Things (Andrew Jordan, 1989)

What might look like a ninety minute how-to-video on how to change a fuse, is actually an expertly made documentary detailing what life was really like in Scarborough, Ontario circa 1989. Just quick warning before I continue: This review is going to contain a number of references that only people from Scarborough, Ontario will be able to comprehend. If this bothers you any way, I recommend that you stop reading immediately. On the other hand, if you're curious about Scarborough, Ontario, hop aboard the next #86 bus leaving Kennedy Station, and prepare to be dazzled, amazed, and bored silly. Nowadays, you can drive around Scarborough for hours and not come across a single male individual who has a head of hair that falls past the nape of his neck. However, back in the late 1980s, you'd be picking them off like flies. Mullet profusion aside, I felt like I was staring directly into a mirror as I watched...Wait, scratch that. Let's do that over again. It was as if I was staring directly into a mirror as I experienced Things for the very first time the other night. Sure, I never once came across any mutant vagina ants with serrated knives for teeth during my many parlous hikes along the unforgiving nightmarescape that is Ellesmere and Morningside. But everything else in the film is eerily accurate. Now, do you have to have first-hand knowledge of Scarborough's "culture" to be able to understand and appreciate the off-kilter artistry that filmmakers Andrew Jordan and Barry J. Gillis are putting out there on a semi-regular basis in this film? Of course not. Yet, given that I have actively participated in some of the bizarre rituals seen throughout this stunning masterwork, I feel I have a distinct advantage over all the other sycophantic smart asses, Queen West hipsters, reformed goths, and the litany of non-practicing Satanists who happen to stumble upon this outre relic of cinematic importance.

Capturing the profound feeling of ennui that was prevalent all across Scarborough during this particular period/chunk of time, Things is best viewed as a satire on suburban angst. It's worst viewed as an action-packed, sci-fi horror thrill ride in the grand tradition of The Deadly Spawn or Creatures from the Abyss. And, I'll admit, I did initially view the film as the latter. Which is the biggest mistake one can make when attempting to experience Things for the very first time.

There's a scene near the middle of the film where two of the main characters can be seen meticulously exploring a bathroom with the aide of a flashlight. Why am I mentioning this particular scene, you ask? Well, it was at around this time that started to feel like I was melting. Yeah, you heard correctly: melting. Struggling to keep my organic structure from spilling all over the floor, I found myself in a constant state of cerebral discombobulation. In order to combat this made-up-sounding but all-to real condition, I devised this clever technique where I would periodically scratch that itchy slab of psoriatic skin located behind my right ear with a screwdriver. This not only prevented me from turning into giant puddle of maple syrup, but it also seemed to enhance the Things experience.

When it comes to experimental and transgressive cinema, names like, Stan Brakage, Alejandro Jodorowsky, Jean Cocteau, Derek Jarman, Béla Tarr, Kenneth Anger, Paul Morrissey, and Rainer Werner Fassbinder immediately spring to mind. Well, you can add Andrew Jordan's name to that list, as he, along with Barry J. Gillis, have made the ultimate experimental/transgressive film. Of course, whether or not they were aware that they were making "the ultimate experimental/transgressive film" at the time is another question all-together. In fact, if it turns out they didn't know what they doing, you could argue that makes what they created even more unbelievable, as there's nothing worse than contrived weirdness.

The film opens with a woman doing her laundry in a devil mask. In other words, just another typical day in Scarborough, Ontario. Or is it? It's not the devil mask that's causing me to doubt the day's typicality, it's the fact Doug Drake (Doug Bunston) is asking the devil mask woman to have his baby. I'm always taken a back when I see children running around Scarborough. I mean, who in their right mind would want to raise their offspring in Scarborough?!? It doesn't make any sense. The same goes for whenever I see people exercising in Scarborough. I think to myself: Why are you trying to extend your life by exercising? You live in Scarborough! At any rate, the scene with Doug and the devil mask woman is just a dream. Waking from the dream, or, I should say, nightmare, just as the demon baby the devil mask woman was carrying lunges at him with its claws, Doug goes to the medicine cabinet to fetch his sick wife, Susan (Patricia Sadler), her pills.

As the opening credits were rolling, I swore I recognized the street they were filming on. Call me crazy, but it looked like Plug Hat Road, a small thoroughfare near the Pickering border that connects Meadowvale and Beare Rd. I used to ride my bike in that area, hence, the reason it looked familiar. Wait, you exercised in Scarborough?!? Ha! Ha! You're such a hypocrite. What can I say? I was young and stupid. Whatever. According to the opening credits, the Things theme was composed by Stryk-9.

The reason we were taking a scenic drive across Plug Hat Road was because we're driving along with Don Drake (Barry J. Gillis) and his buddy Fred Horton (Bruce Roach) as they make their way to Doug's cabin out in the wilds of Scarborough. Enjoy the memory of Plug Hat Road, because it's basically the last you're going to see of the outside world for quite some time. C'mon, man. You're scaring me. The film can't be longer than an hour. Oh, it can't, eh? Well, I got news for you, buddy. It's ninety minutes long. Just ninety, huh? Trust me, by the time Things is over, you will feel like you had just spent eight hours sitting in Doug's kitchen.

While I am exaggerating to a certain agree, the amount of time we spend in Doug's kitchen is nothing to scoff at. Seriously, the majority of the damage caused by Things is a direct result of the excessive amount of time we spend in Doug's kitchen. Now, I'll admit, I've spent a lot time in various kitchens all over the G.T.A., but there's something extra bleak about a kitchen that's located in Scarborough. It's almost as if time stands still in a Scarborough kitchen. If you know someone who has a kitchen in Scarborough, ask them to let you sit in it, I guarantee that you will want to shoot yourself in the head at around the two minute mark; which in Scarborough kitchen time is about six days.

Since God doesn't exist in Scarborough, the makers of Things have recast God as Amber Lynn, an omnipotent being with big hair who oversees the spiritual well-being of the suburb's residents with a motherly grace. Every once and awhile, Amber Lynn, who is wearing a blue dress with giant shoulders, will appear onscreen to inform the viewers of what is going on in the world. Though, you have to wonder, is Amber Lynn really the one who's running things, as she always seems to looking off to the side. Who is she looking at? Ginger Allen Lynn, perhaps? Either way, you have to admire a film that casts Amber Lynn as God. It's a bold move.

It's a good thing Amber Lynn's God is here to spruce Things up, as the time we spend in Doug's kitchen with Don and Fred is starting to take its toll on me. In-between finding a tape recorder in the freezer along with a sketchbook that contains quotes from Aleister Crowley and diagrams that are, according to Don, "sick," and tapping on a plastic mini-swordfish, Don and Fred are clearly just as bored as we are. In fact, Fred expresses this boredom at one point by declaring that: "This place is boring." You said it, Fred.

Meanwhile, over in Grizzly Flats, which, I guess, is supposed to be Ajax, Dr. Lucas (Jan W. Pachul) is performing grisly experiments on his human test subjects with the help of a female assistant. Unfortunately, this is the last we see of Dr. Lucas' female assistant, as it's time to go back to Doug's place. Nooooo!

Did you know that Doug's place gets the bestiality channel? And not only that, Doug doesn't even know where the stations come from. After watching "The Ground Hog's Day Massacre," throwing bottle caps at one another, eating cockroach sandwiches, playing with a drinking bird, watering down beer (this part made no sense whatsoever), and appreciating art (Doug has an original of Salvador Dali's "The Devil' Daughter"), Don, Fred, Doug (he was home after all), and the dog (let's call him Wendel), are confronted by an army of ant-like creatures.

Bursting out of his wife's vaginal region, the creatures cause Doug to lose some, if not all of his shit. Luckily, Don is there to regale us with a story he read in a sci-fi novel about a creature who ate every torso in a small Scottish town. Unamused by Don's feeble attempt to "ease the tension," Doug calls Don a dick. Anyway, just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, Fred is sucked into the third, fourth, and fifth dimension. Slowly but surely, Things starts to resemble a filmed nightmare. Bathed in a menacing red hue, Don and Doug spend the next five to ten minutes looking for Fred.

To the outsider, a lot of the antics the characters get up into this film might seem bizarre, or, in most cases, downright stupid. But as someone who has studied the Scarborough mindset for many years, the behaviour seen throughout this film is actually pretty accurate. However, I can't make the same excuse for Jan W. Pachul, as his performance as Dr. Lucas is some of the worst acting I have ever seen. Nonetheless, if you're genuinely interested in Scarborough from a sociological and anthropological point of view, you will definitely want to endure/experience Things, as it's the only truly authentic depiction of life in suburban Toronto ever to be captured on film.

The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning (Gregory Dark, 1986)

A lively debate about the difference between a "hoe," a slender tool used mainly for gardening purposes, and a "ho," a derogatory term used to describe a woman who is drawn to the seminal fluid of others, is just one of the many unexpected treats to be found lurking underneath all the untoward thrusting and exhausted panting in The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning, Gregory Dark's epically bizarre interpretation of an adult classic. Fully aware that I have not seen the original Devil in Miss Jones from 1973, or, for that matter, the Henri Pachard-directed sequel, I've elected to skip forward to part three for a number of reasons. First and foremost, I was so impressed with the Dark Brother's New Wave Hookers, that I decided that I would pretty much watch anything he made during that particular era–even something with a title like, "Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout White Chicks." Secondly, the film features the exceedingly luscious presence of Lois Ayres, who, as far as I'm concerned, is the unofficial face of 1980s. The look she sports throughout this film perfectly encapsulates the stylistic temperament of the decade. Using words that are different than the ones I just typed, it is safe to say that the decision to bypass the first two chapters was a relatively easy one.

Blissfully unaware of what I was about to get myself into, it turns out the combination of Gregory Dark and Lois Ayres was so potent, that I almost had a new wave-induced body fever before the opening credits had even finished...crediting. It's true, I had readied myself beforehand like I usually do with some mild stretching exercises followed by a long, vigorous bike ride through the suburban nether regions of my mind. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Lois Ayres (also spelled "Ayers") showering to the awesome strains of "A Christian Girls Problem" by The Gleaming Spires. "I am talking serious drugs / I am talking mental health..."

The camera carefully follows Lois's cleansing motions as she washes every nook and cranny of her tantalizing frame. The sequence also gives us the viewer the chance to familiarize ourselves with her organic structure, which is important because we'll be seeing a lot of it the course of the next seventy-something minutes.

After the shower, we learn that Lois Ayres is playing Justine Jones, a woman who it turns out is the focal point of a some sort of documentary that involves former classmates, ex-boyfriends, clergymen, family members, and others being interviewed by an unseen man with a probing voice. An ex of Justine's named Bill (Tom Byron) is the first to be questioned and tells the mystery man an anecdote about an argument they had over the phone. You see, while Bill was talking, he was also lathering up the crotch of a woman in white lingerie (Jennifer Noxt). With a pink razor in one hand and a telephone in the other, Bill pathetically attempts to do both things at once. As expected, the former wins out as the activity Bill's simple mind would most like to focus on. Hairless in an instant thanks to this wanton act of pubic desecration (cunt-ruining reprobate), Bill's erect penis can be seen burrowing itself inside her many openings with the enthusiasm of an agitated mongoose.

Frustrated by Bill's insistence on fornicating with women who are not her, Justine's heads out to a local tavern. However, before she can go in, she is verbally accosted by a pimp ("crazy ass white bitch!"). Anyway, the scenes on the street and in the bar are the first where we really get a chance to appreciate the immensity of Lois's awesome hairstyle. The way her platinum blonde follicles seemed to reach out toward the sky was awe-inspiring. Complimented by a colourful dress and a saucy pair of red gloves, Justine looked like a cross between Margaret from Liquid Sky and Christina Moser from the Italian new wave group Krisma, particularly during their Clandestine Anticipation period.

Once at the bar, Justine meets a stood up groom in white (Paul Thomas). After some friendly banter, the two of them end up in bed together. Except, they don't sleep, their swollen genitals wind up hammering out an acceptable compromise with one another. I found the groom in white's gentle fondling of Justine's bright red stockings to be entirely satisfying. It was a rare tender moment in a film full of intrusive, ungentle prodding.

The slow motion shot of Justine's hindquarters undulating under the weight of the groom's thrusting bureaucracy was not included in order to crank up the titillation factor, but to accentuate the minor tragedy that was about to unfold. Crashing headfirst into her bed's purple headboard, Justine wakes up alone and naked in a very dark place. After some moments of semi-consciousness, Justine finds herself unwittingly discussing the mysterious allure of homonyms with a demented man dressed in clear plastic. It turns out Justine is in Hell, a fabricated netherworld full of fire and a smattering of brimstone, and the guy in plastic (Jack Baker) is her guide. Of course, she doesn't believe this for a second and demands that she be shown the way home.

The overt strangeness of The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning really starts to come through once the Hell Guide's human horses start screwing. The Hell Guide rode in on a female horse (Chanel Price) and when he's ready take Justine to the first room of Hell, he calls a male horse (Steve Powers) and instructs him to stick his phallus in her lilac-scented poop chute. At first, I thought he was speaking metaphorically, but that's exactly what he ends up doing. This scene doesn't really exploit Chanel's 6ft. 3inch frame (being a horse, she spends most of her time on her hands and knees), which is a shame, but it does emphasize her wonderfully large rear-end, boast multiple participants in fingerless gloves, and features equine-based sound effects.

Entering the first room of Hell, Justine and her guide witness a place where voyeurs are forced to watch others have intercourse until the end of time. Torn fishnets and some strenuous spooning are the highlights of this room's first encounter, one that sees Marc Wallice and Careena Collins getting all up in each other's beefy junk like nobody's business. Only problem being that Marc's upside down banana dick didn't seem to want to remain ensnared inside Jennifer's precisely tuned vagina. The second encounter sees one woman–a silver pump-wearing Amber Lynn, who tosses her fingerless glove out of the arena with a breathless panache–take on two poles at once. A reinvigorated Marc Wallice and a buff Peter North (Party Doll A Go-Go!) insert their man-things simultaneously, causing a bit of a fleshy impasse. Nevertheless, the transvestite in the wedding dress, Justine's college roommate (Kari Foxx), and the three guys in tuxedos watching seem extra excited by the coordinated poking transpiring in front of them. And, of course, I liked the way the perspiration on Amber's red-hot thighs seemed to glimmer in the murkiness of the unflattering light.

Coming face-to-deformed-face with the unsavoury realm of the Slutmen, Justine is about to enter the film's most disturbing room. Animalistic in nature, the Slutmen are the definition of cloaked debasement. Their nasty charm entices Justine to the point where she winds up allowing two of them to ejaculate sperm on her. Thankfully, her wily Hell Guide steps in before she becomes addicted to their sticky deluge. You see, unlike the room where you spend eternity watching sex, this room, where the Slutman is king, you are forced to have degrading sex with them for, you guessed it, an eternity. It also explains why Justine and her Hell Guide are wearing plastic; it's basically raining cum in there.

Having sex forever is exactly what happens to Vanessa De Rio's Mandy (a woman who was in the same aerobics class as Justine). The sequence that follows is an unpleasant enterprise involving five Slutmen taking turns violating Mandy's ample, candy-flavoured clitoris. The pig noises, the gold chains, the deformed faces, and the general moistness of this scene all combined to create something that was truly sick and twisted.

The topless aura of Lois Ayres's bare performance reminded me of a lot of that other great topless performance by Gisele Lindley as the Princess from the Forbidden Zone. Sure, others have been topless in movies before, and, sure, I have a tendency to reference Gisele's blouse-free work in the Richard Elfman directed classic a little too often, but it takes a special brand of actress to be able to not have their performance overshadowed by their perpetual toplessness. The ability to create an air of nonchalance surrounding one's unclothed upper torso is an innate skill, much like, macramé or synthesizer repair.

Having only seen Lois Ayres in photographs and the odd movie clip, I was delighted to finally hear the sound of her non-moaning voice. I was afraid Lois's appeal was going to be limited to the boldness of her killer look, but all that seemed to melt away the moment she began hurling insults at the creeps trying to grope her cookies as she made her way to the bar.

She had a snotty intelligence about her that elevated the proceedings beyond your typical girl goes to Hell, fucks a bunch of guys flick. Her un-PC give-and-take with Jack Baker was hilarious at times and everything from their exchange about poet Robert Frost to their homonym debate ("Do I look like a garden tool to you?") crackled with an unforeseen sharpness. This sharpness came as a bit of a relief, because the film ends with a cliffhanger, and you know what that means? That's right, there's a part four. Woo-hoo?

video uploaded by onlyalad

...