Malibu Express (Andy Sidaris, 1985)

Since my track record with films that contain the word "Malibu" is pretty rock solid, I decided to dive headfirst into Malibu Express while wearing nothing but a black lace négligée and a smugger-than-usual smirk on my face. I'm curious, did the floppy nature of the lace on your négligée happen to get caught on say, a protruding branch or rock before your body hit the film's bosomy surface with a resounding thud? No, but why do you ask? No reason. Actually, that's not entirely true. You see, I desperately wanted to see that precious smirk you always seem to wearing wiped clean off your exceedingly punchable face, and was interested to know if this film, written and directed by Andy Sidaris (Hard Ticket to Hawaii), was able to put a dent in that pompous bubble of unsubstantiated self-satisfaction you seem to float around in. Well, that's good to know. It's funny you should mention smirking, because the hero in this particular venture does a whole lot of smirking. In fact, he smirks so much, that it caused a riff to form in that special section of the space time continuum that oversees the implementation smirks within the known universe. While some folks might take issue with the amount of smirking that transpires in this flick, I, on the other hand, had no problems whatsoever with its abundance of first-class simpering. Besides, if you were a babe magnetic on the level of which Darby Hinton is as Cody Abilene, your inflamed hindquarters would be fleering like a bi-curious banshee in heat as well. Call me loopy and unhinged, but I feel sorry for all the heterosexual men who inadvertently stumble across this film while cleaning out their tool sheds. On top of sporting a red DeLorean DMC-12 (non-structural brushed stainless steel catnip for the straight boy in all of us), the sheer number of hotties and temptresses who prance, gesticulate and cavort about during this unnecessarily convoluted enterprise will cause the genitals of the discerning men in the audience to melt into a pile of thoroughly emasculated goo.
 

 

Okay, maybe "thoroughly emasculated" is somewhat of an overstatement. But I guarantee, they're will be goo. Why? Well, because there's not a dud in the bunch. Every actress, and, I'll be the first to admit, the term "actress" is a bit of a stretch in some cases, whether they're playing a race car driver with large breasts or a phone sex operator with delicate toes, puts in a herculean effort in terms of putting their body on the line for the benefit of art. There were times when I thought the wanton display of womanly flesh was a tad excessive, but, for the most part, I...Wait a second. Did you just use the words "flesh" and "excessive" in the same sentence?!? Bad pervert. 
 

 

You might have noticed during all that smirk talk that I called Cody a "hero." Now, as most as people know, I don't usually use that term, as I find it be crass and unseemly. However, I'm willing to make an exception in Cody's case, because his desire for justice doesn't leave a trail of bullet-ridden corpses. Sure, henchmen do end up getting shot, some even lose their lives at the end of the day, but Cody's lack of skill when it came to the handling of firearms means that there a lot henchmen walking around out there who wouldn't be if he wasn't such a lousy shot. We get a firsthand taste of his firearm incompetence when Cody takes his trusty .44 Magnum down to firing range in the films opening scene. Sure, as he brags later on (he hit the board that held the target), but none landed on the actual target. 
 

 

Fans of antiquated technology will dig the opening credits, as they feature a secretary (complete with long fingernails) typing out the names of the cast and crew on an old computer. Which is fitting since the film is basically about unsavoury characters trying to sell American computers to the U.S.S.R.
 

 

Undaunted by his lousy showing down at the firing range, Cody heads over to the race track in his red DeLorean DMC-12 to meet June Khnockers (Lynda Wiesmeier), his race car driver girlfriend, and Rodney (Jeanine Vargas), her official photographer. I don't know what the purpose of this scene is exactly, but it does give us our first sighting of a pair of naked breasts. They belong to Miss Wiesmeier, and I must say, I wasn't that impressed. The sight of Lynda and Jeanine standing with their backs to the camera as Cody drove off, on the other hand, was quite impressive. Seriously, this film is gonna have its work cut out for it if it expects to top the image of Lynda (teal) and Jeanine (purple) standing on a race track wearing short shorts.
 

 

Two gals from Corpus Christi named Fay (Kimberly McArthur) and Faye (Barbara Edwards) make a valiant attempt to steal Lynda and Jeanine's thunder by surprising Cody at his house boat, the Malibu Express. And, judging by the amount of heterosexual drool that littered floor, they were  pretty successful. Again, I can't quite tell you what purpose this scene is supposed to serve in the grand scheme of things, but from the perspective of a rarely shaven, down of his luck bikini inspector, it was greatly appreciated. Just for the record: Faye's the brunette in the blue bikini and May's the blonde in the pink bikini twirling a baton.
 

 

It's a good thing Sybil Danning shows up when she did, as I was beginning to think that this film was going to be just a series of random scenes where some blonde dude with a mustache interacts with a bunch women who can't act. One of the few actresses in this film with any experience, Sybil commands the screen as Contessa Luciana, a secret agent working to stop the Russians from stealing U.S. technology. Wearing an alluring red and black off the shoulder number with shades (the entire ensemble looked like something she might have "borrowed" from the set of "V"), talks to some guy about who knows what. The important thing is that she's supposed to meet Cody for dinner. Bringing her a dress to wear, Cody, after she gets changed, accompanies Luciana to a fancy eatery. The dress Cody brought her, by the way, a red sequined monstrosity, was downright awful. Anyway, after wining and dining her, Cody smokes cigarettes and has dehydrating sexual intercourse with the contessa, in that order.
 

 

Given the task...Oh, have I mentioned that Cody is a womanizing private investigator from Texas? Well, he is. Given the task of watching over the Chamberlain's, a rich, mildly eccentric family living in Bel-Air, Cody ingratiates himself their matriarch, Lady Lillian Chamberlain (Niki Dantine), in order to find out who's been selling computer technology to the Soviets. Pulling up in a beat up Ford (the DeLorean needed to be serviced), Cody meets the aforementioned Lady Lillian, Shane (Brett Baxter Clark), their live-in butler/chauffeur, her daughters Anita (Shelley Taylor Morgan), a leggy gal with a perm (who enjoys tennis) who's having an affair with Shane on the side, and Liza (Lorraine Michaels), a non-permed brunette who might enjoy tennis (how the hell should I know?) who is also having an affair with Shane on the side, Anita's husband Stuart (Michael Andrews), who Cody thinks might be a little "light in the loafers," who is, of course, having an affair with Shane on the side, and Maid Marian (Robyn Hilton), their sexy housekeeper, who, for some strange reason, wears a giant blonde wig; I'm not entirely sure if she's having an affair with Shane on the side or not. But given Shane's voracious appetite for tight wet holes, I would be surprised if he was penetrating the maid's plush, fishnet pantyhose-adorned pussy on a semi-regular basis as well.
 

 

Just when I was starting to think that there were way too characters for me to keep track of in the Malibu Express universe, they introduce us to Sgt. Beverly (Lori Sutton), Cody's best friend/exercise buddy/occasional sex partner, and Peggy (Peggy Ann Filsinger), some brunette gym patron who appears in two scenes. In fact, why am I even mentioning the gym patron? Um, hello? She looked hot in a pink leotard. Yeah, but...No, you're right. That's a good enough reason. But still, half of these people have no business being in the film industry. Just because you were born with larger than normal breasts doesn't mean you should be allowed to utter dialogue in motion pictures, especially one's that have plots. I'm well aware that I'm contradicting what I said earlier about there not being "a dud in the bunch" when describing the "actresses" who appear in this movie. But now I would like to clearly state, with the exception Miss Danning, of course, that all the women who appear in Malibu Express are, for the most part, terrible actresses.
 

 

Anyway, it turns out that Shane doesn't have a voracious appetite for tight wet holes. Oh, sure, he doesn't mind doing it; penetrating them, that is. But the real reason he's doing it because he wants to blackmail them in order to help pay off the 30,000 dollars worth of gambling debts he's racked up. Using "state of the art video," he films himself having sex with the Chamberlain girls, Stuart included, and plans to extort money from them at a later date. Well, that "later date" has come sooner than expected, as the mob want their 30k right now. He decides to shakedown Stuart while driving him to a nightclub on Sunset Blvd., but he's having nothing of it. Why should he care? Everyone knows he's a card carrying friend of Dorothy. Following Shane's limo to the club, Cody is shocked when he discovers that Stuart has emerged dressed as a woman (he got dressed, or should I say, "glammed up," in the car). And not just any woman, a "gorgeous woman," as Cody puts it. Yep, I totally agree with Cody on this one, Michael Andrews is a fox.  Oh, and the fact Cody was able to appreciate Stuart's stunning appearance made me like him even more. He may be a good ol' boy from Texas, but he knows an attractive drag queen when he sees one.
 

 

At a swanky party being held at the Chamberlain estate the very next day, a catty Liza tells Anita that the maid was, and I quote, "Raped by two homosexuals. One held her down and the other did her hair." Ouch! At any rate, despite the fact that a lot of plot-based intrigue occurs during this particular shindig (one that allows women to wear sunglasses indoors), all I could think about was the sight of Sybil Danning in that snake skin bikini. I mean, damn!
 

 

Employing the help yet another character, Sexy Sally (Suzanne M. Regard), a sex phone operator with nice feet, Cody tracks down a lead. Luckily, Sgt. Beverly (whose feet are just as nice as Sexy Sally's) is there to bail him out when the bullets start to fly. While there's no doubt he's super smooth when it comes to the ladies (he practically has to beat them off with a stick), he can't shoot for shit. Just like his ability to appreciate an attractive drag queen, Cody's lack of skill when it came to firearms was oddly endearing.
 

A dumb movie with an overly complicated plot (Cody's explanation of all the plot details is exhausting), Malibu Express is lighthearted escapism for those who love naked breasts. Speaking of which, I don't know who told Lynda Wiesmeirer that her breasts had the power to persuade men to her bidding, because I thought they mostly induced sadness. If I would have to peg anyone in this movie to be in the possession of the kind of power to persuade others, it would have been Lori Sutton or Shelley Taylor Morgan, as their attractiveness seemed to come from a moist and sincere place.  

 

 

Ironically, the film's only genuine laugh is attained by an uncredited Andy Sidaris, who plays a Winnebago driver who picks up Cody and Lynda Wiesmeirer (and, yes, the reason he stopped was because Lynda flashed her breasts) after they get stranded in the middle of nowhere. Don't worry, though, it's not all tits and drag racing (Cody is periodically challenged to drag race by the Buffington family), Maid Marian wears fishnet pantyhose, Sexy Sally wears legwarmers at one point, Shelley Taylor Morgan looked absolutely smashing in her tennis gear, and don't forget about Peggy Ann Filsinger and her pink lycra spandex get-up.

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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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