Trash (Paul Morrissey, 1970)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Women in Revolt (Paul Morrissey, 1971)

Whether they're dangling indoors or dangling outdoors, the sight of male genitalia flopping freely without the support of a two-pronged hammock always makes me nervous. How nervous, you reluctantly ask? Let's say one minute you're sitting on the couch watching your boyfriend mirthfully skip to the fridge to get some more horseradish. Sounds innocent enough, right? Well, you won't be thinking it's so innocent the moment you find yourself desperately trying to stem the flow of blood gushing from between their legs with the latest issue of Italian Vogue. Accidentally slicing off a substantial chunk of their cherished junk as a result of tripping and falling crotch-first into one of the sharper-than-usual corners of your expensive coffee table, you calmly pick up the pieces and proceed to drive them to the emergency room. First off, you're probably thinking to yourself: why are the corners of their coffee table so damned sharp? But more importantly, you'll be cursing the delicate nature of the male reproductive system (why couldn't my boyfriend have a vagina?!?). Which reminds me, whenever I'd watch my cat lick himself, I would always feel a tad envious over the fact that he could retract his penis in a manner that allowed them to carry themselves with a modicum of dignity while he performed his daily allotment of cat-based duties. I would think to myself: Gee, I wish I could retract the overwhelming largeness of my penis (I've got a plethora of non-penis-related things to do during the day). Unfortunately, a naked man isn't like a cat at all, they're obscene, useless, violent, and, worst of all, frightfully unladylike. The women in Paul Morrissey's Women in Revolt are beginning to realize this as well, and who can blame them. Sick of being paid less money and tired of having their meaty holes treated like some sort of repository for wayward pricks, the kooky collection of women who populate this shrill realm are ready to start a revolution.

Introduced just as they're about to turn their backs on the disgusting men in their lives, two New York women, at the height of their foxiness, join together with other like-minded, cunt-positive individuals to form P.I.G. (Politically Involved Girls), a group for women who have had enough of living in a male-dominated society. Led by Jackie (Jackie Curtis), a garrulous, take charge school teacher, and Holly (Holly Woodlawn), a manic fashion model with a propensity for spastic writhing and impromptu dry humping, the upstart organization tries to recruit Candy (Candy Darling), a leggy blonde heiress/aspiring actress, into the girlish fold with the hope that she will inject the movement with some much needed class and distinction.

Providing us with some great insight as to what makes these ladies tick, the opening scene allows us to familiarize ourselves with the spiritual makeup of the women we'll be spending the next ninety or so minutes with. While it's obvious that they all share a mutual disdain for men, what's fascinating is the unique manner they each go about expressing their contempt. Sitting with a bored look on her face, Candy articulates her dislike for men with a detached elan ("you made me old before my time," she purrs). In another part of the city, that city, of course, being New York City, Jackie, her neck adorned with a sparkling choker, explains her man-hate with an intellectual flair. Words like, "detached" and "intellectual," however, will never be used to describe the temperament of Holly Woodlawn, as she takes lunacy to a whole new level of crazy.

My finely tuned crush receptors on were on high alert the second I saw the back of Holly's head gyrating like a defective ragdoll. Why was her head doing what you said it was doing? Well, her head, and her lovely mane of frazzled brunette hair, was behaving that way because her body was busy reacting to impact of her boyfriend's unstructured thrusting. At any rate, the moment she turned around, Holly Woodlawn had me completely under her spell. I'll never forget the image of her enchanting mug spewing obscenities in the general direction of her possessive male lover. Peppering the future leader of the Cobra Kai dojo's (Martin Kove) eardrums with a wide array of putdowns (my personal favourite: "eat my asshole, fucker!), Holly's madness was simply exquisite.

While painting her toenails, Jackie's naked house boy, Dusty (Dusty Springs), has the nerve to suggest that the women's liberation movement has poisoned her mind. After spraying a couple of his key cervices with deodorant, and scolding him for his lacklustre approach to housekeeping, Jackie starts hurling lit matches at his groin. The only reason I'm mentioning this scene is because of the mortified look on Jackie's face when she realizes that one of the matches she tossed at him almost set his dick on fire was freaking hilarious (ample pubic hair is tantamount to kindling). And I also liked the scene because it mostly centres around the beautification of Jackie's legs and feet.

The next scene, where a bespectacled Holly comes over, is a classic, in that it features a wacky exchange between Jackie Curtis and the guy (Paul Issa) who gave Holly a ride (he also brought a plant). "Take your balls and go," Jackie tells the plant guy. To which the plant guy responds: "what's wrong with my genitals? Jackie fires back: "I don't like 'em." The plant guy limply tells her: "but you don't know them." Like the majority of the scenes in Women in Revolt, the ungenteel argument with the plant guy doesn't really add or take anything away from the film's narrative, but it does contain a distinct satirical flavour that tricks you into believing that you're watching something artistically important.

The plan to coerce Candy into joining P.I.G. actually germinates while Holly is performing peripheral anilingus on Jackie's house boy. In fact, my favourite Holly Woodlawn nonplussed expression in Women in Revolt is when she glances down at the house boy's ass and quickly lifts her head up. The perplexed look on her face the moment she stops giving the house boy, to quote Jackie Curtis, "an anal root canal," was comedy gold.

Call me grossly unaware of my surroundings, and, while we're at it, someone who is playing fast and loose with their remaining faculties, but I thought Candy Darling looked a tad frumpy during her opening scene. Well, don't worry, I finally came to my senses the instant I saw her talking on the telephone. Clutching a copy of the New York Times, her neck adorned with pearls, her head affixed with a saucy turban, and her lips smeared with the reddest shade of lipstick currently available on the market, Candy gave me a refresher course on how to be chic and fabulous. And all she did was stand there.

The members of P.I.G. gather to exchange horror stories while they await the arrival of Candy, whose "glittering facade" would give some much needed glamour to the burgeoning female supremacist movement. A woman named Betty (Betty Blue), one sporting the cutest lesbian haircut the world has ever seen, tells the group an anecdote involving a little person who struggled to pleasure himself in front of her on 42nd Street because his arms were too short to reach the area most commonly associated with masturbation, and another woman (Penny Arcade) shares her harrowing account of a run-in she had with a toe sucking policeman.

As usual, while all this yakking is going on, Holly Woodlawn can be seen grinding her lanky frame against the bodies of the unexplained gaggle of mute effeminate men that seem to travel with the politically involved girls.

It would seem that Candy isn't all that interested in women's liberation, no, what she really wants to do is become a movie star. Meeting with a producer, Candy tells him that she's looking to break into showbiz. Even though their meeting will probably end with rough sex on an office couch, Candy does get to do her impression of Joan Bennett from Scarlet Street and Kim Novak in Picnic. Oh, and I like how the producer tells Candy that her legs are "not bad." Not bad?!? What a pratt.

The people unamused by the dialogue featured in Women in Revolt, and I'm sure there will be many, will love the scene where Jackie's responses to various queries are muffled by Mr. America's cock. Curious about the appeal of heterosexual intercourse, Jackie blows all the money they acquired from the movement's primary donor on gigolos. This, of course, upsets the other members of P.I.G., and leads to the downfall of women's liberation.

A confrontation between Jackie and a group of irate women at a bar (Brigid Berlin plays the bartender) had the potential of being a top-notch girl-fight. But like most of the scenes in this movie, Andy Warhol's incompetent camera work (for some reason Paul Morrissey allowed the "pop artist" to operate the camera) ruined the impact of many scenes. In fact, it was his wonky camera work that inspired that whole tangent I went on about male genitals (his camera angles were quite testicle-centric). Anyway, the best thing to come out of the brawl scene was a shot of Holly Woodlawn posing like the Puerto Rican goddess that she is.

One minute Holly is doing what she does best, groping Jane Forth on a leather couch while wearing a teal-coloured skirt, the next, and by "next" I mean nine months later, she's stumbling through the slush-covered streets with no one to grope. It just goes to show you how quickly a woman's life can go from being fabulous to ordinary. Of course, the film does a terrible job at conveying this point, and, on top of that, it gives screeching harpies a bad name. Barely tolerable at times, Women in Revolt is an excellent showcase for its three stars, Candy Darling in particular, but it's a bit of a failure in terms of being cohesive piece of filmed entertainment.

video uploaded by luisdrayton
...

Blood for Dracula (Paul Morrissey, 1974)

A quick show of hands, which of you fine ladies out there would like to be the virgin bride of a sickly, semi-vegetarian aristocrat from the wilds of Romania? Interesting. To tell you the truth, I'm not surprised by the lack of raised hands after I asked that particular question, as the word "sickly" doesn't exactly inspire globs of matrimonial, Oprah-approved confidence. And what's this virgin nonsense? I mean, what does the word even mean? I know this guy who only gives handjobs to transsexuals, does that mean he's a virgin? Really? You mean to tell me that just because he hasn't penetrated anything living with his cock, he's still a virgin? Weird. Oh, and stop using the word "mean." What if I told you that the finicky eater from Transylvania who wanted to marry your virginal ass looked like Udo Kier, would that change your mind? Even though you haven't answered yet, I'll take the sound of your cotton panties becoming engorged with stagnant pussy water as a sign that it would. While the ladies are busy changing out of their wet panties, I'd like to the remind all the fellas out there, especially those of you fumbling with their sexually identity, that just because you're attracted to Udo Kier does not necessarily make you gay. Of course, if you're a man and you find yourself getting aroused by, oh, let's say, the sight of Joe Dellasandro chopping wood with his shirt off, well, congratulations, my friend, you are a homosexual man. A man repeatedly touching themselves in their special area to Udo Kier in Paul Morrissey's Blood for Dracula (a.k.a. Andy Warhol's Dracula), on the other hand, is a phenomenon that crosses over into that decidedly foggy realm where the line between gay and straight are a tad more blurry.

Growing weaker with each passing day, a vain vampire named Count Dracula (Udo Kier)–"Count" is a term used to describe nobleman in some European countries and "Dracula" is a slightly altered version of a common Romanian surname that was made famous in a gothic novel by Bram Stoker–is told by Anton (Arno Juerging), his trusty man servant, that he should think about leaving the country. You see, there are no more virgins left in 1920's Romania, and since Count Dracula needs to drink the blood of virgins (pronounced "wirgins") to survive, it makes sense that they seek virgins elsewhere.

Heading for Italy, which, according to Anton, is practically crawling with soft, virginal lady flesh, the ashen duo hit the road. Staying at a rundown inn, Anton, who's just as creepy as the Count (Arno Juerging's performance, by the way, is way more assertive than his sycophantic turn in Flesh for Frankenstein), asks around as to where the virgins might be at in this sleepy trash dump of a town. After playing some sort of mimicry game with a tavern patron (Roman Polanski), Anton gets word that the Di Fiore family has four unmarried daughters who might be virgins.

Luckily for the Count, Anton was able to soak a loaf of bread with the blood of a virginal traffic victim (apparently a teenage girl got hit by a car outside the tavern), because it looked like it was touch and go for the Count there. Not only was his thirst for virginal blood driving him insane, the subpar quality of the local vegetables ("too much oil!") and the abundance of impure meat was causing him to regret his decision to come to Italy. Anyway, he'd better enjoy the bloody bread, because that's probably gonna be the last virgin blood he's gonna taste on his sensual lips for quite some time.

Arriving at the Di Fiore residence, a large estate that has seen better days, the Count and Anton are greeted warmly by La Marchesa Di Fior (Maxime McKendry), the mother of Esmeralda (Milena Vukotic), Saphiria (Dominique Darel), Rubinia (Stefania Casini), and Perla (Silvia Dionisio). Since Esmeralda is considered too old, and Perla is a tad on the young side, mother Di Fior campaigns hard to promote the cunt-stained riches owned by Saphiria and Rubinia. Oh, and their father (Vittorio De Sica) is there to greet them as well, but he seems more interested in the grammatical structure of the name "Dra-cu-la."

A communist sympathizer with a streetwise Brooklyn accent named Mario Balato (Joe Dallesandro), who does odd jobs for the Di Fior family (even though he thinks their days of living in an aristocratic paradise are numbered), has definitely defiled at least two of the Di Fior daughters. In other words, the audience has a general idea which daughter's a virgin and which one is not a virgin. But the Count doesn't know that. Severely testing his ability to sniff out virgins, the Count must choose wisely before biting into their supple necks.

It's hard to believe that the hero of Blood for Dracula is a Marxist who says lines like, "I'd like to rape the Hell out of her," but that's what we're given. He rapes, he chops wood, he eats bread in his work shed, he rapes some more, Mario's day is full of wicked and immoral behaviour. Sure, some of the coitus he engages in seems consensual, but his cock is mainly on a rape-based diet. Of course, I like to think that Udo Kier's Count Dracula was the film's hero. Not a hero in the classic sense of the term, but more of a tragic hero, or better yet, a misunderstood hero. Look, it's not his fault that society as a whole has failed to adapt to his peculiar lifestyle. Besides, name a time in human history when wanting to drink the blood of an undefiled woman has ever been frowned upon?

Lounging in white stockings like it were second nature, the gorgeous Stefania Casini (Andy Warhol's Bad) is a snotty delight as Rubina, the most self-centred of the Di Fiore daughters. She may not have been the peckish bloodsucker's first choice when it came to invasive intercourse, but she was definitely first when it came to bourgeois sexiness. Standing in her bathtub, her lithe frame covered in soapsuds, Stefania, puts her hands on her understated hips, as if to say, "Bask in my authentic Italian accent and my ample mound of equally Italian pubic hair, you know you want to," and proceeds to lash out against the ills of modern society. Okay, she doesn't exactly lash out against anything like that. To be honest, I totally forget what she was babbling about. But she does, however, share a scene with a shirtless Udo Kier, and from my wonky perspective, that's a cause for celebration. If you think I'm kidding, you need to take in account that it's her tainted blood that causes Udo to utter the line, "The blood of these whores is killing me!" Which was hands down my favourite Udoism in the entire film.

Viewing the film with a sore throat and runny nose managed put Count Dracula's unique plight in perspective. Feeling like crap, yet totally committed to the ghastly yarn that was spewing in front of me, watching Dracula's intense allergic reaction after he finished consuming the blood of two skanks with zero percent body fat actually made feel much better. Coughing up blood and twitching like a spastic rag doll, Udo took vomiting bodily fluids in a tuxedo to a whole new level of unpleasantness.

Granted, you have to wonder about the Count's strumpet detecting skills after his second attempt to drink the blood of a virgin goes terribly awry. Seriously, what are the odds that a woman of Stefania Casini's stature would own a pristine set of unmolested genitals? Pretty slim, if you ask this park ranger. Of course, I'm not implying that she's some kind of harlot just because she's got an attractive undercarriage. I'm just saying that women, practically ones with non-child bearing hips and legs up the wazoo, who hang around with socialist handymen aren't usually fans of celibacy.

As a guy with exquisite taste in men, I was more than certain that the prospective brides who were lined up for Count Dracula to choose from would jump at the chance to be his wife. However, things didn't turn out that way at all. In fact, the two frontrunners seem downright hostile toward the idea of marrying some pale nancy boy who travels with a coffin and an always clean shaven man servant. It just goes to show that one shouldn't assume that every woman is gonna flip up their petticoats for suave gentlemen in black who just happen to have the wispiest bone structures this side of Düsseldorf, Kansas.

It's their loss, because Udo Kier is debonair as fuck as Count Dracula. Taking the lunacy he displayed in Flesh for Frankenstein and internalizing it, Udo's vampire, like his mad scientist, may have impractical goals, but his commitment to achieving them is unshakable. Which is why you can't help but feel a sense of sadness when the walls of the Di Fiore estate inevitably start to become smeared with his blood. And to think, all he really wanted to do was go to sleep in his coffin.

Oh, and if anyone can remember what late '80s/early '90s industrial song sampled the Udo line, "You can't hurt me you fool, I''m not one of you!" please let me know.

video uploaded by opranoodlmantra
...

Flesh for Frankenstein (Paul Morrissey, 1973)

Even though I've seen his distinctive, panty-moistening, angular mug pop up in countless films over the years, I don't think I've ever seen him in a motion picture where his unique brand of European madness was the focal point from start to finish. In the wonderfully lurid Flesh for Frankenstein (a.k.a. Andy Warhol's Frankenstein), it's all Udo, all the time. I know, you're thinking to yourself, what's an Udo? Oh, you silly mongoose, he's not a what, he's a man, a flawless German man. And unlike a lot of folks out there, especially those you fidgeting in the dark, I never really bought into any of that depression era malarkey that stated that Germans were the so-called "master race." However, in the case of Udo Kier (Verführung: Die grausame Frau), I'm afraid to say it, but he is in fact better than everyone else. Well, at least when it comes to acting totally meshugana in a laboratory setting he is, as no-one comes close to touching the uncut crazy Udo puts out there in this Paul Morrissey-directed 3-D gore-fest (I'll take "Arterial Spray" for 2,000, Alex). Unflinching in his commitment to the deeply warped cause of his loopy character, Udo utters his deranged dialogue with an unwell grace. Sniveling, uncouth, and megalomaniacal, yet beautiful and alluring at the same time, Udo manages to make his mad scientist seem likable, even when he's penetrating the gallbladder of his girl zombie in full view of his bug-eyed lab assistant. What am I talking about? If anything, his unseemly encounter on the dissecting table with his "Serbian goddess" was probably one of the most romantic scenes I've ever seen. Of course, you should take everything I just said with a grain of salt; after all, I am on the cusp of being officially declared mentally ill in the province of Manitoba. Okay, maybe not "ill," but I'm definitely unstable.

The girl zombie (Dalila Di Lazzaro) with the perforated gallbladder languishing amongst the tubes and electrodes of the film's primary laboratory is a shining example of healthy womanhood. The boy zombie, however, is another story completely. Unsatisfied with the quality of the heads floating around in the towns and villages on the outskirts of his castle in Vojvodina, Baron Frankenstein (Udo Kier) and Otto (Arno Juerging), the Baron's sycophantic lab assistant, are determined to find a head worthy of their hunky torso. Hoping to complete his boy zombie so that it can mate with his already put together girl zombie, Frankenstein needs to find a head that boasts a Serbian nose ("the perfect nasum"), yet, at the same time, has the brain of a sex maniac (a head that contains the brain of a prudish blacksmith will not do).

Where will they find a head that is suitable for Baron's specific needs? How about a bordello? It just happens that the Baron knows the location of one. The Baron and his lab assistant stake out the entrance of a local bordello, and wait for a body sporting the right kind of head to walk out the door. Luckily for the Baron, Nicholas (Joe Dallesandro), a viral stableboy, and his friend Sacha (Srdjan Zelenovic), a wannabe monk who despises sexual intercourse, are getting their orgy needs fulfilled by a gaggle of affable prostitutes, well, Nicholas is anyway; Sacha is basically sulking in the corner, pressing his unlicked penis against the modestly hairy surface of his Serbian inner thighs.

Unfortunately, though, it's Sacha's head that catches the attention of the picky Baron (he was rather taken by his pronounced Serbian nose). Removing it with a pair of specially designed head clippers, the Baron and his lab assistant leave Nicholas unconscious on the side of the road next to Sacha's now headless body. Groggy and confused (he was out cold before his pal's head was chopped off), Nicholas wanders off to meet with Baroness Katrin Frankenstein, an eyebrowless vixen played by Monique van Vooren (Sugar Cookies). Yeah, that's right, he has an appointment to see the Baron's wife and sister (they have two kids together) at their castle. You see, before the head lopping incident, Nicholas and the Baroness were constantly running into one another. And since her brother won't impale her vaginal tract with his aristocratic penis anymore, she decides to hire the strapping stableboy as her new man servant/boy-toy.

The Baroness, eager to show off her latest slice of chiseled man candy, and the Baron, itching to unveil his girl zombie and boy zombie (who have been dressed in orthopedic corsets and puffy shirts), the Frankenstein's sit down for supper. Suffice it to say, the awkwardness that transpires over the course of the meal is off the charts in terms of off-kilter one-upmanship. Since no-one is gonna come right out ask me who I thought came away from the bizarre show and tell victorious, I'll just go ahead and state that I thought the Baron won the day when it came to outdoing his spouse/sibling. He did, after all, make two people from scratch. All the Baroness did was hire a man to have sex with her on a semi-regular basis. The look on Nicholas' face when he sees that his friend's severed head has been transplanted onto the body of one of the Baron's zombies is pretty consistent with the trauma that normally accompanies that painful moment when you discover that the head of someone close to you has been relocated to a completely different torso.

While Nicholas tries to figure away to rescue Sacha's head from a life of ghoulish servitude, the Baron and Otto are down in the lab trying get their walking corpses to mate with one another. Repeatedly instructing his female zombie to kiss his male zombie, the Baron grows increasingly frustrated by the male zombie's lack of arousal after each command to "kiss him" fails to bare any erectile fruit. Unaware that Sacha's brain is not wired for sex, the Baron starts to loose it. Blaming everything from the blood they used to outside agitators, the Baron is determined to get his zombies to procreate, as it's his dream to create a race of superior beings with Serbian noses.

The way the Baroness went to town on Nicholas' armpit–and when I say "went to town," I mean to imply that she was practically inhaling his axillary cavity with the whole of her mouth–was vulgar and unladylike. Not only was her questionable dining etiquette setting a bad example for her children, the excessive slurping sound she made as she mock devoured his sweaty cavity was wrong on almost every imaginable level. Watching her irregular approach to lasciviousness via a two-way mirror, the Frankenstein children, a creepy brother and sister duo whose genitals have yet to reach the operational phase of their existence, will probably hump erratically as adults thanks to their mother's untoward display.

The same goes for Otto, whose thrusting outlook has, no doubt, been somewhat sullied by the Baron's proclivity for poking pulsating wounds. Wounds, pulsating or otherwise, should not, I repeat, should not be penetrated by foreign objects, especially when they're in the process of healing. The human body has been outfitted with an abundance of pre-cut wounds to penetrate, ones that have been designed to absorb a wide-array of physical entities, so the need to create new wounds is completely unnecessary.

However, the mind of your average mad scientist works differently than most people. The desire to insert things into places that weren't meant to have things inserted into them seems to consume the entirety of their being. After dismounting his female zombie (he pleasured himself utilizing her abdominal wound as a makeshift vagina), Baron Frankenstein says to Otto, "to know death, you have to fuck life in the gallbladder." Briefly removing the modesty patch that covers her actual vagina, as if to say, I have no interest in this puckered mound of opulent flesh, Otto, imitating his master, begins caressing the stitches that snake seductively along the female zombie's succulent stomach with his tongue. Once his misguided attempt at foreplay is over, he's ready to pierce her wound. Of course, all doesn't go as planned (he's not as experienced as the Baron when it comes to performing gash-based cunnilingus), and the dumbfounded lab assistant has nothing but a floor covered with vital organs to show for his oral trouble.

With his slicked back hair (floppy bangs are for charlatans and child molesters), his eyes, which are constantly oozing a steely brand of Teutonic determination, don't merely look at you, they devour every inch of your pathetic aura, whether you're a hunky stableboy with an anachronistic accent or a jealous underling with low self-esteem, and his exquisite bone structure is as sharp as the barbs on Gitane Demone's gag-style harness (its knifelike precision ridicules your uncouth lumpiness with every sauve glance), Udo Kier is a revelation as Baron Frankenstein, the dreamiest sociopath to ever don a lab coat.

Now, I've seen a lot of cinematic kooks over the years announce that they plan on creating an entire race of zombies whose sole purpose is to carry out their brainsick bidding, and, in most cases, you laugh at them. But when someone of Udo's stature uses a word, like, say, "bidding," you take them seriously.

While there's plenty of camp to savour in Udo's portrayal of the world's most famous unlicensed surgeon, and I use the word "camp" affectionately, it's not all self-parody. The genuine sense of surprise he shows when his male zombie's primary sex organ fails to become engorged with blood after being kissed by his female zombie was rather touching, and the manner in which he pimped out his male zombie to his cock-starved sister allowed the doctor to display his rarely seen tender side.

The statuesque Dalila Di Lazzaro (Phenomena) may not utter a single word as the repeatedly poked and prodded female zombie in Flesh for Frankenstein, but the profound length of her legs, the unequaled symmetry of her refined Italian features, and her overall gorgeousness more than made up for her lack of verbalized dialogue. Besides, what kind of dialogue would she have uttered anyway? Other than: "My nipples are chilly, could someone get me a sweater?" or "I was wondering, yeah, is there anyway I could get my modesty patch upgraded? It's making my pussy itch like a motherfucker," I can't think of anything her character might want to express orally. No, I think stone-faced and well-proportioned was the way to go for Miss Di Lazzaro, as it gave her female zombie a real sense of muted disquietude.

Oh, and one more thing, Di Lazzaro's performance reminded me of my acting debut when I played a guard in a grade five production of... (holy crap, I can't remember the name of the play). Anyway, I recall being so excited over the fact that they were gonna let me make my own costume, that I totally forgot that I was going have to stand in front the entire school. Sure, all I had to do was stand there while holding a spear (an old ski pole spray painted silver). Plus, I was going to be wearing a mask for the duration of my scene (a cardboard box covered in tinfoil). But still, I was terrified. Now imagine having Udo Kier lying on top you, finger-banging the bejesus out of your gallbladder, while Paul Morrissey and a bunch of Italians (the film was shot just outside of Rome) stand off to side watching. It makes my guard duty sound like a walk through a butterfly-infested estuary.

video uploaded by 3dgeek2009
...