Dune (David Lynch, 1984)

Call me crazy, but I think there might be a connection between the spice and the worms. What that connection is, I'm not entirely sure. But what I do know is... Oh, wait. Virginia Madsen has started talking again. Just a second... Okay, I think she's done. All right, where was I? Ah, yes, the spice and the worms of Arrakis, a sort of spice planet. Since the discovery of the spice back in the year who gives a shit, humanity has longed to control the spice. In fact, according to Baron... What the fuck! (What happened?) You won't believe this, but Virginia Madsen has started talking again. It's my fault. I mean, I had three options at my disposal when it came to watching Dune for the very first time the other night. The first option was the theatrical cut. I said, no way, I ain't watching that. The second option was the extended cut. This option seemed tempting, but director David Lynch famously had his name removed from this version of the film, so, I passed on it. The third option was something called "The Work-print Cut." Cobbled together by a fan(s) of the film, the work-print cut combines both the theatrical cut and the extended cut and uses the notes of David Lynch as a sort of guidepost... I think. Now, I'm not sure if Virginia Madsen's opening slab of exposition is longer in this version. Nevertheless, I just sat through three hours of Dune, and my mind is... throbbing like one of those pulsating pus-laden cysts that litter the right side Baron Vladimir Harkonnen's greasy face. I'm no dermatologist, but I think  Baron Vladimir Harkonnen should start washing with soap that contains tea tree oil. I've read that it helps remove sebum from the skin, thus preventing the chances of your pores from becoming clogged.

Yes, I realize that  Baron Vladimir Harkonnen already has a doctor, played by Leonardo Cimino, who is currently treating his severe case of space acne. But he isn't doing a very good job, now is he?

While I could talk about the Baron's clogged pores for hours on end, Dune isn't really about space acne. It's about spice, baby.

However, it's the acne plagued Baron Harkonnen who says so succinctly at one point: "He who controls the spice, controls the universe."

While the Baron (Kenneth McMillan), the ruler of Giedi Prime and the leader of House Harkonnen, wants to control the spice. He is, actually, under the control of Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV (José Ferrer), the leader of the Known Universe, who resides on the Planet Kaitain. When Duke Leto Atreides (Jürgen Prochnow), the leader of House Atreides on the Planet Caladan, takes over the Planet Arrakis, a.k.a. Spice World, this enrages the Baron, who, along with his demented sons/gay lovers, Feyd (Sting) and The Beast Rabban (Paul L. Smith), plots to bring down House Atreides, and takeover spice production on the Planet Arrakis.

In-between all this scheming, lot's of weird ass nonsense takes place.

Now, with so many planets and so many characters to keep track of, it's easy to see how someone might get lost.

In order to prevent this from happening, we end up spending the bulk of our time following Paul Atreides (Kyle MacLachlan), the duke's son.

I know, what kind of name for a kid is "Paul"? But then again, his mom's name is Jessica (Francesca Annis). What I mean is, in a film populated by characters with names like, Shadout Mapes (Linda Hunt), a shadowy Fremen housekeeper who is always carrying a crysknife, Thufir Hawat (Freddie Jones), House Atreides' bushy-browed head of security, and Gurney Halleck (Patrick Stewart), Warmaster for House Atreides, Paul and Jessica seem out of place.

While the story of Paul's rise from being a wide-eyed duke in training to a spice worm-riding God is super compelling, I couldn't help but be obsessed by the oft-kilter goings-on transpiring on Giedi Prime, the home of House Harkonnen.

Don't get me wrong, Planet Caladan is loaded with talented actors. The aforementioned Jürgen Prochnow, Kyle MacLachlan, Patrick Stewart and Freddie Jones, for example, are all great. As are, Richard Jordan and Dean Stockwell, who plays Doctor Yueh. But Giedi Prime has Kenneth McMillan as the awful Baron Harkonnen, a balloon-shaped tyrant covered in cysts, Jack Nance as Nefud, a Harkonnen lackey...

...Paul L. Smith (Pieces) as The Beast Rabban, a disgustingly vile man who sweats pure evil, Sting as Feyd, a lanky ginger who digs knives and loves doing crunches (the entire planet, by the way, is populated by redheads), and, my personal favourite, Brad Dourif as Piter De Vries (his "juice of sapho" monologue was glorious), the Baron's right hand man, who, strangely enough, doesn't have red hair (edit: Piter de Vries is a Mentat, a human computer employed by House Harkonnen).

Okay, now that you got the image of all those repugnant motherfuckers in your head. Imagine them all in the same green-walled room. I don't know 'bout you, but watching a bunch of repugnant motherfuckers acting all gross 'n' junk was kind of awesome. Did I feel sad whenever the Baron's undulating cysts weren't onscreen? In a way, yes. Yes, I did. There's something about these rupugnant motherfuckers that was quite appealing.

And that appeal seemed to go through the roof when the Baron drains/fucks/absorbs... um... Whatever the Baron did to that boy-toy, who was, for some reason, planting fake purple flowers at gun point, was tremendously discombobulating.

Actually, now that I think about it, if you were to ask me to describe Dune using only two words, I would say it was: tremendously discombobulating. Yeah, I like that.

Kooky wordplay aside. Even though three hours might seem a tad excessive, I couldn't help but be sucked into this unnecessarily complicated world of spice and giant worms. And, in a bizarre twist, I ended up rooting for Paul to defeat my beloved Baron. It's bizarre because I usually loathe these bland Luke Skywalker types. But there was something different going on here. Or maybe it's because Kyle MacLachlan (Showgirls) is awesome. There you go.

I've always wanted to review a David Lynch movie on here. Why I haven't done one is a bit of a mystery. One day, I asked a friend: If I was going to review a David Lynch film, which one should I do? And, without hesitation, they said, Dune. After thinking about it for, oh, I don't know, five whole seconds, I said: You're absolutely right. Dune it is.

Quirky fun-fact: My only connection to Dune up until this point was through the early 1990s techno rave scene. You see, a U.K. techno project called "EON" released two tracks back in '91. And both, "Spice" and "Fear Is the Mind-Killer," sample the movie rather heavily. The spice must flow.

Hurricane Smith (Colin Budds, 1992)

Did anyone else find it odd that a black man, a black American  man, is greeted at the airport by two women without booties? (They must have had some booty?) I don't think so. Aerobicized to the point of nonexistence, the booties attached to the two blonde Australian women who welcome Carl Weathers to Gold Coast by handing him a stuffed Koala Bear and giving him a peck on the cheek were as flat as a board. Now, I'm not trying to body shame these two ladies by pointing out the minuscule nature of their respective booties. I'm just saying, Carl Weathers looks like the kind of guy who likes a little junk in the trunk. If you know what I mean. (Yeah, I think we all know what you mean. You openly ridicule two Aussie women from 1992 for not having "booties" and you're a racist who thinks all black men like big butts.) Hey, man. I'm just going by what esteemed linguist Sir Mix-a-Lot taught us back in, coincidentally, 1992. (He actually raps, "I like big butts." Not, "All black men like big butts.") True, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and declare that Carl Weathers' character, Billy Ray 'Hurricane' Smith, in Hurricane Smith likes his asses to be as thick as Tallahassee molasses.

You can clearly see it on his face every time an Australian person would say to him, "No worries, mate." I mean, if anything, he's got nothing but worries. Think about it. The first women he comes across on this kooky continent are sporting absolutely no oomph in the bum department (which does nothing for his slumbering trouser anaconda). But most worrying of all, his sister is missing. So, no worries, mate? More like, lot's of worries, mate, or, a shitload of worries, mate.

What the Gold Coast airport lacks in big bootied greeters, the rest of the city makes up for it with its robust leggy floozy population.

Of course, I don't mean to imply that the entire city is teeming with leggy floozies (on the contrary, the city seems to have a nice balance between those who are leggy floozies and those who are not... leggy floozies). I'm just saying, Billy Ray 'Hurricane' Smith seems to have hit the leggy floozy jackpot. Check this out: the first house he stumbles upon upon arriving in Queensland happens to contain the mother of all leggy floozies.

While most non-leggy floozies like to lounge around their places of residence eating Aussie Cheetos (each bag comes with a complementary tub of Vegimite - mmm, dark brown food paste) in hole-ridden sweatpants and ratty bathrobes (watching Neighbours, no doubt), leggy floozies like to slink about in black lace teddies and black nylons... and black heels.

Lucky guy. I mean, one moment he's a humble construction worker from Marshall, Texas, U.S.A., the next he's in Australia playing two-up, wooing leggy floozies and being called a "septic" by the locals. Now, you could classify Billy Ray 'Hurricane' Smith (Carl Weathers) as your classic fish out of water. But I wouldn't recommend doing that. You see, Billy Ray wants to find his sister (who was last seen in the resort town of Gold Coast), and, by the looks of things, he's in no mood for overused idioms.

Using clues he obtained from his sisters letters and postcards, Billy Ray ends up at the door of Julie (Cassandra Delaney, Fair Game), a leggy floozy/prostitute. Well, it's not really her door, she just works there... Anyway, Julie, who initially mistakes Billy Ray for a client, seems willing to help the handsome septic in the white jean jacket find his sestra ("septic," by the way, is Aussie slang for Americans and "sestra" is the Ukrainglish word for "sister" - Orphan Black is my shit!!!!). After all, Julie and his sestra, I mean, sister, knew one another before she went missing. However, just as Julie is about to fix Billy Ray a drink, Shanks (David Argue), Julie's "manager," storms in and sends Billy Ray packing.

If you're wondering what the difference between a leggy floozy and prostitute is. It's simple, really. A leggy floozy is what you call a female prostitute when she's not having sex for money. So, if you see a prostitute sitting in, let's say, a bar, she's actually a leggy floozy. On the other hand, if you spot the very same leggy floozy in the alleyway behind the bar she was just sitting in inhaling a man's cock with her mouth, she's now a prostitute. Any questions?

Oh, and the reason I didn't call Shanks Julie's pimp is because I didn't want to make Charlie Dowd (Jürgen Prochnow), Julie's actual pimp, cross. Trust me, he's not someone you want to make cross. Besides, I don't think Shanks has what it takes to be a pimp. I mean, look at how understanding he is when Julie tells him that she doesn't feel like having sex with Mr. Nelson, a regular who had an appointment. Pimps are not understanding.

Undeterred by what transpired at Julie's brothel, Billy Ray breaks into Charlie Dowd's beach house to look for clues. Only problem being, Charlie Dowd, Shanks, some henchmen and a ton of leggy floozies show up for a party.

As Billy Ray is poking around upstairs and Charlie Dowd is giving Shanks a refresher course on how to be a pimp, you'll notice that you can see the stocking tops of one of the leggy floozies. At first I thought: Oh, the reason you can see the tops of her stockings is because she's sitting in a manner that is conducive to stocking top display. But that's just it, she wasn't sitting down.

You know what that means, right? Exactly. The top portion of the stockings attached to the legs that belong to Rochelle (Suzie MacKenzie), "Ro" to her fellow leggy floozies, are always visible. Yep, you heard right. I said, always visible.

Whether she's changing a flat tire, doing jumping jacks in the rain, cramming for an algebra exam... in the rain, buying a new toothbrush, listening to the radio while lying in a hammock, painting a self-portrait, or putting another shrimp on the barbie, the tops of Ro's stockings will always be visible.

In an ironic twist, Ro can be seen sitting at a bar in the next scene. How is that an ironic twist, you ask? Well, if you had been paying attention earlier, you would have noticed that I basically said that sitting at a bar is what leggy floozies do best. And, I have to say, after watching Ro sit at a bar for a minute or two, I'm going to have to agree with myself. Leggy floozies and bar sitting go hand and hand.

Getting back to the plot for second. When Jürgen Prochnow (I didn't buy that his name was "Charlie Dowd" for a second - Jürgen is such a Jürgen) gets wind that an American is snooping around his criminal enterprise, and that Julie might be helping him, he sets in a motion a series of events designed to stop these unwanted incursions into his affairs.

Animal lovers beware, one of these so-called "series of events" involves the murder of an Australian cattle dog.

While I'm happy to report that no leggy floozies were harmed during the making of this movie, the same can't be said for stylish gangster's molls with fluctuating loyalties. It should come as no surprise, but it would seem that dating German-accented Aussie crime bosses who pimp on the side can be bad for your health.

Oh, and if you doubt my claim that she's stylish. All you have to do is take a look at the red blazer she wears at the horse track.

Sticking with fashion. Fans of volumizing scrunchies will want to keep an eye out for the blonde extra who appears in two scenes. That's right, I said two scenes.

You can see her in a crowd when Billy Ray and Julie are walking down the street and again when Billy Ray and Julie stop at a cafe to discuss strategy.

In closing: I like Carl Weathers, I loved the sudden influx of leggy floozies, David Argue is funny at times as Shanks (the fact that he wore a Warrant t-shirt helped a bit - Warrant apparel = Comedy gold), Cassandra Delaney is hot and I learned a little bit about Aussie culture.

The Keep (Michael Mann, 1983)

This is definitely not your grandfather's World War II movie. What am I talking about it? This is probably not your father's World War II movie, either, and he wasn't even alive during the war; the only action he ever saw involved a somewhat heated argument pertaining to a pastrami sandwich and its perceived lack of mustard. Yes, it's true. I'm usually the first one to get their cotton panties in a bunch over World War II movies that deviate from the history books. But with The Keep (a.k.a. La Forteresse Noire), Michael Mann's metaphysical, Faustian, Naziploitation-esque follow up to Thief, I think I'm gonna keep my panties where they belong. You know this version of the war that defined a century is going to different straight out the gate. How so, you ask? Well, we get a close-up shot of the rain-soaked tank treads on an armoured troop carrier grinding away on a muddled road paired with the music of Tangerine Dream, that's how. Think of all the war movies you have seen over the years. Okay, now try to recall one that featured tank treads and lush synthesizer music. You know why you're not coming up with anything? That's because there's never been a film like this. Transporting the action from the location of his previous film (the neon-adorned streets of early 1980s Chicago) to the mist-laden forests of Romania circa 1943 was actually a lot smoother than you would think. In Thief, Michael Mann uses the safes and vaults the protagonist repeatedly breaks into as a metaphor for his spiritual confinement. However, in The Keep, based on the novel by F. Paul Wilson, the antagonist, a mysterious entity that lives inside an ancient citadel, wants to leave its prison-like walls. In other words, one man needs to enter a box to attain freedom, while another needs to vacate one. And this ain't no ordinary box, it's a large fortress in a small village in the Carpathian Mountains. The connection between the two films hits its zenith when we watch two Wehermacht soldiers attempting to steal one of the many what they perceive to be silver crosses (they're actually made out of nickle) that cover the walls of the keep, as it reminded me of James Caan's antics from Thief. Only difference being, James Caan didn't get his soul sucked out of his mouth, eyes, and ears by a thousand year-old demon. Or, at least I don't think he did.
 

 

Rumbling through the forest, a modest convey of military vehicles enter a village. And while that might sound like a routine way to start a movie, the step up is filled with enough unique flourishes to satisfy even the most jaded of film fans. A close up of a cigar being lit, steely pair of piercing blues eyes, trees, mud, an ominous sky, trucks filled with Germans, and, of course, Tangerine Dream's thundering music on the soundtrack, The Keep immediately establishes itself as a Michael Mann film. Welcome to the Dinu Pass in Romania, it's 1943, and a group of German soldiers, lead by Captain Klaus Woermann (Jürgen Prochnow) have been told to occupy a keep.
 

 

Entering it in dramatic fashion, Klaus meets Alexandru (William Morgan Sheppard), the caretaker, who gives him a vague history lesson about its origins. Meaning, he doesn't really tell him anything. Oh, sure, he tells him there are 108 crosses made out of nickle on the walls, and that no-one ever stays here. Curious about the latter, Klaus asks if the reason no-one ever spends the night has anything to do with ghosts or demons, to which the caretaker replies: no, not ghosts. You'll notice that he didn't include "demons" in his answer to Klaus's query. Interesting. Anyway, the rest of his men enter the keep and begin to set up shop.
 

 

Thinking the crosses are made out of silver, two Klaus's men start tamper with them. Still giving Klaus the tour, Alexandru catches wind of this tampering, and tells them: "Never touch the crosses! Never!" I loved the way Sheppard delivered this line. In fact, if I was in an industrial band, I would have suggested that we sample it on one of our songs. Yeah, that's right. It's that powerful of a delivery. We get a shot of the creepy, forbidding sky above the keep shortly after he makes this cross-based proclamation, which can't be a good sign.
 

 

Do you have a thing for German soldiers who walk in slow motion while wearing camouflage rain gear? What kind question is that? Of course I do. The better question would be: Who doesn't? Well then, have I got a treat for you. The two soldiers who were messing with the crosses are assigned to night watch as punishment. Obviously unfazed by the caretaker's dire warning, the two soldiers decide to take another crack at the crosses. Still convinced that they're made out of silver, they successfully remove one of them from the wall. Unveiling a narrow passageway, one of the soldiers, determined to find more silver, enters the passageway. And I don't have to tell you what happens next. That's right, Scott Glenn wakes up in a flophouse in Greece and his eyes begin to glow. What the fuck?!? You heard me. Your greed has awoken a slumbering Scott Glenn.
 

 

If you thought watching two Germans in camouflage rain gear poking around inside a cavernous corridor set to the music of Tangerine Dream was super-cool, than you clearly haven't experienced the sight of a glowy-eyed Scott Glenn packing his bags and hoping aboard a boat to Romania set to the music of Tangerine Dream, as there's nothing cooler than Scott Glenn when he's on the move. The synths! The water! The sky! The Scott Glenn! Who would have thought that a simple shot of a boat floating on the water could be so freaking compelling? Not me, that's for sure. And I'm the de facto president of the Tangerine Dream Nautical Appreciation Society.
 

 

Who or what killed those greedy, cross-tampering Germans in the keep? It's a mystery. Well, it's not a mystery to Klaus's superiors, who decide to send in re-enforcements to help Klaus battle partisans. Wait a minute. Partisans? Yeah, they think the two soldiers were killed by partisans, so they send an  SS officer named Major Kaempffer (Gabriel Byrne) and merry band of Einsatzgruppen. The contrast between Klaus's relatively uneventful arrival and Kaimpffer's was immediate, as the SS execute three local men without delay. This contrast in styles plays out throughout the film, as Prochnow and Byrne constantly clash with one another over the future of Germany. You could see their relationship as the battle between the sane, rational Germany and the Germany that is insane and irrational. I don't have tell you which Germany one won out in the end. Neither, as the cemeteries (and roadside shallow graves) were filled with both by war's end.
 

 

A message written in an unknown language has suddenly appeared on the wall of the keep, and it has the Germans flummoxed. The town's priest Father Mihail Ionescu (Robert Prosky) has no idea what it says, as it's written in a combination of Cyrillic and Latin. There is, however, a man, a Jewish man, who can translate it, but he's currently "living" in a concentration camp with his smoking hot daughter. Convinced that it would be in their best interest to seek out this man's linguistic talents, the Germans "welcome" Dr. Theodore Cuza (Ian McKellen) and his daughter Eva (Alberta Watson) to the keep with open yet suspicious arms.
 

 

Meanwhile, Scott Glenn, whose character is actually called "Glaeken Trismegestus," but I like to call him, "Scott Glenn," is whizzing through the verdant Romanian countryside on his motorcycle. I was pleased to see that the producers made an effort to get authentic-looking Romanian military uniforms for the guards who man the check point Scott Glenn comes across on his journey, as little details like that are usually ignored. At any rate, Scott Glenn makes his eyes glow and junk when one of the guards tries to sass him, which, of course, causes the sassy guard to freak out.
 

 

In case you haven't figured it out yet, nothing, not even poorly applied sass, is gonna stop Scott Glenn from reaching his destination. On top confronting evil forces, Scott Glenn has the throbbing confines of Alberta Watson's exceedingly moist pussy waiting for him on a crotch-based platter. Wait. You didn't think Alberta Watson was gonna let a bunch of Wehrmacht soldiers and Nazi thugs grope her tan, Tin Drum-esque stockings, did you? Oh, sure, a couple of the latter try to grope their delicate softness using force, but their heads are quickly blown up by Radu Molasar, the actual name of the keep's mysterious creature, before they can start. With each head he blows up (some of which are blown up real good), Radu Molasar becomes stronger, more powerful. However, he needs a human to assist his transformation from a skinless smoke monster to a fully-formed golem, and chooses Dr. Kuza, because he's weak and feeble, and has it in for the Germans, particularly the one's wearing black.
 

 

Curing Dr. Kuza of his many ailments (his skin was sickly) simply by touching him (the makers of Altered States called, they want their special effects back), Molasar enlists the newly spry linguistics professor to help procure a talisman, one that will enable him to leave the keep. Of course, he doesn't realize yet, but Scott Glenn and his bony ass are on a collision course.   
 

 

As with the majority of Michael Mann's films, The Keep is completely devoid of humour and mirth. Yet, that doesn't mean you won't find yourself giggling like a school girl who giggles at the sight of Scott Glenn wielding a giant pink glow stick. You heard right. A supreme evil is about to be unwittingly unleashed onto the world by Sir Ian McKellen, and the only way to stop it is for Scott Glenn to blast it with a pink ray of pure fabulousness while the music of Tangerine Dream blasts on the soundtrack. It's moments like this that caused to me to become inexplicably enamoured with this film. Serious as a heart attack, yet, at same time, extremely weird (Scott Glenn and Alberta Watson have Tantric sex at one point), the sometimes hokey gothic-style chiller will leave you perplexed and mildly entertained.

 
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Special thanks to Shaun [The Celluloid Highway] for recommending this strange little movie.