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.

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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 transsexual, 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 transsexual 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.

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The Loved Ones (Sean Byrne, 2009)

I wonder if the makers of power drills and hammers ever feel guilty over the fact that their respective products are often utilized in manner in which they were not originally intended? I sometimes wonder why I wonder such things, but in this case it's aggressively apt, as the two hardware store standards are repeatedly implemented in an irregular fashion in The Loved Ones, an Australian teen drama, sex comedy, and (gory) horror flick all rolled in to one. A film that sheds of a tiny sliver of light on that mundane phenomenon that involves fathers kidnapping adolescent boys so that their socially maladjusted daughters may draw on their chests with a fork (another one of the many household items misused throughout this movie), the Sean Byrne directed enterprise deftly mixes scenes of abject horror with ones of a more whimsical nature. Mashed in-between the two is a touching parable about parental anxiety and road safety.

The way Tasmanian born Byrne maintained the balance between these three distinct cinematic flavours was quite masterful. In that, just as things were getting a tad much with the ghastliness, the focus shifts to mindless frivolity, and when that stuff started to wear thin, the spotlight is put on the "loved ones" desperate find out what happened to one very unlucky metalhead. That's not to say that the more lurid parts weren't hilarious. I mean, there are just as many laughs in the hellish nightmare-world that was that farmhouse than there were outside the Down Under prom. However, I think most will agree that having your unerect penis on the cusp of being nailed to a chair and an overconfident male teenager falling to the ground while attempting to be suave in front of his date are two vastly different types of funny.

Just in case anybody was wondering, the film's about a sullen teen named Brent (Xavier Samuel) whose become withdrawn and rudderless ever since his father died in a car accident in which he was driving (keep your eye on the road at all times). Sort of committed to his girlfriend, Holly (Victoria Thaine), Brent is asked to go to an end of school dance by Lola (Robin McLeavy), a seemly nondescript shy girl. His refusal to go with her sets in motion a series of events that will alter the structural integrity of Brent's organic structure forever.

It's true, that the glum teenager has already been altering his flesh with a razor blade before he was ever bound to a chair located above a shimmering disco ball, but what the disturbed Lola and his clearly unbalanced father (John Brumpton) have in store for his body make those little emo nicks look like child's play.

Meanwhile, in the less violent part of town, Brent's slightly goofy pal Sac (Richard Wilson) is taking the morose yet strategically attractive Mia (Jessica McNamee) to the big dance. Romantic ineptitude, drug use, a heavy metal-related head-banging session and lewd slow dancing, their night has it all. If I haven't made clear by now, their awkward date is the go to subplot whenever Brent's suffering seems to be getting out of hand. And, boy, does it ever. A harmless looking fella, Lola's father is the kind parent who will do just about anything to provide his daughter with whatever her heart desires, and if that means forcibly confining the boy who turned her down and creating an authentic prom atmosphere in their dingy shack of a house, than so be it.

Whether bracing for the incoming power drill that is about to violate his forehead or having metal stakes nailed through his feet, Xavier Samuel is a stoic pain receptacle if I ever saw one. Not saying a word half the time – he was injected through the neck with some sort of speech robbing narcotic – Xavier does an excellent job of expressing torment through his dark eyes... you know, when they weren't covered in blood or wincing in agony.

At first I thought she was just some ungainly teen with low self-esteem, but that all changed the moment the exquisite Robin McLeavy donned that comely pink dress (with matching underwear) and slathered her eye area with a thick coating of pink eyeshadow and a sprinkling of glitter. One of the most alluring and deranged horror villains to leap off the screen in recent memory, Robin is fearless when it came to bringing the crazy to the forefront. Yet, there's a tenderness to her dementia. Okay, there's hardly any tenderness in Lola. Hell, I don't even think I would date her. Who am I kidding? Of course I would go out her. But in my defense, I would give it a smattering of serious thought before I made my predetermined decision.

Anyway, I must say, I felt a truckload of envy toward her as she drilled, reluctantly boiled and attempted to stab her way through this movie, as it has been a longstanding dream of mine to do harm to others while wearing an inordinate amount of eye makeup. Her off-kilter beauty is best observed while she is looking down on a "loved one" who is having their face eaten by the ravenous things who live in a clandestine pit.

An excellent soundtrack, especially Lola's theme song ("Not Pretty Enough" by Kasey Chambers), the pastel gown accentuated legginess of Victoria Thaine (her gams look great in person, too), a sad dog moment, serene cinematography, and a casual attitude when it came to depicting car-based intercourse all make The Loved Ones a must-see slice of Aussie horror.

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Suck (Rob Stefaniuk, 2009)

We've all been in the situation where the dynamical integrity of the group we belong to has been severely compromised by an outside force. Whether it be a kooky significant other (clouding the infected group member's mind with a steady barrage of vaginal/penile perks) or an inflated sense of self (which usually entails a member putting their own agenda above the collective betterment of the group), this communal contagion reeks havoc on the togetherness of the throng, causing it to rot from the inside. I had similar experience with this particular phenomenon when I decided to stop pretending I liked mod music and embraced the industrial scene with a feverish, yet ultimately alienating gusto. Sure, I was still able to hang with the group, but I wasn't allowed to attend any of their secret mod meetings. Well, in Suck, writer-director Rob Stefaniuk's hilarious, cameo-laden follow up the 'Phil the Alien,' group dynamics are front and centre, as one of its members gets turned into a bloodsucking vampire.

Exploring the politics of being in an unsuccessful band, the farcical romp plays out like your typical rock 'n' roll travelogue: drummers are replaced, slimy managers quit mid-tour, your Québécois guitar tech feels left out. However, with the added allure of female vampirism, the unabashedly Canadian film (most are abashed) comes to close matching the heights of Hedwig and the Angry Inch and Rockula, two films that hover over Suck like a demented stepchild on Pakistani acid. While the music isn't as catchy as the former, and it lacks the head scratching zaniness of the latter, it does manage to crave out its own cult film niche by inundating the audience with morbid humour (a convenience store clerk has his blood removed via a drinking straw), loud guitar music (I didn't hear one synthesizer), and witty inner band repartee.

A struggling rock band, ironically called "The Winners," have just finished performing a lacklustre gig in Montréal, which culminates in their manager (Dave Foley) quitting. The leader of The Winners, Joey (Rob Stefaniuk), elects to keep this news from the rest of the band and continue on with the tour (he's determined to "make it" this time around). Just as they're about to leave for Toronto, they discover their bass player, Jennifer (Jessica Paré), has gone missing. Last scene wandering off with some ultra-creepy looking dude in leather pants (Dimitri Coats), the band carry on without her.

Of course, she eventually meets up with the band in T.O., only she doesn't quite look herself anymore. Now sporting palish skin and a demonic glow in her eye, the attractive bass player's renovated aura starts to attract attention, in a good way. This bothers Joey, as he wants the focus to be on him and his music, not the fact that their bass player is a sexy vampire. On the opposite side of the stage, the other band members (Mike Lobel and Ryan Anthony) are actually enjoying the band's newfound success. So much so, they start to look pale and demonic, as well. While all this is going on, Hugo (an actor whose name is unknown to me at this time Chris Ratz), their French Canadian roadie, has begun to develop a taste for airborne insects.

The music is the hard driving rock variety, which is not my really thing, but I was able to savour in its melodic crunchiness every now and then. What can I say? I'm quite adaptable. Even so, Rob Stefaniuk does throw in a Spoons song "Old Emotions" near end. Yeah, it might have used to convey suburban lameness, but I appreciated its usage, nonetheless. No, I'd say the banter that takes place between the various band members, as they try to come to grips with the increasing number of vampires in their group, was my favourite aspect of Suck, especially all the scenes that involved the guy who played Hugo; he's one funny ass Quebecker.

Instead of using bland second unit footage of the band's tour hearse driving from city to city, Stefaniuk employs miniatures to great effect. As well as a grubby, blood-stained map to signify their travels; follow the blood trail as they go from from Toronto to Buffalo.

The slew of awesome cameos is what's gonna attract the most attention to Suck. It's true, that there's a small faction of 'Lost & Delirious' fans out there in the corporeal elixir (count me as one of them) who will be delighted to see the gorgeous Jessica Paré take on a more comedic part for a change; the sight of her puppyish face covered in blood was to die for. The legendary Malcolm McDowell plays a flashlight obsessed vampire hunter, and has the largest role out of all the big names that appear throughout the film. (There's a terrific bit of editing trickery that utilizes clips from 'O Lucky Man' in order to flesh out his character a bit more - vampire hunters rarely decide to hunt vampires on a whim.)

Second in terms of screen time were Alice Cooper, as a mysterious figure who appears to Joey at a barren crossroads (which strangely looked like rural Ontario), and Iggy Pop shows up as a shotgun totting music producer who advises Joey to ditch the vampire.

The rest include: Carole Pope of Rough Trade as a bouncer who gets to be snippy with Nicole de Boer (Laura! from Kids in the Hall), Alex Lifeson, the guitar player from Rush (who displays a genuine gift for comedy as a U.S. border patrol agent), Henry Rollins (the guy from Black Flag) is a loudmouth disc jockey, and Moby plays the lead singer of a hardcore band called Secretaries of Steak (the best band in all of Buffalo).

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