Pus, bits of dead skin, yellow matter custard, beads of sweat, amber-colured fluid, mucus,
earwax, unforeseen fecal matter, the human body is constantly challenging the social well-being of its owner. Seemingly inundating it with one corporeal catastrophe after another, your average organic structure manages to cope with these assorted calamities by drowning them in alcohol. While under the influence of this "
alcohol," the upright proprietor of the disgusting body in question feels as if it's impervious to the judgmental glances and terse asides being thrown its way as it slithers down the street. Top-notch theory, my rash-laden friend, but what if chunks of yellow and green slime are steadily dripping from your pores? I'm no amateur dermatologist, but I think you'll need more than a couple glasses of wine if you want to successfully mask a mess like that. Well, if that's the case, the only sane option I can think of is to cover your face with bandages and begin murdering derelicts and prostitutes as soon as humanly possible. You see, the bandages will temporarily dampen the hideousness of your appearance (sure, you'll look like
Nash the Slash with leprosy, but it's helluva lot better than oozing syrupy sludge all over your virginal girlfriend's shag carpeting), while the murders will appease the deceased Satanist/occult author/fluorescent yogurt maker who's currently using your body to re-enter the world of the living. If, by the way, all this sounds like an excellent idea for a movie, don't bother, because filmmaker
Greg Lamberson has already made it, and, I must say, he's made it quite well.
The perfect companion to like-minded films such as
Street Trash,
Brain Damage,
From Beyond, and
The Stuff, the wonderfully putrid
Slime City is the kind of movie where a razor blade to the face is met with indifference, struggling artists have an extensive collection of kitchen ready cutlery, forgotten boomboxes are worth retrieving (even after the threat of limb removal has been established), and army jackets are used as impromptu picnic blankets. If you have an aversion to lumpy slime, especially when it's being excreted from unorthodox places, then avoid this film at all costs. If, however, you're not averse to seeing globs of mustardy goo spewing with an impure recklessness, you should prepare yourself accordingly, because you're in for a treat.
Taking place in a nondescript corner of New York City, a student in a green army jacket named Alex Carmichael (
Robert C. Sabin) is on the lookout for a new apartment. Standing in front of an equally nondescript building, Alex and his denim-adorned girlfriend Lori (Mary Huner) are shown "a lovely apartment" by Ruby (
Bunny Levine) and Lizzy (
Jane Doniger Reibel), two oldish biddies who got their shit together. If you're wondering if Lori is going to be living with Alex in his brand new apartment, you can forget about it; Lori will not be pressured into making a decision regarding her personal freedom without giving it some much needed thought.
While moving in, his friend Jerry (
T.J. Merrick) is helping him carry a mattress up the stairs, Alex runs into his neighbour Nicole (
Mary Huner), a sultry drink of water with a thick mane of jet black curly hair (it looked impenetrable from certain angles). "You must be the new tenant," Nicole says to Jerry, assuming, for some reason (what am I saying? she had a fifty-fifty shot) that he was the one moving in. Chiming in before his dopey friend can say a word, Alex corrects her error, and introduces himself. Here's some free advice: Don't pussyfoot around when meeting a woman who wears bondage-friendly armwear. Anyway, when the camera first shows Nicole lurking in her doorway, this sinister-sounding synthesizer flourish can be heard on the film's
soundtrack. And if there are two things I love in this world, it's goth babes who like to lurk while wearing convoluted armwear and sinister-sounding synthesizer flourishes.
Unfazed by his encounter with Nicole (the thought her probably black panties pressing tightly against her creamy vulva no doubt still dancing around inside his head), Alex gives Lori "the keys to his kingdom." Unfortunately, Lori isn't quite ready to move in with Alex just yet, and politely rebuffs his offer (she does, however, accept the keys to his place). Shortly after Lori and her supercute haircut have left, Alex meets another neighbour, this time it's Roman (
Dennis Embry), an affable poet who had a "I play bass in a
Bauhaus tribute band on weekends" vibe about him. Wait a minute, poets aren't usually affable. What gives? It would seem that underneath Roman's friendly demeanor lies an ulterior motive.
More on what that ulterior motive was in a second, let's talk about Alex's first night in his new apartment. The sexually frustrated painter–oh, didn't I mention that he's a sexually frustrated painter? well, he is (on top of painting, not having sex, and going to school, he also works at a video store)–lies in his bed listening to the sound of Nicole moaning with pleasure as a result of whatever that heavy metal dude she brought up to her apartment was doing to her (the whole sequence is seen through Alex's eyes, so we don't exactly see what this guy is actually doing to make her moan like that). At any rate, the last thing we hear is the sound of Nicole's gentlemen caller screaming. Interesting.
Making good on his offer to invite him over so that they may ingest "nourishment" together, Roman introduces Alex to the flavourful world of Himalayan yogurt. While they're eating the paste-like substance, Alex wonders why Roman's is blue. It's simple, blue's his colour, Roman tells him without missing a beat. Fully satisfied with his answer, Alex continues to consume the green goo. After they're done with the "yogurt," Roman offers Alex a glass of mysterious wine, which, like Alex's Himalayan yogurt, is also green.
Staggering home, no doubt feeling the adverse effects of the wine and the yogurt, Alex suddenly realizes that he has misplaced his keys. Luckily, Nicole is waiting in the hall to help him out. Beckoning him to her apartment, Alex approaches her door as if he were in a trance (the jagged chunks of wood the covered all the passage ways inside her apartment created this cool vaginal effect). Once in the apartment, Nicole says, "I turn you on, don't I?" I'm not sure he had much time to answer, because before you know it, Nicole is unmooring her aforementioned tight black panties (I knew they'd be black and I knew they'd be tight) in a highly unique manner (she pulls them out through a slit in the side of her skirt) and preparing to plant herself on top of his probably erect penis.
After finishing a black and white dream that involved sharing some wine with a hooded figure, Alex wakes up to find that his entire body is covered with slime. At first, the gunk oozing from his pores is translucent (in other words, it doesn't stop him from performing errands), but the slime gets worse as the day goes by. Why is this happening to him? Has it got anything to do with the weird wine and wonky yogurt? If Nicole is involved, is it okay if he still has sexual intercourse with her on a semi-regular basis? And how many more people will he have to murder in order to not to perspire slime all the time? While I would love to answer these and many other questions, I'd like to shift the focus of my gaze to more important things, like, for instance, the shape of Mary Huner's knees, Ivy Rosovsky's leopard print leggings, and the prostitute's jelly bracelets.
Oh, Mary Huner's knees in
Slime City, oh, how I love thee. Actually, to be perfectly honest, the main reason I noticed her knees was because I couldn't help but make a note in my knee-book that Lori and Nicole had similar knees. Originally, I thought it was just another case of kneeful happenstance (a frequent occurrence in the disjointed world of kneecap appreciation). No, I'm afraid it wasn't until the movie was over that I realized that Lori, the virginal girlfriend, and Nicole, the whorish neighbour, were being played by the same person. My initial knee-jerk reaction was to lavish the majority of the praise on costume designer/choreographer/actress
Ivy Rosovsky, who, on top of being my own personal style icon, does an amazing job in this movie (particularly with Nicole's sexy ensembles). However, the more I thought about the film, the more I began to value the subtle intricacies of Mary Huner's performances.
It's true, the giant black wig did make it somewhat easier for Mary Huner to lose herself in the Nicole character (it fully envelops the upper part of her body), but things like overall attitude, vocal temperament, facial ticks, and various other mannerisms were all manufactured by Mary, and by her alone. Managing to keep a straight face while Madame Selina (
Marilyn Oran), a fortune teller (one who clearly has a profound distaste for blinking), instructs her to be wary of the "watchdogs of evil," Mary is an utter delight as Lori, the commitment phobic girlfriend of a man who finds himself hooked on green yogurt (it's officially name is actually "ectoplasm").
While I loved Mary as Lori, especially during the epically gruesome showdown in Alex's kitchen, it was her work as Nicole that impressed me the most. Perpetually sheathed in her spider web inspired lingerie, Mary imbues Nicole with a sexual intensity; an intensity that boils over during her Ivy Rosovsky choreographed dance number. Contorting her lithe frame like it were a perverted plaything, Mary heaves and thrusts her way into the deviant hall of fame. Quirky fun-fact: It was during Nicole's erotic dance of mental illness that I discovered that she and Lori shared the same knee type (type-o-titillating).
If only they could have gotten Mary Huner to play the prostitute Alex brings up to his apartment as well. I mean, no offense to
Eva Lee (who plays the prostitute in question), but her delivery of the line, "you crazy, bastard!" after being slashed in the face with a straight razor, while hilarious, was downright awful.
Just curious, how many times have I mentioned
Slime City costume designer/choreographer/actress Ivy Rosovsky so far in this entry, including the time I just mentioned her? Really? Four times, you say? Well, let's make it five. I mean, check out Ivy Rosovsky in those leopard print leggings, her sense of style is simply to die for.
Whether they're covered in a pair of sparkly fishnet pantyhose or smeared with her own blood as a result of being stabbed with a fork, Mary Huner's killer yet subtly sublime stems are pushed to the limit of their sexiness in
Slime City, a film that not only sports vaginal doorways, but vaginal stomachs as well (Alex's cunt-tummy eats the arm of a mugger in an alleyway) to fill a large chafing-dish. This gam anxiety is best observed during the film's wonderfully disgusting finale, where Lori's legs, and, not to mention, her winsome feet, come lower extremity-to-lower extremity with torrents of yellow arterial spray and clumps of sausagey entrails.
After typing the word "cunt-tummy," it dawned on me that
Slime City is more than just a movie, it's a way of life. Films where lines like, "the slime must be appeased" are taken seriously are my lettuce and gravy. Made for practically no money, yet containing bundles of refried creativity, this leaky endeavour does a better job of exposing the horrors of yogurt addiction than most of the overpriced, directed by committee pieces of cinematic garbage floating out there in the festering cesspool that is Hollywood.
I'm currently having one of them inner conflicts with myself. Now, it's not exactly your classic battle between good and evil. It mostly has to do with how much I should share about my Mondo Trasho experience. On the one hand, I want to dive straight into the fishnet pantyhose that contain Mary Vivian Pearce's legs and feet, and swoosh around in them until I hit her overly buttered crumpet with a resounding thud. On the other–hand, that is–I would like to come across as somewhat normal for a change. You see, my imaginary psychiatrist has been telling me over the past couple of years to tone down the weirdness–embrace my inner square, if you will. Well, it's obvious that I haven't been listening to their advice, as my behaviour has only gotten stranger over the past couple of years. Hey, would you excuse me for a second? Yeah, I've gotta go do something... All right, now that that's taken care of, let's get down to brass fishnets, I mean, brass tacks. Oh, you wanna know what I did while I was away? Why aren't we nosy today. Well, if you must know, I just murdered my imaginary psychiatrist with a pair of scissors (for added drama, they were rustier than Jenna Elfman's unoiled foreskin). Don't worry, though, like I said, my shrink is imaginary; in other words, they didn't feel a thing. What can I say? I was getting tired of the way they kept making me feel guilty about my aesthetic point of view, so I eliminated them. Anyway, you heard right earlier when I uttered two of the sweetest words in the English language, "fishnet pantyhose." Just think, the tightly woven, diamond-shaped material is not only clinging against Mary Vivian Pearce's legs and feet, it's pressing against her consecrated lady parts right as we speak. Okay, maybe not "as we speak," as the movie was made some forty plus years ago. However, since time is irrelevant, her fishnet pantyhose, as far I'm concerned, will always be pushing firmly against her labia. Either way, my corporeal essence already feels like it has spent an eternity living inside her net of leggy desire.
In case you haven't figured it out yet, the first ten minutes of John Waters's feature length debut are as perfect as anything that has ever been created in the history of human existence.
High praise. But can you think of anything that can top the sight of Mary Vivian Pearce waiting for a bus in Baltimore while wearing fishnet pantyhose? You can't, can you? And you wanna know why? Because there is nothing that can top the sight of Mary Vivian Pearce waiting for a bus in Baltimore while wearing fishnet pantyhose. Add a foot fetishist, or was he a shoe fetishist? Add a properly motivated foot/shoe fetishist, a nondescript park bench, and the world's most seductively implemented leg cross to the mix, and we're talking titillation served up on a salty cracker.
Forgive me in advance if I fail to touch on any of the scenes that don't involve Mary Vivian Pearce sitting crossed-legged on a park bench. Though, you can't really blame me. I mean, nothing else tops the sight of the underrated Dreamlander wandering, or, in most cases, being dragged unconscious around Baltimore. Oh, and the less that is said about the film's opening scene, the better. If you must know, a man dressed as a medieval executioner clumsily hacks at chickens with an axe while "Jack The Ripper" by Link Wray and His Ray Men plays on the soundtrack.
Leaving her house wearing a pair of strappy heels, white satin short shorts, a black and white cowboy shirt (tucked in, clean and neat), and, of course, a not yet stained pair of fishnet pantyhose, Mary Vivian Pearce walks over to the bus stop. Exuding an electrifying brand of feminine energy, Mary Vivian, who's credited as "The Bombshell," lights a cigarette and straightens out the seams on the back of her fishnet pantyhose as she waits.
This, I thought to myself as she stood there waiting for her bus to arrive, should have been the whole movie. In fact, the marquee should have simply read: Mary Vivian Pearce Waits for a Bus, starring Mary Vivian Pearce. Seriously, what else could you possibly want in a movie? It's got drama (is her bus ever going to come?), it's got action (did I mention that she straightens out the seams on her fishnet pantyhose?), it's got fashion (I love tucked in cowboy shirts), it's sexy (hello? Mary Vivian Pearce is wearing hot pants in the middle of the day), it's got everything.
Unfortunately, that movie quickly ends when her bus finally decides to show up. But get this, an even better movie is about to start. As she is riding along, reading her book–which I'm sure was a real page turner–I kept thinking about the weather. Of course, I don't mean the weather outside. No, dummy, I'm talking about the weather inside Mary Vivian Pearce, 'cause damn, she looked hot. Later on, as she's walking through the park, you can't help but notice that someone or something is lurking in the trees. While their identity is shrouded in mystery, I can already tell that the person hiding in the woods represents off-kilter heterosexuality in its purest, most honest form.
Taking a break on a park bench, Mary Vivian Pearce rests her right leg on top of her left leg to form a cross-shaped mass of legginess, and begins to feed the insects that have started to congregate on the ground near her feet. After she's finished feeding the bugs, she starts to feed herself candy, when, all of a sudden, the Shrimper strikes! The what? The Shrimper (John Leisenring), a highly motivated foot and shoe fetishist. Grabbing her right foot–which makes sense, as it's the appendage doing the majority of the dangling, and, as most people know, a dangling appendage is a delicious appendage–the Shrimper begins to lavish her foot with a justifiably egregious amount of tongue-based praise. Recoiling in horror almost immediately, Mary Vivian Pearce quickly sizes up her new-found foot admirer and decides to let him have it.
Spooked by a judgmental passerby in pigtails pushing a baby carriage (licking a stranger's foot in public is perverted, yet squeezing an eight pound baby out of your vagina is considered normal?!?), Mary Vivian Pearce and the Shrimper relocate to a more secluded area to restart their foot and mouth affair in private. Lying down on a patch of leaves, the Shrimper gets reacquainted with the delicate contours of Mary Vivian Pearce's exquisite feet. As he's laying waste to her toes with a steady bombardment of gentle kisses and subtle caresses, Miss MVP imagines herself as Cinderella, which is a folk tale about a princely shoe fetishist who gets off on putting designer slippers on shrewish women with mannish feet.
Removing the leaves from her hair after the Shrimper is done with her feet (he just wanders off without saying a word), Mary Vivian Pearce staggers from the scene. Dazed and confused (the shrimper's saliva has no doubt started to congeal around her ankles), she wanders onto the road where she hit by a car being driven by none other than Divine (who was distracted by a naked man hitchhiking). Bloodied and badly injured, the blonde bombshell lies motionless in a ditch. What's this? The fabulous Divine is helping her? I'm sorry, but I'm just not used to the sight of Divine helping other people. At any rate, sporting a belly revealing, gold lame toreador outfit, Divine drags the wounded dame into the back seat of her convertible.
Get used to the sight of Divine carrying Mary's sexy body from place to place, because for the next forty minutes or so, that pretty much describes Mondo Trasho in one of them nutshell thingies.
I know what you're thinking: Where the hell is Mink Stole?!? I won't lie, spending time with Mary Vivian Pearce and her fishnet pantyhose-adorned legs and feet has been a real treat. However, as most people know, I'm a Mink Stole man. So where is she? Well, don't fret Mink fans. She plays three characters in the Mondo Trasho universe. Her first appearance occurs when Divine is trying to find some new duds for Miss Pearce to wear. Playing a homeless woman with dainty wrists, Mink Stole lies unconscious in an alleyway while Divine steals her shoes (I loved the way her body twitches ever so slightly as each shoe is forcibly removed from her feet).
Her second character is a fugitive mental patient who inadvertently gets Divine and Mary Vivian Pearce sent to an insane asylum. If you thought Mary Vivian Pearce looked yummy in fishnet pantyhose, you should see Mink Stole's topless, pantyhose-friendly, flapper-inspired loony bin dance number, it will melt your dog's face. The third Mink character is a gossipy woman who makes fun of Miss MVP and her mutant feet while waiting for a bus with another woman.
Mutant feet?!? Don't ask. You can ask me if I cried when Divine removes Mary Vivian Pearce's fishnet pantyhose in a laundromat. Well, did you? Yeah, I did. It was hard for me to watch Divine forcibly yank them off her lithe frame with little to no regard for how it might affect the deviants wallowing in the audience. The thought that there's virtually nothing pressing snugly against her uncrumpled clit caused me to curl up in a ball and start rocking back and forth like a lunatic who drools a lot. It didn't help matters that I began to mumble the fishnet pantyhose credo: "constriction mixed with ventilation" over and over again in the wonkiest German accent this side of Kaiserslautern as I swayed. The same thing would have happened to me had Susan Berman been forced to remove her fishnet pantyhose in Smithereens, a film that was way more punchy when it came to depicting a pair of fishnet pantyhose under duress in an urban environment.
While dragging you know who's lifeless corpse across Charm City, Divine is periodically visited by The Virgin Mary (Margie Skidmore). Appearing to Divine whenever she's in trouble, the virginal robe enthusiast helps Divine get out of a few jams here and there. These particular scenes are the noteworthy in that they're the only one's that feature audible dialogue. Yep, I'm afraid the film, for the most part, is dialogue-free. Which is weird, since John Waters' movies are usually famous for their outrageous dialogue (you'll have to wait until the end of the film to hear anything that matches the verbal wit of his later films).
The film's story is mostly told via John Waters' record collection. For example, when Mary Vivian Pearce is sitting on the park bench with her legs crossed, "Sitting in the Park" by Billy Stewart can be heard on the soundtrack, and when Divine and Mary Vivian bust out of the mental hospital, we hear "Riot in Cell Block #9" by The Robins. But make no mistake, this is a John Waters film that is shot in black and white and features very little dialogue. And if those things don't sound appealing to you, than I suggest you steer clear of this film, even if you're a fan of Desperate Living and Female Trouble. However, if you're a John Waters completist or happen to have a healthy obsession with women's feet, especially when they're encased in nylons, than by all means, check this flick out.
