The Being (Jackie Kong, 1983)

She manages the annual Easter Egg hunt; she's leading the charge to make Pottsville, Idaho smut-free by the end of 1983; she hosts opera recitals in her home (much to the chagrin of her opera-hating husband); and she investigates strange noises with a curious, long-chinned, Z'darian aplomb. What I think I'm trying to say is, is there anything Ruth Buzzi can't do? I'm sorry, but I nearly fried my brain thinking about that particular question. I mean, it's quite the mind-scrambler. Is it just me or does Ruth Buzzi always play shrill women who spend most of their waking hours fighting against the evils of pornography? First of all, Ruth Buzzi is never shrill; she has the voice of an angel. And secondly, I think you're thinking about the character she plays in Skatetown, U.S.A., who, if memory serves me correctly, was a bit of a square. (You could say Ruth Buzzi is a colossal a buzzkill in that film, the second greatest roller disco flick after the indomitable Roller Boogie -- Get it? Get what? Ruth Buzzi. Buzzkill. Both contain "buzz.") Anyway, Ruth Buzzi's campaign to rid Pottsville, Idaho of filth doesn't seem to be working, as the film currently playing at the local drive-in theatre features a naked woman painting her toe nails. Now, I don't know what the name of the lascivious slice of campy horror playing the local drive-in theatre is called, but I do know that it appears in The Being, Jackie Kong's directorial debut about a one-eyed radiation monster who terrorizes a small town in Idaho. Did you say, Jackie Kong? The very same Jackie Kong who made the brilliant Blood Diner? You know it.

Call me someone who is easily impressed, but I think it's swell that... no, wait, scratch that. Let me put it this way: I'm in love with the concept of an Asian-American woman directing a film about a bunch of potato-farming hillbillies who are devoured by a slim-covered aberration. I know, hardly anyone who is killed in this film is actually associated with the state's lucrative potato industry, or even a hillbilly for that matter. I just like the idea that someone named Jackie Kong is making cheesy horror flicks. Why must horror be solely the domain of white men named Steve? It doesn't. So, you go, Jackie Kong!

Just because I like the idea of an Asian-American woman directing a film that seems to be a homage to old school monster movies from 1950s, doesn't mean the film itself is entirely successful. And The Being is definitely a film that fits into that category, as it is severely lacking in several key areas.

A tell-tale sign the film doesn't quite pass muster in the awesome department can be found in the opening salvo of one of the above paragraphs. If I'm rambling about Ruth Buzzi right out of the gate like that, you know something rotten is afoot. Don't get me wrong, I adore Ruth Buzzi, she has certain je nais se quois that I find appealing, it's just that most people don't start off their reviews of The Being with so much Ruth Buzzi-based jibber-jabber.

I don't mean to burst your bubble, but you're not most people. In fact, you're none of those people. Don't apologize for being you. If you want go on a long, some might say, slightly misguided tangent about Ruth Buzzi in The Being, than I say, have at it. And speaking as an unbiased observer, you're absolutely right to focus your attention on Ruth Buzzi, as she's easily the best thing about this movie.

You don't know how relieved I am to hear you say that. Glancing over my imaginary notes, I can't help but notice that words "Ruth" and "Buzzi" are repeated ad nauseum.

After the opening credits have finished informing us that Kinky Friedman makes a "special appearance," and the DJ/narrator tells everyone that Pottsville, Idaho is the spud capital of the entire universe, we watch as a wayward teen is decapitated by a slimy creature while driving a car he stole from a local junkyard. Hiding in the trunk a la Repo Man, the slimy creature then grabs a mechanic while Det. Lutz (Bill Osco) isn't looking. Leaving nothing but a trail of green slime, the bearded, baseball hat-wearing detective is at a loss as to what [the fuck] is going on.

I don't know if he realizes it yet, but Det. Lutz is clearly in a monster movie. The sight of Martin Landau talking about the safeness of radiation on the six o'clock news is a sure sign he might be in one. However, I think he's going to need a little more proof than that. It's too bad he didn't go to the drive-in this evening, as a couple of drive-in goers are about to get attacked by a monster that is eerily similar to the one attacking the blonde woman in tonight's feature.

Again, like the previous encounters, all Det. Lutz finds at the scene are puddles of green slime. It's not until Det. Lutz goes home and finds green slime in his bed that he figures out that the green slime is a result of a creature that exudes green slime. It also doesn't hurt that the creature is hiding under his bed. Chasing him all the way to the railroad tracks, Det. Lutz manages to elude the creature by utilizing his natural born athleticism.

Hey, man, I thought you said Ruth Buzzi was in this flick? She is. Okay, so who's this Det. Lutz asshole? He is, whether you like or not, the star of the movie.

Speaking of which, Ruth Buzzi's first scene is coming up. It's Easter morning and Virginia Lane (Ruth Buzzi) is in charge of overseeing the Easter egg hunt for the children of Pottsville. Don't tell me one of the kids is about to get devoured by a radioactive fiend. One of them does come close to getting eaten (the director's own daughter), but the film doesn't quite go there. If this was, say, Blood Diner, I would have definitely expected one of the Easter egg hunters to buy it, but not here. Though, the being in The Being does start off as a precocious child, Dorothy Malone's precocious child to be specific; the blonde actress spends most of the movie wandering the streets and radiation dump sites in a half-crazed daze.

When she's finished overseeing the Easter egg hunt, Virgina Lane heads down to main street to lead a protest against the ills of pornography. I had no idea Pottsville had a protest-worthy pornography problem. It doesn't, thanks to the Sweeper Committee For Stomping Out Smut: Keeping porn out of Idaho is our business.

Just as I was about to give up on The Being, we're treated to a bizarre black and white dream sequence. Featuring Bill Osco and Martin Landau flying a small airplane, it culminates with the electrifying sight of Ruth Buzzi flying on a broomstick. Filmed utilizing the classic witch ascending on a broomstick profile shot, Ruth Buzzi slowly turns her head, smiles, and tells Det. Lutz that "it's all in your mind." The fact that her eyes are bleeding as she tells him this adds an extra layer of weird to an already weird sequence. Of course, I don't know what the dream sequence is supposed to represent exactly , but I appreciated its inclusion nonetheless.

As more and more townspeople go missing (three anti-porn hillbilly types are dispatched with very little fanfare) and Ruth Buzzi's opera recital finally gets underway (José Ferrer, Ruth Buzzi's husband has taken refuge in the garage - he's not an opera buff), the film gradually begins to overstay its welcome. And I'll admit, I was downright exhausted by the time Bill Osco takes on the monster in an abandoned warehouse. Despite sapping me of all my strength, I would recommend The Being to fans of throwback monster movies and Ruth Buzzi completists.

My Mom's a Werewolf (Michael Fischa, 1989)

Looking over the cinematic landscape of the late 1980s, the producers of My Mom's a Werewolf couldn't help but notice that the nation's movie theatres, drive-ins, and mom and pop video stores were being inundated with lighthearted fare about teenage werewolves (Teen Wolf Too) and teenage vampires (Once Bitten). Why, they probably asked themselves, hasn't anyone made a movie about a suburban mom who becomes a werewolf? After all, studies have shown that there's nothing teens love more than watching fortysomething women frantically attempt to stave off lycanthropy by shaving their legs with a pair of hair clippers. While I found their (Crown International Pictures) effort to fill the empty void that was the MILF-werewolf genre at the time to be somewhat admirable, I just wish they had given the project to a director with some passing knowledge on how to make a film with a modest amount of competency. This blundering approach was endearing in Death Spa, a movie whose ungainly temperament was actually an asset, not a hindrance. Besides, how hard is it to mess up an aerobics-based horror movie? Just follow these four simple steps: 1) Leotards 2) Blood. 3) Shower scene 4) More leotards, and you should be good to go (oh, and don't forget to thank your mom when you except your Leo Award, a trophy that recognizes outstanding achievement in the realm of the leotarded arts). However, Michael Fischa is way over his head this time around. Barely a movie at times, it just sits there like an unproductive blob of shapeless energy, sapping the strength of anyone unlucky enough to be looking in its general direction.

Born with the innate ability to enjoy just about anything that's placed in front of me, My Mom's a Werewolf, I must say, was a real challenge, as it's nearly impossible to extract anything positive from something this openly egregious. Actually, the only reason I decided to type any words whatsoever about this flick/fiasco was because of the amount of denim worn during the film's opening scene. As the denim pranced before me, I thought to myself, well, firstly: "Holy shit, that's a lot of denim." But then I thought: "I wonder if can write five paragraphs pertaining to just the denim alone. I mean, I think the girls who wouldn't touch my genitals in high school would really be impressed by that." Unfortunately, things proceeded to go downhill pretty quickly after the dungaree portion of the film had concluded, and any thoughts of composing a tedious tribute to the mother-daughter denim fashion show that is the opening of this movie were slowly evaporating under the sheer weight of the film's mind-numbing awfulness.

Let me clarify by saying that both Susan Blakely and Tina Caspary weren't just wearing acid wash jean jackets, they're entire bodies were literally ensconced in denim.

Sadly, after some banal mother-daughter dialogue is exchanged, the two denim advocates take their respective denim looks and go their separate denim ways. Tired of being neglected by her husband (he prefers football to vaginal intercourse), Leslie Shaber (Susan Blakely) storms out of their modestly furnished house and decides to vent her frustration by heading down to the local pet store to buy a flea collar for their dog. The suave owner of Casa de Pets, Harry Thropen (John Saxon), leers seductively at Mrs. Shaber as she browses the store's expansive collar section. Well, you know where this is going: Harry, after some mild wooing, ends up biting Leslie on the toe, which causes her to wake up the next morning with a pair of fangs.

Hey look! It's Kimmy Robertson!

Meanwhile, Leslie's daughter, Jennifer Shaber (Tina Caspary), is hanging out with her best friend, Stacey Pubah (the enchanting Diana Barrows), at a horror convention. A horror movie fan who is obsessed with monsters–and the movie Galaxina (which she has apparently seen over 360 times)–Stacey, dressed as a vampire, drags a wary-looking Jennifer to see a fortune teller (Ruth Buzzi, Skatetown, U.S.A.). Sporting two crystal balls (she sometimes likes to get a second opinion), the Roma stereotype tells Jennifer that she will have "a conflict with an animal," and to going easy on the denim. While the thing about denim was something I totally made up, the first fortune actually comes true, as Jennifer soon discovers that her mom is a werewolf (at the least title doesn't lie).

As Jennifer was getting her fortune told, my eyes spotted this amazing white scrunchie that was binding together a large chunk of hair near the top of her head. Employed in a manner that created the illusion that her hair was more robust than it actually was, the scrunchie, much like the denim in the previous scene, dominates the film's visual spectrum for the next couple of scenes. In a startling turn of events, the scrunchie and denim roles are reversed in the one that the follows the horror convention, as it's Stacey time to be the one to wear a lot of denim and sport a scrunchie that was affixed in a manner that was similar to Jennifer's scrunchie. I don't know if you know this, but the act of placing a scrunchie on the top of the head, instead of on the back or the side, was the most popular chemical-free solutions for creating the big hair look on a budget back in 1989.

Kasso killer! Long live the volumizing scrunchie!

The harmony that exists between scrunchies and denim throughout My Mom's a Werewolf is a testament to hard work of costume designer Kelly O'Gurian (check out her stunning scrunchie work in Brian Yuzna's excellent Society). With the exception of the opening scene, where, as you probably know by now, two characters are seen wearing all denim simultaneously (a major faux pas in the world of movie costuming), the outfits worn by all the characters, particularly Jennifer and Stacey, were whimsical without being obnoxious, yet tacky with a subtle hint of desperation.

If only the film had focused more on their odd friendship and even odder fashion choices, as opposed to the whole werewolf plot, where jokes about toilet seats (get this, men like to leave the seat up), doughnut-eating policemen, references to "PMS" (a staple of misogyny-based entertainment), and werewolf puns (the expression "werewife" is employed at one point) are plentiful, you might have had something. But instead, we're stuck with a film whose funniest line is uttered by Marica Wallace of all people; after giving Mrs. Shaber a makeover at her salon (We Be Hair), she declares the result, "Wolverine chic!" (I'm a sucker for phrases that pair naff lingo with the word chic). Anyway, whenever the camera is on Tina Caspary (Teen Witch) and Diana Barrows (She's Out of Control), the film briefly reminds you of how truly awesome it must have been to be a teenage girl during the 1980s.

Speaking of teenage girls (by the way, I'm one of the few people who can start a sentence off like that and not come off sounding like a creep), make sure to keep an eye out for Tina Caspary in the latter half of the film, you'll be shocked, amazed and somewhat bewildered by what you see. Okay, I know what you're thinking: "Why should I keep an eye out for that? I mean, other than the scrunchies and the denim, this movie sounds like a giant piece of crap." Sure, it's true, the film is woefully lacking in just about every department that doesn't involve scrunchies and denim (the third act werewolf makeup is laughably bad, scratch that, it's horrifically bad, and soundtrack is full of uninspired tripe). But you gotta see Tina in her aviatrix uniform. And before you ask, no, she is not a pilot, nor does she work in the lucrative field of erotic skywriting. What can I say? That's just what teenage girls did in the late 80s, they dressed up like old timey airwoman. Of course, there will be those who'll say the reason she was dressed like a World War I fighter pilot was because it was Halloween. But why would you say something like that? Why can't you just let me carry on believing that Tina Caspary's character likes to pretend she's Manfred von Richthofen on weekends? I don't ask for much.

While I like the whole idea of a werewolf who is a leggy mature blonde on the prowl, the leg shaving scene was a real letdown in terms of producing the right amount of venereal swelling. Seriously, she looked like she was shearing an albino woolly mammoth. In other words, not sexy at all (nothing kills an erection faster than a fist full of white matted hair). An out of place John Saxon (Black Christmas) doesn't help matters, as his totally stiff performance as the world's lamest werewolf undermines the movie at every turn. Other than lowering his cheap sunglasses every now and then to reveal a menacing set of bloodshot eyes, Mr. Saxon's werewolf pet store owner with a foot fetish is a complete and utter bore.

Getting back to leggy mature blondes, I thought Susan Blakely's many valiant attempts to inject the lifeless proceedings with some vivacity to be commendable. Her gusto when it came time to get her fangs filed at the dentist, for example, was exceptional (the lovely Lucy Lee Flippin plays a dental hygienist), as was her black negligee work; it was some of the best negligee work I've seen outside one of those tasteless lingerie shows heterosexual men seem to flock to (they don't seem to care about the clothes at all). Fans of late '80s denim trends and unorthodox scrunchie deployment might want to give this film a look-see, but everyone else should steer clear of this, for lack of a better term, cinematic abomination.

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Skatetown, U.S.A. (William A. Levey, 1979)

A feeling of misguided satisfaction coursed through my nimble frame as I finished watching Skatetown, U.S.A., a non-stop disco party that repeatedly shuns reality and subverts the conventions of modern cinema. Why such an extreme reaction to something that, on the surface, appears to be stupid and trivial? Well, I like to brag about the fact that I enjoy watching Roller Boogie, the movie where Linda Blair's gorgeous thighs are constantly being strangled by a pair of purple tights, and Xanadu, which is also a "movie," except in this one, Olivia Newton-John provides the bulk of the thigh-candy. As you would expect, or maybe you wouldn't, what the hell do I know, the weird look of pity/puzzlement they give me as I'm telling them all about my love for these culturally important movies bathes my fragile aura with radiant waves of energy nectar. Only problem being is that I'm deathly afraid that one day one of these fine, nectar-providing folks is gonna ask me if I've seen Skatetown, U.S.A. You see, saying you're a fan of movies that involve disco and roller skating is completely meaningless if you haven't seen Skatetown, U.S.A., the kind of movie where yo-yos, rainbow suspenders, tai chi and short shorts all appear within the same frame. It's like saying you're a fan of the music of Nitzer Ebb but haven't heard That Total Age. In case it isn't obvious yet, I'd like to officially announce that my days of nervously boasting about my love of roller disco movies are over, for I have been to Skatetown, U.S.A., and let me be the first to tell you, it was glorious.

The act of gliding on wheels to disco music, as supposed to walking to the screeching racket that is rock music, has always been the principal allure of roller disco cinema. When riding in a car or traveling across town on a bus, you feel as if your moving but there's a bit of a disconnect. On the other hand, when the wheels are actually attached to your body, the sensation is more tactile, more granular. Add the synthetic pulse of a well-oiled disco beat, and we're talking some serious harmony up in here.

Just because walking and talking is the most popular way to depict two people in a relationship on-screen doesn't mean it's the most effective. Having your characters on wheels not only enhances the romance, it accelerates the wooing process. Take a couple who do things the old fashioned way: they walk to a restaurant, they eat, they engage in small talk, it can be quite tedious. Now take a roller skating couple, like, for instance, Stanley and Allison, the couple in Skatetown, U.S.A. played by Greg Bradford (Zapped!) and Katherine Kelly Lang (The Bold and the Beautiful), the two barely say a word to one another, yet their chemistry on the roller disco dance floor is undeniable. There is just something to said about love when it's on wheels. It blossoms in a way that no walking person could ever understand.

Since I've already done an excellent job proving that moving on wheels to disco gives you a sense of spiritual autonomy and vastly improves your love life, I'd like to talk about this particular film and its radical approach to storytelling. Written Nick Castle (Escape from New York) and directed by William A. Levey (Wam Bam Thank You Spaceman), Skatetown, U.S.A. bypasses things like scripted dialogue and character development all together, and aims to create a universe that seems lived in, but not in a way that seems contrived or phony.

The sight of hordes of scantily clad roller skaters rolling along the concrete pathways of Venice Beach in the opening scene is the only proof we have that this film takes place on Planet Earth, because after that, the film takes place entirely inside the iridescent realm that is Skatetown, U.S.A., an awe-inspiring roller disco paradise run by a father and son duo named Harvey (Flip Wilson) and Jimmy (Billy Barty); the former, by the way, also plays Harvey's mother (yeah, that's right, Flip Wilson appears in drag). Under the spell of The Wizard (Denny Johnston), the joints giant white afro-sporting DJ, we are subjected to a balletic display of tightly packaged disco crotches, flashing disco lights, glowing disco balls, pulsating disco beats, and knee-molesting disco doctors.

You'd think the film would rest on its laurels by employing the tried and true roller disco movie formula: montage, dialogue, montage, a brief shot of Ruth Buzzi in a yellow hat, dialogue, montage. After all, it worked so brilliantly in Roller Boogie. However, Skatetown, U.S.A. takes the formula one step further by eliminating the dialogue completely. Oh, sure, there's still a ton of dialogue uttered in the film (most of it incoherent nonsense), it's just that it seemed like I was watching a 98 minute montage. Which, if you think about it, is more attune to reality. If you think about it some more, there's no dialogue in real life, so why should there be any in the movies?

Seriously, forget about even a sentence, when was the last time you heard someone verbalize actual words in order to advance a plot? For me, you'd have to go all the way back to the late 1970s, and I wasn't even alive back then.

There was one line of dialogue expressed audibly in the film that I do remember, and that was Dorothy Stratten's "pizza please." Asked repeatedly every time an elderly vaudevillian would finish telling her what was usually a terrible joke, Dorothy, aptly credited as "girl at snack bar," would gradually increase the frustration level in her voice after each pizza request went unfulfilled. Other than the film's obligatory skate competition, it's safe to say that the tension surrounding the serving of Miss Stratten's pizza slice was the film's primary source of drama.

Predictable, yet completely necessary, the rivalry that forms between skaters Stanley (Greg Bradford) and Ace (Patrick Swayze) is the dominate storyline during those smallish chunks of time that exist in-between the film's many musical numbers (the majority involving skate crews with names like, "New Horizons" and the "Hot Wheelers"). Egged on by Richie (Scott Baio), his bookie pal, and placated by his sister Susan (Maureen McCormick), Stan from the Valley must overcome the brash Ace, the leader of the West Side Wheelers, the toughest roller skating gang this side of Wilshire Boulevard, find out if Katherine Kelly Lang is real or not (she has the charisma of a fuck doll that's never been inflated), use a shitload of poker metaphors in an argument, and partake in a game of chicken involving a rickety old pier and motorized roller skates.

Employing his sycophantic underlings to sabotage his opponents (which include skaters with names like, Uncle Sam and Pistol Pete), even though he doesn't have to (he kicks ass both in the singles and mixed doubles competition), Ace's determination to win has severely clouded his judgment. The best example of this cloudiness can be observed whenever you would see Ace and his second in command Frankey (Ron Palillo) sitting together. While Ace's lady-friend/skating partner is attractive and all, it was clear to me that gals leaning on each of Frankey's bony shoulders were two of the hottest chicks in all of Skatetown, U.S.A. Or maybe Ace is just not that into leather-clad women who combine the elegance of Buckwild from Flavor of Love 2 and the wayward spunk of Polly from the movie Teen Witch. Either way, it's his loss.

Sporting a studded dog collar and a churlish disposition (one that was downright unhorshackian at times), Ron Palillo's henchmen character represented the ugly side of disco peer pressure. In constant fear of losing his place within the gang's complex hierarchy, Frankey carries out his master's orders without fail.

Meanwhile, over at the change rooms. The moment the word "pantyhose" rolled off her exquisite lips was the exact instant I knew the bespectacled Eleanor (Harlene Winsten) would be the Skatetown, U.S.A. character for me (she trips and falls before she even puts her skates on). Recently married to a nebbish clod named Irwin (David Landsberg), a man who clearly does not appreciate her inherent foxiness, Eleanor sets the disco floor on fire with her frumpy attire and spastic roller moves. Unfortunately, the winsome Miss Winsten only appears sporadically throughout the film. Nevertheless, I treasured every scene of hers like it were a rare gift from the roller disco movie gods.

Half-heartedly spouting feminist slogans when confronted, a more wide-eyed than usual Judy Landers (Dr. Alien) tries her best to figure out the club's simplistic ticketing system as Tery, Skatetown's breathy doorperson. (Remember kids: Orange passes are for last week, green passes are for this week, and free tickets cost five dollars.) Sadly, Judy spends the majority of the film sitting behind Skatetown's ticket counter; I would have loved to have seen her skate.

I liked how Maureen McCormick (The Brady Bunch), head-to-toe in pink, would disappear on occasion. Which makes sense, since, according to her memoir: Here's the Story: Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice in Maui, she was doing a lot of cocaine during the making of the film, and, as we all know, cocaine enthusiasts aren't exactly the most reliable people when it comes to truancy. Coked up or not, Maureen looked amazing in her tight pink short shorts, and her character's sexual attraction to Ron Palillo, while strange and slightly off-putting, gave hope to millions of deluded dirtbags the world over. Oh, and I loved the empty-headed, trollopy manner in which she chewed her gum.

Shooting laser beams from his fingers and promoting the joint's nasty snack bar whenever possible, The Wizard (Denny Johnston), the skate palace's mystical DJ (he can make crooner Dave Mason appear and disappear at will), spins a groove-tastic array of killer disco tracks. My faves being: the totally awesome "Born To Be Alive" by Patrick Hernandez (it's the song that introduces us the shimmering universe that is Skatetown, U.S.A.); Heatwave's "Boogie Nights;" "Macho Man" by the Village People (a song I always associate with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding); a cover of The Rolling Stones' "Under My Thumb" by the Hounds (Patrick Swayze and April Allen destroy all comers to this song); and, of course, Earth, Wind and Fire's "Boogie Wonderland."

It's hard to believe, but in 1979, a straight man could wear a pink tank top with white slacks while performing an elaborate roller skating routine (complete with muscle flexing) to the strains of "Macho Man" without an ounce of fear. Anyway, I sure am glad I finally got the chance to visit Skatetown, U.S.A. The only downside being that I reek of flat 7Up and soggy pizza.

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