Nevada Heat (Matt Cimber, 1982)

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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.

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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.

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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.

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