Naked Vengeance (Cirio H. Santiago, 1985)

When you find that the scales of justice are failing to tip favourably in your general direction, do you: a) Shrug your shoulders, smoke a cigarette, and go buy some ham, b) Accept the fact that the lowlife who murdered your husband, the redneck with a gym membership who filled your parents full of lead, and the unruly mob of former high school acquaintances who gang raped you to the point of mental and physical exhaustion will all go unpunished for their dastardly crimes, or c) Kill them all. I don't want to influence your decision, but please say 'c.' While I'm all for the purchasing of pork products and acting indifferent in the face of injustice, there are times when revenge is the only reasonable course of action a distressed woman with freakishly small nipples can take. And judging by the manner in which the retribution is doled out in Naked Vengeance, you won't be losing any sleep whatsoever over the way the culprits are dispatched in this movie. In case you're wondering, I happen to think murdering a classmate because he or she stole your eraser is wrong. I'm also against killing sprees that involve people who are disgruntled, and I'm not a big fan of rogue snipers with a score to settle. However, castrating rapists and drowning them in a pastoral lake that may or may not be located in The Philippines while in the buff is totally acceptable, especially if the perpetrator participated in the brutal gang rape of someone while they were trying to recover from the death of a loved one at the hands of a different rapist all-together at their parents' house in the country. Now, I've seen plenty of movies where the recently bereaved have to overcome adversity, but the amount of crap the recently bereaved lead in this film has to put up with was ridiculous. Hell, she can't even go to the supermarket without being harassed by a non-stop cavalcade of lecherous fiends.

Your classic American revenge story as told from the perspective of a wily Filipino named Cirio H. Santiago, Naked Vengeance may seem like yet another tale of rural comeuppance gone awry. But this particular semisolid lump of retaliatory cinema has got a brunette ace of up its sleeve, and that ace is Deborah Tranelli (yeah, that's right, Phyllis from Dallas). Wait a minute, how did they persuade Deborah Tranelli to appear in a film like this? I mean, the gang rape sequence isn't exactly a walk in the proverbial park in terms of conventional acting. What gives? Well, my theory is that in exchange for agreeing to give it her all in an extended gang rape scene, the producers allowed her to sing the film's theme song. It's a fair trade, if you ask someone who is not me, because the song, "Still Got a Love," and the gang rape are two of the things that make this film so freakin' memorable.

I'm no vengeance expert, but I think you're gonna need a lot more than a catchy theme song and a fireside gang rape sequence to create a half decent revenge movie. You're absolutely right. While I enjoyed the song, when Deborah sings the line, "there's so many wounded losers, so many broken hearts," I thought about the type of person who might get chills listening to lyrics like that, and the gang rape scene had an intensity about it that reminded me of the gang rape scene in Savage Streets, part of me sincerely hoped the film had more to offer than mushy yet defiant song lyrics and tasteless thrills.

On the morning of their five year wedding anniversary, a young L.A. couple in the throes of domestic bliss are getting ready for the day ahead of them. Reluctant to take part in a celebratory dinner at a fancy restaurant to commemorate their modest matrimonial milestone, Mark Harris (Terrence O'Hara) finally agrees to attend after his wife Carla Harris (Deborah Tranelli) promises to move the dinner to from 7pm to 9pm and to wear her black stockings and garter belt. The moment the words "black stockings and garter belt" left his mouth I knew he would never get to see his wife's supple lower half sheathed in the nylon and lace he requested. And, unfortunately, I was right. While leaving the restaurant, Mark notices a woman struggling to escape the clutches of a belligerent man in the vicinity of a dumpster. Ignoring the fact that the dainty black garter belt lurking underneath Carla's dress is currently pressing tightly against the aerobicised firmness of her sweat-drenched stomach, Mark leaps to the woman's aide. Even though Carla tells him to be careful while he was leaping, Mark, after a brief struggle, winds up dead as a result of a gunshot wound to the chest.

Frustrated that none of the witnesses, nor the woman her husband tried to help, are willing to admit they saw anything, Carla feels as if the justice system has let her down. A useless detective (Carmen Argenziano) attempts to explain why the case against her husband's murderer has hit so many snags, but Carla is too distraught to give a shit. Tired and emotionally drained by the whole experience, Carla decides to leave town and visit her parents in Silver Lake, the small California town she grew up in, to clear her head.

While the name "Silver Lake" sounds like the ideal place for one to clear their head, it's actually not ideal. In fact, it's the complete opposite of ideal. You wanna know why it's not ideal? No? Well, I'll tell you anyway. It's because there are people living in Silver Lake, and cobbled together from what I've accidentally gleaned over the years, people are the worst. Okay, I'll admit, that was a tad misanthropic. However, if the people in the town you just arrived in resent the fact that you left their backwater burg to appear in fancy television commercials for plastic wrap and dog food in the big city, don't expect the welcome you receive to be all warm and fuzzy when your grieving ass shows up all of a sudden wearing designer sunglasses and a blue dress with a taupe belt.

What takes place next is what I like to call "the harassment chapter," as Carla encounters one indignant Silver Lake resident after another. While the female residents of her hometown seem content to merely throw her the occasional catty glance, it's the menfolk who really seem to relish in tormenting our chic (her taupe belt is wonderfully complimented by a pair of a taupe pumps) heroine. A gas station attendant named Sparky (Nick Nicholson) and Burke (Ed Crick), a vulgar hanger-on with vending machine issues, are the first to hassle her. The youthful gardener, Timmy (Steve Roderick), who works for her parents, leers at her in a highly suggestive manner as she gets him a glass water, but his technique was more subtle. The same can't be said for Arnold (Don Gordon Bell), an ice house employee, Fletch (Kaz Garas), the town's butcher, and Ray (David Light), the bartender at a local watering hole, as they all make overly aggressive advances toward the fashionable brunette.

As expected, all their attempts to woo her are met with failure. In an effort to make doubly sure that his animal magnetism wasn't on the fritz, Fletch takes a second run at her in the parking lot of Ray's pub. After he starts pawing at her, Carla plants the pointiest part of her well-proportioned knee firmly into the creamy centre of the bucther's crotch, causing him to feel a fair amount of discomfort. When she finally does get home, Carla slips out of her disco-inspired one-piece to reveal that she is wearing a pair of black panties with a black bra. You'll notice she isn't wearing black stockings or a garter belt underneath her clothing. This may sound like a bit of a stretch, but I chose to see her decision not to wear any superfluous undergarments as her subtle way of honouring the lingerie loving legacy of her late husband. Sadly, Timmy, who's been watching her get undressed through her window, doesn't pick up on the subtlety of Carla's tribute.

An increasingly disheartened Carla tries to report Timmy's peeping and Fletch's groping to Sheriff Cates (Bill McLaughlin), but that goes nowhere fast, as he basically tells her that "boys will be boys" and that she should start thinking about closing her drapes at night. Meanwhile, over at Ray's bar, the gang can be seen commiserating over the fact that they all failed to make any romantic headway with Carla, even though she's, as one of them puts it, a "closet nympho."

When word gets out (way to go, Timmy) that Carla is "home alone" (her parents have gone away for the weekend), the five of them, including Timmy, decide to pay her a surprise visit. After Timmy somehow manages to knock himself unconscious, the drunken quintet proceed to take turns sexually assaulting her in a scene that was off the charts in terms unpleasantness. And just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, Carla's parents arrive home earlier than expected. I don't think I need to explain what happens next–you know, given Carla's recent track record (the gal can't seem to catch a break). But let's just say Carla is not a happy camper when all is said and done.

Since Silver Lake seems to lack a functioning sexual assault evidence kit (a device that would have easily detected that Carla had been raped by five assailants), and with a catatonic Carla in the hospital under the care of a doctor (Joseph Zucchere) who looked like a slimmed down version of Alex Karras, the five rapists, content in the knowledge that Timmy is the one being blamed for the death of Carla and her parents, go about their day as if nothing had happened. Whoa, did you say, "death of Carla"?!? Yeah, I did. The five rapists, get this, think Carla's dead. Oh, man, are they in for a nasty surprise.

Inspired by the vengeance-laden hysterics coming from the patient in the room next-door, Carla decides right then and there to take matters into her own hands when it comes to dispensing justice. After Ray the bartender is set ablaze while closing up his bar, Carla says, "burn, bastard." When she said that, I was like, yes! In that, I hope she says something like that after every rapist is eliminated. It seemed like they were gonna continue the bastard motif when she gets around to taking care of the next rapist, but, unfortunately, she stopped saying "bastard" after she castrates and drowns Burke in the lake near the hospital.

Nevertheless, the sight of a naked Carla, her flyspeck nipples shimmering in the midday sun, saying, "drown, bastard," after slicing off Burke's primary raping genitals with a hunting knife was a thing of uncomfortable beauty. Just for record: When I refer to the smallness of Deborah Tranelli's nipples, I don't mean it in a negative way. My attitude when it comes to nipple size is one of benign indifference.

Getting back to the bastard motif, the opportunities for Carla to vocalize bastard-based zingers seemed to diminish the deeper she waded into the vengeance pool. Besides, what are you supposed to say after you cut a mechanic in half with the jeep he's working on, push a man into an industrial-strength ice maker, and ventilate a man's forehead with a shotgun? I mean, "subdural hematoma, bastard" is a bit of a mouthful.

Surviving a back alley assault that resulted in the death of her husband, putting up with a comprehensive campaign of sexual harassment, and enduring a brutal gang rape that was punctuated with the murder of her parents, Deborah Tranelli gives a courageous performance as Carla, the pluckiest brunette avenger ever to give up black stockings and garter belts cold turkey. Seriously, I was literally in awe of Deborah's work in this film, especially during the gang rape scene, the lakeside castration sequence, and the butcher shop melee. It takes a special kind of actress to drown a man utilizing a grappling hook without any clothes on, and Deborah Tranelli is pretty darned special. Sure, she doesn't utter pithy one-liners after every kill, but as far as revenge movies go, Naked Vengeance is a definite winner.

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Hellhole (Pierre De Moro, 1985)

If you like women, and I mean, really like women, you'll definitely want to check out Hellhole, the developmentally challenged Cadillac of women in prison movies. It's got every kind of woman your unvarnished heart could possibly desire. Of course, the catch being that all the women are somewhat meshuggeneh. However, if you're like me, and you can't stand being around women who have all their faculties in order, then have I got a treat for you. It's got women who swing axes, body blow absorbing nurses, sandbox girls (there's nothing hotter than the sight of a grown woman playing in a sandbox while wearing a nondescript hospital gown), beastly women who lurk in dark boiler rooms, jacuzzi lesbians, mud bath connoisseurs, Christian fundamentalists with crimped hair, glue-sniffing lesbians (actually, the jacuzzi lesbians and the glue-sniffing lesbians are one in the same, so it should read "glue-sniffing lesbians who like jacuzzis"), shock-haired psychotics, overly enthusiastic shower fight bystanders, and skittish binge eaters. Oh, my, I'm getting tingly just thinking about all the mentally unstable ladies who populate this film's rough and grimy universe. While it may seem like I'm rattling off a random list of socially maladjusted women for my own sick and twisted amusement, let me assure you, I'm not gently tugging on your proverbial carburettor (though I bet half of you wish I was), all these crazy chicks magically appear at some point during this Pierre De Moro-directed motion picture. Yeah, that's right, Pierre De Moro directed this motherfucker, directed the living shit out of it, if you ask me, and there's nothing you can do about it. Imagine if someone really did want to do something about it, wouldn't that be an unexpected turn of events? Out of curiosity, I'd like to see them try, because the makers of this film possess a steadfast dedication to the realm of sleazy trash, and its ornery cousin, trashy sleaze.

It's mildly absurd, well, at least it was to me, that the film's only sane female characters are played by Mary Woronov (Eating Raoul) and Judy Landers (Dr. Alien), two of my favourite people on the planet. Sure, the hospital's administrator (Terry Moore) and a couple of the nurses seemed to be on the cusp of being normal, but they're basically background characters. Besides, you'd have to be a tad unhinged to want to work at a hospital run by Mary Woronov (her legs alone are taller than your insignificant ass). Anyway, the absurdity I'm alluding to stems from the fact that Mary Woronov's Dr. Fletcher (a tribute to Louise Fletcher from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, perhaps?) is trying to cure insanity while behaving in a manner that was clearly sane. On the other hand, Judy Landers' Susan seemed sane simply because Judy's one of the few actress with the innate ability to appear as if she was born without a brain. And, as we all know, it's kinda hard to damage a brain when there's no brain to damage in the first place.

This air of cranial sluggishness adds a subtle layer of confusion to the proceedings, as Silk (Ray Sharkey), a hired killer with a bit of a sadomasochistic streak, is instructed to find the whereabouts of some important documents. You see, the exact location of these documents can be found buried somewhere inside the brain of Susan's mother (Lynn Borden), but since he strangled her in a fit of strangulation with his favourite strangling scarf, he's going to have to dig through the empty-headed morass that is her daughter's brain instead. It's safe to say, this is not going to be an easy task. Compounding matters is the fact that Susan has developed a serious case of amnesia as a result of a nasty fall, and the fact that she watched her mother get strangled to death by a sleazy fiend dressed in leather ain't helping matters, either.

How exactly does one extract information from a brainless twit with amnesia? Since one of Silk's employers is on the advisory board that oversees the state's hospitals, they have set it up that Susan spends her time recovering at not a regular hospital, but at the Ashland Sanatorium For Women. Trading in his usual studs and leather look for a less menacing one, Silk poses as an orderly, and begins to badger the forgetful blonde. Standing in Silk's way, however, is another imposter named Ron (Richard Cox). Pretending to be orderly named Steve, Ron has been hired by another member of the advisory board (one not affiliated with Silk's amnesia scheme) to keep tabs on the goings on at the controversial sanatorium (there have been reports of abuse at this particular facility).

While the fake orderlies both covet what's inside Susan's brain, Silk wants wrestle intelligence from it, Ron/Steve wants to shield its contents from harm, Dr. Fletcher wants to inject her brain with a serum. And not just any serum, one that will revolutionize the treatment of a wide range of mental disorders. Oh, and before you get all excited over the prospect of watching a film where Mary Woronov wields a syringe overflowing with iridescent fluid, I feel I should warn you. Are you ready? The fluid in her syringe doesn't glow; it doesn't even glimmer. But, hey, buck up, little camper. She uses a syringe and preforms liquid lobotomies in a subterranean stetting, what more do you want? Not to sound ungrateful, but how hard is it to fill a syringe with a substance that glows? Let it go, man.

"You're not mentally ill, you're emotionally disturbed," is my favourite line in the entire movie, and it's uttered by Mary Woronov's Dr. Fletcher when Judy Landers' Susan tries to explain that she doesn't belong in a place like this. The crazed-looking redhead constantly grabbing at her hospital gown, on the other hand, does belong in a place like this. If I was a fake orderly pretending to work at Ashland, she would have been the first patient I would have asked out on a date. Of course, she's not listed in the credits (alas, there's no one listed as "crazed-looking redhead constantly grabbing at her hospital gown"), which always seems to be the case when it comes to crushing on mentally ill women who appear in the background of women in prison movies made during the 1980s. Well, whatever your name is mysterious redhead who likes to grab at their clothing, I wanna play in the sandbox with you. Call me. Wait a minute, did you say, "play in the sandbox"?!? Yeah, that's right, I said play in the sandbox.

While I'm on the subject, it should be noted that the statuesque Dr. Fletcher is a big fan of sand (put it in a box-like structure and you're looking at one giddy doctor). In fact, my second favourite line spoken aloud in Hellhole is when Dr. Fletcher tells a curious visitor to the sanatorium that she "finds sand to be much more therapeutic than water" in response to their query about the merits having a sandbox on the premises instead of a swimming pool.

After watching a sandbox fight get broken up by a couple of Dr. Fletcher's goons (unlike the security who work at most hospitals, these guys wear all black, carry nightsticks, and use the c-word a lot), Susan finally musters up the courage to ask Ron/Steve about hellhole. Even though he plays dumb, the look of horror on his face when she says the word "hellhole" should tell Susan everything she needs to know about hellhole (it's too early to tell if her non-functioning brain was able to pick up on what he was putting out there with his face). Meanwhile, over in Silk's room (yep, he's moved into Ashland, all right, and has turned his space into a pervert's paradise), the sleazy assassin is confiding with Vera (Edy Williams), a shapely patient who is acting as one of his spies. Telling her to find out all she can about this Steve fella (who he calls "half a fag"), Vera starts snooping around the showers in her white panties wielding a bar of hypoallergenic soap.

Why is Vera wearing panties in the shower? And I had no idea they had hypoallergenic soap back in the 1985 (I thought everyone just used Dial and hoped for the best). An excellent question and a valid point. But there's no time to dilly-dally over such trivialities, a shower fight is about to commence. How do I know a shower fight is about to commence? Um, hello, a bunch of naked women are showering together (one, albeit, is inexplicably wearing white panties), the film's called "Hellhole," not A Walk to Remember, and a mean-looking chick sporting a mullet has just taken exception with the fact that Vera is currently washing her girlfriend's back with a bar of hypoallergenic soap, so, of course, a shower fight is about to commence.

The coolest aspect about this particular sequence was not the sight of two pantie-adorned–Vera's opponent (Ann Chatterton) is, you guessed it, wearing panties–women fighting in a shower while surrounded by a cheering circle of curly-haired cunts, but the fact that one of the C.C.O.C.C's almost buys it while running to get a spot in the circle. Remember ladies, whenever you find yourself in a situation where your presence is needed to make a girls only shower fight seem more exciting than it really is, always walk, never run, your safety and overall well-being is important to us.

When an unbalanced woman with crimped hair wearing Tretorn tennis shoes (Marneen Fields) has finished ranting and raving in the dinning hall, we get our first glimpse of Mary Woronov in all her evil glory. Didn't you mention Mary Woronov being in a previous scene? Yeah, I did. But she was seated during that particular scene. And you what they say? A walking Mary Woronov is a... actually, I have no idea what "they say." All I know is there's something about the way Mary Woronov moves in this movie. Every step seems to have been meticulously thought out beforehand, which gives her character a weirdly alien temperament. Anyway, the woman in the Tretorns stops ranting and raving almost immediately when Mary Woronov's Dr. Fletcher enters the room. After coaxing her down from the table she was standing on, the leggy doctor instructs her goons (one of whom is played by Robert Z'Dar, whose unique jawline is the stuff of nightmares) to take her away.

Take her way, eh? I wonder if they're going to take her to hellhole? Who am I kidding? Of course her crimped ass is going to hellhole; that's where everyone goes when they misbehave at Ashland. With the help her assistant, Dr. Dane (Marjoe Gortner from Starcrash), Dr. Fletcher injects five ccs of an experimental drug they've been working on into Miss Trethorn's brain. After some promising writhing by their unwilling test subject, the patient dies. No biggy, right? Little does Dr. Fletcher know that Don/Steve has been watching them from the shadows. The most disturbing part about Don/Steve's reaction was that he seem more horrified the post-mortal kiss Dr. Fletcher plants on the dead girl's lips than her actual murder (necrophilic lesbianism was, unfortunately, still frowned upon back in 1985).

Speaking of irregular lesbianism, Hellhole is chock-full of dyky goodness. While Susan is busy taking an unauthorized tour of hellhole (where she finds a world full of steamy pipes and rattling chains), the goons are busy busting up some equally unauthorized instances of girl-on-girl action. Two gals (Marie Lamarre and Judith Geller) are caught naked together inhaling amyl nitrate in their room, another two (Edy Williams and Natalie Main) take a mud bath together (Natalie is credited as "mud girl"), and one of the women from the first lesbian encounter I mentioned is found sniffing glue with a slender brunette (Lamya Derval), who is credited as "jacuzzi girl." Since it was the jacuzzi girl's first transgression involving unlawful cunnilingus, Dr. Fletcher doesn't send her to hellhole, but instead invites her to take a soak in her private jacuzzi... While she's soaking, a kimono-wearing Dr. Fletcher coyly offers up the shapeliness of her right leg as a gift to her newfound friend.

A brunette woman buys some grub at Tony's Tacos, yet there's no one in the credits listed as "brunette woman at taco stand" or "taco-eating lesbian with a perm." Weird. Just a second, it would seem that Michele Laurent plays the taco lady, and is credited as "Tony's Tacos Patron."

I'll admit, it was exhaustive work keeping track of all the crazed women who appear Hellhole. For example, did you know that Dyanne Thorne (Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS) shows up briefly as an inmate named Crysta? Well, she does. Let me give you some free Hellhole-watching advice: Don't let all the extraneous characters distract you from what's important. The bulk of your focus should be on Mary Woronov and Ray Sharkey, as they're the only ones who seem to be having any fun with their roles. The combination of Mary Woronov's imposing figure and Ray's coke-fueled unpleasantness was an absolute delight. It's too bad their characters couldn't have put aside their differences and gotten along better. It's true, she's a shy lesbian who's into medical experiments and pencil skirts, and he's a registered sex offender who likes to strangle people, but I'm sure they can find some common ground.. After all, I'm currently dating a deranged redhead with severe body issues, and I couldn't be happier.

Taking yet another look at the film's credits, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say the "crazed-looking redhead constantly grabbing at her hospital gown" was played by Tanya Russell, as she's credited as "freaked-out inmate," which is close enough, if you ask me.

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The Tower (Jim Makichuk, 1985)

A stark, and, some might say, subdued warning from the future, that actually takes place in the past, but, when one analyzes the many different variables that are currently at play, seems like it came from the past, the present, and the future simultaneously, The Tower is here to challenge your outdated views on science and technology. Your toaster transforms bread into toast by transferring energy from a wire that's connected to a wall socket. What happens exactly when you go beyond the wall socket is a bit of a mystery, well, at least it is to me (my expertise is limited to crocheting and industrial music). Either way, I'll be slathering my freshly toasted bread with my favourite fatty butter substitute in no time thanks to the energy coursing through those magic holes. Just for the record, I'm already starting to regret this whole toast metaphor that I somehow got roped into employing, as I despise the idea of people trying to imagine what I might look like ingesting carbohydrates while I'm writing about toast. As my Aunt Judy once told me: "There's nothing more undignified than stuffing food in your mouth in a public setting." Soldiering on. What if your toaster, or, for that matter, that gaudy-looking table lamp languishing in the corner of your room were all powered by the heat generated by your body, wouldn't that be awesome? People powering machines? That's ridiculous. People make machines, they don't power them, that's what fossil fuels are for. Of course, I can picture a person producing power for a bicycle (I'm not as close-minded as I look), but a table lamp? Get real. What if told you could power an entire office structure using this technique. Now you're talking crazy. It's funny that you should mention the word "crazy," because the great city of Hamilton, Ontario is the only place I can think of that's forward-thinking enough to allow a building to be run by a computer named LOLA.

Emanating from the fertile mind of writer-director Jim Makichuk, this Emmeritus Production, in association with CHCH-TV and Telefilm Canada, may look like just another in a long line of low budget thrillers about a bunch office drones struggling to stay alive in a multi-story building where an energy-starved computer wants to convert their body heat into power, but it's so much more than that. How much more, you ask? Even though I feel like I'm the only person living outside of Hungary who has seen this flick, I'm not sure if I'm qualified to answer such an awkwardly didactic question. I mean, I want to say that it's a cautionary tale about the dangers that could arise when a society becomes overly reliant on technology, but I don't really think a statement like that properly captures the unnerving disquietude that this film radiates on a semi-regular basis. What's a blithering idiot to do?

I'll tell you what I'm not going to do, I'm not gonna let the misshapen density of The Tower intimidate me. Sure, it's set in Hamilton, and, sure, the characters don't say the word "out" like you and I (it sounded like they were saying "oot" most of the time), but that's no reason to be afraid of the peculiar goings on at the Sandawn Building. Besides, LOLA can smell your fear, and you wouldn't want her to zap you while you're trying to adjust the whirlpool setting for the swimming pool/jacuzzi located inside the building's state-of-the-art aquatic centre, now do we? In other words, play it cool, man, LOLA sees all.

As you would expect, I'm literally clawing at my taint to explain how LOLA works. Nevertheless, before I do that, I'd like to introduce you Laura (Jennifer Cornish) and Brad (Paul Miklas), two petty criminals who plan on kidnapping Mr. Sandawn (George T. Cunningham), some sort of bigwig (his wig is so big they named the building after him). Why are you introducing us to these wankers? Well, you see, in the film's opening scene, just as Brad is about to call his partner in crime (the garbage bags hastily strewn about the phone booth he enters are meant to illustrate that he lives and/or hangs out in the shady, dilapidated part of town just outside of town), Laura can be seen standing in front of a full-length mirror. Yeah, so, lots of people look at themselves in the mirror before they leave their place of residence, it's called having self-respect. You didn't let me finish, señor dingus. As she's standing there, she reaches down and runs both her hands up the shapely, nylon-encased circumference of her right leg. Making sure there are no creases or crinkles present in the lavender, no-nonsense pantyhose lurking below and underneath her grey pencil skirt (the modest slits, one in the front and one in the back, allow the wearer to navigate an office environment with a greater sense of ease and comfort), the sight of Laura enjoying the sturdiness of her hosiery-adorned legs was an absolute joy.

When it comes to looking at stuff, I find that it usually takes me around ten, maybe fifteen minutes to realize the object I'm currently watching is actually deserving of a sizable chunk of my time. In the case of The Tower, it took only eight seconds for me to start nodding favourable nods of nod-worthy approval. The instant Jennifer Cornish (Friday the 13th, the TV series) began caressing the silky sheer surface of her own leg, I knew I was in for a cinematic treat. Of course, just because you enjoyed the workmanlike proficiency of Laura's impromptu leg stroke (which took approximately one and a half seconds for her to implement) does not necessarily mean that everything that follows it will be able to match its positive, leg-molesting temperament.

On the contrary, my chromosomal friend, after the stem-based high that comes as a result of Laura's corporeal tune up, we could find ourselves trapped inside a windowless stairwell with nothing but lousy acting and hackneyed dialogue to keep us company. Luckily, that doesn't happen, or does it? Are we given a taut cyber-thriller loaded with enough twists and turns to satisfy even the fussiest of viewers, or are we given a giant piece of shit? Who's to say?

Content in the knowledge that her corporate pantyhose are on straight, Laura heads down to the Sandawn Building to meet Brad and execute their devious plan (Laura actually works in the building, but like most young women living in the '80s, finds her arduous journey to the top to be slow and unfulfilling). As Laura and Brad are making their way over to the building, a couple of balding security experts can be seen discussing the disappearance of three people who work at the very building our two opportunists are headed. Apparently, a maintenance man, a typist, and a junior executive have all gone missing recently. However, this couldn't have been the workof Laura and Brad (they only kidnap rich people), there must be something else going on over at the Sandawn Building.

How does a person go missing in a building that's so heavily monitored by electronic sensors and video cameras? I'll get to that in a moment. What I really want to get into is the sequence where LOLA introduces us to the structures many different features. Explaining how it extracts heat from the people who work there, LOLA (voiced by Monique Verlaan) gives us a guided tour of the building. Filled with big haired secretaries, desks, copiers, coffee makers, computer terminals, and sporting a shopping centre (one with a hair salon to accommodate the big hair needs of the big haired secretaries) and a swimming pool, the building is essentially a self-contained universe.

The first sign of trouble comes when a big haired secretary exiting the pool in a black and red one-piece gets a bit of a shock when she attempts to alter the setting of the swimming pool's whirlpool jets. It would seem that LOLA went at a little overboard while trying to withdraw a small fraction of the 3345 BTU's she was putting out there. It's at this point we meet Mr. Watson (Alfred Topes), the self-described visionary who invented LOLA, and Joanna (Jackie Wray), a freshly permed secretary who is "weary of progress." Discussing how LOLA works, the two exchange a largish slab of expository dialogue, then Mr. Watson relinquishes his post, leaving LOLA in charge.

As Laura finally arrives at the Sandawn Building (Brad's waiting for her in the lobby), we also meet Jerry (George West), a slightly dorky security guard, Cindy (Zuzana Struss), his smoking hot girlfriend (she's the reason I called Jerry "slightly" dorky, as supposed to just plain dorky), Ben (Ray Paisley), a frustrated ad man in brown slacks, who apparently used to run his own agency, and Zach (Kenner Ames), one of Ben's co-workers (his nonexistent sideburns imbued his aura with the territorial markings of a frozen ghost).

After one of the balding security experts I alluded to earlier gets absorbed by LOLA, the group of people I just mentioned, including Mrs. Sandawn (Dorothy Clifton), the long suffering wife of Mr. Sandawn, find themselves at LOLA's mercy. In other words, stay away from all outlets, whirlpool setting switches, telephones, elevator buttons... you know what, just don't touch anything, especially if it's electrical.

Painfully inept acting, a glacial approach to pacing (the film clocks in at just over ninety minutes, but it felt like it was four hours long), shots that were repeated (the footage of Joanna and Mrs. Sandawn nervously walking down a flight of stairs is used three times), and amateurish special effects aside, the synthesizer score by David Chester and Julia Hidy was one the best I have ever heard. Every situation that arises in The Tower seemed to have its own synthesizer sound to accompany it. Let me give you a couple of examples. When it came time for Cindy to try out her new bright yellow bikini in the Sandawn swimming pool, the synths were lush and warm. Yet, whenever Laura would appear onscreen, the synths would take on a more eerie sounding tone.

An ambitious young go-getter in a double-slitted pencil skirt, Jennifer Cornish's nasty turn as Laura Martin, the gal who's so sick of working in "purchasing" that she's willing to allow a middle-aged man in a bad hairpiece to penetrate her with his ordinary penis, is the embodiment of the Canadian femme fatale. Unafraid to use her well-proportioned hips to get ahead, Laura toys with the men in her life with an effortless aplomb. And unlike her many of her peers in the femme fatal racket, she exudes a confidence that comes from a real place.

The complete opposite in terms of personality, but no less alluring when it came to tickling the fancies of those with swelling genitals, Joanna, a curly-haired single mother who's terrified of snakes, is the genuine heroine of the piece. It's true, some of the fellas try to fill that role from time to time, but I found Ben to be overly timid, Jerry was too bland, and Zach, well, his complete and total lack of sideburns hampered every attempt I made to evaluate the spiritual makeup of his character. No, I'd say Jackie Wray's performance was the most conventionally tolerable out of all the professional and nonprofessional actors who appear throughout The Tower.

It's kind of ironic that a film that is purportedly about an energy conscious computer vaporizing office workers also does an efficient job at sapping the strength of all those foolish enough to sit in front of its inexpensive glow. The scenes that feature Joanna and Ben bonding with one another in the bowels of the Sandawn Building were pretty tedious, but my favourite example of this energy depleting monotony has to be the scene where Mr. Watson makes a drink for Lois (Charlene Richards), an exotic dancer he met a club, as it just seems to go on forever (the sound of each ice cube hitting the bottom of the glass was agonizing). Speaking of exotic dancers, what's with the nerds in this film snagging overly attractive women? I mean, the pairing of Jerry, the slightly dorky security guard, with Cindy (who's one cup size away from starring in a Russ Meyer movie) was pretty far-fetched, but Mr. Watson and Lois?!? Talk about your odd couples. Of course, nowadays, nerds are all the rage, but back in the middle of the 1980s, nerds were strictly forbidden from dating hot chicks.

If you're interested in obsolete technology, Ontario's classic trillium logo (the door handles on the main doors of the Sandawn Building bear the province's iconic logo), pencil skirts (and other mid-80s office attire), Canadian culture, movies that feature killer computers, bikinis that employ iridescent fabric, big hair, old school computer animation, the city of Hamilton, drum machines, and synthesizers, then, by all means, check out The Tower. However, if you like your films to move at a brisk pace, boast competent acting, and to be filled with mind-blowing special effects, then I recommend you look elsewhere for your tower-based kicks.

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The Deadly Spawn (Douglas McKeown, 1983)

As anyone who spent any time lurking in a basement knows, there's always something disquieting happening down there. Whether yours is finished (complete with fake wood paneling and a rarely used sex chair), in a constant state of disrepair, or dungeon-esque (if this, by the way, is the case, then your sex chair will probably get used with a greater frequently, as dungeons and sex chairs go hand and hand), these subterranean lairs are literally crawling with alien invaders. And, no, I'm not talking about little green men from Mars or your freeloading cousins from Lithuania, I'm talking about house centipedes. Holy crap, just typing their name gives me the willies. Anyway, their frightening appearance combined with the unsettling speed in which they move will upset even the most hardened of basement dwellers. Well, these non-indigenous pests, who, I've been told, are actually quite beneficial (they apparently like to eat other insects), have nothing on the disgusting things that populate the dank basement featured in The Deadly Spawn, the film where even a vegetarian luncheon turns into an ankle-biting gore-fest. You see what I just did there? Did where? Using wonky yet sound logic, I was somehow able to tie together my own fear of house centipedes with the creatures in the film I'm currently writing about. It's a new technique I've been tinkering with. In that, I try to draw from own experiences when watching a film. In this low budget, intergalactic monster in the basement flick written and directed by Douglas McKeown, I couldn't help but make the correlation between the two entities. For one thing, it's the time of year when the predacious arthropods spawn (every so often you'll see a baby house centipede skitter across the wall), and that's exactly what the toothy monstrosity in this film does, except they multiply with a reckless form of abandon.

One of the few films to disrupt the harmonic flow of my nightly existence, the early basement scenes in The Deadly Spawn were pretty effective when it came to creating an atmosphere of dread. Don't believe me? Well, check this out: My ability to penetrate dark passageways with my usual carefree confidence was severely hampered after watching this film. Part of me—the part that is clearly a whiny little baby who needs to have his diaper changed—kept half expecting to find a giant three-headed uncircumcised penis with teeth waiting to bite me around every corner.

Enough about the contents of my diaper, let's get down to business. Did you, like, see Jean Tafler's light blue knee socks? Weren't they awesome? Aw, man, why did you have to go and say that? Up until this point, you were coming off as a relatively sane person. Sure, the diaper thing was a tad off-putting, but at least you were talking about a baby's diaper instead of a grown man's diaper. A real step in the right direction, if you ask me. But then you had to mention the socks, didn't you? Why? Well, for starters, people don't come here to read about quality acting or breathtaking cinematography, they come to read long-winded soliloquies about fingerless gloves, scrunchies, pointy shoes, and, if they're lucky, an inexplicably homoerotic tangent involving a meaty set of succulent thighs encased in a pair of black silk stockings. Besides, are you telling me you didn't notice Miss Tafler's socks? Your brain must not work good if you were unable spot the subtlety of the sexy sock show being sewn by Jean Tafler in The Deadly Spawn, or, either that, you're a damned fool who has completely lost his or her grip on reality.

Seriously, though, socks aside, let's head on down to the basement and find out what all the hubbub is about. Actually, you might want to stay upstairs. Not that, as we'll soon find out, it's any safer up there, it's just that everyone who goes down there seems to not come back up in one piece. On a rainy day in the middle of New Jersey, a mysterious alien creature who hitched ride on a meteorite decides to make itself at home in the creepy basement of Sam (James Brewster) and Barb (Elissa Neil). After they're both eaten (the walls and the ceiling are covered with their blood), it's up to their children, Charles (Charles George Hildebrandt), a monster enthusiast, and Pete (Tom DeFranco), a science major, to prevent their house from becoming overrun with ravenous space mutants.

The fact that we never see the parents interact with their children did lesson the impact of their deaths; I initially thought the kids were merely tenants, especially when you consider the fact that Pete seems to be pursuing a post secondary education. However, thanks to the genuine nature of the horrified look on Charles' face when he sees his mother's severed head being slowly devoured by the alien's tadpole-like offspring, the film manages to regain its emotional core. The parents go from being random victims to cherished loved ones the moment Charles sets foot in that basement. While it might seem like he's just standing there, Charlie is actually gathering information on the fiendish beast(s). Regurgitating his mother's head in order that its icky progeny can feast on her flesh, Charles notices that the creature, who is basically three large tooth-laden mouths with a wormy body, is completely blind and finds its prey (lumpy electricians and middle-aged couples in ugly bathrobes) via sound.

Oblivious to the space monster learning symposium that's taking place in the basement, Aunt Millie (Ethel Michelson) is busy upstairs preparing to attend a vegetarian luncheon at her mother's house. Even though the bulkiness of her salmon-coloured dressing gown undermines the exquisite shape of her womanly girth at every turn, Aunt Millie still manages to turn heads. On the surface, she seems like your typical kooky Aunt (unlike the rest of the family, she respects Charles' morbid hobby), but underneath that wholesome facade lies a woman, a sensual woman, one with needs. Since it's obvious to anyone with a half a brain and a pocket full of unauthorized gumption that Uncle Herb (John Schmerling) is not fulfilling these needs, I feel that it's my duty to rub my consecrated tentacle juice all over her various nooks and crannies until she quivers with irregular ecstasy.

Speaking irregular ecstasy, just the mere thought of being in a threesome with Aunt Millie from The Deadly Spawn and Aunt Martha from Sleepaway Camp is enough to make your average orgasm seem like a colossal waste of time.

Meanwhile, back at the house, Pete's friends, Ellen (Jean Tafler) and Frankie (Richard Lee Porter), come over to study, and Charles, well, he's still in the basement, observing the creatures (who are multiplying rapidly). This is the point in the film where Pete's scientific method goes up against Charles' more fact-based technique. You see, Pete tries to confront the problem from an analytical point-of-view (he outright dismisses the notion that the dead baby spawn Ellen and Frankie found on the way over to his house could be from outer space), while Charles, whose way ahead of Pete in terms of spawn knowledge, takes a more hands approach to figuring out what makes the nasty critters who currently call their basement home tick.

Trying his best not to stare at Ellen's knees (the way they gingerly poked out from underneath her tartan skirt was enough to drive even the most rational of men insane with lust-filled desire), Pete's got romance on his mind as well.

While Charles is collecting intelligence, you'll notice that one of the basement windows is open, and that some of babies are using it as an exit. Where could they be going? If you were a newborn space slug with a voracious appetite, where would you go? You have no idea? Well, I know where I would go, I'd follow Aunt Millie to that vegetarian luncheon. You'll notice as Aunt Millie is admiring her mother's new porcelain giraffe ("I've never seen this giraffe before," she coos with a hint of jealousy), that she's wearing a no frills white shirt. But when her guests arrive she is clearly wearing one with lots of frills (in fact, it was only three or four frills away from becoming a full-on puffy shirt). Anyway, as her guests (an odd collection of old biddies and tupperware junkies) are about to start consuming their vegetarian meals, the spawn strike. Since they're still relatively small compared to their massive mother, it's the feet and ankles of the vegetarian luncheon attendees that bear the brunt of the spawn's assault.

I don't exactly remember who invited her ("meanwhile, back at the house"), but Kathy (Karen Tighe) shows up just as all hell is about to break loose in the upstairs portion of the house (the college age youngsters take refuge in Charles' B-movie poster adorned bedroom). At first, I was a tad dismissive of this Kathy person. I mean, for one thing, she wasn't even wearing pastel-coloured knee socks. Oh, sure, she could have been sporting a pair underneath her drab trousers. But unless I can see your knee socks, you will not be credited as a knee sock wearer. At any rate, Kathy manages to get in my good graces when she utters the line, "what the fuck was that?" after seeing the three-headed uncircumcised penis monster for the very first time. Her reaction was totally justified, as the main creature in The Deadly Spawn is probably one of the most fearsome movie monsters I have ever seen.

After a shocking death, the action moves to the attic, and Charles finally gets to utilize the knowledge he's been gleaming for the past eighty or so minutes. Blood spattered light bulbs, torrential rain, cannibalism, fire pokers used as weapons, egg plant preparation, the word "misshapen" is used, a human head is devoured, a salmon bathrobe is worn, and, no, I'm not just randomly listing things I saw in this movie. What I'm awkwardly trying to do is make a point pertaining to the amount of amazing stuff that takes place in The Deadly Spawn, as it's a veritable cornucopia of awesomeness.

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