Hell Comes to Frogtown (Donald G. Jackson and R.J. Kizer, 1988)

What do you mean I'll have plenty of time to write about a lingerie-clad Sandahl Bergman being led around a post-apocalyptic wasteland on a leash? I want to write about it now! Her taut, muscular calves encased in the finest fishnet stockings money can buy, Sandahl's well-toned physique caused my putrid genitals to become engorged with a syrupy brand of off-kilter... Stop! As your legal counsel, and as your part time spiritual guide, I advise that you to ease into writing about this particular film's more fetishistic and sadomasochistic tendencies. You don't want to come off as some kind of weirdo who is obsessed with all things debasement-related. Pretend that you're interested in the film's convoluted premise, or better yet, share that anecdote you were telling us the other day about Harry–you know, the one about your pet frog who hopped away when you were five. It will give people the impression that you care about the films you write about. Excellent idea, my imaginary friend. Normalcy now, lunacy later. Underneath her frilly white panties lay an aching crevice just waiting to be... Whoa, I'm sorry. I have no idea where that came from. Let me try that again. The only film that I know of to take place in a radioactive universe where talking frogs wear welding goggles and pink ambulances are equipped with M-60 machine guns, Hell Comes to Frogtown is here to enlighten, entertain, and maybe enlighten so more, if it's got the time. I'm not sure if you know this, but I had a pet frog as a smallish child (don't laugh, but I was much smaller during the early stages of my existence). In other words, I know a thing or two about living in a world where frogs and humans coexisted in relative harmony. You'll notice I used the word "relative." Well, that's because the threat of nuclear annihilation constantly hangs over the head of frog-human relations.

In this particular film, the threat in question is no longer hanging, it has fallen on the relationship's head in the worst possible way. After a bunch of nuclear warheads go off during an unnamed armed conflict (let's call it: World War 4: The Quickening), the surviving humans discover that they can no longer produce offspring at the rate they're accustomed to. Their frog revivals, on the other hand, have developed the ability to walk and talk. Unsure of what to do with these upright amphibians, the humans do what they always do with things, people, and frogs they don't understand, they put them on a reservation, which, of course, is called "Frogtown."

Okay, that sort of explains part of the film's title, but what about "Hell"? How does this made-up netherworld filled with fire and a lacklustre amount of brimstone factor into this froggy tale? Well, it has nothing to do with the place, Hell's a person. Yeah, that's right, his name is Hell, Sam Hell (Roddy Piper), and he's come to Frogtown to ejaculate his potent sperm into the sheathlike structures pulsating between the legs of a fertile group of kidnapped human females.

While that may sound like a far-fetched, and, some might say, obscene thing to say, every word of it is true. You see, after, to quote the prologue of Café Flesh, "the nuclear kiss" destroys a good-size chunk of the planet, the survivors of the two warring sides struggle to replenish their ranks. It would seem that the majority of the population have lost their ability to reproduce. Those who can, however, are treated like heroes, and are encouraged by the provisional government to copulate as often as possible.

In charge of overseeing these widespread acts of patriotic fornication is Medtech, an organization whose sole purpose is to make sure the right people are fucking. When they get word that a man responsible for a string of pregnancies has been arrested by Captain Devlin (William Smith), a reactionary lawman with a grudge against the members of the female-dominated provisional government, Medtech send over a couple of technicians to commandeer the contents of his robust crotch for themselves.

Declaring the genitals attached to the body of Sam Hell to be the property of Medtech, two of their most qualified personnel, Patton (Eyde Byrde) and Spangle (Sandahl Bergman), show up to secure his "loaded weapon." As expected, this particular action causes the resentful policeman to whine and complain. However, a perfectly implemented Sandahlian Judo throw puts an end to his bellyaching. After running some tests (his sperm count is through the roof), fitting him with an electronic chastity belt (this will protect his precious junk from threats, both foreign and domestic), and making him sign some papers, Patton explains the details of the mission they want him to partake in.

Just to let you know, it's when Patton is going over the aspects of the operation that Sandahl Bergman utters he first line. Other than looking fabulous in her black-framed glasses and lab coat combo, Sandahl's character has been mute up until now. Well, that all changes when Sam makes an inquiry about expelling urine (making a pee pee while wearing a cast-iron codpiece could be fraught with foreseen complications). Looking at the confused musclebound mound of unejaculated sperm, she simply tells him, "there's a flap."

His mission is pretty straightforward: Locate a group of fertile women who have been kidnapped by an unruly gang of rebel greeners ("greeners" are what the humans call the frog people), rescue them from hostile mutant territory, and then, if he's still got any energy left, impregnate them. Accompanying him to make sure everything goes smoothly is Spangle and Centinella (Cec Verrell), a tough chick who seems most at ease while wielding the M-60 machine gun that is poking out from the top of their pink Medtech ambulance. The whole urination issue I alluded to earlier tests Spangle and Sam's relationship almost immediately, as he tries to make a run for it while pretending to take a piss. As he's making his escape, Sam feels a sharp pain in his groin. It would seem that Medtech have booby-trapped his crotch. The white earrings affixed to Spangle's earlobes are more than just a bold fashion statement, they also control and monitor the chastity belt. One earring is a proximity sensor (it sends a mild shock through the wearers genitals), while the other is a directional finder (a beeping sound helps Spangle locate the cherished privates whenever they go missing).

While it's quite obvious as to what Centinella's function is (provide security, throw the occasional dirty look in Sam's general direction, and cause the lesbians in the audience to soak their rough-and-tumble drawers), Spangle's duties are much more complex. On top of keeping tabs on the whereabouts his external sex organs, Spangle must also follow Regulation 12, which clearly stipulates that she assist when it comes to promoting potency. Since the highly valued contents sploshing around inside his loins must be ready to spew at any given moment, Spangle strips down to her camouflage bra and panties and dances erotically in order to maintain spermicidal integrity.

Much to the delight of her legions of fans, Sandahl Bergman's erotic dancing is actually required two more times in Hell Comes to Frogtown. After finding one of the kidnapped women (Suzanne Solari) wandering the desert (she somehow managed to escape), Spangle employs some of the seduction techniques she learned at Medtech. Applied in order to help persuade Sam into penetrating the fertile woman with his magic penis (her camouflage lingerie has been replaced with white lingerie), Sandahl's Spangle thrusts her... Wait a minute, what kind of man needs to be coaxed into having outdoor intercourse with a dishevelled woman he just met? In all my travels, I've never come across a man who didn't jump at the chance to fill a hole with his cock. Anyway, the other instance comes when Spangle is forced, at gun point, to perform the dance of the three snakes for the amusement of Commander Toadie (Brian Frank), leader of the rebel greeners. The way Sandahl Bergman utilized the flowing nature of her transparent garment during her dance will definitely remind the cooler people in the audience of her work in Xanadu.

When I saw Kristi Somers' name in the opening credits, I thought to myself: Yes! I loves me some Kristi Somers (she brought a plucky energy to Tomboy and Girls Just Want to Have Fun). However, I did not expect to see her playing a mutant frog woman. A dancer at a semi-popular Frogtown watering hole (come for dingy atmosphere, stay for the radioactive beer), Kristi's Arabella is introduced in a manner that was actually quite clever. Panning up her lithesome frame as she danced on the bar (a greener in a motorcycle helmet powers a small boombox by turning a crank), the camera tricks us into thinking we about to see an attractive woman. But instead, we're shown a mutated frog lady with killer legs. I love it when traditional titillation quickly turns to revulsion.

Judging by the twinkle in your eye, it's looks like you're about to go on some kind of lingerie-based tangent relating to the film's sadomasochistic content. Well, before you do that, let me ask you a question: Are you aware that you have already mentioned the sight of a lingerie-clad Sandahl Bergman being led about on a leash? You bet I am. Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Not in the slightest. Up until this point, Hell Comes to Frogtown has been mainly a testicle tormenting affair, with Spangle holding sway over the structural well-being of Sam's reproductive future. The balance of power shifts somewhat when Spangle devises a plan to get both her and Sam's sperm into Frogtown without arousing suspicion. Sheathing her healthy body in black stockings (their gravitational fortitude is assisted by garters attached to an unseen garter belt), a black bra, and black tattered smock (the frayed edges allowed for an unpredictable distribution of undercarriage-based Sandahl skin), Spangle bounds herself with manacles and hands Sam a leash.

The idea is to pretend Sam is a bounty hunter and that Spangle is a new sex slave for Commander Toadie's harem. While this sounds like a recipe for disaster, it actually turns out to be pretty solid rouse. Only problem being that Sam seems to be having way too fun yanking Spangle's leash. However, even though she's let her hair down and taken off her glasses, Spangle is still the one wearing the white earrings in this relationship. Meaning, she can still zap his scrotum with the flick of a wrist.

Things start to go downhill,absurdity-wise, when Sam's chastity belt and Spangle's lingerie are removed (a mutant greener played by Nicolas Worth uses a chainsaw to remove the chastity belt), and the film morphs into a stale action movie. Without the chastity belt, Roddy Piper is just some musclebound dude not wearing a chastity belt. You might as well have cast Peter North (now there's a guy with tremendous spunk) as Sam Hell. In fact, I hear that Hell Comes to Frogtown was supposed to be an adult feature, but then got re-branded as an action comedy. It's true, I would have liked to have seen more perversion and less action, but the film's wacky premise does carry its bloated corpse far enough through to the desert to make the trip feel like a worthwhile endeavour.

video uploaded by justking81
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Modern Girls (Jerry Kramer, 1986)

Whether you decide to pierce, puncture or perforate it, there comes a time in everyone's life when you must penetrate the night, and when that time does come, don't forget to poke it really hard (a subtle prick will not suffice). You better hurry, though, because the all-enveloping blackness waits for no one. The unbearable harshness of the light of day not only saps the bulk of your strength, it exposes your physical flaws in a more pronounced manner. Let me put it another way, sunshine is fine and dandy for daises and daffodils, but the human animal needs darkness to survive. Procreation occurs mostly at night, and do you know where these procreation enthusiasts meet one another? I'll tell you where, in nightclubs. There's a reason there are no such thing as "dayclubs." No self-respecting man or woman would ever copulate will someone they met during the day. And let me ask you this, when was the last time you saw a movie that featured a montage that centred around a person getting dressed in the morning? The reason you can't think of one is because there's never been one. They put on their clothes, they go wherever it is those people go every morning, the end. On the other hand, the night is tailor made for wardrobe-based montages, and does Modern Girls ever have a doozy. Set to the apt strains of "Girls Night Out" by Toni Basil, this particular montage was so overpowering, so chromatically persuasive, that I felt the need to watch it with a smallish support group of like-minded individuals (the vibrant production design alone was enough to cause me to reach for my inhaler). Unfortunately, it's hard to find upright organisms who think like me on such short notice. And, to be honest, I don't think there's anyone in the metropolitan area whose brain is up to my level of deluded cleverness.

All alone, culturally alienated, and mildly intimidated, was I able to handle to the sheer amount of turquoise and pink that is thrown at me in Modern Girls? Of course I was. What do you think I am, some kind of pantie-flavoured lightweight? You're talking to someone who has seen Valet Girls six times. If anything, I felt myself growing stronger as the film progressed. Feeding off its gaudy nectar like some sort of scrunchie-stroking fiend, every witless flight of fancy, every nonsensical decision the characters make in this flick was like being repeatedly splashed with a revitalizing tonic.

Getting back to my original point, the dichotomy between the night and day dictum is sufficiently satirized the moment the words "Modern Girls" appear on the scree at the beginning of the film. And it's a good thing, as I was starting to get on my nerves. Here you are, yakking up a storm about the differences between night and day, all the while Cynthia Gibb's calve-hugging, thigh-beautifying pink leggings are being woefully neglected. At any rate, inside the words "Modern Girls" lies a neon-filled cityscape where fun is contagious and anything is possible. Outside the words is, well, a brightly lit netherworld full of tedium and drudgery.

Introduced just as their ennui was about to get the best of them, three young women living in Los Angeles are shown at their places of employment. The command "keep dialing" can be heard emanating from her supervisor as we meet Margo (Daphne Zuniga), a brunette telemarketer, who is having trouble staying awake. And who can blame her? Barking trite-sounding nonsense into a plain-looking telephone all day will test the resolve of even the most resilient of modern girls. Next up, we run into Kelly (Virginia Madsen), a blonde pet shop girl, and, judging by the plethora of guys milling around outside the store, she has many suitors. The final piece of this girlish puzzle is put into place when we encounter CeCe (Cynthia Gibb), a bubbly department store cosmetics salesgirl. Well, at least she was a bubbly cosmetics salesgirl. Fired after making an elderly woman look like a new wave hooker, and for distressing one too many garments, CeCe, a fashionable redhead, finds herself without a job when her friends come to pick her up.

Even though the jacket CeCe is wearing when she leaves the department store is clearly red (dig the frayed sleeves, girlfriend), you'll notice that the majority clothes the girls were wearing while at work were frightfully bland (lots of white and grey). Once darkness falls, the girls are totally unencumbered by the soul-suffocating rules imposed on them by the daytime world, and are free to express themselves in a more laid-back manner. Of course, before she can proceed to get in touch with her inner trendoid, CeCe needs to catch some z's.

Fully refreshed and ready to take on the L.A. club scene, CeCe tries on a series of fashion forward ensembles. Standing before her mirror, CeCe examines each outfit carefully before deciding whether to keep or discard the article of clothing currently being scrutinized. Oh, and, by the way, if you're wondering why I'm only focusing on CeCe? It's simple, the other girls don't matter. Radiating a weird, almost therapeutic brand of neon light, Cynthia Gibb's CeCe had a soothing quality about her that the other gals seemed to lack.

However, if you must know what the other two were up to while the fabulous CeCe was trying on clothes, Margo's going through nightclub flyers and making calls, and Kelly is, well, she's missing in action. This complicates matters for CeCe and Margo because Kelly took the car. How are they supposed to go clubbing without a car? The girls are obviously not fans of public transit. Thankfully, the answer to their car-less prayers rolls up in a convertible. Knocking on their door while Margo's taking a bath and CeCe was painting her toenails in a pink slip, Clifford (Clayton Rohner) is there to pick up Kelly (she apparently agreed to go on a date with him). A nice guy in a grey sweater, Clifford waits on their zebra print couch (complete with leopard print cushions) while the girls get ready. The girls hatch a plan to bring Clifford to Kelly (they have a general idea where she is), which in turn, will allow CeCe and Margo to arrive in style (Cliff is driving a borrowed Cadillac with a leopard print interior).

What initially endeared me to CeCe was not her ebullient attitude or kooky fashion sense, but the fact that she insisted on calling Clifford "Cliffy," even though he told her that he prefers to be called "Cliff." Guys can get a tad squirrelly when you try to stick a 'y' at the end of their names. How do I know this? Well, let's just say, a couple of Finnish girls I knew growing up taught me an important lesson about the subtle art of handle alteration. If a Finnish girl wants to add a 'y' to the end of your name, let them. But if a non-Finnish girl tries to do the same, nip that shit in the fucking bud as soon as possible. Anyway, Clifford does make a feeble attempt to nip it, but CeCe, who's clearly not Finnish, isn't your average bud.

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, CeCe emerges wearing a turquoise skirt, pink tights (the way they complemented her skirt was simply divine), lacy black armwear, peach-coloured eye makeup, black heels, and carrying the world's strangest boa (tattered chunks of mulit-coloured fabric that looked like they were sewn together on a dare), while Margo is sporting a black dress covered in zippers, black pantyhose (calm down, perverts), black heels, and a pair of royal blue opera gloves (I'm all for wearing black, but even I thought the gloves added a much needed splash of colour to her get-up).

It's time to hit the clubs! The first club is called Powertools, and just as they're about to go in, CeCe and Margo lay down some of their clubland ground rules: Never pay for parking; never carry cash; never pay for drinks; and, most importantly, never wait in line. When they're finished educating Cliffy, they bypass the line and entre the club. The grey sweater-wearing scamp is immediately crestfallen when he finds out that Kelly, who is wearing a pink frilly number with lacy white pantyhose, has totally forgotten about their date (she didn't even remember his name). To make matters worse, Kelly is kissing a guy/asshole named Brad (Stephen Shellen), the club's DJ.

Call me pessimistic, but I don't think Virginia Madsen will be able to win back the audience after the way she treated Cliffy. Hell, she didn't even defend CeCe and Margo when Brad had the nerve to call them dorks (besmirch Margo all you want, but no one talks about CeCe that way). Clutching a copy of "Love" by The Cult while looking sad and mopey is a good start, but she'll need to do more than hold a beloved LP in her hands if she expects me, I mean, the audience, to like her again.

Feeling guilty over the fact that they used Cliffy, CeCe and Margo buy him a drink (the sign above the bar reads "lubrication"). Well, John Dye actually pays for the drinks, but it's the thought that counts. The egregious amount of cuteness on display as CeCe and Cliffy dance to "The Girl Pulled A Dog" by the Female Body Inspectors was off the charts in terms of allowable cuteness. Sadly, this cuteness is interrupted when Bruno X (Clayton Rohner) entres the club with much fanfare. Wait a minute, Bruno who?!? Oh my god, what planet are you from? It's Bruno X! He's only the biggest thing to hit MTV since Fad Gadget.

It's at this point in the film when Modern Girls truly finds its voice. Floundering without a purpose, CeCe's determination to meet Bruno X is what drives the plot of the movie. As you would expect, Bruno X falls in love with CeCe almost instantly (he may look like a pratt, think Billy Idol crossed with Peter Murphy with a hint of Gowan - "you're a strange animal," but he knows an angel when he sees one). I like to think that Bruno X fell under CeCe's chirpy spell the second he heard the "life in your new world turning round and round" part of Icehouse's "No Promises." I didn't, however, like the way Bruno X insisted on calling CeCe "Cecilia" (totally uncool, man, her name's CeCe!). Anyway, CeCe and Bruno X become separated from one another while the club is being raided by police (fire code violation).

The rest of the film centres around CeCe trying to locate Bruno X, the man she is "totally in like with." Employing the help of Margo and Cliffy (Kelly has disappeared again), CeCe's search leads them to The Gloom Room (an authentic-looking L.A. goth club filled with authentic-looking L.A. goths), a music video shoot where Cliffy acquires a new coat (oh, and keep an eye on one of the dancers in the music video, they're wearing pointy boots that are affixed with buckles - screw the other dancers, their boots, while pointy, are buckle-less), rescue a drug-addled Kelly from a bunch of L.A. rednecks (keep your other eye out for an equally drug-addled Pamela Springsteen in this scene), Melrose Avenue (love the neon signs), Club Voodoo (a tropical themed nightclub), and Mulholland Fountain.

Rarely do I get the opportunity to see my values represented on-screen in such a succinct manner. But there were, shimmering in the night sky like an underappreciated pair of iridescent fingerless gloves. And rarely do I get the chance to witness a piece of film acting this captivating, this bouncy, this mettlesome, this...well, you get the get the idea. Sure, the duel performance by Clayton Rohner as Cliffy and Bruno X was impressive and junk, but nothing comes close to topping Cynthia Gibb's stunning portrayal as the single-minded CeCe, the world's most vivacious fashion victim. I liked how Cynthia never seemed to shy away from character's vacuous temperament. A lesser actress would try to underplay CeCe's flaws, but Cynthia embraces the fact her character is cooler than everyone else. In addition, she's the only one who seems to be fully aware that she's living in the '80s, which is a testament to Cynthia Gibb's steadfast commitment to the role.

A feminist masterwork masquerading as a meaningless slab of fashion-friendly mishegas, the script by Laurie Craig, based on a story by Anita Rosenberg (Assault of the Killer Bimbos), pulls no punches when it comes mocking the whole knight in shining armor myth that permeates the majority of romantic comedies. In every other movie, a single gal needs the stability of a man in order to feel complete. However, in the Modern Girls universe, that stability is shirked with extreme prejudice. Don't be fooled by the neon lights, the food fights, and the pink tights, this film has bite. It's frothy and fun, but it also contains an important lesson about loyalty and friendship.

In a veiled attempt to stave off what is bound to be a profound case of Post-Modern Girls sluggishness, here are my favourite songs from the M.G. soundtrack: "Girls Night Out," Tony Basil; "Everywhere I Go," The Call; "But Not Tonight," Depeche Mode; "No Promises," Icehouse; and "Some Candy Talking," Jesus and Mary Chain.

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Slime City (Greg Lamberson, 1988)

Pus, bits of dead skin, yellow matter custard, beads of sweat, amber-colured fluid, mucus, earwax, unforeseen fecal matter, the human body is constantly challenging the social well-being of its owner. Seemingly inundating it with one corporeal catastrophe after another, your average organic structure manages to cope with these assorted calamities by drowning them in alcohol. While under the influence of this "alcohol," the upright proprietor of the disgusting body in question feels as if it's impervious to the judgmental glances and terse asides being thrown its way as it slithers down the street. Top-notch theory, my rash-laden friend, but what if chunks of yellow and green slime are steadily dripping from your pores? I'm no amateur dermatologist, but I think you'll need more than a couple glasses of wine if you want to successfully mask a mess like that. Well, if that's the case, the only sane option I can think of is to cover your face with bandages and begin murdering derelicts and prostitutes as soon as humanly possible. You see, the bandages will temporarily dampen the hideousness of your appearance (sure, you'll look like Nash the Slash with leprosy, but it's helluva lot better than oozing syrupy sludge all over your virginal girlfriend's shag carpeting), while the murders will appease the deceased Satanist/occult author/fluorescent yogurt maker who's currently using your body to re-enter the world of the living. If, by the way, all this sounds like an excellent idea for a movie, don't bother, because filmmaker Greg Lamberson has already made it, and, I must say, he's made it quite well.

The perfect companion to like-minded films such as Street Trash, Brain Damage, From Beyond, and The Stuff, the wonderfully putrid Slime City is the kind of movie where a razor blade to the face is met with indifference, struggling artists have an extensive collection of kitchen ready cutlery, forgotten boomboxes are worth retrieving (even after the threat of limb removal has been established), and army jackets are used as impromptu picnic blankets. If you have an aversion to lumpy slime, especially when it's being excreted from unorthodox places, then avoid this film at all costs. If, however, you're not averse to seeing globs of mustardy goo spewing with an impure recklessness, you should prepare yourself accordingly, because you're in for a treat.

Taking place in a nondescript corner of New York City, a student in a green army jacket named Alex Carmichael (Robert C. Sabin) is on the lookout for a new apartment. Standing in front of an equally nondescript building, Alex and his denim-adorned girlfriend Lori (Mary Huner) are shown "a lovely apartment" by Ruby (Bunny Levine) and Lizzy (Jane Doniger Reibel), two oldish biddies who got their shit together. If you're wondering if Lori is going to be living with Alex in his brand new apartment, you can forget about it; Lori will not be pressured into making a decision regarding her personal freedom without giving it some much needed thought.

While moving in, his friend Jerry (T.J. Merrick) is helping him carry a mattress up the stairs, Alex runs into his neighbour Nicole (Mary Huner), a sultry drink of water with a thick mane of jet black curly hair (it looked impenetrable from certain angles). "You must be the new tenant," Nicole says to Jerry, assuming, for some reason (what am I saying? she had a fifty-fifty shot) that he was the one moving in. Chiming in before his dopey friend can say a word, Alex corrects her error, and introduces himself. Here's some free advice: Don't pussyfoot around when meeting a woman who wears bondage-friendly armwear. Anyway, when the camera first shows Nicole lurking in her doorway, this sinister-sounding synthesizer flourish can be heard on the film's soundtrack. And if there are two things I love in this world, it's goth babes who like to lurk while wearing convoluted armwear and sinister-sounding synthesizer flourishes.

Unfazed by his encounter with Nicole (the thought her probably black panties pressing tightly against her creamy vulva no doubt still dancing around inside his head), Alex gives Lori "the keys to his kingdom." Unfortunately, Lori isn't quite ready to move in with Alex just yet, and politely rebuffs his offer (she does, however, accept the keys to his place). Shortly after Lori and her supercute haircut have left, Alex meets another neighbour, this time it's Roman (Dennis Embry), an affable poet who had a "I play bass in a Bauhaus tribute band on weekends" vibe about him. Wait a minute, poets aren't usually affable. What gives? It would seem that underneath Roman's friendly demeanor lies an ulterior motive.

More on what that ulterior motive was in a second, let's talk about Alex's first night in his new apartment. The sexually frustrated painter–oh, didn't I mention that he's a sexually frustrated painter? well, he is (on top of painting, not having sex, and going to school, he also works at a video store)–lies in his bed listening to the sound of Nicole moaning with pleasure as a result of whatever that heavy metal dude she brought up to her apartment was doing to her (the whole sequence is seen through Alex's eyes, so we don't exactly see what this guy is actually doing to make her moan like that). At any rate, the last thing we hear is the sound of Nicole's gentlemen caller screaming. Interesting.

Making good on his offer to invite him over so that they may ingest "nourishment" together, Roman introduces Alex to the flavourful world of Himalayan yogurt. While they're eating the paste-like substance, Alex wonders why Roman's is blue. It's simple, blue's his colour, Roman tells him without missing a beat. Fully satisfied with his answer, Alex continues to consume the green goo. After they're done with the "yogurt," Roman offers Alex a glass of mysterious wine, which, like Alex's Himalayan yogurt, is also green.

Staggering home, no doubt feeling the adverse effects of the wine and the yogurt, Alex suddenly realizes that he has misplaced his keys. Luckily, Nicole is waiting in the hall to help him out. Beckoning him to her apartment, Alex approaches her door as if he were in a trance (the jagged chunks of wood the covered all the passage ways inside her apartment created this cool vaginal effect). Once in the apartment, Nicole says, "I turn you on, don't I?" I'm not sure he had much time to answer, because before you know it, Nicole is unmooring her aforementioned tight black panties (I knew they'd be black and I knew they'd be tight) in a highly unique manner (she pulls them out through a slit in the side of her skirt) and preparing to plant herself on top of his probably erect penis.

After finishing a black and white dream that involved sharing some wine with a hooded figure, Alex wakes up to find that his entire body is covered with slime. At first, the gunk oozing from his pores is translucent (in other words, it doesn't stop him from performing errands), but the slime gets worse as the day goes by. Why is this happening to him? Has it got anything to do with the weird wine and wonky yogurt? If Nicole is involved, is it okay if he still has sexual intercourse with her on a semi-regular basis? And how many more people will he have to murder in order to not to perspire slime all the time? While I would love to answer these and many other questions, I'd like to shift the focus of my gaze to more important things, like, for instance, the shape of Mary Huner's knees, Ivy Rosovsky's leopard print leggings, and the prostitute's jelly bracelets.

Oh, Mary Huner's knees in Slime City, oh, how I love thee. Actually, to be perfectly honest, the main reason I noticed her knees was because I couldn't help but make a note in my knee-book that Lori and Nicole had similar knees. Originally, I thought it was just another case of kneeful happenstance (a frequent occurrence in the disjointed world of kneecap appreciation). No, I'm afraid it wasn't until the movie was over that I realized that Lori, the virginal girlfriend, and Nicole, the whorish neighbour, were being played by the same person. My initial knee-jerk reaction was to lavish the majority of the praise on costume designer/choreographer/actress Ivy Rosovsky, who, on top of being my own personal style icon, does an amazing job in this movie (particularly with Nicole's sexy ensembles). However, the more I thought about the film, the more I began to value the subtle intricacies of Mary Huner's performances.

It's true, the giant black wig did make it somewhat easier for Mary Huner to lose herself in the Nicole character (it fully envelops the upper part of her body), but things like overall attitude, vocal temperament, facial ticks, and various other mannerisms were all manufactured by Mary, and by her alone. Managing to keep a straight face while Madame Selina (Marilyn Oran), a fortune teller (one who clearly has a profound distaste for blinking), instructs her to be wary of the "watchdogs of evil," Mary is an utter delight as Lori, the commitment phobic girlfriend of a man who finds himself hooked on green yogurt (it's officially name is actually "ectoplasm").

While I loved Mary as Lori, especially during the epically gruesome showdown in Alex's kitchen, it was her work as Nicole that impressed me the most. Perpetually sheathed in her spider web inspired lingerie, Mary imbues Nicole with a sexual intensity; an intensity that boils over during her Ivy Rosovsky choreographed dance number. Contorting her lithe frame like it were a perverted plaything, Mary heaves and thrusts her way into the deviant hall of fame. Quirky fun-fact: It was during Nicole's erotic dance of mental illness that I discovered that she and Lori shared the same knee type (type-o-titillating).

If only they could have gotten Mary Huner to play the prostitute Alex brings up to his apartment as well. I mean, no offense to Eva Lee (who plays the prostitute in question), but her delivery of the line, "you crazy, bastard!" after being slashed in the face with a straight razor, while hilarious, was downright awful.

Just curious, how many times have I mentioned Slime City costume designer/choreographer/actress Ivy Rosovsky so far in this entry, including the time I just mentioned her? Really? Four times, you say? Well, let's make it five. I mean, check out Ivy Rosovsky in those leopard print leggings, her sense of style is simply to die for.

Whether they're covered in a pair of sparkly fishnet pantyhose or smeared with her own blood as a result of being stabbed with a fork, Mary Huner's killer yet subtly sublime stems are pushed to the limit of their sexiness in Slime City, a film that not only sports vaginal doorways, but vaginal stomachs as well (Alex's cunt-tummy eats the arm of a mugger in an alleyway) to fill a large chafing-dish. This gam anxiety is best observed during the film's wonderfully disgusting finale, where Lori's legs, and, not to mention, her winsome feet, come lower extremity-to-lower extremity with torrents of yellow arterial spray and clumps of sausagey entrails.

After typing the word "cunt-tummy," it dawned on me that Slime City is more than just a movie, it's a way of life. Films where lines like, "the slime must be appeased" are taken seriously are my lettuce and gravy. Made for practically no money, yet containing bundles of refried creativity, this leaky endeavour does a better job of exposing the horrors of yogurt addiction than most of the overpriced, directed by committee pieces of cinematic garbage floating out there in the festering cesspool that is Hollywood.

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Women in Revolt (Paul Morrissey, 1971)

Whether they're dangling indoors or dangling outdoors, the sight of male genitalia flopping freely without the support of a two-pronged hammock always makes me nervous. How nervous, you reluctantly ask? Let's say one minute you're sitting on the couch watching your boyfriend mirthfully skip to the fridge to get some more horseradish. Sounds innocent enough, right? Well, you won't be thinking it's so innocent the moment you find yourself desperately trying to stem the flow of blood gushing from between their legs with the latest issue of Italian Vogue. Accidentally slicing off a substantial chunk of their cherished junk as a result of tripping and falling crotch-first into one of the sharper-than-usual corners of your expensive coffee table, you calmly pick up the pieces and proceed to drive them to the emergency room. First off, you're probably thinking to yourself: why are the corners of their coffee table so damned sharp? But more importantly, you'll be cursing the delicate nature of the male reproductive system (why couldn't my boyfriend have a vagina?!?). Which reminds me, whenever I'd watch my cat lick himself, I would always feel a tad envious over the fact that he could retract his penis in a manner that allowed them to carry themselves with a modicum of dignity while he performed his daily allotment of cat-based duties. I would think to myself: Gee, I wish I could retract the overwhelming largeness of my penis (I've got a plethora of non-penis-related things to do during the day). Unfortunately, a naked man isn't like a cat at all, they're obscene, useless, violent, and, worst of all, frightfully unladylike. The women in Paul Morrissey's Women in Revolt are beginning to realize this as well, and who can blame them. Sick of being paid less money and tired of having their meaty holes treated like some sort of repository for wayward pricks, the kooky collection of women who populate this shrill realm are ready to start a revolution.

Introduced just as they're about to turn their backs on the disgusting men in their lives, two New York women, at the height of their foxiness, join together with other like-minded, cunt-positive individuals to form P.I.G. (Politically Involved Girls), a group for women who have had enough of living in a male-dominated society. Led by Jackie (Jackie Curtis), a garrulous, take charge school teacher, and Holly (Holly Woodlawn), a manic fashion model with a propensity for spastic writhing and impromptu dry humping, the upstart organization tries to recruit Candy (Candy Darling), a leggy blonde heiress/aspiring actress, into the girlish fold with the hope that she will inject the movement with some much needed class and distinction.

Providing us with some great insight as to what makes these ladies tick, the opening scene allows us to familiarize ourselves with the spiritual makeup of the women we'll be spending the next ninety or so minutes with. While it's obvious that they all share a mutual disdain for men, what's fascinating is the unique manner they each go about expressing their contempt. Sitting with a bored look on her face, Candy articulates her dislike for men with a detached elan ("you made me old before my time," she purrs). In another part of the city, that city, of course, being New York City, Jackie, her neck adorned with a sparkling choker, explains her man-hate with an intellectual flair. Words like, "detached" and "intellectual," however, will never be used to describe the temperament of Holly Woodlawn, as she takes lunacy to a whole new level of crazy.

My finely tuned crush receptors on were on high alert the second I saw the back of Holly's head gyrating like a defective ragdoll. Why was her head doing what you said it was doing? Well, her head, and her lovely mane of frazzled brunette hair, was behaving that way because her body was busy reacting to impact of her boyfriend's unstructured thrusting. At any rate, the moment she turned around, Holly Woodlawn had me completely under her spell. I'll never forget the image of her enchanting mug spewing obscenities in the general direction of her possessive male lover. Peppering the future leader of the Cobra Kai dojo's (Martin Kove) eardrums with a wide array of putdowns (my personal favourite: "eat my asshole, fucker!), Holly's madness was simply exquisite.

While painting her toenails, Jackie's naked house boy, Dusty (Dusty Springs), has the nerve to suggest that the women's liberation movement has poisoned her mind. After spraying a couple of his key cervices with deodorant, and scolding him for his lacklustre approach to housekeeping, Jackie starts hurling lit matches at his groin. The only reason I'm mentioning this scene is because of the mortified look on Jackie's face when she realizes that one of the matches she tossed at him almost set his dick on fire was freaking hilarious (ample pubic hair is tantamount to kindling). And I also liked the scene because it mostly centres around the beautification of Jackie's legs and feet.

The next scene, where a bespectacled Holly comes over, is a classic, in that it features a wacky exchange between Jackie Curtis and the guy (Paul Issa) who gave Holly a ride (he also brought a plant). "Take your balls and go," Jackie tells the plant guy. To which the plant guy responds: "what's wrong with my genitals? Jackie fires back: "I don't like 'em." The plant guy limply tells her: "but you don't know them." Like the majority of the scenes in Women in Revolt, the ungenteel argument with the plant guy doesn't really add or take anything away from the film's narrative, but it does contain a distinct satirical flavour that tricks you into believing that you're watching something artistically important.

The plan to coerce Candy into joining P.I.G. actually germinates while Holly is performing peripheral anilingus on Jackie's house boy. In fact, my favourite Holly Woodlawn nonplussed expression in Women in Revolt is when she glances down at the house boy's ass and quickly lifts her head up. The perplexed look on her face the moment she stops giving the house boy, to quote Jackie Curtis, "an anal root canal," was comedy gold.

Call me grossly unaware of my surroundings, and, while we're at it, someone who is playing fast and loose with their remaining faculties, but I thought Candy Darling looked a tad frumpy during her opening scene. Well, don't worry, I finally came to my senses the instant I saw her talking on the telephone. Clutching a copy of the New York Times, her neck adorned with pearls, her head affixed with a saucy turban, and her lips smeared with the reddest shade of lipstick currently available on the market, Candy gave me a refresher course on how to be chic and fabulous. And all she did was stand there.

The members of P.I.G. gather to exchange horror stories while they await the arrival of Candy, whose "glittering facade" would give some much needed glamour to the burgeoning female supremacist movement. A woman named Betty (Betty Blue), one sporting the cutest lesbian haircut the world has ever seen, tells the group an anecdote involving a little person who struggled to pleasure himself in front of her on 42nd Street because his arms were too short to reach the area most commonly associated with masturbation, and another woman (Penny Arcade) shares her harrowing account of a run-in she had with a toe sucking policeman.

As usual, while all this yakking is going on, Holly Woodlawn can be seen grinding her lanky frame against the bodies of the unexplained gaggle of mute effeminate men that seem to travel with the politically involved girls.

It would seem that Candy isn't all that interested in women's liberation, no, what she really wants to do is become a movie star. Meeting with a producer, Candy tells him that she's looking to break into showbiz. Even though their meeting will probably end with rough sex on an office couch, Candy does get to do her impression of Joan Bennett from Scarlet Street and Kim Novak in Picnic. Oh, and I like how the producer tells Candy that her legs are "not bad." Not bad?!? What a pratt.

The people unamused by the dialogue featured in Women in Revolt, and I'm sure there will be many, will love the scene where Jackie's responses to various queries are muffled by Mr. America's cock. Curious about the appeal of heterosexual intercourse, Jackie blows all the money they acquired from the movement's primary donor on gigolos. This, of course, upsets the other members of P.I.G., and leads to the downfall of women's liberation.

A confrontation between Jackie and a group of irate women at a bar (Brigid Berlin plays the bartender) had the potential of being a top-notch girl-fight. But like most of the scenes in this movie, Andy Warhol's incompetent camera work (for some reason Paul Morrissey allowed the "pop artist" to operate the camera) ruined the impact of many scenes. In fact, it was his wonky camera work that inspired that whole tangent I went on about male genitals (his camera angles were quite testicle-centric). Anyway, the best thing to come out of the brawl scene was a shot of Holly Woodlawn posing like the Puerto Rican goddess that she is.

One minute Holly is doing what she does best, groping Jane Forth on a leather couch while wearing a teal-coloured skirt, the next, and by "next" I mean nine months later, she's stumbling through the slush-covered streets with no one to grope. It just goes to show you how quickly a woman's life can go from being fabulous to ordinary. Of course, the film does a terrible job at conveying this point, and, on top of that, it gives screeching harpies a bad name. Barely tolerable at times, Women in Revolt is an excellent showcase for its three stars, Candy Darling in particular, but it's a bit of a failure in terms of being cohesive piece of filmed entertainment.

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