Scenes from the Goldmine (Marc Rocco, 1987)

Do we really need another movie to tell us that the music industry is full of assholes? Since I'm the only one here at the moment, I'll go ahead and answer that question myself. No, we do not. We do, however, need more movies that star the amazing Catherine Mary Stewart, an actress who you might know from Night of the Comet, Nightflyers, Dudes, etc... Oh, and The Apple! (God, how could I forget The Apple?) And Scenes from the Goldmine provides us with more C.M.S. than all those other movies combined. (Even more than The Apple?) Oh, you better believe it. This film is the ultimate C.M.S. experience. Sure, it's premise is basically this: The music industry sucks. But nothing is gonna stop me from enjoying the sight of Catherine Mary Stewart playing keyboards in winklepicklers alongside... (Wait a second. Did you just say, winklepickers?) Yeah, so? (How are you so calm right now?) Trust me, I'm not calm. In fact, my mind is racing like a cocaine-fueled tornado. When the camera zooms in on Catherine's multi-buckle winklepickers while her band was jamming at a local bar at their rehearsal space, I had to stop watching for a minute, as my psyche suddenly found itself inundated with pure, pointy-footed pleasure.

As far as I'm concerned, there's no other type of footwear on the planet that brings me more joy than winklepickers. Okay, creepers make me smile as well. But when it comes right down to it, I'm a winklepicker man through and through. Always have been, always will be.

Of course, I own pair of winklepickers myself. Unfortunately, due to financial constraints, I could only afford a pair of winklepickers that sport two buckles. Don't feel too sorry for me, my two buckle winklepickers and I have had some pretty good times together. It's just that I feel that I could have had an even better time if my winklepickers had more buckles.

Anyway, what caused me to react so intensely to the sight of Catherine Mary Stewart's winklepickers was the fact that they had [are you sitting down?] six(!) buckles (that's a total of twelve all-together). When I would dream about owning a pair of winklepickers that had more than two buckles, I would usually stop at four buckles. So, as you might expect, the sight of C.M.S. wearing a pair with six... (Yeah, yeah, you like pointy, goth-friendly footwear.) You don't understand, they're very important to me.

Besides, I'm sure everyone would rather listen to me bather on and on about winklepickers, than listen to me describe the plot of this toothless jab at the music industry. Yes, people who work for record labels are terrible human beings. We get it.

While it's true, the film, written and directed by Marc Rocco, does cover a lot of familiar territory, it does have a few nice twists here and there. The biggest one being that Niles Dresden (Cameron Dye) of Niles Dresden and The Pieces is just as big of a phoney as the music execs.

To an outsider, the red flags should have started waving immediately. But I guess Debi DiAngelo (Catherine Mary Stewart) was too awestruck by Niles' mega-mullet to think clearly. I mean, the way Niles and the boys, Dennis Lameraux (Timothy B. Schmidt) on bass, and Kenny Bond (John Ford Coley) on drums, fired Stephanie (Pamela Springsteen), their previous keyboard player, should have sent alarm bells ringing in Debi's head. But like I said, his mega-mullet is pretty persuasive.

I know, how can an overgrown clump of hair cause someone to lose touch with reality? It's simple, really, the clump in question is flowing from the back of the head attached to Cameron Dye (Valley Girl), a man whose sharp bone structure could moisten even the most obdurate of panties.

Of course, I don't mean to imply that Debi's new wave panties are soaking wet after successfully auditioning to be the band's new keyboard player. I'm just saying her judgment must have been hampered somewhat. As the quote that opens the film says, "A good girl falls for a wild one every time."

Now that Debi is a fully-fledged member of the Pieces, Harry (Steve Railsback, Lifeforce), the band's manager and Niles' brother, get them a gig at a local club, where Manny Ricci (Joe Pantoliano), an artists and repertoire man for Rush Records, will apparently be in attendance.

Even though the song they play, "Listen To My Heartbeat," is a non-threatening slab of banal mid-80s pop rock if I ever heard one, the band still manages to impress Manny, who tells them to basically keep at it.

After having dinner with her drug addict brother and her disapproving parents (her father, played by Alex Rocco, doesn't like the fact that his daughter is performing at clubs with names like, "The Lingerie"), Debi hangs out at the beach with Dana (Jewel Shepard), her best friend/roommate. It wasn't until near the end of the movie that I realized that Debi's pal was played by Jewel Shepard. I blame the director for this, as he seemed to like to shoot everyone, except for the two leads, from afar; the same goes for Lee Ving, who plays an eccentric music video director.

Taking Manny's advice to keep at it, Niles and the Pieces perform "I Was Just Asking" at their rehearsal space. On top of being my favourite song in the movie, this is the sequence where we first see Catherine Mary Stewart in her six buckle winkpicklers.

In a weird twist, Catherine's winklepickers get more close-ups than both Jewel Shepard and Lee Ving combined.

Speaking of weird twists, the decision to feature three bands performing covers of "Twist and Shout" during Niles and Debi's club crawl courtship sequence was the film's most interesting from a stylistic point of view. Of course, the version I liked the most was the robo-synth one by James House's Roberto Roberto.

Now, I don't want to say too much about what happens after Niles and Debi eventually become a couple. Though, I will say this, Debi should have never shown Niles her giant binder of songs. Seriously, that was a bad decision (you'll see why). But I like said earlier, it's hard to say no to a fully-mulleted Cameron Dye... he's a wild one.

Even though you'd be probably better off watching Ladies and Gentlemen... The Fabulous Stains, Breaking Glass, or even Eddie and the Cruisers, if you're a fan of Catherine Mary Stewart (who does all her own singing), music movies, winklepickers and zebra print, you should probably check this film out. If you can find it (there's hardly any information about this film on the interweb).

Modern Girls (Jerry Kramer, 1986)

Whether you decide to pierce, puncture or perforate it, there comes a time in everyone's life when you must penetrate the night, and when that time does come, don't forget to poke it really hard (a subtle prick will not suffice). You better hurry, though, because the all-enveloping blackness waits for no one. The unbearable harshness of the light of day not only saps the bulk of your strength, it exposes your physical flaws in a more pronounced manner. Let me put it another way, sunshine is fine and dandy for daises and daffodils, but the human animal needs darkness to survive. Procreation occurs mostly at night, and do you know where these procreation enthusiasts meet one another? I'll tell you where, in nightclubs. There's a reason there are no such thing as "dayclubs." No self-respecting man or woman would ever copulate will someone they met during the day. And let me ask you this, when was the last time you saw a movie that featured a montage that centred around a person getting dressed in the morning? The reason you can't think of one is because there's never been one. They put on their clothes, they go wherever it is those people go every morning, the end. On the other hand, the night is tailor made for wardrobe-based montages, and does Modern Girls ever have a doozy. Set to the apt strains of "Girls Night Out" by Toni Basil, this particular montage was so overpowering, so chromatically persuasive, that I felt the need to watch it with a smallish support group of like-minded individuals (the vibrant production design alone was enough to cause me to reach for my inhaler). Unfortunately, it's hard to find upright organisms who think like me on such short notice. And, to be honest, I don't think there's anyone in the metropolitan area whose brain is up to my level of deluded cleverness.

All alone, culturally alienated, and mildly intimidated, was I able to handle to the sheer amount of turquoise and pink that is thrown at me in Modern Girls? Of course I was. What do you think I am, some kind of pantie-flavoured lightweight? You're talking to someone who has seen Valet Girls six times. If anything, I felt myself growing stronger as the film progressed. Feeding off its gaudy nectar like some sort of scrunchie-stroking fiend, every witless flight of fancy, every nonsensical decision the characters make in this flick was like being repeatedly splashed with a revitalizing tonic.

Getting back to my original point, the dichotomy between the night and day dictum is sufficiently satirized the moment the words "Modern Girls" appear on the scree at the beginning of the film. And it's a good thing, as I was starting to get on my nerves. Here you are, yakking up a storm about the differences between night and day, all the while Cynthia Gibb's calve-hugging, thigh-beautifying pink leggings are being woefully neglected. At any rate, inside the words "Modern Girls" lies a neon-filled cityscape where fun is contagious and anything is possible. Outside the words is, well, a brightly lit netherworld full of tedium and drudgery.

Introduced just as their ennui was about to get the best of them, three young women living in Los Angeles are shown at their places of employment. The command "keep dialing" can be heard emanating from her supervisor as we meet Margo (Daphne Zuniga), a brunette telemarketer, who is having trouble staying awake. And who can blame her? Barking trite-sounding nonsense into a plain-looking telephone all day will test the resolve of even the most resilient of modern girls. Next up, we run into Kelly (Virginia Madsen), a blonde pet shop girl, and, judging by the plethora of guys milling around outside the store, she has many suitors. The final piece of this girlish puzzle is put into place when we encounter CeCe (Cynthia Gibb), a bubbly department store cosmetics salesgirl. Well, at least she was a bubbly cosmetics salesgirl. Fired after making an elderly woman look like a new wave hooker, and for distressing one too many garments, CeCe, a fashionable redhead, finds herself without a job when her friends come to pick her up.

Even though the jacket CeCe is wearing when she leaves the department store is clearly red (dig the frayed sleeves, girlfriend), you'll notice that the majority clothes the girls were wearing while at work were frightfully bland (lots of white and grey). Once darkness falls, the girls are totally unencumbered by the soul-suffocating rules imposed on them by the daytime world, and are free to express themselves in a more laid-back manner. Of course, before she can proceed to get in touch with her inner trendoid, CeCe needs to catch some z's.

Fully refreshed and ready to take on the L.A. club scene, CeCe tries on a series of fashion forward ensembles. Standing before her mirror, CeCe examines each outfit carefully before deciding whether to keep or discard the article of clothing currently being scrutinized. Oh, and, by the way, if you're wondering why I'm only focusing on CeCe? It's simple, the other girls don't matter. Radiating a weird, almost therapeutic brand of neon light, Cynthia Gibb's CeCe had a soothing quality about her that the other gals seemed to lack.

However, if you must know what the other two were up to while the fabulous CeCe was trying on clothes, Margo's going through nightclub flyers and making calls, and Kelly is, well, she's missing in action. This complicates matters for CeCe and Margo because Kelly took the car. How are they supposed to go clubbing without a car? The girls are obviously not fans of public transit. Thankfully, the answer to their car-less prayers rolls up in a convertible. Knocking on their door while Margo's taking a bath and CeCe was painting her toenails in a pink slip, Clifford (Clayton Rohner) is there to pick up Kelly (she apparently agreed to go on a date with him). A nice guy in a grey sweater, Clifford waits on their zebra print couch (complete with leopard print cushions) while the girls get ready. The girls hatch a plan to bring Clifford to Kelly (they have a general idea where she is), which in turn, will allow CeCe and Margo to arrive in style (Cliff is driving a borrowed Cadillac with a leopard print interior).

What initially endeared me to CeCe was not her ebullient attitude or kooky fashion sense, but the fact that she insisted on calling Clifford "Cliffy," even though he told her that he prefers to be called "Cliff." Guys can get a tad squirrelly when you try to stick a 'y' at the end of their names. How do I know this? Well, let's just say, a couple of Finnish girls I knew growing up taught me an important lesson about the subtle art of handle alteration. If a Finnish girl wants to add a 'y' to the end of your name, let them. But if a non-Finnish girl tries to do the same, nip that shit in the fucking bud as soon as possible. Anyway, Clifford does make a feeble attempt to nip it, but CeCe, who's clearly not Finnish, isn't your average bud.

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, CeCe emerges wearing a turquoise skirt, pink tights (the way they complemented her skirt was simply divine), lacy black armwear, peach-coloured eye makeup, black heels, and carrying the world's strangest boa (tattered chunks of mulit-coloured fabric that looked like they were sewn together on a dare), while Margo is sporting a black dress covered in zippers, black pantyhose (calm down, perverts), black heels, and a pair of royal blue opera gloves (I'm all for wearing black, but even I thought the gloves added a much needed splash of colour to her get-up).

It's time to hit the clubs! The first club is called Powertools, and just as they're about to go in, CeCe and Margo lay down some of their clubland ground rules: Never pay for parking; never carry cash; never pay for drinks; and, most importantly, never wait in line. When they're finished educating Cliffy, they bypass the line and entre the club. The grey sweater-wearing scamp is immediately crestfallen when he finds out that Kelly, who is wearing a pink frilly number with lacy white pantyhose, has totally forgotten about their date (she didn't even remember his name). To make matters worse, Kelly is kissing a guy/asshole named Brad (Stephen Shellen), the club's DJ.

Call me pessimistic, but I don't think Virginia Madsen will be able to win back the audience after the way she treated Cliffy. Hell, she didn't even defend CeCe and Margo when Brad had the nerve to call them dorks (besmirch Margo all you want, but no one talks about CeCe that way). Clutching a copy of "Love" by The Cult while looking sad and mopey is a good start, but she'll need to do more than hold a beloved LP in her hands if she expects me, I mean, the audience, to like her again.

Feeling guilty over the fact that they used Cliffy, CeCe and Margo buy him a drink (the sign above the bar reads "lubrication"). Well, John Dye actually pays for the drinks, but it's the thought that counts. The egregious amount of cuteness on display as CeCe and Cliffy dance to "The Girl Pulled A Dog" by the Female Body Inspectors was off the charts in terms of allowable cuteness. Sadly, this cuteness is interrupted when Bruno X (Clayton Rohner) entres the club with much fanfare. Wait a minute, Bruno who?!? Oh my god, what planet are you from? It's Bruno X! He's only the biggest thing to hit MTV since Fad Gadget.

It's at this point in the film when Modern Girls truly finds its voice. Floundering without a purpose, CeCe's determination to meet Bruno X is what drives the plot of the movie. As you would expect, Bruno X falls in love with CeCe almost instantly (he may look like a pratt, think Billy Idol crossed with Peter Murphy with a hint of Gowan - "you're a strange animal," but he knows an angel when he sees one). I like to think that Bruno X fell under CeCe's chirpy spell the second he heard the "life in your new world turning round and round" part of Icehouse's "No Promises." I didn't, however, like the way Bruno X insisted on calling CeCe "Cecilia" (totally uncool, man, her name's CeCe!). Anyway, CeCe and Bruno X become separated from one another while the club is being raided by police (fire code violation).

The rest of the film centres around CeCe trying to locate Bruno X, the man she is "totally in like with." Employing the help of Margo and Cliffy (Kelly has disappeared again), CeCe's search leads them to The Gloom Room (an authentic-looking L.A. goth club filled with authentic-looking L.A. goths), a music video shoot where Cliffy acquires a new coat (oh, and keep an eye on one of the dancers in the music video, they're wearing pointy boots that are affixed with buckles - screw the other dancers, their boots, while pointy, are buckle-less), rescue a drug-addled Kelly from a bunch of L.A. rednecks (keep your other eye out for an equally drug-addled Pamela Springsteen in this scene), Melrose Avenue (love the neon signs), Club Voodoo (a tropical themed nightclub), and Mulholland Fountain.

Rarely do I get the opportunity to see my values represented on-screen in such a succinct manner. But there were, shimmering in the night sky like an underappreciated pair of iridescent fingerless gloves. And rarely do I get the chance to witness a piece of film acting this captivating, this bouncy, this mettlesome, this...well, you get the get the idea. Sure, the duel performance by Clayton Rohner as Cliffy and Bruno X was impressive and junk, but nothing comes close to topping Cynthia Gibb's stunning portrayal as the single-minded CeCe, the world's most vivacious fashion victim. I liked how Cynthia never seemed to shy away from character's vacuous temperament. A lesser actress would try to underplay CeCe's flaws, but Cynthia embraces the fact her character is cooler than everyone else. In addition, she's the only one who seems to be fully aware that she's living in the '80s, which is a testament to Cynthia Gibb's steadfast commitment to the role.

A feminist masterwork masquerading as a meaningless slab of fashion-friendly mishegas, the script by Laurie Craig, based on a story by Anita Rosenberg (Assault of the Killer Bimbos), pulls no punches when it comes mocking the whole knight in shining armor myth that permeates the majority of romantic comedies. In every other movie, a single gal needs the stability of a man in order to feel complete. However, in the Modern Girls universe, that stability is shirked with extreme prejudice. Don't be fooled by the neon lights, the food fights, and the pink tights, this film has bite. It's frothy and fun, but it also contains an important lesson about loyalty and friendship.

In a veiled attempt to stave off what is bound to be a profound case of Post-Modern Girls sluggishness, here are my favourite songs from the M.G. soundtrack: "Girls Night Out," Tony Basil; "Everywhere I Go," The Call; "But Not Tonight," Depeche Mode; "No Promises," Icehouse; and "Some Candy Talking," Jesus and Mary Chain.

...

Fast Times at Ridgemont High (Amy Heckerling, 1982)

Supposedly setting the tone for every teen movie to come out after its 1982 release, Fast Times at Ridgemont High is a film that I have pretended not to like for the past couple of decades. (Its status as a universally beloved entity has always fraudulently annoyed me.) Well, I'm proud to say that those days are almost over. No, seriously, they're totally over. As of this day, I'm officially coming out as a fan of this somewhat humourous ode to degrading employment, after school change room copulation and quickie abortions. I'll admit, from the moment Amy Heckerling's adolescent-friendly camera pokes its head through the glass doors of Ridgemont Mall (Sherman Oaks Galleria and Santa Monica Place), and we hear The Go-Go's "We Got The Beat" blasting on the soundtrack, I was hooked. Quickly introducing us to the film's many youthful characters, this opening salvo immediately gives the audience a solid sense of the school's social infrastructure before even any of them has the chance open their mouth. However, when they do start flapping their gums and reciting scripted dialogue, whether it be about oral sex technique or the importance of wearing a shirt in a fast food dining environment, the results are always mildly illuminating.

Boasting a sort of meandering approach when it came to dispensing nuggets of plot, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, based on a book by Cameron Crowe, is basically about sex, freedom, and tasty waves (despite the fact the ocean isn't seen outside of a marijuana-fueled dream). The sex segment (naturally) is the most important subject out of the three, in that it concerns almost every character in the film. Although in this case, it mainly relates to Stacy (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and Linda (Phoebe Cates), two girls who work at a pizzeria, Mark (Brian Backer), a shy guy who is the assistant to the assistant manager at the mall's movie theatre ("smoking's upstairs to your left"), and Mike Damone (Robert Romanus), a smooth talking fella who sells overpriced tickets to rock concerts (he's also an amateur bookmaker). The levelheaded Linda mostly gives humping advice and interrupts sham pirates while their masturbate, so it actually focuses on the unintended love triangle that forms between the other three I mentioned.

The film's freedom angle is generated by Brad Hamilton (Judge Reinhold), an always employed high school senior who is looking to extricate himself from whatever mind-numbing job he is currently doing at the time and cut loose his longtime girlfriend. Of course, these things get accomplished in a manner he did not expect. And the tasty waves bit, well, that primarily is the arena of one Jeff Spicoli (Sean Penn). This surfing enthusiast and all-around party animal engages in a bit of a non-surfing battle with Mr. Hand (Ray Walston), a time weary history teacher.

While the sex section is all about melodrama (and how guys are pricks), and the freedom chapter concerns pre-millennial angst, the Spicoli part is pure comedy. Sure, the sight of Mr. Reinhold in his goofy fish restaurant garb is kinda funny, as are the antics of an under-caffeinated science teacher (Vincent Schiavelli) and a pair of over-caffeinated cheerleaders with way too much school spirit (Kelli Maroney and Pamela Springsteen), but it's the normally pompous Sean Penn who is off-the-hook in terms of stoner hilarity. His, "hey, I know that dude," nonchalant interaction with Mr. Pizza Guy (Taylor Negron) and mock playing of a drum cymbal during "Wooly Bully" are watermarks when it comes to cinematic buffoonery.

Now, the thing that has always bothered me about this film has been the fact it fails utilize the pop culture of the day. Saturated with a seemingly unending deluge of smug references to dinosaur rock from the sixties and seventies, the film repeatedly goes out of its way to make allusions to these outmoded bands and artists at every turn. When instead it should be chock-full of post-punk, new wave and synth-pop. You know, like, Valley Girl and The Last American Virgin. The only aspect that reflects the era musically is the wall of Mike Damone's bedroom, as it's plastered with posters of The B-52's, Devo, and even oddities like the Suburban Lawns.

Luckily, this obsession with arena rock can't sully the red bikini-ed magnificence that is the sight of a taut Phoebe Cates existing a backyard swimming pool in slow motion to the instrumental strains of The Cars' "Moving In Stereo." The sound of Greg Hawkes' keyboard* lushly humming as the gorgeous actress gingerly unfastened her swimsuit top is the stuff of semi-nude legend.

I cannot believe there was a time when I used to think this scene was overrated, and focused my praising gaze toward the subtle acting of the justifiably esteemed Jennifer Jason Leigh. Well, thankfully, that person doesn't work here anymore. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a fan of Leigh's performance (she makes getting deflowered in a dilapidated dugout seem like an exercise in extreme torment). It's just that I like to think that I have matured a lot as a viewer of things. Which means that I can safely declare the Phoebe Cates bikini pool scene to be awesome with nary a hint of irony.

Since this was my eleventh or so screening of Fast Times at Ridgemont High, I couldn't help but notice the stellar work of Blair Tefkin (V) as Pat Bernardo, one of the three girls who have "cultivated" the Pat Benatar look at Ridgemont High. You see, every time I look at a film, I end up coming away with something different. And this time around my unparalleled gaze seemed to focus on the girl dressed as the short-haired rock enchantress.

Sexily attired in a regalia of headbands, tight red and black sweaters, and many leg revealing skirts, I couldn't take my eyes off her every time she appeared on-screen. (I loved the closeup shot of her left thigh as she went to check the cheat sheet she had scribbled on it.)

I was truly fascinated by her dedication to the Pat Benetar look. I mean, I remember seeing people who copied the clothing of celebs and artists back when I was roaming the halls (the red cod piece worn by Larry Blackmon was all the rage at my dump of a school), but never once did I see anyone go to the lengths that this gal goes to look like a famous person.

* After watching it again recently, I couldn't help but notice that Greg Hawkes' keyboard is pretty much nonexistent on the version of "Moving in Stereo" used in the film. I know there were a couple of other things I should have been focusing on while I watched the pool sequence. But still, I was quite disturbed by the lack of Mr. Hawkes' synthesizer.

...

Sleepaway Camp III: Teenage Wasteland (Michael A. Simpson, 1989)

I can't believe I had to wait a whole year for it to get made (man, was 1988 a crazy year), but it's finally here: My favourite transgender, camp-based murderess is back and chipper than ever in the gloriously straightforward Sleepaway Camp III: Teenage Wasteland, an unabashed kill-o-rama from respected filmmaker Michael A. Simpson. To put it simply–now that I have seen three of them–this is my horror franchise. The hockey mask guy and the menacing nut-job in the jumpsuit are lame ass punks compared to Angela Baker, the bloodthirsty nitty-gritty of these series of films that give camping a bad name. Yeah, that's right, she makes those mask-wearing crybabies seem like a bunch of pussies. The gender confused camp enthusiast (she must love camping by now) is the essence of cinematic murder, as she kills when she is wronged and for sheer fun of it. This lax criteria when it comes to selecting victims means that no one safe while in her presence. You could be the nicest guy or gal in the world and Angela will somehow find a reason to kill you. And she won't just kill you willy-nilly, uh-uh, she'll put some serious fucking thought into your pathetic demise. Sure, the campers and staff being killed by her can't really appreciate the amount effort she puts into her murders; you know, with their brain activity being a tad on the wonky side (after all, they're in the process of getting killed and junk). But speaking as a well-balanced audience member, I can proudly say, that not only do I appreciate what Angela is putting out there, murder-wise, I applaud her.

The camp from Unhappy Campers, Camp Rolling Hills, is under new management and looking to put the bloodshed of a year ago behind it. Re-branded as Camp New Horizons, a summer camp that allows troubled teens from different socioeconomic and ethnic backgrounds to grow, learn and understand one another better through sharing and camping, this newfangled experiment in camp sociology gets an influx of new victims for Angela to slaughter in a timely and capable manner.

If my stark assessment of this fresh batch of campers and their chances of survival sounds a little bleak, well, that's because there's no way anyone in this group is gonna step it up in the plucky department. I mean, I could just tell when they did the roll call that Angela was going to have an easy go of it in terms stress-free carnage. And holy festering neck boils, was I ever right.

Killed with an almost workmanlike efficiency, Angela literally bashes her way through this stereotypical morass of teenage humanity. Assuming the identity of a skid row camper (she ran her over with a garbage truck), Angela shows up at Camp New Horizons as Maria Nacrastro and quickly begins to implement her homicidal agenda. (A yuppie newswomen reporting on the camp feels her wrath first, as she does the old bathroom cleanser-cocaine switcheroo on her.) Firecrackers, lawnmowers, wooden branches, tent spikes, axes, a flag pole, and even a run-of-the-mill handgun, are all utilized with a fanciful flair by the fiendish femme fatal.

However, it's not all about murder and death. On the contrary, the film takes the time to expose the tits of a couple female campers. (Quirky fun-fact: Angela wears a huge bullet bra.) While not as overtly titillating as the second chapter work of the beautiful Valerie Hartman, these topless moments nevertheless reminded me of a time when teenage campers could get naked without the fear of reprisals.

There's also some inexplicable dramatic pathos supplied when Angela longingly wonders the camp's kitchen (if you remember, she used to be a camp counselor).

Anyway, the use of flashback, recreated scenes, and competent acting on the part of Pamela Springsteen render this sequence as strangely touching. In that, it plays up her genuine love of camping and connects the two films quite nicely.

The cast list for Sleepaway Camp III: Teenage Wasteland may be awash with big names like Jill Terashita (a perky breasted, leather jacket wearing delinquent), Tracy Griffith (a wholesome redhead who has a hankering to date outside her own ethnic group), Kyle Holman (a spray paint artist named Snowboy), and Kim Wall (a racist hosebeast). But the real star of course is the tantalizingly deranged Pamela Springsteen as Angela Baker, the world's coolest transgender serial killer.

Uncompromising when it came time to bump off her hapless peers, Pamela kills with a point-blank, almost inhuman effectiveness. And that's what makes Pamela so horrendously awesome. The insane amount of giddy delight she seems to take in coldly dispatching each stereotype with a weird brand of deadly indifference is what makes her the best in her field. Add the fact that she goes about her heinous routine always sporting a smile, and what you end up with is a psychopath who is both twisted and alluring.