April Fool's Day (Fred Walton, 1986)

The clarity of my recollection might be a bit foggy, but I definitely remember sneaking in to see the end of April Fool's Day after a bunch of friends and I were finished basking in the robotic tomfoolery of Short Circuit. I only bring this up because the ending of this undervalued slasher flick is probably its most celebrated attribute. Well, not by everyone; some hardcore horror fans (the kind that wear t-shirts adorned with Jason Voorhees and don't worship Aunt Martha) think the ending is lame. Anyway, as you would expect, my woefully undeveloped brain had no idea what was going on when I sat down to watch the last five minutes. You have to understand, I was young, and plus, the image of a naked Ally Sheedy immersed in bubbles was still fresh in my mind. ("Attractive. Nice software.") Fast-forward to modern day, when the opportunity to see what all the raucous merriment happening on-screen was all about finally came my way. I don't why I waited so long to fill in the huge gap. But either way, I'm glad I was given the opportunity to see what lead up to the loopy finale.

Even though I find the whole idea of changing one's behaviour just because the number on a calendar changes to be extremely stupid (anniversaries and holidays are all made-up nonsense), I was able to except this film's premise rather easily. Which entails a largish group of college age white people assembling on a dock in order to take a ferry over to the island estate owned by a classmate named Muffy (Deborah Foreman). The pranks start early, as the more playful members of the party begin executing semi-elaborate practical jokes on one another during the trip over. This buffoonery continues when they arrive at Muffy's house, as each houseguest finds some sort of gag awaiting them in their rooms.

Now the fact that April Fool's Day lacks the graphic depictions of murder that normally permeate films of this type might seem like a bit of a hindrance. In this case, however, our imagination is repeatedly rewarded by having the results of the obligatory stabbing and slashing veiled in mystery. Sure, there are floating severed heads and bloodstained bed sheets peppered throughout the movie, but the film seems more preoccupied with creating a genuinely unsettling atmosphere than it does with gore.

I'll admit, there were times when I couldn't really tell the guys apart. I mean, Griffin O'Neal, Jay Baker and Ken Olandt all had the same preppy temperament about them. Luckily, Clayton Rohner (Just One of the Guys) and Thomas F. Wilson (Back to the Future) were on board to make things a tad more distinguishable. Both were terrific, in that, they added their own unique brand of humour to the proceedings.

("Number Five is alive.")

The complete opposite to characters she played in Valley Girl and My Chauffeur, the always charming Deborah Foreman gets to wear argyle sweaters and frumpy cardigans as the slightly demented Muffy St. John. In fact, she's so buttoned-down, that the only time she shows any leg is when she hops on top the dining room table in a desperate attempt to obtain some much needed stalking leverage. At times, sporting an unkempt mop of brunette hair (a subtle attempt to distance herself from her more perky roles), Miss Foreman seems to take a giddy delight in playing such a creepy young person. And, I must say, as an unabashed Deborah fan, it was quite the treat to see her leave her acting comfort zone.

I don't want to sound crude or anything, but the tantalizing majesty of Deborah Goodrich's smooth labia being pressed up against the unforgiving tightness of her purple and cyan bathing suit was an image that failed to vacate my mind as I watched April Fool's Day hurdle murkily towards its awesome end. Since Deborah Foreman was busy growing as an actress, the yummy Deborah Goodrich (Remote Control) does an excellent job of stepping in to fill the adorable void. Whether lounging in nondescript sweat pants or lifting her legs aloft in order that the erect penis attempting to prod her sufficiently moist undercarriage may prod more effectively, Miss Goodrich is an itty-bitty goddess as Nikki Brashares. On top of being gorgeous, I found her manner of speaking to be rather enticing, especially when she read aloud that magazine sex quiz.

The only time the film falters was that huge chunk of time when the Debs were off screen. But other than that, it's quite the efficient slasher flick. I mean, even I didn't see the twist coming, and I purportedly had already seen the end– you know, twentysomething years ago. ("No disassemble Number Five!")

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Remote Control (Jeff Lieberman, 1988)

The idea that a videotape could to do harm has been explored many times, but never have I seen it done with such flair before. In Remote Control, the mildly satirical sci-fi flick that treats the VCR as the object of menace that it really is, the idea of a malevolent movie is amplified to a galactic level. Unknown aliens from outer space have found an ingenious way to take over the earth. Utilizing video technology and exploiting the earthlings dependence on filmed entertainment, the aliens plan to wipe out humanity by having them kill each other. Now, you're probably asking yourself, "Why would they kill each other? I mean, human beings hardly ever engage acts of physical violence." Well, you see, after you watch a 1950s science fiction movie (also called Remote Control) up to a certain point, the urge to kill literally inundates your brain with murderous desire. The exact moment the viewer's killer instinct kicks in happens just after the character of Eva (Deborah Downey) stabs her husband in the chest with her automated knitting needles and begins to stare intently into the camera. The front line of this battle for planet earth, circa 1987, is, of course, the video store (a place where VHS tapes were leased in exchange for some sort of reusable currency), and two clerks named Cosmo (Kevin Dillon) and Georgie (Christopher Wynne) are ready to greet the first wave with a hard-boiled intensity. (In reality, they're the last people you want defending the human race from an unseen scourge.)

The movie has already claimed the life of one person (a scantily-clad, paid-up member of the tv generation who was just about to take part in a cheeky round of sci-fi sadomasochism with his wife) and more copies of the evil movie are being distributed as we speak.

Remote Control, to put it simply, is a configured mass of reticulated beauty. An artful examination, if you will, of humanities obsession with watching itself and the lives of others. It also shines some much needed light on the influence 1950's sci-fi culture had on the styles and sounds of the 1980s. (As a character in the fifties version of Remote Control says, "You have to keep up with the times in the 1980s.")

The paintings of artist Kenny Scharf and the alien orgasms of Liquid Sky permeate this film's aerodynamic nimbus like a neon cloud covered in lime syrup. The film's score was obviously influenced by Slava Tsukerman (either that, or Slava and Peter Bernstein shopped at the same synthesizer shop) and the fashions had me doing double takes left, right and centre. The amount of colour used in the costumes was off the charts in terms of iridescent splendour. I particularly liked the costume designer's emphasis on new wave athletic gear. And the silver, gold and black combination that was used in Deborah Goodrich's futuristic getup was exceptional.

I thought Kevin Dillon represented the new wave credo against non-violence perfectly as Cosmo, the film's reluctant hero. I mean, I totally supported his diplomatic approach when it came to problem solving. Kevin portrays Cosmo as a romantic at heart and a loyal friend (he tries to help Georgie overcome his shyness around women). Now, violence obviously needs to be implemented when a gun is pointed at you in spite, but Cosmo only implements it when all other avenues have been exhausted. And as a new waver with a Gothic exterior and an industrial heart, I respected that.

The statuesque nature Deborah Goodrich's hairstyle in Remote Control was a work of disentangled artistry. The manner in which it flowed down the side of her head was a breathtaking example of follicle defiance. Lingering in a suspended state of absolute perfection, Deborah's hair should be extolled as a work of art, as it is obviously the creation a master craftsman. Actress turned compulsive gambler Jennifer Tilly sports a hairdo (an upward bob) that had its charms as well, but her squeaky voice and tight red dress (an outfit that accentuated her Chinese heritage) overshadowed her hair. No, Deborah definitely wins the award for hair of the decade.

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Just One of the Guys (Lisa Gottlieb, 1985)

Sexual politics, teenage horniness, and cheap thrills clash in the wonderfully mellifluous Just One of the Guys (a.k.a. Laß mich mal ran! Als Junge ist sie Spitze!), a film that takes gender swapping and genital identity to a whole new level of hilarity. Usurping the usually male dominated arena that is the '80s teen comedy, this thoughtful movie tells the mildly inspirational story about Terry Griffith (the gorgeous Joyce Hyser), an aspiring journalist who feels her schoolwork is being undermined by her smouldering lips, shapely legs, and foreign object-free rectal cavity. Thus, to prove her point, Terry transfers to another school and poses as a boy. Now, that may seem like an extreme measure to take just to establish that your teacher is a sexist pig, but in a world where people are evaluated solely by the calibre of their complexion, a restrained flirtation with adolescent transvestism is sometimes the sanest possible recourse one can take when backed into a corner by societies silly rules and regulations. The film, directed by Lisa Gottlieb, has a lot to say about sexism, issues involving gender, and dating. But if this movie was just a single shot of Joyce Hyser sleeping in her underwear, it would still rock. Half-assed attempts at profundity aside, the film is an amusing slice of chromatic daintiness that doesn't take itself too seriously. I mean, how serious can a movie be that features a scene where a guy teaches his sister the proper way to scratch her nonexistent testicles?

The "guy" in question is Buddy, Terry's younger brother, and I must say, he is one of the funniest characters I've come across in quite some time. Played with sleazy aplomb by Billy Jayne, Buddy is lustfulness personified. Seriously, I've never seen someone this horny onscreen before. He was literally molesting everyone he came in contact with. Oh, and speaking of which, I couldn't have been the only one who thought he was gonna cop a feel as his sister awkwardly climbed the stairs. Weird, wild stuff.

The real key to the success of Just One of the Guys, however, hedged on Joyce Hyser's believability as a boy, and I thought she pulled it off quite well. Utilizing her New York accent and employing a slight swagger when she walked, Miss Hyser's male mannerisms were so convincing at times, that even I wanted to make out with him. (I'm not 100% sure if that makes sense or not, but it feels like it does.)

Anyway, the friendship she/he forms with Rick (Clayton Rohner) was really sweet, as the scenes where Terry helps him to get a date for the prom brought me a small amount of joy.

Extra thought: Deborah Goodrich (Remote Control) and Sherilyn Fenn play the students who take a liking to Rick and Terry (I felt so sorry for them - yeah, right). Deborah, who looked like a candy cane in one scene and then a sweet lemon Popsicle in another, gave the impression she wanted to be licked throughout the film. While Sherilyn, on the other hand, bedazzled the audience with leopard print dresses and fingerless arm stockings. Oh, and I liked how all of Toni Hudson's clothes and accessories matched.

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