She's So Fine! (Henri Pachard, 1985)

Gritty realism isn't an attribute one usually associates with the glamourous world of erotic cinema. Sunny climes, jizz-stained patio furniture, and recently laundered pink thongs are pretty standard stuff when it comes to depicting sex on screen. Yeah, that's true. But what about the dreary ambiance of Detroit, Michigan? Is it possible to make an alluring film set in the Motor City? That's the question the makers of She's So Fine! dare to ask. Things don't start off too promising, as we are given a quick geography montage depicting different Detroit landmarks languishing on a bleakly overcast day. Don't get me wrong, I love the city; after all, it's where Juan Atkins lives. I just don't think that inflamed genitalia and Joe Louis Arena are compatible with one another. On the other hand, I kind of admired what director Henri Pachard (Babylon Pink) was going for with his unpolished opening. It may not be attractive on an aesthetic level, but it does ooze authenticity. Which is something a film like this doesn't normally ooze. After the film does one of the more competent jobs of establishing where the majority of action takes place, we find ourselves in the bedroom of Roger (Jerry Butler) and Susan (Sharon Kane), a relatively young couple living in the suburbs. Fooling around with his video camera, Roger starts to shoot himself while he masturbates next to a sleeping Susan. Woken by his excessive stroking, she is shocked by the sight of a playing with himself–the fact that Susan had never seen a man jerk off before should have alerted Roger–you know, in terms of the validity of her heterosexuality. Anyway, Susan eventually puts Roger's junk in her mouth. Well, it's in there periodically (sometimes it's in, sometimes it's out).

A lengthy stretch of dialogue follows, as Susan goes next-door to bring her friend Angela (Taija Rae) a wedding dress and chats with Angela's mother, Mrs. M (Gloria Leonard), in the kitchen. Apparently, Angela is getting married today, but isn't quite sure if the groom is gonna show up (she hasn't heard from him in quite sometime). The wedding was supposed to be a modest affair: one priest, two witnesses. But the groom's strange music buddies start showing up. Plus, an old school chum named Ron (Joey Silvera) and the aforementioned Roger end up coming over as well.

Hard as it may seem, but no one has ejaculated semen yet. However, this all changes when Ron, a real half-wit, seduces (I think he says "you have changeless tits") the bride-to-be. While not every scene shares its naturalistic temperament, the straightforward intercourse Joey and Taija engage in was quite jarring in its simplicity. I mean, I kept expecting something gross or off-putting transpire, and when it didn't, I was genuinely shocked. The shot of Taija sitting on the toilet hosing down her voluptuous lady taint had a post-coital sorrowfulness about it that, again, seemed eerily out of place.

The first of Angela's new wave/punk friends to arrive is Alice George (Paul Thomas). Appalled by his appearance–he's wearing a puffy shirt, a large black wig, and about a gallon of haphazardly applied make-up–Mrs. M doesn't even want to let him inside the house. When Angela assures her mother that it's just an act, she reluctantly lets him. Of course, they end up getting quite familiar with one another later on thanks to a tub of cold cream and a giant bottle of booze.

Bursting onto the screen like a crotch starved maniac, Sharon Mitchell (The Violation of Claudia) injects the proceedings with a foulmouthed viscosity. It's hard to believe she's a mere backup singer, because Sharon is a fucking superstar as Tweeky, a beer and pussy craving goddess with eye make-up that was just to die for. The epitome of new wave sensuality, Miss Mitchell causes Jerry Butler's cock and asshole to quiver with dampish fear. There's nothing sexier than watching a woman dominate a man, especially one as conniving Roger. The sight of him frazzled and unhinged by the saucy language Sharon throws his way was delightful.

Spiky-haired, covered in leather (including a cream-inducing pair of pointy boots and one fingerless glove), and sporting dehumanizing blue and electric pink lines across her optical infrastructure, Sharon forces Jerry to orally massage the meaty folds of her hairy sliver at a pace that suited her orgasmic requirements. Only after these needs were sufficiently fulfilled could Jerry dare think about penetrating her with his pathetic excuse for a penis.

Almost as if the producers were mentally eavesdropping on my fleshy desires, Sharon moves to the warm expanse of Sharon Kane's Susan immediately after she's done with Jerry's expended mess. Unencumbered by her leather and metallic outfit (naturally she keeps the fingerless glove on), Sharon devours her namesake's torso like it were an oversized ear of corn. My favourite part was when Sharon rubs her spiky hair around the surface area of Sharon's primary pleasure centre.

Unfortunately, that's pretty much it as far as Sharon Mitchell awesomeness goes.

A priest/cars salesmen (Johnny Nineteen) ends up having talkative bedroom sex with a random hanger-on named Pam (Rachel Ashley), while Joey Silvera's Ron hooks up with the other backup singer played Melanie Scott.

Increasingly unlikely that groom will ever show up, Angela and Roger (still sore over the fact that his wife is a lesbian) unanimously agree to fornicate with one another during a brief moment of boredom. Of course, with almost every room in the house occupied with people behaving lewdly, the two have to settle for bathroom as their place to crank out a quick shag.

It's true that I lost all interest in this film the second Sharon Mitchell and her spunky attitude walked out the door. But Taija's laughter as Jerry came on her lower back perfectly summed up her situation; in that, two guys have cum on her today, yet none of them were her groom-to-be. That's life in Detroit circa 1985, baby.

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I'd like to throw a nod of recognition in the general direction of The Gore Gore Girl for making me aware of the unique slab of '80s erotica.

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Class of Nuke 'Em High (1986)

Whenever I find myself in a heated discussion about the state of modern cinema with a group of pompous Kinkajou lickers, the topic inevitably turns to high school movies and what can be added in order to make them palatable to the movie-going public. Now, up until this point, the discourse is unruly and at times quite violent. (I once saw a man in a Current 93 t-shirt asphyxiated with his own beret because he thought the films of Abbas Kiarostami were too pedantic.) However, the barometric pressure of the entire conversation changes when the issue of improving teen flicks is finally brought up. Implausible as it may sound, but everyone suddenly stands up, looks gingerly around the room, and without provocation, yells out: "Radiation and red pantyhose!" The Federation of Pompous Kinkajou Lickers (F.O.P.K.I.L.) has been congregating since the late 1970s to talk about Kinkajous and cinema, and this seemingly nonsensical outburst has been the only thing they've collectively agreed on during their heady thirty year existence. Well, their nonsensical outburst is going to definitely make a lot more sense when I tell them that there's a film out there that features radiation and red pantyhose simultaneously. The amount of joy I expect to see on their fur-covered faces when I make them aware of Class of Nuke 'Em High is gonna be out of this world. Sure, it may not gel with their arty sensibilities; it's transgressive, gory, half-witted and uncouth. But it gives them the nectar they crave so badly, which is lot's of radiation and plenty of red pantyhose.

Yikes! Just the mere thought of those two exalted items gets my award-winning undercarriage all moist and sticky–and I'm not even really a member of their weird ass federation.

Moving reluctantly to the subject of the actual film itself, Class of Nuke 'Em High is a painstakingly honest depiction of what it must have been like to attend a high school that's located across the street from a poorly run nuclear power plant.

The honour role has been turned into a gang of rambunctious ne'er-do-wells who call themselves The Cretins, students are spewing radioactive ooze from every orifice imaginable, and the parasitic love child of a pair shy lovers is festering in the school's fallout shelter.

You could say things are pretty normal at Tromaville High.

The film, directed by Richard W. Haines, Michael Herz, and Lloyd Kaufman (as Samuel Weil), is one of the few to mix high school and nuclear contamination successfully. Whereas less ambitious filmmakers seem to focus on one or the other, the Troma team who slapped this puppy together embrace the labyrinthian complexities that come with making a multi-layered work of transcendental aloofness with the surgical precision of a mentally challenged ragpicker.

Young love may be blossoming at Tromaville High, but so is anarchy. The school has become increasingly ungovernable thanks to The Cretins, a gang of eccentrically attired thugs who give out random beatings and sell orange-coloured marijuana. This widespread epidemic of wanton violence and erratic behaviour might have something to do with a recent radioactive leak over at the nuclear power plant, because The Cretins were apparently model students up until a week ago. And from my experience, it takes at least three weeks to go from being a nonthreatening nerd to a spiky-haired miscreant.

Grown on the grounds of the nuclear power plant, the funky weed The Cretins push somehow ends up swimming around in the lungs of a couple of squares named Warren (Gil Brenton) and Crissy (Janelle Brady). Forced to attend an indoor beach party on the campus of a local university, the strange drug causes the normally bashful pair to fornicate almost immediately.

The sight of the luscious Janelle vigorously molesting every inch of her supple frame was a thing of pre-coital beauty. Two words: Puffy nipples.

The aftermath of their copulation, on the other hand, wasn't so beautiful. Well, Janelle's Crissy managed to maintain her allure despite the fact that something awful has happened to her. You see, Warren and Crissy's organic structures have been radically altered by the "atomic high" they received from the orange ganja. While Warren finds himself with a mild case of secreting green liquid, Crissy ends up, like all women, with the bigger of the two problems: an unwanted visitor gestating inside her lady womb.

Janelle Brady possesses one of the finest scream faces I have ever seen.

If there was any non-red pantyhose-related scene I would have liked to have extended, it'd definitely be the indoor beach party sequence. The sheer of number visually pleasing things going on during this crazy shindig was off the charts in terms of abnormal awesomeness. A seemingly endless amount of bikini clad Troma babes cavorting wildly in a veiled attempt to achieve spiritual harmony. Hell, even the garden gloves worn by Gary Rosenblatt were somehow able to elicit an emotion that was positive in nature (I have a pair just like 'em).

Referring to The Cretins as "spiky-haired miscreants" is actually a gross understatement, as these guys and gals take outlandish fashion to dizzying new heights. I don't know which was weirder, the Cretin with the extremely large nose rings and strap-on dildo (which he strokes when others kiss) or the fella with breasts wearing black lipstick and a light blue sweater vest. Either way, the amount of effort put into the clothes, hair and make-up of The Cretins was greatly appreciated.

Her attractive gams constantly sheathed a much ballyhooed pair of red pantyhose, the image of Théo Cohan stomping nerds, urinating while standing up and being frisked by a bone confiscating teacher is forever seared into my bloodstream. Giving Muffey an off-kilter edge that caused her to standout amidst the ranks of The Cretins, the aggressively gorgeous Théo sneers and leers her way into the hearts of discerning movie watchers the world over. She even utters one of the film's more memorable lines: "God bless America, limp dick!"

A couple of other female Cretins show up from time to time to challenge Muffey's status as the Queen of Crimson Hosiery, but she brushes them aside with hardly any effort. One played by Lauren Heather McMahon seems to appear out of nowhere during the chaos-heavy finale as a character named Taru, while the other is Miss Stein (Jennifer Prichard), the school's German teacher who becomes a Cretin after their leader, Spike (Robert Prichard) kisses her passionately outside her classroom (I liked her leopard print stockings over top fishnets combination).

My first foray into the demented world of Troma, Class of Nuke 'Em High is a rough, shabbily produced affair that will no doubt test the patience of those accustomed to competent filmmaking. In other words: Bring on Class of Nuke 'Em High 2: Subhumanoid Meltdown and Class of Nuke 'Em High 3: The Good, the Bad and the Subhumanoid; because I will totally watch 'em with my eyes!

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Greaser's Palace (Robert Downey Sr., 1972)

Describing a scene where a mustachioed stranger in a zoot suit revives the life force of a man recently shot to death in order help him ride a donkey into a town run by a murderous tyrant isn't the wisest course of action when it comes to writing words about Greaser's Palace, an absurd mishmash of top drawer poppycock from director Robert Downey Sr. (Hugo Pool), but that's the best I can come up with. You see, the film doesn't yield an inch in terms of being weird. In fact, it's one the most relentlessly strange films I have ever seen. Of course, I still haven't decided whether or not if this uncompromising nature is a good or bad thing. On the one hand, you want the film to be able to freely express its inner mental patient. On the other hand, it'd be nice if it made a glimmer of sense every now and then–you know, for the sake of my sanity. Either way, there's plenty of cult-based meshugaas spread throughout this film to satisfy the voracious appetites of underground cinema fans. Just as long as you're willing to wade through a lot of bewildering nonsense.

Reminding me of one of those pop-locking dancers during the finale of Xanadu and the guy who kept doing back flips on the revamped version of the Sammy Maudlin Show called "Maudlin o' the Night," Jessy (Alan Arbus) wanders across the arid landscape of this unnamed universe looking to for away to get to Jerusalem (the only geographical reference in the entire film). Since his attire is more akin to that of Cab Calloway than your average gunslinger, the 1890s-era folks he meets on his journey look at him with a fair amount of confusion. The town he ends up in is controlled by a dictatorial madman named Greaser (Albert Henderson), a violent individual who keeps his mother locked behind bars and likes to defecate in an enclosed place.

Wearing white gloves, Jessy heals the sick and reanimates the dead with a simple touch; the latter of which is done to a little fella named Lamy (Michael Sullivan) not once, but three times. (Did I mention Mr. Greaser is a violent man?) The fact that we know the zoot suited stranger can mend wounds through molestation causes one to feel much anguish every time this seemingly random woman (Elsie Downey) appears on screen. Writhing and lurching over the parched earth like a maimed sloth, the bullet and arrow ridden adult female struggles to make her way through this cruel world. Instead of assisting this exceedingly hurt woman out, Jessy seems more interested in getting his acting and singing career off the ground.

Now, I may be misreading the film here, but I think Jessy is supposed to represent some sort of spiritual entity. The water walking, the stigmata (crucifixion wounds), the predilection towards healing, they all add up to him being some sort of saviour. Except, instead of answering to a god named God, Jessy was down with someone/something named Bingo Gas Station Motel Cheeseburger With A Side Of Aircraft Noise And You'll Be Gary Indiana. While not as intimidating as the classic, more traditional deity, Bingo Gas Station Motel Cheeseburger With A Side Of Aircraft Noise And You'll Be Gary Indiana was still able to affect the masses merely by casually uttering his or her unwieldy name.

Remember when I said Jerusalem was the only geographic reference in Greaser's Palace? Well, if you look closely at the name, Bingo Gas Station Motel Cheeseburger With A Side Of Aircraft Noise And You'll Be Gary Indiana, you'll notice Bingo Gas Station Motel Cheeseburger With A Side Of Aircraft And You'll Be Gary Indiana has the name of a city in the middle west section of the United States of America in its tail section. Anyway, as you'd expect, the amount geography-related egg on my face at the moment is astronomical.

Speaking of eggs, I mean, the U.S.A., the location of the film is probably the western part of that country. However, since non-native religions are inoperable in North America, the fact that a Christ-like figure would show up in a land founded by the faith and culture of the First Nations people baffled the living fudge out of my puny Canadian brain.

If all this talk of indigenous peoples and theological functionality is causing your crotch to itch (and not in a good way), don't worry, there's plenty of comedy sprinkled throughout the film to keep your mind sufficiently frazzled. I mean, if the sight of Hervé Villechaize (Forbidden Zone) aggressively hitting on Jessy doesn't cause you to loose interest in sex for at least six days, then you ain't hooked up right. Actually, the funniest moment comes when Jessy heals a man using a makeshift crutch to help himself walk. The sound of him declaring, "I can crawl again," over and over again was definitely tickle worthy.

In terms of traditional trouser titillation, I'd have to say the scene where always fabulous Toni Basil (Rockula) runs around topless was the best example of this all-important cinematic attribute. I also liked the acute symmetry of Luana Anders' face. (You might remember her as one of the commune Hippies from Easy Rider.)

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Bloody Moon (Jess Franco, 1981)

You may not know it yet, but European men named Antonio, Miguel, Paco and Alvaro are prowling the tropical undergrowth, and they're watching your every move. And it's doesn't matter that I've told you what their vowel-heavy names are, the fact that they're male and European should be enough to cause your female panties to become saturated with liquid fear. A veiled tribute to the fine art of clandestine stalking and depraved leering, Bloody Moon (a.k.a. Die Säge des Todes - The Saw of Death) is one of only a handful films that seem to understand how to successfully thrill and titillate an audience simultaneously. Nurtured under the watchful eye of sleaze expert Jess Franco (Venus in Furs), the film pits a pack of shady men against a school full of half-witted, disco-loving young women. In order to make things interesting, one from each group is in cahoots with one another. Set up as your basic killer on campus movie, we see an unbalanced man with a terrible laceration on the right side of his face clearly murder a co-ed in sequined short-shorts with a pair of scissors. Yet, this deranged fella is obviously not the film's real crazy person. For one thing, we've seen his face from multiple angles, and movies like this rarely unveil their killers in such an accelerated manner. No, there's something a little more sinister afoot–not to imply that murderous fiends aren't sinister. And it involves greed, incest, and, of course, taking advantage of certifiable siblings.

In grave demand of a competent security force, this is one campus that desperately needs to have its lurking strangers to upbeat pupils ratio cut in half. I mean, there had to be at least two creeps for every student in this sunny universe. Call me a shiftless water moccasin, but I think I saw three stealthy weirdos stalk a woman during the span of one ill-advised outing.

The scintillating music score by Gerhard Heinz employs synthesizer-enhanced instrumental pop music for the scenes that take place in-between all the stalking and killing. During the stalking and killing itself, an eerie whistling sound is accompanied by what can only be described as a bubble machine on the fritz. The music is repetitive yet effective.

The sheer number of mentally unwell individuals coalescing with sexy co-eds in the same location had the potential to cause mass confusion. Luckily, the characters had a habit of repeatedly yelling out each other's names every once and awhile. Of course, people wandering around shouting names at random isn't gonna help one keep track of who's who. This is averted by the fact that almost every person who was being looked for ended up responding to sound of their name being called.

Sure, some were unable to answer due to the fact that they were in a closet hanging naked in a plastic bag with a knife protruding through their left nipple. But for the most part, I was able to tell the difference between the multitude of appalling and alluring characters that populate this seedy tale.

Some I'm a tad iffy about, others I have no clue as to who they were. However, there was no denying who Angela was by the time this murderous undertaking had ended. Even though the sum of her pluck when added together was pretty pathetic– she knows how to avert a large boulder, is quite proficient when it comes to barricading doors, and can stab a dummy with the necessary amount of glee–I thought the gorgeous Olivia Pascal did an excellent job when it came to being paranoid and afraid.

Don't let the yellow tights, cowboy boots and Grace Jones sweatshirt fool you, Angela is quite perceptive in the "there are creeps are trying to kill me" department. Seriously, she saw right through the bullshit Antonio was shoveling almost immediately. (I've found that men named Antonio are the hardest to resist.) All her horny and dumb friends dismiss her as basically messed up in the head, but she knows there's some unpleasant juju floating through the deceptively serene atmosphere of this tropical resort masquerading as a first-rate educational facility–other than Spanish class, I saw more disco dancing and tennis playing than actual "learning."

Now, calling Angela's friends "horny" and "dumb" may sound a tad harsh, but it's frightfully accurate in some cases. Take Inga (Jasmin Losensky), for instance, she accepts a ride from a man wearing a mask and allows him to tie her to a table located inside an odd-looking building on the outskirts of nowhere. I was actually surprised by the amount of surprise she shows when the strange man fired up the large circular saw. It's true, her desire for a hard cock was undeniable, but there's absolutely no excuse for the predicament (sticky pickle) she gets herself into.

Anyway, what happens next, as you would expect, is rather grisly.

Her other friends, Laura (Corinna Drews) and Eva (Ann-Beate Engelke), while they don't buy it in such a grandiose manner, they did have their own distinct quirks about them: Laura wore leopard print trousers and was quite efficient when it came to getting beer, and Eva was very particular about the pullover she wore on a fishing trip. Yeah, it gets her stabbed, but you gotta admire her dedication to fashion.

"Too Far Gone / Ain't No Way Back"

Dim chicks and final girls on the cusp of being plucky are fine and dandy, but the gal that drove me wild in Bloody Moon–the one who scratched my external flourish in a deeply erotic manner the most–was Manuala (Nadja Gerganoff), a mildly disturbed woman whose twisted thirst for power was frightening as it was intoxicating. Whether gazing topless at the moon or admiring the tongues of snakes, Manuala is compact (she has an erection-friendly, Joyce DeWitt-esque centre of gravity) and unabashedly brunette (you'd be surprised by how many are abashed). Wanting to engage in a sexual relationship with her psychotic brother Miguel (Alexander Waechter), while at the same time longing to get her hands on her rich aunts money, Manuala has a number of unsavoury schemes going in this movie.

Played with the kind of menstruating lopsidedness I admire most, Nadja Gerganoff (in her lone big screen role to date) chews up scenery left and right. Utilizing her painted on eyebrows for expressive purposes that shall go unnamed, Nadja, and her clingy dresses (I could have sworn that I saw the triangular outline of her box shrubbery on a couple of occasions), skull fucked me to point of delicious madness. If you think I'm full of unwarranted ballyhoo, check out the expression she wears whilst wielding a pair of electric hedge clippers; it'll rip your face off.

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Static (Mark Romanek, 1986)

Every time I think that the greatest decade in the history of humankind has unveiled every last electrifying piece of entertainment it has to offer, along comes another slab of fantastical oddness just itching to prove that the 1980s wellspring is deeper than a bottomless cavern. Staggering before me like an overly earnest butterfly selling defective dildos door-to-door, Static is the most current film from the boxy blazer decade to capture my sweaty imagination. However, unlike its vacuous brethren–you know, pornographic flights of fancy and mentally challenged horror flicks–this undertaking, by writer-director Mark Romanek ("Closer") and co-writer Keith Gordon (A Midnight Clear), isn't really that interested in titillating or shocking its audience. Though, I somehow managed to be titillated by it. (What can I say? I'm a brash deviant who's turned on by untied shoelaces and improperly applied make-up.) Whatever. It's got something that the majority of films from this particular era seem to lack: an underlying sense of disquietude. Of course, that doesn't mean it's a weighty examination of the afterlife. On the contrary, the sight of two young Amerasian twins dancing to new wave in lizard masks solidifies that it is not a highbrow crumpet jamboree. Yet it does cause one to contemplate the existence of some kind of celestial temple. Well, not really. But you truly get the feeling that the terribly sincere protagonist in this film really believes the malarkey he's peddling.

Stating off with the image of Julia Purcell (Amanda Plummer), a clearly dissatisfied keyboard player for a punk-new wave band made up members of The Plugz, walking off stage in the middle of performing "In The Wait," the film follows her as she makes her way to the small Arizona town where she grew up. While this is taking place, Ernie Blick (Keith Gordon) has just been fired from his job at the local crucifix factory. (He had the nerve to pocket all the defect crosses for himself and hang them on his wall as a part some outre art project.) Tying both sequences together is the sound of "This is the Day" by The The blaring its unsubtle message on the soundtrack.

If you don't count the song Amanda Plummer's band perform, not a word of dialogue is uttered for the first ten minutes; which is mildly prophetic since Mr. Romanek would become mostly known as a music video director in the coming years. Anyway, Ernie losing his job at the cross factory couldn't have come at a better time, as the invention he's been working on for the past two years is just about ready to go public.

Normally confiding in Patty (Lily Knight), a cute waitress who works at a diner shaped like a giant fish, Julia's sudden arrival in town usurps her role as Ernie's go to gal. As you'd expect, Patty ain't too pleased about this turn of events. I mean, if anyone deserves the undying attention of the ex-crucifix factory worker/kooky inventor in the trench coat (did I mention the film takes place in Arizona?), it's her. Either way, both are anxious to find out what it is that Ernie has been working on for so long.

Also hankering to know Ernie's been up to is his cousin Frank (Bob Gunton), a doomsday preacher/father of two who we first meet sermonizing on top of a dumpster behind Ernie's motel; he spots Julia in the crowd (six or seven people) and accuses of her being a CIA agent (he's a tad paranoid). The scenes that feature Bob (complete with apocalyptic moustache) and his family were definitely the wackiest. Radiation suits, Tang, walls covered in firearms, military saluting in a living room setting; they're super ready for World War III.

The way Static builds up Ernie's invention is the film's strongest plot-based element. Revealed in a slow and deliberate manner, the anticipation over his apparently life changing gizmo increases in a way that keeps the townsfolk buzzing with excitement.

Sure, a large segment of the population thinks he's completely meshugganah, but they all seem to respect his dedication. I also liked how both the women in Ernie's life were similar, not just in appearance but in the way they carried themselves with a quiet dignity.

The lovely Amanda Plummer (Freeway), the dream girl of demented losers the world over, is amazing usual as Julia, Ernie's long lost love. Giving a performance that oozes tranquility, Amanda is a master when it comes to trying to decipher the fragility of a tormented man and his wounded psyche. Her best scene is when she attempts to comfort Ernie after one particularly arduous experience involving his newfangled gadget.

Even quieter in terms of stillness, Lily Knight (she played the woman who listens to Maggie Gyllenhaal's character masturbate in Secretary) does an excellent job of portraying restrained jealously. I loved how she tried to spice up her image at the unveiling of Ernie's invention. Casting aside her drab waitress uniform, Lily's Patty attempts to "out new wave" her revival by wearing a shirt without sleeves and applying a bit of make-up were adorable...in a "Please stop paying attention to Amanda Plummer and feast your eyes on me" kinda way.

The best aspect about Keith Gordon's work in this film, aside from the fact that he co-wrote the screenplay, is credited as a producer, and freaking hottie, was how convinced he was about the greatness of his invention. When selling what he sells in this movie, you can't go half-assed, you have to attack the material with a unique brand of gusto (none of that weak, store bought gusto). Otherwise, you come off looking like some two bit charlatan.

Helping Keith in terms of creating an eccentric, almost surreal atmosphere was the film's terrific soundtrack. On top of the aforementioned The The song and performance by The Plugz, Static features tracks by OMD, Japan, Brian Eno, and Johnny Cash.

I don't really want to go into much detail about what Ernie's invention is actually intended to do; I found my not knowing to be quite invigorating. I will say that its germination came about after Ernie's parents died in a car accident and it's supposedly makes everyone who looks at it to behave in a manner that is the opposite of sad. Only problem for Ernie is trying to get people to look at it. And since social networking and reality television are still years away, a bus full of elderly women will have to do. Again, I don't want to comment on how a bunch of old ladies end up in the mix, but their arrival is a testament to what an unpredictable delight the film turned out to be. Highly recommended to those who like their '80s movies to be a tad off-kilter.

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(Warning: Embedded video clip contains spoilers after the two minute mark.)

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