Chained Heat (Paul Nicholas, 1983)

My fragile grip on reality suffers another blow, as I find myself yet again under the drably attired spell of a women in prison film. It's gotten so bad, that every time the WiP movie I'm watching decides to leave the walls of the prison, the sebaceous cysts that litter my back feel like they're going to simultaneously explode. Of course, you could avert this pus-laden calamity by steering clear of the genre altogether. You have got to be kidding, right? And miss the opportunity to watch Linda Blair (Hell Night) and Sybil Danning (They're Playing with Fire) play inmates at a prison where John Vernon (Savage Streets) plays a hot-tubbing warden who likes to dabble in amateur pornography and Henry Silva (Megaforce) is a drug dealing pimp with a thing for fortysomething women who like to wear grey slacks? I don't think so. If you catch me watching Chained Heat II, then you'll definitely know I have a problem. Hell, I'll even check myself into rehab. But until then, let me enjoy my sleazy movies, I'm not hurting anyone. Spoken like a true addict. These films are not only rotting your brain, they're ruining your outlook on life. Remember that attractive woman you were telling me about? Yeah, the one you saw in the bookstore the other day. Well, do you recall what you told me the first thing that sprang to mind when you saw her coquettishly standing in the cookbook section? If memory serves me correctly, and it usually always does, the image of her fighting a group of unruly lesbians in the shower of a poorly run correctional facility was the first thing that popped into my head. You see, that right there, that's not even close to being normal. In fact, it's totally fucked up if you ask me. You used to be so well-adjusted, but now you're just creepy and sad. Really, you haven't imagined what total strangers might look like if they were to take part in a prison shower fight? Of course, I have. But that's not the point. My thoughts, unlike yours, aren't limited to shower fights. I think about wind surfing, crochet, antique furniture, cycling, and misappropriated anilingus. What you need to do is expand your horizons. Run a marathon, take kayaking lessons, read The Help, buy an electric toothbrush. In other words, branch out and embrace the non-prison shower fighting beauty of this world.

Is it okay if I write an obsessively wordy tangent about this particular movie? Like I said, it's got Linda Blair in it. Since you have already started, you might as well finish it. And besides, I'm dying to know what you thought about Marcia Karr's legs; word on the street is that they're killer in this flick.

You know how the sound of church bells ringing beckon the faithful, and how the laughter coming from a child's chocolate-stained laugh hole makes the elderly smile? (Ugh, just typing that gave me a yeast infection.) Well, the sound of keys jingling, prison bars slamming, women screaming, and nightsticks being purposely knocked against metal are what cheer me up when I'm down in the dumps. On a related note, do you know how some people like to sleep with those noise machine thingies by their bed? Yeah, well, if I was in charge of designing those "thingies," I would add "women's prison" to the list of available sounds. In fact, I'd slap that puppy right between "rainforest" and "white noise."

Informing us right from the get-go that the unnamed women's prison located on the banks of the L.A. River is no afternoon picnic with bass player from Fashion, Chained Heat opens on a blonde prisoner who seems to be at the end of her tether. How do I know this? Well, for one thing, she's sitting in the foetal position, and you don't have to be a body language expert to figure out that people who sit like that aren't exactly the happiest of campers. Tired of being raped by a guard named Stone (Robert Miano), Susie (Jonna Lee) decides to put a stop to his raping ways by pulling a gun on him. Unfortunately, she doesn't get very far, as she is blown away by a series of shotgun blasts.

The sole purpose of this little vignette is to show what kind of hell Carol Henderson (Linda Blair) is getting herself into. A so-called "prison virgin," Carol is on her way to serve an eighteen month sentence for vehicular manslaughter. Luckily, Carol happens to be sitting next to Val (Sharon Hughes) during the van ride over. A veteran of the California penal system, Val decides to look out for Carol, whose innocent demenour is no match for the hardened criminals who populate this supposedly overcrowded prison (overcrowded my ass, there are never more than twelve inmates onscreen at any given moment). As Carol, Val, and two others, Blue Eyes (Jody Medford) and a "TV freak" named Bubbles (Louisa Moritz) wait to be processed, we're introduced to some of these hardened criminals. Chiefly, a chain-smoking blonde named Ericka (Sybil Danning), who, judging by way she gave non-verbal instructions to her equally blonde underlings, the statuesque Lulu (Greta Blackburn) and the rough and tumble Bobbi (Dee Biederbeck), is in charge of the prison's drug trade. Whoa, you mean to tell me Sybil Danning is a prisoner in this dump? Even if Val is protecting her, Linda Blair doesn't stand a chance against Sybil Danning. I mean, look at Linda, she's so soft and innocent, and Sybil is, well, she's none of those of things.

If there's anyone who can keep Sybil Danning's luscious thighs in check it's Tamara Dobson's the Duchess, the leader of the prison's black population. This power struggle is on display early on as Ericka, who, as usual is flanked by Lulu and Bobbi, asks the Duchess for permission to kill Debbie (Monique Gabrielle), a shapely snitch who's in the warden's pocket, or, in this film's case, naked in his hot tub. While there was some mild racial tension between Albina and Emanuelle in Women's Prison Massacre, Chained Heat is the first WiP I've seen to examine race relations to the extent where it becomes part of the film's plot. At any rate, the Duchess sanctions the murder, just as long as her people don't experience any of "the heat" her death may produce.

It's hard to believe that while all this going on, that Carol, Val, Blue Eyes, and Bubbles haven't been processed yet. Still waiting in the holding cell, Linda Blair gets to try out her transvestite empathy face. What's a "transvestite empathy face," you ask? Well, it's the face mildly chubby actresses make when they see transvestites being picked on by curly-haired lesbians. Powerless to do anything to help the transvestite in peril, all the mildly chubby actress can do is weakly protest by saying something along the lines of "leave him alone." Even though there isn't much of a chance that her objection will cause the curly-haired lesbian to stop picking on the transvestite, Val tells Carol not to get involved. It's an excellent piece of advice, as even a harmless discussion about daytime soaps can lead to chaos.

An inordinately leggy inmate named Twinks (Marcia Karr) finds this out the hard way when the Gina Gershon look-alike agrees with Bubbles' opinion regarding The Young and the Restless. When she's not fighting transvestites over the ownership of cigarette butts, the curly-haired lesbian is getting in Twinks' grill over soap operas. Don't worry about Twinks, though. You know how Val looks out for Carol? Well, Twinks has a beanpole named Paula (Edy Williams) to protect her.

As you can tell, I could watch what transpires in this holding cell all day long. But Carol, Val and the others eventually do get processed and make their way to the dorm. Of course, not before witnessing the stabbing of a black inmate (the Duchess is gonna be none too pleased). Mere moments after they have settled in, Carol and Val are confronted by Ericka and Bobbi. This particular sequence gives us our first real look at the outfits the ladies will be wearing throughout the film. While not the sexiest duds I've seen in a movie like this, the grey, oversize, one-hundred percent cotton number with buttons in the front is probably the most comfortable. This scene is also famous in that it features a kiss between Linda and Sybil. Unfortunately, it's one of those forced, sitcom-quality same-sex kisses. In other words, it's super lame. If you want titillation, check out Sharon Hughes' big hair, or better yet, feast your eyes on Dee Biederbeck's knees. If you're like me, and you love misshapen knees, check out what Dee's got going on at the joint located between the thigh and the lower leg, it's knobby heaven down there.

It should go without saying, but everyone who works at this dump is corrupt. The prison's warden, Mr. Bachmann (John Vernon), sells drugs and shoots homemade erotica in his lavishly decorated office, the co-warden, Captain Taylor (Stella Stevens) sells drugs and has no qualms about murdering anyone who stands in her way, Dr. Lester (Henry Silva), at least I think he was a doctor, sells drugs and pimps out the inmates on weekends, and the guards are all rapists and sadists.

The fight to secure Carol's loyalty begins as Ericka, the warden, Lester and the Duchess all make their plays to bring her into their respective folds. The warden wants to Carol to replace the deceased Debbie as his go-to snitch, Ericka has her sights on her to be a member of her gang and as her possible lover, Lester is thinking about utilizing her generous curves at the swanky coke parties he throws out in Beverly Hills, and the Duchess wants her to reveal the name of the inmate who killed one of her black sisters.

All this pressure to satisfy so many opposing viewpoints leads Carol to become somewhat dejected. And who better to convey this glum temperament than Linda Blair, the queen of rosy-cheeked grumpiness. One of the few inmates to show any signs that they're unhappy over the fact that they're in prison, Linda employs her mopey face like it were a broadsword. Undermining the goodwill of everyone around her, Miss Blair saps her co-stars and audience of their will to live. If you thought she looked morose while taking a shower, folding laundry, and playing checkers, you should see her when she wears a blue, cocaine-inspired disco pantsuit; it's like someone had just killed her goldfish. Either way, Linda Evans circa Dynasty would definitely approve of Linda's chic getup.

Shepherded out of the prison via a sewer pipe and placed into the back of a limousine, Lester takes Carol and Val to an upscale party. Judging by the easy-going nature of Val's staircase striptease, it's obvious she's done this before. Reduced to a pair of black fishnet stockings, black pumps, one black opera glove and a white bustier, Val hurls her dainty frame back and forth in a veiled attempt to appease the pent-up desires lurking inside the hearts and minds of the party's drug-addled clientele. On the other hand, Carol knows nothing about the subtle art of seduction, and finds herself woefully unprepared for the untoward solicitation that is about to come her way. ("Get on all fours. I wanna see your ample hindquarters ripple as a result of my purposeful thrusts." is an example of what someone might to say to her.)

Severely lacking when it comes to furnishing the over-the-top theatrics of its peers, Chained Heat desperately needs someone to step up and employ some affected mannerisms in a prison setting in order to remain relevant in today's camp-based world. Challenging Sybil Danning's character to a fight, Tamara Dobson (Cleopatra Jones) contributes to the cause when she calls her a "chalk-faced whore." Which is, hands down, the film's greatest line. Sadly, though, Tamara is too self-righteous to be taken seriously as a camp icon. Wearing grey slacks with an inexcusable amount of poise and dignity, Stella Stevens comes close to providing the campy goods. But other than her proclivity for dark eye makeup and the tirade she throws while in the midst of railroading an inmate for a crime she didn't commit, Stella's Captain Taylor is ultimately a bit of a disappointment, camp-wise.

While not even close to being a factor when it came to rescuing the film from its camp-free shortfall, Marcia Karr (Killer Workout) gives the film's best stealth performance. You may not always notice her, but Marcia is never far from the action as Twinks, a shy brunette who likes to draw and show off her tantalizing stems. Present during the holding cell sequence, there when Ericka and Bobbi do some of their best bullying (she's ushered to the prison's primary "rape room"), and you can see her sitting on the floor (her beautiful legs stretched out for the perverted world to see) while Carol rallies the troops, Marcia quietly rules over the proceedings with a leggy grace (I was gonna say "leggy sang-froid," but I don't want to come across as a pompous prat). Anyway, I'm glad someone did–you know, be leggy and junk, because I need more than an expertly coiffed she-mullet and sparsely attended prison riot to satisfy my frightfully specific WiP kink.

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Killer Workout (David A. Prior, 1987)

Maintaining the physical fitness of your organic structure in a pubic ashtray became such a high priority during the mid-1980s, that even the introduction of a faceless psychopath wielding an exceedingly large safety pin failed to put a damper on their desire to do aerobics in a brightly coloured clothing. The public's enthusiasm for grinding their tightly garbed crotches in unison to the sound of techno rock was at its height, and Killer Workout (a.k.a. Aerobicide) perfectly captures that exuberance with the steely resolve of a legwarmer smeared with enough tough actin' tenacity to fuel the economy of a small European nation for an entire year. Another in a short line of slashers that revolve around exercise, this one, written and directed by David A. Prior (Deadly Prey), wastes little time inundating the viewer's visual spectrum with multiple shots of clingy bits of fabric pressing firmly against the taut, semi-youthful flesh of the agile women (and one token man with a beard) bouncing up a storm at Rhonda's Workout. Quickly establishing a sense of time and place, the film introduces us to this dewy, groin-soaked world with the help of the brilliant "Only You Tonight" by Donna De Lory blasting on the soundtrack, and the director's intrusive camera, which gets as close as humanly possible to bodies of the spa's ridiculously fit members. In fact, his camera gets so familiar with some of the participants, you'd have to be a fool not to envy the spandex suffocating their tender places with their uncompromising commitment to tightness.

A wedged gift to everyone who thought Heavenly Bodies was a tad lacking in the men and women being mutilated with a pointy object department, Killer Workout is here to rectify those concerns by providing a harmonious balance between sexy leotards and pin-based murder.

The film opens with a scene depicting a woman named Valerie, sporting the latest new wave fashions, checking her phone messages and reacting happily to news concerning a much sought after modeling gig in Paris, France. Instructed to make sure that she arrives sporting a tan (speaking on behalf of pale people, I was offended by the caller's tan-centric ultimatum), Valerie immediately heads over to the tanning salon for a quick session under the bright lights. After a few moments, the tanning bed begins to go screwy and bursts into flames.

It's an odd opening scene, as we don't see Valerie's face, nor do we have any idea if she is all right (the flames were pretty intense). But I'm sure it will all be explained somewhere down the road. Until then, we're ushered to the main floor of Rhonda's Workout, a well-attended spa/exercise studio run by Rhonda Johnson (Marcia Karr), a grumpy gal who seems to have the weight of aerobic world resting precariously upon her sweatshirt-covered shoulders.

In the middle of conducting an aerobics class, the look on Rhonda's face is one of sheer irritation. The leering eyes of a personal trainer named Jimmy (Fritz Matthews) were definitely bothering her. But it was obvious it was something else. Spilling the contents of her condom-filled purse all over the parking lot as she got out of her black Porsche, the main pain in Rhonda's well-proportioned ass arrives in the form of Jaimy (Teresa Van der Woude), a tardy aerobics instructor who loves fingerless armwarmers, inhaling jockstraps and the secure grip that only a spandex thong can provide.

Annoyed by her employee's lateness, Rhonda scolds Jaimy, but it turns out she has a bigger problem on her hands when one of her regulars is murdered with a safety pin while showering (who, if you ask me, was using way too much soap). The pinprick covered corpse is taken away in a white body bag and a surly detective (David James Campbell) shows up to ask Rhonda and Jaimy a bunch of questions. The reason the detective is so surly has nothing to do with the convoluted nature of this particular case, it's because he's terrible at his job. (Free tip: Never take your eyes off a disgruntled woman with access to a shovel, especially if they're dressed like a copper lamé harlequin disco clown.)

While the white body bag makes several more appearances over the next few days (one of the morgue workers/paramedics snarkily tells the detective that he will see him tomorrow), Rhonda's Workout inexplicably remains open for business. As expected, a shy, leggy, (unfairly) outcast aerobics enthusiast named Diane (Laurel Mock) is followed home and pinned to death in her living room, and two, no make that, three, burly fellas are pricked in the weight room. Actually, the first victim is bludgeoned with a barbell, while the other two get the pin treatment (one of them takes a safety pin right to the forehead).

An outside agitator is thrown into the mix in the form of Chuck (Ted Prior), a mysterious blonde man who has just started working at the club, much to the chagrin of its easily exasperated owner. While Chuck ends up getting in multiple scraps with Jimmy (one involving a rake), confusing the hapless detective, and, of course, annoying the hell out of Rhonda, he does make some leeway with a full-bosomed gym patron in a pink leotard named Debbie (Dianne Copeland). Impressed by his fist fighting prowess against Jimmy, Debbie, her cock-obsessed brain seething with a visor-fueled brand of intensity, invites Chuck over to her place to drink Diet Pepsi and sit on yellow and white lawn furniture.

Obviously not content with the amount of people who have been violently poked so far with a safety pin, three teenagers (one with a large clump of crimped hair sitting atop her head) fall victim to the pin killer after they foolishly decide that it would be totally rad to graffiti Rhonda's Workout with the words "Death Spa" and "Aerobicide" (a clever play on the words "aerobic," to enhance respiratory and circulatory efficiency, and "homicide," to kill a human being). Anyway, this outdoor stalking sequence pads out the film's running time a bit, and it added some variety to the shots of women exercising to electro-pop. My favourite being: "Rock n' Rock" by Sunny Hilden.

You'll notice that I didn't say, "some 'much needed' variety." Well, that's because I will never tire of watching women exercise in tight clothing to synthesizer-based pop music. As my kindergarten teacher once mumbled under her breath after catching me steal a female classmate's lime green scrunchie, "the hetreosexuality is strong in this one." (Years later I would steal a scrunchie from the singer of The Young Gods during a show of theirs at the El Mocambo.)

Combining the oblique sensuality of Gina Genshon circa Showgirls with the rugged no-nonsense posturing of Nancy McKeon from the Facts of Life, Marcia Karr (Savage Streets) is a demented whirlwind as the vivacious Rhonda, a ballsy woman who takes her thrusting and heaving seriously. I love women who look as if they're always annoyed by something, and Marcia encapsulates this non-existent fetish wonderfully, as the quality of her vexation, especially in her scenes with, well, just about everyone, was truly sublime.

In terms humping the air in a leotard, Teresa Van der Woude is hands down the crown prince of humping the air in a leotard. If the muggy atmosphere inside Rhonda's Workout had an erect penis, it would no doubt be covered with splotchy bruises after working out with Teresa's Jaimy, the only character in the film, by the way, to display any empathy towards her dead peers (she can also sense the pain of the living). Dominating the aerobics sequences like an unbalanced, workout-obsessed fiend, Miss Van der Woude manages to maintain her dignity, while at the same time, flaunt her gingerly assets with reckless abandon.

Adorned with red pumps and black legwarmers (perfectly in tune with the chromatic palette of the film's opening credits), the hubbub that was taking place around the vicinity of Jaimy's feet and ankles was far more interesting than the content of some whole films. Of course, I don't want say which films in particular, as I'm sure no-one wants to hear that their film is less interesting than Teresa Van der Woude's foot and legwear in Killer Workout (I'm looking in your general direction How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days). But let's just say the overall spiritual temperament of Teresa's corporeal performance (which also includes her coin slot mouth, unpretentious cleavage and freshly blowdried hair) was one of the best examples I've seen of a modern day actress utilizing the entirety of her slender frame.

It's too bad Teresa's sister Vikki Lynn Van der Woude couldn't have been featured more (she plays a background actor). But then again, you don't want your film to suffer from Van der Woude Overkill. (10 out of 10 dentists have never heard of Van der Woude Overkill.)

Now I know what some of you are thinking, "Hey, man, this flick sounds an awful lot like Murder Rock." And you're right. An unknown killer bumping off sweaty people with a safety pin does sound an awful lot like Lucio Fulci's aerobics-based slasher film. However, Killer Workout has a couple of aces up its sleeve in the form of stylist Stacy McFarland and composer Todd Hayen. You see, while Murder Rock features bland-looking leotards (lots of browns and grays) and an incredibly cheesy music score by Keith Emerson, this film is a virtual cornucopia of colourful leotards (every shade is dutifully represented) and the synthesizer score is a tuneful, Chuck Cirino-esque treat. Using differently able words, it's the complete opposite that film, and one hundreds times more awesome.

If someone were to tell me that I was able to travel back in time to any specific moment in history, I would definitely want to go back to 1986 or early 1987. Why 1986 or early 1987, you ask? Duh, to tag along with Stacy McFarland as she went shopping for all the leotards that are seen in this movie, of course. Not to get greedy, but I would also like to be present when all the actresses (especially Teresa Van der Woude) and the extras (and not just the one's related to Miss Van der Woude) got fitted for said leotards. Oh, and I would make sure that all the shirts that bare the name "Rhonda's Workout" came with apostrophe s's, as, sadly, some of them did not.

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Savage Streets (Danny Steinmann, 1984)

In the gritty realm of this unbelievably gritty film, thoughts of revenge may sprout while you're immersed in a tub of a warm water, but when that vengeance pierces the night air, and has properly toweled itself off, penis owners the world over better watch their back, or, in this case, they better watch their front. Why is that exactly? Well, a grim-faced chick named Brenda is straight-up irritated by all the wanton rape and murder that's been befalling those close to her as of late. The equivalent of an unclean hand slapping against your wart-covered inner thigh whilst perusing the results of your ex-girlfriend's chlamydia test, Savage Streets (a.k.a. Straße der Gewalt and Zombie Brigade) is cinematic filth at its finest. Exploding with tactless dialogue, synthesizer-enhanced metal riffs, stupefying shower fights, outdoor strutting, gratuitous camera angles, and the most intrusive boom microphone in movie history (Edit: I'm happy to report that the intrusive boom microphone is nowhere to be found on the new DVD), this trashy flick from writer-director Danny Steinmann (Friday the 13th: A New Beginning) is a raw and ugly look into the tightly-garbed underbelly of teenage gangsterism. Pulling no punches when comes to depicting a society so obsessed with sex and violence, that it can no longer protect its citizens from experiencing both on a semi-regular basis, the barely competent highly entertaining film gingerly sets the stage for its unabashedly full-bosomed champion to implement her unique brand of urban comeuppance. And when that juicy retribution is finally distributed, I have to say, the satisfaction I felt went way beyond the normal constructs of conventional giddiness. So much so, that I kinda wish she could have killed some of them more than once.

Sporting her trademark curvaceous body, a healthy mop of wild yet manageable hair (only the sauciest of headbands dare tame this ample mane), and the foulest mouth this side of Wilshire Boulevard, Linda Blair is a festering cauldron of unmitigated sexiness as Brenda, a scrappy as fuck, crossbow-wielding juvenile delinquent who takes on a smallish throng of leathery hooligans called "The Scars."

Proving yet again that she is one of the most accomplished thespians of her generation, the vivacious Linda Blair is literally seeping toughness as Brenda, a no-nonsense mega-babe who isn't afraid no-one. Take the opening scene, for example, it shows her aggressively prancing up and down Hollywood Boulevard with her gal pals. Solidifying her toughness, her strutting style is awash with an unfermented feistiness. Sheathed in light blue satin trousers (which is apt, since her gang is called "The Satins"), a light blue, chest-enhancing tube-top, and a light blue headband (as you probably guessed, light blue is her preferred colour for this evening), Brenda, and, to a lesser extent, her friends, stalk the streets looking for trouble.

As they're walking down the street (window shopping, perusing smutty magazines, eating ice cream), trouble actually finds them in the form of The Scars, a gang lead by Jake (Robert Dyer), an ill-tempered thug with a Boston accent. Coming close to running over her deaf-mute sister Heather (Linnea Quigley) with their convertible, this near tragedy causes Brenda and Jake to pepper one another verbal insults. Realizing that he was in wrong, Jake apologizes to the girls. Well, actually, Jake makes Fargo (Sal Landi), the strongest member of The Scars, apologize -- you know, since he was driving. Either way, the two gangs go their separate ways.

Unsatisfied by the way the altercation with The Scars played out, and still reeling over the fact her sister was nearly killed by a bunch of contemptible lowlifes, Brenda devises a plan to get back at them. Okay, I wouldn't exactly call stealing their car, going for a joy ride, and filling said car with clumps of Hollywood trash when they're finished with it the kind of action that needs a plan. But that's precisely what the girls end up doing. Of course, the whole joy ride episode upsets The Scars like you wouldn't believe. Sure, their car, other than being a little smelly from all the garbage, is still drivable, but you could totally tell they were not going to let this go.

Unamused by the fact they're being forced to exercise (they get plenty of cardio stalking the streets of Hollywood on a nightly basis) in the school's gym, Brenda and her friends, Rachel (Debra Blee), Francine (Lisa Freeman), Stevie (Marcia Karr), Maria (Luisa Leschin), and Stella (Ina Romeo), move their shapely bodies with as little enthusiasm as humanly possible.

Speaking of shapely bodies, while Linda Blair gets the majority of the attention in the film, and justifiably so (she wields a crossbow in skintight clothing), I thought Marica Karr (Killer Workout) was the most attractive member of Brenda's gang. The sight of Marcia (who's a dead ringer for Gina Gershon) hopping around in that cut-off tank-top (which, in actuality, was an altered Specials t-shirt that was not cut-ff but rather cinched above the waist), striped leotard bottom, and those black footless tights (the clingy material pressing snugly against her tender thighs) during the exercise sequence was a thing of erection-based beauty.

We're introduced to two more female characters in the form of Cindy (Rebecca Perle) and Valerie (Kristi Somers), two blonde, bubbly cheerleaders. Taking exception with the fact that Wes (Brian Frishman), her purported boyfriend, was flirting Brenda while she pretended to exercise, Cindy confronts her in the girls locker room and basically tells her to stay away from him. A fight breaks out, which eventually moves to showers. Surrounded by a weird mix of clothed and naked girls, Brenda and Cindy battle it out in the school's steam-laden girl's shower room (a couple of naked girls can be seen fighting with one another in the background, but the exact nature of their beef is unclear).

Meanwhile, back in the gymnasium, as Brenda and Cindy are being reprimanded by Principal "Go Fuck an Iceberg!" Underwoord (John Vernon) in his office, the Scars are laying a nasty trap for Heather. As the punk-infused Red (Scott Mayer) plays nice with her (he's pretending to be an upstanding gentlemen with, albeit, creepier-than-usual overtones), the rest of the Scars, which include the aforementioned Jake, the vest-wearing Fargo, and the pint-size Vince (Johnny Venocur), the only Scar who actually still goes to school, wait for their opportunity to strike.

What takes place next is a brutal gang rape, which obviously sets the stage for Brenda's revenge. Of course, she doesn't know who's responsible for the crime, so she ends up spending most of her time brooding at a local nightclub and getting in fights with Cindy, the cheerleader (in a classic scene, Brenda forcibly removes her rival's top during a science class dust-up). However, when she does find out, the Scars better watch out, because Brenda takes her revenge seriously. How seriously? Well, let's just say, she has an already outfit picked out for the occasion (when seeking retribution, never, and I mean, never, underestimate the importance of fashion).

Whether calling an insensitive gang member a "motherfucking moron," or pulling at the hair of a blonde adversary, the pugnacious Linda Blair exudes a genuine quality that comes across like a burning sceptre floating in a mound of mucus. In other words, when the contents of her right fingerless glove make a fist, you know every rapist in town will be expelling a fair amount of pee come judgment day.

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