Maniac (William Lustig, 1980)

Call him a deranged psychopath with unresolved mommy issues, if you must. But the mentally unwell protagonist at the centre of Maniac, my cinematic wheelhouse in a nutshell covered in two layers of creamy derelict jizz, is more akin to a shapeless mound of broken dreams and unrealized potential. Why did I choose to view him in this particular light? Clearly possessing many different talents, the so-called "killer" seems to be wasting away in a rent-free pit of  loneliness and despair. If the ability to stalk women after midnight was a valuable skill to have listed on your resume, he would be sitting pretty. Unfortunately, no-one needs a lumpy, middle-aged man who forcibly removes women's scalps in today's unstable job market. You would think they would at least be impressed by the fact that he recycles, a rare trait to have during the era of guilt-free orgasms and disco chic. But they couldn't careless that he reuses his victims hair and clothing to create art. Sure, it's disturbing art, but it's art, nonetheless. How do I know all this? Well, luckily, director William Lustig (Maniac Cop) and writer/executive producer/star Joe Spinell (Forbidden Zone) have decided to bypass your typical slasher film clichés by making one that's entirely from the perspective of the killer. You know what that means? Of course I do, you've already implied that you know what it means. Yeah, but...Okay, you're right. Either way, I was so happy when it dawned on me that there would be no police investigation, no red herrings, and no lame plot twists in this film. At around the midway point I thought myself: There's no way they would introduce a cop character this late in the game. And you know what? They didn't. It's true, some cops do show up near the end of the film, but they didn't even have any lines. The film does have a romantic subplot, but it's so awkward and strange, that it eventually morphs into a weird form of dinner theatre. Seriously, I'm still trying to figure out how Joe Spinell managed to get beautiful Caroline Munro (Starcrash) to even talk to him, let alone go on a date with his sleazeball ass. I mean, just the mere thought of them in the same room together sent shivers and shock waves up and down that the mysterious flap of skin languishing near my cavernous taint.
 

 

The cinematic wheelhouse I alluded to earlier had nothing to do with violence and degradation, which this film has in abundance, but the fact that it takes place, like the majority of my favourite films, in New York City during the era of cocaine sex and tight trousers.   

 

 

In order for his basement apartment to really come alive as a creepy hellhole, Frank Zito (Joe Spinell) needs to kill at least five or six women. Of course, I'm not entirely sure if that's his goal or not. But from where I was sitting, it seems like he's got a void in his life, and murdering women is the only way he knows how to fill it. Like most serial killers, Frank is not content with simply murdering his victims. No, he needs to keep a souvenir. In this case, he puts the clothes they were wearing when he killed them on female mannequins.
 

 

At first, it seemed like he was carrying their bodies home in a garbage bag. But upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that he's carrying mannequins. Where he gets them exactly is not-so clear. But since it appears as if he has some connection to the art world (his apartment looks like a close quarter art gallery), I bet he has a mannequin source. Well, it's obvious he does, as his apartment will soon be filled with them.
 

 

Filled with them, you say? Yeah, I'm afraid so. The first such victim is quickly dispatched down at the beach. Sneaking up on a woman with short brunette hair (Linda Lee Walter, who is credited as "Beach Girl"), Franks slits her throat while her boyfriend (James Brewster, who is credited as "Beach Boy") is collecting firewood. Don't worry, he's killed too. Waking up in a sweat the following day, Frank screams, moans, and rocks back and forth in his apartment, which is covered with candles and appears to have a shrine to a woman dressed as a nurse.
 

 

It's 1980, we're in Manhattan, and Frank Zito is walking the streets in a bomber jacket, what could possibly go wrong? Two prostitutes currently chatting about their trollop-based problems on the very street Frank Zito is walking on are about to find out. Well, one of them is. Initially, I thought Frank had solicited the hookers, but it was actually the hookers, specifically the one wearing purple satin disco short shorts, fishnet pantyhose, and a red scarf who did the bulk of the soliciting.  Played by the alluring Rita Montone, the nameless sex worker needs to bag one more trick in order to be able to pay her rent. In other words, desperation played a key role in her decision to solicit Frank as he moseyed on by on that chilly winter evening.
 

 

A gum chewing vision in purple satin disco short shorts, Rita Montone is too gorgeous to be choked to death and scalped in a cheap motel room. I don't care if Frank paid the motel manager an extra five dollars for colour television, that's no way for someone as attractive as Rita to buy it. You could tell Frank felt the same way. Sure, he's the one who's about to killer her, but the fact that he told her pose like a model ("yeah, like in the magazines") lead me to believe that Frank had second thoughts about killing her. In reality, he's not really killing her. Okay, that doesn't make a lot of sense. What I mean is, he's really trying to get back at his mother (as he strangles her, we catch glimpses of a different woman being strangled, one who could be his mother). Either way, her fishnet pantyhose are soon pressing tightly up against a dead vagina, as Frank adds another mannequin to his collection. Oh, and unlike the previous murder scene, we get an eyeful of Frank's gruesome scalping technique this time around.
 

 

Mumbling to himself ("I told you not to go out tonight"), then mumbling subconsciously ("It's got to stop"), Frank is clearly a person who spends way too much time wallowing inside his own head. Noticing that his recent beach killing has hit the front page of the local paper, Frank becomes agitated, pacing back and forth as eerie synths ooze their synthy payload in the background.
 

 

We all have different ways of reliving stress. Some like to garden, others like to write Jem fan fiction. Well, Frank likes to dress mannequins. Pulling her fishnet pantyhose, black leotard, and purple satin disco short shorts out of a bag, Frank begins to dress his new mannequin in the clothes the hooker was wearing when he murdered her. When he's done doing that, he takes her bloody scalp and nails it to the mannequin's head. As you would expect, the blood from the scalp drips down on the mannequin's face creating this lurid effect that was quite disturbing.
 

 

Telling the beach mannequin and the hooker mannequin that he'll "be right back," Frank heads out for the evening. Picking out a couple as they leave a disco called "Blossoms," Frank follows them to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Work those thighs, Tom Savini! Work 'em! What the fuck? I'm sorry, I got ahead of myself. The couple, played by Tom Savini (credited as, "Disco Boy") and a glittered-covered Hyla Marrow (credited as, you guessed it, "Disco Girl"), park underneath Verrazano Bridge to have sexual intercourse, and during foreplay, Tom Savini strokes the living hell out of Hyla Marrow's glimmering right thigh in the backseat of his car. C'mon! What do you mean? No disrespect to Hyla's thighs intended, but there's no way they were "glimmering," that's just thigh-based wishful thinking on your part. No, seriously, just ask Tom Savini. I'm sure he'll tell you that they were glimmering like a swarm of fireflies the night they shot this scene. It's true, most people remember this particular scene for the exploding head–which was awesome, don't get me wrong–but then again, most people aren't as heterosexual as they think they are.
 

 

At home in his jammies, Frank is combing his hair and babbling to himself about "fancy girls, in their fancy dresses and lipstick, laughing and dancing." I think the reason he handcuffs himself to the latest addition to his mannequin fleet, a glitter-covered disco queen with glimmering thighs, was because he has abandonment issues. Anyway, Frank decides to hang out in the park next day, where he spots Anna D'Antoni (Caroline Munro), a photographer wearing a super-chic jaguar print coat.

 

 

You know when people say, "me wanty" when they see an article of clothing they would like to acquire? Well, I can't really say things like that as I'm not quite equipped to pull off a garment as bold as a jaguar print coat. It got me to thinking, though. If I had a bunch mannequins, I could dress them up in the clothes I didn't feel comfortable wearing myself. While I initially loved the idea of having my own army of fashion forward mannequins, I do worry that it might start to come off as a tad creepy. Then it suddenly dawned on me. I need to get a girlfriend. Or better yet, a wife. Think about it, I could buy them a ton of clothes; dresses, shoes, purses, bracelets, you name it, and have them wear the items I felt skittish about donning myself. It's a genius idea, one that I'm definitely gonna noodle with over the course of the next few months.
 

 

Just to let you know, the reason I brought this up is because there's a scene that takes place after we meet Caroline Munro and her jaguar print jacket in the park that features Frank Zito window shopping late at night to synthesizer music. The way he stared longingly at the store's window displays reminded me of myself, as I've been known to stand out in front of, oh, let's say, Louise Vuitton, Prada (my personal favourite), or the Chanel boutique on Bloor Street late at night on occasion. Of course, I don't mean to imply that I understand his motivation to kill women at random (I'm a staunch believer in non-violence, especially the "at random" variety), I'm just saying that I'm attune with his desire for luxury.
 

 

Holy crap! Don't look now, but here comes Sharon Mitchell. And get this, she's dressed as a nurse! Sporting her trademark dark short hair underneath her nurse's cap (the same dark short hair that would set the 1980s porn world on fire over the course of the next ten or so years), Sharon Mitchell plays a nurse (well, duh) and Kelly Piper plays a fellow nurse. Yeah, we get it, they're both nurses. Uh-oh, does this mean Sharon Mitchell is about to be murdered by Frank Zito? Don't get your Michael Kors briefs in a bunch, girlfriend. She's gonna be fine. It's her co-worker at Roosevelt Hospital who should be the one worrying. As we say goodbye to Sharon Mitchell (bye, Sharon Mitchell. I love you), we're treated to the coolest synth flourish in film history. Employed to signify Frank Zito's malevolent presence, the synth sound is so deep, that it will penetrate the souls of uninitiated. After the synths have stopped flourishing, we're treated to some top notch subway stalking. Which, of course, ends with a woman being brutally murdered and a new mannequin added to the collection.
 

 

The Frank Zito line, "It's just a little blood...it'll wash out," will be familiar to Skinny Puppy fans as it was famously sampled on "Cage," a song from the Chainsaw EP. 
 

 

How this schlubby basket case managed to weasel his way into the life of a woman who wears jaguar print coats and makes tea in red leather pants I'll never know. But as I found out watching him crazy it up in Maniac, you should never doubt to persuasive powers of Joe Spinell, one of the most compelling actors of his generation. The scenes that feature him on the prowl are intense (particularly the encounter in the 59th street subway station), but it's the one's where it's just him alone in his apartment that I found to be the most unsettling, as Joe Spinell does a terrific job of capturing the killer's inner torment, while at the same time, giving us moments of bizarre levity (the part where Joe Spinell pretends he's a hairdresser, complete with sunglasses and a jaunty scarf, is the perfect example of this).    
 

 

You haven't lived until you've seen Joe Spinell holding a teddy bear. Okay, maybe that was a tad hyperbolic. But the fashion photo shoot where Caroline Munro snaps pics of a trio of models (Abigail Clayton, Joan Baldwin, and Jeni Paz) at a loft located in, oh, let's say, Soho, was important sequence when it came to determining whether or not Maniac was merely a satisfactory horror film with a few memorable moments sprinkled here and there or a genuine cult classic. Well, I'm happy to report that it definitely qualifies as the latter, as any film that features coked up fashion models posing to "Goin' To a Showdown" by Don Armando's 2nd Avenue Rhumba Band ("put on something nice / just in case you die / you'll leave a pretty corpse behind") is going to get overly praised by me. Speaking of me, if you're like me, and are a fan of films like, Eyes of Laura Mars, The New York Ripper, and Cruising, you'll surely get a kick out of Maniac.

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Starcrash (Luigi Cozzi, 1978)

A green laser beam slices through the blackness of space, then a red laser beam. Your mind, confused by the chromatic light show, wonders: What it is this strange phenomenon? Even though this question is muttered midway through Starcrash (a.k.a. Scontri Stellari Oltre la Terza Dimensione), a revolutionary motion picture that will forever change your views on science and technology, it's not the first one to be asked. On the Planet Earth, people have been telling stories about empires battling each other with pointy bits of metal (bullets, shrapnel, knives, axes, spears and swords) for centuries. But what if there was another way to pierce the flesh of your opponent, hence, rendering their organic structure inoperative? I have no way confirming it, but I think this intergalactic adventure was one of the first films to employ lasers as the combatant's primary weapon. The more astute amongst you will notice that I just used the word "intergalactic." Well, that's because it takes place entirely in outer space. Yeah, that's right, the uncharted vastness of space. Other than Barbarella, Forbidden Planet, and, to a lesser extent, Voyage of the Rock Aliens (most of the film takes place in the fictional town of Speelburgh, not outer space), I don't think any other film has had the imaginative fortitude to set its entire story up in the big black beyond.

What is space? And how do you make a film up there? I have no idea. But I know someone who does, and his name is Luigi Cozzi (Hercules), an Italian filmmaker with bold and fresh ideas (especially when it comes to inventing a complex universe from scratch) and the wisdom to hire Armando Valcauda to do the special effects and John Barry compose the music. Now, I'm not entirely sure if they shot the film in outer space or just created an outer space-like world using sets and props (a couple of the locations did have an earthy quality about them). But whatever they did, I actually felt as if I was spending time in a totally different galaxy, as the stars in this film sparkle with a jaunty resplendence.

Okay, now that we have established that we're in fact floating in space, in what particular era would a sane person want our interplanetary escapade to be influenced by? If you said, "late 1970s European disco culture," you'd be absolutely correct. The combination of flashy, disco-friendly threads (gold capes, leather jumpsuits, silver corsets with gladiatorial fringe and thigh-high boots) with the vibrant colours of this Italo-based solar system are perfectly in tune with one another.

Looking disco chic in space is one thing, it also helps to appear as though you are doing stuff once you get up there. It's true, I'd watch these people stand around doing dick and not a lot of all for hours on end, but others might not be so tolerant. Tackling this potential problem head-on, Starcrash introduces us to a bushy-haired navigator named Akton (Marjoe Gortner) and an attractive pilot named Stella Star (Caroline Munroe), two troublemakers who transverse the stars in their spaceship looking for kicks.

Using something called "hyperspace" to evade capture from the authorities, the cocky duo end up discovering an escape pod containing a man whose brain has been fried. While tending to the injured survivor, Thor (Robert Tessier) and Elle (a robot played by Judd Hamilton and voiced by Hamilton Camp), the two bounty hunters who have been chasing them, catch up with the wanted pair and arrest the smugglers without haste. Sentenced by a giant squid head, Akton and Stella are both sent to prison, the former is put in stasis, the latter gets sent to a labour camp (space gulag).

Even though her shapely body seems to be enjoying the all-consuming snugness of her new getup, Stella Star, after working twelve hours straight, has grown tired of the incarcerated life. Without much planning, Stella grabs a weapon from a guard and starts blasting (she actually lets her fellow inmates do most of the blasting, she just wants to get the hell out of there). This sequence, on top of being the one that introduces us to "the outfit," is the first one where get a glimpse of what a laser fired from a laser gun looks like in the world of Starcrash. And I must say, it looks pretty while it's on its journey. However, it's a completely different story when its flaming payload comes in contact with a person's skin. Let's just say, if you like to watch people scream while emitting sparks and smoke as a result of being shot in the chest with a laser gun, you will definitely want to make an appointment with this particular sequence.

It's turns out Stella's chaotic escape attempt was all for naught, as she and Akton were going to be released anyway. I know, you're asking yourself: What kind of justice system lets its criminals go willy-nilly? The judge's ruling seemed pretty straightforward (you do the crime, you extract ore in your leather underpants). You see, The Emperor of the First Circle of the Universe (Christopher Plummer) wants them to partake in a top secret mission, one that involves destroying a weapon of mass destruction located on a phantom planet run by the evil Count Zarth Arn (Joe Spinell from the Forbidden Zone) and, of course, locate David Hasselhoff. To keep tabs on Stella and Akton, The Emperor has them team up with the green-skinned Thor and Elle, a cowboy-accented robot.

On the first planet they come across, Stella and Elle end up battling with Corelia (Nadia Cassini), leader of a race of scantily clad amazonian women whose vocabulary is limited to yelling "revenge" and "kill them." It's during this particular fracas that Stella and Elle begin to develop their unique bond with one another. After escaping the clutches of Cornelia's giant silver robot (a marvel of stop motion animation) and staving off a squadron of her star-fighters (an encounter that produces much laser fire), Stella and Elle bond even more while trapped on a cold and desolate planet. I'll admit, I got a tad misty-eyed when Elle tells Stella that she is the nicest human being he (I'm assuming he's a boy robot) has ever known.

While Stella and Elle are bonding in the snow, we learn that Akton is more than just some guy in a red and black jumpsuit with curly hair. There's something mystical about him, an aura, if you will, that sets him apart from all the other percentage spouting navigators taking up valuable space in the universe. Unafraid to unleash his special healing powers, wield his fluorescent cutting implement (a kind of sword made out of light), or repel the laser beams of others, the oddly handsome Akton changes our perception of how a hero should behave in space. Prone to self-sacrifice, but not a pompous jerk about it, Marjoe Gortner imbues the clairvoyant small-time smuggler with a modest grace. If I wasn't a heterosexual man, one who enjoys eating triangle-shaped snack foods while watching the Atlanta Falcons play football, I would totally hide baby carrots in his hair (winter's coming and I could use the dietary fibre).

Kicking henchwomen in the face like it was second nature, Caroline Munro's Stella Star is a role model to little girls everywhere, specifically the ones who dream of hurling themselves headfirst into the black unknown. However, it doesn't start off that way. When Luigi Cozzi's camera focuses on her for the very first time, Caroline looks like she's about to say something profound but she doesn't. It's an awkward moment, but apparently it's just a teaser for what comes next. Uttering the line, "Go for hyperspace!" with a ten ton dollop of uncut gusto, Caroline boldly signifies to the Starcrash universe that she is Stella Star and no one better mess with her, not unless they want to get a karate chop to the neck.

Sure, Candy Clark (Q: The Winged Serpent), for some strange reason, dubs all her dialogue, but Caroline mouths her words like a pro. Speaking of mouthing words, while "Go for hyperspace!" is my favourite line in the entire movie, my second fave has to be Christopher Plummer's "Imperial Battleship! Halt... the flow of time!" And he's not just talking out of his ass, uh-uh, he actually makes time stand still.

Her taut English flesh wrapped in strategically placed strips of shiny black leather, Caroline's skimpy wardrobe is a breathtaking, thigh accentuating sight to behold in Starcrash. It's no wonder she's got a gunslinging robot and a handsome prince named Simon (David Hasselhoff) both itching to peel it off in slow motion, its potency as a fashion statement and a crotch moistener are through the roof. Even though she's gorgeousness personified, Caroline Munro doesn't sit back and let her stunning looks and killer threads do the majority of the film's heavy lifting. The complete opposite to her performance in Faceless (a film where she mostly writhes around tied to a bed while wearing a white sack with sleeves), Caroline can be seen leading kamikaze attacks, space-walking with a casual ease, fighting cave people, and flirting with robots. In other words, for someone who wears black leather panties in one scene, and, what looks like, a plastic shopping bag in another, she gives a well-rounded performance worthy of a thousand creepy leers.

Remember the laser shootout I mentioned earlier? Well, that's a picnic compared to the laser shootout that takes place in the command centre of Count Zarth's claw-shaped battle station, as it takes close quarter laser combat to a whole new level of awesome. What starts off as yet another tedious space battle (the gold ships of The Emperor repeatedly strafe The Count's battle station) evolves into something truly spectacular when The Emperor starts launching torpedoes. Crashing through the bay windows of The Count's station, the torpedoes, instead of exploding on impact, open up to reveal two men armed with laser rifles. The shootout that ensues between The Emperor's men (gold helmets, ray-guns that shoot green lasers) and Count Zarth's men (black helmets, ray-guns that shoot red lasers) is a thing of chaotic beauty. It's an excellent action-heavy precursor to the slow moving temperament of the finale, which, of course, involves the weaponization of a flying city. A must-see for fans of Barbarella, stop motion animation, outer space, wisecracking robots, and all things Italian. Go for hyperspace!

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Faceless (Jess Franco, 1987)

The extreme lengths one will go through in order to attain the perfect complexion is examined in the ghastly Faceless (a.k.a. Les prédateurs de la nuit), a plastic surgery gone awry chiller from trash peddler extraordinaire Jess Franco (Bloody Moon, Eugénie de Sade, and hundreds of other works of sleazy goodness). Well, actually, I wouldn't go as so far to say that there is any sort of "examining" going on this film–after all, it's a Franco flick (tawdry thrills and lingering leg moments are the main order of business). But as far as watching backroom chainsaw dismemberment, unwanted face peeling, gigolos getting scissored in the neck, drill heads being changed prior to a head being drilled, and, my personal favourite, syringes wielded by sophisticated women of European extraction go, I'd say the film is resounding success. Oh, sure, Telly Savalas (NFL Players Association Awards Dinner) literally phones in his performance and the amount of flame coming off the guy playing the Dorothy-friendly fashion photographer will cause your inexpensive gaydar to explode into a million fabulous pieces. But what exactly is wrong with using a telephone and being aggressively flamboyant? I can't think of anything.

After a night of high end shopping, Dr. Flamand (Helmet Berger), his wife Ingrid (Christiane Jean) and his sister Nathalie (Brigitte Lahaie) are confronted in a Paris parking garage by a dissatisfied patient. Unhappy with the results of her plastic surgery, the scarred woman throws a glass of acid in Ingrid's face. Mildly disfigured ("mildly" because I thought she still looked hot), Ingrid retreats from the world. Determined to bring his wife back to a state of acceptable attractiveness, Dr. Flamand and Nathalie begin to work on finding her a new face.

This search sees them abducting a fashion model named Barbara (Caroline Munro), a prostitute (Amélie Chevalier), and an actress (Florence Guérin). The model's disappearance (she was lured with sweet cocaine) causes her New York-based father (Telly Savalas) to hire a private detective (Christopher Mitchum) to do what the French police can't seem to do, and that is, find out what happened to Barbara.

Luckily for her, Dr. Flamand and Nathalie's deranged man-servant (Gérard Zalcberg) causes Barbara some facial distress during an off-the-cuff sexual assault.

As punishment for this act, the man-servant is forced to rub his face over the fishnet stocking-covered legs of Ingrid. Um, I don't really see how this is a punishment exactly. I mean, I must have missed something, because this looked like, from my cockeyed point-of-view, to be the best punishment ever.

Anyway, unsure of his face transplanting skills, Dr. Flamand employs the services of a former SS doctor (Anton Diffring) who did experiments at Dachau. The nonchalant manner in which Dr. Flamand and Nathalie go about finding the Nazi physician was kind of jarring. Killing women for their faces is one thing, but hiring a Nazi?

A nosy, wheelchair-bound patient (Stéphane Audran), who is recovering in the non-antiseptic dungeon wing of Dr. Flamand's clinic, starts to get suspicious of all the sinister activity going on downstairs, but she is quickly taken care of.

A virtual lingerie bonanza–in that it worships everything below the neck–the human face is effectively rendered redundant in this film. Whether it was Jess Franco's intention or not, but what I took away from the film is that the face, while important in some social situations, isn't necessary. The body, particularly when draped in pleasing fabrics, supplants the face when it comes to winning over the fickle crotches of others.

Every scene that features a woman enticing her intended victim seems to centre around the act of lifting up a piece of fabric to reveal the fleshy, unadorned area that separates the structural inner workings of their intricate lingerie. This combination of nylon and skin is so harmonious, that the person generating the images of this frothy display with his or her cerebral cortex will discover that their genitals have since become inflamed with a feverish form of desire.

However, it should be said, that in the case of Caroline Munro, she doesn't even seem to need lingerie.* Merely utilizing the tantalizing shape of her full-flavoured thighs, Caroline manages to manipulate a degenerate without the aid of flouncy undergarments.

Alluring, chic, and moderately evil all at once, Brigitte Lahaie is elegance personified as Nathalie, Dr. Flamand's unscrupulous assistant/kleptomaniac sister. Whether plunging syringes into the eyes of paranoid patients or driving scissors into the throats of untactful male prostitutes, Brigitte oozes sophistication and a steely brand of grace. I liked how she called the tactless boy-toy an "asshole" right before ventilating his neck area; the way it clashed with her overall European elan made my ovaries sing.

With her dark, piercing eyes–which looked extra nefarious when paired with red leather–Miss Lahaie cast an eerie spell over the proceedings. No fooling, nary a scene goes by without a shot of Brigitte staring intently at something.

When I first saw Florence Guérin dominating the dancefloor at the local discotheque, my eyes couldn't help but notice that her white fingerless gloves had less finger material than your average pair of fingerless gloves. After I grew bored with admiring her swanky handwear, it was Florence's black high-waisted leather mini-skirt's turn to dazzle my senses.

In terms of leather skirts seen throughout the history of pop culture, I'd definitely put Florence's up there with the one Papillon Soo Soo wears as a Da Nang prostitute in Full Metal Jacket and the many that Italian singer Sabrina Salerno struggled to keep on during the late 1980s. What I liked about it was that it gave her vagina and the wind swept confines of her delicious anus the coverage they so desperately need to go about their daily business, or in this case, nightly business, with a modicum of confidence. At the same time, the skirt managed to accentuate the length of her spectacular gams.

While Papillon's leather skirt seemed like it was glued on, and Sabrina's appeared to have a mind of its own, Florence's was lifted up on purpose. You see, Florence Guérin (who plays herself in this film) wants to impress Dr. Flamand and Nathalie (especially the latter, who clearly has dibs on her labia), and she does so by lounging seductively on their sofa. Pulling up her black high-waisted leather mini-skirt with a determined hiking motion, she lays out the exquisite fullness of her Gallic frame for all to see. Exposing the softness of her womanly body like it were a freshly cooked meal, Florence awaits the return of her horny hosts with a breathy mix of trepidation and insincere coquettishness.

A kinda remake of the classic Eyes Without a Face, this knock off/undertaking is similar in that it takes place in France and is about a doctor who desperately wants to procure a new face for a female loved one. Yet, being a Jess Franco film, the deep and thoughtful aspects of the Georges Franju version have been jettisoned and have found themselves replaced with discotheques, fur coats, garter belts, make out sessions with severed heads, cocaine, pimps named Rashid, and, of course, black high-waisted leather mini-skirts. Not a bad trade, if you ask me.

* Do leg restraints count as lingerie? The UCLA, the undergarment council for lingerie affairs, stated in its 1894 charter that: "Any fabric that is used to emphasize the natural beauty of the human body, whether intentional or not, shall fall comfortably under the lingerie umbrella." And, hey, I'm not one to argue with the UCLA, so I guess the answer to my question is a resounding yes. They do count. Yay!

Special thanks to the swanky empresses over at the Love Train for the Tenebrous Empire for causing my frazzled mind to become acutely aware of this botched face lift, high-waisted leather skirt-laden piece of trashy cinema.

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