Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls (Katt Shea, 1989)

What do my eyes see gyrating in front of me? Are those healthy gams encased in the finest fishnet stockings fourteen dollars can buy? Why, yes. That's exactly what they are. And on top of getting the price right, you weren't kidding when you said they were healthy. In fact, they're so healthy, they should be featured in Leg Show magazine (which, get this, is a real publication). Anyway, it would seem that writer-director Katt Shea has somehow convinced producer Roger Corman to allow her to make a sequel to Stripped to Kill, because it totally looks like I just watched Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls, the absolutely necessary sequel to the strip club set slasher flick starring Kay Lenz and Norman Fell, and featuring a shitload of lingerie. Well, I'm afraid to say that Miss Lenz and Mr. Fell are nowhere to be found in the second chapter (their existence isn't even acknowledged), but the lingerie, my god, the lingerie, it's more prevalent than ever. Actually, the same could be said about the film's overall temperament, as Katt Shea seems extra determined to create something spectacular. And you know what? That determination pays off quite handsomely, as the sequel is not only superior in every way to the original, but it manages to out dream Rinse Dream on several occasions. If you're in anyway familiar how I feel about the Rinse Dream aesthetic, then you know I don't say that lightly. A vast improvement in terms of acting, choreography, costuming, music, production design, and, of course, direction, part two takes no prisoners when it comes to delivering a weird mix of surrealism and erotic horror with a steamy dose of noirish cool.

Even though there's no way I can confirm this, but I feel the success of the first film must have enabled Katt Shea to take more risks artistically this time around. Just as long as every dance number ends with a woman topless. And you can see this art proceeded by toplessness in almost every scene. Your average perverted mind simply wants to see naked breasts, so it doesn't really matter what takes place before they're exposed for all to see. (Really? You mean they'll sit through interpretive dance just to see boobs?) Are you kidding? They'll watch an old man change his colostomy bag if it means they'll be rewarded with unclothed titties.      
 

 

Freeing up their ability to satisfy their own artistic endeavours, while, at the same, delivering the sleazy goods the marketplace expects, Katt Shea uses this technique to her advantage, as every scene practically oozes this dichotomic construct.  
 

 

Wasting little time establishing this new-found freedom, Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls opens with an erotic dance routine featuring zombie-esque women in rags menacing a lone stripper in white. You can tell almost immediately that this isn't your average strip club. For starters, there's this wind, and not just any wind, a howling wind, that seems to be creating an air of extreme disquietude. Wind aside, the blonde swinging on the poll is Victoria (Lisa Glaser), and she's wearing white hold up stockings and being harassed by her stripper peers, who are, of course, dressed like dishevelled devil worshipers.

Suddenly, a panic stricken Shady (Maria Ford) enters the frame. A shock-haired, or maybe that was just her normal hair? Whatever. A clearly frazzled Shady is being harassed not only by her peers (who are, like I said, in desperate need of a makeover), but by mysterious figure in a mask wielding a razor-blade between their teeth. 
 

 

Just as she's about to learn the identity of the masked individual, Shady wakes up on her friend's couch with a bloody mouth (the skylight above the couch is covered with mannequins). Concerned for her well-being, Shady's friend, an English woman named Cassandra (Karen Mayo-Chandler), offers her some tea (yep, she's an English woman, all right). There's no time to dilly-dally, the neon and zebra print adorned walls of the Paragon need strippers to tie the room together, so Shady and Cassandra head down to fulfill their contractual obligation.

As they enter the club, I was quite taken with its stylish decor. The aforementioned neon and zebra print give it that new wave flavour everyone with a pulse savours, but the addition of chain link fence material and sharp angles gave the club an almost industrial feel.
 

 

While Shady and Cassandra are making their way backstage, we meet a dancer named Something Else (Marjean Holden), who is explaining the genesis of her unique stage name. Since Shady dreamed about Victoria in distress, she asks Ike (Tom Ruben), the Paragon DJ, where she is. Pointing the spotlight on her just as she was about to receive a generous tip (fifty bucks), a sense relief washes over Shady when she sees that Victoria is alive and well. Though, if you were to judge by Shady's body language, relief is something she's got in short supply, as she constantly looks like a delicate flower that's got the weight of stripping world resting uncomfortably on her lightly freckled shoulders. Her flowery state of mind isn't helped by the fact that her fellow dancers can't stand each other.

We get a taste of this stripper-on-stripper animosity when Victoria tells Something Else to go fuck herself in the dancer's dressing room.
 

 

Stressed out by the negative atmosphere in the club's dressing room, Something Else scolds Dazzle (the E.G. Daily-esque Birke Tan) for using her tweezers, Shady retreats to the alleyway behind the club for solace.

Oh, alleyway behind the Paragon club, why are you so awesome?

Seriously, the alleyway in Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls has got a personality of its own. After making a dinner date with Victoria, Shady and her super short skirt go home to change. Unfortunately, she falls asleep on the couch, and dreams that she is running toward the Paragon in a diaphanous dress made of  imitation silk. When she arrives, she finds Victoria hanging from one of the club's many chain link fence motifs with her throat cut.
 

 

Now, this is the time when we're usually introduced to my least favourite character in these type of movies: the gruff homicide detective in charge of solving the case. And don't get me wrong, he's gruff as fuck, but there was something off-kilter about Sergeant Decker (Eb Lottimer) that made me inexplicably like him the moment he appears on-screen. At the Paragon to ask Victoria's living co-workers about the crime, Decker sizes up the situation pretty quickly. While I'm sure he picked up some important clues, all I noticed is that Dazzle loves leopard print and that Something Else has a habit of correcting Dazzle's grammar. More importantly...wait a minute, what can be more important than leopard print?!? Trust me, this is more important than leopard print. We get to witness the first meeting of Shady and Decker, one of the most fascinating on-screen pairings in film history.
 

 

The backstage bickering and grammar correcting continues in the next scene when a stripper named Mantra (Debra Lamb) tells Something Else to suck her dick (as you know, I soft spot for women who refer to their non-existent male genitalia), and Something Else tells Dazzle the word is "geek" not "greek" when she attempts to mock Ike's ill-timed romantic gesture towards Shady (he tries to give her a rose). While all this drama is taking place, Decker is out sleuthing his ass off in the club's alleyway; kudos, by the way, to cinematographer Phedon Papamichael for creating one of the most stunning alleyways I have ever seen depicted in a motion picture.
 

 

While I was admiring the way the neon light twinkled in the puddles of water that litter the alleyway behind the Paragon, a Mr. Pocket-esque (Mr. Pocket was the lead creep in the first Stripped to Kill) patron inside the club is admiring Karen Mayo-Chandler's English thighs up close.           

 

 

The second meeting between Shady and Decker does not go well at all, as he gets an awkward lap dance from a woman who should be the prime suspect in a murder investigation. The reason she's not a suspect is because, well, Decker has got the hots for her. And can you blame him? At any rate, after the lap dance debacle, Decker tries to make things right by inviting Shady to get a bite to eat at his favourite Hawaiian taco stand; the fake–though, I'm sure they were real–palm trees over looking the joint added to the film's dream-like temperament. On top of seeing Maria Ford's bewildered kewpie doll schtick in a non-strip club environment, we learn that Decker is wearing woman's coat.
 

 

The sound of a harmonica gently being blown on the soundtrack (composer Gary Stockdale's music does a masterful job of creating the right mood), and Shady's knee-high hooker boots dominate the proceeding as they kiss for the first time. And just like the lap dance, it's pretty awkward. Mostly because Decker retreats mid-smooch, which upsets Shady. To be fair, a stiff breeze is enough to unhinge Shady, she's the world's most fragile and complicated exotic dancer. But his make out withdrawal was totally uncool. Sure, he's trying to act professional by not getting involved with a suspect in the murder case he's currently investigating, but you don't take a woman, especially one wearing a super-tight gold skirt (the kind that needs adjusting every five minutes) to a Hawaiian taco stand at 3 A.M., and then suddenly decide that you don't feel like pressing your tongue against their tongue; it's not the way a civil society works.     
 

 

Giving one the most oddly compelling performances I've seen in a long time, Maria Ford (Slumber Party Massacre III) is beguiling Shady, a.k.a. Margaret Albright, a stripper whose peers wind up dead after she dreams about them. Every gesture, every nuance, is filtered through the actresses' stainless steal bear trap of a brain. This filtering process is best observed when she's walking home from her "date" with Decker. If you pay close attention, you'll notice that she tilts her head to one side, which, to me, signified that the plethora of deep and disturbing thoughts rattling around inside her head were weighing her down.
 

 

Upon further reflection, her performance reminded me a lot of Isabella Adjani in Possession, in that, she was absolutely fearless when it came to putting herself in psychological jeopardy. Take the scene where wakes up in an alleyway behind her friend's apartment (a loft on the outskirts of a broken dream), she's dirty, she's covered in blood, and her stockings are torn, which, as most people know, are the hallmarks of a great performance. The way Maria Ford went from being a glamorous vixen (fingerless opera gloves paired with a vampy red dress) to a bloodied mess was mind-blowing.
 

 

Oh, the duality between Maria's two looks (glamorous and bloodied) and the alleyways she spent most of her time was not lost on me. The alleyway for the glam look, for example, had a neon sheen to it, whereas the narrow passage for the bloodied motif looked like an apocalyptic nightmare (the abandoned railway tracks were a nice touch).
 

 

Upping the ante when it came to just about everything, Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls manages to inject itself into the pores of everyone who watches it. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they were completely unclogged by the time the film had finished. The state of my pores, aside, the dance numbers (choreographed, like in the first film, by Ted Lin), the costumes (Ellen Gross), and the production design (Virginia Lee) were all first-rate in terms of creativity. If you want to see all three working in perfect harmony, check out Shady and Cassandra's lion tamer routine, or Shady's naughty school girl number (white thigh-high hold up stockings paired with lacy white ankle socks), as both seem to capture the essence of this film's appeal in a nutshell.

Actually, if you want to see the greatness of Ellen Gross's costume design, look no further than the alleyway scenes that feature Maria Ford and Eb Lottimer, as the chromatic cinematography and Shady's classic 1940s attire mixed with 1980s whore chic really seem to come alive when bathed in the neon shadows. 

 

 

A masterpiece of erotic horror, writer-director Katt Shea, her talented crew (kudos to Greg Maher for his amazing art direction), and the film's bevy of actors (Maria Ford is electrifying presence) and non-actors (Jeannine Bisignano, who plays a surly stripper named "Sonny" probably never acted before), have all come together to fashion a unique cinematic statement.

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Stripped to Kill (Katt Shea, 1987)

Topless dancers aren't allowed to go within five feet of the patrons, and a pair of fishnet stockings can be purchased for around fourteen dollars. These are just two of the many things I learned while watching Stripped to Kill, a glorified lingerie ad masquerading as a slasher film. The former has to do with a rule that stipulates that no dancer can be topless within a certain distance of the shady rabble sitting around the pole-plentiful stage the scantily clad women perform on. The latter occurs when a macho cop blurts out the price of fishnet stockings seconds after his female partner asks him what your average pair might cost; only problem being, she thought she was asking a rhetorical question. Okay, so you know about the strict rules that dictate how far a topless stripper can be to, oh, let's say, that sleazoid in the stained hoodie, while gyrating in a garter belt, and you know that some male detectives have an acute talent for being able to price lingerie, but what else did you learn? Actually, to be honest, I think that pretty much covers it. If you've seen the movie, then you really can't blame me for my lack of retained knowledge when all was said and done. Forget about being an educational tool, is it even a horror movie? I mean, from where I was sitting, all I remember seeing was hot chicks doing handstands in lingerie. And since the film was produced by Roger Corman, the music they dance to is generic eighties strip club pop; in other words, stuff that sounds like the popular music of the day, but was made by people you've never heard of. All right, we've established that the film has no redeeming qualities when it comes to spiritual enlightenment and that many corners were cut in order to save on music, so where did all the money go? I'll tell you where. Lingerie!

Filled to the brim with lacy bits, smooth bits, and, of course, feathery bits of skimpy underwear, the lingerie budget must have been astronomical. How else can you explain the total absence of anything else? Sure, the film has actors who utter the occasional line of dialogue, like the late great Normal Fell, but as far as I'm concerned the film is basically one long lingerie fashion show. And you know what? I'm totally cool with that. In fact, and this may sound a tad out of character, but  I wish more movies would focus their attention on women who wear lingerie for a living.        

 
As a person who is sick and tired of watching films that feature no lingerie whatsoever, I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of attention writer-director Katt Shea, a woman who clearly knows what perverts want, gave to the frilly underthings in Stripped in Kill, as they're pretty much featured in almost every scene.  

 
The film wastes little time introducing us to this filly world as it opens in a strip club where we find a big haired beauty named Brandy (Lucia Lexington) putting on a poll dancing clinic in a black negligee for a small yet captive audience. Actually, the audience is basically made up of two people, Ray (Norman Fell), the owner of the Rock Bottom club, and a stripper named Angel (Michelle Foreman), but she pretends the house is packed, nonetheless, pointing seductively to the non-existent patrons as she grinds pole number two. Poll number two?!? Yeah, it would seem that Brandy was giving the club's new duel poll layout a test drive, or a "test dance," in this case.

Anyway, near the end of her number, she removes her top for eighteen seconds. Which, as we'll soon find out, was twelve seconds short of meeting the thirty second rule; which stipulates that all Rock Bottom dancers must appear topless on stage for at least thirty seconds or incur harsh penalties.   

 
"Circling above the drinks / I wonder what she thinks / You can't deny the night."

 
Next up, it's a blonde firecracker named Dazzle (Debbie Nassar), the sexiest dancer in Rock Bottom's deep roster of garter belt pushers, and her prop is a motorcycle (parked underneath a graffiti-covered wall), and a her uniform consists of is a silver thong that doesn't know the meaning of the word quit, a matching top, and a pair of high heel boots (the right one has a bandana tied around it). Wait a minute. What do you mean, "next up,"? Isn't there any plot development between the Brandy's dance number and the one you're currently blathering about? Not really. Okay, just checking. Carry on. Bathed in pink light, Dazzle makes poll dancing seem easy as she slides her taut body up and down its smooth circumference with an effortless elan.

 
As she's performing back flips in time to the synth rock being blasted by the club's DJ, we can't help but notice that a man in a grey hoodie has taken a seat by the stage. It's the ubiquitous Mr. Pocket (Peter Scranton), a Rock Bottom regular who will feature heavily over the course of the next eighty or so minutes.

 
Meanwhile, down in the park, an undercover police detective Cody Sheenan (Kay Lenz) who is posing as a homeless woman, suddenly finds herself with a flaming stripper on her hands. A flaming stripper? Is that hooker code? No, the detective comes face-to-face with a stripper who is thrown off a bridge and set on fire. In fact, she would have been torched as well had it not been for Detective Heinenman (Greg Evigan), her quick thinking partner. After the two detectives make their way home, we ushered back to Rock Bottom where we find Zeena (Athena Worthy) performing a dance number with a fire theme. When she's done, Roxanne (Pia Kamakahi), who had to be convinced by Ray, goes on and performs a routine that can best be described as unenthusiastic. In her defence, she does end strong (she finishes by poring champagne over all her body).

 
What we have so far in terms of suspects are a dancer who uses fire on stage, a creepy patron in a stained hoodie who gives the dancers paper flowers ("nothing real is worth shit"), and the victim's disillusioned lesbian lover. Oh, don't get me wrong, there are others I've got my eye on (the lesbian has a brother who just oozes shadiness). It's just that these three are the one's who are scratching my itch the hardest so far.

Take Ray, for instance, he just scolded Dazzle for not taking her top during her routine (she felt the audience didn't deserve to see her tits), and maybe the "harsh penalties" I alluded to earlier involve a can of gas and a pack of matches. But why would he kill his own employees? No, it has to be someone else, someone with a grudge against strippers.

 
The next morning, Cody and Heinenman are discussing the case outside Randy's Donuts, a scene which, by the way, solidifies the film's commitment to capturing the gritty underbelly of Los Angles. Somehow convincing her that she needs to go undercover as a Rock Bottom stripper (they seem to think the killer is either an employee at the club or an audience member), Heinenman sets the stage for Cody's stripping debut. After a quick makeover down at police headquarters by Shirl (a scene stealing Diana Bellamy), Cody is ready to wow the perverts with every succulent inch of  her 5"1 frame.

 
As with the majority of contests that involve the dreaded applause-o-meter, Cody's transformation from Detective Sheenan, the city's most tomboyish street cop, to Sonny, the shapeliest exotic dancer to ever to slip into a pair of size six fuck me pumps, is fixed. Are you telling me that a woman who can't dance would beat Debra Lamb?!? Who's Debra Lamb? It doesn't matter who she is, what matters is that Rock Bottom's "Amateur Night" was rigged. True, the cops had the audience packed with ringers (a modest group of off duty policemen who were told to applaud loudly for Cody), but there's no way Cody/Sonny would have beat those five other women. The only reason she won was because she danced last. And, as most people know, the applause-o-meter always favours those who go last.

 
Of course, if we were to judge them solely on the length and girth of their nipples, than Cody/Sonny would destroyed the competition. To sort of quote Jimbo Jones from The Simpsons, "I hear Kay Lenz's nipples have their own congressman." Or to make it more Canada friendly, "I hear Kay Lenz's nipples have their own Member of Parliament." But it wasn't about nipple size, it was about dancing (the DJ calls her stripping technique, "minimalist dancing," in that she barely moved). That being said, I did like the way Cody/Sonny used the gigantic slit on her blue dress as ripping leverage after she struggled to get her dress off via conventional means (the zipper was stuck). And I bet it was her ability to improvise under pressure that landed her the top prize: three hundred dollars and the chance to become a full time Rock Bottom dancer.

 
Flaunting her legs sheathed in black stockings in front of strangers is one thing, catching a psycho-killer is quite another. As Cody/Sonny contemplates her new position (she tries to ingratiate herself to the other dancers), Cinnamon (Carlye Byron) is hitting the stage. You know how I said Dazzle was the sexiest dancer at Rock Bottom? Well, I think I was a little hasty in that regard, as Cinnamon (not to confused with "Cinnamon," Stacey Q's character from the Facts of Life), is, to use the crude food metaphor, a tasty dish. Not only did she wear opera gloves during her routine, and playfully gave her thong-ensnared muff box a pat, she danced while high on drugs (a wide array of pills to be mildly more specific). What can I say? I dig strippers who are addicted to pills.

 
Unfortunately, the club's owner doesn't share my affinity for pill-popping pasty pushers, and her fires her skanky ass; the fact that she fell into the audience was the last straw. A dancer who isn't in danger of falling over is a goddess with crimped hair named Fanny (Tracey Crowder), as her poll work was sublime. Yeah, but she seemed to take her job way too seriously, so I didn't gravitate towards her the same way I did Cinnamon.

Speaking of which, as Fanny is doing the splits with an alarming ease, Cinnamon is staggering pathetically (she's got a bum knee) from the Rock Bottom club (her right boot is untied and she can't seem to hail a taxi). Imagine being canned from a place called "Rock Bottom" while wearing blue sequin tube top? That would mess up my self-esteem like you wouldn't believe. Oh, man, now I'm depressed. Stay strong, Cinnamon. Things will work out for you in the end. You''ll see.

 
My favourite non-stripping scene is definitely the one that involves Kay Lenz (who's sitting next a cactus) asking Greg Evigan (who's nowhere near a cactus) about the price of fishnet stockings. Which went something like this: Cody: "Have you any idea what a pair of fishnet stockings cost?" Heinenman: "Fourteen bucks." Now, while that might not sound all that great on paper, it's the speed in which Evigan delivers the line that makes it such a memorable moment. It's soon after this cute little exchange that Cody/Sonny breaks the five foot rule (all dancers must stay at least five feet away from the audience while topless). Wearing lingerie (duh), Cody/Sonny, who is sitting on a chair with zebra print upholstery, and showing off her legs, which this time are encased in white stockings, she wanders topless over to a patron who is holding what looks like a ten dollar bill in his hand. You see, you're not supposed to do that, and Ray gives her a warning.    

 
Even though the five feet topless incident was an honest mistake, is Cody getting sucked into the stripper lifestyle. The awkward amateur from a week ago has been replaced with a woman who seems to relish the power that her protruding nipples provide her on a nightly basis. Will she be able focus on the task at hand (stopping a serial killer who is targeting strippers) or will she become hopelessly addicted to wearing lingerie in front of strangers. Call me insensitive, but I'm hoping the latter occurs.

 
If you're like me, and you dug the sight of Kay Lenz in white lingerie, be sure to stick around for her third dance number. It would seem the longer you dance at Rock Bottom, the more freedom you get when it comes to staging your routines. Playing a tired woman coming home from a long day at the office, Cody sits in front of a set of blinds and gets undressed like a normal person, well, sort of normal, as her movements still bear the markings of low rent erotic entertainment. If you're a fan of costume designer Beverly Kline (Heathers, Remote Control, and Modern Girls), and happen to think Ted Lin is the shit when it comes to choreography, then you'll love Kay Lenz's new wave businesswoman routine, as it encapsulates everything that is great about Stripped to Kill; what I wouldn't do to be able smell Kay's white garter belt corset after she had finished twirling in it for who knows how long.

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