Gutterballs (Ryan Nicholson, 2008)

Welcome to the Xcalibur Bowling Centre: Come for the wisecracking ball waxing machines, stay for the unsolicited genital reconstruction surgery. Taking place in the neon-adorned confines of a bowling alley, Gutterballs, let's not pussyfoot around, is grisly, vulgar, and totally abhorrent. A splatter film, a slasher flick, and a sex comedy all rolled into one (you might as well throw in "sports movie" while you're at it), this repugnant yet campy undertaking, written and directed Ryan Nicholson (Live Feed), lives up to its nasty reputation by employing a steady stream of gory murder scenes that revolve around items typically found lying around your average bowling alley (an attractive woman with shapely thighs is strangled with a pair of bowling shoe laces). However, it's also known–at least to me anyway–as the film where not a minute goes by without some hyperactive young person threatening to shove a foreign object up the poop chute of a friend or rival–or, in some rare cases, both simultaneously. Whether it be a knife, an arthritic monkey fist, an unfinished model airplane, a crutch, a beer bottle, an open umbrella, or Ernest Borgnine's dead brother's cock, it would seem that nothing is off limits when it comes to sticking stuff up someone's ass in this movie. Actually, who am I kidding? The bulk of the anal-based threats spew from the mouth of a nasty piece of work named Steve, the deranged ringleader of a hateful foursome of young men in tan-coloured pants. Peppering his sodomy-laced language with the word "fuck," and its close pal, "fucking," Steve represents the worst humanity has to offer in terms of grammar and diction. Hey, man, but a lot of folks like to insert the words "fuck" and "fucking" into their vocabulary, that doesn't necessarily make them bad people. Excellent point, while it's not a crime to flavour one's rectal lexicon with the occasional "fuck" or "fucking," it is, however, a crime to incite and participate in a vicious gang rape.

Two groups of teens, the preppy rapists and the alternative kids, are supposed to be getting set to bowl against one another at the Xcalibur Bowling Centre, but a fight breaks out between the aforementioned Steve (Alastair Gamble), leader of the preppy rapists, and Jamie (Nathan Witte), the de facto president of the alternative kids, over the treatment of Sam (Jimmy Blais), a heavy-set transvestite. The brawl puts an end to the evening's bowling festivities (the two combatants have sustained serious injuries), but a date for a re-match is agreed upon, and the two groups go their separate ways. Well, one of them, Lisa (Candice Lewald), a leggy brunette in a skimpy pink skirt covered in white polka dots, realizing that she has forgotten her purse inside, goes back to retrieve it. Unfortunately, the preppy rapists ambush her in the arcade and gang rape her.

Lead by Steve, the attack, which, to no-one's surprise, culminates with a bowling pin being used in an highly unorthodox manner, goes on for an agonizingly long period of time as far as on-screen gang rapes goes. The only positive to come out of this lengthy sequence is the knowledge that the perpetrators will be horribly mutilated in the not-so distant future. Speaking of which, fast-forward to the following night, where the two gangs are back at the Xcalibur and ready to bowl. Along with Sam, the heavy-set transvestite, and Jamie, the hip hopper, alternative kids, Sarah (Mihola Terzić), the new waver; Cindy (Stephanie Schacter), the punk rocker (her store-bought fishnet pantyhose suffocating her tender thighs); Ben (Jeremy Beland), the headbanger; and Dave (Scott Alonzo), the hipster, show up at the same time as preppy rapists, A.J. (Nathan Dashwood), pink shirt with the collar flipped up, and Joey (Wade Gibb), pink shirt sans collar. Drowning in a downpour of vulgar insults and petty threats, the alternative kids and the two preppy rapists grab their bowling shoes from "the janitor" (Dan Ellis), a gruff fella who allows the teens to bowl after hours, and prepare to face off with one another on the alley's nightclub-inspired lanes.

Wearing two bodacious floozies on each arm, Julia (Danielle Munro) and Hannah (Saraphina Bardeaux), Steve, who, on top of the floozies, is sporting a cast on his foot (a bowling ball was dropped on it during the melee), saunters into the bowling centre like nothing happened (well, he saunters as good as anyone walking with the aide of crutches and floozies can saunter). Arriving just after Steve and his floozies, Jamie and a surprisingly non-hospitalized Lisa enter the Xcalibur; a preppy rapist named Patrick (Trevor Gemma) has also arrived, but I didn't see who he came with.

With all the players accounted for, an unseen entity in the form of the initials "BBK" makes its appearance on the bowling alley's state-of-the-art scorecard just as the first ball is about to be rolled. Unsure of what its means exactly, the alternative kids and the preppy rapists ignore its presence and begin to bowl.

Screaming incoherent obscenities with a steadfast forcefulness, Steve's desire for someone to get him a "fucking beer" is the only line of dialogue he utters that made any sense. While the non-beer-related bile that comes out of his noxious gob is just a litany of banal profanity, his quest for a beer drives the narrative of the film. Ordering Julia, a lovely peroxide blonde in a snakeskin dress, to "get me a fucking beer, you drunk cunt," the statuesque floozy meets Dave, the alternative kid who dresses like Duckie from Pretty in Pink, at the bar. For some inexplicable reason, the two seem to hit off, and both agree that urinating in Steve's beer is the correct course of action.

The righteous action moves to the men's washroom (the ideal place for one to dispense amber-coloured fluid), where Dave pees into Steve's beer bottle. Oozing a substance of a different kind, Julia, not one to let an opportunity to engage in some grimy lavatory sex pass her by, advances on Dave's preoccupied member with a sultry grace. Sheepishly asking him what his favourite year is while removing her bra, the two of them drop to the filthy floor (her pink thong is forcibly extricated from its fleshy prison with a quick yanking motion) and begin performing simultaneous fellatio and cunnilingus on one another. While dining on her wrinkled plateau, Dave can't help but notice that her labia smells like roses, which I thought was mildly touching (it's nice to know that romance isn't completely dead in the Gutterballs universe).

Since both their mouths are awash with each other's genitals, Dave and Julia fail notice the dark figure wearing a bowling bag on their head lurking over them. Choking Julia with Dave's erect boy salad and smothering Dave with Julia's inflamed girl biscuit, BBK earns his first strike by dispatching these two, and since they took down two pins/people at once, it counts as two on their scorecard. Yeah, you heard right, every time BBK kills someone, a menacing-looking skull and crossbones icon appears beside their name, which is accompanied by a cool electronic flourish.

While Steve wonders where his "fucking beer" is, Sam, the heavy-set transvestite, decides to freshen up in the ladies room after a catty conversation about her nonexistent menstrual cycle leaves her feeling somewhat flustered. Now I don't want to go into much detail about what happens next, but let's just say BBK is about to perform some bathroom stall elective surgery on a more sensitive than usual part of the male anatomy. As you would expect, I'm still in the process of erasing the image of a penis being turned into a makeshift vagina from my mind. Anyway, what's really disturbing is the fact that none of the preppy rapists have been murdered yet.

Stealing scenes from its human co-stars with a vocoder-assisted ease, the Wax-O-Matic automated bowling ball waxer was a wonder to behold. ("Improve traction, impress your friends," it says in its disco-friendly robot voice.) Tucked away in the corner of the bowling alley, the lippy gizmo likes to taunt and ridicule those who wanna get their balls waxed. A preppy rapist in sunglasses (if I was forced to pick a favourite amongst the preppy rapists, it would definitely be the one who wears sunglasses) looked like he was about to fall victim to BBK, or the Wax-O-Matic itself, but other than getting his ball scratched, it was merely a fake-out. The actual conflict between man and machine takes place when another preppy rapist finds himself standing before the sardonic appliance. Tired of watching a veritable cavalcade of people who had nothing to do with the gang rape stabbed and asphyxiated, it was nice to see a preppy rapist finally buy it for a change. And, oh, man, does he ever buy it. The sound of his face being ground down to a bloody stump by the Wax-O-Matic was music to my ears.

You could tell that a lot of effort went into the execution of the various kills seen throughout Gutterballs, but I think the stellar work by costume designer, Dawn Grey, is the film's real crowning achievement. While I was impressed by the majority of the outfits worn in the film, the look sported by the alluring Mihola Terzić as Sarah, the coolest alternative kid, was absolutely breathtaking. Everything about it was perfect. The way her teal and cyan dress complimented her lacy white fingerless gloves was so stunning, that I nearly collapsed under the sheer weight of its compatibility; the white leggings paired with those dark pink socks were divine; her neon green earrings seemed to dangle in chic defiance of the crudity that surrounded her; and the pink bracelets and equally pink necklaces gave her look that extra bit of new wave pizazz.

The highlight of the entire outfit was definitely the three belts that clung to her delicate waist. Yellow, green, and pink, the hole-covered belts were never far from my mind as the film chugged along. Changing positions as they rested on the narrow region between her the ribs and hips on several occasions, the belts seemed to have a mind of their own. Yes, I'm acutely aware that belts can't think for themselves, and, as much as I would love to believe that her three belts were in fact sentient lifeforms, I'm afraid a large chunk of the credit has to go out to the terrific Mihola Terzić, who wore those belts with a fearless brand of multi-belt-wearing gusto. Standing in the glow of the black light, her crimped hair making an absolute mockery of the lesser hairstyles that surrounded her, Mihola looked like a Hrvatski princess as her sharp features cut through the neon haze of the Xcalibur Bowling Centre.

It's no wonder her friend, Cindy (Stephanie Schacter), the punk rocker with the juiciest thighs this side of Chilliwack, called her "the shit," Sarah's fashion backward aura seemed to have a strange, almost soothing effect on the people in her peer group. Of course, it didn't stop Steve from calling her a "stupid cunt" every five seconds. But then again, Steve calls everyone that, and I don't think he's been properly equipped with the tools necessary to appreciate a well put together new wave ensemble. While the preppy rapists try to belittle her by calling her "Rainbow Brite" (even the janitor at one point calls her "Strawberry Shortcake"), Sarah emerges as the film's strongest non-mechanical character. It also didn't hurt that it seemed like her entire body had been dipped into a giant vat of cotton candy.

Oh, and the soundtrack by Gianni Rossi and Patrick Coble was an electro lovers delight. I was particularly found of the music used during the opening and closing credits.

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The Lonely Lady (Peter Sasdy, 1983)

I have no scientific evidence to back this up, but unplanned lesbianism is probably the leading cause of nervous breakdowns amongst female writers who are at or under five feet tall. Tormented by a profound emptiness, the reason people used to write words was a veiled attempt to either fill a void or connect with humanity. Nowadays, of course, one has numerous avenues that he or she can take in order to get their humble scribblings noticed. Yet back in the early 1980s, your options were quite limited. Well, that's not entirely true. The majestic splendour that is a hairy-backed reprobate who can't fuck to save his life; that morally corrupt place where you are repeatedly forced to perform lewd acts that are run contrary to your preferred sexual proclivities; a degrading job waiting tables at an establishment where sequined gowns with substantial slits up the side are the required uniform; the kneecap distress that comes with imparting oral sex onto the steady shaft's of indifferent day players; and the shadowy underworld of post-award show garden hose rape, for example, all await those who want to write while wearing an infrequently explored vagina. Some might say, what's the point of peppering page after page with English words, if I have to partake in any of those things? While some of the options I listed don't sound all that bad on paper (I'll have a generous serving of involuntary homosexuality with some garden hose rape on the side, please), the idea that a woman has to do anything that involves straddling objects that cause her well-defined calves to wrap snugly yet begrudgingly around the object she is straddling is ridiculous. Women, and some men, shouldn't have to put anything inside their bodies to get their writing published. The quality of their prose, not the quality of their orifices should be the deciding factor when it comes to the appreciation of their work.

People not wearing pointy boots would always ask me what I daydreamed about as I languished at the back of the classroom during my juvenile delinquent days. I used to tell them, "oh, nothing," but truth be told, my mind was racing with images of Pia Zadora struggling to be taken seriously as a stay-at-home deity. Diving headfirst into a polluted wasteland of her own making, I would imagine Pia emerging from the muck clutching a pink Louis Vuitton bag, her brain swelling with a bushel of raw, undiluted talent, ready to fight the forces of cultural ineptitude who would deny her rightly place in the hallowed halls of awesomeness. And unlike her adversaries, a humourless lot who contribute nothing of value to society, she has decided to share her gift with the rest of world. Well, in The Lonely Lady, a gritty motion picture that openly dares to satirize the cruel cesspool that is Hollywood, Miss Zadora displays her gift like it were a beacon of forthright righteousness.

Her able-bodied lips prompt certain areas to become engorged with blood, the sparkliness of her haunting eyes causes Italian lesbians to become wetter than a slice of pornographic peat moss, and her trusty typewriter is powered by a fiery form of pluckiness, let us all bow before Jerilee Randall (Pia Zadora), feisty writer by day, sound sleeper by night; a woman who will use every inch of her deceptively modest frame to get her words to the masses.

After winning a trophy for creative writing at Valley High School, Jerilee, pig-tailed and naive as an unfairly neglected piece of butterscotch, winds up at an after-party where hot dogs and disco are being flaunted in a manner that was mildly untoward. Entranced by Walt Thornton Jr. (Kerry Shale), the son of a famous screenwriter ("do you want relish on your hot dog," he suavely asks), Jerilee dumps her date (a buzzkill named Bernie) and starts to hang with the relish pusher. She knew the screenwriter's son's friend, Joe (a walking trouser bulge played by Ray Liotta), was gonna be trouble the moment he told her that her writing award looked like a penis, but she hops in his station wagon, nonetheless. Cranking "The Fanatic" by Felony on the car stereo, a girl gently massages Joe's genitals with the inside of her mouth in the back seat ("girls from The Valley are so anxious to please") as they make their way the house owned by the screenwriter. This makes the uptight Jerilee uncomfortable, but the Walter, Jr. tells her to relax. Besides, she desperately wants to meet Walter Thorton (Lloyd Bochner) and is totally will endure the squishy sounds that come with someone else' oral gratification to make that happen.

The highs that come with winning a creative writing award aren't usually followed by the lows that come with being sexually assaulted by Ray Liotta with a garden hose, but they are in The Lonely Lady, a film stuffed with enough Pia-based degradation to fill a container that was specifically designed to hold a shitload of Pia Zadora's shame. Feeling guilty over the fact a young woman was viciously attacked near his pool, Walter Thorton, Sr. visits Jerilee, who still recovering from the attack, at her home and apologizes for what happened.

The manner in which she swung back and forth on her backyard swing in her overalls practically screamed malaise (losing your virginity to a flexible tube is never fun), yet Walter's visit seems to cheer Jerilee up. In fact, the two hit off and end up talking about writing for hours. Impressed by Jerilee's scope as a writer (her stories have nothing to do with life in the San Fernando Valley), Walter invites her to go jogging. If the audience had any doubts on whether or not Walter and Jerilee are an item, a brief dating montage is employed in order convey the fact the two are indeed going steady. As you would expect, Veronica (Bibi Besch), Jerilee's mom, thinks Walter is too old for her daughter and disapproves of their relationship. On top of that, mommy thinks writing is stupid and that she should focus the bulk of her energy on getting into Valley State.

Going from tomboyish baseball jerseys to chic black and white dresses covered in stripes, the change in wardrobe signifies that Jerilee is no longer a little girl, but a fashionable woman married to a premature ejaculator with a hairy back. While attending a premiere with her new husband for a film called "Sky Paradise," Jerilee is told by an agent that "women can't write dialogue." This, of course, infuriates the pint-sized wordsmith, who interprets the sexiest comment as a direct challenge to her womanhood. Determined to prove the balding asshole in the cheap suit wrong, Jerilee gets her first book published. In a scene that reminded me of the dinner table scene in Citizen Kane, Jerilee and Walter read reviews of her book at the breakfast table. While not as technically proficient as the famous Orson Welles directed scene, Peter Sasdy, director of The Lonely Lady, still manages to capture the day-to-day grind of their relationship.

Speaking of grinding, tired of having the narrow nooks and the cramped crannies of her delicate frame prodded by a pathetic barrage of insufficient thrusts, Jerilee takes direct control of their love making. Climbing on top of Walter's well-worn cock, Jerilee teaches him how to hump with a subtle grace. Whispering the word "gently" after each dampish plunge, Jerilee, managing to fend off his impending orgasm with each tender jab, is finally able to reap the benefits of consensual sexual intercourse for the first time in her life.

Instructing him how to properly dunk his junk is one thing, but will Walter allow Jerilee to break into the cutthroat world of screenwriting? Judging by what transpires on the set of a film directed by Guy Jackson (Anthony Holland), I'd say the chances are pretty slim. Upset that he failed to acknowledge her contribution to the re-write of a key scene in the movie (he basically takes credit for her work, which, ironically, entailed the writing of a single word), Jerilee throws Walter the kind of stink eye that only an actress of Pia Zadora's calibre could throw. This animosity carries over to the next few scenes, culminating in the utterance of the film's most infamous line. Just when Jerilee seems to getting the upper hand during a spat by the pool, Walter holds up a garden hose and asks, "Is this more your kick?" Call me overly sensitive, but I was shocked and appalled by this display. I mean, for Walter to bring up Jerilee's hose encounter was the epitome of tastelessness.

After leaving Walter's hairy ass in the dust (shame on him for keeping that particular hose lying around his yard), Jerilee moves into a small apartment and starts dating George Ballantine (Jared Martin), a married day player turned A-list actor. Blossoming at a party, one where Pia Zardora's version of "The Clapping Song" can be heard playing playing in the background, Jerilee woos the young actor with the help of a white pantsuit. While the quality of the thrusting may have vastly improved, Jerilee still can't seem to make it as a screenwriter. Those paying close attention will have noticed that Jerilee has begun to cross her legs when in the seated position. What she's trying convey to the world at large by employing this new sitting technique is that her cunt is closed for business, but the sleazy agents, no doubt unaccustomed to being denied their daily allotment of guilt-free anilingus, shun her with extreme prejudice.

Falling further down the drain of depravity, Jerilee hooks up with Vincent Decosta (Joseph Cali), the shady owner of Kicks, L.A.'s hottest nightclub. Promising the produce her screenplay, Decosta gives Jerilee a job as waitress at his club and lets her rent out his genitals for recreational purposes. A montage is utilized to speed up their courtship that involves horseback riding, the consumption of ice cream, and lettuce shopping. What she doesn't realize while she's prancing about with her new beau is that she's gonna have to deploy her rarely used lesbian reluctance face in the not-so distant future.

Sapphic residue is not something you can simply wash off by taking a shower in your clothes, and who better to overreact to having their puffy mouth muffled by the crumpled lady bits of a mysterious Italian woman than Pia Zadora; the unequaled leader when it comes not wanting to perform cunnilingus on strangers.

The moment she yells "I write for me!" at the man she is currently having cocaine-fueled sex with, Pia Zadora makes it clear that The Lonely Lady is her movie. Anyone who tries to interfere with the execution of her craft will be dealt with in the most gruesome manner possible (yeah, that's right, even you Colette "We're in the pipe, five by five" Hiller). Of course, I don't mean to imply that Pia would harm those who would dare impede her growth as an artist, I'm just saying you don't want to be on the receiving end of her glowering infrastructure.

Whenever I think of feminism, writing, and fabulousness, the name Pia Zadora immediately springs to mind. In other words, it should come as no surprise that the energetic little spitfire manages to encapsulate all three with a breathtaking ease. The incomparable Pia does have help in the form of a makeup artist (Rino Carboni), a hair stylist (Corrado Cristofori), and a seamstress (Luciana Mancini), who all contribute to her overall voguishness. However, it's Pia's nature flair as an actress that makes The Lonely Lady the resounding success that it is. Her ability to play a wide-eyed teen with pigtails in one scene, to a sophisticated woman who doesn't want to lick your pussy in another, is a testament to her courageousness. Students of acting will want to take note of the way Miss Zadora holds her wine glasses throughout this film. You see, in the early going she holds her glass with two hands (signifying her character's inexperience), while later on she holds it like an alcoholic would–you know, with one hand.

This boldness also comes across in her many outfits, as Pia's wardrobe, designed by Giorgio Desideri, is a brilliant mix of disco chic and trophy wife practicality. If I had to choose my favourite Pia Zadora look in The Lonely Lady, I couldn't. Seriously, how can anyone pick just one outfit? You can't. It's impossible. Well, you can rule out the clothes she wears as a teen (frumpy dresses and drab sportswear), and you can forget about the stuff she wears while lounging/hallucinating (my typewriter keys are trying to kill me!) in her apartment. No, Pia's journey to styletown begins at the movie premiere (those red shorts were to die for) and ends at the award show, where the slit on her red gown will drive slit fans totally meshugana. Other garments of note were: The blue and white gingham number she wears with a pair of white pants during a lunch date; the black and white Klaus Nomi-inspired dress; I loved the light blue backless number she wore during her second lesbian encounter; and the yellow dress she dons while trying to land an agent practically screamed leggy sex.

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Special thanks to world-renowned scrunchie scholar Thomas Duke, head curator over at Cinema Gonzo, for introducing me to this camp classic.

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Fantom Kiler (Roman Nowicki, 1998)

What do you call someone who has a thing for naked women? A nude buff? A bare lover? A heterosexual man with ill-defined abandonment issues? The reason I'm asking is because I'm always trying to understand the kind of mindset that would freely admit to being into such an unsavoury fetish, as the idea of looking at a person who isn't wearing any clothes is the epitome of mundane debasement. A compromise is sort of made in the erotic horror film, Fantom Kiler, a rare cinematic entity that dares to mix unconventional intercourse with acts of atypical homicide. Check this out: the women appear clothed and naked simultaneously. How is this done exactly? Why it's a simple editing trick. From of the perspective of the men doing the leering, two janitors (one sporting a faker-than-usual fake mustache) at a train station in rural Poland (or it could have been regular Poland, what do I know?), we're privy to what they see: the clothed reality (which, in most cases, could be called "a barely clothed reality," but a clothed one, nonetheless), and a place conjured up by their perverted imaginations where attractive women go about their daily routine in nothing but high heel shoes (the synthetic leather straps employed to keep the shoes affixed to their feet no doubt slowly digging into their limber ankles with every step they take). Interchanging between clothed and naked with the rapidity of a gazelle in a garter belt, director Roman Nowicki, a two-legged mammal who obviously has a soft spot for female nudity, must have realized that his bevy of babes couldn't start a scene off in a state of absolute nakedness. I mean, who wanders through an ominous-looking forest without any clothes on right from the get-go? In order to get his characters into an unclothed situation, one that is on the cusp of being plausible, he devises a series of half-baked yet ingenious scenarios.

The scenarios I dug the most were the ones that involved things as varied as blouse-destroying shrubbery (the pricklier, the better), nylon-based fan belt remedies, and feats of strength that revolved around anal fortitude and wooden spoons. Of course, not every victim in the Fantom Kiler universe is lucky enough to get a kooky clothing removal scenario to go with their ghastly demise. No, I'm afraid when time is limited, their clothes are unceremoniously ripped from their taut bodies like a slab of inexpensive burlap. I'm referring in particular to the agonizingly long sequence that takes place on the side of the road. The killer–who I'll dub, for the time being, "the cloth-like gauze killer"–is just about hammer his trusty chisel into the rectum of a hapless jean shorts enthusiast, when all of a sudden, this blonde woman (an Anne Heche look-a-like with low self-esteem) pops out of nowhere to ask the killer if he needs any help (she can't see the rectum or the woman attached to it). First of all, concealed rectum, notwithstanding, who asks a masked man in leather holding a hammer and a chisel if they need any help? And secondly, where did she come from? Anyway, he nonchalantly walks up to her and rips her clothes off; no fuss, no muss, no underwear.

His identity may be shrouded in mystery, but his hatred of women is right out in the open. Lurking in the forests of Poland, a faceless assassin has been eluding police for years now. Targeting women near a train station, we're subjected to a series of murder scenes involving a killer who dresses like Nash the Slash and a member of The Klinik circa 1988 (it's true, they dressed in leather coats as far back as '85, but I mostly know them from their late '80s "Plague" era). While some of the victims are dispatched in quick flashbacks (like the girl who writhed while a drill bit teased her hairless crawl space) or as a grisly afterthoughts (oh, Anne Heche look-a-like with low self-esteem, we hardly knew ya), the majority of the set pieces focus primarily on three winsome women of Eastern European extraction.

A bespectacled gal (Eliza Borecka) wearing a long black skirt with a humungous slit in the front is the first of the three women to get her moment in the stalker sun. Wandering into a busy (well, busy by Fantom Kiler standards) train station, the sophisticated woman, unabashedly flaunting the unequaled shapeliness of her left leg (it seductively pokes out from her skirt's ample slit every now and then), can't help but notice two janitors standing off to the side making a succession of lewd comments about her as she tries to light a cigarette. Imagining what she would look like without any clothes on, the two mop jockeys watch as she bounces back and forth from being clothed and naked over the course of the next few minutes.

Unnoticed by the bulk of the saps sitting in the audience, but the conflict that takes place between dressed and undressed in Fantom Kiler officially gets underway during this particular sequence. The carnage in the early going was staggering, as the amount of nudity on-screen was devastating. Other than a pair of black high heel shoes (with a matching lunchbox purse), loop earrings, glasses, a thong-shaped tan line (in my mind, tan lines count as clothing), and a modest patch of pubic hair cultivated in a manner that caused it to resemble a furry piano key, the woman was pretty much reduced to a walking bag of skin.

Severely wounded, the dressed faction launch a fierce counter attack by having her slip and fall in front of the two janitors. As you would expect, the tumble exaggerates the insanity of her skirt's slit, which, of course, produces a healthy dollop of titillation. You see, the skirt may be super long (the bottom grazes the straps of her shoes whilst standing), but the slit is so large that it negates the skirt's longness at every turn. If that wasn't enough, the fall somehow causes the buttons on her white blouse to become unbuttoned. The hiked up skirt combined with the unbuttoned blouse enables the advocates for a world where fully-clothed erotica still matters to even up the score. Of course, I'm not going to do a detailed, to use the sports metaphor, "play-by-play," of each encounter that pits the clothed against the unclothed. I just thought the dichotomy that took place between the two distinct brands of smut in the film's opening scene to be truly fascinating and worthy of some analysis.

Anyway, losing her car keys while slipping in front of the janitors, the slit lady finds herself lost in the woods. She figured it would be a quick and easy way to get home, but the deeper she penetrates the misty underbrush, the more she unwittingly becomes ensnared in the killer's web. A thorny bush takes care of her blouse (it's literally torn from her body), an equally thorny wreath of barbs manages to undo her bundled hairdo, and a barbed-wire fence forces the not-so wily business woman to make a wardrobe decision that could alter the very fabric of the universe.

Approaching the barb-covered impasse with much trepidation, the topless woman, whose long brunette locks are now free to tickle her freckled shoulders with impunity, attempts to navigate the fence while wearing her slit-heavy garment. After trying many different ways to manipulate her skirt's slit in a way that would allow her to traverse the setaceous obstacle unscathed, she finally decides to rid herself of the movement-constricting piece of clothing. Filmed from myriad different angles–you know, in order to properly capture the awe-inspiring lustre of her angular frame–she gingerly makes her way through the fence, one shapely gam at a time. Marking her fence success by employing a much deserved celebratory hair flip, she thinks she's out of the woods (no pun intended). Unfortunately, there's still a psychopathic madman to contend with–and you thought prickly bushes and barbed-wire fences were tough. Noticing that her skirt is missing (she left it on a fence post), she slowly backs away from the scene of the skirt theft and into the knife-wielding arms of the cloth-like gauze killer.

Meanwhile, back at the train station, one of the janitors (the one with the faker-than-usual fake mustache) is told that he is getting a new assistant. Wearing a red and white top, one that barely covered her nipples (they kept popping out of their candy cane-coloured prison), red high heel shoes (covered in a multitude of straps), and a pair of jean shorts that repeatedly made a mockery of the word "shorts," the bubbly blonde (Katarzyna Zelnik) is featured in what I consider to be the greatest scrubbing montage in film history. Cleaning the office with a back-breaking vigour, while taking the occasional porn break, the reigning Miss Butt Beautiful also gives her hirsute co-worker a refresher course on how to obtain a firmer bum. Dumping her skimpy top and fabric-challenged denim shorts (you can't exercise in clothes that tight, no matter how nonexistent they may be), Panna Zelnik shows him how to improve the physical characteristics of his buttocks and thighs.

After they finish, you better buckle up, because you're about to witness the strangest interpretation of the King Arthur myth ever committed to film. Giving him the gist of the Arthurian legend, Katarzyna hands him a wooden spoon and tell him to lube up the handle. What? Why she is telling him to do that? Well, it seems that she wants him to stick the spoon in her ass. What kind of answer is that? Naked and on all fours, the janitor is given a full minute to extract the wooden spoon from its rectal pokey or face, I wanna say, "consequences," but I don't think there will be any; there was a wager made, but I forget what it entailed. Um, let's just say the scene where a man with a faker-than-usual fake mustache has a minute to remove a wooden spoon from the gay vagina of a Julie Delpy clone was kinda weird.

The brother of the one the janitors (the one who was suspended and replaced by the gal in the denim diaper) just happens to be one of the detectives in charge of the murder case. In an attempt to clear his brother's name (he's the prime suspect), the detective tells him to describe what kind of shenanigans he and co-worker got up to while working at the train station. What transpires is a montage showing a gaggle of Polish women being leered at and mentally undressed by a couple of uncouth custodians. The clash between the naked and the clothed hits its apex during this sequence, as the two methods fight for the attention of your forthcoming erection. The clothing of the four Polish women featured in this scene ranged from vulgar elegance (thigh-high hooker boots) to librarian chic (glasses and black pencil skirts with modest slits).

The fifth Polish woman (Magda Szymborska) in the naked-clothing montage becomes the primary focus of the next fifteen or so minutes, as we follow her as she leaves the station. Hailing a taxi in the dark, the dirty blonde woman, wearing a white off-the-shoulder top and a pair of jean shorts (one's that were more in line with the Daisy Duke ideal), can't help but notice that her driver is wearing a mask of some sort (his face looks like it's been wrapped with gauze). At any rate, the two chat about work (she's a draughtswoman), dating (she thinks all the men in her town are creeps), and life in general. It's a surprisingly informative sequence, as we learn a lot about the driver and his passenger.

The invisible overlords that oversee my cinematic well-being must have been in a good mood, because what happens next was a misguided dream come true. Pulling over to the side of the road as a result of car trouble, the driver pops the hood and tries to locate the problem. It seems that there's an issue involving the fan belt, so he asks her to donate her pantyhose to help the cause. First of all, I didn't even know she was wearing any (an embarrassing oversight on my part). But get this, apparently pantyhose are a great temporary fix as far as broken fan belts are concerned (learning is fun).

While handing over her pantyhose, oh, I would just like to quickly point out that the camera angles used while she removed her tights were wonderfully perverted (mind you, not as wonderfully perverted as the barbed-wire fence scene, but w.p., nonetheless). Okay, where was I? Oh yeah, the pantyhose hand off. Giving the driver her tights, she returns to where she left her jean shorts (on top of the roof of the car), only to find that they have vanished. After some mild to moderate investigating (by the way, her lack of underwear and pubic hair was causing her Polish undercarriage to get chilly), she discovers that her jean shorts are underneath the car. Located in a hard reach spot (preventing an easy crouch and grab), Magda must immerse herself in the leafy muck to retrieve her beloved jean shorts. Not wanting to ruin yet another article of clothing, she doffs her off-the-shoulder top and gets down to the business at hand.

Sporting the longest legs in all of Radomsko County, the gorgeous Eliza Borecka gives my favourite performance out of the film's three main actresses. Whether she was clumsily dropping cigarettes in train station lobbies, clawing at her hair or hopping barbed-wire fences in the buff, Panna Borecka exuded a quality that set her apart from her naked peers. The naturalness of her body (while her organic structure seemed unprocessed, the majority of the "actresses" appear to had their breasts surgically augmented) combined with the unnatural manner in which she moved (every gesture was awkward and self-conscious) created an aura around her that was decidedly off-kilter.

Creating an atmosphere that felt weirdly surreal at times, Fantom Kiler is an odd mishmash of Café Flesh, Blood and Black Lace, and an undervalued Polish porno. The latter two are obvious because of the appearance of the killer (a fedora-wearing assailant in a white mask) and the sheer abundance of naked Polish women. However, I mentioned the Rinse Dream classic because of its abnormal temperament (the whole thing looks it was filmed in a smoke-filled warehouse in Sheffield). Sure, I'm not a big fan of watching women being stabbed in odd places with knives, drills, spoons, broom handles and chisels (even though it's not as graphic as it sounds), but the techno-industrial soundtrack, surplus of jean shorts, bizarre dialogue, and scintillating encounters with barbed-wire fences were enough to make me overlook its shortcomings.

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The New York Ripper (Lucio Fulci, 1982)

What would you say is the sexiest part of female anatomy? If you said, "eyebrows," what the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you say that? I'm getting the willies just thinking about what kind of person would choose eyebrows as the sexiest. The image of them cowering naked in some nondescript basement, surrounded by posters of women with robust eyebrows, is so vivid, so real, that I can practically taste the unplucked awkwardness on my chapped lips. However, if you're able to admire a tastefully orchestrated close-up of a woman's eyebrows and surrounding eye region every now and then, and are not a complete weirdo about it, you'll definitely enjoy The New York Ripper, Lucio Fulci's grisly tribute to misogyny and downtown homicide. Wait a minute, did you say, "grisly tribute"? Why, yes, I did. You see, in order to savour the eye-flavoured camera work in this film, you're also gonna have to endure a fair amount of ghastliness. It's what we in the eyebrow appreciation business call a "trade-off." Let me put it this way: No-one in their right mind is gonna allow someone to make a movie solely about eyebrows, and no-one in their right mind is gonna allow someone to make a movie solely about murder. This Manhattan set slasher film attempts to strike a balance between the two subjects by giving the bloodthirsty sickos in the audience the over-the-top carnage they so wantonly crave, while at the same time throwing a bone to the eyebrow crowd. And in that regard, I think this film will definitely silence the critics out there who think extreme gore and eyebrow fetishism can't co-exist with one another.

Proving that gore and eyebrows can live together in cinematic harmony is one thing, but does The New York Ripper work as a gripping thriller? Yes and no. Remove the attributes I just mentioned, and all you're left with a pretty standard murder mystery. For example, the stuff revolving around the police investigation, as is usually the case with movies like this, was pretty tedious. Yet, when you take in account the New York setting (lots of great shots of 42nd Street in all its sleazy glory), its generous throng of Italian actresses, and the fact that the killer talks like duck, the film starts to get more and more interesting by the minute.

The place: New York City. The date: 1982. The situation: There's a killer on the loose. Well, actually, there a thousands of killers on the loose in New York City; that's what made the city so great. No, this particular killer is unique in that they prefer to butcher their victims in a manner that makes sadism seem quaint. The first person to get their Fulci-approved eye area close-up is a cranky shopkeeper who finds a human hand while walking his dog underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. The close-up occurs while his dog is in the process of returning what he thinks will be a stick. Getting in real tight on the upper part of the man's weather-beaten face, Fulci's camera captures every detail of his shocked expression as he realizes that ain't no stick.

The owner of the severed hand was apparently a fashion model who was murdered a few weeks ago, and according to Mrs. Weissburger (Babette New), the model's nosy neighbour, she received a telephone call on the day she died from an individual who talked like a duck. Dismissing the duck chatter as complete nonsense, Lt. Williams (Jack Hedley), the veteran homicide detective in charge of the case, basically tells the garrulous woman to get lost. Nevertheless, pressured to solve the murders by his boss (Lucio Fulci), the detective decides to employ the services of Dr. Davis (Paolo Malco), a "Chess Challenger" playing doctor, with the hope that his intellectual prowess and his manly beard will help shed some much needed light on things.

The first victim we actually get to see come to face-to-face with the duck-voiced assailant, and receive a Fulci-approved close-up, is Rosie (Cinzia de Ponti), a lanky cyclist, who, according to an annoyed motorist, has "the brain of a chicken." Taking the verbal tongue lashing from the irate sexiest pig in the red Volkswagen Beetle in stride, Rosie, sporting teal short shorts and a white windbreaker with multi-coloured stripes on the shoulders, rides aboard the Staten Island Ferry with a carefree, "I'm totally not about to be brutally murdered" brand of elan.

Hoping to get back at the chauvinistic commuter by defacing the windshield of his car with the word "shit" written in lipstick, Rosie meets a stranger just as she is about to put the finishing touches on her work of petty vandalism. Congenial at first, the encounter turns slightly menacing the moment Rosie notices that the stranger is scoping the exquisite length of her first-class gams. There's nothing wrong with that; long legs have been known to be scoped from time to time. However, things go from slightly menacing to extremely menacing once the stranger pulls out a switchblade and starts quacking like a duck. Just as the stranger, who the cops dub, "The Ripper," is about to strike, the camera pulls away from the inside of the car. This lulls the audience into thinking that the stabbing will be occurring off-screen. As we're enjoying the tranquility of the bay as the ferry chugs along the water, it dawns on me that no-one gets stabbed off-screen in a Lucio Fulci film. And boom, just like that, the next images we see are that of a shiny blade being plunged into Rosie's abdomen combined with close-up shots of her much anguished eye-region.

Adhering to a well-worn formula, one that centres around stylish set pieces that revolve around acts of violence followed by banal scenes where police investigate said acts of violence, The New York Ripper occasionally breaks free of its genre limitations whenever the alluring Alexandra Delli Colli shows up onscreen as Jane, a sexually adventurous woman whose overt kinkiness was not only sublime, it was mildly inspirational. We're introduced to Jane through the eyes of a man (Howard Ross) with two fingers missing from his right hand as he enters a live sex show (one that boasts "positions you'd never dream of") taking place at a theatre on 42nd Street. Taking a seat in the front row, the not-quite fingerless man notices a posh woman sitting in the across the aisle in a trench coat and grey fedora.

The question floating around inside the heads of all the perverts gathered here this evening is: What in the world is a sophisticated woman like her doing in a place like this? Well, it turns out, Jane likes to tape her sexual encounters using a small cassette recorder for the erotic benefit of her husband (Cosimo Cinieri). In this case, she records herself masturbating while two live sex performers have standard intercourse on a stage. Breathing heavily, Jane, gripping the cassette recorder with one hand, while sheepishly toying with her panitie-covered clit with the other, tries her best to be discreet. When all is said and done, other than exposing part of her trademark black silk stockings, she is able to obtain a well-deserved chichi climax.

Meanwhile, backstage, the female performer who we just saw straddle and hump her way into our hearts finds herself alone in the dark. Cursing an unseen Italian man named Joe ("prick bastard Italian!"), the live sex performer (Zora Kerova) is stabbed with a broken bottle by an equally unseen individual who can be heard quacking like a duck as they repeatedly thrust the pointy end of their makeshift weapon into the comely sex worker. Right then and there, Jane and the three-fingered pervert are added to the film's lengthy suspect list (the director makes sure to show us that both their seats were empty when the bottle murder takes place).

At this point, the duck-voiced killer starts taunting Lt. Williams via the telephone. Which, if you think about it, is no big deal. I mean, what's the point of being a killer who talks like a duck if you can't provoke law enforcement evry now and then? What irks the detective is the fact that quacking murderer called him while he was with Kitty (Daniela Doria), a prostitute who doesn't fetch coffee for her clients ("I'm a prostitute, not your wife" - you tell him, sister).

Unrelated to the murder plot, but much appreciated from a perversion point-of-view, the scene where Alexandra Delli Colli visits a rundown bar is my favourite sequence in the entire movie simply because it has nothing to do with ducks or switchblades. Sitting at a table near the bar's pool tables, Jane makes eye and crotch contact with a group of degenerates (her depraved gaze zeroes in on the trouser bulge of a shady-looking pool player in white jeans). Two of them join Jane at her table and immediately start making bets with one another. You see, one of the degenerates thinks she's not wearing panties, while the other thinks she is. In order to find out, oh, let's call him, "Degenerate #2," takes off one of his shoes and begins an exploratory campaign to unveil the pantie truth with his barefoot. Like I said, this scene has nothing really to do with The Ripper, but it does give us some insight into the day-to-day existence of a female exhibitionist with razor-sharp cheekbones.

You'd have to be an idiot not to notice that the film has been severely lacking in dirty blondes who are surly and sort of look like Amy Smart up until this point. The producers of The New York Ripper attempt to rectify this (even though there's a good chance they have no idea who Amy Smart is) by introducing us to Fay (Almanta Suska), an athlete of some kind with a creepy boyfriend (Andrea Occhipinti). Riding the subway late at night, Fay spots a strange man watching her from a distance. At first, she probably thought he was merely admiring the harmonious relationship that was taking place between her white scarf and tartan skirt. But it soon becomes to clear to her that this man, who, by the way, is missing two fingers on his right hand, has no interest in women's fashion, and that his intentions are quite sinister in nature.

After lingering on her eyebrows (which are wispy yet sturdy) for a few seconds, Fay and the finger-challenged guy play a game of cat and mouse through the streets of New York City. Is the three-fingered assailant who is chasing Fay the duck-voiced Ripper? I'm not so sure, as I haven't heard him quack once. Nevertheless, after a bizarre sequence at a movie theatre, Fay wakes up in a hospital bed to find her creepy boyfriend hovering over her.

Outside the hospital, Lt. Williams and Dr. Davis decide to take a break from the case. The detective offers to give the doctor a ride, but he says that he's gonna "take a stroll" instead. Which, as we all know, is code used by closeted homosexuals. For example, when your husband says, "Honey, I'm going out to take a stroll," it's means he's running down to the newsstand to pick up the latest issue of Blueboy Magazine. Along with the revelation that the three-fingered fella is Greek, there are many misguided attempts to trick us into believing who the Ripper is this film. Wait a minute, you mean he's Greek?!? Oh my! Well then he must be the killer. Same goes for the gay angle. Using that logic, I could say Heather (Barbara Cupisti), Dr. Davis's attractive assistant, was the killer because she has curly hair. Stupidly lame.

The third–well, fourth if you the count the brief exchange she has with her husband–scene to feature our beloved sex fiend takes place at the dingy Cavalier Hotel and shows Alexandra Delli Colli's Jane being to tied a bed by the three-fingered individual who is, get this, apparently Greek. Stroking her stockings with his good hand, the jean jacket-wearing gigolo (yep, Jane is actually paying to have this done to her) gropes her to the point of carnal madness.

It's not often that I get the chance to declare someone's incoherent blubbering as "exquisite," but that's exactly what happens when Rita Silva does a number on the space-time continuum as a frazzled landlady. She only appears in one scene, but the impression she managed to make was pretty substantial. Wearing a blue bathrobe, rollers in her hair and a thick layer of smudged mascara on her cheeks, Rita had the mental constitution of someone who had just come from the set of a John Waters movie.

Wrapping things up, the gore and eyebrow aspects of the film do come together in an extreme manner when the duck killer takes a razor blade and glides it across a woman's eyebrow before plunging it deep into her right eye. I have a feeling both camps will be upset by this scene: The eyebrow folks won't like it because it shows the killer ruining a perfectly good eyebrow (creating an unwanted Vanilla Ice effect in the process), while the gore cabal will cringe because everyone hates eye trauma; particularly people who have eyeballs that work and junk.

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