Superstarlet A.D. (John Michael McCarthy, 2000)

I've often wondered, if given the opportunity to direct a feature length movie, how would I justify the fact that the entire cast is wearing nothing but lingerie from start to finish. As we have seen in the past, some movies have used ingenious methods to get their female cast members to wear nothing but their underclothes. Take, for example, the ladies of Hard to Die. They simultaneously ruin their regular clothes. But luckily, they work at a lingerie factory, giving them no choice when it came time to decide what to change into while their regular clothes dried. And, of course, the cast of Stripped to Kill and Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls are strippers. Meaning, there's practically lingerie everywhere. Do you think that John Michael McCarthy, the immensely sane individual behind such classics as Teenage Tupelo and The Sore Losers, will be able to justify the lingerie extravaganza that is Superstarlet A.D., a film where every frame is literally bathed in old-timey garter belts and bras? I don't know, but this post-apocalyptic tale about a world run by a succulent succession of shapely redheads sure has its fully-fashioned nylon stockings on straight. What am I talking about? The lingerie justification this film bandied about with shameless abandon was probably one of  the most clever things I've come across in years. Are you sitting comfortably? The reason the women who populate this girdle ensnared universe are always in their underwear is because all the gay men are dead. Uh, I don't get it. I mean, what's so clever about that? Don't you see, without gay men, there's no fashion. And without fashion, you guessed it, there are no clothes. In other words, the women are forced to wear lingerie at all times. I don't think I even have to see the film. Why is that? I think it's safe to say that this might be the greatest film of all-time. You're totally right. On paper, this film does sound like a masterpiece. But don't you think you should watch it first? I guess. You got to admit, though, as far as premises go, this film can't lose. Or can it?
 

 

Remember that episode of Star Trek that featured the planet whose culture was based solely on 1920s Chicago-style gangsterism? Well, the scantily clad ladies of Superstarlet A.D. seem to have modeled their society exclusively on the nudie cutie and stag films of  the late 1950s/early '60s.
 

 

Without electricity, there's no way to watch television, and without literacy, there's no way to read books, the only connection to their past are  films. Hold on.  How do they watch films without electricity? Why, they use hand-crank projectors. Duh. Well, they can, if they can find one. In the meantime, the women, or, I should say, the "superstarlets," carry their ancestral stag films on their backs.
 

 

Ancestral what? You see, the superstarlets are all descendants of women who appeared in stag films, and in order to be a true superstarlet, you must find your grandmother's reel and wear it with pride...on your back.
 

 

We met two of these so-called "superstarlets" at the beginning of the film. Which makes sense, as I have found that the beginning is the best period to introduce your characters when telling a story. And Superstarlet A.D. does not deviate from that storytelling principle. Don't get me wrong, there's a whole lot of deviating going on in this film, but not when it comes to introducing its characters. Anyway, we're introduced to the gorgeous Naomi (Gina Velour), a brunette, sten gun wielding Superstarlet in black lingerie, and Rachel (Alicia Trout, Jodie Brewer, Dagmar O'Doom, and others), a blonde, sten gun wielding Superstarlet in white lingerie, just as they're about to start searching the rubble strewn streets for Naomi's missing ancestral stag film. Um, excuse me, but isn't Naomi already carrying a reel of film on her back? Very observant, my obtuse friend. But that reel of film contains the ancestral stag film of a redheaded Superstarlet who's either missing or dead, and Naomi is carrying it on her behalf.
 

 

As Naomi and Rachel, whose voice sounds like Isabella Rossellini, if she was from Düsseldorf ("My name is Rachel and I'm a blonde"), are poking around the ruins of an old movie theatre, they come across a caveman (Hugh Brooks); which happens from time to time. After filling him with lead, Naomi and Rachel mark the occasion with celebratory gunfire and a lesbian kiss. Which is odd since lipstick and ammo are apparently in short supply; my logic being that celebratory gunfire wastes ammo and lesbian kisses smudge valuable lipstick. Either way, I'm happy both activities were implemented as it gives us our first gasp-worthy moment; the sight of Naomi and Rachel kissing while firing their sten guns in the air is the kind of image you'll find floating around inside my subconscious on most days.
 

 

We soon learn that the Superstarlets are a bit of rarity, in that, they're only the only girl gang in town that allows brunettes, blondes, and redheads to co-exist within the same Beauty Cult, after we met the luscious Verona (Michèle Carr), the wide-eyed Lois (Lydia Martini from The Sore Losers), and the rest of the Satanas, a Beauty Cult known for its brunette hair, black stockings, robust thighs, and affinity for leopard print bras and headbands.
 

 

If there's a Beauty Cult made up entirely of brunettes, shouldn't there be...I'm way ahead of you, muchacho. As soon as I was thinking that thought, we're presented with the Phayrays, a gang of blondes who ride horses and carry M2 machine guns. Wait. They "carry" M2 machine guns? Yep, they totally walk around with them. Lead by Ultramame (Rita D'Albert), the Phayrays are, like, the Satanas, the main antagonists of the Superstarlets. But make no mistake, the Phayrays and the Satanas don't get along either. If you need proof of this, look no further than the scene where Verona and Lois are trying to teach the dead caveman's brother (Jim Townsend) to hate blondes by tormenting him with a blow-up doll that is wearing a, you guessed it, blonde wig.  
 

 

In other words, to quote Rachel, "It's not a good time to be blonde."
 

 

As most people know by now, my favourite part of a John Michael McCarthy flick is when D'Lana Tunnell shows up. Unfortunately, she's not in Superstarlet A..D. However, don't fret fans of curvy chicks who melt the hearts of discerning reprobates the world over, Kerine Elkins is hear to alleviate your heterosexual suffering. Hey, isn't Kerine Elskins a redhead? She sure is. Where do redheads fit in in this hair colour important microcosm? Where do you think? They rule over the lipstick-adorned wastelands that make up this eyeliner-smeared universe with a lacy-gloved fist.
 

 

If cinematic heaven is a film where stocking-covered knees appear in every frame, Superstarlet A.D. earns its angel wings and then some as we enter the Replay Lounge, the headquarters and main hangout for The Tempests, a gang of unruly redheads. Lead by the insanely attractive Jezabel (Kerine Elskin), the 13th redhead to govern The Tempests, their world is literally saturated with red hair, obviously, but also stockings, garter belts, and leather. Grabbing her feather boa and a stag film reel, Kerine, her tasty thighs encased in black hole-covered hold-up stockings, performs a musical number that could best be described as campy. Actually, after watching her coo and gyrate for what seemed like an eternity, the word "campy" doesn't seem to do the musical number justice, as it seems to go beyond camp.
 

 

If the stag film reel is the sacred object of the Superstarlets, the sewing machine is what Jezabel and The Tempests prefer to worship. Sadly, the leather clad Velvet (Katherine Greenwood), the only member of The Tempests who knows how to sew, refuses to do so; I guess she doesn't like Jezabel. Hell, even their in-house dominatrix, Cathy X (Kitty Diggins), can't seem to force Velvet to sew.
 

 

After a weird caveman interlude, another redhead is added to the mix. Her name is Valentine (Katherine St. Valentine), she lives in an abandoned movie theatre, thinks subversive thoughts, drives a hot rod, and, get this, wears clothes. Since she's not affiliated with The Tempests, or any other Beauty Cult, for that matter, Naomi and Rachel find themselves drawn to the unusual redhead. I mean, it's not everyday you come across a clothed redhead who knows how to drive and doesn't hate men.
 

 

Meanwhile, back at Tempest HQ, Kerine is begging Velvet to make her some clothes. In a world without gay men (oh, and don't bother looking for a gay caveman, they don't exist), even the queen of the toughest gang of shapely redhead chicks has no clothes.
 

 

Hearing plenty of  talk about ancestral stag films over the course of this perversely sophisticated enterprise, it only makes sense that we eventually see a couple of stag films for ourselves. The first we see is the stag film Naomi was carrying on her back, and it features a redhead (Susie Hendrix) performing an upright striptease in matching lingerie. And the second is the stag film of Rachel's grandmother, and boasts a blonde (Jodi Brewer), with the juiciest behind, writhing in black lingerie on a bed with red sheets.
 

 

Will Naomi ever find her ancestral stag film? And if she does, will it bring her closer to understanding where she came from? Who knows? Nevertheless, the film itself manages to examine the importance of the physical objects that connect us to the past. With nothing being built to last anymore, will there be any evidence of our existence in coming years? It's hard to say. All it would take is a world wide electromagnetic pulse to wipe out the digital realm.  
 

 

Coursing with the exaggerated dialogue that I crave, and featuring an approach to costume design that every film should strive to emulate, Superstarlet A.D. is feminist cinema at its finest. Made from the perspective of a gay man, the film proves once and for all that unchecked flamboyance is only form of entertainment worth watching. Apocalypse Meow.

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The Sore Losers (John Michael McCarthy, 1997)

Mildly thick and extremely temperamental. If you don't possess any of these qualities. That's okay. We can work things out. But if you do, happen to possess these particular qualities, that is, we're going to get along swimmingly. Featuring more oomph than a coked up drag queen with Tourette's syndrome, the women featured throughout The Sore Losers are a spicy bucket of  barbequed fun. Sure, you'll get your ass kicked every so often, and you might even get your feelings hurt. But at the end of the day, all that pain and suffering is totally worth it. Which reminds me. Don't you just love it when a film, especially one you've never heard of, suddenly hits you in the face with an awkward sounding kapow? Well, this kooky slab of sleazy goo, written and directed by John Michael McCarthy (Teenage Tupelo), slapped the mopy smirk off my face, and somehow managed to turn it into the type of grin that may or may not contain tiny pieces of fecal matter. Oh, you mean a "shit-eating grin." Um, I don't think so. You obviously have no idea who you're dealing with. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. Mildly thick and extremely temperamental. Filmed in colour from start to finish, this tale of ultra-conservative, EC comic book-loving aliens who are sent to Earth to kill beatniks in a region not known for having beatniks might be one of them satirical homages thingies, but its take on femininity is not even close to being unstable. In fact, I would call it downright healthy. As I was saying, the women that populate this stockings-obsessed universe have this extra layer of shapely flavour attached to their organic structures. And from I've read, that added layer of fleshy padding drives non-fascist heterosexual men wild with breeder-based desire.
 

 

However, you're going to need more than curves to create a sustainable piece of wood. And that's where temperament comes in. Pair your curves with a churlish attitude, and I guarantee you'll be drowning in plant-craving electrolytes once the jiggling subsides. Seriously, if you can manage to combine these two traits, you'll be beating them off with a stick. Okay, you'll be beating me off with a stick. Either way, someone is going to be beat off when all is said and done, because these chicks mean business.
 

 

Starting off with the sight of a red flying saucer heading toward Earth, The Sore Losers makes it abundantly clear right from the get-go that this is no whiny indie flick. No sir. This is film celebrates exploitation, drive-in movie theatres, comic books, shapely chicks with big butts, and trashy garage rock.
 

 

The red flying saucer lands on the road and quickly morphs into a red 1955 Chevy (now that's a sweet ride). Behind the wheel is Blackie (Jack Yarber), a red racing jacket-wearing "loser" from the Killer Frequency. Determined to kill three more people in order to satisfy the bloodlust of The Elder (David F. Friedman), an omnipotent entity who lives inside the invisible wavelength, Blackie quickly finds his first victim.
 

 

A quick aside: Killing nine people in the summer of 1954, Blackie was well on his way to killing twelve. But he ran out of time. Forty-two years later, Blackie is back in this candy-coloured universe and is ready to finish the job.
 

 

Stopping at a gas station to check out what kind of comics they have, Blackie is shocked when he discovers that they don't any Weird Science in stock. (If you're looking for Canadian content in the nudie cutie world of John Michael McCarthy, look no further than the comic book rack in the gas station, as it's filled with issues of Yummy Fur.) Unimpressed with their comic book selection, Blackie knocks over the rack in disgust. As you might expect, the redneck behind the counter does not appreciate this, so he threatens to "open up a can of Mississippi whoop ass." This threat, however, is not carried out, as Blackie kills the redneck clerk with an issue of, you guessed it, Weird Science (he always has an issue in his pocket).
 

 

Even though the film has just gotten underway, I'm starting to feel a little antsy over the fact that D'Lana Tunnell hasn't shown up yet. But don't worry D'Lana fans, as Blackie is filling the body of the dead redneck clerk with lead, a vision of loveliness suddenly appears in the form of D'Lana Tunnell. That's right, one of the most alluring women the ever grace the silver screen, is sitting on top of a Barber's ice cream freezer. Wearing a floral top (one that was cinched well above the waist), a pair of chunky heels, black short shorts, and sporting haphazardly tied pigtails, D'Lana tells Blackie that she has a short attention span. She might not realize it, but she just talked her way out of being murder victim number eleven. Either way, before Blackie can change his mind, D'Lana has sped off on her motorcycle.
 

 

In the meantime, Blackie heads over to the abandoned drive-in movie theatre to bury the redneck clerk (murder victim number ten) beside the graves of the fine folks he killed back in 1954.

 

Feeling a tad lonely, Blackie decides to see if his old friend Mike (Mike Maker) is still kicking around. Finding him right where he left him forty-two years ago, at a rundown mental hospital, Blackie is excited to reunite with his long lost blood brother (a blood transfusion from Blackie has made Mike immortal...just like Blackie). Well, he's got to get past Nurse McComb (Lydia Martini) and her crossed legs of ashen doom first. Pale and covered with tattoos, the nurse's shapely legs, and, not to mention, chunky white heels, are not match for Blackie. As he is roughing up the nurse (apparently, they were a match), Blackie inadvertently unbuttons the top of her pvc uniform. I don't why I'm mentioning this, but I thought...No, wait, I just remembered. The nurse has two Eye of Horus tattoos above each breast.
 

 

Tossing Mike, who looks like Japan's biggest Bauhaus fan (one who secretly likes Spacemen 3 on the side), his trusty cane, the two hit the [fucking] road. Shortly after they stop at Mike's parents' house to pick up his comics (Vault of Horror, baby!), Blackie's red '55 Chevy nearly collides with a lime green AMC Pacer. If D'Lana Tunnell provides The Sore Losers with the curves, then Kerine Elkins must surely supply the psychopathic moxie. You know the instance Blackie meets Kerine, an insane redhead who will stomp all over your skinny ass at a moment's notice, that she's going to be trouble.
 

 

Hanging out in the woods, Kerine enlightens Blackie about the scourge that is the hippie movement. You got to remember, Blackie's been away for the past forty-two years. At any rate, Kerine informs him that they're against war, the death penalty, and bathing. And, on top of that, she tells Blackie about the hippie hitchhiker she killed earlier in the day (he tried to steal her lime green AMC Pacer). In Kerine's mind, the hippies are responsible for the decline of Western Civilization (the patchouli years), and because of that, they must be wiped from the face of the Earth. In other words, when Kerine says, "kill all the hippies," she means it.
 

 

It should go without saying, but Kerine is super excited to be a part of Blackie's quest to murder one more person.
 

 

During a stop at her parents house, Kerine, who just got out of prison, goes a little overboard with the parental homicide. What I mean is, she kills two instead of one, making Blackie's total: thirteen. And, as we all know, he's supposed to kill twelve. I don't see what the problem is. After all, we got to see Kerine read the encyclopaedia marked 'P' (1975 edition) in nothing but black, hole-covered hold-up stockings and a pair of black chunky heels out in the woodshed.
 

 

Scolded by The Elder for not only killing too many people, but for mostly killing the elderly, Blackie is given a second chance.
 

 

Who wouldn't fall in love with D'Lana Tunnell if they saw her perform at a carnival as "Goliatha of the Amazones," the world's strongest woman. In the world of J.M.M, women are superior in almost every way imaginable, and D'Lana represents this superiority during her motorcycle striptease/feat of strength; after removing her black opera gloves and black corset, D'Lana lifts her motorcycle above her head with one arm. Falling in love with her almost instantly, Mike, who even removes his trademark shades in order to properly drink in her womanliness (I hope you're thirsty, because her her fishnet pantyhose are drenched in sweat), manages to successfully woo her after the show.
 

 

Since things move pretty fast in the realm of The Sore Losers, Mike is caressing her leopard print bra while asking her about comics in no time (man, that Mike is one smooth motherfucker). Unfortunately, the Elder has branded D'Lana as number fourteen. Why D'Lana? That's what Blackie would like to know.
 

 

It all kinda gets convoluted after this point. Don't believe me? Well, the members of Guitar Wolf (ギターウルフ) show up as the "Men in Black" at one point. Oh, and, yeah, Hugh Brooks (Johnny Tu-Note from Teenage Tupelo) returns as Tuthpick, a fellow exiled alien who loves to kill hippies (he mows down a room full at one point), and Mary Wills plays character known as the "Malt Liquor Angel," a name that was given to her probably because she has angel wings and gives out cans of Schlitz.  
 

 

Replete, which is a fancy way saying, "filled with," with scenes where stocking clad women do what stocking clad women usually do when they happen to be clad in stockings, featuring seemingly random moments of lesbian bdsm, instances where fiery redheads can be seen painting the walls of dilapidated warehouses with their dead mother's entrails, and boasting a soundtrack so trashy, my ears started to cramp, The Sore Losers is basically the epitome of cool. In fact, I felt cool just watching it. And, as most of you, my coolness rarely needs to be authenticated, especially by a movie from the late-1990s. Now, who wants to go beat up some hippies?

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Teenage Tupelo (John Michael McCarthy, 1995)

Oh, D'Lana Tunnell. Your drool-inducing aura causes my engine to operate at a level that is on par with the standards and regulations put forth by the Canadian Motor Vehicle Safety Act. Her aura did what? Okay, how 'bout this: Gently place my genitals between two slices of chickasaw fried bread! The gorgeousness that is D'Lana Tunnell is a real live barn burner...with hash browns on the side. That's a little better. I mean, you're on the cusp of making sense. But you're going to have to drop the histrionic double-talk, and, not to mention, be a helluva lot more succinct, if you want people to understand what you're getting at. Okay, I think D'Lana Tunnell is pretty and junk. There, are you happy? Very much so. Now stop sulking and tell the fine folks what you're babbling about. Yeah, I suppose I should do that. I don't mean to be the bearer of bad news, but it's the mid-1990s...again. Are you serious? Does that mean we have to watch Caroline in the City (a television sitcom about a small group of white supremacists living in a yuppie-fied version of New York City) and listen to grunge music on compact disc? Not necessarily. It may be the mid-90s, but don't tell that to writer-director John Michael McCarthy (The Sore Losers and Superstarlet A.D.). Ignoring the cultural trends and styles that engulfed the mid-section of the decade like an out of control head cold, Teenage Tupelo is here to prove once and for all that fully-fashioned nylon stockings are the epitome of sexy and that organized man-hating is alive and well. 

 

 

Encased in black and white nylons whenever possible, the ladies (i.e. D'Lana Tunnell) of Teenage Tupolo are goddesses. Photographed in the most loving manner possible, in black and white and in not-so glorious techicolor, J.M.M. obviously worships the ground that D'Lana Tunnell walks on. You think I'm kidding around? Closely observe the way he shoots Miss Tunnell walking up and down the alleyways of Tupelo, Mississippi. I'm convinced that most of you will be jealous of the each slab of concrete that is lucky enough to feel the pressure of her exquisite pumps as they plunge violently into their jagged crevices with every nuanced step by the time you've finished watching her walk in this here film.
 

 

All hail, D'Lana Tunnell! Queen of the mid-90s. I'm not trying to cause any trouble, but I don't think you're ready to drink in the awesomeness that D'Lana Tunnell's mind-blowing curves were putting out there in this low budget, but aesthetically precise motion picture. You don't think so, eh? Well, I didn't want to bring this up, but I've drinking in the corporeal essence of shapely ladies before you were even born. In other words, I can safely say that D'Lana Tunnell is one of the most alluring actresses to grace the silver screen.
 

 

If she is, as you say, "one of the most alluring actresses," why has D'Lana Tunnell only ever appeared in three movies? What are you nuts? Some of the greatest performances of all-time were given by actresses, and, I suppose, actors, who only ever appeared in one or two movies. And besides, everyone knows that quality is more important than quantity.
 

 

It's funny, but I started watching Teenage Tupelo as a lark. What I mean is, I didn't expect to be moved in such a profound manner. But there I was, moved like a randy jaybird at his daughter's adults only debutante ball.
 

 

One of the first things we hear is the sound of a guitar string being plucked. As its reverberations began to bounce around my ear canal, I thought to myself: That's not a synthesizer. Oh, you're so right, my Gary Numan-loving friend. It's definitely not a synthesizer. But you know what? I didn't seem to mind. You see, the guitars used in this film had a certain sleazy twang about them that wasn't lame at all. In fact, I think I can safely state that the guitars, and the music in general in this film, all composed by a band called Impala, was pretty fucking cool.
 

 

Well, except maybe for the impromptu rock ditty washed up rock star Johnny Tu-Note (Hugh Brooks) sings to his girlfriend D'Lana Fargo (D'Lana Tunnell), who's smoking a cigarette in a treehouse on the outskirts of Tupelo, Mississippi, while not wearing any pants, as I thought it was a tad on the cheesy side (he does get his pants back, though). But other than that, it's garage rock heaven.
 

 

As Johnny Tu-Note and his pants recede into the night, we follow D'Lana home. Judging by what we see at first glance, it would seem that she lives with her mother, Wanda Fargo (Wanda Wilson), and her young son Pookie Fargo (Phillip Tubb). Oh, and if you're thinking that Johnny is Pookie's father, think again (the boy's father doesn't seem to be in the picture). Speaking of pictures, D'Lana wants to know why her mother broke her framed photo of Johnny Tu-Note, while her mother wants to know where she was all night. They go back and forth like this for a little while until they both end up rolling around on the floor.
 

 

The following morning, D'Lana answers a knock at the door, only to find two squares who want her to sign a petition that would lead to the banning of Topsy Turvy. Who's she, you ask? Well, according to the two squares, she's a stripper turned movie star from Memphis, and they don't want that kind of riff-raff defiling their fair city. Too busy to sign, D'Lana leaves for work. Starting a new job as a waitress at Johnnie's Drive-In, we get our first taste of Tunnellvision, the cinematic technique John Michael McCarthy uses to capture the beauty of D'Lana Tunnell while in motion.
 

 

Cutting through the Priceville Cemetery and walking along the railroad tracks, the sight of D'Lana Tunnell commuting to work on foot in her waitress uniform (the heels of her white pumps pounding into the dewy grass) is the stuff of ambulation legend. Suddenly, she passes a group of tough chicks in black working on their car. Telling her that she looks like Topsy Turvy, D'Lana is confused as to why people keep mentioning her. Anyway, the tough chicks apparently worship Topsy Turvy, a, like I said, stripper turned actress, who has also dabbled in nudism.
 

 

Hanging out Johnnie's Drive-In, Johnny Tu-Note (who's flirting with a waitress named Cindy) learns that D'Lana is pregnant (her mother called the drive-in). As you would expect, Johnny denies that it's his. But Wanda doesn't seem to care (she's got a scheme brewing). Arriving late for work, D'Lana is immediately fired the second she enters the drive-in. Realizing she's got nothing to lose, D'Lana attacks Cindy (Cindy Blair) with a fork; you go, girl!
 

 

Leaving in a huff, D'Lana hits the bricks. And you know what that means? It's time to watch D'Lana walk some more. Yeah, but get this, she does it in nothing but a black bra and leopard print panties (only the crotch area is leopard print, the rest is black) this time around. Doffing her waitress uniform in disgust, D'Lana takes to the back streets of Tupelo with a thunderous aplomb. Her mighty hips swaying with every step, the white pumps attached to D'Lana's long legs (her pale thighs glowing in the morning sun) make mincemeat out of the dilapidated concrete.
 

 

When the bra goes, D'Lana puts on her coat; yeah, I forgot to mention that she was carrying a coat (with a fur collar), sorry about that. Moving on, Johnny Tu-Note catches up D'Lana and confronts her in an alleyway (he's worried that she might try to black mail him). But don't worry, the tough chicks in black D'Lana met earlier, Franky (Kristen Hobbs), a long-haired brunette wearing sunglasses, Ruthy (Sophie Couch), a short-haired brunette sans sunglasses, and Joey (Dawn Ashcroft), a blonde wearing sunglasses, come to her rescue.
 

 

She doesn't know it yet, but D'Lana is in league with Thee Madd Madd Manhaters, a tight-knit gang of forthright dykes who hate men (duh) and despise country music. Or maybe she does know who she's league with. What do I know? Maybe if I stopped staring at D'Lana's soft, pillowy lips for more than five seconds, I might be able give you a proper reading about what she knows and what she doesn't know.
 

 

Even though Franky has called dibs on her, that doesn't stop Joey from dreaming about D'Lana in colour. Lounging in black stockings and eating a banana in what looks like a basement, D'Lana is a sight to behold. Actually, I'm not entirely sure whose dream it is. I mean, Franky is chained to the wall (in black stockings), but Joey (also in black stockings) is bringing Franky bread and water. Either way, the scene is hot.
 

 

Embarrassed about the Johnny Tu-Note tattoo that she has on one of her butt cheeks (a rotund mound of pale perfection), D'Lana suddenly finds herself hanging from a rope ("On a rope / On a rope / You got me hanging from a rope"). I'm not sure if this scene is supposed to be real or a dream (it's in colour). But whatever it is, it features Satan altering her tattoo.
 

 

After going home to change (before you ask, yes, she's sticking with the panties with the leopard print crotch), D'Lana heads out with her new lesbian friends to catch a screening of Topsy Turvy's movie, Trashus Traileris (a seedy slice of "full-throttle sexploitation"), and, of course, try to meet their idol. Navigating male drag racers and protestors ("Hey hey! Ho ho! Nudie cuties have got to go!") in order to get to the theatre, the gals take their seats. The film is about a group of lingerie enthusiasts, including Topsy Turvy (D'Lana Tunnell in a blonde wig), who get an atomic bomb in the mail. If you're wondering what a bunch of lingerie enthusiasts are going to do with an atomic bomb, it was actually a bit of a mix up. Apparently, the atomic bomb was supposed to go to Cuba, but instead was sent to them. Oh, and what did the Cubans get? They got a box full of edible undies.
 

 

Everything that occurs in Teenage Tupelo could be seen as a veiled excuse to film D'Lana Tunnell lying, walking, lounging, sitting, or even just standing (with, of course, her hands on her hips), in her underwear. And, to the surprise of virtually no-one, I'm totally at ease with that. A humid blast of campy wind from the deep south, John Michael McCarthy has proven that his taste in music, women, cars, and clothing is right on the money in terms of righteousness.

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