My Bloody Valentine (George Mihalka, 1981)

Since it's all I can think about at the moment, I might as well get it off my chest right away. And, no, what I'm about to say has got nothing to do with the slit on Cynthia Dale's third act red dress. Though, now that I think about it, the slit on her third act red dress is probably the most important Cynthia Dale-related aspect about My Bloody Valentine–the infamous Canadian slasher flick that could be construed as a ninety minute ad for Moosehead Beer–as far as plot goes. No, what I can't stop thinking about how Hollis (Keith Knight), the heavy-set miner who breaks up fights and isn't afraid to tell his friends to, "shut the fuck up," was able to woo a gal like Patty (Cynthia Dale), as she seemed way out of his league. Excuse me, I think you made a mistake. Where? When you wrote the name "Patty," I couldn't help but notice you put Cynthia Dale's name in parentheses. In other words, implying that Cynthia Dale plays Patty. Nope, that ain't a mistake, pal. The luminous as all get out Cynthia Dale plays Patty, Hollis' girlfriend in George Mihalka's My Bloody...Yeah, yeah, we know what the name of the movie. That can't be right, can it? If so, how did he manage to pull that off? Why are you asking me? Sure, I just watched the movie, but I'm just as baffled as you are. It should go without saying, but Cynthia Dale is the most attractive woman in the Valentine's Day obsessed Maritime community at the centre of this sometimes gory enterprise. No shit, Sherlock. Of course, she's the most attractive, she's Cynthia "Heavenly Bodies" Dale. What I'd like to know is, how did  T.J. (Paul Kelman), the town's resident hunk/bad boy, end up getting the short end of the stick–you know, Cynthia Dale-wise? Maybe the old adage, gentlemen prefer blondes, was a factor when it came time for T.J. to choose a girlfriend. Get out of here, that's kooky talk of the unequivocal variety. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, Patty is in love with Hollis? Ha! Ha! Just kidding, it still doesn't make any sense.

Even though I wasn't able to shed much light on the subject, I must say, clearing the air right out of the gate like that was quite therapeutic.

After briefly glancing at what I just typed, it has occurred to me that I might have been a tad harsh on Hollis. I mean, not only was I being unnecessarily cruel and superficial, I was starting to sound like someone whose personality resembles an overstuffed bag that contains a plethora of douche-like properties. Starting to sound like someone? Okay, I deserved that. But you have to understand, I was genuinely perplexed that a guy like Hollis was giving it to Cynthia Dale on a nightly basis.

Actually, it sounds like you're jealous. Me? Jealous...of Hollis. No way, man. Yeah, think about it. Your healthy, albeit, somewhat creepy fixation with Cynthia Dale has clouded your ability to watch this movie from an objective point-of-view. Go on. You see, every time you saw Hollis and Patty together in My Bloody Valentine, you would think to yourself: Why can't that be me? Interesting theory. It's pure poppycock. But interesting, nonetheless.

According to calendar, it's February 12, and we're about to visit Valentine Bluffs, a small mining town located just outside of, oh, let's say, Sydney, Nova Scotia. In order to peak our interest in disgruntled miners who murder people with pick-axes, hot dog water, plumbing fixtures, nail-guns and the tumble dry setting on your average laundromat dryer, the film gives us an opening scene that features a miner in a gas mask killing a blonde woman with a pick-axe. It's pretty standard stuff as far as opening scenes go, but the pick-axe blade does penetrate the blonde right through the area on her chest where her heart-shaped tattoo was located. Ouch.

Welcome to Valentine Bluffs. Didn't you already say that? No, I think I merely informed you that we're about to visit Valentine Bluffs. Now, we're officially entering Valentine Bluffs. Anyway, it's obvious right off the bat that there's some tension between miners T.J. and Axel (Neil Affleck). I'm guessing it's over a woman. Surprisingly, it's not Cynthia Dale's Patty, but a blonde named Sarah (Lori Hallier) who the miners are fighting over. After work, the miners head over to the local community centre where the town's "womenfolk" are busy putting up Valentine's Day decorations for the big dance scheduled to be held there on the 14th.

The reason the mayor of Valentine Bluffs, Mayor Hanniger (Larry Reynolds), wants Mabel (Patricia Hamilton), head of the decorating committee, to downplay the fact that this is the first Valentine's Day dance to be held in the town in twenty years is because it was twenty years ago on this very day when a disgruntled miner named Harry Warden turned his pick-axe on his superiors.

When the miners enter the community centre each miner runs into the welcoming arms of their respective girlfriend. All except T.J., who watches Axel embrace Sarah with a scornful unease. And, yes, Hollis is warmly greeted by Cynthia Dale's Patty. The only other coupling of importance is John (Rob Stein) and Sylvia (Helene Udy). Why are they important, you ask? Well, Sylvia is played Helene Udy (Pinball Summer and Nightflyers), and, as everyone knows, I'm a diehard Udy-ite.

If T.J. has a thing for blondes, why he doesn't he make a play for Gina Dick's Gretchen? I mean, judging by the way she is constantly rebuffing the advances of Howard (Alf Humphreys), the goofball of the group, it would seem that she's available. And, of course, she's blonde. It's obvious you know nothing when it comes to matters of the heart. He's not interested in Gretchen, he's in love with Sarah, and that's that. Yeah, but Sarah's with Axel. Deep down T.J. knows Sarah still loves him. In other words, it's only a matter of time before Sarah comes to her senses and realizes that T.J. is the man for her.

And I must say, it's the authenticity of this love triangle that makes My Bloody Valentine stand out from the slasher crowd.

After being told to "beware the 14th," Happy (Jack Van Evera), the bartender at The Cage, treats the miners and their girlfriends to a gripping yarn about Harry Warden, a Valentine's Day averse miner who was left stranded down in the mine twenty years ago as the town partied. Warned that anyone who dares celebrate Valentine's Day will hear from Harry Warden, Happy makes a pretty convincing argument. However, the miners and their girlfriends seem unconvinced (that's just Happy being Happy) and proceed to go about their business.

My favourite piece of business involved Patty excitingly describing the structural makeup of the dress she plans to wear to the big dance to Sarah as they walked down the street. According to Patty, her dress will boast a large slit down the side. In fact, she's so excited about the slit, she points out its length on the drab skirt she is currently wearing. I don't know 'bout you, but I definitely can't wait to see this dress of hers.

In a strange twist, the slit on Patty's dress actually helps out when she finds herself tapped in the mine during the film's climatic showdown. Wait. How did Patty end up in the mine? It's a long story.

When one of the townsfolk is killed by a dryer, the mayor and the chief of police (Don Francks) agree that it's a good idea to cancel the dance. Yet, when the miners and their girlfriends find out about this, they secretly move the festivities to the mine (the mine's rec room to be specific). Weren't they scared that they might get murdered by a pick-axe-wielding maniac? Get this, the chief of police, in his infinite wisdom, decides not to tell them about the maniac. So, what you're saying is, Patty and her slit-adorned red dress are in mortal danger? You got that right.

Yeah, but like I was saying, the slit on her dress will give Patty a distinct advantage. No, hear me out. The slit allows her to move freely throughout the cramped confines of the mine. Won't the slit cause her legs and crotch to get cold? After all, mines have a reputation for being quite chilly. Not to fear, tan pantyhose are here. Huh? She's wearing tan pantyhose. Oh, I see. Check this out, the pantyhose will provide her with the warmth her lower extremities need. And, not only that, the pantyhose will cause her legs to appear more shapely than they already are. Awesome.

The version of My Bloody Valentine I watched had more gore added to it. And while I appreciated the extra bits of violence, I thought, no, don't tell me, you thought the film could have used more slit? Whoa! How did you know I was going to say that? Lucky guess. But yeah, more slit would have been nice. Actually, more Cynthia Dale in general would have been nice, too. Anyway, the best as far as kills goes has to be the water pipe death. Two and a half bloody pick-axes out of four.

Nightflyers (Robert Collector, 1987)

You know your space adventure film is in serious trouble when its most entertaining moment comes when the guy who played the dad on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air equates happiness with fresh octopus. And as kooky as that may sound, that's exactly what happens in Nightflyers, an intergalactic riddle wrapped in a lifeless enigma about a primordial force that threatens to shorten the lives of a group of space travelers. The group's visual documentarian/cook is a man with some serious doubts regarding the mission he's signed up for. That is, until he smells the fresh octopus waiting for him in the ship's kitchen. After the fresh octopus has been sufficiently smelled, you'll notice that his demeanour goes from that of a cranky man whose nasal cavity is totally devoid of the smell of fresh octopus to that of a less cranky man whose olfactory organ is replete with the odor usually associated with fresh octopus in a matter of seconds. Holy shit, man, this flick must be the epitome of lame if you have been reduced to talking about fresh octopus. I mean, talk about your tangents from hell. Oh, and I know I just said it, and I'm about to say it again, but if you use the phrase "fresh octopus" one more time, I'm gonna punch you in the fucking face. Duly noted, my irrational friend. But you don't think I'm gonna let a little thing like fresh octopus slow me down? I don't think so. Unlike director Robert Collector, who, for some strange reason, is credited as T.C. Blake, I'm not afraid of this film, which is based on a novella by George R.R. Martin. Just let me check my memory banks, as there just might be something of note to salvage from the experience that is the act of watching this film; weirder things have happened. Yikes! I think I got something.

If there's one thing every women on earth, no matter their age, their race, their sexual orientation, or their marital status, has in common, it's that they all fantasize about having the power to beam a suave, tolerably awkward Englishman into their bedroom or sitting room at the touch of a button. In the 21st century, people will still smoke, say the word "fuck," and use pencils, but advances in holographic technology have reached a point where women have gained the ability to conjure up Englishmen with long, dark hair whenever they please. Okay, it's not that simple. However, in the mind of Miranda (Catherine Mary Stewart), the project coordinator of a deep space mission to find an alien lifeform, it might as well be.

We're suddenly ushered into the vast emptiness of outer space, where meet Miranda, a woman whose head is no doubt filled with thoughts of handsome Englishmen who care about her feelings (unlike those football-watching, North American neanderthals who never seem to be around when your armpits need a good licking), who is riding on a space-train. Where is she going? Duh, she's going to the Avalon Spacesport. With her on the space-train are the rest of the team who have been assembled on the cheap by Dr. D'Brannin (John Standing), a scientist whose spent the last twelve years trying make contact with an alien species called the "Volcrum," at least that's what I think they were called. Anyway, the other members of the team include: Audrey (Lisa Blount), a linguistics expert who, surprisingly, doesn't seen all that interested in being swept off her feet by a debonair Englishmen; Keelor (Glenn Withrow from Pass the Ammo), a recently unglued biologist; Darryl (James Avery) the mission's visual documentarian, and, from what I've heard, one helluva cook; and Lily (Hélène Udy), a cryptologist who works well with computers.

Meeting them at their destination are a couple of empaths, Jon Windermen (Michael Des Barres) and Eliza (Annabel Brooks), who have been brought along in case the aliens lack the means to communicate verbally. The former, besides loving white wine and shoulder padded trenchcoats, is what we in the empath game like to call: a class ten telepath. Which means, he can read the thoughts rattling around in just about anyone's mind. I wonder if Miranda, who also has telepathic abilities, albeit, somewhat limited compared to Windermen, is worried that he might find out that she's got a thing for guys who look like they would have no trouble whatsoever filling in as a member of Spandau Ballet if one of them, oh, let's say, Tony Hadley, happened to suddenly contract osmotic diarrhea after licking a couple of partially played with toy blocks at an unlicensed daycare in Swindon.

I'd just like to say–you know, before they get on board the ship, that the music score by Doug Timm was an excellent slab of synthified goodness if I ever heard one. It's definitely the best thing a guy named Doug has been associated with since the mighty Doug & the Slugs unleashed "Makin' It Work" onto a sluggish populace way back in '82. When I first heard Doug's synthesizer music over the opening credits, I thought that it had a cool Blade Runner vibe about it. These thoughts percolated even more when Miranda gets her eyes scanned at the departure gate, as the contraption they used on her reminded me of the one Dekker uses on Sean Young in the vicinity of an artificial owl.

Okay, enough with the Blade Runner references, let's get these people on board the ship already. Waiting for them in the spacesport is the Nightflyer, a large deep space freighter, which Dr. D'Brannin has chartered to take them out into the far reaches of space. Sporting a network of grandiose passageways, the team make their way to a spacious lounge, a tomb-like monstrosity that causes them to utter sounds like, "ooh," and to say words like, "wow," as they drink in its majesty. The team's visual documnetarian, as I've already pointed out, is quite impressed by the fact the ship's kitchen has fresh octopus. However, as the rest of the team are busy making themselves at home, you'll notice that Miranda is the only one who is not carrying on about the lofty nature of their new digs. Why is this? Is it because she senses something is amiss? Who knows.

After taking off (during which, the team are treated to a planetarium-style light show), they finally meet the ship's captain. Well, they sort of meet him. It would seem that Royd (Michael Praed) has decided to greet his passengers through a holographic projection. As Keelor, Darryl, and Lily are bemoaning the fact they were welcomed aboard by a hologram (a major social faux pas in their eyes), Royd can't seem to take his flickering eyes off Miranda, her blue, sleeveless dress shimmering in the lounge's mustardy glow. And who can blame him, always standing in a manner that reminded me of the work of famed illustrator Patrick Nagel, Miranda exudes a stylish grace. The fixation actually goes both ways, as Miranda seems to be enchanted by the dark-haired hologram. While they were making goo-goo eyes with one another, it was obvious that Miranda was thinking to herself: I'm so glad I decided to wear this particular shade of lipstick today, because Royd totally looks like the kind of guy who digs chicks who wear pale pink lipstick in outer space.

If I was a woman living in the 1980s...actually, scratch that. If I was a woman living during any period of time (era specific hairstyles and fashion trends be damned), I would walk into the nearest hair salon, plant my ample behind into one of the available chairs, cross my legs in a manner that conveyed to the staff that I mean business, and demand that they give me the "Catherine Mary Stewart in Nightflyers" look. Sticking with the whole female consumer theme, I want Miranda's clothes as well, especially that blue shirt she wears in the lounge when the kitchen blows up. Wait a minute, the kitchen blows up?!? Tell me more. Um, excuse me? I was talking about Miranda's shirt. Like, oh my god. How rude. At any rate, where was I? Oh yeah, of course, the shirt. Dotted with these little black symbols, I thought the blue shirt did a terrific job of framing C.M.S.'s face. The only criticism I had with the way Roger Taylor looks heavenward in the music video for Duran Duran's "Planet Earth" is that he isn't wearing a shirt like the one Miranda wears in Nightflyers. Think about it. His adam's apple could have looked even more new romantic had it been paired with a blue shirt.

Donning a white dress shirt with a matching pair of white boots, Miranda decides to get some work done in an isolated stairwell. She may be hidden from the prying eyes of her fellow team members, but she can't escape Royd, who can pretty much transmit himself to any part of the ship he wants. Impressed by her self-assurance, Royd opens up to Miranda (he admires her outgoing attitude). Sure, he doesn't tell her how he manages to keep his hair so silky smooth in outer space, but he does tell her that he was raised by the ship's computer. Spending his entire life on board the giant freighter, the hemmed in Royd wishes to leave, but his mother (who downloaded her soul into the ship's computer before she died) refuses to let him. And it's this mother-son tug of war that causes the majority of the drama in Nightflyers, as his desire to live a more human existence (enjoy a game of tennis, smear his pet beaver with marmalade, go record shopping, etc.) clashes with her decidedly misanthropic outlook.

The ship's computer, lacking the physical means to generate substantive change, uses Jon Winderman's telepathic brain as a conduit to stir up trouble. On top of exploiting his mental abilities, it also made sense for the computer to use him since he was the only one who felt the "malignant presence" of Royd's dead mother. As he is slowly taken over by the demonic motherboard, you'll notice that Michael Des Barres' performance goes from being mildly campy ("the ship is alive!") to extremely campy (check out the scream face he employs when he comes face-to-face with Royd's mother in a dream). I'm afraid the same can't be said for the rest of the cast, who basically, like the Nightflyer itself, drift aimlessly through the proceedings in a joyless haze. Only Glenn Withrow appears to be putting forth any effort as Keelor, a character who seems to be channeling Hudson from Aliens. Personal fave, Hélène Udy (Pinball Summer and Pin) utters a few lines here and there while staring at a computer screen, but her contribution is negligible. (Quirky fun fact: Nightflyers and her guest appearance on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine are the only instances, at least to my knowledge, where Miss Udy is credited as "Hélène." In most cases, she's listed as plain old Helene.)

If you're a fan of Catherine Mary Stewart, especially when she looks up, you'll definitely want to check out Nightflyers, as it's the best film in its class when it comes to showcasing the pride of Edmonton, Alberta gazing in an upwardly direction. Granted, some people will say Night of the Comet is the preeminent film in the rarely talked about "which film features Catherine Mary Stewart looking up more sweepstakes," some might even chime in by saying The Last Starfighter is the look up king. But the sane amongst us will no doubt agree that Nightflyers has got it going on in terms of Miss Stewart looking toward the sky.

On top of looking fabulous while looking up, Catherine Mary Stewart is a walking, talking style icon as Miranda, a role model for fashion-forward women the world over. Since I've already made it abundantly clear that I want to be her, let's give some love to costume designer Brad R. Loman and hair stylist Kay Cole for creating the plethora of exhilarating ensembles and hairstyles Miranda wears throughout this movie. Of course, they weren't exhilarating in the same way the hair and the clothes were in, oh, let's say, Liquid Sky (when in doubt, reference Liquid Sky), but they're no less chic.

A talkie version of Alien, Nightyflyers, a film that could have easily been called "Motherboard 2: The Possession," is a moderately interesting glob of sci-fi/horror (the film is surprisingly gory in places) that is repeatedly weighed down by its clunky script. Nevertheless, director Robert Collector, who according to IMDb: "left the production before the film's editing was completed, and requested that his name not appear in the credits" does have a flair for filming dramatic scenes in hallways and around bulkheads (the scene where the faces of Miranda and Jon Windermen are bathed in blue light while everything else was bathed in red was pretty cool). Recommended to fans of Catherine Mary Stewart and Vangelis, as for everyone else, stick with the Alien movies.

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Pinball Summer (George Mihalka, 1980)

The sight of a haphazardly placed American flag languishing in the corner of a beaten-up gymnasium was the exact moment I knew this film was germinated on Canadian soil. Of course, I was already keenly aware in advance that is was a purely Canuck venture. I mean, really? Would the insanely adorable, Albuquerque born Hélène Udy (One Night Only) ever appear in a motion picture that takes place in the United States of America? I don't think so. But nonetheless, the manner in which Old Glory was thrown in a corner immediately clued me in as to what Pinball Summer (a.k.a. Pick-up Summer and Pinball Pick-up) was trying convey. And that is that nationalism, and all that nonsense that goes along with it, is unimportant when attempting to outsmart an unruly gang of bikers, sustain and employ a multitude of ambidextrous hard-ons, win a prestigious trophy that signifies greatness in the field of pinball, and badger a blithering git who owns an Excalibur (the car Linda Blair drives in Roller Boogie) all during the course of a single summer. Utilizing the well-worn, pop music accentuated driving montage followed by some plot massaging dialogue with a dash of conflict credo, the essence of this George Mihalka (My Bloody Valentine) directed venture resembles almost every other aimless movie made during this righteous era (the film definitely has a lot in common with its American cousins: The Van, Van Nuys Blvd., The Pom Pom Girls, and Malibu Beach). Except, this particular enterprise seemed extra determined to celebrate the wonders of nothingness.

If you think I'm kidding, the actual plot involves a pinball trophy. One that a biker named Bert (Thomas Kovacs) desperately wants to own. So much so, that he spends most of the movie trying to steal it. In hindsight, Bert probably could have won it legitimately–you know, had he spent a little more time practicing and a little less time scheming.

The main target of Bert's scheming seemed to centre around manipulation a pathetic figure named Whimpy (Joey McNamara), a tubby outsider who is in love with Bert's girlfriend Sally (Joy Boushel). Promising to except him as a member of his gang after the completion of certain tasks, the nefariousness biker uses Whimpy's innate vulnerability to get what he wants. Which, as I've already stated, revolves chiefly around the winning of a pinball trophy.

Unwilling to allow Wimpy to defile Sally's wonderfully freckled physique, Bert sets up an unsavoury rendezvous with Tracy (Eve Robin), a genial demimondaine.

Maybe it's a classic example of Canadians trying to overcompensate, but in terms of promoting nihilism, I don't think I've seen a film so hellbent on destroying the very fabric of society. The main characters don't just belittle those who have goals and aspirations, they even openly mock the so-called rebellious citizens who inhabit their pathetically assembled excuse for a universe.

A prime example of this wanton belittlement is when we see van enthusiasts (i.e. exalted trailblazers when it comes to staying mobile during the fiery afterglow of the atomic hereafter), Greg (Michael Zelniker) and Steve (Carl Marotte), the supposed champions of the piece, take an unhealthy glee in tormenting Rod (Matthew Stevens) and Pam (Sue Ronne). Whether parked outside the diner, the arcade, or at the drive-in, Rod is bullied without mercy.

Sure, he's an uppity pratt, but there's no way he deserved the kind of harassment he endures in this film. It's true, I have no idea what transpired during the school year–Rod could have been a mammoth nozzle containing many douche-like properties in class. Either way, getting your tailpipe stuffed with three hot dogs, one hamburger, an entire pizza, and a loose smattering of popcorn is pretty harsh punishment for being a pompous ass.

The tactile nature of pinball and the lived in quality of the flesh the characters wear throughout this cinematic composition gave the proceedings a strong physical temperament; a disposition that I find to be severely lacking in the modern day aesthetical spectrum. The pelvic relationship one has while playing pinball communicates such a distinctly copulatory aura, that even the most shiftless of viewer could have picked it up without expelling much mental exertion. Each frustrated hump you hurl towards the flickering wood and glass case is tantamount to witnessing a psychosexual maelstrom. The thrusting represents fertilization and the racking up of points symbolizes the increase in population. As in, every point earned is a sentient being that you and the game have sired.

One's desire to see unclothed bodies (specifically female breasts, genitals, the subtle fracture of a backside) cavort in a shameless display of nakedness is repeatedly rendered obsolete. Which begs the question: Is the sight of an uncovered human female breast still important? I guess. Yet, it's that doubt that makes the film so successful as a flavourful slice of frivolity; one that just happens to celebrate spiritual autonomy and use arcade gaming as a metaphor for procreation.

Unequivocally proving that you don't need nude torsos engaging in acts of dehumanizing debasement to make something sexy, Pinball Summer (a.k.a. L'Arcade des cinglés) brilliantly teases the dampish reproductive organs of its sophisticated audience by aggressively employing the fabric-depleted clothing of the period.

You see, by leaving certain areas covered with small bits of denim and polyester, our interest in the regions that are uncovered only manages to increase in size.

I guarantee that all your crotch-based inclinations will be so fixated on Joy Boushel's exquisite thighs and freckled arms, that you will be letting out exaggerated yawns by the time she rips off her leopard print bikini top during an impromptu game of strip pinball at a backyard pool party.

Okay, maybe that's a little far-fetched–her boobs are quite resilient. However, that doesn't mean Karen Stephen and Hélène Udy don't shine bright in the scantily clad department as Donna and Suzy, the lovely gal pals of Greg and Steve. Always informally dressed, yet never undignified, Karen and Hélène make terrific use of their legs in series of lackadaisical montages that exemplify the importance of adhering to the leisurely values that make this nation soar upwards.

I also liked the way Donna and Suzy were constantly being thrown around by Greg and Steve. Not in a violent way, but in a playful, let's toss these petite women around like half-inflated sex dolls, kinda way.

However, the cushy, toss-friendly nature of their relationship is severely tested when Donna and Suzy are driven home by a suave fella in a white Corvette Stingray Coupe after a night of hot disco dancing at the Oz Club. It's too bad Greg and Steve are a part of that whole misguided disco sucks movement, because instead of harassing their nemesis (parthenogenesis) in the Excalibur at O.J.'s Drive-In, their lame asses should have been at the disco with their girlfriends.

Meanwhile, over at Pete's Arcade, the competition is heating up, as Joan (Joan Garnett), Lynn (Dawn Dowling), Brenda (Brenda Claire Hall), Kathy (Kathy Pedersen), Sally (Joy Boushel), Suzy (Hélène Udy), and Donna (Karen Stephen) all vie for the title of "Pinball Queen."

Judging the ladies via a device called the "clap-o-meter," my heart sank when Joan's beautiful body seemed to barely register on it. I'm no conspiracy theorist, but I think the contest was rigged. Either that or the unwashed rabble assembled at Pete's have no idea how to properly appreciate a delicious set of calves.

The fact that a television set is clearly shown in the "off" position (in other words, there was no picture being transmitted) and the drive-in movie the characters go to see was basically ignored signified to me that these people are not spectators, but fully integrated members of society. Sure, they're slowly sowing its downfall, but they're having an absolute blast doing so. A sobering message, if you ask me. But please don't, my brain is 93% belly button lint.

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One Night Only (Timothy Bond, 1986)

Is it possible to prostitute yourself for money, yet still maintain the structural integrity of your feminist ideals? Well, according to One Night Only, the Robert Lantos-Stephen J. Roth (that's right, the same two guys who brought us the magnificent Perfect Timing) co-production, you most certainly can. A rare sexploitation farce, in that, it's filled with strong female characters who think for themselves, this Timothy Bond-directed undertaking may seem dumb and pointless on the surface, but bubbling underneath all that stupidity lies a veil of unexpected intelligence. Drenched in the kind of playful nudity you'd expect in a film like this (the enchanting Chantale Perron provides a large chunk of this nudity during a boisterous strip routine), and, of course, boasting many scenes of outlandish 1980s-style revelry, One Night Only is probably the best sex comedy I've ever seen with the words, 'One,' 'Night' and 'Only' in its title. I mean, not only does it feature multiple instances where attractive women are seen cavorting about in a series of semi-degrading situations, but it also features... Actually, that's pretty much it. And, to be quite honest with you, I'd be cool with that, if it were in fact true. In other words, it's got more going for it than you might think. Possessing a positive, morally centered message, the film, while a little unfair to those born with tiny penises, proves that just because it's the middle of winter and you're stuck in a dead end job, doesn't mean you can't seize an opportunity when it presents itself, especially when a ghastly pimp drops one squarely in your lap.

The film's elaborate and highly intricate plot follows a day-in-the-life of Anne McGraw, a wide-eyed waitress/university student (played by the delectable Lenore Zann). One afternoon, while collecting her tips, Anne overhears a hockey coach making plans for a raunchy post-game soiree with a switchblade-carrying pimp in a booth near her station. The plan is to let his players unwind with some floozy-based frivolity at an undisclosed location. Being the opportunist that she is (the coach is willing to pay big time to get his team "serviced"), Anne, right, then, and there, decides to commandeer the hockey party. And thanks to her best friend Suzanne (Hélène Udy), and a couple of well-placed phone calls, the sex-filled, booze-soaked hockey player shindig is now under her plucky control.

Now that they've got themselves a swanky location–Anne's beguiling, genteel sister, Elizabeth (the gorgeous Judy Foster, a Roxy Music album cover model, if I ever saw one), came through at the last minute, all they need to do now is buy some bawdy outfits (a quick trip to the lingerie store should do the trick), scrounge up some prostitutes (downtown Montréal is apparently crawling with them), brush up on their hooker lingo, Louella (Taborah Johnson), gives the non-prostitutes a speedy refresher course, and they should be good to go. Only problem is, the original pimp, a real scumbag named Wenko (Hrant Alianak), isn't gonna be too pleased when he finds out that his cocaine-enhanced sex romp has been hijacked by a bunch of upstart sorority sisters.

You shouldn't underestimate the power of Celine (Kathy Bain) and her super-sexy outfit, which was clearly inspired by the uniform of Les Canadiens de Montréal (I have no doubt that her red, white, and blue thigh-high socks will drive all the sexually attune sports fans in the audience wild). A friend of Anne and Suzanne, in fact, she's the only friend who bothered show up to help the girls in their time of need, Celine's alluring, thong-affixed presence during the film's party scenes was felt at every level.

The hockey team's manager, Mac (Jeff Braunstein) has one stipulation for the party: He must get his "special treatment" or else he won't pay. A bizarre fantasy he needs performed on him at the stroke of midnight, the so-called "scary cave" involves a miner's hat, an adult diaper, a motherly figure, fifteen or so leggy women standing with their legs apart in a dark hallway, and several pairs sequin-covered panties. (Several pairs of sequin-covered panties, you say? Uh, obviously they'll be needing at least fifteen pairs. Idiot!). Anyway, the scary cave sequence was truly inspired in its awkward depravity. I was literally aghast, okay, more like, in awe, as Mac slowly made his through the fleshy leg tunnel.

Meanwhile, back at the sorority house, a prissy (she finds the lewd antics of Anne and Suzanne to be totally beneath her) psychology student named Jane (Wendy Lands), has to, thanks to antics of the aforementioned ladies, contend with Jamie, a perverted hockey player who's in love with Anne (they're cousins, by the way); Jamie's born again police officer father (Ken James) from across the border in Plattsburgh; and Wenko the pimp.

After catching James spying on her while she read Mourning Becomes Electra in the bathtub, Jane sends the horny forward over to Anne's party (which is where he'd rather be, anyway). But not before giving him another peek at one of her delicious nipples (her left breast slips out of her robe while she was chasing Jamie around the house). However, her problems have just begun. A sleazy pimp, who threatens to kill Jane with his trusty switchblade, wants to know what happened to his party, and the cop, who threatens to kill Jane with a trusty pistol (which he keeps it in his Holy Bible), wants to know where his son is.

The lovely Lenore Zann (Visiting Hours) is a real charmer as Anne, the waitress/law student turned pimp. Sporting the dreamiest eyes (I'd could stare into them for hours), wearing the blackest stockings I have ever see, and blessed with a jiggle-friendly pair of fleshy protrusions (they were just screaming to escape from the tight grip of their gold lamé prison), Lenore employs her perky naivete like it were a blunt object. In fact, her performance is so endearing, that I almost threw a stale cookie across the room at one point to protest the sheer power of her undiluted awesomeness.

A spirited Hélène Udy (Pinball Summer) brings a lot of the comic relief to the proceedings as Suzanne, Anne's fun-loving gal pal. Regularly deflated by the fact that most of the hockey players at the party have small dicks, Miss Udy's character longs for a man who can properly satisfy her carnal hunger. The exasperated expression she wears on her face after each dinky wiener is revealed was mildly hilarious. Her persistence when it comes to finding a cock worthy enough to breach the gates of her pristine vagina finally pays off when she meets Johnny-O (Martin Neufeld), a well-hung hockey player who takes the game a little too seriously.

Oh, and I like how fornicating with your cousin (Geoffrey MacKay) never becomes an issue in this film. For example, no one ever chimes in to say, "Ewww!" or ask, "Why are you fucking your cousin?" It kinda makes ya proud to be Canadian.

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