Dandy Dust (Hans Scheirl, 1998)

One of the ways I like to gauge the success of a motion picture is by the level of comfort I feel when it comes time to unfurl my genitals. Normally covered with a thick, impenetrable layer of corduroy, the second the sturdy contents of my far-reaching crotch-o-sphere hit the warm musky air of my filthy shack, a surge of misguided trepidation washes over me. The fear that some unseen entity is going to all of a sudden leap out from the darkness and devour everything within spitting distance of my groin is always in the back of my mind. If that fear is nonexistent, that means the film wasn't very engaging. If, however, I appear to hesitate when the time comes to expose my fleshy apparatus for urinary, or, if I'm lucky, recreational purposes, it's safe to say that the film was a monumental success. Now, I know what you're thinking? How did my junk feel after viewing Dandy Dust? Well, let's just say I've been wearing a man-size diaper for the past three weeks. Of course, I haven't been wearing the same man-size diaper for that entire period of time–I mean, I do change it every five to six days. But that's not the point, the point is, uh–what the hell was I babbling about?–Oh, yeah, the amount of concern I felt for my venereal well-being was off the bleeding charts.

Having properly explained the status of my spiritual pudding after the movie, I'd like to move on and discuss the operational fortitude of the film itself. What is Dandy Dust? And what makes it such a large thorn in my blister-covered sausage? Rapidly spewing from the mind of Hans Schreil, an Austrian artist living in London, the highly experimental film is an uncompromising mishmash of diseased colour and vivid moistness. In other words, I had no idea what was going on.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I knew exactly what was going on. I'm just trying to buy some time in order that I may cobble together a semi-coherent collection of thoughts. Okay, put away your burning chainsaws and try not to bite your tongue off, because here I go. Bored with the quality of his existence on the planet of Blood & Swelling (day-glo decapitations and the mechanism of eternal destruction have become so passe), a gender ambiguous cyborg named Dandy Dust (Hans Schreil) flies through the galaxy and lands on a new planet called 3075. Hanging out with the cyberdykes in its bladderverse (a giant neon bladder at the centre of a parthenogenetic conception where everyone drinks vital fluids through translucent tubes connected to their fluorescent genitals), Dandy is puzzled, transfixed, and astounded by this newfound universe.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, Mao (Leonora Rogers-Wright) and Lisa (Carole Fuller), unamused by this vacationing ninny, remove the memory disc in Dandy's brain. Dressed like members of Altern-8, the twins are afraid that his memories of 3075 will taint the atmosphere and make the air unbreathable. In the meantime, Dandy goes about his day. Which includes getting covered with chromatic ooze, attending an art show, being harassed by coffin-shaped bats, and battling his dust-covered nemesis, who may or may not be a Dandy duplicate from another dimension.

Apprehension over the safety of my one-eyed goose named Lucy is merely one in a moronic armada of deciding factors when comes to judging cinema. As most people know, women who wield syringes full of iridescent sludge are just as important when it comes to wooing the lingerie-adorned cockles of my award-winning heart, and Dandy Dust has a doozy in the form of Suzie Krüger, the newly crowned queen of crazed female syringe wielders.

H.E. double upside down bendy straws, I think her left arm might have been a giant syringe. I know for a fact that it secreted slime. But then again, everything in this movie secreted something at one point or another.

Playing Supermother Cyniborg XVII ("the great Duchess of Loft and Spire"), Dandy's body part collecting mother figure, Suzie Krüger, wearing nineteen-inch heels, a purple bishop's mitre, and sounding like one of the female back up singers in the imaginary Skinny Puppy cover band, Life Born Addict Breathe Angel, is a frightening force of unwell nature. Similar in the way Gisele Lindley made us complacent by the sight of her tactile nipples in the Forbidden Zone, Suzie does the exact same thing with the coarsely sheared peeks and valleys of her boxed edifice. It got to the point where Cyniborg's microscopic clit and I were exchanging coquettish glances with one another.

A character with a flame for a head assists Dandy and shows him a gateway to his memories. Viewing them on a small television screen, we watch as Dandy is shown his troubled childhood. It is at this moment when we are introduced to my favourite character in the entire Dandy Dust macrocosm, and that is, Spidercuntboy (Svar Simpson), a hairy, parasitic demon with an exposed thoracic cavity who buzzes around inside Dandy's subconscious, and other places (they call Dandy's boycunt home sometimes, too). I liked Spidercuntboy because I understood what he or she was saying most of the time. In addition, their dialogue was mildly clever and I thought Svar delivered it in a manner that made the lover all things camp in me grin with reserved exhilaration.

Helping Dandy see into the future, Spidercuntboy shows him the sexually liberated version of himself in the cybernetic bladder of 3075. This effects the past when the usually reserved Dandy attends a "soiree" hosted by his nobleman father, Sir Sidore (Tres "Trash" Temperilli). Taking what he assimilated from 3075, Dandy stuffs his trousers with cold and hot food and starts to dry hump everything in sight.

This liberated streak in Dandy, however, does have its downside. After catching him having sex with his horses, Daddy rapes Dandy with his drill-penis.

Bloodied and battered, Dandy, after spending a fair bit of time with the twins on a giant screw that drips plasma, finds himself aboard his mother figure's crypt/mothership. A sort of cosmetic surgery ward in space, the film starts to get strange at around this point. The jarring physical appearance of Supermother Cyniborg XVII, and her flap deficient vagina, is still haunting as ever, yet it's the introduction of her repulsive staff (which includes the adorable Amanda J. Roberts) and their unorthodox dinning habits that made my external dangling a quivering mess.

Playing ping pong with eyeballs is one thing, smearing doll's blood over one's face to prevent aging, adult acne, and predawn diarrhea is, actually, just another in a long line of things. Listing lines, by the way, whether they be short lines or long lines, has never been my thing. Nevertheless, I was able to visually stab the doll's blood scene quite easily. I slid through it like I was violating a vat of melted imitation butter. It was everything else that was so hard to penetrate. I mean, the film doesn't exactly lay things out in an easy to digest manner. That being said, the spectrum placed in front of me was a rich tapestry of bright colours and splattering liquids.

Speaking of liquid, the film's overall temperament had a distinctly new wave vibe about it. The use of neon and the outlandish non-fashions seen throughout the film were very in tune with the style of that particular era. Also, the use of techno music, and not that lame happy hardcore crap, and operatic noise was very much akin to the outre spirit of Eraserhead, Klaus Nomi, Dr. Caligari (female foreheads are poked with needles) and Liquid Sky (I knew I said "speaking of liquid" for a reason).

While watching Dandy Dust I couldn't help but think of this one time I was playing the music of Test Dept. for a group of friends back when I was a wide-eyed teen. The shocked looks on their faces as they listened to the disjointed racket emanating from the low-cost sound system filled my adolescent soul with a rare form of underage smugness. Well, even though I watched this film in an isolation chamber, I have to admit, the sensation I felt was eerily similar to the day I introduced a bunch of T'Pau fans to the ear shredding beauty that is industrial music. Sure, it was quite some time before I could expel urine with the comfort that I am accustomed to, but that's the price you have to pay sometimes for the opportunity to be a self-satisfied prick in a man-size diaper.

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All About Evil (Joshua Grannell, 2010)

Taking care to exclude all the wanton stabbing, slicing, and chopping that takes place in this movie, I like to believe that writer-director Joshua Grannell was thinking of me when he set about making his feature length debut, All About Evil, a loving tribute to old-timey movie theatres, campy acting, unorthodox bloodshed, and ghastly puns (A Tale of Two Severed Titties, The Maiming of the Shrew, The Scarlet Leper, and Gore and Peace). Everything from the crazed manner in which some of the actors uttered their dialogue to the healthy doses of morbid humour sprinkled here and there seemed like it was employed purely for my benefit. The overweight guys with goatees and Type 2 diabetes can have their unbalanced ushers being asphyxiated by the gaping neck hole of a recently decapitated dreamlander, I'll take the sight of a deranged Natasha Lyonne (Slums of Beverly Hills) sewing Mink Stole's still luscious mouth shut over that lurid nonsense any day of the week. Of course, I realize that there isn't much difference between the gruesome act I liked and one favoured by the goatee/diabetes guys, I'm just trying to distance myself from such a gore-tastic demise–you know, for no particular reason.

Inspired by Herschell Gordon Lewis (The Gore Gore Girls) , Doris Wishman (Deadly Weapons), John Waters (Serial Mom), and the Kuchar Brothers (Sins of the Fleshapoids), Joshua Grannell (a.k.a. Peaches Christ) explores our love affair with violent movies (the opening titles feature a montage of altered classic horror posters) and the places we go to see them. Unfolding at the Victoria Theatre, a rundown cinema in San Francisco that shows Blood Orgy of the She-Devils and movies about giant insects on a semi-regular basis, the film follows the misadventures of the late owner's daughter Deb (Natasha Lyonne) and her struggle to keep her father's legacy intact.

Which is going to be tough since her shrewish stepmother Tammy (Julie Caitlin Brown) wants to sell the theatre (last time I checked, ultra sheer pantyhose and chic blazers don't grow on trees). On the night they happen to be screening Blood Feast, Deb is confronted by Tammy with a pen–you know, so that she can sign away her share of the theatre. Except, Deb doesn't sign, instead she sticks the pen in Tammy's neck (and in her chest, fifteen to twenty times) right in front of the Milk Duds. This act of impromptu stepmother-on-stepdaughter violence is accidentally broadcast onto the screen that was supposed to be showing the infamous Herschell Gordon Lewis flick. Projected via the theatre's lobby security camera, a smattering of goth chicks (the goth placement in this film was spectacular) and a scary movie buff named Steven (Thomas Dekker) see the grainy footage of Deb's pen prodding clip and hail it as a triumph of realistic horror.

Seeing this as an opportunity to realize her dream of becoming a world famous director/actress/mogul, Deb re-brands herself Deborah (pronounced De-Bohr-rah) and, with the help of the threatre's elderly projectionist Mr. Twigs (Jack Donner), sets about making more movies in this fashion. Drugging an attractive goth patron (Kat Turner from Inland Empire) wearing a fierce belt, Deborah and Mr Twigs concoct an elaborate murder scenario involving a faulty guillotine that ends up attracting quite the cult following. Murdering people while filming them at the same time is a lot of work, so Deborah and Mr. Twigs hire Veda (Jade Ramsey) and Vera (Nikita Ramsey), homicidal twins recently released from a mental asylum, and a twitchy fella named Aaron (Noah Segan from Deadgirl) to assist them with their murderous tasks.

Even though they hardly say a word, just the mere sight of the Ramsey twins in their cute red usher outfits was enough to send my cult movie senses into overdrive.

It's true, the majority of the audience applauded and cheered at all the gore. I, on the other hand, was enraptured by Natasha Lyonne and her campy as fuck performance as Deborah, a mentally unwell woman determined to keep the art of showmanship an integral part of the movie-going experience. Channeling Mae West (her stairway posture was very "come up and see me sometime") and Divine circa Female Trouble (blowing sloppy air kisses to attentive drag queens), Natasha seemed to relish the chance to ham it up and prove to everyone that she is very much alive. The way her character gradually went insane was greatly appreciated; I hate it when characters go crazy literally overnight. Anyway, you'd have to go all the way back to Freeway 2: Confessions of a Trickbaby to find the wide-eyed actress at this high a level of elated meshugana.

I'm still sitting atop a fence erected to separate two incompatible thought patterns when it comes to deciding whether or not Ariel Hart was wonky on purpose as Steven's non-goth gal pal Judy. Despite not garnering any conventional laughs from the people who approve of things by making ha-ha noises with the holes they consume pie with, I thought she was wonderfully off-kilter. And as most folks know, my favourite kind of performances are the ones that are off ever-so slightly, and Ariel was definitely off...but, you know, in a good way.

While it wasn't as visually flamboyant as I expected, especially when you consider the fact that it was directed by someone with an alter ego named Peaches Christ, All About Evil does feature Mink Stole (Desperate Living) as a librarian and Cassandra Peterson (Elvira, Mistress of the Dark) as Steven's concerned, cleavage-free mother. And in the long run, that's all you really need. Well, that and the wherewithal to understand the importance of proper goth placement.

The eeriest part of this whole experience wasn't the mouth sewing, irregular breast augmentation, chunky guys with goatees, torrential arterial spray, or even the neck hole incident, it was the fact the Victoria Theatre had the exact same flavour as the Bloor Cinema (the freaks to normals ratio was about the same as well). It was kinda similar to the sensation I felt during my screening of Anguish. Except, without the whole "someone is about to cut my eyes out" thing.

video uploaded by Peaches Christ

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House (Nobuhiko Obayashi, 1977)

Madcap, lipstick, tearaway, watermelon, impulsive, panties, capricious, diaphanous neckwear, haywire, and severed fingers. Hello, my name is Yum-Yum, while it may seem like I'm just randomly arranging words in a nonsensical manner, there's actually very little method to the madness. Bananas! Bananas! Trust me when I tell you that you don't want to know what kind of gimcrackery is germinating inside my ill-scented noodle on a regular basis. Well, this holds doubly true for Nobuhiko Obayashi, the director of House (a.k.a. Hausu), a film so captivated by its own dementedness, that it was like watching someone repeatedly gratify him or herself with an overactive thyroid gland set on stun. Now, you'd think that the fact that the original story idea was thought up by Nobuhiko's 11 year-old daughter, Chigumi Obayashi, would remove some of the brainsick away from him. But that's not the case here. In fact, making a film based on something that came from the imagination of a little girl is not only the definition of unhinged, it's part of Lithuania's constitution (I think it's called the "crazy little girl" clause or the "mažas psichiškai mergaitė" situation).

Once you've caught a glimpse of what it's like inside the head of a little girl, your outlook on everything from the weather in Flin Flon to maraschino cherries will be forever altered. You're probably thinking to yourself: "What about a little boy? What do their puny, lice-ridden heads bring to the table?" Okay, since I owned the head of a little boy during a smallish increment of time back in the, oh, let's say, early 1920s, I can tell you, that particular head was filled with nothing but mindless violence, degradation, and the music of MC 900 Ft. Jesus. In other words, the building blocks of a movie no insane person would ever sit still to watch from beginning to end.

A little girl, on the other hand, thinks about rainbows, drowning in cats blood, and being eaten alive by everyday household items. And while some of those things may sound violent in nature, they're not anti-intellectual. Every inch of House is filled with exuberance and creativity. And not just that, it's done in a such off-kilter manner, that it constantly challenges you to decide whether the weirdness transpiring on-screen is intentional or unintentional.

I'd say the that majority of the weirdness was intentional. But there were a few instances here and there that caused me to think otherwise. Like, for example, the use of music throughout the film was so incompatible at times, that I knew that there had to be some sort of cultural communication breakdown taking place. That being said, I thought the music was ultra dandy, especially during Kunfû's pantie-centric action scenes.

If Kunfû's name sounds an awful lot like the Chinese material art known internationally as "Kung-fu," well, that's because her name is Kung-fu. You see, all the names of the female characters reflect their behavioural disposition. As you would expect, the aforementioned Kunfû/Kung-fu (the beautiful Miki Jinbo) likes to kick things and is very gung-ho when it comes to performing physical tasks; Merodî/Melody (Eriko Tanaka) is musical; Sûitto/Sweet (Masayo Miyako) is, actually, I couldn't quite figure out what her thing was (she was sweet, I guess); Matsuku/Mac (Mieko Satoh) enjoys food; Gari/Prof (Ai Matsubara) is the brains of the group; Fanta/Fantasy (Kumiko Ohba) lives in a world of her own creation; and Oshare/Gorgeous (Kimiko Ikegami) is always applying makeup.

While each of the girls gets their moment to reflect light in a positive fashion, it's Gorgeous's story that makes up the heart and soul of the film. Unhappy that her film composer father has decided to remarry, Gorgeous invites all her gal pals to spend the summer at her Aunt's house in the countryside. And since nothing in House is done in a conventional manner, every second of their journey is laced with whimsy, colour, and verve.

Greeted warmly by her wheelchair bound Aunt (Yôko Minamida), Gorgeous and the gang make themselves at home. While the girls witness some mild weirdness at first (a shard from a chandelier impales a lizard and Auntie seems to disappear in the refrigerator), the intensity of weirdness slowly reveals itself to each character whenever they happen to be isolated from the group.

Fantasy is bitten on the bum by a severed head she thought was a chilled watermelon, Sweet is attacked by bedding materials, Melody becomes immersed with a dusty piano, Kung-fu uses her appetizing legs to fight off cords of wood, and Gorgeous has a run in with an evil mirror.

Did I mention that Gorgeous has brought along her white cat, Blanche? A cat who is somehow able to meow without even opening its mouth, Blanche's furry visage is an omnipresent characteristic of this film. If you happen to in the same room with Blanche and her eyes start glowing green, you're about to experience some seriously kooky shit.

Speaking of shit, I think I might have actually mouthed the expression "holy shit" at least twice during the film's spry running time.

A fragment of cinema that is tantamount to being trapped inside Wink Martindale's overstuffed colostomy bag without a trustworthy pair of legwarmers, House will envelop the nipple-covered nub of your very existence. The sheer power of its aggressively outre point of view will invigorate those who want movies to do more than just massage the front part of their face. A unique, shamelessly bizarre, once in a lifetime viewing experience. Watch it with your eyes, if you dare.

video uploaded by janusfilmsnyc
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Nightmare City (Umberto Lenzi, 1980)

They stab you in the neck, they drink your blood, they lurch mindlessly, but what are they? You, the slender gal in the pointy skull buckle boots, "Yeah, are they, like, deranged lunatics with a taste for human flesh?" You're partly right (and you've got to tell me where you got those boots). Uh, yes, the morose-looking gentleman in the faded Gowan t-shirt, "radioactive vampires?" Sort of, I guess. Anyone else? The skittish woman in the turquoise tube top, "I think they're basically just tempestuous zombies bent on world domination?" Interesting. While I find your use of the word "tempestuous" to be extremely off-putting, I like how you were unafraid to employ to the zed-word. Well, I have to say, even though some of your fashion choices are a tad suspect (I mean, come on, pink flip-flops with navy blue sweatpants?), you're are all correct. What I think I'm trying to say is that the unfriendly fiends that populate Nightmare City (a.k.a. City of the Walking Dead and Incubo Sulla Città Contaminata)–Umberto Lenzi's fantastic ode to citywide homicide–are not the kind of maniacs you can easily attach a label to. Wielding a wide assortment of weapons, the killers in this straightforward attack, eat, and attack some more opus literally drop out of the sky. Landing a military cargo plane at the airport, the murderous cabal with bad skin announce their arrival by stabbing shooting, strangling, and bludgeoning the camouflaged contents of their heavily armed welcoming party.

Witnessing this wanton display of tarmac-based violence is a bearded journalist named Dean Miller (Hugo Stiglitz). Concerned for the safety of the populace, he immediately races over to local television studio to get word to the masses that something terribly unsavoury is coming their way. Interrupting an aerobics show already in progress, Dean starts to deliver his dire warning. Unfortunately, upper manage pull the plug on his address just as he was getting to the good part. As usual, the military want to keep the whole merciless madmen are running amuck thing under wraps.

Unsuccessful in his attempt to sound the alarm, Dean decides to focus the bulk of his manly resources on notifying his wife Dr. Anna Miller (Laura Trotter) of the forthcoming danger. Unable to reach her at home or at the hospital she works via a pay telephone, Dean rushes over to her place of employment. Because he knows the hospital is pretty much the place to be when it comes to apocalyptic breakouts of this nature. And wouldn't you know it, the joint is crawling with radioactive vampire zombies brandishing knives and axes by the time he arrives.

Meanwhile, over at military headquarters, two soldiers also have female loved ones on their mind. A major (Franciso Rabel) is worried about Sheila (Maria Rosaria Omaggio), his sculptor lady friend, and a general (Mel Ferrer) is concerned about the safety of his daughter Jessica (Stefania D'Amario) and, to a lesser extent, her husband Bob (Pierangelo Civara). The major basically tells Sheila to stay inside and lock all the doors, and the general sends over a man to pick Jessica up and shuttle her to safety.

Regrettably, while the artistic Sheila does exactly what she is told, Jessica and Bob blow off the general's warning and drive off into the countryside. Of course, they don't know it yet, but the city is surrounded by roving gangs of uninsured zombie killers.

While the film does focus on individual encounters with members of the unruly mob, the main drive of Nightmare City are the onslaughts that feature dozens of assailants prodding sharp implements into the bodies of multiple unsuspecting victims.

The mayhem at the airport, which kicks off the film, the skirmish at the television studio, the attack on the city's power grid, the extensive melee at the hospital, a brief battle at a gas station, and the climatic showdown at an amusement park, all these sequences contain a demented temperament that most so-called "zombie flicks" seem to lack.

In addition, the fact that the aggressors could run and utilize weapons was definitely one of the main reasons the film worked.

It's true, while the majority of the people in this film cowered in fear whenever they found themselves face-to-face with the bloodsucking devil monsters, this wasn't the case when Hugo Stiglitz stepped up to the sticky wicket. Sure, there were a few valiant, non-Stiglitzian attempts to thwart the hoard (pathetic attempts, but attempts, nonetheless). Yet there was never any doubt that Hugo would come out on top during his many confrontations with the grotesque throng. Hell, he didn't need a gun half the time. However, I do question his logic in regard to blowing up his getaway car just to bump off four assailants milling about outside a gas station. But I guess even bearded badasses make mistakes every now and then.

This may comes as bit of a shock, but my favourite sequence in the entire film was the attack on the television station during the taping of some kind of aerobics show. Call me marginally depraved, but the sight of comely women in blue leotards being clawed at by an unwelcome concourse of festering degenerates was strangely erotic. Now I'm not saying that I enjoyed seeing them get stabbed and all (the graphic nature of some of the knife thrusting was actually quite disturbing), I'm just saying that I found the whole idea of sweaty ladies in exceedingly tight outfits running from unattractive men covered in radioactive sores to be somewhat titillating.

Why were all the people who worked at the television station wearing lab coats? Anybody? You in the back, no, not you, the one in the assless chaps who reeks of expired cheese, "How the fuck should I know, you blithering git." Was it the cheese remark? Anyway, I guess we'll just chalk up as being "an Italian thing" and move on.

Speaking of Italian things, the score by Stelvio Cipriani was winsome and full of synthy goodness.

The events surrounding an inoperative hospital elevator packed with panicky people was comically tragic. In fact, the hospital sequence on the whole had that sort of vibe about it. For example, there's a shot of a nurse fleeing the hospital and just as we think she's about to get away, a more deformed than usual zombie notices her and seems to make it his mission in life not to let her leave the grounds of hospital without being stabbed. It perfectly sums the random cruelty of this sinister syndicate.

While Hugo's awesomeness was a given, I was also passably impressed by the work of Laura Trotter as the doctor whose attentive bedside manner managed to generate a moderate chubby or two. It's true, the way her Veronica Lake-esque hair cascaded down the side of her face was freaking enchanting, so my judgment may be a tad clouded. But there was something alluring about the manner in which she carried herself on a day-to-day basis.

Also, the fact that Hugo Stiglitz seemed to like her did nothing but elevate her appeal.

At any rate, the zombies in Nightmare City, who others and I have called, "radioactive vampires," "an unruly mob," and "bloodthirsty devil monsters," were a mysterious lot. While they want to claw at and stab your boobies, they, ironically, remain at an arms length throughout most of the picture.

not safe for work video uploaded by trailer0boy

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