Vibrations (Michael Paseornek, 1996)

Utah Saints! Utah Saints! Utah Saints! U-u-u-u-u-u-tah Saints! Ooh, I just knew something good was gonna happen when I saw that Vibrations, the ultimate how-to guide on how to be a double-amputee techno superstar, had a Utah Saints song on its soundtrack. Was there ever any doubt? I mean, would the Utah Saints ever be associated with something that is lame? I don't think so. Okay, now that we that got that out of the way (it's been a longstanding dream of mine to start off a movie review with a bit about the Utah Saints), let's talk about dates, shall we? Specifically, 1996. About midway through this rave-tinged classic ("Injected with a poison! We don't need that anymore"), I threw up my hands in frustration and said: There's no way this film was shot in 1996. In fact, there's no way this film was shot in 1995. No, this film reeks of the summer of 1993, pure and simple. After wracking my brain trying to figure out what year the movie was shot, we get a close up of a rave flyer. Of course, I didn't notice the date on the flyer the first time around, but during my third viewing (you have to watch this film multiple times to fully understand it), I noticed the rave, featuring The Shamen, U96, Moses On Acid, Fierce Ruling Diva and, yes, the Utah Saints, was listed as taking place on July 7, 1993. Vindicated that my instincts were totally correct, I let out a mild sigh of relief, and prepared to watch the film a fourth time.

Oh, and one more thing about that rave. If you were to say replace Moses On Acid with, oh, let's say, the Lords Of Acid (sticking with the acid theme), you would be looking at the greatest show ever. Seriously, I prefer raves to regular concerts. And the one being advertised in this movie would make [the original] Woodstock look like poorly acted dinner threatre.

Okay, I might have been exaggerating when I implied that I watched Vibrations more than once. But I will say this: It's the best film about a hand-less wino who becomes the toast of the rave community that I've ever seen.

I'd even go as far as to put it in the same league as Cool As Ice and My Demon Lover in terms of quality. I know, that's some pretty distinguished company right there, but trust me, I know what I'm talking about.

Unfortunately, in order to make a great movie about a double-amputee who finds redemption through techno, we're going to have to endure a pretty mawkish opening. It starts with T.J. (James Marshall), a rock musician who's going places. His band is front page news (they made the cover of The Woodfield Daily!), his girlfriend looks like Paige motherfuckin' Turco and his hair is... well, his hair is...

When I first saw T.J., I thought to myself: Leif Garrett circa 1977 just called, he wants his hairstyle back. But then, after doing some intense research, I was shocked to discover that T.J.'s hair looks nothing like Leif Garrett's hair circa 1977. If I was given another opportunity to compare T.J.'s hair to a celebrity from the late 70s/early 80s, I would definitely go with William Katt from The Greatest American Hero (circa 1981, of course).

However, I already said Leif Garrett (The Spirit of '76), and that's a shame I'm going to have to live with for the rest of my life. That being said, we all deserve a second chance, and T.J. gets one when he wakes up at a rave being held in New York City. Of course, the second chance I'm referring to doesn't occur immediately, but what occurs on this particular evening leads to a shitload of spiritual cleansing.

Oh, wait, I think I might have to explain how T.J. wound up asleep at a rave. You see, while driving to a gig in, let's say, Philadelphia, T.J. is tormented by a gang of drunks in a pick-up truck. Surrounding his car, one of the drunks gets behind the controls of a giant drill attached to a bulldozer and, well, you can pretty much guess what happens next.

How will T.J. perform his beloved rock 'n' roll music without hands?!? A despondent T.J. pushes away Paige Turco (ahhh, she's wearing shorts covered in butterflies, you dumbass), and flees to New York City to become a wino.

One afternoon, while looking for a place to crash, T.J. breaks into what he thinks is an abandoned warehouse, and passes out in a cardboard box. Suddenly, the fresh-faced wino is awoken by the sound of techno.

Staggering through the crowd (a sea of baggy t-shirts and undercut ponytails), a bewildered T.J. is shown the way to the door by Anamika (Christina Applegate), who, I'm assuming, thought T.J. was simply a raver who took too much ecstasy.

While walking home, Anamika is accosted by a couple of low-lifes. Anyone care to guess who comes to Anamika's aid in her time of need? Why it's Super Wino! Just kidding, it's T.J. Nevertheless, I liked how one of the low-lifes calls T.J. "Super Wino;" a low-life he may be, but he's pretty quick on his feet.

Just when the fact that the wino version of T.J. always appears to be clean shaven was starting to bug me, we get a crafty close-up shot of T.J.'s shaving kit. It's almost as if the producers were thinking to themselves: "No-one is going to buy a clean shaven wino." Then one of the producers must have chimed in and said: "Why don't we just show that T.J. carries around a shaving kit and a toothbrush." And just like that, they managed to undercut the criticism of countless undercut-sporting nitpickers and crybabies thinking about getting undercuts in one fell swoop. Well played, producers of Vibrations. Well played, indeed.

You might think: What kind of woman would let a wino stay the night? Sure, he rescued you from the witty low-lifes and he's kinda hunky (you know, for a wino without hands). But it's established early on that Anamika is a bit of a flake. Meaning, her to decision to allow T.J. into her home came across as somewhat reasonable.

She might be a flake, but Anamika draws the line at petty theft (she caught T.J. trying to steal twenty bucks from her wallet). Even though this sours their burgeoning relationship, T.J. is determined to prove to Anamika that he's not a complete fuck up. And the first step in this process is to give up booze.

Since T.J. can't get back in the groove of things with just Anamika's help, he reaches out to her fellow tenants; who include Simeon (Scott Cohen), a techno musician (and a dead ringer for Rockula's Dean Cameron), Geek (David Burke), a computer hacker (who says something to affect of "cyberspace is the only realm left to explore"), and Zina (Faye Grant), a cynical performance artist.

It's after these characters are introduced that the film really starts to shine as a substantive piece of filmed entertainment.

And things start to get substantive as all get out when Simeon introduces T.J. to techno. In what is easily my favourite scene in the entire movie, Simeon shows T.J. what techno is all about. And I couldn't have said it better myself, as I love techno.

With help from his new circle of friends, T.J. gets a new lease on life and re-emerges as Cyberstorm. At first you might think: Oh my God! He's looks ridiculous (T.J.'s Cyberstorm persona dresses like a gothic robot). Is it, though? One of the biggest music acts on the planet dress like robots. And don't make me bring up that asshole in the giant metal mouse head. So, before you snicker at Cyberstorm's appearance, you should actually thank him for paving the way for other faceless musicians.

That being said, if your mouth fails to become somewhat agape during the Cyberstorm concert scenes, then I'm afraid there's little hope for you.

It should go without saying, but Vibrations is a genuine cult classic and a must see for fans of early 1990s rave culture. "We're primal, heading for cosmic..."

Streets (Katt Shea, 1990)

She's not a prostitute, she's a whore. What's the difference, you ask? How the hell should I know? No, actually, I do know what the difference is. You wanna know what it is? Oh, I see. Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. The reason I know is because I just watched Streets. Yeah, that's right, fucking Streets, a.k.a. Straßen des Schreckens. Yeah, that's right, fucking Straßen des Schreckens, a gritty tale about a deranged motorcycle cop who spends an entire day roaming the mean streets of Venice, California looking for a wayward Bundy. While to us, the difference between a prostitute and a whore might seem unimportant. But to Dawn (Christina Applegate), a teenage runaway who never had anything to runaway from in the first place, it's not a question of semantics, it's a question of dignity. If my vaginal and rectal cavities are never rented out to irregular cock on a basis that some might construed as semi-regular, but my mouth and hands are, am I not a prostitute? According to Dawn, no, she is not. When confronted with the question: What do you do? The street smart blonde seems to bristle when you try to label her a "prostitute." Without missing a beat, Dawn calls what she does to get by "whoring." In her mind, the difference between stroking the cock of, oh, let's say, a sheepish Tangerine Dream fan, with your hand, and between fucking the cock of, oh, let's say, a sheepish Tangerine Dream fan, with your pussy and/or asshole is astronomical. Blessed with the freedom to stick as many dicks in as many holes as she sees fit, Dawn is a pioneer when it comes to reducing the amount of cock traffic clogging up her sacred passageways at any given moment. So much so you'll be hard pressed to find any evidence of stretching or tearing. In fact, the insides of her creamy fissures are so pristine, you could stick your penis in them.
 

 

You can declare your corporeal corridors closed for business all you want, that doesn't necessarily mean everyone who approaches you to obtain the limited services you do provide is going to adhere to the strict regulations you have laid out regarding what you will and what you will not allow to be done to your body. For example, you can scream, "I don't do anal," until the cows are sleeping snugly in their beds, there are always going to be those who are going to ignore the rules. And looks like Dawn is about to meet one of the these people right this minute.
 

 

After making Stripped to Kill and Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls, writer-director Katt Shea probably wondered to herself: What did the strippers in my epic stripper saga do before they found salvation on the pole? All arriving in Los Angeles at one point or another with a resounding thud, the women must have wanted to do something other than stripping. I don't mean to sound like I'm putting down stripping; I happen to think it's a noble profession. I just don't think they came all that way to be leered at by strangers. Bullshit, man. What's the difference between being leered at in a stripeclub and leered at on a movie screen? I'll tell you what. It's the same difference between a prostitute and a whore. Anyway, providing no easy answers or solutions, Katt Shea has made her most intelligent and heartfelt movie to date.
 

 

Wearing what looks like a scraggly veneer, one that drips pure, uncut exploitation, Streets is, if you peel away the layers of scum, a deep and meaningful piece of work.  
 

 

You know how I said Dawn bristles when you call her a prostitute? Well, I bristle when I hear sappy piano music. However, since the sappy piano music that opens Streets features E.G. Daily on vocals, I'm going to look the other way. Why is that, you ask? Um, E.G. Daily is awesome. Duh.
 

 

Carrying his Yamaha keyboard on the handlebars of his bike. Nah, I don't like that. How about this: Armed only with his trusty bike, a Yamaha keyboard, and a dream, Sy (David Mendenhall), a teenage runaway, has no idea how drastically his life is going to change the moment he decides to take shelter underneath a Venice pier that fateful morning. Hearing a struggle taking place, Sy jumps to his feet to help a prostitute, I mean, a whore in need. It would seem that Dawn (Christina Applegate) didn't appreciate the aggressive demeanour of her blonde trick, and to show her lack of appreciation, she withdraws from him. Of course, this guy isn't making it easy for Dawn, so she scratches his face and and throws sand in his eyes. Not one to take a hint, the trick rips her earring out and starts shooting at her with his revolver.
 

 

When the shooting starts, that's when Sy does his thing. Rescuing Dawn from drowning, Sy helps her up a ladder, as the trick runs off (a cop on horseback spooks him). If you're wondering why Dawn seems spooked by the cop as well, it's because she's "working." Obviously a tad on the naive side, Sy doesn't understand right away what "working" means. When it does finally come to him, that's when the whole debate about the difference between "prostitution" and "whoring" takes place. In Dawn's mind, a prostitute is pro. She is, as she would say, "just whoring, it's different."
 

 

Which, if you think about it, sounds like great ad copy. "Are you tired of being beaten by unruly pimps? Sick of the irritation brought on by genital warts? Try whoring. It's different."
 

 

As the two soaking wet teens are drying in the morning sun, the blonde trick is at home grabbing his homemade double-barreled silent shotgun from its secret hiding spot. We can all agree that this is not good, especially for Dawn and Sy, who are still in the process of getting to know each other. Lending her a dry pair of pants, Sy and Dawn ride along the beach passing all sorts of off-kilter people of all shapes and sizes. It's here where we meet Dawn's intricate network of lowlifes and equally troubled youths.
 

 

First off, let's meet some of the lowlifes, shall we? Well, no Streets review would be complete without mentioning Bob (Patrick Richwood), a "flamboyant" drug dealer/infrequently washed man about town who seems to act as Dawn's protector. I wanna call him Dawn's pimp, but don't forget, she's not a prostitute, she's a whore; and, as we all know, to quote Heather Mooney from Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, "There's a difference. There's a difference." Another lowlife is Roach (Aron Eisenberg, Nog from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine), a kinda Mr. Fix-it. And we wouldn't want to forget the lovely Sheryl Bence as "Punk Girl," now would we? No way, man. She has a blonde mohawk and is wearing a studded leather jacket at the beach. Call me a silk shirt, but impractical beachwear makes me randier than a pre-op double-crested cormorant.
 

 

If you're starting to feel sorry for deadbeat Dawn, don't. She lives in a drainpipe. In other words, she's living the dream! Wait, that didn't come out right. She may live badly, but at least she doesn't have to work to do so. I don't like that either, but it's the best I come up with to make Dawn's existence not sound so shitty. Anyway, she lives in the drainpipe with Julie Jay (credited as "tattooed roommate") and Kady Tran (credited as "blonde roommate"), and things couldn't be better.
 

 

Don't tell Dawn this, but do you remember that blonde trick whose face she scratched underneath the pier? Yeah, well, it turns out he's a cop, a motorcycle cop. His name is Lumley (Eb Lottimer), and he's a by the book psychopath. Meaning, he doesn't mess around when it comes to inflicting pain and suffering on others.
 

 

And do you remember all those lowlifes and troubled teens I mentioned earlier? Well, there the one's who are going to bear the brunt of Lumley's rage first, as he pays each of them a visit while looking for Dawn. Some get off easy (street urchin Mel Castelo gets her hand stood on), while others aren't so lucky. I would like to go into detail about one of the so-called unlucky ones, but it too ghastly. In fact, just thinking about it makes my rectum quiver with fear.
 

 

Playing a drug-addicted (heroin is her drug of choice), street smart, illiterate (though, she knows the word "ineffable") teen prostitute (if you get paid to have sex, even if it's just "blow jobs and stuff, with strangers, you're a prostitute), Christina Applegate makes a valiant attempt to shed the Kelly Bundy  image she fostered so memorably on Married With Children; and when I say "memorably," I'm referring more to her hair and wardrobe than her actual performance (I was never a fan of the show, as I found it to be asinine). You can tell that Christina took the role seriously just by looking at her appearance. Robbed of her trademark big hair and skimpy acid wash skirts, Christina Applegate has to depend on her acting talent, and that alone, to get by. And, I must say, she does a pretty good job.
 

 

My favoutite Christina Apple moment in the film occurs when Dawn is about to service Alan (Alan Stock), one of her regulars, in his yuppie-fied automobile (I don't know what kind of a car it was, but it was definitely something a yuppie would drive). Telling him that she can't suck his dick because she just had a root canal (which is a lie, whores don't have dental plans), Dawn offers to give him a hand-job instead. Clearly crestfallen by this news, Alan agrees to the handy, but only if he can touch her legs while she strokes him off. He may be yuppie scum (ewww, his car has its own phone), but his priorities are rock solid.
 

 

Kudos to David Mendenhall for doing his own stunts. That nasty spill he takes on his bike while fleeing from Lumley looked like it hurt big time. Oh, and fans of the original Stripped to Kill should keep an eye out for Kay Lenz, who makes a cameo as Cody Sheenan. It's true, Lumley doesn't exactly call her by that name (he calls her "Sargent"), but I like to think that Katt Shea was making a subtle shout-out to his previous masterwork. Essential viewing for Christina Applegate fans and Katt Shea completests.

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Nowhere (Gregg Araki, 1997)

A film that helped me make the lopsided transition from pretending to like bland, competent films to repeatedly landing nose first in the bosomy cleavage of cinematic trash. In other words, the sex and violence filled wonderland that I have always been destined to wallow in. Nowhere is a film that I resisted at first (I dissented so hard, I felt ill afterward), but have since learned to appreciate its aimless narrative, nihilistic overtones, and scattershot view of adolescent humanity. Call it masochistic, call it an act of celluloid-based attrition, but I forced myself not only to like Gregg Araki's ode to the rudderless youth of the mid-to-late '90s, but to love the living secretion out of it. Each time I begrudgingly sat down to watch it, I'd come away more enriched than you could imagine. It's like I'm infected with a disease, except instead of abstaining from the causation, I would bathe my eyes in its abhorrent life force, get swept in the sheer ridiculousness of it all, and find myself quoting the swollen-headed characters' adroit put downs and their hyperbolic proclamations of love like a mindless fiend. Yeah, I guess some of the dialogue was overly clever at times, but I'd rather something be clever than be whatever the opposite of clever is.

Besides, I love it when women (and men) refer to each others genitalia using saucy, unorthodox language.

Now normally, this is where I'd pretend the story was too labyrinthian for my puny brain to handle. But in the case of Nowhere, there's hardly anything for me to grasp at in order to falsify a compelling yarn. And I think that was Araki's intention. The best way to represent teen angst gone awry is to strip away all pretense and present the characters in the most raw manner possible. Sure, the alien subplot flies in the face of this minimalist attitude, but the words "alien" and "alienation" don't just sound similar and share some of the same letters, they represent an all-embracing bumptiousness that shapes the idiosyncratic young people that populate this die now, live later culture.

In reality, the film is about a bunch of drug addicts, part-time high school students, musicians, and amateur filmmakers who plan on congregating at a party being thrown by a fella named Jujyfruit (Gibby Haynes). Until then, some pass the time by eavesdropping on a trio of valley chicks waiting for a bus (a totally awesome cameo by Traci Lords, Shannen Doherty, and Rose McGowan) and exchanging pleasantries with deceptively genial teen idols from Tasmania. While others engage in femdom activities that involve spanking, crotches slathered in chocolate, and rough coitus where the words "Mommy" and "Daddy" are not used as safe words.

The cast is so enormous in scope, that it takes the entirety of Slowdive's "Avalyn II" just to list the principle players. So, I'll just focus on a fistful of the many fleshy parts that are sprinkled throughout this film. The main pairing (most of the "plots" are told via pairs) are Dark and Mel (James Duvall and Rachel True). The two begin to drift apart when fellow young person, Montgomery (Nathan Bexton), starts to show up in Dark's spank bank, the budding Clive Barker usually has Mel and dominatrixes Kriss and Kozy (Chiara Mastroianni and Debi Mazar) deposited in there. Mel, on the other hand, is spending an awfully lot of time with Lucifer (Kathleen Robertson), a feisty lesbian who utters the films tastiest insults. Plus, her reaction to a skinheaded partygoer that asks if he can "jizz on her face" was pretty sweet.

This little nugget of plot may drive the film forward, but it is by no means the most interesting of the lot. For example, the one where Shad (Ryan Phillippe) and Lilith (Heather Graham), a couple of death-obsessed sex addicts, are seen constantly mock eating each others faces has its moments. As do the underage adventures of Zoe (Mena Suvari) and Joshua Gibran Mayweather's Zero, and the drug addiction bit with Cowboy (Guillermo Díaz) and Bart (Jeremy Jordan) caused me to feel somewhat sad.

However, it was the brief encounters between Christina Applegate's Dingbat and Scott Caan's Ducky that proved most interesting. I don't know, but there's something fascinating about the way Miss Applegate plays Dingbat. Maybe it's the braces and the funky kitty-cat t-shirt, or maybe it was the clueless expression she is constantly wearing on her face. Well, whatever it is, she made my spirit soar. A rare occurrence in a film that features a man killing another man with a can of tomato soup.

The Nowhere soundtrack is one the best and most eclectic of the decade. Writer-director Gregg Araki, no doubt mining the contents of his own personal record collection, fills the air with wide array of alternative music styles. Everything from industrial dance (Coil, My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, Nitzer Ebb, Nine Inch Nails - a cover of Soft Cell's "Memorabillia") to old school shoegazer (Lush, Mojave 3, Seefeel) and Brit Pop (Suede, Elastica, Blur) is featured in this movie. Hell, even freaking Stacey Q manages to make her way into the mix.

Oh, and I like how even though the film is set in 1997, Araki somehow manages to make it seem like grunge rock never happened.

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