Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood (Jon Carl Buechler, 1988)

Tired of constantly being cast aside like some sort of non-leggy nonentity with some sort of hyper-contagious pussy disease, Maddy–last name unavailable due to either indifference or substandard screenwriting, though, my money is on the former, as the script is surprisingly well-written–has decided that she's had enough. Had enough of what, you ask? Well, if you watch Jon Carl Buechler's Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood, like I just did, you too can totally find out what Maddy has had enough of. You can see it brewing on Maddy's face the moment we meet her in one of the houses situated on the picturesque shores of Crystal Lake. As each new scene begins, the amazing Diana Barrows (My Mom's a Werewolf), the actress whose job it is to bring Maddy to life, slowly unveils her character's frustration with the events that are transpiring right before her equally frustrated eyes at the surprise birthday party for a friend named Michael (William Butler). Okay, I've let this charade go on for long enough. Charade?!? What are you talking about? I mentioned the title of the film. Hell, I even name-dropped "Crystal Lake." What more do you want? It's not that, it's just that I couldn't help but notice that Diana Barrows gets tenth billing or something ridiculous like that. Actually, I think it was more like, seventh or eighth. But what's you point? Are you sure she deserves this amount of attention? Am I sure? What the fuck? Listen, buddy. If it wasn't for Diana Barrows, I wouldn't have even watched this film.

Oh, sure, the fact the film also features Heidi Kozak (Society) and five, count 'em, five, songs by FM made the decision to seek out the seventh chapter in the mildly storied horror franchise a whole lot easier. But make no mistake, Diana Barrows was the sole reason I dipped my toe in Crystal Lake in the first place.

It sounds like you have never seen a Friday the 13th movie before. And if that's case, what kind of person starts off their trip to Crystal Lake by watching part seven? Wait, let me guess, you're the kind of person, aren't you? You got that right. What I'd like to know is, what kind of person doesn't start off their foray into the mindless world of Jason Voorhees by watching part seven? In my mind, part seven looked like it had the most promise. At any rate, I've been known to peruse the occasional issue of Fangoria every now and then (i.e. issues with Lina Romay and/or Barbara Crampton on the cover), but wouldn't call myself a gorehound. That being said, the kills in this film, and, believe me, there are plenty of kills (a quick look at the film's expansive cast list backs this claim up), all seem to be mostly bloodless affairs. And you know what means? That's right, no arterial spray. Hold up, I thought you said you weren't a "gorehound"? Yeah, I'm not. But I do loves me some well-engineered arterial spray.

However, like I said, this film has no arterial spray to speak of. In fact, the only thing sprayed in this film is a mouthful of beer spewed all over the back of Melissa (Susan Jennifer Sullivan), the film's resident hosebeast, by David (John Renfield), the guy who fails to notice the shapely gams attached to the adorable torso belonging to–you guessed it–Maddy; her legs will not go unnoticed.

Okay, since the gore has been neutered, no doubt by the dreaded MPAA, what do you plan to write about? Wow, that's a tough question. Just kidding. My Friday the 13th reviews are going to be all about fashion and hosebeasts.

Getting back to Maddy for a second, the reason David fails to notice Maddy's shapely stems is because he never got a chance to see them in all their shapely glory. And, if you think about it, that's the most tragic aspect about Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood. I guess you could say the fact that almost everyone is murdered is tragic, but I still think unappreciated gams are more so.

What's really frustrating, gore-wise, is that there's more gore in the pre-opening credits prologue than there is in the entire film itself. Either way, it's a good thing the prologue was there, as it gave a Friday the 13th neophyte like myself a quick refresher course on what took place in the previous movie. And it would seem that Jason Voorhees (Kane Hodder) is currently languishing at the bottom of Crystal Lake.

Cursed to keep coming back to life to kill all the teenagers and adult hangers-on who dare to disturb his watery grave (he famously drowned in the lake as a child), Jason is resurrected by Tina Shepard (Lar Park Lincoln), a psychic teen with the same genetic structure that of actress Amy Smart (Crank: High Voltage). Haunted by the fact that she accidentally killed her father as a child (she caused the dock he was standing on to collapse with her mind), Tina is brought back to scene of that traumatic event by her mother (Susan Blu) and the shady Dr. Crews (Terry Kiser), a psychiatrist who thinks Tina is ready to confront her demons in the real world.

Oh, and you wanna guess the name of the lake where Tina killed her father? That's right, it's Crystal Lake, the very same lake where Jason Voorhees met his demise.

I'm no math whiz, but that doesn't sound like a lot of people for Jason Voorhees to kill. I mean, you listed, like, three people. Don't worry, the house next to Tina's place is filled to the brim with horny teenagers. They're apparently throwing a surprise birthday party for guy named Michael, the cousin of Nick (Kevin Spirtas), a hunky guy who awkwardly greets Tina when she arrives... at Crystal Lake.

You'll notice as Nick is awkwardly greeting Tina (he drops her suitcase, causing her delicate unmentionables to spill all over the gravel driveway) that Sandra (Heidi Kozak) and Melissa are watching from the comfort of their beach chairs. Clad in bikinis and drinking the latest soft drinks currently on the market, Melissa, for dramatic effect, pulls down her sunglasses from their normal position, and makes her first catty comment. I think she says something along the lines of: "There goes the neighbourhood." Well, whatever it what was that she said, it's clear that Jason Voorhees isn't the only one gunning for Tina.

Speaking of Jason, later that night, Tina inadvertently resurrects Jason Voorhees while moping near the lake. Wait, lake adjacent moping caused to Jason Voorhees to come back to life? Well, you see, Tina's telekinetic powers are at their strongest when she's emotionally distraught. And, the last time I checked, moping near a large body of fresh water is a legitimate form of adolescent agitation.

Soaking wet and covered with wounds (dig the exposed spine, bro), Jason Voorhees doesn't waste much time finding some horny teens to slaughter. Unfortunately, the first teens he stumbles across are Michael and his denim-attired ladyfriend Jane (Staci Greason) just as they were making their way to the lake. Hold on, isn't Michael the birthday boy? Yep. Aww, man, that's a shame. He also stumbles across some campers, too; bashing the female camper against a tree while she was still in her sleeping bag. Ouch.

When Nick, unaware that his cousin has been brutally murdered by a zombie in an old-timey goalie mask, invites Tina to come over to the party, we're introduced to even more teens. Yay! More teens means more machete fodder for Jason. And, most importantly, we're introduced to Maddy (Diana Barrows), a frumpy girl who, according to her friend Robin (Elizabeth Kaitan), could use "a little touch-up work." I know, some friend, eh? But the reason for the diss was because of David, the guy Maddy and Robin both have their eye on. And what Robin was trying to do was undermine her confidence; it's what teenage girls supposedly do to one another. Anyway, an annoying wannabe horror director named Eddie (Jeff Bennett), and Ben (Craig Thomas) and Kate (Diane Almeida), a nondescript couple, are introduced as well. I'm probably missing someone, but my attention is obviously elsewhere.

Am I crazy, or is Heidi Kozak wearing the exact same outfit (a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a yellow top) that she wore in Slumber Party Massacre II? Both films were made around the same time, so it's technically possible. But still, it's highly unusual. Costume recycling notwithstanding, Heidi Kozak looks amazing in this get-up.

Remember when Robin, who I think was wearing a yellow blazer at the time, tells Maddy that she needs "a little touch-up work"? Well, that comment has the opposite effect on her, as it motivates her to give herself a makeover. Instead of wallowing on the couch in self-pity, Maddy marches upstairs and busts out the lipstick.

That's right, it's Maddy makeover time. Even though I have only one Friday the 13th film under my belt so far, I can safely say that Maddy's makeover scene and the subsequent stalking sequence are probably the greatest the franchise has to offer in terms of fashion and stalking.

After putting the finishing touches on her lipstick, Maddy says to herself, "'Need a little touch-up' my ass." Yeah, baby! Work it, girl!

Wearing a super-short light blue dress, a white belt, and a pair of white pumps, Maddy and her legs are ready to wow David. Only problem being, she can't seem to find him? Now, I don't know what lead her to believe that he might be out in the woods. But nonetheless, that's where she looks.

Call me perverted, but I could have sworn I saw the top of Maddy's stockings when she crawls underneath a tool shed door. Yeah, you know what? I'm officially adding tan stockings to Maddy's ensemble. And in doing so, I just made the Maddy vs. Jason Voorhees sequence even greater. You're welcome, perverts.

It helps that Diana Barrows, on top of being a fine actress, is also a terrific screamer.

Holding her white pumps in her hand, Maddy awaits her fate. Which is something the other characters aren't given. What I mean is, the others are merely killed without much fanfare (each is summarily executed after coitus). Whereas Maddy's death sequence contains all the elements horror fans look for in a good kill.

In case you haven't heard, I'm new to the franchise. But Tina going toe-to-toe with Jason Voorhees can't be a normal sight in the Friday the 13th universe. In fact, I've read that Tina is one of the few characters who actually fights back against Jason Voorhees (she even causes Jason to employ several "what the fuck" head turns). Using her telekinesis to thwart Jason's many attempts to kill her, I thought Tina, not Jason, was the real threat in this movie (she removes his trademark goalie mask by simply raising her left eyebrow).

Adding everything I just mentioned about Diana Barrows and Heidi Kozak, I will be genuinely shocked if any of the other movies (holy crap, it says here they made ten films) can top the erratic awesomeness that Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood puts out there on a semi-regular basis.

My Mom's a Werewolf (Michael Fischa, 1989)

Looking over the cinematic landscape of the late 1980s, the producers of My Mom's a Werewolf couldn't help but notice that the nation's movie theatres, drive-ins, and mom and pop video stores were being inundated with lighthearted fare about teenage werewolves (Teen Wolf Too) and teenage vampires (Once Bitten). Why, they probably asked themselves, hasn't anyone made a movie about a suburban mom who becomes a werewolf? After all, studies have shown that there's nothing teens love more than watching fortysomething women frantically attempt to stave off lycanthropy by shaving their legs with a pair of hair clippers. While I found their (Crown International Pictures) effort to fill the empty void that was the MILF-werewolf genre at the time to be somewhat admirable, I just wish they had given the project to a director with some passing knowledge on how to make a film with a modest amount of competency. This blundering approach was endearing in Death Spa, a movie whose ungainly temperament was actually an asset, not a hindrance. Besides, how hard is it to mess up an aerobics-based horror movie? Just follow these four simple steps: 1) Leotards 2) Blood. 3) Shower scene 4) More leotards, and you should be good to go (oh, and don't forget to thank your mom when you except your Leo Award, a trophy that recognizes outstanding achievement in the realm of the leotarded arts). However, Michael Fischa is way over his head this time around. Barely a movie at times, it just sits there like an unproductive blob of shapeless energy, sapping the strength of anyone unlucky enough to be looking in its general direction.

Born with the innate ability to enjoy just about anything that's placed in front of me, My Mom's a Werewolf, I must say, was a real challenge, as it's nearly impossible to extract anything positive from something this openly egregious. Actually, the only reason I decided to type any words whatsoever about this flick/fiasco was because of the amount of denim worn during the film's opening scene. As the denim pranced before me, I thought to myself, well, firstly: "Holy shit, that's a lot of denim." But then I thought: "I wonder if can write five paragraphs pertaining to just the denim alone. I mean, I think the girls who wouldn't touch my genitals in high school would really be impressed by that." Unfortunately, things proceeded to go downhill pretty quickly after the dungaree portion of the film had concluded, and any thoughts of composing a tedious tribute to the mother-daughter denim fashion show that is the opening of this movie were slowly evaporating under the sheer weight of the film's mind-numbing awfulness.

Let me clarify by saying that both Susan Blakely and Tina Caspary weren't just wearing acid wash jean jackets, they're entire bodies were literally ensconced in denim.

Sadly, after some banal mother-daughter dialogue is exchanged, the two denim advocates take their respective denim looks and go their separate denim ways. Tired of being neglected by her husband (he prefers football to vaginal intercourse), Leslie Shaber (Susan Blakely) storms out of their modestly furnished house and decides to vent her frustration by heading down to the local pet store to buy a flea collar for their dog. The suave owner of Casa de Pets, Harry Thropen (John Saxon), leers seductively at Mrs. Shaber as she browses the store's expansive collar section. Well, you know where this is going: Harry, after some mild wooing, ends up biting Leslie on the toe, which causes her to wake up the next morning with a pair of fangs.

Hey look! It's Kimmy Robertson!

Meanwhile, Leslie's daughter, Jennifer Shaber (Tina Caspary), is hanging out with her best friend, Stacey Pubah (the enchanting Diana Barrows), at a horror convention. A horror movie fan who is obsessed with monsters–and the movie Galaxina (which she has apparently seen over 360 times)–Stacey, dressed as a vampire, drags a wary-looking Jennifer to see a fortune teller (Ruth Buzzi, Skatetown, U.S.A.). Sporting two crystal balls (she sometimes likes to get a second opinion), the Roma stereotype tells Jennifer that she will have "a conflict with an animal," and to going easy on the denim. While the thing about denim was something I totally made up, the first fortune actually comes true, as Jennifer soon discovers that her mom is a werewolf (at the least title doesn't lie).

As Jennifer was getting her fortune told, my eyes spotted this amazing white scrunchie that was binding together a large chunk of hair near the top of her head. Employed in a manner that created the illusion that her hair was more robust than it actually was, the scrunchie, much like the denim in the previous scene, dominates the film's visual spectrum for the next couple of scenes. In a startling turn of events, the scrunchie and denim roles are reversed in the one that the follows the horror convention, as it's Stacey time to be the one to wear a lot of denim and sport a scrunchie that was affixed in a manner that was similar to Jennifer's scrunchie. I don't know if you know this, but the act of placing a scrunchie on the top of the head, instead of on the back or the side, was the most popular chemical-free solutions for creating the big hair look on a budget back in 1989.

Kasso killer! Long live the volumizing scrunchie!

The harmony that exists between scrunchies and denim throughout My Mom's a Werewolf is a testament to hard work of costume designer Kelly O'Gurian (check out her stunning scrunchie work in Brian Yuzna's excellent Society). With the exception of the opening scene, where, as you probably know by now, two characters are seen wearing all denim simultaneously (a major faux pas in the world of movie costuming), the outfits worn by all the characters, particularly Jennifer and Stacey, were whimsical without being obnoxious, yet tacky with a subtle hint of desperation.

If only the film had focused more on their odd friendship and even odder fashion choices, as opposed to the whole werewolf plot, where jokes about toilet seats (get this, men like to leave the seat up), doughnut-eating policemen, references to "PMS" (a staple of misogyny-based entertainment), and werewolf puns (the expression "werewife" is employed at one point) are plentiful, you might have had something. But instead, we're stuck with a film whose funniest line is uttered by Marica Wallace of all people; after giving Mrs. Shaber a makeover at her salon (We Be Hair), she declares the result, "Wolverine chic!" (I'm a sucker for phrases that pair naff lingo with the word chic). Anyway, whenever the camera is on Tina Caspary (Teen Witch) and Diana Barrows (She's Out of Control), the film briefly reminds you of how truly awesome it must have been to be a teenage girl during the 1980s.

Speaking of teenage girls (by the way, I'm one of the few people who can start a sentence off like that and not come off sounding like a creep), make sure to keep an eye out for Tina Caspary in the latter half of the film, you'll be shocked, amazed and somewhat bewildered by what you see. Okay, I know what you're thinking: "Why should I keep an eye out for that? I mean, other than the scrunchies and the denim, this movie sounds like a giant piece of crap." Sure, it's true, the film is woefully lacking in just about every department that doesn't involve scrunchies and denim (the third act werewolf makeup is laughably bad, scratch that, it's horrifically bad, and soundtrack is full of uninspired tripe). But you gotta see Tina in her aviatrix uniform. And before you ask, no, she is not a pilot, nor does she work in the lucrative field of erotic skywriting. What can I say? That's just what teenage girls did in the late 80s, they dressed up like old timey airwoman. Of course, there will be those who'll say the reason she was dressed like a World War I fighter pilot was because it was Halloween. But why would you say something like that? Why can't you just let me carry on believing that Tina Caspary's character likes to pretend she's Manfred von Richthofen on weekends? I don't ask for much.

While I like the whole idea of a werewolf who is a leggy mature blonde on the prowl, the leg shaving scene was a real letdown in terms of producing the right amount of venereal swelling. Seriously, she looked like she was shearing an albino woolly mammoth. In other words, not sexy at all (nothing kills an erection faster than a fist full of white matted hair). An out of place John Saxon (Black Christmas) doesn't help matters, as his totally stiff performance as the world's lamest werewolf undermines the movie at every turn. Other than lowering his cheap sunglasses every now and then to reveal a menacing set of bloodshot eyes, Mr. Saxon's werewolf pet store owner with a foot fetish is a complete and utter bore.

Getting back to leggy mature blondes, I thought Susan Blakely's many valiant attempts to inject the lifeless proceedings with some vivacity to be commendable. Her gusto when it came time to get her fangs filed at the dentist, for example, was exceptional (the lovely Lucy Lee Flippin plays a dental hygienist), as was her black negligee work; it was some of the best negligee work I've seen outside one of those tasteless lingerie shows heterosexual men seem to flock to (they don't seem to care about the clothes at all). Fans of late '80s denim trends and unorthodox scrunchie deployment might want to give this film a look-see, but everyone else should steer clear of this, for lack of a better term, cinematic abomination.

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