Some Kind of Wonderful (Howard Deutch, 1987)

The act of re-watching some of my favourite movies with trans-tinted glasses over the past two or three months has been quite the rewarding experience. Like, did you know Dr. Caligari is the ultimate transgender movie? Well, if you didn't, you need to watch it again. It's so trans, it's ridiculous. Anyway, it's also been quite the horrifying experience, as some of the films are just plain awful. Now, Some Kind of Wonderful (a.k.a. Ist Sie Nicht Wunderbar) isn't close to being awful, but watching it again recently (in widescreen for the first time ever) was kind of awkward. And I think you all know what I'm about to say next. That's right, the amount of heterosexual stalking in this movie is insane. Every time you see a character doing something, you should always assume that another character is leering at them from a safe distance. What was once a lighthearted, John Hughes-approved romp, is now a dark, twisted movie about a socially maladjusted auto mechanic who exploits his trans-lesbian gal pal in order facilitate the entry of his erect penis into the vaginal cavity of a leggy redhead. While that might sound like quite the leap in tone, it's not. The movie hasn't changed one iota since it came out in 1987. It's me who's different. And I'm not going to sit idly by and let this movie's pro-stalker, pro-entitlement stance slide. Of course, I'm kinda kidding around. But part of me is dead serious. Some Kind of Wonderful is a dangerous movie.

If you think about it. Unpopular high school senior, Keith Nelson (Eric Stoltz), is basically a serial rapist/killer in training. Guilty over his desire to rape and murder a popular classmate named Amanda Jones (Lea Thompson), Keith pretends to attempt suicide everyday while walking home from his after school job at a garage.

His does this by walking in front of a moving train, but then stepping aside at the last minute. To give his psuedo-suicide attempt more significance, the industrial pop of Propaganda blasts on the soundtrack. Oh, and as with the majority of John Hughes' (teen) movies, the music heard throughout the production is outstanding (more on that later).

And not only does Keith time his train dodge perfectly, he manages to time it so he arrives at the home of Amanda Jones just as she's saying goodbye to her boyfriend, Hardy Jenns (Craig Sheffer), who is a giant dickwad.

Since he doesn't have the nerve to manhandle Amanda's organic structure, Keith takes out his frustrations on Laura (Maddie Corman), his younger sister, by physically abusing her. When Laura tries to complain to her parents, they simply shrug it off.

Her younger sister, Cindy (Candace Cameron), might be able to help Laura. But unfortunately, she's clearly deranged... in 1987 terms. If Cindy was around now, she would be a productive member of society; she believes in self-care and seems to give a shit about the environment (something unheard of in 1987). But this isn't now. So, Keith's reign of terror continues unabated.

In order to better familiarize himself with his victim, Keith sketches Amanda in full view of that giant dickwad Hardy, who is justifiably annoyed by this creepy ass display.

Realizing that Keith must be stopped at any cost, Watts (Mary Stuart Masterson), a staunch yet stealth trans-lesbian, decides to pretend that she's a heterosexual trans-woman who has a crush on him.

While most of the rubes who go to this high school buy the fact that Watts is a heterosexual trans-woman, Duncan (Elias Koteas), an affable skinhead (he's a punk with a shaved head), doesn't... buy it, and nearly blows Watts' cover by outing her in front of Keith, and a smattering of Goths and Metalheads.

Since serial rapists/murderers don't really have any use for college, Keith repeatedly shuts down his father's (John Ashton) multiple attempts to get him to "buckle down," and choose a college to attend once he finishes high school.

In the movie's most disturbing scene, Keith gets in trouble on purpose (he pulls the school's fire alarm). You see, the plan is to get sent to detention. I know, that doesn't sound like much of a plan. But the reason he does this is because he thinks Amanda is going to be there (while stalking her, he learns that Amanda has been given detention). Little does he know, but Amanda, no doubt using the shapeliness of her killer gams, manages to sweet talk her way out of serving any detention.

Finding it difficult to suppress her lesbian desire, Watts struggles to keep her girl cock under wraps. Watching her covet Amanda's femininity in the girls locker room was quite the eye-opener, and, not to mention, relatable af. I mean, who among us hasn't looked at Lea Thompson and said: I want to be her. I want her hair. I want her skin. I want her body. I want her everything. Am I right? Of course I'm right.

The look on Watts' face when Keith finally makes his move on Amanda says it all. She just let a vicious psychopath get his hooks into the woman she swore to protect. It's tragic.

As you might expect, this simple act upsets the balance of the universe, as the entire school's social order is thrown into disarray.

Will Watts be able to stop Keith before he rapes and murders Amanda Jones? And how long will she be able keep the fact that she's a trans-lesbian a secret? It's hard to say, as the film offers no easy answers. I mean, will Watts have to masquerade as a trans-woman who digs a cishet man for the rest of her life?

God, I hope not. Look at him! He's not Goth at all. *shudders*

  

Speaking of Goth, the film's soundtrack might open with an industrial-tinged pop classic. But make no mistake, Some Kind of Wonderful is a Goth movie. Well, Goth pop. Or, better yet, Goth pop-lite. Three of the movie's key songs are performed by bands/artists who are super-Gothy.

Sadly, Flesh for Lulu (veterans of the Batcave scene) and The March Violets (veterans of the Leeds scene - the same scene that spawned The Sisters of Mercy) were not as Goth when this movie came out. Meaning, what you are hearing from them is basically watered-down Goth. Which is a damn shame. All that's missing from the OST is a song by Gene Loves Jezebel, who are another great example of a Goth band who slowly turned pop as the '80s progressed (they went from "Shaving My Neck" to "Desire" within the span of three short years).

In case you're wondering... Yes, I consider Charlie Sexton's "Beat's So Lonely" to be Goth. Okay, it's Goth-adjacent, but still... At any rate, "Beat's So Lonely" is probably my fave song from the movie as of right now.

As for a favourite character. I'm torn between Maddie Corman's Laura and Elias Koteas' Duncan. Anytime these two are onscreen the film seems to come alive. Plus, they're hilarious and are the only ones who didn't give off a stalker-ish vibe.

Oh, and that whole subplot that involves Keith spending all his hard earned money on a pair of earrings to give to Amanda Jones was just plain stupid. I mean, I can see spending it on electrolysis or laser hair removal (I've read that doing a bit of both can be quite effective). You know, something worthwhile. But earrings?!? What the fuck, Keith. You bland, totally unhinged, creepy as fuck, non-Goth motherfucker.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to piss like a racehorse (damn these fuckin' titty skittles).

Howard the Duck (Willard Huyck, 1986)

Tucked away amidst a vast field of downy feathers, the reproductive organs of your average cigar-chomping duck from the far reaches of the cosmos are just waiting to be provoked by the right kind of visual stimuli. And to think, I was originally gonna start this paragraph off with a frightfully pedantic bit on how to avoid using duck-related wordplay when talking about Howard the Duck, a wonderfully plumose film that will soothe your inner mallard. If you were a heterosexual drake from outer space (a "drake," by the way, is what people who abuse thesauruses call a male duck), what kind of female Earth creature would you want to rescue from the unguiculated clutches of the dark overlord of the universe? You're absolutely right, it couldn't be just any old female Earth creature. Certainly not V.I.C.I. (Voice Input Child Identicant) from Small Wonder, or its Indian counterpart, Karishma Ka Karishma, that would be creepy as all get out. No, I think most people will agree that they would have to be pretty darned special to justify the amount grief the anthropomorphic space duck in this cinematic lark has to endure on a daily basis. What I would like all the male's out there to do is stop thinking about Sandra Bernhard in a zebra-print negligée for five seconds and try to imagine what actress Lea Thompson would look like in a pair of pink tights. Oh, and don't worry, that slight tingle you just felt in the lumpy area near your groin after I finished writing the word "tights" is completely natural (feel free to adjust yourself if need be). Okay, now try to imagine Lea, while still thinking about her shapely legs crammed into a pair of pink tights, with crimped hair. Don't be alarmed, the moist sensation you're currently experiencing is not being caused by urine, no, you just ejaculated sperm, my friend, and it was achieved without any physical manipulation on my part.

Check this out, by simply telling you to picture Lea Thompson (it actually didn't matter what her legs were sheathed in or how wavy her hair was), I was able to extract a robust dollop of your precious jizz. Pretty radical, huh? Now what do you think would happen to the cock of a well-travelled duck if the first human female they came in contact with looked like Lea Thompson circa 1986? You know exactly what would happen, the feather displacement alone would be devastating.

In no way, shape, or form does it promote bestialty (Howard's a duck from another planet, and not a local duck), Howard the Duck is about love and acceptance, not crimped hair drenched in space spunk. Of course, I've made it seem that way–you know, with all my talk of duck erections and pink tights. But then again, can you blame me? Not to blow on a metaphorical horn that represents my greatness, but my ability to induce guys into discharging their semen is legendary.

Bursting out of the gate with more duck puns than any other film in history, Howard the Duck, based on the comic book created by writer Steve Gerber and artist Val Mayerik, starts off on a planet located in an unknown region of space. Sure, it looks like Earth, but upon further inspection, it's obvious that the planet is populated entirely by talking ducks. Plopping down in his chair after long day at work, Howard T. Duck (Ed Gale) can be seen flipping through channel after channel of duck-related programming on his television (my favourite was an ad for a product that promised to "eliminate feather fungus even in the most active of crotches"), when suddenly, well, first he checks out the centrefold ("hello, my airbrushed beauty") in the latest issue of Playduck magazine, but then suddenly, he's sucked out of his apartment and sent hurdling through space.

Floating through space, as the sound of Thomas Dolby's superb score twinkles on the soundtrack, Howard eventually crash lands in a magical place called Cleveland. Containing more punk and new wave cred in its first five minutes than most movies that are purportedly about punk and new wave, the wayward duck seems strangely at home in this kooky universe. However, despite it being replete with tough chicks who wear lingerie as outerwear, lesbian bikers (Satan's Sluts), and, not to mention, John Fleck in a leather jacket, Howard finds Cleveland a tad overwhelming (he's tossed around like a chew toy by a group of drunk punks).

Deciding to lay low in a trash can, Howard hears a bit of a kerfuffle going on outside (it sounds like two punks are picking on someone). Poking his head out to see what all the commotion is about, Howard lays eyes on Beverly Switzler (Lea Thompson) for the very first time (call me somewhat deluded, but the duck seemed to savour every saw-toothed inch of her jagged mane). Anyway, after he's done savouring her hair, Howard gives the punks a taste of what he likes to call "quack-fu" (okay, I'll admit, even I groaned at that one), which, to no one's surprise, causes Beverly's attackers to beat a hasty retreat.

Asking what Beverly what planet he is on (she thinks it's called "Earth"), it's right then and there that Howard finds out that he is in fact in Cleveland (he puts an emphasis on the space between "cleve" and "land" whenever he pronounces the city's name). Feeling sorry for the displaced water fowl, Beverly invites Howard to stay at her place. While doing her best impression of Soledad Miranda from Eugénie de Sade (she hugs her own legs while sitting on her window sill), Beverly watches her new feathered friend fall asleep. Which, of course, gives her the opportunity to poke through Howard's wallet without him knowing (paper money that was issued in the United States of Anatidae, a duck prophylactic, and a Bloomingducks credit card).

As is the case with most pop singers with crispy bangs–did I mention that Beverly fronts a new wave band (think Jem and the Holograms meets the Bangles) called Cherry Bomb? No? Well, she does, and her rendition of "Hunger City" rocks–Beverly knows a research scientist who works at the city's museum. The plan is to ask a twitchy fella named Phil Blumburtt (Tim Robbins) to help them figure how Howard ended up in Cleveland. Unfortunately, it turns out Phil is merely a lab assistant, which, for some reason, causes Howard and Beverly to get into an argument adjacent to a water fountain (the pinkness of Lea's pink tights really shine through during this scene).

Stomping off in a huff, Beverly leaves Howard to fend for himself on the cruel streets of Cleveland. Realizing that Earth ain't exactly the most duck-friendly planet in the galaxy, Howard quits his job at a massage parlour/spa and winds up back where he started, at one of Cherry Bomb's gigs. Employing his quack-fu on the corrupt management that oversee the financial well-being of Beverly's band (they were pocking their earnings all for themselves - after all... it's a competitive world), Howard apologizes for being such an ungrateful duck and takes over as their manager.

Meanwhile, back at Beverly's apartment, the sleazoids in the audience need to prepare themselves, because the infamous "pink panties/bed crawl" scene is about to commence. While the angle writer-director Willard Huyack ends up going with could have been more perverse, the end result (no pun intended) is still a terrific example of unforeseen titillation. Tormenting Howard with the minute smallness of her unwrinkled pink panties, Beverly causes the feathers on top of his head to become erect. Seeing this as a sign that Howard is ready to engage in a raucous session of interspecies loving-making, Beverly thrusts her taut, soon-to-be quivering body in the general direction of the demure space duck.

If you haven't finished masturbating by the time the pink panties/bed crawl scene comes along, I'm afraid you're... actually, I don't know whether to congratulate or ridicule you (the former for managing to thwart your orgasm this long, the latter because, well, duh, you're pleasuring yourself to Howard the Duck). Seriously, though, you better hurry up because the film quickly morphs into an action-packed thrill ride once Jeffrey Jones shows up as Dr. Jenning, a scientist at Dynatechnics who gives Howard the skinny on how he arrived in Cleveland. An exhaustive chase scene involving an ultralight aircraft (a sequence where a handcuffed Tim Robbins hams up a storm) and a chaotic laser cannon duel between Howard and a monstrous crab-like alien (a.k.a. the dark overlord of the universe) are the film's primary focus once Beverly covers her pink panties with a bed sheet.

I did, however, enjoy the post-pink panties/bed crawl scene at Joe Roma's, Cleveland's best Cajun sushi house. What I liked about this part of the movie, besides the fact that Howard tries to look up Beverly's skirt, the sinister nature of Jeffrey Jones's demon voice (the way he says, "give me the code key," was so '80s - code keys were all the rage during the Reagan Administration), and the phrase "hostility is like a psychic boomerang" is employed, was that all the waitstaff wore hachimakis. I don't know, there's something oddly appealing/off-putting about white people who embrace Japanese culture, especially cute white people like, Jorli McLain, who plays a waitress named Crystal (she also utters the psychic boomerang line).

Just for the record, the extremely raffish-looking shirt Lea Thompson wears during the diner section of the movie is definitely something I want to add to my nonexistent collection of movie wardrobe oddities.

Speaking of wardrobe oddities, the film's costume designer, Joe I. Tompkins, was definitely working at the top of his stylistic game in Howard the Duck. Take, for example, the character of Beverly Switzler, her outfits were off the charts in terms of creativity and playfulness. The seemingly erratic combination of fingerless opera gloves, black nylons, pink polka dot scarfs, brown coats, red high heel boots paired with purple socks, pink tights, tricked-out letterman jackets (the Keith Haring-esque sleeves were to die for), short tartan skirts with modest slits in the front, and jean jackets covered in metallic holes all screamed thrift store chic. Sure, from a slob's perspective, it appears that her many looks were simply thrown together in a haphazard manner. But if you look closely, and I mean really closely, you'll start to see a weird brand symmetry transuding from her mingle-mangle-inspired ensembles.

While the action scenes do drag on a bit during the film's final third, we do get to see Lea Thompson tied up twice. Yeah, that's right bondage fans, the leggy actress is bound in the back of a truck (the more she struggles, the tighter the ropes seem to dig into her flesh) and on a metal lab table (one equipped with built-in straps to prevent damsels from causing their captors any unnecessary distress).

The Paris Hilton of intergalactic duck movies, Howard the Duck is a prime example of decentralized decision making run amok. The negative ripple that washed over this movie upon its initial release was insurmountable. Yet none of its many detractors seem to bother mentioning Lea Thompson's legs, or her crimped hair, or even her penchant for fingerless gloves whilst stabbing it to death with their critical knives. Which is something that always struck me as rather odd. Could it be that their hatred of the upright duck has clouded their ability to watch filmed entertainment in a rationale manner? Part of me can see how the film might test the spiritual resolve of the fowl averse sitting in the audience, but everyone else should be busy basking in the new wave glow that radiated off Lea Thompson as she fell head over heels with a duck named Howard. Cringe if you must, especially when the duck is spouting lines like, "no more Mr. Nice Duck, but don't belittle a film that is, at its core, a love story for the ages.

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The Wild Life (Art Linson, 1984)

An impulsive, unrefined free spirit repeatedly finds himself clashing with a bunglesome bore in the casually commendable The Wild Life, a.k.a., one of the best things to ever to crawl its way out from the overly nostalgic head space of sentimental tripe pusher Cameron Crowe (Fast Times at Ridgemont High). A rambunctious examination of adolescent devilment circa 1984, and, not to mention, a first-rate peek into what it must have been like to come-of-age in Torrance, California, this Art Linson directed teen flick failed to impress me the first time around–you know, beyond the usual larks and superficialities that typically bubble near the surface in films like this. But looking at it again, I was struck by how much light it sheds on the importance of creating memories during one's youth. Think about all those unseemly things you did as a reckless adolescent. Have you got the images in your mind? How would you feel if those memories weren't there? Sure, some of the memories might be painful, and their disappearance could be seen as a blessing. But without those memories, even the bad ones, you wouldn't be yourself, you'd be a mindless zombie with no discernible personality. The moments of embarrassment some of the characters endure in this movie are what end up forming the building blocks of their very souls. Whether it be you're dorky boss forcing you to confront a shoplifter in the trendy mall boutique you work at or being romantically rebuffed by a couple of bikini clad stewardesses (Brynja McGrady and Leigh Lombardi) as "Mirror Man" by The Human League plays on the soundtrack, these moments are integral to your overall growth as a human being.

Following the adventures of a glum nineteen year-old with reddish hair, one who, get this, has just broken up with his strikingly beautiful girlfriend, Anita (Lea Thompson), Bill Conrad (Eric Stoltz) is looking forward to branching out on his own and moving into a swanky apartment complex. He sees it as liberation from his childlike existence, hence, the dumping of his high school girlfriend. However, his best friend and fellow bowling alley employee isn't quite ready to grow up. Wait a minute, what kind of asshole breaks up someone who looks like Lea Thompson?!? This course of action baffled the living fuck out of me. I mean, Lea Thompson? What a tool. It's true, Bill does eventually come to his senses. But this bizarre act was the main reason I saw a dark cloud hovering over Bill's head for the majority of this movie.

Anyway, his best friend, Tom Drake (Chris Penn), is the complete opposite of Bill, in that, he loves his high school girlfriend (Jenny Wright) and lives to party. These two lifestyles are incompatible with one another and cause much conflict between the mismatched buds.While the aforementioned "girlfriends" in The Wild Life may not party as hard as the guys, and aren't given succinct catchphrases to utter (Tom's mantra, "it's casual," permeates the proceedings like a carefree head cold), they are just as interesting as the boys; even more so at times, if you ask me.

An insanely gorgeous Lea Thompson (Howard the Duck) and the alluring Jenny Wright (Out of Bounds) play gal pals, Anita and Eileen, and I found their boy-related stress to be fascinating, and, strangely enough, downright illuminating at times. Call me grossly incognizant, but I enjoyed their heart to hearts about their futures and respective fellas.

The most interesting girlfriend was by far Eileen, a high school senior who is currently working (the film takes place in late August) at Fashion Dynasty, a new wave inspired clothing store (watch the mannequins closely, as some of them are actually played by living, breathing people). She not only has to deal with the erratic behaviour of Tom, her smothering, mentally challenged boyfriend (his steady stream of marriage proposals are pushing her over the edge), but also the untoward advances of her boss (Rick Moranis), a bespectacled fashion victim with poofy hair who thinks Eileen is the bees knees.

Played with sexy aplomb by Jenny Wright, Eileen perfectly symbolized the unease that came with growing up new wave in a heavy metal world. In theory, that makes no sense, but when approached with from a slightly skewed angle, it makes some sense. At any rate, everything from Jenny's spiky haircut to the annoyance she displays after another surprise visit from her boyfriend was wonderfully realized by the attractive actress. One in which involves him costing her sale (he rightly tells a potential customer that the jacket he's about to purchase is too small) However, my favourite surprise visit had to be the one where Tom watches her as she gets undressed through her bedroom window, as the sight of Miss Wright enjoying the sumptuous contours of her world-class organic structure was an absolute delight.

Oh, and I loved the closeup shot of her legs as she sat cross-legged outside her school. The perverted manner in which the camera lingered on her ankle bracelet (the little heart-shaped jewels caressing the upper part of her right foot) and slowly moved its way up her body was breathtaking.

As cute as a button-like substance, Lea Thompson plays Anita, a Donut City employee who's having sex with an older man (Hart Bochner). And when I say, "having sex," I'm not being unnecessarily crude, the older man, who's a police officer (yep, policemen like to order more than just donuts) refuses to take Anita out on a normal date. Again, what's wrong with these people? Actually, he, as we'll soon find out, has got a pretty good excuse for not wanting to be seen in public with Anita, but I digress. Looking adorable behind the donut counter, Lea imbues her character with enough bewildered looks and sweet smiles to make us forget that she likes to straddle a mustache-sporting lawman amidst irretrievable sprinkles and coagulating clumps of gooey dough.

The best Lea-based look of bewilderment comes when she realizes that her cop lover has stood her up.

It also makes think about the sheer amount of effort she made to look nice for him, as the scene that preceded her bewilderment shows Anita struggling to encase her shapely gams into a pair of white pantyhose. Okay, she wasn't exactly "struggling," but the pantyhose fetish crowd will most likely love it when Lea Thompson playfully stretches the waistband of her hose all the way up to her chest.

The misguided lure of the conflict in Vietnam (1959-1975) consumes the aura of a disaffected teen named Jim (Ilan Michael-Smith), as he pretends to carry the burden of that particular entanglement (the militaristic clothing he wears and the classic rock blasting from his boombox reflect this fake burden perfectly). Oh, just in case I didn't mention it earlier, Jim is Bill's younger brother, and his subplot runs parallel to the ones about Tom and his pseudo-engagement to Eileen (a pseudo-bachelor party he attends at a Les Girls features the lovely Ashley St. Jon as Stripper #1, Stripper #2 is played by Kitten Natividad), Bill's attempt to gain autonomy, and Anita's affair with the police officer. Anyway, Jim's tough exterior is justifiably softened when in the presence of Brenda (Simone White), an angelic girl with blonde hair and braces. The two may only glance at each other a couple of times and exchange hi's with one another at the local bowling alley, but I found their subtle flirting to be mildly intoxicating.

Other than forgetting to mention Ángel Salazar's amazement over the fact that Les Girls accepting Visa and MasterCard (the way he pronounces, "mastercharge," is comedy gold), I think that covers just about everything.

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