Xtro (Harry Bromley Davenport, 1983)

You know a movie is doing something right if the sight of a woman giving birth to a fully grown man on her kitchen floor the isn't its most memorable moment. But that's exactly what the occasionally creepy, always icky, Xtro manages do. Okay, maybe I'm stretching the foreskin a tad when I say there are moments more memorable than the image of a little boys long, lost daddy struggling to crawl out of the not yet gaping maw of a person who ain't his Ma. That being said, the fact that the filmmakers decided to stage this unorthodox delivery so early in the story was a bold move on their part. Of course, the timing of birthing scene was necessary to the structure of the story (all things begin in the uterus). Nevertheless, I was deeply impressed by their audacity. Besides, this irregular parturition only managed to perk my interest in the film, as everything up until then had been pretty bland. Well, not too bland, but I can tell you this: no men erupt from women. It's blatantly obvious that I'm obsessed with this gooey sequence of events, so for the sake of my breeding sanity, I'm gonna move on to less fertile ground. An extraterrestrial visitation flick with familial twist, the sci-fi horror film is basically about a father (Philip Sayer) returning to see his wife (Bernice Stegers) and son (Simon Nash) after a mysterious three year absence. The question about where he's been exactly and the awkwardness surrounding his wife's new living conditions–she's now living in a flat with her American photographer boyfriend (Danny Brainin) and a young French woman (Maryam d'Abo)–dominate early going of the surprise reunion.

The already agitated atmosphere is intensified when the son catches his father eating his pet snake's eggs. After a long chase through the dark alleyways of London, daddy explains to his son that he had to eat the eggs– you know, because he's different. Anyway, dad latches onto his son's shoulder with the skin of his face, and proceeds to impart some kind of unknown space wisdom onto him. Peculiar birthing rituals aside, things begin to get a little weird after this point.

A deeply unhinged, yet oddly straightforward film–one that features the entire male cast of the new wave theatrical group Shock: Tik plays the alien, Tok brings a militaristic toy to life, and Robert Pereno shows up as a hapless victim–Xtro is full of strange surprises. For example, the whole section involving the boy and his new abilities was wonderfully deranged in a 'I can't believe I'm seeing this actually transpire' kinda way.

Everything from the little circus clown (Peter Mandell), who helps father and son in the incubation process (they've got a makeshift womb cocooned in the corner), to the aforementioned life-size action figure played by Tok, was exactly the kind madness I look for when I sit down to stare at images crudely projected onto screens.

The only thing I wished would have taken place in the dementia department was a brief shot inside the toy tank that chases Maryam d'Abo's gentlemen caller around her flat. I mean, to have see little army dudes loading and firing inside the toy tank would have been perfect.

Back to the birth for a second, I recall a scene in John Waters' Female Trouble where Divine bites through the umbilical cord of the character who would grow up to look like Mink Stole. But witnessing an adult male covered in embryonic fluid chewing a cord that's attached his own body is something I have never seen before.

Oh, and call me a pessimist, but I don't think the unsuspecting mother is gonna make it. If she had, think about all the money she'd saved on diapers – you know, because grown men (at least the one's I know) don't soil themselves...on a regular basis.

If listening to hours of loud, extremely obnoxious techno rave music has taught me anything, it's that English people love space aliens. In other words: it was about time I came across a halfway decent sci-fi horror film set in Britain, especially one that has a fantastic synthesizer score (sinister sounding when ominous, playful when surrealistic) and sports a trio of new romantic legends.

...

Bad Biology (Frank Henenlotter, 2008)

The epitome of unsavoury and vile, Bad Biology is a film that will cause you to look at your genitals with an air of distrust by the time it's over. The long awaited return of writer-director Frank Henenlotter (Basket Case, Brain Damage), this sebaceous cyst masquerading as cinema repeatedly tests one's tolerance for things that secrete an unconventional brand of ooze. Teaming up with rapper turned writer-producer R.A. Thorburn (a.k.a. The Rugged Man), the wily filmmaker has dragged his wonderfully disgusting outlook kicking and screaming into the 21st century. It's true, the campy effects, unprofessional acting and gritty locations of his past movies are well represented in this outing, but they don't quite feel at home in this starkly modern universe. (Hip Hop and Henenlotter is a dicey combination.) While not as aesthetically pleasing as his previous films, the outrageous premise and twisted humour more than make up for its lack of flair. Outrageous premise? Really? I mean, Mr. Henenlotter's previous films involve a murderous mound of flesh who gets around via a wicker basket, a parasitic worm who shoots hallucinogenic blue liquid through a straw located in its mouth, and an amateur mad scientist who reanimates his dead girlfriend with spare hooker parts, so how outrageous can it be? Blessed/cursed with having seven clitorises, Jennifer (played by gorgeous newcomer Charlee Danielson) is the world's only true nymphomaniac. You see, the crass term, which according to her, was invented to make women feel guilty about wanting to have sex with anyone besides their husbands. Well, in Jennifer's case, her complicated genitalia has a genuine craving for the sturdy relief that only a hard and properly motivated cock can provide.

Most of the men who enter the oceanic discomfort of Jennifer's vaginal expanse have no idea what they're getting into when they penetrate the unruly quagmire that is her squishy petunia. And since some of them become acutely aware of what's going on down there the moment they approach her from a strictly oral sex point-of-view (the pronounced throbbing alone will cause even the most seasoned pussy lickers to run for less dewy ground), Jennifer has limited herself to engaging in unsatisfactory one night stands. You know, because cunnilingus is rarely on the menu; particularly when it comes to impromptu junkyard fornication.

The only problem (actually, there are plenty of problems, but let's focus on them one at a time, okay?) is that Jennifer's orgasm is so intense, that she usually ends ups killing the man in an outburst of gratifying passion (much like a female praying mantis will bite the head off its male counterpart after copulation has been completed). These post-coital dispatches have an upside, however, in that she takes photos of her victims and passes them off as ghoulish erotica.

The downside to having so many clits is that her metabolism is a tad erratic. Meaning, she usually gives birth within a few minutes of having intercourse. The fact the she leaves the babies where they come out or puts them in the trash may shock some people. But, as Jennifer points out, the babies are mutant babies, and therefore, not worthy of our sympathy. While their cries do sound human, the shot of that one baby writhing in the bathtub makes it abundantly clear that they're grotesque monstrosities.

Still, it makes you think about all the mutant babies that must be out there twitching and fidgeting without a mommy.

While boasting the most receptive hatchet wound in all of New York City may seem like a blush-coloured happy place filled with a constant profusion of strange and fantastic delights, her cock-possessing counterpart is living in a hellish nightmare where his unstable junk is ruining his life. While most men will be able to relate to a man whose day-to-day existence is completely dominated by the unquenchable thirst of his one-eyed trouser snake, the extreme situation a guy named Batz (Anthony Sneed) finds himself in will no doubt alarm the majority of the penis owners in the audience.

Injected with every kind of drug there is, Batz's headstrong member has grown a mind of its own. Placating it with an industrial-style masturbating machine, lulling it with farm animal narcotics, and keeping it under wraps via the magic of duct tape have all begun to lose their effectiveness, as his penis is starting to literally getting away from him.

One day while doing a photo shoot featuring vagina-faced models in a yellow house in Brooklyn, Jennifer sees Batz yelling at his penis. Curious about the romantic possibilities that might blossom between a woman with a lively vagina and a man with an autonomous penis, Jennifer shows up later that night in the hope that she may have found her ideal partner. Of course, with Batz and his penis not exactly on speaking terms, Jennifer may have found him too late. That's right, his cock has decided to take a walk.

You haven't lived until you have seen a self-governing penis bust through a hardwood floor and attack a half-naked woman lounging in her penthouse.

There were moments during Bad Biology where I felt like I was watching a low budget porno. The "actresses" used during the pecker assaults had a real scruffy and cheap vibe about them. However, the sheer gusto that Charlee Danielson and Anthony Sneed display as Mr. and Mrs. Bizarre Crotch repeatedly save the film from being a distasteful mess with no redeeming values. You have to admire the manner in which the two actors were able to express themselves in a coherent fashion, especially in the scenes where the freaks living between their legs carried on like a couple of junkie sleaze-bags.

The sadness on Sneed's face after his penis leaves him had a hint of Brando about it, while the deadpan way he bemoaned the fact that his penis didn't even say good by was pure Henenlotter. And having the luminous Charlee Danielson wear stockings that were attached to a garter belt throughout the film was a surprising and bold choice (her shapely legs are always tightly encased in nylons, and I couldn't have been more pleased), as they not only did enhanced her performance, but they gave Bad Biology a much needed touch of class.

While not as satisfying as his previous films, it is still comforting to know that there is someone out there willing to take chances when it comes to making disgusting and subversive horror films.

...

Twin Sitters (John Paragon, 1994)

They may engage in dinning rituals of a fundamentalist Christian nature, openly advocate torture, and behave like total gentlemen when on a date with the same woman, but don't you dare call The Barbarian Brothers "conservative." An overly stimulated glutæus maximus crushing the spirit of human dignity, Twin Sitters (a.k.a. The Babysitters) represents a new high in the made-up pantheon of babysitting comedies that feature musclebound twins who can hit a tennis ball with a cannon-like ferocity and make killer lasagne. Repeatedly subverting the existential Zeitgeist with their seemingly brainless antics, Peter and David Paul, with some much needed guidance from writer-director John Paragon (Jambi the Genie from Pee-wee's Playhouse), have created a heart-eviscerating poem cleverly masquerading as a crudely worded suicide note. Which is kinda inappropriate, because not once did the thought of taking my own life trickle through my diseased mind as I watched this non-travesty unfold before my very stunned mouth, nose, chin and eyes. Not wanting kill oneself is just the tip of the other foot when it comes to adjudicating the misguided adoration I absorbed from this cinematic abomination. A mangled pile of scattered body parts, shards of broken glass, and deformed clumps of metal, this movie/self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head is basically a sped up episode of the Three Stooges mixed with a second-rate Chuck Norris action flick that's been anally raped by a poorly produced exercise tape from the latter half of 1985. In other words: it takes everything that's awful about slapstick comedy, punching and kicking in strategically torn clothing, and physical fitness, and magnifies it to an almost blinding level of garishness.

An enchanting tale involving two boorish twins named Peter and David Falcone (real life twins Peter and David Paul), a pair of bodybuilding foodies who never met a malapropism they didn't want to force feed their shriveled genitals, the film seemed to be channeling Eating Raoul. I know, weird, eh? Out of all the films to channel. Of course, having Paul Bartel (one of the geniuses behind Eating Raoul) appear as "Linguini-covered man" during the opening restaurant sequence helped immensely in the channeling department.

However, when the caveman-esque boys go to the bank to secure a loan so that they can open their own eatery, I began to wonder if they were gonna start bumping off swingers with a frying pan.

Unfortunately, no swingers are murdered with cookware, but the bank employee who denies the Falcone brothers of their lone is played by the writer and director of Twin Sitters, John Paragon, who played the sex shop salesman in–you guessed it–Eating Raoul. And Mother Love actually does strike two ninjas in the head with a frying pan during a heated battle in the kitchen. Sure, they weren't swingers, but it's pretty damn close, if you ask me.

Anyway, if Chopping Mall is considered the unofficial sequel to Eating Raoul, I'm gonna have to assign Twin Sitters the status of being the third film in of the nonexistent trilogy. The only thing that really irked me was the fact that Mary Woronov wasn't the "Linguini-covered woman," that distinction went to Suzanne Kent (The Gong Show Movie), who was dressed like Edith Prickly for some reason.

The part of the plot that didn't resemble Eating Raoul, for those with an ill-defined interest in such things, is about the aforementioned twin brothers being hired to protect/babysit the nephews of a corporate whistle blower after they prevent assassins from killing him in the park (he was impressed by their physical prowess). Put in charge of keeping the kids safe while their uncle is testifying at an undisclosed location, the Falcone brothers utilize their unique parenting skills to win over Bradley and Steven (Christian and Joseph Cousins), who are a tad on the brattish side.

Akin to their heavily muscled, racially ambiguous brethren, the Paul brothers bring an off-kilter approach to their line readings that causes the person who is watching and listening to tilt their head slightly to the side while simultaneously making a nonplussed expression with their face. Loudly screaming their dialogue with heightened sense of urgency, the Peter and David bring an unconventional charm to their roles. Whether uttering nonsensical gibberish, babbling incoherently or merely mixing their metaphors, the thickly structured duplicates do so with an exaggerated brand of comical desperation.

And you know a movie has got something special going for it when the biggest chuckle is earned when one of the shirtless butt-sniffers yells "unspeakable atrocities" at the top of his lungs.

I'm still not 100% sure if the absolutely demented clothing Peter and David wear throughout Twin Sitters is a plus or a minus. But I know one thing, I'll never look at spandex the same way ever again. Seriously, the things these guys wear in this movie were totally messed up. I mean, I could have sworn that I saw one of them sporting a hat with a seagull on it (complete with a matching nest of eggs).

Luckily, the gorgeous Rena Sofer (Seinfeld - "The Muffin Tops") and her first-rate eyebrows show up halfway through to add some class and dignity to the proceedings with her modest business attire; she plays Miss Newman, the kids' tutor and the romantic interest of the Falcone brothers. I'll admit, it wasn't quite enough to placate the atrocious fashions of the burly brothers (who manage to infect the kids with their gaudy contagion), but she soothed my style-weary soul whenever it was about to go hurdling off the deep end. Which is a great way to sum the experience of watching Twin Sitters; in that, you'll feel like you're falling to your death, except instead of screaming along the way, you'll be laughing with the demented gusto of a bricklayer born without a taint.

video uploaded by WSW55

...

Delirium (Renato Polselli, 1972)

The flesh and bone dangling effortlessly from their supple torsos help them move from one location to another with a graceful ease; the skimpy hemline, a minute piece of fabric in charge of keeping two highly sensitive areas hidden from view, while at the same time, accentuating what swings sexily below, struggles to maintain its composure, as the threat of a stiff breeze is perpetual; and a thin epidermal layer protects the protruding appendages from harsh atmospheric conditions and aggressive groping. These three things are the basic properties that make up the complicated infrastructure of an Italian woman's lower half, which is celebrated without a hint of shame in Delirium (a.k.a. Delirio Caldo), a remarkably seedy tribute to psychotic leg fetishists and the kooky women who love them. It should be said that some attention is put on the neck area (the pulsating focal point of most strangulation attempts), but it's the lithesome stems that garner the most scrutiny from our debased protagonist. I knew things were going to be exquisite, from a leggy point-of-view, right from the get-go, as the first thing we see are a pair of healthy female legs standing before a pub jukebox. Her thumbs are trying to find just the perfect piece of music to accompany the swaying instincts of her young calve muscles. Noticing this scintillating display from afar is Dr. Herbert Lyutak (Mickey Hargitay), a man who clearly has a profound hunger for freshly moisturized gams. The music she chooses is rendered unimportant (it sounds like the kind of thing you might hear in a West German fisting flick), as the mildly creepy doctor's perverted gaze has obviously clouded her judgment when it comes to not accepting rides from sleazy strangers.

Spouting some nonsense about driving her to a nightclub, the strano medico can barely contain himself, as he inundates his alluring passenger with an inspired collection of depraved leers and profane glances. Frustrated by the shortness of her skirt, she tolerates the unwholesome looks; basically chalking up as just one of those things you have to deal with when riding in cars with ambiguously European men. That is, until the leg grabbing starts. Discarding her chunky shoes, the nameless woman flees the vehicle and runs into the wilderness. Of course, Herb, with nary any effort, nonchalantly catches up to with her (he finds her flailing about near a smallish waterfall) and proceeds to accost her legs with the glee of a multi-handed molester. In other words: The beating and asphyxiation can wait, he's got some legs to feel up.

When the police are going through crime scene photos later that evening, we are shocked to see that the murdering doctor is working for the police as a criminal psychologist. Apparently, there have been a string of murders similar to the one I just overly described. What's strange for a movie like this is that we know who the killer is right from the start. However, every other murder that occurs in Delirium is staged with the killer off screen; implying that there is someone else out there killing young women in extremely short skirts.

In fact, there has to be, as we see Dr. Lyutak chatting with Miss Heindrich (Katia Cardinali) while another woman is murdered at a nearby location (so near, they can hear her screams).

Ignoring the fact that a witness saw Dr. Lyutak with the leggy jukebox woman (Stefania Fassio) on the night she was murdered, boasts an extensive knife collection, and has an overall threatening demeanor, the detectives in charge of solving this case seemed totally uninterested with things like "evidence" or "credible alibis." After all, the abnormal quack is pals with the lead investigator, while the shifty-looking parking lot attendant picked up milling about the crime scene is not. Plus, he has a mustache and urinates in public. This bit of investigative incompetence will no doubt frustrate audience members accustomed to seeing movies with levelheaded police work. I, on the other hand, found their stupidity to be hilarious.

The wacky home life of Dr. Lyutak is examined when we are introduced to Marzia (the alluring Rita Calderoni), the doctor's stressed out wife. Whether lounging nervously or suspiciously snooping through her husband's bloodied clothing, Marzia is probably the most fascinating character in the entire film. And I'm not just saying that because of her tendency to dream of lesbian threesomes. Okay, I am kinda saying that. The sight of her chained up, while her maid and niece Joaquine (Christa Barrymore) sixty-nine on the floor in front of her was quite awe-inspiring. It's just that her character is more open when it comes to acting deranged in public than her serial killing husband. Which makes sense since he's trying keep his unsavoury habit a secret, while she's being slowly consumed by the guilt that comes with being in love with a murderous fiend.

This guilt fuels the final third of the film, as we see Marzia's madness manifest itself while watching so-called normal couples frolicking in a shameless display of heterosexual harmony. Her unloved vagina, her husband's impotent cock, and a general feeling of unchecked hysteria have pushed her to the limits of her studded tether.

Pronto! Pronto! Pronto!

Filmmaker Renato Polselli (The Reincarnation of Isabel) uses the zoom lens on his kinky camera to capture this lunacy by getting all up in Miss Calderoni's attractive grill. He uses a similar technique when trying to capture Mickey Hargitay's many intense looks, but nothing beats the closeups of Rita's face whilst in the throws of insanity.

I have to say, the three main female victims in Delirium, while downright heroic when it came to being excessively leggy during precarious situations, were all pretty pathetic when it came to resisting their killers. The aggressively blonde Christa Barrymore and her awesome eyebrows (all the women in the Lyutak household have eyebrows to die for), while not a victim like the others, at least showed some spunk when it came her turn to get her crazy on.

While the depleted hemline length of the era is one of the reasons this film turned out to be a resounding success, you cannot discount the sight of Rita Calderoni completely losing it in a bedroom setting. A depraved classic.

video uploaded by GialloTrailers

Special thanks to the humanitarians over at MONDO 70: A Wild World of Cinema for introducing me to this succulent work of debased luminosity.

...

Q: The Winged Serpent (Larry Cohen, 1982)

It screeches loudly when excited, possesses claws the size of traffic cones, and has a constant hankering for the supple flesh of window washers and sunbathers, yet it manages to allude detection. What, pray tell, am I babbling about? Why I'm describing the lead creature in the unexpectedly awesome Q: The Winged Serpent (a.k.a. American Monster - Das Ungeheuer von New York), an urban monster flick from Larry Cohen – yeah, that's right, the same guy who brought us The Stuff. Now, back in early June, if you'd said that I'd be spending the final days of summer fully enveloped in the goings on in a movie about a giant killer bird that threatens the human residents of Midtown Manhattan, I would have told you (utilizing my world renowned Jimmy Stewart impression) that you're screwy in the head. I mean, I'll pretty much watch anything–as I have proven time and time again–but I usually draw the line when it comes to films about carnivorous flying beasts who get the guys from Kung Fu, Shaft and Law & Order all in a tizzy.

Not one to let some imaginary line prevent themselves from looking at something for a predetermined length of time, I bravely soldiered into the feathery morass that is this loopy endeavour. And aw shucks on a stick, am I glad I did (cross the meaningless line, that is), because the preconception I had about this film completely was wrong. Sure, there's a large monstrosity with wings devouring roof dwellers willy-and-a-fair-amount-of-nilly. But there's so much more going on in terms of character development, theology, human frailty, entitlement, anthropology and class warfare, that you'll forget that there's an airborne menace afoot.

Okay, the chances that you or the many sane people out there will forget about the flesh eating behemoth in the sky is slim to none. In other words, as my notorious Aunt Judy would say, "it's kooky nonsense." However, the way Larry Cohen slowly reveals the identity of the serpentine scourge a little bit at a time, while simultaneously letting the personalities of the main characters blossom, was a clever example of the properly mix serious drama with the occasional severed head.

Grafting a yarn about a massive ambulatory predator onto a detective story involving Aztec mythology and a hard luck tale about a smalltime crook who longs to be a musician is no easy feat. But there they are, all flapping their figurative wings in perfect unison. Well, since the creature has wings, the wings aren't exactly figurative. Uh, let's just say they're doing everything at the same time, and doing so quite well.

A petty thief named Jimmy Quinn (Michael Moriarty) discovers the nest of a large vulture-like bird at the top of the Chrysler Building (a name that is not uttered once) while laying low after a botched jewelry heist. Tired of being treated like a schnook, the wily criminal decides to use the nest location to settle scores – you know, bring people he don't like up to see the nest without telling them that there's a gigantic killer bird living there. When that utilization runs its course, he employs his nest knowledge for monetary gain. Unsurprisingly, his on-again, off-again lady-friend (played ably by Candy Clark) is disturbed by Jimmy's transformation from meek mook to greedy opportunist.

While all this is going on, two detectives, Shepard (David Carradine) and Powell (Richard Roundtree) are trying to solve a recent slew of ritualistic slayings. The former thinks the murders are connected to the spate of rooftop irregularities that have plagued the city; a window washer lost his head (call me a sick twist, but I loved the way the glass stifled the blood from spraying out of gaping neck in a torrent manner). The latter, well, he couldn't give a shit if they're connected or not. Either way, people are still being plucked from atop buildings (one guy gets grabbed out of a rooftop swimming pool) and some are having their hearts forcibly removed from their chests.

Similar to the temperament put forth by Anne Carlisle's character in Liquid Sky, Michael Moriarty imbues his advantageous lowlife with an unhinged giddiness. Akin to the manner in which Miss Carlisle wittingly and unwittingly lured rapists, junkies and judgmental acting teachers to her modest, neon-adorned penthouse to kill them with her cunt, Moriarty–a cunt-less individual if I ever saw one–alternatively uses the giant killer bird perched atop a New York City landmark to deal with his enemies.

Giving a performance that is full of that nuance junk and containing a humongous tablespoon of moxie, Michael Moriarty is all over the map in terms of emotion in Q: The Winged Serpent. Crying, receiving body blows, muttering to himself in a crazed fashion, this isn't the guy you used to see on A&E seven times a day.

Even weirder was the sight of tough guy actors David Carradine and Richard Roundtree treating Moriarty like a two bit punk. It's a tad jarring at first (after all, he's one of the city's top district attorneys), but I got used to the strange role reversal. Much in the same way I got to used to the idea that I was spending my waning summer* watching this oddly entertaining film.

* Yeah, I realize it's not summer in my particular corner of North America right now.

video uploaded by AussieRoadshow

...