The Malibu Bikini Shop (David Wechter, 1986)

Strange as it may sound, but the brightly coloured bits of fabric used to cover specific parts of the female anatomy end up altering the vocational trajectory of a wannabe yuppie in The Malibu Bikini Shop (a.k.a. Der Bikini Shop), a jarring look at the day-to-day grind of working at a store that sells skimpy swimsuits in a beachfront environment. Opening with a dizzying array of shots featuring faceless female torsos pawing and grabbing at the uncompromising tightness of their newly acquired bathing garments, the firm film tells the story of a young man forced to choose between guaranteed comfort and unknown chaos. While it's telling this plucky little tale, writer-director David Wechter (Midnight Madness) makes sure there's always something jiggling in the background. Of course, all this undulating flesh could cause some problems, as mixing conventional storytelling with the distracting splendour of scantily clad ladies in bikinis has been a high-risk enterprise since the dawn of time. Yet the way the film managed to jump back and forth between the two distinct realms was a thing of beauty. Maintaining its narrative integrity, while at the same time generously providing the titillating eye candy certain members of the audience crave, cinema doesn't get anymore well-balanced than this. Now I realize there's no way to actually prove this, but I guarantee that both your brain and your genitals will be smiling smugly at one another after witnessing the temperamental cohesion that is at work here.

Celebrating his recent college graduation at the palatial home of his soon to be father-in-law, Alan (Michael David Wright) learns that his Aunt Ida in California has vacated the world of the living. When he arrives to put her affairs in order, Alan finds out that he has inherited her beloved bikini shop. While unamused by this turn of events–after all, he's got a plum job lined up and is engaged to a woman named Jane (Debra Blee)–his less motivated brother Todd (Bruce Greenwood) couldn't be more pleased.

Well, for one thing, Todd gets to fraternize with the comely employees of Ida's Bikini Shop; primarily Cindy (Galyn Görg) and Kathy (Ami Julius). A third employee named Ronnie (Barbara Horan) remains off Todd's radar mainly because Alan is transfixed by the budding fashion designer the moment he enters the shop.

Anyway, the buttoned-down Alan spends the majority of his time trying to sell shop, with the help of Mr. Remington (Frank "Yessssss" Nelson), an associate of the late Ida, while the mischievous Todd takes to the cotton-challenged macrocosm of swimwear sales.

As you would expect, the brothers clash repeatedly over their respective ambitions pertaining to the beach-based bikini outlet. And as I already sort of said, the repressed Alan wants to put the whole bikini affair behind him so he can get back to his fiancé and cushy job at his father-in-law's tire factory. On the other hand, Todd sees the bikini business as an opportunity to prove to the world that he is not a complete screw up. (We learn that his plan to open a chain of solar-powered hot dog carts in Seattle didn't go as well as expected.)

Impulsive to the extreme, Todd's madcap enthusiasm for all things bikini-related end up sabotaging every single one of Alan's attempts to sell the shop. The most flagrant example of this was when a couple of snooty buyers drop by just as Todd was in the middle of putting on a well-attended suntan contest outside the shop.

Surprisingly, the most awesome aspect of this glorified sunburn symposium wasn't the gratuitous nature of the contest–you, know, with all the half-naked ladies hurling their sunbaked bodies across the makeshift stage as Bruce Greenwood humped the air in nothing but jean shorts and a ratty tank top. But the fact all the contestants mention their full names before they commenced with the gyrating. I know that doesn't sound very awesome. But think about it, the first dancer (my fave and pick to win the whole shebang) said her name was Sheri Andrews. You see what I'm getting at? That's one more name than any of the lead characters have. I was blown away by this seemingly minor detail.

I also liked it when asked what her ambition in life was, Sheri Andrews answered, "I don't know." Call me someone who is prone to making careless mistakes, but I found Sheri Andrew's indecisiveness to be extremely sexy. In addition, there's nothing more obnoxious than a bikini model with well thought out goals. At any rate, Sheri Andrews is played by a human being named Christie Jakowpck and I thought she looked fabulous in her tri-colourd bikini.

Speaking of indecision, Alan eventually decides he that wants to keep the bikini shop (the lure of Ronnie and her tight bikini bottoms were no doubt a deciding factor). Unfortunately, he has already sold it to some transcendental cult looking to expand their global reach. To get the lease back, Alan, Todd, Ronnie, Cindy and Kathy must raise six thousand American dollars in a two weeks.

Sure, it's the middle of July, but still, that's a lot of bikinis.

The rarest weapon in any film's cinematic arsenal, The Malibu Bikini Shop gives us the sewing montage to end all sewing montages. I may regret saying this, but I think it's the greatest montage ever to involve stitching and synthesizers simultaneously. The resulting fashion show was just awe-inspiring, as it features Ami Julius and Galyn Görg prancing around in military inspired two-pieces. Smoke-filled and peppered with spotlights, the dreamlike display of Ronnie's camouflaged garments was the perfect companion to the intense tailoring that preceded it.

The idea that the general public would go completely gaga to cover their tender areas with green and black fabric wasn't too far-fetched, as I recall there being one month at my school where every other student was wearing camouflaged shirts and trousers.

Out of all the actresses who appeared in The Beach Girls, Debra Blee was the last one I expected to give a performance filled with shrill nuance and spiteful disdain. Playing Jane, the overly demanding fiancé, Miss Blee throws aside her docile tendencies and fully embraces her inner harpy.

Tossing himself across the screen with the vigour of a displaced rag doll, Bruce Greenwood utters party animal platitudes with a frenzied sense of desperation. Uncouth and disjointed like every other slob you see in movies like this, Bruce seemed to add an extra layer humanity to his slovenly creation.

Unfortunately, the aforementioned work of Debra and Bruce were the only performances in The Malibu Bikini Shop to merit any praise, as Michael David Wright and the others seemed to be lacking key attributes. Particularly one's that are crucial when it comes to creating a memorable character. They don't sink the film entirely, they just prevent it from attaining its rightful status as the best movie to be set in and around the daily operation of a shop that sells garish clothing intended to cover the lumps and crevices that our overly prudish society deem indecent.

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Savage Streets (Danny Steinmann, 1984)

In the gritty realm of this unbelievably gritty film, thoughts of revenge may sprout while you're immersed in a tub of a warm water, but when that vengeance pierces the night air, and has properly toweled itself off, penis owners the world over better watch their back, or, in this case, they better watch their front. Why is that exactly? Well, a grim-faced chick named Brenda is straight-up irritated by all the wanton rape and murder that's been befalling those close to her as of late. The equivalent of an unclean hand slapping against your wart-covered inner thigh whilst perusing the results of your ex-girlfriend's chlamydia test, Savage Streets (a.k.a. Straße der Gewalt and Zombie Brigade) is cinematic filth at its finest. Exploding with tactless dialogue, synthesizer-enhanced metal riffs, stupefying shower fights, outdoor strutting, gratuitous camera angles, and the most intrusive boom microphone in movie history (Edit: I'm happy to report that the intrusive boom microphone is nowhere to be found on the new DVD), this trashy flick from writer-director Danny Steinmann (Friday the 13th: A New Beginning) is a raw and ugly look into the tightly-garbed underbelly of teenage gangsterism. Pulling no punches when comes to depicting a society so obsessed with sex and violence, that it can no longer protect its citizens from experiencing both on a semi-regular basis, the barely competent highly entertaining film gingerly sets the stage for its unabashedly full-bosomed champion to implement her unique brand of urban comeuppance. And when that juicy retribution is finally distributed, I have to say, the satisfaction I felt went way beyond the normal constructs of conventional giddiness. So much so, that I kinda wish she could have killed some of them more than once.

Sporting her trademark curvaceous body, a healthy mop of wild yet manageable hair (only the sauciest of headbands dare tame this ample mane), and the foulest mouth this side of Wilshire Boulevard, Linda Blair is a festering cauldron of unmitigated sexiness as Brenda, a scrappy as fuck, crossbow-wielding juvenile delinquent who takes on a smallish throng of leathery hooligans called "The Scars."

Proving yet again that she is one of the most accomplished thespians of her generation, the vivacious Linda Blair is literally seeping toughness as Brenda, a no-nonsense mega-babe who isn't afraid no-one. Take the opening scene, for example, it shows her aggressively prancing up and down Hollywood Boulevard with her gal pals. Solidifying her toughness, her strutting style is awash with an unfermented feistiness. Sheathed in light blue satin trousers (which is apt, since her gang is called "The Satins"), a light blue, chest-enhancing tube-top, and a light blue headband (as you probably guessed, light blue is her preferred colour for this evening), Brenda, and, to a lesser extent, her friends, stalk the streets looking for trouble.

As they're walking down the street (window shopping, perusing smutty magazines, eating ice cream), trouble actually finds them in the form of The Scars, a gang lead by Jake (Robert Dyer), an ill-tempered thug with a Boston accent. Coming close to running over her deaf-mute sister Heather (Linnea Quigley) with their convertible, this near tragedy causes Brenda and Jake to pepper one another verbal insults. Realizing that he was in wrong, Jake apologizes to the girls. Well, actually, Jake makes Fargo (Sal Landi), the strongest member of The Scars, apologize -- you know, since he was driving. Either way, the two gangs go their separate ways.

Unsatisfied by the way the altercation with The Scars played out, and still reeling over the fact her sister was nearly killed by a bunch of contemptible lowlifes, Brenda devises a plan to get back at them. Okay, I wouldn't exactly call stealing their car, going for a joy ride, and filling said car with clumps of Hollywood trash when they're finished with it the kind of action that needs a plan. But that's precisely what the girls end up doing. Of course, the whole joy ride episode upsets The Scars like you wouldn't believe. Sure, their car, other than being a little smelly from all the garbage, is still drivable, but you could totally tell they were not going to let this go.

Unamused by the fact they're being forced to exercise (they get plenty of cardio stalking the streets of Hollywood on a nightly basis) in the school's gym, Brenda and her friends, Rachel (Debra Blee), Francine (Lisa Freeman), Stevie (Marcia Karr), Maria (Luisa Leschin), and Stella (Ina Romeo), move their shapely bodies with as little enthusiasm as humanly possible.

Speaking of shapely bodies, while Linda Blair gets the majority of the attention in the film, and justifiably so (she wields a crossbow in skintight clothing), I thought Marica Karr (Killer Workout) was the most attractive member of Brenda's gang. The sight of Marcia (who's a dead ringer for Gina Gershon) hopping around in that cut-off tank-top (which, in actuality, was an altered Specials t-shirt that was not cut-ff but rather cinched above the waist), striped leotard bottom, and those black footless tights (the clingy material pressing snugly against her tender thighs) during the exercise sequence was a thing of erection-based beauty.

We're introduced to two more female characters in the form of Cindy (Rebecca Perle) and Valerie (Kristi Somers), two blonde, bubbly cheerleaders. Taking exception with the fact that Wes (Brian Frishman), her purported boyfriend, was flirting Brenda while she pretended to exercise, Cindy confronts her in the girls locker room and basically tells her to stay away from him. A fight breaks out, which eventually moves to showers. Surrounded by a weird mix of clothed and naked girls, Brenda and Cindy battle it out in the school's steam-laden girl's shower room (a couple of naked girls can be seen fighting with one another in the background, but the exact nature of their beef is unclear).

Meanwhile, back in the gymnasium, as Brenda and Cindy are being reprimanded by Principal "Go Fuck an Iceberg!" Underwoord (John Vernon) in his office, the Scars are laying a nasty trap for Heather. As the punk-infused Red (Scott Mayer) plays nice with her (he's pretending to be an upstanding gentlemen with, albeit, creepier-than-usual overtones), the rest of the Scars, which include the aforementioned Jake, the vest-wearing Fargo, and the pint-size Vince (Johnny Venocur), the only Scar who actually still goes to school, wait for their opportunity to strike.

What takes place next is a brutal gang rape, which obviously sets the stage for Brenda's revenge. Of course, she doesn't know who's responsible for the crime, so she ends up spending most of her time brooding at a local nightclub and getting in fights with Cindy, the cheerleader (in a classic scene, Brenda forcibly removes her rival's top during a science class dust-up). However, when she does find out, the Scars better watch out, because Brenda takes her revenge seriously. How seriously? Well, let's just say, she has an already outfit picked out for the occasion (when seeking retribution, never, and I mean, never, underestimate the importance of fashion).

Whether calling an insensitive gang member a "motherfucking moron," or pulling at the hair of a blonde adversary, the pugnacious Linda Blair exudes a genuine quality that comes across like a burning sceptre floating in a mound of mucus. In other words, when the contents of her right fingerless glove make a fist, you know every rapist in town will be expelling a fair amount of pee come judgment day.

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The Beach Girls (Bud Townsend, 1982)

Unencumbered rays of warm, invigorating California sunshine penetrate the unclothed nether regions of a brash throng of thong-less cupcakes strewn haphazardly across the unsullied sand; a bikini-top stealing canine, who unwittingly causes pruriency in passers-by, makes off with another skimpy yet vital piece of fabric; and an accident prone gardener (Bert Rosario) is about to find his genitalia engorged with his own blood. All of these things are in the process of infringing on each others personal space in the delightfully straightforward The Beach Girls (a.k.a. La Boum En Folie), a film, written by Phil Groves and Patrick Sheane Duncan and directed by Bud Townsend (Coach), that shamefully wears its heterosexual agenda on its sleeve at all times. Which is ironic, since nary a sleeve can be found in this film. Taking place on Paradise Beach, the well-bosomed and skittishly pedantic Sarah (Debra Blee) arrives at her spacious beach house blissfully unaware of the titillating firestorm that is heading her way. She's invited a couple of friends over to keep her company over the summer, but has no idea what the capriciously-named Ginger (Val Kline) and Ducky (Jeana Tomasina) have in store for her.

You see, these girls are the complete opposite to Sarah, the wide-eyed gal with braids in her hair. I mean, not only are they anti-intellectual in temperament, they're also not-as-well-bosomed. Which on the surface could be seen as a disadvantage, but Ginger and Ducky have such an untamed whimsicality about them, that it cause such trivialities to become inconsequential. Besides, both are blessed with long, slender legs. And, in the grand scheme of things, that's all you really need.

Anyway, the playful duo (their incessant giggling would disarm even the most ardent of assholes and asswipes) are immediately shocked by the lack of boys at the beach house–they brought along a chiseled boy-toy by the name of Scott (James Daughton), but he's taken a liking to Sarah–so the girls devise a strategy to acquire enough man-sustenance to satisfy their inflated carnal desire. As you would expect, much partying ensues when various members of the dick-wielding underclass start arriving at their door. Periodically upsetting their plans is Uncle Carl (the actual owner of the beachfront residence) and a ball-bearing obsessed Coast Guard Captain (Herbie Braha).

The jokes are corny, the plot is as thin as a piece of paper, and the film is definitely a tad wanting in the cerebral department. But what it lacks in those three areas, it more than makes up for it in the realm of naked flesh. Never in all my years of film watching have a seen a film so devoted to the brandishing of tits and ass (and yes, some untanned male crack is exposed).

It is also the perfect film for prepubescent children, in that it doesn't contain any pelvic thrusting whatsoever. (I have found that the sight of a penis barging into a vagina confuses more than it does illuminate.) There's such an artless innocence about it, that it's almost educational at times. Yeah, sure, rampant drug use (garbage bags full of marijuana wash ashore) and unchecked promiscuity aren't the most positive messages to send out into the cultural stratosphere. But then again, it's better than violence and apathy.

In terms of the aforementioned naked flesh, I would have to say the vivacious Val Kline was hands down my favourite scantily clad person in The Beach Girls. She plays the force of nature that is Ginger and gives a performance that transcends time and space. Employing her femaleness like it were an unsheathed sword of shapely aggression, the gorgeous Val attacks the apprehensive libido of Uncle Carl (Adam Roarke) like a ravenous beast. (He is threatening to curb their partying ways and she uses her untapped sexiness to convince him otherwise.)

The lovely Jeana Tomasina does a competent job assisting Val when it came time to win over of Carl as Ducky, a brunette whirlwind with a cheerful disposition. An actress/model who can be seen prancing around in the majority of those popular music videos ZZ Top made during their early '80s Eliminator period, it should be said that no one in the history of cinema has ever looked better in a pair of tight red trousers than Jeana does in the red trouser-friendly, non-beach-related scenes that are liberally sprinkled throughout this movie.

It should also be noted that the always awesome Corinne Bohrer (Vice Versa and Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol) shows up every now and then as the headband-sporting, purple bikini-top-wearing "Champagne Girl." (Who, I'm guessing, is so named because her character is always carrying, and occasionally drinking from, a large bottle of Champagne. And, of course, is female. Hence, the use of the word "girl.")

The bubbly Tessa Richarde as the kindhearted "Doreen"

Oh, and Catherine Mary Stewart (The Apple and Night of the Comet) appears onscreen for five seconds at a wienie roast as "The Surfer Girl" (a character who makes it abundantly clear that she'd rather be making out with her shirtless boyfriend than surfing).

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