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

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

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

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

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

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Eating Raoul (Paul Bartel, 1982)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Party Monster (Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato, 2003)

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

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

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

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

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

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The Creeping Terror (Vic Savage, 1964)

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

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

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

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

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

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Little Darlings (Ronald F. Maxwell, 1980)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Prom Night (Nelson McCormick, 2008)

Making one long for the days when gratuitous nudity and violence flowed off movie screens like a putrid cascade of perversion and mayhem, the extremely limp Prom Night has to be the dullest, most pointless horror movie ever made. Filled with bland and drab characters, and a killer with no personality whatsoever, the film is lifeless from start to finish. I mean, no one gets stabbed in an interesting manner, it's not sexy, and it repeatedly resorts to cheap medicine cabinet scares that do nothing but illicit real yawns. The fact that it failed to be sexy or scary didn't surprise me, as most films nowadays have no clue how to properly titillate and frighten an audience. The lack of bloodshed, however, was a bit of a shocker. In that, how hard is it to throw some fake blood around? Now, I'm not being some deranged lunatic with unhealthy fixation with all things gore-related. I just think if you're gonna make a movie where a half-dozen or so people are poked with knives in an unfriendly manner in an enclosed space, the floors should be soaked in the red stuff.

The film's killer (Jonathan Schaech) hasn't got much going on in terms of being appalling and junk, either. He's basically just some guy in a dark blazer and a logo-less baseball cap, whose signature move is to look slightly towards the floor. Sure, he carries a convoluted knife and has a menacing layer of five o'clock shadow, but I wouldn't exactly call those things original or iconic in anyway. Speaking of which, his victim of choice are teenagers. Talk about being conventional. Well, actually, he kills teens because there the ones who insist hanging around where he likes to lurk. But still, killing teens is, like, so two hundred years ago.

Just to get this out of the way, the killer used to be a teacher and is obsessed with a former student played by the lovely Brittany Snow. Breaking out of a mental hospital, the killer plans on sweeping Miss Snow off her feet in a bold romantic gesture at her prom. Which, of course, is taking place at a swanky hotel. What I don't understand is why the killer thought that Brittany's character would want to date him after he killed her family and friends. I don't think the killer put a lot of thought into his overall wooing strategy.

Anyway, Brittany Snow really let me down, especially when it came to being plucky. There were a couple of moments when I thought she was gonna pluck the killer's ass into next week. But unfortunately she ends up sliding back into her old routine. Which include: stifling screams with both hands, hiding under beds, and, my personal favourite, opening bottles of pills in a slow and dramatic fashion. On top of being not plucky, Brittany's character also happened to be a complete idiot. For example, take the scene in the hotel when the police pull the fire alarm and instruct everyone to leave the hotel immediately. Instead fleeing, Brittany sees this as an opportunity to go upstairs to retrieve her dead Mother's shawl. It's true, she didn't know the killer was up there waiting for her, but what if there was, you know, a fire? (Hence, the fire alarm.) I mean, who risks their life over a shawl? Ugh. The moment she says something to the effect of: "I'm gonna get my shawl," made me so... Ahhhh! This movie fucking sucks!

Some other things I hated about Prom Night: the generic rock music played at the prom (what the hell is a Tokio Hotel? And what happened to playing Nitzer Ebb at proms?), the prom dresses showed no leg at all (I wish the ladies of Rock of Love could have got in touch with the producers and taught them a thing or two about how classy women dress when out in public), and, what else? Oh, did I mention no one gets stabbed good? If not, add that to the list. I think that pretty much covers everything. Avoid at all costs. Even if you're a Brittany Snow fan.

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The Devil's Hand (William J. Hole Jr., 1962)

A grown man who works at a doll shop is the definition of shady (and a tad creepy if you ask me). However, a grown man who leads a devil-worshiping cult, complete with human sacrifices and bongo playing, in the back of said doll shop, is the epitome of cool. It's this kind of off-kilter aura that made The Devil's Hand such a strange cinematic journey. I mean, one minute you're just a regular guy in a leather vest meekly apologizing to your insipid, duck feeding girlfriend for being late for a date, and the next, you're hand delivering a doll to the mysterious woman who talks to you in your sleep (the doll looks exactly like her, and, of course, she has one that looks just like you). The allure of the mystery woman in the dainty nightwear is the key to the film's success. In that, if we're not enticed by the sight of a smokey-voiced blonde with visible underwear, then someone is doing something wrong. Luckily for us, all the right decisions are made, as the film's lead sap finds himself sucked into a soul crushing vortex of ill-defined perdition. Actually, as far as cultish hells go, it's not that bad at all. In fact, I felt like joining on several occasions as the film progressed. Sure, the film tries its best to demonize these voodoo enthusiasts by portraying them as a multi-ethnic cult where large pillows are sat on for comfort, leggy women cavort openly to bongo music, and the disloyal run the risk of being ritualistically stabbed on a cold slab. But you do get your own doll.

Again, the doll can be used against you in a negative sort of way, and technically doesn't belong to you, but as long you stay true to the teachings of the great devil-god Gamba, the doll master won't stick any pins in your doll. You win, evil wins, it's a good deal. Besides, the beliefs espoused by the cultists in this film may seem kooky and extreme, but at least they work (ask the guy who's doll got a pin shoved in its head if Gamba isn't real). Which is something that separates them from all the other pushers of superstitious gobbly-gook floating about in the universe.

The faith-based curiosity of Robert Alda as Rick Turner, the everyman who trades in his bland brunette for hot sex with a satanic blonde, is what makes The Devil's Hand a bit more interesting than your average cult flick. You really get the sense that Mr. Alda (father of Alan) is genuinely fascinated by the world of Gamba (even when he's undermining him). It's true, his main goal was probably to get his cock touched by the demented Bianca (Linda Christian), but I thought Alda did a fine job of balancing his insincere love of Gamba with his incessant hunger for unkempt witch poon.

I've mentioned the bongos a couple of times, and I'm mentioning them again because every time Jack McCoskey's expertly wielded camera would focus on the cult's bongo player, I would start wonder about his well being. I mean, what kind of money does his make? Does he have a personal life? As expected, these questions weren't answered at all. To be honest, I, myself, could barely muster the energy ask them (I'm one lazy motherscratcher). But you know a movie is on an entirely different level of magnificence when you start to care about the bongo player at a low-class cult being run out of the back of a fire hazard-laden doll shop.

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Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael (Jim Abrahams, 1990)

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

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

As you would expect, I was quite taken by this extreme form of collective ostracization. The residents shun her because she's different, much like they did the titular Roxy Carmichael fifteen years ago. Except, Dinky isn't different in an obnoxious way. Unlike the so-called weirdos who pretend to be depressed and cool nowadays, she doesn't buy her grim wardrobe at chichi boutiques or insipid chain stores. Uh-uh. She brings a genuine punk aesthetic to her ghoulish style. In that, she wears whatever she finds. I distinctly remember being rather taken by Dinky's do-it-yourself approach to late twentieth century goth fashion, and recall employing many of her techniques.

The dichotomy between Dinky Bossetti's black motif and the frothy pink of Roxy Carmichael was also integral to the film's charm. Take, for instance, the scene where Dinky explores the bedroom of Roxy's old house (which has been turned into a museum), the sight of the morbidly attired teen poking around the aggressively pink confines of that particular room provided quite the contrast in styles. This commingling of contradictory colours was definitely a major influence on me. Actually, I think I just hit the nail on the head. You see, the colours black and pink are the only two colours that are both revered by the heterosexual and homosexual communities. And since I've always seen myself as an arbitrator between the two distinctive groups, that means Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael is responsible for developing a good chunk of my world famous personality. (I think just blew my own mind a little bit.)

Eye-rolling her way into the gooey confines my fickle heart like a disgruntled rash, Winona Ryder is the main reason this film manages to succeed on any normal level. (I'm sorry Jeff Daniels, but your moping just isn't cutting it.) The pale actress from Winona imbues her Dinky with enough teen-based frustration to last twenty life times. Paired with, what has to be, the most unconventional leading man of her career, Winona has terrific chemistry with the floppy-haired Thomas Wilson Brown. Whether they were talking about the gaps in his teeth or pining while Melissa Etheridge wailed in the background, I found their scenes together to be weirdly compelling.

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

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

Proving that I've matured slightly when it comes to ogling actresses, I was pleasantly surprised by how tantalizing I found Laila Robins to be in this film. I mean, I always thought her character was attractive and stuff, but there was clearly something different about her as I gazed upon her this time around. Playing Elizabeth Zaks, the aforementioned guidance counselor who befriends Dinky, Miss Robins brings a dignified professionalism to the proceedings, and of course, some much needed legginess. Which I can't believe I didn't notice the other gazillion time I watched this, her legs, that is. I guess, like every other sane person, my focus was on Winona's performance.

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

video uploaded by DinkyDean23

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The Nomi Song (Andrew Horn, 2004)

Inspirational, tragic, strange, and stupefying. These are just a handful of the words I'd use to describe Klaus Nomi, one of the most fascinating creatures ever to spend time on planet earth. The brief life and work of the aria singing new waver who confounded a generation is covered in the bittersweet The Nomi Song, a documentary that gathers together his friends and associates to rejoice is the bizarre majesty that was Nomi. An odd mishmash of actors, painters, photographers, musicians, and, of course, archival footage from the fabulous era (New York City in the late 1970s), the film tries to unmask the allusive singer through anecdotal reflections and concert clips. We don't really get to know the real Nomi using this technique. But to be honest, I don't really want to know who the real Nomi. I like my Nomi to be shrouded in a little mystery. Besides, I did learn that he made an excellent lime tart (self taught), and that's something. Sure, anyone who saw him making pies on TV Party (a local cable access program for hip people), or is named Man Parrish, was already aware of his pastry prowess, but I'm just a simple scamp from the partially frozen wasteland that is suburban Toronto. I mean, how am I supposed to know that Klaus Nomi could bake? So, in that regard, the film was a success.

Anything related to New York and the new wave underground is like crack cocaine to me, and to see it in all its gaudy glory was a definite treat. The film's brief focus on Fiorucci, a high-end boutique that catered to the ultra chic of the day, and Nomi's in-store gig was like a tawdry explosion. The amount of genuine creativity going on at that particular time must have been off the charts.

The main appeal of the film, however, were the scenes of Nomi performing live, that, and the adorable Ann Magnuson reminiscing about seeing Nomi live for the first time (she is one of the coolest people ever). The concert material was the film's strongest suite, as it showed the intergalactic singer in the pointy tuxedo at his most alluring. In fact, this allurement is so pronounced, that my real mother became a fan the instant I played his "The Nomi Song" (the song this film is named after) for her as a lark four or five years ago. The way he mixed new wave and opera must have struck a nerve, because less than a week later she had purchased his debut album. Personally, it was Nomi's unique appearance that drew me into his world (along with stage mates Joey Arias and Janus), and the kooky music followed. Either way, there's something mesmerizing about watching Nomi perform.

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Bloodlust! (Ralph Brooke, 1961)

In the seafaring guide, Survival on the High Seas: The Caucasoid Male and Unnecessary Peril, page fifty-six clearly states: "Inane curiosity and nautical ennui are the principal causes of most island-based calamities inflicted on white people in casual slacks." Truer words could not have been written, as that is exactly what happens to the youthful characters that populate Bloodlust!, a straightforward tale about people hunting people in a tropical island setting. One minute you're scouring the jungle for banana leaves (you can't have a clambake without them), the next you're being hunted by a suave, crossbow-wielding madman with a trophy fetish. The decisions that lead Johnny Randall (Robert Reed) and his fellow adventure seekers willy-nilly into this prickly predicament were no doubt rife with foolishness (leaving your rifle on the boat, being best friends with the world's biggest dork, his clam obsession, etc). However, his exploratory spirit, calmness under pressure, and the fact his lady friend just happens to be a judo expert should be commended. You see, the inability to identify a consumer of human flesh when he is standing right in front of you (a.k.a. cannibal-spotting myopia) and good old fashion idiocy may have gotten Johnny and his friends in this smelly pickle of a mess. But rest assured, he is fully equipped to take on any kind of hardship that is thrown his way. (I knew, by the way, that they were man and lady friend because of the way their clothed genitalia pressed up against one another during a particularly tender maritime hug.)

I guess, technically, Bloodlust! is supposed to be a bad movie (as signified by its extremely low rating on IMDb and MST3K treatment). I, on the other hand, just don't see what's so bad about it. I mean, aside from a chintzy looking set and a couple of brainless moments here and there, I thought the film was a pretty adept adaptation of The Most Dangerous Game. In that, it's about four dopes who unwittingly find themselves being stalked by a deranged ex-army sniper on an island rich with monosyllabic crazies, tattered freaks and grizzled weirdos. Speaking of which, Bill Coontz is terrific as "insane man in woods."

The future head of the Brady household is surprisingly chiseled as the take charge Johnny. I loved the way stuck to his guns, despite the incessant whining of Pete (Eugene Persson), his nebbish pal. A sinister Wilton Graf is mildly entertaining, in a Vincent Price would have better sort of way, as the Dr. Albert Balleau. The luminescent Joan Lora looked gorgeous while watching Jondor (Bobby Hall) organize his collection of body parts and showed that her bum does indeed look mouth-watering while existing a window in clam diggers.* Her beauty notwithstanding, Miss Lora's Jeanne Perry is scared of everything and overdid it at times in the damsel in distress department. Luckily, the more headstrong Betty (June Kenney) is on the island to bring some girly toughness to the proceedings.

Seriously, I don't see what all the negative fuss is about. I guess the perceived notion of its badness has clouded some people's ability to look at the film in an unbiased manner. People get shot with crossbows, they scream loudly; it's pretty sweet.

* If this film had been made today, the shape of Miss Lora's bum in clam diggers would have been front page news on the cover of a every newspaper in, oh, let's say, Italy and Flin Flon.

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