Missile to the Moon (Richard E. Cunha, 1958)

According to my not even close to being exhaustive research, when the labia majora is visible through a pair of tight pants, it's called a "camel toe." Isn't that weird? I mean, how did they come up... What's that? Why am I talking about vagina-based indentations in correlation with Missile to the Moon? Oh, I don't know. I just felt like illuminating all you fine folks about what I consider to be one of the kookiest slang terms the English language has to offer before I started yakking about space and junk. Wait. Now that I think about it. Camel toes and this movie actually have a lot in common. For one thing, the movie is chock-full of cunt bulges of the bumpy kind. And, on top of that... Actually, there is no "top of that." This film, directed by Richard E. Cunha, is mucho generous when it comes to vulvic protuberances. I know, it clearly states that this movie was made during the Eisenhower administration (the height of post-war puritanism). But trust me, the movie is pretty much wall-to-wall venus mound displacement, and I couldn't be more pleased. I say, "pretty much," because there isn't much as far as crotch wedging goes in the early going. But once the titular missile lands on the titular moon, it's vedgie city, baby!

When the instances of cameltoeitis began to commence, I thought myself: Maybe I should start watching more films from the 1950s. But then it dawned on me. This is probably more of a fupa fluke than anything else. Either way, don't be surprised if you see more films reviewed on here that were made during the squarest period in modern American history.

Truth be told. Missile to the Missile, despite the plethora of smooshed lady genitals, is a hundred times sexier than most of the sci-fi, comic book drivel being made today. Sure, there are no close-up shots of thick twatrods entering snarling gashes, or hazardous/structurally unsound butt-holes, for that matter, but I'll take good old fashion legginess over crass orifice penetration any day of the motherhumpin' week. And believe you me, this film has legs.

Seriously, I ain't kidding around. There must have been at least eleven so-called "moon girls," and each of these "moon girls" owned a pair of legs. Meaning, there were times when there were close to twenty legs on screen at any given moment. And I ask you, can the latest piece of fermented horseshit produced by the white supremacist child molesters who run Hollyweird be able to say that their movie has twenty shapely female legs on-screen in a single shot? I didn't think so.

The story goes something like this: Some rocket scientist cock-muncher named Dirk (Michael Whalen) is upset that the U.S. government has decided to use his newfangled rocketship for their own purposes. When Dirk discovers two escaped convicts, Lon (Gary Clarke, who sounds like Nick from Café Flesh) and Gary (Tommy Cook), hiding in his rocketship, he hatches this zany plan to force them to help fly his rocketship to the moon. However, just as they're about to take off, a government official, Steve (Richard Travis), and his girlfriend June (Cathy Downs), stumble abroad, and end up blasting into space along with the disgruntled rocket scientist and the two escaped convicts.

You would think that being forced (at gun point, mind you) to blast into space would dampen the spirits of Steve, June, Lon and Gary. But they seem cool with the idea. It just goes show. While the people who lived in post-war America during the 1950s might have been colossal squares, they weren't a bunch of whiny crybabies.

In other words, the impromptu space mission goes off without a hitch. Well, that's not exactly true. Sadly, Dirk dies during a meteor storm. Nevertheless, the mission goes on without him and they eventually land on the moon. Woo-hoo!

Donning space suits, Steve, June, Lon and Gary, after they avoid being crushed by rock creatures, explore a network of moon caves. Once inside, they quickly discover that the air in there is fit to breathe. Hiding their space gear behind some boulders, Steve, June, Lon and Gary come face-to-face with The Lido (K.T. Stevens), the leader of a race of blue-skinned moon women.

Since Steve is wearing the medallion Dirk gave him before he dies, The Lido assumes that Steve is Dirk. I know, how does The Lido know Dirk? I have to assume Dirk's been here before. Which, I must say, is quite impressive. Either way, the reason The Lido doesn't realize that Steve isn't Dirk right away is because she has since lost her eyesight.

Skeptical when it comes to these newcomers is The Lido's wonderfully conniving second in command, Alpha (Nina Bara), who thinks Steve's story is a bunch of Earth balderdash. Anyway, on top of having the film's most pronounced camel toe, Alpha is also the film's best character. Bringing the film some much needed camp-appeal, Nina Bara's deliberately exaggerated performance is the non-camel toey/non-leggy reason this film is still remembered to this day. Rendering Missile to the Moon as first-rate sci-fi trash.

Oh, and since I've already established that Alpha is the clear winner when it comes to having largest camel toe, I guess I should go ahead and declare the stunning Sanita Pelkey (Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow) to be the clear winner when it comes to legginess. Damn, girl. Those are some fine ass legs. Mhm! Wow, who knew writing about camel toes and lady legs could be so therapeutic... I feel like a brand new woman.

They're Playing with Fire (Howard Avedis, 1984)

In the mediocrity-laced afterbirth that is now, the sight of an older woman seducing a much younger man has become so commonplace, that you can't seem to go anywhere, entertainment-wise, without running into some disproportionately aged pairing flouting societies meaningless rules and regulations. Whether it be poorly made porn or overly smug TV shows, this not-so newfangled combination has reached its saturation point. Particularly in the former, where the women are barely thirty, reek of cosmetic surgery, and the guys violently prodding at them with their veiny malformations look like musclebound sexual predators straight out of an inexplicably published gangbang how-to guide. Anyway, as the more discerning amongst us would expect, I was rather taken aback by the nonjudgmental nonchalance in which They're Playing with Fire goes about laying the groundwork for the mismatched venereal alliance at the centre of its tawdry mire. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the adolescent male had an extra boyish quality about him, or maybe it was because the more experienced female literally oozed sophistication. Either way, I found their pairing to be quite mischievous–you know, as supposed to off-putting and sad. In fact, their relationship was so mischievous, I couldn't help but notice that male's face barely reached the apex of the female's bumpy acreage whenever he was seen trying to vigorously plow through her bawdy wheat field.

Yet another sleazy film from writer-director Howard Avedis and writer-producer Marlene Schmidt (Miss Universe, 1961), the husband and wife team who brought us the definite article obsessed trilogy that consisted of The Teacher, The Stepmother and The Specialist, They're Playing with Fire sees them (with the help of famed cinematographer Gary Graver) continuing to explore the realm of pampered dissatisfaction; a world that is crawling with seemingly well-off citizens who always seem to want more out of life.

This desire invariably revolves around money and sex. And since it's the 1980s, a time when the pressure to succeed was at its zenith, having a respectable job is not enough to fulfill the pricey needs of the era.

Even though the film's poster misleads us into believing that we're about to watch a lighthearted sex comedy along the lines of My Tutor and Private Lessons, the sinister underbelly of this trashy undertaking unveils itself when a first-year student, Jay Richard (Eric Brown), at Oceanview College is coerced by his English professor, Dr. Diane Stevens PhD (Sybil Danning), and her psych professor husband, Dr. Michael Stevens (Andrew Prine), into burglarizing the palatial home of the latter professor's rich mother.

The intent is to scare his churlish mother (K.T. Stevens) and wheelchair bound grandmother (Margaret Wheeler) into moving to a nursing home. Of course, the plan goes terribly awry from the get-go, as mother Stevens gets wise to the break-in and chases after Jay with a high-powered rifle. Luckily for Jay she's not much of a markswoman.

Apparently, Mr. Stevens' mother does not approve of Mrs. Stevens; she's low-class and totally beneath them. The only way he can get hold of any inheritance is to prove to the lawyers that she's mentally unstable.

After Jay flees, another visitor shows up moments later and murders mommy and granny. Wondering how the plan went, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens and Jay go back to the house later that evening. The traces of blood on the wall cause the married professors to suspect that their student accomplice did something untoward to the two elderly women. Much finger pointing ensues, and the threesome begin to play an unsavoury game with one another.

Who killed the old ladies, and who had the most to gain?

Approaching the material with a workmanlike efficiency, Howard Avedis brings his trademark no frills technique to the sordid project. It's true, he doesn't bestow a high energy montage on us (he's a product of the mostly montage-free 1970s), but he does manage to arrange it so that Sybil Danning ends up in a state of undress near the end of every scene she is in. And from a pragmatic point-of-view, that's all that really matters. It is clear that Mr. Avedis saw early on that Sybil was the film's greatest asset, and, like any rational person would, attempts to utilize her natural gifts at every turn.

While Sybil Danning nakedness is always a plus, the structurally sound actress managed to enliven the genitals of the great unwashed no matter what she had or didn't have on. One of the most visually pleasing women to walk the lumpy surface of Rigel 7, the seductive Austrian exudes an animalistic allure as the sultry English professor with killer thighs. The sight of her merely walking from place to place was intoxicating. Whether running long distances in heels or lounging on the deck of her yacht, Miss Danning brings new meaning to the term: elegant practicality.

Which brings me to her co-star. Now I don't know exactly what his deal was, but the indifference Eric Brown displays as Sybil's character is straddling him was dumbfounding. He could have been suffering from a severe case of "I can't believe my unworthy freshman cock is sploshing around inside Sybil Danning-ittis," or maybe he was just a player with super mad lady skillz. After all, he is seen throughout the movie repeatedly rebuffing the advances of an attractive classmate/amateur private eye (the extremely expressive Beth Schaffell*). But still, I didn't really get that much of a man-about-town vibe from him. I guess it's just one of those inexplicable things that defy explanation. Much like the wonky twist this flick tries to pull off during its inevitable conclusion.

Most Howard Avedis films end at around the 95 minute mark, and this one is no different.

* Having lost the ability to evaluate the quality of a movie acting back in 2004 (I blame a dangerous combination of Napoleon Dynamite and Xanadu), I wasn't sure about the temperament of Beth Schaffell's performance as Cynthia, the gal who pesters and spies on our young hero. Call me meshugana, but something seemed a tad off about her. And while a part of me did enjoy the idiosyncratic nature of the many strange faces she sports in this film, the other half had a sneaking suspicion that she was not doing this on purpose. In other words, she was merely a terrible actress.

In all my years of looking at stuff, never have I been this conflicted by the work of an actress in a motion picture. Which is sort of compliment, especially when you consider the fact that the film features Sybil Danning getting undressed in every other scene. Oh, and as is the case with the majority of performances of this type, this was Beth's lone screen credit.

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