Anguish (Bigas Luna, 1987)

It's a good thing that I like to sit way in the back whenever I find myself at the movies, or else I would have been extra paranoid about the prospect of a scalpel-wielding madman (one with intense mommy issues) sitting behind me waiting patiently for the opportunity to forcibly remove my eyes. Exploiting everyone's innate fear of having their eyes wrenched out in a public place, Anguish (a.k.a. Os Olhos da Cidade São Meus) is an expertly crafted slasher with a twist from Bigas Luna (a Spanish director mostly known for erotic comedies like, Jamón, jamón and Golden Balls). When I heard that there was going to be a special screening of this one-of-a-kind cinematic experience in my town, I thought: "Maybe I'll just buy the DVD. I mean, do I really need to see Zelda Rubinstein (Teen Witch) on the big screen?" Well, after seeing it in an actual movie theatre (one eerily similar to the two featured in the film), I can safely say that this deeply weird endeavour definitely needs to be seen at a proper movie theatre. Of course, I wouldn't go as far as to say that it is essential that one see it at an old timey movie house. But the amount of real life apprehension one feels cannot be discounted, as the temptation to gingerly look behind you to make sure Michael Lerner (Barton Fink) wasn't lurking back there with an alarming array of scalpels must have crept through the minds of at least a half the audience at one time or another. Sure, this particular group was a hardened collection of hardcore horror fans (the kind that wear black heavy metal t-shirts, sport goatees, and laugh at decapitations), but it's human nature to be concerned about what's plotting their demise in the darkness.

One of the most interactive horror films ever made, the overwhelming sense of dread the characters feel, especially the one's played by Talia Paul (It's My Party) and Clara Pastor, Anguish is two movies in one. You think you're watching a ghastly horror flick called "Anguish" (that's what it says on the marquee), but in fact, you're watching something called "The Mommy."

The morbidly straightforward–but no less odd–"The Mommy" is about an eye doctor named John (Michael Lerner) who has a bit of strange relationship with his mother Alice (Zelda Rubinstein). A dissatisfied patient (Isabel García Lorca) scolds the doctor for his uncaring demeanour while she suffers with a painful pair of contact lens. This dissatisfaction somehow gets back to John's fiercely protective mother (she can hear what John hears). Putting her son under hypnosis, Alice prepares his mind and body for a night of eye gauging restitution.

After the dissatisfied patient and her classical music loving boyfriend are rendered dead and eyeless, John returns for another session of mommy-based hypnosis in their modest apartment, which is overrun with snails and pigeons. Apparently the hospital has become dissatisfied with John's work. And you know what that means? More eyeballs are to be separated from the warm, gooey embrace of respective their sockets.

It's when John is returning home from his first eye job that we learn that we are actually watching Anguish, a movie about a couple of teens watching a movie called "The Mommy" in a crowded theatre full of popcorn munching matinee fans. While the faces of the audience all seem to be transfixed by the unseemliness that is transpiring up on the screen–they appear indifferent, almost desensitized by the violence (their cow-like chewing technique helps sell their blase attitude). However, the look on Patty's (Talia Paul) cute mug is one of pure terror. To say that "The Mommy" is causing her a shitload of distress would be an understatement. Her friend Linda (Clara Pastor) tries to placate her telling her, "it's only a movie," but that doesn't seem to help at all.

Things get worse for Patty when John decides to accumulate more eyeballs at the local movie theatre (their showing an old dinosaur movie). Encouraged by the demonic voice of his mother in his head, John goes systemically row by row dispatching audience members, and, of course, taking their eyes. The level of ocular violence that is occurring on-screen is so intense for Patty, that she goes to the room where ladies pee for a much needed break.

It's hard to believe, but things actually get even worse for the sensitive little scamp, as the line between entertainment and reality become so blurred, that Patty and Linda might have a killer in their movie theatre as well. Two movies, two killers with mommy issues, or is that three movies? Some of the fleeing scenes in the dinosaur movie seemed to mirror the action in "Anguish" and The Mommy."

I think might have let out a mild sigh of relief when the transition from "The Mommy" to "Anguish" was made. No offense to Zelda Rubinstein and Michael Lerner (who are both outstanding), but the idea watching an unhinged eye doctor, cheered on by his equally unhinged mother, collect the eyeballs of everyone in the city isn't that appealing.

Don't get me wrong, I loved watching their deranged antics. It's just that the introduction of Patty and Linda, while it didn't exactly soften the sense of menace (it actually ramped it up), it did give Anguish an added element that most horror films seem to lack: Originality.

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Street Trash (J. Michael Muro, 1987)

Mistakenly engaging in substandard intercourse with an unclean but affable tramp, being gang raped and murdered by an unruly throng of bums and lowlifes, and having your lifeless corpse violated by a morbidly obese junkyard foreman are surprisingly not the worst things that can happen to you in the soiled universe that is Street Trash, J. Michael Muro's mucilaginous masterpiece about life on the fringes of a wet society. I'm afraid not. Get this, you could end up expelling slimy ooze from a wide variety orifices. And while the act of ejecting goo may sound like the perfect conclusion to a most stressful day, the gunk coming out of you in this film is not something you want see trickling and spurting its way out of a smallish, helmet-covered hole. Thick, green, yellow, purple and blue, and erupting from places you wouldn't moisture to seep, the stuff basically cooks your internal organs, boils your blood, and causes your skin to liquify. What I'm trying to say is that while being gang raped and murdered does have its drawbacks, the results that occur after taking a swig from a mysterious brand of hooch are, to put it mildly, quite messy.

There isn't much going on in terms of conventional storytelling in Street Trash: A bearded liquor store merchant finds a case of bottles (containing a beverage called "Viper") hidden behind a wall in his basement, dusts them off, and starts selling them to his mainly homeless customers. One by one, the thirsty vagrants try the curious wish-wash, only to find themselves twitching violently and melting into a pool of muck after taking a single sip.

In other words, it's mainly a series of poignant vignettes about living on the street, punctuated with the odd exploding hobo and impromptu game of severed penis football.

The rest concentrates on the tumultuous relationship between Freddy (Mike Lackey) and Kevin (Mark Sferrazza), two brothers living in a junkyard, the gruff existence of an illiterate ("I read like old people fuck") cop (Bill Chepil), Wendy (Jane Arakawa), an idealist junkyard employee who helps runaways on the side, and Bronson (Voc Noto), the self-appointed leader of the junkyard/hobo camp; the yard is actually run by Frank (Pat Ryan), a rapist/necrophiliac who pretends he doesn't like it when his dog licks his crotch, but don't tell Bronson that. Sitting atop his trashy throne with Winette (the lovely Nicole Potter) at his side, his deranged yet wonderfully horny girlfriend, Bronson is a veteran of the conflict in Vietnam (1956-1974) who thinks he's still in "the shit."

As you can tell by the excessive use of the word "junkyard," the majority of the films off-kilter theatrics take place in a junkyard. However, very few people actually melt there. In fact, after a couple of hobos melt early on (including a likable chap played by Bernard Perlman), the melting takes a bit of a backseat. The film's focus shifts to everything from racial politics and shoplifting, to incompetent doormen and the unforeseen dangers that can arise when a hobo and a gangster's moll (the enchanting Miriam Zucker) inadvertently hook up with one another.

The hobo-moll sex scene–while, sure, it didn't end too pleasantly–was strangely satisfying in a sleazy, torn pantyhose gets me off sort of way. I mean, even though she was intoxicated, it gave a glimmer hope to all the unwashed miscreants out there yearning to be included in the drunken sex fantasy Rolodex of all the two bit floozies vomiting in the alleyways of mob-friendly restaurants.

Despite the vileness of the melting sequences, I found much titillation underneath all that pulsating sludge. Of course, I wouldn't put the film in the erotic section, but there was a fair amount of sexiness in Street Trash. On top of the hobo-moll engagement (his foul cock penetrating her slightly pristine pussy with the invasive finesse of a decommissioned streetcar), I thought the sight of Bronson caressing Winette's filthy lower half as she flailed around to be hypnotic.

The scene where a hobo is confronted by a paddy wagon full of garishly made-up prostitutes was like watching the inner workings of my own perverted mind (I was particularly fond of Julie McQuain's stellar work as "Receptive Whore in Van"); and the many shots of Jane Arakawa and her yummy stems walking across the junkyard grounds were a sensuous tonic in the face of all the foulness that surrounded her.

There is much hilarity in Street Trash, which is largely supplied by the lower tier hobos that populate this dingy world, especially M. D'Jango Krunch, Clarence Jarmon, and Benard Perlman. Nevertheless, I thought James Lorinz (Frankenhooker) pretty much stole the show (comedy-wise), as the clueless doorman who doesn't seem to realize that ratting out your mob employer to the police can lead to some disagreeable consequences.

Fluid camera work accentuated by stirring synthesizer flourishes, Street Trash is an adeptly made film that repeatedly tests the limits what constitutes good taste. Filled with globs of nastiness, line after line of un-PC dialogue, and an overall offensive temperament, the film is the cinematic equivalent of watching a droplet of pus slowly careen down the thigh of the world's worst yoga instructor.

And the way the so-called "steady-cam" captured the grime-filled neighbourhoods in all their broken-down glory gave the film an authentic lived in quality that most melting hobo movies seem to lack.

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Pieces (Juan Piquer Simón, 1982)

The word "Euro" is shorthand for Europe (a large landmass just north of Algeria) and the word "sleaze" is derived from a Polish colloquialism that means "inexpensive." Put them together and what you'll most likely get is an intoxicating mishmash of violence and titillation. Inundating the psyches of audience members who have forgotten, or, in some rare cases, never experienced at all, what it's like to be sleazy and European simultaneously, this potent elixir is a controversial reminder of how closely aligned the world's of erotica and horror can be at times. Saturated with enough Euro-sleaze to keep the economies of five moderately sized industrialized nations up and running for over a thousand years (provided that these nations can run solely on the rejuvenating nectar that only the finest Euro-sleaze can furnish), Pieces is a detestably awe-inspiring example of how to make a purposeful film about campus dismemberment not only entertaining, but also hilarious at the same time. Awash with accidental mirthfulness, chainsaw gore, scantily clad co-eds, refrigerated severed heads, an aerobics sequence (rife with thigh-high leg warmers), random kung-fu instructors, multiple scenes of garden hose quality blood loss, the silhouette a semi-flaccid cock shimmering in the moonlight, and a punctured waterbed, the film, by director Juan Piquer Simón, is a stalking delight from the head ventilating start to the crotch ruining finish.
 

 
The expertly crafted endeavour is basically about everyone's innate desire the put back together the pieces of one's damaged childhood by utilizing the non-holistic method known as "cadaver accumulation" (the incessant collecting of body parts in order to satisfy a misguided yearning).
 

 
Commencing with the sight of a young boy axing his mother in the head after she takes exception with his playing with a pornographic jigsaw puzzle, the film jumps forward forty years and lands us squarely on the palatial grounds of some Boston college.
 

 
Its palatial temperament is sullied somewhat when a lithesome coed studying on the grass of a grassy patch of grass (the creamy backs of her alabaster calves roasting in the sun) finds her head removed without her expressed written consent by the rotating blade of a yellow chainsaw. This unlawful (at least I think it was unlawful) act of decapitation attracts the attention of the local branch of the department in charge of enforcing the law and junk, as it is just the first of many gruesome murders to besmirch this formerly serene learning facility.
 

 
Sending over their most unskilled detectives, Det. Lt. Bracken (Christopher George) and Det. Sgt. Holden (Frank Braña), the police find themselves up against a chainsaw-wielding madman who preys primarily on attractive females.
 

 
Flummoxed by the killer and his not-so-subtle brand of dispatching his victims (he uses a loud, engine powered cutting device used mainly for clearing brush and impressing chicks named Wanda), the wily investigators employ the help of a student/ladies man/suspect named Kendall (Ian Sera) and enlist the services of a policewoman, Mary Riggs (Lynda Day George), to go undercover as a tennis coach.
 

 
As the body count rises, the lead detective is reduced to chomping on his unlit cigar and calling the killer "creepy," while his partner spends his time enjoying the greasy taste of his Wendy's fries and promising to send helpful peers boxes of lollipops.
 

 
The afro-ed Kendall is very eager to assist in the capturing of the campus psycho, but the inherent womanliness of Lynda Day George's tennis instructor has rendered the unlikely Lothario inert. It's no wonder so many shapely coeds had to buy it, and so horribly, I might add. I mean, with a group like this, I'm surprised there were any students left alive at the end.
 

 
At the end of the day, Miss Day's threefold verbalization of the word "bastard" at the top of her lungs captures this sleuth-based frustration perfectly.
 

 
My love of supple coeds and astute blood-shedding is repeatedly put to test in Pieces, as both come in close contact with one another with an uncomfortable regularity. The fact that the majority of the victims all had it going on in terms of being attractive didn't help matters.
 

 
As wonderfully shameless as it is, this heady mix of alluring and bloodcurdling had me questioning my loyalties at every turn. Take, for example, the aerobics sequence. A scene like this is my reason for living (I was like a malnourished kid in a leotard store). The synthesizer music (with vocoder-enhanced vocals), the kicking in unison, the super-tight exercise clothes (their respective crotches no doubt overwhelmed by the leotard's excessive tightness), and the overall chromatic splendour of it all was a thing of perverted beauty.
 

 
Only problem is, one of them has to be murdered to move the plot forward. It's quite the dilemma, and it's not the only time it happens. Every coed who comes face-to-face with the killer's chainsaw is just so darn cute and sexy, that it's a shame they all have to be violated in such a grotesque, yet highly creative manner.
 

 
Just for the grisly record, the waterbed stabbing and toilet evisceration were my favourite death sequences. In the case of the former, victim was clearly chosen because of the exquisite shape of her delicious gams (like I said, the killer is collecting body parts). And the fact that she wore tan pantyhose during her demise only exacerbated the quality of her legginess.
 

 
Luckily, the grotesqueness is balanced with a wicked sense of humour. Now, whether the film's comical moments were intentional or not is irrelevant. It's extremely funny and that's that. As is the case with most films by European directors that take place in a North American setting, the awkwardness of the cultural transition can't help but make even the most serious of scenes appear nonsensical. This happens over and over again, despite the mostly American cast (which includes Paul Smith and his world famous stink eye).
 

 
However, in the long run, it is this clumsiness that makes Pieces the comedy/horror/erotic classic that is. I highly recommend seeing this film, like I did, with a packed audience filled with smart ass horror fans. The level of snarky applause that greeted Lynda's multiple bastard line was glorious.

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Night of the Creeps (Fred Dekker, 1986)

Some people describe paradise as a place where inflation is nonexistent and sore-free miscreants are always at the ready to lick your genitals. Others describe it as a giant vat of creamed corn. However, extremely normal people, like myself, see things quite differently. You see, our paradise bares a striking resemblance to a nondescript screening of Fred Dekker's exceedingly awesome Night of the Creeps, the Citizen Kane of intergalactic space slug movies. I mean, does get any better than seeing this film (which is still not available on DVD - Edit: The DVD and Blu-ray was finally released on October 27th 2009 by Sony Pictures Home Entertainment) on the big screen with a packed house full of rowdy creep fans? I don't think it does. (The fact that director Fred Dekker and star Steve Marshall were in attendance, and took part in a humourous Q&A afterward, wasn't too shabby, either.) Clear as the strategically-torn fishnets on a surly squeegee kid from Penetanguishene, everything in this film appeared to me like a crystallized beam of unclouded tranquility. Everything from the intense legginess of a couple of lounging sorority sisters to the repetitious ramblings of an easily amused custodian ("screaming like banshees"), was all there, staring back at me; and it was glorious.

The film is about this cryogenic stiff–who has been on ice since 1959–being inadvertently un-thawed by a couple of socially awkward fraternity pledges. At first, it just seems like a prank gone awry, but little do they know, that they've awakened the space slugs that live inside the stiff's brain. It's a long story how they got in there, but needless to say, the slimy critters need to find brains, so they can incubate, and where better to find fresh young minds than fraternity row? In charge of stopping the slugs is a hard-boiled cop, a cop whose high school sweetheart was killed by an axe murder–also in 1959 (they may be related).

It's true, Night of the Creeps may not have been the scariest or goriest film to claw its way out of the neon blur that was 1980s, but it sure was the most fun. And I can totally see why I watched it so many times back in the day when I did nothing but fondle my malnourished puppy. The way it combined the gratuitous nudity and frat boy shenanigans of your average teenage party movie, with the walking corpses and exploding heads of an intergalactic zombie epic, was obviously very appealing to the younger version of me.

And call me somewhat deranged, but shapely coeds combing the hair in dainty sleepwear while their decaying boyfriends lurk on the porch of their sorority is all I really need when it comes to cinematic satisfaction. They don't even have to interact; she can just comb, he can just lurk. It's all copacetic, baby.

The wonderful Tom Atkins gives grizzled detectives a good name with his turn as Det. Cameron. Impatient, churlish and forthright, Atkins is an utter delight (you know, the kind of delight who wields a large shotgun and has a penchant for kicking zombie ass). Whether he's emitting the words "Thrill Me" or mocking the incompetence of others, the accomplished thespian creates a timeless character who verbalizes some the film's most memorable dialogue.

However, Steve Marshall does come close to stealing the picture from Mr. Atkins as J.C. Hooper, the best friend and roommate of Christopher Romero (the film's shy hero played by Jason Lively). Steve's monologue about Lively's incessant whining was so great, that it was greeted with enthusiastic applause.

While the lovely Jill Whitlow redefines the image of the damsel-in-distress as the wonderfully-named Cynthia Cronenberg (all the main characters are named after well-regarded genre directors). Sure, it takes her longer than usual to realize her asshole boyfriend's head is replete with predatory slugs from outer space, but her first-rate flamethrower skills more than make up for her lack of zombie awareness.

Oh, and personal fave Suzanne Snyder (Killer Klowns From Outer Space) has a brief yet integral role as a sorority girl, one who is obviously from The Valley.

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Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare (John Fasano, 1987)

After sheathing my shapely legs in the most crotch-confining pair of black jeans I could find, I hopped on the subway and made my way over to the Bloor Cinema. And what pray tell did I do when I got there, you ask? Taking a seat near the front of the theatre, I partook in a sacred ritual that every Canadian must perform at least once during their lifetime. And that is: Attend a raucous screening of the abhorrently righteous Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare (a.k.a. The Edge of Hell). I could it was going to be an interesting evening the moment I arrived, as the crowd outside the theatre had a slight quirkiness about them (a fluttering mixture of trucker-cap-wearing hipsters, loosely garbed neo-goths, breast-feeding nihilists and a dizzying collection of tight-panted degenerates). However, there was nothing quirky about their goal. They were there to bask in the shimmering light of Canadian metal legend Jon-Mikl Thor: Slayer of transdimensional demons and the self-appointed God of Rock. Yeah, that's right, Thor himself was in attendance to introduce the film and participate in a gnarly Q and A afterwards. A taste: "Thor, what does it feel like to rule so hard?" (an actual question asked by a diapered nihilist sitting behind me). The cinematic equivalent of a bejewelled chalice filled to the brim with freshly-squeezed headbanger sweat, the film is so inept, so disjointed, that it somehow manages to turn something that appears to be a steaming pile of recently defecated waste matter into something that resembles a mind-blowing piece of art–you know, the kind where much back arching and unpleasantness involving studded wristbands transpires.
 

 
To the surprise of virtually no-one, the film opens with the ridiculous sight of a stove demon attacking a clean shaven man in his kitchen. But the film soon mutates into a Abbas Kiarostami-esque fable about a metalhead's journeying in a white van (license plate: DUCKER), as first-time director John Fasano gleefully tests our tolerance for watching a white van by shooting the lumbering vehicle from every angle imaginable (each camera angle change garnered thunderous applause from the overly sarcastic audience). Oh, and to keep our ears entertained, a repetitious synthesizer-groove throbs and pulsates on the soundtrack.
 

 
This driving sequence is about ten minutes long and is an excellent indicator of the unholy brand of awesomeness that is yet to come.
 

 
When the glorified van commercial is finally over, John Triton (Jon-Mikl Thor) and the rest of his band, the aptly named Triton–Stig (Jim Cirile) on drums, Roger Eburt (Frank Dietz) on bass, Max (David Lane) on guitar, and the luminous and leggy Dee Dee (Denise Decandia) on keyboards–arrive at their destination: an isolated farmhouse just outside of Toronto; a city that, according to John Triton, is where it's at in terms of music, film and the arts.
 

 
Various girlfriends and spouses have also made the trip up north. And they include: the amourous Randy (Teresa Simpson), John Triton's gal, the conservative Mary Eburt (Liane Abel Dietz), Mrs. Roger Eburt, and the wonderfully disagreeable Lou Anne (Jillian Peri), Stig's girlfriend. 
 

 
If you're wondering who Max and Dee Dee brought along with them. Wonder no further. Judging by the way they were constantly making goo goo eyes at one another when they arrive, it's obvious that Max and Dee Dee have strong feelings for one another. You mean to say they brought each other? How cute.
 

 
The idea is to rehearse, cut a few tracks and consume as much rotisserie chicken as humanly possible. However, things start to get weird when their wacky manager, Phil (Adam Fried), goes missing while looking for drumsticks (actual drumsticks, the kind you use to play drums with). And before you can wail, "We live to rock!" in your shrillest, most heavy metal-friendly voice, the mighty John Triton finds himself battling an army of mischievous one-eyed penis monsters in a dimly lit basement in Mississauga Markham, Ontario while wearing a metal underwear.
 

 
On top of fighting one-eyed penis monsters, John Triton must contend with a not-so deadly armada of rubber starfishes, which are being thrown at him by a gangly-looking Satan; you might know him better as "Beelzebub." But not to worry, John Triton laughs in the face of this pointy threat and rips them apart, exposing a red gelatinous substance.
 

 
The fight between John Triton and Satan is an epic struggle that highlights the importance of maintaining a strict exercise regiment. Because when the prince of darkness challenges you to a duel (and, believe me, he most certainly will), you want to look your very best when humanity calls upon you to slip on an oversize silver codpiece and deliver Satan an overcooked truckload of creamy humiliation.
 

 
I won't lie, I've always been fascinated by metal chicks. The leather jackets with the frays, the Amber Lynn hair (ca. 1985), and the animal print stretchy pants tucked into well-worn pairs of ugg boots. Well, this fascination is nourished beyond recognition in Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare; as I was given not five, but nine metal chicks to rejoice in.
 

 
A brief yet agonizingly thorough tribute to the ladies of Rock 'n' Roll Nightmare, a.k.a. The Edge of Hell:
 

 
Hold on, nine metal chicks?!? Don't you mean four? The numbers don't add up. Seriously, where do you get nine from? And even four is pushing it, as Mary Eburt isn't what I'd call your typical metal chick. Doesn't that make her even more metal? Whatever.
 

 
When Cindy Connelly (Carrie Schiffer), president of the Triton Fan Club, and the rest of the fan club (Tralle O'Farrell, Lara Daans, and Nancy Bush) show up at the farmhouse unannounced, you'll agree with my math.
 

 
In case you were wondering, the confused brunette with the red fingerless gloves is my favourite member of the Triton Fan Club.
 

 
While in the bathroom, Stig comes face-to-face with Rusty Hamilton, a woman who oozes metal. According to the credits, she plays the "Seductress." And that's good enough for me.
 

 
It's obvious to anyone with half a brain that Lou Anne is jealous of Roger and Mary's love; you can see it every time she looks at them. This, however, does not dampen her fabulousness one bit, as Jillian Peri manages to instill her character with a quiet dignity.
 

 
Frustrated that she can't get John Triton to notice her, Randy patiently waits for the right moment to flash her tits him. Will this seemly desperate act get Randy any closer to the ripe dicking she deserves? Only time will tell.
 

 
The metal chick with the most credibility has got to be Dee Dee. It's simple, really. She's in a heavy metal band. If that weren't enough, she's got the bitchenest hair and the tightest wardrobe.