All About Evil (Joshua Grannell, 2010)

Taking care to exclude all the wanton stabbing, slicing, and chopping that takes place in this movie, I like to believe that writer-director Joshua Grannell was thinking of me when he set about making his feature length debut, All About Evil, a loving tribute to old-timey movie theatres, campy acting, unorthodox bloodshed, and ghastly puns (A Tale of Two Severed Titties, The Maiming of the Shrew, The Scarlet Leper, and Gore and Peace). Everything from the crazed manner in which some of the actors uttered their dialogue to the healthy doses of morbid humour sprinkled here and there seemed like it was employed purely for my benefit. The overweight guys with goatees and Type 2 diabetes can have their unbalanced ushers being asphyxiated by the gaping neck hole of a recently decapitated dreamlander, I'll take the sight of a deranged Natasha Lyonne (Slums of Beverly Hills) sewing Mink Stole's still luscious mouth shut over that lurid nonsense any day of the week. Of course, I realize that there isn't much difference between the gruesome act I liked and one favoured by the goatee/diabetes guys, I'm just trying to distance myself from such a gore-tastic demise–you know, for no particular reason.

Inspired by Herschell Gordon Lewis (The Gore Gore Girls) , Doris Wishman (Deadly Weapons), John Waters (Serial Mom), and the Kuchar Brothers (Sins of the Fleshapoids), Joshua Grannell (a.k.a. Peaches Christ) explores our love affair with violent movies (the opening titles feature a montage of altered classic horror posters) and the places we go to see them. Unfolding at the Victoria Theatre, a rundown cinema in San Francisco that shows Blood Orgy of the She-Devils and movies about giant insects on a semi-regular basis, the film follows the misadventures of the late owner's daughter Deb (Natasha Lyonne) and her struggle to keep her father's legacy intact.

Which is going to be tough since her shrewish stepmother Tammy (Julie Caitlin Brown) wants to sell the theatre (last time I checked, ultra sheer pantyhose and chic blazers don't grow on trees). On the night they happen to be screening Blood Feast, Deb is confronted by Tammy with a pen–you know, so that she can sign away her share of the theatre. Except, Deb doesn't sign, instead she sticks the pen in Tammy's neck (and in her chest, fifteen to twenty times) right in front of the Milk Duds. This act of impromptu stepmother-on-stepdaughter violence is accidentally broadcast onto the screen that was supposed to be showing the infamous Herschell Gordon Lewis flick. Projected via the theatre's lobby security camera, a smattering of goth chicks (the goth placement in this film was spectacular) and a scary movie buff named Steven (Thomas Dekker) see the grainy footage of Deb's pen prodding clip and hail it as a triumph of realistic horror.

Seeing this as an opportunity to realize her dream of becoming a world famous director/actress/mogul, Deb re-brands herself Deborah (pronounced De-Bohr-rah) and, with the help of the threatre's elderly projectionist Mr. Twigs (Jack Donner), sets about making more movies in this fashion. Drugging an attractive goth patron (Kat Turner from Inland Empire) wearing a fierce belt, Deborah and Mr Twigs concoct an elaborate murder scenario involving a faulty guillotine that ends up attracting quite the cult following. Murdering people while filming them at the same time is a lot of work, so Deborah and Mr. Twigs hire Veda (Jade Ramsey) and Vera (Nikita Ramsey), homicidal twins recently released from a mental asylum, and a twitchy fella named Aaron (Noah Segan from Deadgirl) to assist them with their murderous tasks.

Even though they hardly say a word, just the mere sight of the Ramsey twins in their cute red usher outfits was enough to send my cult movie senses into overdrive.

It's true, the majority of the audience applauded and cheered at all the gore. I, on the other hand, was enraptured by Natasha Lyonne and her campy as fuck performance as Deborah, a mentally unwell woman determined to keep the art of showmanship an integral part of the movie-going experience. Channeling Mae West (her stairway posture was very "come up and see me sometime") and Divine circa Female Trouble (blowing sloppy air kisses to attentive drag queens), Natasha seemed to relish the chance to ham it up and prove to everyone that she is very much alive. The way her character gradually went insane was greatly appreciated; I hate it when characters go crazy literally overnight. Anyway, you'd have to go all the way back to Freeway 2: Confessions of a Trickbaby to find the wide-eyed actress at this high a level of elated meshugana.

I'm still sitting atop a fence erected to separate two incompatible thought patterns when it comes to deciding whether or not Ariel Hart was wonky on purpose as Steven's non-goth gal pal Judy. Despite not garnering any conventional laughs from the people who approve of things by making ha-ha noises with the holes they consume pie with, I thought she was wonderfully off-kilter. And as most folks know, my favourite kind of performances are the ones that are off ever-so slightly, and Ariel was definitely off...but, you know, in a good way.

While it wasn't as visually flamboyant as I expected, especially when you consider the fact that it was directed by someone with an alter ego named Peaches Christ, All About Evil does feature Mink Stole (Desperate Living) as a librarian and Cassandra Peterson (Elvira, Mistress of the Dark) as Steven's concerned, cleavage-free mother. And in the long run, that's all you really need. Well, that and the wherewithal to understand the importance of proper goth placement.

The eeriest part of this whole experience wasn't the mouth sewing, irregular breast augmentation, chunky guys with goatees, torrential arterial spray, or even the neck hole incident, it was the fact the Victoria Theatre had the exact same flavour as the Bloor Cinema (the freaks to normals ratio was about the same as well). It was kinda similar to the sensation I felt during my screening of Anguish. Except, without the whole "someone is about to cut my eyes out" thing.

video uploaded by Peaches Christ

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Slums of Beverly Hills (Tamara Jenkins, 1998)

Recreating the freewheeling spirit of July, 1976 on a modest budget might sound like a lot work. But when you're dealing with a specific Los Angeles County zip code where nothing changes, the odds of making a quasi-realistic film about growing up middle class in the cities' most affluent community become a whole lot greater. Sporting no distinguishable characteristics whatsoever, this seemingly stagnant society, combined with the inherent blandness of the year in which it was filmed, is ready-made for the disco era. Proving that all you need is a couple of period specific vehicles (the bigger, the better), a couple of pairs of platform shoes, and some strategically placed Parliament jams on the soundtrack, Slums of Beverly Hills is a refreshing, appallingly precise coming-of-age tale about a nomadic family struggling to make ends meet in one of the world's most affluent neighbourhoods. Okay, it's not that "precise." I mean, the presence of Kevin Corrigan (Buffalo '66), for instance, does give the film a mild late '90s stench. But other than that, the film does paint a pretty accurate portrait of what it must been like to be a teenage girl with body issues during those heady days when kids could, without fear, openly watch H.R. PufnStuf while eating Trix in nothing but an expertly laundered pair of tighty whities.

For some strange reason, I've always dismissed this film as the one where Marisa Tomei does a lot of drugs while scantily clad. Why I once dismissed this film on those particular grounds, I'll never know. Seriously, what kind of jackass dismisses something because Marisa Tomei is constantly high and naked? It borders on being extremely stupid. I guess my chakras were not properly aligned back when I thought those thoughts.

Still, that doesn't justify the pure wrongheadedness of the above paragraph's opening sentence. In fact, that doesn't even sound like me. Who the fuck wrote that? It makes me come off as the type of person who doesn't like watching attractive women overdose in their underwear. And believe me, I'm not that type of person. Anyway, I think I'll wrap this section up by making one coherent point, and that is: Marisa Tomei gives a wonderfully unhinged performance as a flaky woman heading in no particular direction.

Blessed with the gangliest, juiciest, most jaunty legs ever to dangle from a pair of jean shorts, Natasha Lyonne (Freeway II: Confessions of a Trickbaby) is a beautifully awkward mess as Vivian Abromowitz, the lone female member of the wandering Abromowitz clan. Alarmed by the changes that are occurring to her body (she just got breasts), Natasha's trademark indifference and deadpan delivering are perfectly implemented in this deftly funny comedy about a somewhat dysfunctional family who moves from one dingy Beverly Hills apartment complex to another a semi-regular basis.

Whether staring blankly out the back window of a moving car or appearing bored while being felt up by a pot-dealing miscreant in a Charles Manson t-shirt (a piece of clothing he seems to wear everyday), the alluring Natasha will melt the hearts of those who have an appreciation for lopsided femininity.

The aforementioned molestation scene, the bedroom vibrator toss set to "Give Up the Funk (Tear the Roof off the Sucker)," and the usage of said vibrator were definitely highlights in terms of getting conventional Lyonne-based satisfaction. However, since I'm not about extolling the virtues of the obvious, I must say, the simple image of Natasha sitting on the floor watching television with her family is what sent my senses into overdrive.

Maybe it was the inadvertently seductive way the can of TAB she was holding perfectly matched her skin and ensemble, or the manner in which the elastic of her knee-high sport socks tightly gripped the smooth surface of her lithesome calf muscles. Either way, the simple act of lounging on shag carpeting solidified my positive feelings toward Natasha's character and the film in general.

The always welcome sight of David Krumholtz singing show tunes in his underwear and the unique voice of Alan Arkin make up the male contingent of Slums of the Beverly Hills. The former, playing the most well-balanced member of the Abromowitz family, isn't given much to do beyond the underwear scene and a couple of nicely placed comments of a snarky nature. The gifted Mr. Arkin, on the other hand, is given a lot to do as the aimless father determined to keep his kids in the Beverly Hills school district, in other words, away from Torrance.

The reason I keep mentioning undergarments is because they play an integral role in this film. Hell, even a menstrual belt is employed at one point in the film. At any rate, I think underwear is essential. Not only in regards to this film, but in an overall kind of way, especially when it comes to having clothes on under the clothes you're already wearing.

A wee Mena Suvari appears briefly as a girl with a recently corrected deviated septum. The nose bandage she wears threw me off at first, but I could tell it was her.

video uploaded by depplover63

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Freeway II: Confessions of a Trickbaby (Matthew Bright, 1999)

Combining my misguided adoration for undrinkable liquids, spray paint-fueled road movies, women in prison flicks, public handjobs and prompt necrophilia, Freeway II: Confessions of a Trickbaby is another in a long line of films that seem to exist solely as nourishment for my increasingly debased cinematic desires and suspect proclivities. An extremely brash follow-up to the first chapter's skewered take on Little Red Riding Hood, writer-director Matthew Bright (Forbidden Zone) sets his cockeyed sights on the fairytale Hänsel und Gretel. Of course, I don't know much about the Germanic yarn beyond the title (and the non-German industrial duo - Hanzel und Gretyl), but I was able to pick out little details here and there. Like, for instance, a trail of crack cocaine replaces the classic trail of breadcrumbs, and the old witch is now a Mexican nun who may or may not have one of Vincent Gallo's penises positioned as her primary penis. In any case, prior knowledge of the original source material is completely unnecessary. Sure, it may give the thinkers in the audience a smug sense of satisfaction, but this film is more about not puking on the pussies of other people, than it is about children lost in a forest. An exquisite tribute to induced vomiting and the vaginal expanse, the film is a touchingly funny tale of a friendship between two young fugitives who love to barf and eat pussy. It's true, that the so-called "strange dick" referred to in the first film is fraudulently chased to a certain extent–especially when the action ends up in Tijuana, where lots of strange dick is not consumed. But its main mission is to follow White Girl (Natasha Lyonne) and Cyclona (María Celedonio) as they make their way through the unkind morass that is modern society.

The toilet bowl-loving White Girl just wants to find a quiet place to honk chunks in peace, while the psychopathic Cyclona desperately wants something, anything, to prod her melted candle in a loving manner. However, both their destinies seem to involve Sister Gomez (Vincent Gallo), a Mexican nun who Cyclona thinks can cure her of her "angry demon" (she likes to murder people and then have sex with them). White Girl, on the other hand, could stand to get ride of her "hungry demon" (she suffers from an profound case of Bulimia nervosa).

Bragging about the blondeness of her pubic region as if it were second nature, and exaggerating about the scrumptious flavour of the wet contents underneath her lightly shaded follicles like a seasoned professional ("It tastes just like candy"), Natasha Lyonne is a deranged angel in thigh-high hooker boots sent froth from some sort of magic kingdom of sleaziness to quell the aching souls of reprobates the world over.

Appearing bored and sounding more deadpan than usual, the oddly attractive actress is easy to connect with, not only because she would date you, but because her indifference seems sincere. The genuine nonchalance causes her to unwittingly ooze a rare form sex appeal, the kind that goes beyond the surface and comes at you on a more glandular level. And by repeatedly putting herself out there, Natasha makes White Girl seem like the ultimate accidental heroine.

Attacking the film's raunchy and slightly inappropriate dialogue with an elegant ease, María Celedonio's Mink Stole-esque performance is a deranged work of art. Always masturbating, and always advocating the wonders of female-owned genitalia, the svelte actress promotes her unhinged character's ludicrous philosophy with a truckload of gusto.

The sheer amount of reprehensible behaviour that Cyclona engages in during this film was shocking, yes, but somehow María managed to make her likable. Maybe it was her heartfelt enthusiasm for girl brisket, or maybe it was the manner in which unabashedly fed her addiction to spray paint. Well, what ever it was, María turned a serial killing necrophiliac into someone who looked adorable while prancing around Tijuana to the music of Juliana Hatfield and Veruca Salt.

The fact that Vincent Gallo's Sister Gomez, an androgynous spiritual leader, isn't the strangest character in the film is a testament to María's commitment to Matthew Bright's off-kilter fixations. However, that's not to say that Gallo is by any means sane. On the contrary, his performance is still pretty messed up. It's just that we've spent over hour with a paint huffing pussy fiend, and our tolerance for weird has become quite hardened. Which is pretty good way of summing up the experience of watching this film. Only difference being, I'm always hardened. In that, I possess the courage of a nail that is about to be struck.

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