Class of 1984 (Mark L. Lester, 1982)

Believe it or not, but you can learn a lot by watching Class of 1984--written and directed by Mark L. Lester (Roller Boogie), co-written Tom Holland (Fright Night)--from start to finish. For example, did you know that Elm St., a smallish thoroughfare just off Yonge St. in Toronto, Ontario, Canada is rife with no good punks? It's not, but according to this film, it totally is. Wait, if it isn't rife with, what did you call them? No good punks. Right, no good punks. If it isn't rife with them, how did you learn anything? Who said anything about learning? You did! Like five seconds ago. I don't remember saying that. In fact, it sounds like something you just made up. Look, you said that you learned a lot by watching this film. Prove it. Arrgh! Hello. The sensation you're currently experiencing is similar to that in which the new music teacher at Central Tech School experiences during his first week on the job. You see, unless he can prove that a gang of no good punks are going out of their way to make his life a living hell, he's going to have to grin and bear it. I'm sorry, but I think you're reading the film incorrectly. How so? Well, I saw the no good punks as the victims, and the new music teacher–the one with the fancy house in The Annex–as the film's primary troublemaker. Really? You bet. I mean, all the no good punks wanted to do was make money selling drugs. Don't forget their lucrative prostitution ring. Oh, yeah, if you can't afford to pay for your drugs, you can sell your body to them (if it passes muster, that is). Yet, this namby-pamby music teacher seems to go out of his way to muck things up for the punks who may or may not be up to no good. Yeah, but what they're doing is illegal. Since when has enforcing the law been the realm of namby-pamby music teachers? Besides, since when has it been legal to teach troubled teens to play the clarinet? What's that? It's always been legal. You don't say. Well, fuck that noise, man. It should be illegal. Why? Because I fucking said so; clarinets are bogus.

You better be careful what you say about clarinets, your girlfriend might overhear you. Shut up. She's not my girlfriend. Yeah, right. You're totally in love with her. I see the way you look at her. The short hair, the unruly eyebrows, the stubby legs...so soft and creamy, Deneen (Erin Noble) is just your type.

First of all, we're just friends. And secondly, the girl I like plays the saxophone. The sax player? Yeah, baby. I dig her look.

Her look? Yeah, check this out. Sometimes she wears tiger-print tops, and sometimes she wears tops with a musical note theme. Big deal, lot's of chicks have tops like that. No, I don't think you understand what I'm saying. The saxophone girl wears the tops I just mentioned at the same time. You mean one over the top of the other? Again, no, she changes tops when you're not looking. Creating the illusion that she is wearing a different top every time you look at her; which, in my case, is every eight seconds.

Oh, I see what you're saying. Actually, what I think you're referring to is a continuity error on the part of the filmmakers. It happens all the time. Granted, what you just said makes a lot of sense. However, I'm going to continue to believe that the sexy sax player with the long black hair and the dynamic nose in Class of 1984 was changing tops every time the camera would turn away from her for my benefit.

Now that I've established that I am in fact completely mad, you might have noticed that during all that verbal hullabaloo that I casually chose to pretend that this film takes place in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Even though I'm the one who just said it, I have take issue with my use of the word "pretend." The reason I decided to do this is because the film does take place in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. I know, just because it was filmed there, doesn't necessarily mean it's set there. And, yes, the American flag does fly proudly atop the school's flagpole. But this film, despite the fact it was made as a commentary on the upswing in violence in American high schools, is the quintessential Toronto movie.

The opening song by Alice Cooper asks, "When does a dream become a nightmare"? I have no idea, but my dream of being inundated with teenage thighs in the process strangled by black fishnet stockings is definitely coming true.

The complete opposite of the character he played in Andy Warhol's Bad, Perry King plays Andrew Norris, a naive music teacher who's starting his fist day at Central Tech. An idealist at heart, Mr. Norris can't wait to mold some young minds. However, his enthusiasm is short-lived. In fact, he seemed disenfranchised before he even gets out of the parking lot. And who do you think is to blame for that? The great Roddy McDowall, that's who; Mr. Norris can't help but notice that Roddy's Mr. Corrigan is carrying a gun in his briefcase.

If Roddy's cynicism doesn't completely dishearten Mr. Norris, the sight of the students walking through a metal detector most definitely will. It's at the school's Draconian entrance where Mr. Norris has his first brush with the no good punks I mentioned earlier. He tries to alert a security guard when he spots one of the punks sneaking a razor past the metal detector, but both the security guard and Roddy laugh at him as if to say, big deal, narc.

As expected, Mr. Norris' first class doesn't go as smoothly as he had hoped, as he comes face-to-face with Peter Stegman (Timothy Van Patten) and his gang of [no good] punks. While Stegamn is supposed to be in this class, his pals are not, so, when Mr. Norris asks them to leave, things get a tad heated.

If you liked it when Patsy (Lisa Langlois), the lone female member of Stegman's gang, gave the security guard's security wand a playful handjob in the previous scene, you'll love it when she performs fellatio on Erin Noble's clarinet while Michael J. Fox watches.

I'm surprised you didn't try to convince us that Patsy was your girlfriend. I mean, she's leggy, she has pink bangs, she wears different size stockings on each leg, she's not afraid to use glitter, what's not to love? I think she's a lesbian. Really? Well, after getting in a rumble with a rival gang underneath the Gardiner Expressway and spraying fake blood in Mr. Norris' face outside his home in the Annex, the gang head out their favourite punk club to catch Teenage Head.

What's all this have to do with lesbianism? I'm getting to that. You see, the punk club (featuring some intense slam dancing) also acts as the gang's hangout/headquarters. And it's here where I picked up a definite lesbian vibe coming from Patsy. Waiting in the hall outside their office (the backstage of the punk club acts as their office), a line up of punks and freaks has formed. Each has their reason for being there, and the reason a female named Sally (Helena Quinton) is there is because she desperately wants to become a coke whore.

After allowing her to sample their wares, it's Patsy who suggests that Sally should take her clothes off. Wait, why does she want to become a coke whore. Haven't you been paying attention? She likes cocaine, some might say she's addicted to it. And since she has no money to pay for the stuff, whoring for Stegman's gang is a viable alternative. Anyway, the look on Patsy's face as Sally removes her black stockings and garter belt practically screamed fashion-forward lesbian in heat.

Unfortunately, Patsy won't be sampling any of Sally's shapely wares on this day, as Stegman assigns that awesome task to a male gang member; and, no, not "Drugstore" (Stefan Arngrim), my favourite male punk in this movie.

On the bright side, however, Patsy is allowed to watch. Inspecting her womanly body, the male gang member (the tall one with the slight unibrow) agrees to take Sally's pussy for a test drive, as they say. You'll notice as she's being lead away to be fucked on a [no doubt] stained mattress that she is still wearing her gloves; which, just like Patsy's stockings, are delightfully mismatched.

Long story short, Patsy digs chicks. Sexual orientation aside, her look in Class of 1984 is inspirational.

Employing a tit for tat strategy, Stegman and Mr. Norris seem determined destroy one another, as acts of vandalism and animal cruelty lead to instances involving rape, kidnapping, the guy from The King of Kensington, vehicular homicide, cafeteria stabbings, flagpole-based suicide, and eventually the granddaddy of them all, table saw amputation.

There is, it should be noted, a moment when it seemed like Stegman and Mr. Norris were bonding (the classic scene where Stegman plays the piano), but that lasts about ten seconds.

In the film's strongest scene, Roddy McDowall shows why allowing teachers to carry firearms isn't such a good idea. But then again, he does seem to get results. The greatest line in the film is uttered by Timothy Van Patten: "Life... is pain. Pain... is everything. You... you will learn!" Sure, it might not seem like much on paper, but Timothy Van Patten (who now directs for HBO - The Sopranos, Boardwalk Empire, etc.) says it with such menace, that you would be no doubt quaking in your boots if you were on the receiving end of such a line.

Fashion-wise, I would have to go with the leather number with Betty Rubble frays that Lisa Langlois wears during the final showdown; you can also see a variation of the outfit on the film's iconic poster. In fact, the poster is so iconic, it was used as the cover for a book about the history of punks in movies (Destroy All Movies).

Mirror, Mirror 2: Raven Dance (Jimmy Lifton, 1994)

"It's just wood and glass." Oh, movie nuns, why won't you allow there to be any wiggle room when it comes to believing in evil mirrors? Yeah, you heard right, I said "evil mirrors." Which can only mean on thing: The reflective surface that keeps on giving is back and ready to manipulate another attractive, young, socially maladjusted girl in Mirror, Mirror 2: Raven Dance, the unasked for sequel to the mildly campy 1990 flick about an outcast teen and her tumultuous friendship with a sinister piece of furniture. Taking the concept envisioned by Annette Cascone and Gina Cascone (I love it when sisters put aside their hair brush-related differences and team up to create mirror-based horror), writer-director Jimmy Lifton (he also produces and composes the film's music score) grabs the reigns and moves the action to a nunnery on the outskirts of a place where there aren't any nunneries. Unsatisfactory in terms of bloodshed, the second chapter of the glassy saga is missing the underlying menace of the first Mirror Mirror–where I recall many people being killed in a satisfactory manner. On top of that, it just happens to feature one the worst kiddie actors I have ever seen. Seriously, every line he utters was excruciatingly bad. Call me wrongheaded, but I kept wishing that the baneful mirror would straight-up murder his whiny ass every time he appeared on-screen with the seemingly inanimate object.

Of course, I'm not gonna let a couple of little things like awful child acting and a complete lack of mouth-watering gore ruin what is essentially a pretty good psychopathic mirror movie. No way, man, there's got to be something that merits a cockamamie tongue bathing. And I think I may found it floundering amidst the doctor-patient relationship that forms between Marlee (Tracy Wells) and Dr. Lasky (Roddy McDowall).

You see, the doctor is constantly trying to cover his patient's organic sexiness with blankets and sheets. Why he's doing this is a tad convoluted – it's got something to do with Roseyn (Sally Kellerman), her gaudy blazer-wearing stepsister, being left out of a will. But make no mistake, his desire to induce drowsiness is steadfast.

Now, I don't know if I've made this clear or not, but the sense of despair I felt every time Dr. Lasky rendered Marlee unconscious was palpable. I mean, to see her dainty frame repeatedly covered with nondescript nunnery linens was quite disheartening. However, the fact that Marlee would always resist the shady quacks "mild sedatives" was gratifying to say the least.

This defiance was expressed mainly through the majesty of dance, as Marlee seemed to feel most at peace while flailing around in a convulsive marrying of physicality and artistry. Take away her ability to dance, and you're dealing with one unhappy convent resident.

Only problem being that she owes a good-size chunk of her dancefloor prowess to the nondescript mirror languishing menacingly in the corner of her bedroom. A mysterious wild card named Christian (Mark Ruffalo) who shows up every now and then to act suave and give Marlee positive re-enforcement is also responsible for her new-found confidence. Not to sound paranoid, but I think the mirror and Christian might be in cahoots with one another. Either way, there's gonna be some serious consequences when all is said and done.

Everyone, with the exception of Tracy Wells (Mr. Belvedere), seems to talk to themselves in Mirror, Mirror 2: Raven Dance. Sure, I can see why William Sanderson (who was in the first film as a completely different character) talked to himself, as he was an alcoholic pantie sniffer with some intense mental problems. And I can see how Sister Aja (Veronica Cartwright - man, this film's got a pretty solid cast) might chat with herself on occasion, you know, because she's blind and might not realize the person she was talking to has left the room. But as for everyone else, shame on you.

Inheriting the making-out with a bloodstained mirror mantle from the alluring Rainbow Harvest, the resplendent Tracy Wells makes the transition between gamboling to being bedridden with an effortless rarely seen in straight-to-video horror films about malevolent mirrors. Whether searching for her cat (Pie-Whack-It), lying motionless, or pirouetting with spunk, Tracy takes not wearing pants to whole 'nother level of pantlessness.

To be honest, I tried my best not to notice that Miss Wells' lower extremities were never covered. Yet, despite the unscrupulous doctor's blanket-obsessed intentions, the film gave me no choice but to obsess over her stems. I'm not complaining or anything like that, I was just hoping to judge Tracy's performance from a non-leg-centric point-of-view. Which, as far as I could tell, was competent; even by Raven Dance standards.

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Fright Night (Tom Holland, 1985)

A vampire movie with so much bite, that even the title has teeth. Fright Night is in a class of its own in terms of deftly combining horror, comedy and erotica. Three distinct genres of cinema that have a lot in common, but for some strange reason, they're not thrown together that often. Any overzealous deviant whose mind has been properly warped on a steady diet of game shows and beef jerky can make a film that features nothing but wall-to-wall bloodshed. However, it takes a fair amount of skill to create a film that is not only gory, but sexy and funny, too. And that's what writer-director Tom Holland has somehow done with this particular effort; he's made what appears to be your typical teenage vampire movie, yet underneath lies a simmering cauldron that is bubbling over with an efflorescent stench. In other words, it's got more depth to it than you'd expect. The plot of Fright Night can be pretty much summed up by listening to the song "Fright Night" by The J. Geils Band, as it covers almost every plot detail from start to finish. If, however, you happen to have an aversion to Mr. Geils and his stupid ass band, I'll help you out by saying the film is about a high school student named Charley Brewster (William Ragsdale) who thinks his new neighbour is a vampire. Shunned by the police and dismissed by his friends, the alarmed teen seeks the help of Peter Vincent (Roddy McDowall), the host of a late night horror movie program called "Fright Night," in the hope that he can utilize his expertise in the realm of the undead. Of course, Charley fails to realize that Mr. Vincent is an actor, not an actual vampire slayer.

It doesn't matter how you become moist, laugh, or express fear, there's something for everyone it this wondrous tale of suburban paranoia. The idea of a vampire moving in next-door is something we all can relate to, as we've all had undesirable neighbours at one time or another. I mean, whether it's playing obnoxiously loud music or puncturing the necks of topless women with their elongated incisors in full view of your adolescent offspring, the discourteous bane that is the annoying neighbour is a universal one.

The nightclub scene at "Club Radio" where Jerry: The Vampire (a suaver-than-suave Chris Sarandon) and Amy: The Girlfriend (the alluring Amanda Bearse) get more familiar with one another has always been a favourite of mine, as supplies the film with its erotic quota. Sporting no nudity whatsoever, nor any scenes that feature excessive vaginal penetration, the club sequence is hands down one of the most titillating, most captivating things I have ever seen. The moment Chris Sarandon (sporting a chic sweater) and Amanda Bearse (a silky blue shirt with the collar up) see each other across the dance-floor, and the synthesizers kick into gear on Ian Hunter's "Good Man in a Bad Time," is the epitome of new wave sexiness.

The give and take nature of their ritualistic conquest of one another is what makes the scene work so well. I mean, if Jerry had dominated the seduction, it would have seemed predatory (which it still is in some respect), but the moments when Amy would rebuff, and sometimes toy with the vampire, made it downright hot. It's weird that a scene featuring a foppish bloodsucker (with a male roommate) and a closeted lesbian would gel so well in a heterosexual capacity. But there they are, inducing a plethora of aroused feelings with their enticing disco embrace.

Providing the bulk of the film's humour is the giddy presence of Stephen Geoffreys as the wacky Evil Ed Thompson, a close friend of Charley and Amy. Boasting a truly demented laugh and superb comic timing, Mr. Geoffreys' has created one of the most memorable horror characters in film history. His scenes with a game Roddy McDowall were freaking hilarious, as every line he utters is rendered iconic thanks to his unique delivery. It's no wonder that his "Oh, you're so cool, Brewster!" is still quoted to this very day (well, by me, anyway).

And I must say, I liked how no one dies pleasantly in this film. Well, actually, that's not quite true, the lady who got necked by Jerry the fruit-eating vampire seemed to go in a pleasant enough manner (the grisly aftermath is kept from us). But as for everyone else, they go nastily. Oozing torrents of green goo, twitching uncontrollably while impaled with furniture, and bursting into flames are just a mere pittance of the pre-death symptoms that plague the unfortunate few in this film. Add a top-notch wolf-to-human transformation and a hand stabbed by a pencil to the mix, and we're talking about a masterpiece up in here.

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