Isla: The Wicked Warden (Jess Franco, 1977)

Do you recall that heated discussion I had with myself not so long ago–you know, the one about the colour of the stockings worn in the classic women in prison flick Women's Prison Massacre? You remember, part of me thought they were dark charcoal grey, while the other part thought they were black. You don't, eh? Are you sure? Okay, I believe you. There's no need to get testy. Anyway, as I sat down to watch Ilsa: The Wicked Warden (a.k.a. Wanda, the Wicked Warden and Greta - Haus ohne Männer), my brain readied itself for yet another hosiery-based entanglement; a collants conundrum, if you will. It's not that I expected there to be any issues regarding the firm-fitting garments worn throughout this movie, it's just that I like to be prepared for anything that is thrown my way. Low and behold, when a new inmate is handed her uniform, after being thoroughly hosed down, of course, she asks the guard: don't I get any panties? Laughing, the guard tells her flatly, no, this is all you get. I'll admit, I was a tad disappointed when I found out there will be no tights, stockings, nylons, pantyhose, or even socks for me to grouse about in this film, which, judging by the camera angles employed during the opening shower scene, was clearly directed by Jess Franco, the master when comes to focusing his lens on what really matters. On the other hand, the prospect of watching an extravagantly sleazy film without the usual array of perverted burdens hanging over my head was actually quite liberating. Besides, only a real sadist would force women to wear crotch-constricting lingerie in a tropical environment. Oh, that's right, Ilsa/Greta is a sadist. The only logical explanation I think of is that she's grown soft over the years. And, for some strange reason, has changed her name to Greta, dyed her hair red, and relocated to an unknown corner of Latin America.

Armed only with her trusty whip, her always improving German accent, and her trademark ample bosom, Greta (Dyanne Thorne), tired of torturing for the betterment of humanity (conducting medical experiments on prisoners of war is so last season), has decided to start inflicting pain on others for profit and political reasons. You see, the country she currently resides has enemies–and, judging by the number of women languishing in "the hole," it has a lot of enemies–and thanks to Greta, she has ways of making them talk. If you think about it, her mistreatment of dissidents makes sense (it's an excellent way to ingratiate yourself to a new government), but how does one earn money from degradation? Why, that's simple, you film the degrading acts with a hidden camera and sell the footage to unscrupulous pornographers.

A steady flow of cash, a chummy relationship with the nation's corrupt government, and the occasional free massage administered by the sanitarium's most attractive inmate, life at Clinica Las Palomas is pretty sweet for Greta and her dedicated staff. Who would have guessed that a tiny tittied troublemaker posing as a patient would be the person to threaten Greta's cushy existence? Not me, that's for sure. It just goes to show that a morally bankrupt woman with large breasts is no match for a self-righteous woman with small breasts.

Opening with some tranquil shots of an unnamed jungle, Jess Franco (Eugénie de Sade) quickly ushers us into the soft and squishy realm of feminine hygiene. Implying from the get-go that's there's a huge discrepancy between Greta's day-to-day life and that of the "patients" under her care, we're treated to a duel bathing sequence. On the one hand, we see Greta soaking in a tub without a care in the world; her massive jugs are covered with frothy bubbles. And at the other end of the bathing spectrum, we have a group of woman showering with low-grade soap as two burly female guards gawk at them. How burly were the guards, you ask? Well, let's just say, if my head happened to become lodged between either one of their chunkier-than-usual thighs (don't ask me how it got in there), the chances of me being rescued would have been pretty slim, as my screams for help would have been muffled by at least five or six undulating layers of pale, vein-covered flab.

Just a second, let me enjoy that mental picture for a little while longer. Okay, I'm good. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, showering. A group of female inmates are showering, when all of a sudden, one of them starts to scream. It would seem that this is all part of a not-so elaborate rouse to distract the guards so that another inmate could grab her "uniform" and flee the clinic.

Running through the jungle, the fugitive, a brunette woman named Rosa Phillips (Esther Studer), is being pursued by rifle-wielding guards in khaki shorts. Eventually finding her way to the home of Dr. Arcos (Jess Franco), the wounded (a couple of bullets grazed her during her perilous flight to freedom) escapee thinks she has found sanctuary. But think again, Miss Phillips. You're going to have to stagger more than a couple of miles through some dense bush to escape the clutches of Greta, the torturer. Mumbling about shock treatment as she's carted away, the doctor wonders why Rosa, a woman who is supposedly being treated for a sexual abnormality (nymphomania, lesbianism, and prostitution are the clinic's specialties) would need to be tortured.

Repeatedly denied access to the notorious facility, Dr. Arcos, intent on exposing the clinic's wrongdoings, needs to find a trustworthy witness, one who will uncover the veil of wickedness that hangs over the place, and put an end to Greta's reign of terror once and for all. And the witness he's been looking for literally lands in the backseat of the doctor's car. Her name is Abbie Phillips (Tania Busselier), and she's the sister of Rosa Phillips. Determined to find out what happened to her sister, Abbie allows Dr. Acros to have her committed to Las Palomas under an assumed name.

Reborn as Abbie Garcia, a teacher, who according to her forged medical records, was caught having sexual relations with a number of underage students, the undercover patient quickly finds herself at the mercy of the thick thighed guards I alluded to earlier. Commenting on the fact that she doesn't need a bra, the guards remove her clothes and hose her down. Cackling like a couple of wart-covered witches on payday when the water they're spraying fails to penetrate the density of her "pubic nest" (what she lacks in boobs, she more than makes up for in pubes), the guards clearly enjoy their work. When they're finished, one of the guards hands her her uniform (a white shirt that looked like the kind of garment a small child might wear if her or she were playing a doctor in a school play). Realizing that the shirt they gave her isn't going to provide her with the coverage she requires to feel comfortable, she says, "I would like to have some panties." As you would expect, more laughter erupts from the guards, who basically tell her that's it as far as clothing goes.

You'll notice, as she's being denied panties, that there's a number on her uniform. Which is nothing new, as most prisons, clinics and sanatoriums give their "guests" a number (it's a tried and true method when it comes to dehumanizing the people you want to control). What is new, however, is the punishment for when someone fails to use it while referring to either themselves or the other inmates. For example, if you say, see Abbie across the room and you would like to get her attention, don't call out, "Abbie." Instead, try shouting her number, which, in Abbie's case, is 41 (be careful, though, I'm not sure if Greta allows shouting within the walls of her clinic). If you don't, you'll get your number branded just above your left breast. Nowadays, of course, that wouldn't be seen as much of a punishment, as self-mutilation is all the rage. But back in the 1970s, the surface of your flesh was sacred, and having a number burnt into your chest would no doubt severely cramp your style.

While the guards might not have been impressed with the size of 41's breasts, 14, 10, and 24 can't seem to get enough of them (14, in fact, says, and I quote, "her tiny tits excite me"). Who are these mosquito bite aficionados? Well, all I know about 24 is that she has an English accent and has the number 24 branded above her left nipple. As for 14 (Peggy Markoff). Let's see, she's a post-op trans woman who enjoys knitting, lesbianism, and watching shower fights (oh, and get on her good side and she might let you call her 7). Who's kidding who? The only number in that group that really matters is 10 (Lina Romay), the sexist woman to roam the halls of a shoddily run correctional institute since a certain pigment challenged enchantress in dark charcoal grey stockings headbutted her way into my heart. Sauntering into the clinic's sleeping quarters, her arms akimbo, the short-haired slice of gorgeosity is clearly in command (keep an eye on her when sits on her bed, it's obvious she hikes up her uniform with the sole purpose of reveling more of her delicious pussy). Unfazed over the fact that 41 didn't notice her exposed vagina (not even a cursory cunt coup d'oeil is thrown her way), 10 jumps to her feet (which are covered with a pair of beige boots) and starts to inspect 41's super-tight body.

Impressed with what 41 has to offer, tightness-wise, 10 tells her that she'll play with her later. Running late for an appointment, 10 shows up at the door of Greta's swanky pad and proceeds to give her a massage. You should have seen the sublime curvature of 10's wonderfully proportioned backside as she straddled Greta, it was a thing of rotund beauty. Changing positions, Greta returns the favour. However, not by giving her a massage, but by sticking pins in her chest (I loved the close up shots Lina Romay's dark eyes during this sequence). If she screams, she'll send 41 to the hole (10 has made it clear to Greta that she likes 41). Luckily for 41, she doesn't, scream, that is.

Remember when I said Ilsa: The Wicked Warden was all about this woman trying to find her missing sister? Yeah, well, it's not about that at all. Okay, maybe it is about that (how the fuck should what things are about). But in my mind, what the film really about is one woman's epic struggle to obtain a clean culo. And besides Greta, who do you think is the one woman at Clinica Las Palomas in a position to demand a pristine culo? Why, it's 10, of course. And who do you suppose she wants to be her primary culo cleaner? You guessed it, she wants 41. Walking up to 41 in the shower, 10 tells her, "you turn me on," and instructs her to wash her back and to scrub her culo. As I watched the suds slowly trickle down the sharply defined contours of her sturdy back, I couldn't help but notice that her culo wasn't being scrubbed at all. An increasingly frustrated 10 catches wind of this as well and yells, "I told you to scrub my culo!"

A sense ease began to wash over me as the soap finally started to make its way into 10's culo. Unfortunately, this ease wasn't shared by the actually owner of the sublime culo sort of being scrubbed. Dissatisfied with the manner in which her culo was being attended to, 10 decides to express her unhappiness through physical violence (the chaotic nature of the brawl that ensued gave the audience some excellent shots of 10's partially scrubbed culo). What's the penalty for fighting in this joint? I have no idea. What I do know is that inept culo scrubbing gets you strapped to a table and tortured. After injecting some sort of numbing agent into 41's vagina with a syringe (a bug-eyed Dyanne Thorne looks right at home with a syringe in her hand), Greta tells her, "shock therapy will calm your nerves." And judging by the white foam leaking from her mouth, I'd say it didn't work at all.

No doubt wondering if her decision to come here was a wise one, 41 spends the next couple of days naked, shackled, and forced to listen to the paranoid ramblings of 20 (a woman with a terrible scar on her neck who's locked in the cell next to hers). When she's finally released from the hole, 41 is consoled by 14 (I'm no doctor, but I'm sure the faintness of her eyebrows will help soothe her pain). If you're wondering what kind of punishment 10 got for fighting in the shower, don't bother. The so-called "wicked warden" and 10 are in cahoots with one another (you scratch my back, I'll urinate all over yours). Returning to the hole, Greta whips a naked woman with one eye chained to a wall for some shits but hardly any giggles (I'll admit, the twitchy nature of the one-eyed lady with stringy blonde hair was strangely alluring), beats 20 in her hay-covered cell (20 manages to call Greta a "vampire cunt" before her beating commences), and tortures a patient that 41 might be interested in.

Telling 41 that she has information regarding the whereabouts of her missing sister, 10 arranges a meeting in the lavatory. With 14 there as moral support, 41 proceeds to beg 10 to tell her what happened to her sister. Unsatisfied with the quality of her groveling, 10, who is sitting on the toilet while all this is transpiring, instructs 41 to lick her boots. After she's finished, it's time to–you guessed it–clean her culo. Unsure whether or not 10 was going #1 or #2, 41 wipes her culo with a small piece of newspaper. Standing with a priggish air of a woman who is having her culo cleaned by someone other than herself, 10 tells 41 to lick her culo. "It's not so bad, lick it clean," she coos softly to the reluctant culo licker, as 41 struggles to maintain her composure as the entirety of her oral infrastructure soon finds itself fully engulfed within the tantalizingly plump confines of her magnanimous culo. You know what the say? Real sadness is the sight of freshly cried tears coagulating on the edge of a prison toilet seat as a result of being forced to clean a beautiful woman's culo with your lengua. Nevertheless, her sadness quickly turns to happiness as 10 declares 41 to be her friend.

Do you think Greta would ever lick 10's culo? Probably not. In fact, I don't think she realizes how truly special her culo really is. You could say, Greta's decision to underestimate the power of 10's culo is what ultimately lead to her downfall. While she's busy letting a general with a mustache slobber all over her plum pantyhose adorned legs in a sleazy motel room and hosting vile orgies that pit a rag-tag collection of depraved male convicts up against an adorable gang of mildly deformed female patients (poor number 9, how did she wind up in this group? she's way too cute to be violated in such a heinous manner), 10's culo is quietly gaining strength. And a strong culo, is a dangerous culo. If I took anything away from Ilsa: The Wicked Warden, it's that once a person licks your culo, the bond you share with that individual is unbreakable.

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House on the Edge of the Park (Ruggero Deodato, 1980)

Does a movie have to take place inside an actual discotheque for it to be considered "disco chic"? Excellent question, random voice in my head. Well, after giving it some unnecessarily belaboured thought, I have come to the conclusion that, no, it does not. Sure, it doesn't hurt, but it's not like it's a requirement or anything like that. It doesn't matter where your movie is set, as long as it promotes the three tenants of disco culture. Which are: Dancing, fashion, and sex. You could set it in a condemned amusement park, a nail salon facing multiple health code violations, or even a swanky house located out in the wilds of New Jersey, if disco is treated with respect, you should have no problem whatever oozing disco chic. Speaking of New Jersey, House on the Edge of the Park takes place in the unfairly maligned state, does it ooze disco chic? You wouldn't think so considering the fact that at no point is cocaine visibly ingested by any of the principal characters. But, as most disco connoisseurs will tell you, casual drug abuse was just one of the many aspects of the disco scene. Getting back to your question, I'd say, yes, this film, directed by Ruggero Deodato (Cannibal Holocaust), exudes plenty of disco-friendly peculiarities. And it's a good thing it does, because if you take away the film's chicer elements, all you're left with is a tediously long exercise that does nothing but openly promote violence and degradation. Boasting three pairs of stockings under varying degrees of structural duress, the bourgeois nightmare scenario this film puts forth, which, in truth, is actually a veiled expose on the ugliness of a society that is growing more and more shallow with every passing day, is too far-fetched to ever reach a level that is close to being believable. However, as a coarse examination of human cruelty, and the extremes some people will go through to make others suffer, this film has plenty to say, and it occasionally does so with a razor-like precision.

While watching the film, which, for the most part, takes place inside the posh living room of a house located out in the suburbs, I felt like I was looking down upon the figurative doll house I had as a child. Creating a series of sick and twisted storylines–ones that were so elaborate, that they could have been the basis of at least five poorly reviewed theatrical productions–I would dress my dolls in the latest fashions, bound the troublemakers with curtain rod cord, smear the recently beaten with tomato paste, and, of course, use the light emanating from the kitchen's open refrigerator to emphasize the mouth-watering tightness of a pair of white stockings (yeah, my doll house had electricity, and, it would seem, a working refrigerator). Now, some might say, I was an eccentric child. But others, the segment of the population who are not totally lame, might say that I was the epitome of off-kilter cool.

Weren't you shocked to see some of your doll storylines recreated in House on the Edge of the Park? Yes and no. Yes, I was surprised to see how close the refrigerator scene was to my version (even the manner in which the female character sat on the kitchen counter was the same). And, no, I wasn't surprised to see a film where two groups of people clash with one another in an enclosed space, as it's the basic foundation of all drama.

You'll notice I said, "two groups." Well, that's actual not true. Sure, there are two sides, but two people don't exactly constitute a group. Granted, Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft, Eurythmics, and Psyche are considered groups, and they only have two people. But in this situation, calling them a group is pushing it. On the other hand, Alex (David Hess), the leader of the undermanned group, while on the surface looks like a single man, actually possesses the properties of at least six fully grown men. Semantics aside, you know Alex is a card carrying psychopath even before the opening credits have started to role when he rapes a woman in the backseat of her car.

Demonized right out of the gate, there's no dark charcoal grey area with Alex. He's vile, vulgar, and extremely dangerous. Yet, he can also be quite persuasive. Anyway, the question you need to be asking yourself is: Who would be friends with a person like this? A sycophantic half-wit. Yes. A blithering coward with low-esteem? Uh-uh. Itching to go disco dancing ("are we gonna boogie?"), Ricky (Giovanni Lombardo Radice) is hounding his pal Alex, who is getting dressed in the office of the parking garage that he either works at or owns. I'm gonna say latter, judging by the quality of his suit he's putting on. If we hadn't seen Alex brutally assault the woman in the opening scene, we'd look at him with bemused indifference; tittering ever so slightly as he put on his comically garish yellow and cream coloured vest.

The other question should be asking is: Who would invite a person like this to a "get together" in the suburbs? It's true, two upscale prats from Manhattan, Tom (Christian Borromeo), a real dandified slice of ineffectual Eurotrash if I ever saw one, and Lisa (Annie Belle), a short-haired hellcat in all white, have no idea the man standing before them in the yellow blazer is will turn out to be one of the most loathsome characters in film history. But like I said, he possesses a certain repulsive charm. In that, part of you finds him to be utterly disgusting, while the other half is busy eyeballing the unclear magnitude of his trouser bulge.

Hoping in the back of their car, Alex and Ricky are driven to a house, which may or may not be located on the edge of a park. Greeted at the door by the virile Howard (Gabriele Di Giulio), the black, bald, and beautiful Glenda (Marie Claude Joseph), and Gloria, who is played by the always gorgeous, always chic, Lorraine De Selle, Alex and Ricky quickly make themselves at home. After being egged on by the other guests, Gloria and Ricky start to dance to the ultra cool sounds of Riz Ortolani's "Do It To Me (Once More)." The sight of Lorraine getting down to this song is one of the film's defining moments. Swaying back and forth to the pulsating disco beat, the slit on the front of her red dress reveling the tautness of her equally red stockings with every hip-based oscillation, Gloria mesmerizes the dimwitted Ricky with an effortless aplomb.

Unamused by this tawdry display, Alex can be seen glowering in the corner (he thinks they're making fun of Ricky). In an attempt to placate his anger (she's the only one who notices that he's annoyed), Lisa takes Alex aside and sits with him on the couch. Since director Ruggero Deodato is an Italian man, the camera focuses on Lisa's white, stocking encased legs as they're being crossed. Hearing the sound of the rarefied hosiery attached to her legs grinding together as she crosses them (a talent most heterosexual men possess), Alex starts to molest her thighs. Allowing him to stroke her stockings proper and the fleshy no-man's land located between her stockings and garter belt for a few seconds, Lisa gets up and goes to the kitchen.

Following her, Alex continues to explore the aforementioned area. Using the light produced by the refrigerator to help him see what he's doing (Lisa is now reclining on the kitchen counter), Alex rubs his face over her upper thighs. And just like when they were on the couch, Lisa pulls her skirt back down to its pre-molestation position, gets up and walks away. You know Alex is going to follow her, and that's exactly what he does. Finding her in one of the upstairs bathrooms, Alex watches Lisa take a shower. Of course, this leads to them washing each others backs and some mild groping. But, as usual, it doesn't really go any further than that.

Meanwhile, back downstairs, Ricky is getting cleaned out by Howard, Tom, and Glenda at the poker table. Are they cheating the excitable dullard? I don't know, but, I have to admit, Tom's flush was a little on the sketchy side. Either way, a dried off Alex seems to think they are, and, after punching out Howard and holding his trusty straight razor to Tom's dainty throat, tells them that from now on they're playing by his rules ("now we're gonna have some fun with these cunts").

Winning all his money back with an unseen "royal straight," Alex tells the victorious Ricky that he can have first dibs on any of the three women in the room. Now, normally, I would say that his choice was an easy one, as Lorraine De Selle, her brunette hair swooped to one side, is alluring as all get out. But Lisa and Glenda are no slouches when it comes to inducing corduroy-based discomfort (your cock has nowhere to go when its sheathed in corduroy). Nonetheless, Ricky chooses Gloria. As he's about to grab her and take her upstairs, Alex demands that he, "fuck her here!" Not one to disobey his master, Ricky proceeds to fondle Gloria on the couch. Tearing off her red panties in a fit of red pantie removing rage (what a waste of a perfectly good pair of red panties), Ricky is just about to take his assault one step further, when, all of a sudden, Howard jumps to his feet, pulls Ricky off Gloria, and starts fighting with Alex.

With Howard subdued (they tie him to a table with some curtain cord), Alex and Ricky are to free harass the others at will. Only problem is, Ricky can't seem to rape Gloria. Taking a break from smashing figurines, Alex tries help out his pal out by rubbing his face against the upper part of Gloria's thighs–you know, show him the groping ropes. This doesn't work, as it would seem that Ricky just doesn't have what it takes to be a professional rapist. Like a father who wants his son to be next Wayne Gretzky, but instead turns out to the next Quentin Crisp, Alex is extremely disappointed that Ricky can't get it together, rape-wise.

In terms of judging the work of the four ladies who appear in the House on the Edge of the Park, there are only two women who are actually worth talking about, as, unfortunately, Marie Claude Joseph, who plays Glenda, and Brigitte Petronio's Cindy, a character who shows up later in the film, are basically used as props. With the exception of her half-assed escape attempt and a lesbian make out scene, Marie Claude just stands there while looking fabulous. And Brigitte? Well, she's just there to be tortured. Oh, sure, it's an effective scene, but her misery is pretty much meaningless.

No, I'd say Annie Belle (Bacchanales Sexuelles), as the feisty Lisa, and Lorraine De Selle (Women's Prison Massacre), as the debonair Gloria, were the only non-raping characters of note in this film, as they're the only ones who interacted with the two assailants. While I've already mentioned the three instances where Lisa toys with Alex, she actually does it a total of six times (and from where I'm standing, that's a lot of toying). Which is quite impressive, if you think about it. I mean, it takes a humongous amount of pluck to stand up a man like Alex. Firmly standing her ground during every single one of their encounters, Annie Belle, despite her delicate frame, doesn't back down once from the towering presence that is David Hess. While it's true, her counterpart in red seems to prefer the cowering in fear technique over the one Lisa was putting out there (you could probably smell the pheromones emanating from her pluck-producing pores for miles), the method utilized by Lorraine De Selle's Gloria was no less effective when it came to mollifying rapists. Though, to be fair, she was dealing with a lesser rapist.

I'm not sure if this had anything to with Lorraine, but I liked the way her character's red stockings seemed to get more torn up as the evening progressed (no one will ever accuse me of underestimating the importance of stocking continuity).

Whether uttering his trademark phrase, "hello, lady," bashing foppish yuppies, calling Gloria "Miss Muffet," slathering his coarse face over the thighs of stylish women in stockings, or cutting up wide-eyed party crashers in pink panties with a straight razor, David Hess is ferociousness personified as Alex, a man without a single redeeming quality. Okay, his fixation with garter belts and stockings made a lot of sense (he instructs Lisa to keep her creamy stockings on before ravaging her). However, I don't think liking a specific article of women's clothing lets you off the hook for all the evil deeds you have committed. If anything, it would make me despise you even more. At any rate, the manner in which David Hess embraces the uncompromising cruelty of his character was a thing of sadistic beauty. Come for the disco chic, stay for the slow-motion "whoa, you just shot me in the crotch" grimace sequence, it's a doozy.

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Robotrix (Jamie Luk, 1991)

Dust off your soldering gun and start rifling through your mother's lingerie drawer, because it's time to watch the only film to combine kung-fu fighting robots with bra-challenging boobies. Yeah, that's right. I said, "boobies." You got a problem with that? Okay, I'm sorry about that, I have a tendency to get a tad defensive whenever the subject of breasts is brought up. While everyone the world over seems to worship at the alter of the bouncing mammary glands, whether they be large or small, lopsided or symmetrical, I have chosen to pretend that I am completely immune to their numerous charms. Misguided as that may sound, it has given me many opportunities to flaunt a smug air of superiority (if you listen carefully, you can hear people muttering, "there goes the guy who's chilly towards tits," under the breath as I walk down the street). However, as I inexplicably sat and gazed in the general direction of Robotrix (a.k.a. Nu Ji Xie Ren), the sex-filled robot romp/softcore action thriller directed Jamie Luk (seriously, I have no idea how this film and my face ended up on a collision course), I thought to myself, "Hmmm, these jiggly lumps of flesh aren't that bad. In fact, they're kind of awesome." Disenchanted by the fake boob free for all that was 1990s, I decided to protest this obsession with chest-based forgery by shunning boobs altogether. I know what you're thinking, only real boob would shun all boobs (talk about your rash decisions). Well, some twenty odd years later, I think my faith in titties has been finally restored. And it's all thanks to a 5' 4¼" dynamo named Chikako Aoyama, the poster girl for wielding authentic boobs in a sci-fi universe where shapely cyborgs in skintight outfits do battle with the memories of a dead mad scientist.

When you see the adorable little scamp lying on a laboratory slab, there's no doubt that her breasts are real (her fatty tissue and skin fall to the side like nature intended). Why is she lying on a slab in a laboratory setting, you ask? I'll get to that in a minute. I just want to reiterate how happy I am to be back in the breast appreciation game. Of course, there will be those out there who will say that I'm only back in the b.a.g. because the breasts were Asian. Huh? You see, my exposure to Asian boobs, which, I'll admit, is somewhat limited when compared to other types of boobs, will cause some people (and I won't name names) to think that I lack the boob-evaluating skills necessary to properly admire a well-formed pair of Asian titties. Well, let me assure you, my admiration has nothing to do with the race of the breasts. The way they laughed in the face gravity exceeded the narrowly defined confines of race.

Now that that's settled, let's move on to something a little less bosomy for a second, shall we? Ooooh, I know. How about attractive female robots who fight other robots in tight clothing? Yeah, that's pretty good start. But don't you think the chances you might veer of into booby territory again are quite high? I mean, you did mention "tight clothing." You're absolutely right. Tight clothing and juicy melons go hand in hand. But then again, so what; obsessing over a woman's breasts never killed anyone.

The film, which is set in a pre-handover Hong Kong (government buildings are adorned with flags bearing the Union Jack), opens in a spa, where see a Middle Eastern man being showered with affection by four giggle-prone women wearing see-through robes. What's weird about this scene is not fawning ladies, but the fact he's being followed by eight or so blazer-wearing security guards. Making their way to the pool, the unnamed man, who, despite having a hairy ass crack, must be pretty important to garner that much protection, methodically removes the soaking wet garments from each of the women, while, at the same time, still managing to grope them in a manner that was diplomatic (each woman is given the same amount of gropes).

As he's pawing at the woman, his over-privileged gaze would occasionally focus on Inspector Selina (Chikako Aoyama), who's in charge overseeing his protection during his stay in the colony (the rest are personal body guards). And who can blame him, she's stunning. Politely declining his many offers to join him in the pool, Selina decides to step away from the debauchery for a moment. Suddenly, a strange mist can be seen floating through the air. Rendering everyone unconscious, a mysterious man in a leather jacket (the mist seems to have no affect on him) grabs the dazed prince and takes off. As he's leaving, he runs into Selina in the spa's lobby, and just as she was about to draw her weapon, the leather man shoots Selina in the chest and leaves a videotape.

Meanwhile, over at a robotics symposium that is taking place on the other side of town, Dr. Sara (Siu-dan Hui) and her assistant Ann (Amy Yip) are watching the demonstration being put on by a German android manufacture. As the designer is bragging about the capabilities of his lifelike robots to a throng of playboys, tycoons, paid escorts, generals, oil sheiks, and Donal Logue look-a-likes, an unimpressed audience member interrupts him and challenges his sunglasses-sporting male robot to a good old fashion kung-fu fight. Removing his shirt did not help, as the now shirtless audience member gets his ass kicked by the German automaton. An American robot designer decides to challenge the Germans at this time (everyone in this joint seems to have a robot). After the two battle it out to a draw, the American robot (imagine Michael Camacho circa Sly Fox's "Let's Go All The Way" wearing a black leotard) starts going crazy. Punching and kicking people at random, the malfunctioning American is finally subdued by a less fleshed out robot from Japan named Eva (whose overall demenour reminded me of Mandora, the Evil Chaser from She-Ra: Princess of Power ).

It would seem that Eva is the brainchild of the aforementioned Dr. Sara, a Japanese robotics expert. And just as an oil sheik is about to start lavishing praise on her robot, the city's police commissioner (Fung Woo) bursts into the exhibition hall carrying a videotape. What's on the tape? Wait a minute, is this the same tape that was left with Selina's dead body over at the spa? Oh my, you're pretty sharp for a squirrel with a severe learning disability. Yeah, the oil sheik is the father is the guy who was snatched in the film's opening scene, and the leather-clad man who grabbed him is–you guessed it–a Japanese robot whose complex circuitry contains the memories of Ryuichi Yamamoto (Chung Lin), the scientist who designed him. Disgruntled over the fact that the oil sheik refused to fund his research, Yamamoto, after transferring his memories into the mind of a robot (and the only way to do this is if you're dead, so he killed himself, seppuku-style, of course), has chosen to get back at the oil sheik by kidnapping his son.

While it's obvious that a plot this duplicitous needs to be countered with one that is on the same level in terms of duplicity, how can they stop a robot in a leather jacket who possesses superhuman strength and takes forever to ejaculate robot sperm? Not only is the life of a rich man's offspring in danger, but the vaginal well-being of the city's prostitute population is depending on you to stop this over-thrusting fiend before it's too late. Over-thrusting? Yeah, I'm afraid his humping technique is the leading cause of clitoral turmoil amongst hookers aged fourteen to sixty-five.

Hey, Dr. Sara, you're a Japanese robotics expert, right? Yeah, so. Well, couldn't you transfer the memories of say, a dead police inspector, into the mind of Eva? I guess, why? Well, it turns out that we've got the body of a recently deceased police inspector down at the hospital, and, get this, she was murdered by the very same robot we're trying to stop. And just like that, Dr. Sara and Ann–who, by the way, is a robot, and a smoking hot one, at that–transfers Selina's memories into the body of a robot. On top of her memories, they also transfer her physical attributes (i.e. her cute smile and big boobies).

The first thing Selina does when she wakes up is she checks her chest for bullet wounds. When she discovers there aren't any, she starts to wonder if she's dead or alive. Oh, you're dead, honey. Your body is lying on the slab next to you. No, what you are is a robot, and your sole purpose is to destroy the robot who killed your human body. Any questions? What about my police detective boyfriend? It's entirely up to you whether or not you tell him you're a robot. Oh, and, in case you're wondering, your vagina has been outfitted with all the perks of a human vagina. In other words, feel free to insert your boyfriend's erect penis inside it whenever you want, as he won't, depending on the sensitivity of his penis, be able to tell the difference.

Getting back to the robot who killed the buxom police inspector, where is our leather-clad android? Accessing my memory bank, it would seem that at this point in the film he decides to visit a bar. Curious to try out his robot penis, Robot Yamamoto (Billy Chow) picks up a prostitute wearing red gloves and black fishnet stockings, and takes her to a sleazy motel (not before killing her pimp in the washroom). Judging by the quality of his thrusts, his penis works just fine. Only problem is, it takes him forever to achieve orgasm. This lengthy process causes the prostitute to grow weary of her trick; and, not to mention, is putting a lot of undue stress on her non-robotic vagina. Tired of being prodded with his cock (every position has been employed to the point of redundancy), the prostitute decides that she's had enough, and tells him to stop fucking her. Choking her as his penetrates her against the wall, her fishnet stockings, once filled to the brim with her plucky stems, are now draped over a small television set tuned to a fuzzy channel, her body eventually goes limp.

At police headquarters, Selina's detective boyfriend, Joe (David Wu), his goofy partner, Puppy (Chung Kwai), and a bunch of other detectives, get briefed on their mission. Unaware that two of the women they'll be working with are robots, the detectives fawn over Ann, who has changed out of her metallic leather jacket and into a pink tank top.. Oh, and to prove she's worthy to be on the team (unlike, Selina, Ann is not affiliated with the police department), Ann gives them a quick demonstration of her skills.

After a romantic birthday dinner, it's Selina's turn to try out her robot genitals. Shaking off the cobwebs that have no doubt begun to accumulate within its delicate housing, Selina takes her robot vagina out for a test drive with her boyfriend in a bedroom straight out of Zalman King's subconscious. Whereas the sex scene with Robot Yamamoto and the unnamed prostitute in the motel room was seedy and uncouth, the one between Selina and Joe is warm and loving. And since both scenes occur almost back to back, it causes you to feel this weird sensation in your tummy. Don't tell anyone this, but I'm having trouble deciding which scene I liked more. Anyway, the warm and loving scene and the seedy and uncouth one do have one thing in common, and that is, they both feature stockings draped over appliances (the stockings in the warm and loving scene are draped over a lamp).

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Ann's robot vagina. After being told all about her sexual encounter with Joe, Ann tells Selina that she wants to put a human penis in her robot vagina, too. Well, it so happens the opportunity to get her synthetic cunt stuffed with all kinds of strange sausage is about arise when the idea for her to pose as a prostitute gets proposed. Since Robot Yamamoto is currently stretching out prostitute vaginas across the city, what better way to lure him into a trap by using Ann's pseudo pussy as bait?

The film starts to resemble a sex comedy during the "Ann poses as a prostitute stakeout sequence" (the Puppy character would feel right at home in the non-racist version of the Porky's universe). Telling her first john (Sai-Kit Yung) that she is curious to try out "human love-making," Ann removes her tight, salmon-coloured hooker dress (don't ask me where her fishnet stockings were draped, as Luk seems to have lost interest in that particular motif), and proceeds to hurl herself against his fully engorged man-thing. Realizing that Ann is a choice piece of girl candy, the male detectives on the stakeout decide to take advantage of the situation by charging extra for the opportunity to enter her via her robotic vagina (remember, they don't know she's a robot). Soon, there's a line-up around the block waiting for the chance to penetrate her, but there's still no sign of Robot Yamamoto.

Fans of robots and material arts will be relieved when Robot Yamamoto finally shows up at the nightclub Selina, Ann, Dr. Sara are hanging out at (the film has been action-free up until now). While draining her bladder of an alcoholic beverage she mock consumed in order to win a drinking contest in the ladies room, Selina finally comes face-to-face with the robot who killed her human body. After this confrontation, the film is nothing but kung-fu fights, shoot-outs, and instances where white guys, who look nothing like Donal Logue, get their heads severed with wicker briefcases. Actually, that's not true: There's a scene where Robot Yamamoto has another disturbing sexual encounter, this time with Dr. Sara (her Bai Lingual bangs quivering under the weight of his overly robot penis), in a laboratory, and this one where Joe must come to grips with the fact that his large breasted girlfriend has a robot vagina. But other than that, the final third of the film does bear all the markings of your typical Hong Kong action flick. Yet, I thought the sheer amount of sexual weirdness that takes place over the course of the film caused Robotrix to soar well beyond its genre limitations.

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Women's Prison Massacre (Bruno Mattei, 1983)

Yeah, well, I think you're wrong. Dead wrong, in fact. If you look closely, you'll notice the stay-up stockings worn by all the female prisoners are dark charcoal grey, and not, as you have so erroneously pointed out, black. It's true, the colour of the band near the top of the stay-up stockings are close to being black, but as for the rest of the stay-up stockings, they're dark charcoal grey. The warden's garter belt-assisted stockings, on the other hand, are definitely black. Oh, hello, it would seem that you have accidentally stumbled upon an argument... uh, I don't know if I'd call it an "argument," let's just say it's a "heated discussion." Okay, it would seem that you have accidentally stumbled upon the middle of a heated discussion I was having with myself over the colour of the prison issue stockings worn by the inmates throughout Women's Prison Massacre, Bruno Mattei's sleazy ode to albino enchantresses, girl-on-girl everything, weaponized vaginas, pithy putdowns, and, of course, women who happen to be in prison. You see, while I think they're dark charcoal grey, the other half of my brain (the half who likes to stay up all night watching reruns of The Nanny, a program awash with imagery that promotes a world where black is dominate shade of hosiery) thinks they're black. Oh, and just because I'm using the term "dark" does not necessarily mean that part me of secretly thinks they're black, they're just dark in terms of the grey spectrum. In all honestly, I have this sneaking suspicion that the part of me who thinks the stay-up stockings are black is just messing with me. They know the stockings weren't black, they just like to see me make a fool out of myself in front of all you good people over something as trivial as stockings. You see what they just did? They made me use the words "trivial" and "stockings" in the same sentence. Talk about an exacerbated pickle drowning in a tepid pool of unsubstantiated pandemonium. Here's some free advice: In the future, try to be a little more cautious whenever you get the temptation to pretend that you have some sort of split personality disorder, as the odds of saying something you might regret are quite high.

Okay, now that we've finally established the colour of film's signature legwear, let us move on to less pressing matters. The film opens with a shot of three women sitting on a darkened stage, as somber piano music plays on the soundtrack. Soon, the somber piano music is accompanied by cold synths, warm synths, and, my personal fave, eerie synths. Wait a second, what's going on here? This has got to be the strangest opening to a women in prison flick that I have ever seen. But you know what? I like it. And it gets better. Appearing out of the darkness, her face painted like Jordan from Jubilee, the first woman we're introduced to is Laura (Maria Romano), who is wearing what she likes to call her "snake mask." Describing herself as a praying mantis, Laura's monologue mostly revolves around emasculating men. The large breasted middle child of the prison soliloquy set, Irene (Antonella Giacomini) is up next. Calling herself "Irene, the slut," she goes on and one about how she's a "pleasure spring" (all the men want to drink from her shapely fountain). Rounding out this pokey production of the Vagina Monologues is Emanuelle (Laura Gemser), whose her lecture is all about love and freedom.

While she's prattling on about human rights, a mane of blonde hair can be seen piercing the sooty air like an iridescent bolt of lightning. Who do these golden locks belong to, you ask? Why they belong to Albina (Ursula Flores), a.k.a. the most beautiful human being to walk the face of the earth. Oozing gorgeousness with every sultry step, Albina, annoyed, and rightfully so, by the so-called "art" that she and the audience (a ragtag collection of inmates and guards) have been enduring for the past ten or so minutes, walks up to the stage and expresses her displeasure by calling their play "revolting," and by hurling a fist full of tomatoes in the general direction of Emanuelle's smug face.

After the tomatoes hit her in the face, Emanuelle jumps into the crowd and starts to wrestle with Albina (more veggies are hurled, more feelings are hurt). We might not know it yet, but what we are currently watching is the genesis of one of the greatest rivalries in the history of cinema. The first round of the Emanuelle-Albina conflict is a draw, as the guards break them up just as they were about to start pummeling one another. But if Albina's post-fight rantings are any indication, the war between them is far from over. The blondness of Albina's concise eyebrows vs. Emanuelle's chocolaty cheekbones is the primary plot line of Women's Prison Massacre. Oh, sure, it wants you to think the hostage situation involving a hirsute lawman and four deranged male convicts is the film's nitty-gritty in terms of nutritional value. But make no mistake, the fight for female supremacy that takes place between Emanuelle and Albina is definitely the main course.

If it seemed odd that the warden (Lorraine De Selle) appeared to take Albina's side when it came time to lay blame for veggie vagina altercation. Well, that's because Albina is in the warden's pocket. Yeah, you heard correctly, Albina takes her orders directly from the warden. But why does the warden want to make Emanuelle's stay at her prison so uncomfortable? Who cares, because round two of Emanuelle and Albina's epic struggle is about to commence.

Entering the cafeteria with a disquieting elan, Albina saunters over to where Emanuelle and her pals, Laura and Irene, are sitting and proceeds to antagonize the living fuck out of them. Mocking Irene's slut monologue, Albina basically calls her a "stupid bitch." When Laura tries to stick up for her friend, Albina quickly interjects by telling her to "take my advice and die." Unmoved by her morbidity of her suggestion, Laura threatens to bite Albina's nipples off (if anyone is going to gnaw on Albina's luscious nipples, it's going to be me, so back off, Laura). Shifting her attention to Emanuelle, Albina calls her "fancy talker," which she objects to by saying, "don't call me fancy talker." As you can plainly see, the dialogue in this particular scene is off the charts in terms of inventiveness. However, in my mind, it achieves legend status the moment the phrase "haughty hottentot" leaves Albina's chapped lips. Even as the alliterative put-down was in the process of being uttered, I knew I was in the presence of greatness.

Anyway, unfazed by the fact that she was called a "haughty hottentot," Emanuelle tells her pigment-deficient tormentor that she makes her sick. Well, after some mild maniacal laughter and some boastful statements pertaining to her strength, Albina finally reacts by challenging Emanuelle to an arm wrestling duel. The bout goes back and forth for quite some time, but, ultimately, Emanuelle comes out on top, which is weird, considering she has pipe cleaners for arms.

You'll notice as the two rivals are arm wrestling that two guards are watching over them. Which isn't that uncommon. After all, most prisons have guards. No, what you need to focus on is the fact that the guards are being played by none other than Franca Stoppi (Beyond the Darkness) and Françoise Perrot, two actresses who bring a certain butchy flair to their respective roles. The beguiling Miss Stoppi, in particular, as every time the camera would focus on her wonderfully crafted mug, I would start to hyperventilate. My favourite Stoppi/Perrot moment was when they're forcing Emanuelle to wash her face. While that doesn't sound all that bad, the catch is that she has to keep her face submerged in a sink full of water until they tell her to remove it. What I liked about this scene was that Franca and Françoise would exchange these sinister smirks with one another in-between beatings (every time Emanuelle pulled her head out of the sink, they would hit her with their clubs), as it implied that they enjoyed their work and each others company.

Staying within the dank confines of the women's lavatory, a naked Laura and an almost naked Irene (the way her skimpy white panties struggled to maintain their structural integrity as they desperately clung to her curvy frame was simply divine) can be seen making out with each other. When Albina's sidekick catches wind of this tawdry display, she immediately informs her pale master about the sapphic transgression that is transpiring within their midst. After staring at them with fake disgust for a few minutes, Albina gathers a crowd around them, which alerts the guards. Telling them that these "dogs in heat need to be cooled down," Franca and Françoise start dunking their heads in cold water. Keep an eye on Albina as they're being severely punished, her aura is steeped in gladness. And if Albina's happy, I'm happy.

Recovering from her own dunking incident (simulated drowning seems to be the preferred punishment at this particular prison), Emanuelle is surprised when Albina enters and offers to help her to her feet. This kindness doesn't last long, however, as right after she says, "fancy seeing you here, fancy talker" she hits her in the face with a towel. Uh-oh, a towel to the face? That can only mean one thing: it's time for round three, baby! As is customary in the realm of cellbock fisticuffs that involve women, Emanuelle grabs Albina's hair, only to find out that her bleached adversary is wearing a wig. Holding the wig in her hand, Emanuelle starts to laugh at Albina. This, of course, angers her immensely, and she attacks Emmanuelle, not before calling her a bastard and telling her how much she hates her (I think the exact line was, "You bastard! I hate you!").

Oh, man, Emanuelle is thrashing Albina with own wig! What the fuck? When is this humiliation going to end? Growing up pale and different, Albina has struggled to fit in her entire life. Picked on at school and ridiculed by the customers at the flower shop she probably worked at, Albina swore that she would one day get back at all those who made her life a living hell. She didn't realize it immediately, but being sent to prison was the best thing to happen to her, as her unique appearance and unpleasant disposition intimidated the other inmates. Eventually becoming the de facto ruler of the prison, thanks, in part, to her brash attitude and her willingness to snitch on others, Albina had it made. That is, until some fancy talking haughty hottentot came along and ruined everything.

Do I even have to tell you who wins round four? Well, if must know, round four takes place out in the prison's yard, and involves the guards leaving Emanulle all alone to face Albina, who's been given a switchblade. "Hello, fancy talker," she coos, as she makes her way across the yard's lush green grass (the gal sure knows how to make an entrance). If we were told to judge their various clashes based solely on the quality of the pre-fight bravado, I think most insane people would agree that Albina, hands down, wins them all. Only problem is, Albina can't seem to build up any momentum after her early successes, as her blemish-free bombast usually gets its exquisite ass lambasted in a matter seconds. And the outcome of her well-executed, yet ultimately doomed, screaming knife charge is no different.

Running toward Emanuelle, her knife raised, and screaming her head off, Albina tries to stab her, but instead, she ends up dropping her knife. As she's being choked by her wiry opponent, Albina must be thinking to herself: Why is this happening to me? I mean, I had a knife, I called her "fancy talker," what do I have to do to kill this insipid hosebeast? As they wrestle over the ownership of the dropped knife, Albina's dark charcoal grey stockings are becoming soiled with difficult to remove grass stains. Discerning perverts and chichi linguists alike will want to pay close attention to what happens next, as we catch a brief glimpse of Albina's white panties during this sequence. In fact, the intensity of the tussle has caused them to become partially ensnared between the colourless cheeks that make up the bulk of her creamy buttocks. However, laundry headaches and unforeseen wedgies are the least of Albina's problems, as she soon finds herself with a knife in her right thigh. And not just any knife, her knife.

I won't lie, the sight of Albina screaming in agony as a result being stabbed in the right thigh with own knife filled me with a shitload of sadness. It got to a point where I was so distraught, that I almost switched the movie off in a fit of misguided wretchedness. You know how I said that when Albina's happy, I'm happy? Well, when Albina's in pain, I'm in pain. Just the mere thought of her torn dark charcoal grey stockings languishing unloved in some dank prison laundry room is enough to put me on twenty-four hour suicide watch.

In a veiled attempt to placate my misery, I'm gonna start talking about Crazy Boy Henderson (Gabriele Tinti), Victor "Geronimo" Brain (Raul Cabrera), Helmut "Blade" von Bauer (Pierangelo Pozzato), Brett O'Hara (Robert Mura), because one of them treats Albina like the goddess she truly is. Oh, and, just to let you know, the four guys I just mentioned are convicted murders who take over the women's prison after they overpower the warden, kill a guard, and wound a police officer (Carlo De Mejo) with a beard during what was supposed to be a routine prison transfer.

Free to roam the prison, the four psychopaths (they're apparently the worst of the worst) wander the halls in search of inexpensive poontang. Since the hyperactive "Blade" likes to be groped en masse, he heads to straight for the cells and lets a throng of female prisoners paw at him through the bars; O'Hara makes Lorraine De Selle strip down to her black lingerie; Crazy Boy rapes Emanuelle against a wall; and Geronimo has decided to go to the prison's infirmary to look for drugs. What does Geronimo find when he finally gets there? Heaven on a stale cracker, that's what. Recuperating from her most recent stab wound (her right thigh is wrapped with a modest bandage), Albina stares inquisitively at the strange man poking around her room. "Where's the morphine"? he asks. "How should I know," she quickly shoots back (it's nice to know that the knife wound hasn't put a damper on her scrappiness). As he's looking, he suddenly realizes the woman lying before him, her ashen legs peeking out from underneath the sheets ever so slightly, isn't your average female prisoner.

Caressing her delicate shoulders ("your skin is exciting"), Geronimo tells Albina that everything about her turns him on. When he said that I was like, finally, someone who gets the irregular allure that is Albina. You haven't experienced real pleasure unless you've felt Albina's strong-willed heartbeat pounding against yours as she penetrates you with her soft, elegant flesh. Yeah, that's right. You don't penetrate Albina. On the contrary, Albina penetrates you. And that's exactly what happens to Geronimo, who, from now on, will be known as "the luckiest man in the entire universe." Of course, he ends up treating Albina like crap when she emerges from her chloroform-induced slumber (her supple, bee-stung lips are even more chapped than they were before). When she tries to make a deal with Crazy Boy, the luckiest man in the entire universe acts like her doesn't know her. It's gets to the point where he even allows his esteemed colleagues to call her names like, "Snow White" and "Dracula's Daughter." I know, what a little bastard.

While actress Ursula Flores, the actual owner of the aforementioned "soft, elegant flesh," deserves a lot of the credit for creating such a memorable character (the eye bulging and head tilting alone was award worthy), you shouldn't discount the work of dubbing artist Carolyn De Fonseca (The Lonely Lady), who's the voice of Albina in the English language version of Women's Prison Massacre. If it wasn't for her, lines like, "Take my advice and die!" and "I'll put a stop to your arrogance, you haughty hottentot!" would probably not have had the same impact. Anyway, I hope my you found my covert tribute to Albina to be informative and junk. I'd go into detail about the Russian roulette scene that takes place near the end of the film (round four), but just thinking about it makes this fancy talker extremely depressed.

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