Nevada Heat (Matt Cimber, 1982)

A clash of styles if I've ever seen one–and believe me, I have seen some doozies over the years–Nevada Heat (a.k.a. Fake-Out) pits the flamboyant gayness of Bob Mackie ("the sultan of sequins, the rajah of rhinestones," as his bio states) and the needs and wants of millions upon millions of discerning, women in prison movie-loving heterosexual men and their lesbian allies up against Telly Savalas' crippling gambling addiction. Who do you think won out in the end? Let me give you a hint: He's bald, he doesn't give a flying fuck, and he has a habit of ending his sentences with the word "baby." That's right, Telly Savalas. He doesn't care about the length of the slit on Pia Zadora's sequin-adorned Bob Mackie original, nor does he care about the structural integrity of the erection/wetness you plan on unfurling/oozing while trying to imagine what the atmospheric conditions must have been like inside Pia Zadora's prison issue leotard as she thrust her dainty crotch to-and-fro in the gymnasium tucked away inside the South Nevada Correctional Facility, Telly's in Las Vegas and he's got some gambling to do. In fact, you're lucky you got any scenes at all that didn't involve Telly Savalas blowing his immense wad at the craps table. Hell, I think I even saw him drop five hundred smackaroos on a total strangers roll of the dice. Enough about that follically challenged, degenerate gambler, this cinematic endeavour, co-written and directed by Matt Cimber, is, make no mistake, a Pia Zadora film. My eyeballs crave a steady diet of Pia Zadora, and that's what they get in Nevada Heat, not only one of the premiere films in the extensive canon of Pia Zadora masterpieces, but a film that boasts one of the best car/foot chases ever to involve a transwoman wielding an uzi and a pistol-packing member of the Arnaz dynasty.
 

 

I won't lie, my life would be a hundred times better if it had some Pia Zadora in it. Someone, not me, of course, should clone Pia Zadora in a laboratory in Switzerland–you know, like a Shetland pony. Except, inside of shedding fur, she would give me a handjob every Thursday. Are you sure you want to be telling everyone this? Why not? My feelings about Pia Zadora are well documented. Yeah, but going on and on about the gingham shirt she wore in The Lonely Lady or babbling incessantly about her scrunchies in Voyage of the Rock Aliens is one thing. You're on the cusp of crossing that line that separates playfully creepy from mentally defective creepy.
 

 

On the cusp, eh? Well, thanks for the warning. I'll take what you said under advisement. In meantime, I've got a Pia Zadora film to review.
 

 

Should all films open with Pia Zadora, smashingly sheathed in a Bob Mackie designed stunner of an outfit, singing "Those Eyes" in a Las Vegas nightclub? Of course not. But I think most people will agree that every Pia Zadora film should open this way. And in terms of delivering the Pia Zadora singing "Those Eyes" in a Las Vegas nightclub goods, Nevada Heat delivers. Excuse me, but doesn't the film actually open with a casino boss being shot in the parking lot by an elderly woman wielding a shotgun? Man, why did you have go and say that? I mean, I had this thing going about how Pia Zadora films should open with Pia Zadora singing in a nightclub. Why don't you just pretend the scene with the casino boss being shot never happened? Excellent idea.
 

 

Throwing the audience, a half-awake throng of degenerate gamblers, mobsters, and cocaine freaks, a thoughtful gaze, Bobbie Warren (Pia Zadora), nightclub singer/gangster's moll/full-time cutie pie, begins to sing "Those Eyes." And, as most of you know, the song starts off sort of slow. But it gets gradually faster as the song progresses. The sequin-adorned songtress signifies to the saps in the audience that the song's tempo is about to increase by doing this twitchy thing with her right leg. As the sparkly strands of garish dress material crash violently against her crotch and upper thighs as a direct result of her spastic movements, which include, spinning, humping, shaking, and kicking, we can't help notice that Telly Savalas is lurking about backstage.
 

 

Did you say, Telly Savalas? This can't be good. And you know what? It isn't. Slapping a pair of handcuffs on her the moment she's finished singing her closing number, Telly, whose character's name, by the way, is Thurston, Lt. Thurston, takes her way. What could have Pia Zadora, I mean, Bobbie Warren have done to warrant being arrested by Telly Savalas? It's not what Bobbie did, it's what her mobster boyfriend did. You see, the state believes Bobbie knows something about a murder her boyfriend is alleged to have carried out, and they want her to testify against him. And since Bobbie won't testify against him, the state of Nevada decides to throw her surprisingly shapely ass into, you guessed it, the South Nevada Correctional Facility for contempt of court.
 

 

Answer me this, fans of Pia Zadora, fashion, and continuity: How come Pia Zadora is wearing a brown jacket with a western motif when she's in the warden's office, yet when she's being taken to her cell moments later, she is clearly wearing a dark tube top? And, no, I don't think she was wearing the tube top underneath the jacket. Colour me flummoxed as all get out.
 

 

Fashion confusion aside, I felt bad for Pia Zadora when she enters her cell for the first time, as her aura oozes sadness.
 

 

We jump forward three months in Bobbie's sentence to find that she has quickly become the prison's star aerobics instructor. Would I have liked to have seen how Bobbie Warren went from being mopey and sad to thrusting and heaving her leotard-ensnared crotch in front of a bunch of butch female inmates? You bet I would. But I also have to accept the fact that Nevada Heat isn't a women in prison film. Anyway, watching Pia Zadora stretch and kick in her leotard made me want to grab her and put her in my pocket. Which I hear is the most common reaction to the sight of Pia Zadora doing aerobics in a prison setting.
 

 

Despite her enthusiasm, it's obvious that Bobbie is starting to lose her fellow inmates. Even though she tells them to hurl their crotches in various directions ("front, back, right, left"), most of them are too busy fighting amongst themselves to listen to her instructions. And to make matters worse, some of the inmates confront Bobbie later on in the shower. You mean to tell me that Nevada Heat has an aerobics sequence and a shower scene? Are you sure this isn't a women in prison film?
 

 

Being sexually assaulted by a smattering of rough-looking chicks is apparently what pushes Bobbie over the edge. Sure, her mobster boyfriend has tried to make her stay in the pokey as comfortable as possible (her cell looks like a successful pimp's living room), but she wants out. Isn't she worried about her mobster boyfriend? I mean, it's obvious, judging by the amount of stuff he's sent her, that he wants her to stay in prison. Yeah, but the incident in the shower seemed to rattle her. While part of me doesn't want her to leave, (Pia Zadora + Incarceration + Aerobics = Cinematic Gold), I totally understand her decision.
 

 

You can tell Bobbie was really traumatized by her time in prison just by listening to her talk during the car ride home–and by "home," I mean the Riviera Hotel and Casino. Why, what does she say? Well, for starters, she mentions the desire to take a bath twice. In fact, you'll notice she mentions wanting to take a bath quite a few times over the course of the film. At first, I thought it was just a character quirk that writer-director Matt Cimber added to give Bobbie some extra pizazz. Now, you wouldn't think Pia Zadora would need any "extra pizazz," she's fucking Pia Zadora. You got that right. No, actually, the bathing-centric character trait pays off at the end of the film in a way that will blow your mind.

 

 

Accompanying Bobbie to the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas is Lt. Telly Savalas and some square detective named Clint Morgan (Desi Arnaz, Jr.), who have been assigned to protect her until she takes the stand. Of course, Bobbie thinks all this hubbub is totally unnecessary. In her mind, her mobster boyfriend wouldn't hurt her. Oh yeah, then how come two shady-looking fellas carrying a suspicious-looking briefcase have booked the room directly across from yours? Unfortunately, Bobbie doesn't seem to notice them. And why should she? Fresh out of prison, Pia Zadora has got places to go and things to see. Not so fast, Missy. After being allowed to play one round of Keno (a game Telly calls a "tourist trap"), Bobbie is confined to her hotel room. Boo!
 

 

While brushing her hair (you can tell she's upset by the frustrated nature of her brush strokes), Bobbie tells Clint that she wants to take a bath. On the one hand, the reason she mentions wanting to take a bath is, like I said, a subtle reminder for the audience to remember that she prefers baths. Yet, she also mentions it in order to shake Clint's resolve. Think about it, you're a man stuck in a hotel room looking after a bath mad Pia Zadora. Are you telling me that your mind is not going start imagining what Pia Zadora's soft, pruny undercarriage is gonna taste like after its been soaking in soapy water for ten, maybe twenty minutes? If your mind doesn't imagine that, then I'm afraid there's no hope for you. I'm sorry.
 

 

When the bath thing doesn't work, Bobbie plays the jailbait card while a waiter is bringing a tray of wine to their room. Given her size, Pia Zadora can pretend to be fourteen years-old at the drop of a hat. And does so in order to make Clint look like a pervert in front of the aforementioned waiter. While it might seem like an asinine thing to do, it does lay the groundwork for Clint to decide to take Bobbie dress shopping.
 

 

Of course, they can't get much with twenty dollars, so Bobbie suggests they go to the blackjack table to win some quick cash to buy a new dress (all her old clothes still smell like prison). It would seem that her system for winning involves saying the word "blackjack" over and over again. And, hey, it seems to work, much to the chagrin of Buddy Lester, the other player at Pia and Clints's table, who can't seem to catch a break.
 

 

I don't know about you, but I'm dying to know what kind of dress Bobbie is going to purchase with all that blackjack money. In fact, the whole dress subplot is the film's most suspenseful. Why's that, you ask? Isn't it obvious? She's got to get past Larry Storch. And, as most people know, Larry Storch is not someone you get past so easily.
 

 

Playing Ted King, the manager of Michelle (G. Wesley Stevens), an up and coming actress, Larry Storch injects some much needed life into the proceedings with his seedy portrayal of a clownish man in a checkered jacket. You would think it would be Telly's job to inject life into this things, but he seems too busy gambling and grabbing the asses of unsuspecting casino waitresses.
 

 

Don't worry I haven't forgotten about Pia Zadora's new dress. It's a low cut pink number with a mild slit down the side, and she looks stunning in it. As you might expect, the film's focus shifts away from the dress, as the infamous scene where a man on foot chases a car containing Larry Storch and a transwoman firing an uzi from the passenger side window takes precedence. I don't think I've ever seen a man chase a car  on foot before. And I'll admit, I did make me forget about Pia Zadora for a few seconds. Which is the highest praise something that is non-Pia Zadora-related can get in this crazy, Pia-obsessed world.

 
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The Lonely Lady (Peter Sasdy, 1983)

I have no scientific evidence to back this up, but unplanned lesbianism is probably the leading cause of nervous breakdowns amongst female writers who are at or under five feet tall. Tormented by a profound emptiness, the reason people used to write words was a veiled attempt to either fill a void or connect with humanity. Nowadays, of course, one has numerous avenues that he or she can take in order to get their humble scribblings noticed. Yet back in the early 1980s, your options were quite limited. Well, that's not entirely true. The majestic splendour that is a hairy-backed reprobate who can't fuck to save his life; that morally corrupt place where you are repeatedly forced to perform lewd acts that are run contrary to your preferred sexual proclivities; a degrading job waiting tables at an establishment where sequined gowns with substantial slits up the side are the required uniform; the kneecap distress that comes with imparting oral sex onto the steady shaft's of indifferent day players; and the shadowy underworld of post-award show garden hose rape, for example, all await those who want to write while wearing an infrequently explored vagina. Some might say, what's the point of peppering page after page with English words, if I have to partake in any of those things? While some of the options I listed don't sound all that bad on paper (I'll have a generous serving of involuntary homosexuality with some garden hose rape on the side, please), the idea that a woman has to do anything that involves straddling objects that cause her well-defined calves to wrap snugly yet begrudgingly around the object she is straddling is ridiculous. Women, and some men, shouldn't have to put anything inside their bodies to get their writing published. The quality of their prose, not the quality of their orifices should be the deciding factor when it comes to the appreciation of their work.

People not wearing pointy boots would always ask me what I daydreamed about as I languished at the back of the classroom during my juvenile delinquent days. I used to tell them, "oh, nothing," but truth be told, my mind was racing with images of Pia Zadora struggling to be taken seriously as a stay-at-home deity. Diving headfirst into a polluted wasteland of her own making, I would imagine Pia emerging from the muck clutching a pink Louis Vuitton bag, her brain swelling with a bushel of raw, undiluted talent, ready to fight the forces of cultural ineptitude who would deny her rightly place in the hallowed halls of awesomeness. And unlike her adversaries, a humourless lot who contribute nothing of value to society, she has decided to share her gift with the rest of world. Well, in The Lonely Lady, a gritty motion picture that openly dares to satirize the cruel cesspool that is Hollywood, Miss Zadora displays her gift like it were a beacon of forthright righteousness.

Her able-bodied lips prompt certain areas to become engorged with blood, the sparkliness of her haunting eyes causes Italian lesbians to become wetter than a slice of pornographic peat moss, and her trusty typewriter is powered by a fiery form of pluckiness, let us all bow before Jerilee Randall (Pia Zadora), feisty writer by day, sound sleeper by night; a woman who will use every inch of her deceptively modest frame to get her words to the masses.

After winning a trophy for creative writing at Valley High School, Jerilee, pig-tailed and naive as an unfairly neglected piece of butterscotch, winds up at an after-party where hot dogs and disco are being flaunted in a manner that was mildly untoward. Entranced by Walt Thornton Jr. (Kerry Shale), the son of a famous screenwriter ("do you want relish on your hot dog," he suavely asks), Jerilee dumps her date (a buzzkill named Bernie) and starts to hang with the relish pusher. She knew the screenwriter's son's friend, Joe (a walking trouser bulge played by Ray Liotta), was gonna be trouble the moment he told her that her writing award looked like a penis, but she hops in his station wagon, nonetheless. Cranking "The Fanatic" by Felony on the car stereo, a girl gently massages Joe's genitals with the inside of her mouth in the back seat ("girls from The Valley are so anxious to please") as they make their way the house owned by the screenwriter. This makes the uptight Jerilee uncomfortable, but the Walter, Jr. tells her to relax. Besides, she desperately wants to meet Walter Thorton (Lloyd Bochner) and is totally will endure the squishy sounds that come with someone else' oral gratification to make that happen.

The highs that come with winning a creative writing award aren't usually followed by the lows that come with being sexually assaulted by Ray Liotta with a garden hose, but they are in The Lonely Lady, a film stuffed with enough Pia-based degradation to fill a container that was specifically designed to hold a shitload of Pia Zadora's shame. Feeling guilty over the fact a young woman was viciously attacked near his pool, Walter Thorton, Sr. visits Jerilee, who still recovering from the attack, at her home and apologizes for what happened.

The manner in which she swung back and forth on her backyard swing in her overalls practically screamed malaise (losing your virginity to a flexible tube is never fun), yet Walter's visit seems to cheer Jerilee up. In fact, the two hit off and end up talking about writing for hours. Impressed by Jerilee's scope as a writer (her stories have nothing to do with life in the San Fernando Valley), Walter invites her to go jogging. If the audience had any doubts on whether or not Walter and Jerilee are an item, a brief dating montage is employed in order convey the fact the two are indeed going steady. As you would expect, Veronica (Bibi Besch), Jerilee's mom, thinks Walter is too old for her daughter and disapproves of their relationship. On top of that, mommy thinks writing is stupid and that she should focus the bulk of her energy on getting into Valley State.

Going from tomboyish baseball jerseys to chic black and white dresses covered in stripes, the change in wardrobe signifies that Jerilee is no longer a little girl, but a fashionable woman married to a premature ejaculator with a hairy back. While attending a premiere with her new husband for a film called "Sky Paradise," Jerilee is told by an agent that "women can't write dialogue." This, of course, infuriates the pint-sized wordsmith, who interprets the sexiest comment as a direct challenge to her womanhood. Determined to prove the balding asshole in the cheap suit wrong, Jerilee gets her first book published. In a scene that reminded me of the dinner table scene in Citizen Kane, Jerilee and Walter read reviews of her book at the breakfast table. While not as technically proficient as the famous Orson Welles directed scene, Peter Sasdy, director of The Lonely Lady, still manages to capture the day-to-day grind of their relationship.

Speaking of grinding, tired of having the narrow nooks and the cramped crannies of her delicate frame prodded by a pathetic barrage of insufficient thrusts, Jerilee takes direct control of their love making. Climbing on top of Walter's well-worn cock, Jerilee teaches him how to hump with a subtle grace. Whispering the word "gently" after each dampish plunge, Jerilee, managing to fend off his impending orgasm with each tender jab, is finally able to reap the benefits of consensual sexual intercourse for the first time in her life.

Instructing him how to properly dunk his junk is one thing, but will Walter allow Jerilee to break into the cutthroat world of screenwriting? Judging by what transpires on the set of a film directed by Guy Jackson (Anthony Holland), I'd say the chances are pretty slim. Upset that he failed to acknowledge her contribution to the re-write of a key scene in the movie (he basically takes credit for her work, which, ironically, entailed the writing of a single word), Jerilee throws Walter the kind of stink eye that only an actress of Pia Zadora's calibre could throw. This animosity carries over to the next few scenes, culminating in the utterance of the film's most infamous line. Just when Jerilee seems to getting the upper hand during a spat by the pool, Walter holds up a garden hose and asks, "Is this more your kick?" Call me overly sensitive, but I was shocked and appalled by this display. I mean, for Walter to bring up Jerilee's hose encounter was the epitome of tastelessness.

After leaving Walter's hairy ass in the dust (shame on him for keeping that particular hose lying around his yard), Jerilee moves into a small apartment and starts dating George Ballantine (Jared Martin), a married day player turned A-list actor. Blossoming at a party, one where Pia Zardora's version of "The Clapping Song" can be heard playing playing in the background, Jerilee woos the young actor with the help of a white pantsuit. While the quality of the thrusting may have vastly improved, Jerilee still can't seem to make it as a screenwriter. Those paying close attention will have noticed that Jerilee has begun to cross her legs when in the seated position. What she's trying convey to the world at large by employing this new sitting technique is that her cunt is closed for business, but the sleazy agents, no doubt unaccustomed to being denied their daily allotment of guilt-free anilingus, shun her with extreme prejudice.

Falling further down the drain of depravity, Jerilee hooks up with Vincent Decosta (Joseph Cali), the shady owner of Kicks, L.A.'s hottest nightclub. Promising the produce her screenplay, Decosta gives Jerilee a job as waitress at his club and lets her rent out his genitals for recreational purposes. A montage is utilized to speed up their courtship that involves horseback riding, the consumption of ice cream, and lettuce shopping. What she doesn't realize while she's prancing about with her new beau is that she's gonna have to deploy her rarely used lesbian reluctance face in the not-so distant future.

Sapphic residue is not something you can simply wash off by taking a shower in your clothes, and who better to overreact to having their puffy mouth muffled by the crumpled lady bits of a mysterious Italian woman than Pia Zadora; the unequaled leader when it comes not wanting to perform cunnilingus on strangers.

The moment she yells "I write for me!" at the man she is currently having cocaine-fueled sex with, Pia Zadora makes it clear that The Lonely Lady is her movie. Anyone who tries to interfere with the execution of her craft will be dealt with in the most gruesome manner possible (yeah, that's right, even you Colette "We're in the pipe, five by five" Hiller). Of course, I don't mean to imply that Pia would harm those who would dare impede her growth as an artist, I'm just saying you don't want to be on the receiving end of her glowering infrastructure.

Whenever I think of feminism, writing, and fabulousness, the name Pia Zadora immediately springs to mind. In other words, it should come as no surprise that the energetic little spitfire manages to encapsulate all three with a breathtaking ease. The incomparable Pia does have help in the form of a makeup artist (Rino Carboni), a hair stylist (Corrado Cristofori), and a seamstress (Luciana Mancini), who all contribute to her overall voguishness. However, it's Pia's nature flair as an actress that makes The Lonely Lady the resounding success that it is. Her ability to play a wide-eyed teen with pigtails in one scene, to a sophisticated woman who doesn't want to lick your pussy in another, is a testament to her courageousness. Students of acting will want to take note of the way Miss Zadora holds her wine glasses throughout this film. You see, in the early going she holds her glass with two hands (signifying her character's inexperience), while later on she holds it like an alcoholic would–you know, with one hand.

This boldness also comes across in her many outfits, as Pia's wardrobe, designed by Giorgio Desideri, is a brilliant mix of disco chic and trophy wife practicality. If I had to choose my favourite Pia Zadora look in The Lonely Lady, I couldn't. Seriously, how can anyone pick just one outfit? You can't. It's impossible. Well, you can rule out the clothes she wears as a teen (frumpy dresses and drab sportswear), and you can forget about the stuff she wears while lounging/hallucinating (my typewriter keys are trying to kill me!) in her apartment. No, Pia's journey to styletown begins at the movie premiere (those red shorts were to die for) and ends at the award show, where the slit on her red gown will drive slit fans totally meshugana. Other garments of note were: The blue and white gingham number she wears with a pair of white pants during a lunch date; the black and white Klaus Nomi-inspired dress; I loved the light blue backless number she wore during her second lesbian encounter; and the yellow dress she dons while trying to land an agent practically screamed leggy sex.

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Special thanks to world-renowned scrunchie scholar Thomas Duke, head curator over at Cinema Gonzo, for introducing me to this camp classic.

...

Troop Beverly Hills (Jeff Kanew, 1989)

Legend has it, that I can watch anything, and I do mean anything. Seriously, put it in front of me and I will look at it. However, this viewing prowess was surprisingly not needed as I bravely entered the kooky realm of Troop Beverly Hills (a.k.a. Die Wilde von Beverly Hills), an unfairly maligned slice of cookie-accented enchantment about a ragtag troop of Wilderness Girls from Beverly Hills, a chichi city in Los Angeles County. The act of sitting through this delightfully nutritious crumpet disguised as filmed entertainment was one of the most pleasant experiences I have ever had. How so? Well, doing its part to advance secular values at every turn and a staunch promoter of individuality and moderate Philistinism, the film uses the tyrannical netherworld that is your average outdoor jamboree to shed light on the scourge that is Groupthink. You see, unlike the crap excuses for movies being made today (you know, the kind that only seem interested in demonizing the people of Eastern Europe, glorifying rape, and promoting apathy), this exercise in undiluted fabulousness instills its audience with a positive message that doesn't make them want to rape or act apathetic in public. No, this film makes its watchers want to go forth and do utilitarian things of a nonspecific nature. Educational to an almost egregious level of learnedness, the Jeff Kanew (Revenge of the Nerds) directed opus is, like I said, about a troop of Wilderness Girls from Beverly Hills. Yet, it's about so much more. These well-off girls and their overly pampered troop leader may represent the most mollycoddled segment of Earth society, but they also prove that disenfranchisement does not discriminate. In charge of demonstrating this wonky point is the flaky Phyliss Nefler (Shelley Long), the leader of the much ridiculed troop.

On the surface, she may seem shallow and materialistic, but the amount of selflessness the stylish Phyliss displays in this film was quite extraordinary. I mean, she takes care of her troop obligations while in the middle divorce proceedings with her husband (Craig T. Nelson), makes sure her daughter Hannah (an adorable Jenny Lewis) is coping with the split, and repeatedly clashes with the fascistic leader of the Culver City Red Feathers, Velda (Betty Thomas).

I don't know about you, but I'd say the fashion adventurous Phyliss is the least selfish person in that particular zip code. Sure, her troop has never sold a single a cookie or earned a single patch, but as Phyliss' maid Rosa (Shelley Morrison) would say, "We don't need no stinking patches."

Utilizing a truckload of can-do spirit, the showy bunch make up there own patches. Really, who needs a fire starting patch, when you can earn a sushi appreciation patch or a gardening with glamour patch? And selling cookies is a breeze when peddled at a fashion fund-raiser celebrating khaki where an ultra-chic Pia Zadora shows up "smashingly sheathed" in the what Phyliss calls "the wilderness look."

A brightly garbed force of nature, Shelley Long is a comedic whirlwind in Troop Beverly Hills. Funny to the point of hilarity and sexy to the point of something that is similar to the word "sexy," the former television barmaid rightly jettisoned those self-satisfied pricks in Boston in order to create one of the most electrifying characters ever to grace the screen that movies are a shown on. Sporting an impish mane of red hair and one visually astounding outfit after another, Shelley attacks the film's clever dialogue (a rich cornucopia of puns and wordplay) with an unembellished ferocity.

Even though she peppers her sentences with a smattering of French, I loved the way Miss Long spoke English in this film; in that, I could understand everything she said from start to finish. She's doesn't mumble and every word is pronounced with an understandable flair. It's no simple task, but Shelley has somehow turned a clothing-obsessed shopaholic, who equates getting a perm as a suitable premise for a campfire horror story, into a sympathetic heroine worthy of a compassionate gaze.

Demure and luminous simultaneously, Shelley confronts fascism, teaches us that too many accessories can clutter an outfit, and says "shit" three times in the presence of youngish children (two of them being Carla Gugino and Kellie Martin). Not bad for a film that a has her dancing the Freddy twice and participating a staged musical number about cookies.

Oh, and the animated opening credits were off the fishing hook in terms of new wave and 1950's inspired coolness.

...

Voyage of the Rock Aliens (James Fargo, 1984)

It may seem hard to believe, but my cucumber extract-covered forehead and this movie have been on a collision course for nearly twenty-five years. Picture this, a lonely VHS tape languishing in some dusty warehouse out in the wilds of New Jersey just waiting for me to caress its slightly worn cover with my clammy hands and... Seriously, I can't believe I was able to obtain a copy of this totally spastic movie. In case you haven't figured it out yet, the petrified hunk of filmed entertainment that I am currently gushing about in a totally obnoxious manner is Voyage of the Rock Aliens (a.k.a. Attack of the Rock 'n' Roll Aliens), an unreal extravaganza about a group of new wave extraterrestrials flying through the galaxy in a guitar-shaped starship in search of the origin of rock 'n roll. Of course, their search leads them to Planet Earth, where their easily-aroused commander takes a liking to the girlfriend of a misanthropic gang leader. Bathed in the beautifully garish styles of the era (the fashions are chic to the max), the techno-friendly film, directed by James Fargo and employing an armada of makeup and hair stylists, unleashes one dazzling musical number after another in a misguided yet frenzied attempt to outdo Xanadu and The Apple in one fell swoop.

A scathing parody of science fiction cinema, beach movies, and teenage delinquency in general (the name of the local teenage hangout is called "Local Teenage Hangout"), the pro-environmental film sets out to challenge our perception of what constitutes a movie musical. Whether they take place on the shore of a polluted lake or inside pristine confines of the ladies lavatory, the irregular music and chaotic choreography in this cinematic crumpet repeatedly ignore the rules and regulations that govern mainstream filmmaking. Opening the film, for instance, with "Openhearted" by Aussie new wavers Real Life gave me the kind of bumps only a diseased goose would advocate, and solidifies its standing as a bold work of subversive art.

Speaking of bumpy, polyp-laden openings, most films put their show-stopper at the end of the production. However, Voyage of the Rock Aliens laughs in the face of such conventional thinking and stages its at the beginning. An epic musical assault featuring Jermaine Jackson and the ridiculously talented Pia Zadora (her scrumptiously petite frame sheathed in white leather), "When the Rain Begins to Fall" is a stunning example of cinematic craftsmanship; as odd camera angles and rich cinematography (Gilbert Taylor, Star Wars) combine to form something that can be easily watched whilst in the seated position. In addition, the heat Jermaine and Pia generate together as lovesick members of opposing gangs was electrifying.

The plot of "When the Rain Begins to Fall" mirrors the plot of the rest of the film, but instead of Jermaine acting as the ladybug in the motor-oil, the aforementioned aliens are the ones who end up upsetting the proverbial peach cart.

They, a new wave group called Rhema, land–via their intergalactic telephone booth–in the sleepy town of Speelburgh with, of course, their condescending robot butler 1359 (voiced by Peter "Optimus Prime" Cullen) in-tow. (In order to blend in with his new surroundings, 1359 disguises himself as a silver fire hydrant.) Anyway, the Devo lookalikes–each named after various clumps of the Roman alphabet–immediately find themselves embroiled in a battle-of-the-bands type war that pits their newfangled space rock against the rockabilly sound of The Pack (Jimmy and the Mustangs), the most rockin' cats at Heidi High. A bumbling sheriff played by Ruth Gordon (Harold and Maude) is wise to the alien visitors, but is too wacked out on her own unique brand of dementia to be an important factor.

The cutest thing to come across my face in donkey's years, the insanely adorable Pia Zadora pointed a flamethrower at my heart and pulled the trigger without a hint of remorse. Whether the new wave goddess was making goo-goo eyes with blonde alien commander, ABCD (Tom Nolan, a child actor from the 1950s), or scolding her perennially green-eyed boyfriend Frankie (cheekbone suppository Craig Sheffer) over his thuggish ways, Pia's depiction of the flighty Dee Dee will definitely go down as one of the most delightful, endearing, beguiling, and levelheaded characters I have ever witnessed prance and cavort about in a modern movie.

I mean, just the mere sight of her skipping innocently across the top of a brick wall in a frightfully orange getup rendered my jaw slack and superfluous. You'd be wise to savour the moments where Pia is dressed in all orange, because they are fleeting.

When she's not skipping in orange, Pia rocks hard during the Jack White penned songs: the beach-based "Real Love" (Pia wears a Union Jack themed cutoff t-shirt, a black studded belt, and a super tight pair of red leather pants), the cotillion number "Let's Dance Tonight" (Pia sports a futuristic silver outfit that is topped off with a radioactive scrunchie–her first-rate bum looked awesome encased in silver fabric), and, my personal favourite, the ladies washroom set ditty "You Bring Out the Lover in Me" (Pia dances in a belly-revealing white sleeveless top adorned with horizontal pink stripes, a saucy headband, and a super tight pair of black leather pants).

It should be stated that all of Miss Zadora's fabulous costumes were designed by Ret Turner (Jac McAnelly is credited on IMDb).

The strange relationship that formed between Dee Dee's best friend Diane (the alluring Alison La Placa) and a chainsaw-wielding maniac named Chainsaw (Michael Berryman) was also an unexpected treat. He was about to kill her with his instrument of choice when...well, what happens next will delight and confound audiences for years to come.

This illuminating look into the complicated world of chainsaw etiquette was the sterile cherry on top of what has to be one of the most satisfying cinematic experiences I've had in centuries. Or to put it in more modest terms: Voyage of the Rock Aliens is the greatest motion picture ever devised by humankind.

And remember kids, intergalactic love is fleeting, Earth love is eternal.

video uploaded by OurManInHavana

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