Hologram Man (Richard Pepin, 1995)

I don't mean to start off on a somber note, but what I'd like to know is: Who, if anyone, is going to bury all the henchmen and cops that are killed throughout this action-heavy sci-fi action movie? Since, the film, Hologram Man, is supposed to take place in the future, I guess they could have developed some kind of newfangled way to dispose of dead bodies (corporeal vaporization perhaps?). But still, the sheer number of henchmen and cops who fall to the ground as a direct result of gunfire in this Richard Pepin-directed masterpiece is ridiculous. Unless the henchmen and cops who buy it were grown in some kind of lab, I'm going to go ahead and assume they all have families. And if that's the case, I think it's safe to assume that the members of these so-called "families" aren't going to be too pleased when they find out their loved ones (whether they be dastardly henchmen or deluded cops) were killed by holograms with amazing hair. Okay, maybe calling the hair on the head of the one responsible for killing the cops "amazing" might be pushing it (though, fans of the KoЯn look may beg to differ). Nevertheless, I think it's safe to say that the dreamy-looking fella who kills henchmen like it were a bodily function has the best hair ever.

(You never really explained why the families of the dead henchmen would be upset when they found out the man who killed their loved ones has amazing hair.)

And I never will. Just kidding. The reason is simple. They all had this idea in their heads that their loved ones were slaughtered by a cruel, inhuman monster. Which, granted, is annoying, but understandable (it's what cruel, inhuman monsters do). However, the second they find out their loved one was done in by someone so exceedingly hunky, they're going to be quite angry. In fact, I'd go as far as to say their anger was tinged with a hint of jealously. Anger, for obvious reasons. As for jealously. Think about it. Who wouldn't want to gunned down by a man with long, flowing locks? I know I would, and I'm not even that big a fan of being gunned down.

In my own convoluted way, what I think trying to say is: A lot of people are killed in this movie (most of which are shot to death, but some are blown up... blown up real good), and that Joe Lara has great hair.

While I am somewhat jealous of Joe Lara's hair (it's so silky and manageable), I was actually more jealous of Evan Lurie. No, not because of his hair (to be honest, I found his KoЯn-do to be revolting). The reason I was jealous is because his henchmen are played by Nicholas Worth (Don't Answer the Phone), Tommy "Tiny" Lister and William Sanderson!!!

(Don't forget Cole S. McKay as "Thug with Flame Thrower.") Fuck yeah, that guy ruled.

If that wasn't enough, he engages in multiple position sexual intercourse with his blonde lady friend in the film's second scene. At first I was like: Why does Evan Lurie get an epic sex scene and Joe Lara only gets a pre-coitus fade out? It's simple, really. Evan Lurie wrote the screenplay. Meaning, Evan Lurie gets an extended sex scene. If Joe Lara wants an extended sex scene in a movie, he should write a screenplay.

Anyway, before we're subjected to this so-called "sex scene" (I almost threw up when Evan Lurie does a mid-thrust hair flip while plowing into his lady friend's futuristic vagina with his futuristic penis), we get a taste of what to expect from this movie in terms of entertainment value.

Opening with an intense shoot-out between–you guessed it–a heavily-armed gang of henchmen and an outgunned collection of cops, the film makes it clear early on that a lot of people are going to get killed in this movie. Though, I have to say, the henchmen and the cops are mostly to blame for the excessive body count. No, not because they're the one's shooting at each other, but because they don't seem to know how to use cover. I mean, standing out in the open in firing your weapon aimlessly is a surefire way to get yourself killed. I tried yelling: Use the parked cars as cover!!! But I guess they couldn't hear me.

(I'm not surprised, with all that gunfire, and the fact that it's only a movie.)

In the end, the cops, lead by Wes Strickland (John Amos), a veteran cop who doesn't play by the rules, are the one's who come out on top during this particular shoot out. And while he appreciates the fact that it was his partner's non-rule playing ways that lead them to narrowly defeat the henchmen, Decoda (Joe Lara), a regulation following rookie cop, is conflicted by his unorthodox methods.

When a plot to assassinate the governor is uncovered, Wes and Decoda are put in charge of protecting him. Using his loyal sidekick One-Eye (Nicholas Worth) as a diversionary tactic, super-villain Slash Gallagher (Evan Lurie) rams the governor's motorcade with a stolen bus. As expected, a shoot out ensues, followed by a car chase. Both of these events lead to the death of the governor and Wes Strickland, and the capture of Slash Gallagher.

Instead of being put in a normal prison, Slash Gallagher is placed in holographic stasis. You see, in the future, prisons as you and I know them are obsolete.

We flash-forward five years to find Decoda somewhat stressed. You might think, what's this guy got to be stressed about? I mean, he's still got great hair, he's got a reasonably attractive lady scientist lady friend. In other words, what's the deal?

Haven't you heard? Slash Gallagher is up for parole today. I know, you're thinking: There's no way they're going to grant him parole... he killed the governor, and, not to mention, a non-rule playing cop. That's true, there's zero chance Judge James Daughton (The Beach Girls and Malibu Beach) would allow this to happen. However, while Slash has been in holographic stasis, his loyal henchmen, including the aforementioned One-Eye, computer expert Giggles (William Sanderson), Eightball (Tommy 'Tiny' Lister) and Thug with Flame Thrower (Cole S. McKay), have been hard at work trying to free him. And they see Slash's parole hearing as the perfect opportunity to spring him.

How do you free someone whose been separated from their physical body? I got one word for you: Cyberspace. Downloading Slash's holographic essence, his henchmen manage to free him during his parole hearing, much to the chagrin of Decoda and his new partner, Carradine (Anneliza Scott), a blue jean-wearing lady cop.

The coolest thing about Decoda's quest to recapture his nemesis is that the system he works for is just as corrupt and malevolent. Caught between the sheer villainy of Slash Gallagher and the fascist California Corporation, or "Cal Corp, " (a domed section of Los Angeles run by a ruthless Michael Nouri), Decoda must struggle to come to terms with the fact that both entities are evil.

When you hear Decoda's simplistic solution to this quandary in the film's final scene, you'll probably think to yourself: That might just work. That being said, a lot people are going to have to be shot and killed for it to do so. Seriously, if you piled the dead on top of each other, you could probably reach the top of the tallest building in Dayton, Ohio; which, at 124 meters, is pretty freaking tall.

Hell Comes to Frogtown (Donald G. Jackson and R.J. Kizer, 1988)

What do you mean I'll have plenty of time to write about a lingerie-clad Sandahl Bergman being led around a post-apocalyptic wasteland on a leash? I want to write about it now! Her taut, muscular calves encased in the finest fishnet stockings money can buy, Sandahl's well-toned physique caused my putrid genitals to become engorged with a syrupy brand of off-kilter... Stop! As your legal counsel, and as your part time spiritual guide, I advise that you to ease into writing about this particular film's more fetishistic and sadomasochistic tendencies. You don't want to come off as some kind of weirdo who is obsessed with all things debasement-related. Pretend that you're interested in the film's convoluted premise, or better yet, share that anecdote you were telling us the other day about Harry–you know, the one about your pet frog who hopped away when you were five. It will give people the impression that you care about the films you write about. Excellent idea, my imaginary friend. Normalcy now, lunacy later. Underneath her frilly white panties lay an aching crevice just waiting to be... Whoa, I'm sorry. I have no idea where that came from. Let me try that again. The only film that I know of to take place in a radioactive universe where talking frogs wear welding goggles and pink ambulances are equipped with M-60 machine guns, Hell Comes to Frogtown is here to enlighten, entertain, and maybe enlighten so more, if it's got the time. I'm not sure if you know this, but I had a pet frog as a smallish child (don't laugh, but I was much smaller during the early stages of my existence). In other words, I know a thing or two about living in a world where frogs and humans coexisted in relative harmony. You'll notice I used the word "relative." Well, that's because the threat of nuclear annihilation constantly hangs over the head of frog-human relations.

In this particular film, the threat in question is no longer hanging, it has fallen on the relationship's head in the worst possible way. After a bunch of nuclear warheads go off during an unnamed armed conflict (let's call it: World War 4: The Quickening), the surviving humans discover that they can no longer produce offspring at the rate they're accustomed to. Their frog revivals, on the other hand, have developed the ability to walk and talk. Unsure of what to do with these upright amphibians, the humans do what they always do with things, people, and frogs they don't understand, they put them on a reservation, which, of course, is called "Frogtown."

Okay, that sort of explains part of the film's title, but what about "Hell"? How does this made-up netherworld filled with fire and a lacklustre amount of brimstone factor into this froggy tale? Well, it has nothing to do with the place, Hell's a person. Yeah, that's right, his name is Hell, Sam Hell (Roddy Piper), and he's come to Frogtown to ejaculate his potent sperm into the sheathlike structures pulsating between the legs of a fertile group of kidnapped human females.

While that may sound like a far-fetched, and, some might say, obscene thing to say, every word of it is true. You see, after, to quote the prologue of Café Flesh, "the nuclear kiss" destroys a good-size chunk of the planet, the survivors of the two warring sides struggle to replenish their ranks. It would seem that the majority of the population have lost their ability to reproduce. Those who can, however, are treated like heroes, and are encouraged by the provisional government to copulate as often as possible.

In charge of overseeing these widespread acts of patriotic fornication is Medtech, an organization whose sole purpose is to make sure the right people are fucking. When they get word that a man responsible for a string of pregnancies has been arrested by Captain Devlin (William Smith), a reactionary lawman with a grudge against the members of the female-dominated provisional government, Medtech send over a couple of technicians to commandeer the contents of his robust crotch for themselves.

Declaring the genitals attached to the body of Sam Hell to be the property of Medtech, two of their most qualified personnel, Patton (Eyde Byrde) and Spangle (Sandahl Bergman), show up to secure his "loaded weapon." As expected, this particular action causes the resentful policeman to whine and complain. However, a perfectly implemented Sandahlian Judo throw puts an end to his bellyaching. After running some tests (his sperm count is through the roof), fitting him with an electronic chastity belt (this will protect his precious junk from threats, both foreign and domestic), and making him sign some papers, Patton explains the details of the mission they want him to partake in.

Just to let you know, it's when Patton is going over the aspects of the operation that Sandahl Bergman utters he first line. Other than looking fabulous in her black-framed glasses and lab coat combo, Sandahl's character has been mute up until now. Well, that all changes when Sam makes an inquiry about expelling urine (making a pee pee while wearing a cast-iron codpiece could be fraught with foreseen complications). Looking at the confused musclebound mound of unejaculated sperm, she simply tells him, "there's a flap."

His mission is pretty straightforward: Locate a group of fertile women who have been kidnapped by an unruly gang of rebel greeners ("greeners" are what the humans call the frog people), rescue them from hostile mutant territory, and then, if he's still got any energy left, impregnate them. Accompanying him to make sure everything goes smoothly is Spangle and Centinella (Cec Verrell), a tough chick who seems most at ease while wielding the M-60 machine gun that is poking out from the top of their pink Medtech ambulance. The whole urination issue I alluded to earlier tests Spangle and Sam's relationship almost immediately, as he tries to make a run for it while pretending to take a piss. As he's making his escape, Sam feels a sharp pain in his groin. It would seem that Medtech have booby-trapped his crotch. The white earrings affixed to Spangle's earlobes are more than just a bold fashion statement, they also control and monitor the chastity belt. One earring is a proximity sensor (it sends a mild shock through the wearers genitals), while the other is a directional finder (a beeping sound helps Spangle locate the cherished privates whenever they go missing).

While it's quite obvious as to what Centinella's function is (provide security, throw the occasional dirty look in Sam's general direction, and cause the lesbians in the audience to soak their rough-and-tumble drawers), Spangle's duties are much more complex. On top of keeping tabs on the whereabouts his external sex organs, Spangle must also follow Regulation 12, which clearly stipulates that she assist when it comes to promoting potency. Since the highly valued contents sploshing around inside his loins must be ready to spew at any given moment, Spangle strips down to her camouflage bra and panties and dances erotically in order to maintain spermicidal integrity.

Much to the delight of her legions of fans, Sandahl Bergman's erotic dancing is actually required two more times in Hell Comes to Frogtown. After finding one of the kidnapped women (Suzanne Solari) wandering the desert (she somehow managed to escape), Spangle employs some of the seduction techniques she learned at Medtech. Applied in order to help persuade Sam into penetrating the fertile woman with his magic penis (her camouflage lingerie has been replaced with white lingerie), Sandahl's Spangle thrusts her... Wait a minute, what kind of man needs to be coaxed into having outdoor intercourse with a dishevelled woman he just met? In all my travels, I've never come across a man who didn't jump at the chance to fill a hole with his cock. Anyway, the other instance comes when Spangle is forced, at gun point, to perform the dance of the three snakes for the amusement of Commander Toadie (Brian Frank), leader of the rebel greeners. The way Sandahl Bergman utilized the flowing nature of her transparent garment during her dance will definitely remind the cooler people in the audience of her work in Xanadu.

When I saw Kristi Somers' name in the opening credits, I thought to myself: Yes! I loves me some Kristi Somers (she brought a plucky energy to Tomboy and Girls Just Want to Have Fun). However, I did not expect to see her playing a mutant frog woman. A dancer at a semi-popular Frogtown watering hole (come for dingy atmosphere, stay for the radioactive beer), Kristi's Arabella is introduced in a manner that was actually quite clever. Panning up her lithesome frame as she danced on the bar (a greener in a motorcycle helmet powers a small boombox by turning a crank), the camera tricks us into thinking we about to see an attractive woman. But instead, we're shown a mutated frog lady with killer legs. I love it when traditional titillation quickly turns to revulsion.

Judging by the twinkle in your eye, it's looks like you're about to go on some kind of lingerie-based tangent relating to the film's sadomasochistic content. Well, before you do that, let me ask you a question: Are you aware that you have already mentioned the sight of a lingerie-clad Sandahl Bergman being led about on a leash? You bet I am. Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Not in the slightest. Up until this point, Hell Comes to Frogtown has been mainly a testicle tormenting affair, with Spangle holding sway over the structural well-being of Sam's reproductive future. The balance of power shifts somewhat when Spangle devises a plan to get both her and Sam's sperm into Frogtown without arousing suspicion. Sheathing her healthy body in black stockings (their gravitational fortitude is assisted by garters attached to an unseen garter belt), a black bra, and black tattered smock (the frayed edges allowed for an unpredictable distribution of undercarriage-based Sandahl skin), Spangle bounds herself with manacles and hands Sam a leash.

The idea is to pretend Sam is a bounty hunter and that Spangle is a new sex slave for Commander Toadie's harem. While this sounds like a recipe for disaster, it actually turns out to be pretty solid rouse. Only problem being that Sam seems to be having way too fun yanking Spangle's leash. However, even though she's let her hair down and taken off her glasses, Spangle is still the one wearing the white earrings in this relationship. Meaning, she can still zap his scrotum with the flick of a wrist.

Things start to go downhill,absurdity-wise, when Sam's chastity belt and Spangle's lingerie are removed (a mutant greener played by Nicolas Worth uses a chainsaw to remove the chastity belt), and the film morphs into a stale action movie. Without the chastity belt, Roddy Piper is just some musclebound dude not wearing a chastity belt. You might as well have cast Peter North (now there's a guy with tremendous spunk) as Sam Hell. In fact, I hear that Hell Comes to Frogtown was supposed to be an adult feature, but then got re-branded as an action comedy. It's true, I would have liked to have seen more perversion and less action, but the film's wacky premise does carry its bloated corpse far enough through to the desert to make the trip feel like a worthwhile endeavour.

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Swamp Thing (Wes Craven, 1982)

"Water meadowland and small shot for the ducks. He walks in the mud, moves aside the reeds. No clapping of wings, no motions around. Just a singing wind in an ominous silence." Why, you may ask, am I quoting the lyrics to "The Bog" by Bigod 20? Well, at first, even I didn't know. But then it dawned on me, the lyrics to that sinister dancefloor jam (I highly recommend the "Techno Duck Mix") and Swamp Thing, a moist chiller from director Wes Craven (The People Under the Stairs), bare a striking resemblance to one another in terms of foggy tone and murky relevance. It's true, I could have started off on a tangent that compared the Adrienne Barbeau cleavage festival with "Swamp Thing" by The Chameleons. But if you check the lyrics to that song, you'll quickly realize that the words being sung/uttered have very little to do with an actual "swamp thing." Or maybe they do, and I'm just looking at them from a too prosaic point-of-view. Ironically, both songs were played heavily at Toronto area nightclubs like the Boom Boom Room and Catch 22 circa 1991.

While the self-satisfied sensation I'm feeling over the fact that I managed to tie together songs by Bigod 20 and The Chameleons with a film that features Reggie Batts is intoxicating, I'd really like focus primarily on the cinematic work known as Swamp Thing (a.k.a. "Das Ding aus dem Sumpf"). In my defense, it should be noted that I have already alluded to the ample division that separates Adrienne Barbeau's breasts, and I've already used a number of adjectives of a slippery and shadowy nature.

By the way, if you should come across a review of this film that fails to mention Adrienne Barbeau's chest region at least once, the person who wrote it is obviously divorced from reality.

Even though I think they can be unwieldy at times, I do have fond memories of looking her animated cleavage in an ad for the film located inside Sgt. Rock #364 back when I was a smallish woodland creature.

The wettest film ever to emerge out of the festering stew that was the early 1980s, Swamp Thing, based the D.C. comic of the same name, involves a male research scientist, Alec Holland (Ray Wise), falling for a female research scientist, Alice Cable (Adrienne Barbeau), in the seasonally flooded bottomlands of dewy Charleston, South Carolina, U.S.A. Sounds pretty straightforward, right? Only problem being that commandos under the command of a corrupt businessman, Anton Arcane (a ham-and-couscous-filled Louis Jourdan), raid the their laboratory compound just as their relationship was about to blossom and junk.

In the melee that follows, Dr. Holland is transformed into a green monstrosity after being doused with some volatile iridescent sludge, while Miss Cable flees into the swamp with the knowledge of the whereabouts to the final notebook containing the formula for the aforementioned iridescent sludge. The malevolent Arcane wants to procure the recipe in order to use on himself. Mind you, not to become a walking and talking vegetable, but so that he can harness its power to do some evil bullshit.

What transpires after Holland and Cable are cast into the swamp is a serious of commando attacks, followed by a last minute rescue. The commandos, lead by Ferret (David Hess from The Last House on the Left), would chase and harass Adrienne Barbeau, and just as her ass was about to get snuffed, Holland's green thing (portrayed by Dick Durock when in shrub mode) would jump out of the brush to help her just in the nick of time.

As you would expect, this gets tiresome after awhile. The only repetitive motif I enjoyed during all this swamp-based action was the fact that the commando played by the always excellent Nicholas Worth (Don't Answer the Phone) is violently tossed in the water not once, but three times by the Swamp Thing (it might have even been four times). Anyway, it got to a point where I anticipated his dunking with bated breath.

Surprisingly, it wasn't spacious cleavage and regenerating limbs that caught the bulk of my attention. No, what interested me most was the awesome performance by Reggie Batts as Jude, the youthful, bespeckled gas station attendant who assists Adrienne Barbeau in her mad scramble not to get murdered in a swamp setting. There was just something about his head-on line delivery that tickled my fancy. Of course, as with the majority of great film performances, Swamp Thing would end up being Reggie Batts' sole movie credit. Joining the likes of the legendary Madeleine Reynal from Stephen Sayadian's Dr. Caligari and the unheralded Kristen Riter from Student Bodies, Reggie has cemented his place in the possibly made up Panthéon of one role film careers.

The assertiveness of Adrienne Barbeau's character during the film's first third was mildly glorious, especially when Arcane's hired guns are attacking the research complex–she makes a fool out of Nicholas Worth and guns down a nameless commando. Unfortunately, this scrappiness soon turns to timidity, as she slowly evolves into a bit of a damsel in distress. She doesn't even lend a hand to Mr. Swamp Thing during the climatic battle with Arcane. It doesn't exactly ruin the movie, but it was, nonetheless, a disappointing turn of events.

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Don't Answer the Phone! (Robert Hammer, 1980)

The seediness of Hollywood circa 1980 is yet again explored with a graceless morass in the inappropriately titled Don't Answer the Phone! Inappropriate because the act of picking up a ringing telephone will not endanger your life in this film (the original title The Hollywood Strangler is much more apt). Anyway, it seems like every other movie I watch nowadays is either set in Hollywood or involves some sort of sordid underworld. And why not? I mean, the city has much to offer in terms of fostering the sleazy and the deranged, and it also serves as a magnet for all kinds of wide-eyed folks in search of the American Dream. It's when these two distinct forces collide with one another that the potential for exploitative drama really comes to the forefront. A slasher/stalker/irregular pantyhose usage film, writer-director Robert Hammer has made an unpleasant and deeply disturbing work of trashy cinematic art. Boasting elements that were genuinely gripping and others that were straight up awful, the extremely gritty endeavour is repeatedly rendered tolerable thanks to the outlandish and wonderfully insane performance of one Nicholas Worth (Swamp Thing), the excellent synthesizer score by Bryon Allred (Night of the Comet), and a bevy of alluring victims who all screamed and thrashed about in a realistic and convincing manner.

On the other hand, making things difficult for those of us who like their movies not to suck was everyone involved in the police procedural section of the film. Oozing a banal haze at every turn, the detectives played by James Westmoreland and Ben Frank left much to be desired in the not being total asswipes department, and almost singlehandedly managed to make one root for the serial killer. Even though I'm sure that some of the sicker twists in the audience were already down with his confused Modus operandi.

Oh, and I didn't like the way they mocked pornography, pimps, prostitution and psychology.

Similar to the plot of Angel, except without the occasional brushes with my old pal whimsy (no wisecracking drag queens or gruff yet lovable lesbians, either), a serial rapist/murderer is strangling his way through Hollywood's female workforce. Using a pair of pantyhose–with a large coin inside for choking leverage–the killer sneaks up on nurses in their homes and lures unsophisticated models to his photography studio.

In-between stalking, the killer calls in to a radio show hosted by Dr. Lindsay Gale (Flo Gerrish) to chat about his headaches.

The aforementioned detectives are the ones in charge of catching this lunatic, but like I said, their stance against the four P's (pornography, pimps, prostitution and psychology) and overall asshole aura really cramped my desire to see the strangling enthusiast get his comeuppance.

Attacking the role of Kirk Smith: pornographer by day, lady strangler by night, with the sweet tang of a demented tollbooth attendant with daddy issues, the late great Nicholas Worth chews up the scenery as the unbalanced war veteran. The scenes where Worth is alone in his studio lifting weights, talking to himself in the mirror and practicing his choking technique were definitely the highlight of Don't Answer the Phone! in terms of acting and overall creepiness.

Creating a terrifying portrait of a man who has lost touch with reality, the rotund actor gives it his all. Whether sweating profusely during his pimp beating tirade (a very Travis Bickle-esque moment), or getting ready to strangle yet another unsuspecting victim, Nicholas has to commended for elevating the lurid material. Seriously, the thought of watching this film without Nicholas Worth makes me shudder ever so slightly.

As it happens with the majority of films of this nature, the ability to enjoy the sexiness of its many attractive actresses was severely hampered by the fact they were constantly being murdered under chaotic circumstances. However, that doesn't mean I failed to relish their performances from a technical point-of-view. You know, like, who writhed the best or who twitched with the most conviction.

In terms of being gorgeous while having their breathing suppressed without their written consent, I'd have to go with Pamela Jean Bryant (Playboy Playmate April 1978).

Nevertheless, as far as being choked the best, the duo of Gail Jensen (ex-Mrs. David Carradine) and Joyce Ann Jodan were the most compelling when it came to dying at the hands of a serial killer.

The stunning turn by Denise Galik, a shy patient of Dr. Lindsay's, should not go unmentioned, as her demise was painful to watch. Also, the strong kitchen table work of Dale Kalberg as a nurse, and the post-mortal twitching of Susanne Severeid (Van Nuys Blvd.) as a strung-out hooker were both first-rate.

I know all this talk of being murdered in an appealing manner smacks of tastelessness, but I can only judge what I see on-screen. I will say that the whole business at the massage parlour did add a bit of goofiness to the proceedings. Mostly because I spotted Don Lake (Bizarre, SCTV, Littlest Hobo) as "Man in Plastic" and a woman who looks exactly like the luminous Susan Saiger (Doris the Dominatrix from Eating Raoul).

A blog entry dedicated to Dale Kalberg's character in "No Contestes al Teléfono" can be found at Vivir en Tucson.

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