The Spirit (Michael Schultz, 1987)

First things first, you gotta love slits. (Don't you mean tits?) What do you think I am, a baby cow? No, I said, slits! Ugh. Slightly annoyed that I found myself sitting in front of some kind of viewing screen, one that just happened to be playing the 1987 TV movie version of The Spirit, I hunkered down for what I expected to be yet another glorified episode of Murder, She Wrote. Now, granted, I've never seen Murder, She Wrote  (not a single episode). Nevertheless, it's the first thing I thought of when the film got underway. As you've probably already figured out, The Spirit isn't like any episode of Murder, She Wrote that I've ever seen. And I'm not just saying that because I haven't seen Murder, She Wrote. Just to be sure, I did a quick search and I couldn't find any links between The Spirit and Murder, She Wrote. Of course, most of my searches involved perusing my exhaustive network of resources related to sanitary belts and raised toilet seats (people with limited mobility need to poo too), and, for some strange not even close to being tragic reason, I flipped through the latest edition of the Farmer's Almanac. But still, I couldn't find any substantial connection whatsoever.

While all that's fine and good. Let's get back to the topic at hand, shall we? (Slits?) That's right, Timmy. Slits.

Historians will likely debate for years to come about whether or not my decision to watch the 1987 TV movie version of The Spirit based solely on the rumour that we get see the tops of Nana Visitor's tan stockings was worth the time and effort.

Well, I can say, without a hint of hesitation, that it was totally worth the time and effort. And I'm not just saying that because we get to see the tops of Laura Robinson's stockings as well.

The manner in which we get a glimpse of the tops of Nana Visitor's stockings is the stuff of stocking top legend. (Stocking tops have legends?) Of course they do.

This may sound a tad out of character, but I can't remember the movie review where I talked at great length about "makeshift slits." It might come to me, but right now I'm drawing a blank (Edit: Death Walks at Midnight). Anyway, the slit that causes the tops of Nana Visitor's stockings to be revealed is makeshift in nature. But since there was already a slit in place, I'm trying to figure out a way to describe its implementation in a manner that makes sense.

After giving it much thought (of course, some might say, too much thought), I've decided to use the term, slit addendum.

Being a fashionable woman near the end of the twentieth century, Nana Visitor's character likes to wear skirts that boast slits. Not only are they pleasing to look at, but slits allow the wearer to move more freely (and they make kicking perverts in the dick a breeze). However, when the slit grows larger as a direct result of outside forces beyond the wearers control, there's a good chance certain articles of clothing, one's that are designed to remain hidden, could be exposed. You're probably thinking to yourself, so what if "certain articles of clothing" are exposed. In most cases, yes, it's no big deal. But there's nothing trivial about stocking tops. In other words, society as a whole is at risk of being destroyed.

What I mean is, don't expect anything to get done when the tops of Nana Visitor's stockings are not being sheepishly sheltered by a funnel-like swath of rough yet smooth to the touch fabric.

Actually, that's not entirely true. You see, when Sam Jones, a.k.a. The Spirit, sees the tops of Nana Visitor's stockings, he not only gets things done, he manages to bust up an elaborate forgery ring, investigate his friend's murder, befriend a little kid, nearly get dipped in a vat of acid, create a new identity and turn his crypt into a swanky bachelor pad.

If that's wasn't enough, the elaborate forgery ring is lead by the never not leggy P'Gell Roxton (Laura Robinson). Seriously, how anyone can think straight in the presence of such legginess is beyond me.

Which makes you wonder about The Spirit's commitment to heterosexuality. I mean, watching the rugged go-getter  repeatedly go out of his way to avoid having sexual relations with Ellen Dolan (Nana Visitor), the police commissioner's daughter, and seductive super-villain P'Gell Roxton, seemed kinda odd. Or maybe his love of fighting crime is so steadfast, that he doesn't have time for the ladies. It's the only logical explanation I can come up with at the moment.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, Sam Jones (Flash Gordon and My Chauffeur) plays Denny Colt, a cop who is investigating the murder of a writer (Philip Baker Hall). Using his police skills, Denny concludes that Simon Teasdale (Daniel Davis), the pompous curator of the Roxton Museum, was the one responsible for the dastardly deed. Unfortunately, Denny is shot just as he's about to make an arrest. Since no one finds his body (the gunshot causes him to fall into ocean), everyone assumes Denny is dead. Figuring that a man with no name can fight crime more effectively, Denny takes advantage of his untimely death by donning a mask and becoming... The Spirit.

Ahhh, I can't believe I went so long without mentioning the tops of Nana Visitor's stockings. Sorry about that. But, yeah, that's basically the plot.

Obviously, this film was supposed to lead to more, either a television show or more TV movies. Nonetheless, I enjoyed its light-heartened tone. More in tune with the Batman television show from the 1960s (Adam West is Batman), you'll never mistake The Spirit for any of the ultra-serious comic book movies that are being made nowadays. For one thing, it's mildly amusing. And get this, it's sexy. Yes, the extended sequence where Nana Visitor tries in vain to keep the tops of her stockings shielded from view is one of the main reasons this film is sexy. But the film's sexy vibe is actually quite consistent throughout its spry running time. And that's the main reason you should watch this film.

Did anyone else find it ironic that Nana Visitor tried desperately to lesson the impact of her slit addendum, while Laura Robinson seemed to flaunt the excessive nature of her slit(s) with a shameless brand of au-slit-dacity?

Oh, and bondage fans will want to check out the scene where "The Spirit" and Ellen Dolan are tied up (the latter is placed in an iron maiden). It's very kinky... for late '80s network television. 

The Sentinel (Michael Winner, 1977)

Sporting the quickest turnaround in movie history, The Sentinel is a supernatural thriller that has its red pantyhose in the right place. And just where might that be? I'm so glad you asked. Actually, you cannot fathom how glad I am. In fact, I'm so glad, that I'm practically oozing gladness from every square inch of my normally clogged, glad-free pores. Excuse me, you were about to tell us where the right place is. Oh, yeah, the right place. Well, the right place is pressing tightly against Beverly D'Angelo's monsoon-like vagina. Oh, man. I should have known that's where the right place would be. If you already knew, then why did you ask? I don't know, I guess I had this strange inkling the right place might be somewhere different for a change. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but if I'm going to watch a horror film that features Beverly D'Angelo and red pantyhose they had better intertwined with one another to the point of mental and physical exhaustion. Changing the subject for a second (don't worry, I'll get back to Beverly D'Angelo and her red pantyhose in a minute), you mentioned something about a quick turnaround earlier. Yeah, so? What was that about? I'm sorry, it looks like I didn't finish my point. This isn't the first time I've gotten sidetracked by Beverly D'Angelo in red pantyhose. Oh, wait, yes it is. At any rate, the "quickest turnaround in movie history," was my way of praising the movie. You see, the film, directed by Michael Winner and based the novel "The Sentinel" by Jeffrey Konvitz, starts off with a bunch old farts hanging around in a crusty-looking building in northern Italy. I guess they [the old farts] were priests or some shit, and the building was a church. Nevertheless, they were killing my buzz big time. In other words, this isn't what I signed up for. However, the action suddenly moves to New York City.

Now this is what I signed up for. We're in New York City, it's 1977, and the lead character is a fashion model. It doesn't get any better than this. Hold on. Did you say, New York City? Yep. The Big Apple. Are you sure the year is 1977? Well, it could be 1976. But yeah, it's basically the mid-to-late 1970s. And did you say the lead character is a fashion model? A female fashion model. And get this, she slowly grows insane as the film progresses. Okay, so what you're telling me is, The Sentinel is about a mentally unbalanced female fashion model living in New York City in the mid-to-late '70s? That's exactly what I'm telling you.

I think I need to sit down. Um, you're already sitting down. Well, I need to get up and then sit down again–you know, for dramatic effect–because my knees have turned into a flavourless, gelatin-like substance.

I know what you're going to say next. But, no, I'm afraid Beverly D'Angelo, her supple lower half sheathed in the tightest pair of red pantyhose money can buy, doesn't play the aforementioned female fashion model. Don't be sad, though. After all, her character is mildly deranged, too.

Anyway, if you're somewhat discouraged by the film's opening scene (which, like I said, features elderly priests doing priestly junk in a dingy-looking building in northern Italy), don't fret, because Christina Raines is about to get her Eyes of Laura Mars on. If you don't know what getting your "Eyes of Laura Mars on" entails, that's okay. It simply means that she is about to be featured in a series of shots that are designed to enhance her innate chic-appeal.

Even though the music that plays over the opening credits isn't disco enough for my taste, it has leggy posing, artful posing, outdoor posing and stairway posing. If all that posing sounds a little redundant, we're shown brief flashes of Christina Raines and Chris Sarandon doing stuff couples used to do in New York City back in the mid-to-late 1970s: horse-drawn carriage rides, bike rides through Central Park, the act of picking up the latest issue Esquire magazine, etc.

You can tell almost immediately that The Sentinel wasn't made by some hack by the way the scene where fashion model Alison Parker (Christina Raines) and lawyer Michael Lerman (Chris Sarandon) look for apartments was edited together. Oh, and if you're wondering why Alison and Michael were apartment hunting separately (they are, after all, supposed to be a couple in love), it's complicated. Nonetheless, the editing does a perfect job of encapsulating the unmistakable tension that plagues their relationship throughout the film.

While attending a wake for her recently deceased father, Alison, who is wearing jet black nylons with her equally jet black dress, can't help but think about the time she tried to kill herself after she caught her father having a bizarre threesome with two women. Bizarre threesome, eh? Do tell? Personally, I didn't think it was that bizarre. But I guess some might think their use of a cake was a tad on the strange side as far as threesomes go.

Either way, the sight of her father's boney ass in the throes of pastry-fueled passion with a couple of not-so boney ladies causes her daughter, who is wearing a Catholic school girl uniform, to run to the bathroom to slit her dainty wrists. Oh, wait, before she runs to the bathroom, her father, who is naked and covered in cake crumbs, knocks over a birdcage and slaps Alison hard across the face.

Did I mention that Alison is wearing jet black nylons as she recalls this disturbing memory? I did? Okay, did I mention that Alison is still traumatized by this event? No? Well, judging by her frazzled body language, I'd say Alison remains haunted by what occurred on that fateful afternoon. So much so that a ghostly version of her father shows up again in a scene that caused this jaded viewer to jump in their seat; I often forget sometimes that these movies are meant to be scary.

Determined not to end up like her mother (i.e. living a miserable existence where she is forced to share a home with a gaunt chubby chaser with a sweet tooth), Alison asks Miss Logan (Ava Gardner) to show her the apartment she is selling in the city's beautiful Brooklyn Heights neighbourhood. A fully-furnished unit only twenty minutes from downtown (the vines covering the building's facade were the real selling point for me), Alison agrees, despite the presence of a creepy blind priest who lives on the fifth floor, to take the place.

We get our second hint that something ain't right with Alison, the first being the cake/chubby chick threesome suicide attempt flashback, when she collapses during a pool side photo shoot; the photographer, by the way, is played by Jeff Goldblum, whose voice has been inexplicably dubbed by another actor. "Inexplicably," because he's Jeff fucking Goldblum.

While recovering from the pool side photo shoot incident in her new apartment, Alison meets one of her new neighbours, a garrulous busybody named Charles Chazen (Burgess Meredith). Don't forget his pet budgie Mortimer and cat Jezebel. Oh, yeah, he's got a yellow bird on his shoulder and is carrying a black and white cat with indigestion.

Don't get me wrong, I loved the off-kilter energy Burgess Meredith was putting out there as the chatty neighbour, but I would much rather be focus my attention on the sight of a deaf mute Beverly D'Angelo masturbating in red tights. Why is that, you ask? Oh, I don't know, it's only one of the greatest movie scenes ever.

Introduced to her downstairs neighbours, Gerde (Sylvia Miles) and Sandra (Beverly D'Angelo), two thigh-stroking enthusiasts in leotards, Alison gets an up close refresher course on how enthusiastic Gerde and Sandra actually are when it comes to thigh-stroking.

When Gerde leaves the room to make coffee, Sandra stares directly at Alison and starts pawing at her leotard ensnared crotch with a pronounced vigor.

Even though she's probably already made the assumption that they're dancers of some kind, Alison asks them what they do for a living anyway. To her surprise, however, Gerde, without missing a beat, tells her: "We fondle each other." Which lead me to wonder if they had any positions open, 'cause I could really use the money. And I would love to have a career where fondling Beverly D'Angelo on a daily basis was part of my job description.

Speaking of job descriptions, you could view The Sentinel as the tale of one woman's struggle to land her dream job. Now, you're probably thinking to yourself: What could better than being a fashion model? It's true, the life of your average fashion model does seem pretty glamorous. Yet, you have to admit, there isn't much as far as job security goes. Guarding the gateway to hell, on the other hand, is something that always needs doing. So, what you're saying is, The Sentinel is basically a film about the world's creepiest job interview? Yeah, that sounds about right.

I've read that the casting of real life circus performers to play the deformed denizens of hell caused some controversy at the time. However, I found the fact that John Carradine (the blind priest), Jerry Orbach (the commercial director), Nana Visitor (the "girl at end"), Christopher Walken (the detective - he plays Eli Wallach's mostly mute partner), Jeff Goldblum (the photographer), and Tom Berenger (the "man at end") were all basically bit players to be the film's most contentious issue. Of course, the casting director had no idea some of these folks would go on to become household names. But still, it was weird seeing all these talented actors in nothing roles.

That being said, just because you have a nothing role, doesn't mean you can't turn it into something memorable. Don't believe me? Just ask the lovely Diane Stillwell, who plays "Brenner's secretary." Who's Brenner, you ask? It doesn't matter, Diane steals all three scenes she's in simply by employing her Betty Boop meets Lisa De Leeuw-esque charm.

My favourite Diane Stillwell moment comes when Eli Wallach grabs her arm. The, "Hey, bub, you best let go of my arm," look she throws at him mid-arm grab was awesome.