Decoder (Muscha, 1984)

Did you know that the insipid noise masquerading as music you hear when you're strolling down the housewares aisle of your local box-shaped monstrosity is not being played for the benefit of your frazzled nerves? Uh-uh, its sole purpose is to appease your inherent desire to destroy everything in sight. Don't believe me? Listen to the sounds you hear the next time you're about to sit down and eat that inexpensive sandwich at your local den of corporate mediocrity. The flavourless tripe invading your eardrums is not your friend, it's your enemy. Its nonthreatening din is specifically designed to lull that inner deranged person that lives inside all of us. Preventing the populace from engaging in behaviour deemed unbecoming, especially acts that fly in the face of social norms, it's subliminally telling you to purchase your proletarian dishpan, consume that gelatinous glob of chemically enhanced sludge, and get out. Well, the best way to reverse the effects of this so-called noise, or "muzak," is to counter it with the disquieting unpleasantness of a properly motivated piece of industrial music. It's true, industrial music is my go-to cure when it comes to solving the world's problems, so my opinion is definitely a tad biased. (I happen to think that "Slogun" by SPK is the key to inner peace.) However, the unhinged individuals behind Decoder, a brightly coloured underground oddity that features seedy peepshows and frog-infested apartments more than any other film ever made, appear to agree with me that industrial music is the single greatest threat against tyranny and hopelessness.

In most cases, the principal aim of music is to comfort or invigorate the vitality of the listener. And from what I've been told, it enters through your ear canal and where it begins to engage the pleasure centers of your brain by employing lush orchestrations and gentle harmonies. On the other hand, industrial music, striping away all traces of joy and happiness, encapsulates the harshness of the modern world in such an unfiltered manner, that your psyche will feel as if it's been violated by a broken rake, or a rake that is still able to carry out its primary function in a semi-competent manner. Depending on the spiritual disposition of person it's being exposed to, industrial music, no matter if they like it or not, will severely alter the genetic makeup of the ears that are listening to it.

Inspired by the writings of William S. Burroughs (the old guy with a shotgun in the music video for Ministry's "Just One Fix"), chiefly his 1970 work The Electronic Revolution, a West German filmmaking collective (Klaus Maeck, Muscha, Volker Schäfer and Trini Trimpop) grab the well-worn idea that multinational corporations are manipulating the masses through mind control, cradle it gently against their Teutonic bosoms, and proceed to run around Hamburg with it. A fast food chain called H-Burger, a joint that trains its employees with military-style proficiency, is the focus of the film's unsubtle satire of a universe growing more and more dystopian with each passing day. The only person standing in their way of attaining global supremacy is a bushy banged audiophile. Oh, sure, a creepy, priest who looks an awful lot like Genesis P-Orridge, one of the founders of the seminal industrial group Throbbing Gristle, helps out our glum hero along the way. But the revolutionary onus is pretty much on the shoulders of one man and his complicated cassette deck. Wow, I just realized that this film's industrial cred is getting more pronounced by the minute.

(Excuse me, I gotta go expel some urine from my bladder.)

Hey, I'm back. I thought of a question as I watched my beautiful pee struggle to become one with the toilet water: If you were in charge of casting the lead actor in an experimental film about a bang-generous guy who creates audio-terrorism in his spare time, who would you pick? I'll give you a couple of minutes to decide. It's not as easy as it sounds, is it? Let me narrow it down. You can only choose from the members of legendary German racket makers Einstürzende Neubauten. If you're still having trouble, all you have to do go to your parents' house, head downstairs to the basement, find a copy of Fuenf Auf Der Nach Oben Offenen Richterskala, carefully examine the record sleeve, and the choice should be obvious. Boasting one of the most distinctive silhouettes in all of industrial music, and, not to mention, a face that is both obscene and alluring at the same time, FM Einheit (a.k.a. Mufti) was born to play F.M., an anti-muzak radical who sets off a wave of civil disobedience when he discovers a sinister plot to enslave humanity one greasy cheeseburger at a time.

In charge of putting a stop to F.M.'s outlaw behaviour is Jaeger (William Rice), a weary bureaucrat who works for a shadowy surveillance company (his workspace is a mixing board in front of a wall of television monitors). However, the bulk his concentration is focused elsewhere. Transfixed (she emits a blinding light) by a peepshow dancer named Christiana (Christiane Felscherinow), Jaeger, a man who lurks the city streets like an emaciated Dutch financial expert, seems more interested in her than the tape deck-wielding rabble-rouser he's supposed to be keeping tabs on.

Meanwhile, F.M., despite the occasional frog-based interruption from his sexy, goth-tinged girlfriend, who may or may not be the same woman who Jaeger is obsessed with, and the odd game of Frogger down at the neighbourhood video arcade, is working around the clock to get his homemade tapes out to the people. You see, the noise on his yellow-coloured cassettes drowns out the joy-inducing muzak, which, in turn, causes diners at H-Burger, and other fast food restaurants, to become violently ill. This leads to rioting and clashes with police (the film features great riot footage), as the newly unburdened citizenry take to the streets.

Skirting the line that separates pompous dreck and illuminating cleverness, Decoder manages to stave off art-house boredom by liberally employing its industrial soundtrack (with tracks composed by Dave Ball, Genesis P-Orridge, The The, Einstürzende Neubauten and FM Einheit) with the ferocity of a well-aimed tank shell.

The 15 year-old me–you know, that creeper-sporting miscreant whose aura reeked of nothing but smugness and apple-coated watermelon–would have loved the film's opening scene. Actually, what am I saying? Modern me loved it as well. What I'm clumsily trying to convey using this jumble of typed words is that the extended sequence where we follow William Rice as stalks the halls of his secretive office building, all the while this menacing electro beat throbs in the background, was the epitome of industrial cool.

Speaking of creepers (my preferred style of footwear circa none of your business), I nearly lost it when an H-Burger employee states the reason he's working at the fast food restaurant is so can save up enough money to buy a pair of creepers. If he had said anything else I would have scoffed in the most bombastic manner humanly possible. But the fact that he said "creepers" allowed me to empathize with his not-so noble cause with a modicum of ease. I just hope the shoe's he had his eye on came with buckles.

The film's many peepshow sequences were my favourite, as I found the garish neon of the Red Light District (a.k.a. Reeperbahn), Christiane F.'s ennui, and the multiple usage of Soft Cell's "Seedy Films" to be very appealing. I don't know what it is, but I have a bittersweet longing for the days when people had to leave their place of residence to masturbate. In addition, I liked the fact that the peepshow, on top of showing women wrestling, seemed to also screen graphic autopsy and castration footage for their shady-looking clientele to view.

Call me someone who is mentally unstable but not schizophrenic, but I could watch the lovely Christiane Felscherinow lounge around her apartment in a pink tissue paper slip covered in frogs and books about frog anatomy for hours. It's just something I think I'd be good at. Anyway, playing two characters: a frog enthusiast who wears black lipstick, gray legwarmers, and fluorescent kimonos, and a peepshow employee whose passive stripe tease drives the raincoat crowd wild, Christiane, who also appears in an eerie dream sequence with William S. Burroughs, is post-punk heaven in a leather jacket.

Reminding me of film's like, Downtown 81 and Population: 1, underground movies about art and music that were cobbled together years after they were shot, the film has an erratic, loosely thrown together vibe about it. However, unlike those two films, this particular flick has a clearly defined narrative. And a lively sense of colour; each character seems to have their own unique colour scheme (Fräulein Felscherinow's face was lit green while in frog mode, red during the peepshow scenes). It was kinda hard for me to gauge the quality of the acting in Decoder, or their physicality, as Christine F.'s legginess was more subtle than I'm used to (Muscha is no Jess Franco). But it was nice to see FM Einheit, a guy who normally smashes shopping carts for a living, moonlight as a leading man.

In closing, the way music is employed in the corporate arena nowadays is a real turn off. Ruining countless shopping and dining experiences, the indigestible noise they inflict on their customers has caused me to flee for quieter ground on several occasions. In extreme cases, if the sound emanating from a particular business is not to my specific liking as I approach the door, it will not be entered. Left to mindlessly wander a garbage-strewn landscape with a fairy dressed in tinfoil, my ears have slowly become wounds.

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Miami Connection (Richard Park, 1987)

In a world where ninjas dream of being rock stars and rock stars dream of being ninjas, five guys from Orlando, Florida do their best to complicate the order of things when they try to be both at the same time. The ninja has been around for centuries, but it wasn't until the mid-1980s that the pajama-wearing, sword-wielding assassins started to become well-known in the western world (a predominantly white place where face kicking was still frowned upon). And do you what else was all the rage during that particular chunk of the '80s? Besides, of course, the cinematic output of Amber Lynn and the tight grip of an expertly tied neon scrunchie. Give it up? Why, it was new wave-tinged synth rock. Combining the internal discipline of Taekwondo ("the art of kicking and punching") with the aura-destroying guitar solos that appear at the end of catchy songs about fighting ninjas, Miami Connection is here to show you what life was really like in Orlando circa 1987. While it's depicted in this film as a city that is crawling with nothing but unruly gangs and sleazy lowlifes who drink Coors Light straight from the can, that doesn't mean everyone who resides there wants to spend the rest of their lives hanging around empty parking lots all day waiting to get beaten up by the worst Benetton ad ever. Whether performing the new music of the day, practicing the material arts, or pursuing a university education, the members of Dragon Sound, the most exciting music group currently performing in the Orlando-Kissimmee-Sanford, Metropolitan Statistical Area (MSA), have decided to take a different course.

Avoiding the lure of the street with a breathtaking ease, everything seems to be going Dragon Sound's way. However, that ease is jeopardized somewhat when Jeff (William Eagle), the brother of Jane (Kathy Collier), the newest, and sexiest, member of Dragon Sound, finds out that she's canoodling with John (Vincent Hirsch), the band's lanky bass player. Sounds innocent enough, right? I mean, there's nothing wrong with a brother showing concern for the welfare of his sister. And, as most sane people know, dating bass players, lanky or otherwise, can be rife with unforeseen complications. Well, it turns out that Jeff, who likes to dress like a Cuban revolutionary on weekends, is the leader of Orlando's biggest street gang, and is not one to be trifled with. Punching John in the face (I'm surprised he was able to land his blow without the aid of a stepladder) mere seconds after meeting him, Jeff sends a message to Jane (a budding computer programmer), and to anyone else within earshot, that he will not sit idly by and let her exquisite frame be defiled by some mamby-pamby, Taekwondo-practicing musician.

Fraught with so much macho stress and misplaced sexual tension, that I thought my crotch was gonna explode into a million gigantic pieces, the introduction of Jeff and John in the parking lot of the University of Central Florida (John, Jane and the rest Dragon Sound are students there) was a cataclysmic event. Nevertheless, the seed of their adversarial relationship is actually planted in an earlier scene when Jeff attends a Dragon Sound gig at Park Ave., Central Florida's hottest nightclub. There to make a drug deal and talk gangster shit with Yashito (Si Y Jo), an underworld colleague and the leader of Miami Ninja (bikers by day, ninjas by night), Jeff is severely annoyed by the closeness going on between Jane and John as they perform "Friends," a song about loyalty and friendship. Right then and there, you knew John and Jeff were going to collide with one another. A collision that will, no doubt, culminate with a climatic confrontation with a noteworthy ninja.

Upset over the fact they were fired as Park Ave.'s house band, an unnamed rival group–who were, by the way, dumped for being too square–confront the members of Dragon Sound, a band who represent a new dimension in rock 'n' roll. They did the same to the club's owner in an earlier scene, but getting their lumpy, out of shape asses handed to them was the only thing they managed to accomplish (club owners, especially the one's who operate in Central Florida, are notorious for their Taekwondo skills). Anyway, the sacked musicians, along with about twenty hired goons, attack Dragon Sound in the middle of an Orlando street. A melee ensues, and the five male members of Dragon Sound, which include the aforementioned John (who, like I said, plays bass), their "guitar player" and spiritual adviser Mark (Y.K. Kim), a drummer named Jack (Joseph Diamond), a synth whiz known simply as Jim (Maurice Smith), and Tom (Angelo Janotti), their singer/lead guitarist, end up punching and kicking their way through a decrepit throng of piss poor opponents.

Humiliated, the battered and bruised members the rival band make a deal with Jeff's gang: Destroy Dragon Sound and we'll join up with you and give you everything we earn at our future gigs. Just the excuse he was looking for to interfere with Jane's life on a more profound level, Jeff and his ragtag gang of unwashed reprobates embark on a reign of terror against Dragon Sound, or at least they try to embark on one. You see, what Jeff doesn't seem to fully understand is that Mark and John are rabid Taekwondo enthusiasts. In case you're wondering, the reason I listed Mark and John as the rabid Taekwondo enthusiasts, and not the others, is because Y.K. Kim and Vincent Hirsch seemed to be the only one's able to execute the intricate fight moves in a semi-convincing manner. You could tell the other actors who portray the members of Dragon Sound weren't comfortable at all during the fight scenes. The opposite is true during the film's two concert scenes, where Kathy Collier and Angelo Janotti, musicians in real life, seem super-relaxed on stage, while Y.K. and Vincent come off as clumsy and uncoordinated.

The majority of the film's acting–you know, the part of the film that doesn't involve cutting off arms or singing songs about battling ninjas–rests squarely on the shoulders of Maurice Smith. Called upon to emote while not wearing a shirt, Maurice, playing Jim, a genteel keyboard player, is strangely compelling as a troubled man who is bursting at the seams with depth and humanity. Desperate to find his father, Maurice's breakdown scene in front of the other members of Dragon Sound sent shivers down my spine. Which, believe me, is quite the compliment, as I try to avoid making public allusions to the vibrational goings on inside my world class spinal column whenever possible.

Keenly aware of the emotional toll Jim's breakdown would have on the audience, the filmmakers wisely chose to embrace minimalism and retro-futurism for the scenes that immediately followed it. The, what I like to call, trip to the beach and biker jamboree sequences, give the audience a moment to decompress, while, at the same time, examine the complex mating rituals of human beings in a daytime setting.

At the beach, the multi-ethnic Dragon Sound, in a scene straight out of a teen sex comedy with Béla Tarrian undertones, slowly cruise through a fleshy bouquet of late '80s womanhood. Of course, John and Jane (sporting a tasteful black bikini), being a couple and all, are focused on each other (they attempt, with mixed results, to recreate the famous kissing scene from From Here to Eternity utilizing a half-submerged lawn chair for maximum make-out leverage). The others, however, are mainly concerned, as they should be, with penetrating soon-to-be wet things with their black belt penises.

While the beach diversion was all about fun, sun, and procreation, the so-called "biker jamboree" seemed to centre primarily around facial hair and hedonism. A celebration of crudity and sloth, Jeff invites Yahshito to partake in a kind of biker fantasy camp. Awash with topless biker chicks, dirty bandanas, cheap beer, cigarettes, and denim and leather as far as the eye could see, this sequence had such an authentic, lived-in quality that about it, that I thought it created a great dichotomy between the lawful, upstanding world of Taekwondo and the dark and twisted void the bikers and ninjas seem to be stuck in.

A creaseless angel in a shirt dress, the gorgeous Kathy Collier, channeling Linda Blair, a teenage Dinah Manoff, and my high school chemistry teacher, is the lone woman with a speaking part in the realm of Miami Connection. At first I was a tad worried about this gender inequality, after all, it seemed that Uzis, letter writing campaigns to the Defense Department, shirtless male bonding over said letter writing campaigns, ninjas on bikes, and drug dealers in Panama hats were this film's principal interests in the early going. However, after seeing Kathy in action in only a couple of scenes, I quickly came to the conclusion that she was more than enough woman for this film.

Shapely without even trying (the ability to successfully pull off detached shapeliness is an extremely rare gift), Kathy Collier not only earned my respect as a thespian (her rapid fire delivery when it came time to lay down a healthy slab of exposition was a flat-out brilliant piece of acting), but the fact that she co-wrote "Friends" and "Against the Ninja" was, well, too much for this viewer to handle. Boring a misshapen hole deep inside the brain of anyone who listens to it, Kathy's rendition of "Against the Ninja," a Dragon Sound ditty about fighting evil ninjas and restoring harmony to a chaotic universe through Taekwondo, will drive you absolutely insane...in a good way, of course.

With all the punching and kicking that goes in this film, you wouldn't think they'd be much time for anyone to step up and seductively slather the screen with the kind of chic fashions that all heterosexual men and their gay allies so wantonly crave. Trained like a laser that was designed to be precise and junk, Kathy Collier brings haute couture to the dew-ridden streets of Central Florida with a voguish intensity that will electrify the spirit and eviscerate the soul.

It's no secret, the humble shirt dress is currently my garment of choice; just the mere thought of a shirt dress makes my favourite sliver moister than a sheathlike structure that is on the brink of becoming more moist. Cinched at the waist with a sassy belt, and still glowing after learning that her class had just placed fourth in an international computer programming contest, Jane saunters across the school's perennially damp campus in her striped shirt dress with a queenly brand of confidence.

After seeing Kathy belt out "Against the Ninja," dressed head to toe in a white lace get-up that left all the Park Ave. patrons standing in awe of her sheer fabulousness, I didn't think she had anything else to offer in terms of eye-catching threads. Oh, man, was I ever wrong. Drifting into Jeff's dingy lair like an untamed butterfly who shirks reality, trying her best to ignore the asinine taunts coming from three of his subordinates (one sporting zipper-covered parachute pants), Kathy causes a fashion furore when she shows up in this black and white blazer and trouser combo with an orange top ensemble. The top, like I said, is orange, and is pretty straightforward as far as orange tops go, and, as per usual, she had a purse to match. But the jacket and pants' black and white tropical-inspired print was so jarring, so exhilarating, that I literally began to hyperventilate as it pranced before me. Forget about skirmishing with twenty ninjas in a swamp-like setting, the amount of courage it took to leave the house in an outfit that bold must have been astronomical.

Conceived by director Richard Park (a.k.a. Woo-sang Park) and Grandmaster Y.K. Kim, the thoughtful film has an underlying message that sheds a fair amount of light on the ills of gang violence. That being said, Miami Connection does boast five elaborately staged action sequences that do a pretty good job depicting a world where Uzi-carrying henchmen fire aimlessly at ninjas lurking in the fern-laden undergrowth, three new wavers take on at least twenty incompetent slobs at a railroad yard (the amount of slobs was more than double when they tussled again at a construction site), rival bands battle it out on the street as if they were starring in a Broadway production of The Warriors, and recently purchased suits are ruined in spur-of-the-moment swords fights that take place in marshy wetlands.

The electronic, Jan Hammer-esque music score by Jon McCallum is one of the best Jan Hammer-esque scores I have ever heard. I'd put the score up there with the likes of Chopping Mall and Killer Workout, as it enriches every scene with a tasty layer of synthy goodness. Oh, and the music cue after a ninja bigwig utters the line, "They will not escape the Miami Ninja!" was excellent.

 

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Fair Game (Mario Andreacchio, 1986)

In an inhospitable land located down under, a woman with an intense distaste for trousers finds herself at odds with a group of boorish poachers in Fair Game, a straightforward slice of dingo-free Ozploitation from director Mario Andreacchio and screenwriter Rob George; one that you might recognize, as it was featured prominently in the superb Not Quite Hollywood. Except for the killing cute animals for monetary gain (mucho dollaridoos) aspect of their personality, these blokes don't sound all that bad. I mean, what's wrong with getting reacquainted with your inner lout every once and a while? In the grand tradition of the oral fetishists in Deliverance ("He got a real pretty mouth, ain't he?") and the English roofers with a taste for rape and tomfoolery in Straw Dogs, the uncouth trio saddled with providing a steady stream of undue harassment in this film are as nasty, crazed, and unsympathetic as they come. You might have noticed that I called them a "trio." While it's true, there are three of them. Which, by the way, is one of the most important factors when designating something a trio. You could count their red, demon-eyed devil truck as the unofficial fourth member of the lady persecuting gang, much like Dave "Rave" Ogilvie was considered the unofficial fourth member of Skinny Puppy.

Resembling a wild boar at times (and sounding like one), this truck (fitted with a network of silver exhaust tubes) transports our villains from one unpleasant situation to another. And make no mistake, they're "villains." You don't purchase a truck like that with the intention of traveling the countryside to perform random acts of kindness. Whether sticking amateur erotica to the inside of iceboxes or using barely clothed women as hood ornaments, these sick twists will stop at nothing until they have persecuted every square inch of their intended victim's supple frame.

It's hard to figure out what their motivation is, but there's no denying the fact that poachers Sonny (Peter Ford), Ringo (David Sanford) and Sparks (Garry Who) want to cause Jessica (Cassandra Delaney), the manager of a large nature reserve, and her multitude of animals, a modicum of discomfort over the next couple days.

Now this may sound difficult to believe, especially after alluding to the infamous hood ornament incident, but there was brief moment when I thought that the mildly dashing Sonny might be a bit of a softy–you know, in a "that's not a knife" sort of way. The key word there being "brief." Sure, he may not act as openly deranged as his two pals (who look like rejects straight out of a universe severely lacking in gasoline), but, like he says himself, "you can't always judge a book by its cover." Unless it's an atlas, which usually contains maps, or a cook book, which usually contains recipes.

In a pre-apocalyptic (or maybe it was post-apocalyptic, you never know some times with The Outback), arid, and unforgiving landscape, three scumbags who drive a scary ass truck do battle with a leggy animal lover. What starts off as gentle ribbing. Actually, I wouldn't classify running someone off the road, Road Warrior-style, as "gentle ribbing." But, to be fair, it was done in a playful, boys will boys, manner. Anyway, this playful behaviour gradually turns deadly serious and sees the foursome–quintet, if you include the guy's truck, sextet, if you count Jessica's dog, Kyle–engage in a tit for tat war with one another.

They put a dead kangaroo in her car, she uses a blowtorch to turn their collection of guns into an avant-garde work of art. It's goes back and forth like this, that is, until the infamous hood ornament incident takes place. Infamous because it features a live woman tied to the front of a moving vehicle, the mood of the film changes somewhat after they leave her battered and bruised on the Australian equivalent of her front porch. Instead reacting, Jessica begins to play a more proactive role when it comes to dealing with her tormentors. That's right, no more cowering in the corner of her kitchen grasping a butcher knife for this gal, she's got some elaborate booby-traps to set.

One of the key ingredients to successfully staving off a bunch of hostile yahoos is a strong pair of legs. I know, you thought I was gonna say, "Australian savvy." But let's be honest, legs are way more important. Think about it, savvy, whether it be the Australian or Lithuanian variety, will only get you so far in the not-so lucrative dodging psychopaths racket. On the other hand, a healthy set of gams will allow you to complete a wide array of arduous tasks. Whether you need to run through the underbrush, climb up a steep cliff, or kick in a groin, a well-motivated pair of legs can and will accomplish all these difficult sounding activities with relative ease.

Of course, the thousand dollar question being: Does Cassandra Delaney have the stems for the job? Holy shivering wombats, does she ever. Molded by the finest leg artisans this side of Geelong, Cassandra's all-powerful, gorgeous lower half command the screen whenever the appear–which is quite often. With the exception a few instances where she is inexplicably wearing long pants, Cassandra's unadorned legs–glistening in the harsh, Aussie sun, thanks, in part, to a steady stream of outback-induced perspiration–work hard to outmaneuver their determined foe, while at the same time, providing much titillation to the handful perverts sitting in the audience. It is, after all, an exploitation film, not a documentary.

Now that I've covered her unclothed portion of her delectable lower half, I'd like, if you don't mind, to move on and focus my attention on Cassandra Delaney's killer wardrobe. Sporting a total of six (yeah, that's right, I counted them) unique looks, Cassandra's Fair Game ensembles are practical, in that, they never impede her ability to flee or engage forces that are hostile in nature, yet exceedingly sexy at the same time.

Having previously alluded to her much publicized disdain for trousers, I feel should mention that two and a half of her outfits are in fact equipped with funnel-based leg coverings. However, in my defense, she does seem a lot more content, spiritually and emotionally, when her legs are unadorned with fabric. Oh, and why two and "a half," you say? Well, you see, her fourth look starts off sans pants (a red, gray and black flannel work shirt), but is affixed with a pair of jeans later on. Anyway, the first thing we see Cassandra's Jessica wearing is a plain white t-shirt (with the sleeves folded) and a pair of no-nonsense blue jeans. I won't lie to you, it's my least favourite of her outfits (she looks like she just walked off the set of a Canadian Heinz Ketchup ad circa 1990), but she does rescue an injured joey while wearing it. And, as we all know, helping animals does nothing but increase one's overall hotness.

A trip to the general store is the scenario put in motion for the unveiling of Jess's second outfit: a light blue shirtdress. Complemented by a brown leather belt (a shirtdress essential) and a chic hodgepodge of handmade jewellry (her black and white necklace was ethno-fabulous), this particular look informs the audience that she's not afraid to show a little skin, while, at same time, giving us a veiled refresher course on how accessories, if used properly, can invigorate the visual temperament of any outfit.

Out of all of Jessica's many outfits, my favourite would have to be her third look. Similar to her second look, yet not similar at all, the bluish gray mini dress, designed by Dianne Kennedy (Sabrina, the Teenage Witch), radiated an otherworldly quality as she wandered through the intense bush. Accentuated by a saucy belt, the wavy lines and Aboriginal flourishes that covered the dress (which you get some great close-up shots of when she's hiding under the edge of a cliff) reminded me of something you might see prancing around in a Parachute Club music video.

The lifespan of Jessica's fifth look is laced with controversy. A black skintight number that was initially worn for stealth purposes, this get-up is the one she is wearing when the gun-totting thugs tie her to the front of their truck. To the surprise of no one, the top and the trousers are both ruined (hunting knives will always win the day when pitted against stretch linen).

Fashion takes a bit of a backseat when it comes time to debut her sixth and final look. Sporting what you'd expect a pissed off Australian woman would wear after a bunch of wankers had just plowed their truck through her house, Jessica's "I'm gonna fuck your shit up" attire includes khaki shorts, a breezy short-sleeved top, brown wilderness boots, and a jaunty Akubra (a black and white headband is added to the mix when the operational integrity of the proverbial fan that measures the overall mood of the universe becomes blanketed with fecal matter). Partaking in a horse-motorcycle chase, causing a rock slide, and using an iron as a weapon, Jessica's new-found confidence when it came to dealing with these creeps was a thrilling sight to behold. An uncomplicated entry in the wilderness revenge genre, Fair Game is a must-see for fans of strong Australian women who like animals and despise being used as a hood ornament.

Oh, crap. I got so caught up in the excitement surrounding Cassandra's six looks, that I almost forgot to mention the excellent electronic music score by Ashley Irwin.

video uploaded by AussieRoadshow
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Valet Girls (Rafal Zielinski, 1987)

I've often wondered: Is there such a thing as '80s overkill? Of course, I find the idea that anything, let alone a movie, could be deemed "'80s overkill" to be positively absurd. In my mind, everything, from the way we comb our hair to the way we dance, could use a shot of '80s-infused whimsicality. However, as I began to watch the totally resplendent Valet Girls frolic and flicker oh-so garishly before me, the thought that this film might be too '80s for some people briefly popped into my brain every so often. Seconds later, it dawned on me, who are these "some people," and why am I letting them, no doubt, a non-unionized collection of culturally bereft philistines, ruin what was, quite possibly, the most satisfying cinematic experience I've ever had? Fuck them. Wait a minute, most satisfying cinematic experience ever? High praise, for sure, yet not only is Nana Mouskouri mentioned in an early scene, but so are Agnes Moorehead ("You remind me of a young Agnes Moorehead"), Vanity, and, wait for it, Pia Zadora! Yeah, that's right, Pia Zadora, and not in a negative way, either. (People who flippantly besmirch the divine Miss Zadora make my skin crawl.) At any rate, by nonchalantly uttering the names of these four legends aloud, this agile slice of '80s fashion pornography inadvertently put itself in the great pantheon of under-appreciated works of mind-blowing art that begin with the letter 'v.'

Glistening alongside the likes of Liquid Sky, Girls Just Want to Have Fun, Valley Girl, Voyage of the Rock Aliens, Killer Workout and To Live and Die in L.A., Valet Girls joins a select group of films that are set during 1980s. Okay, I know, you're thinking to yourself: "Aren't there are literally thousands of films that were set during the 1980s?" Actually, that's not true. You might find this hard to believe, but there are only a handful of films floating around out there that can be truly call themselves "an '80s film." You see, most of the films that were made throughout that particular ten year period we like to call "the '80s," while, from a technical point of view, were indeed made during the decade in question, they were, however, not set there.

In order for a motion picture to be truly called an '80's film, it has to fully embrace the flavour of the decade. In other words, you can't just point to the date it was made and declare your film to be an '80s film. Let me put it this way, if your film doesn't feature the colour pink (or its chromatic cousins magenta and fuchsia) in any way, shape, or form, it's not an '80s film. Now, some misguided individuals like to boast about the "timelessness" of their non-'80s film. What they mean by this is that it doesn't contain any instances where the decade's unique idiosyncrasies end up dominating the overall temperament of the film in question. Basically, it doesn't make them cringe with embarrassment. Well, in the case of Valet Girls, it's a film that comprises nothing but those instances.

Drenched in everything that made the '80s such a demented and glossy delight, the film is about three parties that take place at a mansion in Malibu. Three parties?!? I won't lie, that doesn't sound like a lot of meat for one to sink their plot-devouring teeth into, but the film does have plenty of surprises sprinkled here and there that will leave you bewildered and enlightened. Bewildered, I can see. But enlightened? Come on! Well, I might as well come out and say it: Valet Girls is the sole reason feminism was able to hang on as a force for cultural change during the dark days of the Kajagoogoo decade (I'm tired of saying "the '80s"). With date rape and four-down football gaining a considerable amount of traction within the misogyny community at the time, this film, along with other like-minded endeavours such as My Chauffeur and Tomboy, managed to make female empowerment cool again.

Who by chance is saddled with the unenviable task of making feminism hip again? Three valets named Lucy (Meri D. Marshall), Rosalind (April Stewart), and Carnation (Mary Kohnert), that's who. Working for the "Valet Girls," a car parking service run by Danny (Matt Landers), a lingerie fanatic with a thing for lace and pink fingernails, the Brooklyn-born Lucy, a plucky car-parker who dreams of becoming a new wave superstar with black fingernails, and Rosalind, an English psych major who attends UCLA (I'm assuming she goes there, unless she likes to read Sigmund Freud outside Murphy Hall just for refried giggles smeared in monkey shit), get booted from a valeting job at an upscale restaurant; a tubby jackass (Charles Cooper) learns the hard way that you shouldn't mess with chicks from, yeah, you guessed it, Brooklyn.

Mildly forlorn, the two charm their way into a party being held at a mansion owned by Dirk Zebra (Jack DeLeon), an important mover and shaker in the festering cesspool that is show business. The party, featuring the expressive Magie Song (Dr. Caligari) and The Fibonaccis (credited here as Sexy Holiday) as the swanky shindig's poolside entertainment (they perform "Slow Beautiful Sex" and a cover of "Purple Haze"), follows Lucy and Rosalind as they schmooze the hell out of the eclectic crowd. (I spotted a Nina Hagen lookalike who had a gutless worm on a leash and a couple copulating near a barbecue.) All their aggressive schmoozing pays off when the gals land themselves a valeting gig at Mr. Zebra's next party. In reality, Mr. Zebra falls under the spell of Rosalind, and who wouldn't? She's radiant and her an eye-popping gold blazer was off the charts in terms of garment visibility. Anyway, this upsets a trio of male valets from Fraternity Parking, who, after being fired ("no more gorgeous girls and free cocaine"), plan to exact an elaborate revenge on their female rivals at Mr. Zebra's next party (the guy, as we soon find out, likes to throw his share of parties).

Now a threesome–Lucy and Rosalind are told by their boss to show the ropes to a "new girl" named Carnation (Mary Kohnert), an aspiring actress from a small town just outside Biloxi, Mississippi–the Valet Girls are gearing up to valet a party at the Zebra compound with a pajama theme. The ambitious, highly entrepreneurial (she sells her demo tapes outside Tower Records) Lucy hopes to grab the attention of music producer Alvin Sunday (Michael Karm), a sleazy scumbag who uses sex as a bargaining chip, while Carnation is enamoured with a smarmy TV actor named Lindsey Brawnsworth (Jon Sharp), a smoothing talking reprobate who likes to hold impromptu casting sessions with his pockmarked penis. In case you were wondering, the refined Rosalind doesn't want anything from these people, as she thinks they're all a bunch of lecherous pustules.

Performing her song "Reachin' Up" twice with the intention that Alvin might hear it, Lucy, despite the positive reaction from a bus boy she thought was Alvin (Lucy's vision is a tad blurry without her glasses) and the crowd gathered by the pool (they even engage in reach-centric audience participation), is shocked to discover that sex, not talent is what fuels the music industry.

The pajama party ends with the implementation of a massive sabotage campaign generated by the boys from Fraternity Parking (complete with prop severed arms, live insects and tons of fake vomit) and the girls being told that they will never park in this town again (they get blamed for the chaos that ensues). On the bright side, Carnation learns the proper way to snort cocaine, finds out what dildos do, and realizes that her love for Archie Lee Samples (John Terlesky), her homesick Mississippi boyfriend, is eternal. Oh, and the girls gain an ally in the form of Mrs. Zebra (Patricia Scott Michel), a woman who has grown tired of her husband's shameless philandering.

When the time comes for the film's third party, it's the girls' turn to cause some havoc at the Zebra estate. Employing disguises, Lucy (white leopard print coat), Carnation and Rosalind (thick glasses and paisley-coloured hippie dresses), the Valet Girls, with the help of Archie Lee, who, for some reason, is dressed like a French maid with a Dolly Parton wig, infiltrate Dirk Zebra's 50th birthday party (his seventh 50th birthday party in a row) with relative ease. Boasting a black and white theme (everyone in attendance is dressed in a combination of both colours), the comely party crashers plan to disrupt the proceedings by humiliating Dirk, Alvin Sunday and Lindsey Brawnsworth in front of all their coked up peers. In other words, a very public "fuck you" from all the women they have degraded over the years.

While April Stewart and Mary Kohnert have their moments, the majority of our rooting interest is directed towards Meri D. Marshall as the feisty Lucy (she plants her knee in two male crotches before thirty minute mark). A singer in real life (check out her monster jam, "My Obsession"), Meri has an energetic stage presence that oozes authenticity. There's no acting involved when she belts out the lyrics to "Flyin' High," "Heartless Love" and the aforementioned "Reachin' Up" (all, by the way, written by Bob Parr). It's safe to say that Meri probably saw this film as a genuine opportunity to advance her music career. Whether she succeeded or not is irrelevant, as her performance in Valet Girls is a testament to power of dreams.

There's no denying Meri D. Marshall's talent as a singer and a gutsy troublemaker, yet I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the shape of her delectable gams in this film. You'd think her legs would be the last thing on my mind–you know, when you take in account the flashy blazers, teased hair covered with radioactive glitter, subplots centered around black nail polish (her boss wants her to wear pink nail polish), and a brief training montage. However, her fleshy protuberances were, at times, the only thing I could think about. Encased in black fishnet stockings, her legs, particularly during Dirk's pajama party, were positively divine. I didn't help matters that Meri's character had a habit of mock kicking things every now and then. And, as everyone knows, there's nothing sexier than a woman with great legs who likes to kick stuff.

Dressing the film's stars and an innumerable amount of extras in a complex array of trashy yet stylish outfits, costume designer Kathie Clark (Angel) is the true heroine of the Valet Girls universe. Cobbling together a vast collection of negligees, pink suspenders, new wave tutus, pajamas, stockings, piano key scarfs, irregular lingerie, lace leggings, shiny blazers, and, of course, an industrial size hamper full of fingerless gloves, Miss Clark must have worked her butt off during the production of this film. Bringing the same visionary spirit she brought to the atypical ensemble she created for Diane Franklin to wear in TerrorVision (her overall look is still the embodiment of new wave fashion), Kathie should be proud of what she accomplished in this film; a costume designing tour de force if I ever saw one.

Unabashed–seriously, this film doesn't know the meaning of the word "abashed"–in its depiction of a vacuous wasteland where career boosting intercourse and nasal cavity destroying narcotics are the only true currencies, esteemed filmmaker Rafal Zielinski (Screwballs), making excellent use of his much celebrated eye for colour, creates a world filled with pastel vistas and lace-covered thighs. In order to mask the sheer righteousness of his film's feminist outlook, Rafal peppers every other scene with moments that will placate the genital-based urges of all the undiscerning heterosexual men in the audience.

If the car parking adventures of Lucy, Rosalind (a.k.a. Connie Lingus), and Carnation aren't enough to command the bulk of your attention, be sure to keep an eye out for Elizabeth Lamers as Grueling Greta (the boxing gloved singer of The Grunts); Elise Richards as an actress who fornicates with a male valet played by the devilishly handsome Steve Lyon; Bridget Sienna as Dirk's housekeeper (you might remember her as the cleaning lady George Costanza has sex with in the Seinfeld episode, "The Red Dot"); Rebecca Cruz as Egypt Von Sand Dunes (a singer screwed over by Alvin Sunday), Kim Gillingham (Captain America) as the valley girl-accented lead vocalist for an up and coming band called The Chemistry Set; an actress, get this, named "Pinky," who is credited as "New Wave Clone;" Ron Jeremy; Richard Erdman as a drunk waiter who says "don't mind if I do" three or four times over the course of the film; Tony Cox (Bad Santa), who plays Lucy's de facto manager; and Kenny Sacha as Tim Cheesemen, a pushy screenwriter.

A veiled satire about the turbulent relationship that exists between the men who wield power and the women who must service them to get ahead, screenwriter Clark Carlton attempts to expose the evils of the Hollywood dream machine, and does a tremendous job doing so. While some women do end up becoming prostitutes when they comes to L.A., the one's who enter the entertainment industry aren't that different than their streetwalking cousins. Whether it's a hooker turning tricks in an alleyway off Wilshire or an aspiring actress choking on a producer's schlong at a party in Malibu, they both earn their money by getting jizzed on. To reinforce this dichotomy, there's a shot of a seemingly random prostitute in a pink top standing on the street corner. Which might seem gratuitous. Yet, upon further inspection, you'll notice the lacy outfit she is sporting is eerily similar to the one's the female valets are forced to wear. Signifying, that at the end of the day, we're all prostitutes.

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