Vice Squad (Gary Sherman, 1982)

In order to produce a truly effective piece of cinematic sleaze, and I mean one that titillates and nauseates in equal measure, you're gonna need to cast actors with names like, "Season" and "Wings." Otherwise, you're gonna end up flailing helplessly in an unsexy, not-so-seedy stew. Don't ask me why you need to cast them, you just do. Okay, you can ask me. But to tell you truth, I have no idea. It was foolish of me to think that I could use the inordinate quirkiness of the names of the film's two lead actors to sustain the narrative drive of the next five, maybe six, paragraphs worth of overstated nonsense. Anyway, the rain-soaked streets of Hollywood are overflowing with damaged souls living on the edge. How far on the edge are these people? Well, let's just say, all it takes is one false move, and bam! You could find your toes sloshing around inside the well-worn mouth of a John with advanced male pattern baldness in no time. A precursor to film's like, Angel, Avenging Angel, and, I might as well list them all, Angel III: The Final Chapter, except this one's photographed by the great John Alcott (A Clockwork Orange), Gary Sherman's Vice Squad takes place in a gritty, sordid universe where sex is cheap, illegal drugs are plentiful, and wire hangers do more than just keep your clothes from touching the ground. In other words, the story unfolds in the kind of universe that I feel at ease in. Quirky fun-fact: Robert Vincent O'Neill, the writer-director of the first two "Angel" films, co-wrote the script for Vice Squad.

Bursting out of the titty-covered barn like a rabid tapir with things to do, the opening montage is jam-packed with gaudy images that scratched me where I itch from a stylistic point-of-view. (Spotting a woman dressed as Columbia from the Rocky Horror Picture Show in the opening montage was like a lighthouse, signaling to me that it was safe to continue watching.) Establishing its time and place, after hours on Sunset Boulevard (a.k.a. The Sunset Strip), the film shows a series of street level vignettes depicting a society drowning in a lukewarm, parasite-ridden pool of its own filth. Of course, I found the decay to be downright charming. If wearing legwarmers, high heel shoes, short shorts, sequined halter tops, excessive eye makeup, studded dog collars and leaning seductively into the passenger side windows of parked cars is against the law, then arrest me at once, because I'm guilty on all counts.

It's not the clothes, the makeup, or the leaning that's unlawful, although you'd think it was judging by the way the some of the authorities behave. No, it's what happens after the skimpily attired citizens get in the vehicles they were leaning on that has everyone's panties embarking on one pickle of a misadventure. You see, there's a certain segment of the population that need to expel seminal fluid in the presence of another human being, and that's where the sex trade worker comes in.

Helping people make a teary-eyed mess since the beginning of time, the sex trade worker induces this mess via a series of physical tasks. Some are completed through external means (the human hand is a gifted mimic), while others are achieved by employing more orifice-based methods. If you carefully examine your body in the mirror, you'll notice that it is covered with these hollowed out passage ways that resemble caves. Well, some people like to insert certain items into them over and over again until a mess is made.

Now you'd think a person, at least in today's lollipop and fishstick bountiful world, would be able to hold sway over the entrances of their respective nooks and crannies. Unfortunately, there are middlemen out there who want to oversee your many holes. You might have heard of them, they're called "pimps," and in Vice Squad, a sex trade worker named Princess (Season Hubley) has to deal with a pimp named Ramrod (Wings Hauser). All Princess wants to do is make some extra cash renting out her vagina (one of her most popular passage ways) to strangers, so that she can take care of her young daughter, and, of course, get to a point in her life where she can wear pink blazers in the suburbs with a modicum of comfort.

Coerced into participating in a dangerous sting operation by a jaded vice cop named Walsh (Gary Swanson), Princess, employing a purple dress you know is covering up a complex array of frilly and smooth delights, lures Ramrod, who, judging by the walls of his high class apartment, is a big fan of Elvis Presley, into a simple trap. The gruff cop wants to nail Ramrod, because that's his job, man. On the other hand, Princess wants to avenge Ginger (Nina Blackwood), a naive peer with terrible taste in pimps (though, to be fair, it didn't sound like she had much choice in the matter).

Well, the ambush goes off without a hitch. Okay, sure, Ramrod ends up using Princess's head as a weapon, but it eventually works out. Roll credits, right? Uh-uh, Ramrod ain't going down without an overdrawn, turquoise cowboy shirt endangering fight. Escaping custody with an alarming ease, Ramrod vows to get revenge on Princess. Blissfully unaware of Ramrod's new-found freedom, Princess inhales a hot dog and goes about her tarty business, which includes fornicating with amputees, performing unclean toe-play with a demure foot fetishist, giving golden showers, attending mock funerals for elderly perverts while wearing a sex shop quality wedding dress (I loved Michael Ensign as the elderly perv's chauffeur), and having lifeless missionary sex with churlish conventioneers.

Feeling somewhat guilty over the fact that he bungled the arrest of Ramrod, Walsh is so determined to stop the sadistic pimp from harming Princess, that he has the entirety of his modestly sized, racially diverse unit working on the case, which include cops with names like, Pete (Pepe Serna, a.k.a. Reno Nevada from The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai in the Eighth Dimension), Edwards (Maurice Emanuel), Kowalski (Joseph Di Giroloma) and Louise (Beverly Todd).

Never has a turquoise cowboy shirt seemed so menacing as it does on the back of Wings Hauser as the reprehensible Ramrod, the strip's most dangerous pimp. Every scene, whether he's inquiring about the location of an elusive pimp (Fred Barry) or purchasing black market firearms from overly tattooed miscreants (Richard Wetzel), seems to end with him sticking a gun, a knife, or his meaty paws in someone's face. I think it's safe to say that Wings has created one of the most loathsome characters, pimp or otherwise, ever to sully the silver screen.

While all his pimp peers appear comical, almost buffoonish at times, Wings gives his pimp an aura that is pure evil. A refreshing change from what usually passes as pimp behaviour in most mainstream movies. Oh, and I nearly lost it when I found out that Wings also sings the Vice Squad theme song, "Neon Slime." A raucous ditty with some choice lyrics: "Bang! Bang! Shoot 'em up, talkin' about crime! Somebody just bought it in a neon slime!"

Determined to control the spiritual trajectory of every cock and pussy on the planet, I was fascinated by the way Ramrod used vaginal mutilation and scrotal mismanagement to intimidate those who stood in his way. Destroying the genitals he can't have, Ramrod's rein of crotch-based terror must have been long and bloody (I'd say, judging by his track record in this film, he must ruin at least three reproductive organs a night.) Utilizing a switchblade to dethrone gonads of every colour and size imaginable from the relative safety of their fleshy perches and a so-called "pimp stick" to wreak havoc on uterine walls across the Los Angeles Basin, you have to admire the brutal whoremonger's monomaniacal approach to the vile art that is pimping.

Naturalistic, unglamourous, yet never unsophisticated, sleek and sexy, Season Hubley (Hardcore) gives an electrifying performance as the purposeful Princess, a woman so tough, that she's back on the street selling her body mere seconds after being tossed around a pimp's apartment like a rag doll. Sporting short hair (practical and fashion forward simultaneously) and glittery eye makeup, Season has a weariness in her face that most on-screen sex trade workers seem to lack.

The manner in which Season Hubley transformed herself from suburban mom to shrewd streetwalker was a wonder to behold. One moment she's tearfully saying goodbye to her young daughter, the next she's telling a pimp getting his shoes shined outside a bus terminal to basically go fuck himself. You can even see the transformation in the way she walks, as her hips begin to sway more prominently the second her feet hit the street.

The terrifically named Sudana Bobatoon, who plays Dixie, a feather-haired gal who is prone to snitching, Lydia Lei, who shows up as Coco, a side-ponytailed delight in pink trousers, and Kelly Piper makes the scene as Blue Chip, a tough as tent spikes chick in electric blue trousers, all sparkle with purpose as Princess's hooker pals.

Don't avert your gaze for a second or else you'll miss Cheryl "Rainbeaux" Smith (The Pom Pom Girls) as "White Prostitute," who utters the line, "Whores give it away, stupid," in response to a cop's query about the difference between whores and prostitutes (the way her right eye twitches ever so slightly when she says "stupid" was außergewöhnlich), and the gorgeous, Traci Lords-esque Stacy Everly as "Teenage Prostitute," who gives a haunting performance as a visibly distraught junkie handcuffed to a bench. Actually, you can avert your gaze all you want during the latter's scenes, as she appears twice and spews a respectable chunk of dialogue.

I don't know about anyone else, but I felt this weird sense of concern for the structural integrity of Season's black silk stockings as Vice Squad slithered along. In fact, there were times when I could think about nothing but her stockings. Unconvinced? Well, think about all the stress and turmoil your average prostitute must endure on any given night. Pretty unpleasant, right? Now think about what their clothes must go through. I know, horrifying, ain't it? Every time Princess came in contact with Ramrod, I would get this uneasy feeling, not because he was probably going to make her eat his switchblade, but because he was going to ruin her outfit. Crazy, I know, but that's what happens to a person when they spend way too much time wallowing in the neon slime.

video uploaded by ActionPackedCinema

Special thanks to Jerry over at The Dead Eye Delirium for introducing me to this illuminating slab of unsavoury cinema.

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Death Spa (Michael Fischa, 1988)

Even though your average person can probably afford to jump around in skintight clothing in the privacy of their own home, the desire to have others gauge the gradual remolding of your soon to be taut physique in a public setting remains as strong as ever. Whoa, wait a minute, glancing over the content of the semi-coherent sentence you just scribbled, it sounds like your about to start typing a bunch of words that may or may not pertain to a film that takes place in the dewier than normal world of physical fitness. Nicely done, my highly perceptive, chromosome-filled friend, you're absolutely right. The genitals are packed tight, the legwarmers have been laundered to perfection, the thongs are ready to be forcibly excavated from their rectal prisons at any given moment, and an armada of saucy headbands await to be bombarded with the saltiest sweat you can throw at them, it's time once again to combine rigorous exercise with grisly murder. Whose turn is it now to haphazardly smash the two unrelated activities together, you ask? Why it's filmmaker Michael Fischa (My Mom's a Werewolf) and his cagey team of writers, Mitch Paradise and James Bartruff, of course. An electrical storm is wreaking havoc in the sky above the Starbody Health Spa, a computerized health club that is practically crying out for a faceless killer with no morals whatsoever. A bolt of lightning zaps its neon sign, which shorts out most of the letters. All that's left is the 'd' in starbody, the 'ea' and 'th' in health, and the word "spa" manages to escape the storm with its grammatical integrity intact. (Word puzzle enthusiasts are already way ahead of me.) In an eerie twist, the sign now reads "Death Spa." Yeah, that's right, the new name of the spa is the same as the title of the movie we are watching. How freaky is that? (You know an exercise-based horror film is doing something right when the unveiling its title causes my inner half-wit to get all in a tizzy.)

Is Death Spa able to sustain the momentum it achieved with its stunning opening? You better believe it. However, I must say, I did have my doubts. The idea of watching yet another shadowy assailant slaughter people after they're done performing aerobics was not something I was looking forward to. I don't care how many firm crotches you shove in my face. That doubt simply melted away, much like the skin of the film's many victims, the moment Mr. Fischa tricks us into thinking we're watching something we're not.

Leading us into the spacious spa (fluid camera work interspersed with sinister-sounding synthesizer flourishes), the director gives us the impression that we are looking through the eyes of a deranged killer. But what get instead is the first of many sly, Ken Foree-related misdirections.

What the patrons of the Starbody Health Spa should be fearing is the spa itself. Whether it be scalding sauna steam, loose diving board screws, or shower tiles masquerading as deadly projectiles, there is definitely something iffy going on at this place. Owner Michael Evans (William Bumiller), still shaken by the recent suicide of his wife Catherine (Shari Shattuck), is concerned that his current ladyfriend Laura (Brenda Bakke) is going down the same road that his paraplegic, self-immolating spouse did when her eyes get burned by low grade chlorine vapor while sprawling seductively in the spa's state-of-the-art sauna. To make matters worse, while detectives (Francis X. McCarthy and Rosalind Cash) are investigating the sauna incident, a woman in an extremely tight one-piece swimsuit takes an awkward tumble off a faulty diving board. Oh, and shortly after that, a musclebound fella nearly gets torn to pieces by a yellow weight machine.

The bulk of the suspicion for these "accidents" is placed squarely on the delicate shoulders of Michael's former brother-in-law David (Merritt Butrick), the spa's resident computer expert. Why, you ask, does a health spa have a computer expert? Well, you see, everything at Starbody Health Spa is run by a kind of super computer, one that takes up an entire room, and David, it seems, is the only one who knows how to operate the complex behemoth.

As you would expect, Michael wants to shutdown the spa's computer–you know, until they can figure out what's causing all these "accidents." The tech-savvy David thinks turning it off won't make a difference since the computer doesn't control diving board screws or shower tiles. On the other hand, Michael's lawyer Tom (Robert Lipton) and Priscilla (Alexa Hamilton), the spa's attractive manager, definitely want to keep it on, as making tons of money seems to be their primary concern.

Did I mention that Michael is having these vivid nightmares that involve his wheelchair-bound wife setting herself on fire and thinks feeding his temporally blind girlfriend asparagus is the epitome of eroticism? No? Well, he is and he does.

While containing numerous attempts to mislead the audience, a couple of workout montages, one shower scene, and a bizarre moment where one heterosexual man compliments another heterosexual man on the cuteness of his shorts, it was the film's supernatural elements that separated Death Spa from the overcrowded spa-set slasher heard. Also, the gore had an explosive quality about it that was fresh and exciting. What I mean is the blood seems to spew rather than ooze, and, on some strange level, I appreciated that. In addition, never before have I seen a man get his throat torn out by a frozen fish moments after he failed to save a female bartender from having her hand shredded by a homicidal blender.

The film, on the whole, had a slightly off quality about it that I found oddly appealing. You know what I mean, there was just something wonky about its aura that made me want to cancel my non-existent health spa membership. Don't get me wrong, the film is as well-made as a movie called "Death Spa" can be, the synthesizer score (Peter Kaye) was top-notch and production design (Robert Schulenberg) was superb. I just felt a deep sense of uneasiness as I watched the melting flesh unfold.

In terms of wearing a leotard in a manner worthy of a million excessively worded sonnets, I think I'm going to have to nominate the gorgeous Chelsea Shield as the gal who did the acclaimed garment the most proud (she also sports an understated side ponytail at one point). Oh, sure, her dialogue was sparse, and she doesn't do a single jumping jack during the entire movie, but the whimsical spin she engages in as she impishly navigates the spongy floor of the spa's weight room was a pure joy to revel in.

The so-called "Chelsea Field Death Spa Spandex Spin" (I know, as far as made-up titles go, it needs a little work) is the stuff of snugly attired legend in my mind. The way the dingy spa lighting bounced off the white spandex pressing tightly against her robust thighs was bewitching. And I wasn't the only one who thought Chelsea was the cats pajamas, a weight lifter says to her, after she's completed her famous spandex spin, "I'm Beta, you're VHS." Which I think is a compliment. (Okay, the more I think about it, and believe me, I've thought about it, the more I think that guy was insulting Darla.) Having to deal with defective diving boards, lethal shower tiles, and videocassette-based put-downs, I'm surprised Darla stuck around as long as she did.

Acting wise, I'd have to say the vastly underrated Brenda Bakke and her deceptively brilliant turn as Michael's wounded girlfriend was the film's strongest performance. Her multifaceted turn was a wonder to behold, as she repeatedly navigated the realm that divides campy horror acting from its more highfalutin cousin with a breathtaking ease. Boasting the kind of legs that could destroy entire planets, Brenda exposes her juicy stems with a profound recklessness at the beginning and end of the film. However, it's when her eyes are bandaged, that Brenda's true talent comes screaming to the forefront. Her best scene is when Merritt Butrick pops by to menace her. It's the sort of acting you see win awards and junk, as it contains a hidden depth. In fact, she's so awesome in the middle section of Death Spa, that I thought they (the producers) had replaced her with a different actress after her character's toxic sauna ordeal.

There's an extended shower scene included to satisfy those who receive pleasure from the sight of naked women bathing while standing in an upright position. Personally, I was appalled by this sequence, but somehow managed to enjoy it from an anthropological point-of-view. You see, the problem with nudity is that it disorientates the viewer. The brain can't focus on his or her favourite body part when clothing is totally removed from the equation. And when all you're left with is an ill-defined slab of meat, future trouser wetness is in no way guaranteed. Stop playing with your rock hard nipples and put a fucking bra on!

With Chelsea Field dominating the proceedings with her immense beauty and Brenda Bakke uttering dialogue like a some kind of leggy acting machine who, for all intents and purposes, could be a ravenous hosebeast hellbent on world destruction, you'd think there wouldn't be much room for anyone else to move as a fry cook, I mean, as a Death Spa notable. If you think that, your brain must not work good.

While they may not shine as bright as the Field-Bakke combo did in this flick, you can't knock Karen Michaels as the spa's bumble bee costumed bar tender; Alexa Hamilton and her pink curve hugging power dress; Tané McClure (who delivers groceries to the recently maimed in white leather); Cindi Dietrich as Linda, a flirty spa patron (sporting the kind of boots you might see Jeana Tomasina wear in a ZZ Top video); Karyn Parsons (Fresh Prince of Bel-Air) as the flirty spa patron's best friend (her television static inspired dress was truly to die for); Vanessa Bell Calloway (rocking a minimalist bikini like nobody's business); and the rainbow pantied ladies of the Starbody Health Spa change room for trying.

You'll notice that I mentioned one piece of clothing each when listing all the women who were not named Field or Bakke. Well, that's because I was so impressed with wardrobe designer Katherine Sparks, that I felt I the need to highlight some of her outstanding work. Unlike Stacey McFarland, who was the chief leotard wrangler for Killer Workout (a.k.a. Aerobicide), Miss Sparks' take on spandex and swimwear was much more practical. Without sacrificing style or colour, she employs kneepads, colour blocking, harlequin clown costumes, and a ton of mismatched garments to create an authentic, disorganized quality. The implementation of these stylistic choices have lead me to believe that Katherine was trying convey the physical and economic hardship of the spa patrons. Which, you gotta admit, is not something most aerobics-based horror movies usually convey. Anyway, Death Spa is yet another fine addition to the aerobicspolitation sub-genre.

video uploaded by Warwolf2008

You can check out Chelsea's spin firsthand in a fan-made music video for the Crystal Castles' song "Courtship Dating" (watch Chelsea twirl at around the 45 second mark), and you can also view the Japanese opening titles, and other Death Spa-related clips, over at Scandy Tangerine Man's exploitation friendly YouTube channel.

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The Spider Labyrinth (Gianfranco Giagni, 1988)

I've heard of spiders from Mississauga, but spiders from Budapest?!? Absolutely ridiculous! Sporting not one, but two facial anomalies, a bearded man with glasses, halfway through The Spider Labyrinth (a.k.a. Il nido del ragno), a movie about... (I'll get back to you on that, as I haven't decided yet), utters the line: "I'm in the middle of a situation I do not understand." Mere moments after these words were spoken, I couldn't help but notice that I was nodding profusely. At first, I thought there was something wrong with my neck–it's been known to cease up on me, especially when I'm watching weirdo Italian horror flicks set in Magyarország, a magical land located smack-dab in the middle of Europe (come for the paprika, stay for the screeching harpies). But then it dawned on me: I was concurring with his bewildered statement, and, as everyone knows, when I agree with something I hear, I tend to express that agreement by nodding (the level of the nod's profuseness depends on the quality of the item being agreed upon). It's not that the film, directed by Gianfranco Giagni, is overly complex (it's pretty straightforward, if you think about it), it's just that it leaves out a few key details. However, it's recently come to my attention that I should stop expecting films to lay out their plots in an easy to digest manner, and, of course, quit boasting about my ability to lower and raise my head.

What lay before me was a deeply strange film about a global network of spider-worshiping cults who are not bent on world domination, but have a profound interest in maintaining the structural thickness of their shadowy, hypoallergenic veil of secrecy. Your average spider cult can't truly call themselves a success if their members are constantly going around strangling people with their noxious saliva. No, you need to keep a low profile. Here's an excerpt from the spider cult's super-secret handbook: "Only stab and suffocate (or 'suffocate and stab,' it's entirely up to you) those who are about to expose us to the rest of the world."

Unfortunately, the human animal is an extremely curious creature, and if it catches wind of something that peeks even a little bit of their interest, especially if that something is cryptic in nature, they'll be all over it like am impotent mule covered in psychedelic ectoplasm. With web-based branches located in far away places such as Mumbai, Penetanguishene, Caracas, and Saransk, professors at a Dallas, Texas university learn that some dude living near the spider cult's Budapest borough has deciphered an ancient tablet. Sending over their most expendable, uh, I mean, their most promising professor, the university hopes Alan Whitmore (Roland Wybenga) can shed some light on this mysterious find.

In charge of driving Alan around Budapest is Genevieve Weiss (Paola Rinaldi), a beautiful woman whose jaunty mane of freshly shampooed black hair and sleek black leather skirt twinkle simultaneously in the midday sun. While being taken to his hotel, Alan notices the leg-like appendages jutting out from the bottom of her leather skirt. After he's done sizing them up, his eyes soon find themselves focusing on the loopy nature of her gold earrings. The reason I'm mentioning this is not because I'm a pervert who is obsessed with ladies fashion, it's because his character seems to go from being a stereotypical heterosexual man (they love legs) to a stereotypical gay man (they love accessories) all within the span of five seconds. Which is something I did not expect to see, especially from someone who is purportedly from Dallas, Texas.

Speaking of the Big D, you know how I knew there was something fishy about Ms. Kuhn (Stéphane Audran), the owner of the hotel Alan ends up staying at? Upon meeting him, she tells Alan that she thinks Dallas is a fascinating city. Fascinating?!? Dallas? It's a lot of things, but fascinating* ain't one of them. Either way, I looked at her with a truckload of suspicion after that. Add the fact that Ms. Kuhn had a creepy demeanor (catatonic with a hint of malaise), presided over a frightfully imprecise set of bangs (you couldn't equalize shelves with those things), rocked an empty baby carriage in a windowless room, and carried around a skinny black cat, and we're talking one unscrupulous landlady.

While Ms. Kuhn liked to hide her many idiosyncrasies, the, oh, let's call her the "toothy spider woman," was not-so subtle when it came time to exhibit the more demented side of her personality. Played by the awesomely named Margareta von Krauss (the second 's' in her last name rules so hard, that I can hardly contain myself), the agile, Bride with White Hair-esque assassin, who shoots sticky goo from her mouth, was the last thing I expected to see cavorting about in an Italian-made horror film. The way she flew through air emitting this terrifying shriek was off-putting, yet electrifying at the same time.

I liked how before each toothy spider woman attack, this black ball would bounce menacingly into the area where the slaughtering was about to commence. This lets the victim know that the chances of them being knifed and/or asphyxiated during the next five to ten seconds are quite high.

It's too bad she only got to dispatch a handful of people, because Margareta von Krauss is hands down the real star of The Spider Labyrinth. In fact, I liked her so much, that I was mildly forlorn every time she would recede into the night after completing another successful slaying. Sure, that giant demon baby–you know, the one that grows spider limbs–was definitely an attention grabber, but nothing beats the sight of Margareta's shock-haired toothy spider woman lassoing another sap with her industrial strength spittle.

The only instance where Roland Wybenga was able to elevate himself to the level of Margareta von Krauss, or, for that matter, the alluring Stéphane Audran (Faceless), was when he briefly penetrates the subterranean lair of the spider cult. I was rather pleased with the manner in which Mr. Wybenga went about exploring this icky realm. However, to be fair, a lot of credit has to go to production designer Stefano Ortolani, who obviously knows a thing or two about strewing an underground passageway with rotting corpses and clumps of debris.

On the other hand, the scene where Roland's Alan Whitmore is trying to locate an antique shop was a tad tedious. I'm sure his arduous search through the abandoned streets was supposed to add to film's eerie mystique, but for me it did nothing but make me long for Margareta and her stabbing ways. Hell, it even caused me to miss Maria (Claudia Muzi), the skittish chambermaid, as her after hours showdown with the toothy spider woman amidst a maze of white sheets was a thrilling spectacle.

All the same, I would have loved to have seen the look on Gianfranco Giagni's face the moment he found out that Roland Wybenga had been cast as the lead in The Spider Labyrinth. Call me someone who is on the cusp of being deemed certifiably insane, but I can just picture him dancing around his office chanting "Roland Wybenga" over and over again.

Initially, I thought Paola Rinaldi's innate sexiness was woefully underplayed. Nevertheless, after some unnecessarily protracted soul searching, I've come to the conclusion that not only was I completely wrong about the degree of Paola's sex appeal, I was a tad myopic as well. Sheathed in a multitude of checkered blazers, and by "multitude" I mean one, Paola's Genevieve uses this jacket to convey to her foreign guest that she fully understands the importance of inner-city practicality. This sensibleness, however, gives way to a kind of carefree nonchalance when darkness falls. Employing the jet black fibers that make up the geometric configuration of her unimpressed groin triangle, Genevieve, her checkered blazer tucked away for the evening, wields her scrumptious lower half with the slapdash earnestness of a hag-ridden slug.

I don't have to tell you, but one of the keys to keeping "the great cobweb" under wraps is having its members adhere to a strict wrist covering policy. Which is why I found Genevieve's habit of rolling up the sleeves of her many blazers, and by "many" I mean two, to be somewhat perplexing.

Anyway, improper blazer etiquette aside, an odd film, even by Italian standards, The Spider Labyrinth, while not as erotic as some of its sleazier cousins, does have a certain charm about it. Extremely weird in places, especially when the screeching starts, it's an assorted burlap sack just waiting to be licked by discerning tongues the world over.

* If I'm wrong, and Dallas is a fascinating city, please accept my sincere apologies.

video uploaded by vigilanteforce

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Eyes of Laura Mars (Irvin Kershner, 1979)

The word "chic," to put it mildly, is a tad overused, especially in today's fashion obsessed culture, where things are repeatedly called "chic," when, in truth, they're not really all that chic. However, the same can't be said when it comes to describing some of the events that take place in the Eyes of Laura Mars, a giallo-esque thriller about a fashion photographer who sees through the eyes of an eyeball-perforating killer. Dripping, no, scratch that, oozing, unadulterated chicness from almost every one of its many unclogged pores, this skillfully made Irvin Kershner (yep, the same guy who directed Barbra Streisand* in Up the Sandbox) film is somehow able to capture the du jour essence of the fashion industry during the cocaine and disco era in a manner that will make your inner dandy's spirit soar gayly into the sequined stratosphere. Of course, if you were paying attention, you'd probably notice that I said "almost" when referring to its unclogged pores. Well, what can I say? It's hard to ignore the fact that Tommy Lee Jones' pores do not contain any chic properties whatsoever. In addition, I wanted to pluck his eyebrows so badly, that I nearly bit off my own tongue in a fit of misplaced follicle frustration (proper eyebrow maintenance has always been near and dear to my heart). Having said that, the overwhelming power of Faye Dunaway's urbane, shawl-assisted über-performance managed to supply this cinematic entity with enough voguish energy to fuel multiple movies.

The story revolves around a controversial fashion photographer named Laura Mars (Faye Dunaway), controversial because she specializes in photographing stylized acts of violence ("Blood and Black Lace" would make a great title for one of her provocative gallery shows). Starting off as nightmares, Laura develops a sort of sixth sense, an internalized vision, if you will. Usually striking while she's in the middle of a photo shoot, Laura sees what the killer sees. What's even more disturbing about these visions is that all the victims are people Laura works with. And, on top of that, the murders are eerily similar to images in Laura's photography book "The Eyes of Mars."

Who would want to bump off Laura's associates? An uncouth detective named John Neville (a pre-hard-target search Tommy Lee Jones) is put in charge of the case, and proceeds to question all the people who work for Laura. A miscellaneous group that includes her "flamboyant" manager Donald (the terrific Rene Auberjonois), a couple of models named Lulu (Darlanne Fluegel) and Michele (Lisa Taylor), her jealous ex-husband (Raul Julia), a lace-obsessed sycophant (Michael Tucker), and Tommy (the always awesome Brad Dourif), her twitchy chauffeur/bodyguard. I won't mention all the other folks Neville has his eye on, but I feel I gotta make at least a passing reference to the little person who stands behind Laura at her big gallery show (one that features the sublime photography of Helmut Newton and Rebecca Blake). Let's just say, he was very peculiar, and not because he was small in stature. I don't know, there was just something about the way he just lingered in the background in the two scenes he's featured in that didn't seem right. I guess it's what they call in the mystery business: a diversionary tactic.

Even though the hackneyed "(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty" by K.C. and the Sunshine Band is the song playing during the hubbub of Laura's trendy expo, what I heard in my head was Visage's "The Anvil" thumping oh so coyly on the soundtrack as a bubbly Darlanne Fluegel monopolizes the proceedings with a breathtaking ease. Sure, the sleek, posing-friendly new wave jam was still swimming around inside Midge Ure's subconscious in 1979 (it would come out three years after this film was made), but I still think it would have been the more appropriate choice.

Awash with red herrings and other plot-based doodads that are customary to the genre, the real star of Eyes of Laura Mars are the film's two main photo shoots. The first one being the infamous "coats and lingerie" shoot in the middle of a busy New York City intersection. Infamous because it's downright bizarre (models claw at each other's crimped hair while two wrecked cars burn in the background), the sequence depicts the artistry and the hard work that goes into creating your average fashion magazine photo spread. Working closely with the models and the hair and makeup people, Laura is like a conductor, commanding the chaos with her discerning lens. Still an influence on modern day pop culture (watch the fur and fire fly in the music videos for "The Dominatrix Sleeps Tonight" by Dominatrix and Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance"), the scene, partially set to the funky strains of Heatwave's "Boogie Nights," is a tour de force when it comes portraying the excesses of the fashion industry.

I don't think anything can come close to topping the sight of Darlanne Fluegel (To Live and Die in L.A.) and Lisa Taylor pretending to wrestle with one another in lingerie.

Saddled with the unenviable task of following the coats and lingerie pièce de résistance, the second fashion shoot, despite the fact that two of their amiable colleagues have been brutally murdered (the world of high fashion must go on), finds the diligent crew stetting up shop on the upper floor of Laura's studio, a spacious warehouse located on the Hudson River. An elaborate piece that I like to call, "the new wave bullet wound shoot," starts off by having each model strike a fierce pose. With the exception of a male model dressed in a tuxedo, all the models seem to be in a sort of trance. The breeze emitting from an industrial fan causes the loose fabric on their sheer clothing to sway violently, giving the scene a strange heavenly quality.

Unlike the gallery exhibition sequence, there's no need to fix the music, as the disco classic "Let's All Chant" by the Michael Zager Band creates just the right mood. The way the scene builds up to the "Your body, my body. Everybody move your body" part of the song was timed perfectly.

Next to the sight of the models fighting in front of those burning limousines in Columbus Circle, I'd have to say that my absolute favourite image in the Eyes of Laura Mars was the shot of a slick-haired Darlanne Fluegel, now wearing a pink see-through ensemble, pouting while holding a small revolver. Not only did it wonderfully capture the whole "What I'm trying to do here is blur the line that separates style and violence" vibe the film seemed to be going for, it had a fashion forward temperament about it that practically screamed: clinically-proven cyborg assassin with a makeover.

If I was forced to spend in an inordinate amount of time stuck in either one of the ocular cavities of any actress on the planet, the incomparable Faye Dunaway would definitely be one of my first choices. In the vicinity of her intense eye region–the film is called the "eyes" of Laura Mars and not the "ears" of Laura Mars for a reason–every time she would get a ghastly vision, you couldn't help but feel as if her eyes were slowly starting to become your eyes as the film progressed. If only I could say the same for her bone structure, as I would kill for her cheekbones. Oh, the things I would do if I was Faye Dunaway in the late 1970s.

Speaking of her body, only someone completely cognizant about their inherent legginess would wear the kind of skirts Faye Dunaway sports throughout this movie. Some boasting as many as three slits per garment (you heard me, three slits!), Faye is one of the few actresses with the rare talent to appear leggy onscreen, yet seem overdressed at the same time.

Integral to the plot, but frustrating from an aesthetic point-of-view, the manner in which each photo shoot was cut short by Laura's murderous visions was frustrating at times. The realization that "fashion" was being literally being killed off filled me with a great deal of sadness. It was like watching the world gradually drained of its chicness. It makes you just wanna put a trashy cocktail dress, call up Amanda Lear and Margaret Trudeau, do a bunch of cocaine, and hang out at Studio 54 for twelve hours straight. Purple garter belts forever!

* Barbra Streisand's "The Prisoner" opens and closes the film

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