Trash (Paul Morrissey, 1970)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Women in Revolt (Paul Morrissey, 1971)

Whether they're dangling indoors or dangling outdoors, the sight of male genitalia flopping freely without the support of a two-pronged hammock always makes me nervous. How nervous, you reluctantly ask? Let's say one minute you're sitting on the couch watching your boyfriend mirthfully skip to the fridge to get some more horseradish. Sounds innocent enough, right? Well, you won't be thinking it's so innocent the moment you find yourself desperately trying to stem the flow of blood gushing from between their legs with the latest issue of Italian Vogue. Accidentally slicing off a substantial chunk of their cherished junk as a result of tripping and falling crotch-first into one of the sharper-than-usual corners of your expensive coffee table, you calmly pick up the pieces and proceed to drive them to the emergency room. First off, you're probably thinking to yourself: why are the corners of their coffee table so damned sharp? But more importantly, you'll be cursing the delicate nature of the male reproductive system (why couldn't my boyfriend have a vagina?!?). Which reminds me, whenever I'd watch my cat lick himself, I would always feel a tad envious over the fact that he could retract his penis in a manner that allowed them to carry themselves with a modicum of dignity while he performed his daily allotment of cat-based duties. I would think to myself: Gee, I wish I could retract the overwhelming largeness of my penis (I've got a plethora of non-penis-related things to do during the day). Unfortunately, a naked man isn't like a cat at all, they're obscene, useless, violent, and, worst of all, frightfully unladylike. The women in Paul Morrissey's Women in Revolt are beginning to realize this as well, and who can blame them. Sick of being paid less money and tired of having their meaty holes treated like some sort of repository for wayward pricks, the kooky collection of women who populate this shrill realm are ready to start a revolution.

Introduced just as they're about to turn their backs on the disgusting men in their lives, two New York women, at the height of their foxiness, join together with other like-minded, cunt-positive individuals to form P.I.G. (Politically Involved Girls), a group for women who have had enough of living in a male-dominated society. Led by Jackie (Jackie Curtis), a garrulous, take charge school teacher, and Holly (Holly Woodlawn), a manic fashion model with a propensity for spastic writhing and impromptu dry humping, the upstart organization tries to recruit Candy (Candy Darling), a leggy blonde heiress/aspiring actress, into the girlish fold with the hope that she will inject the movement with some much needed class and distinction.

Providing us with some great insight as to what makes these ladies tick, the opening scene allows us to familiarize ourselves with the spiritual makeup of the women we'll be spending the next ninety or so minutes with. While it's obvious that they all share a mutual disdain for men, what's fascinating is the unique manner they each go about expressing their contempt. Sitting with a bored look on her face, Candy articulates her dislike for men with a detached elan ("you made me old before my time," she purrs). In another part of the city, that city, of course, being New York City, Jackie, her neck adorned with a sparkling choker, explains her man-hate with an intellectual flair. Words like, "detached" and "intellectual," however, will never be used to describe the temperament of Holly Woodlawn, as she takes lunacy to a whole new level of crazy.

My finely tuned crush receptors on were on high alert the second I saw the back of Holly's head gyrating like a defective ragdoll. Why was her head doing what you said it was doing? Well, her head, and her lovely mane of frazzled brunette hair, was behaving that way because her body was busy reacting to impact of her boyfriend's unstructured thrusting. At any rate, the moment she turned around, Holly Woodlawn had me completely under her spell. I'll never forget the image of her enchanting mug spewing obscenities in the general direction of her possessive male lover. Peppering the future leader of the Cobra Kai dojo's (Martin Kove) eardrums with a wide array of putdowns (my personal favourite: "eat my asshole, fucker!), Holly's madness was simply exquisite.

While painting her toenails, Jackie's naked house boy, Dusty (Dusty Springs), has the nerve to suggest that the women's liberation movement has poisoned her mind. After spraying a couple of his key cervices with deodorant, and scolding him for his lacklustre approach to housekeeping, Jackie starts hurling lit matches at his groin. The only reason I'm mentioning this scene is because of the mortified look on Jackie's face when she realizes that one of the matches she tossed at him almost set his dick on fire was freaking hilarious (ample pubic hair is tantamount to kindling). And I also liked the scene because it mostly centres around the beautification of Jackie's legs and feet.

The next scene, where a bespectacled Holly comes over, is a classic, in that it features a wacky exchange between Jackie Curtis and the guy (Paul Issa) who gave Holly a ride (he also brought a plant). "Take your balls and go," Jackie tells the plant guy. To which the plant guy responds: "what's wrong with my genitals? Jackie fires back: "I don't like 'em." The plant guy limply tells her: "but you don't know them." Like the majority of the scenes in Women in Revolt, the ungenteel argument with the plant guy doesn't really add or take anything away from the film's narrative, but it does contain a distinct satirical flavour that tricks you into believing that you're watching something artistically important.

The plan to coerce Candy into joining P.I.G. actually germinates while Holly is performing peripheral anilingus on Jackie's house boy. In fact, my favourite Holly Woodlawn nonplussed expression in Women in Revolt is when she glances down at the house boy's ass and quickly lifts her head up. The perplexed look on her face the moment she stops giving the house boy, to quote Jackie Curtis, "an anal root canal," was comedy gold.

Call me grossly unaware of my surroundings, and, while we're at it, someone who is playing fast and loose with their remaining faculties, but I thought Candy Darling looked a tad frumpy during her opening scene. Well, don't worry, I finally came to my senses the instant I saw her talking on the telephone. Clutching a copy of the New York Times, her neck adorned with pearls, her head affixed with a saucy turban, and her lips smeared with the reddest shade of lipstick currently available on the market, Candy gave me a refresher course on how to be chic and fabulous. And all she did was stand there.

The members of P.I.G. gather to exchange horror stories while they await the arrival of Candy, whose "glittering facade" would give some much needed glamour to the burgeoning female supremacist movement. A woman named Betty (Betty Blue), one sporting the cutest lesbian haircut the world has ever seen, tells the group an anecdote involving a little person who struggled to pleasure himself in front of her on 42nd Street because his arms were too short to reach the area most commonly associated with masturbation, and another woman (Penny Arcade) shares her harrowing account of a run-in she had with a toe sucking policeman.

As usual, while all this yakking is going on, Holly Woodlawn can be seen grinding her lanky frame against the bodies of the unexplained gaggle of mute effeminate men that seem to travel with the politically involved girls.

It would seem that Candy isn't all that interested in women's liberation, no, what she really wants to do is become a movie star. Meeting with a producer, Candy tells him that she's looking to break into showbiz. Even though their meeting will probably end with rough sex on an office couch, Candy does get to do her impression of Joan Bennett from Scarlet Street and Kim Novak in Picnic. Oh, and I like how the producer tells Candy that her legs are "not bad." Not bad?!? What a pratt.

The people unamused by the dialogue featured in Women in Revolt, and I'm sure there will be many, will love the scene where Jackie's responses to various queries are muffled by Mr. America's cock. Curious about the appeal of heterosexual intercourse, Jackie blows all the money they acquired from the movement's primary donor on gigolos. This, of course, upsets the other members of P.I.G., and leads to the downfall of women's liberation.

A confrontation between Jackie and a group of irate women at a bar (Brigid Berlin plays the bartender) had the potential of being a top-notch girl-fight. But like most of the scenes in this movie, Andy Warhol's incompetent camera work (for some reason Paul Morrissey allowed the "pop artist" to operate the camera) ruined the impact of many scenes. In fact, it was his wonky camera work that inspired that whole tangent I went on about male genitals (his camera angles were quite testicle-centric). Anyway, the best thing to come out of the brawl scene was a shot of Holly Woodlawn posing like the Puerto Rican goddess that she is.

One minute Holly is doing what she does best, groping Jane Forth on a leather couch while wearing a teal-coloured skirt, the next, and by "next" I mean nine months later, she's stumbling through the slush-covered streets with no one to grope. It just goes to show you how quickly a woman's life can go from being fabulous to ordinary. Of course, the film does a terrible job at conveying this point, and, on top of that, it gives screeching harpies a bad name. Barely tolerable at times, Women in Revolt is an excellent showcase for its three stars, Candy Darling in particular, but it's a bit of a failure in terms of being cohesive piece of filmed entertainment.

video uploaded by luisdrayton
...

Andy Warhol's Bad (Jed Johnson, 1977)

In a perfect world, unwanted pets and babies would kill themselves more often. If only they could leave this mortal coil by their own hand, or, in this case, by their own furry paw or tiny baby hand, as it would allow the rest of us to not have to worry about buying food, clothing, flea collars, yarn, chew toys, diapers and other miscellaneous items for their stupid, annoying asses. Unfortunately, that world doesn't exist yet, and since pets and babies rarely ever commit suicide, you're gonna have to hire an assassin to take care of the problem for you. Sure, you could kill them yourself, or hope that the pet, baby, or autistic seven year-old you want dead might slip and fall down a mind shaft, or, even better yet, accidentally eat that bowl of cyanide you left by their bed. But let's be realistic, with the sheer volume of pornography, and, not to mention, mounds of sweet cocaine floating around out there (two things that were practically crying out for your undivided attention in the late 1970s), who's got the time or the energy to murder or hope anymore? I know I sure don't, and I don't even like pornography and cocaine. If the premise I'm sort of describing is in anyway appealing to you, seek medical attention immediately, you deranged lunatic. However, when you get back from getting the help you so desperately need, set aside some time and make sure to check out Bad (a.k.a. Andy Warhol's Bad), and not just because it features a redheaded pyromaniac, one whose attempt to playfully wield a pistol-shaped dildo is thwarted by a humourless brunette, but because it's unwholesome cinema at its finest.

Spilling, not oozing, as for something to "ooze" implies that there's a slow leak transpiring, no, spilling, definitely spilling haphazardly from the unwell brain areas of screenwriter's Pat Hackett and George Abagnalo, and directed by interior designer Jed Johnson, this film is replete with the kind of loathsome people I adore most: Troubled outsiders who kill for money and look fabulous while doing so. Funny in a Desperate Living meets Eating Raoul sort of way, the dark humour, hilarious anecdotes about hideous éclairs, despicable acts and politically incorrect dialogue featured throughout the film really know how to rub their inflamed genitals against the inner thighs of good taste.

While it's true I did imply that pets and babies are put in jeopardy in this film, that does not mean that everyone else is safe. Far from it. Diner washrooms, one-armed mechanics, Jane Forth's dress, foreign film fans, ketchup bottles, Grandma's not-so precious pills, and the feet of hunky 29 year-olds are all at risk at one point or another during this film's chaotic run-time. Now what someone might have against a diner washroom is beyond me, but the assassins in this film do have a couple of things in common: 1. They're mostly women, and 2. They all split their cut with Hazel Aiken (Carroll Baker), an unassuming stay-at-home hosebeast who operates a hair removal salon out of her modest home in Queens (she can zap 360 hairs in an hour). Performing electrolysis, placating corrupt homicide detectives (Charles McGregor), and scheduling hits via her wall-mounted rotary telephone (some times doing all three simultaneously), Hazel struggles to make ends meet in a house she shares with her sickly mother (Mary Boylan), and her shy daughter-in-law Mary (Susan Tyrrell) and infant son.

Complicating matters somewhat is the arrival of L.T. (Perry King), a male assassin/kleptomaniac who literally likes to ride the back of the bus. Awaiting the call to spring into action, that "action" of course being the murder (they're calling it a "retraction") of a helpless autistic child with a plastic bag, L.T. is begrudgingly allowed to rent a room in Hazel's house (she frowns upon having male killers live under her roof). Ignoring the rules laid out for him, L.T. pops pills (even one's that have been swirling around inside Hazel's toilet bowl), is unapologetic about his tendency to ejaculate prematurely, watches loads of television, and behaves in a manner you'd expect a male sociopath who finds himself living in a house frequented by a steady flow of female killers, especially if one of them happens to sport an Italian accent.

Yes, you heard right, there's an Italian woman in Bad, and her name is Stefania Casini, and, yes, she is the same Stefania Casini who wore an orange bathing suit in Suspiria (she also has a nasty run-in with a room full of barbed-wire). Playing P.G., Stefania's character is an extremely sarcastic, no-nonsense woman who maims with a subtle grace. Hired to disfigure a mechanic with one arm by his two-armed girlfriend, Sara Leachman (Renee Paris), P.G. is told specifically to push him in front of a moving subway. Except, she decides instead to crush the his legs with the car he was working on and remove one of fingers with a pair of pliers. I guess she didn't think it mattered how she dismembered him. Anyway, she bags the finger, takes a photograph of the body, and collects her money at a local bar. What did she end up doing with his finger? Well, let's just say Hazel's gonna find a nasty surprise the next time she wants to spice up her eggs.

The nonchalant way P.G. went about her grisly business, and the fact that the guy she targeted clearly had both his arms, set the tone early on. Of course, the sight of a hyper-feminine (her tight curves drive all the waste collectors wild) Cyrinda Foxe defacing the inside of a diner washroom for no apparent reason in the film's opening scene was a tad on the bizarre side, and no slouch when it came to setting tones (you just don't get much of a washroom vandalism vibe when you look at Cyrinda). However, up until Stefania started to inflict actual suffering on her victim, all the talk of killing and dismembering was just that, talk.

Glamorous, tough, and scrappy as fuck, Geraldine Smith and Maria Smith are dangerously alluring and alluringly dangerous as Glenda and Marsha Montemorano, a pair of murderous sisters with heavenly voices who routinely get into fights with one another over the cleanliness of their panties. Let me quickly explain the pantie dilemma: While in the middle of torturing some guy tied to a bed (lucky bastard), Marsha notices that Glenda is wearing her panties. The pale-kneed Glenda tries to calm things down by suggesting that the panties were dirty, but this only seems to exacerbate the situation, as Marsha takes offense to having her panties besmirched in such a public forum. Okay, one guy tied to a bed ain't exactly a "public forum," but still, she was mortified by her sister's statement. At any rate, Marsha and Glenda start to slap each other in a frenzied attempt to save face. Oh, and if you really want to know what Glenda and Marsha's "heavenly voices" sound like, try to imagine Fran Drescher reciting the lyrics to "Warm Leatherette" with her mouth wrapped around the base of Susie Essman's strawberry-flavoured vagina.

The sinister task the Montemorano sisters are asked to carry out involves the killing of the dog owned by a man (Lawerence Tierney) who lives across the street from Estelle (Brigid Berlin), a misanthropic, gassy gal with some serious anger issues. You see, Estelle's still upset over an unflattering comment she overheard the dog man make about the way she looked in shorts the previous summer, and, after much soul searching, decides the sanest course of action is to hire Glenda and Marsha to rub out his dog in the most vicious manner possible. Fueling her desire for blood to be shed is the fact that he's been wearing the same blue pants everyday for two years straight. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I think it was the blue pants, and not the dog man's shorts slight, that sent Estelle off the deep end, as she really seemed to despise those blue pants.

I think Tab is the most aesthetically pleasing soft drink ever created. Everything from the design of its can (best font ever) to its straightforward name are immensely appealing. All right, I know what you're thinking: "While I agree with everything you're saying, why on earth are you talking about Tab?" Well, the film opens with the line: "Tab, Tab, Tab, why does it always have to be Tab?!?" And, seriously, how can you not love a film that begins with that many Tab references straight out of the gate? The child in the film who says the line obviously hates Tab (I know, what a little asshole), but his mother orders it for him anyway because she might want to drink it if her son doesn't want to finish it. While I'm on the subject of Tab, make sure to keep an eye out for the can of Tab languishing in the back seat of the car the Montemorano sisters steal.

With the exception of Hazel Aiken (kill all the babies and dogs you want, but don't shortchange the blind), the ladies of Bad are some of the most enchanting people to ever to grace the silver screen. I won't lie, some of things they do in this film are a tad abhorrent, but their innate loveliness somehow manages to rise above their acts of cavalier cruelty at every turn. Is it possible for someone not to fall completely head over heels for Renee Paris's Sara Leachman the instant she starts complaining about a pesky nose hair? I don't think so. Not only did I find her brash demeanour and strident speaking voice to be exhilarating, I thought Renee's "If we're lucky he'll fall right and be dismembered" was one of the funniest lines in the entire film, as the manner in which it was uttered was so wonderfully deadpan.

How about the scene where Ingrid Joyner (Tere Tereba), the frustrated mother of a young autistic boy, wonders aloud to a friend (Kitty Bruce) if she aborted the wrong child? You can't help but feel all tingly in your underpants for Mrs. Joyner as she plans to the death of her son. Yeah, I'm sure some of you can totally help it (your downstairs tingle has been replaced with upstairs scorn). But you've got to understand, I'm inherently drawn to demented women, especially one's who are gorgeous in a decidedly off-kilter way and periodically conspire to have their disabled offspring murdered.

Another reason why I didn't like Hazel was because she was rude towards Mary, and like I've always said, those who treat Susan Tyrrell badly, whether it be in a movie or in real life, are no friend of mine. Of course, P.G. and the Montemorano sisters aren't exactly friendly to Mary, either. But at least their nastiness is out in the open, Hazel's hostility, on the other hand, lingers underneath the surface, slowly gnawing away at Mary's frayed nerves. Anyway, wearing a yellow plastic bow in her hair (which did a competent job of keeping her greasy bangs in check), a ratty housecoat, and constantly clutching onto this dead-eyed baby (it was like a purse, only instead of holding loose change and oral contraceptives, it cried, burped and occasionally soiled itself), Susan Tyrrell (Forbidden Zone), despite her suspect parenting skills, is the moral conscience of the Bad universe (she's the only one who openly disapproves of the murder of pets and children). Her appeal as an actress has always been her ability to convey emotion by simply raising her head and looking at whatever hr character happens to be looking at. After she does that, her warm, inviting eyes and killer cheekbones do the rest.

If I had my choice of being murdered by any of the amoral characters who populate Bad, it would definitely have to be Geraldine Smith's Glenda Montemorano, and, no, not just because she looked divine in red knee socks. Well, actually, now that I think about it, that's a pretty sane reason to choose her as the sexy cause of my untimely death. I mean, who doesn't want to murdered by a crazed woman from Queens who wears red socks? Nobody I know, that's for damn sure. Anyway, I also liked her habit of setting fires and penchant for blinking.

The infamous baby tossing scene, infamous because the words "baby" and "tossing" shouldn't ever really be put together, is a brief yet comically horrifying slice of over the top unpleasantness. A stressed out mother (are there any other kind in this movie?), played by the luminous Susan Blond, can be seen arguing on the telephone with the father of her infant son over who's gonna pay the assassin (Barbara Allen) that is currently on her way to kill their baby. Growing impatient with the tardy assassin (and the baby's crying ain't helping, either), she decides to take matters into her own hands and throws her baby out the window of her high-rise apartment.

While I was shocked by this wanton display of irregular childcare, I was more concerned about the structural makeup of Susan Blond's exquisite chin. Standing in profile, I couldn't help but notice what a bodacious chin she had as she flung her baby (a baby that produced more arterial spray than a broken fire hose), it was like staring at a mind-blowing work of art (the chin, not the fountain of baby blood). My hope is that Susan took pride in her chin and wasn't tempted to mess with it as she became more successful in 1980s (she went to found the publicity agency, Susan Blond, Inc.). Of course, some of you will say that by focusing on her chin, I found a clever way of shielding myself from the horror transpiring on-screen. It's a good theory and all, but don't ever underestimate my love of chins. Oh, and just for record: I love pets and babies, and don't think they should ever be harmed.

uploaded by CheezyFlicks
...