Blood and Black Lace (Mario Bava, 1964)

Over the years it seems that attractive women, whether they be fashion models, construction workers or erudite English professors, have always had to put up with phantom killers who wear leather gloves. Fueled by jealously and resentment, these picky perpetrators lash out at the female and gorgeous amongst us in a veiled attempt to mask their own inadequacies. One of my many ill-conceived dreams is to live in a world where all people, no matter what they look like, are eligible to be murdered, in the most gruesome manner possible, by rampaging sex fiends. Until that day comes, we'll have to settle for the scenarios put forth by films like Blood and Black Lace (a.k.a. Sei donne per l'assassino), yet another giallo film about a mysterious killer stalking beautiful women at a fashion house. However, when this film came out in 1964, the whole homicidal maniac with the obscured face was still a fresh concept. In fact, you could say that this film is the reason small children, the elderly, men with severe ankle acne, and the so-called "unattractive" are rarely ever murdered in movies. Stop, collaborate and ponder this: The idea of watching alluring women between the ages of 18 and, oh, let's say, 54, hunted down like small woodland creatures has become so ingrained in our society, that no other group is even considered worthy of being stabbed, drilled, bludgeoned to death, electrocuted, buried alive, drowned, safety-pinned, thrown from a moving car or strangled anymore. It's a sad state of affairs, and one that I have no intention of doing anything about anytime soon.

Unlike every other film that sports an unhinged psychopath who kills pretty women for the fun of it, this one has Italian style on its side. Setting it in the cutthroat world of high fashion, director Mario Bava (Black Sunday) is able to satisfy his desire to film multiple scenes where ladies are slaughtered, while at the same time, create a lavish universe filled with vibrant colours, red mannequins, hiked up petticoats, flickering shadows, rustling lingerie, and an underlying feeling of dread.

This dread is felt almost immediately when we witness a young model in a red raincoat and tan stockings named Isabelle (Francesca Ungaro) wandering outside Christian's Haute Couture during a rainstorm. Stalked and eventually strangled by a black-clad, fedora-wearing figure in a white mask, the model's killing adds to chaotic atmosphere of the next day's fashion show. As you would expect, the other models, the one's who haven't been asphyxiated yet, are a tad skittish. Not only because there's a model-killing madman on the loose, but because Isabelle's red diary (a.k.a. rot tagebuch) might fall into the wrong hands.

Why the models, and some of the drug-adled men who work at the fashion house, are so concerned about her diary isn't exactly clear yet, but everyone seems to want to suppress its inflammatory contents. The first to wrestle control of Isabelle's diary (utilizing the finders keepers clause) is Nicole (Ariana Gorini), a bun-sporting model with lithe proportions. Plopping the diary in her purse, Nicole and the rest of the models go about their business.

The shots of the other models faces as they all stared at her chic bag was wonderfully realized.

Wandering through an ominously lit antique shop, Nicole soon discovers that she is not alone. Toying with her victim, the killer seems to appear and disappear at will. This maniacal magic act gives Ariana Gorini the opportunity to scream loudly in a torn blouse and make several futile attempts to preserve the structural integrity of her aforementioned bun, which is unraveling at a rate similar to that of a full-bosomed homemaker from Tuscaloosa trying to navigate the winding stairs of the Price is Right game Plinko; in other words, pretty fucking fast. It should be noted that Isabella wore her hair in a bun as well. But since we hardly spend any time getting to know Isabella, her bun's subsequent unraveling didn't have the same gravitas as Nicole's hair collapse. At any rate, the pulsating light of a nearby neon sign, which bathes the stalking arena with an extra layer of creepiness, and the overall use colour make it the film's standout murder sequence.

If it seems like I'm well-versed when it comes to knowing the names of all models, it's because after each model is killed, the living models would wonder aloud things like, "Has anyone seen Nicole?" or "Have you heard from Peggy yet?" If it weren't for these questions I would have no idea what to call these people. Which is exactly what happened in the case of the magnetic model with short dark hair. Praise Meg Tilly, it finally came to my attention that the follically-challenged model was named "Tao-Li." Played by Claude Dantes, this particular model stands out for many reasons. Firstly, she's the most attractive physically (she was a scrumptious cross between Animala from the Lost Skeleton of Cadavra and a Romulan beauty queen), and secondly, she sports my favourite expression during the montage of faces eyeballing Nicole's black purse. It had a fierceness about it that set it apart from all the other steely, handbag-obsessed glances.

Even though the film's amazing opening titles sequence does a competent job introducing us to all the various players (which include Luciano Pigozzi, a.k.a. the Italian Peter Lorre and Cameron Mitchell), it doesn't list their character names. It does feature, however, the alluringly sordid music of Carlo Rustichelli; bongos and horns have never sounded so sweet together.

Anyway, you'll notice that in one of the above jumble of words that I used the name "Peggy." Well, the reason being is that she's next on the list to be harassed by the killer. With the diary now in her possession, Peggy (Mary Arden), unsurprisingly, comes face-to-face with the no-face enigma that is the killer in Blood and Black Lace, a film that equates not only attractiveness with murder, but also diary ownership. A slap happy, torturous affair, the showdown between Peggy and the killer is pretty intense.

The rest of the models wisely decide to go on vacation, which leaves Contessa Christina Como (Eva Bartok), the madam of Christian's Haute Couture, without any models. Despite the fact that all the men who work at the fashion house are in police custody (two of them have reluctantly teamed up to form an alibi), a model named Greta (Lea Lander) is still on edge. She knows that there's always a twist, and she's right: Moments after the ghastly contents of her car's trunk greet the cool night air with an arm dangling brand of haphazardness, the justifiably skittish Greta finds herself in a situation similar to the one that befell her dead sexy peers.

Who is the killer? And who keeps playing those eerie-sounding bongos every time our faceless antagonist appears on screen? Well, it's rather obvious as to who was playing the bongos, what wasn't so obvious was the identity of the film's garter belt exposing killer. While I could have used more scenes that centered around the glamorous underbelly of the fashion industry, I was generally pleased by the amount of backstage maneuvering, model interaction, and change room antics that were featured in the film. An hypnotic, groundbreaking classic.

video by PostDecadantTrailers

This movie was recommended by the fine folks over at Adventures in Nerdliness
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Skatetown, U.S.A. (William A. Levey, 1979)

A feeling of misguided satisfaction coursed through my nimble frame as I finished watching Skatetown, U.S.A., a non-stop disco party that repeatedly shuns reality and subverts the conventions of modern cinema. Why such an extreme reaction to something that, on the surface, appears to be stupid and trivial? Well, I like to brag about the fact that I enjoy watching Roller Boogie, the movie where Linda Blair's gorgeous thighs are constantly being strangled by a pair of purple tights, and Xanadu, which is also a "movie," except in this one, Olivia Newton-John provides the bulk of the thigh-candy. As you would expect, or maybe you wouldn't, what the hell do I know, the weird look of pity/puzzlement they give me as I'm telling them all about my love for these culturally important movies bathes my fragile aura with radiant waves of energy nectar. Only problem being is that I'm deathly afraid that one day one of these fine, nectar-providing folks is gonna ask me if I've seen Skatetown, U.S.A. You see, saying you're a fan of movies that involve disco and roller skating is completely meaningless if you haven't seen Skatetown, U.S.A., the kind of movie where yo-yos, rainbow suspenders, tai chi and short shorts all appear within the same frame. It's like saying you're a fan of the music of Nitzer Ebb but haven't heard That Total Age. In case it isn't obvious yet, I'd like to officially announce that my days of nervously boasting about my love of roller disco movies are over, for I have been to Skatetown, U.S.A., and let me be the first to tell you, it was glorious.

The act of gliding on wheels to disco music, as supposed to walking to the screeching racket that is rock music, has always been the principal allure of roller disco cinema. When riding in a car or traveling across town on a bus, you feel as if your moving but there's a bit of a disconnect. On the other hand, when the wheels are actually attached to your body, the sensation is more tactile, more granular. Add the synthetic pulse of a well-oiled disco beat, and we're talking some serious harmony up in here.

Just because walking and talking is the most popular way to depict two people in a relationship on-screen doesn't mean it's the most effective. Having your characters on wheels not only enhances the romance, it accelerates the wooing process. Take a couple who do things the old fashioned way: they walk to a restaurant, they eat, they engage in small talk, it can be quite tedious. Now take a roller skating couple, like, for instance, Stanley and Allison, the couple in Skatetown, U.S.A. played by Greg Bradford (Zapped!) and Katherine Kelly Lang (The Bold and the Beautiful), the two barely say a word to one another, yet their chemistry on the roller disco dance floor is undeniable. There is just something to said about love when it's on wheels. It blossoms in a way that no walking person could ever understand.

Since I've already done an excellent job proving that moving on wheels to disco gives you a sense of spiritual autonomy and vastly improves your love life, I'd like to talk about this particular film and its radical approach to storytelling. Written Nick Castle (Escape from New York) and directed by William A. Levey (Wam Bam Thank You Spaceman), Skatetown, U.S.A. bypasses things like scripted dialogue and character development all together, and aims to create a universe that seems lived in, but not in a way that seems contrived or phony.

The sight of hordes of scantily clad roller skaters rolling along the concrete pathways of Venice Beach in the opening scene is the only proof we have that this film takes place on Planet Earth, because after that, the film takes place entirely inside the iridescent realm that is Skatetown, U.S.A., an awe-inspiring roller disco paradise run by a father and son duo named Harvey (Flip Wilson) and Jimmy (Billy Barty); the former, by the way, also plays Harvey's mother (yeah, that's right, Flip Wilson appears in drag). Under the spell of The Wizard (Denny Johnston), the joints giant white afro-sporting DJ, we are subjected to a balletic display of tightly packaged disco crotches, flashing disco lights, glowing disco balls, pulsating disco beats, and knee-molesting disco doctors.

You'd think the film would rest on its laurels by employing the tried and true roller disco movie formula: montage, dialogue, montage, a brief shot of Ruth Buzzi in a yellow hat, dialogue, montage. After all, it worked so brilliantly in Roller Boogie. However, Skatetown, U.S.A. takes the formula one step further by eliminating the dialogue completely. Oh, sure, there's still a ton of dialogue uttered in the film (most of it incoherent nonsense), it's just that it seemed like I was watching a 98 minute montage. Which, if you think about it, is more attune to reality. If you think about it some more, there's no dialogue in real life, so why should there be any in the movies?

Seriously, forget about even a sentence, when was the last time you heard someone verbalize actual words in order to advance a plot? For me, you'd have to go all the way back to the late 1970s, and I wasn't even alive back then.

There was one line of dialogue expressed audibly in the film that I do remember, and that was Dorothy Stratten's "pizza please." Asked repeatedly every time an elderly vaudevillian would finish telling her what was usually a terrible joke, Dorothy, aptly credited as "girl at snack bar," would gradually increase the frustration level in her voice after each pizza request went unfulfilled. Other than the film's obligatory skate competition, it's safe to say that the tension surrounding the serving of Miss Stratten's pizza slice was the film's primary source of drama.

Predictable, yet completely necessary, the rivalry that forms between skaters Stanley (Greg Bradford) and Ace (Patrick Swayze) is the dominate storyline during those smallish chunks of time that exist in-between the film's many musical numbers (the majority involving skate crews with names like, "New Horizons" and the "Hot Wheelers"). Egged on by Richie (Scott Baio), his bookie pal, and placated by his sister Susan (Maureen McCormick), Stan from the Valley must overcome the brash Ace, the leader of the West Side Wheelers, the toughest roller skating gang this side of Wilshire Boulevard, find out if Katherine Kelly Lang is real or not (she has the charisma of a fuck doll that's never been inflated), use a shitload of poker metaphors in an argument, and partake in a game of chicken involving a rickety old pier and motorized roller skates.

Employing his sycophantic underlings to sabotage his opponents (which include skaters with names like, Uncle Sam and Pistol Pete), even though he doesn't have to (he kicks ass both in the singles and mixed doubles competition), Ace's determination to win has severely clouded his judgment. The best example of this cloudiness can be observed whenever you would see Ace and his second in command Frankey (Ron Palillo) sitting together. While Ace's lady-friend/skating partner is attractive and all, it was clear to me that gals leaning on each of Frankey's bony shoulders were two of the hottest chicks in all of Skatetown, U.S.A. Or maybe Ace is just not that into leather-clad women who combine the elegance of Buckwild from Flavor of Love 2 and the wayward spunk of Polly from the movie Teen Witch. Either way, it's his loss.

Sporting a studded dog collar and a churlish disposition (one that was downright unhorshackian at times), Ron Palillo's henchmen character represented the ugly side of disco peer pressure. In constant fear of losing his place within the gang's complex hierarchy, Frankey carries out his master's orders without fail.

Meanwhile, over at the change rooms. The moment the word "pantyhose" rolled off her exquisite lips was the exact instant I knew the bespectacled Eleanor (Harlene Winsten) would be the Skatetown, U.S.A. character for me (she trips and falls before she even puts her skates on). Recently married to a nebbish clod named Irwin (David Landsberg), a man who clearly does not appreciate her inherent foxiness, Eleanor sets the disco floor on fire with her frumpy attire and spastic roller moves. Unfortunately, the winsome Miss Winsten only appears sporadically throughout the film. Nevertheless, I treasured every scene of hers like it were a rare gift from the roller disco movie gods.

Half-heartedly spouting feminist slogans when confronted, a more wide-eyed than usual Judy Landers (Dr. Alien) tries her best to figure out the club's simplistic ticketing system as Tery, Skatetown's breathy doorperson. (Remember kids: Orange passes are for last week, green passes are for this week, and free tickets cost five dollars.) Sadly, Judy spends the majority of the film sitting behind Skatetown's ticket counter; I would have loved to have seen her skate.

I liked how Maureen McCormick (The Brady Bunch), head-to-toe in pink, would disappear on occasion. Which makes sense, since, according to her memoir: Here's the Story: Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice in Maui, she was doing a lot of cocaine during the making of the film, and, as we all know, cocaine enthusiasts aren't exactly the most reliable people when it comes to truancy. Coked up or not, Maureen looked amazing in her tight pink short shorts, and her character's sexual attraction to Ron Palillo, while strange and slightly off-putting, gave hope to millions of deluded dirtbags the world over. Oh, and I loved the empty-headed, trollopy manner in which she chewed her gum.

Shooting laser beams from his fingers and promoting the joint's nasty snack bar whenever possible, The Wizard (Denny Johnston), the skate palace's mystical DJ (he can make crooner Dave Mason appear and disappear at will), spins a groove-tastic array of killer disco tracks. My faves being: the totally awesome "Born To Be Alive" by Patrick Hernandez (it's the song that introduces us the shimmering universe that is Skatetown, U.S.A.); Heatwave's "Boogie Nights;" "Macho Man" by the Village People (a song I always associate with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding); a cover of The Rolling Stones' "Under My Thumb" by the Hounds (Patrick Swayze and April Allen destroy all comers to this song); and, of course, Earth, Wind and Fire's "Boogie Wonderland."

It's hard to believe, but in 1979, a straight man could wear a pink tank top with white slacks while performing an elaborate roller skating routine (complete with muscle flexing) to the strains of "Macho Man" without an ounce of fear. Anyway, I sure am glad I finally got the chance to visit Skatetown, U.S.A. The only downside being that I reek of flat 7Up and soggy pizza.

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Killer Workout (David A. Prior, 1987)

Maintaining the physical fitness of your organic structure in a pubic ashtray became such a high priority during the mid-1980s, that even the introduction of a faceless psychopath wielding an exceedingly large safety pin failed to put a damper on their desire to do aerobics in a brightly coloured clothing. The public's enthusiasm for grinding their tightly garbed crotches in unison to the sound of techno rock was at its height, and Killer Workout (a.k.a. Aerobicide) perfectly captures that exuberance with the steely resolve of a legwarmer smeared with enough tough actin' tenacity to fuel the economy of a small European nation for an entire year. Another in a short line of slashers that revolve around exercise, this one, written and directed by David A. Prior (Deadly Prey), wastes little time inundating the viewer's visual spectrum with multiple shots of clingy bits of fabric pressing firmly against the taut, semi-youthful flesh of the agile women (and one token man with a beard) bouncing up a storm at Rhonda's Workout. Quickly establishing a sense of time and place, the film introduces us to this dewy, groin-soaked world with the help of the brilliant "Only You Tonight" by Donna De Lory blasting on the soundtrack, and the director's intrusive camera, which gets as close as humanly possible to bodies of the spa's ridiculously fit members. In fact, his camera gets so familiar with some of the participants, you'd have to be a fool not to envy the spandex suffocating their tender places with their uncompromising commitment to tightness.

A wedged gift to everyone who thought Heavenly Bodies was a tad lacking in the men and women being mutilated with a pointy object department, Killer Workout is here to rectify those concerns by providing a harmonious balance between sexy leotards and pin-based murder.

The film opens with a scene depicting a woman named Valerie, sporting the latest new wave fashions, checking her phone messages and reacting happily to news concerning a much sought after modeling gig in Paris, France. Instructed to make sure that she arrives sporting a tan (speaking on behalf of pale people, I was offended by the caller's tan-centric ultimatum), Valerie immediately heads over to the tanning salon for a quick session under the bright lights. After a few moments, the tanning bed begins to go screwy and bursts into flames.

It's an odd opening scene, as we don't see Valerie's face, nor do we have any idea if she is all right (the flames were pretty intense). But I'm sure it will all be explained somewhere down the road. Until then, we're ushered to the main floor of Rhonda's Workout, a well-attended spa/exercise studio run by Rhonda Johnson (Marcia Karr), a grumpy gal who seems to have the weight of aerobic world resting precariously upon her sweatshirt-covered shoulders.

In the middle of conducting an aerobics class, the look on Rhonda's face is one of sheer irritation. The leering eyes of a personal trainer named Jimmy (Fritz Matthews) were definitely bothering her. But it was obvious it was something else. Spilling the contents of her condom-filled purse all over the parking lot as she got out of her black Porsche, the main pain in Rhonda's well-proportioned ass arrives in the form of Jaimy (Teresa Van der Woude), a tardy aerobics instructor who loves fingerless armwarmers, inhaling jockstraps and the secure grip that only a spandex thong can provide.

Annoyed by her employee's lateness, Rhonda scolds Jaimy, but it turns out she has a bigger problem on her hands when one of her regulars is murdered with a safety pin while showering (who, if you ask me, was using way too much soap). The pinprick covered corpse is taken away in a white body bag and a surly detective (David James Campbell) shows up to ask Rhonda and Jaimy a bunch of questions. The reason the detective is so surly has nothing to do with the convoluted nature of this particular case, it's because he's terrible at his job. (Free tip: Never take your eyes off a disgruntled woman with access to a shovel, especially if they're dressed like a copper lamé harlequin disco clown.)

While the white body bag makes several more appearances over the next few days (one of the morgue workers/paramedics snarkily tells the detective that he will see him tomorrow), Rhonda's Workout inexplicably remains open for business. As expected, a shy, leggy, (unfairly) outcast aerobics enthusiast named Diane (Laurel Mock) is followed home and pinned to death in her living room, and two, no make that, three, burly fellas are pricked in the weight room. Actually, the first victim is bludgeoned with a barbell, while the other two get the pin treatment (one of them takes a safety pin right to the forehead).

An outside agitator is thrown into the mix in the form of Chuck (Ted Prior), a mysterious blonde man who has just started working at the club, much to the chagrin of its easily exasperated owner. While Chuck ends up getting in multiple scraps with Jimmy (one involving a rake), confusing the hapless detective, and, of course, annoying the hell out of Rhonda, he does make some leeway with a full-bosomed gym patron in a pink leotard named Debbie (Dianne Copeland). Impressed by his fist fighting prowess against Jimmy, Debbie, her cock-obsessed brain seething with a visor-fueled brand of intensity, invites Chuck over to her place to drink Diet Pepsi and sit on yellow and white lawn furniture.

Obviously not content with the amount of people who have been violently poked so far with a safety pin, three teenagers (one with a large clump of crimped hair sitting atop her head) fall victim to the pin killer after they foolishly decide that it would be totally rad to graffiti Rhonda's Workout with the words "Death Spa" and "Aerobicide" (a clever play on the words "aerobic," to enhance respiratory and circulatory efficiency, and "homicide," to kill a human being). Anyway, this outdoor stalking sequence pads out the film's running time a bit, and it added some variety to the shots of women exercising to electro-pop. My favourite being: "Rock n' Rock" by Sunny Hilden.

You'll notice that I didn't say, "some 'much needed' variety." Well, that's because I will never tire of watching women exercise in tight clothing to synthesizer-based pop music. As my kindergarten teacher once mumbled under her breath after catching me steal a female classmate's lime green scrunchie, "the hetreosexuality is strong in this one." (Years later I would steal a scrunchie from the singer of The Young Gods during a show of theirs at the El Mocambo.)

Combining the oblique sensuality of Gina Genshon circa Showgirls with the rugged no-nonsense posturing of Nancy McKeon from the Facts of Life, Marcia Karr (Savage Streets) is a demented whirlwind as the vivacious Rhonda, a ballsy woman who takes her thrusting and heaving seriously. I love women who look as if they're always annoyed by something, and Marcia encapsulates this non-existent fetish wonderfully, as the quality of her vexation, especially in her scenes with, well, just about everyone, was truly sublime.

In terms humping the air in a leotard, Teresa Van der Woude is hands down the crown prince of humping the air in a leotard. If the muggy atmosphere inside Rhonda's Workout had an erect penis, it would no doubt be covered with splotchy bruises after working out with Teresa's Jaimy, the only character in the film, by the way, to display any empathy towards her dead peers (she can also sense the pain of the living). Dominating the aerobics sequences like an unbalanced, workout-obsessed fiend, Miss Van der Woude manages to maintain her dignity, while at the same time, flaunt her gingerly assets with reckless abandon.

Adorned with red pumps and black legwarmers (perfectly in tune with the chromatic palette of the film's opening credits), the hubbub that was taking place around the vicinity of Jaimy's feet and ankles was far more interesting than the content of some whole films. Of course, I don't want say which films in particular, as I'm sure no-one wants to hear that their film is less interesting than Teresa Van der Woude's foot and legwear in Killer Workout (I'm looking in your general direction How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days). But let's just say the overall spiritual temperament of Teresa's corporeal performance (which also includes her coin slot mouth, unpretentious cleavage and freshly blowdried hair) was one of the best examples I've seen of a modern day actress utilizing the entirety of her slender frame.

It's too bad Teresa's sister Vikki Lynn Van der Woude couldn't have been featured more (she plays a background actor). But then again, you don't want your film to suffer from Van der Woude Overkill. (10 out of 10 dentists have never heard of Van der Woude Overkill.)

Now I know what some of you are thinking, "Hey, man, this flick sounds an awful lot like Murder Rock." And you're right. An unknown killer bumping off sweaty people with a safety pin does sound an awful lot like Lucio Fulci's aerobics-based slasher film. However, Killer Workout has a couple of aces up its sleeve in the form of stylist Stacy McFarland and composer Todd Hayen. You see, while Murder Rock features bland-looking leotards (lots of browns and grays) and an incredibly cheesy music score by Keith Emerson, this film is a virtual cornucopia of colourful leotards (every shade is dutifully represented) and the synthesizer score is a tuneful, Chuck Cirino-esque treat. Using differently able words, it's the complete opposite that film, and one hundreds times more awesome.

If someone were to tell me that I was able to travel back in time to any specific moment in history, I would definitely want to go back to 1986 or early 1987. Why 1986 or early 1987, you ask? Duh, to tag along with Stacy McFarland as she went shopping for all the leotards that are seen in this movie, of course. Not to get greedy, but I would also like to be present when all the actresses (especially Teresa Van der Woude) and the extras (and not just the one's related to Miss Van der Woude) got fitted for said leotards. Oh, and I would make sure that all the shirts that bare the name "Rhonda's Workout" came with apostrophe s's, as, sadly, some of them did not.

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