In a perfect world, unwanted pets and babies would kill themselves more often. If only they could leave
this mortal coil by their own hand, or, in this case, by their own furry paw or tiny baby hand, as it would allow the rest of us to not have to worry about buying food, clothing, flea collars, yarn, chew toys, diapers and other miscellaneous items for their stupid, annoying asses. Unfortunately, that world doesn't exist yet, and since pets and babies rarely ever commit suicide, you're gonna have to hire an assassin to take care of the problem for you. Sure, you could kill them yourself, or hope that the pet, baby, or autistic seven year-old you want dead might slip and fall down a mind shaft, or, even better yet, accidentally eat that bowl of cyanide you left by their bed. But let's be realistic, with the sheer volume of pornography, and, not to mention, mounds of sweet
cocaine floating around out there (two things that were practically crying out for your undivided attention in the late 1970s), who's got the time or the energy to murder or hope anymore? I know I sure don't, and I don't even like pornography and cocaine. If the premise I'm sort of describing is in anyway appealing to you, seek medical attention immediately, you deranged lunatic. However, when you get back from getting the help you so desperately need, set aside some time and make sure to check out
Bad (a.k.a. Andy Warhol's Bad), and not just because it features a redheaded pyromaniac, one whose attempt to playfully wield a pistol-shaped dildo is thwarted by a humourless brunette, but because it's unwholesome cinema at its finest.
Spilling, not oozing, as for something to "ooze" implies that there's a slow leak transpiring, no, spilling, definitely spilling haphazardly from the unwell brain areas of screenwriter's
Pat Hackett and
George Abagnalo, and directed by interior designer
Jed Johnson, this film is replete with the kind of loathsome people I adore most: Troubled outsiders who kill for money and look fabulous while doing so. Funny in a
Desperate Living meets
Eating Raoul sort of way, the dark humour, hilarious anecdotes about hideous éclairs, despicable acts and politically incorrect dialogue featured throughout the film really know how to rub their inflamed genitals against the inner thighs of good taste.
While it's true I did imply that pets and babies are put in jeopardy in this film, that does not mean that everyone else is safe. Far from it. Diner washrooms, one-armed mechanics,
Jane Forth's dress, foreign film fans, ketchup bottles, Grandma's not-so precious pills, and the feet of hunky 29 year-olds are all at risk at one point or another during this film's chaotic run-time. Now what someone might have against a diner washroom is beyond me, but the assassins in this film do have a couple of things in common: 1. They're mostly women, and 2. They all split their cut with Hazel Aiken (
Carroll Baker), an unassuming stay-at-home hosebeast who operates a hair removal salon out of her modest home in
Queens (she can zap 360 hairs in an hour). Performing electrolysis, placating corrupt homicide detectives (
Charles McGregor), and scheduling hits via her wall-mounted rotary telephone (some times doing all three simultaneously), Hazel struggles to make ends meet in a house she shares with her sickly mother (
Mary Boylan), and her shy daughter-in-law Mary (
Susan Tyrrell) and infant son.
Complicating matters somewhat is the arrival of L.T. (
Perry King), a male assassin/kleptomaniac who literally likes to ride the back of the bus. Awaiting the call to spring into action, that "action" of course being the murder (they're calling it a "retraction") of a helpless autistic child with a plastic bag, L.T. is begrudgingly allowed to rent a room in Hazel's house (she frowns upon having male killers live under her roof). Ignoring the rules laid out for him, L.T. pops pills (even one's that have been swirling around inside Hazel's toilet bowl), is unapologetic about his tendency to ejaculate prematurely, watches loads of television, and behaves in a manner you'd expect a male sociopath who finds himself living in a house frequented by a steady flow of female killers, especially if one of them happens to sport an Italian accent.
Yes, you heard right, there's an Italian woman in
Bad, and her name is
Stefania Casini, and, yes, she is the same
Stefania Casini who wore an orange bathing suit in
Suspiria (she also has a nasty run-in with a room full of barbed-wire). Playing P.G., Stefania's character is an extremely sarcastic, no-nonsense woman who maims with a subtle grace. Hired to disfigure a mechanic with one arm by his two-armed girlfriend, Sara Leachman (
Renee Paris), P.G. is told specifically to push him in front of a moving subway. Except, she decides instead to crush the his legs with the car he was working on and remove one of fingers with a pair of pliers. I guess she didn't think it mattered how she dismembered him. Anyway, she bags the finger, takes a photograph of the body, and collects her money at a local bar. What did she end up doing with his finger? Well, let's just say Hazel's gonna find a nasty surprise the next time she wants to spice up her eggs.
The nonchalant way P.G. went about her grisly business, and the fact that the guy she targeted clearly had both his arms, set the tone early on. Of course, the sight of a hyper-feminine (her tight curves drive all the waste collectors wild)
Cyrinda Foxe defacing the inside of a diner washroom for no apparent reason in the film's opening scene was a tad on the bizarre side, and no slouch when it came to setting tones (you just don't get much of a washroom vandalism vibe when you look at Cyrinda). However, up until Stefania started to inflict actual suffering on her victim, all the talk of killing and dismembering was just that, talk.
Glamorous, tough, and scrappy as fuck,
Geraldine Smith and
Maria Smith are dangerously alluring and alluringly dangerous as Glenda and Marsha Montemorano, a pair of murderous sisters with heavenly voices who routinely get into fights with one another over the cleanliness of their panties. Let me quickly explain the pantie dilemma: While in the middle of torturing some guy tied to a bed (lucky bastard), Marsha notices that Glenda is wearing her panties. The pale-kneed Glenda tries to calm things down by suggesting that the panties were dirty, but this only seems to exacerbate the situation, as Marsha takes offense to having her panties besmirched in such a public forum. Okay, one guy tied to a bed ain't exactly a "public forum," but still, she was mortified by her sister's statement. At any rate, Marsha and Glenda start to slap each other in a frenzied attempt to save face. Oh, and if you really want to know what Glenda and Marsha's "heavenly voices" sound like, try to imagine
Fran Drescher reciting the lyrics to "
Warm Leatherette" with her mouth wrapped around the base of
Susie Essman's strawberry-flavoured vagina.
The sinister task the Montemorano sisters are asked to carry out involves the killing of the dog owned by a man (
Lawerence Tierney) who lives across the street from Estelle (
Brigid Berlin), a misanthropic, gassy gal with some serious anger issues. You see, Estelle's still upset over an unflattering comment she overheard the dog man make about the way she looked in shorts the previous summer, and, after much soul searching, decides the sanest course of action is to hire Glenda and Marsha to rub out his dog in the most vicious manner possible. Fueling her desire for blood to be shed is the fact that he's been wearing the same blue pants everyday for two years straight. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I think it was the blue pants, and not the dog man's shorts slight, that sent Estelle off the deep end, as she really seemed to despise those blue pants.
I think
Tab is the most aesthetically pleasing soft drink ever created. Everything from the design of its can (best font ever) to its straightforward name are immensely appealing. All right, I know what you're thinking: "While I agree with everything you're saying, why on earth are you talking about Tab?" Well, the film opens with the line: "Tab, Tab, Tab, why does it always have to be Tab?!?" And, seriously, how can you not love a film that begins with that many Tab references straight out of the gate? The child in the film who says the line obviously hates Tab (I know, what a little asshole), but his mother orders it for him anyway because she might want to drink it if her son doesn't want to finish it. While I'm on the subject of Tab, make sure to keep an eye out for the can of Tab languishing in the back seat of the car the Montemorano sisters steal.
With the exception of Hazel Aiken (kill all the babies and dogs you want, but don't shortchange the blind), the ladies of
Bad are some of the most enchanting people to ever to grace the silver screen. I won't lie, some of things they do in this film are a tad abhorrent, but their innate loveliness somehow manages to rise above their acts of cavalier cruelty at every turn. Is it possible for someone not to fall completely head over heels for
Renee Paris's Sara Leachman the instant she starts complaining about a pesky
nose hair? I don't think so. Not only did I find her brash demeanour and strident speaking voice to be exhilarating, I thought Renee's "If we're lucky he'll fall right and be dismembered" was one of the funniest lines in the entire film, as the manner in which it was uttered was so wonderfully deadpan.
How about the scene where Ingrid Joyner (
Tere Tereba), the frustrated mother of a young autistic boy, wonders aloud to a friend (
Kitty Bruce) if she aborted the wrong child? You can't help but feel all tingly in your underpants for Mrs. Joyner as she plans to the death of her son. Yeah, I'm sure some of you can totally help it (your downstairs tingle has been replaced with upstairs scorn). But you've got to understand, I'm inherently drawn to demented women, especially one's who are gorgeous in a decidedly off-kilter way and periodically conspire to have their disabled offspring murdered.
Another reason why I didn't like Hazel was because she was rude towards Mary, and like I've always said, those who treat
Susan Tyrrell badly, whether it be in a movie or in real life, are no friend of mine. Of course, P.G. and the Montemorano sisters aren't exactly friendly to Mary, either. But at least their nastiness is out in the open, Hazel's hostility, on the other hand, lingers underneath the surface, slowly gnawing away at Mary's frayed nerves. Anyway, wearing a yellow plastic bow in her hair (which did a competent job of keeping her greasy bangs in check), a ratty housecoat, and constantly clutching onto this dead-eyed baby (it was like a purse, only instead of holding loose change and oral contraceptives, it cried, burped and occasionally soiled itself),
Susan Tyrrell (
Forbidden Zone), despite her suspect parenting skills, is the moral conscience of the
Bad universe (she's the only one who openly disapproves of the murder of pets and children). Her appeal as an actress has always been her ability to convey emotion by simply raising her head and looking at whatever hr character happens to be looking at. After she does that, her warm, inviting eyes and killer cheekbones do the rest.
If I had my choice of being murdered by any of the amoral characters who populate
Bad, it would definitely have to be
Geraldine Smith's Glenda Montemorano, and, no, not just because she looked divine in red knee socks. Well, actually, now that I think about it, that's a pretty sane reason to choose her as the sexy cause of my untimely death. I mean, who doesn't want to murdered by a crazed woman from
Queens who wears red socks? Nobody I know, that's for damn sure. Anyway, I also liked her habit of setting fires and penchant for blinking.
The infamous baby tossing scene, infamous because the words "baby" and "tossing" shouldn't ever really be put together, is a brief yet comically horrifying slice of over the top unpleasantness. A stressed out mother (are there any other kind in this movie?), played by the luminous
Susan Blond, can be seen arguing on the telephone with the father of her infant son over who's gonna pay the assassin (
Barbara Allen) that is currently on her way to kill their baby. Growing impatient with the tardy assassin (and the baby's crying ain't helping, either), she decides to take matters into her own hands and throws her baby out the window of her high-rise apartment.
While I was shocked by this wanton display of irregular childcare, I was more concerned about the structural makeup of
Susan Blond's exquisite chin. Standing in profile, I couldn't help but notice what a bodacious chin she had as she flung her baby (a baby that produced more arterial spray than a broken fire hose), it was like staring at a mind-blowing work of art (the chin, not the fountain of baby blood). My hope is that Susan took pride in her chin and wasn't tempted to mess with it as she became more successful in 1980s (she went to found the publicity agency,
Susan Blond, Inc.). Of course, some of you will say that by focusing on her chin, I found a clever way of shielding myself from the horror transpiring on-screen. It's a good theory and all, but don't ever underestimate my love of chins. Oh, and just for record: I love pets and babies, and don't think they should ever be harmed.
Hey, neighbour, what's up? You just heard a loud, thoroughly unpleasant screeching sound emitting from my basement? Are you sure? Yeah, wow, um, I'm sorry about that, my sexy girlfriend, Alucarda, likes to go down there to scream incoherently and hurl her no-nonsense body (her lower back is tramp stamp-free) around like it were a demented rag doll. Why? Aren't we nosy. Well, it usually happens whenever I refuse to partake in her nightly blood rituals. I've told her, straight up, that I'm not into killing farm animals, and that I'm averse to running through the park at night in nothing but a giant goat head (not only are they heavy and difficult to breath in, they make my ankles look fat), but she won't listen to me. We've tried to comprise: Blood rituals every Tuesday, Thursday, and on weekends (I'll be the first to admit, a Saturday night without a ritual killing is depressing), while Monday, Wednesday and Friday are the days we set aside for dispassionate, heterosexual intercourse (and, get this, if I do well, thrusting-wise, I'm allowed to brush her hair afterwards). But, I have to admit, it can be a tad exhausting at times (have you ever tried to remove blood stains from tighty-whities?). Stepping back into the world of "reality" (reality is the only word in the language that should always be used in quotes) for a second, how awesome would it be if Alucarda from Alucarda was really your girlfriend? I'll tell you how awesome, if there was a chart that measured such things, it would be off it by a million miles. Anyway, back to the inner workings of our complex relationship. Even though spending countless nights out in the woods cavorting naked with her equally naked friends would inevitably get old after a while, the prospect of not be able to stare deeply into Alucarda's dark brown eyes after I've finished penetrating her pristine pussy makes my heart hurt. In other words, it's a (no pun intended) sacrifice I'm totally willing to make.
You could call it, "Bend It Like Beelzebub" or "Revenge of the Blood-Stained Sisterhood of the Nonexistent Pants," well, whatever you want to call it, that unnerving sensation you feel as you watch Alucarda (a.k.a. Sisters of Satan), Juan L. Moctezuma's gothic chiller about two possessed chicks living at a convent/orphanage in the 1860s, is hard to shake. Drenched in blood, filled with creepy religious imagery, boasting a veritable bevy of strangely dressed nuns (they wear outfits that look like Karen Finley's uterine wall smeared with Pepto-Bismol), and containing enough painful wailing to wake up someone who is in one of those long ass comas you read about in the wildly unpopular magazine, Coma Victim Weekly, the film has characters yelling things like, "The Devil!" and "Blasphemy!" But it's not campy at all. Oh, sure, it could have been–quite easily, in fact–yet the film takes itself and its subject matter very seriously.
The level artistry involved is evident early on, as we're introduced to Justine (Susana Kamini), a recently orphaned young girl with brunette hair. The world of Alucarda is hyper-colourful and replete with forbidden sensuality (outdoor orgies are always fraught with prickly complications). Sent to a convent to, I guess, live with bunch of nuns, Justine soon enters the realm of secrets. The realm of what? The realm of secrets, which is ruled by, you guessed it, a girl named Alucarda (Tina Romero), who just happens to be Justine's gorgeous, death-obsessed roommate. I loved the way the Alucarda character is introduced, in that, she kinda just pops out of nowhere (she emerges from the wall of their modest room). The two quickly become friends, and Alucarda shows Justine the aforementioned realm, which is basically the natural world. You see, the nuns, they frown upon activities that don't centre around praying (nuns are a real buzzkill), whereas, Alucarda, she's into collecting bugs, minerals, and paling around with hunchbacked forest dwellers who sell trinkets on the side of the road.
While a large portion of my mind was wondering what kind of frilly delights lay underneath those bulky, Victorian-style dresses Alucarda and Justine were always wearing, the part that wasn't thinking about that was rather impressed with the crisp greenery on display as the two girls frolicked.
Their meeting with the bushy-browed Roma hunchback (Claudio Brook) in the woods must have set off a spark, because later that evening, he shows up to help referee a late night blood ritual. Naked and armed with a knife (Alucarda contorts her body in a manner that accentuates the jet black temperament of her temple of ample minge), the two girls, kneeling in front of one another as it rains blood outside, cut each other–with some assistance from the bushy-browed Roma hunchback–in the chest region, and end up drinking a smallish amount of each other's blood.
I'm no expert when it comes to blood rituals, but I think the two girls have made a pact with Satan (a.k.a. "the accuser"). Now, why do think I it was Satan, you ask? Duh, I saw a guy wearing a goat head as a mask (at one point, we're whisked away to a clothes optional Roma hootenanny in the woods where animal heads are worn as accessories ). And, if I've learned anything watching horror movies over the years, it's that goats and Satan go together like, owls and hooting, or anal fissures and amateur fisting.
Truth be told, I knew something esoteric was about to go down the moment I saw that the wall overlooking Alucarda and Justine's beds was adorned with those ubiquitous symbols that are shaped like lower case 't's. Well, it turns out the 't'-shaped do-dads have nothing to do with the 20th letter in the alphabet, they're actually crosses, sometimes called "crucifixes," and they represent the suffering endured by the lord and saviour of the nuns who run the convent/orphanage. They worship a man named Jesus Christ, a teacher and prophet born in Bethlehem, and don't take kindly to folks, whether they be bushy-browed Roma hunchbacks or brunettes who love to frolic, who appear to contradict their warped interpretation of their saviour's teachings (from what I've read, this Jesus fella was proactive when it came to spreading benevolence and goodwill throughout the known universe, whereas the nuns come off as a bunch of brainless twits whose heads are impossibly hard to chop off).
Anyway, back to the crucifixes, a friend of mine's house growing up was literally covered with them, and I always felt ill at ease whenever I went over there. One day, while sitting quietly in his kitchen, I couldn't help but feel that one of his Jesus portraits (a giant mural overlooking their breakfast nook) was watching my every move (it didn't help that his eyes seemed to glow in the dark). It kind of reminded me of the way Alucarda stares during Alucarda, a film that takes its staring seriously. Her constant creepy gaze was definitely my favourite aspect of the movie. Actually, I shouldn't call my imaginary girlfriend's gaze "creepy" (it's a surefire way to get your imaginary penis unloved). No, I'd say, the best way to describe her gaze would be have to be "hypnotic" (yeah, that's better). You feel as if you're slowly being put under her spell the longer you peer into her eyes. Be careful, though, you could burst into flames if you stare too long.
"And this is what the devil does" and with those words, plus, "Satan! Satan! Satan!" Justine and Alucarda are accused of being in the league with the devil. Their "strange and blasphemous behaviour" is taken seriously by the nuns ("you liars, repent!") and a bigwig named Father Lázaro (David Silva), and they soon find themselves in front a wall of crucifixes (each affixed with a likeness of their beloved saviour) and surrounded by a handful shadowy men wearing cloaks. The humourless staff of the convent/orphanage, hoping to avoid what happened in the 1500s (something about super-human nuns barking like dogs), go a tad overboard in their attempt to deliver the girls from evil. This flagrant disregard of the girl's rights (I had no idea promoting Satan in a convent was such a no-no) brings Dr. Oszek (Claudio Brook), a man of science and a skeptic when it comes to things like the devil, into the chaotic mix.
Grabbing Alucarda from their sinister clutches, the sensible doctor brings the traumatized brunette to his home to recuperate. Called back to the convent/orphanage to assist the sisters with nun problems, her lets Alucarda pal around with her blind and equally brunette daughter, Daniela (Lili Garza), while he's away. Of course, some might think leaving your daughter, blind or otherwise, all alone with Alucarda is a big mistake; after all, that priestly, self-flagellation enthusiast in the robe seemed pretty sure she was down with all things wicked. However, I don't see it that way. In my mind, Alucarda was the only sane character in the entire movie, and I'm not just saying that because I'm one of her minions. Unafraid when it comes to challenging authority and possessing a keen interest in the natural world (one that must have seemed alien in the 19th century), Alucarda is a free spirit in a universe that is stagnate and primitive.
All hail Alucarda! She is my lord and master. Bow down before thee, or feel the wrath of her fiery death stare.
When I first saw Susana Kamini appear onscreen as Justine, I thought to myself: She's an attractive young woman with sensible nostrils; I look forward to spending the next seventy or so minutes watching her do stuff (third act naked neck biting, anyone?). However, when Tina Romero and her harmonious eyebrows show up as Alucarda ("Hello. I'm Alucarda."), I was like: Yes! Now this is what I'm talking about. A flawless example of humanity if I ever saw one, Tina's overt loveliness will consume the souls of all those who are dare to be "with it." Hell, even the part in her hair was perfect (you could probably drive trucks up and down her part and still have room to spare for bike lanes). Giving a fully unhinged performance–the kind I cherish most, Tina, her dark brown hair with chestnut highlights shimmering in the moonlight, chants pro-Satan verbiage, throws demonic fits, employs a number of scowl-based head tilts, and thrusts her fleecy girl box like a seasoned professional. Oh, and just to let you know, Alucarda and I will be getting married in October. Don't tell her this, but the fact that can set me on fire at any given moment simply by looking in my general direction is driving me wild with masochistic anticipation.
It should be noted that everything I know about spirituality comes from listening to My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult records as a teen, and, of course, watching Jeopardy! (yeah, that's right, Alex, I'll take "The Bible" for 2,000) Sure, lot's of industrial bands ("Welcome To Paradise") and various techno tracks ("I Don't Need God...all I need is an amoeba!") have used samples that feature evangelical preachers over the years, as their dramatic line delivery is well-suited for electronic dance music, but MLWTTKK seemed to take it to a whole nother level of off-kilter godliness.
