Zaat (Don Barton, 1975)

Staggering through the swamp like a drunken fiend who just happens to be wearing an unwieldy costume made out of what looks like stained algae and recycled kelp, the vengeful beast in Zaat (a.k.a. Blood Waters of Dr. Z)–a poetic water-out-of-fish tale by highly respected filmmaker Don Barton–will stop at nothing to realize his loopy dream of a world ruled by his army of man-fish hybrids. The story of a lonely scientist who has clearly been spending way too much time in his sparsely decorated laboratory, the film does a tremendous job of testing one's patience for watching a man lurch about in a green outfit for long periods of time. For example, when the creature is stabbed, we can watch as it slowly makes its way to the pharmacy to pick up some medicine. And when the creature is unsatisfied with the pharmacies selection, we can watch as it vents its anger toward the pesky pharmacy shelves for not having the item his man-fish body needs to help alleviate the pain caused by the aforementioned stab wound.

Over the years I have found that most films are guilty of skimping when it comes to showing pointless nonsense that isn't in someway connected to the stories central drive. Well, I can think of one film that doesn't shy away from delivering superfluous drivel, and its name is Zaat. Case near point: The local Sheriff (Paul Galloway) takes a break from hunting the man-fish to enjoy the folk music being played by a bunch of Hippies. This unexpected jam session leads to an even more bizarre turn of events when the Sherif leads the Hippie throng to jail. (He looked like the Pied Piper. Except instead of leading rats, he led Hippies.) Now, he doesn't put them in jail for breaking the law (or for just being Hippies), he puts them there in order to protect them for the Hippie-killing monster lurking outside. It has to be one the weirdest sequences involving Hippies and Florida law enforcement ever to be captured on film.

Beluga buff, fish fancier, aquatic aficionado, call him what you will, but there's no getting around the fact that Dr. Kurt Leopold (Marshall Grauer) loves life underwater. How much does he like it down you barely muster the strength to ask? Well, let me tell you: he's such a fan of the intense dampness that comes with being submerged 24/7, that he is willing to radically alter his organic structure. Immersed in the laboratory lifestyle that was chic with the mad scientist crowd during the mid-1970s, the misunderstood beaker jockey is determined to prove to his dismissive colleagues that he can become an upright fish.

Inspired by a non-indigenous walking catfish, the mentally unwell man of science injects himself with something called "zaat," and proceeds to take a dip in a large vat of...zaat. After five to ten seconds, he emerges covered in green slime. Eager to get his feet wet, the newly transformed crackpot searches the swamp for his unsupportive peers. Luckily for him, they're all avid fishermen. In other words: finding them, so he may claw at their neck area in a violent manner, won't be that hard.

Gashing the throats of middle-aged fishermen is easy, satisfying the urges that come with being the proud new owner of a massive man-fish boner is something else entirely. The monster (Wade Popwell) sets his romantic sights on a female camper/budding artist/yellow bikini enthusiast (Nancy Lien). At first he just stalks her from a distance. (I can't imagine what his opening line might be.) Playing it cool, he lets her come to him, and proceeds to grab her as she is swimming. (Pretty smooth, fish-boy.) Dad's be-dazzled vagina, after some playful writhing, the creature takes her back to the lab and attempts to transform her into a woman-fish hybrid.

An unforeseen side note: Would it have killed Dr. Leopold to put up some wall art in his lab? The blandness of the place practically screamed psychotic bedwetter with a fish fixation. Though, I suppose his duel purpose revenge-mating calender could be construed as a decorative piece. After all, on top of being functional, it does catch the eye in a seriously deranged sort of way.

Standing in the way of Dr. Leopold's dream of a universe overrun with fish people is a marine biologist named Rex (Gerald Cruse). Literally stymied, in that, he actually says he is "stymied" at one point, Rex telephones two experts from INPIT (International Nucleic Porridge Investigation Team) to help him get to the bottom of the man-fish mystery. And you know they're gonna be helpful the moment INPIT agents Martha (Sanna Ringhaver) and Walker (Dave Dickerson) walk on screen in their spiffy red jumpsuits. As you might know, nothing says governmental competence like matching jumpsuits.

Ending like a European art film, Zaat poses many questions. Of course, I missed most of them, but I did hear a lot of the answers. I also learned that nature is a volatile morass, one that is full of unseen danger; Miss Ringhaver looks her best while sitting with her legs crossed in short shorts; and if you have an underwater camera, don't be afraid to use it. Oh, and electronic bleeping sounds do wonders when comes to creating a semi-believable laboratory environment.

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My Best Friend Is a Vampire (Jimmy Huston, 1987)

You can always depend on Hollywood when it comes to characters making safe, unobjectionable choices. I've found this is particularly true in the niche market known as: Teenage Transformation Cinema, a sub-genre of films that usually involve a male adolescent in the midst of some kind of atypical crisis. Well, I'm happy to say that nothing comes easy in My Best Friend Is a Vampire (a.k.a. I Was a Teenage Vampire), a film where a young man is not only encouraged to except his newfangled identity, but encouraged to embrace it. Unlike the protagonists in films like, Once Bitten and My Boyfriend's Back, the central figure in this cockeyed tale doesn't try to weasel out of his ghastly predicament. Never once does Jeremy Capello (Robert Sean Leonard) attempt to find a so-called "cure" for his unique quandary. Sure, he resists the temptation to drink blood at first, but he soon discovers that it's not that bad. To put it in terms most of you can understand: drinking blood is similar to the sensation one feels after listening to the music of Nurse With Wound. In that, each subsequent listen is less irritating than the one previous.

The advantages to being a teenage zombie or teenage werewolf are completely lost on me. In fact, being a zombie has no perks whatsoever as far as I'm concerned; the gradual decomposition and inexplicable craving for human brains are both dead-ends in terms of spiritual growth. On the other hand, the long list of benefits that greet you when one becomes a teenage vampire are something I could easily find myself getting used to. And while the desire to drink blood may sound just as unappealing as the zombie brain eating, the decelerated aging process, the gift of animal mutation, the power of persuasion, and, not to mention, the ability to gothify your bedroom to the strains of Timbuk 3, the perks outweigh the negatives by an innumerable margin. Okay, acquiring a talent for redecoration isn't exactly a vampire-specific one, but you get the picture.

Considering the fact that the most of plot of My Best Friend Is a Vampire can be inferred by simply reading the title aloud to oneself, I'll try to examine some of film's more subtle intricacies. It should come as no surprise that Jeremy Capello's unexpected brush with vampirism is a veiled metaphor for the suppression of human rights. The eradication of prejudice is the film's main objective, the silly vampire jokes and frequent car chases are just a diversionary tactic to keep the dunderheads in the audience blissfully unaware.

Having Jeremy show signs of being attracted to Darla (Cheryl Pollak)—a girl he technically shouldn't be attracted to (a cheerleader named Candy is campaigning hard for his teenage cock)—before becoming a vampire, and making the chauvinistic Ralph (Evan Mirand) his best friend, are just a couple of the forthright indicators that the film is working on a totally different level of brilliance.

Take for example, the van the vampire hunters Professor Leopold McCarthy (David Warner) and Grimsdyke (Paul Smith) drive throughout the movie. It's austere shape and unassuming colour easily cause one to think of South African Apartheid and the era of when Pinochetian kidnapping was all the rage. Hell, even Leopold's genocidal nonchalance (he wants to wipe vampires from the face of the earth) was totalitarian in nature. Anyway, taking what was a symbol of 1970s ingenuity and turning it an instrument of hate, intolerance and fear, director Jimmy Huston and screenwriter Tab Murphy have wittingly fashioned a stark reminder of how something created for fostering good can be quickly turned into a tool of evil.

Luckily, the neophyte bloodsucker has Modoc (Rene Auberjonois) to help him do battle with the sinister van drivers. Okay, he doesn't really help him battle anything. However, the two hundred and sixty-something vampire does assist when it comes to making Jeremy's transition from human teen to vampire teen a little less stressful; he gives him a guidebook and the business card of an all-night butcher.

The sight of Jeremy and Darla making out in his parents' car, their similar haircuts melding into one, is the kind of hotness you can't find in the majority of high school set trans-vamp comedies. Now, I don't really want to go into much detail as to why I enjoyed watching them kiss and stuff. But let's just say, I like the idea of watching a boy and a girl androgynously combining their mouth saliva together in a way that causes you to temporarily forget which one is male and which one is female.

Conveniently, that's the perfect segue for me to extol a modicum of praise on the overall look of Darla in this film. Dressing actress Cheryl Pollak (Pump Up the Volume) in a frumpy array baggy dress shirts, vests, and floor length skirts was a bold move on the part of the producers. It's true, they needed to give her style a unique flavour that separated her from her vacuous peers. (I'm looking in your general direction LeeAnne Locken.) But the glasses, the brash beret, boyish haircut and the Frannie-esque (Annie Ryan's character from Three O'Clock High) affection for pins were almost overkill in terms of off-kilter awesomeness.

It also helped that Miss Pollak had distinct manner of speaking. I mean, the way her vocal singularity and fashion backwardness managed to commingle with one another so succinctly was a reason to overly rejoice. That, and the fact that every scene had neon signs lingering in the background (the film takes place in Houston, Texas) , and the drum machines of composer Steve Dorff (Back to the Beach) weren't afraid of the handclap function.

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Over the Edge (Jonathan Kaplan, 1979)

Extracurricular activities—you know, that time consuming comfort we all take for granted. Well, for some strange reason, they've yet to be made available to the young people of a newly established suburb called New Granada, the bland local where the majority of the unstructured delinquency takes place in the coarsely beautiful Over the Edge, a venturesome look at youth-based ennui in a stagnant society. An authentic and straightforward examination of what it must have been like to live in a world where staring mindlessly at screens all day wasn't option, the film, directed by Jonathan Kaplan (Truck Turner) and featuring gorgeous photography by Andrew Davis (The Fugitive), crackles with a freewheeling aimlessness. Sure, there are television screens to look at, but the underage characters that populate this burgeoning realm don't seem all that interested in the vegetational arts. And I must confess, seeing the kids in this movie roaming wild and unfettered through the streets of this lame town was quite invigorating. Following the apathetic adventures of Carl (Michael Kramer) and Richie (Matt Dillon), two 14 year-old troublemakers who rip the system on a daily basis, the film makes a lofty attempt to show what can happen to a quiet suburb when the interests of young people are completely disregarded. With the exception of a biosphere-esque rec centre run by a cute idealist (Julia Pomeroy), there's nothing much going on in terms of lawful amusement for the under fifteen crowd.

As you would expect, Carl, Richie, and their drug abusing pal Claude (the super-terrific Tom Fergus), drift purposelessly from one unmanageable situation to another, while always on the lookout for the aptly named Doberman (Harry Northup), an overzealous police officer who has a severe disdain for rapscallions, scallywags and scoundrels.

On the parental front, Carl's dad (Andy Romano), the owner of a struggling car dealership, is trying to attract investors to the sleepy suburb, especially the one's who are interested in buying a large plot of land, which of course is located across from the youth's beloved rec centre. Convinced that no one will commit millions of dollars to a town that has hundreds of unruly adolescents running rampant, the elders try to shield the potential investors from the minor rabble. This plan backfires and sets in motion some mildly tragic events that will change New Granada forever.

It's not all drug addled partying and property damage, while all this wanton teen angst is transpiring, young love is blossoming. First locking gazes while attending a mandatory screening of a propaganda film besmirching the destructive beauty that is vandalism, the off-kilter romance that slowly forms between Carl and Cory (Pamela Ludwig) was a delightful counter-punch to all the macho posturing that takes place in Over the Edge. I also liked how the act of Cory almost killing Carl is what brought them closer together–before the accidental snuffing they were just in the flirtation stage of their relationship. Nothing says true love like being shot at while dancing to Cheap Trick in the upstairs bedroom of an uncompleted townhouse on the outskirts of nowhere.

A staunch supporter of teenage vandalism, and hooliganism in general, I found myself nodding along in steadfast agreement while each act of impish rascality was being implemented. The fact that the girls, an unfairly neglected group when it comes to nonsensical criminality, were deeply involved the anarchistic bravado that goes on in this film caused me to nod even harder.

Going much further than Pump Up the Volume and Heathers did in terms of incendiary fanfare, Over the Edge lives up to its title in a big way during its final third. An orgy of underage ferocity and premeditated devilment, a stoic Carl leads his crazed mob of frisky juniors on a senseless yet politically relevant mission to destroy the very fabric of New Grenadian society.

The image of Michael Kramer's Carl, his profound shortness adding to the age-centric believability of his character (teens in movies are usually too tall), serenely standing as chaos reigns around him was the film's defining moment. Second in that regard would have to be the sight of Matt Dillon acting tough in a mid-riff revealing t-shirt. Nah, that's actually third or forth.

The second is the scene where the angelic Pamela Ludwig leaves Carl's hideout and slowly walks into the creeping nightfall emerging daylight. I loved how she waved goodbye twice; briefly extending what was already a touching moment.

Normally content with lying on his bed while blasting the popular rock music of the day on his headphones, Carl comes to the conclusion that he's spent enough time hiding in shadows, and goes about getting his voice heard by utilizing the uncompromising bluntness that only a rowdy throng can provide. It's an inspirational message that proves what kind of greatness humanity can achieve whenever they decide to stop looking at screens, go outside, and confront the world.

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The Vals (James Polakof, 1982)

A flourishing culture germinating in one of the most inhospitable environments on the planet is the best way to describe the inexplicable prosperity of the Valley Girl: a distinct classification of seemingly narcissistic adolescents struggling to survive in the arid landscape just north of the Los Angeles Basin. Fostering their own language, and, not to mention, a wide array of sacred rights and rituals, the constantly giggling female persons that populate this particular region of space thrive by remaining gleefully unaware of the goings on around them. In fact, this unique form of ignorance insulates them on such a profound level, that many may not even know who the current leader of their nation is. Yet, since things like "nations" and "countries" are a completely made-up construct designed to keep people isolated from one another, the gals give off an air of accidental profundity. Which pretty sums the spiritual fortitude of The Vals, the unjustly overlooked companion to the eerily similar Valley Girl. Blissfully decelerated in the conventional reasoning department, the four young ladies who are the main focus of this cinematic unmasking wield their verbal singularity like it were a spiky club laced with high rising intonations. The steady stream of mocking they endure from their Shakespeare extolling teachers, cocaine snorting parents, and those flavourless tarts from Beverly Hills only manage to reinforce their resolve. You see, according to their unclouded minds, oral communication is the cornerstone of their identity. Take it away from them, and all you're left with is a sexy corpse draped in an expensive layer of loud pastels and frilly nonsense.

As you wouldn't expect, the sight of these language pioneers masquerading as brainless twits fiercely protecting their linguistic legacy was one of the many unintentional joys of this not-so aimless enterprise. Despite being repeatedly scolded for their stupid manner of speaking, the girls say, "grody to the max" and "for sure" like it were a badge that contains properties that are honourable in nature.

The film tries to lull you into thinking that it's just another mindless piece of inconsequential fluff. Writer-director James Polakof (Satan's Mistress) attempts to do this by showing alcoholic beverages consumed via unorthodox means, scantily clad inner tube riding, and saucier than usual lingerie shopping. But all this is, like, just an elaborate ruse to get you to stop gazing in the general direction of your navel for more than fifteen seconds and start thinking about the suffering of others. And that's exactly what Samantha (Jill Carroll), Trish (Elena Stratheros), Beth (Michele Laurita), and Annie (Gina Calabrese) purpose to do while languishing in the food court of the Sherman Oaks Galleria (in reality, a mall located somewhere in Stockton, California) one sunny afternoon.

Putting aside the self-admitted pettiness of their own day-to-day problems, the girls decide to care more about society and less about clothes. Ill-equipped for the off-kilter world that awaits them on the other side of the expressway, the girls find themselves in over their heads when they haphazardly choose a ten year-old drug dealer as the recipient of their first good deed.

This, of course, leads to trouble, and the girls end up getting mixed up with a couple of grownup drug dealers named Lance (Michael Leon) and Stone (Robert Dyer a.k.a. the lead scumbag from Savage Streets), a dilapidated orphanage run by John Carradine, and a nocturnal horse racing ring (which, ironically, are raced in order to win each other's cars).

The seemingly inadvertent manner in which the girls in The Vals go about their charity work is the film's greatest attribute. Okay, the sight of the four leads frolicking and cavorting in a sisterly explosion of apparel-based gaudiness and womanly togetherness was the film's most crucial dimension. However, the fact that half of the Valley Girls didn't even realize they helping to save an orphanage was part of the charm. One of the girls, for example, appears genuinely shocked every time the dire situation of the drug dealing minor is brought up.

Another big plus was the way that each Val gal was totally distinguishable from one another by film's end. I mean, to be honest, there were a couple of instances early on when I thought I was have gonna have a hard time being able to tell the difference between say, Beth and Annie. But thanks to the richly worded screenplay–one that deftly takes in account the prospect that there could be as many as four women on screen at any given moment–the characters are all given distinct personalities.

A full-bodied screenplay is nothing without corporeal vessels to flesh out the characters wasting away on the page, and The Vals delivers by casting a virtual cornucopia of talented actresses to enunciate the complicated Valspeak.

Leading the charge when it comes to being totally awesome and junk is Jill Carroll as Samantha, the eye-rolling, horse riding conscience of group. Pensive, yet vacuous, Jill does a terrific job portraying a Valley Girl who's in the midst of a personality crisis. She wants to shield her unique way of life from the scourge of the outside world, but she also craves its unsavoury delights.

Playing the sexpot of this particular Valley Girl clique is Annie (Gina Calabrese). Sporting large breasts and a pair of legs that look particularly divine while encased in white tights, the impish brunette loves cock, but longs for snow. And, no, I don't mean cocaine, I'm talking about actual snow. (Chuck Connors, on the other hand, loves cocaine - he plays Trish's dad.)

The head drug dealer may have been drawn to the wide-eyed Samantha, but my perverted leer was always fixated on the sensual splendour that was Trish, the Val I alluded to earlier who kept forgetting that they were helping a little kid extract himself from a life of crime and degradation. The blonde hair, the blank expression, the affinity for over-pronouncing her Valley-isms, and her overall selfishness all combined to create an almost heavenly figure. Exquisitely shaped and molded by actress extraordinaire, Elena Stratheros, the always horny Trish is not only a role model for girls and boys, but for every living creature that possesses eyes, ears, and the ability to discern things that are truly amazing.

Whether inquiring about the functionality of a specialty condom or causing one to rethink their opinion of ladies who excel in the field of fraternity beer bongs, Michele Laurita is absolutely adorable as Beth, the prerequisite goofball of the group. When I wasn't leering at Trish, I was definitely keeping tabs on what Michele was bringing to the Val table. Well, you couldn't help but notice her, as her body language was quite expressive. The sight of Miss Laurita hoping into the back of Trish's Mercedes (which she does about six or seven times) was always an event. (I would love to see the outtakes, as I bet she missed the car completely on several occasions.)

Anyway, the film ends with a succinct recap that covers all the antics the girls get into over the course of the film. Proving in an unequivocal manner that in fact each character is utterly unique. And while it may not have the star power and the killer soundtrack of its Martha Coolidge-directed rival, The Vals is still fascinating portrait of a misunderstood subculture.

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Nemesis (Albert Pyun, 1992)

In a world where blood splattered walls and arterial spray have been replaced by sparky embers and frazzled circuit boards, Nemesis exists solely as pornographic wish fulfillment for those whose dream it has been to live on the fringes of society as a human-machine hybrid with conflicted loyalties. A Front Line Assembly album cover come to life, this cutting edge science fiction action flick will no doubt test one's tolerance for overlong shootouts, shoddy Germanic accents, and the act of diving off a cliff in a tropical setting. But those willing to look past its inherent wonkiness, the rewards are immeasurable; especially in terms of watching comely cyborg chicks in short skirts shoot automatic weapons at a wily French dude. A series of cleverly demented fire fights punctuated by William Gibson-esque dialogue and bluntly-worded one-liners, this film is a bouncy trip into the near future that will surely keep your gears oiled and your mind in a constant state of perpetual motion. If the expression "sparky embers" sounds familiar, well, that's because I also used it to describe the gun battles that take place in Radioactive Dreams, a post-apocalyptic adventure film from 1985. Which of course makes perfect sense seeing as that both are directed by Albert Pyun, the master when it comes to creating iridescent shootouts. (If I'm not mistaken, the gunplay featured in his version of Captain America were kinda sparkly as well.)

Anyway, taking spark-replete firefights to whole another level of... sparkiness, Mr. Pyun gets downright nutty with the pyrotechnics this time around. And what makes it so great is that he is completely justified. I mean, what do you think would happen if a room full of cyborgs started shooting metal projectiles at each other at an accelerated velocity? Exactly. The amount of sparks produced as a result of this bullet-fueled mayhem would be off the sparky charts.

Getting us from one spark-emitting encounter to another is the blank expression of Olivier Gruner, a Parisian kick boxer turned actor. Playing Alex, a L.A. cop in the year 2027, the monosyllabic tough guy is constantly being upgraded with mechanical parts after each assignment. These tuneups have become so commonplace, that he has started to worry about the structural integrity of his everlasting soul. At what point does he stop being human? Deep, mildly philosophical stuff.

Tired of hunting down cyber-terrorists and hackers, the conflicted cop moves down to Rio de Janeiro to start a new life as a black-market dealer of cybertronic doodads. The net may be vast and infinite, but this doesn't prevent his old employers from tracking him down. Forcing him to partake in a dangerous mission to locate a rogue agent named Jared (Marjorie Monaghan) in Shang Loo, Java, his bosses Farnsworth (Tim Thomerson) and Maritz (Brion James) install a small bomb in his heart to ensure his cooperation. Upon arriving in Shang Loo, Alex quickly becomes an unwilling pawn in an epic battle brewing between humans and cyborgs. And since he's somewhere in the middle, Alex must choose which side he's on.

Helping him make his decision is a rebel leader (Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa), a big-haired cyborg in a trench-coat (Deborah Shelton), and a limber rapscallion named Max Impact (Merle Kennedy). These three characters (especially the Lori Petty-esque Miss Kennedy) are essential to the non-shootout scenes, in that they utter the majority of the film's spoken dialogue. Don't get me wrong, he can blast his way out of an awkward situation like nobodies business, but my confidence in Olivier Gruner as an human actor is a tad on the sketchy side.

Strangely, Marjorie Monaghan is quite clumsy as an actress while in the flesh – though I did enjoy the shortness of her skirt (and the equally short skirt sported by her blonde friend, a leggy Marjean Holden)–yet, she was rather competent while compressed in the digital realm. It's weird how that happens.

It's true, I never saw Nemesis in its entirety before now, but the "cyborg fucking shootout" in the Shang Loo hotel has been in contact with my illustrious eyeballs on several occasions over the years. I first saw the infamous shootout on cable while volunteering over at a community centre for wayward she-male's with low self-esteem back in the mid-90s and more recently in an online setting.

However, seeing it in its proper context–you know, with the rest of the film in tow–has elevated it to a somewhat legendary status.

The sheer number of sparks employed during this sequence alone is enough to glorify it with exaggerated praise, the fact that Olivier Gruner escapes his hotel room by shooting his way through the floor–rendering a cyborg inoperative along the way–is what makes this scene the awe-inspiring spectacle that it truly is. Seriously, the person who came up with the idea of having him create his own personal elevator utilizing his guns is a freaking genius. And just the mere thought of Deborah Shelton exchanging an inordinate amount of gunfire with those two lumbering cyborgs, all the while, Gruner mows his way through the floor, never fails to bring a misguided tear to my eye.

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Santa Sangre (Alejandro Jodorowsky, 1989)

Hauntingly beautiful in a way that made me not want to vomit, Santa Sangre (Holy Blood) is a work of gentle and demented grace. Filled with enough lunacy, mental trauma (seeing your father struggling to maintain his composure with acid-soaked genitalia will do that), mentally challenged cocaine users, and circus sex to last an undetermined amount of time, Alejandro Jodorowsky (The Holy Mountain) has created a masterful ode to letting go of the past. A veiled cautionary tale about the dangers that could develop when you don't use your hands to do your own bidding, the colourful, gory (a man tries to force feed a little girl his own right ear), and richly layered enterprise is a mellifluous feast for the senses – primarily the ones that are indispensable when it comes to watching and listening to films. Whether it be the awe-inspiring visual splendour of the aerial shot of a beloved elephant bleeding from its trunk, the graveyard dream sequence (synthesizers whirl while white zombies lurch), or the maddening ferocity of the bongo music heard during a grislier than usual flophouse stabbing, everything about this film, optically and audibly, is heightened to the point of rapturous madness.

A dreamlike mishmash that jumps back and forth between reality and fantasy, and, not to mention, the past and the present, the story revolves around a mental patient named Fenix (Axel Jodorowsky). A deeply troubled man trying to come to grips with a violent incident that transpired between his parents when he was a child (Adan Jodorowsky), the film flashes back to when he performed in a traveling circus called Circo del Gringo. There we meet his knife throwing father Orgo (Guy Stockwell), his religious fanatic/trapeze artist mother Goncha (Blanca Guerra), and Alma (Faviola Elenka Tapia), the deaf-mute flaming tightrope walker he has a crush on.

The intensity of Alma's adorableness cannot be accurately measured using conventional methods.

Upsetting the big top equilibrium is a woman who is covered head-to-toe in tattoos. You see, Orgo has these little flings with the tattooed lady, and Goncha isn't too happy about it. Taking matters into her own hands, Goncha, in the spur of the moment, decides to throw a vitriolic liquid into Orgo's sexing area just as he was about to penetrate the tattooed lady with his penis (it's not a Jodorwsky flick until someone loses their junk). Even though in agony, Orgo manages to muster enough energy to chop off Goncha's arms.

Profoundly traumatized by this event (though it should be said that the large eagle chest tattoo he receives from his father and the elephant funeral procession were pretty trauma-inducing as well), we jump forward to when a now grownup yet catatonic Fenix is living in an insane asylum. Reinvigorated by a night on the hooker-filled streets with some of his fellow patients, Fenix is surprised to find his now armless mother calling to him from the street outside his cell/room. Leaving the confines of his self-stylized prison, the reunited mother-son startup a stage show that involves Fenix standing behind Goncha and acting out her arm movements.

Now, while this sounds like a cute idea for a show, the fact that Goncha has Fenix acting as her hands to do everyday chores is a tad disturbing. Things get even more troubling when Goncha starts forcing Fenix to carry out her murderous wishes. The barely sane Fenix could easily refuse to follow through with her unhinged desires, but you should have seen how inflamed Goncha became when the local monsignor told her the blood pool at her favourite church was merely paint. In fact, their heated back and forth that involved the expressions: "This is paint!" and "It's holy blood!" reminded me of a certain beer commercial from the 1980s. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is Goncha is not someone to be trifled with; even while armless.

The undulating undercarriage of the excessively tattooed woman known as "The Tattooed Woman" (played by the sturdily built Thelma Tixou) was a joy to revel in. Of course, I wouldn't go as far as to say that she was a nice person (pimping out your deaf-mute daughter to horny military personnel isn't exactly an endearing quality), but the sight of Thelma erotically savouring the exquisite longness of her ink-covered frame did a pretty good job of deflating any scorn I felt towards her. After all, she was basically just an exhibitionist who loved to give knives fellatio. And, in the long run, I can't stay mad at someone like that.

Your hands were given to you by the secretive overlords, the one's who live amongst the nonjudgmental hairs that cover the cavernous highway that is God's ass, in order to assist humankind when it comes to masturbating and eating cereal with some level of lordliness. Sure, you can pretty do both of those things without hands, but the sheer amount of rubbing and flailing involved would be so demanding, that you'd no doubt discontinue engaging in both activities after about five years of undignified struggle. Regardless, the inherent freewill to utilize your hands in any way you see fit was the main message I took away from Santa Sangre; that, and elephant funerals rarely end pleasantly. It doesn't matter if you come from a dysfunctional family populated by womanizing knife throwers and overzealous crackpots, your hands are a gift; manipulate them with impunity.

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