the amount effort she puts into her murders; you know, with their brain activity being a tad on the wonky side (after all, they're in the process of getting killed and junk). But speaking as a well-balanced audience member, I can proudly say, that not only do I appreciate what Angela is putting out there, murder-wise, I applaud her.

The camp from Unhappy Campers, Camp Rolling Hills, is under new management and looking to put the bloodshed of a year ago behind it. Re-branded as Camp New Horizons, a summer camp that allows troubled teens from different socioeconomic and ethnic backgrounds to grow, learn and understand one another better through sharing and camping, this newfangled experiment in camp sociology gets an influx of new victims for Angela to slaughter in a timely and capable manner.

If my stark assessment of this fresh batch of campers and their chances of survival sounds a little bleak, well, that's because there's no way anyone in this group is gonna step it up in the plucky department. I mean, I could just tell when they did the roll call that Angela was going to have an easy go of it in terms stress-free carnage. And holy festering neck boils, was I ever right.

Killed with an almost workmanlike efficiency, Angela literally bashes her way through this stereotypical morass of teenage humanity. Assuming the identity of a skid row camper (she ran her over with a garbage truck), Angela shows up at Camp New Horizons as Maria Nacrastro and quickly begins to implement her homicidal agenda. (A yuppie newswomen reporting on the camp feels her wrath first, as she does the old bathroom cleanser-cocaine switcheroo on her.) Firecrackers, lawnmowers, wooden branches, tent spikes, axes, a flag pole, and even a run-of-the-mill handgun, are all utilized with a fanciful flair by the fiendish femme fatal.

However, it's not all about murder and death. On the contrary, the film takes the time to expose the tits of a couple female campers. (Quirky fun-fact: Angela wears a huge bullet bra.) While not as overtly titillating as the second chapter work of the beautiful Valerie Hartman, these topless moments nevertheless reminded me of a time when teenage campers could get naked without the fear of reprisals.

There's also some inexplicable dramatic pathos supplied when Angela longingly wonders the camp's kitchen (if you remember, she used to be a camp counselor).

Anyway, the use of flashback, recreated scenes, and competent acting on the part of Pamela Springsteen render this sequence as strangely touching. In that, it plays up her genuine love of camping and connects the two films quite nicely.

The cast list for Sleepaway Camp III: Teenage Wasteland may be awash with big names like Jill Terashita (a perky breasted, leather jacket wearing delinquent), Tracy Griffith (a wholesome redhead who has a hankering to date outside her own ethnic group), Kyle Holman (a spray paint artist named Snowboy), and Kim Wall (a racist hosebeast). But the real star of course is the tantalizingly deranged Pamela Springsteen as Angela Baker, the world's coolest transgender serial killer.

Uncompromising when it came time to bump off her hapless peers, Pamela kills with a point-blank, almost inhuman effectiveness. And that's what makes Pamela so horrendously awesome. The insane amount of giddy delight she seems to take in coldly dispatching each stereotype with a weird brand of deadly indifference is what makes her the best in her field. Add the fact that she goes about her heinous routine always sporting a smile, and what you end up with is a psychopath who is both twisted and alluring.

 

Desperately Seeking Susan (Susan Seidelman, 1985)

The urbane charm of New York City lures yet another suburban dreamer into its concrete vagina in the cockamamie Desperately Seeking Susan, Susan Seidelman's tangled followup to the more straightforward Smithereens. Taking place during the apex of new wave culture, the fashion conscious film covers the same the territory as Miss Seidelman's debut effort did, in that, they both feature gals who want to escape their ho-hum lives in New Jersey and undergo a dramatic rebirth of sorts. However, whereas Smithereens' Wren was essentially a bratty bag lady who urgently wanted fame and fortune at any cost, Roberta (Rosanna Arquette) just wants a little excitement in her life beyond hosting parties for her hot tub selling husband and his yuppie scum friends (her journal paints an even more mundane picture). And if that means buying a chichi jacket, inadvertently pretending to being the amnesiac boyfriend of a constantly touring rock star, landing a job as a magician's assistant, and replacing Liquid Sky's Anne Carlisle as the girlfriend of a dreamy, cat-loving projectionist who lives above a Chinese restaurant, than so be it. I don't know about you, but it sure beats another night of not sucking the wrinkled cock of a sauna salesmen.

The manner in which Rosanna Arquette's Roberta longingly gazed across the river was quite revealing in it the way it revealed, you know, stuff. You see, the 1980s didn't come to New Jersey until March 1, 1994, and so what Roberta was doing was hankering for the opportunity live through the 1980s during the 1980s. Speaking as someone who was alive during the 1980s, but didn't technically "live" through them, I found plenty to sympathize with Roberta and her many spiritual quandaries.

Sure, I've never been bored housewife, or coveted a gold jacket with a giant pyramid on the back. But as a little girl growing up wherever the fuck it was that grew up, the desire to be swept off my feet by a guy who looked like Aidan Quinn, his extra large eyes drinking in the shapely contours of my sexy body, was just as strong as hers. Even more so, when you factor in that I'm considered clinically insane in most provinces and territories. (Provinces and territories? Hey, that means that I probably grew up somewhere in Canada. Weird.)

The cryptic messages left by a musician (Robert Joy) to his flaky lady friend Susan (Madonna) in the classifieds are what give Roberta the courage to breakout of her comfort zone and experience the rejuvenating splendour that is New York City circa 1984. Like I said, new wave was at its height during this period, and Susan Seidelman's unique directorial vision, Santo Loquasto's costume and production design, and the lush, synth-friendly music score by Thomas Newman (Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael) really do the era justice. I mean, check out the authentic street flavour of the scenes that take place in Greenwich Village. There's a crackling vitality to these sequences.

The opposite is true when we venture into the vaudevillian haunt known simply as the Magic Club. Yet even these seemingly old fashioned scenes had a new wave sheen to them. It was probably because the stylish Ann Magnuson lurked in the background as a cigarette girl.

Or maybe it was the fact that when Anna Levine (Sue) takes off her frilly magicians' assistant clothes, the neon gaudiness of her green and pink ensemble is revealed for the world to see. (Seriously, those are some bright tights.)

The use of Material Girl's "Into the Groove" during the nightclub rendezvous between Gary Glass (Mark Blum), the hot tub guy, and Susan has always my favourite sequence in Desperately Seeking Susan from a purely aesthetic point of view. The way the multi-coloured lights cascade across the crowd of hardcore new wavers was a true thing of beauty. Particularly when it hit the gothy guy in the corner who seemed enamoured by the ruffled nature of his fabric-generous sleeves. Of course, there's something innately perverse about dancing so enthusiastically to your own music, but I think Madonna is one of the few people who can safely get away with such an egregious act of egocentricity.

Even though they don't really interact much in terms of screen time together, you really get the sense Rosanna Arquette and Madonna are each other's throat in this movie. The envy on Rosanna's face as she gazed at her co-star from afar was palpable, and the frustration Madonna displayed over the fact that her jacket was being worn by someone pretending to her literally oozed off her skin. Actually, that's a tad reaching. Madonna's character, and apparently the pop singer herself, is so aloof and self-involved, that something as serious as identity theft wouldn't even faze her.

At the any rate, the two get into a bit of a farcical cat and mouse over a pair of expensive earrings (the kind you might see in a Klymaxx video). Scandalous!

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Ghost World (Terry Zwigoff, 2001)

I'm not a big fan of comic books, but I do love comic book stores. My favourite is a local shop called The Beguiling. Now, some observers will say, "Hey, how can that be your favourite comic book store when you haven't even been inside?" I, of course, ignore people who are overly anal about little details like that and sheepishly continue doing whatever perverted act I was engaging in before the annoying nitpick was brought up.* But since you seem cool and junk, I'll explain by saying that I enjoy hanging outside The Beguiling and looking at their ever-changing window display. Which during the late '90s would repeatedly feature a comic by Daniel Clowes called "Ghost World." The moderately crude drawn image of Enid, the book's extremely disaffected protagonist, with her glasses, Louise Brooks hairstyle, and blank stare always managed to grab my attention whenever I found myself walking by the hip establishment. The fact that I was vaguely familiar with the source material when the film version was announced was an unique situation for me, as I am normally clueless as to what the majority of movies are adapted from. Anyway, this non-ignorant feeling was a tad unorthodox, but also quite refreshing. Even though I hadn't read a single page of the comic, I nevertheless felt a strange affinity for the characters, especially Enid. And to see her made flesh by the wonderful Thora Birch in Terry Zwigoff's Ghost World was one of the most rewarding cinematic experiences of my life. An anti-social role model for the ages, Enid is smug, bratty, and a bit of asshole. In other words, a pale delight.

Moving at a different speed than almost everyone else (her slowness permeates all aspects of her life), Enid, and her equally deliberate best friend Rebecca (Scarlett Johansson), are recent high school graduates who decide to skip the collegiate experience in order to focus their attention on acquiring an apartment, finding jobs, tormenting convenience store employees named Josh (Brad Renfro), and toying with Seymour (Steve Buscemi), a shy record collector. The first two things take up the majority of Rebecca's time, while the toying of Seymour part lands squarely at the booted feet of Enid. She and the record geek form an odd friendship that alienates from Rebecca, whose life seems to be going in different direction.

The frustration Enid feels over Rebecca's apparent disinterest in weirdness is the main drive of the film. It kinda reminded me of the tough time I had getting so-called friends to like industrial music. I mean, no matter I how I tried, I constantly found myself being rebuffed and passed over by more innocuous genres of music (the people hawking rap and heavy metal had a field day when it came to corrupting the ears of minors).

This estrangement from seemingly everyone around her is what inundates Enid on a daily basis. However, her level of disaffection is so pronounced, that it's no wonder her only ally is a loner who detests humanity.

I found myself laughing at the weirdest things this time around. Sure, I still found Steve Buscemi's misanthropic outbursts to be just as humourous as they were the first time I heard them. But little nuggets like when Enid knows this guy in a bar is a dick and has her opinion verified when the guy says, "Who's up for some reggae?" Enid's self-satisfied look and cocksure hand gesture after this question is asked were priceless.

Also, every scene with Illeana Douglas' Roberta Allsworth was awkwardly hilarious. Reminding me of a cross between Laurie Anderson (she spoke in this... stilted... I'm an overblown windbag sort of way) and Ann Magnuson, in that, she was matchless in terms of being sexy while quirky (especially while sitting crossed-legged), Illeana tears pomposity a new one with her scathing portrayal of an art teacher in love with the sound of own her voice.

Since it was the visually alluring image of Enid's symmetrical mug that initially drew me to the world of Ghost World, it should come as no surprise that it was Thora Birch's version of the aggressively cynical adolescent that kept me in a perpetual state of well-balanced enthrallment. Exquisitely pale and shapely to an almost mind-blowing level of curvaceousness, Thora is impassive perfection as Enid. Reciting her snarky dialogue with nary a hint of effort, the stony faced actress navigates this garish universe (the shots of the advertising-laden streets were depressing) with an inexpressive aplomb.

It's true, that I found her to be exceedingly attractive, and couldn't quite fathom why all the guys they would come across gravitated towards Rebecca (who literally appears to be nonliving at times), but I like to think that my love for her transcends the usual superficialities that go into my obsessions. Highly impulsive, with an affinity for bohemian tights, and attracted to misfits, Thora's Enid, not to sound foppish, is a character that I will always treasure.

I'm not, by the way, bitter about the uneven trajectory of Thora Birch's career when compared to that of her co-star, Scarlett Johansson. I just think it's a shame that we don't see much of Thora nowadays.

* When it comes to wandering around downtown, I'm a night person. Meaning, every time I'd walk past The Beguiling, it would be closed. Hence, my never having been inside.

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