Hard to Die (Jim Wynorski, 1990)

It's a dilemma that every director must face: How do I get my female characters into skimpy lingerie? You can't just have them walking down the street at the start of the film in nothing but their bras and panties, you need come up with a reason that will satisfy the people in the audience who require their entertainment to be based in reality. If I was directing, I would have said to hell with realism, let's get these women into some filly panties, stat! Unfortunately, I'm not directing. But luckily, Jim Wynorski (Chopping Mall) is, and if anyone knows how to get a bunch of leggy women trapped in a high rise office building to wear impractical clothing, it's him. Bringing his unique perspective to the proceedings, Mr. Wynorski somehow manages to find away to get the five actresses who appear in Hard to Die (a.k.a. Nighty Nightmare II and Sorority House Massacre 3) to sheath their luscious bodies in lingerie in a manner that will appease both pragmatists and perverts alike. It's quite the remarkable feat, if you think about it. If you don't think about it, well, I can't help you, because I'm only down with people who think about such things. There's no logical reason why the women who frolicked, romped, cavorted, blasted, and occasionally cowered their way through this film's low budget universe should have ended up dressed like that; it baffles the mind and tickles the tip of Ernest Borgnine's penis. It's a testament to the tireless effort put forth by everyone involved with this seemingly innocuous production that the film was able to soar to higher than any lingerie-based thriller has ever soared.
 

 

The answer to the question I posed earlier–you know, the one that pertained to the methods a director should use to get their characters to wear clothing that conflicts with their environment–is easy: Have your film take place at the headquarters of a company that produces lingerie. Done, and done. Okay, that's all fine and good, but that still doesn't explain how the women go from wearing their street clothes (jean shorts and little black dresses) to changing into lingerie. Don't worry, the makers of Hard to Die have a plan, a deceptively simple plan. 
 

 

First thing you need to do is sully the clothes they're currently wearing, the logic being they're not gonna change out of their clothes for nothing. Yeah, but how do you ruin the clothes of five characters simultaneously? You want all of them in lingerie, not just some of them. The best way achieve this is to have all your characters gather in the same room. When you've done that, utilize a fire sprinkler system. Just have it go off or something. Soaked with water and mildly annoyed, have your characters take a shower (the CEO should have one in his office). Instead waiting for their clothes to dry, have one of the characters suggest that they should wear lingerie in the meantime (it being a company that makes lingerie, finding some to wear shouldn't be a problem).
 

 

Learning who's who in a film like Hard to Die poses an even bigger quandary than getting your cast in lingerie, as the brain energy required to keep track of five scantily clad white women will no doubt sap the strength of even the most ardent of deviants. As luck would have it, each cast member had a unique quality about them that helped me distinguish one from the other. For starters, Shayna (Bridget Carney), street clothes: white cowboy boots - lingerie: purple nightie, had a Latino vibe about her, and Dawn Grant (Gail Harris), street clothes: jean shorts with red boots - lingerie: red panties, who sounded English, were easy pick out of the crowd.
 

 

The statuesque Tess (Melissa Moore), street clothes: black dress - lingerie: black nightie, was the only blonde in the group (plus, she had curves in all the right places), Diana (Karen Mayo-Chandler), street clothes: blue dress with titillation holes on the side - lingerie: blue nightie, was the ubiquitous tall brunette, and Jackie (Deborah Dutch) street clothes: short black skirt with matching pumps - lingerie: black panties paired with a red and black top, had the distinction of being the film's leggiest gal.
 

 

I just remembered that Diana, the tall, well, tall compared to Deborah Dutch, who couldn't have been taller than 5' 2", brunette actually didn't get sprayed with sprinkler water, because she was busy moving boxes marked "Acme Lingerie." The reason she takes a shower was because she was so sweaty from all that heavy lifting.
 

 

Lifting boxes?!? Yeah, that's right. The five women I just mentioned have been instructed to move boxes from the basement of a high rise office building for Acme Lingerie. Four of the ladies, while waiting for the elevator, are told the story of a sorority house massacre by a creepy janitor named Orville Ketchum (Peter Spellos) and handed a mysterious package.
 

 

After meeting up with the fifth member of their party (a tall brunette who's shtupping the guy who runs Acme Lingerie), the women decide to open the crazy-looking box that was inside the mysterious package. A demonic force shoots out of the box, and proceeds to fly around the room. The ladies shrug it off the supernatural weirdness that just transpired and decide to take showers, wear lingerie (Dawn requests a top that will compliment her red panties), and order Chinese food. 
 

 

The order in which the women take their respective showers will probably be the order in which they meet their inevitable demise at the hands with the ghost of a crazed killer. Which is a shame really, because I was content with just watching the women move boxes while wearing lingerie. But I guess some of them have to die, it's the way horror movies work.
 

 

Surprisingly, the first woman to be killed just happens to the one whose character is developed the most. Check this out, not only do we learn that she's trying to get an agent, we also find out that she hurt her back skiing the previous year. Other than the colour of their panties, I can't tell you much about the other women.
 

 

Speaking of panties, keep an eye on the red panties worn by Gail Harris as she makes her way up the stairs. Why would I want do something like that? Trust me, look at her red panties. If you do, you'll notice there's tag is sticking out of the back of her red panties as she climbs one flight of stairs. But as she tackles the next flight, the tag is missing. What happened between flights? Did the tag manage to tuck itself back inside her red panties thanks to the duress caused by the vigorous stair climbing or did Gail tuck it back in herself? Fascinating stuff.  
 

 

This is probably way off base, but I wonder if the other actresses in the cast were jealous of Deborah Dutch's shapely legs. The only reason I bring this up is because a lot of the shots in the film require the actresses to stand beside each other for extended periods of time, and while they were doing all this standing around, all I could think about was the sight of Gail Harris and Karen Mayo-Chandler growing increasingly angry between takes over the fact that had to stand next to Deborah Dutch, whose legs are pretty much perfect in terms of shapeliness.
 

 

Yeah, but can Deborah Dutch operate a telephone, fire an assault rifle, stab a janitor, use a trash can lid as a weapon, and recite dialogue in a semi-convincing manner? Yeah, well...okay, no, she can't do any of those things. But do you know who can? You're way ahead of me. The spunky Gail Harris, that's who. Saddled with the unenviable task of being the one responsible for moving the ridiculous plot forward, Gail, a former Page 3 girl from Batley, England, does the majority of the film's story-centric heavy lifting.
 

 

Sure, fellow Brit, Surrey's Karen Mayo-Chandler (Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls), lifts stuff as well, but Gail's lifting was way more important. I mean, if it wasn't for Gail's tireless commitment acting and junk, there would be no movie. All you would have is a series of lame kills and a dead on arrival police investigation subplot. 
 

 

Um, hello? You forgot about the lingerie. Did I? Oh yeah, I guess I did. To tell you the truth, the lingerie wasn't all that great. Seriously, if you're gonna make a movie about five leggy women trapped in a lingerie factory, you should at least have one of them wear a pair of stockings. You mean to tell me none of the women wear stockings?!? What the fuck? What the fuck, indeed. The people in the costume and wardrobe department should be ashamed of themselves for this nylon-based oversight.   
 

 

While somewhat better than Evil Toons (both feature a group of scantily clad women who are forced to perform manual labour in an enclosed space to the music of Chuck Cirino), Hard to Die still manages to come up short as a slice of undercooked schlock. You have to admit, the decision to kill off the characters in relation to their lack of talent (the less adept thespians are mercifully dispatched in the early going) was an admirable one. But I'll never forgive the film's mishandling of the lingerie. If only Jim Wynorski had consulted Jess Franco (Faceless) or Tinto Brass (All Ladies Do It), directors who know a thing or two about titillation and eroticism (his idea of sexy is to insert funny sound effects while the women wash their boobies in the shower), then you might have had something. Instead, what we're left with is a mildly amusing flick that is saved by a leggy gal from Titusville, New Jersey and a plucky chick from Yorkshire.

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Chopping Mall (Jim Wynorski, 1986)

Rendering the rent-a-cop obsolete with the simple flick of a switch, the mildly satirical, yet altogether entertaining Chopping Mall presents an off-kilter world where your average shopping centre (Sherman Oaks Galleria) is crawling with killer robots, replete with waitresses in red Lacoste shirts who are told to get "more butter" by greasier than usual customers, and features a gun shop called Peckinpah's Sporting Goods (a crisp tribute to the ordnance-friendly director of the same name). Hilarious and provoking hardly any mental exertion whatsoever, the Jim Wynorski directed film is a nimbly paced, mall-based action flick masquerading as an Eating Raoul sequel. Yeah, that's right, Paul and Mary Bland make a brief appearance near the start of the film as restaurant owners. Sitting in the front row at a well-attended demonstration for this new state-of-the-art security system, Mary Woronov (her long, slender legs on full display) and Paul Bartel (his trademark baldness neutralized by his well-nourished beard) are periodically called upon to deliver a barbed comment or two. Of course, it's not the same as having a full-length sequel, but it was nice to see that Bland's were doing well. So much so, that they can apparently afford to buy expensive killer robots to guard their classy eatery.

Designed to protect the sanctity of any merchandise that lies within a building's sturdy walls from would-be thieves and bandits, these robots aren't actually supposed to kill (the term "killer robots" is a bit of a misnomer). But like with most newfangled gizmos and gadgets, the robots start to misbehave. Sure, strangling middle-aged bookworms (Gerrit Graham) and electrocuting surly janitors (Dick Miller) ain't gonna set off any alarm bells at the companies public relations firm. (Their market value is quite low according to the device that measures corporeal merit.) On the other hand, the tension is amplified when a throng of horny teenagers are in danger of being slaughtered. (Adolescents buy more, therefore, are more important in the long run.)

Now firing head-eviscerating laser beams from their eyes, the robots (three to be exact) are hellbent on exterminating eight young people who had planned on partying the night away in the Furniture King (three of the guys work there). Splitting up according to gender, the six (head-eviscerating laser beams have quickly reduced their numbers) teens battle the robots utilizing anything they can get their hands on.

Campy without containing the properties of something that is necessarily campy, Chopping Mall may appear to be a mindless tale of robots gone amuck. However, underneath all the crazy mayhem and clever one-liners ("Fuck the fuchsia! It's Friday!" and "Let's send these fuckers a Rambo-gram.") lies a fortuitous vision of the killer robot future we're all going to be living in the tomorrow to come.

Whether this was the film's intention or not, the sight of a glorified vending machine blowing the head off a lovely lass, whose only crime was looking absolutely scrumptious in a pair of pale panties and possessing a boyfriend who loves cunnilingus, was a stark reminder that machines are becoming more militarized. That being said, the head exploding scene was pretty sweet– you know, in terms of chunk ratio and splatter girth.

Nearly falling into a giddy stupor when I first heard its groovy magnificence during the film's spirited opening credits sequence (where beauty pageant contestants, skate boarding brats, and video arcade enthusiasts literally collide with one another), the 100% electronic score by Chuck Cirino is hands down one of the greatest accomplishments in the history of movie music. The synthesizers, the drum machines, everything seemed in perfect harmony, as its chaotic throb washed over me. Seriously, it's an awesome score.

Quirky fun-fact: Chuck Cirino was the SUV driving host/producer of Weird TV, a wonderfully insane late night program that aired on Global TV in my neck of the woods back in 1995.

Proving that the excessive cuteness she displayed in Night of the Comet was not a fluke, and, of course, establishing once and for all that she doesn't need to sheath her firm body in a light-blue cheerleading outfit to get noticed, the adorable Kelli Maroney imbues her character with intelligence, heart, and, most importantly, a delicate grace. As Alison Parks, a clumsy waitress who is set up by her friends with Ferdy, a slightly awkward (though a night fighting robots should cure that) furniture salesmen played by Tony O'Dell, Kelli embraces her inner badass when the robots decide to strike.

Exhibiting a nice counterpoint to the irrational and hysterical behaviour of Barbara Crampton (From Beyond), Miss Maroney is comfortable with firearms (much like she was in the comet movie) and isn't afraid to spout cheesy one-liners before offing belligerent robots. In other words: yet another reason to worship the spunky splendour that is Kelli Maroney.

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Fast Times at Ridgemont High (Amy Heckerling, 1982)

Supposedly setting the tone for every teen movie to come out after its 1982 release, Fast Times at Ridgemont High is a film that I have pretended not to like for the past couple of decades. (Its status as a universally beloved entity has always fraudulently annoyed me.) Well, I'm proud to say that those days are almost over. No, seriously, they're totally over. As of this day, I'm officially coming out as a fan of this somewhat humourous ode to degrading employment, after school change room copulation and quickie abortions. I'll admit, from the moment Amy Heckerling's adolescent-friendly camera pokes its head through the glass doors of Ridgemont Mall (Sherman Oaks Galleria and Santa Monica Place), and we hear The Go-Go's "We Got The Beat" blasting on the soundtrack, I was hooked. Quickly introducing us to the film's many youthful characters, this opening salvo immediately gives the audience a solid sense of the school's social infrastructure before even any of them has the chance open their mouth. However, when they do start flapping their gums and reciting scripted dialogue, whether it be about oral sex technique or the importance of wearing a shirt in a fast food dining environment, the results are always mildly illuminating.

Boasting a sort of meandering approach when it came to dispensing nuggets of plot, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, based on a book by Cameron Crowe, is basically about sex, freedom, and tasty waves (despite the fact the ocean isn't seen outside of a marijuana-fueled dream). The sex segment (naturally) is the most important subject out of the three, in that it concerns almost every character in the film. Although in this case, it mainly relates to Stacy (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and Linda (Phoebe Cates), two girls who work at a pizzeria, Mark (Brian Backer), a shy guy who is the assistant to the assistant manager at the mall's movie theatre ("smoking's upstairs to your left"), and Mike Damone (Robert Romanus), a smooth talking fella who sells overpriced tickets to rock concerts (he's also an amateur bookmaker). The levelheaded Linda mostly gives humping advice and interrupts sham pirates while their masturbate, so it actually focuses on the unintended love triangle that forms between the other three I mentioned.

The film's freedom angle is generated by Brad Hamilton (Judge Reinhold), an always employed high school senior who is looking to extricate himself from whatever mind-numbing job he is currently doing at the time and cut loose his longtime girlfriend. Of course, these things get accomplished in a manner he did not expect. And the tasty waves bit, well, that primarily is the arena of one Jeff Spicoli (Sean Penn). This surfing enthusiast and all-around party animal engages in a bit of a non-surfing battle with Mr. Hand (Ray Walston), a time weary history teacher.

While the sex section is all about melodrama (and how guys are pricks), and the freedom chapter concerns pre-millennial angst, the Spicoli part is pure comedy. Sure, the sight of Mr. Reinhold in his goofy fish restaurant garb is kinda funny, as are the antics of an under-caffeinated science teacher (Vincent Schiavelli) and a pair of over-caffeinated cheerleaders with way too much school spirit (Kelli Maroney and Pamela Springsteen), but it's the normally pompous Sean Penn who is off-the-hook in terms of stoner hilarity. His, "hey, I know that dude," nonchalant interaction with Mr. Pizza Guy (Taylor Negron) and mock playing of a drum cymbal during "Wooly Bully" are watermarks when it comes to cinematic buffoonery.

Now, the thing that has always bothered me about this film has been the fact it fails utilize the pop culture of the day. Saturated with a seemingly unending deluge of smug references to dinosaur rock from the sixties and seventies, the film repeatedly goes out of its way to make allusions to these outmoded bands and artists at every turn. When instead it should be chock-full of post-punk, new wave and synth-pop. You know, like, Valley Girl and The Last American Virgin. The only aspect that reflects the era musically is the wall of Mike Damone's bedroom, as it's plastered with posters of The B-52's, Devo, and even oddities like the Suburban Lawns.

Luckily, this obsession with arena rock can't sully the red bikini-ed magnificence that is the sight of a taut Phoebe Cates existing a backyard swimming pool in slow motion to the instrumental strains of The Cars' "Moving In Stereo." The sound of Greg Hawkes' keyboard* lushly humming as the gorgeous actress gingerly unfastened her swimsuit top is the stuff of semi-nude legend.

I cannot believe there was a time when I used to think this scene was overrated, and focused my praising gaze toward the subtle acting of the justifiably esteemed Jennifer Jason Leigh. Well, thankfully, that person doesn't work here anymore. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a fan of Leigh's performance (she makes getting deflowered in a dilapidated dugout seem like an exercise in extreme torment). It's just that I like to think that I have matured a lot as a viewer of things. Which means that I can safely declare the Phoebe Cates bikini pool scene to be awesome with nary a hint of irony.

Since this was my eleventh or so screening of Fast Times at Ridgemont High, I couldn't help but notice the stellar work of Blair Tefkin (V) as Pat Bernardo, one of the three girls who have "cultivated" the Pat Benatar look at Ridgemont High. You see, every time I look at a film, I end up coming away with something different. And this time around my unparalleled gaze seemed to focus on the girl dressed as the short-haired rock enchantress.

Sexily attired in a regalia of headbands, tight red and black sweaters, and many leg revealing skirts, I couldn't take my eyes off her every time she appeared on-screen. (I loved the closeup shot of her left thigh as she went to check the cheat sheet she had scribbled on it.)

I was truly fascinated by her dedication to the Pat Benetar look. I mean, I remember seeing people who copied the clothing of celebs and artists back when I was roaming the halls (the red cod piece worn by Larry Blackmon was all the rage at my dump of a school), but never once did I see anyone go to the lengths that this gal goes to look like a famous person.

* After watching it again recently, I couldn't help but notice that Greg Hawkes' keyboard is pretty much nonexistent on the version of "Moving in Stereo" used in the film. I know there were a couple of other things I should have been focusing on while I watched the pool sequence. But still, I was quite disturbed by the lack of Mr. Hawkes' synthesizer.

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Night of the Comet (Thom Eberhardt, 1984)

This movie is totally awesome! I know, it's a hackneyed idiom that has been used to extol cinematic shapes and colours for like, a quarter of a century or something, but it's the only sensible way I can think of to describe this flick. At any rate, when a motion picture comes along that combines the chromatic whimsicality of Valley Girl and the shopping spree-enhanced putrefaction of Dawn of the Dead, you know my eyes will be looking in its general direction the first chance I get. Well, I finally got my chance this past week, as I gazed upon the righteous neon sheen of Night of the Comet: the gold-encrusted scrunchy of teenage comet-zombie movies (one whose working title was apparently, "Teenage Mutant Horror Comet Zombies." Perfectly capturing the zeitgeist of 1980's fashion and philosophy, this giddy little film tells the story of Regina (a feisty young go-getter) and Samantha (a delightfully dim lotus-eater), two sisters who, one morning, find themselves all alone after a giant comet whizzes through the earths' atmosphere, vaporizing almost everyone and turning Los Angeles into a virtual ghost town. Through his use of drum machine-assisted cheekiness (the music score is a spine-tingling discharge of antiquated synths and wailing guitars), a gaudy colour scheme (the radio station walls were awash with flamboyant purples and mirthful reds), and opaque cinematography (a thicker than usual haze lurks over the City of Angels), writer-director Thom Eberhardt and his crack crew have created one humdinger of a comet-based zombie movie.

Add roomy hairdos, a Mac-10 shootout in ladies apparel, a hunky Robert Beltran (Eating Raoul), the legendary Mary Woronov (Rock 'n' Roll High School), Michael Bowen (Valley Girl) and Dick "Let's go get sushi and not pay" Rude to the mix, and we're not just talking about an inflamed pair of teal legwarmers lighting up the night sky, we're talking about a souped-up masterpiece.

Getting the fashions just right and teaching a pre-teen zombie to growl effectively is one thing, but casting is the key to the success of a comet-based zombie opus, especially one that features what has to be one of the most spiritually satisfying of shopping sequences ever caught on film. The casting of Edmonton's own Catherine Mary Stewart is a great start.

She is rock solid as Regina, a movie theatre employee who has a healthy addiction to the classic arcade game Tempest. Displaying a clearheadedness when it comes to firearms and dating, Catherine's plucky portrayal of the generously-coiffed hellcat is shimmering beacon for little girls to the world over.

The film's tour-de-force performance, however, comes in the diminutive, yet shapely form of Kelli Maroney. Playing the object-oriented Samantha, Kelli gives a performance for the ages. Wearing a magenta and turquoise cheerleading outfit, and a generously-conditioned mop of golden hair, the character of Samantha represents everything I stand for and epitomizes my belief in superficiality and unsupervised vacuity. (When the comet wipes out humanity, Samantha's main concern is breakfast cereal.)

Also, Sam's empty-headed whining (I love how she sulks when she finds out her sister has bagged the last man on earth), snarky one-liners ("You were born with an asshole, Doris, you don't need Chuck"), and frustration over her constantly jamming Mac-10 sub-machine ("Daddy would have gotten us Uzis") were downright spellbinding. Anyway, it's been awhile since I've come across a character that I've been so in tune with. And I tell ya, it's a good feeling.

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