Hunk (Lawrence Bassoff, 1987)

You don't hear about yuppies, or, as they're sometimes called, "yuppie scum," that much nowadays. Why is that? Is it because they're called hipsters now? Nah, hipsters are descendents of Duckie, yuppies are actually descendents of Blaine. The influence of the yuppie, and, to a lesser extent, their European cousins, "Euro-trash," has always been a contentious issue in the West. Causing those who view themselves as cool to fly into fits of rage, yuppies have always been seen as vile creatures that need to be destroyed on sight. Of course, I can make an incendiary statement like that without fear of reprisals because no one has ever admitted to being a yuppie. In other words, I won't be getting a sternly worded note from the anti-yuppie defamation league telling me to curb my disdain for everything they stand for. You want to know why? There is no such organization. And one of the main reasons there is no such organization is a movie from 1987 called simply, Hunk. I was beginning to wonder what all this yuppie talk had to do with this movie. Briefly touching on the nascent yuppie phenomenon in Weekend Pass, writer-director Lawrence Bassoff obviously saw the insidious impact they were having on society and decided to do something about it. You'll notice that Mr. Bassoff has only two directorial credits to his name. The reason Hunk would be the last film he ever made was because the yuppie scum that ran Hollywood in the 1980s were so alarmed by the anti-materialism, anti-superficiality, anti-war message his film was putting out there, that they probably had him blacklisted. Wait a minute, Hunk is anti-war?!? I can see the others, but anti-war? You're crazy.

Crazy, eh? Name another movie where a socially awkward computer programmer is given the choice between being a hunk with killer pecs or an everyday slob with mediocre pecs? What's that? You say that sounds like the plot of every movie in existence? Aw, crap, I forget to mention if he picks the latter, the world will be engulfed by violence and destruction. Oh, and before you say: Isn't the world already engulfed by violence and destruction? I meant to say, more violence and destruction than usual. We're pretty much talking World War III up in this cinematic cubbyhole.

On top of having the weight of the world on his muscular and sometimes not-so muscular shoulders (depending on which guise he is currently taking), the hunky/dorky protagonist at the centre of this surprisingly profound undertaking ("surprisingly," because it was produced by none other than Crown International Pictures) has to deal with issues of a supernatural nature.

What actor do you hire when you need someone to represent the most powerful force in the known universe? I don't know, how 'bout, Charlton Heston? No? Okay, James Earl Jones, perhaps? Not even close, eh? I got it, James Hong? Nice try. First of all, he's a she. And secondly...actually, there's no need for "secondly." Her name is Deborah Shelton (Body Double), and, mark my words, she will convince you to do her bidding. How does she do that exactly? How does she do that?!? You're kidding, right? She's Deborah Shelton. Doing her bidding is her middle name. Well, it's not actually her middle name. But it totally could be - you know, if she went down to the name-changing place and filled out a form or something, and waited six to eight weeks.

If the first thought to cross your mind when you start watching Hunk is: Did I accidentally put in a gay porno into my video player? Don't worry, you're not alone. Incorrectly thinking that Hunk is gay porno is a common mistake. Oh, don't get me wrong, it's gay all right. It's just that a lot of people might not be able to handle the in your face masculinity that the film unleashes on the viewer right out of the gate.

Shot from every angle imaginable, the film opens with a faceless man getting ready to go out. After watching him lather up in the shower, shave, and blow dry his hair, the man gets in his red convertible and leaves his swanky beach house. You'll notice that as he's driving, all the women on street stop and stare at him with a pussy moistening awe.

Walking into a building, the faceless man, a muscular man with blonde hair, enters the office of Dr. Susan Graves, PhD. (Rebecca Bush). Hold up, why does this guy need to see a shrink? It's funny you should ask that, as we're about to find out.

You see, he's not who he says is. Apparently, he's not a hunky blonde, but a nerdy computer programmer named Bradly Brinkman (Steve Levitt). Pretty unbelievable, right? Well, sit back and relax, because the hunky blonde is about to tell Dr. Graves, "Sunny," to her friends, the bizarre story of how Bradly Brinkman ceased to exist.

Working as a computer programmer for Constantine Constapopolis (Avery Schreiber), the owner of Constapopolis Computers, Bradly Brinkman spends most of his time writing computer code and daydreaming about being a hunk. Caught doing the latter one day by his Mr. Constapopolis, Bradly is told to come up with a new computer program by tomorrow morning or else he'll end up working at his boss's father's Greek restaurant Cyclops West.

Due to unexplained circumstances, "The Yuppie Program," a how-to guide for fledgling yuppies, miraculously appears on Bradly's desk. His boss is so pleased by this program, that he gives Bradly a big fat royalty check and the rest of the summer off. Renting a beach house in the exclusive community of Sea Spray, Bradly plans on relaxing for the rest of the summer.

He's barely had time to get settled in when he's confronted by Polly Clutter, a.k.a. Chachka (Cynthia Szigeti), a garrulous busybody along the lines of Marlene Willoughby's Frannie Grudkow from A Woman's Torment. Giving him a tour of the area, Chachka introduces Bradly to the so-called heavy-hitters of the Sea Spray social circle, who are, of course, playing beach Trivial Pursuit when he meets them. And they are: Coaster Royce (Page Mosely), Laurel Springs (Melanie Vincz), Skeet Mecklenburger (Doug Shanklin), and Alexis Cash (Hilary Shepard).

"Igor Stravinsky? Wrong!" And with that line, we're introduced to the comedic genius that is Hilary Shepard. What the fuck? Comedic genius? I didn't see that coming. Whatever do you mean? I thought you were going to start talking about her legs or something. Don't get me wrong, her legs are amazing. It's just that I was quite taken with Hilary's abilities as a comedian in this movie. In fact, one of the few pleasures I got from Hunk was watching her various facial expressions. I was particularly impressed with her eye-rolling technique; I have no doubt that she could go eye-roll-o-eye-roll with Winona Ryder, the queen of the unimpressed eye-roll.

While Hilary is putting on an eye-rolling clinic, you will notice Brad Pitt chilling on an inflatable beach chair sipping on a mai tai in the background whenever Skeet is onscreen. The only reason I mention this is because Brad Pitt is now a well-known actor/perfume shill.

Unimpressed with the heavy-hitters, especially their "aura of arrogance," Bradly still wants them to except him. Shunned by Alexis and Coaster at the Sand Castle, a local yuppie bar, and completely ignoring his housewarming party, the residents of Sea Spray seem to want nothing to do with Bradly Brinkman. What if he changed his name to Hunk Golden? Still not enough, you say? Okay, how about if he made a pact with a witch with a Class B sorcery license? You're getting warmer.

What if I told you the pact was made with a brunette demon goddess named O'Brien (Deborah Shelton), and the trial offer involved acquiring the thighs of Sylvester Stallone, the pelvis of Elvis Presley, the navel of Arnold Schwarzenegger, the nipples of Robert Redford, the eyes of Paul Newman, and the schlong of King King overnight? Well, first of all, getting the eyes of Paul Newman is the only one of those things that makes any sense. I mean, Robert Redford's nipples? King Kong's schlong? Ugh.

When Brady Brinkman wakes up the following morning, he discovers that he's been magically transformed into Hunk Golden (John Allen Nelson), a musclebound blonde with a killer bod. It should be noted that most guys would kill to have Bradly Brinkman's body. Nevertheless, John Allen Nelson's body is a work of art; it's no wonder Hunk is considered a minor classic throughout certain segments of the gay population.

As expected, the superficial yuppies who shunned Bradly Brinkman earlier in the film, fully embrace Hunk Golden; some, in fact, take it one step further (I'm looking at you, Laurel Springs - you gold digging whore - oops, did I say that out loud?). You could say, Hunk Golden becomes the toast of Sea Spray, as every time he walks down the beach in his Speedo becomes an event; hell, even mermaids want to have sexual relations with him.

While I enjoyed the scenes where Deborah Shelton's O'Brien would check up on Bradly/Hunk, the performance by James Coco as Dr. D (a.k.a. The Devil), who usually shows up during these "check up" scenes, was, let's just say, lackluster at best. Hampered by cheesy costumes, I felt the Dr. D character was completely unnecessary. That being said, John Allen Nelson and Steve Levitt (previously best known to me as the bellboy from Private School) both give excellent performances. Yeah, you heard right, excellent. Of course, they're nowhere near as compelling as Hilary Shepard. But then again, not that many people are.

Body Double (Brian De Palma, 1984)

Every now and then a guilty thought will inadvertently creep into his head, driving him to look away in mock disgust. But the erotic benefits that come with gazing upon his subject's scantily clad body will always lure him back into the perverted fold. Whether it be your shapely next-door neighbour sunning themselves–the inherent durability of their Turkish heritage providing the dermatological fortitude necessary to allow them to lay out for hours on end–in a chartreuse bathing suit (one with the words "fun zone" playfully emblazoned in turquoise across the garments midsection) on a rusty deck chair by their unfinished swimming pool (every move she makes is greeted with a metallic squeaking sound), or the leggy mother of two who lives down the street struggling to push a red wheel barrel full of nutrient-rich potting soil across the lumpy surface of her weed-infested front lawn (the sweat dripping off her taut calves causes her socks to bunch up around her succulent ankles), the desire to stare awkwardly at people you don't know for lengthy periods of time shall never wane. Never! Sure, tacos smothered in fresh salsa or even an episode of that television program you inexplicably watch will pull you away from time to time, but the forbidden thrills that come with spying on Deborah Shelton as she tries on white panties at a swankier than usual pantie establishment located in the swankier part of town are your primary sources of pleasure.

A yet unseen entity in Body Double, Brian De Palma's stylish ode to stalking in L.A., has pretty much based the entirety their devious plan around on the habitual nature of one who lives to leer at others. A skittish actor, one who flirts with unemployment on a semi-regular basis, named Jake Scully (Craig Wasson) literally hurls himself into the heady world of voyeurism, indoor plant care, covert tailing, and pornography. After finding his live-in lady friend (Barbara Crampton) mounting the retractable stain-maker of another man (her face glowing in response to the quality its retractability), the actor in the light brown corduroy blazer suddenly finds himself homeless.

On top of discovering his lady friend with another man, Jake's fear of enclosed spaces gets him fired from a low budget vampire movie called Vampire's Kiss (he plays a new wave vampire), attends an acting seminar where he pretends to be a sardine ("Feel. Personalize. Act."), and eats at a restaurant that is shaped like a giant hotdog ("Tail o' the Pup").

Asked to housesit by Sam (Gregg Henry), a fellow actor who feels sorry for the down on his luck thespian, Jake ends up staying at an extravagant home (it looked like a flying saucer on stilts) located in the Hollywood Hills. While his new living quarters may have everything a youngish man living in the mid-1980s could want: a rotating bed, cordless telephone, a fully stocked bar, cable tv (the video for "House is Burning" by Vivabeat can be seen playing at one point), it's the spectacular view that grabs the bulk of Jake's attention; a view that is enhanced greatly by a strategically placed telescope. Made aware of a sexy brunette woman who lives across the way, and her proclivity for dancing seductively in her bedroom every night at midnight, Jake, taking a break from watering the plants, decides to watch her do her thing. Interrupted after she had just finished inspecting the integrity of the diamond-encrusted strap on her left shoe by mysterious man in a hat, Jake witnesses an argument between the two that leaves the woman a tad frazzled.

Concerned for her safety, and of course, extremely turned on, Jake decides to keep a watchful eye on her after spotting her being followed by a menacing-looking dude in a ponytail. This sequence, the what I like to call "the posh outdoor mall/panties in the trash encounter" (I know, as far as titles to sequences that appear in Brian De Palma films go, it needs a little work), was my favourite stalking scene in the entire movie. The way Jake was right on top of his subject, the point-of-view camera angles, and the ultra chic local (a sort of open air promenade for rich people) all combined to create one intense shopping experience.

Keen observers will notice that the modest slit on the back of his subject's off-white dress would reveal the back of one of her knees with each womanly step. Turning into a sort of back of the knee peepshow for anybody lucky enough to be walking behind her, Jake drinks in each sway of her hips like he were a booze-starved alcoholic.

When I saw that Gloria Revelle (Deborah Shelton), we discover her name after we see the contents of her purse, had dropped the panties, the same panties we watched her try on and purchase with the intensity of a thousand suns, in the trash, I thought to myself: What a waste of a perfectly good pair of panties. However, when Jake rescues the barely worn panties, in clear view of Gloria (who is busy tipping the mall's valet), from the crumpled grip of their soon to be trashy tomb, I cried misguided tears of joy. In all my years of looking at stuff, never have I seen a decision this logical, this sane implemented in a movie before. I doubt Will Smith would ever star in a movie where he ends up pocketing a pair of panties that weren't his. Of course, the hallowed panties end up shining an unsavoury light on him later in the movie. And even though a square detective (Guy Boyd), one straight out of a 1940's film noir, has the nerve to call him a "pantie sniffer" during questioning, I'm sure everyone will agree that his impromptu pantie adoption was the correct course of action.

The rescued panties aside, everything that happens after Jake enters the mall was filmmaking at its finest. The beach/tunnel chase, the fact that the sequence was mostly dialogue-free, the bizarre make out session (complete with aggressive neck kissing), the sly smirk Jake sports every so often as he's following Mrs. Revelle, the close call with "The Indian" in the elevator (one that was filled to the brim with freshly scrubbed yuppies), they all came together to fashion one seriously gripping slab of suspense cinema.

Recovering from a dog bite and the mental strain that normally transpires after one sees a bloodied power drill snake its way through a chunk of drywall, Jake does what most people do after experiencing something traumatic: He opens up a bottle of Jack Daniel's and throws himself head-first into the warm, non-judgmental embrace of pornography (the salacious images on the screen will not hurt you). While watching a bunch of trailers hyping the latest in adult entertainment, Jake notices something eerily familiar about the body of one of the performers cavorting about on the screen. Now, to the non-voyeur, the idea of noticing someone's body might sound ridiculous, but you've got to remember the peeper code, which is: "I like to watch." In other words, every inch of your body, yes, even the back of your tasty knees, whether you like it or not, have been meticulously cataloged in their depraved minds (a depraved mind is a fertile mind).

Not one to let a half-baked hunch go unexplored, Jake heads down to the local Tower Records and buys a copy Holly Goes to Hollywood on VHS (it was also available on Beta). After some diligent fast-forwarding, he soon discovers that the body in question belongs to Holly Body (Melanie Griffith), a svelte porno queen who seems to be modeled after Cara Lott (who appears briefly in a scene with Brinke Stevens). Determined to get close to Holly, Jake weasels his way into the adult film industry. Actually, all he did was make a phone call, show up for an audition, recite his two lines, and he was in.

When I first heard the thumping intro to the iconic "Relax," Frankie Goes to Hollywood's anti-ejaculation smash hit, playing on the soundtrack, which, up until now, has been awash with the tantalizing music of Pino Donaggio (an hypnotic masterwork, if I ever heard one), I thought to myself: Interesting song choice. Since the decor was bathed in every kind of animal print imaginable (my fave was the pink zebra print on the wall outside the washrooms), I would have went with something by Vicious Pink ("CCCan't You See"). Nevertheless, it made perfect sense to have Holly Johnson play the club's doorman. Leading Jake (who looked nerd-tastic in an argyle sweater) into the depths of an S&M nightclub featuring a bevy of neon maniacs in studs and leather, the FGTH frontman (along with fellow band member Paul Rutherford) serenade the impish actor, as he attempts to make a name for himself as a porn star.

The nightclub/adult movie shoot was merely one of many kooky surprises Brain De Palma (Phantom of the Paradise) throws at you in Body Double. I mean, I anticipated the stylish directing, and, not to mention, the satirical jabs at Hollywood (Dennis Franz plays a sleazy, De Palma-esque horror director). But the aforementioned make out session at that mouth of that ominous-looking tunnel solidified this film's standing as one strange and trippy ride. Getting back to the directing for a second, you'll be hard pressed to find another film that is this skillfully directed from this or any period. I'd even go as far as to put it up there with William Friedkin's To Live and Die in L.A. in terms of craftsmanship.

I'll admit, the overall configuration of her leather mini-skirt was sublime (the front zipper was to die for), as were the opaque tightnesss of her pantyhose (which looked extra opaque in the lighting of the Jake's garish ufo pad). Oh, and the casual manner in which she declared she wasn't into "water sports" was downright adorable (no "animal acts" either). They were all pluses as I carefully scrutinized Melanie Griffith's nuanced performance. (I won't lie, the actress can come off as a tad shrill at times.) But when it came to representing Reagan-era femininity, nothing comes close to topping the sight of Deborah Shelton walking in heels, driving convertibles, talking on the phone, window shopping, trying on panties, removing her sunglasses, adjusting the fit of her shoes, riding escalators, and brushing her hair in Los Angeles circa 1984.

Billed fourth in the credits, the gorgeous Deborah Shelton doesn't need to say a word (and apparently she didn't, as it's rumoured that Helen Shaver dubbed all of her dialogue in the film). Regardless, the sheer power of her delicate physique is enough to convey the thoughts and wishes of her character. If Deborah, as she looked in Body Double, walked down the street of any North American today, she would have to constantly worry about tripping over the passed out bodies of all the feckless degenerates unaccustomed to witnessing such a statuesque example of self-assured womanhood.

Oozing the quirky styles and idiosyncratic fashions of the period, yet, at the same time, not sacrificing one iota when it came to projecting an air of class and dignity, Body Double is one of the few films to successfully blend technical proficiency with a lurid premise in a way that seems effortless.

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Nemesis (Albert Pyun, 1992)

In a world where blood splattered walls and arterial spray have been replaced by sparky embers and frazzled circuit boards, Nemesis exists solely as pornographic wish fulfillment for those whose dream it has been to live on the fringes of society as a human-machine hybrid with conflicted loyalties. A Front Line Assembly album cover come to life, this cutting edge science fiction action flick will no doubt test one's tolerance for overlong shootouts, shoddy Germanic accents, and the act of diving off a cliff in a tropical setting. But those willing to look past its inherent wonkiness, the rewards are immeasurable; especially in terms of watching comely cyborg chicks in short skirts shoot automatic weapons at a wily French dude. A series of cleverly demented fire fights punctuated by William Gibson-esque dialogue and bluntly-worded one-liners, this film is a bouncy trip into the near future that will surely keep your gears oiled and your mind in a constant state of perpetual motion. If the expression "sparky embers" sounds familiar, well, that's because I also used it to describe the gun battles that take place in Radioactive Dreams, a post-apocalyptic adventure film from 1985. Which of course makes perfect sense seeing as that both are directed by Albert Pyun, the master when it comes to creating iridescent shootouts. (If I'm not mistaken, the gunplay featured in his version of Captain America were kinda sparkly as well.)

Anyway, taking spark-replete firefights to whole another level of... sparkiness, Mr. Pyun gets downright nutty with the pyrotechnics this time around. And what makes it so great is that he is completely justified. I mean, what do you think would happen if a room full of cyborgs started shooting metal projectiles at each other at an accelerated velocity? Exactly. The amount of sparks produced as a result of this bullet-fueled mayhem would be off the sparky charts.

Getting us from one spark-emitting encounter to another is the blank expression of Olivier Gruner, a Parisian kick boxer turned actor. Playing Alex, a L.A. cop in the year 2027, the monosyllabic tough guy is constantly being upgraded with mechanical parts after each assignment. These tuneups have become so commonplace, that he has started to worry about the structural integrity of his everlasting soul. At what point does he stop being human? Deep, mildly philosophical stuff.

Tired of hunting down cyber-terrorists and hackers, the conflicted cop moves down to Rio de Janeiro to start a new life as a black-market dealer of cybertronic doodads. The net may be vast and infinite, but this doesn't prevent his old employers from tracking him down. Forcing him to partake in a dangerous mission to locate a rogue agent named Jared (Marjorie Monaghan) in Shang Loo, Java, his bosses Farnsworth (Tim Thomerson) and Maritz (Brion James) install a small bomb in his heart to ensure his cooperation. Upon arriving in Shang Loo, Alex quickly becomes an unwilling pawn in an epic battle brewing between humans and cyborgs. And since he's somewhere in the middle, Alex must choose which side he's on.

Helping him make his decision is a rebel leader (Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa), a big-haired cyborg in a trench-coat (Deborah Shelton), and a limber rapscallion named Max Impact (Merle Kennedy). These three characters (especially the Lori Petty-esque Miss Kennedy) are essential to the non-shootout scenes, in that they utter the majority of the film's spoken dialogue. Don't get me wrong, he can blast his way out of an awkward situation like nobodies business, but my confidence in Olivier Gruner as an human actor is a tad on the sketchy side.

Strangely, Marjorie Monaghan is quite clumsy as an actress while in the flesh – though I did enjoy the shortness of her skirt (and the equally short skirt sported by her blonde friend, a leggy Marjean Holden)–yet, she was rather competent while compressed in the digital realm. It's weird how that happens.

It's true, I never saw Nemesis in its entirety before now, but the "cyborg fucking shootout" in the Shang Loo hotel has been in contact with my illustrious eyeballs on several occasions over the years. I first saw the infamous shootout on cable while volunteering over at a community centre for wayward she-male's with low self-esteem back in the mid-90s and more recently in an online setting.

However, seeing it in its proper context–you know, with the rest of the film in tow–has elevated it to a somewhat legendary status.

The sheer number of sparks employed during this sequence alone is enough to glorify it with exaggerated praise, the fact that Olivier Gruner escapes his hotel room by shooting his way through the floor–rendering a cyborg inoperative along the way–is what makes this scene the awe-inspiring spectacle that it truly is. Seriously, the person who came up with the idea of having him create his own personal elevator utilizing his guns is a freaking genius. And just the mere thought of Deborah Shelton exchanging an inordinate amount of gunfire with those two lumbering cyborgs, all the while, Gruner mows his way through the floor, never fails to bring a misguided tear to my eye.

video uploaded by hail2theking4051

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