Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls (Katt Shea, 1989)

What do my eyes see gyrating in front of me? Are those healthy gams encased in the finest fishnet stockings fourteen dollars can buy? Why, yes. That's exactly what they are. And on top of getting the price right, you weren't kidding when you said they were healthy. In fact, they're so healthy, they should be featured in Leg Show magazine (which, get this, is a real publication). Anyway, it would seem that writer-director Katt Shea has somehow convinced producer Roger Corman to allow her to make a sequel to Stripped to Kill, because it totally looks like I just watched Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls, the absolutely necessary sequel to the strip club set slasher flick starring Kay Lenz and Norman Fell, and featuring a shitload of lingerie. Well, I'm afraid to say that Miss Lenz and Mr. Fell are nowhere to be found in the second chapter (their existence isn't even acknowledged), but the lingerie, my god, the lingerie, it's more prevalent than ever. Actually, the same could be said about the film's overall temperament, as Katt Shea seems extra determined to create something spectacular. And you know what? That determination pays off quite handsomely, as the sequel is not only superior in every way to the original, but it manages to out dream Rinse Dream on several occasions. If you're in anyway familiar how I feel about the Rinse Dream aesthetic, then you know I don't say that lightly. A vast improvement in terms of acting, choreography, costuming, music, production design, and, of course, direction, part two takes no prisoners when it comes to delivering a weird mix of surrealism and erotic horror with a steamy dose of noirish cool.

Even though there's no way I can confirm this, but I feel the success of the first film must have enabled Katt Shea to take more risks artistically this time around. Just as long as every dance number ends with a woman topless. And you can see this art proceeded by toplessness in almost every scene. Your average perverted mind simply wants to see naked breasts, so it doesn't really matter what takes place before they're exposed for all to see. (Really? You mean they'll sit through interpretive dance just to see boobs?) Are you kidding? They'll watch an old man change his colostomy bag if it means they'll be rewarded with unclothed titties.      
 

 

Freeing up their ability to satisfy their own artistic endeavours, while, at the same, delivering the sleazy goods the marketplace expects, Katt Shea uses this technique to her advantage, as every scene practically oozes this dichotomic construct.  
 

 

Wasting little time establishing this new-found freedom, Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls opens with an erotic dance routine featuring zombie-esque women in rags menacing a lone stripper in white. You can tell almost immediately that this isn't your average strip club. For starters, there's this wind, and not just any wind, a howling wind, that seems to be creating an air of extreme disquietude. Wind aside, the blonde swinging on the poll is Victoria (Lisa Glaser), and she's wearing white hold up stockings and being harassed by her stripper peers, who are, of course, dressed like dishevelled devil worshipers.

Suddenly, a panic stricken Shady (Maria Ford) enters the frame. A shock-haired, or maybe that was just her normal hair? Whatever. A clearly frazzled Shady is being harassed not only by her peers (who are, like I said, in desperate need of a makeover), but by mysterious figure in a mask wielding a razor-blade between their teeth. 
 

 

Just as she's about to learn the identity of the masked individual, Shady wakes up on her friend's couch with a bloody mouth (the skylight above the couch is covered with mannequins). Concerned for her well-being, Shady's friend, an English woman named Cassandra (Karen Mayo-Chandler), offers her some tea (yep, she's an English woman, all right). There's no time to dilly-dally, the neon and zebra print adorned walls of the Paragon need strippers to tie the room together, so Shady and Cassandra head down to fulfill their contractual obligation.

As they enter the club, I was quite taken with its stylish decor. The aforementioned neon and zebra print give it that new wave flavour everyone with a pulse savours, but the addition of chain link fence material and sharp angles gave the club an almost industrial feel.
 

 

While Shady and Cassandra are making their way backstage, we meet a dancer named Something Else (Marjean Holden), who is explaining the genesis of her unique stage name. Since Shady dreamed about Victoria in distress, she asks Ike (Tom Ruben), the Paragon DJ, where she is. Pointing the spotlight on her just as she was about to receive a generous tip (fifty bucks), a sense relief washes over Shady when she sees that Victoria is alive and well. Though, if you were to judge by Shady's body language, relief is something she's got in short supply, as she constantly looks like a delicate flower that's got the weight of stripping world resting uncomfortably on her lightly freckled shoulders. Her flowery state of mind isn't helped by the fact that her fellow dancers can't stand each other.

We get a taste of this stripper-on-stripper animosity when Victoria tells Something Else to go fuck herself in the dancer's dressing room.
 

 

Stressed out by the negative atmosphere in the club's dressing room, Something Else scolds Dazzle (the E.G. Daily-esque Birke Tan) for using her tweezers, Shady retreats to the alleyway behind the club for solace.

Oh, alleyway behind the Paragon club, why are you so awesome?

Seriously, the alleyway in Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls has got a personality of its own. After making a dinner date with Victoria, Shady and her super short skirt go home to change. Unfortunately, she falls asleep on the couch, and dreams that she is running toward the Paragon in a diaphanous dress made of  imitation silk. When she arrives, she finds Victoria hanging from one of the club's many chain link fence motifs with her throat cut.
 

 

Now, this is the time when we're usually introduced to my least favourite character in these type of movies: the gruff homicide detective in charge of solving the case. And don't get me wrong, he's gruff as fuck, but there was something off-kilter about Sergeant Decker (Eb Lottimer) that made me inexplicably like him the moment he appears on-screen. At the Paragon to ask Victoria's living co-workers about the crime, Decker sizes up the situation pretty quickly. While I'm sure he picked up some important clues, all I noticed is that Dazzle loves leopard print and that Something Else has a habit of correcting Dazzle's grammar. More importantly...wait a minute, what can be more important than leopard print?!? Trust me, this is more important than leopard print. We get to witness the first meeting of Shady and Decker, one of the most fascinating on-screen pairings in film history.
 

 

The backstage bickering and grammar correcting continues in the next scene when a stripper named Mantra (Debra Lamb) tells Something Else to suck her dick (as you know, I soft spot for women who refer to their non-existent male genitalia), and Something Else tells Dazzle the word is "geek" not "greek" when she attempts to mock Ike's ill-timed romantic gesture towards Shady (he tries to give her a rose). While all this drama is taking place, Decker is out sleuthing his ass off in the club's alleyway; kudos, by the way, to cinematographer Phedon Papamichael for creating one of the most stunning alleyways I have ever seen depicted in a motion picture.
 

 

While I was admiring the way the neon light twinkled in the puddles of water that litter the alleyway behind the Paragon, a Mr. Pocket-esque (Mr. Pocket was the lead creep in the first Stripped to Kill) patron inside the club is admiring Karen Mayo-Chandler's English thighs up close.           

 

 

The second meeting between Shady and Decker does not go well at all, as he gets an awkward lap dance from a woman who should be the prime suspect in a murder investigation. The reason she's not a suspect is because, well, Decker has got the hots for her. And can you blame him? At any rate, after the lap dance debacle, Decker tries to make things right by inviting Shady to get a bite to eat at his favourite Hawaiian taco stand; the fake–though, I'm sure they were real–palm trees over looking the joint added to the film's dream-like temperament. On top of seeing Maria Ford's bewildered kewpie doll schtick in a non-strip club environment, we learn that Decker is wearing woman's coat.
 

 

The sound of a harmonica gently being blown on the soundtrack (composer Gary Stockdale's music does a masterful job of creating the right mood), and Shady's knee-high hooker boots dominate the proceeding as they kiss for the first time. And just like the lap dance, it's pretty awkward. Mostly because Decker retreats mid-smooch, which upsets Shady. To be fair, a stiff breeze is enough to unhinge Shady, she's the world's most fragile and complicated exotic dancer. But his make out withdrawal was totally uncool. Sure, he's trying to act professional by not getting involved with a suspect in the murder case he's currently investigating, but you don't take a woman, especially one wearing a super-tight gold skirt (the kind that needs adjusting every five minutes) to a Hawaiian taco stand at 3 A.M., and then suddenly decide that you don't feel like pressing your tongue against their tongue; it's not the way a civil society works.     
 

 

Giving one the most oddly compelling performances I've seen in a long time, Maria Ford (Slumber Party Massacre III) is beguiling Shady, a.k.a. Margaret Albright, a stripper whose peers wind up dead after she dreams about them. Every gesture, every nuance, is filtered through the actresses' stainless steal bear trap of a brain. This filtering process is best observed when she's walking home from her "date" with Decker. If you pay close attention, you'll notice that she tilts her head to one side, which, to me, signified that the plethora of deep and disturbing thoughts rattling around inside her head were weighing her down.
 

 

Upon further reflection, her performance reminded me a lot of Isabella Adjani in Possession, in that, she was absolutely fearless when it came to putting herself in psychological jeopardy. Take the scene where wakes up in an alleyway behind her friend's apartment (a loft on the outskirts of a broken dream), she's dirty, she's covered in blood, and her stockings are torn, which, as most people know, are the hallmarks of a great performance. The way Maria Ford went from being a glamorous vixen (fingerless opera gloves paired with a vampy red dress) to a bloodied mess was mind-blowing.
 

 

Oh, the duality between Maria's two looks (glamorous and bloodied) and the alleyways she spent most of her time was not lost on me. The alleyway for the glam look, for example, had a neon sheen to it, whereas the narrow passage for the bloodied motif looked like an apocalyptic nightmare (the abandoned railway tracks were a nice touch).
 

 

Upping the ante when it came to just about everything, Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls manages to inject itself into the pores of everyone who watches it. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they were completely unclogged by the time the film had finished. The state of my pores, aside, the dance numbers (choreographed, like in the first film, by Ted Lin), the costumes (Ellen Gross), and the production design (Virginia Lee) were all first-rate in terms of creativity. If you want to see all three working in perfect harmony, check out Shady and Cassandra's lion tamer routine, or Shady's naughty school girl number (white thigh-high hold up stockings paired with lacy white ankle socks), as both seem to capture the essence of this film's appeal in a nutshell.

Actually, if you want to see the greatness of Ellen Gross's costume design, look no further than the alleyway scenes that feature Maria Ford and Eb Lottimer, as the chromatic cinematography and Shady's classic 1940s attire mixed with 1980s whore chic really seem to come alive when bathed in the neon shadows. 

 

 

A masterpiece of erotic horror, writer-director Katt Shea, her talented crew (kudos to Greg Maher for his amazing art direction), and the film's bevy of actors (Maria Ford is electrifying presence) and non-actors (Jeannine Bisignano, who plays a surly stripper named "Sonny" probably never acted before), have all come together to fashion a unique cinematic statement.

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Slumber Party Massacre III (Sally Mattison, 1990)

I don't have to, but I'm going to anyway, admit that, I felt a weird mix of enthusiasm and fatigue as I sat down to watch Slumber Party Massacre III, the third, and, probably (hey, you never know with these things), final chapter in the totally awesome trilogy that deftly combines unorthodox drill usage (they're designed to drill holes in inanimate objects, not living people) with a hyperkentic brand of girlish frivolity. The enthusiasm, well, I felt that because, let's be frank, I was about to watch the third Slumber Party Massacre movie (you could say that I cherish these movies the same way I do an unexpected tug-job or a cold can of lukewarm Fresca on an overcast day). And Fatigue, well, because, while still being frank, I was about to watch the third Slumber Party Massacre movie. Don't get me wrong, I love to watch scantily clad young women (especially one's being played by actresses named Brandi and Keely), and their clueless male suitors, getting stabbed with drills. It's  just that I was worried for a second there that my tolerance for watching coiled metal tear its way through human flesh was beginning to wane. Fear not boring fans, for director/singer-songwriter Sally Mattison and screenwriter Catherine Cyran are here to reinvigorate your lust for spunky gals in nighties and the impotent men who desperately want to penetrate them. Did they succeed? Well, let me see: The film opens, after a brief yet touching photo montage of the girls in high school, with a shot of a bikini-clad Keely Christian and Brandi Burkett languishing on a sandy beach while their friends play volleyball. You heard me. The wonderfully compact Keely Christian and the lithesome Brandi Burkett, a double shot of late '80s/early '90s gorgeousness, are sheathed in bikinis. So, like, yeah, I think they succeeded, all right.
 

 

The sight of Keely and Brandi relaxing will no doubt disrupt your intricate crotch circuits, as their approach to lying motionless in fabric-challenged swimwear has an artistry about it that makes all other previous attempts at beach-based titillation seem laughable, sad and otiose. And they didn't just lie there, either. Uh-uh. Every now and then they would pop their adorable heads up to survey the scene, gossip about their friends, keep tabs on creepy loners in all black (Yan Birch), and, of course, cast aside the feeble advances of dorky dudes sporting bowl cuts during an era when hair gel grew on trees.
 

 

You could say the reason the opening scene is so sexy in terms of untoward hardness and dewy wetness was because it was written and directed by women. Let me explain. A man is chiefly concerned about the well-being of his own cock. I mean, he does not care what other cocks are up to, his main concern is his cock, and his cock alone. A woman, on the other hand, wants to satisfy the needs and wants of every cock. This cock-pleasing inclusiveness is reflected in the way they photograph the women who were lucky enough to snag a role in Slumber Party Massacre III, as a lot of care seems to have gone into how each actress is portrayed on film. While the male eye tends to focus its attention on a specific part of the female anatomy, the female eye seems to take the time to celebrate every square inch. Call me, oh, I don't know, completely meshugana, but that's what I took from the opening scene.
 

 

There's this other theory swimming around inside my brain that involves volleyball and how the ball's trajectory through the air predicted the future of the individuals who dared to propel its motion, but I think I'll save that for another movie; hopefully one that involves beach volleyball and fate.
 

 

The reason I haven't mentioned "the driller killer" yet has nothing to do with my off-kilter obsession with pulsating organs, but because they're irrelevant as far as part three goes. Oh, sure, there's a killer, and he does use a drill. However, the third chapter seems completely separate from the other films. You know you're in a different universe when a realty sign is used to impale some poor sod instead of a drill.
 

 

Poor sods murdered with signs, notwithstanding, it's not that different a universe. Check this out: Eight, count em' eight people are poked violently with a drills in this movie. In other words, it's a driller killer flick, just not the kind we're used to. For starters, we don't know who the drill-wielding maniac is for a large chunk of Slumber Party Massacre III, as his identity, unlike in the first two films, is shrouded in mystery. The only problem with this scenario is that we're inundated with a cavalcade of bogus suspects. I don't want to brag, and as those who have seen the film can attest, it's nothing to brag about it, but I guessed who the killer was the second he appeared on-screen. I don't know, there was something off about the way he held a volleyball. Oh, so you're saying he was at the volleyball game? No, what I'm saying is that he holds balls funny.
 

 

At first, I thought that this entry in the drilling after dark saga was gonna drop the whole sexual metaphor aspect that fueled the first two chapters of the trilogy; you know, the whole thing about the drill being a penis substitute. Well, not only does Slumber Party Massacre III continue that tradition, it takes it one step further by making the killer impotent. Yeah, that's right. The killer can't get an erection. And what does a psychopath usually do when he can't get it up? Well, the first thing he should do is perform mild-mannered cunnilingus on the person he is not fucking with his limp penis, as it's the correct course of action, and, not to mention, the gentlemanly thing to do. But that's neither here nor over there (have you ever noticed that "over there" is always a nicer place than "here"?) Your torso being jabbed with big ass drill is what normally happens after an attempt to unfurl an erection is met with failure.
 

 

There's a darkness surrounding the killer's impotency. A darkness, you say? Yeah, apparently the killer had some issues (the unsavoury variety) in his past. The kind that make me a tad uncomfortable about the easy-breezy tone I'm using. But let's just say, I understand his impotency. However, the drilling of women who are just trying to dance to rock music, eat pizza, and frolic in their underwear was totally unacceptable. I don't care what happened in your past, that's no excuse for drilling people, especially one's who employ scrunchies so winningly.
 

 

Planning a slumber party can be stressful, but you wouldn't know it by looking at Jackie (Keely Christian), a straight-laced gal looking for PG-rated kicks in an X-rated world. Germinating in her mind while she watched her peers play volleyball on the beach (you can literally see her brain calculating all the different slumber variables), Jackie plans to take advantage of her parents absence by inviting her female friends over for a party that may or may not involve slumbering. Whether she wants her kinda boyfriend, Frank (David Lawrence), I don't think they've established what the status of their relationship is yet, to show up uninvited isn't clear. What I do know is that she wouldn't mind if he did.
 

 

When Keely Christian, Brandi Burkett, Hope Marie Carlton, Maria Ford, Maria Claire, and Lulu Wilson burst into the living room giggling and carrying on like bunch of coked up valley girls my mind nearly exploded. Not because I was reveling in the girly stew simmering before my very eyes, but because I had no idea how I was gonna keep track of everyone.
 

 

Luckily for me, but not so lucky for her, one of their friends is drilled before the party has even started. And, get this, she wore a scrunchie in her hair! Yeah, so? Lot's of girls wore scrunchies in 1990. It's not that, just imagine the confusion she would have caused. You see, Hope Marie Carlton (Hard Ticket to Hawaii) wore a scrunchie as well, and I don't think I could have handled a slumber party that featured two attendees sporting scrunchies that were affixed to their heads in the same unorthodox manner. Unorthodox what? It's just a fucking scrunchie! Oh, you're so naive. While most scrunchies are tied at the back of the head, Hope Marie and Sarah (Devon Jenkin), the chick drilled to death in her car (she was supposed to bring the snacks), both have theirs tied near the top of their heads, creating a sort of waterfall effect.
 

 

Since Hope Marie Carlton's Janine wasn't at the beach volleyball game (a match where Devon Jenkin scrunchied it up like a scrunchie-fied fiend), it only made sense that she show up at the party brandishing a scrunchie in order to fill the scrunchie void that must have briefly occurred after Sarah's untimely death in a back alley in Venice, California.
 

 

If you thought the creepy guy in black who stared at Keely Christian (black bikini) and Brandi Burkett (pink bikini) as talked about their diaphragms at the beach was unpleasant, wait until you get a load of Morgan (Michael Harris), the shifty fella who lives across the street from Keely's Jackie Cassidy, a young woman who's taking care of her parents house (which is on the market) while they're away on, oh, let's say, vacation. Reminding me of Taylor Negron mixed with a dash of Fisher Stevens, Morgan's odd behaviour throws Jackie off balance. After he finally leaves (he's thinking about buying her parents' house), Jackie can start getting ready for the slumber party.
 

 

The first thing she does after Morgan leaves is take a shower. Yeah, baby. Scrub those knees, Keely Christian. You're a dirty girl, aren't you? Aren't you? Make sure to wash your... What are you doing? Um, sorry about that. Now, where was I?  Oh yeah. The girls show up at Jackie's door itching to get their slumber on. It just dawned on me: Aren't these girls a little old to be throwing a slumber party. I mean, Maria Ford looks like twenty-five year-old in a stripper wig; which is apropos since she was the lead in the great Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls from the previous year. Anyway, after drinking beer (the cans are labeled "Beer" in honour of Repo Man), white girl dancing to new wave, stripping in front of the fireplace to said new wave, and  carrying on like a bunch of catty brats, the girls change into their sleepwear and await for the driller killer to arrive. Well, they're actually waiting for a pizza to arrive, but you know what I mean. 
 

 

Costume designer, and lead scrunchie wrangler, Sandra Araya Jensen was given the daunting task of making each actress stand out from one another during the transition from street clothes to night clothes. And from where I was sitting, she did a pretty good job. Since the character of Susie (Maria Claire, Society) has body issues, it made sense for Sandra to put her in a pair of bulky pajamas. When it came time for Maria (Maria Ford) and Juliette (Lulu Wilson) to change into more slumber appropriate attire, the opposite track was taken, as they were given slinky nighties that shimmered in a way that would make David Coverdale nod approvingly. The alluringly goofy Janine (Hope Marie Carlton) wore a lavender nightie, which made sense since her character was passive yet sweet. As for Jackie (Keely Christian) and Diane (Brandi Burkett), a more practical garment was needed. As not only do they need to appear sexy, they should allow to be able to smash lamps on the heads of drill-wielding yuppies without getting entangled in sleepwear that is overly complicated. 
 

 

If you were to judge Slumber Party Massacre III based solely on the two lead's ability to remain spry while running in sleepwear, you would have to declare it an unequivocal success. The way Brandi Burkett, a leggy goddess if I ever saw one, was able to run from one room to another was mind-boggling. Her polka dot boxer shorts, her mid-riff revealing gray tank-top, her black ankle socks clinging to her sweaty ankles for dear life, Brandi Burkett is definitely my favourite slumber party attendee. What can I say? I love a girl who knows how to swing a polo mallet in anger, and, of course, how to make a pair of polka dot boxer shorts look chic under duress. It's too bad the film itself lets Brandi B. down in the end. Those who have seen the film will know what I mean; it's outrageous. 

 

The greatest duo in film history: Brandi Burkett and Keely Christian. Best friends forever! Peace out.

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