I, the Jury (Richard T. Heffron, 1982)

How am I supposed to learn how to apply makeup in a tarty manner if they don't show it being applied? (What the hell are you babbling about?) The sexual deviant/serial killer/C.I.A. assassin, played by the striking Judson Scott, at the centre of I, the Jury likes to slather his female victims in heavy makeup before killing them. (Yeah, so?) So? We never see how he applies the makeup. And another thing, does he carry around the makeup with him? It's revealed later on in the film, directed by Richard T. Heffron (the film's writer, Larry Cohen, was set to direct but was apparently fired for some reason), that he carries around a bag that contains a red wig and a switchblade. So, I can only assume he keeps the makeup in that bag as well. Either way, I would have liked to have seen him put the makeup on the women he murdered. I know, there are literally thousands of videos out there that can help you apply makeup to your face. But those videos are mostly about cis women applying makeup in a competent manner. I, on the other hand, want to know how to apply makeup in an incompetent manner. What can I say? I'm a tart at heart. In case it isn't obvious, the Judson Scott subplot of this film, loosely based on the novel by Mickey Spillane (his debut, if I'm not mistaken), was my favourite aspect of this NYC-set detective movie.

Unfortunately, Judson Scott doesn't appear in the film right away. Sure, you get to see some of his handy-work in the early going (a tarted up, red wig-adorned woman is found dead in the park). But the film is mostly made up of car chases and Armand Assante's [thankfully] always clean shaven Mike Hammer whining about his pet fish dying (every time he enters his office, one, or some times even two, of his fish are lifelessly floating in his fish tank). Actually, I kind of liked the dead fish gag.

Anyway, I would say a good chunk of this film, especially the first half, had the feeling of an expensive TV pilot. However, that all changes when the orgy gets underway. Yep, I said, orgy. Investigating the murder of a one-armed army buddy (they served in Vietnam together), Det. Mike Hammer, with the help of his sexy secretary Velda (Laurene Landon), uncovers a vast conspiracy involving the mafia, the C.I.A., serial killers, sex clinics and mind control.

As you might expect, the serial killer/sex clinic plot line scratched me where I itch the most. What can I say? I'm a... deviant, I guess.

I don't know what this says about me, but I was rapidly losing patience with this film during the early going. And it didn't help that the Al Pacino-lite macho asshole vibe Armand Assante was repeatedly putting out there rubbed me the wrong way. Granted, I grew to accept, and eventually admire, Armand Assante's brutish performance as Mike Hammer (he is someone you don't fuck with... big time). But I wasn't having any of it at the beginning.

While the orgy scene I alluded to earlier is an obvious indicator that the tone of the film had changed. I would say the scene where Mike Hammer and a fellow detective played Paul Sorvino stand over the dead body of that tarted up woman lying at the base of the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central park was the exact moment I started to realize that this film might have some sleaze potential. I mean, the way the camera lingered voyeuristically (that's a word, right?) on her dead body was definitely exploitative in nature. And I dug that.

What? You don't think I watch movies to see finely woven plots unfold in a semi-clever manner. Uh-uh. I want to see the bloated, pockmarked underbelly of humanity exposed, warts and all. And I want to see bright colours and fashion. Sadly, there isn't that much fashion in this film. Nevertheless, the sudden uptick in this film's sleaze factor not only pleased me, it guaranteed that it would be worthy of a review.

And judging by the words I've typed so far in correlation with I, the Jury, it's clearly being reviewed.

I don't want it to seem like I'm obsessed with the orgy scene, but I think I would remiss if I didn't mention that the bulk of the orgasm faces used in the close-ups were provided by porn legends Samantha Fox (Her Name Was Lisa) and Bobby Astyr (Corruption).

 

The actual plot, in case I forgot to mention, involves Mike Hammer investigating the murder of... No, wait. I already mentioned that. Nevertheless, the part of the plot where we learn that the C.I.A. has employed/brainwashed a sex-crazed serial killer to murder America's enemies is kind of interesting. Think about it. The C.I.A. can kill anyone they want without it being connected to them. Just as long as the killer can get his victims to wear a red wig and tarty makeup and get them to profess their love for him in a sincere manner, they're good to go... murder-wise.

A prime example of what can happen when 1970s-style grittiness/paranoia is mixed with together with the burgeoning urbanity of the 1980s, I, the Jury is the best of both worlds: a glossy action-thriller with enough sleaze to satisfy fans of both 1970s and 1980s cinema.

Times Square Comes Alive (Vince Benedetti, 1985)

Leaving your place of residence to masturbate might sound like a chore in today's click, spank, cry, sanitize and refresh universe. But back in 1985, it was an everyday part of life. Sure, there were a number of different ways to achieve moist-adjacent satisfaction during the height of the fingerless glove era without having to resort to public indecency, yet there was something oddly appealing about obtaining an idiot-proof orgasm in an environment teeming with filth and confusion. Even though I never got the chance to personally experience 42nd Street when it was awash with sexual deviance and flexible women named Tasha, still, one can't help but get a little teary-eyed while watching Times Square Comes Alive (a.k.a. Times Sq. 'Cums' Alive), Marc Roberts' touching ode to sex shops, garter belts, self-administered vaginal irrigation and perversion in general. Everyone from the heavy-set fella manning the double-headed dildo counter to the overworked guy in the hardhat (Bobby Astyr, a.k.a. The Clown Prince of Porn) whose job it is to chisel off the crusty chunks of semen that have accumulated on the floor and peepshow glass over the course of the day is given their moment to shine in the stained-illuminating sun. Harkening back to the days when a person (over the age of eighteen, of course) could find cheap thrills on just about every corner, the film, directed by Vince Benedetti, and shot mockumentary style, is a love letter (okay, it's more like an incoherent diatribe written on a soiled napkin) to the adult book stores of yore.

Tactile and oozing an authentic brand of sleaze, sex in New York City is grimy, coarse and always seems to reek of stale desperation. In California, however, specifically, the San Fernando Valley (the place where smut went after being evicted from the Big Apple), the sex always comes across as impersonal and antiseptic. And call me someone with serious emotional problems, but I will always choose foul and unclean over bland and sterile.

Capturing the unsavoury spirit of New York's unofficial red-light district, Times Square Comes Alive is set up as an expose by a television reporter named Christine Career (Veronica Vera), the genial host of a hard hitting program called "69 Minutes." Standing on the street outside a sex emporium, one that is aptly called "The Sex Emporium" (in reality, the infamous Show World Center), holding her trusty wireless microphone, Christine, wearing a conservative dress–one that, no doubt, is shielding us from a wide array of frilly and sheer delights–invites us to come inside and watch as she attempts to undercover the shadiness that lies beyond its garishly adorned doorway.

A moment of unexpected clarity occurs just as Christine is about the enter the emporium when she wonders aloud about the future of such places. She even uses the term "wrecking ball" to describe the fragile nature of these so-called "massage parlours." As everyone knows, the 42nd Street featured in the film is no more, but it was fascinating to see that even the purveyors of porn knew their days in Times Square were numbered.

You won't believe...

what's lurking...

underneath Christine Career's super-long dress.

And there's no way to prepare yourself for you're about to see underneath Christine Career's super-long dress in Times Square Comes Alive. It's the stuff of pornographic legend. Do you thinking I'm overselling it? Nah.

After she finally does enter the scuzzy-looking establishment she's been standing in front of for the past minute or so, Christine, in the most awkward manner possible, approaches four dancers: Nikki (Nikki Wright), the dirty one; Scarlett (Scarlett Scharleau), the brash one; Tasha (Tasha Voux), the flexible one; and Angela (Angela Venise), the soft one, as they're preparing themselves for the sex-filled day ahead of them.

Asking them a series of questions pertaining to their job, Christine tries shed some light on the day-to-day existence of your average sex worker. A tad wary of this overdressed intruder whose entered their midst (if they only knew what wonders lurked underneath her clothing), the scantily clad women do their best to answer her frightfully lame questions.

One of them mentions needing to cleanse themselves with a douche, and leaves the room. I thought to myself, wouldn't it be great if they actually showed her douching herself (sexual intercourse can so pedestrian some times). To my surprise, it looks like we're about to be treated to what no-one likes to call a "front enema." The douche water starts to flow when the wonderfully gap-toothed Nikki, after fingering her clit (her nails are pink and her hands and arms are adorned with black fingerless opera gloves), starts to provoke the opening of the pinkish hole located between her legs with the nozzle of a douche.

Relaxing in a position that is conducive to douching, the soon-to-be spick-and-span blonde pokes and prods at her delicious pussy area in a way that seemed to be more geared toward her pleasure than the purification of her genitalia. But then again, that just goes to show how little I know about the douching process. Douche ignorance aside, it was nice to see someone being cleaned for a change, as there's something rather comforting about the sight of a woman who has decided to start their day off with an irrigated vagina.

Since the film can't be wall-to-wall douching, Angela, the soft one, and, to not to mention, the sexiest woman in the entire joint, gets her pussy pounded by the cock attached to a lumpy man with a faint mustache. Wearing black suspender hose and her hair in a bun, Angela absorbs the brunt of his run-of-the-mill thrusts with a disaffected nonchalance. All the while, Christine and a bunch of creepy gawkers watch from their respective peepshow windows. Speaking of windows, Nikki, douched and ready to go, manages to extract sperm from a man simply by pretending to fellate him (a sheet of glass separates the two participants).

You probably noticed that I said Christine Career approaches the dancers in the "most awkward manner possible," well, that's because everything about Veronica Vera's performance practically screams awkwardness. And I don't mean that as a negative. On the contrary, my perfume scented little douche nozzle, her awkward mannerisms, especially when she tries to interview people, are the film's greatest, non-sex attribute. Okay, maybe her clumsy style of gonzo journalism wasn't as appealing as the sight of the gorgeous Angela Venise prancing around a badly lit peepshow booth in nothing but a pair of black suspender hose, but it was definitely one of the film's strengths.

The scene where Veronica interviews "Billy," the heavy-set man in charge of the emporium's dildo counter, amplifies her awkward temperament. Part of me likes to think that Christine Career wasn't really a journalist, but actually a schizophrenic woman who likes to pretend she's the Diane Sawyer of the porno theatre scene.

Awkwardly gesturing toward some curtains, Christine introduces us to "fantasy theatre," a sort of Café Flesh-esque nightclub where unorthodox sex scenarios are acted out for the amusement of the saps in the audience. The one we're shown involves three sailors, who seem to be working on what looked like a submarine engine. Bathed in smoke and illuminated with this eerie pink light, the sailors are interrupted by three ladies in lingerie (one of which was definitely Nikki, the douche girl). Anyway, the weirdly edited (some moments are repeated multiple times) scene goes on for about eight minutes.

The next scene is interesting, not because it features a skinny dude with floppy hair having sex with a chick dressed like a man (think: Bruno Mars in a satin garter belt) in a room the size of a phone booth, but because the skinny dude with floppy hair is none other than Bill Landis (a.k.a. Bobby Spector), one of the writers of Sleazoid Express; an excellent book about exploitation cinema and the 42nd Street movie-going experience; "Blood Horror: Chopping 'Em up at the Rialto" is my favourite chapter. Oh and the director of this film, Vince Benedetti, is thanked in the "Acknowledgements" section.

Interviewing Nikki, the douche woman, in a peepshow booth, Veronica actually says, "Your p-p-p-p-pussy?!? Is that what you call it? Your p-p-p-p-pussy?" When she said that line I was like, give me a break, women with pierced nipples know exactly what a pussy is. Either way, I love the idea that Veronica pretended to have no idea that people called their vaginas pussies (the way she struggles to say "pussy" was beyond adorable).

(Maybe she didn't really know what a pussy was.) Do I have to say it again? Woman with pierced nipples have to know what a pussy is, it's as simple as that. (Hey, wait a minute, how do you know Veronica has pierced nipples?) She showed them to me. Well, she didn't just show them to me, she shows them to everyone in the audience.

In one the film's greatest moments, Nikki, after being inundated with what seemed like a thousand questions about her pussy, asks to see Veronica's pussy. Reluctantly lifting up her long skirt, Veronica is wearing black stockings that are being held up by these crinkly red garters. The way the tops of black stockings clung for dear life as they pressed tightly against her thick thighs was probably one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

Pop quiz, hotshot. How many one-handed hiking motions does it take Christine Career to lift up skirt until we see the tops of her black stockings? If you said, eleven. You would be not that far off. It actually took twelve separate one-handed hiking motions to reveal her red garters hanging on for dear life as they kept her black stockings aloft. Now, some fans of Times Square Comes Alive will tell you she hiked her skirt seven or eight times. But those people are flat-out wrong. Take it from me, I've studied this film long and hard. In other words, I know exactly what I'm talking about when it comes to one-handed hiking motions.

While Tasha Voux would definitely win the award for being the most flexible dancer in the joint, Angela Vinise is hands down the sexiest. Hold on, I think I already mentioned that Angela is the sexiest. Whatever, I'm saying it again, as it coincides with the scene I'm currently writing about. And that is, the scene where Tasha and Angela, who is wearing her trademark black suspender hose, dance for peepshow customers.

In the next two scenes, a trans man gives a trans woman a blow job in the so-called "Gaiety Room" (no cum shot) and a nurse (Ashley Moore in white stockings) performs an enema on a male patient (no taupe anal water, but we do get a drippy cum shot).

As you can clearly see, this film is not only educational, it features a wide array of sex acts. In the second to last scene, Veronica Vera shows off her red garters one more time as she deals with a glory hole. The way she says, "There appears to be a penis coming out of this hole," blew my mind. Again, she's pretty naive for someone with a nipple piercing. Yet, the world would be a far less oppressive place if we all approached sex with Christine's Career trademark brand of cockeyed wonder.

Corruption (Roger Watkins, 1984)

Blue stockings, red stockings, black stockings. Is there any significance to the order in which the stocking-clad women who greet a confused businessman in the ultra-creepy, ultra-weird Corruption? Why do blue stockings come before red stockings? And why do black stockings come last? Is the colour blue meant to represent something? Maybe the colour was used to give the scene a sort of a cool, detached flavour. In other words, you can looking at my legs encased in blue hold-up stockings, but don't you dare touch them. Yeah, that makes sense, as the next pair of nylon-clad legs are sheathed in red stockings. And we all know that red represents fire, the complete opposite of cool. What about black? Good question. What does black mean? Hey, sorry to interrupt this nylon-based chromatic dissertation you having with yourself, but isn't this kind of movie you're supposed to masturbate to? First of all, I wouldn't call what I was doing a "dissertation," they're way longer than a few sentences strung together; incoherent blather would be a more apt description. And secondly, "masturbate to"? Don't be vulgar. This film was made by Roger Watkins (The Last House on Dead End Street), one of the few visionaries working in the consecrated cesspool that is x-rated cinema. You don't masturbate to his films, you clasp your hands by your chin and nod ever-so slightly as you soak in the artistry. Nevertheless, getting back to my original point, there is definitely a hidden meaning behind the colours of the stockings. I mean, there has to be. And get this, the colour of the lingerie matches the walls as well. Don't tell me, is this one of those flicks where a character goes from room to room, having sex with scantily clad women along the way? It is, isn't it?
 

 

One of the pleasures of watching an x-rated film that was clearly made by an artist, and make no mistake, Roger Watkins is an artist, is picking out all the subtle details that the raincoat crowd would surely miss. Oh, that reminds me. One of the primary reasons I responded so positively to Corruption, besides the fact that the film features the pleasing shape that is Tish Ambrose's ass, was the fact that the so-called "raincoat crowd" (a.k.a. dedicated patrons of erotic movie houses) probably despised this film. And, no. It's not because they dislike things are awesome. Mainly because a pussy isn't penetrated by a penis until we're well into the production. Oh, sure, fingers and tongues come close on several occasions to hitting vaginal pay dirt in the early going. But the raincoat crowd is going to need to see a lot more than a slight labia dusting to achieve the liquid-based satisfaction they so wantonly crave.
 

 

And they're definitely not going to get it by watching the opening scene, as Mr. Williams (Jamie Gillis) tries to reassure a seated Mr. Franklin (Michael Gaunt, a.k.a. Larry the Lineman from A Woman's Torment) that he "believes in business." From the looks of it, Mr. Williams was given something by Mr. Franklin and his associates, and they seem to expect something in return. What it is they want from Mr. Williams exactly isn't quite clear. But I'm guessing it involves power. And what represented power during the 1980s? That's right, a nondescript briefcase. It doesn't matter what's in it, just as along as you're holding one.   
 

 

You know how I said that Mr. Franklin has "associates"? Well, it would seem that Mr. Williams has some as well. And one of these "associates" is entering a mysterious building while electronic music throbs on the soundtrack. The music heard during the build up to this scene sounds like it's from The Thing, but I'm not 100% sure about that. Anyway, this "associate," who is probably more of an errand boy that an associate, is actually a man called Alan (George Payne), and he's about to go on a strange erotic trip.
 

 

In order to go on this "strange erotic trip," he must first get past the "person behind the desk," a.k.a. "woman at desk." Played by Samantha Fox ("Lisa" from Her Name Was Lisa), the woman behind the desk confuses Alan with cryptic language. You'll notice that Samantha Fox is reading Cosima Wagner's Diaries 1878-1883. Which makes perfect sense since Roger Watkins'  porn nom de plume is Richard Mahler, an amalgamation of the names of classical composers Richard Wagner and Gustav Mahler. Well, enough about that, Alan is about to enter the first room. Why is he going in there? The woman behind the desk told him that if he wants what he's looking for, he's going to have to enter that room to get it. Okay, that sounds simple enough. Oh, you're so naive. I'm talking about Alan, not you, by the way.
 

 

Told immediately to sit down, Alan is greeted by the "Woman in Blue" (Tanya Lawson). And by "greeted." I mean she proudly flaunts her hairy pussy (which is beautifully framed by a pair of blue stockings) with much fanfare. Itching to show off her vagina in a more flattering light, the "Woman in Blue" sits down on a blue chair and spreads her legs (a surefire way to get your genitals more word of mouth). Instructing him to "do nothing," the "Woman in Blue" pulls down the breast-covering mechanism attached to her blue corset and begins playing with her nipples. When she's done doing that, she beckons him to smell her pussy; that's right, smell. When she feels that he has experienced everything her cunt has to offer odor-wise, the "Woman in Blue" pushes him away, and proceeds to finger herself for an extended period of time.
 

 

If you're confused by what just happened, you're not alone, as Alan seems more perplexed than ever. After the extended period of time I alluded to earlier runs out, the "Woman in Blue" informs Alan that what he's looking for is beyond that door. You mean? Yep, another room, and another colour-coordinated lingerie-enthusiast to contend with. This time it's a woman in red lingerie, oh, let's call her the "Woman in Red" (Marilyn Gee), who greets Alan. However, unlike the "Woman in Blue," the "Woman in Red" wants Alan to do more than smell her pussy. You guessed it, she wants him to eat it.
 

 

Sliding off her red panties in a gingerly fashion (she obviously doesn't want to disrupt the structural integrity of her equally red stockings), Alan seems to relish this opportunity to get his face smeared with vaginal wetness. His relish is rewarded when she puts his cock (the male equivalent of a pussy) in her mouth. Of course, she doesn't just leave it in there, she removes it every so often, like she was sucking on a Popsicle. As she is, as the kids like to say, "blowing him," Roger Watkins gets in touch with his inner Jess Franco by giving us a gratuitous leg pan. Just as he's about to deposit his load skyward, or downward, depending on the viscosity of his wad, the "Woman in Red" removes his cock, denying him the opportunity to spew his seed. What are you trying to say? Let me put this way, there will be no clean up necessary in the red room on this day.    
 

 

Even though the women who have greeted Alan so far have been alluring in terms of sex appeal, nothing could have prepared me for the shapely perfection that is Tish Ambrose's pale ass. If that wasn't enough, the scene where Alan meets the "Woman in Black" (Tish Ambrose) starts off with a top-notch synth flourish. Up there with the likes of Rinse Dream and Gregory Dark, Alan's "confrontation" with the "Woman in Black" is as dark and twisted as porn can get it. Oh, don't get me wrong, the sex itself is pretty straightforward. It's that the atmosphere is so off-kilter. Lounging in black stockings, the "Woman in Black" asks if Alan is ready to renounce love. See what I mean? There's no love in pornography.
 

 

In the 1980s, power was more important than love, so Alan has no trouble whatsoever renouncing it. In return for renouncing love, Alan is allowed to penetrate the "Woman in Black" with his long suffering penis. Before he does that, however, he removes her black panties, in a gingerly fashion, of course, and throws his face in the general direction of her clitoris. If you listen carefully, you can hear a mass sigh of relief fall over the audience when Alan's penis finally enters her vagina. In my mind, waiting eighteen minutes doesn't seem that long a time to wait for a penis to be inserted into a vagina. But to the raincoat crowd, it must have seemed like an eternity.  
 

 

As Alan plows into the "Woman in Black" doggy style (the blackness of her stocking's garters tear across her ashen thighs like crumpled bolts of polyester lightning with every thrust), it occurs to me that I need more Tish Ambrose in my cinematic life. Everything from her wide, expressive eyes to the birthmark on her left breast (they're nature's tattoos) was appealing. Nearing the end of his thrusting capacity, the "Women in Black" tells Alan, "Don't cum inside me!" After dispensing his future stain across her ample backside, she curtly instructs him to leave. Ending up back where he started, Alan notices a briefcase sitting on Samantha Fox's desk.   
 

 

Meanwhile, Mr. Williams, the guy who sent Alan on that crazy errand in this first place, is at home with his wife Doreen (Tiffany Clark). Since this film is technically a pornographic film, Jamie Gillis and Tiffany Clark have sex, but not before exchanging some esoteric dialogue. In order to placate said esoteric dialogue, a scene where Mr. Williams watches (through a crack in the door) his wife's younger sister, Felicia (Kelly Nichols), masturbate on her bed in purple panties and white hold-up stockings. While the scene with Felicia feels superfluous, it actually sets up her character and the voyeurism of the next few scenes rather nicely.
 

 

When Mr. Williams finds out what Alan has done (the contents of the briefcase are his), he heads down to a local bar to ask his half-brother, Larry (Bobby Astyr), for help. In keeping with the film's odd tone, the bar is a sort of a cross between the Bang Bang Bar in Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me and the joint from Café Flesh. Dancing on a stage is, to quote Larry, "a half-wasted broad shaking her ass," named...actually, she doesn't have a name. Well, despite that, she's played by Nicole Bernard, and she continues to dance as Mr. Williams and Larry discuss the whereabouts of Alan.  

 

Similar to the scenes where Alan goes from room to room, Larry takes Mr. Williams to a subterranean hallway that contains three red doors. Now, what lies behind these is not anyone's guess, as each door is equipped a reverse peephole. Telling Mr. Williams that he must watch what takes place behind each door before they can continue, the frustrated businessman is subjected to bathroom lesbianism (a wonderfully bruised Alexis X and Sabrina Vale); dungeon-based sadomasochism, a dominatrix in fishnet stockings (Melissa Strong) demands that a man in a leather mask lick her boots; and, believe or not, necrophilia. While the lesbianism behind door number one is a pleasant diversion, what Mr. Williams sees through the other two doors will cause him quite a bit of distress.
 

 

A true work of subversive art, Corruption, with its total and utter disregard for the needs and wants of your pathetic genitals, is a rare of example of what porn can become if put in the hands of a thoughtful director. On top of that, the acting by Jamie Gillis, Samantha Fox, Bobby Astyr, Michael Gaunt, and Vanessa del Rio (who shows up near the end of the film) is excellent across the board. I would compliment Tish Ambrose on her acting as well, but I was too busy admiring the smoothness of her backside to notice her acting. Just kidding, her lines are read with just the right amount of forcefulness.

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