Crimes of Passion (Ken Russell, 1984)

Stuck in the same cramped room, staring at the same small screen, my cinematic travels have literally taken me nowhere over the years. Oh, sure, the images flickering on its glossy surface portray a wide array of people doing a wide array of things in a wide array of places, but I can't physically touch or interact with them. If I were, however, given the opportunity to enter any film I wanted, I would definitely think about entering Crimes of Passion, an unconventional, somewhat satirical, yet totally trashy erotic thriller written by Barry Sandler (Making Love) and directed by Ken Russell (Lair of the White Worm). Why, may I ask, would you want to enter that particular film? I mean, what makes it so special? And besides, everyone says they want to penetrate the film they just finished watching, it's human nature. In fact, I know someone who wanted to live like the drug-addled fashion models in Liquid Sky so badly, that they moved to Manhattan, bought a penthouse apartment near the Empire State Building, and started a trendy heroin habit. While I won't be moving to this film's location (L.A.'s skid row) anytime soon, I did notice that the desire to install a flashing neon sign, preferably one with an x-rated theme, outside my bedroom window was quite pronounced after I had finished bathing in its unsavoury glow. In other words, I want to live in a world where lightness and darkness are always fighting one another for radioactive supremacy. It's true, the inconsistencies that come with existing in a realm that features two distinct types of illumination will take some getting used to, but most will agree that the varying degrees of visual comprehension are the one of the signature perks of living life on the edge.

Looking over the wad of words I just typed about the film's unique approach to lighting, part of me wishes I had just said: I liked the way the film was lit, and moved on. But that's not my style, man. The need to convey my love for this film's lurid cinematography in a manner that allowed me to express my true feelings without having to put any self-imposed restrictions on myself was paramount. The only criticism I can think of is that I failed to use to word "lingerie" in my opening salvo. It plays an important role throughout this generous dollop of Reagan-era sleaze, and to not mention even once was a gross oversight on my part.

Since the luminosity is always changing, so is our perception of lingerie (don't worry, it will all start to make sense in a minute). You see, with a fluctuating brightness level, the lingerie, or any other object, for that matter, will seem like it's always coming and going. The way the lingerie seemed to appear, then disappear, only to reappear a couple seconds later, gave the film an unpredictable character that was quite intoxicating. It was almost as if the initial thrill that came with seeing a tarted up Kathleen Turner standing in the pulsating light emanating from the neon sign located just outside the window of her hotel room, her blue dress shimmering in the garish splendour of her vulgar surroundings, was repeated over and over again.

The battle between lightness and darkness is also fought out on the streets of L.A.'s red-light district, as China Blue (Kathleen Turner), a forthright prostitute who may or may not have a heart of gold, and the Rev. Peter Shayne (Anthony Perkins), a deranged preacher/psycho-killer who carries around with him a bag containing a small sampling of what he calls "the devil's playthings," butt heads with one another over the spiritual trajectory of their very souls.

Ironically, the first character we're introduced to represents neither lightness or darkness, he's Bobby Grady (John Laughlin), the owner of Grady Home Electronics (a shop that specializes in home security). A man who seems to be living in an amorphous daze, we meet him just as he's just about to inadvertently tell what looks like some kind of support group something deeply personal. Attending the therapy session as a favour to a friend (Bruce Davison), Bobby is goaded into revealing that his relationship with his wife (Annie Potts) isn't going as well as he initially lead on (the fact that it took him an entire week to notice that she'd cut her hair in a manner similar to the way the great Sharon Mitchell wore her hair throughout most of the 1980s was a definite sign things weren't all lollipops and lawnmowers).

Promising to restore "dignity and pride" or was it "pride and dignity"? Whatever, promising to carry out her duties as Miss Liberty 1984 to the best of her ability, we open on a close up of China Blue's smiling face. The camera slowly pans out to reveal that she is sitting on her gynaecological throne in a cunnilingual manner. Describing in graphic detail how one should properly play the flute as a man's head rests in the vicinity of her crotch, China grabs his "flute" (her arms adorned in white lace) and proceeds to blow on it until it makes sweet music.

After his music lands all over her mouth and chin, we meet up with the Rev. Peter Shayne just as he's about to visually devour the lumpy frame of an appetizing peep show stripper (Janice Renney). Shoving an inhaler filled with amyl nitrate up his nose every few seconds, the Rev. Shayne seems hypnotized by her banal gyrations. Bursting out of the peep show theatre in a huff, the preacher plops down his portable soap box in front of the entrance and begins castigating the very sins he seemed to be enjoying moments earlier. Midway through his sermon, he notices a shapely figure sauntering down the street. It's China Blue, a "victim of the night," as he calls her, and two exchange a brief barrage of insult-based dialogue. While it's obvious from the get-go that they don't like each other, the sly smirk the Rev. Shayne wears on his face as she walks away has lead me to believe that he begrudgingly admires the cheeky streetwalker. Just for record, you'll be hard pressed to find anything more off-putting than the sight of Anthony Perkins wiping sweat off his face with a bible while ogling Kathleen Turner's first-rate buttocks.

Where, may I ask, is China Blue heading off to? Why she's on her way to perform an elaborate rape fantasy for one of her regular clients. After punctuating their rough yet awkwardly consensual sex act with some post-coital pleasantries, China displays a sound head for business when she charges ten dollars for the privilege of owning a pair of her blue panties. This exchange of money for used blue panties is a clear indication that China Blue isn't your average whore. It would seem that the blue dress, the platinum blonde wig, and the thick coat of trollop-friendly make-up are all part of a costume she wears on a nightly basis. The identity of the person behind this elaborate facade is a bit of a mystery.

Unwittingly discovering the answer to this mystery, Bobby finds out that China Blue is actually Joanna Crane, a nondescript fashion designer. Hired by the owner of the women's sportswear company she works for to spy on her (the owner thinks she is selling patterns to the competition), Bobby follows Joanna to her swanky apartment. Moments later, Joanna emerges wearing a raincoat and a platinum blonde wig, and proceeds to get into a cab, which takes her to the heart of the city's squalid underbelly. Filming her from the relative safety of his car and listening to her conversations from the fire escape located outside her hotel window, Bobby seems transfixed by Joanna's transformation from a drab yuppie to a vibrant sex fiend.

The conversation Bobby listens to out on the ledge is being conducted by China Blue and the Rev. Peter Shayne, and it's a terrific example of the wacked-out chemistry that exists between Kathleen Turner and Anthony Perkins, as the two actors both seem to be giving it their all. Awash with purple, pink, and blue, the scene where the fake clergyman reluctantly shows the droll harlot the contents of his bag perfectly signified the go for broke attitude of the two performers. Besides, I also liked the names of the "disgusting array" of items he had in there. My personal favourite being: Foam Rubber Pretty Kitty.

You can't really blame Bobby for wanting to enter the world of China Blue after witnessing what he saw transpire in that hotel room, and that's exactly what he does. Arriving at her door the very next night, Bobby sheepishly gives China a fifty dollar bill (her standard rate for curbside copulation) and the two of them buckle up and prepare to pierce the sexual stratosphere. Pierce the what? Oh, didn't I tell ya? The theme for tonight's mutual debasement involves air hostesses, and you know what that means? Airline-tinged sexual innuendo, and, most importantly, stockings!

Gingerly toss her gold flight attendant uniform onto the floor, allow her to suck on your filthy man toes, take that Quaalude she gave to you, caress her legs with a series of soft petting motions, but don't you dare remove her stockings! Luckily for everyone involved, he didn't. Anyway, filmed via a silhouette and smeared in red and blue lighting, China Blue and Bobby employ a multitude of positions during their maiden sex act. It's too bad Bobby was so eager to jump into the shower after they had finished (I would have waited at least a couple of minutes), as China was a tad offended by his lack of hooker-john decorum. "A tad" offended?!? Who am I kidding? China Blue doesn't do anything "a tad." In the following scene, while dressed as a nun, China Blue tells the Rev. Peter Shayne, "He makes up in diction what he lacks in dick." The film's script is full of clever put-downs like this, put-downs that are mostly hurled in Anthony Perkins' general direction.

The only time we get to see China Blue in the light of day was during the limousine sequence (she's offered two hundred dollars to participate in a three-way). It's also the scene that best allows us to appreciate the crude workmanship that went into the construction of her iconic blue dress. According to my research, the infamous frock was simply purchased at Sears, which just goes to show that you don't need a huge costuming budget to create something fashionable.

While the soft-hued garment deserves some of the credit, it's Kathleen Turner's volcanic presence that makes the outfit and the film as a whole erupt with a wanton kind of vitality. Easily putting herself in same league as Season Hubley (Vice Squad) and Donna Wilkes (Angel), Kathleen gives a career defining performance as China Blue/Joanna Crane. The amount of courage it took for her to straddle that guy during the policeman-hooker fantasy must have been off the charts. Mainstream actresses, specifically ones who like to work in Hollywood on a regular basis, don't usually appear in movies where they're called upon to dig their spiky stiletto heels into a man's legs (by the way, I loved the close-up shots of his bloody heel wounds) while simultaneously sodomizing the very same man with his store-bought police baton.

Getting back to the plot of the film for a second, I was surprised that Bobby's interest in China Blue carried over to Joanna Crane. Don't get me wrong, I liked the whole Paula Poundstone vibe (bulky blazers and kooky-coloured ties) Miss Crane was putting out there, but my inner pervert kept telling me that he would much rather spend his spare copulatory time with China Blue.

Even though Crimes of Passion is only the fourth Ken Russell film that I've seen, it's actually only the second film of his that I've watched utilizing the entirety of my face. While I can't really explain how a normal person goes about watching something with the total sum of one's face, take my word for it, Ken Russell directs the kinds of films that require them to be watched in this particular manner. Interspersed with a dizzying array of unusual stylistic choices, the kind that no sane director would ever dare implement, Mr. Russell, whether injecting the paintings of Aubrey Beardsley and John Everett Millais into his sex scenes or having a scene where a bland suburban couple watch a surreal music video that mocks materialism, seems totally unafraid to skewer society's puerile views on sex. And what a beautiful skewering it is, one that's set to the sounds of Rick Wakeman's synth-rock interpretation of Dvořák's New World Symphony. Speaking of music, the Rough Trade lyric: "There's no limit to the depths you can sink to / There's no limit to the heights you can climb, Crimes of passion, crimes of passion, crimes" would occasionally pop into my brain as me and my face watched this amazing film's seedy yarn unfold.

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Blood for Dracula (Paul Morrissey, 1974)

A quick show of hands, which of you fine ladies out there would like to be the virgin bride of a sickly, semi-vegetarian aristocrat from the wilds of Romania? Interesting. To tell you the truth, I'm not surprised by the lack of raised hands after I asked that particular question, as the word "sickly" doesn't exactly inspire globs of matrimonial, Oprah-approved confidence. And what's this virgin nonsense? I mean, what does the word even mean? I know this guy who only gives handjobs to transsexuals, does that mean he's a virgin? Really? You mean to tell me that just because he hasn't penetrated anything living with his cock, he's still a virgin? Weird. Oh, and stop using the word "mean." What if I told you that the finicky eater from Transylvania who wanted to marry your virginal ass looked like Udo Kier, would that change your mind? Even though you haven't answered yet, I'll take the sound of your cotton panties becoming engorged with stagnant pussy water as a sign that it would. While the ladies are busy changing out of their wet panties, I'd like to the remind all the fellas out there, especially those of you fumbling with their sexually identity, that just because you're attracted to Udo Kier does not necessarily make you gay. Of course, if you're a man and you find yourself getting aroused by, oh, let's say, the sight of Joe Dellasandro chopping wood with his shirt off, well, congratulations, my friend, you are a homosexual man. A man repeatedly touching themselves in their special area to Udo Kier in Paul Morrissey's Blood for Dracula (a.k.a. Andy Warhol's Dracula), on the other hand, is a phenomenon that crosses over into that decidedly foggy realm where the line between gay and straight are a tad more blurry.

Growing weaker with each passing day, a vain vampire named Count Dracula (Udo Kier)–"Count" is a term used to describe nobleman in some European countries and "Dracula" is a slightly altered version of a common Romanian surname that was made famous in a gothic novel by Bram Stoker–is told by Anton (Arno Juerging), his trusty man servant, that he should think about leaving the country. You see, there are no more virgins left in 1920's Romania, and since Count Dracula needs to drink the blood of virgins (pronounced "wirgins") to survive, it makes sense that they seek virgins elsewhere.

Heading for Italy, which, according to Anton, is practically crawling with soft, virginal lady flesh, the ashen duo hit the road. Staying at a rundown inn, Anton, who's just as creepy as the Count (Arno Juerging's performance, by the way, is way more assertive than his sycophantic turn in Flesh for Frankenstein), asks around as to where the virgins might be at in this sleepy trash dump of a town. After playing some sort of mimicry game with a tavern patron (Roman Polanski), Anton gets word that the Di Fiore family has four unmarried daughters who might be virgins.

Luckily for the Count, Anton was able to soak a loaf of bread with the blood of a virginal traffic victim (apparently a teenage girl got hit by a car outside the tavern), because it looked like it was touch and go for the Count there. Not only was his thirst for virginal blood driving him insane, the subpar quality of the local vegetables ("too much oil!") and the abundance of impure meat was causing him to regret his decision to come to Italy. Anyway, he'd better enjoy the bloody bread, because that's probably gonna be the last virgin blood he's gonna taste on his sensual lips for quite some time.

Arriving at the Di Fiore residence, a large estate that has seen better days, the Count and Anton are greeted warmly by La Marchesa Di Fior (Maxime McKendry), the mother of Esmeralda (Milena Vukotic), Saphiria (Dominique Darel), Rubinia (Stefania Casini), and Perla (Silvia Dionisio). Since Esmeralda is considered too old, and Perla is a tad on the young side, mother Di Fior campaigns hard to promote the cunt-stained riches owned by Saphiria and Rubinia. Oh, and their father (Vittorio De Sica) is there to greet them as well, but he seems more interested in the grammatical structure of the name "Dra-cu-la."

A communist sympathizer with a streetwise Brooklyn accent named Mario Balato (Joe Dallesandro), who does odd jobs for the Di Fior family (even though he thinks their days of living in an aristocratic paradise are numbered), has definitely defiled at least two of the Di Fior daughters. In other words, the audience has a general idea which daughter's a virgin and which one is not a virgin. But the Count doesn't know that. Severely testing his ability to sniff out virgins, the Count must choose wisely before biting into their supple necks.

It's hard to believe that the hero of Blood for Dracula is a Marxist who says lines like, "I'd like to rape the Hell out of her," but that's what we're given. He rapes, he chops wood, he eats bread in his work shed, he rapes some more, Mario's day is full of wicked and immoral behaviour. Sure, some of the coitus he engages in seems consensual, but his cock is mainly on a rape-based diet. Of course, I like to think that Udo Kier's Count Dracula was the film's hero. Not a hero in the classic sense of the term, but more of a tragic hero, or better yet, a misunderstood hero. Look, it's not his fault that society as a whole has failed to adapt to his peculiar lifestyle. Besides, name a time in human history when wanting to drink the blood of an undefiled woman has ever been frowned upon?

Lounging in white stockings like it were second nature, the gorgeous Stefania Casini (Andy Warhol's Bad) is a snotty delight as Rubina, the most self-centred of the Di Fiore daughters. She may not have been the peckish bloodsucker's first choice when it came to invasive intercourse, but she was definitely first when it came to bourgeois sexiness. Standing in her bathtub, her lithe frame covered in soapsuds, Stefania, puts her hands on her understated hips, as if to say, "Bask in my authentic Italian accent and my ample mound of equally Italian pubic hair, you know you want to," and proceeds to lash out against the ills of modern society. Okay, she doesn't exactly lash out against anything like that. To be honest, I totally forget what she was babbling about. But she does, however, share a scene with a shirtless Udo Kier, and from my wonky perspective, that's a cause for celebration. If you think I'm kidding, you need to take in account that it's her tainted blood that causes Udo to utter the line, "The blood of these whores is killing me!" Which was hands down my favourite Udoism in the entire film.

Viewing the film with a sore throat and runny nose managed put Count Dracula's unique plight in perspective. Feeling like crap, yet totally committed to the ghastly yarn that was spewing in front of me, watching Dracula's intense allergic reaction after he finished consuming the blood of two skanks with zero percent body fat actually made feel much better. Coughing up blood and twitching like a spastic rag doll, Udo took vomiting bodily fluids in a tuxedo to a whole new level of unpleasantness.

Granted, you have to wonder about the Count's strumpet detecting skills after his second attempt to drink the blood of a virgin goes terribly awry. Seriously, what are the odds that a woman of Stefania Casini's stature would own a pristine set of unmolested genitals? Pretty slim, if you ask this park ranger. Of course, I'm not implying that she's some kind of harlot just because she's got an attractive undercarriage. I'm just saying that women, practically ones with non-child bearing hips and legs up the wazoo, who hang around with socialist handymen aren't usually fans of celibacy.

As a guy with exquisite taste in men, I was more than certain that the prospective brides who were lined up for Count Dracula to choose from would jump at the chance to be his wife. However, things didn't turn out that way at all. In fact, the two frontrunners seem downright hostile toward the idea of marrying some pale nancy boy who travels with a coffin and an always clean shaven man servant. It just goes to show that one shouldn't assume that every woman is gonna flip up their petticoats for suave gentlemen in black who just happen to have the wispiest bone structures this side of Düsseldorf, Kansas.

It's their loss, because Udo Kier is debonair as fuck as Count Dracula. Taking the lunacy he displayed in Flesh for Frankenstein and internalizing it, Udo's vampire, like his mad scientist, may have impractical goals, but his commitment to achieving them is unshakable. Which is why you can't help but feel a sense of sadness when the walls of the Di Fiore estate inevitably start to become smeared with his blood. And to think, all he really wanted to do was go to sleep in his coffin.

Oh, and if anyone can remember what late '80s/early '90s industrial song sampled the Udo line, "You can't hurt me you fool, I''m not one of you!" please let me know.

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Flesh for Frankenstein (Paul Morrissey, 1973)

Even though I've seen his distinctive, panty-moistening, angular mug pop up in countless films over the years, I don't think I've ever seen him in a motion picture where his unique brand of European madness was the focal point from start to finish. In the wonderfully lurid Flesh for Frankenstein (a.k.a. Andy Warhol's Frankenstein), it's all Udo, all the time. I know, you're thinking to yourself, what's an Udo? Oh, you silly mongoose, he's not a what, he's a man, a flawless German man. And unlike a lot of folks out there, especially those you fidgeting in the dark, I never really bought into any of that depression era malarkey that stated that Germans were the so-called "master race." However, in the case of Udo Kier (Verführung: Die grausame Frau), I'm afraid to say it, but he is in fact better than everyone else. Well, at least when it comes to acting totally meshugana in a laboratory setting he is, as no-one comes close to touching the uncut crazy Udo puts out there in this Paul Morrissey-directed 3-D gore-fest (I'll take "Arterial Spray" for 2,000, Alex). Unflinching in his commitment to the deeply warped cause of his loopy character, Udo utters his deranged dialogue with an unwell grace. Sniveling, uncouth, and megalomaniacal, yet beautiful and alluring at the same time, Udo manages to make his mad scientist seem likable, even when he's penetrating the gallbladder of his girl zombie in full view of his bug-eyed lab assistant. What am I talking about? If anything, his unseemly encounter on the dissecting table with his "Serbian goddess" was probably one of the most romantic scenes I've ever seen. Of course, you should take everything I just said with a grain of salt; after all, I am on the cusp of being officially declared mentally ill in the province of Manitoba. Okay, maybe not "ill," but I'm definitely unstable.

The girl zombie (Dalila Di Lazzaro) with the perforated gallbladder languishing amongst the tubes and electrodes of the film's primary laboratory is a shining example of healthy womanhood. The boy zombie, however, is another story completely. Unsatisfied with the quality of the heads floating around in the towns and villages on the outskirts of his castle in Vojvodina, Baron Frankenstein (Udo Kier) and Otto (Arno Juerging), the Baron's sycophantic lab assistant, are determined to find a head worthy of their hunky torso. Hoping to complete his boy zombie so that it can mate with his already put together girl zombie, Frankenstein needs to find a head that boasts a Serbian nose ("the perfect nasum"), yet, at the same time, has the brain of a sex maniac (a head that contains the brain of a prudish blacksmith will not do).

Where will they find a head that is suitable for Baron's specific needs? How about a bordello? It just happens that the Baron knows the location of one. The Baron and his lab assistant stake out the entrance of a local bordello, and wait for a body sporting the right kind of head to walk out the door. Luckily for the Baron, Nicholas (Joe Dallesandro), a viral stableboy, and his friend Sacha (Srdjan Zelenovic), a wannabe monk who despises sexual intercourse, are getting their orgy needs fulfilled by a gaggle of affable prostitutes, well, Nicholas is anyway; Sacha is basically sulking in the corner, pressing his unlicked penis against the modestly hairy surface of his Serbian inner thighs.

Unfortunately, though, it's Sacha's head that catches the attention of the picky Baron (he was rather taken by his pronounced Serbian nose). Removing it with a pair of specially designed head clippers, the Baron and his lab assistant leave Nicholas unconscious on the side of the road next to Sacha's now headless body. Groggy and confused (he was out cold before his pal's head was chopped off), Nicholas wanders off to meet with Baroness Katrin Frankenstein, an eyebrowless vixen played by Monique van Vooren (Sugar Cookies). Yeah, that's right, he has an appointment to see the Baron's wife and sister (they have two kids together) at their castle. You see, before the head lopping incident, Nicholas and the Baroness were constantly running into one another. And since her brother won't impale her vaginal tract with his aristocratic penis anymore, she decides to hire the strapping stableboy as her new man servant/boy-toy.

The Baroness, eager to show off her latest slice of chiseled man candy, and the Baron, itching to unveil his girl zombie and boy zombie (who have been dressed in orthopedic corsets and puffy shirts), the Frankenstein's sit down for supper. Suffice it to say, the awkwardness that transpires over the course of the meal is off the charts in terms of off-kilter one-upmanship. Since no-one is gonna come right out ask me who I thought came away from the bizarre show and tell victorious, I'll just go ahead and state that I thought the Baron won the day when it came to outdoing his spouse/sibling. He did, after all, make two people from scratch. All the Baroness did was hire a man to have sex with her on a semi-regular basis. The look on Nicholas' face when he sees that his friend's severed head has been transplanted onto the body of one of the Baron's zombies is pretty consistent with the trauma that normally accompanies that painful moment when you discover that the head of someone close to you has been relocated to a completely different torso.

While Nicholas tries to figure away to rescue Sacha's head from a life of ghoulish servitude, the Baron and Otto are down in the lab trying get their walking corpses to mate with one another. Repeatedly instructing his female zombie to kiss his male zombie, the Baron grows increasingly frustrated by the male zombie's lack of arousal after each command to "kiss him" fails to bare any erectile fruit. Unaware that Sacha's brain is not wired for sex, the Baron starts to loose it. Blaming everything from the blood they used to outside agitators, the Baron is determined to get his zombies to procreate, as it's his dream to create a race of superior beings with Serbian noses.

The way the Baroness went to town on Nicholas' armpit–and when I say "went to town," I mean to imply that she was practically inhaling his axillary cavity with the whole of her mouth–was vulgar and unladylike. Not only was her questionable dining etiquette setting a bad example for her children, the excessive slurping sound she made as she mock devoured his sweaty cavity was wrong on almost every imaginable level. Watching her irregular approach to lasciviousness via a two-way mirror, the Frankenstein children, a creepy brother and sister duo whose genitals have yet to reach the operational phase of their existence, will probably hump erratically as adults thanks to their mother's untoward display.

The same goes for Otto, whose thrusting outlook has, no doubt, been somewhat sullied by the Baron's proclivity for poking pulsating wounds. Wounds, pulsating or otherwise, should not, I repeat, should not be penetrated by foreign objects, especially when they're in the process of healing. The human body has been outfitted with an abundance of pre-cut wounds to penetrate, ones that have been designed to absorb a wide-array of physical entities, so the need to create new wounds is completely unnecessary.

However, the mind of your average mad scientist works differently than most people. The desire to insert things into places that weren't meant to have things inserted into them seems to consume the entirety of their being. After dismounting his female zombie (he pleasured himself utilizing her abdominal wound as a makeshift vagina), Baron Frankenstein says to Otto, "to know death, you have to fuck life in the gallbladder." Briefly removing the modesty patch that covers her actual vagina, as if to say, I have no interest in this puckered mound of opulent flesh, Otto, imitating his master, begins caressing the stitches that snake seductively along the female zombie's succulent stomach with his tongue. Once his misguided attempt at foreplay is over, he's ready to pierce her wound. Of course, all doesn't go as planned (he's not as experienced as the Baron when it comes to performing gash-based cunnilingus), and the dumbfounded lab assistant has nothing but a floor covered with vital organs to show for his oral trouble.

With his slicked back hair (floppy bangs are for charlatans and child molesters), his eyes, which are constantly oozing a steely brand of Teutonic determination, don't merely look at you, they devour every inch of your pathetic aura, whether you're a hunky stableboy with an anachronistic accent or a jealous underling with low self-esteem, and his exquisite bone structure is as sharp as the barbs on Gitane Demone's gag-style harness (its knifelike precision ridicules your uncouth lumpiness with every sauve glance), Udo Kier is a revelation as Baron Frankenstein, the dreamiest sociopath to ever don a lab coat.

Now, I've seen a lot of cinematic kooks over the years announce that they plan on creating an entire race of zombies whose sole purpose is to carry out their brainsick bidding, and, in most cases, you laugh at them. But when someone of Udo's stature uses a word, like, say, "bidding," you take them seriously.

While there's plenty of camp to savour in Udo's portrayal of the world's most famous unlicensed surgeon, and I use the word "camp" affectionately, it's not all self-parody. The genuine sense of surprise he shows when his male zombie's primary sex organ fails to become engorged with blood after being kissed by his female zombie was rather touching, and the manner in which he pimped out his male zombie to his cock-starved sister allowed the doctor to display his rarely seen tender side.

The statuesque Dalila Di Lazzaro (Phenomena) may not utter a single word as the repeatedly poked and prodded female zombie in Flesh for Frankenstein, but the profound length of her legs, the unequaled symmetry of her refined Italian features, and her overall gorgeousness more than made up for her lack of verbalized dialogue. Besides, what kind of dialogue would she have uttered anyway? Other than: "My nipples are chilly, could someone get me a sweater?" or "I was wondering, yeah, is there anyway I could get my modesty patch upgraded? It's making my pussy itch like a motherfucker," I can't think of anything her character might want to express orally. No, I think stone-faced and well-proportioned was the way to go for Miss Di Lazzaro, as it gave her female zombie a real sense of muted disquietude.

Oh, and one more thing, Di Lazzaro's performance reminded me of my acting debut when I played a guard in a grade five production of... (holy crap, I can't remember the name of the play). Anyway, I recall being so excited over the fact that they were gonna let me make my own costume, that I totally forgot that I was going have to stand in front the entire school. Sure, all I had to do was stand there while holding a spear (an old ski pole spray painted silver). Plus, I was going to be wearing a mask for the duration of my scene (a cardboard box covered in tinfoil). But still, I was terrified. Now imagine having Udo Kier lying on top you, finger-banging the bejesus out of your gallbladder, while Paul Morrissey and a bunch of Italians (the film was shot just outside of Rome) stand off to side watching. It makes my guard duty sound like a walk through a butterfly-infested estuary.

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Tapeheads (Bill Fishman, 1988)

Firstly, let me start off by saying that I needs to get some chicken and waffles down my gizzard toot sweet. I don't know what it is, but I've recently developed a serious hankering for deep fried bird meat and pancake-based breakfast food. Oh, and if that wasn't kooky enough, I've also acquired this sane yet remarkably specific desire to chew on Mary Crosby's thighs (yeah, that's right, the same Mary Crosby who played the scheming Kristin Shepard on Dallas). I'm no addiction specialist, so I can't possible begin to speculate as to why I've become infected by these peculiar afflictions at this particular point in the space-time continuum. However, I did just finish watching Tapeheads, a wonderfully sardonic film that was recommended to me, oh, let's say, four or five million years ago by an astute linguist whose love for The Swanky Modes is legendary, and if there are two things people takeaway from this curious undertaking that repeatedly shuns the unsubstantiated tenants of antiquated verbosity, it's that fried chicken should always be served with waffles, and that Mary Crosby has succulent thighs. Actually, if you think about it–putting aside the waffles for a minute–it seem the items I'm currently obsessed with are both leg-based meals. Of course, one of the items is consumed for real, while the other, depending on the level of your kink, is consumed figuratively. Either way, you gotta love it when a warped theory comes together in a manner that seems truly organic, but in reality, was completely accidental.

Speaking of which, accidental greatness is what propels a couple of music video directors to great heights in Tapeheads, a film that celebrates, and, at the same time, mocks the music industry with a playful aplomb. Wait a minute, did I just say that it celebrates the music industry? No way, man, if anything, this film, directed by Bill Fishman and produced by Michael Nesmith (Repo Man), mostly mocks it, and it does so in a manner that was spot-on in terms of skewering a subject matter ripe for scornful derision. Record label execs who expect their minions to work for free, mullet-sporting Animotion-wannabes from Sweden, heavy metal fans who abuse the word "awesome" (Zander "there's fuckin' room to move as a fry cook" Schloss plays a headbanger who attends a concert that might feature Menudo, "might" because the marquee says "maybe Menudo"), and right-wing politicians who like to be spanked by women who look like Susan Tyrrell and Courtney Love, all get ridiculed to some agree in this satire of that faraway world that was once dominated by music television.

Nowadays, I can watch any music video I want, whether it be a scintillating slab of italo disco or an ear-destroying piece of post-industrial sex music. My eyes are never more than a click away from immersing themselves inside the warm, Mediterranean embrace of Sabrina Salerno's gyrating cleavage (in most cases I would have said "thighs," but I'm awfully close to using up my thigh quota for this entry, and I'm only on paragraph three). But back in the late '80s, what came in contact with our eyes and ears was strictly regulated by the reticulated forces of unseen lameness. Think about that, a small group, or, in some cases, a single individual, would dictate what kind of music you could and could not listen to. Put another way, while I was bravely enduring music videos by the likes of Honeymoon Suite and Glass Tiger, classic clips by Fancy and Missing Persons were going completely unmolested by my discerning eye and ear areas.

Disturbed by the fact that the cultural landscape is being saturated with shoddily produced music videos, two childhood friends who used to work as security guards decide to start their own video company called "Video Aces." Handling the business end of things is Ivan Alexeev (John Cusack), a real go-getter who seems to be channeling Midge Ure circa Vienna, while the more artistic inclined Josh Tager (Tim Robbins) supplies the creativity. Acquiring a spacious studio loft, free of charge, thanks to Belinda (Katy Boyer), a painter with a penchant for volumizing scrunchies and shooting her canvas with the occasional shotgun blast, Ivan lands the fledgling startup a gig directing a commercial for a local fast food restaurant.

An instant classic the moment Roscoe (King Cotton), the self-assured purveyor of Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles, enters the frame, this particular commercial, despite having a middle-aged white guy rapping at its core, is a smashing success. Sure, Ivan and Josh are paid in chicken and waffles (which apparently are "just pancakes with little squares on 'em"), but sheer scope of the yellow and black world they create, one that features a trio of succinct soul sisters who cross their legs in unison while singing about chicken and waffles, gives them the confidence to seek out bigger clients. Okay, gigs that involve filming séances for recently deceased dogs and the living wills of a bedridden men aren't exactly setting their bank accounts on fire, but it's a start.

What does a music video made on "spec" look like exactly? Well, it kinda looks like three Swedes trying to play synthesizers while having buckets of house paint dumped on their mullet-covered heads (glitter, feathers, fireworks, and water from a fire hose come later). Hired by the dapper Moe Fuzz (Don Cornelius), CEO of Fuzzball Records, the Video Aces land a plum job directing a music video for "Baby Doll," the new single by Cube-Squared (which, in reality, is a DEVO song). Unfortunately, they're working on spec, which means they're not getting paid (not even in chicken and waffles), and, to make matters worse, the video they submitted, according to Mr. Fuzz, "lacks production value" (in other words, no "tits and ass").

Frustrated by their inability to catch a break, the music industry is a fickle hosebeast, Ivan and John decide to apply some "shrewd market penetration," and find themselves at an upscale party hosted by Norman Mart (Clu Gulager), a well-hung presidential hopeful ("I'll put my slab on the yard stick against Gorby any day," he boasts at a press conference) and his garishly dressed wife, Kay Mart (the fabulous Jessica Walter). There to videotape the limbo themed festivities, the Video Aces get unintentionally sucked into a botched blackmail scheme conceived by Nikki Morton (Susan Tyrrell), Norman's excitable mistress (you have to admire a guy who employs Susan Tyrrell as his go-to deviant). The mildly depraved politician (he likes to ride Miss Tyrrell while wearing in a pink tutu) looses track of a videotape containing a previous session of perverted madness, so he orders his team of special agents to find it.

Of course, the tape ends up in the possession of the Video Aces. But more importantly, Ivan gets to massage the exquisite thighs attached to the sultry frame belonging to Samantha Gregory (the gorgeous Mary Crosby), a rock journalist/foxy babe/no-nonsense business woman. Just a second, why is he massaging her thighs? Covered in a maze of thigh-accentuating laces, Samantha's tight-fitting, burgundy dress is being felt up by Ivan because he was looking for a missing contact lens. Duh, squared. Anyway, impressed by his hands on approach to finding her missing contact, his obsession with money and success, and, of course, his overall Midge Ure circa Vienna vibe, Samantha decides that she wants to exploit Ivan for her own personal gain (that's people did in the '80s).

Since new wave and white rap has already been properly mocked, it's time for Tapeheads to ridicule the pomposity of heavy metal, and who better to encapsulate that pomposity than Stiv Bators as the leader a band called The Blender Children. Now you'd think I'd dig this scene because it features scantily clad women jumping into a giant blender, but I actually preferred Xander Berkley's use of the c-word and the fact that one of the blender bimbos asks Tim Robbins to teach her how to read. Oh, and keeping you abreast of Mary Crosby's wardrobe (designed by Elizabeth McBride): she wears a black leather dress with a matching pair of gloves during this sequence.

My favourite scene was the one where Samantha, nunchucks/black leather, and Belinda, duel butterfly knives/red pajamas, engage in a battle for the very soul of the Video Aces. You could say that their fight represented the overall temperament of the 1980s: Samantha, who craves fame and worships material wealth, vs. Belinda, who's all about artistic integrity and neon scrunchies. Well, whatever it represented, nothing beats the sight of Mary Crosby wielding nunchucks.

"You look ravishing and I'd like to chew on your thighs." And with that forthright utterance, John Cusack's Ivan Alexeev jumps to the top of my list of beloved movie characters. Akin to Craig Wasson's panty rescue in Body Double, Ivan's compliment with cannibalistic overtones to Samantha while they dined together at a seafood restaurant was the sanest thing I've heard uttered in a motion picture in a long time. Making matters even more awesome, he also tells her that he wants to flambe her flesh with his tongue. (I'm telling you, I love this guy!) These are the kind of thoughts that rattle around inside my head while I'm riding the subway, and to see someone in a movie actually verbalize these thoughts was mind-blowing.

If things couldn't get any better, after dinner (don't judge me to harshly, but I made an actual laughing sound when John Cusack mistakenly took a sip from a candle), Ivan and Samantha head over to the local cemetery, where he inspects the tightness of her red and black lingerie with a probing beam of light (a.k.a. a flashlight).

Accidentally recording the audio from The Blender Children video shoot onto a tape containing black and white footage of a funeral they shot recently, Ivan and Josh are shocked to learn that their apparent fuck up is being hailed as a work of post modern genius (a critic played by John Fleck declares it so at a viewing party) after it airs on RVTV (the luminous Martha Quinn introduces the clip). And just like that, Video Aces become the darlings of the music video world. However, unlike most inadvertently successful people during the 1980s, Ivan and Josh, well, Josh, anyway, are determined to use their new-found success for good instead of evil. This goodness manifests itself when they decide to help resurrect the career of The Swanky Modes (Sam Moore and Junior Walker), a washed up singing duo that Ivan and Josh have been huge fans of since they were kids.

The plan is to commandeer a Menudo benefit concert (one that is being shown around the world via the miracle that is satellite television) by inserting The Swanky Modes onto the bill instead. Of course, things don't quite work the way Ivan and Josh had originally planned (don't forget, Norman Mart's merry band of incompetent henchman are still looking for the missing videotape), but in the end, after Samantha is finished dodging shrapnel (kudos to Mary Crosby for doing her own stunts), The Swanky Modes take the stage and rock the house with a stirring rendition of "Ordinary Man." The End. Oh, and the word "waffle" is paired with "unlawful" during Roscoe's closing credits rap.

video uploaded by Darryl347
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