American Nightmare (Don McBrearty, 1983)

Let's get this out of the way first, shall we? The only thing American about this cinematic nightmare is that crumpled wad of American cash resting on the nightstand of the wonderfully flat-chested prostitute played by Alexandra Paul; who is American herself, so let's say, there are two things American in this film (money and small tits). And both are nowhere to be found after the five minute mark; well, there are plenty of small tits after the five minute mark, just not American small tits. Everything else is pure 100% Toronto-reared sleaze (mmm, slice it thick, ma). Since "Toronto Nightmare" isn't nearly as catchy, they went with American Nightmare. And you can't really blame them for that, as the film will probably do much better in international markets with a title like that. However, to someone who knows the streets depicted in this Don McBrearty-directed slasher flick all too well, this film is hands down one of the greatest tributes to the city of Toronto I think I've ever seen. Of course, I'm talking about the Toronto of yesteryear, as the Toronto featured in this film does not exist anymore. Oh, sure, the Zanzibar is still there in all its perverted glory, but everything that was scum-laden and beautiful that used to surround it has long since disappeared. If, by the way, I'm starting to sound like a nostalgic New Yorker bemoaning the gentrification of their precious Times Square. That's good, as that's the sound I'm going for. Sick of waxing poetically about the changes that have occurred over the years in city's I've never lived in, it was refreshing to watch a movie–a gritty, sexy, violent movie with incest, cross-dressing and pimps–that boasted locations that I've actually been to. And what was cool about the way the locations were filmed in American Nightmare was that nothing, as far as I could see, was altered in order to make the various locals seem more grimy. In other words, everything in this film looked authentic.
 

 

Well, authentic to a point. I mean, would an adult bookstore/porno theatre (all adult bookstores, all the decent ones, anyways, had a porno theatre in the back) really carry Crescendo Magazine?!? If you look closely, you can see that the magazine is clearly in the miscellaneous section. Still, a magazine geared toward lovers of classical music does seem out of place in a shop that carries, or, hopefully carries, the latest issues of Razzle, Pleasure, Escort, and Whitehouse.
 

 

Opening on a pair of white panties lying in a heap on the floor of a cheap motel, American Nightmare makes an impression almost immediately. Slowly the camera moves off the panties and shows us that the panties are not alone. Resting near a some taupe pantyhose and a white bra, the panties, before they were tossed on the floor, were once wrapped snugly around the barely eighteen undercarriage that belongs to Tanya Kelly (Alexandra Paul), a prostitute with small breasts.
 

 

The reason the panties are not furnishing her crotch and buttocks with the coverage they were engineered to provide is because she needs those areas to be free of artificial barriers. Why's that, you ask? She needs them to be uncovered so that her clients, like the one who is currently in the bathroom, can enter her without there being any obstructions. 
 

 

As Tanya waits on the bed in a leggy manner for her client to finish up in the bathroom, you'll notice that the television on the fritz. I have no idea if the decision to make the television's picture quality poor was on purpose or not. Nevertheless, I thought it was the correct decision. I'm not sure if I said this before, but a television with a fuzzy picture is much more interesting, from a visual point-of-view, than a television that is transmitting a clear picture. 
 

 

Returning from the bathroom, the man, who is wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of surgical gloves, walks toward Tanya and... Hold on. Did you say, surgical gloves? Yeah, so? I don't have access to the hooker handbook at the moment, but surgical gloves have got to be listed as a red flag. They might be, but you've got to remember, Tanya is a young prostitute. Meaning, she probably hasn't gotten that far in the handbook yet. Well, it's not going to help her now, as the guy in the towel is slicing her neck with a razor.
 

 

What's most tragic about Tanya's death is the fact her brother, Eric Blake (Lawrence Day), a concert pianist, spends most of the movie looking for her. What I mean is, we know Tanya Kelly, who's real name is Isabelle Blake, though, I prefer to call her Tanya since she died as Tanya, is dead, but Eric doesn't. And that gives the film a real sense of hopelessness.
 

 

Despite what we know, Eric continues to look for Isabelle/Tanya. He even manages to find the apartment building (a real dump) her sister's been living for the past two years. The only person he finds is Dolly (Larry Aubrey), her Friend of Dorothy-aligned neighbour from across the hall; I loved the way Dolly played with his necklace as he chatted with Eric, as it was so flamboyantly creepy.
 

 

All Eric gets out of Dolly is that he hasn't seen her for at least two days. This leads him to reluctantly visit his father, Hamilton Blake (Tom Harvey), the owner of Uni-Save, a successful television station he runs with his right hand man Tony (Neil Dainard). Unfortunately, his father hasn't seen Isabelle/Tanya in over two years. Oh, and the reason he was reluctant to turn to his father is because he can't stand him. I'd even go as far as to say that he hates him with a fiery passion.
 

 

The reason no one was home when Eric knocked on the door is because Louise (Lora Staley) and Andrea (Claudia Udy),  Isabelle/Tanya's roommates, are all down at the Zanzibar taking their clothes off for money. Actually, before we meet Louise and Andrea, we're introduced to a stripper named Tina (Lenore Zann), who is talking with her boyfriend Mark (Page Fletcher), a guy who doesn't like the fact that his girlfriend is a stripper. What I think they were trying to do with this scene is establish Mark's dislike for the stripping profession. And, in turn, make us believe that he might start killing strippers, or small-breasted prostitutes for that matter. Either way, I like the idea that Lenore Zann works at a strip club called the Zanzibar.
 

 

At first, I was impressed by the Scorchy poster the ladies had on the wall of their dressing room. But then I saw something on the wall that impressed me even more. Wait, something more impressive than a Scorchy poster? Way more impressive. Are you ready? A Marlene Willoughby poster!!! Yikes! That is impressive.
 

 

How come I don't have a Marlene Willoughby poster on my wall? It's not fair. I'm stupid enough to actually go down to the Zanzibar, which, like I said, is still in business, and ask them if the Marlene Willoughby poster featured in the early '80s slasher film American Nightmare is for sale. Hell, I'm not even sure if the interior scenes were filmed inside the actual club. Nonetheless, that still doesn't change the fact that I want that poster.
 

 

Convincing Louise that Isabelle/Tanya is in fact her brother by showing her a picture of them together, Eric manages to finally get inside her apartment. Much to Eric's disappointment, however, Louise, despite her legginess (she has the legs of a dancer), is not much help.
 

 

If you're wondering why Eric hasn't gone to the police. Wonder no more, as he heads down to the police station to inform Sgt. Skylar (Michael Ironside, yeah, baby... this guy rocks) that his sister is missing.
 

 

To make Lora Staley's Louise more likable, the writers, including John Sheppard (Flying), give her a pill addiction. I know, how does one become more likable by being addicted to pills. Trust me, it just does. It's hard to explain, but just knowing that Louise has a pill habit on the side made her more appealing to me. At any rate, she gets her pills from a pimp/drug dealer named Fixer (Michael Copeman), who "works" out of the porno theatre located in the back of an adult bookstore.
 

 

As she's buying her pills, she tries to help Eric out by asking Fixer where Isabelle/Tanya might be. But scumbags named "Fixer," one's who push pills for a living, aren't exactly the most helpful people in the world. While leaving, she notices that Eric is on the cover of Crescendo Magazine. Like I explained earlier, I thought it was strange that a place like this would carry such a classy-looking magazine.
 

 

Just a second. I know, a killer is targeting strippers and prostitutes. But Lenore Zann is about to go on. Like most strippers in the '70s and '80s, Lenore Zann's Tina has a gimmick, and hers is a devil motif. Carrying a red pitchfork (don't worry, the points have been neutralized) and wearing devilish lingerie, Lenore, with the help of a feather boa, manages to turn the wrinkled crotch meat festooned to the members of the unwashed rabble at the Zanzibar into rigid no-fly zones with minimal effort. Huh? Her innate sexiness made their cocks hard. Oh.   
 

 

As she's dancing, Sgt. Skylar informs Louise that one of her friends has been murdered. With one friend missing and one friend dead, Louise turns to Eric for help. Only problem is, Eric is not that experienced when it comes to dealing with distraught strippers, and pretty much bungles the situation. Needing comfort, Louise looks to Dolly, who, as we have since learned, is a cross-dressing sex worker.
 

 

Since her apartment isn't the safest place to be at the moment (not only was her friend killer there, but she was almost killed there herself), Louise decides to forgive Eric. And just like that, the two of them become quite the effective crime-fighting team. The streetwise stripper uses her connections to the city's unsavoury underworld, while Eric uses his brawn to further their cause. Um, I thought you said Eric was a concert pianist? Yeah, well, that's because he is. Okay, it's just that the words "brawn" and "concert pianist" don't really go together. You're right, they don't. But you've got to remember, Eric isn't your average pianist.
 

 

He might be pegged to be the next Glenn Gould, but he's got a little Charles Bronson in him as well. Don't believe me, just ask the mugger who confronts Louise and Eric in an alleyway. Oh, and when asking him, make sure to fire your question toward his right ear, as Eric, the pianist, ripped off his left one when he tried to mug him and his stripper girlfriend.
 

 

Girlfriend?!? Well, not yet. But things are getting there. The sight of Louise dancing at the Zanzibar definitely showed Eric a different side to her. Which, no doubt, did a lot to speed up the wooing process. Oh, and by "different side," I'm talking about her thong-ensnared ass being thrown across the dimly lit stage in a frenzied attempt to arouse and titillate total strangers.
 

 

After a great sex scene, Eric heads over to the Sundown Motel to shakedown the manager. Now, the only reason I'm mentioning this scene is because the motel manager is played Paul Bradley of Goin' Down the Road fame. And, as most people know, that film is a Canadian classic. Which, of course, was famously parodied in an SCTV sketch called "Garth and Gord and Fiona and Alice." And what's the line most people remember from the SCTV parody? That's right, "Yonge Street!!!" It's where John Candy and Joe Flaherty would go whenever their characters would get depressed.
 

 

Both American Nightmare and the SCTV sketch capture Yonge Street when it was, for good or bad, the city's cultural epicentre. Nowadays, however, there's no real point of walking up or down Yonge Street. Unless getting a deal on a cellphone is your idea of fun. I mean, without the tawdriness, the street has lost what made it so charming in the first place. For example, the fact that no one has asked me if I want to buy drugs on Yonge Street in years is downright depressing. With no record stores, no video arcades, no porn, and no army surplus stores, Yonge Street has ceased to be the centre of the universe.
 

 

Anyway, enough of my nostalgia-based whining, if you want to see Yonge Street in all its sleazy glory check out American Nightmare, it's a  well-acted slasher movie that involves strippers in peril.

Happy Birthday to Me (J. Lee Thompson, 1981)

If you're like me, and you were a little confused by what transpires during the final moments of Happy Birthday to Me, a slasher film with more Canadian content than, oh, let's say... don't you dare say Annie Murray's vagina. Uh... with more Canadian content than... Ahh, my brain isn't working properly. I know, it's a slasher film with more Canadian content than Cynthia Dale's vagina. Yeah, I like that. If you're know the identity of Cynthia Dale's husband, than that line about the contents of her vagina is pure gold. However, if you have no idea who Cynthia Dale is, and, using common sense, you probably have no clue who her husband is either, than I'm afraid I can't help you. What I should have said was: this film is very Canadian, and moved on. But no, I had to show off. Look at me, my references are so off-kilter, please love me! Anyway, like most Canadian exploitation movies from 1970s and 1980s, this particular entry in the slasher free-for-all that was the early '80s tries to hide its Canadian-ness like it were a festering neck boil. Throbbing just beneath the collar of your polo shirt, it's Canuck temperament is just waiting for someone to come along and say the immortal words: Do you want me to squeeze that unsightly nodule pulsating on the back of your neck? You do? Okay, just let me score this game-winning goal against the Soviet Union in the Canada Cup and I'll be right with you. Unfortunately, no one comes along to squeeze your boil. In other words, the film's true Canadian character remains hidden from view. Yeah, hidden from view to those out there languishing in a pit of Canadian ignorance. I, on the other hand, have never spent anytime in that pit. Oh, sure, I don't watch hockey, I rarely ever wear flannel, and I've never been inside a Tim Hortens, but I do know that Lenore Zann, cult movie queen and the voice of Rogue on X-Men: The Animated Series, is the MLA for Truro-Bible Hill.
 

 

Meaning, my knowledge of Canadian culture goes deeper than any of you could possibly imagine. And I can prove it. Now, making smug allusions to my childhood is not something I'm comfortable doing, but I did watch The Hilarious House of Frightenstein as a kid. I know, eh? 'Nuff said. Getting back to my original point, the luminous Lenore Zann is one of the stars of Happy Birthday to Me. That's right. All that blathering I did just was actually pertinent to the movie I'm currently writing about.
 

 

Hell, even the bit about Cynthia Dale was pertinent. How so?!? I'll tell you how so. You see, Cynthia Dale starred in Heavenly Bodies, the greatest leotard-centric movie of all-time. You mean to say that Cynthia Dale is in Happy Birthday to Me? I wish. But not quite. You didn't let me finish. The writer-director of Heavenly Bodies, Lawrence Dane, and the film's male lead, Richard Rebiere, both appear in this film as actors.
 

 

While all that is fascinating stuff, let's stir this ship into more conventional waters, shall we? Welcome to Crawford University, where the so-called "top ten" rule the roost. Oh, look. Here comes one of them now. While I can't see any evidence of a roost being ruled, they do have a certain swagger about the way they walk. Maybe it has something to do with white tights that are currently holding her legs in a nylon stranglehold, or maybe it doesn't; please have something to do with her white tights, I don't ask for much.
 

 

Anyway, if you're a fan of watching Lesleh Donaldson get murdered, you'll love the film's opening scene, as she totally gets murdered in it. And like her legendary date with slasher movie infamy in Curtains, Lesleh's demise is long and drawn out. In other words, it's just the way we like it. Playing Bernadette O'Hara (you can tell she's in the top ten by her purple and grey striped scarf), Lesleh is choked by an unseen assailant in her car (remember, kiddies, always check the backseat for leather-gloved strangers before starting your car). Thrashing her white nylon-adorned legs about the car's interior with a reckless, "I'm about to be straight-up asphyxiated up this here Buick," kind of abandon, Bernadette makes a valiant attempt not to get strangled to death. And you know what? That effort sort of pays off. Sort of? Yeah, she eventually gets her throat slasher with a razor. But you got to hand it to her, she's in, or, she was in, the top ten for a reason.
 

 

Where was Bernadette going before she got killed, you ask? She was heading over to the local university watering hole to have a pint with the other members of the top ten, that's where. Well, as we all know, she doesn't quite make it. The exalted top ten have already been reduced by one, and the film has barely gotten started. And get this, Bernadette was apparently friends with the killer.
 

 

Did you just say...yeah, Bernadette recognized the killer. No, the other part. The top ten have been reduced to nine? Yeah, that part. You mean to say that I've got to keep track of nine characters? It looks like it. Fine. Well, they better kill off a bunch of them over the next ten to fifteen minutes, because there's no way I'm going to be able keep track of all these snobby pricks. You do realize that you just called Lenore Zann a snobby prick? What? Oh, crap. You're right. She's in the top ten. I didn't mean that. What I should have said was, I can't believe Lenore Zann is friends with these assholes.
 

 

After nearly starting a riot with a group of drunk Shriners, the nine members of the top ten spill out onto the street. Hearing that the nearby bascule bridge is about to open, they jump into their respective vehicles, assign each vehicle a number, and proceed to race toward the bridge. A variation on the classic game of chicken, Etienne (Michel-René Labelle) hops aboard his motorcycle and makes the jump with relative ease, then Rudi (David Eisner), with Maggie (Lenore Zann) sitting next to him, makes it safely in his car. Following closely behind Rudi is Ann (Tracey Bregman), who clears the bridge. The final two cars have Steve Maxwell (Matt Craven) behind the wheel of his car and Greg (Richard Rebiere) behind the wheel of his Trans Am. However, unlike Steve, Greg has two passengers, Amelia (Lisa Langlois) and Virginia (Melissa Sue Anderson), a girl who is clearly not into this.
 

 

Um, before I continue. I would like to do a quick head count–you know, to see if I missed anyone. Okay, I counted eight. The reason there are eight instead of nine is because Alfred (Jack Blum) didn't participate in the jump. Now, you would think the reason he didn't jump with the rest of them might have something to do with his outsider status in the group (despite being in the top ten, the others seem to pick on him). But the more logical explanation probably had something to do with the fact that he drives a scooter. And there's no way a scooter would come close making it over the bridge.
 

 

Backing out at the last minute, Steve watches Greg, who seems determined to make it, shoot past him. Oh, sure, they make it. But nevertheless, Virginia freaks out (she gives hissy-fits a bad name). As we'll soon find out, Virginia and the bascule bridge have a bit of a history with one another; a tragic history. In fact, you could even say it's a secret history, as the movie has many things in common with the Donna Tartt novel of the same name.
 

 

Even though Happy Birthday to Me is directed by J. Lee Thompson (10 to Midnight) and has Timothy Bond (One Night Only) listed as a co-writer, you won't find much to savour if you happen to be a pervert. The only reason I mention this is because the film's lone pervert moment, besides the opening scene with Lesleh Donaldson, takes place when Virginia runs home after the bridge incident. After having a dull chat with her father (Lawrence Dane), Virginia, or "Ginny," as her dad likes to call her, goes to her room to change for bed. She doesn't know it, but Etienne has followed her home and is lurking in the bushes. Oh, wait, no, he's moved from lurking to stalking. Yep, he's now outside her bedroom window. All this, by the way, is a veiled attempt to paint Etienne as a suspect. And you know what? I ain't buying it.
 

 

At any rate, there's a close up shot of Ginny's not even close to being granny panties languishing on the carpet of her room during the Etienne stalking sequence. Actually, the pantie close up is, believe or not, integral to the plot, as the very same panties are seen later on in the film. So, technically, the pantie close up wasn't gratuitous. Which, I have to admit, fills me with great sadness. I guess I'll have to take solace in the swooshing nature of the long, scholarly skirts Melissa Sue Anderson and Tracey Bregman wear to science class the very next day, 'cause this film seems to be going out of it's way not to be sleazy. Mmmm, look at those skirts swoosh.
 

 

Speaking of swooshing, there's a scene where the top seven attend a soccer match (two are players, the others are spectators). You mean the sight of David Eisner in tight purple shorts? Actually, that's not what I'm referring to. Though, speaking as a guy who has seen Sleepaway Camp more than six times, I do like men in shorts, especially the super-short variety they wore in the early '80s. No, I'm talking about are the Crawford cheerleaders. Oh, yeah, the cheerleaders. If memory serves me correctly, and it usually does, there are upskirts aplenty in that scene. Exactly. And there's nothing more perverted than leering at a cheerleader (I had my eye on the cheerleader with the letter 'A' on her chest) with the hope that her skirt might rise as result of all that cheer-based jostling they tend to get up to when cheering. And given the skimpy nature of their skirts, it doesn't take much cause them to rise.   
 

 

If you noticed that I said top seven as supposed to top nine. Congrats, you're obviously paying attention. No, you see, two of their ranks have gone missing. Well, they think they're missing, we all know that one of them had their face torn up by a motorcycle engine (here's some free advice, don't work on your motorcycle with the engine running while wearing a scarf) and another had their throat crushed by a barbell. However, don't expect all the kills to be this inventive. I mean, other than a nasty encounter with a shish kebab and that horrible flashback sequence involving brain surgery, you're not got going to find much as far as gore goes. As for the story. Well, we get a ton of misleading plot twists.
 

 

Hi, my name is Alfred. And I'm the biggest red herring the horror genre has ever seen. (Call me crazy, but I thought Alfred was hot. He's got that Keith Gordon/Ron Mael thing going for him.)
 

 

These plot twists all lead us to the film's big Scooby-Doo-style ending. Which, I guess, was sort of satisfying (if anything it explains the film's title). Do I think the film could have had more scenes that featured Lenore Zann? Of course I do; she's awesome. But I have found that you can't always get you want. This is especially true when it comes to Canadian horror films that pretend to take place in New England, but were actually shot in Montréal (according to my exhaustive research, the car stunts were filmed in Phoenix, New York).

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Visiting Hours (Jean-Claude Lord, 1982)

Ostensibly crawling with an unending supply of immobile victims, and, not to mention, sporting lax security and easy access, hospitals are the perfect breeding ground for serial killers and rapists. These blights on society are cowards and will do just about anything to lessen the strain of their heinous acts. (Look me, sticking it to murderers and their raping cousins.) The fictional perpetrator in Jean-Claude Lord's Visiting Hours, however, is the opposite of lazy. He's a spry psychopath who just happens to stumble across the advantages of stalking the halls of the local hospital purely by accident. In fact, if wasn't for his general sloppiness as a sleazy killer with woman issues (and I don't mean his issues with his vagina transplant, the dude hates women), he probably wouldn't have discovered the wonders of hospital homicide. Anyway, proving to be quite the improviser when it comes to devising new ways to sneak into hospitals in order to lavish malevolent praise on his intended victim with the sharp end of his fiendishly pointy friend, the killer comes and goes with an alarming ease.

A cautionary tale about the dangers of insecure health care facilities, this Montréal set film that pretends to be set in America is your classic stalker vs. victim endeavour, but with a medical twist. Inflaming the ire of the already unhinged Colt Hawker (Michael Ironside) with her uncompromising support for a woman on trial for killing her abusive husband, a no-nonsense talk show host named Deborah Ballin (Lee Grant) finds herself at his deranged mercy. Unperturbed by the fact that Debbie thwarted his initial attack on her by escaping via the laundry shoot located in her spacious home, Colt looks to finish off the severely wounded "journalist" by paying many antisocial visits to the hospital she is recuperating at.

Unhelpful in terms of protecting her ass from being straight up killed while sleeps in her room are the police; who thankfully aren't featured too heavily in this film -- I would have hated if this had turned into a lame procedural. Also unhelpful is a television colleague played by McGill alum William Shatner. In other words, Deborah is basically all alone. Luckily for her, Colt is a tad whimsical when it comes to stalking. Overhearing a young nurse belittle his talents as a lunatic while chatting on the telephone, the impulsive sicko right then and there decides to begin stalking her; he despises strong women, especially one's who criticize psychopaths in public.

Clearly intent on proving to the unaffiliated members of the demented weirdo community that he can stalk multiple victims at once, Colt jumps at the chance to pursue Nurse Monroe (the adorable Linda Purl) in an unromantic fashion. Besides, killing Deborah is turning out to be a lot harder than he thought it'd be, so a change of stalking pace is probably a good idea for all involved. Well, except for Nurse Monroe, who I'm sure doesn't appreciate all this newfound attention.

Armed with a simple switchblade and occasionally seen wearing a leather undershirt, Colt is the only interesting, non-Harvey Atkin aspect about Visiting Hours. Oh, sure, there were handful of other things that scratched my itch, horror wise, like, the point-of-view camera angles and final showdown, but it was Michael Ironside and the character he manages to create with minimal dialogue that keeps the film from being one long clichéd bore. Too repugnant to out-and-out root for, yet too charismatic to openly besmirch, the hopeless disquietude of Ironside's perverted rage made for some mildly fascinating viewing.

The fact that Colt was a bit of genius when it came to gaining entrance to the hospital (which was fortified after a couple of his attempts to kill the object of his murderous desire met with failure) and that he was apparently a voracious letter writer (his wall is a testament to his editorial prowess) were  also on the cusp of being fascinating.

Now, there are a number of different reasons to look at Canadian slasher flicks from the early 1980s. The nail biting intensity of the stalking scenes, for example, are always a big draw when it comes to these types of films (the experience can be very primal). However, I mainly watch them for the oft chance I might get to the opportunity to bask in the extraordinary glow that Lenore Zann radiates whenever she is on-screen. It's true, that in the case of Visiting Hours you gonna have to wait quite some time for her to appear. But when she does, it's totally worth it.

The Australian born, but wholly Canadian as far as I'm concerned, actress plays Lisa, a woman with low self-esteem Colt picks up at a scuzzy diner. Displaying the same beguiling sexiness she exhibited in One Night Only, Lenore manages to bring her trademark allure to what is essentially a thankless role. In that, by merely boasting crimped blonde hair, energetic trousers, a gorgeous pink, cyan and black top, and the tightest pair of panties this particular planet has ever seen, she somehow makes garish seem angelic.

I'll admit, the scene where Miss Zann and Mr. Ironside tease each other (her with her large Brittany Murphy style eyes and he with the shiny smoothness of his leather undershirt) was titillating... in a tawdry kind of way. But you could tell something egregious was about to go down. And I must say, that unnerving quality hampered my enchantment to some degree. Still, the sight of Colt's unpretentious switchblade slowly caressing the tantalizing lengthiness of Lenore's world class gams was pretty freaking awesome.

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...

One Night Only (Timothy Bond, 1986)

Is it possible to prostitute yourself for money, yet still maintain the structural integrity of your feminist ideals? Well, according to One Night Only, the Robert Lantos-Stephen J. Roth (that's right, the same two guys who brought us the magnificent Perfect Timing) co-production, you most certainly can. A rare sexploitation farce, in that, it's filled with strong female characters who think for themselves, this Timothy Bond-directed undertaking may seem dumb and pointless on the surface, but bubbling underneath all that stupidity lies a veil of unexpected intelligence. Drenched in the kind of playful nudity you'd expect in a film like this (the enchanting Chantale Perron provides a large chunk of this nudity during a boisterous strip routine), and, of course, boasting many scenes of outlandish 1980s-style revelry, One Night Only is probably the best sex comedy I've ever seen with the words, 'One,' 'Night' and 'Only' in its title. I mean, not only does it feature multiple instances where attractive women are seen cavorting about in a series of semi-degrading situations, but it also features... Actually, that's pretty much it. And, to be quite honest with you, I'd be cool with that, if it were in fact true. In other words, it's got more going for it than you might think. Possessing a positive, morally centered message, the film, while a little unfair to those born with tiny penises, proves that just because it's the middle of winter and you're stuck in a dead end job, doesn't mean you can't seize an opportunity when it presents itself, especially when a ghastly pimp drops one squarely in your lap.

The film's elaborate and highly intricate plot follows a day-in-the-life of Anne McGraw, a wide-eyed waitress/university student (played by the delectable Lenore Zann). One afternoon, while collecting her tips, Anne overhears a hockey coach making plans for a raunchy post-game soiree with a switchblade-carrying pimp in a booth near her station. The plan is to let his players unwind with some floozy-based frivolity at an undisclosed location. Being the opportunist that she is (the coach is willing to pay big time to get his team "serviced"), Anne, right, then, and there, decides to commandeer the hockey party. And thanks to her best friend Suzanne (Hélène Udy), and a couple of well-placed phone calls, the sex-filled, booze-soaked hockey player shindig is now under her plucky control.

Now that they've got themselves a swanky location–Anne's beguiling, genteel sister, Elizabeth (the gorgeous Judy Foster, a Roxy Music album cover model, if I ever saw one), came through at the last minute, all they need to do now is buy some bawdy outfits (a quick trip to the lingerie store should do the trick), scrounge up some prostitutes (downtown Montréal is apparently crawling with them), brush up on their hooker lingo, Louella (Taborah Johnson), gives the non-prostitutes a speedy refresher course, and they should be good to go. Only problem is, the original pimp, a real scumbag named Wenko (Hrant Alianak), isn't gonna be too pleased when he finds out that his cocaine-enhanced sex romp has been hijacked by a bunch of upstart sorority sisters.

You shouldn't underestimate the power of Celine (Kathy Bain) and her super-sexy outfit, which was clearly inspired by the uniform of Les Canadiens de Montréal (I have no doubt that her red, white, and blue thigh-high socks will drive all the sexually attune sports fans in the audience wild). A friend of Anne and Suzanne, in fact, she's the only friend who bothered show up to help the girls in their time of need, Celine's alluring, thong-affixed presence during the film's party scenes was felt at every level.

The hockey team's manager, Mac (Jeff Braunstein) has one stipulation for the party: He must get his "special treatment" or else he won't pay. A bizarre fantasy he needs performed on him at the stroke of midnight, the so-called "scary cave" involves a miner's hat, an adult diaper, a motherly figure, fifteen or so leggy women standing with their legs apart in a dark hallway, and several pairs sequin-covered panties. (Several pairs of sequin-covered panties, you say? Uh, obviously they'll be needing at least fifteen pairs. Idiot!). Anyway, the scary cave sequence was truly inspired in its awkward depravity. I was literally aghast, okay, more like, in awe, as Mac slowly made his through the fleshy leg tunnel.

Meanwhile, back at the sorority house, a prissy (she finds the lewd antics of Anne and Suzanne to be totally beneath her) psychology student named Jane (Wendy Lands), has to, thanks to antics of the aforementioned ladies, contend with Jamie, a perverted hockey player who's in love with Anne (they're cousins, by the way); Jamie's born again police officer father (Ken James) from across the border in Plattsburgh; and Wenko the pimp.

After catching James spying on her while she read Mourning Becomes Electra in the bathtub, Jane sends the horny forward over to Anne's party (which is where he'd rather be, anyway). But not before giving him another peek at one of her delicious nipples (her left breast slips out of her robe while she was chasing Jamie around the house). However, her problems have just begun. A sleazy pimp, who threatens to kill Jane with his trusty switchblade, wants to know what happened to his party, and the cop, who threatens to kill Jane with a trusty pistol (which he keeps it in his Holy Bible), wants to know where his son is.

The lovely Lenore Zann (Visiting Hours) is a real charmer as Anne, the waitress/law student turned pimp. Sporting the dreamiest eyes (I'd could stare into them for hours), wearing the blackest stockings I have ever see, and blessed with a jiggle-friendly pair of fleshy protrusions (they were just screaming to escape from the tight grip of their gold lamé prison), Lenore employs her perky naivete like it were a blunt object. In fact, her performance is so endearing, that I almost threw a stale cookie across the room at one point to protest the sheer power of her undiluted awesomeness.

A spirited Hélène Udy (Pinball Summer) brings a lot of the comic relief to the proceedings as Suzanne, Anne's fun-loving gal pal. Regularly deflated by the fact that most of the hockey players at the party have small dicks, Miss Udy's character longs for a man who can properly satisfy her carnal hunger. The exasperated expression she wears on her face after each dinky wiener is revealed was mildly hilarious. Her persistence when it comes to finding a cock worthy enough to breach the gates of her pristine vagina finally pays off when she meets Johnny-O (Martin Neufeld), a well-hung hockey player who takes the game a little too seriously.

Oh, and I like how fornicating with your cousin (Geoffrey MacKay) never becomes an issue in this film. For example, no one ever chimes in to say, "Ewww!" or ask, "Why are you fucking your cousin?" It kinda makes ya proud to be Canadian.

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