10 to Midnight (J. Lee Thompson, 1983)

Stabbing women in the nude with his trusty butterfly knife is what he likes to do for fun. And when I say, "in the nude," I don't mean to imply that his victims are the ones not wearing any clothes, though, they can be naked if they want to be. No, the assailant at the centre of 10 to Midnight, an engrossing crime thriller about a socially awkward typewriter repairman with terrible luck when it comes to the ladies, likes to commit acts of violence without having to worry about what to wear when he's making with the stabbing. Seriously, though, whether he kills in the nude because he doesn't want to get any blood on his clothes (the most likely reason), does so because he likes the way the wind feels on his unflappable genitals as he stalks his prey (an unlikely reason, but my personal favourite), or because he was forced to wear argyle socks as a child, it doesn't matter. Why's that? Well, there's this veteran detective, a wily old fuck, and he seems extra determined to stop him from doing what he loves. Now, why he's so hellbent on preventing a total stranger from murdering other strangers is something I'm still trying to come to grips with. I mean, I can sort of see why he would want to stop him from killing his daughter. But even that seemed a little over the top, as he didn't even appear to really like her all at that much. Maybe by protecting his estranged daughter from a clothes optional serial killer, the grizzled detective could finally reconnect with her. If all her friends at nursing school have to be brutally murdered in order for this reconciliation to materialize, than so be it. Either way, a cool murderer, a movie buff who likes to kill people while synthesizer music plays is in the background, is being harassed by a massive square who squints a lot, and there was nothing I could do to help him. All he wants to do is disembowel the women who won't date him, yet the short-sighted detective, who seems to have a drab-looking blazer for everyday of the week, would prefer it if he didn't do any disemboweling. Yeah, that's right. No disemboweling whatsoever.

It's true, I did feel bad for the women–and, I suppose, the men who happen to be in the wrong place and at the wrong time (he doesn't even bother to disembowel them, as their merely dispatched as an afterthought)–who are murdered in this movie. But have you ever had hot coffee thrown in your face after trying remove a woman's dress without their permission? Well, I can't say that I have, as I'm a tea drinker who rarely consorts with the coffee crowd. I do, however, have an imagination, and that imagination is telling me that it would be quite unpleasant. Is hot coffee in the face on the same level as being stabbed in the woods in terms of unpleasantness? Probably not. For starters, not many people bounce back from being stabbed in the woods. Just ask all the people who have been stabbed in the woods. Oh, that's right, you can't, as most of them are dead. And, as most people know, one of the benefits to being a sentient life form is the ability to answer questions pertaining to everything from your favourite industrial band to what kind of toppings you like on your pizza.

Opening in a busy Los Angeles police station, we're introduced to Leo Kessler (Charles Bronson), a haggard-looking detective typing away on his typewriter. And judging by his body language, the detective isn't a big fan of paperwork. Speaking of body language, is it wrong that my attention was focused not on the detective, but on the prostitute sitting in the background? I'm gonna go ahead and answer my own question by saying: no, it wasn't wrong. In fact, if anything, it's the directors fault for putting her there in the first place. It didn't help matters that she showed signs of having what is commonly referred to as "involuntary leg movement" (an affliction that usually strikes promiscuous women who sit cross-legged on crappy daytime talk shows).

It's time for the detective's nemesis to be introduced to the audience, and boy, is he something special. First spotted sizing up two women (one sporting a bad perm) leaving an office building, Warren Stacy (Gene Davis) watches them while reminiscing about the time when Betty (June Gilbert), the one without the bad perm, threw coffee on him after he unlawfully tried to unzip her dress. Since I've already alluded to this scene, I'd like to mention that I was somewhat relieved when I found that Betty, and not Karen (Jeana Tomasina), was the one who tossed the coffee on him, as I don't want Karen to be the first woman he kills. How do you know Betty's going to be the first one killed? Haven't you been paying been paying attention? She doused him with coffee.

Anyway, putting the final touches on his hair (blow dried to perfection), Warren is ready to exact his revenge on Betty for the coffee incident. Slipping into a pair of designer jeans, the handsome sicko in the red jacket leaves his apartment with a level of confidence that matches the dapperness of his appearance (all I see nowadays are overconfident assholes whose swagger is totally unjustified). Wait a minute, why he is going to see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid at the Aero Theatre? I thought he overheard Betty telling Karen that she was going to the woods with her boyfriend, and this is clearly not the woods. Be patient, my friend, Mr. Stacy knows exactly what he's doing. Aggressively hitting on a pair of female movie patrons named Tina (Katrina Parish) and Peg (Shawn Schepps), Warren seems to be purposefully trying to make a lasting impression on the increasingly annoyed ladies. And who can blame him? Who wouldn't want to make a lasting impression on Tina's outstanding ass? (seriously, it looked absolutely divine encased in those super-tight white jeans of hers). But that's neither here nor there.

What he's attempting to do is lay the groundwork for his alibi. Check this out, when the lights go down and movie starts, Warren goes to the washroom, puts on a pair of surgical gloves, and leaves the theatre through an unlocked window above one of the stalls. As far as Tina and Peg are concerned, the good looking creep who was hitting on them is still sitting a couple of rows back. But in reality, he's naked in the woods, looking for a coffee tossing blonde to disembowel. When he finds what he's looking for (fornicating naked in the back of a van with her naked boyfriend), Warren kills the boyfriend, a proceeds to chase Betty through the woods. Naked running leads to naked exhaustion, which is quickly followed by naked cowering and naked crying. As expected, the whole ordeal is capped off with some naked stabbing.

As a fully clothed Warren Stacy is making his way back to the movie theatre, I couldn't help but notice this eerie electronic sound throbbing on the soundtrack. Now, I've heard synths throb in countless movies over the years, but never have I experienced a throbbing synth that was this right on the money in terms of its throb-based synthiness. Kudos to composer Robert O. Ragland for creating such an awesome piece of synthy goodness; it's too bad the entire score couldn't have been like that. But then again, I can't quite picture Charles Bronson doing anything set to synthesizer music, let alone the type that throbs.

When Detective Kessler declares that the killer is obviously using his knife as if it were his penis, I'll admit, I giggled a little bit: "Hee-hee, Charles Bronson just said "penis." But the more I thought about it, the more I agreed with his assessment (which is a rare occurrence since I usually disagree with everything Charles Bronson says in this movie). Think about it, though, all knives are phallic-shaped for a reason; they're primary function is to penetrate the things they're stabbing. And what kind of knife is the ultimate penis substitute? You got it, the butterfly, or "fan knife." And just like your average penis, the butterfly knife needs to be manipulated in order for it to work properly. The killer gives us a quick demonstration, manipulating the handle of his knife several times, before heading out to the movies.

Sadness fills the air of the office where Betty worked, as Karen (her bad perm has been replaced with a more flattering hairdo) expresses shock when she hears the news of her friend/roommate's demise. On the other hand, Warren Stacy, the office's go-to typewriter repairman, doesn't seem shocked at all. Hmmm, I wonder why? Oh yeah, that's right, he's the one who killed her. In order to not to raise suspicion, Warren attends Betty's funeral, along with Karen and the rest of her co-workers. Also in attendance: Laurie Kessler (Lisa Eilbacher), a student nurse who grew up with Betty, her dad Detective Kessler and his new partner Paul McAnn (Andrew Stevens), a detective who is constantly reminded that he doesn't look like a cop.

You have to question Warren Stacy's competency as a serial killer after watching him repeatedly stymied while trying to break into one of Betty's nightstand drawers, as there's nothing sadder than the sight of a naked man struggling to open something so pitiful-looking. Hold on, why is Stacy naked? Is someone about to die? Never mind that. The reason he wants what's inside the drawer is because he caught wind at the funeral that Betty has a diary. Big deal, lot's of grown women keep diaries. Yeah, but she likes to write detailed accounts about all the men in her life, including the creeps at work. And if the cops find out about the coffee tossing incident, he'll no doubt jump up a few pegs on the suspect list.

Just in case any of you were wondering what Jeana Tomasina was wearing underneath the black dress she wore at the Betty's funeral, the filmmakers wisely chose to set aside a scene that shows her getting undressed. Knowing what she had on underneath her clothes, in my opinion, made the funeral scene even hotter in retrospect. Well, what was she wearing? Oh, I'm sorry. Yeah, it was a white, smooth to the touch, negligee-style one-piece. Weren't you a tad crestfallen over the fact that Jeana wasn't wearing any hosiery whatsoever? I guess. However, if you think about it (which I clearly have), Jeana Tomasina's gorgeousness doesn't really need any sort of structural embellishments. It doesn't matter if you put her in an ugly brown turtleneck or a pair of blue short shorts, Jeana's innate attractiveness will always prevail.

It was only a matter of time before Det. Kessler and Det. McAnn ended up at Mr. Stacy's door wielding the knowledge they obtained for Betty's diary. It would seem, according to her diary, that Warren Stacy made Betty's "skin crawl." Now, is that probable cause? Not really; after all, the world is full of creeps. But Kessler does comes across a vaginal-based masturbation machine in Stacy's bathroom. In other words, I think it's time to bring him in for questioning. Other than the part where Charles Bronson goes nuts trying get a confession out of Stacy, the best part of the interrogation scene was the look on Shawn Schepps' face when Stacy tells Kessler that the two girls he harassed at the movie theatre weren't his type. At the police station to identify Stacy and to verify his alibi, Miss Schepps' Peg, still rocking the flannel-friendly look she wore at the Aero Theatre, seemed genuinely disappointed that the suspect in a series of brutal homicides didn't think she or her foxy friend Tina were his type. The fact that she still held out hope of dating the weird guy she briefly met at a Santa Monica movie theatre was freaking adorable.

With no evidence to hold him on and an air tight alibi, Warren Stacy is free to go. After the way the interrogation went with Leo Kessler, who do you think is going to be the next target of Stacy's unique brand of off-kilter rage? You got it, Laurie Kessler, Leo's leggy daughter. Easing into stalking mode by making some obscene phone calls, Stacy gradually ups the stalking ante. Realizing that it's only a matter of time before Stacy tries to kill his daughter, Detective Kessler decides to bend the law a little bit in order to nail Stacy for the murder of Betty. But his alibi is air tight. Oh, did I say, "bend the law"? What I meant to say is that Kessler straight-up breaks the law in order to nail Stacy for Betty's murder.

The acute legginess of Lisa Eilbacher, while completely ignored during the film's early going, is fully explored over the course of the film's stalking-heavy final third. You could say the film's final third was also "stocking-heavy," as Lisa sports white stockings on several occasions (and why not? it's a vital part of a nurse's uniform), and it looks I just did. At any rate, with Miss Eilbacher's Laurie Kessler forced to lay low with her fellow student nurses (Kelly Preston, Ola Ray, and Iva Lane), this gives us multiple opportunities to appreciate her gams for a number of different angles. My favourite, of course, being the moment where she talks on the phone while wearing nothing but a red football jersey.

Staying with the leggy theme, make sure to keep an eye out for French disco star Jeane Hanson as a Sunset Strip prostitute. Wearing satin hot pants paired with fishnet pantyhose (the way the two garments twinkled in the garish light of the stripe was mind-altering), Jeane gives the cinematic world a lesson on how to properly flaunt your substantial thighs in a public forum. And, if you were to ask me, there's no better forum for showing off your tasty thighs than an early 80s action-crime-thriller starring the totally awesome Gene Davis (Cruising), an actor who somehow managed to get me to sympathize with a psychopathic, Patrick Bateman-esque serial killer with extremely high self-esteem.

Call me crazy, but it was almost as if Charles Bronson's character was some sort of advocate for vigilante justice. And since I thought Stacy was being unjustly punished for a crime he totally committed, Charles and I disagreed quite often over the course of the film. In my mind, the burden of proof rests squarely on the shoulders of the police. I mean, it's not his fault he's a first-rate serial killer with a rock hard ass and an air tight alibi. Yet, despite containing a certain proto-fascism streak, 10 to Midnight is a stylish crime thriller that boasts a killer who not only kills his victims to synthesizer music (keen observers will notice that all of Charles Bronson's scenes are accompanied by bland orchestral music), while in the vicinity of posters of cute animals (the sight of John Travolta's space cadet wife lying disemboweled on the floor underneath a poster of an un-clubbed baby seal was strangely apropos), but does so without any clothes on. And in the grand scheme of things, you can' really ask for more when it comes to attaining sleazy kicks on a Wal-Mart greeter's salary.

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Special thanks to fashion blogger Thomas Duke, the stylish hunk who runs Cinema Gonzo (he's also the primary shareholder in Music Vest), for making the sleazoids at the Indulgence House aware of this heartwarming motion picture. *hugs*

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Cruising (William Friedkin, 1980)

Deep down, you had a feeling your leather trousers might be a tad on the tight side when you bought them, but you had no idea they would be this tight. Here's some free advice the next time you find yourself in the leather trouser section of your local supermarket: Always try them on while sporting a raging hard-on. Oh, and no half chubs or one quarter wood, I'm talking a fully erect member up in this motherscratcher. When the guys at say, the Anvil or the Ramrod, start to grind up against you on the dance floor, you want to make sure the inevitable boner you unfurl stays within the smooth confines of your leather trousers. Of course, the chances of your cock and some of your balls escaping the leathery grip of your pants are pretty remote. But still, you want to maintain an air of dickish dignity, while, at the same time, keeping the contents of your package firmly under wraps, as no-one likes a show off, especially in a place like, the Cockpit. If you think leather trousers sound complicated, honey, you ain't seen nothing yet. How do you think the ambitious heterosexual NYPD patrolman at the centre of Cruising, one who probably thinks listening to Chic automatically makes you a card-carrying Friend of Dorothy, is gonna react when he's given the opportunity to hopscotch his way to detective? Pretty excited, I guess. Wait a second, did you just say, "hopscotch his way"? Burn my "Cher's first facelift commemorative dishrag" with an acetylene torch, but that sounds a little gay? Oh, it's gay all right. In fact, it's so gay, you'll be asking Powers Boothe about the coloured-coded world of back pocket bandanas in no time. While a lot of straight men, particularly the one's who lived in New York City circa 1980, wouldn't be too pleased about the prospect of donning a black undershirt in order to catch a serial killer, I, on the other hand, would have jumped at the chance to be exceedingly fabulous at the height of disco; well, the tail end of disco.

Whether it was the height, the tail end, or even smack dab in the middle of the disco era, it doesn't matter, the opportunity to go undercover as a gay man sounds like the chance of a lifetime. Of course, we're not talking about an episode of Glee, so you can forget about mincing, frolicking, sashaying, or telling total strangers to talk to the hand, as those types of mannerisms are strictly forbidden in this universe. No, this is an ultra gritty look into New York's underground S&M bar scene. In other words, throngs of burly men in leather thongs, motorcycle caps, studded bracelets, assless chaps and biker boots are what are in store for you.

Given that film is written and directed by William Friedkin (To Live and Die in L.A.), this isn't going to be your average crime thriller–you know, the kind where a cop on the edge tries to catch a psychopathic killer. Even though it sort of starts off like your typical police procedural, the film quickly transports us to the heart of the meatpacking district where we find two patrolmen named DiSimone (Joe Spinell) and Desher (Mike Starr) cruising the streets in their radio car. After they have finished soliciting/harassing two transgender prostitutes, one of which is named DaVinci (Gene Davis), the camera follows a dark stranger in leather as he walks toward a building located across the street.

The first thing that struck me as the leather-clad man made his way to the unmarked, windowless building were the sounds he made as he walked. And I'm not just talking about the sound of his motorcycle boots hitting the pavement, there was something strangely alluring about the way his leather jacket creaked with every step. On top of that, I was also quite taken with the manner in which the metallic accessories attached to his outfit (chains, zippers, studs, etc.) seemed to jingle-jangle as he moved. Accentuated by the eerie-sounding drone music provided by composer Jack Nitzsche, the fact that the sight of this mysterious figure walking toward his equally mysterious destination was so compelling is a testament to the skill of William Friedkin as a filmmaker.

With our curiosity sufficiently piqued by this brava display of sound design, and, not to mention, monochromatic cinematography, we're ready to be sucked into the leather bound world of soggy jock-straps, wool socks, hairy chests, denim vests, and nipple licking that await us on the other side of the door. The man who we just watched enter the club, an establishment whose walls are adorned with hubcaps, exits the club just as quickly with a man with dark hair and dark eyes. After securing room at the St. James Hotel, and engaging in some sparse foreplay (the sound of creaking leather is ever-present), the two get down to business. All tuckered out after a rigorous bought of anal sex, the man who was picked up by the dark stranger awakens to find himself naked and hog tied with a knife to his throat (his leather restraints seem to get tighter the more he struggles). Suddenly the dark stranger says, "Who's here, I'm here, you're here," in his trademark creepy voice, and proceeds to stab the musclebound man with the dilated anus multiple times in the back with a kitchen knife.

Meanwhile, back at police headquarters, Captain Edelson (Paul Sorvino), who is growing increasingly frustrated by the lack of progress he's making with the case of the so-called "homo killer," decides that he needs to penetrate the leather bar scene with a more reliable phallus. Asking Steven Burns (Al Pacino), a fresh out of the academy recruit, point blank, if he's ever had his cock sucked by a man, Edelson wastes little time offering him the chance to go deep undercover to draw out a serial killer(his dark features are similar to that of the majority of the killer's victims). Of course, the catch being that he has to infiltrate a subculture he knows nothing about.

Just like with the punk and goth scenes, this process takes time. The people who make up these specific subcultures can spot an imposter like that, so you better do your homework. Taking baby steps, Steve Burns slowly transforms himself into John Forbes, an art student with a thing for black undershirts. Renting an apartment in the West Village, and making friends with his new neighbour, a playwright named Ted (Don Scardino), there's a new man on the scene and he's ready to cruise. Okay, maybe he's not quite ready to "cruise," but he's learning the ropes. Hanging out at infamous leather bars such as the Ramrod, the Anvil, and the Cockpit, Steve observes the crowd as they interact with one another.

A favourite early scene that takes place during Steve's rope learning period features Al Pacino asking Powers Boothe's "Hanky Salesman" about the handkerchiefs that are hanging in his shop. If I heard this right, a light blue hanky stuffed in your left back pocket means you like to receive oral sex, while a light blue hanky sticking out of your right back pocket indicates that you give oral sex. When it comes to green, the left back pocket signifies you're a hustler, and the right implies that you're a buyer. Moving on to yellow, the left is all about receiving golden showers, and the right means you give them. Just as he was about to explain what the colour red represents, Al's character bails. Which is a shame, because I was dying to know what the red hanky stood for. I'm gonna go ahead and assume that it had something to do with anal fisting. Anyway, like Steve, I was a little confused by the yellow hanky. And not by what constitutes a "golden shower" (people peeing on one another for erotic or malicious purposes goes back thousands of years), but by which pocket meant what.

Slightly embarrassed by the yellow hanky mix up that took place at the Ramrod, or whatever club it was (it was the one with the hubcap motif), Steve is more determined than ever to immerse himself into the gay leather bar scene. And what better way to do so than to lift weights in your apartment as "It's So Easy" by Willy DeVille kicks some serious ass on the soundtrack. And it doesn't end with sculpting his Italian-American physique. Nuh-uh. Letting guys size him up at the clubs (of course, making sure you have the correct hankie in your back pocket when said sizing up commences), developing a rapport with the bartenders, Steve is on the fast track to becoming a regular. Which is weird, because it took me a couple of months just to get to the point where I felt comfortable enough to ask the bartender at my favourite nightclub what time it was. But then again, Steve is racing against the clock (um, hello? there's a killer on the loose).

It's true, mistakes are made–Steve shows up to one of the clubs on "precinct night" not wearing a police uniform (on certain nights of the week, some of the clubs have theme nights), which is ironic, since he is a cop (he's told to leave immediately)–but for most part his gayness is strong. Only problem being, he seems to be growing bored with vaginal intercourse. How could I tell? Well, the look on his face as Nancy (Karen Allen) writhed on top of him practically screamed hetero-ennui (he reverts back to the straight world every so often to fornicate with his girlfriend). I'm not sure if this was done on purpose, but every time Karen Allen would appear onscreen I'd think to myself: What the fuck is that? Of course, it's obvious she's a human female, and quite an attractive one, I might add. But other than Karen, the film is pretty much devoid of women.

The murder sequences for the killer's next two victims, while not as gruesome as the one in the hotel, are no less effective when it came to communicating a sense of dread. The one that takes place in the park makes excellent use of sound to create its foreboding ambiance (eerie synths, crickets chirping, the sound of men moaning in the distance, and branches snapping), while the murder in the peepshow uses flickering shadows and "Lion's Share" by The Germs to spell out its terror.

If you thought being murdered to The Germs was awesome, wait until you get a load of the next scene. Wandering into the, oh, let's say it was the Cockpit, Al Pacino enters as, get this, "Shakedown" by Rough Trade is playing on the soundtrack. Whoever it was who decided to include Toronto's own Rough Trade on the Cruising soundtrack needs a raise. Seriously, Rough Trade and Cruising are practically made for one another. At any rate, Steve's gay cred is solidified once for all when he steps out onto the dance floor and begins to bust a move to Willy DeVille's "Heat of the Moment." Sniffing amyl nitrate while soaking in a sweaty pool filled with black undershirts, hairy forearms, and off to the side anal fisting, Al Pacino pumps his fists to the music as the leather dandies watch with teary-eyed admiration.

After an elaborate sting operation involving a Ramrod regular named Skip (Jay Acovone) fails to bear any fruit–though it does provide us with the sight of giant black man wearing nothing but jock strap and a cowboy hat–the film shifts into stake out mode. Following a hunch, Steve decides to tail another Ramrod regular during the light of day. Yeah, that's right, daytime. Was I saddened by the fact that the film is no longer taking place at night? Sure I was. I mean who doesn't love to watch gay men in leather jackets acting tough after dark? And, as everyone knows, the daylight is a cruel mistress, one that will eventually destroy the darkness. I think the lyrics to the Meri D. Marshall smash, "My Obsession," perfectly encapsulate my feelings on the subject: "Strangers in the daylight / Lovers after midnight / This is my obsession / I live for the darkness, I must confess."

One of the pluses that came with this shift in decor was that we finally get to see the exceedingly handsome Richard Cox in this so-called "light of day." His first appearance as Stuart Richards, which occurs during the hanky code fiasco at the Ramrod, took away my ability to breathe properly. The way he sneered at Al Pacino's character, the collar of his denim shirt brushing ever-so-slightly against chin, was so fucking hot. However, seeing him pump iron without a shirt, ride the bus, and relax in the park was, to quote myself, "tantamount to titillation torture."

The allure of black leather is so strong in Cruising, that even Karen Allen is briefly tempted by its creaking appeal (much like Det. Bayliss was drawn to leather in the Homicide: Life on the Street episode titled "A Many Splendored Thing"). Capturing the sleazy charm of the leather bar scene in late '70s New York City (the club scenes ooze authenticity), William Friedkin has made a compelling document of a period of time that will never be repeated. Sure, people still wear leather and have anal sex, but I bet they don't do it with as much gusto. No, this film is a must for anyone who loves leather, old school Al Pacino (you know, before he became Foghorn Leghorn), jock straps (especially when they're worn in a non-athletic environment), extras who nearly trip while climbing up stairs, awkward nightclub dancing, and, of course, denim vests.

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