House of Self-Indulgence

Blue Sunshine (Jeff Lieberman, 1978)

2012-01-29T19:59:00.007-05:00

You could look at it as a cautionary tale, one that attempts to shine some light on what could possibly happen if some of the more extravagant excesses of the hippie era ever decided to rise up from their incompetently dug hippie graves to haunt (a.k.a. feast on the brains of...) the denizens of the disco age. I'll admit, looking at Blue Sunshine, a hair-raising thrill ride written and directed by Jeff Lieberman, from that particular angle does make me feel awfully smart and junk. But as most people are acutely aware, appearing smart is not what I'm known for. If you really wanted to, you could look at this film as a sinister effort by wig manufacturers to demonize baldness. Think about it, with the fedora long out of style, the unwashed, shoulder length tresses of the aforementioned hippie era languishing in the dustbin of coiffure history, and, not to mention, the fact that the inexplicable rise of the baseball hat as a non-atheltic fashion accessory is still years away from becoming our national nightmare, the wig is ready to make a comeback. Back in the late 1970s, thick manes of jet black hair were all the rage. Thanks to celebrities like, John Travolta, Sylvester Stallone, Al Pacino, and Bert Convy, men could grow their hair long without having to look like they were auditioning to be America's next top drug-addled roadie for Blue Öyster Cult (a band who, by the way, is probably responsible for the whole non-Germans misusing umlauts trend). But what about the baldies? Well, that's where the wig comes in. Of course, the wigs will cause you to become overly sensitive to loud noises (so you can forget about heading down to your local disco to hear the fresh new sounds of the day), and, oh yeah, you might develop the urge to kill some or all of your loved ones. Actually, that makes no sense at all. If anything, the industrial wig complex would probably hate the idea that their clients might turn into disco-hating psychopaths after using their product. It's funny how that happens. You're carrying on like you know what you're talking about, when all of sudden, blamo! Your theory bursts into flames.

In my defense, the wig manufacturers at the time must have looked at Blue Sunshine with some trepidation. I mean, after all, everyone who wears a wig in the movie does eventually go crazy (some even chase small children around with kitchen knives). Which, from a public relations point-of-view, must have a been a nightmare. In other words, my theory does hold a fair amount of murky water.

The only film, at least the only one that I'm aware of, to cause the viewer to constantly question the follicular integrity of every man, woman, and child who appears onscreen–well, all except the fabulous Deborah Winters (there's no freakin' way her finely coiffed hairdo was anything but au naturale), Blue Sunshine is an extremely off-kilter look at the unexpected consequences of taking one too many hallucinogens during the period of free love, and even freer drugs. You'll notice I said "extremely" off-kilter, as supposed to just plain "off-kilter." Well, that because whenever your movie has Zalman King (Trip with the Teacher) as its star, you're bound to detect a slight upswing when it comes to your film's overall weirdness.

Doing a terrific job of sucking you into its kooky world almost immediately, Jeff Lieberman opens the film with three shots of a full moon that are paired with three separate scenes that may or may not be connected with one another. The first features the headache prone Dr. David Blume (Robert Walden) making the rounds at the hospital he works; the second shows Wendy Flemming (Ann Cooper) sitting on the couch reading the story of Rapunzel to the kids she is babysitting (the scene ends with her losing a strand of hair); and the final one has a stressed out Barbara O'Malley (Adriana Shaw)–she yells, "No More chocolate pudding!" to one of her fridge-raiding children–sitting at the kitchen table complaining to Ritchie (Bill Sorrells), a male companion, about her husband Jonhnny O'Malley (Bill Cameron), whose been acting strange as of late. How strange, you ask? Why don't you ask him? He's standing right over there. Obviously eavesdropping on their conversation, Johnny, whose pet macaw is perched on his left shoulder, seems emotionally disturbed.

Meanwhile, in a cabin located somewhere outside Los Angeles, a group of friends seem to be having a blast. And who can blame them? A man who looks like Brion James is doing an impression of Rodan (a mutated pterosaur), Billy Crystal's brother is singing Frank Sinatra's "Just in Time," Zalman King is wearing a sweater with reindeer on it, and Deborah Winters is looking super-sexy in a cream-coloured dress that literally oozed disco chic. Wow, you're right, that sounds like one killer party. Yeah, tell me about it. Oh-oh, it would seem that Billy Crystal's brother has just lost his wig. And, get this, his friends didn't seem to know that he wore one. Funny thing, though, the way Billy Crystal's brother reacts to his wig being accidentally pulled off was quite unusual. You see, instead of being embarrassed like most people would in a situation like this, Billy Crystal's brother seems borderline psychotic.

Quickly realizing that his secret's been exposed, Billy Crystal's brother, his eyes looking as if they're about to leap out of their sockets, clutches at his patchy melon with both hands and runs screaming from the cabin. Staring at each other with confused looks on their faces, the rest of the party guests decide that now is a good as any to call it a night. While most of them do leave, Jerry Zipkin (Zalman King) chooses to stay, much to the displeasure of his stylish girlfriend, Alicia Sweeney (Deborah Winters). While Jerry Zipkin, or as Alicia likes to call him, "Zippy," searches the woods for their balding friend, three women, a trio who are not quite as fashion forward as Alicia, but do have their moments (the one in the red dress sitting with her legs crossed had a snotty grace about her that was quite appealing), remain in the cabin just in case if Billy Crystal's brother decides to come back.

Unfortunately, he does come back. Seething with murderous rage, Billy Crystal's brother grabs the woman in the black dress and pushes her into the fireplace. He did what?!? Yeah, I couldn't believe it, either. As he's doing this, the woman in the red dress and her friend in the white dress try to stop Billy Crystal's brother from burning the woman in the black dress in the fireplace. But it's no use, as the three of them eventually end up in the fireplace when all is said and done. After an intense struggle, Billy Crystal's brother is killed by a truck while fighting with Zippy, who came back from his search only to find his female friends roasting in the cabin's spacious fireplace. However, it's Zippy who gets blamed for the murders. And if that weren't enough, he's shot in the arm by a trucker played by Bill Adler (Van Nuys Blvd.), who, from his point-of-view, sees Zippy as the murderer, not Billy Crystal's brother, who, as I have already stated, is currently roadkill.

Fleeing the scene, Zippy is now a fugitive from justice. The still stylish Alicia tries to convince the detectives working the case that he didn't do it, but all the evidence is pointing in his direction. Luckily, Zippy has a doctor friend in the city he can turn to treat his gunshot wound. You'll notice that Zippy's doctor friend, Dr. Blume, is the same doctor from the film's opening scene. Interesting. It's all coming together. Anyway, treating his injury and providing him with a dapper business suit (smart move, since there's an APB out for a man in a sweeter with reindeer on it, not a man dressed like a banker), Zippy begins his quest to clear his name.

One of my favourite parts of Blue Sunshine were the many clandestine rendezvous that take place between Zippy and Alicia throughout the film. Oh, and not for the reasons you're probably thinking. I liked them because they gave us a chance to savour Deborah Winters' urbane fashion sense in the light of day. Up until now, we've only got see Deborah in dim log cabin lighting. But when Zippy starts his life on the lam, things take a turn for the jaunty. Approaching Zippy at their prearranged meeting point with a brash spring in her step, Alicia makes it abundantly clear that she is going to be force to be reckoned with when it comes to exuding high style in this movie. Sporting a striped red and white turtleneck sweater and a pair of tan pants, Alicia tries to tell Zippy that running makes him look guilty, but he seems convinced there's something sinister afoot.

He's absolutely right, there is something sinister afoot. But I don't think he has any idea how dire things are about to get. Learning the details of another homicide involving a bald individual, zippy travels to Glendale to find out more. Holy crap! It would seem that the guy from the opening scene–you know, the guy with the macaw–has just killed himself and his entire family. Does this mean that everyone who is either bald or going to be bald will eventually turn into mindless killer? What about Wendy the babysitter? Her hair is falling out. Is she a killer, too? Fascinating! At any rate, I wonder if he killed his macaw? Actually, it's good thing he didn't, as the bird gave Zippy some vital information regarding the particulars of this wacky mystery.

Another clue is acquired while snooping around Billy Crystal's brother's photography studio. Leading him to Edward Flemming (Mark Goddard), an oily politician running for congress and the ex-husband of one Wendy Flemming (the babysitter who is losing her hair), Zippy has a chat with him while he's campaigning in the parking lot of a local mall. On top of introducing us to Edward (whose genial demeanour disappears the moment the words "blue sunshine" leave Zippy's lips), this scene also gives us a chance to meet Wayne Mulligan (Ray Young), Edward's ex-college football star campaign manager, and, of course, allows us to see what fabulous outfit Deborah Winters is wearing today. The ensemble she models over the course of the next couple of scenes is probably my favourite out of all of Alicia's many stylish looks. A black cowboy hat (yeah, that's right, a black motherfucking cowboy hat!), designer shades, a red turtleneck, a striped jacket, and a grey skirt with a slit down the front, this getup is bold yet conservative at the same time (which are the hallmarks of a true style icon).

It's obvious that Wayne Mulligan, despite coming across as a crude jock, knows style and sophistication when he sees it, because he sneaks away from one Edward Flemming's speeches to hit on Alicia by the side of the road. While flattered by the attention, the only reason Alicia decided to humour the hulking ex-football player was to help Zippy's cause. In addition to being a fashionable woman on the go, Alicia is the ultimate girlfriend. In fact, if you look up "girlfriend" in the dictionary, you won't find a picture of Alicia Sweeney. Which is clearly a mistake on the part of the dictionary people, because Alicia's steadfast loyalty and unyielding dedication when it came to trying to exonerate Zippy went way beyond the thinly defined parameters of what constitutes a girlfriend.

As Wayne is asking Alicia to meet him at Big Daddy's, a local discotheque, you can't help but notice that there's something fishy going on with Wayne's hair (his eyebrows seem a little wonky as well). This fishiness carries over to the scene where Zippy attempts to extract some information from Wendy regarding "blue sunshine." Of course, there was no doubt about the genuineness of Zippy's hair; in fact, Zalman King's thick mane of a dark hair was as profound a hair statement you'll ever see in a motion picture). But as for everyone else, there was definitely an air of suspicion surrounding the authenticity of their respective locks.

The only exception I made when it came to scrutinizing the hair of the characters in Blue Sunshine was whenever the gorgeous Marcy Hanson would appear onscreen as a lithesome campaign worker wearing a red vest. The sheer skimpiness of her white pleated skirt must have distracted me, because it took quite some time for me to realize that she even had a head.

Whether trying to memorize the operational mantra that came with his recently purchased Walther LP3 air pistol ("Hold the baby...") or scoring tranquilizers in the park, Zalman King is the definition of unhinged paranoia as Jerry Zipkin, the most unusual "everyman" to grace the silver screen. In most cases, the hero is typically a sane man trying to come to grips with a world gone mad. But in Blue Sunshine, it was like watching an insane man in a world that is just as insane as he is. This unorthodox technique gives the film an eerie quality that might leave some viewers feeling a tad alienated. However, those who can accept Zalman King as a dashing hero, and Deborah Winters as the woman who will do just about anything to help him out (she even utilizes the soul rejuvenating power of disco to get him out of a tight jam at one point), will find much to love in Blue Sunshine, a creepy thriller that manages to demonize baldness and celebrate Barbra Streisand in puppet form simultaneously.

video uploaded by brujaria
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Porno Holocaust (Joe D'Amato, 1981)

2012-01-22T20:06:00.007-05:00

Most men, when put in a situation where lives are at risk, would politely decline a hysterical woman's impromptu offer to perform guilt-free oral sex on him in a tropical setting. But then again, it's obvious from the get-go that Captain Hardy isn't your average man. Hell, he's not even your average captain. "Oral sex in the tropics," that should be his middle name, because it seems like he's on the receiving end of a sun-baked blow job for the majority of this movie. I guess you could shorten his middle name to something like, Captain "Sunny Head" Hardy, or just join together "oral sex in the tropics" to make the Latvian-sounding, "Oralseksen Thetropiks." Either way, he's getting sucked off more often than a garden hose at an insufficiently catered backyard birthday party in the middle of a heat wave. Maybe it was the way his hairless nut sack glistened as it bathed in the uncompromising glow of the sun's shimmering rays, or maybe it had something to do with his virile mustache (it's a little known fact that chicks prefer to fornicate with men with strong facial hair). Well, whatever it was, I was extremely jealous of the male lead in Porno Holocaust, Joe D'Amato's mildly racist, extremely sexist ode to radioactive poontang. Even though his wad was pretty much nonexistent in terms of voluminosity, the amount of attention his barely erect member receives in this movie is enough to drive you up a wall made entirely out of broken dreams and partially trodden on cucumber slices. I don't know why I'm reacting this way. After all, it's common knowledge that I abhor watching non-transsexuals receive head. However, I don't think it's got anything to do with dome-o-phobia, or even tonsillitis, for that matter, I think it's got something to do the frequency in which the film's captain is orally serviced. And if there's one quality I hate in a man, it's oral sex-related greed.

On one level, the film could be seen as an erotic instructional guide on how to perform cunnilingus on driftwood. Yet, on another, completely different level than the level I just mentioned, the film is a cautionary tale about the dangers of atomic weaponry in the late twentieth century. While I like the sound of those levels, the offensively titled Porno Holocaust is mostly about killing time between sex scenes. As in, how are we going to fill the chunks of time when the not quite aptly named Captain Hardy (Mark Shannon) is not getting his pee pee licked by brunette scientists with small breasts?

Driving through the streets of, oh, let's say, Santo Domingo in his jeep, Captain Hardy–you can totally tell, by the way, that he's a sailor by not only the cut of his uniform, but also by the cut of his jib–is smirking because he knows that his cock is about to be inundated with a wide array of oral and vaginal riches over the course of the next few days. Since the scene where Captain Hardy is driving around the city is still going, let me take a second to comment on the film's official theme song by Nico Fidenco. Boring its way into your head like a playful head cold, you might think that a song this catchy has no business being associated with a film called "Porno Holocaust," but it's obvious that the esteemed Joe D'Amato (Beyond the Darkness) and his committed cast have put a lot of effort into justifying their presence alongside such an amazing piece of music.

After meeting with his crew, a bunch of misogynists who think women are bad luck (wait until he tells them their passengers are not only women, but scientists, too), Captain Hardy flirts with one of these so-called "lady scientists." Lounging by the hotel's pool in a white bikini, Annie Dorman (Lucia Ramirez), a racially ambiguous (think: Laura Gemser meets Jennifer Balgobin) nuclear physicist, chats with Captain Hardy about who the fuck cares. Please excuse my indifference when came to recalling the minutes of their, what I'm sure was, interesting conversation. You have to understand, Dr. Dorcin de Saint Jacques (Annj Goren) is about to saunter onscreen, and whenever the gorgeous Dr. Dorcin de Saint Jacques, who prefers to be called "Contessa Saint Jacques," graces us with her lithesome presence, my mind turns to mush.

Walking over to where Annie and Captain Hardy are conversing with one another with a whorish brand of unfermented aplomb, Contessa Saint Jacques, a stylish zoologist who is wearing a peach-coloured string bikini like her life depended on it, seems to realize almost immediately that she's missed the boat when it comes to claiming squatter's rights to the thrusting future of Hardy's penis. It's a good thing Annj Goren is playing this role, because only an actress of her calibre would be able to convey the emotional whirlwind that the Contessa experiences in this moment. Check out her back as she listens to Annie and Captain Hardy blather on and on about the island he's supposed to be taking them to, it's a textbook example of what I like to call dignified stillness. In fact, she's so stationary, that the loose strings dangling from her bikini top seem to have a mind of their own.

The other half of the science expedition, oh, haven't you heard? a group of scientists want to visit this deserted island to run some tests, and Captain Hardy is the man they have hired to take them there. Anyway, we meet Dr. Lemoir (George Eastman) and Simone (Dirce Funari), two married scientists who are struggling to iron out the kinks of their burgeoning sex life. Let's be honest, Simone is frustrated by her husband's lack of enthusiasm during love making, and upset over the fact that his rapid expiry rate in the sack is failing to satisfy her womanly needs.

It has gotten so bad that Simone makes a joke about leaving the door of her hotel room unlocked in the hope that a man with a functioning penis might break in and rape her. Luckily, Contessa Saint Jacques shows up just in time to calm her frazzled nerves by administering some well-applied lesbian sex. Of course, judging by how hostile they were to each other, the chances of there being any lesbian sex, forget about the well-applied variety, looked pretty remote. You see, after the Contessa makes this crack about her husband's impotence, Simone returns the favour by mocking her inability to snag Captain Hardy away from Annie (who's currently being wined and dined by the Captain as we speak). The slight against the Contessa's man-luring capability causes her to slap Simone in the face. Not the type of person to be bullied by a woman with a boyish haircut, Simone hits the Contessa in the face as well.

After they have finished slapping each other in the face, Contessa Saint Jacques plunges her erect left nipple into the modestly spacious confines of Simone's symmetrical ass crack, and follows that up by devouring every inch of her nimble frame with the care of a fun-loving wildebeest. Awash with brunette hair of every shade imaginable, this not-so crazy session of lesbian make-up sex is dominated by the Contessa, as she does most of the scene's heavy lifting when it came to giving the gift of cunni and anilingus.

This heavy lifting trend carries over to the next scene when we find the Contessa paying to have her wart-covered holes poked and prodded by a couple of Dominican penises. If you're wondering why Simone isn't there with the Contessa to make sure the two male prostitutes treat her with respect, your guess is as good as mine. Anyway, with Simone off doing whatever, the Contessa is ready to get double-teamed by two guys at once. Standing fully dressed before her double dose of dangling man-candy, Contessa Saint Jacques starts off by removing her red blazer. Then she pulls down her red skirt (flinging it off camera after both her legs had broken free of its wooly grip). Moving on to her white blouse, she unbuttons all the buttons and proceeds to toss it where her jacket and skirt are currently lying in a state of crumpled chaos. And last, but not least, she doffs her black panties. Slowly hiking them down with a purposeful hiking motion, the Contessa flings them off with a cavalier grace (she is a "contessa" after all), and nakedly awaits her double-helping of dark cock.

What makes Porno Holocaust so great, besides the fact that it's called, "Porno Holocaust," is that Joe D'Amato can turn the simple removal of a woman's clothing into an erotic event. Think about it, we've already seen Annj Goren naked at this point in this film, yet he still manages to create an air of excitement around the prospect of seeing her naked again. Which, I've been told, is no small feat. Attacking her body with multiple kisses and mussing her boyish hair, the two prostitutes do to the Contessa what the Constessa did to Simone in her hotel room. Only in this case, there's eighty percent more pelvic thrusting involved. After performing duel handjobs, along with duel blow jobs, the scene morphs into your typical mfm threesome scene, as all the usual positions are employed. The great thing about this scene–you know, other than the disco music throbbing on the soundtrack and the scuffed up bottoms of the Contessa's tan pumps–was the fact that both Annj and one of the guys (the fella with the sweat-drenched hairy bum) both look directly into the camera at one point.

Meanwhile, on a nearby beach, Captain Hardy and Annie are enjoying a spot of outdoor consensual sexual intercourse. Don't bother taking a long, good look at Captain Hardy's balls as they plow toward Annie's moist undercarriage, because you'll be sick of them by the time Porno Holocaust is over. At any rate, after they're done, we're subjected to longest walk and talk scene ever to be committed to film. Okay, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. But still, as far as babbling incessantly about radiation goes, this scene is the Gettysburg Address of mobile gabbiness. Let's just say, I was plenty relieved when they finally got on board Captain Hardy's vessel. Oh, and by "vessel," I don't mean his penis, I'm referring to his boat.

Yay! After much chit chat, they finally arrive at their radioactive destination. As they're disembarking, we can't help but notice that someone or something is watching then from the bushes (the sound of heavy breathing and eerie music is added to the point-of-view lurking to emphasize the baneful nature of their ominous presence). As the menfolk set up camp, the Contessa and Simone don their skimpiest bikinis and sit facing one another on a piece of driftwood. As the waves crash against the loose chunks of wood that litter the beach, Simone starts to remove the Contessa's beach attire. Still smarting from the reaming she received at the hands of those Dominican prostitutes, the Contessa is open to the idea of Simone treating her swollen pussy with kid lesbian gloves. And faster than you can say, the circumference of Dirce Funari's ass is quite pleasing, the two of them are sitting naked, crotch-to-crotch on a huge log.

As they're busy scissoring the day away, Captain Hardy and Annie decide to do the sex on the beach thing as well. While I can't really blame him for wanting to penetrate the goodies located between Annie's chocolatey thighs instead of picking up radioactive sand crabs, I'm tired of looking at his balls. Sure, we get a wispy hint of George Eastman's genitals. But I can't subsist on wispy hints alone, I need to feel the wrinkled fullness of his haphazardly shaven scrotum sloshing around inside my herpes-free mouth. Returning from her log encounter with the Contessa, Simone, now wearing a dark one piece bathing suit, tells her husband all about the mutated algae she found on the beach. Noticing a lull in the algae-based conversation, Simone decides to fill the awkward void by pinning her husband against a palm tree. Extracting ten well-timed pelvic thrusts from her husband before his genitals began to leak semen, Simone was literally beaming with pride as she dismounted her potent steed. Unfortunately, her pride quickly turns to horror as the entity who has been watching them ever since they landed on the island finally makes his presence felt.

A disfigured man wearing rags, the so-called "ape-like creature" kills the members of Captain Hardy's crew (their forehead's resemble plates of mushy baked beans after he's through with them), and grabs Annie all for himself. Tucking her away in his cave for safe keeping, the radioactive madman focuses his energy on the other women on the island. You know how I said that Annj Goren did most of the heavy lifting during her first sex scene Dirce Funari? Well, this could be applied to the movie on the whole, as Annj's body is put through the ringer in terms of being violated in a tropical setting. You have to admire her for the way she puts herself out there. Seriously, while most of the actors appear in three or four sex scenes, Annj does her thing in five: One straight sex scene (sans cunnilingus, bastard), one mfm threesome, one rape scene, and two lesbian scenes.

While the drably attired nutcase is romancing Annie in his cave (he brings her flowers and fruit), the Contessa, Captain Hardy, and a male scientist with a beard whose name began with an 'L' are still trying to figure out what's going on. I'll admit, while Captain Hardy is attempting to cut a coconut with a machete, I thought I had accidentally changed the channel to the latest installment of Survivor. But that thought quickly melted away, as the Contessa, her breath, no doubt, reeking of Scotch whiskey, decides right then and there that she wants to have sex with Captain Hardy. Did I lose some respect for the Contessa as she went about removing her khaki-coloured clothing? I guess. But you got to give up to the Contessa, not even a million radioactive madmen are gonna prevent her from getting her, as the kids in 1998 might say, "freak on." Hey, if Captain Hardy can have sex in a rowboat, than surely the Contessa can engage in some off-the-cuff campsite sex. I mean, so what if there's a psychokiller on the loose whose funky spunk makes your junk bleed?

Am I watching a porno, or am I watching a horror movie? I was never quite sure. And that's part of the charm of Porno Holocaust, as it causes you to constantly keep tabs on your mental well-being. Of course, most people are too lazy to keep tabs on their mental well-being, as they would rather, to sort of quote Mr. Burns from The Simpsons, "wallow in a tepid pool of their own crapulence." Aroused while horrified is the ultimate form of cinematic catharsis, and Joe D'Amato provides both in equal measure. Is there anything else to say? Let me see. Cunnilingus. Driftwood. Nope, I think that pretty much covers it. Porno Holocaust, bitches!

uploaded by BastardCinema

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Cruising (William Friedkin, 1980)

2012-01-15T20:02:00.010-05:00

Deep down, you had a feeling your leather trousers might be a tad on the tight side when you bought them, but you had no idea they would be this tight. Here's some free advice the next time you find yourself in the leather trouser section of your local supermarket: Always try them on while sporting a raging hard-on. Oh, and no half chubs or one quarter wood, I'm talking a fully erect member up in this motherscratcher. When the guys at say, the Anvil or the Ramrod, start to grind up against you on the dance floor, you want to make sure the inevitable boner you unfurl stays within the smooth confines of your leather trousers. Of course, the chances of your cock and some of your balls escaping the leathery grip of your pants are pretty remote. But still, you want to maintain an air of dickish dignity, while, at the same time, keeping the contents of your package firmly under wraps, as no-one likes a show off, especially in a place like, the Cockpit. If you think leather trousers sound complicated, honey, you ain't seen nothing yet. How do you think the ambitious heterosexual NYPD patrolman at the centre of Cruising, one who probably thinks listening to Chic automatically makes you a card-carrying Friend of Dorothy, is gonna react when he's given the opportunity to hopscotch his way to detective? Pretty excited, I guess. Wait a second, did you just say, "hopscotch his way"? Burn my "Cher's first facelift commemorative dishrag" with an acetylene torch, but that sounds a little gay? Oh, it's gay all right. In fact, it's so gay, you'll be asking Powers Boothe about the coloured-coded world of back pocket bandanas in no time. While a lot of straight men, particularly the one's who lived in New York City circa 1980, wouldn't be too pleased about the prospect of donning a black undershirt in order to catch a serial killer, I, on the other hand, would have jumped at the chance to be exceedingly fabulous at the height of disco; well, the tail end of disco.

Whether it was the height, the tail end, or even smack dab in the middle of the disco era, it doesn't matter, the opportunity to go undercover as a gay man sounds like the chance of a lifetime. Of course, we're not talking about an episode of Glee, so you can forget about mincing, frolicking, sashaying, or telling total strangers to talk to the hand, as those types of mannerisms are strictly forbidden in this universe. No, this is an ultra gritty look into New York's underground S&M bar scene. In other words, throngs of burly men in leather thongs, motorcycle caps, studded bracelets, assless chaps and biker boots are what are in store for you.

Given that film is written and directed by William Friedkin (To Live and Die in L.A.), this isn't going to be your average crime thriller–you know, the kind where a cop on the edge tries to catch a psychopathic killer. Even though it sort of starts off like your typical police procedural, the film quickly transports us to the heart of the meatpacking district where we find two patrolmen named DiSimone (Joe Spinell) and Desher (Mike Starr) cruising the streets in their radio car. After they have finished soliciting/harassing two transgender prostitutes, one of which is named DaVinci (Gene Davis), the camera follows a dark stranger in leather as he walks toward a building located across the street.

The first thing that struck me as the leather-clad man made his way to the unmarked, windowless building were the sounds he made as he walked. And I'm not just talking about the sound of his motorcycle boots hitting the pavement, there was something strangely alluring about the way his leather jacket creaked with every step. On top of that, I was also quite taken with the manner in which the metallic accessories attached to his outfit (chains, zippers, studs, etc.) seemed to jingle-jangle as he moved. Accentuated by the eerie-sounding drone music provided by composer Jack Nitzsche, the fact that the sight of this mysterious figure walking toward his equally mysterious destination was so compelling is a testament to the skill of William Friedkin as a filmmaker.

With our curiosity sufficiently piqued by this brava display of sound design, and, not to mention, monochromatic cinematography, we're ready to be sucked into the leather bound world of soggy jock-straps, wool socks, hairy chests, denim vests, and nipple licking that await us on the other side of the door. The man who we just watched enter the club, an establishment whose walls are adorned with hubcaps, exits the club just as quickly with a man with dark hair and dark eyes. After securing room at the St. James Hotel, and engaging in some sparse foreplay (the sound of creaking leather is ever-present), the two get down to business. All tuckered out after a rigorous bought of anal sex, the man who was picked up by the dark stranger awakens to find himself naked and hog tied with a knife to his throat (his leather restraints seem to get tighter the more he struggles). Suddenly the dark stranger says, "Who's here, I'm here, you're here," in his trademark creepy voice, and proceeds to stab the musclebound man with the dilated anus multiple times in the back with a kitchen knife.

Meanwhile, back at police headquarters, Captain Edelson (Paul Sorvino), who is growing increasingly frustrated by the lack of progress he's making with the case of the so-called "homo killer," decides that he needs to penetrate the leather bar scene with a more reliable phallus. Asking Steven Burns (Al Pacino), a fresh out of the academy recruit, point blank, if he's ever had his cock sucked by a man, Edelson wastes little time offering him the chance to go deep undercover to draw out a serial killer(his dark features are similar to that of the majority of the killer's victims). Of course, the catch being that he has to infiltrate a subculture he knows nothing about.

Just like with the punk and goth scenes, this process takes time. The people who make up these specific subcultures can spot an imposter like that, so you better do your homework. Taking baby steps, Steve Burns slowly transforms himself into John Forbes, an art student with a thing for black undershirts. Renting an apartment in the West Village, and making friends with his new neighbour, a playwright named Ted (Don Scardino), there's a new man on the scene and he's ready to cruise. Okay, maybe he's not quite ready to "cruise," but he's learning the ropes. Hanging out at infamous leather bars such as the Ramrod, the Anvil, and the Cockpit, Steve observes the crowd as they interact with one another.

A favourite early scene that takes place during Steve's rope learning period features Al Pacino asking Powers Boothe's "Hanky Salesman" about the handkerchiefs that are hanging in his shop. If I heard this right, a light blue hanky stuffed in your left back pocket means you like to receive oral sex, while a light blue hanky sticking out of your right back pocket indicates that you give oral sex. When it comes to green, the left back pocket signifies you're a hustler, and the right implies that you're a buyer. Moving on to yellow, the left is all about receiving golden showers, and the right means you give them. Just as he was about to explain what the colour red represents, Al's character bails. Which is a shame, because I was dying to know what the red hanky stood for. I'm gonna go ahead and assume that it had something to do with anal fisting. Anyway, like Steve, I was a little confused by the yellow hanky. And not by what constitutes a "golden shower" (people peeing on one another for erotic or malicious purposes goes back thousands of years), but by which pocket meant what.

Slightly embarrassed by the yellow hanky mix up that took place at the Ramrod, or whatever club it was (it was the one with the hubcap motif), Steve is more determined than ever to immerse himself into the gay leather bar scene. And what better way to do so than to lift weights in your apartment as "It's So Easy" by Willy DeVille kicks some serious ass on the soundtrack. And it doesn't end with sculpting his Italian-American physique. Nuh-uh. Letting guys size him up at the clubs (of course, making sure you have the correct hankie in your back pocket when said sizing up commences), developing a rapport with the bartenders, Steve is on the fast track to becoming a regular. Which is weird, because it took me a couple of months just to get to the point where I felt comfortable enough to ask the bartender at my favourite nightclub what time it was. But then again, Steve is racing against the clock (um, hello? there's a killer on the loose).

It's true, mistakes are made–Steve shows up to one of the clubs on "precinct night" not wearing a police uniform (on certain nights of the week, some of the clubs have theme nights), which is ironic, since he is a cop (he's told to leave immediately)–but for most part his gayness is strong. Only problem being, he seems to be growing bored with vaginal intercourse. How could I tell? Well, the look on his face as Nancy (Karen Allen) writhed on top of him practically screamed hetero-ennui (he reverts back to the straight world every so often to fornicate with his girlfriend). I'm not sure if this was done on purpose, but every time Karen Allen would appear onscreen I'd think to myself: What the fuck is that? Of course, it's obvious she's a human female, and quite an attractive one, I might add. But other than Karen, the film is pretty much devoid of women.

The murder sequences for the killer's next two victims, while not as gruesome as the one in the hotel, are no less effective when it came to communicating a sense of dread. The one that takes place in the park makes excellent use of sound to create its foreboding ambiance (eerie synths, crickets chirping, the sound of men moaning in the distance, and branches snapping), while the murder in the peepshow uses flickering shadows and "Lion's Share" by The Germs to spell out its terror.

If you thought being murdered to The Germs was awesome, wait until you get a load of the next scene. Wandering into the, oh, let's say it was the Cockpit, Al Pacino enters as, get this, "Shakedown" by Rough Trade is playing on the soundtrack. Whoever it was who decided to include Toronto's own Rough Trade on the Cruising soundtrack needs a raise. Seriously, Rough Trade and Cruising are practically made for one another. At any rate, Steve's gay cred is solidified once for all when he steps out onto the dance floor and begins to bust a move to Willy DeVille's "Heat of the Moment." Sniffing amyl nitrate while soaking in a sweaty pool filled with black undershirts, hairy forearms, and off to the side anal fisting, Al Pacino pumps his fists to the music as the leather dandies watch with teary-eyed admiration.

After an elaborate sting operation involving a Ramrod regular named Skip (Jay Acovone) fails to bear any fruit–though it does provide us with the sight of giant black man wearing nothing but jock strap and a cowboy hat–the film shifts into stake out mode. Following a hunch, Steve decides to tail another Ramrod regular during the light of day. Yeah, that's right, daytime. Was I saddened by the fact that the film is no longer taking place at night? Sure I was. I mean who doesn't love to watch gay men in leather jackets acting tough after dark? And, as everyone knows, the daylight is a cruel mistress, one that will eventually destroy the darkness. I think the lyrics to the Meri D. Marshall smash, "My Obsession," perfectly encapsulate my feelings on the subject: "Strangers in the daylight / Lovers after midnight / This is my obsession / I live for the darkness, I must confess."

One of the pluses that came with this shift in decor was that we finally get to see the exceedingly handsome Richard Cox in this so-called "light of day." His first appearance as Stuart Richards, which occurs during the hanky code fiasco at the Ramrod, took away my ability to breathe properly. The way he sneered at Al Pacino's character, the collar of his denim shirt brushing ever-so-slightly against chin, was so fucking hot. However, seeing him pump iron without a shirt, ride the bus, and relax in the park was, to quote myself, "tantamount to titillation torture."

The allure of black leather is so strong in Cruising, that even Karen Allen is briefly tempted by its creaking appeal (much like Det. Bayliss was drawn to leather in the Homicide: Life on the Street episode titled "A Many Splendored Thing"). Capturing the sleazy charm of the leather bar scene in late '70s New York City (the club scenes ooze authenticity), William Friedkin has made a compelling document of a period of time that will never be repeated. Sure, people still wear leather and have anal sex, but I bet they don't do it with as much gusto. No, this film is a must for anyone who loves leather, old school Al Pacino (you know, before he became Foghorn Leghorn), jock straps (especially when they're worn in a non-athletic environment), extras who nearly trip while climbing up stairs, awkward nightclub dancing, and, of course, denim vests.

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Chained Heat II (Lloyd Simandl, 1993)

2012-01-08T20:04:00.010-05:00

A cynical person, or a warped one, depending on your point-of-view, might come to the conclusion that the sister who wasn't framed for drug possession in post-communist Czechoslovakia was just jealous over the fact that it was her sister and not her whose vaginal future was being fought over by a tall lesbian and a less tall, regular-size lesbian. You mean to tell me that the sister, the one not charged with trafficking in illegal substances and sent to the notorious Razik Prison, wasn't genuinely concerned about the welfare of her wrongfully accused sister? Is that what you're saying? Even though the actresses playing the sisters were severely lacking in the charisma department, I thought the one who was trying to bust out the one who was railroaded by the Czech justice system was totally sincere about her wanting to free her unjustly imprisoned sister. Anyone who thinks otherwise would have to be pretty sick in the head. Okay, I'll admit, I did, for a second there, think that the one sister was upset over the fact that she wasn't deemed hot enough to be convicted of drug smuggling on trumped-up charges by the proprietors of an underground sex slave racket. However, since that person doesn't work here anymore, I'm ready as I'll ever be to explore the hidden treasures that are sprinkled throughout Chained Heat II, a sleazy masterpiece masquerading as a pantie fetishist's disjointed dream. Do you enjoy films that employ competent acting and compelling story lines? You do? Well, I'm sorry, but you need to ~~fuck off~~ excuse yourself. What about Czech women who like to sit crossed-legged while wearing black silk stockings? Do they claw at your genitals in a pleasing manner? Judging by the intensity of your head nodding, I'll take that as one of them resounding yes thingies.

I know, I also said the film was, what did I say? oh yeah, "a pantie fetishist's disjointed dream." Yeah, don't worry, I haven't forgotten about you. It's just that "Czech women," especially one's who are in their mid-forties, "who like to sit cross-legged while wearing black silk stockings," is kind of my thing, and being that I'm mildly self-absorbed, that's the perversion my mind is currently focused on at the moment. Nevertheless, there's no doubt in my mind that director Lloyd Simandl has a thing for white panties. Sure, one of the producers, or maybe even the script writing guy, could have been the individual with the pantie obsession–I have no way knowing–but either way, someone involved in the making of this film is definitely a pantie fiend.

Oh, and please excuse the judgmental, somewhat accusatory temperament of my tone. When I watch a film, I tend to look at the screen (I find that it's the best way to see what's going on). And while I was looking at the screen that was showing Chained Heat II, I couldn't help but notice there were a lot scenes that featured young women slipping on white cotton panties.

The year is 1993, and Czechoslovakia is finally free. Ready to turn the page on a dark chapter in their history, the nation is looking forward to tomorrow. Whoa, hold on a minute. Just because one political system has been replaced with another, does not necessarily mean that all their problems will simply melt away. The prison industrial complex that terrorized its citizens for decades remains fully intact and isn't going anywhere. Shifting from housing mostly political prisoners (enemies of the state) to one's who are convicted of drug offenses that are, for the most part, completely bogus, the Razik correctional facility, a decaying remnant of a bygone era if I ever saw one, has somehow managed to flourish in the country's newfangled free market economy.

You know your penitentiary is doing well financially when its warden, Magda Kassar (Brigitte Nielsen), is seen wearing sharp power suits on a regular basis (no doubt purchased at a shop that caters to ladies who stand over six feet tall) and walking her pet cougar through the dungeon-like corridors of her hellish correctional facility. Actually, while the power suits are featured throughout the film (right up until the final scene, in fact), the cougar is only present during the opening credits. Either way, the sight of Brigitte, who is shot from the waist down (although there's no denying who owns those long, slender legs), marching around the prison grounds in black pumps with a cougar on a leash is quite the spectacle. The sound of a whip cracking, a cougar growling, and women screaming is an excellent way to open a women in prison flick, as it clearly tells me that writer-director Lloyd Simandl, the master of Czechsploitation, is fully committed to delivering the campy goods I so wantonly crave.

Since every women in prison film needs to have a "new fish," a character who is usually sent away for a crime she didn't commit, Chained Heat II, after Brigitte has finished walking her cougar, introduces us to Alex Morrsion (Kimberly Kates), an American traveling through Czechoslovakia. Just as she's about to greet her sister Suzanne (Kari Whitman) at the train station, police arrest Aelx for drug possession. You see, while she was taking a nap, two shady-looking passengers plant cocaine in her bag. Sentenced to ten years hard labour by a stern judge, Alex is sent to, you guessed it, the notorious Razik prison.

Ushered out of the back of a van with a bunch of other girls, Alex is met by the sound of barking dogs and male guards yelling instructions in Czech. After the jarring nature of her encounter with the dogs and the guards (who are all carrying submachine guns), you'd think things would soften somewhat once inside. But things only get harder for Alex, who comes face-to-face, well, face-to-thorax with Magda: The Stylish Warden, and her loyal subordinate Rosa Schmidt (Jana Švandová), who she actually does come "face-to-face" with since she is the same height as her. Anyway, if Magda and Rosa seem like they were expecting the arrival of the naive American, that's because they totally were. Pleased by what they see ("her skin is so smooth"), Magda and Rosa play good lesbian, bad lesbian with Alex as she stands before them with her fellow inmates. Playing the bad lesbian, Rosa scolds Alex for slouching, while Magda dons her good lesbian cap by praising Alex's beauty, and, at same time, throwing Rosa the occasional stink-eye for being such a bad lesbian.

Who would have thought that Jana Švandová, an actress fifteen years older and a full foot shorter than Brigitte Nielsen, would be able to outshine her lanky co-star so easily? Not me, that's for sure. Somehow managing to lure my attention away from Brigitte, Jana is sexy and evil simultaneously. And to think, it all began during the scene where Magda and Rosa inspect the "new meat" as it's about to be processed. Both are shown sitting together with their legs crossed, yet it was Jana's shapely gams encased in nylon that were the focus of my attention. It's weird, my eyes seemed to be drawn to her as she sat there. The reason I say, "it's weird," is because I know I'm technically not supposed to be looking at her (it's Brigitte Nielsen's name above the title, not Jana Švandová's), but that's where my eyes went. It's almost as if she knew she was more alluring than Brigitte, and that confidence seemed to literally ooze from the screen. Well, at least it oozed off the screen I was watching.

Have you ever wondered where all the also-ran fashion designers go after the host tells them they "no longer measure up" on Project Runway Canada? What?!? Don't tell me you haven't seen Project Runway Canada? Girl, it's like the American version, except instead of some no talent hosebeast, PRC features the truly fabulous Iman as the show's host. At any rate, when they get kicked off the show, I can easily imagine some of the more "flamboyant" designers being mistakenly thrown into a women's prison in the former Czechoslovakia. Treated as the de facto mascot of Razik prison, the reason the women look so fashionable, especially when compared with the ladies I've seen in other women in prison flicks, is because Bobo (David Buonantony) is there to design all the outfits. An artist with a flair for the dramatic, Bobo not only helps the girls of Razik look great, he also decides to assist Alex in her quest for freedom.

Usually sheathed in drab muumuus or a loose-fitting dresses, the women who populate the women in prison universe don't usually have a lot of options when it comes to being chic in the clink. However, thanks to Bobo, the uniform the women of Razik wear has three, count 'em, three separate pieces. A brown skirt with a mild slit in the back for added mobility, a white sleeveless t-shirt, and a short-sleeved bluish grey dress shirt. Never in a million years did I think that I would see the day when a women in prison film would feature this many imprisoned women who were repeatedly teetering on the brink of jauntiness. But there they were, in all their stylish glory.

How are the people who run Razik able to afford to drape their inmates in such couture opulence? That's easy, they operate a drug lab out of the basement, well, at least Rosa does, as I'm not sure if Magda knows about this subterranean cocaine factory (all the inmates, by the way, work in the nude in order to prevent employee theft). They also allow some of the prisoners to work at an unlicensed casino/brothel as prostitutes (the evening gowns they wear are all designed by Bobo). In rare cases, sadists from around the world will pay big bucks for the opportunity to torture and kill some of the more troublesome inmates. Though, I doubt they will find many who fit that description at Razik. I mean, hello? You get to wear an outfit that contains three separate pieces. Who in their right mind would want to jeopardize such a sweet deal? In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if there wasn't a waiting list as long as a socially maladjusted traffic cone to get into Razik, the Holt Renfrew of Central European girl prisons.

Okay, there's no waiting list, but there is one woman who desperately wants to break-in to Razik. Her name is Suzanne Morrison, and she'll do anything to bust her sister out. Does she care that Alex gets to wear a three piece outfit, has two lesbians of varying degrees of tallness battling for the right to smother their European faces nostril deep in her American pussy, has befriended Tina (Lucie Benesová), a fellow prisoner with curly hair, and gets free fashion advice from a Dorothy-aligned beret-wearer named Bobo? Judging by the aggressive manner in which Suzanne is trying to get the freedom ball rolling, I'm going to say, no, she does not care. Truth be told, I can't say I blame her. After all, Suzanne's sense of style reeks of Jennifer Aniston from the first season of Friends (which, you have to admit, is a near impossible feat since the show wasn't even on the air yet). If she had say, decided to channel Brigitte Bako circa the Red Shoe Diaries instead, I would have been a tad more forgiving. But Rachel from Friends?!? I'm sorry, but that doesn't work for me at all.

If that wasn't enough, Kari Whitman is a terrible actress. And I don't mean that as a compliment. As you know, in most cases, I prefer actresses who are, oh, let's say, not good (there's nothing worse in this world than being forced to watch so-called "fine acting"). However, I couldn't help but notice that Kari was severely lacking when it came time to display functions that you and I take for granted (simple things like, blinking and head swiveling were fraught with unforeseen complications). Suck at acting all you want–hell, I'll even praise your awfulness, but at least have the common decency to be entertainingly awful. Let me give you an example: In a veiled attempt to prove she isn't Detlef Schrempf, Brigitte Nielson leans back and shows the audience the smooth contours of her throat (now that's campy). You, on the other hand, are repeatedly upstaged by your bangs.

Someone who was never once in danger of being upstaged by anything as trivial as loose clumps of forehead adjacent hair was the alluring Jana Švandová, a skintight force of nature with gams for miles (the sight her stomping around the prison grounds in her trademark black skirt and matching nylons is the stuff of leggy legend). Did you know right away that Rosa Schmidt would wind up being your favourite Chained Heat II character? You bet I did. There was just something about the way she carried herself that appealed to me. Whether spanking Brigitte Nielsen's skinny behind, crouching fully clothed in the shower (mmmm, waterlogged nylons), or telling Alex, "You fuck with my plans, I fuck with your face," Jana displays a forcefulness that was not only sexy, it made you wish that you could trade places with the people she abuses. Oh, and in case you're wondering what Jana Švandová did with her loose clumps of forehead adjacent hair, she tucked them behind her ears (she's the Angela Chase of the Czech penal system).

Watching carefully, making a special note in my pantie log every time a pair of panties appeared onscreen, I thought was doing a pretty good job keeping track of many the gratuitous shots of young women putting on white panties that are peppered throughout this movie. I'd say, "overwhelming" is best way to describe the white pantie attack that is Chained Heat II, as it inundates the viewer with so much pantie-based imagery, that you will begin to see panties in your sleep. Sure, to the uninitiated, it may seem like there are only six instances when Lloyd Simandl focuses his camera on a pantie-covered bum. Which, if you think about it, is still a lot of panties. But if you dig a little deeper, you'll notice that every frame is literally saturated with white panties.

Realizing that not everyone in the audience has a thing for white panties, the pantie-obsessed filmmaker changes gears a bit by showing Rosa's junkie slave (Petra Susser) wearing black panties. Just kidding; though, Petra's black pantie moment is all too real. No, what Chained Heat II gives us is one of the greatest prison riots in WiP history. And given how many prison riots I've seen lately, I think I'm qualified to make such a bold statement. While films like, the first Chained Heat and Women's Prison Massacre seemed a little light when it came to extras, this film has got plenty girl flesh to go around. Oh, and they're not just running around aimlessly. Nuh-uh, these ladies fire submachine guns, shoot rocket launchers, and hurl grenades. Okay, the last two are both used by the same inmate, but as far as submachine guns go, these girls kick some serious ass. If you like fashion forward gals who wield automatic weapons in brown skirts, you'll definitely want to stick around for the film's action-packed finale, as it's the perfect cure-all for those suffering from white pantie fatigue.

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Chained Heat (Paul Nicholas, 1983)

2012-01-05T22:13:00.010-05:00

My fragile grip on reality suffers another blow, as I find myself yet again under the drably attired spell of a women in prison film. It's gotten so bad, that every time the WiP movie I'm watching decides to leave the walls of the prison, the sebaceous cysts that litter my back feel like they're going to simultaneously explode. Of course, you could avert this pus-laden calamity by steering clear of the genre altogether. You have got to be kidding, right? And miss the opportunity to watch Linda Blair (Hell Night) and Sybil Danning (They're Playing with Fire) play inmates at a prison where John Vernon (Savage Streets) plays a hot-tubbing warden who likes to dabble in amateur pornography and Henry Silva (Megaforce) is a drug dealing pimp with a thing for fortysomething women who like to wear grey slacks? I don't think so. If you catch me watching Chained Heat II, then you'll definitely know I have a problem. Hell, I'll even check myself into rehab. But until then, let me enjoy my sleazy movies, I'm not hurting anyone. Spoken like a true addict. These films are not only rotting your brain, they're ruining your outlook on life. Remember that attractive woman you were telling me about? Yeah, the one you saw in the bookstore the other day. Well, do you recall what you told me the first thing that sprang to mind when you saw her coquettishly standing in the cookbook section? If memory serves me correctly, and it usually always does, the image of her fighting a group of unruly lesbians in the shower of a poorly run correctional facility was the first thing that popped into my head. You see, that right there, that's not even close to being normal. In fact, it's totally fucked up if you ask me. You used to be so well-adjusted, but now you're just creepy and sad. Really, you haven't imagined what total strangers might look like if they were to take part in a prison shower fight? Of course, I have. But that's not the point. My thoughts, unlike yours, aren't limited to shower fights. I think about wind surfing, crochet, antique furniture, cycling, and misappropriated anilingus. What you need to do is expand your horizons. Run a marathon, take kayaking lessons, read The Help, buy an electric toothbrush. In other words, branch out and embrace the non-prison shower fighting beauty of this world.

Is it okay if I write an obsessively wordy tangent about this particular movie? Like I said, it's got Linda Blair in it. Since you have already started, you might as well finish it. And besides, I'm dying to know what you thought about Marcia Karr's legs; word on the street is that they're killer in this flick.

You know how the sound of church bells ringing beckon the faithful, and how the laughter coming from a child's chocolate-stained laugh hole makes the elderly smile? (Ugh, just typing that gave me a yeast infection.) Well, the sound of keys jingling, prison bars slamming, women screaming, and nightsticks being purposely knocked against metal are what cheer me up when I'm down in the dumps. On a related note, do you know how some people like to sleep with those noise machine thingies by their bed? Yeah, well, if I was in charge of designing those "thingies," I would add "women's prison" to the list of available sounds. In fact, I'd slap that puppy right between "rainforest" and "white noise."

Informing us right from the get-go that the unnamed women's prison located on the banks of the L.A. River is no afternoon picnic with bass player from Fashion, Chained Heat opens on a blonde prisoner who seems to be at the end of her tether. How do I know this? Well, for one thing, she's sitting in the foetal position, and you don't have to be a body language expert to figure out that people who sit like that aren't exactly the happiest of campers. Tired of being raped by a guard named Stone (Robert Miano), Susie (Jonna Lee) decides to put a stop to his raping ways by pulling a gun on him. Unfortunately, she doesn't get very far, as she is blown away by a series of shotgun blasts.

The sole purpose of this little vignette is to show what kind of hell Carol Henderson (Linda Blair) is getting herself into. A so-called "prison virgin," Carol is on her way to serve an eighteen month sentence for vehicular manslaughter. Luckily, Carol happens to be sitting next to Val (Sharon Hughes) during the van ride over. A veteran of the California penal system, Val decides to look out for Carol, whose innocent demenour is no match for the hardened criminals who populate this supposedly overcrowded prison (overcrowded my ass, there are never more than twelve inmates onscreen at any given moment). As Carol, Val, and two others, Blue Eyes (Jody Medford) and a "TV freak" named Bubbles (Louisa Moritz) wait to be processed, we're introduced to some of these hardened criminals. Chiefly, a chain-smoking blonde named Ericka (Sybil Danning), who, judging by way she gave non-verbal instructions to her equally blonde underlings, the statuesque Lulu (Greta Blackburn) and the rough and tumble Bobbi (Dee Biederbeck), is in charge of the prison's drug trade. Whoa, you mean to tell me Sybil Danning is a prisoner in this dump? Even if Val is protecting her, Linda Blair doesn't stand a chance against Sybil Danning. I mean, look at Linda, she's so soft and innocent, and Sybil is, well, she's none of those of things.

If there's anyone who can keep Sybil Danning's luscious thighs in check it's Tamara Dobson's the Duchess, the leader of the prison's black population. This power struggle is on display early on as Ericka, who, as usual is flanked by Lulu and Bobbi, asks the Duchess for permission to kill Debbie (Monique Gabrielle), a shapely snitch who's in the warden's pocket, or, in this film's case, naked in his hot tub. While there was some mild racial tension between Albina and Emanuelle in Women's Prison Massacre, Chained Heat is the first WiP I've seen to examine race relations to the extent where it becomes part of the film's plot. At any rate, the Duchess sanctions the murder, just as long as her people don't experience any of "the heat" her death may produce.

It's hard to believe that while all this going on, that Carol, Val, Blue Eyes, and Bubbles haven't been processed yet. Still waiting in the holding cell, Linda Blair gets to try out her transvestite empathy face. What's a "transvestite empathy face," you ask? Well, it's the face mildly chubby actresses make when they see transvestites being picked on by curly-haired lesbians. Powerless to do anything to help the transvestite in peril, all the mildly chubby actress can do is weakly protest by saying something along the lines of "leave him alone." Even though there isn't much of a chance that her objection will cause the curly-haired lesbian to stop picking on the transvestite, Val tells Carol not to get involved. It's an excellent piece of advice, as even a harmless discussion about daytime soaps can lead to chaos.

An inordinately leggy inmate named Twinks (Marcia Karr) finds this out the hard way when the Gina Gershon look-alike agrees with Bubbles' opinion regarding The Young and the Restless. When she's not fighting transvestites over the ownership of cigarette butts, the curly-haired lesbian is getting in Twinks' grill over soap operas. Don't worry about Twinks, though. You know how Val looks out for Carol? Well, Twinks has a beanpole named Paula (Edy Williams) to protect her.

As you can tell, I could watch what transpires in this holding cell all day long. But Carol, Val and the others eventually do get processed and make their way to the dorm. Of course, not before witnessing the stabbing of a black inmate (the Duchess is gonna be none too pleased). Mere moments after they have settled in, Carol and Val are confronted by Ericka and Bobbi. This particular sequence gives us our first real look at the outfits the ladies will be wearing throughout the film. While not the sexiest duds I've seen in a movie like this, the grey, oversize, one-hundred percent cotton number with buttons in the front is probably the most comfortable. This scene is also famous in that it features a kiss between Linda and Sybil. Unfortunately, it's one of those forced, sitcom-quality same-sex kisses. In other words, it's super lame. If you want titillation, check out Sharon Hughes' big hair, or better yet, feast your eyes on Dee Biederbeck's knees. If you're like me, and you love misshapen knees, check out what Dee's got going on at the joint located between the thigh and the lower leg, it's knobby heaven down there.

It should go without saying, but everyone who works at this dump is corrupt. The prison's warden, Mr. Bachmann (John Vernon), sells drugs and shoots homemade erotica in his lavishly decorated office, the co-warden, Captain Taylor (Stella Stevens) sells drugs and has no qualms about murdering anyone who stands in her way, Dr. Lester (Henry Silva), at least I think he was a doctor, sells drugs and pimps out the inmates on weekends, and the guards are all rapists and sadists.

The fight to secure Carol's loyalty begins as Ericka, the warden, Lester and the Duchess all make their plays to bring her into their respective folds. The warden wants to Carol to replace the deceased Debbie as his go-to snitch, Ericka has her sights on her to be a member of her gang and as her possible lover, Lester is thinking about utilizing her generous curves at the swanky coke parties he throws out in Beverly Hills, and the Duchess wants her to reveal the name of the inmate who killed one of her black sisters.

All this pressure to satisfy so many opposing viewpoints leads Carol to become somewhat dejected. And who better to convey this glum temperament than Linda Blair, the queen of rosy-cheeked grumpiness. One of the few inmates to show any signs that they're unhappy over the fact that they're in prison, Linda employs her mopey face like it were a broadsword. Undermining the goodwill of everyone around her, Miss Blair saps her co-stars and audience of their will to live. If you thought she looked morose while taking a shower, folding laundry, and playing checkers, you should see her when she wears a blue, cocaine-inspired disco pantsuit; it's like someone had just killed her goldfish. Either way, Linda Evans circa Dynasty would definitely approve of Linda's chic getup.

Shepherded out of the prison via a sewer pipe and placed into the back of a limousine, Lester takes Carol and Val to an upscale party. Judging by the easy-going nature of Val's staircase striptease, it's obvious she's done this before. Reduced to a pair of black fishnet stockings, black pumps, one black opera glove and a white bustier, Val hurls her dainty frame back and forth in a veiled attempt to appease the pent-up desires lurking inside the hearts and minds of the party's drug-addled clientele. On the other hand, Carol knows nothing about the subtle art of seduction, and finds herself woefully unprepared for the untoward solicitation that is about to come her way. ("Get on all fours. I wanna see your ample hindquarters ripple as a result of my purposeful thrusts." is an example of what someone might to say to her.)

Severely lacking when it comes to furnishing the over-the-top theatrics of its peers, Chained Heat desperately needs someone to step up and employ some affected mannerisms in a prison setting in order to remain relevant in today's camp-based world. Challenging Sybil Danning's character to a fight, Tamara Dobson (Cleopatra Jones) contributes to the cause when she calls her a "chalk-faced whore." Which is, hands down, the film's greatest line. Sadly, though, Tamara is too self-righteous to be taken seriously as a camp icon. Wearing grey slacks with an inexcusable amount of poise and dignity, Stella Stevens comes close to providing the campy goods. But other than her proclivity for dark eye makeup and the tirade she throws while in the midst of railroading an inmate for a crime she didn't commit, Stella's Captain Taylor is ultimately a bit of a disappointment, camp-wise.

While not even close to being a factor when it came to rescuing the film from its camp-free shortfall, Marcia Karr (Killer Workout) gives the film's best stealth performance. You may not always notice her, but Marcia is never far from the action as Twinks, a shy brunette who likes to draw and show off her tantalizing stems. Present during the holding cell sequence, there when Ericka and Bobbi do some of their best bullying (she's ushered to the prison's primary "rape room"), and you can see her sitting on the floor (her beautiful legs stretched out for the perverted world to see) while Carol rallies the troops, Marcia quietly rules over the proceedings with a leggy grace (I was gonna say "leggy sang-froid," but I don't want to come across as a pompous prat). Anyway, I'm glad someone did–you know, be leggy and junk, because I need more than an expertly coiffed she-mullet and sparsely attended prison riot to satisfy my frightfully specific WiP kink.

uploaded by dayneiac
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Final Flesh (2009)

2012-01-01T20:02:00.009-05:00

It's nearly impossible for the cover on my chesterfield to avoid the ravages of non-stop sitting. Even when I'm sitting on its taupe surface while staring at the most egregious pieces of entertainment my eyes have ever looked at, my chesterfield cover is usually a disjointed mess by the time my remote control has been stolen (the sassy cabal of imaginary housewives that live inside my subconscious are always stealing it). Nevertheless, I couldn't help but notice that my inexplicably exalted chesterfield cover was as smooth as a baby seal's labia after I had finished partaking in an ultra private screening of Final Flesh, a movie that exists, therefore, I watched it. (Keep it to yourself fun-fact: My baby baby seal's labia's first words were, "where's the rest of my cunt?") A weird phenomenon, to be sure. But then again, I thought The Human Stain was actually about stains–you know, the kind you might accidentally come across while doing scholarly research about the architectural integrity of your average nudie booth (the majority of them, by the way, are not, I repeat, not, fireproof). In other words, what do I know? Please, however, do not ask me that what I know. My biggest fear, besides centipedes and overlong blow jobs, is other people finding out how little I know. Speaking of fear, the windy side of the door is a scary place (a seemingly endless concourse of misshapen objects who want to murder you). It's even more scary when you're using your face to look at something that features the sights and sounds that transpire within this mushy helping of must-watch buffoonery. As I looked at this, oh, let's call it a "thing," I kept worrying that the unseen entities that exist on the windy side of my door were going to break-in and pepper my organic structure with accusatory glances. You see, that's why my chesterfield cover was so unwrinkled when the cathode afterbirth had slithered back into the slimy crevice from which it came. I was so afraid of being repeatedly fingered as someone who willfully watches transgressive pornsploitation, that I sat perfectly still–you know, as not to arouse suspicion in those who languish in the realm where the wind blows undisturbed.

While it's true, the outside forces repeatedly failed to compromise my stillness as I looked in its general direction, the need to inform others what I experienced on the night I decided wade through this unruly quagmire was as strong as ever. Oh sure, it was clear to me right from the start that the mentally unsound contents contained herein were the cinematic equivalent of allowing a nearsighted badger shave your pubes. But there was no way I was going to keep the crease-free details of my Final Flesh experience all to myself.

Jarring, obtuse, discombobulating, and, I suppose, humourous in places, Final Flesh is a daring experiment that will severely test the sensual limits of your flesh psyche. Since most people aren't used to this kind of test (their flesh psyches are akin to dipping your genitals ankle deep into a bland, flavourless vat of acidic gruel), the first five minutes will probably go something like this: Well, naturally, you'll start off a little confused by what's been placed in front of you (what is this? what's going on?), then anger will begin to set in (how did I get roped into watching this?), and lastly, hate (where's my primary stabbing knife?).

However, when the first mommy doesn't serenade us but merely tells us in a calm and rational manner all about the terrible nightmare she had last month–you know, the one that involved her successfully defecating in one of her home's many psychosexual burn wards–things, much like the shards of her African American stool, start to loosen up a bit. Suddenly, all the negative feelings you were experiencing have miraculously turned into ones of a more positive nature. It will even make you reevaluate everything that occurred up until mommy's triumphant poop dream. Take me, for example, I thought bathing in the tears of neglected children was an appalling thing to do. But after some thoughtful reflection and no meditating whatsoever, my brain decided to lighten up. And besides, corrupt politicians rarely ever cry live rodents. If anything, they're the ones who bathe in angel blood on a regular basis.

Told from the perspective of four families on the day an atom bomb is about to drop, each chapter features a pre-apocalyptic mommy, a pre-apocalyptic daddy, and their sexually active pre-apocalyptic daughter. Usually opening with the three of them sitting at their kitchen or dining room table, the film meticulously chronicles their various interactions with one another during their final hours on earth.

Chapter One: "The Birth of a Raw Piece of Meat Named Mister Peterson." After finishing a holy book in an undignified location (her reading is accompanied by a stark electronic pulse), the pre-apocalyptic daughter returns to the kitchen to usher in the end of the world with the rest of her family. Instead of simply waiting for the bomb to drop in a state of docile melancholy, the pre-apocalyptic daddy decides to show his family how democracy works. Sniffing their armpits while their voting arms are razed above their heads, dad completes his lesson when he stops smelling their armpits. Declaring that there's something going on in her panties, the daughter gives birth to an egg. Feeling left out (the daughter tells her mom to basically fuck off when it comes to visitation rights), mommy pulls a cantaloupe from her loins. Stricken with a mysterious illness after breast feeding Mister Peterson (a slab of sentient meat that emerged from the daughter's vagina shortly after her mom's cantaloupe was born), the daughter needs to consume a whole can of chilly before she can throw up in the can that currently contains copious amounts of uneaten chilly.

Continuing with its prenatal fighting angle, the pre-apocalyptic father is told by the others that he's nine month's old. Wearing a bib and a diaper, he tries to enter his wife's uterus. Unfortunately, despite his daughter's words of encouragement ("get up in there!), his fully grown melon is unable to breach her womb's tiny door. With its focus on entering and re-entering wombs, and its obsession with expelling fecal matter, it's obvious that this was all about the fragility of life. Whether you're a human baby or a small piece of fruit, we all long for the security that only a well-oiled embryonic membrane can properly provide.

Chapter Two: "Eat Arm Nagasaki." Are you easily persuaded by things that are written by the hand of God? If you are, then you'll cream your demon when you come across these flesh-covered white people. The father is sporting a white sweatshirt with the phrase "porn for the people" written across the front, the daughter wears glasses, but she doesn't seem to be all that smart (she's porn smart), and the mother is too leggy to be immersed a pre-nuke sticky pickle such as this (the image of her agreeable stems being slowly roasted over an open hellfire brings much flaky wax to my respective ear canals). However, when assembled together in the same room, they somehow manage to make it not work at all. The afterlife, death, heaven, and bleeding emotions, those of you who love their erotica to question the very existence of the universe will have a field day with this chapter.

The father is addicted to phone sex, but instead of telling the pregnant art students on the other end of the line to glorify his unseen penis, he likes to tell them that he is blonde (which, by the way, he's totally not); mommy likes to converse with her left foot (the word "wisdom" is written in lipstick on her forehead for some strange reason); and the daughter is highly possessive when it comes to the ownership of heaven. Anyway, they're either wallowing in God's stomach or God's bowels, but it doesn't really matter where they are, they just want out. How does one induce God to vomit and/or shit? I have no idea. But I would love to see someone, like, say, actor Bronson Pinchot or Judy Greer's character from Archer attempt to masturbate to the sight of a fake nerdy pornstar doing either of those things.

Favourite ball-related lines uttered during chapter two: "I want a separate tombstone for my nuts" and, of course, "Rape the shame from my balls."

Chapter three: "The Entire Universe Has Been Killed in a Spanish Boating Accident." Three more people awaken from some kind of slumberful while seated at a table. This time, are you sitting down? the table is covered with leaves, and not only that, dead leaves! Trapped in nature's infinite expanse, the pre-apocalyptic father figure gets up and declares to his fellow family members, "I've had it up to here consciousness." I hear you, man. The world is full of too much malarky to be awake for most of the day. If you avert your gaze, you won't notice that mommy and daddy both have a skull tattoos on their backs. And judging by what they do next, it would seem that intercourse, or, as it's called in this case, "boning," is performed by mashing backs their backs together in a veiled attempt to achieve corporeal satisfaction. I wonder if this makes sense to anyone, because I'm starting to feel lost.

Luckily, their pre-apoocalyptic daughter comes along just in the nick of time to bring some much needed normalcy to the proceedings when her right hand is transformed into an entity known as "Miss Pearl." If anyone's seen Evil Dead 2 or Idle Hands, you'll know that hand possession is quite common in popular culture. In other words, seeing the daughter character, her rock hard body showing no signs of pornographic wear and tear, flaunting her haunted hand undaunted was one of the few things that made any sense.

Shaking a plastic container full of meat, stabbing conch shells with turkey basters, using an eraser to undo unwanted pregnancies, daring folks to give birth doggiestyle, killing dinner with karate, and wrongly assuming you have more than one dick, Final Flesh is the Party Doll A Go-Go! for the Friendster generation. While forcing porno actors to recite asinine dialogue with deadpan perfection is nothing new, Vernon Chatman (Wonder Showzen) takes the moron manipulating genre places Rinse Dream could only dream of going. Watching people try to pleasure themselves to Nightdreams is hilarious, watching people try to do the same while in the presence of Final Flesh is downright horrifying.

Even though the word "better" has pretty much lost all meaning over the past couple of years, the final chapter of Final Flesh–Chapter four: "Who the Hell is Proxy? My Name is Paulie"–is probably better than anything David Lynch (The Grandmother) has made over the last twenty years. Bathed in darkness, the bomb is getting closer to falling, and this family of neo-beatniks are starting to lose their grip on reality. Moaning in unison by the window, the black-clad, brunette trio get their thick thighs and ankle tattoos all twisted in a bunch over their impending doom. While the sight of the mom smearing a banana all over her daughter's chest might stir some genitals, I was actually more turned on by the fact that the daughter uses the word, "forthwith," than anything involving smooshed fruit or sautéed light fixtures.

My favourite scene in the Final Flesh universe is the one where the neo-beatnik mommy scrapes the neo-beatnik daddy's cock of cheese with a cheese grater. If that wasn't enough, the bits of cheese that fall away from his irregular penis land on the bed to spell out the word, "nature."

After an optical suicide attempt is diverted to LaGuardia, a close proximity walkie talkie dinner conversation has run its course, a dire warning to the owner of a Honda Opulent is performed in blackface, and when the hole where dice-based oral sex usually excels has been shut for good ("my mouth is closed for business"), it's time to put a fork in this undertaking. Fittingly, it ends with a Bergmanesque examination of life and death ("we're ghosts in foetel form"). The latter is dealt with the wedding between two dead bodies ("I now pronounce you cadaver and corpse"), and the former has something to do with apples and chickens ("death is a prenatal memory"). The sensation you feel as you watch Final Flesh is tantamount to what an infant, toddler, or placenta drenched baby giraffe must go through when he or she starts walking for the first time, as it is unlike anything that has ever existed. In the end, we're all human openings searching for suitable companionship, and I am sort of glad some of my openings were able to experience Final Flesh in all its festering, fissure testing glory.

uploaded by DragCity

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Hell of the Living Dead (Bruno Mattei, 1980)

2011-12-25T21:09:00.007-05:00

Rolling around on the floor, clasping at the casing I keep my brain in with both hands, isn't something I do often. But when it does happen, it's usually for a good reason. Now, I understand it when, oh, let's say, a shoe salesmen or a bank teller fails to grasp subtle nuances of your average zombie apocalypse, but highly trained members of a super-elite squad of commandos? They should flourish in a world overrun by flesh-eating ghouls, as the skills possessed by shoe salesmen and bank tellers are no longer required. Whether it's a geriatric zombie with a cat living inside its chest cavity or a child zombie with their dad's entrails dripping from their once cute little chins, these men should be front and centre when it comes to killing zombies. However, when a colleague, one who is obviously cognizant to the problem's head ventilating solution, tries to tell them where to aim ("shoot them in the head!") his words seem to go, rather ironically, straight over their heads. The inability to follow basic instructions wasn't the only thing had me writhing on the proverbial shag carpeting in Hell of the Living Dead (a.k.a. Virus Cannibale), the characters can't seem to do anything right. If there's any film where the dead have a distinct advantage over their living peers, it's definitely this one. Filming in a vast wilderness filled with nature, director Bruno Mattei (The Private House of the SS) captures humanity at its most useless. Unable to carry out even the most basic of tasks with any effectiveness, these people don't stand a chance against the hordes of radioactive zombies who desperately want to gnaw on their supple limbs. Mocking the human characters at every turn, the animals are always present, yet, at the same time, they seem like they're not there at all. And judging by the way the monkeys, the elephants, the jackals, and the water fowl appeared to frolic with an untroubled form of panache, you would think the zombie plague was the figment of a troubled turtle's turbulent imagination. But that's the brilliance of Mr. Mattei as a storyteller, he manages to trick you into believing that humankind and the animal kingdom are completely separate. But as everyone knows, they exist at the exact same time.

When a fox captures its prey, it goes straight for the jugular. Suffocating it until it is no longer living, the fox learned how to do this by watching its parents. People, on the other hand, boast a natural inclination to penetrate the brain matter of their fellow human beings. To put in another way, we don't need to be educated when it comes to jabbing foreign objects into the skulls of others. Whether it be articles of faith, nationalistic tendencies, cultural traditions, or hollow point bullets, the innate desire to poison/alter the human mind is something that lives within all us. What I want to know is, why don't these intuitive skills kick in when it comes to destroying the brains of zombies?

Instead of watching your friend get ripped to shreds by a group of dermatologically-challenged monsters, one's who, by the way, clearly have no qualms when it comes to invading your friend's personal space, why not help them out by shooting as many zombies in the head as you can with the machine gun you're currently holding in your hands? You know, give them a fighting chance. I'm sure they would do the same for you. The first instance of what I like to call, "don't just stand there syndrome" occurs almost immediately when two technicians working at a super-secret nuclear power plant on the island of New Guinea are confronted by a radioactive rat while performing a routine inspection. Somehow the rodent has managed to crawl up the pant leg of one of the technician's radiation suits and has started to eat his skin. While the rat is snacking on his face, his colleague, you guessed it, just stands there as his partner begins to spew blood all over the inside of his poorly tailored radiation suit.

Incompetence aside, the film has been nothing but wall-to-wall lab coats, nonsensical science jargon, plumes of green radioactive gas, and the sound of Goblin throbbing on the soundtrack, what more could you want? Yeah, hi. Long time listener, first time caller. I would like to see a scene where a guy in a lab coat, wearing a gas mask, inexplicably takes off said gas mask just as a radioactive zombie is about to bite him in the shoulder. We can do that. In fact, what you just described is about to happen. Let's watch. Ewww, that was nasty. I wonder why he took off his gas mask? Weird. Anyway, I liked how some of the radioactive zombies were still wearing their hard hats when they began to attack their non-zombie co-workers, as it added a sense of realism to the proceedings.

What we just witnessed at the nuclear power plant was the complete and utter failure of "operation sweet death," and with the name like that, it's no wonder it failed. Meanwhile, over at the U.S. Consulate, "a bunch of crazy goddamn terrorists" have taken the staff hostage, and are threatening to kill them all if their demands aren't met. This segment was the most tedious in the entire film as it features no plumes of radioactive green gas, no garland thongs, no animals frolicking, and definitely no zombies. It's sole purpose for existing is to introduce us to the members of the elite commando unit I alluded to earlier and to show them receiving a dire warning from a dying terrorist. And while it was a tad on the long side as far as introductions and the communicating of dire warnings go, it gets the job done.

It's true, I don't recall why four of the elite commandos were sent to the jungles of New Guinea, but that's where they end up going after the showdown at the U.S. Consulate. I'm willing to bet their arrival in New Guinea has something to do with the incident at the nuclear power plant. At any rate, the four elite commandos, Vincent (Selan Karay), Lt. London (José Gras), Osborne (Josep Lluís Fonoll), and Zantoro (Franco Garofalo), are seen milling about near a wall of skeletons. In the meantime, a passive-aggressive married couple, Steve (Pep Ballester) and Josie (Esther Mesina), and their injured young son (he's got a bloody lesion on his neck), and a couple of journalists, Mack (Gaby Renom) and Lia Rousseau (Margit Evelyn Newton), have parked their vehicle in, what looks like, an abandoned missionary town about a mile away from where the commandos are.

While it's inevitable that the two groups are going to merge with one another, there's no way I'm gonna be able to keep track of all these people. No, I'm afraid some of you are going to have to die. Any volunteers? Hey, Josie. Why don't you go exploring–you know, poke around inside those empty buildings over there. If you're lucky, you might get attacked by a zombie dressed like a priest. And, hey, badly injured little boy. Would you hurry up and die already? The sound you struggling to breath has grown tiresome. What would really cool is if you died while lying in your sleeping father's lap, turned into a zombie, and began to consume his internal organs as he napped. As for the reporters, you can wander around a bit. But don't go too far, I like your overall look, and would be mildly upset if you were to be torn apart at this juncture.

Let's see, so that's four elite commandos and two reporters. Yeah, I can work with that. After all, six is a much lower number than nine. Some quick notes about the scene in the abandoned missionary town: Children, say what you will about them (they're annoying, pretty much useless in every possible way imaginable, and contribute nothing of value to the zombie apocalypse), but the kid in the Hell of the Living Dead sports the best zombie face the genre has ever seen. And if Esther Mesina's voice sounds familiar while she's screaming for help, well, that's because her voice was dubbed by none other than Carolyn De Fonseca (the dubbing artist who provided the voice for Albina in Women's Prison Massacre and Iris in Beyond the Darkness).

"These mothers have got more lives than a cat," and it's with the utterance of that line that we're officially introduced the greatest zombie killer in the history of zombie cinema. His named is Zantoro, and he's only one who know how to kill zombies. While firing his submachine gun at a couple of zombies in an abandoned classroom, Zantoro notices that they only drop to the ground when you pierce their skulls with a bullet (any object will do, but bullets seem to work the best). Dying to tell the rest of his squad, he runs over to his commanding officer, who is currently blasting a little boy zombie in the chest with multiple rounds from his pistol, shoots the kid in the head, and says, "The head! Shoot them in the head!"

It's evident that "shoot them in the head" is too difficult a concept for them to grasp, because the very next day the group find themselves besieged by a throng of zombies in a jungle clearing, and everyone not named Zantoro seems to be shooting them everywhere but in the head. Frustrated by this pathetic display of marksmanship, Zantoro tries to give them another demonstration on how to properly kill a zombie. This time pointing to his own head, Zantoro puts his life in jeopardy to teach them the proper way to dispatch a zombie. Toying with the undead as they crowd around him, Zantoro calls the zombies "a bunch of turds," while, at the same time, periodically shooting a few of them in the head to hammer his point home.

Whether or not his comrades were able to comprehend what he was putting out there with his improvised how-to successfully put down a zombie in a jungle setting seminar is still up in the air. However, the fact one of the members of his team does manage to kill a zombie while investigating a suburban home soon afterward was a promising step in the right direction. It's true, the zombie he ended up killing was an old lady who couldn't even walk (she had a cat living inside her thorax), but you know what they say, baby steps. You could tell the pressure that ultimately comes with being the only person on earth who knows how to kill a zombie was starting take its tole on Zantoro's delicate psyche. Turning his hat backward then turning it forward again almost immediately during a rare quiet moment in the back of their sport-utility vehicle was the hat turning turning point for the unhinged commando. Slowly realizing that the last remnants of his sanity are beginning to erode, Zantoro struggles to maintain his grip on reality as the particulars of their mysterious mission start to become more clear.

While the bug-eyed Zantoro represents the pinnacle of zombie-killing efficiency, Lia Rousseau is the master when it comes to screaming while in the presence of zombies. She's also quite proficient when it comes to looking sincere while staring at natives. Removing her standard issue journalist shirt, Lia's nipples are painted and her probably Italian crotch is covered with garlands faster than you can say, where did they find a garland thong on such short notice? Told to look at New Guinea tribesmen while wearing a chocolate vanilla swirl teardrop on her face, Margit Evelyn Newton must have jumped at the chance to go native, because she goes native like no other actress has ever gone native before.

There was a weird, otherworldly quality to way Margit observed the natives in their natural habitat; it almost seemed like she and the natives were from totally different planets. In fact, it felt like Margit wasn't even there at times. But that's not what drew me to Margit as a performer. No, it was her ability to scream on cue. You know how celebrities like, Cary Grant (a.k.a. Archibald Alexander Leach) and Charo (a.k.a. María Rosario Pilar Martínez Molina Gutiérrez de los Perales Santa Ana Romanguera y de la Hinojosa Rasten), have official biographers, men and women whose job it is to chronicle the lives of their chosen subject? Well, I would like to be Margit Evelyn Newton's official Hell of the Living Dead scream biographer. Of course, I realize I'm going to need to do more than just count the number of times she screams in this movie to be considered her official scream biographer (by the end of the film, I had counted eleven unique screams). But I believe, with a little elbow grease and some good old fashion sticktoitiveness, that I can make this woefully misguided dream a reality.

First of all, I know the inside of Margit's mouth like the back of my hand. And secondly, um, you know what? I don't have a "secondly" right at this moment, but I'm sure if I did, it would be pertinent as all get out. Speaking of her mouth, with a hefty eleven screams under her belt, I wonder how many lozenges Margit popped during the making of this film? I'm gonna say, "eleven," as in, one lozenge for each scream. Anyway, my favourite screams were the ones she tried to stifle. The best examples of this particular style of scream were the double-fisted scream stifle that occurs as a result seeing a small child eating his father's intestines (scream #2) and the open-palmed, back-handed number she employs while helplessly watching her male companion ripped apart in an elevator (scream #8).

Creating a world where straightforward lessons pertaining to head ventilation are completely ignored, Bruno Mattei is one of the few filmmakers who fully understands the important role nature plays during the zombie apocalypse. With humans hunting one another for food, nature is free to stretch its wings. This freedom is best signified when we see a herd of African elephants running through the brush. Now, you're probably thinking to yourself, how did a herd of African elephants wind up in New Guinea? Well, that's easy, they swam. But the reason they swam in the first place was because they no longer fear humans.

However, not everything in this film is as easily explained. Take, for example, one of the female lab coat-wearing zombies we spot during the film's action-packed, eye-popping finale. If you look closely, you'll notice she's wearing a pair of white high-heel cowboy-style ankle boots. What kind of person wears high-heel cowboy-style ankle boots to their job at a remote nuclear power plant on New Guinea? While her decision to go with a white pair made perfect to sense me, as they looked amazing paired with a regulation length white lab coat, I couldn't fathom her fashion choice in relation to her line of work. The only logical explanation I could think of was that she was going to a Mötley Crüe concert after work, and didn't feel like going home to change. They say that even the greatest films have flaws, and if the only one I could find in Hell of the Living Dead involved a five second shot of a zombie's inexplicable footwear, someone is doing something right.

uploaded by revokcom

Special thanks to Kev D. over at Zombie Hall for making me acutely aware of this zombie epic.

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All Ladies Do It (Tinto Brass, 1992)

2011-12-18T19:58:00.009-05:00

Shapely beyond the limits of structural reason, her well-proportioned gluteus maximus seems to hold sway over the entire universe. Dominating the celestial proceedings like a fully illuminated moon on a clear night in Whitehorse, the creased mound of amplified flesh at the centre of this highly erotic undertaking will sit on your face until you give in to its abundant charms. Oh, and don't bother trying to scream for help, as your pathetic cries will no doubt be muffled by the sheer weight of its girthy aplomb. The greatest film about ass appreciation ever produced, Tinto Brass's All Ladies Do It (a.k.a. Così Fan Tutte) is a film that repeatedly tests one's patience for scenes that revolve around the worship and the glorification of an Italian woman's sublime backside. Luckily for me, I'm not mentally ill, and embraced the film's butt-centric point-of-view with a jaunty brand of effervescent ease. Wait a gosh darn minute. Did you just say this was, and I quote, "The greatest film about ass appreciation ever produced"? Yeah, I know what you're thinking, the market is flooded with films–and I use the term "films" rather loosely–that purportedly celebrate asses, how do you know this particular film is the greatest? Well, first of all, those other ass flicks are complete and utter trash, and I don't mean "trash" in an ironic, "Kesha is awesome," sort of way ("hot and dangerous"), they're actual garbage ("stockings ripped up all the side"). And secondly, Tinto Brass (Salon Kitty) seems to be one of the few directors out there who realizes that most genitals aren't equipped with eyes. Understanding that engorgement starts in the mind's eye, Tinto wraps his fetishization of the female caboose in a candy-coloured cloak of pure fabulousness. In other words, he balances the perverted and the aesthetic in a way that keeps both ends of the titillation spectrum happy.

Storming through the doors of her apartment, Diana Bruni (Claudia Koll) is returning home from another night of "happy banging." Walking toward the audience with great fanfare (the music on the soundtrack acknowledges her swagger by giving off an air of feminine bravado), Tinto Brass wastes little time establishing the configuration of the rarefied culo we'll be spending the next ninety or so minutes with, when he follows her into the living room. The fact that he was unafraid to get his camera as close as possible to her bum as she walked toward her destination was very comforting to me. Think about it, we're only five seconds into the picture, and my mind is already at ease. A vision in thigh-high pvc boots, black silk stockings, and a super-short red dress, Diana, who is calling out to her husband Paolo (Paolo Lanza), strips down to her underwear, well, sort of, as she says later in the film, "I'm minus underpants." And her black bra, while giving her the support she needs, is pretty much useless when it comes to providing her with the coverage she needs to go about her day in a non-nipple gawking manner.

Sitting down at her vanity, Diana takes pen to paper. What she's writing about probably involves this Paolo fella, who is nowhere to be found. But never mind that, the focus of the scene seems mainly to be on the engaging contours of Diana's delicious hindquarters. The opening credits haven't even finished yet, and I'm already starting to think that this going to be too much for me. I mean, did they really have to get that close to Claudia Koll's ass sitting on that cushiony stool? The way her garter belt acted as a frame, the sunlight coming in from the window bathing it with its, warm, rejuvenating glow, was probably one the most beautiful things I have ever seen in motion picture. Why doesn't every film, I wondered as she scribbled away, feature a scene where an Italian woman wanders her apartment in lingerie? I'm willing to bet a shitload of money I don't have that if I went down to my local multiplex, none of the many films currently screening there have anything close to the living special effect that is the sight of Claudia Koll wearing nonfunctional lingerie in this particular movie. Talk about your crimes against humanity.

Suddenly, it's night, and we're transported to a swanky rooftop party where a female poet, wearing yet another nonfunctional top (it's only the film's second scene and and we've already had two nonfunctional tops), is reading one of her erotic poems (which, of course, has a woman's ass as its central theme). Boasting the temperament of a commercial for a high-end vodka, this lavish affair seems like it's the place to be, especially for those who are serious about looking fabulous after dark. Standing all alone, Diana, who is wearing a blue top with a black skirt, and a red scarf, is approached by a curly-haired degenerate in a red blazer and asked to dance. How did you know he was a "curly-haired degenerate"? Well, the hairs on his head stood in a manner that created a sort of corkscrew effect, hence, "curly-haired." And the "degenerate" part was even easier to decipher as he had lipstick-covered mouth tattooed on his hand. While they danced, the curly-haired degenerate tells Diana that "the uncertain hairs" on her ass are driving him crazy. While, on the surface, that might not sound like the smoothest line even uttered to convince a woman to give up her anal virginity, it works like a charm on Diana, who is ushering the curly-haired degenerate, whose actually name is Alphonse (Franco Branciaroli), into the ladies lavatory.

Swiveling her hips ever so slightly in order to allow Alphonse to be able to pull down her black lace panties with less difficulty (her glorious rump strangles panties for breakfast), Diana quivers as his booze-laden breath invades her backside's fissure. After he's finished mock-tasting its surface with his tongue, Alphonse prepares to take his appreciation to a more internal plane of existence with the aid of another, more far-reaching appendage. A knock at the door stymies his plans to rectally penetrate Diana, as Paolo, her husband, tells her (through the door) that he wants to go home. Wondering why her pussy is so moist during the car ride home (it's quite common for men in Italy to physically check the barometric pressure of their wife's vagina every couple of hours), Diana tells him she's wet down there because she was just about to engage in anal sex–you know, before she was rudely interrupted by yours truly–with a curly-haired degenerate she met at the party.

Now, you'd think this would be the point in All Ladies Do It when Paolo freaks out. I mean, how would you react if someone you love told you that they almost had restroom-quality anal intercourse right under your nose with some creep in a red blazer? But he doesn't, freak out, that is. You see, the reason Paolo doesn't go ape shit over this revelation is because he thinks Diana is making up these salacious scenarios, like her washroom encounter with Alphonse, for the benefit of his fanciful penis. We all know this is not case, and continue to watch him get turned on by his wife's "wild fantasies."

Blissfully unaware that their relationship isn't what it seems, the two go about their day as they usually would. Since no-one cares what Paolo does for a living (his best quality, besides being married to Diana, is his taste in alarm clocks), we follow Diana to work. While riding the trolley, she must contend with the raging trouser bulges of the two arguing Italian men that keep jabbing their clothed erections into her ass and thighs (the erratic movement of the trolley causes the passengers to become easily jostled). Tired of being repeatedly dry humped by this two-pronged schlong bombardment, Diana decides to stand somewhere else. Which, if you think about it, is futile, since sexual arousal seems to accompany Diana wherever she goes (a young priest is the next to feel his pants tighten around the crotch area).

Arriving at the lingerie shop... Okay, time out. You mean to tell me that Diana works at a lingerie shop? Are you fucking kidding me? What are you trying do, kill me? All right, if that's the way you want it. Awash with thongs of every shade imaginable, Diana changes into something a little more comfortable (a pink robe that matched the shop's carpet) and prepares for another day in this pervert's paradise. Handed a porno tape called "Atom Bum" by Antonietta (Isabella Deiana), a coquettish co-worker (her pubic hair doesn't even come close to matching the shop's carpet), the two playfully chat about relationships and anal sex. A customer named Miss Tomasina interrupts them and asks to try on a pair of red panties. But don't worry, Miss Tomasina, on top of being a first-class milf ("sick and sexy-fied"), is also an excellent multitasker and gives Diana relationship advice ("its not betrayal, it's just sex") while slipping in and out of red panties (she ends up buying ten pairs).

I'm kind of glad Nadia (Ornella Marcucci), Diana's gym-owning best friend, shows up to break the news that her Aunt has died, because I don't think I could take much more of that lingerie shop. Of course, I'm not saying I'm glad her Aunt died, as she seemed, as we'll find out later, to be a pretty cool chick, it's just that I was starting to a feel a little woozy. Anyway, it's time to go Venice and attend the reading of her will. Damn, can't this woman go anywhere without hitting on dudes...hard (she offers a million lire to a couple of male train passengers to fuck her in the ass).

After inheriting her Aunt's apartment, Diana, well, first she makes out with her cousin Marco, but after she's finished doing that, she checks out her new digs. This is when All Ladies Do It really starts to break out of its shell and become the erotic classic we all know and love. You wouldn't think this would be the case–you know, since it simply features an attractive Italian woman poking around her dead Aunt's apartment. But you haven't lived until you have watched Claudia Koll try on hats and light cigarettes in an apartment that is bathed in Venetian moonlight. Resembling a stylish film noir at times (the luminous Koll looked like a femme fatal in her red gloves and wide-brim hat), Diana puts on her Aunt's fur and heads over the Alphonse's place for a quick booty call. Hoping to lose her anal virginity, Diana heads up to his "bum room," a veritable shrine to the female posterior (there are literally butts everywhere), and prepares her rump to be violated. Telling her that every ass is different, Alphonse shows her pictures of asses that are timid, brave, happy, stupid, clever, and intelligent, and then sticks his penis inside her headstrong, willful, and disobedient poop chute.

Reunited with her husband in Rome, Diana tells him all about her sinful adventures; the encounter with her cousin, and, of course, her anal deflowering. Discovering a hickey on her neck, Paolo suddenly realizes that Diana isn't making these stories up, they really happened. Well, duh! Will this revelation put the kibosh on their marriage? Who gives a shit; Paolo's a sniveling pratt who doesn't deserve to be with a woman as chic and wonderful as Diana. At any rate, if this movie wasn't awesome enough already, Diana heads down to Nadia's health club to get some advice. And you know what that means? Italian women exercising in spandex leotards!

It gets even better when Nadia and Antonietta take Diana out on the town (forget that Paolo jerk, let's go get us some strange dick). While trolling for prostitutes along trollop road (even the transsexual hookers seem to have majestic rears), the girls decide to hit up an outdoor rave. While I don't recall any of the raves I ever attended being this lax when it came to the wearing of pants (if I remember correctly, the lower half of a hazmat suit covered in stuffed animals seemed to be the hip trouser trend for late 1992), the rave sequence in All Ladies Do It does contain all the quirky trappings that made the early 90s rave scene so awkward yet so memorable at the same time.

If the scenes where Diana wanders around Venice were like flipping through a copy of Italian Vogue circa 1991, then the rave scene's equivalent would have to be the act of perusing a back issue of The Face (the one with Adamski on the cover with his dog immediately springs to mind). Flaccid cocks flapping without a care in the world, twirling pasties, baseball hats with the word "boy" written on them in metallic capital letters, white cut-off overalls, casual transvestism, glow in the dark fanny packs, smart drinks, cellular telephones, and belts made out of compact discs, the sheer amount of fashion blunders present throughout this techno-heavy scene are enough to make your head spin. Nevertheless, Diana manages to transverse this gaudy spectacle with an air of stylish unflappability.

Placing her exquisite derrière on a pedestal, Tinto Brass forces us to love Claudia Koll as Diana, a radiant free spirit whose passion for giggling is only matched by her tendency to flirt with strangers. However, there's no need to force us to do anything of the sort, as Claudia's innate gorgeousness will overwhelm even the most hardened of morons. One of the rare instances where a film actually succeeded at making me feel nostalgic for the early '90s, All Ladies Do It might seem like a superficial lark about one woman's desire to loose her anal virginity, but it's so much more than that. Okay, maybe I wouldn't say it's so much more than that, even though I just did. But if you're tired of crass pornography (especially the kind that have to start with the disclaimer: "no women we're harmed during the making of this film"), and want to see movies that to explore sexuality from a more erotic perspective, than I highly recommend this playful romp.

uploaded by MrFavorino
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Urgh! A Music War (Derek Burbidge, 1981)

2011-12-11T20:17:00.006-05:00

You would think that a concert film that featured twenty or so hardcore, new wave, post-punk, synth-pop, and reggae bands at the height of their cultural relevancy might make for one tedious night at the movies. Well, that's where you'd be wrong. If this flick had been made, oh, let's say, the mid-1970s, you could make that argument. But the artists who appear in Urgh! A Music War, unlike the bloated stadium rock of the previous decade, know how to convey their message in a highly succinct manner. Moving at a brisk pace, the film wonderfully captures what it must felt like to be a cool person in 1981. Despite the presence of bands like, The Police and UB40, two bands that ooze a sickly form of undiluted squareness. Actually, I'd like to back away from that statement a bit by saying that the sight of The Police's Andy Summers wailing on that weird-looking guitar while standing atop a post-apocalyptic mound of torn fabric in the music video for the title track from their Synchronicity album was one of the defining images of my youth. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, despite the presence of bands who failed to sonically moisturize my scabby flesh, and the fact there's not a single close up of Jane Wiedlin in the entire movie (a special note to any editors out there: if you have footage of Jane Wiedlin playing guitar, whether it be with The Go-Go's or as a solo artist, use as much it as humanly possible), the film, directed by Derek Burbidge with a workmanlike efficiency (there's very little in regard to dilly dallying), managed to rekindle my love-hate relationship with concert going. It's true, the idea of getting dressed up in your fanciest duds (i.e. the black army jacket without the frayed collar), waiting for what seems like an eternity for the band you want to see to hit the stage, only to have some unwashed degenerate constantly stepping on your foot might sound awful, it's actually... Wait a minute, I can't believe there was a time when I used to pay money to have my shoes ruined, and, not to mention, spend an entire evening almost getting kicked in the face (I'm looking in your general direction Spooky-era Lush fans). Yeah, while that's on the cusp of being interesting, even a stick protruding from a puddle of lumpy sick like me has to admit that the synergy between a band, even if they use backing tapes, and an audience, even if they're drunk racists, can be quite the exhilarating spectacle.

The best way the watch Urgh! A Music War is to not know the order in which the artists appear on stage, as I find that it keeps the viewer on his or her toes. What I mean is, part of the fun is trying to figure out what band you're looking at before their credit pops up on the screen. And since the band's name and the location of the venue are all that appear onscreen (sorry, no song titles), the film has a straightforward, no-nonsense feel about it (the thought of some cheesy radio personality introducing the bands makes me cringe for some reason). Culled from concert footage shot in city's such as London, New York City, and Los Angeles, the bands simply show up on stage, and, if they don't suck, blow us away with their prowess when it comes to making new wave and post-punk music.

Straight out of the gate, the biggest surprise has to be the way an obscure band called Invisible Sex (a band so obscure, the internet doesn't even seem to know they exist) managed to out-Devo Devo with their strange stage show (they appear on stage wearing hazmat suits and wield cardboard guitars at one point); my favourite non-crowd surfing audience member was the guy in the white shirt with the mustache–you can spot him in the front row at a couple of the L.A. gigs (there was something about the way he danced without moving that appealed to me); I liked the leopard print blazer this punk chick outside the Lyceum Theatre (it's hands down the best animal print themed garment in the entire movie); and I'd like to give a general shout out to all the bass players in Urgh!

Top Ten Urgh! A Music War Performances: #1 -- The Cramps - "Tear It Up" – I don't know what I enjoyed more, Poison Ivy's sneering contempt or Lux Interior's low-rise leather trousers. Let's just say I enjoyed both equally and leave it at that. Attacking the shady-looking audience with their unique brand of psychobilly punk rock, Lux Interior, who takes microphone consumption while barely clothed to a whole new level of awesomeness, and Poison Ivy, who shreds it while giving everyone the impression she doesn't give a shit (the nonchalant gum chewing was also a nice touch), want you to "tear this damn place up," and judging by the melted faces of the saps in the front row, they succeeded in doing so. Fashion: I've got to give up to Lux Interior and his low-rise leather trousers, as they're the stuff of hip-revealing legend. And sticking with the trouser theme, I would totally wear Poison Ivy's super-tight gold lamé trousers if I was stranded on a desert island and the only way to get the rescue party's attention was to don a pair of super-tight gold lamé trousers.

#2 -- Wall of Voodoo - "Back in Flesh" – While Stan Ridgway was reciting the song's lyrics in his usual Ridgwalian manner (he also plays the organ), I couldn't help but notice how much he looks like Griffin Dunne circa After Hours. Anyway, kudos to Wall of Voodoo for being the only group in the movie to employ a drum machine, and to Bruce Moreland for that slick bass line. Fashion: Lot's of drab t-shirts (a nice mix of sleeveless and sleeved) paired with dark slacks. "Telephone call for Wall of Voodoo."

#3 -- Au Pairs - "Come Again" – On the surface, the luminous Lesley Woods and an antsier-than-usual Paul Foad appear to be taking turns singing on a peppy dance rock number. However, if you delve a little deeper, you'll find is that they're actually having a frank discussion about the quality of the involuntary contractions that occur within the muscles of their genitals during sexual intercourse. Fashion: As this conversation is taking place, bass player Jane Munro is looking fab in a turquoise t-shirt.

Hey, "Welcome to the Ritz" lady. I was wondering if you might wanna go get a slice of pizza after the show? I hear the joint down the street has a Galaga game.

#4 -- Klaus Nomi - "Total Eclipse" – If you have seen the documentary The Nomi Song, then you know this isn't the true "Klaus Nomi Experience" (keen observers will notice that his usual sidekicks, Joey Arias and Janus, have been replaced by leotard-wearing dancers and that his back-up band have been replaced with a bunch of aging hippies). But, as they say, a little Nomi is better than no Nomi, and Klaus Nomi destroys all comers with his kooky mix of opera and new wave. Fashion: The classic Nomi outfit, which includes a futuristic tuxedo jacket, black tights, white gloves, and a pair of black pointy boots. Oh, and make sure to stick around for the film's closing credits to hear Klaus's "Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix."

#5 -- The Alley Cats - "Nothing Means Nothing Anymore" – When this trio, featuring husband-and-wife duo Randy Stodola (guitar and vocals) and Dianne Chai (bass and vocals), and drummer John McCarthy, hit the stage, I was like, "who are these losers?" But they managed to win me over with their straightforward, L.A.-tinged punk rock. No silly string required, these guys simply rock. Fashion: White shirts paired with jeans.

#6 -- Toyah Wilcox - "Danced" – Look at her! Fashion: Toyah's jumping jacks and new wave-friendly poses are complimented by one square-shaped earring that was hung on an angle in her right ear, two giant gold bracelets on each arm, and a black mesh top.

#7 -- The Go-Go's - "We Got the Beat" – It's probably been covered/butchered by Selena Gomez, the cast of Glee, and countless others over the years, but nothing can touch the original by The Go-Go's, especially when it's performed at the Whiskey A G-Go in 1981 (the band arrive at the gig in the back of a pick-up truck). Seriously, the spunk trickling oh-so playfully from Gina Schock and the girls during "We Got the Beat" is downright infectious. Sure, guitarist Jane Wiedlin is out frame for most of the song (to the uninitiated, they might be mistaken for a foursome), but I'm not gonna let a little thing like that ruin what was a rousing performance. Fashion: Belinda Carlisle looked yummy in an orange Chinese-style dress (I also dug the matching headband), drummer Gina Schock wore this cool polka dot top, Jane Wiedlin looked relaxed in a teal t-shirt and a pair of tropical themed trousers (yeah, she was onscreen long enough for me to remember what she was wearing), guitarist Charlotte Caffey rocked a pair of white boots (her black nylons only exacerbated their whiteness), and bass player Kathy Valentine blinded all the sexist pigs in the audience with the brightest pair of yellow pants the Sunset Strip has ever seen.

#8 -- Gang of Four - "He'd Send In the Army" – I don't know what Jon King is hitting to make that sound, but I like it. Fashion: Semi-puffy dress shirts in a wide range of colours.

#9 -- Oingo Boingo - "Ain't This the Life" – While not as catchy as "Dead Man's Party," as overplayed as "Weird Science," or even as creepy as "Little Girls," Danny Elfman and his band, which includes a horn section, still manage to get the kids moving (i.e. slam dancing) with this lively number. Fashion: A sleeveless white undershirt. Duh.

#10 -- Gary Numan - "Down in the Park" – Don't get me wrong, I love the futuristic go-cart thingy Gary drives around during his performance of this classic track (the steering device was located near his crotch). It's just that, after the novelty has worn off, it doesn't exactly make for compelling television (I didn't expect him to remain seated the entire song). That being said, I will always, no matter what the circumstances, choose Gary Numan over Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark. He is, to quote Frank Booth from Blue Velvet, "so fucking suave." Fashion: Underneath all that smoke, it looked like Gary was wearing some kind of red leather getup.

Since I've already mentioned my favourite non-crowd surfing audience member, I guess now is a good time as any to revel who was the absolute bee's knees when it came to crowd surfing. It was no contest: the woman in the Selecter t-shirt at The Go-Go's show was definitely my fave crowd surfing audience member. Not only was she thrown around like an overly molested rag doll, she also managed to briefly reestablish my love for ska band t-shirts ("briefly" because Sting insists on wearing a Beat t-shirt during The Police numbers; way to go, grandpa).

uploaded by mutantwarfare1
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Bare Behind Bars (Oswaldo de Oliveira, 1980)

2011-12-04T20:03:00.008-05:00

Underwear. What purpose does it serve, and why do we wear it? These questions, and a whole lot more will no doubt be scurrying through your polluted little brains while you watch Bare Behind Bars, a nasty, filthy, totally abhorrent piece of anti-lesbian, anti-underwear propaganda from República Federativa do Brasil. What can I say? They scurried through mine, and my brain is not even close to being polluted. In fact, it's as clean as Rupaul's justifiably revered taint on laundry day. I'm intrigued. How underwear averse was this film? I mean, it couldn't have been more scant in the pantie department than any of the other films that populate this specific genre, or could it? (Don't worry, I'll get to the film's stance on lesbianism in a minute.) Taking underwear aversion to the far reaches of ungovernable insanity, writer-director Oswaldo de Oliveira (Amazon Jail), a man who should be ashamed of himself, has created a world where everything from a stiff breeze to a roving hand has been given free reign to caress your hardworking genitals. Anyone who desires to grope the crumpled patch of paradise languishing between the legs of, oh, let's say, prisoner #371, need not worry about the prospect of there being any material impasses standing in their way. The lack of a substantial fabric barrier in the vicinity of my crotch does not necessarily give you carte blanche to feel up my junk. After all, we live in a society that has laws, and one of those laws clearly states: No matter what the level of coverage, whether it be a thick swath of Bangladeshi cotton, a thin stripe of nylon, or nothing at all, a person has the right not to have his or her privates subjected to unsolicited touching or groping. It's true, unrestricted fondling is not allowed in so-called "normal society." But since when has a dingy women's prison, one with an overcrowded clandestine cemetery located somewhere out back and an insatiable lesbian/slave trader/sadist as its warden, ever been considered "normal society"? Let me jump in and tell you when it has: Never.

I'll admit, lumping lesbianism alongside something as heinous and morally repugnant as the slave trade makes my heart hurt; if anything, lesbianism is the epitome of normal. This film, however, does not view things this way. They see lesbianism as the leading cause of violence and degradation within the society I just got finished deeming normal. Nevertheless, just because I found their take on lesbianism to be totally offensive, doesn't mean I'm going to hold it against them. You have to admire the ill-conceived gusto in which it tries to besmirch lesbianism, as it is so misguided, it comes off as desperate and sad. It's almost like watching an after school special at times. Except this particular "special" has pineapple dildos and dogs eating penises at its core.

If they [society] would just treat lesbianism as just another facet of human sexuality, people like, Sylvia (Maria Stella Splendore), wouldn't have to get jobs as cruel prison wardens in order to get dates. Unfortunately, that's exactly what happens in Bare Behind Bars (a.k.a. A Prisão), a no holds barred women in prison flick that will surely satisfy even the most jaded proponents of the genre. Sitting in her office that overlooks the exercise yard, the sound of the women playing outside is causing Sylvia to feel a dull pain in her loins. Longing to rub her face against anything with a pulse (just as long as they have succulent breasts and a mossy beaver), Sylvia sits and stares at the i.d. card of an inmate named Cynthia (Danielle Ferrite), prisoner #341, and thinks to herself: I wonder what her pussy tastes like?

As they're playing handball in the yard, which was like watching five year old's play soccer (i.e. disorganized chaos), one of the girls is stabbed with a shank. In an effort to calm the situation, the guards move in with the hose. Spraying them with gallons of water (kudos to the butch guard with red hair for her top-notch nozzle work), the girls are reduced to a flailing mound of wet noodles. Determined to find out who the culprit was, Sylvia employs various means of torture to get the girls to talk. When that doesn't work, she invites #341 to her office, so that may chat in private. Who is she trying to kid? She's not interested in having a frank discussion about who killed #170, or whatever her number was, she wants to feel #341's soft, immature flesh pressed firmly against the weatherbeaten fullness of what's left of her no-nonsense femininity. It's true, she does make a somewhat feeble attempt to offer #341 a kind of package deal for her cooperation (a nicer cell, better meals), but it's rather obvious that her mind is mainly focused on attaining sexual satisfaction.

Still ticked off about the stabbing incident, Sylvia decides to punish the inmates by taking away some of their privileges. All meals from now on will be served in the prisoner's cells and exercise in the yard has been suspended. Oh, and the reason #341 is washing her coño with the water dripping from the leaky faucet in her cell is because bathing has been curtailed as well. The biggest shake up, however, occurs when she launches a prison wide inspection. Uncovering a plethora of illegal weapons, the exhaustive search for contraband, while managing to unnerve Sylvia's delicate psyche, does introduce us to the film's greatest asset, and that is, of course, Nurse Barbara (Marta Anderson), the Mamie Van Doren-esque ether-sniffer who loves, no, wait, scratch that, who adores raspberry pudding. While inspecting a prisoner's many crevices, Nurse Barbara declares that she that is in love with #241 (Marliane Gomes), and will do anything to make her happy. Okay, maybe she doesn't exactly declare that. But you could totally tell that the on the cusp of being buxom healthcare provider liked the structurally sound brunette that lay before her in the prison's infirmary. Promising to give her a massage and a bath, Nurse Barbara treats #241 like a brand new puppy.

If you're like me, you're probably also wondering how Sylvia manages keep her hair looking so silky smooth on a prison warden's salary. Well, it turns out that Sylvia has quite the money-making venture on the side. On top of being a sadist and a lonely lesbian, Sylvia sells prisoners to her fellow lonely lesbians for a hefty price. And today is the day when a lonely lesbian dressed head-to-toe in yellow has arrived to pick up #514, a.k.a. Betty (Nadia Destro), a prisoner Sylvia has been "grooming" for the past several weeks. Happy with what she sees through the peephole (Sylvia keeps all potential lesbian life partners in a private room), the lonely lesbian pays Sylvia a large amount of money for the right to take Betty home with her.

While the majority of the action transpires within the walls of the prison itself, we're periodically given updates regarding the status of the lonely lesbian and Betty's relationship throughout the film. In addition to keeping us filled in as to the development of their imposed courtship (Betty is essentially a sex slave), this subplot, which usually takes place on a yacht or at the beach, gives the audience a much needed break from the drudgery of prison life. However, I wouldn't call what #241 endures "drudgery." Sure, she's picked on from time to time by the other inmates, but the pampering she receives at the hands of Nurse Barbara was overindulgence run amok. Lying naked on her examination table, her hair adorned with daisies, Nurse Barbara has a present for #241: a strap-on ready dildo. I know what you're thinking. A dildo? Big Deal. It's true, a single dildo might not seem like much in today's booming dildo economy. But back then, the dildo was a symbol of power and strength. There's a reason, "She who controls the dildo, controls the universe," was West Germany's on and off motto for most of 1974.

Accepting her gift, #241 shares the dildo with the rest of the prison population. If you look closely, you'll occasionally catch a glimpse of the dildo being transported from one cell to another via a crude clothesline-based dildo delivery system. The women have obviously devised a schedule that determines when a certain cellblock can use the much sought after sex toy, or else it would been anarchy. My favourite instance of this glorified dildo outreach program comes during the scene where a guard and a prisoner in solitary confinement give one another handjobs through a small hole in the cell door. The way the dildo cable car sneaks into frame as the guard and the isolated prisoner are vigorously rubbing the consecrated viscosity out of their swollen pussies was strangely beautiful.

Since the lonely lesbian in yellow is off cavorting with Betty, that means there's a vacancy in Sylvia's private lesbian life partner grooming room. Who's gonna be a next lucky girl to be the indentured girlfriend of a rich lesbian? A new prisoner named Annette (Sonia Regina) might just be what Sylvia's been looking for. While things get off to a rocky start (Sylvia slaps Annette when she refuses to be called #578), they gradually improve once Nurse Barbara examines her. With her muscular calves rest in her trusty stirrups, Barbara, after testing the dampness of her sex, declares #578's box to be so clean, that you could literally eat off it.

As Nurse Barbara is sitting on the corner of her desk extolling the virtues of raspberry pudding, Sylvia is getting ready to implement her plan to transform #578 into the ultimate lesbian sex slave. Meanwhile, out in the yard (exercise and bathing privileges have been reinstated), #578 is way ahead of Sylvia, and has started do calisthenics, along with #241, #341, and #218, in the nude. The idea is get Sylvia's attention, and you know what? The plan works like a charm, as #578 is quickly summoned to Sylvia office. Staring at her with a fiery intensity, Sylvia tells #578 to take off her gown. The "gown" is basically a sea green coat with the prisoner's number written on the front and back in black. Anyway, Sylvia's stare grows even more intense after #578 does a little spin for her (making sure the warden gets a look at every nook and cranny her exciting body has to offer).

Even though she doesn't communicate it with words, the expression on Sylvia's face as #578 spun for her sums up how she felt at that particular moment. Screw those the other lonely lesbians, she probably thought to herself, this lonely lesbian has found a slice of womanly perfection, and has no intention of sharing her with anyone else. Yeah, that's right. Her name is #578, and her ass belongs to me. After she's finished inspecting "the goods," Sylvia takes #578 for a test drive by grinding her body against hers in a highly erotic manner. And judging from the cunnilingual bruises that dot her inner thighs the following day, there's no way Sylvia's letting some dried up hosebeat intertwine her scabby legs with the robust stems that jut from #578's taut torso.

Are you a middle-aged lesbian who likes to fornicate with girls who are more than half your age? Of course you are. Don't you just hate it when their enthusiasm for eating out your expensive pussy causes your crotch to become parched, sluggish and barely recognizable to the microscopic lickspittles that live on the outskirts your infrequently manicured bush? Well, the next time your fanny region is itching like an underpaid motherfucker, just fill your bathtub with lukewarm water, add a tablespoon of radioactive oregano, keep the affected area submerged for at least five to six hours, and voilà, watch those pesky blemishes go the way of the daguerreotype.

As the bubbles and the radioactive oregano are soothing Sylvia's aching minge, a vision of loveliness sporting a volumizing scrunchie is busy laying the groundwork for her inevitable downfall. Wait. Did you just say, "volumizing scrunchie"? You bet I did. Okay, just checking. The prison's assistant warden, Sandra (Neide Ribeiro), disapproves of Sylvia's methods (she thinks she's a sadist who's letting her thirst for underage cooter cloud her correctional conviction), and wants to put an end to her reign of sapphic terror.

If it seems like #241 and #578 are enjoying their time as lesbian playthings, think again. Tired of playing horsy (Nurse Barbara likes it when #241 rides her bareback while eating watermelon) and performing all-night oral stimulation, #241 and #578 decide it's time start planning their escape from this hellhole. Along with prisoners #341 and #218, the girls hope to use their connections with Sylvia and Nurse Barbara to help speed up the process. Of course, while Sylvia is completely in the dark as to what #578 is up to, Nurse Barbara has no qualms about aiding the unruly foursome.

In terms of exposing skin, all the principal players do their part to titillate the unwashed rabble sitting in the audience. Even the gorgeous Neide Ribeiro gets with the program near the end of the film, as she appears naked while getting dressed in her bedroom. Despite the shortage of fastened buttons on her prison issue blouse, Sandra has been a model of modesty for most the film. All that changes on the day mass is scheduled to be performed in the prison's chapel, when we see her brushing her hair sans clothing in front of a mirror. Numbed by the sheer amount of bare bums, butts, and asses that are barefacedly exposed to throughout this talking picture, I thought to myself: Yawn. Not another unclothed behind. However, I was pleasantly surprised by the oomph of Neide's well-oiled backside when it finally decides to badonk its way onscreen. It not only boasted a pleasing shape, but it also had a certain twinkle about it.

Flashing the contents of your bodacious Brazilian booty is nothing compared to what #241 and #341 get up during the film's final third. Just a second, I'm trying to figure who made the bigger sacrifice. Okay, I'm gonna say #241 took the greater risk. You see, while #341 performs authentic sexual intercourse (squalid slum sex), shot a couple of people, and participates in the gang rape of a minor, #341 cuts off two penises (the first was a flaccid penis that she fed to a noisy dog, while the second was a fully erect penis that she fed to the man who used to be attached to the fully erect penis), participates in the gang rape of a minor, walks around with a razor in her vagina, and is forced to lick a pineapple dildo. So, it's rather obvious who the "winner" is when it comes to championing debasement.

My biggest complaint in relation to watching films like Bare Behind Bars has nothing to do with the torture or the degradation, it's the implausible tan lines. This particular film, like others in the genre, seem to make a concerted effort to point out that the prisoners are wearing no undergarments whatsoever. Yet when it comes time to film the obligatory shower scene, all I see are tan lines in the shape of bikini bottoms and tops These women are supposedly living in an underwear scarce universe, and have been for years, but you wouldn't know it judging by lines of pale skin that cover the bodies of some of the inmates. I know, it's difficult to find women who hate going to the beach, especially in a country as beach-friendly as Brazil, to appear in borderline pornographic women in prison flicks on such short notice. But can't we find away to persuade the actresses not to go to the beach before principal photography begins? I don't ask for much.

uploaded by NakedFisherman
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Mutant Hunt (Tim Kincaid, 1987)

2011-11-27T20:12:00.011-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

uploaded by mrparka

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

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Bad Girls Dormitory (Tim Kincaid, 1986)

2011-11-20T20:21:00.010-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Private House of the SS (Bruno Mattei, 1977)

2011-11-18T05:08:00.008-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Beast (Walerian Borowczyk, 1975)

2011-11-13T20:01:00.010-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

uploaded by kakelards
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Nightflyers (Robert Collector, 1987)

2011-11-06T19:46:00.013-05:00

You know your space adventure film is in serious trouble when its most entertaining moment comes when the guy who played the dad on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air equates happiness with fresh octopus. And as kooky as that may sound, that's exactly what happens in Nightflyers, an intergalactic riddle wrapped in a lifeless enigma about a primordial force that threatens to shorten the lives of a group of space travelers. The group's visual documentarian/cook is a man with some serious doubts regarding the mission he's signed up for. That is, until he smells the fresh octopus waiting for him in the ship's kitchen. After the fresh octopus has been sufficiently smelled, you'll notice that his demeanour goes from that of a cranky man whose nasal cavity is totally devoid of the smell of fresh octopus to that of a less cranky man whose olfactory organ is replete with the odor usually associated with fresh octopus in a matter of seconds. Holy shit, man, this flick must be the epitome of lame if you have been reduced to talking about fresh octopus. I mean, talk about your tangents from hell. Oh, and I know I just said it, and I'm about to say it again, but if you use the phrase "fresh octopus" one more time, I'm gonna punch you in the fucking face. Duly noted, my irrational friend. But you don't think I'm gonna let a little thing like fresh octopus slow me down? I don't think so. Unlike director Robert Collector, who, for some strange reason, is credited as T.C. Blake, I'm not afraid of this film, which is based on a novella by George R.R. Martin. Just let me check my memory banks, as there just might be something of note to salvage from the experience that is the act of watching this film; weirder things have happened. Yikes! I think I got something.

If there's one thing every women on earth, no matter their age, their race, their sexual orientation, or their marital status, has in common, it's that they all fantasize about having the power to beam a suave, tolerably awkward Englishman into their bedroom or sitting room at the touch of a button. In the 21st century, people will still smoke, say the word "fuck," and use pencils, but advances in holographic technology have reached a point where women have gained the ability to conjure up Englishmen with long, dark hair whenever they please. Okay, it's not that simple. However, in the mind of Miranda (Catherine Mary Stewart), the project coordinator of a deep space mission to find an alien lifeform, it might as well be.

We're suddenly ushered into the vast emptiness of outer space, where meet Miranda, a woman whose head is no doubt filled with thoughts of handsome Englishmen who care about her feelings (unlike those football-watching, North American neanderthals who never seem to be around when your armpits need a good licking), who is riding on a space-train. Where is she going? Duh, she's going to the Avalon Spacesport. With her on the space-train are the rest of the team who have been assembled on the cheap by Dr. D'Brannin (John Standing), a scientist whose spent the last twelve years trying make contact with an alien species called the "Volcrum," at least that's what I think they were called. Anyway, the other members of the team include: Audrey (Lisa Blount), a linguistics expert who, surprisingly, doesn't seen all that interested in being swept off her feet by a debonair Englishmen; Keelor (Glenn Withrow from Pass the Ammo), a recently unglued biologist; Darryl (James Avery) the mission's visual documentarian, and, from what I've heard, one helluva cook; and Lily (Hélène Udy), a cryptologist who works well with computers.

Meeting them at their destination are a couple of empaths, Jon Windermen (Michael Des Barres) and Eliza (Annabel Brooks), who have been brought along in case the aliens lack the means to communicate verbally. The former, besides loving white wine and shoulder padded trenchcoats, is what we in the empath game like to call: a class ten telepath. Which means, he can read the thoughts rattling around in just about anyone's mind. I wonder if Miranda, who also has telepathic abilities, albeit, somewhat limited compared to Windermen, is worried that he might find out that she's got a thing for guys who look like they would have no trouble whatsoever filling in as a member of Spandau Ballet if one of them, oh, let's say, Tony Hadley, happened to suddenly contract osmotic diarrhea after licking a couple of partially played with toy blocks at an unlicensed daycare in Swindon.

I'd just like to say–you know, before they get on board the ship, that the music score by Doug Timm was an excellent slab of synthified goodness if I ever heard one. It's definitely the best thing a guy named Doug has been associated with since the mighty Doug & the Slugs unleashed "Makin' It Work" onto a sluggish populace way back in '82. When I first heard Doug's synthesizer music over the opening credits, I thought that it had a cool Blade Runner vibe about it. These thoughts percolated even more when Miranda gets her eyes scanned at the departure gate, as the contraption they used on her reminded me of the one Dekker uses on Sean Young in the vicinity of an artificial owl.

Okay, enough with the Blade Runner references, let's get these people on board the ship already. Waiting for them in the spacesport is the Nightflyer, a large deep space freighter, which Dr. D'Brannin has chartered to take them out into the far reaches of space. Sporting a network of grandiose passageways, the team make their way to a spacious lounge, a tomb-like monstrosity that causes them to utter sounds like, "ooh," and to say words like, "wow," as they drink in its majesty. The team's visual documnetarian, as I've already pointed out, is quite impressed by the fact the ship's kitchen has fresh octopus. However, as the rest of the team are busy making themselves at home, you'll notice that Miranda is the only one who is not carrying on about the lofty nature of their new digs. Why is this? Is it because she senses something is amiss? Who knows.

After taking off (during which, the team are treated to a planetarium-style light show), they finally meet the ship's captain. Well, they sort of meet him. It would seem that Royd (Michael Praed) has decided to greet his passengers through a holographic projection. As Keelor, Darryl, and Lily are bemoaning the fact they were welcomed aboard by a hologram (a major social faux pas in their eyes), Royd can't seem to take his flickering eyes off Miranda, her blue, sleeveless dress shimmering in the lounge's mustardy glow. And who can blame him, always standing in a manner that reminded me of the work of famed illustrator Patrick Nagel, Miranda exudes a stylish grace. The fixation actually goes both ways, as Miranda seems to be enchanted by the dark-haired hologram. While they were making goo-goo eyes with one another, it was obvious that Miranda was thinking to herself: I'm so glad I decided to wear this particular shade of lipstick today, because Royd totally looks like the kind of guy who digs chicks who wear pale pink lipstick in outer space.

If I was a woman living in the 1980s...actually, scratch that. If I was a woman living during any period of time (era specific hairstyles and fashion trends be damned), I would walk into the nearest hair salon, plant my ample behind into one of the available chairs, cross my legs in a manner that conveyed to the staff that I mean business, and demand that they give me the "Catherine Mary Stewart in Nightflyers" look. Sticking with the whole female consumer theme, I want Miranda's clothes as well, especially that blue shirt she wears in the lounge when the kitchen blows up. Wait a minute, the kitchen blows up?!? Tell me more. Um, excuse me? I was talking about Miranda's shirt. Like, oh my god. How rude. At any rate, where was I? Oh yeah, of course, the shirt. Dotted with these little black symbols, I thought the blue shirt did a terrific job of framing C.M.S.'s face. The only criticism I had with the way Roger Taylor looks heavenward in the music video for Duran Duran's "Planet Earth" is that he isn't wearing a shirt like the one Miranda wears in Nightflyers. Think about it. His adam's apple could have looked even more new romantic had it been paired with a blue shirt.

Donning a white dress shirt with a matching pair of white boots, Miranda decides to get some work done in an isolated stairwell. She may be hidden from the prying eyes of her fellow team members, but she can't escape Royd, who can pretty much transmit himself to any part of the ship he wants. Impressed by her self-assurance, Royd opens up to Miranda (he admires her outgoing attitude). Sure, he doesn't tell her how he manages to keep his hair so silky smooth in outer space, but he does tell her that he was raised by the ship's computer. Spending his entire life on board the giant freighter, the hemmed in Royd wishes to leave, but his mother (who downloaded her soul into the ship's computer before she died) refuses to let him. And it's this mother-son tug of war that causes the majority of the drama in Nightflyers, as his desire to live a more human existence (enjoy a game of tennis, smear his pet beaver with marmalade, go record shopping, etc.) clashes with her decidedly misanthropic outlook.

The ship's computer, lacking the physical means to generate substantive change, uses Jon Winderman's telepathic brain as a conduit to stir up trouble. On top of exploiting his mental abilities, it also made sense for the computer to use him since he was the only one who felt the "malignant presence" of Royd's dead mother. As he is slowly taken over by the demonic motherboard, you'll notice that Michael Des Barres' performance goes from being mildly campy ("the ship is alive!") to extremely campy (check out the scream face he employs when he comes face-to-face with Royd's mother in a dream). I'm afraid the same can't be said for the rest of the cast, who basically, like the Nightflyer itself, drift aimlessly through the proceedings in a joyless haze. Only Glenn Withrow appears to be putting forth any effort as Keelor, a character who seems to be channeling Hudson from Aliens. Personal fave, Hélène Udy (Pinball Summer and Pin) utters a few lines here and there while staring at a computer screen, but her contribution is negligible. (Quirky fun fact: Nightflyers and her guest appearance on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine are the only instances, at least to my knowledge, where Miss Udy is credited as "Hélène." In most cases, she's listed as plain old Helene.)

If you're a fan of Catherine Mary Stewart, especially when she looks up, you'll definitely want to check out Nightflyers, as it's the best film in its class when it comes to showcasing the pride of Edmonton, Alberta gazing in an upwardly direction. Granted, some people will say Night of the Comet is the preeminent film in the rarely talked about "which film features Catherine Mary Stewart looking up more sweepstakes," some might even chime in by saying The Last Starfighter is the look up king. But the sane amongst us will no doubt agree that Nightflyers has got it going on in terms of Miss Stewart looking toward the sky.

On top of looking fabulous while looking up, Catherine Mary Stewart is a walking, talking style icon as Miranda, a role model for fashion-forward women the world over. Since I've already made it abundantly clear that I want to be her, let's give some love to costume designer Brad R. Loman and hair stylist Kay Cole for creating the plethora of exhilarating ensembles and hairstyles Miranda wears throughout this movie. Of course, they weren't exhilarating in the same way the hair and the clothes were in, oh, let's say, Liquid Sky (when in doubt, reference Liquid Sky), but they're no less chic.

A talkie version of Alien, Nightyflyers, a film that could have easily been called "Motherboard 2: The Possession," is a moderately interesting glob of sci-fi/horror (the film is surprisingly gory in places) that is repeatedly weighed down by its clunky script. Nevertheless, director Robert Collector, who according to IMDb: "left the production before the film's editing was completed, and requested that his name not appear in the credits" does have a flair for filming dramatic scenes in hallways and around bulkheads (the scene where the faces of Miranda and Jon Windermen are bathed in blue light while everything else was bathed in red was pretty cool). Recommended to fans of Catherine Mary Stewart and Vangelis, as for everyone else, stick with the Alien movies.

uploaded by CortosMango
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Isla: The Wicked Warden (Jess Franco, 1977)

2011-10-30T20:15:00.006-04:00

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.

video uploaded by theskunk

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