Friday the 13th: A New Beginning (Danny Steinmann, 1985)

Even though there are a total of three writers credited with penning the script for Friday the 13th: A New Beginning, don't expect much as far as character development goes. Realizing this halfway through the filming of the movie, actress Tiffany Helm decided that if the screenwriters of this piece of crap weren't go to give her any dialogue to flesh out her character, she was going to have to take matters into her own hands. However, since the writers, including director Danny Steinmann (Savage Streets), weren't going to let her improvise her dialogue, she would have to express herself through the power of dance, or, to be more accurate, new wave dance. Meaning, everything you need to know about Tiffany Helm's Violet, the resident new wave goddess/fashion icon at Pinehurst (a retreat for wayward teens and social misfits), can be found in the scene where she dances in her poster-adorned bedroom to "His Eyes" by Pseudo Echo. And when I say, "new wave dance," I'm not talking about Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club-style dancing. No, the moves Tiffany busts in this movie are the epitome of new wave. Moving her hands to the music in a jerky, robotic manner, Violet manages to convey more about her personality than any trite, lazily-written dialogue ever could. And it's a good thing she stepped up to plate when she did, as I was just about to give up on this chapter in the stalk and slash horror franchise. Oh, sure, the alluring Juliette Cummins (Slumber Party Massacre II) and the smokin' hot Rebecca Wood step up to the plate as well. But I owe a debt of gratitude to Tiffany Helm for, well, just being there for me during my hour and a half of need.

Some of you might be thinking to yourself: Hey, I thought you were done with the Friday the 13th franchise after the debacle that was Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan? Well, like I said, you can thank Tiffany Helm for saving this chapter from being a complete disaster, but you can also blame her, too, as she's the reason I decided to give this flick a look-see in the first place.

You see, every once and awhile, while surfing the interweb, I would come across a picture (one that was obviously taken from a movie) that featured a young woman with crimped blonde hair (with black, Teri Nunn circa "Take My Breath Away" highlights) wearing goth-friendly eye makeup. Since the picture was never labeled and I couldn't ever be bothered to ask what the name of the movie was, the source remained a mystery to me. One day, all that changed, when someone labeled the pic simply, "a new beginning." And just like that, I was back in the watching Friday the 13th movies game.

That's right, just when I thought I was out (of the Friday the 13th racket), they, or, more specifically, Tiffany Helm, pulled me back in.

(Wow, what a fascinating story.) Don't mock, if you saw Tiffany's adorable mug staring at you, you, too would want to seek it out and then lavish it with an excessively large amount of praise. Okay, maybe the latter only applies to me, but the rest of you so-called normal people would definitely want to know more about Tiffany Helm in Friday the 13th: A New Beginning, which is actually the fifth chapter in the series (I think I failed to mention this tidbit earlier), after seeing her picture.

(Weren't you upset that Tiffany Helm didn't show her boobs?) Oh my God. I can't believe you just asked me that. Do I look like I'm 12 years-old? No, I wasn't upset. In fact, I'm glad Tiffany kept her clothes on, as there's nothing sexier than fully-dressed punky new wave chicks who wear greyish shirts that are always buttoned to the top and are rarely ever seen without their trusty Walkman.

Seriously. Setting the breakfast table: It's Walkman time, baby. Doing the laundry: Duh, I've got my Walkman on.

(Is it worth mentioning that Corey Fledman briefly appears in the opening scene?) Not really. (Whew! That's a relief.) All you need to know about Corey Fledman is that he grows up to be a troubled teen. His name is Tommy Jarvis (John Shepherd), and he apparently killed Jason Voorhees in an earlier film. Traumatized by the experience, Tommy is sent to Pinehurst, a, like I said, sort of halfway house for adolescent nutjobs (there has to be a more delicate way of putting that).

Greeted by Pam (Melanie Kinnaman), the assistant director of Pinehurst (look at you, paying attention and junk), the quiet and reserved Tommy is shown his room. There he meets the non-insane Reggie (Shavar Ross), the gregarious grandson of the one of the joint's employees.

We get our first glimpse of Tiffany Helm's Violet during an incident involving two of the home's residents, Tina (Debi Sue Voorhees) and Eddie (John Robert Dixon), who get in trouble for trespassing on the property belonging to Ethel (Carol Locatell), a loud-mouthed yokel who says "fuck" a lot. Crowding around to watch, Violet, who is standing next to Jake (Jerry Pavlon), looks unamused by all the commotion; listening to the latest new wave bands on her Walkman is all she cares about.

Later that day, or maybe it was the next day... You know what? Who gives a shit. This film certainly doesn't. How 'bout this: Soon afterward, Violet can be seen doing laundry with her slightly less new wave gal pal Robin (Juliette Cummins). As their putting clothes and linen on the line to dry, they're approached by Joey (Dominick Brascia), a tubby dolt with chocolate all over his face (and by "all over his face" I mean the corners of his mouth). Insisting on helping them, Joey eventually causes them to lose patience with him; Violet even tells Joey to "piss off" at one point.

Not getting anywhere with the girls, Joey decides to harass Vic (Mark Venturini), who's chopping wood nearby. Now, it's one thing to bug a couple of new wave chicks armed only with clothes pegs, it's another thing all-together to pester an axe-wielding troubled teen. While getting axed to death did seem a tad on the harsh side, I thought the ends totally justified the means. I know, that's a terrible thing to say, but you should have seen Joey, he was so fucking annoying.

It's after Joey is axed to death and Vic is carted off to jail that people start getting killed. Two leather-clad Jewish-Italian greaser types experiencing car trouble, one played by Corey Parker (Flying Blind), are the first to go. Then it's Billy (Bob DeSimmone), a cocaine enthusiast, and Lana (Rebecca Wood), a leggy waitress and probably one of the most attractive women to ever appear in one of these movies, who are the next to buy it. You might be thinking to yourself, what do these people have to do with Pinehurst? And the answer is simply, nothing. In order to increase the film's body count, random characters are added to the mix to inflate the kill count.

You know what the film needs? (More new wave chicks?) Well, duh. No, what it needs is water. (Wait, water?) Yeah, water. You can't have a Friday the 13th movie without water. And this one has no water whatsoever. Sure, it rains in the opening scene. But I'm talking about a body of water--you know, a lake, a river, something along those lines.

(Does the toilet in the cast iron shithouse Demon (Miguel A. Núñez Jr.) attempts to take a dump in count as a "body of water"?) Nah. I don't think the toilets in cast iron shithouses contain water. (Then where does the fecal matter go?) I think it just goes into a box of some kind. (Eww, gross.) Yeah, it would seem that Demon agrees with you. By the way, Demon is not some random character introduced solely to be murdered, he's Reggie's hip and happening brother.

You know what else this film needs? (Even more new wave chicks?) Well, duh squared. No, what it needs is Jason Voorhees. (Does Debi Sue Voorhees count?) She doesn't. But fans of large, natural breasts will love Debi Sue in this movie, as she, well, you know, shows her boobs. Anyway, the lack of Jason Voorhees in this flick is really troubling.

(If Jason isn't the one killing people, then who is?) Again, who gives a shit. No, what we need is more close ups of Violet and less of everything else. Actually, I could have used more shots of Juliette Cummins walking around in her blue robe. But, hey, that's just me.

(Is it time for Violet to dance to Pseudo Echo yet? 'Cause, to be honest, nothing else is working for me in this film.) Yep, she should be dancing up a storm any minute now. (Quick question: Are you sure Violet isn't a punk?) Um, I'm sure. How do I know? Well, would a punk have a A Flock of Seagulls poster on her wall? (A punk with an open mind might.) That's true. But trust me, Violet's aura oozes pure, unadulterated new wave. (Unadulterated, eh?) Unadulterated.

Woo-hoo! Look at Violet dance. Dance, Violet, dance! Dance your new wave ass off. Okay, I'm officially done with this movie.

Click: The Calendar Girl Killer (1990)

You've heard the expression: Don't judge a book by its cover, right? Well, in the case of Click: The Calendar Girl Killer, it's more like: Don't judge a movie by its screencaps. If you were, you would no doubt conclude that Click was the greatest film ever made. Let me tell you right off the bat, it's definitely not the greatest film ever made. In fact, it's barely a film. Oh, sure, it's got images that move and human actors can be heard reciting scripted dialogue every now and then. But make no mistake, it repeatedly teeters on the brink of non-existence. I know, you're thinking to yourself: How can a movie that has six different writers and two directors not exist? It's quite simple, really. You can't have so many disparate ideas floating around at one time and somehow expect the results to be coherent. I mean, six writers?!? It's a nonstarter. In a shocking twist, however, this film is the place to go to see what is hands down the best performance of Dona Speir's career. Yep, the same actress who stunk up the joint in so many Andy Sidaris films gives a rich and nuanced performance as a fashion model named Nancy Johnson. And get this, she looks better than ever. If you remember correctly, I thought Dona looked tired and slightly mannish in the Andy Sidaris films. Not here, though. In this film, directed by actor Ross Hagen and stuntman John Stewart, she looks fresh, feminine and fabulous.

I'll admit, though, I was, to not put it mildly, horrified when I found out Dona Speir was in this film. Appearing in the opening credits sequence, one that features bikini-clad models wielding various weapons for a photo shoot, Dona can be seen aiming a bow and arrow in a yellow bikini. When I saw her I was like: Noooo! Anyone but her. But, as the film progressed, I slowly began to realize that it was her character in the Andy Sidaris films that I disliked so much, not Dona Speir.

The Dona Speir who appears in this film, even though she's only in a handful of scenes, is quite different than the humour-challenged Special Agent Donna Hamilton from, let's say, Savage Beach. No, this Dona Speir sits like a lady, gets pushed into hot tubs, sports more than one facial expression, is spurned by her boyfriend (played by Andy Sidaris regular Michael J. Shane), drinks booze straight from the bottle and participates in two fashion photo shoots. In other words, things Donna Hamilton would never do.

It's true, I could sit here and gush about the new and improved Dona Speir all day long. But that doesn't change the fact that this movie still sucks some serious ass.

Did you know that you will have to wait an entire hour for someone to get killed? Yeah, bet you didn't know that. And this has nothing to do with some misguided bloodlust on my part. The fact that no one is killed for so long actually dragged the story to a complete halt. What I mean is, with no real threat, there's no real tension, and with no real tension, you haven't got yourself much of a thriller.

What did you expect? It was obvious right from the get-go that Ross Hagen and John Stewart have no idea how to make a horror movie.

When the so-called "calendar girl killer" does finally show up, I was so disinterested, that I actually nearly dozed off at one point. Which is rare for me, as I hardly ever fall asleep while watching movies. In fact, I don't think I have ever fallen asleep during a movie. So, kudos, Click: The Calendar Girl Killer, you caused me to nearly break my no sleeping during movies streak.

In fairness, after the bikini chicks wielding guns and knives photo shoot is over, we do get a quick origin story pertaining to why the little kid sitting on the floor in a flashback sequence became the calendar girl killer. Which is something. However, to have to wait a whole hour for someone to die is unacceptable. In fairness again, after the flashback origin story is over we do see a faceless man, one wearing lipstick and a nurse's uniform, stab a mirror in anger. Which, I have to say, is also something.

(Hold on, it sounds like you're starting to like this film.) No, I'm just pointing some of the things that didn't annoy me. (Nah, I know you, you're trying to somehow spin this into a positive review.) So what if I am? Is it a crime to like this movie? I mean, the photo shoots are pretty fucking amazing. (Pretty fucking amazing, eh? Can you hear yourself? You sound like a dumbass.) I don't care, this movie is staring to grow on me.

Does anyone know the name of the goth-metal all-girl band who play the patio party? I didn't think so. Anyway, Dona Speir's Nancy Johnson, who's dressed in all-white, and her date arrive at said patio party. Introduced to Alan (Troy Donahue), the assistant to a big shot photographer, it doesn't take long for Nancy to piss him off. Like I said, this version of Dona Speir doesn't take crap from anyone, as she puts this "assistant" in his place in record time.

Sitting alone by the hot tub, Nancy notices that her date is flirting with another woman. Due to faulty heels, the woman he's flirting with slips out of her shoes and knocks Nancy into the hot tub. In a strange twist, Dona's character seems angry that she was pushed into a hot tub. How is that strange, you ask? Well, in the Andy Sidaris films, Dona spends most of her time happily submerged in hot tubs. So, to see her upset to be in a hot tub was somewhat atypical.

Humiliated by the hot tub incident, Nancy allows Alan to comfort her. This leads to Nancy getting a private photo shoot with Jack Akerman (Ross Hagen), one of the most sought after photographers in the business. Starting off in a fur coat, the shoot gradually leads to Nancy taking off all her clothes to saxophone music. My favourite points of the shoot was when Dona Speir is wearing nothing but a gold lamé top and when Jack tells her to "burn my camera."

In the next scene, we see Jack cruising Chinatown for models. I guess he needed one more, cause the woman he picked in Chinatown can be seen in participating in an elaborate photo shoot involving guns.

If this is all beginning to sound a little like Eyes of Laura Mars, you're absolutely right, it is. Interviewing a model named Cindy (Keely Sims), Jack tells her his latest project is a calendar called "Deadly Weapons," and that he wants her to be a part of it. "Is there any nudity," she asks him reluctantly. To which he responds, "Only your legs." I dig this guy's style.

The plan is to make a calendar the world will never forget. And who wouldn't want to be a part of that? Shit! Here comes Johnny (Gregory Scott Cummins) right on time. (Who's Johnny?) Oh, you know, he's the boyfriend who disapproves that is his girlfriend is a model. (Ewww, he's one of those?) Yeah, and get this, he rides a motorbike. In other words, there's no way he'll understand Jack's work, which he basically dismisses as trashy pornography.

I don't think Johnny deserves a girlfriend like Cindy, especially one who wears an orange skirt with a white belt and a baggy jean jacket. I'm just saying.

The three minute long scene where Cindy poses for Jack wielding a chainsaw is actually better than the entirety of Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers. (Okay, now you're talking crazy.) You're right, that was crazy-talk. But still, the sight of Keely Sims with a chainsaw is quite the show-stopper.

Does anyone know what happened to Dona Speir's character? She disappears after the fur coat/gold lamé top photo shoot. Was she killed? Did she quit modeling? Land a role on All My Children? Where is she?

At any rate, Johnny follows Jack and Cindy to a super-secret photo shoot out in the sticks. This, of course, causes some friction between Johnny and Cindy, and not the fun kind. Actually, that's not entirely true; Johnny and Cindy do engage in some angry, split-second make up sex at one point. Friction or not, Johnny seems determined to ruin Cindy's modeling career. Realizing this, Jack decides to use Johnny's expertise when it comes to motorcycles to his advantage by asking to participate in the photo shoots. Yawn.

As Jack doing a private shoot with Cindy (one that includes a heavy metal wig and a shotgun), fellow models Rhonda (an uncredited Juliette Cummins) and Lisa (Susan Jennifer Sullivan) are fighting over Johnny by the pool. If the names of the actresses who play the other models sound familiar, that's because Juliette's in Slumber Party Massacre II and Susan's in Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood. In an out of left field plot development, Lisa pussyblocks Rhonda big time. That's right, just as Rhonda, utilizing her amazing legs, was about to seal the deal with Johnny, Lisa swoops in and bungles her chances. In other words, no cock for Rhonda.

Instead, Rhonda will have to contend with being mock raped by a couple of cavemen. (Huh?) The photo shoot Jack has planned for the day involves all sorts of violent acts. And one of them features Rhonda dressed as a cavegirl being violated by a couple of cavemen. Other motifs include: Big haired blonde with a pistol, Asian model with a sword, Lisa in a zebra-print leotard, a flamenco dancer, and a pirate.

The next day's photo shoot is even wilder, as it takes place outdoors and involves wrecked cars and large machine guns.

If you look carefully, you'll see Juliette Cummins sitting by the pool drinking a can of Coors beer at one point. So, you say? Well, the expression on her face during this particular sequence, one that involves a jealous boyfriend getting in a fight with a male model, pretty much sums up my attitude toward this film. Don't get me wrong, I'm totally down with the premise, it's just that the execution leaves little to be desired.

Warning: When the killing finally gets underway, there's a murder sequence that takes place in a bedroom that employs a strobe light for an extended period of time. You might want to shield your eyes or fast-forward past this scene as it could cause unwanted seizures,

Slumber Party Massacre II (Deborah Brock, 1987)

Boring enthusiasts rejoice! The Driller Killer is back, baby! Hey, you! Yeah, the sheepish individual sitting cross-legged in the corner. Do you like to watch youngish women, and their annoying boyfriends, murdered with power tools, specifically the large, guitar-shaped variety? Well, then do I got a film for you. Whoa, whoa, hold on a minute. Why am I asking the openly shamefaced if they like to watch men and women get poked violently with drills? And why am I using so many exclamation points and asking so many questions? The question you should be asking yourself is: Why on earth did it take you so long to bathe your taupe-flavoured eyeballs in this pastel-coloured piece of cinematic resplendence? Yeah, that's right, it's resplendent as all get out. The scrunchi-rific Slumber Party Massacre II (a.k.a. Don't Let Go) is a straight up masterpiece, yo. Featuring unexpected pus, vibrant clothing, multiple bottles of New York Seltzer (the elusive beverage also makes an appearance in Deadly Prey), strategically placed bits of denim, and girlish pillow fights (the kind that cause horny bass players to jettison their bras), filmmaker Deborah Brock (Rock 'n' Roll High School Forever) has somehow managed to add enough skull-scratching weirdness to a film that is basically about a drill-wielding maniac to fill up a neglected, algae-stained kiddie pool.

Weirdness is fine and dandy, but is the film's drill still a penis substitute? You better believe it is, and even more so, if you ask me. As in The Slumber Party Massacre (come for the drilled teenagers, stay for Debra Deliso's delicious gams), the assailant in Slumber Party Massacre II, an Andrew Dice Clay imitator who's a staunch advocate for the preservation of rock 'n' roll, handles his tool like it were a fully engorged member; thrusting it deep inside the bodies of those he wants to penetrate.

I thought the sequel's guitar-factor added an extra layer of genital-centric oomph to the proceedings, as it's been said that the guitar is the ultimate replacement for a non-existent cock. The way it's pushed forward in a sort of humping manner on stage sends out a clear signal to those ovulating in the audience that their potent seed is ready to rock. You could say–and you know I will–that the guitar is the ball sack (a warm, thoroughly complex housing used to hold seminal fluid), and the drill itself is the penis (a shaft-like delivery mechanism used primarily for stabbing at crevices).

While everyone has to deal with the threat that an erect penis poses at one point or another during their lifetime, it's safe to say that female slumber party attendees are the segment of the population that are the one's most at risk. Oh, sure, there are handful of them that love to poke around inside men, exploring the depths of their masculinity like a deranged dentist, but the fleshy appendages seem to especially adore stingily attired women. There's something about their delectable shape that drives all the driller wielders wild, and the same can said for those who carry red guitar-drills. My point is, while it's obvious that they prefer to drill ladies, they will stick themselves in a man if they have to.

Targeting Courtney Bates (Crystal Bernard), the younger sister of the main final girl from the first film, The Driller Killer (Atanas Ilitch), now an obnoxious creep in a frayed leather jacket who takes unorthodox cigarette immolation to a whole nother level of campiness, torments the high school senior and budding rock star (she plays a teal-coloured guitar and sings backing vocals in an all-girl pop band) by menacing the suspender-wearing scamp in her dreams.

If you remember Courtney from the first chapter of the slumber party saga, you'll recall that she lived in Venice, California, loved perform self-massage, and had a thing for orange short shorts (but then again, so did everyone in 1982). Now a shy girl–the kind that like to admire dead birds on their way to school–Courtney has made it clear that she does not want to spend her birthday visiting her older sister Valerie (Cindy Eilbacher) at the local mental hospital (all the drilling and killing that went down way back in '82 has apparently traumatized her sister to the point of institutionalized madness). Instead, she begs her mom (the fabulous Jennifer Rhodes - "Veronica, dinner!") to allow her to spend the weekend with her gal pals/bandmates at an undeveloped condo out in the desert.

Employing the help of her friend Amy (Kimberly McArthur), after, of course, they're done singing along to "Tokyo Convertible" on the radio, Courtny asks Matt (Patrick Lowe), a hunky guy she often imagines catching a football without his shirt on, to attend one of their after-school rehearsals. When he arrives later that day, the band is the middle of performing "If Only," (a catchy number that is actually a song by Wednesday Week). The unnamed band, who I've decided to call "The Pink Scrunchies" in honour of their drummer's, you guessed it, pink scrunchie, are Courntey (guitar, backing vocals), Amy (a guitar player who seems to be channeling Diane Keaton from Annie Hall, albeit, a more bosomy version), Sheila Barrington (Juliette Cummins) is the band's bass player and lead vocalist, and Sally Burns (Heidi Kozak) is their scrunchie-sporting, Slice-drinking drummer. After they're done, and finished engaging in some restrained tongue-kissing around back, Courtney invites Matt to their much ballyhooed desert condo lark.

Load up the station wagon, because it's time to hit the road and prepare for what Sally declares will be: "the ultimate slumber party weekend!" Smacking the back of the passenger side headrest like it were a snare drum with her pink drum sticks, Sally makes her bold announcement like it were a call to action. Just for the record, whenever someone is done yelling "the ultimate slumber party weekend," they must, utilizing their vocal chords, let out a loud wooing sound. How long they "woo" for is entirely up to the person doing the wooing. But make no mistake, a moderately sustained "woo" must be uttered. Feel free to add a "yeah" to the end of your woo. For example: "Who's ready for the ultimate slumber party weekend? Wooooooo! Yeah!" I find that it gives the wooer a sense of closure.

When they finally arrive at their destination, the girls get right down to business. Busting out the booze and corn dogs, Sally declares (the girl loves to declare shit) that she can't wait to be in movies and rock videos. This firm pronouncement inspires the girls to dance seductively to "Hell's Cafe" by Hell's Cafe, hit each other with pillows, and strip down to their underwear, well, Heidi Kozak (Society) and Juliette Cummins (Friday the 13th: A New Beginning) do most of the striping down (I guess the former Playboy Playmate and future Wings star were too bashful to get their sexy on). Watching all this rambunctious behaviour take place from the pervy comfort of a window are two male acquaintances, the James Duval-esque T.J. (Joel Hoffman from Killer Workout) and Jeff (Scott Westmoreland), who show up a day early to cause trouble.

Sitting by the pool in the foetal position, Courtney, wearing a pink and purple bikini, is still shaken by the intensity of her recent drill-themed dreams. Consoled by Amy, who's tender bits are sheathed in a teal-cyan-navy blue bikini, Courtney paints a pretty bleak picture. The Driller Killer, who is still an ominous figure wrapped in mystery (he only appears in brief flashes), continues to haunt her. Most in attendance agree that T.J.'s decision to throw her in the pool was ill-conceived. Sure, Sheila, who looked scrumptious in a bikini whose colour scheme was similar to Amy's, scolds him for being so stupid (I think she calls him a "jerk"), but the chlorine treated water seems to aggravate Courtney's already fragile mental state.

Speaking of aggravation, where was Sally when all the poolside frivolity was going down? You mean to tell me you made a movie with a pool scene and you forgot to include Heidi Kozak? Is that what you're telling me? Luckily, Heidi shows up a little later in teal bikini, which looked super-awesome against her blonde hair and white scrunchie. But the fact Heidi wasn't featured in the pool scene was outrageous. Oh, and the scrunchie change–you know, from pink to white, while troublesome at first, made it perfect sense. Check this out, not only did it match the straps of her bathing suit, but it was the same shade as her acne medication.

Sticking with the Kozak theme. I won't lie, a small part of me thinks that I've been going to the jean short well far too often as of late. Waxing semi-poetically about their skimpy appeal like an unhinged freak with some kind of denim-only brand of Tourette's syndrome, my mind seems awash with the coarse fabric. However, you've got to understand that if the movie I'm watching features a character, or, in some rare cases, multiple characters, who appear on-screen wearing jean shorts for an extended period of time, it's not only my duty to comment on them, it's my birth right.

When it came time to examine Heidi Kozak's heterogeneous jean short work in Slumber Party Massacre II, I chose to use a more analytical point of view, as supposed to my usual crotch-based approach. Why was she wearing them? And why were they so short? The length question is the most baffling because shorts in 1980s, according to my sources in the fashion industry, were getting longer and baggier with each passing year, especially since the cancellation of The Dukes of Hazzard in 1985. On the other hand, Heidi's shorts seemed to be getting shorter as the movie progressed. And, as an expert when it comes to short length, I was left mystified by this backward state of affairs.

As to why she was wearing them? Well, I think it had a lot to do with Sally wanting to divert attention away from her face. You see, while Sally is a gorgeous human being, and, I must say, the sexiest member of The Pink Scrunchies (her Valley Girl accent, affinity for the colours teal and pink, song writing prowess, love of killer corn dogs, and yellow tummy top drove me insane), she is quite self-conscious when it comes to her skin. She thinks her face is covered with pimples, but in reality, her complexion, much like her aura, is flawless. Nevertheless, by wearing the shortest jean shorts in the long and storied history of jean shorts, she feebly attempts to deflect, what she perceives as judgmental leering, and shift the focus instead on to the impeccable length of her shapely legs.

While the design of the guitar drill, the uncooked chicken attack, the pus facial, the sight of a breakdancing Driller Killer, and the exquisite paleness of Juliette Cummins's supple frame (which looked amazing in a pair of barely black nylons) were all terrific, the real star, of course, was Nadine Reimers. Who's that, you say? Well, let me put ot this way, without her, you wouldn't have the incredible shrinking jean shorts, garish swimwear, or colourful dresses that looked like they were haphazardly splashed with house paint.

As the film's costume designer, Nadine was responsible, along with production designer John Eng, for creating the candy-coloured temperament that permeates the chromatic core of the Slumber Party Massacre II universe. Seriously, every scene has this pastel flavour about it that calms your nerves (which need calming, you know, with all that drilling going on). Their crowning achievement comes when Crystal Bernard's cherry blossom pink outfit and the kitchen curtains were in perfect harmony with one another. Now you could say that it's one of the accidental benefits of making a film in the late '80s, or you could say that it was a direct result of Nadine and John's commitment to excellence. And you know what? I choose to believe it was the latter.

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