The Craft (Andrew Flemming, 1996)

Even though there are four chicks on the poster, only one of them is giving off what I would consider a Goth vibe. I mean, what gives, The Craft, mid-90s gothploitation yarn about a trio of teen witches who befriend a new teen witch in order to complete "the circle," or some nonsense like that? Why are you short-changing me, Goth-wise? If I'm gonna sit down and watch a movie about four teenage girls who practice witchcraft in their spare time, at least half of them better be Goths, or, at the very least, Goth-adjacent. Which brings me back to the film's poster. One Goth? That's it? What a rip off. Thankfully, the one Goth is played by Fairuza Balk. In other words, I think it's safe to say that she has enough Goth in her to make up for the non-Goth vibe the other girls are putting out there. Still, it's kind of weird that Robin Tunney, Neve Campbell and Rachel True weren't all that Goth. Think about it, they're teenage girls who spend nearly all their time together. What I mean is, do they shop for clothes separately? It makes no sense. I know, the producers probably told the director to tone down the film's Gothiness, as "Middle America" isn't ready for a movie that is chock-full of Goth chicks. But still, you would think they all shop at the same store.

What does Fairuza Balk do, sneak off to Ipso Facto and Retail Slut (which was still open in 1996) to buy clothes when no one is looking? It's the only logical explanation I come up with at the moment. I was going to make a comment about Fairuza's character not being able to afford the pricey Goth cthreads she wears in this movie (after all, she's lives in a trailer with her white trash, Connie Francis-loving mom). But then it dawned on me, Fairuza, or, I should say, Nancy Downs, doesn't pay for anything. Or maybe she does. She could work at the Yarn Barn during the summer months, what do I know?

What I do know is, Fairuza Balk looks fantastic in this movie (pointy granny boots!!! PVC raincoats!!!), and she is the only reason people should watch this movie. And not only does Fairuza Balk look fantastic, she gives an amazing performance. Sure, it gets sort of campy near the end. But you're never going catch me complaining about an actor's performance being too campy. No, I think Fairuza Balk's performance strikes a nice balance between measured and campy. (Measured? Fairuza Balk in The Craft? What movie were you watching?) Yeah, I guess she starts camping it up before the opening credits even begin. Either way, it was fun watching Fairuza Balk do battle with a bunch of colossal squares.

Oh, who am I kidding? There's no "bunch" of colossal squares. There's only one colossal square. That's right, I'm looking at you, Robin Tunney. Or, I should say, Robin Tunney, The Goth Ruiner. Now, I'm not saying the future star of The Mentalist single-handedly ruined Goth. But she does undermine it, like, big time.

In fact, this movie was recently rated (and by "recently" I mean 1998) the most anti-Goth movie of all-time by The Goth Anti-Defamation League. What's that? There is no Goth Anti-Defamation League. Funny, I could have sworn there was. Anyway, Robin Tunney, who doesn't have a single Goth bone in her body, repeatedly undercuts Fairuza Balk's attempt to create a world where Goths are accepted as productive members of society.

And, not to the mention, Nancy does her darnedest to bring would-be rapists to justice. (Huh?) Pay attention, man, Skeet Ulrich totally tries to force himself on Robin Tunney's Sarah Bailey at one point. It's true, he was under the influence of a love spell. But still... it was a dick move on his part.

Nonetheless, Sarah thinks Nancy has gone too far, and decides right then and there that she wants out of her so-called coven.

Just for the record, the most anti-Goth movie in history has to be The Breakfast Club. The de-Gothification of Ally Sheedy's character by Molly Ringwald is pretty much the most heinous thing I've ever seen in a motion picture (I can still taste the vomit it produced).

Okay, what was I saying before I got sidetracked? Oh, yeah, Robin Tunney, the true villain of the piece, shows up at this new Catholic high school, located in a part of L.A. where torrential rainfall (a.k.a. overstated movie rain) is, apparently, quite common, and sets about destroying a coven of teenage witches.

Well, she doesn't attempt to destroy the coven right away. The first thing she does is flirt with Skeet Ulrich. However, when Skeet rejects her, Robin Tunney quickly sets her sights on Fairuza Balk's Nancy Downs, Neve Campbell's Bonnie (whose body is covered in scars) and Rachel True's Rochelle (who is being bullied by a perky white supremacist).

The perky white supremacist, by the way, who is played by the always funny, Christine Taylor, gets the film's biggest laugh with the line, "I don't like Negroids." I know, it might not look all that hilarious on paper. But Christine's delivery of the line is pure gold. Plus, you don't usually hear racists use the word "Negroid" all that much anymore.

When the girls start making wish spells, Neve Campbell's character obviously wishes her scars would disappear. And when they do, that means... you guessed it, black hold-up stockings! Show off them creamy, scar-free thighs, you saucy, Guelph-born minx, you. Watching the newly confident Neve Campbell prance around campus in black hold-ups reminded me of that Kids in the Hall sketch where the employees at a pizza joint located near a Catholic high school get flustered whenever the girls would come in en masse for their midday 'za. Sure, it helps that a pre-Party of Five Neve Campbell appears in that sketch, but it's still an apt reference.

You would think that a film that boasts a soundtrack that is laced with lame cover versions of songs by The Beatles (Our Lady Peace), The Cars (Letters to Cleo) and The Smiths (Love Spit Love), features Breckin Meyer (at the height of his floppy-haired obnoxiousness) and has an anti-Goth temperament would be easy to dismiss as bland mid-90s twaddle. But I have to admit, I have a soft spot for The Craft. Granted, it's mainly do to Fairuza Balk's go for broke performance as a poor white trash Goth with an expensive Goth wardrobe... (Don't forget, she also attends a pricey private school.) Well, yeah, that doesn't make a lick of sense. As I was saying, focus on Fairuza, and you should be able to navigate the film's weaker moments with a lavender-scented ease.

A Very Brady Sequel (Arlene Sanford, 1996)

Even though they have caused countless calamities (depression, suicide, greed, reality television), surreptitiously encouraged people to murder one another, and carelessly promoted a lifestyle that is unattainable to most of the world's population, the Brady family represented humanity at its most unblemished. I distinctly remember that my underdeveloped child's brain could not fathom as to why my house didn't have a stairway with an open space between each stair. This lack of stair space angered and perplexed me with the fury of an underpaid nudie booth attendant. So it's fitting that first thing I should see as A Very Brady Sequel opens is the iconic staircase that was the manufactured bane of my existence for, oh, let's say, the last two hundred years. It's also fitting that the Brady children and their live-in slave (a pathetic creature whose womanly crevice has obviously not been licked in eons) should be bound to the celebrated staircase with rope after being bested by a con man posing as the Brady girls' long lost father. Fitting because they deserve to suffer for making upstanding citizens envious of something as ridiculous as indoor steps. The torment they go through, while mild compared to the anguish I had to endure, was, in terms of attaining nonsensical retribution via a lightweight movie comedy, completely satisfactory.

According to my sources, a popular rock band called "Led Zeppelin" were so inspired by the Brady staircase, that they wrote a song about it called "Stairway to Heaven."

Letting go of my stair ire for a second, I'd like to comment on the actual film by using depraved language (I've already referred to eating out Alice) and hyperbolic trumpery (two hundred years?) for a change. The Brady family is going through a typical day: Jan is unloved, Mike is giving long-winded advice, Carol's sexy, un-pantsuited legs are as smooth as a raisin who exists in an alternate universe where raisins are smooth, Greg is starting to assert himself, and Marcia is behaving like a condescending bitch.

This gloriously mundane universe is undermined when a corrupting influence arrives at the door in the form of Roy (Tim Matheson), a man claiming to be Carol's dead husband. Infecting the Brady throng almost immediately, this Roy fella is actually looking for an antique horse statue that Brady's have on a table near their famous set of stairs. Apparently worth millions of dollars, the horsey is being cleaned when he arrives, so, in meantime, the impostor proceeds to taint the Brady way of life with his depraved modern values.

The duality between Roy's immorality and the wholesomeness of the Brady's was the second most interesting aspect of A Very Brady Sequel. I mean, the sight of the blandly dressed con man trying to transverse the kitschy realm of this bizarro family was not only fascinating, but it also quite illuminating. The implied incest subplot of Marcia and Greg was definitely number one in terms of being interesting and junk, as a genuine spark develops between the two after they discover they might not be brother and sister.

The only reason they don't act on the sexual desire is because society frowns on this sort of thing. Which is weird because they not really related. Sure, their parents are married, so technically they're brother and sister, but come on, man, what's the harm in letting them fuck? Anyway, the off-kilter chemistry that forms between the stunning Christine Taylor and Christopher Daniel Barnes is strangely scintillating. I say, "strangely," because I don't want to come off as some creepy, incest promoting reprobate.

Clear the way, because I'm about to lavish an obscene amount of praise on the awkward magnificence that is Jennifer Elise Cox as Jan Brady, the undervalued middle child and the main target of Marcia's catty cannon. Possessing a timeless beauty that transcends stuff like shapely discretion and spastic edification, and gifted with the comedic chops of a seasoned professional, Miss Elise Cox is the type of actress who makes the hordes of untalented charlatans infecting Hollywood's red carpets pregnant with fear through her sheer artistry when it comes to delivering the funny. Creating a sympathetic portrayal of a girl being gradually pushed to the edge of madness, Jennifer imbues the deeply troubled Jan with a quiet dignity.

The pressure of being popular, attractive, and wanted weigh heavily on the mind of the headgear-wearing little scamp. Which culminates when she decides to invent a boyfriend for herself named George Glass. It's a misguided attempt to placate the penetrating mockery of her raging whore of a sister to be sure, but desperate times call for counterfeit boyfriends. There's a veil of sadness that permeates Jan, but the exuberant way the gorgeous thespian plays her caused many of her more pathetic moments to explode with an unexpected mirthfulness. The scenes where she brings a mannequin of George into a mid-90s style coffee shop, for instance, was an excellent example of this pitiful hilarity. In fact, the other patrons think she's a new kind of performance artist when they see the smouldering vixen in the marmalade jumper desperately trying to reattach George's severed head.

Now, I must admit, I've been grappling with the lustful thoughts I've been having about Jan as of late, and trying to decide whether or not if they're repugnant, rational, or just plain kooky. My imaginary therapist tells me that it's perfectly acceptable to be attracted to a 25 year-old woman playing a slightly demented teenager. Which is a relief, because they amount of envy I felt towards Tim Matheson's trouser-covered lap (he gets to have Jan sit on it multiple times) was off the charts in terms of stupidity. Seriously, I wanted to be his lap like you wouldn't believe. But only when Jan is sitting on it; I don't want to give the impression that I want to be Tim Matheson's cock from five o'clock in the morning till ten o'clock at night.

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