Girlfriend from Hell (Dan Peterson, 1989)

The mundane act of fixing up two shy friends on a blind date becomes a nightmare of epic and mildly irritating proportions in the intellectually appealing Girlfriend from Hell, another in the not-so long line of films that involve demons and dating (My Demon Lover). A sophisticated mishegas masquerading as a foolish slab of empty-headed nonsense, writer-director Dan Peterson (Vampire Knights) does an elegant job balancing the theological with the slapstick. And, not to mention, balancing the cross dimensional with impromptu penis touching (a scripture enthusiast gets his "pee-pee" fondled for the very first time). It's a tough symmetry to maintain – as everyone knows by now, flip-flopping between scenes that feature deep, philosophical conversations with God and frank discussion about what constitutes a "stupid balloon" are fraught with potential complications. But somehow the film manages to deftly allude the fate that befalls the majority of possession-based dark comedies that sport weird tonal shifts and alcoholic devil women. There's an unforeseen intelligence at work here that transcends actual content and the overrated conventions of reality. Now, this is the sentence where I'd normally give you an example of this lofty transcendentalism at work, but I don't really feel like enriching any minds with my sound logic at the moment.

What I really want to do is go on a ridiculously worded tirade that sufficiently glorifies the leg coverings that Liane Alexandra Curtis, Lezlie Deane, and Hilary Morse cavort about in during this movie. However, since my "doctor" has instructed me to ease up on the undergarment and hosiery talk, I've decided instead to focus my attention on the labyrinthian plot and the excessive amount of face punching that takes place in this film.

For those uninterested in minutiae, look no further than the film's spiffy title; as you will find everything you need to know just by reading it. I guarantee comprehension. As for the rest of you, the scripted structure of Girlfriend from Hell is part allegory, part wicked satire. The former is about the romantic adversity shy people have to face when trying to connect with one another on an appreciation basis. The latter shows up in the form of physical roughhousing (like I said, there's a lot of face punching) and spiritual tomfoolery (a character is repeatedly seen talking to some kind of cloud-centric supreme being).

Nevertheless, these two seemingly incompatible aspects commingle together in such an agreeable manner, that you'd think it was planned that way.

Seriously, the fact that the film's convoluted, and surprisingly far-reaching mythology, was able to gel at all with the dating ups and downs of an unsure girl who finds her body inhabited by the Devil was a minor miracle.

The film starts off with a desert showdown between God's go to "chaser" (Dana Ashbrook) and the Devil, who is actually a glowing glob of undefinable energy. This inflamed ball eludes its pursuer (who's carrying a strange-looking raygun) by shooting across the sky and landing squarely into the chest of Maggie (Liane Alexandra Curtis), a slightly awkward gal who has been set up on a date with the equally awkward Carl (Anthony Barrile) by her friends Diane (Lezlie Deane from 976-EVIL) and David (James Daughton from The Beach Girls and Malibu Beach). Up until the moment the diabolic entity enters her body, the date, which is taking place at the home of Alice (Hilary Morse) and birthday boy Rocco (Ken Abraham), has been going terribly.

This, of course, all changes when the dark forces start to take over. You could tell things were different by the way Maggie's stuffy opera gloves had magically become fingerless (a change she relishes). Also her hair had become more pronounced in the untamed department (evil and big hair are synonymous). Another way you could tell was that the once demure lady had this sudden urge to copulate with every guy in sight.

Making demonic possession seem like fun, Liane Alexandra Curtis (Critters 2: The Main Course) is a delightful scourge as the uncouth Maggie. Reminding me of cross between Bonnie O'Bendix (Papusha Demitro's character in Perfect Timing) and your typical Voivod-loving metal chick, Miss Curtis seemed to be having a hootenanny and a half. I mean, check out her posture during her post-bashful phase, the confident manner in which she stood, her uncreased red pantyhose tighter than Lee Aaron's urethra, is the stuff of upright legend. From a non-standing point-of-view: I loved the way she would yell emasculating put-downs (my personal favourite when it comes to insulting men with dicks) and bark orders at everyone. And the restaurant scene is a comedy classic as far I'm concerned (she openly mocks Jesus and spits wine at her fellow diners).

In a surprising turn of events (and believe me, this film's got plenty), it's the stellar work turned in by Lezlie Deane that dominates the film's dreamlike third act. Taking place in multiple dimensions, Lezlie's Diane helps Dana Ashbrook's "chaser" get back to modern day in order to save Maggie from becoming another satanic statistic (the Devil can only use a persons body for 24 hours). Anyway, on top of looking amazing in black pantyhose and a Heathers-style blazer, I thought Lezlie gave a well-rounded performance that worked well alongside the horny Ashbrook and Curtis's campy temptress schtick.

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She's Out of Control (Stan Dragoti, 1989)

The human activity known as "parenting" conjures up images of wholesome families laughing and smiling together in a virtual explosion of happiness. In reality, parenting involves the systematic poisoning your offspring's fertile mind. In other words, feeding them the same nonsense that's been festering in your brain for countless years in the hope that will behave the same way you do. Thus, giving you the impression that your inherent lameness will live on in a place most of us like to call "the not-so distant future." This so-called legacy dilemma just happens to be the one conveniently plaguing the lead parent in Stan Dragoti's She's Out of Control, a mystifyingly straightforward yarn about a single father who not only wants to restrain her teenage daughter's unstoppable journey into womanhood, but also desires the opportunity to suffocate her immaculate vagina with the inconsistent hardness of his erect penis. Now, I realize that the plot description I just typed may sound a little far-fetched, and a tad offensive (you know, from an ethical point of view), but that's what I saw transpiring onscreen. And who am I to pretend otherwise? I mean, every time the father in this movie would look at his daughter screamed incest. (It didn't help that the shots of these looks were played in slow motion.) I'm sure the tone of the character was intended to be that of an overprotective father, but all I saw was a perverted baby boomer trying to keep his eldest daughter all to himself for amoral purpose.

Unintentional or not, the film's creepy flirtations with father-daughter copulation were the least of its problems, as the character of Doug Simpson, the troubled father in question, was loathsome on every level imaginable. A sniveling miscreant , who hasn't had an original thought his entire life, this revolting specimen/father of two works at an oldies radio station (ugh), drives a Jaguar convertible (vomit), and, get this, is dating a woman who looks like Catherine Hicks (lucky bastard).

Portrayed by an extremely dead-eyed Tony Danza, this stressed out dad is shocked to find that his fifteen year-old daughter Katie (Ami Dolenz) has taken a liking to wearing striped stocking socks (the kind that drive depraved men wild) in public, jean jackets adorned with buttons, and competently applied makeup. On top of that, she's gotten contacts, had her braces removed, and begun dating boys other than the neighbour kid she's known since she was six.

Unable to think for himself, the moronic dad does what any gutless turd would do, seeks help from a therapist played by Wallace Shawn. Utilizing the psychiatrist's parental self-help book, Doug befriends his daughter's shock-haired boyfriend Joey (Dana Ashbrook) in an effort to curb his bad boy appeal.

This bit of reverse psychology works surprisingly well. Sure, his Jaguar pays the price, but he has his eldest offspring under control. That is, until Katie dumps him for Timothy (Matthew L. Perry), a smirking nice guy with an unquenchable thirst for clean pussy. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that this asshole is gonna be a lot tougher to contain than the disaffected softie in the leather jacket.

The reason I saw a sexual connection between Tony Danza's inexplicably named Doug Simpson and his daughter Katie wasn't just because of the lingering way he watched her prance about like an untapped oil well in striped tights. Nor was it his intense dedication to keep her torso, face, and feet sperm-free during the Arsenion age. It was the fact that he somehow able to thwart the aggressive advances of Janet, his leggy girlfriend played by the gorgeous Catherine Hicks.

This particular scene was quite the eyeopener, in that, it showed exactly where Doug's head is at. Which is, I'm sorry to say, firmly up the frilly skirt of his own daughter; his unshaven cheeks erotically rubbing up against the smooth layer of adolescent leg skin left exposed by the thigh-high limitations of her store-bought stocking socks.

The only redeeming things about She's Out of Control were Katie's makeover montage, Dana Ashbrook's hair, and Ami Dolenz' risque wardrobe. As you might expect, I was quite taken by Ms. Dolenz' commitment to striped and non-striped legwear. I say, "commitment," because she even wore them underneath her strategically ripped jeans.

Anyway, like Samantha Mathis' character in Pump Up the Volume, Katie sheathes her legs in striped stockings in order to rebel against authority. Everything about her father is disgusting (his music, his car, his generational pride, his overall personality), and by wearing stripes on her legs, she is able to convey her frustration in a more subtle manner. A fuck you expressed through irregular hosiery for the ages.

Oh, and I got to give fake credit to the producers for using an obscure Yello song on the soundtrack instead of the usual one they play in most movies. Seriously, to hear "Bostich" from their Solid Pleasure album in a mainstream film is pretty commonplace, but to hear an unknown oddity like "Oh Yeah" (a.k.a. Duffman's theme) was an unexpected treat.

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