Mutant Hunt (Tim Kincaid, 1987)

You know what they say: You can't keep a stretchy-armed cyborg handcuffed to a radiator for long. I don't know who "they" are, or why exactly they're going around saying such nonsensical gobbledygook. But as far as stupid utterances go, this one happens to be soaking in truth sauce. The amount of time you can keep a cyborg handcuffed to a radiator is fleeting at best–and, believe me, I should know, as not a day goes by that I don't find my place of residence infested with drug addled cyborgs. Even though I'm someone whose walls are completely devoid of machetes, cyborgs are still managing to find machete-based ways to break free from their restraints. Isn't it weird how that happens? Anyway, enough about my nonexistent cyborg problems, let's see a show of hands: How many people out there lurking in the darkness knew I was going open with a bit about handcuffed cyborgs? Interesting, hardly anyone. Okay, how many people were shocked that I didn't start off with a woefully misguided yet crotch-pleasing tangent about the forceful manner in which Mary Fahey crosses her shapely legs while sitting on a bed? Really? That many, eh? The reason I began with the whole cyborg handcuffed to a radiator routine—you know, instead my "I'm obsessed with organic materials" one—was because I couldn't get over the fact that the cyborg in question was attempting to cut off its hand in a manner that seemed counterproductive. You see, the cyborg, who's been handcuffed to a radiator during a close-quarter melee by our hero, decides to free itself by chopping off its hand with a machete that wasn't close by (it had to employ the extreme stretch feature of its unshackled cyborg arm to grab the out of reach machete). While it might seem rash to the non-cyborgs in the audience to remove one's own hand like that, to a cyborg, it makes perfect sense, especially when you consider the fact that its cyborg partner in crime was currently enganged in one humdinger of a pickled situation, and needed some swift assistance.

The only problem, and this succinctly sums up the wonky appeal of Mutant Hunt, was the shackled cyborg was cutting at the wrong side of the manacle. It didn't matter in the end, because when the hand is lopped off, the cutting area is clearly located on the other side (the side most commonly associated with extreme handcuff separation). But it did give me something to think about it. Which, I've been told, is somewhat of a rarity when it comes to films that are written and directed by Tim Kincaid (Riot on 42nd Street), the master when it comes to low budget science fiction, horror, women in prison, and gay porn films that are set in New York City. Opening with a shot of the city's iconic skyline at night, the film (which was apparently "too gory for the silver screen" upon its initial release) quickly ushers us into the offices of Inteltrax, a multinational corporation who produce cyborgs, digital alarm clocks, and childos (hands-free dildos for the woman on the go). Of course, I didn't know that right away; silly me thought that "Inteltrax" was the headquarters for the Manhattan chapter of the Front 242 fan club. Sporting sunglasses, black utilitarian jumpsuits, and industrial haircuts, these cyborgs are Delta 7's, and they're the top of the line. What makes these cyborgs so special? Why, they're jacked up on euphorine, that's what, the drug of choice in the twenty-first century. Since the marginally deranged cartoon villain/CEO of Inteltrax, Z (Bill Peterson), needs tons of euphorine to keep his all his cyborgs sufficiently intoxicated, he's stockpiled enough to last a lifetime.

A rival cyborg manufacture named Domina (Stormy Spill), who is upset over the fact that Z is hording the drug all for himself (she's addicted to euphorine). As you would expect, Domina spends most of her waking hours planning his downfall. When two of Inteltrax's employees catch wind of Z's diabolic plan, they make a feeble attempt to stop him. Unfortunately, Dr. Paul Haynes (Mark Umile), the designer of the Delta 7's, is apprehended before he can sound the alarm. On the other hand, his sister, Darla Haynes (Mary Fahey), manages to escape on foot. Pursued by two cyborgs who are shooting lasers at her, Darla runs straight to the sparsely furnished apartment of one Matt Riker (Rick Gianasi), the city's most accomplished mercenary. It's a good thing he lives just down the street from the Inteltrax offices, or else Darla and her little black dress would have been zapped into oblivion.

Following Darla upstairs, the two cyborgs, their skin dripping with yellow slime, enter Matt Riker's apartment. Big mistake, fellas. Standing there in nothing but a pair white underpants (it's nice to know that his genitals are always nestled in practicality), Matt greets the unwelcome house guests with a good old fashion ass kicking. After utilizing almost every weapon at his disposal (what his apartment's decor lacks in visual flair, it more than makes up for it in wall-mounted crossbows, machetes, and unloaded shotguns) to destroy the mutant cyborgs, Matt is probably thinking about celebrating his victory by penetrating his pleasure droid (LisaAnne Baker), the Lois Ayres/Sharon Mitchell/Anne Carlisle/coked up Helen Hunt lookalike, with his workaday penis.

As much as I would love to see you probe the insides of her soft, allegedly synthetic flesh, I'm afraid you are going have to keep it in your pants; which you can put back on, by the way (it's hard to take you seriously while you're wearing nothing but that particular style of underwear). Why can't he, have sex with her, that is? Well, the reason Darla ran to your apartment, and not to one belonging to the thousands of other mercenaries and bounty hunters who live in the neighbourhood, was because you're the best, and she requires your cyborg-stomping expertise.

While Darla is explaining the situation (the cyborgs are sex maniacs who need to kill every six hours) in her usual deadpan manner (the effortlessly seductive Mary Fahey is the best when it comes to recitng ridiculous dialogue in a dispassionate, "I don't really want to be in this movie," sort of way), the pleasure droid chimes in by asking, "Who would want to get robots high?" Excellent question. In fact, her question was so excellent, that it caused me to dispute Matt's post-mortal assertion that the attractive blonde in his bed was merely a "pleasure droid." I'm no rocket scientist when it comes to pleasure droids, but if there's one thing I know about pleasure droids, it's they're not exactly known for their inquisitiveness. Their sole purpose is to serve the needs of their owner, not to ask pertinent questions regarding the drug habits of sex-crazed cyborgs.

Suddenly, just as Darla was regaling us with tales of the "space shuttle sex murders," another slimy cyborg bursts into Matt Riker's apartment. The pleasure droid, for some strange reason, starts to scream (she didn't make a sound during the previous encounter with the cyborgs). This alerts the cyborg, who, without hesitation, picks up the pleasure droid, and proceeds to throw her out the window. She protests this action by screaming louder and kicking her legs, which are now dangling from a blue nightie. But it's all for naught, as her body crashes to the pavement below. Sure, it looked there was a pool of egg yolk-coloured brain matter (all cybernetic organisms in this particular universe have yellow blood) congealing on the ground near her head as she lay in the street, but that mess could have easily been left there by some lame as fuck news reporter trying to prove how hot it was by frying an egg on the sidewalk. In other words, I'm not fully convinced LeeAnne Baker was a pleasure droid. My theory is that the reason Matt Riker told Darla she was a pleasure droid was to mask the pain he was feeling over her death (keeping your emotions in check is one of the keys to being a successful mercenary).

Let it go, man. Pleasure droid or not, she's gone. But I thought LeeAnne Baker was going to be Matt Riker's plucky blonde sidekick. "But I thought LeeAnne Baker was going to be..." Ugh. Stop being such a baby. It's not going to happen. Try focusing your energy instead on Darla, or, better yet, check out the next scene. Itching to assemble a team (yep, even the best mutant cyborg hunter in the business needs help on occasion), Matt Riker heads down to Club Inferno to meet a colleague named Elaine (Taunie Vrenon), a bounty hunter/private ops/dancer of the seven veils (she moonlights as a dancer), and enlists her in the fight against Z's rogue cyborgs.

After eavesdropping on a conversation that took place between Darla, Matt Riker, and Elaine (she was sitting on the bar stool next to Elaine), Domina calls up Z on her mobile communications device, and uses what she overheard as a bargaining chip to acquire a freakishly large amount of euphorine. Why does she need so much euphorine? Is her habit that bad? Don't be naive, Romina is working on her own cyborg project, and needs the euphorine for a project she's been working on. Developing a "Delta 8," Domina hopes to unveil her bandaged creation at Z's warehouse during the film's action-packed finale.

You'll notice I said, "mobile communication device," well, that's because futuristic gadgets are quite plentiful in the Mutant Hunt universe. Along with cell phones, the film has tablet computers, a global positioning system that helps locate mutant cyborgs, and bluetooth technology. Most of these gadgets come courtesy of Johnny Felix (Ron Reynaldi), a bounty hunter whose sneakers allow him to run as fast as a cheetah. This unique ability enables him to come to the rescue of Elaine when she finds herself face-to-face with one of Z's Delta 7's in a dark alley behind Club Inferno. Luckily for her, the nonexistent length of her black heterosexual mini-dress is what permits her to run fast. It's too bad she doesn't own a pair of cheetah shoes–or maybe she does, but didn't want to wear them tonight because they didn't really go with her heterosexual mini-dress. Either way, Elaine is somewhat embarrassed by the fact that she had to be rescued like a damsel-in-distress ("I hate it when men save me"). Sure, it sounds like someone's a tad ungrateful. But you have got to remember, she's a highly trained bounty hunter, just like, Matt Riker and Felix.

Admiring the cut of her Klaus Nomi-friendly shoulder pads in the mirror (her rival, Z, obviously shops at the same store), Domina is chatting with her personal assistant, a Delta 6 named Hydro (Doug Devos). While she's complimenting him for his loyal service over years (to which Hydro responds with the often repeated line, "Thank you, Domina), I couldn't help but notice that Domina and Hydro had an interesting rapport whenever they appeared onscreen together. It's not a sexual thing, either. You could just tell that they had a deep respect for one another. Which, I've been told, is a rare occurrence when it comes to the majority of master-slave relationships.

Regrouping at Matt Riker's apartment, Johnny Felix gives the team an impromptu demonstration of his latest gadgets; the coolest being a time delayed explosive device. Feeling more or less upstaged by this glorified appliance symposium, Darla tries to draw everyone's attention away from Felix's newfangled gizmos by crossing and uncrossing her legs three times in quick succession. Judging by the bemused expressions on their faces, I don't think they noticed the leg crossing cabaret that was transpiring right before their very eyes (bunch of non-leg cross noticing ingrates). I know this won't bring her any solace, but I knew exactly what Darla was up to the moment she sat down and implemented her first cross.

Not one to be outdone when it comes to flashing some knee skin, Elaine, who is still wearing her heterosexual mini-dress, invites Matt Riker to her apartment to "talk about old times." Standing near a giant shelf containing hundreds of books (girl, you have got to be kidding? there's no way you have read all those books), Elaine reminds Matt Riker of that crazy night they spent in at the Sri Lankan Hilton, and, before you know it, they're filling each other up with globs of buggy wuggy. Oh, Matt Riker. You're such a slut. The body of the pleasure droid isn't even cold, yet, here you are, making it with some floozy who thinks her legs are just as sexy as the ones attached to Mary Fahey's supple frame. Hell, Elaine doesn't even know how to sit with her legs crossed. Fucktard.

I don't why I'm taking all my frustration out on Elaine, when it's Matt Riker's fault the pleasure droid is dead and that Darla's leg crossing theatrics bore no erectile fruit. At any rate, while Felix and Matt Riker battle cyborgs (or "jellyheads," as Felix likes to call them) up in Spanish Harlem and on the Lower East Side, Elaine takes off her heterosexual mini-dress and heads down to the waterfront to search for large quantities of eurphorine with her trusty euphorine detector. The sight of Taunie Vrenon wearing a grey jumpsuit and red high heel boots standing with the city's skyline in the background, her red hair blowing in the wind, is the film's defining Elaine moment.

If you think about it, there would be no Janice from Friends, Lady Starlight, Frank the Entertainer in a Basement Affair, or even Fran Fine if it wasn't for Stormy Spill's subdued performance as Domina, the undisputed queen when it comes to scheming without the aid of pants. Oh, and don't let her thick Queens, New York accent fool you, Domina could careless about kosher grade pastrami or her reputed timeshare in Muskoka, it's cyborgs that scratch her delicate itch; that, and an ear full of euphorine. With the pleasure droid out of commission, Elaine searching the waterfront for euphorine, and Matt Riker off fighting cyborgs (like in Bad Girls Dormitory, the fight scenes do go on a tad too long), it only makes sense that my two favourite Mutant Hunt characters would inadvertently battle it out at Z's super-secret euphorine factory. Finally ready to unleash her Delta 8 to an unsuspecting public, Domina is shocked to find an equally pantless Darla waiting to greet her creation with a laser pistol.

I don't want to start any controversy, but I've heard that some jellyheads (on top of being Felix's nickname for cyborgs, it's the unofficial monicker for the worldwide network of Mutant Hunt fans) were mildly disappointed by the film's anticlimactic ending. What they fail to realize is that, to these characters, hunting mutants is an everyday part of life. Saving the world on a regular basis is what they do, and I thought Tim Kincaid captured that nonchalance perfectly. In addition, I thought the film had a lot to say about the ho-hum nature of twenty-first century heroism. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go light a candle in honour of a dead pleasure droid.

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This tedious slab of overstated nonsense is dedicated to LeeAnne Baker, Mary Fahey, Stormy Spill, Taunie Vrenon, and, of course, Thomas Duke, a man who knows exactly what's going on in my alley, and isn't afraid to tell me when he's come across something that might be up it.

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Bad Girls Dormitory (Tim Kincaid, 1986)

When I first caught a glimpse of the giant wall fitted with barbed wire that surrounded the correctional facility at the centre of this deft love letter to female captivity, my initial reaction was: Damn, someone clearly doesn't want anyone living behind it to escape. However, after spending a few moments inside the inadequately run dormitory for wayward girls, I've come to the conclusion that the concrete and barbed wire wasn't there to keep the girls from breaking out, it was there to keep me from breaking in. Now, I've seen my fair share of films over the past couple of months that sport incarcerated ladies under duress, but none of them have featured as many potential life partners as Bad Girls Dormitory does, the overpriced root beer of women in prison flicks. One-by-one, I would fall deeply in love with their gruff exteriors, can-do spirit, and murderous gusto–and, not to mention, their feathered hair, parched lips, and the ease in which they were able to dance to the music of Man Parrish in an enclosed space. The only logical explanation I can come up with is that all the girls were from New York City. Sure, one of them was playing a fresh off the bus small town girl. But even then, I think she was from Staten Island. (I'm no authority on the subject, but her curly hairdo was definitely styled somewhere within the five boroughs.) While I worshiped the girls for their brash, big city attitudes, I was mildly horrified when it came time to unveil the uniform the girls at this unnamed dormitory (which seemed more like a prison, than an actual "dormitory") will be wearing for the duration of this awe-inspiring motion picture. Suddenly, the girls appear onscreen, and low and behold, their lower extremities sheathed in a pair of blue jeans and the upper part of their torso is adorned with a no-nonsense white t-shirt. In other words, the girls are being forced to dress like that asshole from that ketchup commercial that was inexplicably popular twenty years ago. (Oh, and, just for the record, I'm a big fan of that commercial.) Oh, and when I say, "a pair of blue jeans," I don't mean, "jean shorts." What I'm talking about are your run-of-the-mill blue jeans (the kind your mom wears when she's pulling weeds in the garden).

Did I let the fact that I was a tad underwhelmed by the ho-hum nature of the uniforms the girls had to wear in this movie undermine my enjoyment? What are you fucking kidding? If anything, it actually enhanced my enjoyment. You see, writer-director Tim Kincaid (Riot on 42nd Street) is an artist, and like any artist, he knows how to turn something that is bland and uninspiring into something that will uplift and arouse greatness in others. The blue jeans and the white t-shirts were like a blank canvas, and Mr. Kincaid's imagination was the paint. In a stroke of genius, he allowed each inmate to tinker with the structural makeup of their white t-shirt. Some simply rolled up the sleeves, while others just cut them off all together. I don't want to overstate this, but I think the decision to let the girls to endow their t-shirts with individual characteristics was one of the greatest in film history.

In the spirit of transparency, some of the t-shirts were already sleeveless (i.e. they were manufactured as such). But for the most part, the girls did add personal touches to their shirts. I guess when you first enter the dormitory you're given a choice between a t-shirt with sleeves or a t-shirt without sleeves; what you do with after it's been handed to you is entirely up to the person wearing it. One girl who wisely chose to go sleeveless was Paige (Natalie O'Connell), as her ample bosom would have suffocated underneath all that excess t-shirt fabric. Anyway, mere seconds after arriving at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, Paige finds her ample bosom in a degrading situation. Hoping to make some money as a model, Paige is suddenly topless in the office of a sleazy pornographer. Just as she was about to be violated by a naked man named Roland (Harve Soto), the operation is busted by some prudish vice cops. And Paige is, you guessed it, sent to a juvenile detention centre run by Miss Madison (Marita), a stylish Colombian woman.

Earlier that day, in another sketchy part of town, Marina (Teresa Farley) is left holding a bag of cocaine in a ramshackle room on the third floor of a condemned building. Is she shocked when her boyfriend Paco (Jeffrey Iorio) and a female drug dealer wearing a leopard print fingerless gloves bail on her when the cops arrive. Actually, I bet she wasn't surprised at all when the spiky-haired drug dealer (her vest was leopard print as well) took off when things started to get out of hand, but she was definitely hurt by Paco's actions. (Why, Paco? Why?) You could totally tell, as she stood there in her black, mesh tank-top, that she didn't expect to be left in the lurch like that.

In the crazy, mixed up world of Bad Girls Dormitory, there's no time to ask Paco why he bolted or explain to the cops that I'm a simple country girl from Staten Island, because, before you know it, Marina, Paige, and another girl, who we'll later come to know as Eula (Renata Cobbs), are listening to Dr. DeMarco (Dan Barclay) and the lovely Nurse Stevens (Rebecca Rothbaum) lay down the ground rules as they prepare to administer a full body search. Telling them to "lean over," the doctor begins his examination. I wonder if he found anything? I doubt it. In fact, I have a nagging suspicion that the whole ordeal was just an excuse for Dr. DeMarco, and, yes, Nurse Stevens, to get a sneak peak at the latest line of underage undercarriages to hit the dormitory, as both of them, as we'll soon find out, are unabashed when it comes to idolizing the vaginal plateaus of others.

Meanwhile, Miss Madison, who obviously does not share the orificial obsessions of her pussy-starved staff, is giving Ron (Rick Gianasi), a handsome social worker, a tour of her first-class correctional facility (well, in her mind, it's "first-class"). Informing her that he'll find his own way out after the tour is over, Ron starts poking his head around the place. The first place he pokes his head is the basement, but all he finds down there is Jen (Jane Donadio), a shy, virginal redhead smoking weed. However, he hits pay dirt with the next place he pokes his head when stumbles upon some young ladies showering. Lathering her taut body with enough soap to clean a small Guatemalan family, Tim Kincaid's camera is in love with LeeAnne Baker (a.k.a. the reputed pleasure droid from Mutant Hunt). Playing an inmate with short hair, LeeAnne's unnamed character is a pro when it comes to washing her perky frame in front of her bratty peers. Strangely enough, Ron's not interested in the svelte brunette from Necropolis, no, his lustful gaze is focused squarely on Lori (Carey Zuris), an equally slender woman with dirty blonde hair. Unlike the other so-called "grown ups" who work in this hellhole, Don's perverted leering is tinged with an air of sadness. Staring at one another for quite some time, Lori, who's too depressed to bother to wash herself with any zest whatsoever, eventually tires of his empathetic leering and curtly asks him, "Seen enough?"

Feminine chaos is best way to describe what transpires next, as we're ushered into the dorm's mess hall. A veritable cornucopia of charming tough chicks, the cafeteria is awash with cigarettes, soda pop, plastic utensils, chocolate bars, white t-shirts, big hair, and, of course, the sound of Man Parrish's expertly programmed sequencers and drum machines. Now, I should warn you, people who are unaccustomed to seeing this many attractive women gathered together in a small space might want to look away during this sequence. As for the rest of us, let's dig in.

The mess hall scene is probably the most important in the entire film, as it introduces us to all women we'll be spending next eighty or so minutes with. Having already been introduced to the so-called "fresh meat," this section of the film gives us an opportunity to meet the dormitory's more hardened residents. And you can't get any more hardened than Lisa (Jennifer Delora) and Rebel (Donna Eskra), two gals who take bullying to new and exciting places. Eyeballing Lori almost immediately, Lisa stakes her claim by telling her she has pretty eyes. However, she's distracted when she discovers that Barb (Frances Raines) is cutting Jen's meat. The "Red" of the Bad Girls Dormitory universe, the excessively blonde Valeska (Charmagne Eckert), the dormitory's most alluring "guest," tells Paige, Marina, and Eula that she's the girl to talk to if you need anything (whether it be a nail-laden baseball bat or a slightly used box of tampons), because she's got "connections."

Even more eyeballing takes place when we encounter Dottie (Kate McCamy), a shock-haired cauldron of bewitching unpleasantness who takes exception with the fact that Deke (Parri Shahmanesh), a butch lesbian, and her bubble-headed gal pal Lenka (Cathryn Bissell), are giving her the stink-eye. I'm guessing the reason behind their stink-laden stares might have had something to do with Dottie's plastic fork-themed attempt to flirt with McCoy (Bill Peterson), a guard/rapist who works at the dormitory. At any rate, employing an undercooked hot dog to help accentuate the overall impact of her hand gestures, Dottie tells them point blank, "Don't make me get up. If I do, I'll be twisting some tits." After she finished uttering that line, I couldn't help but notice that I was starting to develop strong feelings toward her. As this was happening, I began to think to myself: Try not to get too attached, you never know which of these girls is going to die horribly.

Luckily, we only see Dottie two more times after her verbal spat with Deke and Lenke, as the more I thought about her, the more I wanted to swoop in and rescue her from this banal existence. After lights out, we see Dottie, who I didn't recognize at first, screaming, "Shut up, you stupid fruitcake" to a disruptive individual in another bunk; her brash demeanour reminded me of Antonia Basilotta (a.k.a. Toni Basil), as I could totally picture the famed actress, singer, choreographer, and all around fabulous person telling someone to be quiet in this manner. Her final appearance takes place during visiting hours in the mess hall when she is briefly seen talking to her boyfriend. Well, "talking" is a bit of a stretch, as he says, "Hey, baby," to which Dottie responds, "You motherfuckin' scumbag!" I'm no expert when it comes to inner workings of the human brain, but I think Dottie even realized that "motherfuckin' scumbag" might have been way harsh. But then again, her assessment could have been right on the money. Hey, maybe he was a "motherfuckin' scumbag." Who knows.

Okay, with Dottie out of the picture, who am I supposed to obsess over now? I liked the transition Paige makes in the film, as she goes from being a naive bumpkin with large breasts to a savvy sex pot...with large breasts. The way she slumped in her chair, opened a couple of buttons on her button-fly jeans, and told Dr. DeMarco, "I'm a whore," in response to his question, "Why are you here"? was, I'll admit, pretty bad ass. Yet, I still found her to be too soft. No, I like my bad girls to be always hard.

How 'bout Rebel? Oooh, I loved her. She was complex, horny as fuck, scrappy (she picks a fight with Marina in the mess hall after mail call), and always full of surprises. Choosing a sleeveless top to express herself, Rebel is essentially Lisa's big haired sidekick (one who gets told to "shut her hole" on occasion), but she wasn't a mindless sycophant. Far from it. Her decision to help Gloria (Sherry Hoard), a girl who is trying to hide her pregnancy from Miss Madison and the guards, was very out of character. (You would think that Dr. DeMarco and Nurse Stevens would have noticed that Gloria was pregnant–you know, with them being on the cusp of the medical profession and all. But I doubt they took their jobs seriously. In fact, I bet the only reason they worked there was to capitalize on the abundance of cheap heroin and guilt-free poontang.)

While the unexpected kindness she displays was a nice touch, the Rebel I prefer is the one who's constantly craving sex and facilitating the murder of her friend's rivals. The best examples of the former come when she finishes appeasing the carnal desires Dr. DeMarco and Nurse Stevens with the mollifying moistness of the throbbing fissure festering between her legs. Sapped of their strength, Rebel takes advantage of their post-coital lethargy by ridiculing them. My personal favourite was the way she told the doctor he was the "worst lay" she's ever had while simultaneously flipping her hair with her hand (the best after sex hair flip I've seen all year). Actually, telling Nurse Stevens, "I don't want a bitch, I want a man," while she smoothed out the creases in her white pantyhose was pretty great as well.

In terms of facilitating murder? Hmm, I'd say the look on Rebel's face when Lisa dispatches one of her rivals in the basement with piano wire was the best example of this specific character trait. Oh, and if the nonchalant look on the Rebel's face while Lisa murdered her rival reminded you of the equally nonchalant mug the luminous Laurie-Ann Gill wears in the music videos for Nudimension's "Amour Programmé" and "Living On Video" by Trans-X, then we share the same brain.

In one of the film's more bizarre scenes, Rebel agrees to escort Gloria to the bathroom (she is suffering from morning sickness). However, instead of helping her, she winds up getting sidetracked when the opportunity to have sex with a male guard (Mark Umile) comes along. The back and forth between the two, as Rebel fucks and Gloria pukes, was memorable because it's set to the music of Man Parrish, the electro pioneer behind such classics as "Hip Hop Be Bop (Don't Stop)" and "Boogie Down (Bronx)." The result is a strangely musical scene, where Gloria's repetitious cry, "Rebel, I need you," and Rebel's reply, "Just a minute...I'm coming," come across as lyrics when paired with Man's beats and synthesizers.

If the scene with Rebel and Gloria was the most bizarre, the mess hall sequence set to "Hose Me Down" by Man Parish and Beth Rudetsky was definitely the most awesome. Determining that the girls need to blow off some steam after the recent rape-induced suicide of one of their own (permitting male guards to work at a girls dormitory was a questionable decision), Miss Madison chaperones what has to be the greatest mess hall dance party scene in the history of cinema. Since she allows their boyfriends to attend, the scene suddenly becomes veritable haze of headbands, tank-tops with Japanese writing on them, Jheri curl, faint facial hair, studded bracelets, Polo cologne, and fingerless gloves. The way their break dancing duds combined with the residual new wave and punk styles that were still prevalent at the time was quite the eyeopener (the gap between masculinity and femininity was virtually nonexistent). Anyway, not only do we get to see LeeAnne Baker dance, we also get a glimpse into how shoddily run the dormitory actually is (while Miss Madison is overseeing the dance party, drugs are being sold and guards are groping girls right under her nose).

Judging by her pushy nature, you knew she was doomed the moment she started boasting to the new fish about her talents when it came to acquiring smuggled goods (which, as everyone knows, is Lisa's racket). But you got to give up to the gorgeous Charmagne Eckert for being so delectable as Valeska, the slenderest slice of womanly excellence to ever stalk the grimy halls of a girls dormitory. Sporting a natural gift for self-promotion, and, not to mention, the most lickable thorax in the known universe, Valeska's downfall may have been rapid, but her knack for laughing at the misfortunes of others was downright adorable.

Since they probably didn't shoot enough material to qualify as a feature length film, someone decided to include three drawn-out fight scenes to pad things out. And since Jennifer Delora (Frankenhooker) is a black belt in judo, why not have her fight one of the female guards? Sure, the rivalry between Lisa and a guard named Harper (Rachel Hancock) isn't really explained (I guess they just don't like each other), but their brawl in the girls' sleeping quarters was still pretty great. However, midway through their rematch in the basement, I couldn't help but notice that I was starting feel a tad sluggish. It got so bad, that I almost fell into a coma when another extended fight scene breaks out between a male guard and Marina's boyfriend. The fact that this fight occurs immediately after Lisa and Harper's second dust-up had ended was just plain egregious. In spite of that, I'm happy to report that Tim Kincaid's first non-gay porn foray into the lube-free realm of exploitation cinema is a smashing success.

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Private House of the SS (Bruno Mattei, 1977)

Hey, congratulations. Word on the street is that you have been awarded the lead role in your very first movie. I'm so happy for you, I could puke. Oh, and, by the way, have you had a chance to read the script yet? Not all the way through, eh? Well, you should really give it a look-see, because, man, from what I've read, there's a lot of lingerie in this film. In fact, I hear the whole thing is chock-full of the stuff. I mean, you can't walk more than ten feet without tripping over some floozie sporting a garter belt and stockings. Aren't you worried about being upstaged by the lingerie? What do you mean, it's just lingerie?!? Have you lost your mind? When people watch this film, whether it's next week or thirty years from now, do you think they'll be talking the quality of your performance? No, they'll be going on and on about the lingerie. Trust me, I know how the depraved mind works. You could make a timeless classic, yet the only thing they'll be talking about when all is said and done is the mouth-watering tightness of the taupe stockings worn by the lead actress. Of course, they'll use expressions like, "mouth-watering," to describe something as benign as hosiery, they're perverts! Trust me, you need to give it your all. And I don't just mean do a "good job," what I'm talking about involves getting down on your hands and knees and chewing the living daylights out of as much scenery as you possibly can. The reason I want you to start on the floor is because you should start off by gnawing on things like, table legs and bracelet-adorned ankles, and after that, slowly work your way up to bigger and more substantial items. It's true, you might get accused by some people of overacting. But if you don't "give it your all," I guarantee that no one will notice your performance over the sheer din of the copious amounts of lingerie that are generously sprinkled throughout this fine motion picture. So let this be a lesson to all you young actors out there: Never underestimate the intrinsic allure of attractive women prancing about the fascist underbrush in frilly underclothes.

Hello again, I hope you enjoyed my little pantomime surrounding the early days of filming Private House of the SS (a.k.a. SS Girls), Bruno Mattei's startlingly original film about Nazis, sex, popping corks, and, yes, lingerie. The actor I was pretending to give advice to was Gabriele Carrara, the film's lead Nazi, and, I must say, he does "give it his all." Okay, who am I kidding? There were times when it seemed like he was giving everyone's all. Churning out what has to be one of the most manically over the top performances in Nazisploitation history, Gabriele tears thespianism a new asshole as Hans Schellenberg, an over-caffeinated SS officer with so many sexual hang ups, that I literally lost track of them as the film progressed; intimacy issues, erectile dysfunction, dome-o-phobia, irritable bowl cut syndrome, he's got them all.

Do you find yourself swooning with everlasting desire whenever a man recoils in horror just you're about to put his cock in your mouth? Well then, have I got a man for you. He loves playing the organ, roasted chicken, papal fashion, popping corks with his teeth, long walks along the Maginot Line, and, most of all, his beloved Führer. His name is Hans Schellenberg, and he's waiting to meet a down-to-earth woman whose likes include: anti-semitism, skiing, beating up Communists, Ayn Rand, and Bach. Oh, I'm sorry, I just got word that Hans isn't available at the moment. It would seem that something called "World War II" has just broken out, and Hans has been asked to run a brothel for the SS (a notorious paramilitary force in his native Nazi Germany) with the sole purpose of weeding out traitors, insincere Nazis, and defeatism.

The plan is to use the soft nooks and crannies that are peppered throughout the female anatomy to coax turncoat Nazis into spilling the beans. And unmasking those who wish to sully the Third Reich's good name is the kind of job Hans Schellenberg was made for. Unfortunately, finding ten women up to the task on such short notice will be tough. But if there's anyone who can scrape together ten Nazi chicks at the drop of a tinted monocle, it's Hans; he was, after all, voted "most likely to run a brothel during wartime" by his senior class at D'Youville College.

Blackmailing his prostitute friend, Madame Eva (Macha Magall), to help procure the women he needs, Hans, who has also employed the mysterious Frau Inga (Marina Daunia) and the not-so mysterious Professor Jürgen (Luciano Pigozzi from Blood and Black Lace) to assist him, inspects the women she has provided with a face-touching brand of creepiness. Promising to turn them into, and I think I heard this right, an army of "visual love machines," though, it might have been "virtual" love machines. But I could have sworn I heard the word "visual." Anyway, promising to turn them into the kind of women who will fornicate under a wide array of inexplicably unpleasant circumstances, Frau Inga tells them to take everything off (i.e. now let's you just drop them pants). This gives us our first taste of the lingerie action to come, as the camera pans along their midsections at a pace that is conducive to appreciating garter belts and other such waist level delights.

If I had to choose an early favourite amongst the ladies assembled before Hans, Inga, and Jürgen, it would have to the gal with short, dark hair (the one in the black dress covered in floral flourishes) and you gotta love Gota Gobert (Emanuelle in America), you just gotta.

You know what would hit the spot right about now? A lengthy training sequence. Think about it, you can't just send a bunch of women out into the kooky world of brothel-based espionage without forcing one of them to fuck a hunchback. What it is this, amateur hour? Get these ladies into a series of degrading situations at once! And have them fence one another in togas. I would also like to see: whips, chains, lesbianism, paddles, judo tosses, rifle target practice, and ballet steps performed in a blue unitard.

After he's done fondling Eva's succulent breasts in a highly irregular fashion, Hans shirks from the surefire blow job that was surely to come and decides that the women need more training. And you know what that means? It's time to hang Gota Gobert from a slab of wood. Don't worry, though, her naked body has been secured in six places (the camera slowly pans across Gota's dangling frame just prove that's she's secure).

As he's watching one of his prospective whores share a moment of post-coital bliss with a German shepherd, Hans grins maniacally, signifying to those around him that's he's ready open Blumensträußen, the Nazi brothel for the kinky fascist in all of us.

Opening night involves a lavish banquet for a group of horny Wehrmacht officers, complete with champagne and mutton from Romania. A general wearing an eye-patch (Eolo Capritti) gets the debauchery ball rolling when he, like any sane man would, goes straight for the short-haired woman with dark hair. The idea is get them drunk, and persuade them to bad mouth the Führer during sex. Which all them end up doing. Well, all except one, Captain Heinkel (Vassili Karis), who winds up falling for a lovely brothel girl named Anna (Tamara Triffez). Oh, and since none of them want to fornicate with Frau Inga (the scar on her face must turn them off or something), she's forced to get her kicks by masturbating in her fishnet stockings on a couch in the other room. Poor Frau Inga.

Even though his antics were pretty extravagant before the banquet, the manic nature of Gabriele Carrara's performance really starts to come to the forefront once the revelry gets underway. The moment Gabe bit into that chicken leg with an unnecessarily large amount of gusto was when I knew he was playing for keeps. Hell, even the manner in which he popped his Champagne corks was off the charts in terms of hamminess, as a total of four, count 'em, four, corks are popped by Hans in this slovenly fashion. While yelling, "Am I funny, huh? Am I funny, huh?" in a pope outfit with a distinctly Nazi theme to a group of officers accused of treason, you could see it on Gabriele's face, despite the fact it was covered with a thick glob of harlequin-style makeup, that there was no turning back.

In case you were starting to feel sorry for Frau Inga, don't worry, she finally gets the attention she so rightly deserves during the film's next party/orgy. Sure, the attention she receives comes mostly from the end of a whip. But still, I was happy to see that someone had the sense to include Frau Inga in the depravity. At any rate, the party/orgy revolves around eliminating a ruthless officer named Dirlewanger (Lucic Bogoliub Benny) and his weird associates Koszinski (who looked like what Uncle Fester might look like had he spent three and a half years on the Eastern Front) and the nunchucks-wielding Wang. On top of it being the occasion when cork #2 is popped, this soiree also includes cognac laced with the blood of a blonde woman with short hair, garter belt suspenders bathed in candlelight, and seam-o-vision (which occurs when the camera shoots between a pair of legs that are covered with fully fashioned cuban heel stockings).

As Inga's buttocks are being caressed by Eva (as usual, Hans can be seen twitching in the background in a blithering heap of sexual ambiguity), you'll notice that a white feather (one that broke free from the collar of her robe) has somehow become ensnared inside her black fishnet stockings. A happy accident? Probably. But it's little details like this that make films like Private House of the SS so enjoyable. In fact, the film is so lingerie-friendly, that even a routine trip to the ob/gyn is a stocking-filled delight (my mouth went slightly agape when Anna plops her stocking-covered legs in the stirrups).

With the war winding down, a brothel whose sole purpose is to expose traitors and troublemakers is starting to become more and more unnecessary with each passing day. What's a Nazi with a frail libido to do? Well, director Bruno Mattei (Women's Prison Massacre) has decided to insert war footage from another film to pad things out (given the cost of the lingerie, there's no way a film like this could afford to procure that many Soviet tanks). But as for our hyperactive pimp/obergruppenführer, he's decided to attend "an evening in blood." One last hurrah to celebrate the end of Blumensträußen, all the whores, and a loosely assembled collection of Nazis, gather in the dinning hall to greet the war's end in style.

It's only fitting that Hans Schellenberg should pop his final corks during this apocalyptic shindig. Grabbing a bottle of bubbly from Gota Gobert (who's wearing his Nazi pope hat), Hans wastes little time popping cork #3 with his teeth. The popping of cork #4 quickly follows and comes right after a surprising revelation. As he's popping it, check out the green dress the Nazi babe with the short, dark hair dancing on a piano is wearing, the slit down the side is one of the biggest slits I have ever seen. The green dress with the massive slit has nothing to do with Hans' "surprising revelation," I was just distracted by it as Hans addressed the group. Anyway, if you're familiar with how World War II ends, then you'll pretty much know how it's all gonna turn out for the swastika crowd. Either way, it's a fun movie, one that is in no way similar to Salon Kitty. Wait a minute. Did I just say that it's "in no way similar"? What I meant to say is that it's exactly like Salon Kitty. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Just think of it as "Salon Kitty 2: The Legend of Kitty's Gold" or as a misguided tribute.

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The Beast (Walerian Borowczyk, 1975)

The flaps resting on either side of its gaping maw pulsate with a quivering brand of anticipation. Awaiting the inevitable incursion of the shaft-like delivery system bobbing and weaving on the outskirts of its much sought after cranny, it prepares to receive a bountiful dollop of its sticky cargo. After it's finished discharging its seminal consignment all over the walls and floor of its spacious housing, it licks the fortuitous spillage off its besmirched hindquarters. Providing much needed protein (humping is hard work), and, at the same time, thoroughly cleaning the affected area, this impromptu tongue bath proves once and for all that there is in fact post-coital charity in the animal kingdom. I think I better mention—you know, before I go any further—that I'm talking about two horses copulating. In the misogynistic milieu that is human erotica, you never see a man clean up the mess he has made with his mouth or any other part of his body (he just sits there with this self-satisfied smirk on his face as his disease scurries in-between the creases of his victim's justifiably wrinkled brow), but things are different in the equine universe. Even though I didn't really want to watch horses "get it on," I'm glad I was able to learn something new about procreation. And it's not like I'm going out of my way to talk about the mating habits of horses, The Beast (La Bête) gives the viewer little choice in the matter. While it may sound like the kind of scene you might find languishing in exploitative trash like, Emanuelle in America (the movie where a woman famously gives a horse a handjob for no apparent reason), those familiar with the work of Walerian Borowczyk (Immoral Tales) know that he's not the type of director to go galloping haphazardly into the emasculating realm of horse porn. If two horses are seen fucking in the film's opening scene, there's bound to be a logical explanation. What I plan on doing for next couple of paragraphs is to try to understand what the film was attempting to say about human sexually, while, in the same breath, making, what I'm sure will be, a number of astute observations.

When the great Bonnie Pointer sings about there being a beast inside her in "The Beast In Me," she's speaking metaphorically. However, in this film, based on the novel "Lokis" by Prosper Mérimée, the beasts are all too real. Manifesting itself in two separate spheres of existence: one lives in modern day France, and takes shape in the form of a hirsute horse breeder with low self-esteem named Mathurin de l'Esperance (Pierre Benedetti), and the other as a monster with an enormous charred toadstool masquerading as a penis protruding from the centre of its beastly groin during the corset days of Marie Antoinette. Both, it turns out, are about to invade the personal space of Lucy Broadhurst (Lisbeth Hummel), a woman who loves nature, amateur photography, art, and the firm support that only a lively pair of pantyhose can provide. Dreaming of one, engaged to be married to the other, Lucy has no idea what she's gotten her cute little butt into when her Rolls-Royce limousine eventually arrives at the de l'Esperance estate.

Opening with the shot of a bearded man with a cast on his left hand, the aforementioned Mathurin de l'Esperance is tending to his horses. The film doesn't spare us from the sight of a black stallion struggling to mount a black mare, and why should it? There's something inherently funny about watching monkeys, dogs, and turtles trying to fuck, but there's nothing funny about horses when they "get busy." Whereas most animals thrust in a comical fashion, a horse approaches thrusting from a scholarly point-of-view. Gripping the mare's mane with its teeth, the stallion listens for the distinct smacking sound of its beckoning horse vagina, and readies his appropriately massive horse penis. As I've already stated, I found this sequence to be quite fascinating. It not only changed the way I view animal sexuality, it managed to calm my nerves with its Cries and Whispers-style method of depicting a world where horse cum is a valued commodity.

Blackmail and martial tomfoolery is in the air at the de l'Esperance residence, as Pierre de l'Esperance (Guy Tréjan), father of Mathurin, lays the groundwork for his son to marry Lucy Broadhurst, an aristocrat with a rose petal receptive blonde vagina. Scheming with his reluctant brother-in-law Duc Rammendelo De Balo (Marcel Dalio), Pierre invites a priest (Roland Armontel), along with two pansexual choir boys, Théodore (Anna Baldaccini) and Modeste (Thierry Bourdon), to perform a baptism (a ritual that involves getting your head dampened by a man wearing a white baptismal robe) on his adult son. The idea is to purify Mathurin before his bride shows up, and, of course, appease the church; who apparently frown upon marriages that involve people who are unbaptized.

Spiritual cleanliness is one thing, but what about Mathurin's unkempt appearance? This problem is solved with a quick makeover. Removing his hay-ridden clothing and giving him a shave, Pierre tries his best to clean up his slovenly son. Unfortunately, Pierre was unable to remove the unwieldy cast on his left hand (it hasn't healed yet) or to curb his feelings of low self-worth (he thinks he's ugly and unworthy of a woman like Lucy). But as far as makeovers go, I've seen worse. Judging by the frantic nature in which Pierre went about preparing his son, there must be a lot of money at stake. And it's obvious there is [a lot of money at stake] when we see the type of car Lucy and her Aunt Virginia (Elisabeth Kaza) are riding in as they mindlessly drive around the French countryside (their chauffeur has never been to France before) in search of the de l'Esperance estate.

As she's waiting for the chauffeur to remove an impasse in the road, Lucy decides take this opportunity to frolic in the surrounding forest. Grabbing her leopard print fur coat, Lucy proceeds to snap pictures with her camera. While she was lining up shots of things in natural world that peaked her interest, I couldn't help but notice that Lisbeth Hummel had the exact same eyes as me. Staring into her into her eyes was a strange phenomenon for me, as I rarely ever see my eyes represented in movies. Anyway, my identical eye twin displays her playful side as she runs through the dank undergrowth. Taking yet another wrong turn, they somehow end up at the de l'Esperance horse stables, where Lucy takes a quick picture of a horse cock just as it was about to enter a dark passageway. The stuffy Aunt Virginia chides Lucy for snapping this pic, but nothing can curtail the innate curiosity of the grey-eyed beauty. Just for the record: I loved the way Lucy would say, "Aunt Virginia," as every time she said it I would feel a slight twinge in the area where my pants usually dwell.

Finally arriving at their palatial destination, Lucy and Aunt Virginia are greeted by Duc Rammendelo De Balo, and invited into the sitting room (in a moment of accidental cuteness, the de l'Esperance's cat tries to rub its scent on the brim of Virginia's hat). With Pierre still "bathing his son," it's up to De Balo, an elderly gentlemen who gets around with the help of a wheelchair, to entertain their guests. This is when we learn a little more about the de l'Esperance family, particularly, the legend of Romilda de l'Esperance (Sirpa Lane), a woman whose claw mark-covered corset hangs proudly in a glass display case (the family's pride and joy).

Meanwhile, up in one of the bedrooms, Pierre's daughter, Clarisse de l'Esperance (Pascale Rivault), is busy fooling around with Ifany (Hassane Fall), the butler. And when I say, "fooling around," I mean they were trying to fornicate. Since Pierre is stressing out over the appearance of his socially awkward son (you would be "socially awkward," too, if you had to watch horses fuck all day), he's depending on Ifany to carry out menial tasks. Which means, every time Ifany was about to penetrate Clarisse's red badge of cuntly delights, Pierre would call for him.

Now, you would think Ifany would be the one getting his testicles all in a twist over these constant interruptions. Well, you would be wrong. Frustrated over the fact that she's being perpetually denied cock, Clarisse decides instead to grind her genitals against the wooden bed frame in an erotic manner. I know what your thinking, and you're right, she could get a splinter. But painful pussy splinters be damned, Clarisse wants satisfaction, and she wants it now. I'll admit, I lost track after while of how many times Ifany and Clarisse were interrupted. Nevertheless, I do know that Clarisse grinds against her bed frame twice; once while some children (a girl and a boy) were hiding in a closet. Children? Yeah, I have no idea whose children they were. I think they were brought over as props–you know, in order to make the de l'Esperance's seem like a normal family, and what's more normal than children?

What's not normal is the sheer amount of bestiality porn Lucy keeps coming across as she pokes around the house. Of course, it's not lying around in plain sight. But given Lucy's curious nature, she is literally finding it everywhere. Behind paintings, inside books that are clearly not marked "donkey with angel wings fucks muscular man in the ass," the place is rife with the stuff. Oddly turned on by the taboo bounty, Lucy grabs the photos she took in the forest (including the one she snapped at the horse stable), lines them up on her bed, lifts up her pleated skirt, pulls down her black panties and taupe pantyhose simultaneously, and proceeds to jab at her moist undercarriage with the fingers on her right hand.

To no one's surprise, the sight of her husband-to-be screaming, "I chew like a squirrel," over and over again at the dinner table has caused Lucy to wonder if this was all a mistake; I mean, talk about a terrible first impression. Doing what most women would do in this situation, Lucy puts on a silky, gossamer robe, admire the way it clings to her body, and goes to bed. Suddenly, we're transported to a lush field of grass containing one sheep and one lamb. The reason the air over the field is filled with harpsichord music is because Romilda de l'Esperance, the woman whose portrait and corset are proudly displayed in the de l'Esperance sitting room, is playing one in a nearby building. Wearing a blonde wig and a blue gown (one with splashes of white here and there), Romilda runs into to woods when she discovers that the smaller of the two lambs has wandered off. It would seem, to quote to popular nursery rhyme, that "Little Bo Peep has lost of her sheep"–well, at least one of them, anyway.

I won't lie. This is what I've been waiting for. The reason I endured the horse sex, the bed frame gratification, and the implied pedophilia (the priest was a little too chummy with those choir boys), was to see the gorgeous Sirpa Lane employ her first-rate gasp face in a wooded setting. And does she deliver the gasping goods. Realizing that she is not alone (the sound of something growling is a dead giveaway), Romilda flees when she sees this hairy creature lurking behind a tree. Clawing at her body, Romilda struggles to remain clothed. The beast is tearing away her frilly garments (the branches of the trees along the way are littered with her clothing), as it chases her through the woods. Luckily, it takes awhile for the beast to remove everything (her ensemble contains many layers). Eventually reduced to nothing but a corset, one blue shoe, a pair of white socks, and her wig, Romilda decides to climb a tree.

Nursing a scrape on her left thigh (which is a marvel of Finnish engineering), Romilda looses her balance and finds herself dangling from one of the tree's branches. The sight of her legs flailing gets the beast excited (the loosened drawstring of her corset starts to slap against her anus with every panicked kick). With the beast's face lapping up the nonexistent contents of her rarefied clit, and her sock-covered feet slamming against his fully erect charred toadstool penis (her other shoe falls off as a result of this untoward cock kicking), Romilda has been inadvertently placed in a situation that is beyond her control. As she tires, her foot-banging slowly morphs into a foot-job, which causes Romilda's sock-covered feet to resemble the horse vagina we saw during the film's opening scene the longer she dangles.

After it ejects a veritable deluge of gooey liquid all over her sock-covered feet (the sock on her right foot is dirtier than the sock on her left foot since it's been shoeless for a longer period of time), Romilda finally falls the ground (loosing her wig in the process). As the beast is rubbing her wig against his charred toadstool, Romilda makes a run for it. You don't have to admire the athleticism the ethereal Sirpa Lane displays as she runs scantily clad through the woods, but it wouldn't hurt if you did. Sadly, or, happily, depending on your outlook on life, the beast catches up with her and causes her to twitch with tongue-exposing ecstasy as he proceeds to plow into her with a mere pittance of the contents connected to his scorched crotch.

A hauntingly undignified, yet, at the same time, strangely elegant, examination of sexuality, Walerian Borowczyk's farcical fairy tale will leave you fully enriched. Sure, you might not be able to look at horses, bed frames, men with beards, corsets, socks, toadstools (charred or otherwise), or rose petals the same way ever again. But then again, looking at stuff is so overrated. The perfect film for deviants who want to feel as if they're watching a work of art–as supposed to an insipid pile of worthless trash–The Beast is pompous erotica at its finest. Oh, and remember kids, bestiality etchings mostly come out at night...mostly.

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