Mr. Mike's Mondo Video (Michael O'Donoghue, 1979)

The perfect film to play on a blurry television set overlooking the bar of a garish, porno-friendly nightclub on the outskirts of a once vibrant neighbourhood, Mr. Mike's Mondo Video might not be the most educational of the so-called "mondo" movies I've seen over the past sixty or so years, but it's definitely the most randomly interesting one. A demented and slightly warped product of the mind of Michael O'Donoghue, the video is a disjointed mishmash of dreamlike ideas that go nowhere, yet everywhere at the same time. A heady feat for a film that dares you not to masturbate to Dan Aykroyd's partially webbed feet. Just a second. I can't believe Dan Aykroyd's feet were mentioned before the sight of a statuesque Wendie Malick in radioactive lingerie. I don't know about you, but I think that's pretty messed up. I wonder what compelled me to mention his stinky, misshapen feet as my opening salvo? Very bizarre, very Mondo. Anyway, hit and miss in terms of being tolerable, the film never once goes for the easy laugh. Of course, that could have been because it wasn't funny in the first place (most awesome things are). But the rapid fire nature of the film's overall structure kept things so unpredictable, that you couldn't really focus on what was delightfully stupid and what was insufferably stupid. Either way, the scattershot endeavour, that features everyone from Bill Murray and Deborah Harry to Margot Kidder and Klaus Nomi, is a fascinating document of what Saturday Night Live could have become had the lunatics been given free reign to do what their unhinged brains were designed to do – which is to produce weird comedy that is more unpleasant than it is whimsical.
  
Oh, and I liked the abundance of bunny rabbits that appear throughout the video, and I have come to the conclusion that Paul Anka's anus is sometimes full of an inordinate amount of poop.

Favourite Mondo Moments:

"American Gals Love Creepy Men"
(Every cool chick in New York City at the time is featured in this bit. Including the sexy Wendie Malick and the lovely Laraine Newman.)
("When I reach down and feel a firm colostomy bag, I know I'm with a real man.")

"Klaus Nomi performs 'Samson & Delia'" and "Looking up Cheryl Tieg's dress"
(I wonder if the crotch they used--I doubt Miss Tiegs allowed her own crotch to be used--is the same crotch Wendie Malick wears on a day-to-day basis?)

"The general hotness of Wendie Malick" and "The insane amount of Rinse Dreamian posturing"
(Uh-huh.)

"Christmas on Other Planets" and "Japanese girls bathing in dolphin blood"
(I couldn't help but notice that one of the light bulbs the Christmas celebrating alien was smashing got away from him/her/it.)

"The demonstration of the Laser Bra 2000" (Featuring the exquisite tallness of Wendie Malick.)
(My outer pervert kept thinking: "Get undressed slower. Slower! The military industrial complex ain't going nowhere." My inner pervert didn't think anything, as she was killed in a horrific blimp accident in the early 1480s. Wait a minute: a "horrific" blimp accident? Yeah, as supposed to a pleasant blimp accident. Prat.)

"Gig Young's groceries" and "Nazi oven mitts"
(Tasteless. In that, Gig will never taste those groceries.)

"Wendie Malick smoking a cigarette while wearing Radioactive Lingerie"
(Try Annie Sprinkle's special secretion sauce - Now banned in Bhutan!)


video uploaded by Shout! Factory

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Black Christmas (Bob Clark, 1974)

On top of boasting some of the most authentic cold weather in cinematic history, Black Christmas (a.k.a. Silent Night, Evil Night) is also one of the most effective slasher films ever made. Brilliantly utilizing first person camera angles, director Bob Clark let's the audience view the action through the eyes of the demented perpetrator, as he carefully makes his way up the lattice (wheezing like a menstruating fiend) and into the junk-laden attic of a sorority house. Unseen for a large chunk of the film, the confused culprit skulks up there, lying in wait for his victims to cross his path. He's kinda like a spider that way, except this slayer enthusiast is a strong proponent of using household items as instruments of violence and has an intense proclivity for making extremely local telephone calls. I mean, can you picture a spider, or any ambush-based predatory insect for that matter, dialing a phone? I can't, and I'm borderline certifiable. (Quirky fun-fact: I thought I was a Danish banker named Espen for a large chunk of the early 1980s. Hell, I even made myself a modest patch of blonde crotch hair out of some loose pubes I found languishing in a dumpster behind a recently condemned Dairy Queen to appear more authentic.) Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, the fact that the sorority girls are unwittingly reveling during the season known as Christmas (a religious holiday of some importance) while one seriously unhinged dude is hiding above them makes the proceedings all the more terrifying. Tinsel, colourful lights, caroling and good tidings severely clash with the agenda of a mangling maniac. In fact, they don't go together at all. Hence, the superfluous feeling of dread.

The sick twist, in addition to being shadowy, is also quite the talker, as he introduces himself to the girls by making a series of obscene phone calls. Elaborately coarse in their filthiness, the calls unsettle coeds Jessica (a gorgeous in yellow Olivia Hussey) and Clare (the adorable Lynne Griffin).

On the other side of sorority, the feisty Barbie (a potty-mouthed Margot Kidder) shrugs off the dirty calls with a blase aplomb, and Phyliss (future comedy legend Andrea Martin) nervously laughs at her antics (Barb taunts the phone prankster). These four actresses, by the way, were all first-rate in terms of being sexy while scared. Well, except for Margot, her character ain't scared of shit. However, her drunkenness and obsession with the mating habits of turtles may have something to do with her dauntless disposition.

Speaking of brave, John Saxon, one of the handful of Americans in the cast (Keir Dullea being the other), is a real bad ass as the film's chief investigator. I liked his no-nonsense approach to law enforcement. It also made for a nice contrast with Douglas McGrath's incompetent desk sergeant.

Now, the uninvited lurker's telephone etiquette may be a tad uncouth, but at least he offered mouth-to-vulva resuscitation as a part of his deviant repertoire. Think about it, while most perverts are obsessed with their own gratification (tickle my this, taste my that), this one was thinking about the pleasure of others. Sure, it's the only positive thing I say about this wacko, but at least it's something.

Since I don't have an inner-necrophiliac (I think having sex with dead people is wrong, and a tad rude, if you think about it), my fetish for women with their faces wrapped in cellophane while sitting in rocking chairs will have to suffice. Perched in the attic like a recently asphyxiated angel, the performance by this actress (I won't say which one) is surprisingly strong despite her inherent deadness. The image of her rocking back and forth with her mouth agape is one the film's most indelible.

The use of the lowly rotary phone as tool for terror in Black Christmas was an unexpected treat. While modern cell phones make chirpy sounds that do nothing to warrant the expulsion of fearful pee, the rotary phone, on the other hand, is a shrill behemoth. The unpleasant nature of the calls being made and the shockingly archaic manner of tracing said calls, the thunderous ring that intrusively reverberates from its hard plastic shell is one of the most piercing noises ever devised by humankind. Adding to the intensity of the ringing was the constant sound of creaking of wood, a slight thudding noise, and the howling wind.

Apparently the house where this film was shot is just a short subway ride away. I should drop by one of these days... in January of course.

video uploaded by DrGregoryHouseIT
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