Future-Kill (Ronald W. Moore, 1985)

Trapped in a part of town where all the women either look like Sharon Mitchell from She's So Fine or Lois Ayres in The Devil in Miss Jones 3, five frat boys in eye makeup are desperate to escape its dilapidated embrace. Whoa, hold on a second, did you just say they were trying to flee an area where the female residents bear a striking resemblance to Sharon Mitchell and Lois Ayres? What the fuck is wrong with these people? If you hadn't interrupted me, I might have gotten around to explaining why this crude collection of college age dunderheads wanted to vacate this shadowy patch of concrete in such an accelerated manner. But now I don't know. Just kidding, of course, I'll explain why. Even though we're all the same, our brains are filled with contrasting ideas as we develop. Manifesting themselves in a number of different ways, these brain-based variations can apply to things as diverse as language and culture. However, one of the most significant ways these differences can unmask themselves is through a person's wardrobe. Just because you're body is clothed a certain way, does not necessarily mean your mind is clothed in a similar fashion. In others words, you may look like a mutant, but you don't think like a mutant. And in Future-Kill, a cunning examination of cutting edge fashion and its connection to urban violence from writer-director Ronald W. Moore, we learn firsthand that a superficial makeover should always be paired with a spiritual one. Getting one or the other may fool the unenlightened, but most people will see right through your ruse and try to kill you.

In order to be a successful adolescent person operating in the North American milieu, you'll eventually have to embrace a subculture. A decision that is bound to be fraught with unforeseen complications, you must choose wisely or else face the consequences. Unveil your subculture choice too quickly and you risk being mocked mercilessly by your peers (there's nothing worse than an overnight punk). Take too long and you could find that the subculture you have chosen to represent your personality has lost its allure (you don't want to come off as out of date or insincere). Since teenagers are usually away from the open air petri dish that is your average high school during the summer months, I recommend that you craft your new look gradually while amongst your closest friends. Iron out the kinks, practice walking in the shoes (all subcultures come with their own distinctive footwear), visit the record store at least once a week, trim your pubes accordingly, and you should be good to go by the time September rolls along.

Unfortunately, the frat boys in Future-Kill have had no gestation period whatsoever when it came time to launch their new looks. Woefully unprepared for life on the other side of the tracks, Paul (Gabriel Folse), Steve (Wade Reese), Tom (Barton Faulks), Jay (Rob Rowley), and George (Jeffrey Scott), may look like radioactive mutants, but they're still crass frat boys at heart.

Performing one juvenile prank too many, the aforementioned quintet are told that they can make things right with their president (a sap they just tarred and feathered) if they bring back an anti-nuke mutant from their post-apocalyptic hellscape masquerading as a neighbourhood. In order to blend in, each frat boy is given a mutant makeover. As you would expect, the montage that follows was the best montage where globs of irregular eye makeup is applied to the eye areas of men on the cusp of heterosexuality in the entire movie. Anyway, on top of having their faces painted with garish colours, they're given mutant-friendly clothing and haircuts.

Driven to the mutant part of town located just outside the non-mutant part of town, a place populated mostly by punks and freaks who oppose nuclear proliferation, by Clint (Craig Kanne), a senior fraternity member, the newly transformed mutants get their first taste of mutant life when they're verbally assaulted by a car full of, you guessed it, drunken frat boys. When they try to yell back–you know, explain to them that they're drunken frat boys in disguise–the drunken frat boys in the other car ignore what they're saying and continue to ridicule them.

Plunging deeper into mutant territory than they expected, the drunken frat boys, who are, in fact, completely sober, desperately want Clint to pick a mutant for them to kidnap, so they can get this ordeal over with. Of course, the mutant he ends up choosing turns out to be Eddie Pain (Doug Davis), the leader of the anti-nuke mutants. While it's true, Eddie tries to adhere to a policy of non-violence, the same can't be said for a mutant named Splatter (Edwin Neal from the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre), an armour-wearing killing machine whose veins are coursing with radiation.

In an act of ill-advised stupidity, they casually approach Eddie and Splatter with the intention kidnapping the former, and you can pretty much guess what happens next. (Free tip: Never casually approach someone called "Splatter.") During the ensuing melee, Splatter ends up killing Clint (stabbed in the neck with his retractable claws) and Eddie (stabbed in the neck with some kind of throwing star). But I thought Eddie and Splatter were tight, what gives, man? Well, it seems that Splatter didn't agree with the whole peace and love thing Eddie was pushing (no surprise given the fact that his name is "Splatter") and decided to get rid of him. And who better to pin his murder on than a bunch of frat boys pretending to be mutants.

Running wildly into the night, the frat boy mutants split into two groups: Paul and Jay go one way, while Steve, George, and Tom go another. Since the trio of frat boy mutants seem to think that they're starring in a shot-for-shot remake of The Warriors (they get chased, they stop and fight, they get chased some more), I'll focus the bulk of my attention on what Paul and Jay got up to. And why is that, exactly? What if I said, Jennifer Balgobin-esque gams glimmering underneath a faulty streetlight, would that make any sense? No? What do you mean, no? The character they run into reminded me of actress Jennifer Balgobin (Dr. Caligari), she wore an outfit that exposed the tantalizing flesh that covered her femur, and, to matters even more succinct, she stood in the vicinity of a streetlight for a greater part of the film's running time. It makes perfect sense! God, you people sometimes. All right, I've gotta cool down. I'm about to blow a basket full of penis-shaped gaskets.

Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah, Paul (uninteresting story, I thought his name was Doug for most of the film - he had a real Doug vibe about him) and Jay meet up with a lady mutant named Julie (Alice Villarreal) as she's being hassled by the cops. Helping to untangle her from a precarious situation (the police definitely had rape and candy on their minds), Paul and Jay hope that Julie will return the favour by showing them how to escape from mutant city (which looks an awfully lot like Austin, Texas). Reluctant to say "thanks" to her rescuers ("thanks doesn't exist around here," she grumbles), Julie, her pink dress covered with a smattering of fuzzy thingamabobs and a dash of unnecessary moxie, eventually does thank them and agrees to lead them to safety.

The mutants, as Julie explains to her new friends, are just like everyone else. The only reason they dress like dime store punks and wear crazy makeup is because they're trying to draw attention to their cause. And what better way to make right wing lunatics stand up and take notice of you than by dressing up like Annabella Lwin from Bow Wow Wow and decorating your eyeballs in a way that will no doubt remind them of Gina Kikoine's fierce peepers on the cover of Gina X Performance's X-Traordinaire (crypto-fascists adore West German disco).

Meanwhile, over in Splatter-town (the imaginary place where Splatter resides when he's not killing zods - the mutant nickname for frat boys), Splatter is trying to enjoy a moment of quiet reflection. When all of a sudden, two mutant chicks, one curious (Karin Kay) as to what kind of deformed cock Splatter was hiding underneath all that armour platting, and one incurious as to what kind of, well, you get the idea (the incurious mutant chick, for those interested in such things, is played by not renowned thespian Elizabeth Henshaw), interrupt Splatter's warehouse alone time. Well, the curious mutant chick does the majority of the interrupting, after all, she's curious, whereas the other one is incurious. At any rate, despite the fact that Splatter is a ruthless killer, part of me likes to think that even he was pleasantly surprised that he started his evening off by murdering someone with a chunk of corrugated sheet metal.

Reunited with their frat boy brethren, the five zods and their lovely mutant guide decide to hit up a club. And it's about time, as I was growing tired of watching incompetently staged brawls in the dark. Leave your weapons at the door, because we're about enter the new wave world of Max and the Makeups, one of Austin's, so I've been told, finest live acts. Lead by the gorgeous Lisa Gamache, the band perform their song "Xerox" in its entirety, while Paul and Julie bond with one another in the audience. This particular sequence gave Future-Kill a much needed kick in the proverbial pants, as the sight of Marilyn Burns (Texas Chainsaw Massacre) wearing armour and fishnets as Dorothy Grim, a mutant who holds to key to defeating Splatter, was the only thing this film had going for it up until this point. The energy, and, let's be honest, the raw sex appeal (Miss Gamache looked amazing in her black silk stockings) that Max and the Makeups injected into the film was greatly appreciated from where I was sitting.

After shaking down one of Julie's friends (Cathy Durkin) for information (her black garters quivering against her smooth skin with nervous trepidation as a clawlike object rubbed against them), Splatter and his raccoon-eyed, uzi-wielding, cat-killing henchmen finally track down the frat boys at his old hang-out. The dark, muddled alleyway fight scenes that we've been enduring for the past forty or so minutes have been replaced with a rich tapestry of colour. Red, blue, green, purple, and even teal, are represented as Splatter, the henchmen, Dorothy Grim, Julie, and the zods stalk the vivid halls.

It's hard to believe, but the frat boy's inexplicable aversion to mild transvestitism is what put them on a collision course with a mutant named Splatter. Whoa, that is hard to believe. Well, it's true. You see, all that unnecessary stress could have been avoided had the frat boys simply agreed to their original punishment, which involved wearing leopard print lingerie in a public forum. The fact that they were so vehemently opposed to wearing ladies undergarments is what lead to the kidnapping a mutant idea. Let that be a lesson to all you kids out there, don't be afraid of intimate apparel.

Speaking of which, the opening scene, well, the second opening scene (the actual opening scene features Splatter working at his desk), boasts a great party sequence where intimate apparel seemed mandatory. Hot dogs, nighties, dildos, drum machines, inflatable sex dolls, big hair, John Hawkes, hairy chests, and a Deep Throat pinball machine all commingle with one another at a fraternity pajama party. While the effort put forth by all the extras (including Kimberly and Dana Weaver) should be commended, it was actually Robert Renfrow's synth-heavy music score and the outstanding work of costume designer Kathleen M. Hagan (she also does the film's makeup) that really made this chunk of the film stand out from the rest. The only things preventing me from telling everyone to turn off the movie after watching the pajama party scene is the fact you'll miss seeing Max and the Makeups, the fuzzy things dangling from Alice Villarreal's chic outfit, and Denice Creach's seductive turn as "call girl."

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Pass the Ammo (David Beaird, 1988)

Our shimmering neon crucifix is filled to the brim with underpaid operators who are standing by to receive your generous donation, so, please, look deep into your heart and give us a steaming wad of your hard earned cash. Oh, and when I say, "give us," I really mean give me. After all, I'm the one doing the majority of thr spiritual heavy lifting. Just a second, did you say, "neon crucifix"? Yep, I sure did. Wow, that must look amazing on television. Why just thinking about its chromatic glow washing over me as I sit motionless in my sparsely furnished living room makes me want to run next-door, masticate the living daylights out of my neighbour's insipid taint, and chug a can of Fresca (and since I'm already there, I might as well grab myself a complementary footstool). What I'm doing right now, believe or not, is I'm attempting to understand the mindset of the type of individual who would give their money to someone who gives them nothing in return. It's true, you could argue they're providing them with divine comfort, but its essence is purely hypothetical. If you told a stranger or a total stranger, let's say, while riding the subway, that you had just purchased a shitload of divine comfort for around fifty bucks, they would look at you funny and proceed to get off at the next stop, regardless if it was their stop or not. Judging by the mail streaming into the megachurch in Pass the Ammo, a blunt satirical attack on evangelical hucksterism from the director of, get this, My Chauffeur, they're sending more than just money. It would seem that nothing is off limits, as everything from jewelry to insurance policies, to even teeth are being sent their way. But why are they giving these freaks all their valuables? I'm no expert when it comes to irrational zeal, but I bet it's got something to do with the sheer size of the hair sitting atop the head of the preacher's wife? The only reason I mention her hair is because its largeness is the main reason I would send them any money (as a recovering Goth, I know hair spray ain't cheap).

If you're anything like me, then you no doubt spent a huge chunk of the late 1980s taping televangelists off the television in order to use their bizarre ramblings to spice up your homemade industrial music. Recording their sermons with a steely resolve wasn't always easy, as sometimes their preachy gobbledygook would seep into your feverish brain. Even though my memory of this period is a tad foggy, I could have sworn I bought six prayer clothes. Preachers, infomercial pitchmen, lawyers (particularly ones with offices in Cheektowaga), scumbag politicians (i.e. all politicians), those chipper ladies who sell bras on the shopping channel, they all prey on your vulnerabilities. In order for them to remove a sizable amount of cash from your wallet, they need to either scare you or belittle you. Your average televangelist does a bit of both, feeding off human weakness and general gullibility. It's no surprise that these shady godmongers have an air of superiority about them, one that definitely masks a sinister underbelly.

Feeding off your nonexistent ignorance by amusing the lint-covered receptors that dot the surface of your face, the Rev. Ray Porter (a wonderfully insincere Tim Curry) is the leading force when comes to distorting the teachings of Jesus Christ, a man who preached peace and love, not greed and pettiness. Hosting his garish gospel program along with smoking hot wife Darla (Annie Potts), even her name makes my flesh tingle with untoward satisfaction, the preacher with state's most hairless nostrils is literally raking in the dough. Hypnotizing his mostly yokel-based congregation with a kinetic brand of forthright evangelism, the oily reverend manages to extract millions of dollars from his devoted flock.

Am I shocked that the Rev. Porter was able to pilfer his followers so comfortably for so long? Hell, no. Have you seen his show? It's fucking awesome! Taking your racist grandmother's evangelism and jazzing up for the 1980s, the Tower of Bethlehem ministries, by adding Las Vegas-style production values, and employing MTV-style editing, have managed to turn apotheosizing into a multi-million dollar a year industry.

You only have to take a casual, non-judgmental glance over at Darla, her rarely violated body sheathed in a silver frock, to fully understand what the Tower of Bethlehem ministries are bringing to the highly lucrative preaching the gospel on TV racket. Smoke, neon, irregular pantyhose, and Engelbert Humperdinck-quality facial hair fill the air as Darla saunters down the stairs of the main stage. An audible gasp lingers in the audience as Annie Potts, channeling Kate Bush while performing choreography straight out of Liquid Sky, starts singing the line, "you're in paradise now," over and over again.

In order to emphasize how much money the sight of Annie Potts, the mousy blandness she exuded in Crimes of Passion has been completely exorcised, belting out religious show tunes as Darla makes for the church, we're subjected to a montage–one set to the strains of "Lay You're Money Down for Jesus" by twins John and Paul Cody–that depicts the complex machinery that operates behind the scenes (the church basement is packed with people whose sole job it is to oversee the cash flow). As we're down there, we also see Rev. Porter blessing the letters sent in by those suffering from various diseases (before he blesses a pile, a lackey informs him of which illness they're afflicted with).

Meanwhile, in another part of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, Bill Paxton is being straddled by a slip-wearing Linda Kozlowski (much respect to her for ignoring the waspy pricks who probably told her to change her name to something less Polish). Unsatisfied with life between Miss Kozlowski's able-bodied thighs, Bill Paxton, who is actually playing a character named Jesse, decides to rob the Tower of Bethlehem. You see, they took 50,000 dollars from Linda Kozlowski's dying bubby (Linda's character, by the way, is named Claire), and Jesse would like to get that money back.

Of course, they're gonna need a little help, after all, you'll need more than a fully grown Bill Paxton and a silky brunette woman in a slip (her dainty ankles beaming with Polish pride) to pull off a job like this. Enter Big Joe (Dennis Burkley), a shotgun-wielding career criminal who fancies himself a country and western singer, and Arnold (Glenn Withrow), the reincarnation of one of Marie Antoinette's handmaidens, two ex-cons just itching to "go do some crimes." Now you'd think these characters, simply by looking at them, would bring nothing but comic relief to the proceedings. But they're just as important as Jesse and Claire, even more so at times. Representing the healing powers of redemption, Big Joe humanizes the police with his stirring rendition of "Policeman," seeks financial advice from a crooked reverend, and uses his giant teddy bear-eqsue temperament to successfully placate Darla's impending meltdown, while Arnold finds love in the form of a choir member dressed as an angel (Debra Sue Maffett) and employs his playful nature in a way that allows the show's fake born again director (Anthony Geary) to reconnect with his inner rabble-rouser.

With his team assembled, it's time to head on down to the Tower of Bethlehem. Since no-one wants to watch a film where a megachurch is robbed without incident, Jesse, Claire, Big Joe, and Arnold find themselves, after taking a wrong turn, in the middle of Kenny (Brian Thompson, the weight-lifting helicopter pilot from Miracle Mile) and Darla's impassioned interpretation of the story of Samson and Delila.

When it comes to movies that feature hostage situations, I always side with the hostage takers, as I tend to identify with their status as outsiders who want to buck the system. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your outlook, Pass the Ammo presents a bit of a conundrum in that the character I would normally root against is so darn affable. If I had to blame anyone for this off-putting turn of events, it would have to Leland Crooke (Cat Fight from My Chauffeur). Charming, folksy, and always levelheaded, Leland and his Louisiana accent bring a lot of unexpected nuance to Rascal Lebeaux, a smalltown sheriff who's thrust into the middle of one doozy of a standoff. At first, it seemed like Sheriff Lebeaux was gonna be nothing more than your average redneck lawman (after all, he is duck hunting when we first meet up with him), but slowly, as the film progresses, the character becomes more complex.

Another dilemma arises when Claire points her pistol in anger at Darla during a particularly heated moment. I was all like, get that gun out of Darla's face, you hillbilly skank! Despite the fact that her head is filled with paint fumes and sautéed poppycock, Darla was able to win me over through her dedication to gaudy fashion (lots of slit-heavy gowns), and, of course, her overall babeiliciousness. It doesn't take a genius to figure this out, but while Linda Kozlowski was busy portraying Claire as a bit of a buzzkill, Annie Potts is secretly plotting the course that lead Darla to come off as sympathetic by the time the bullets (and tank shells) started to whiz through the auditorium.

You could say my favourite characters were Rascal Lebeaux, Darla, and, if I had to choose a third, I would probably have to go with either Dennis Burkley's Big Joe or Anthony Geary's Stonewall, as they were genuinely likeable, but not dicks about it. Besides, you gotta love a guy (Big Joe) whose idea of revenge is to blast two pricey pairs of cowboy boots with his trusty shotgun.

Lampooning televangelism is a little like shooting fish that have placed in a smallish container; they're an easy target. But Pass the Ammo, however, casts a wide net when it comes to its mockery. Ridiculing the corrupt machinations of local politics, the power of "Big God," redneck vigilantes, corn-fed reactionaries, and the scourge that is groupthink, writers Joel Cohen and Neil Cohen have fashioned a script, one that features the line, "they're gonna butt-fuck the preacher on TV," that seems to spare no-one.

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Special thanks to Russ for not only introducing me to this movie, but for providing me with a copy of it.

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The Sinful Dwarf (Vidal Raski, 1973)

After I finished wading through the muck-laden universe of The Sinful Dwarf, the diseased crumpet of naughty dwarf movies, I debated long and hard, then hard and long–you know, just to be safe–whether or not I should pretend to feign outrage over what I saw transpire in this filthy slab of uncouth depravity. And, after much soul searching, followed by, of course, some moderate contemplative discourse, I've come to the conclusion that it would be unwise to fabricate any feelings of indignation toward this film. It's true, my moral centre would love to join the concourse lined up to heap tons of well thought out scorn on this sick and twisted film, but my true self, the self that lurks in the shadows wearing nothing but a pair of black leather shorts and a studded dog collar, can only think of positive things to say about Vidal Raski's unsavoury ode to sexual slavery, wind-up toys, and forced heroin abuse. While most people say they felt the need to cleanse themselves after watching the unhinged goings on at the world's most depraved rooming-house, I, on the other hand, actually felt as if I had just taken a carefree bath in a giant vat of putrid saliva. I know, that doesn't sound like anybody's idea of a pleasant experience, even a self-proclaimed amateur deviant with a healthy love for ladies apparel would think twice before jumping in a bath like that. But just to let you know, contaminated drool does wonders for the hundreds of sebaceous cysts that litter my back. Anyway, enough about the dermatological nightmare that is my disgusting organic structure, to put it bluntly: I loved the unholy pus out of this film.

Taking place almost entirely in a rundown rooming-house, one that apparently used to be a popular nightclub, Olaf the Dwarf (the charismatic Torben Bille), may be sinful, but it's his mother, the enchanting Lila Lash (Clara Keller), who's the brains behind their frightfully wicked business venture. Of course, "The Sinful Woman" isn't as catchy as "The Sinful Dwarf," but make no mistake, Miss Lash is the one who keeps their unrighteous operation up and running. Similar to Carroll Baker's character in Andy Warhol's Bad, in that, she runs her semi-lucrative enterprise from home and seems to have no qualms about facilitating the atrocities committed by others, Lila spends most of her time, to quote Soft Cell's "Sex Dwarf" (one of my favourite songs of all-time), luring disco dollies to a life of vice.

How does she lure these disco dollies exactly? Duh, how do you think? She sends out her son Olaf, a person of below average size who walks with the aide of a cane, to comb the streets and beckon the young women he finds with wind-up toys (he is rarely ever seen without a toy in his hand). In the film's opening scene, Olaf manages to do exactly that when he entices a young brunette woman (though, she could have been a girl, she was, after all, playing hop scotch when Olaf shows up) with the help a wind-up little dog. Telling her that he's got more toys upstairs, Olaf is able to get her up to the attic, a place where he can safely hit her on the head with his cane without having to worry about shifty-eyed gawkers.

After she wakes up she is no longer "girl playing hop scotch," she is now, "sex-slave in attic." In the 1970s, everyone was literally five minutes away from becoming a sex-slave. How do I know this? Well, even though my memory of the mustache-friendly decade is a tad on the sketchy side, I do recall there being a general sense of unease in the air. And if you were to ask anyone who was alive during the 1970s what they they feared the most, I have a strong feeling that being chained to a wall, striped naked, injected with heroin, and forced to have dehumanizing sexual intercourse with scrawny men in brown slacks would have been near the top of the list.

Of course, once Lila and Olaf have gotten you sufficiently hooked on heroin, the need for you to be chained to the wall is completely unnecessary, as your desire to leave has been usurped by your addiction to heroin. Unfortunately, you'll be on the receiving end of wave after wave of strange, and probably uncircumcised, cock periodically throughout the day. Why so glum? Wait a minute, you didn't think you they were gonna let you hang out on a dingy mattress, your veins coursing with sweet diacetylmorphine, in their attic for free, did you? Oh, you naive little twit.

While I don't deny the intrinsic allure of Olaf and his vast collection of wind-up toys (a collection we see firsthand during the film's nightmarish opening credits sequence), I do, however, doubt that he would be able to wrangle that many women for their repugnant cause, at least not enough to keep their shady clientele knee deep in drug-addled sex-slaves for weeks on end (the average of lifespan of an attic-bound sex-slave is around ten days). The other way for Lila and Olaf to fill the ranks is to ensnare their dainty prey through their rooming-house, the legitimate business they run that is literally just down the hall from their illicit sex attic.

A husband and wife duo named Peter (Tony Eades) and Mary (Anne Sparrow) are just what Lila and Olaf have been waiting for when the young couple show up looking for a room one night. Uninterested in Peter–they strictly provide copulatory satisfaction for discerning heterosexual men–Lila and Olaf seem extra determined to turn to Mary, a well-proportioned blonde, into a sex-slave. In fact, I could tell Olaf wanted to slather his cane up and down the bumpy curves that dot Mary's exquisite corpse the moment he laid his beady eyes on her. You can't blame them for wanting to add Mary to their roster; if I happened to own and operate a sex den out of my attic, I'd want someone like Mary to be the poster girl for my objectionable operation.

Whether it's his lack of height or the devilish grin who always seems to wearing on his face, Mary is aghast by what she sees as Olaf shows them their room. The turning point in Mary's mind probably came when Olaf started jumping up and down on their bed while declaring: "You see, it's a nice soft bed!" Anyway, as unpleasant as that may sound, Peter and Mary are too tired to worry about socially maladjusted dwarfs and decide to go to bed. Prior to sleeping, Peter removes Mary's nightie and proceeds to treat her body with the respect it deserves. "Let me see you, let me feel you," he says to her as she thrusts herself against his sort of manly frame (her spectacular ass dances in the moonlight as she thrusts). While it's safe to say that Peter's overall appreciation for Mary's flawless body reeked of sanity, the same can't be said for Olaf, who is currently watching them as they perform the missionary position through a hole in the wall. Oh, sure, his appreciation comes from a similar place, but there's definitely something sinister brewing inside his warped brain.

After he's done watching Mary's creviced infrastructure extract a dollop of semen from her husband's understandably erect penis, Olaf heads to the attic with his crooked syringe. The moans coming from the other side of the elaborately locked door in the attic are being made by the three naked women Lila and Olaf have imprisoned in there. They want heroin, and Olaf is in charge of giving it to them. It's obvious that Olaf gets a perverse thrill out of withholding drugs from the sex-slaves. He relishes the fact that they need him, and the repeated line: "I'm coming," is his way of prolonging their agony. In the end, he only injects one of them with a dose (he's been instructed to only give to most strung out a hit).

The next morning, Peter heads out to look for work (he's a writer, a.k.a. perennially unemployed), while Mary takes her time putting on a tight, cream-coloured, bellybutton revealing turtleneck sweater (her navel playfully peeks out with every gesture). Being an Englishwoman, Mary has a natural curiosity about the world around her. This desire to learn leads her to investigate the strange noises that have been emanating from down the hall. Along with her aforementioned turtleneck sweater, a pair of knee-high black boots, and blue jeans (which have been rolled up to help emphasize the length of her black boots), Mary prepares to enter the cobweb-infested confines of the attic. Even though her investigation is cut short by Olaf (the sound of his distinctive foot steps on the stairs causes her to abort her snooping mid-snoop), Mary is determined to find out what is exactly going on in this place.

"You know what to do, just the ring the bell when you are finished," those are Olaf's last words to his customers before he locks them in with the sex-slave junkies. How, you're wondering, do they decide which sex-slave they want to fornicate with? It's hard to say, but they do seem to gravitate toward the ones who seem the least strung out. At any rate, no matter who they end up picking, the performances by the three actresses who the play the sex-slaves were outstanding. Now, it's hard to pinpoint who's who, since their characters don't have names and are only credited as "sex-slave in attic," but Jeanette Marsden, Lisbeth Olsen, and Jane Cutter should all be commended for their realistic portrayals of young women who are forced to endure a litany of horrors.

It's a clear sign, well, from where I was sitting anyway, that you're doing something right if the two songs you belt out in a movie remind me of Marlene Dietrich and Susan Tyrrell (Forbidden Zone). Performing "Cho-Cho Bamba" (fruit hat) "The Game of Love"(top hat), with Olaf on piano, for the amusement of her drunk friend Winnie (Gerda Madsen), Clara Keller's work as Lila Lash, the sexiest alcoholic former nightclub singer turned landlady/pimp with a prominent scar on her face to ever grace the surface of this greenish-blue space ball thingy, is the stuff of camp legend.

The scene that shows Peter walking down street in his lame raincoat was probably film's most jarring. Huh? Let me explain. It's first time we're taken away from the rooming-house, and since the film does such a terrific job of creating a fully lived in universe, we've slowly acclimatized ourselves to its seedy charms. The sight of naked junkies being whipped, giggling little people injecting naked junkies with heroin, and naked junkies being sexually assaulted have become commonplace. Take us away from this world, plop us into one where these things don't occur on a regular basis, and we'll find ourselves struggling adjust to life on the outside.

You better savour Anne Sparrow's stellar turn as the inquisitive Mary, because this exercise in bantam lasciviousness was not only the first film she ever appeared in, it was, sadly, the last. As per usual, I don't want to come off as creepy or deranged, but I savoured Anne Sparrow's corporeal existence in The Sinful Dwarf to the point of fetishistic madness. Drinking in her gorgeousness at every turn, Miss Sparrow oozed sex appeal like it were a bodily function. Giving one of the most animated eyeball performances in film history, Anne utilizes her eyes in a manner that left very little doubt as to what kind of emotions her character was trying to convey at any given moment. Whether darting back and forth in a frenzy in response to a loud toy train she couldn't switch off, or displaying an acute sharpness while watching the aloft legs of a jaded brunette sex-slave convulse as the result of her trick's hearty orgasm, Anne Sparrow's eyes are never complacent.

At the start of the film, Mary's blonde locks were so resilient, so full of life. But the as the film progressed they became limp and unmanageable. Was I disturbed by her hair's gradual lack of follicle viscosity? You better believe I was. However, if you think about it, Mary's hairdo decline could be seen as a metaphor for her steady descent into madness, or, and this is probably the more likely scenario, they [the producers] couldn't afford to pay the film's hairdresser anymore, so, he or she bolted, leaving Anne Sparrow's hair in the wilted state it was in by the time her character's fragile psyche started to crack.

The curvy lingerie model named Dorothy who lives in my gastrointestinal tract was growing impatient over the fact that Mary was taking so long in becoming a heroin-addicted sex-slave. And I'll admit, part of me was as well. It's not that I wanted to see her degraded and abused, it's just that for the film's plot to move forward, Mary has got to get her shapely ass on the other side of that curtain-covered door. I mean, there are only so many times one can watch Mary bump into that taxidermy bird of prey hanging in the attic. And like everyone in this world, it's only a matter of time before we eventually find ourselves naked, shackled, and occasionally poked by a sinful dwarf.

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Iced (Jeff Kwitny, 1988)

Other than stabbing one through the neck with the pointy end of a ski pole, I can't think that many ways to kill a yuppie in a ski resort setting. Oh, sure, you could smother the yuppie you want dead by holding their face down in the snow (a few minutes should do the trick - just to be safe, don't stop pressing down on the back of their head until their panicked writhing has completely subsided), tamper with the resort's ski lift (you know, in order to cause your yuppie victim to plummet to their death thanks to gravity, and, if you're lucky, the unforgiving embrace that only a bed of jagged rocks can provide), put poisonous spiders in their ski boots when they're not looking (if the deadly arachnids aren't crushed by the force of the yuppie's wool sock-covered feet being thrust into the ski boots when he or she puts them on, they should succumb the effects of the venom within a couple of hours), or string piano wire between two trees (if the yuppie is going fast enough, and they hit the wire in just the right spot, you could decapitate them). But those methods, the latter three in particular, are impractical, especially if you're working with a modest budget (spider wranglers don't come cheap). Besides, someone like me, a person with zero experience when it comes to dreaming up semi-elaborate murder scenarios that centre around skiing, should vacate the bloodstained slopes, and let professionals like, writer Joseph Alan Johnson (The Slumber Party Massacre) and director Jeff Kwitny (Lightning in a Bottle) handle the creative end of things. If I were them, I'd be insulted by the fact that some Johnny-come-lately would dare to suggest alternative ways to dispatch yuppies in a wintery environment, because Iced (a.k.a. Blizzard of Blood) is pretty much perfect in terms of being a ski resort slasher that boasts a start, a middle, and an end.

Icicles, animal traps, kitchen knives, bulldozers, hot tubs, and, yes, even ski poles are all used to dispatch yuppies in Iced, a synthesizer-laden, straight-to-video extravaganza with enough snowy twists and turns to confound even the most attentive of horror fans. Of course, just because they're yuppies does not mean that they deserve to be crushed to death by construction equipment. Well, actually, the guy who got a ski pole jammed into his neck had it coming simply because he chose to put a "Baby Doc On Board" sign in the back window on his car. At first I was like, why does this guy want other drivers to know he's traveling with former Haitian president Baby Doc Duvalier? Then it dawned on me, he's not referring to Jean-Claude Duvalier, he's a pediatrician. Anyway, those signs are obnoxious, and anyone who has one in their car shouldn't act all surprised and junk when they're inevitably murdered by a mentally disturbed psychopath wielding a ski pole.

Getting back to point I was originally trying to make before I got sidetracked, yuppies are human beings and have, believe it or not, earned the right not to have their bodies violated by sharp objects while on all-expenses paid ski vacations. It's true, I don't mean a word of anything I just said, but I thought I should say something along those lines–you know, so I don't come off sounding like a bitter, yuppie-hating reprobate with anger issues.

It's not the most surefire way to win me over, but from a visual perspective, the image of a bunch of skiers swooshing down a mountain in the dark while holding flares was quite striking. No, the best way to win me over is to have two blonde guys fight over the enchanting Debra Deliso, one of the leggiest women in the known universe. But let's get real, what are the chances that a movie would feature two men vying for the affection of a woman as statuesque, as graceful, and as alluring as Debra Deliso? Pretty slim, if you ask me. However, you shouldn't ask me, because that's exactly what happens in Iced, a film that, get this, not only has Debra Deliso (Dr. Caligari), but boasts three separate instances where the word "cozy" is employed as an adjective.

Who are these enviable fellas? Why their names are Cory (Doug Stevenson) and Jeff (Dan Smith), two guys who seem to have similar temperaments (they look like the kind of guys who enjoy tormenting nerds in their spare time), but it's obvious almost immediately that one of them isn't playing with a full deck. Flirting with Trina (Deliso Deliso), a vision of loveliness in pink snow pants and black earmuffs, at the bottom of a ski hill, Cory's coquettish conduct is interrupted by a crazed Jeff, who, after declaring that Trina is with him, challenges him to a ski race.

It should be stated that Trina isn't with Cory or Jeff at this point. Oh, sure, Jeff thinks he's dating Trina, but like I said, he's a tad delusional.

After losing the race, a brooding Jeff, a.k.a. Mr. I Skied The Alps, a derisive nickname given to him by Eddie (Michael Picardi), a friend of Cory's, sits at a table located in the smoky corner of the ski resort bar and rambles to, what it appears to be, himself. Bemoaning the fact that Cory and his catty gang had the gall to question his integrity as a skier, Jeff, in a scene with an eerie Café Flesh vibe about it, talks about the time he spent at a clinic in Switzerland in a manner that's quite disturbing.

The pure physicality of Trina is revealed in the next scene when Jeff, who is sulking in his room with a bottle of vodka, decides to pay her visit (he can hear her giggling in the room next-door). Now, in a normal movie, Jeff's rage would manifest itself as a result of the sex noises piercing the hotel's paper thin walls (the sound of her pleasurable moans slowly driving him even more insane than he already is), but in the Iced universe, what's irritating him is the sound of Trina and Cory arm wrestling. I've never seen a man dive headfirst into a jealous rage over arm wrestling before, but this film is full of kooky surprises.

Bursting into their room, Jeff chastises Trina for ditching him. She tries to tell him that they were never a couple ("I came here by myself"), but as she doing this, he threatens Cory with a ski pole. Too drunk to defend himself, Cory falls back onto the bed, which means that's it up to Trina and the plucky power lurking underneath her red headband to subdue Jeff, who's a little on the tipsy side as well. And, boy, does she ever subdue him. Pressing him up against the wall like he was a piss-flavoured ragdoll, the sight of Debra Deliso manhandling this massive tool, one who had the nerve to interrupt her impromptu arm wrestling session, was the epitome of exhilarating. This simple act made it clear to me that Trina was not gonna be your typical scream queen.

The pulsating rhythm that has started to throb on the soundtrack can only mean one thing: it's time for a night skiing-sex scene montage. While Jeff decides blow off some steam by skiing in the dark, Cory massages Trina's super-tight body, which is currently sheathed in a skintight pair of red pants and a white top (star-shaped earrings dangle from her ears), in an erotic manner. Removing her top, her headband, and her white bra via a latch located in the front, Cory proceeds to rub his naked body all over her naked body. Straddling him on a chair, all the while a hotel room television set struggles to maintain a clear picture in the foreground, Trina's taut organic structure quivers with ecstasy as it repeatedly plunges itself against the coarse surface of Cory's heedful genitalia. The same can't be said for Jeff, who, as Trina's back was being bathed in a staticky glow, winds up crashing in the woods.

We know his ski goggles were cracked during his tumble, but it's not clear if Jeff's dead or not. Well, flash-forward four years, and we're on the road with Trina and Cory MacGyver (yeah, that's right, the arm wrestlers got married) as they make their way to Snow Peak, an upstart ski resort hoping to attract investors. Sitting in the back seat of their car is their friend Jeanette Foster (Lisa Loring), a brunette woman who seems miles away. Seriously, Lisa's back seat scene seemed like it was filmed in another dimension, as it doesn't match up at all with what's occurring in the front seat. At any rate, Debra Deliso proves that she's more than just a physical threat when she reads aloud the contents of a letter hyping the ski resort's many attractions (they've been invited to stay at one of resort's chalets free of charge, the catch being they have to sit through a real estate pitch). The capable manner in which Debra read this letter gave me chills, which is a tough thing to do, especially when you consider the fact that the letter was chock-full of corporate mumbo jumbo.

"It's so cozy, so natural, I love it!" declares Jeanette, as they make themselves at home in the rustic chalet. Awaiting the arrival of Alex (Joseph Allan Johnson), the dreaded real estate agent, and their other friends John (John C. Cooke) and Diane (Elizabeth Gorcey), Jeanette chops onions and complains about her boyfriend Eddie (he hasn't shown up yet) while Trina works left her bicep with a smallish dumbbell in a Rockadiles t-shirt. What's Cory doing, you ask? He's gone skiing with Carl (Ron Kologie), a drug addicted goofball with a pathetic ponytail (the way it barely dangled was an embarrassment to the ponytail community) who was hiding in a closet when they arrived (he gave Jeanette a nasty fright).

At this point in the film, Diane bathers on about catheters, Carl snorts cocaine, John makes some asinine comment about skiing being his medicine, Jeanette wonders where Eddie is, and, of course, Trina does a couple of curls with a rolling pin. In other words, there's nothing much going on. Meanwhile, Alex, a self-proclaimed jaded L.A. thrill seeker, is still at his office. Don't feel too sorry for him, however, as he's in the middle of having a bathtub set sex dream that involves a woman who looks a lot like Jeanette. Oh, the dinner scene was interesting in that it gave Debra Deliso yet another chance to show off her acting skills, as her drive-in movie anecdote about the time she stuffed her bra with tissue paper was by far the best drive-in movie anecdote of the entire evening (I liked the way she told Carl to "quit staring at my chest" after she finished her gripping account).

Things pick up somewhat when Alex finally shows up at the chalet. The cynical Carl sees right through his yuppie nonsense, but Jeanette is all over him like an undiscerning yeast infection. Hoping to seduce him (she's long forgotten about Eddie) with her generous mane of brunette hair and a pair of white pumps, the public relations expert who works for a cosmetic company kisses him by the fireplace in full view of her friends. The evening takes a turn for the worse when the subject of Jeff is brought up. Isn't he dead? Wait a minute, is he the one lurking in the woods, the one who's been staring at us through his cracked ski goggles? Jeanette could careless, as she and her exquisite behind (it's ample and full of secrets) jump into the chalet's plugged-in space heater adjacent hot tub.

You think you're watching a tense thriller set at a ski resort, but in actuality, you've been watching Debra Delsio's latest workout tape.

Call me someone who is easily amused, but I get giddy just thinking about Debra Deliso exercising in Iced (not a scene goes by that doesn't feature her toning her muscles). The conversation I desperately want to hear is the one that took place between Debra and writer-actor Joseph Alan Johnson before they started filming. Since both were in the original Slumber Party Massacre, I like to think they were friends, but I have a feeling that Debra, despite their history together, still had some reservations about appearing in her pal's screenwriting debut. In order to appease Debra's concerns, Joseph probably made a deal with her: Appear naked and run around without any pants in the movie I'm currently writing, and I'll make your character someone who is always exercising.

If anyone had any queries as to how Debra Deliso manages to maintain the shape of her killer gams, the answer is quite simple: leg stretches in Iced, or more specifically, leg stretches on the kitchen counter while the other characters ramble on about who knows what.

As chaos is unfolding all around her (the unidentified creep in the cracked ski goggles has been busy all night trying to murder her friends), Trina and her flawless legs are in bed resting after a long day of off-the-cuff stretching. When she eventually wakes up, she finds herself all alone (oh, no, who's gonna admire her frightfully tone physique?). Sliding her legs out of bed (the sharpness of her knees glisten in the light as she removes them from their blanketed prison), Trina goes into sleuth mode. All the cardio Debra Deliso's been doing for the past eighty minutes is about to pay off big time, as she finds herself being stalked by a deranged skier. Wearing a blue shirt (one with thigh-accentuating slits located on the sides), white socks (the kind that bunch up around the ankles when the wearer is under duress), and an unpretentious pair of white panties, the mettle of Debra's stunning legs are about to be put to the test. Called upon to run through snow, climb up stairs, and kick would-be attackers director Jeff Kwitny treats her mouthwatering stems like the were a revered item, as he films them from every possible angle.

Is Trina able to survive this painful yet muscle strengthening ordeal? Should you be wary of snowmen that cry blood in the mid-'90s? Did I go overboard while talking about Debra Deliso's legs? And is it wrong that I want to own the socks she wore during the film's tumultuous finale? The answers to these complex questions will have to come at a later date, as my brain is totally fried at the moment. However, I do wholeheartedly recommend that you stare at Iced from start to finish, it's the best ski-based slasher flick/calve-tightening workout tape not currently on the market.

Special and regular thanks to the altruistic rocket scientists over at Cinema Gonzo for exposing me to this frosty treat.

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