Dr. Alien (David DeCoteau, 1989)

Clumps of coagulated dandruff conspiring underneath the fingernails of possible existence, Dr. Alien (a.k.a. I Was a Teenage Sex Maniac and I Was a Teenage Sex Mutant) gently protrudes from the top of your head like a worm in search of substandard car insurance. A film like no other, yet strangely like other films in every way imaginable, this David DeCoteau (Creepozoids and Nightmare Sisters) directed piece of excitable sushi has one goal, and one goal only: to begin and to end. And speaking as a person who loves the living otherworldliness out of things that eventually cease to be (especially sporting events and award shows), I appreciated what this out of this world undertaking was attempting to pull off by ending so promptly. In the meantime, the fact that a wholly entertaining film was somehow squeezed between the start and the finish is a testament to the dedication of all those involved in the making of this profoundly touching and socially relevant enterprise. A stark examination of what it must be like to be the owner of an infrequently desired teenage cock, the realistic film follows a buttoned-down stick plunged into an expanse of mud named Wesley Littlejohn (Billy Jayne) as he tries to navigate the intricate nooks and crannies of collegiate life. Like most cautious individuals, his best friend, Marvin (Stuart Franklin), is the complete opposite when it comes to style and overall temperament. Together, they make for a mildly interesting movie pairing. The act of putting them in college as supposed to high school was also interesting; in that, it seemed to free up the filmmakers, giving them carte blanche be more aggressive in regard to implementing their more perverted flights of fancy.

Having just botched an attempt to talk to Leeanne (Olivia Barash), the girl of his dreams, Wesley finds himself all alone in biology class with the newly hired Ms. Xenobia (Judy Landers)–their regular teacher was put out of commission by a large spherical light–and her assistant Drax (Raymond O'Connor). He thinks he's their for an extra credit assignment, but the lab-coated twosome have some different in store for the awkward young man in the bland sweater.

Clandestinely injecting him in the buttocks with a syringe full iridescent green goo, Wesley feels a little woozy and then drifts off on top of a dissecting table. Waking up in a blurred haze, all he remembers is the dainty outline of Ms. Xenobia's complicated lingerie.

Now, I may not have noticed it instantaneously (my brain is not good sometimes), but it was right then and there that Dr. Alien attained its status as a masterwork of imperishable greatness. You see, by fusing the medical properties of lingerie with the eye-catching resplendence of bright liquid in a syringe, the film immediately established itself as a work of art that was worthy of my increasingly fickle gaze.

And you know no-one ever says: Old school garter belts and vividly coloured narcotics are the cornerstone of first-rate cinema.

The mysterious fluid coursing through his veins seems to have improved Wesley's life in every conceivable manner. He's more confident, his attire becomes more casual (no more ties and sweaters), and he's able to talk to Leeanne without tripping over his words. Only problem is that every female on campus wants his penis to be thrust inside their vaginas for a reasonably excessive amount of time whenever that worm-like antennae is sticking out from the base of his skull.

Of course, his friend Marvin doesn't see this as a problem (the prospect of having women crawling all over him is very appealing to him). But if Wesley wants to make any progress with Leeanne, he's gonna have to find away to control his male rivals girlfriend (Julie Gray) and countless horny coeds (the endearing Michelle Bauer from Café Flesh being one of them) who want to decimate his genitalia.

Narrated by Billy Jayne (Just One of the Guys) like it were a Достое́вский novel, Dr. Alien glides smoothly toward its life affirming message (you don't need green goo to be cool), thanks to skillful direction and humourous performances. Snicker obnoxiously if you must, but the combination of fundamental camera angles and comical acting should not be underestimated. Hellish landscapes, even Jim Hackett and Arlene Golonka were able to garner stilted laughter as Wesley's uptight parents.

Exuding a Stephen Sayadian brand of elan, the dream sequence involving Wesley being seduced in a lightless, smoke-filled netherworld was epic in terms of off-kilter brilliance. Standing before the disoriented youngster, undulating in an erotic state of deceleration, were Laura Albert (Dr. Caligari), Ginger Lynn Allen (New Wave Hookers), and Linnea Quigley (Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers). In charge of arousing his woolgathering subconscious, this legendary trio humped the murky air with a cock-teasing grace, as Judy Landers looks on in a pair of purple new wave shades.

Saddled with the role of the innocent wallflower who doesn't quite understand what the troubled protagonist is going through, Olivia Barash is cute when she has to be (her introduction was downright adorable) and feisty when things got hairy (I loved the part where she wields a chainsaw).

I couldn't help but be reminded of Repo Man during the scene where Wesley offers Olivia's Leeanne a ride as she walks down the street, as Otto does the exact same thing in the Alex Cox directed classic. The only difference being Otto is asking her after becoming a square (he used to be a rebellious punk), while Wesley is asking her after transforming into a character that is beaming with confidence.

Call me a misguided miscreant, but there has to be connection these two scenes. I mean, what are the odds of Olivia Barash being offered car rides from young go-getters while walking down the street in two movies?

Anyway, I think I've said enough to adequately advance Dr Alien's profile. Oh, did I mention that Laura Albert, Ginger Lynn Allen and Linnea Quigley also appear as a rock group called The Tangpoons? Yeah, it's entirely true. Sure, they probably don't any of their own singing, but you got to admit, the mental image of those three actresses doing anything together, let alone cavorting on stage in the gaudiest clothes the 1980s have to offer, is pretty fucking awesome.

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