"GETEVEN" (John De Hart, 1993)

If I didn't know any better, I could have sworn that I just watched the eye-opening story of a young woman struggling to come to terms with her own homosexuality. Unfortunately, I do know better. Meaning, I'm going to have to admit sooner or later that I just watched a film written and directed by a trial lawyer named John De Hart. It's true, just because a film is written and directed by a trial lawyer named John De Hart, doesn't mean it can't be about sexual awakening. But let's get real, what do trial lawyers named John De Hart know about coming out as a lesbian? Actually, what do trial lawyers named John De Hart know about directing movies, writing movies, acting in movies and scoring movies? When you ultimately decide to subject yourself to "GETEVEN" (a.k.a. Road to Revenge), a film that is tantamount to watching a ninety minute infomercial for a revolutionary new kind of adult diaper, these are the types of questions you will be asking yourself. Boasting the action chops of Samurai Cop, the hot tubs of Andy Sidaris and the misguided moxie of The Room, John De Hart has made a movie so awkward and sad, that you can't help but root for it. (Yeah, root for it to end. Am I right, fellas?) You're not far off, but I sincerely wanted John De Hart to succeed at whatever it was he was trying to accomplish when he decided to unleash this ego stroke job masquerading as filmed entertainment onto an unsuspecting public.

Speaking of sincerity, I did genuinely pick up on a lesbian subplot amidst all the Wings Hauser-generated insanity and Pamela Jean Bryant-fostered legginess that is sprinkled liberally throughout this movie.

In-between the moments that feature Pamela Jean Bryant drinking wine from a gold fish bowl-size wine glass and John De Hart singing a country and western song at a local tavern (and by "local tavern," I mean the writer-director-trial lawyer's spacious rec room), we get the occasional shot of two women in cowboy hats enjoying the twangy atmosphere of the joint.

Even though these two ladies have nothing to do with the plot, John De Hart's camera seems obsessed with them. Things get even stranger when a woman comes out and starts dancing in nothing but a cowboy hat and a tropical-themed thong. Now, that might not sound all that weird, but it's the reaction of one of the cowboy hat ladies to the thong dancer that's interesting.

Horrified by the sight of the topless woman shaking her thong ensnared butt-crack on the stage, the cowgirl with the shortish brunette hair openly complains to her blonde cowgirl friend ("How disgusting," she says at one point). Basically telling her to relax, the blonde cowgirl dismisses her whining ass with extreme prejudice.

Pushed to the limit, the brunette cowgirl asks the bartender to use the telephone and promptly calls the police ("I need to report public nudity"). Now, you could say the brunette cowgirl is just being a good citizen. But I like to think she was trying suppress her attraction to women.

Sadly, after the call to the police is made, we never see the cowgirls again. Which is a shame, as I really think John De Hart had the makings of a compelling lesbian thriller/coming out movie on his hands. Whether he knew this or not isn't important. What is important, however, I was able to gleam something unexpected from a movie that doesn't purport to be about a closeted lesbian who likes country and western music.

Sandwiched between this non-lesbian coming out drama is a movie. Well, to call "GETEVEN" a movie is an insult to movies. This movie is like watching a Make-A-Wish wish gone terribly awry. When Wings Hauser, Pamela Jean Bryant and William Smith showed up to act in a movie called "Road to Revenge," they thought they were going help a sick little boy fulfill his dream of starring in a movie. Instead, they soon discovered that this sick little boy is in fact a middle-aged trial lawyer.

Too embarrassed to admit they were duped, Wings, Pam and William just went along with it, and the end result is the film you see here.

Starting off with some Manos: The Hands of Fate-style footage of Hollywood, we're not-so quickly ushered to the scene of the drug bust that alters the lives of three cops forever.

Just as Rick Bodie (John De Hart), Huck Finney (Wings Hauser) and Normad (William Smith), their commanding officer, are about to take down a drug den, a gun fight breaks out, one that leaves Huck wounded. When Normad shows indifference to Huck's suffering, Bodie knees him in the gut.

While we should be heading over to the courthouse to find out what the repercussions are for Bodie's ill-advised yet totally justified knee placement, we're instead shown Bodie practicing kung-fu and feeding his pet poodle a snack (if you look closely, you'll notice his poodle is a black belt).

Lying to the court, Normad manages to frame Bodie and Huck (he accuses them of misconduct). And as a result of this, he gets them kicked off the force. While I was impressed by the number of extras they had on hand to play the courtroom security guards, the production designer dropped the ball big time when it came to procuring convincing-looking courtroom tables (seriously, I've seen sturdier tables at bake sales). Anyway, while Bodie handles the news of their sacking in a calm and rational manner, Huck is clearly agitated; it's a good thing they had all that extra security on hand, or else Huck would have beat the living snot out of Normad.

Forced to get jobs as limo drivers, Bodie and Huck are doing the best they can given the circumstances.

Since limo drivers need to unwind just like everyone else, Bodie and Huck head over to Lanie's Bar for Cowboy Night. Sitting at the bar, nursing the largest glass of wine in human history, is Cynthia Westport (Pamela Jean Bryant), an old flame of Bodie's. And just as they're getting reacquainted, the other patrons demand that Bodie sing us a song. Five seconds into his song, "The Shimmy Slide," I began to feel uneasy. And, no, it wasn't because Cindy was wearing a sleeveless top with a marching band motif, it was because the song is terrible.

I'm not kidding, I don't know how much longer I can take this. Luckily, a gang of Satanists show up to harass Cindy. I don't want to toot my own horn, but I knew those Satanists were up to no good the moment I laid eyes on the guy with the bolo tie. Anytime you see a man wearing a bolo tie outside of Texas or New Mexico, walk the other way. Oh, and if the colour of the hair on his head is different than the colour of the hair on his beard--no matter what state you're in--run the other way.

Am I crazy, or does the redheaded waitress at Lanie's Bar look like Lisa London? I didn't see her name in the credits, but it definitely looks like her.

"I didn't come here to get grossed out" ~ Closeted Lesbian at Lanie's Bar on Cowboy Night

After bailing Huck out of jail (he got in a fight trying to protect Cindy from the Satanists), instructing the desk Sgt. to buy a personality with the quarter he just tossed in his general direction, and  telling the maître d' at a fancy restaurant two lame doctor jokes in quick succession, Bodie recites the soliloquy from the Nunnery Scene in William Shakespeare's play Hamlet while sitting on a garden swing.

I'm getting the feeling that John De Hart has a check list of all things he's ever wanted to do in a movie (sing a country and western song for an audience made up of mostly closeted lesbians and former Playboy Playmates, check... punch Satanists in the face near a Mrs. Pac-Man machine, check), and I'm, unfortunately, being forced to watch.

I know, my arms and legs are not in restraints. So, technically, I'm not being forced to do anything. If that's the case, why can't I stop watching?

Sure, the promise that Pamela Jean Bryant will appear in black stockings at some point is helping me get through this tripe, but what's keeping me from running screaming from the room in the meantime? Two words: Wings Hauser.

Whether shooting holes in his unpaid bills with a revolver, getting in arguments with bar patrons who have no class...

Wait, is John De Hart paying tribute to Cabaret Voltaire with that shot of a television tuned to a dead channel? (I don't know about Cabaret Voltaire, but it's got a definite David Lynch vibe about it.) Either way, I told you this film was filled with surprises.

All right, where was I? Oh, yeah, Wings Hauser. Whether drinking bleach, getting in theological debates with nuns, promoting the "noble noises of Huckism" whilst standing in a pool with his clothes on flanked by two bikini clad women floating on air mattresses, Wings Hauser is off his meds from start to finish in this film.

(Don't forget photo-bombing Bode and Cindy's wedding ceremony.) Oh, man. I loved that part. The way he keep staggering into frame was so... ahhhh! And he's wearing an orange suit!!!! This can't be happening!

Blah, blah, blah, Bodie storms the Satanist's compound, kicks some ass, the end.

If you like movies, you should do yourself a favour and maybe think about not watching "GETEVEN." However, if you like milf-tastic milfs dancing erotically in milf-enhancing black stockings for the crotch-based benefit of a milf-loving trial lawyer, I'm afraid going to have to insist that you check out "GETEVEN" (pronounced: 'gay-teh-vehn') immediately.

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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