Night Warning (William Asher, 1982)

Let me quickly start things off by giving all you fine folks out there some free advice: Never turn your back on Susan Tyrrell when she's holding a meat cleaver. I don't care if it seems like she's in a good mood, the odds that she will try to hit you with said meat cleaver the moment you turn your back are pretty high. In fact, forget about not turning your back, I would avoid being in the presence of Susan Tyrrell all-together when she's holding a meat cleaver. On the other hand, if I was in Susan Tyrrell's kitchen (let's say I was over there to fix her television) and she began hiking up her skirt in an erotic manner, I would be tickled pink by the sudden upshot in Susan Tyrrell-based titillation. Now, both the scenarios I just put forth do occur in the decidedly off-kilter Night Warning, but it was the so-called "sudden upshot in Susan Tyrrell-based titillation" that sent me over the edge. Envious that Phil Brody (Caskey Swaim), television repairman extraordinaire, was chosen by Susan Tyrrell's Aunt Cheryl to be the man to satisfy her sexual hunger, I sat back and waited for Phil to mount his shapely prize on the kitchen table with bated breath.

Get between those milky thighs, you lucky bastard. Get between them real good. Is what I thought to myself, when I realized that Phil was about to be taken on a wild, pelvic ride.

However, the only thing that's going to be penetrated on this day is Phil's jugular. You heard right, Phil rebuffs Aunt Cheryl's attempt to seduce him. I'll get to jugular penetration in a minute. But let's just say I was flabbergasted by the sight of Phil rejecting the advances of an amorous of Susan Tyrrell; I had trouble fathoming that anyone in their right mind would this.

I mean, does this movie really expect me to believe that a grown man would turn down a free helping of Susan Tyrrell-orchestrated poontang?

Just as I was about to dismiss this movie as unrealistic poppycock, the film throws us a plot twist that does a lot to explain why Phil shunned Aunt Cheryl's lewd overture so assertively.

While a plot twist like this would have been greeted with yawns if it were from a movie made today, back in 1982, the subject was still taboo.

The gayest horror film to come out of the 1980s, Night Warning (a.k.a. Butcher, Baker, Nightmare Maker) doesn't receive this distinction because the film's primary crime solver is a raging bigot with a grudge against "fags." Nor does it receive this distinction because Susan Tyrrell has an inordinate amount of camp appeal. No, the reason this film is so gay is because Jimmy McNichol appears shirtless onscreen a total of seven times. If I have to explain why that's gay, then you clearly don't know gay.

Oh, and, yes, I kept track of how many times Jimmy McNichol appears topless in this movie; it's what I do.

It's a good thing Julia Duffy, the actress who plays Jimmy's heterosexual girlfriend, Julia, was wearing black pantyhose when she talks to a shirtless Jimmy during basketball practice. (Why?) Isn't it obvious? Her pussy would have exploded otherwise. (That doesn't make a lick of sense.) Um, the tightness of her black pantyhose no doubt bore the brunt of the vaginal blast. Duh.

What I think I'm trying to say is this: Whether you're gay, straight, somewhere in-between or Bill Paxton, your genitals won't stand a chance when up against the shirt-free onslaught Jimmy McNichol unleashes in this movie.

You could say this is why Aunt Cheryl (Susan Tyrrell) is so possessive of Jimmy... she wants him all to herself.

After opening with a flashback that shows Billy's parents being killed in a horrific traffic accident back in the late 1960s (his dad's face is smashed in by a log), we jump forward to the early 1980s, where a teenage Billy (Jimmy McNichol) is living in a large house with his Aunt Cheryl. I was going to say that things seem normal enough, but I just remembered that Susan Tyrrell plays Aunt Cheryl. Now, I'm not saying Susan Tyrrell can't play a sane person. But let's get real, shall we? I mean, look at the way Aunt Cheryl wakes up Billy. That's just plain weird.

While Aunt Chery putters around the house in ratty housecoats for most of the day, Billy can usually be found playing basketball at school (he's apparently quite good... despite not being Lithuanian).

Tired of being celibate, Aunt Cheryl gets fixed up and offers herself to the television repairmen. When he rejects her (he pushes her away), Aunt Cheryl does what any cock-starved shut-in would do, she stabs him to death. Just as this is taking place, Billy's comes home. Embarrassed that the television repairmen rejected her, Aunt Cheryl tells Billy that he tried to rape her; a story that Billy believes.

Unfortunately, the same can't be said of Detective Joe Carlson (Bo Svenson) and Sgt. Cook (Britt Leach), who have different theories as to what happened. And, yes, I meant to pluralize the word "theory." You see, Carlson and Cook both have differing opinions as to what transpired in Aunt Cheryl's kitchen. The former thinks Aunt Cheryl is a butch lesbian covering up for her gay son, who killed the gay television repairmen during a lover's quarrel involving Billy's gay basketball coach. While the latter thinks Aunt Cheryl is, to put it mildly, a psycho-hosebeast.

You might be thinking: Wow, Sgt. Cook's assessment of the case is dead-on. However, that doesn't mean it's an open and shut case. The problem is Det. Carlson is so obsessed with the case's gay angle, that all logic is thrown out the window.

I loved how Det. Carlson is set up to be the film's hero, but turns out to be the world's biggest asshole. Of course, I don't know if this was done on purpose or not, but his dogged determination to spin the case into a gay-themed homicide was one of the film's most appealing aspects. The key phrase there being "one of," as there's nothing more appealing than a movie that features a shirtless Jimmy McNichol and a more deranged than usual Susan Tyrrell.

The Dark Backward (Adam Rifkin, 1991)

In most movies, when a character stumbles upon the body of a naked woman at the local dump, their first instinct is to call the authorities. Well, how should I put this? The Dark Backward is not even close to being most movies. In fact, it's unlike anything I've ever seen. Oh, sure, parts it reminded me of Eraserhead (and I'm not just saying this because it mentions it on the film's poster), Blade Runner, Shredder Orpheus, The King of Comedy and Dr. Caligari. But the film, written and directed by Adam Rifkin (Detroit Rock City), is definitely a unique experience. Don't believe me? Um, Judd Nelson plays a struggling stand-up comic whose best friend is a chubby chasing, accordion-playing garbageman played by Bill Paxton. Any questions? I don't mean to toot my own horn (or squeeze my own accordion), but what was great about that last sentence is that I didn't need to allude to the fact that Judd Nelson's character grows a third arm. What's not so great about that last sentence is the fact that I called Bill Paxton's character a "chubby chaser." Trust me, he ain't no chubby chaser. The chicks he bangs in this movie are beyond chubby. Not to get too graphic, but I think Pickles' left bicep weighs more than me (Pickles being, of course, one of the morbidly obese women Bill Paxton mounts-thanks to sheer industriousness-and ultimately fucks in this movie).

Wait, that wasn't graphic at all. What I should have was: I think Pickles' rarely seen labia weighs more than me ("rarely seen" because it's shielded by a mountain range of abdominal flesh). While not factually accurate (her labia doesn't gain weight, and, hence, it does not weigh more than me), I think most people will agree that labias are funnier than biceps. Actually, anything cunt-based is a hundred times funnier than anything arm-based; just ask  jazz aficionado Soupy Sales. Whatta you mean he's dead? Criminy.

It's too bad Marty Malt (Judd Nelson) and I weren't best friends, as I could have taught him a thing or two about comedy. Instead, he's best friends with a guy named Gus (Bill Paxton), a sycophantic cheerleader who fills Marty's head with delusional nonsense on a daily basis. The biggest delusion being that he's actually funny.

They say the majority of comedy comes from pain, and it looks like Marty Malt is going to find this out the hard way when a painful nodule on the middle of his back grows into a human arm. I know, I said cunt-based humour is superior to arm-based humour. But arm-based humour is nothing to sneeze at. Granted, I can't think of any comedians off the top of my head who have had successful careers utilizing arm-based humour in their act. But I don't see why someone couldn't. I mean, arms can be funny, especially if you know a how to flail them properly.

I'm sorry, I'm trying to figure out why I compared The Dark Backward to Blade Runner a couple of paragraphs ago. The others I can sort of see. But Blade Runner? I'm just not seeing it. Hold on, I just remembered. When Marty and Gus are leaving Syd's comedy club after another terrible/awesome show, the camera hovers over this rooftop. And as we're doing so, I spotted a pile of dust-laden trash. Well, in Blade Runner, when Deckard is entering the police station, the camera hovers over the roof of Bryant's office. Anyone care to guess what's on the roof of Bryant's office? That's right, dust-laden trash.

Though, I think it's safe to say that The Dark Backward beats the snot out of Blade Runner in terms of garbage. Seriously, this film is wall-to-wall trash. And I mean that as a compliment.

Did I mention that Gus forces two of his morbidly obese girlfriends to eat dog food off his nipples?

Introduced to the "comedy stylings" of Marty Malt right off the bat, a sweaty Judd Nelson takes the stage at Syd's, a local club that seems to cater to the over 75 crowd. Telling a joke about buying stamps and one where his pet turtle turns out to be a rock, things are going pretty bad for the comedian in the pea green suit. Or are they? According to his accordion-playing pal Gus, he was hilarious and tells him afterward that the audience was laughing on the inside.

I'm thinking that Gus is either humouring his friend or that he has serious mental problems. I'm leaning more toward the latter. Judging by Gus' overall demeanour, he seems to have a few screws loose. (You mean he ain't hooked up right?) That's exactly what I mean, and Bill Paxton plays up Gus' insanity to the hilt. If you're like me and thought Bill's wacky antics were the best things about Aliens and Near Dark, you'll love his performance in this film, as he makes Nic Cage's gonzo turn in Deadfall seem restrained.

One of the keys to impressing me, cinema-wise, is the ability to create a world unto itself. And The Dark Backward manages to do that and then some. Shirking nationalism and popular culture, the film has its own ecosystem.

Take, for instance, the whole "Blump's" thing. Now, I'm not entirely sure what Blump's is, but they seem to have cornered the market for pretty much everything. Whether it be squeezable bacon, pork juice, beef, scab medicine, cigars/cigarettes, lemon fresh suppositories or cheddar-scented cheese, Blump's have got you covered.

Even Marty and Gus seem to be under the thumb of Blump's, as they work for their sanitation division. Though, I have to say, they're not very good at their jobs (the bulk of the trash they pick up rarely ever makes it into the back of the garbage truck).

One day, as they're out on their route, Gus notices a lump in the middle of Marty's back. No biggie, right? It's just an insect bite. After Gus molests a corpse at the dump, Marty takes a second stab at Syd's club. And like the opening set, it does not go well, as the geriatrics in the audience remain stone-faced throughout his painfully unfunny act.

While Marty has Lara Flynn Boyle's diner waitress to lean on for support, Gus has his portly harem of obese woman to eat stir fried dog food off his nipples. Lucky bastard. (Which one?) Which one what? (Which one is the lucky bastard?) Uh, I'd rather not say at this particular juncture.

As Marty's lump grows into an arm, he looses the support of Lara Flynn Boyle (she can't handle dating a guy with three arms) and gets nothing but confused looks from Dr. Scurvy (James Caan) and Nurse Kitty (Claudia Christian). But he does find an ally in Jackie Chrome (Wayne Newton), a talent agent. When Jackie saw Marty's act without the third arm, he reacted the way almost everyone does: Hostile indifference. But now that Marty has a three arms as supposed to just two, Jackie sees this as an opportunity to turn his abnormality into fame and fortune.

Re-branding them as "Desi the Three-Armed Wonder Comic and his musical accompaniment Gus," Jackie books Marty and Gus at a number of different clubs throughout the city. Of course, the results are the exactly same as they were before the third arm came along (Marty is still not funny, and Gus' accordion playing does nothing but confuse the audience), but Jackie seems to think the three-armed comic has potential.

It's true, production designer (Sherman Williams) and art director (Wendy Guidery) deserve a lot of the credit for making this the cult classic that it is today, it's actually the visionary weirdness of writer-director Adam Rifkin that elevates it to the status of off-kilter masterpiece. Screw that, everyone involved with this film needs to be commended.

Pass the Ammo (David Beaird, 1988)

Our shimmering neon crucifix is filled to the brim with underpaid operators who are standing by to receive your generous donation, so, please, look deep into your heart and give us a steaming wad of your hard earned cash. Oh, and when I say, "give us," I really mean give me. After all, I'm the one doing the majority of thr spiritual heavy lifting. Just a second, did you say, "neon crucifix"? Yep, I sure did. Wow, that must look amazing on television. Why just thinking about its chromatic glow washing over me as I sit motionless in my sparsely furnished living room makes me want to run next-door, masticate the living daylights out of my neighbour's insipid taint, and chug a can of Fresca (and since I'm already there, I might as well grab myself a complementary footstool). What I'm doing right now, believe or not, is I'm attempting to understand the mindset of the type of individual who would give their money to someone who gives them nothing in return. It's true, you could argue they're providing them with divine comfort, but its essence is purely hypothetical. If you told a stranger or a total stranger, let's say, while riding the subway, that you had just purchased a shitload of divine comfort for around fifty bucks, they would look at you funny and proceed to get off at the next stop, regardless if it was their stop or not. Judging by the mail streaming into the megachurch in Pass the Ammo, a blunt satirical attack on evangelical hucksterism from the director of, get this, My Chauffeur, they're sending more than just money. It would seem that nothing is off limits, as everything from jewelry to insurance policies, to even teeth are being sent their way. But why are they giving these freaks all their valuables? I'm no expert when it comes to irrational zeal, but I bet it's got something to do with the sheer size of the hair sitting atop the head of the preacher's wife? The only reason I mention her hair is because its largeness is the main reason I would send them any money (as a recovering Goth, I know hair spray ain't cheap).

If you're anything like me, then you no doubt spent a huge chunk of the late 1980s taping televangelists off the television in order to use their bizarre ramblings to spice up your homemade industrial music. Recording their sermons with a steely resolve wasn't always easy, as sometimes their preachy gobbledygook would seep into your feverish brain. Even though my memory of this period is a tad foggy, I could have sworn I bought six prayer clothes. Preachers, infomercial pitchmen, lawyers (particularly ones with offices in Cheektowaga), scumbag politicians (i.e. all politicians), those chipper ladies who sell bras on the shopping channel, they all prey on your vulnerabilities. In order for them to remove a sizable amount of cash from your wallet, they need to either scare you or belittle you. Your average televangelist does a bit of both, feeding off human weakness and general gullibility. It's no surprise that these shady godmongers have an air of superiority about them, one that definitely masks a sinister underbelly.

Feeding off your nonexistent ignorance by amusing the lint-covered receptors that dot the surface of your face, the Rev. Ray Porter (a wonderfully insincere Tim Curry) is the leading force when comes to distorting the teachings of Jesus Christ, a man who preached peace and love, not greed and pettiness. Hosting his garish gospel program along with smoking hot wife Darla (Annie Potts), even her name makes my flesh tingle with untoward satisfaction, the preacher with state's most hairless nostrils is literally raking in the dough. Hypnotizing his mostly yokel-based congregation with a kinetic brand of forthright evangelism, the oily reverend manages to extract millions of dollars from his devoted flock.

Am I shocked that the Rev. Porter was able to pilfer his followers so comfortably for so long? Hell, no. Have you seen his show? It's fucking awesome! Taking your racist grandmother's evangelism and jazzing up for the 1980s, the Tower of Bethlehem ministries, by adding Las Vegas-style production values, and employing MTV-style editing, have managed to turn apotheosizing into a multi-million dollar a year industry.

You only have to take a casual, non-judgmental glance over at Darla, her rarely violated body sheathed in a silver frock, to fully understand what the Tower of Bethlehem ministries are bringing to the highly lucrative preaching the gospel on TV racket. Smoke, neon, irregular pantyhose, and Engelbert Humperdinck-quality facial hair fill the air as Darla saunters down the stairs of the main stage. An audible gasp lingers in the audience as Annie Potts, channeling Kate Bush while performing choreography straight out of Liquid Sky, starts singing the line, "you're in paradise now," over and over again.

In order to emphasize how much money the sight of Annie Potts, the mousy blandness she exuded in Crimes of Passion has been completely exorcised, belting out religious show tunes as Darla makes for the church, we're subjected to a montage–one set to the strains of "Lay You're Money Down for Jesus" by twins John and Paul Cody–that depicts the complex machinery that operates behind the scenes (the church basement is packed with people whose sole job it is to oversee the cash flow). As we're down there, we also see Rev. Porter blessing the letters sent in by those suffering from various diseases (before he blesses a pile, a lackey informs him of which illness they're afflicted with).

Meanwhile, in another part of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, Bill Paxton is being straddled by a slip-wearing Linda Kozlowski (much respect to her for ignoring the waspy pricks who probably told her to change her name to something less Polish). Unsatisfied with life between Miss Kozlowski's able-bodied thighs, Bill Paxton, who is actually playing a character named Jesse, decides to rob the Tower of Bethlehem. You see, they took 50,000 dollars from Linda Kozlowski's dying bubby (Linda's character, by the way, is named Claire), and Jesse would like to get that money back.

Of course, they're gonna need a little help, after all, you'll need more than a fully grown Bill Paxton and a silky brunette woman in a slip (her dainty ankles beaming with Polish pride) to pull off a job like this. Enter Big Joe (Dennis Burkley), a shotgun-wielding career criminal who fancies himself a country and western singer, and Arnold (Glenn Withrow), the reincarnation of one of Marie Antoinette's handmaidens, two ex-cons just itching to "go do some crimes." Now you'd think these characters, simply by looking at them, would bring nothing but comic relief to the proceedings. But they're just as important as Jesse and Claire, even more so at times. Representing the healing powers of redemption, Big Joe humanizes the police with his stirring rendition of "Policeman," seeks financial advice from a crooked reverend, and uses his giant teddy bear-eqsue temperament to successfully placate Darla's impending meltdown, while Arnold finds love in the form of a choir member dressed as an angel (Debra Sue Maffett) and employs his playful nature in a way that allows the show's fake born again director (Anthony Geary) to reconnect with his inner rabble-rouser.

With his team assembled, it's time to head on down to the Tower of Bethlehem. Since no-one wants to watch a film where a megachurch is robbed without incident, Jesse, Claire, Big Joe, and Arnold find themselves, after taking a wrong turn, in the middle of Kenny (Brian Thompson, the weight-lifting helicopter pilot from Miracle Mile) and Darla's impassioned interpretation of the story of Samson and Delila.

When it comes to movies that feature hostage situations, I always side with the hostage takers, as I tend to identify with their status as outsiders who want to buck the system. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your outlook, Pass the Ammo presents a bit of a conundrum in that the character I would normally root against is so darn affable. If I had to blame anyone for this off-putting turn of events, it would have to Leland Crooke (Cat Fight from My Chauffeur). Charming, folksy, and always levelheaded, Leland and his Louisiana accent bring a lot of unexpected nuance to Rascal Lebeaux, a smalltown sheriff who's thrust into the middle of one doozy of a standoff. At first, it seemed like Sheriff Lebeaux was gonna be nothing more than your average redneck lawman (after all, he is duck hunting when we first meet up with him), but slowly, as the film progresses, the character becomes more complex.

Another dilemma arises when Claire points her pistol in anger at Darla during a particularly heated moment. I was all like, get that gun out of Darla's face, you hillbilly skank! Despite the fact that her head is filled with paint fumes and sautéed poppycock, Darla was able to win me over through her dedication to gaudy fashion (lots of slit-heavy gowns), and, of course, her overall babeiliciousness. It doesn't take a genius to figure this out, but while Linda Kozlowski was busy portraying Claire as a bit of a buzzkill, Annie Potts is secretly plotting the course that lead Darla to come off as sympathetic by the time the bullets (and tank shells) started to whiz through the auditorium.

You could say my favourite characters were Rascal Lebeaux, Darla, and, if I had to choose a third, I would probably have to go with either Dennis Burkley's Big Joe or Anthony Geary's Stonewall, as they were genuinely likeable, but not dicks about it. Besides, you gotta love a guy (Big Joe) whose idea of revenge is to blast two pricey pairs of cowboy boots with his trusty shotgun.

Lampooning televangelism is a little like shooting fish that have placed in a smallish container; they're an easy target. But Pass the Ammo, however, casts a wide net when it comes to its mockery. Ridiculing the corrupt machinations of local politics, the power of "Big God," redneck vigilantes, corn-fed reactionaries, and the scourge that is groupthink, writers Joel Cohen and Neil Cohen have fashioned a script, one that features the line, "they're gonna butt-fuck the preacher on TV," that seems to spare no-one.

video uploaded by tcfan123

Special thanks to Russ for not only introducing me to this movie, but for providing me with a copy of it.

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