I, the Jury (Richard T. Heffron, 1982)

How am I supposed to learn how to apply makeup in a tarty manner if they don't show it being applied? (What the hell are you babbling about?) The sexual deviant/serial killer/C.I.A. assassin, played by the striking Judson Scott, at the centre of I, the Jury likes to slather his female victims in heavy makeup before killing them. (Yeah, so?) So? We never see how he applies the makeup. And another thing, does he carry around the makeup with him? It's revealed later on in the film, directed by Richard T. Heffron (the film's writer, Larry Cohen, was set to direct but was apparently fired for some reason), that he carries around a bag that contains a red wig and a switchblade. So, I can only assume he keeps the makeup in that bag as well. Either way, I would have liked to have seen him put the makeup on the women he murdered. I know, there are literally thousands of videos out there that can help you apply makeup to your face. But those videos are mostly about cis women applying makeup in a competent manner. I, on the other hand, want to know how to apply makeup in an incompetent manner. What can I say? I'm a tart at heart. In case it isn't obvious, the Judson Scott subplot of this film, loosely based on the novel by Mickey Spillane (his debut, if I'm not mistaken), was my favourite aspect of this NYC-set detective movie.

Unfortunately, Judson Scott doesn't appear in the film right away. Sure, you get to see some of his handy-work in the early going (a tarted up, red wig-adorned woman is found dead in the park). But the film is mostly made up of car chases and Armand Assante's [thankfully] always clean shaven Mike Hammer whining about his pet fish dying (every time he enters his office, one, or some times even two, of his fish are lifelessly floating in his fish tank). Actually, I kind of liked the dead fish gag.

Anyway, I would say a good chunk of this film, especially the first half, had the feeling of an expensive TV pilot. However, that all changes when the orgy gets underway. Yep, I said, orgy. Investigating the murder of a one-armed army buddy (they served in Vietnam together), Det. Mike Hammer, with the help of his sexy secretary Velda (Laurene Landon), uncovers a vast conspiracy involving the mafia, the C.I.A., serial killers, sex clinics and mind control.

As you might expect, the serial killer/sex clinic plot line scratched me where I itch the most. What can I say? I'm a... deviant, I guess.

I don't know what this says about me, but I was rapidly losing patience with this film during the early going. And it didn't help that the Al Pacino-lite macho asshole vibe Armand Assante was repeatedly putting out there rubbed me the wrong way. Granted, I grew to accept, and eventually admire, Armand Assante's brutish performance as Mike Hammer (he is someone you don't fuck with... big time). But I wasn't having any of it at the beginning.

While the orgy scene I alluded to earlier is an obvious indicator that the tone of the film had changed. I would say the scene where Mike Hammer and a fellow detective played Paul Sorvino stand over the dead body of that tarted up woman lying at the base of the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central park was the exact moment I started to realize that this film might have some sleaze potential. I mean, the way the camera lingered voyeuristically (that's a word, right?) on her dead body was definitely exploitative in nature. And I dug that.

What? You don't think I watch movies to see finely woven plots unfold in a semi-clever manner. Uh-uh. I want to see the bloated, pockmarked underbelly of humanity exposed, warts and all. And I want to see bright colours and fashion. Sadly, there isn't that much fashion in this film. Nevertheless, the sudden uptick in this film's sleaze factor not only pleased me, it guaranteed that it would be worthy of a review.

And judging by the words I've typed so far in correlation with I, the Jury, it's clearly being reviewed.

I don't want it to seem like I'm obsessed with the orgy scene, but I think I would remiss if I didn't mention that the bulk of the orgasm faces used in the close-ups were provided by porn legends Samantha Fox (Her Name Was Lisa) and Bobby Astyr (Corruption).

 

The actual plot, in case I forgot to mention, involves Mike Hammer investigating the murder of... No, wait. I already mentioned that. Nevertheless, the part of the plot where we learn that the C.I.A. has employed/brainwashed a sex-crazed serial killer to murder America's enemies is kind of interesting. Think about it. The C.I.A. can kill anyone they want without it being connected to them. Just as long as the killer can get his victims to wear a red wig and tarty makeup and get them to profess their love for him in a sincere manner, they're good to go... murder-wise.

A prime example of what can happen when 1970s-style grittiness/paranoia is mixed with together with the burgeoning urbanity of the 1980s, I, the Jury is the best of both worlds: a glossy action-thriller with enough sleaze to satisfy fans of both 1970s and 1980s cinema.

National Lampoon's Last Resort (Rafal Zielinski, 1994)

Here's a film that features the winsome Maureen Flannigan (7th Heaven) cavorting about in a tropical paradise in a plethora of slit-heavy sarongs and boasts the ever effulgent Demetra Hampton (Red Shoe Diaries) writhing on her bed in black opera gloves and crouching on windowsills in black fishnet pantyhose, yet the thing I can't seem to shake, the thing that is currently keeping me up at night, are the fedora hat bands attached to the fedoras sitting atop Corey Feldman's head. Wait a second, fedoras? Do you really think he has eight fedoras? Or does he have one fedora and simply switches the hat band on it depending on his mood? For example, purple means he's feeling like a self-absorbed douchebag, red is for when he's going for the whole pompous douchebag vibe, blue is his hateful douchebag look, and... Well, you get the idea. He might have owned eight fedoras at the height of his fame, but this is 1993/94 were talking about it (money's tight and fedoras ain't cheap).  Anyway, I'm at a loss. I mean, what was with the freakin' fedoras? Here I am, trying to enjoy the surrealist nightmare that is National Lampoon's Last Resort (a.k.a. National Lampoon's Scuba School) like a normal human being, and Corey Feldman is ruining it with his asinine fashion sense.

Should I even bother bringing up the black blazers with the arms cut off? Ahh, just writing that makes my inner Tim Gunn feel all queasy and junk. What am I doing? Stop being such a big baby. So, Corey Feldman wears black blazers with the arms cut off (blegh) and sports a different coloured hat band on his fedora in every scene, I'm not going to let a little thing like that spoil the filmed headache that is this sort of motion picture.

Besides, Corey Feldman does wear pointy black leather shoes with buckles on them with his so-called ensemble. In other words, it's not a complete disaster.

Taking a break from tearing apart Corey Feldman's signature look for just a second, I would like to point out that this film was directed by Rafal Zielinski and written by Patrick Labyorteaux. The fact that this film was directed by the man who brought us Valet Girls and Screwballs should come as no surprise, as it has the same sense of whimsy and off-kilter fun. However, Patrick Labyorteaux? Ram from Heathers? Out of all the actors who appeared in Heathers, the guy who played Ram was the last person I expected to get a screenplay produced. Why? It's simple, really. He's an idiot. Not Patrick Labyorteaux, the character he plays in Heathers.

A profound meditation on the meaning of life, National Lampoon's Last Resort is actually a sardonic satire, a wickedly funny one to boot, that attempts to shed some light on the importance of being true to yourself.

Is anyone buying that? (You lost them a long time ago.) When? (I'm not sure exactly, but going on  incessantly about Corey Feldman's fedoras didn't help your cause.) Again, I don't think pluralizing the word fedora is necessary, as I think Corey Feldman is trying to trick us into thinking he has an endless supply of fedoras by merely changing the hat band.

Getting through the opening credits of  National Lampoon's Last Resort without having a seizure will be a minor miracle, as bright colours and hypersonic camera work bombard the viewer almost immediately.

The sight of a mop-wielding Dave Eisenhower (Corey Haim) rollerblading in the kitchen of a fast-food restaurant with a virtual reality helmet on combined with the sight of Sam Carver (Corey Feldman) relaxing on the beach are the next images that greet us.

It turns out that Sam Carver isn't at the beach after all, he's just day-dreaming about being at the beach, and being surrounded by a bevy of babes in bikinis. In fact, he's working at the same fast-food joint as Dave, his best bud.

In his dream, Sam is wearing a black fedora with a white hat band. But in reality, Sam is wearing a black fedora with a red hat band while standing over a vat of fries. I wonder if there's any significance to the colours of his hat bands. I mean, why white for the dream, yet reality gets red? Hmmm.

You'll notice that all the bikini babes are wearing black and white as well. I know, pretty interesting, eh? If you thought that was interesting, wait until I tell you who's standing in line at the fast-food restaurant Sam and Dave work as at. (Well?) Oh, a member of the Detroit Red Wings. (I don't get it?) Don't you see? Red hat band, Red Wings. It's all connected, man.

What these connections mean exactly is anyone's guess. But it does prove that there's more to National Lampoon's Last Resort than meets the eye.

While helping a choking victim, Sam, who actually thought the choking victim was his dream girl in a black one-piece bathing suit, the piece of food lodged in her throat goes flying off the helmet of the Detroit Red Wings player and hits the owner of the fast-food restaurant in the head causing him to step into Dave's mop bucket.  Unable to keep his balance, the restaurant owner then crashes into the fuse box, causing a fire to break out.

With their place of employment reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble, Sam and Dave go home to relax. The colour dichotomy of the previous scene continues unabated during this scene as well, as Sam and Dave's apartment is half blue and half red. Unfortunately, Sam and Dave won't be able to enjoy their apartment's colour scheme for much longer, as they're evicted by the building's landlord.

Sitting on a bench, Sam and Dave try to figure out their next move. While going through their mail, Sam discovers a letter from his Uncle Rex (Geoffrey Lewis), a former actor (known for a series of pirate movies) who now runs a pirate themed resort on the Grand Cayman.

How, you might ask, are two down on their luck losers from Detroit going to be able to afford to fly down to the Cayman Islands? Duh. They use the magic doohickey given to them by the bag lady (Jane Swofford) sitting next to them on the bench. And before you can say, does Corey Feldman really front ska band called Truth Movement?, Sam and Dave land on a beach on the Grand Cayman with their luggage in tow.

And when I say, "land on a beach," that's exactly what I mean. To quote Dave, they literally "jumped through the sky."

Oh, and just to prove the producers are not lazy morons with no sense of humour, we see the bag lady pushing her shopping cart around the island every once and awhile. It would seem that the bag lady "jumped through the sky" as well.

Met on the beach by Sonja (Maureen Flannigan), an Earth servant to the island Amazon goddess of Ya-Ya, Sam and Dave manage to convince the ebullient young tulip that they're scuba experts from Detroit. And Navy Seals... and C.I.A. agents; Dave's code name is "Storm Shadow."

However, Dave does say one truthful thing upon meeting Sonja. It occurs when he introduces himself as an "anally compulsive cyberpunk searching for electronic bliss." Call me crazy, but I think that's the best line in the movie.

The film's funniest line, in my opinion, is the one where Flash Mackenzie (Michael Ralph), an island tour bus driver, says, "Right in the middle of scuba country," after learning that Sam and Dave are scuba experts from Detroit. The other genuinely funny bit occurs when an elderly married couple (Milton Slezer and Eda Reiss Merin) mistake a family of "Morgies" (fans of Rex Carver's Captian Morgan pirate movies) for Guns N' Roses.

Anyway, when Rex Carver's rival, a fellow actor named Hemlock (Robert Mandan), hears that a couple of C.I.A. agents masquerading as scuba experts are on the island, he does everything in his power to disrupt the everyday operation of the resort. I think that makes sense. Let me put this way, Rex and Hemlock don't like each other.

Okay, now that I got that plot-based nonsense out of the way, let's get back to focusing on what's really important. And that is, my love-hate relationship with Corey Feldman's wardrobe. I think the reason his clothes struck such a profound chord with me is because they're so close to what I used to wear on a daily basis. It's true, I've never donned a fedora (at least not out in public). But I did wear pointy creepers with buckles on them. In fact, like Corey Feldman does on several occasion during this movie, I think I even wore them to the beach.

To put it in even more frightening terms, every time I saw Corey Feldman canoodling with Demetra Hampton's Alex, a femme fatal secretly working for Hemlock, it was like looking directly into a mirror. Ugh, talk about honesty in motion.

I don't care who knows it, so here it goes: I am, simply put, Corey Feldman's character in National Lampoon's Last Resort. The creepers, the black clothing, the ponytail, the attraction to dark-haired women in black fishnets, the spastic dance moves, the Jerry Lewis-style approach to comedy, it's all there in stark technicolor.

Ahhh, that was tough. As they say, admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery.

Fourth wall breaking a go-go, a game show hosted by Zelda Rubinstein, wackiness-a-plenty, tag team ballroom dancing, red berets, implied mermaid sex, Tony Longo in drag, and, best of all, an underwater concert by Dread Zeppelin, National Lampoon's Last Resort is cinema at its... Oh, man, I wanna say, "finest," but I can't seem to pull the trigger. How 'bout this, National Lampoon's Last Resort is cinema at its most bewildering? Yeah, I like that, bewildering. Yo-Ho-Ho...