Blood Games (Tanya Rosenberg, 1990)

We can all agree that unchecked masculinity can be a lot of things. Harmful, pernicious, sexy, and even poisonous at times, masculinity is a sickness. But toxic? I wouldn't go that far. Or would I? After watching Blood Games, I'm going to have to give the subject some thought. As the masculinity seen throughout this Tanya Rosenberg directed film is definitely toxic. I know, you're thinking to yourself: Of course it's toxic, the film was directed by a woman. That's true. But watching how the men behave in this film seemed like a pretty accurate portrayal (it took five men to write this movie, by the way). Granted, group-think does play a part in it as well, as it clearly undermines the ability of some of the men to make sound/rash decisions. But make no mistake, the toxic masculinity depicted in this film is real. And we get a taste of it right from the get-go, as we witness the all-female Babe and the Ballgirls playing against a team made up entirely of loutish men (their shirts covered in beer stains, their hearts filled with rape) in the opening scene. Unfortunately, I was too distracted by the uniforms the ladies of the Ballgirls were wearing. What I mean is, on the film's VHS cover, it shows five women, four in jean shorts and one in bicycle shorts. First of all, none of these women are in the movie. And secondly, where are the jean shorts? Ugh. Anyway, their baseball uniforms consist of a pair of yellow shorts and a sleeveless white and yellow jersey that is usually tied in a knot above the player's stomach. Despite feeling like I was mislead by the VHS cover (serves me right for expecting a trashy slasher/rape revenge flick to be honest and forthright), I was completely satisfied with uniforms worn by Babe and the Ballgirls.

And it's a good thing I was. I mean, if I wasn't, what am I doing? I'll tell you what I'm doing, I'm watching baseball!

It took, oh, I don't know, maybe three or four minutes to realize that this is the most baseball I've watched in donkey's years. I know, the horror. I was like, what am I doing?!? Of course, the fact that Dr. Caligari's Laura Albert plays Babe, their star pitcher, did ease the pain somewhat. But seriously, I'm watching people play baseball! How fucked up is that? And get this, they're playing it in the middle of the day! Ahhh, it was awful.

Okay, where was I? Ah, yes, toxic masculinity. It's on full display during the game, as the loutish men, lead by Roy (Gregory Scott Cummins) and Holt (Don Dowe), would sexually assault the ballgirls whenever they could (either with unwanted groping or equally unwanted attempts to remove their shorts). This repugnant display not only angers the Ballgirls, it causes their coach, Midnight (Ross Hagen), to lose his shit on several occasions.

Managing to survive the game/ordeal and come up with a victory, the Ballgirls return their hotel(?) to shower and get changed.

At first I thought the entire crowd cheering on the uncouth antics of Roy, Holt and the rest of these assholes was made up of entirely men. But if you look closely, you'll notice a lot women are rooting for the men as well. Robbed of their femininity (they sport flannel work shirts and nondescript trousers), these women have obviously been infected by... yep, you guessed it, toxic masculinity.

Sure, some of their boorish behaviour is fueled by alcohol. But I'd like to think these people would be just as corrosive whilst not intoxicated.

Now that the film has established that everyone in town is gigantic piece of human garbage, we need the conflict to transfer off the baseball pitch. And that comes when Midnight goes to collect the money he earned betting that his Ballgirls would beat that unorganized collection of  beer-swigging knuckle-draggers.

Since he made the bet with Mino (Ken Carpenter), Roy's ex-military dad, Midnight confronts him in the men's toilet at a local bar.

As you might expect, the collection doesn't go as smoothly as planned. Feelings are hurt, people are murdered.

Did I mention that Roy and Holt try to rape two of the Ballgirls? Oh, that's right. I didn't need to. Their deplorable performance during the game spoke volumes. So, yeah, surprise, surprise, they're rapists.

Thankfully, Midnight, followed by Laura Albert show up to put a stop to the rape. Sadly, Midnight and the team's lone black player are killed during the post-rape attempt fracas. I know, they just killed off the cast's only person of colour and the only man on the planet who isn't rapist.

(There must be other men on planet earth who aren't rapists?) There might be. But we don't see them over the course of this film. So, in my mind, the world is populated by women and hillbilly rapists.

This causes a bit of a problem. You see, the women are trying to escape. Exactly, escape where? If the world is made up of nothing but hillbilly rapists, where do you run to? This wasn't the film's biggest flaw, but it did render the Ballgirls plight as rather hopeless. Unless they can find some kind of man-free island or some kind man-less oasis, these chicks are screwed.

Either way, the action soon shifts to the woods, where the men basically try to end of the lives of Laura Albert and the other actresses not named Laura Albert for the next hour or so. What's that? Who are the other actresses? I have no idea who these women are.

One of them had amazing eyebrows and the one with short hair has a cute bum.

Personally, I thought it was a wise move to make the team's catcher mute. Well, she wasn't always mute. Traumatized by the rape attempt, the catcher doesn't say a word for the rest of the movie. And it's a good she doesn't, as she's a terrible actress. I can't remember what she says, but her line reading on the bus was god awful. When the writers or whoever heard it, they must have freaked out and re-wrote her part as a mute. I guess they could have just killed her off. But the catcher is integral to the plot. Yeah, she gives the pitcher the signs.... and Laura Albert is the pitcher.

Nevertheless, all the women, accept for Laura Albert, who's amazing, are not very good when it comes to acting 'n' stuff.

As for the men. My favourite, believe or not, was Vern. Played by character actor extraordinaire, George 'Buck' Flower, Vern, while, sure, he's a scumbag, was the only one who had a bit of a goofy charm to him (no doubt a testament to Buck's talent as an actor). As far as the rest go, I couldn't wait for them to be slaughtered. Of course, the film is somewhat of a letdown in that regard, as their inevitable comeuppance isn't as satisfactory as it should be. That's right, I wanted more gore. I don't want to see these creeps merely shot to death, I want to see them eviscerated, their entrails dangling from tree branches, baking in the midday sun.

At any rate, it was fun to see Laura Albert as the star of a film a change. Too bad the vehicle for her brush with stardom had to be a movie that has way too much baseball in it and not enough scenes where rapists are butchered without pity.

Dr. Alien (David DeCoteau, 1989)

Clumps of coagulated dandruff conspiring underneath the fingernails of possible existence, Dr. Alien (a.k.a. I Was a Teenage Sex Maniac and I Was a Teenage Sex Mutant) gently protrudes from the top of your head like a worm in search of substandard car insurance. A film like no other, yet strangely like other films in every way imaginable, this David DeCoteau (Creepozoids and Nightmare Sisters) directed piece of excitable sushi has one goal, and one goal only: to begin and to end. And speaking as a person who loves the living otherworldliness out of things that eventually cease to be (especially sporting events and award shows), I appreciated what this out of this world undertaking was attempting to pull off by ending so promptly. In the meantime, the fact that a wholly entertaining film was somehow squeezed between the start and the finish is a testament to the dedication of all those involved in the making of this profoundly touching and socially relevant enterprise. A stark examination of what it must be like to be the owner of an infrequently desired teenage cock, the realistic film follows a buttoned-down stick plunged into an expanse of mud named Wesley Littlejohn (Billy Jayne) as he tries to navigate the intricate nooks and crannies of collegiate life. Like most cautious individuals, his best friend, Marvin (Stuart Franklin), is the complete opposite when it comes to style and overall temperament. Together, they make for a mildly interesting movie pairing. The act of putting them in college as supposed to high school was also interesting; in that, it seemed to free up the filmmakers, giving them carte blanche be more aggressive in regard to implementing their more perverted flights of fancy.

Having just botched an attempt to talk to Leeanne (Olivia Barash), the girl of his dreams, Wesley finds himself all alone in biology class with the newly hired Ms. Xenobia (Judy Landers)–their regular teacher was put out of commission by a large spherical light–and her assistant Drax (Raymond O'Connor). He thinks he's their for an extra credit assignment, but the lab-coated twosome have some different in store for the awkward young man in the bland sweater.

Clandestinely injecting him in the buttocks with a syringe full iridescent green goo, Wesley feels a little woozy and then drifts off on top of a dissecting table. Waking up in a blurred haze, all he remembers is the dainty outline of Ms. Xenobia's complicated lingerie.

Now, I may not have noticed it instantaneously (my brain is not good sometimes), but it was right then and there that Dr. Alien attained its status as a masterwork of imperishable greatness. You see, by fusing the medical properties of lingerie with the eye-catching resplendence of bright liquid in a syringe, the film immediately established itself as a work of art that was worthy of my increasingly fickle gaze.

And you know no-one ever says: Old school garter belts and vividly coloured narcotics are the cornerstone of first-rate cinema.

The mysterious fluid coursing through his veins seems to have improved Wesley's life in every conceivable manner. He's more confident, his attire becomes more casual (no more ties and sweaters), and he's able to talk to Leeanne without tripping over his words. Only problem is that every female on campus wants his penis to be thrust inside their vaginas for a reasonably excessive amount of time whenever that worm-like antennae is sticking out from the base of his skull.

Of course, his friend Marvin doesn't see this as a problem (the prospect of having women crawling all over him is very appealing to him). But if Wesley wants to make any progress with Leeanne, he's gonna have to find away to control his male rivals girlfriend (Julie Gray) and countless horny coeds (the endearing Michelle Bauer from Café Flesh being one of them) who want to decimate his genitalia.

Narrated by Billy Jayne (Just One of the Guys) like it were a Достое́вский novel, Dr. Alien glides smoothly toward its life affirming message (you don't need green goo to be cool), thanks to skillful direction and humourous performances. Snicker obnoxiously if you must, but the combination of fundamental camera angles and comical acting should not be underestimated. Hellish landscapes, even Jim Hackett and Arlene Golonka were able to garner stilted laughter as Wesley's uptight parents.

Exuding a Stephen Sayadian brand of elan, the dream sequence involving Wesley being seduced in a lightless, smoke-filled netherworld was epic in terms of off-kilter brilliance. Standing before the disoriented youngster, undulating in an erotic state of deceleration, were Laura Albert (Dr. Caligari), Ginger Lynn Allen (New Wave Hookers), and Linnea Quigley (Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers). In charge of arousing his woolgathering subconscious, this legendary trio humped the murky air with a cock-teasing grace, as Judy Landers looks on in a pair of purple new wave shades.

Saddled with the role of the innocent wallflower who doesn't quite understand what the troubled protagonist is going through, Olivia Barash is cute when she has to be (her introduction was downright adorable) and feisty when things got hairy (I loved the part where she wields a chainsaw).

I couldn't help but be reminded of Repo Man during the scene where Wesley offers Olivia's Leeanne a ride as she walks down the street, as Otto does the exact same thing in the Alex Cox directed classic. The only difference being Otto is asking her after becoming a square (he used to be a rebellious punk), while Wesley is asking her after transforming into a character that is beaming with confidence.

Call me a misguided miscreant, but there has to be connection these two scenes. I mean, what are the odds of Olivia Barash being offered car rides from young go-getters while walking down the street in two movies?

Anyway, I think I've said enough to adequately advance Dr Alien's profile. Oh, did I mention that Laura Albert, Ginger Lynn Allen and Linnea Quigley also appear as a rock group called The Tangpoons? Yeah, it's entirely true. Sure, they probably don't any of their own singing, but you got to admit, the mental image of those three actresses doing anything together, let alone cavorting on stage in the gaudiest clothes the 1980s have to offer, is pretty fucking awesome.

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Angel III: The Final Chapter (Tom DeSimone, 1988)

The least talked about entry in the teen prostitution saga, Angel III: The Final Chapter seems miles away from the unsavoury sidewalks of Hollywood featured in the first two films. That might be because it starts off in New York City, where Molly "Angel" Stewart" now works as a freelance photographer. However, I think it has more to do with the fact that 1984 and 1988 are two totally different animals when it comes to "Living in the '80s." You see, the eighties can be broken down into two separate, yet equally important groups: The early '80s and the late '80s. The former was awash with creativity and avant-garde ideas, while the latter was a semi-bloated corpse yearning to remain relevant. For example, instead of going out and buying colourful bracelets at the mall and having irregular sex with Rick James, people in the late '80s seemed content to lie on their chesterfields watching individual beads of sweat struggling to outwit the mighty grip of Paula Abdul's world class thighs on their once state-of-the-art televisions. And if you ask me, that's a huge difference. Now, don't get me wrong, the latter half of the decade did contribute a fair amount of enchantment to the cinematic landscape (Teen Witch, Heathers, Killer Klowns from Outer Space), but Angel III: The Final Chapter isn't quite in the same league as those flicks.

The series has been completely overhauled and retains hardly any of the charm of the first two films. For starters, Angel creator Frank Vincent O'Neill has been replaced by Tom DeSimone (Reform School Girls), a man who definitely knows his way around a bag of sleaze. Yet, this guy just doesn't have the same visual flair as O'Neill. I mean, Los Angeles looks so drab and boring in this chapter. And jettisoning all the colourful characters that made the first two films such a pleasure to wallow in was an unfortunate turn of events.

I do, however, have to commend Mr. DeSimone for devising a plot that contains sexual slavery, cocaine distribution, x-rated cinema, and an ice cream truck. Oh, and not to mention, thank him for filling the screen with a cavalcade of naked breasts.

Anyway, the actual plot, and there is one, involves Angel being forced back onto the mean streets of Hollywood when she learns that her long lost sister Michelle (Tawny Fere from Rockula) has gotten mixed up with a distasteful throng of slave traders lead by a pimping visionary played by Maud "Octopussy" Adams.

Saddled with unenviable task of replacing Betsy Russell is the wonderfully named Mitzi Kapture. (Her kooky handle sounds like the working title of my unpublished guide to stalking bubbleheaded coeds.) Yeah, well, Mitzi does a competent job of filling out Angel's hooker wear. Despite the fact she doesn't really get to whore it up beyond humiliating a pimp and stealing his car.

On the other hand, I did enjoy the parts where she worked as a porno extra. The friendship/bond she forms with the other actresses was on the cusp of being fascinating, as it produced some insight into hopelessness some women must go through when they find themselves trapped in the unending shame spiral that is sexual exploitation.

Unfortunately, the romantic relationship Angel forms with a non-pornographic film editor played by Kin Shriner (General Hospital) was pretty much a dead on arrival.

The immensely talented Mark Blankfield (Jekyll and Hyde... Together Again) tries his best to imbue the proceedings with some playfulness as Angel's flamboyant, Disraeli-quoting friend, Spanky. But he can't quite match the get-up-and-go wackiness of Susan Tyrrell and Rory Calhoun (whose presence is sorely missed in this chapter).

The legendary Richard Roundtree (Shaft), the sensational Toni Basil (Rockula), cult actress extraordinaire Laura Albert (Mrs. Van Houten from Dr. Caligari) and the ubiquitous Dick Miller (A Bucket of Blood) are also in the film, but with the exception of Mr. Roundtree, their parts aren't much to brag about in terms of screen time. Which is shame, because when I saw Toni Basil appear onscreen looking all fabulous and junk, I figured she was gonna be Angel's new sidekick -- you know, ala Susan Tyrrell's Solly Mosler from the original film. But sadly, that never materialized.

Apparently there is an Angel 4 (Angel 4: Undercover) out there somewhere that stars the very blonde Darlene Vogel and a no doubt bewildered Roddy McDowell. But since I have heard nothing but negative things about it, I've decided to skip it, for now. Which is kinda a relief, because it doesn't seem to be commercially available (you know, other than used VHS copies on Amazon).

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Dr. Caligari (Stephen Sayadian, 1989)

The cinematic equivalent of discovering first-rate cunnilingus at the world's worst hot dog stand, Dr. Caligari is yet another film perfectly captures what the atmospheric conditions must be like inside my desultory mind. Oozing iridescent sludge at every turn, Stephen Sayadian (a.k.a. Rinse Dream and Ladi von Jansky) has made a film so intoxicating, so deranged and illuminating, that I find it hard to believe it took me this long to see it. I mean, the eye-catching colours, the surreal art direction, the Mitchell Froom score, and the exaggerated dialogue all seemed to join forces for the sole purpose of making my damp places even damper. Seriously, the film is bursting with creativity. It was like watching a puddle of late night subway vomit come to life and suddenly engage you in a sword fight without swords. Taking place in a dark, steam-encrusted netherworld, the film follows the domestic disquietude of a couple in crisis. You see, Les Van Houten (a wonderfully nebbish Gene Zerna) is worried that his wife's rampant nymphomania is starting take its toll on her sexual psyche. Desperate, he employs the help of the world's most celebrated psychotherapist, the shapely Dr. Caligari, the kind of woman that can induce a second-rate orgasm by simply snapping her fingers (which, by the way, are covered in capricious veneer of yellow nail polish). She suggests a two week stay at her nightmarish sanitarium, the Caligari Insane Asylum (C.I.A.), and he reluctantly agrees.

He nixed her first idea, which included him sporting an erection and periodically feeding it to Mrs. Van Houten.

The real star of Dr. Caligari was definitely Stephen Sayadian, as his inventive, brain-melting dialogue–co-written with the help of Alf-scribe Jerry Stahl, imaginative approach to production design, and Belinda Williams-Sayadian's unique costume design (every character wears either all pink or all yellow) were all an absolute treat to wallow in.

The cast should be commended as well for managing to recite each demented line with a sane brand of aplomb. The leggy Laura Albert (Angel III: The Final Chapter) sets the stage early on as Mrs. Van Houten. Her jerky head movements and overall lustful nature was a beautiful sight to behold, especially when she was masturbating to the fuzzy image of a confident doppelgänger flickering on an old television set. Actually, even more so when she was being bathed by a huge tongue that was protruding from a pulsating patch of unhealthy flesh. (This particular patch also leaked pink pus and an assortment of wrapped and unwrapped candy.)

Renowned Chevy Malibu driver and all-around cool person, Fox Harris, is tremendous as the sheep-trotter-loving doctor who is totally unwise to the sinister goings on at the asylum. His transformation from extreme fuddy-duddy to Mamie Van Doran-esque sexpot was brilliant. And the way he aggressively devoured Dr. Caligari's crotch area was replete with subtly and tenderness. In truth, it was like watching a malnourished raccoon struggle to get at the contents of a discarded bucket of discount chicken. But that's neither here nor over in that sparsely furnished corner. Which reminds me, would it kill you to buy a sectional?

The irascible Magie Song (The Fibonaccis) has a great scene where she's in straitjacket ranting about different types of beans. Her line about making potato salad for one of Heinrich Himmler's picnics made me laugh so hard, I spit out the contents of a drink I hadn't even started drinking yet.

Cult movie cult icon/sexy babe Jennifer Balgobin (Weird Science) and David Parry (Beverly Hills Cop III) have terrific chemistry together as the rivals of the titular doctor; John Durbin (Cyborg 2) is ultra-creepy as Gus Pratt, an electrocution-obsessed mental patient ("soft American girl patty... slice it thick, Ma"); a frightfully blonde Jennifer Miro (The Video Dead) says "Chinchilla" three times in quick succession; and the always alluring Debra Deliso (The Slumber Party Massacre) may have no dialogue as Grace Butler, but she holds an issue of The Watchtower in the presence of a garrulous cannibal like nobody's business.

And last but not least, there's Madeleine Reynal as the titillating Dr. Caligari. Deadpan to the point of pleasurable madness and exuding a raw, untapped sexual energy, Madeleine, in her only film role to date, repeatedly blew me away with her many blank looks of scorn and devilish approach to comedic timing.

It was like love at first sight the moment she appeared on-screen as the unscrupulous doctor with the keen fashion sense (the metallic breast covering was a nice touch). She's the kind of character that would feel right at home in Liquid Sky, and believe me, that's a good thing.

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