Delirium: Photo of Gioia (Lamberto Bava, 1987)

It's been said that fashion is a cutthroat business, but no-one ever said anything about being attacked by a swarm of angry bees. Slice my neck with a kitchen knife, if you must. But, I beg you, not the bees; not only am I deathly allergic to them, my corpse will look all puffy when all is said and done (and no-one wants to penetrate a puffy corpse). Mixing two of my favourite things: fashion and murder, the exceedingly stylish Delirium: Photo of Gioia is here to satisfy my misguided desire to watch people who work in the fashion industry slaughtered without mercy. Misguided desire? Are you sure it's misguided? I mean, it sounds like it's the complete opposite of misguided, if you ask me. Misguided or not, no doubt taking his cues from Mario Bava's Blood and Black Lace and Andrea Bianchi's Strip Nude for Your Killer, writer-director Lamberto Bava grabs the giallo by its big, overly teased hair and drags it kicking and screaming into the 1980s. While I'm a fan of '60s and '70s fashion, I'm an even bigger fan of '80s fashion. Shot in 1986, the year the decade really started to come into its own, the film is inundated with the kooky styles and bold trends that made the era such an exciting time to be alive. Of course, there are always going to be those out there lurking nowhere near the fringes of society who will label the mid-1980s as a dark time, one that should be tossed in the dustbin of human history. But I can't argue or reason with people who were born with bad taste, so I won't bother trying defend some of the fashion choices that are made in this movie. Instead, I'll do what I normally do, and that is, celebrate the decade's clothing and those with the curves worthy enough to fill them. Did you say, "curves"? That's right, Timmy, I sure did. You see, to wear the clothes seen throughout this motion picture, you're going to need to be a woman. Okay, that sort of makes sense. But you could be more succinct? 'Cause I'm not following. What I mean is, you can't have the body of ten year-old boy and expect to be able to pull off the fierce garments worn around, oh, let's say, the offices of Pussycat Magazine, the sleazy men's magazine at the centre of this expertly crafted giallo. 
 

 

The chic outfits featured throughout this movie, a dizzying array of black leather skirts and sharp blazers for the gal on the go, seem like they were tailor-made for the structurally intimidating Serena Grandi. In other words, I doubt they would look good on some ninety pound boy-woman with no hips.
 

 

A slideshow of pool side glamour shots of Serena Grandi taken during her character's days as a model are what greet us at the beginning of Delirium: Photo of Gioia. You mean she's not a model anymore? No, Serena's Gioia now runs Pussycat Magazine, much to the chagrin of Flora (Capucine), her former mentor.
 

 

Overseeing a photo shoot similar to the style of the photo montage that featured pictures of herself lounging pool side in nothing but diamonds and red high heel shoes, Gioia watches as a younger model named Kim (Trine Michelsen) pose in her pool alongside two other models (including the gorgeous Marcia Sedoc). Taking the pictures is Roberto (David Brandon) and the guy barking orders is Gioia's brother Tony (Vanni Corbellini). Since she hasn't been properly introduced (a Gia Carangi-esque photo montage doesn't really count), Lamberto Bava slowly pans up Serena Grandi's legs whilst they were in the process of being crossed. Hey, man, that's unnecessarily perverted! Don't be silly. We're watching Gioia through the eyes of Mark (Karl Zinny), the wheelchair bound voyeur who lives next-door, so it's a totally justified.
 

 

You mean to tell me that this Mark fella's bedroom overlooks the backyard where Serena Grandi, and, not to mention, Daria Nicolodi (she plays "Evelyn," Gioia's live-in assistant), sit on patio furniture with their legs crossed? Yep, it's looks that way. Holy shit. I know, it's a pretty sweet set-up. Well, except for the whole confined to a wheelchair bit. But other than that, he's one lucky peeping tom. Not content with merely watching, Mark gives Gioia the occasional call on the telephone. And get this, she doesn't seem to mind. Oh, sure, she'll eventually hang up on your pervy ass when your harassment starts to cross the line (the moment he begins talking about her non-existent panties was the deal breaker during this particular call). But, for the most part, she seems to enjoy the attention; being a former model, she probably misses the over the top adulation.
 

 

After Kim has toweled off and changed into something more comfortable (a blue dress with holes down the side), Gioia, who's wearing a tropical themed top with a black skirt, invites her team to stay for dinner. It's only scene number two (number three if you count the photo montage that opened the film) yet I'm already having trouble keeping my gayness under control. The simple sight of Serena Grandi just pacing back and forth in her living room was enough to send me over the edge. I don't know, there's something about the way she walks in this film that drove me mad; and I mean that in a good way.
 

 

What's this? Oh, look. A killer is stalking Kim as she leaves Gioia's house. Yawn. Wait a second. Ahh! Her face is a giant eyeball. Kudos, Lamberto Bava. I had no idea this film was gonna contain eyeball-faced models. And, just like that, boom, you give us a model with an eyeball for a face. Sure, she's stabbed with a pitchfork, but the eyeball face and the use of bright colours are what make this scene so memorable.
 

 

Is it green or is it sea green, I'll let you decide. But whatever it is, the jacket Gioia wears to work the following day is chic beyond belief. Paired, as usual, with a black skirt (the collar and buttons are black as well), Gioia enters the Pussycat offices with a curvy brand of confidence (she has no idea Kim was pitchforked to death last night in her backyard). Unable to avoid a meeting with her former mentor, Gioia reluctantly meets with Flora, who, like I said, wants to buy Pussycat from her. When Gioia refuses, Flora tells her, "The hate of a woman can be very bad," before storming off in one of those huff thingies.
 

 

In order to keep the audience guessing, Flora's angry exist is immediately followed by a scene that sports a mysterious figure taking a photo of Kim's dead body in front of a giant photo of Gioia; a photograph similar to the one's that are featured in the film's opening. Is the bitter Flora killing Gioia's models? It's too early to say. But judging by the way she's acting, someone wants us to believe she's the prime suspect. Soon Gioia is made aware of the dead Kim propped up in front of a picture of Gioia photo when it arrives at the Pussycat offices.
 

 

Shocked by the bloody image, Gioia should take no solace whatsoever in the fact that Inspector Corsi (Lino Salemme) is on the case. Why so solace, you ask? He's useless. Hell, he doesn't even bother to compliment Gioia on her white blouse/red leather skirt ensemble. I know. And he calls himself an Italian man. What a joke. Anyway, Kim's body finally shows up in a dumpster outside a newsstand that, ironically, had just received the issue of Pussycat with her on the cover.
 

 

Now wearing a red blouse with a black skirt, Gioia is visibly uncomfortable when she is informed, by Mark of all people, that the issue with Kim on the cover is, to use his bland language, "selling like hot cakes." Someone who is obviously not uncomfortable is Evelyn, who immediately tells the printer to make more copies. 
 

 

I want the black, blue and pink sweater dress with the Jack of hearts playing card motif Flora's assistant wears in the scene after they find Kim's body.
 

 

Arriving at a movie studio, wearing a black leather jacket, a black leather skirt, black pumps, and black nylons, Gioia walks around, the sound of her heels echoing throughout the cavernous building, until she meets a red herring, I mean, a former lover, named Alex (George Eastman), an actor who is working on what looks like a fantasy flick (he's dressed like a barbarian). At any rate, I don't know how he managed to do it, but this Alex dude is having hot tub sex with Gioia in no time.
 

 

The reason Gioia was at the studio was to check out the location for the magazine's latest photo shoot. Featuring Sabrina (Sabrina Salerno), the hottest model in the business, the shoot involves Sabrina, who is dressed in leopard-print shorts (the ends are frayed to create this sort of Betty Rubble effect) and nothing much else (oh, I almost forgot, she's also wearing a leopard print headband), being molested by a couple of guys dressed as mummies.
 

 

Even though I've been wracking my brain for hours, I think it's safe to say that the red blouse paired with a black leather skirt is my favourite Serena Grandi look in Delirium: Photo of Gioia; I also liked the way she wore her hair with this particular get-up. Actually, anytime Serena wears a leather skirt is a time to celebrate, because she looks like she was born to wear leather skirts. 
 

 

We get our second "WTF murder sequence" when the killer unleashes a swarm of bees while Sabrina Salerno is getting ready for bed; complete with a giant insect head and close-up shots of stingers piercing her supple flesh. As expected, Sabrina's body is posed in front of the blown up picture of Gioia the same way Kim's body was. When Gioia finds out, she's horrified. I was horrified as well. But my horror had more to do with the fact that Gioia was wearing pants. Yeah, that's right. Pants! I actually felt sick when I saw what she wearing. Trousers are not a good look for Serana Grandi. Neither is naked (the stress of the past couple of days causes Gioia to take a naked schvitz).
 

  

As the film begins to wind down, and Gioia dons her last black leather skirt (paired with a green blouse), we're reminded that top heavy Italian babes who love leather don't make for the most ideal of final girls. That's why it always helps to have voyeuristic marksmen who aim for the crotch in your corner. Sure, there's a good chance your designer garter belt could get drenched in blood as a result of this unseemly alliance. But you're a rich former model who runs her own magazine, you can afford to buy more lingerie.   

 

 

What do have here? It would seem that Flora is at home watching, utilizing the world's biggest VCR, a Naziploitation movie Gioia starred in some time ago. Yeah, so what? Take a close look at what her assistant is wearing. Well, I'll be damned. She's wearing black hold-up stockings. I don't why she is wearing hold-up stockings, or even the name of the actress who plays the assistant, I'm just thankful for all little miracles sprinkled throughout this soul-enriching chunk of Italian trash. And you can't get any more soul-enriching than the randomness of the assistant's hold-up stockings; it's like a gift, a soft, nylon-infused gift. Which, in a perverted sort of way, is the perfect way to describe my feelings about Italian cinema. No matter how asinine or shoddy they may appear sometimes, Italian films always manage to put a smile on my dimple-free face, and Delirium: Photo of Gioia is no different in that regard. Bravo!

Jocks (Riccardo Sesani, 1984)

As I watched the garrulous Italians who populate the Italo disco-obsessed universe at the centre of Jocks (a.k.a. Music Fever) go on and on about the intricate details of the giant, state-of-the-art discotheque they plan on opening in the not-so distant future, I couldn't help but reflect back on my own time as an empty-headed architect with disco fever. Tucked away somewhere in a long lost sock drawer are the crudely drawn blueprints for a nightclub so chic, so cutting edge, that if the owners of Studio 54 ever caught wind of what I was up to, they would have probably started to shake in their cocaine-soaked boots. Tired of not being able to go clubbing due to age restrictions, I envisioned my own private disco paradise, a gaudy playground where I controlled everything (even the thermostat, baby!). The precise location of the dance-floor, the DJ booth, and even the coat check area were all meticulously mapped out in my crude doodlings. Yet, the reason I wanted to open my own nightclub had nothing to do with the consumption of alcoholic beverages or the advancement of breeder-based mating rituals, I simply wanted to subject complete strangers to the kind of music I liked. Of course, my dream of being the next Peter Gaetian never really materialized. And it's true, a total lack of effort on my part was the deciding factor. But I did eventually work my up to becoming a modestly successful nightclub flunky. You may be asking yourself: What are some of the benefits to becoming a "modestly successful nightclub flunky"? I'm glad you asked. Well, for starters, you'll never have to wait in line again (if the club you frequent changes bouncers on a semi-regular basis, this process could take a little longer than expected). And you'll never have to...actually, that's it as far as benefits go, but getting your skull-buckle boot-adorned feet through the front door with your dignity fully intact is probably one of the most important things a potential nightclub flunky can achieve during his or her lifetime. While I was a master when it came to getting past the bouncers, things didn't go as smoothly as I would have liked once I ventured beyond the velvet rope. I don't know, I guess I'm allergic to drunk people and abhor shitty music.
 

 

Truth be told, looking back on things, I don't think I ever enjoyed my time as a "nightclub flunky." In fact, you could say the same thing about concerts. No, the only experience I recall extracting anything close to resembling a "good time" from was the raves I attended. And the final scene in Jocks, an elaborate stage show with clunky robots and sexy dancers, reminded me of your typical early '90s era rave (that is, if your typical early '90s era rave took place at the Ontario Science Centre).
 

 

The film, directed by Riccardo Sesani, tracks how two men, despite many ups and one or two downs, end up throwing the dance party of the century.
 

 

A chance meeting sets the stage for this event, one that will change the course of Italo disco history, when a macho lighting expert named H-Fi (Tom Hooker) picks up an effeminate disc jockey named DeeJay (Russel Russel) while hitchhiking. After greeting the excitable DJ with a punch in the face, Hi-Fi invites DeeJay to ride in the cab of his massive truck. Wait a minute. Why did Hi-Fi punch DeeJay in the face? Yeah, I guess I should explain that. Okay, from where I was sitting, it looked like DeeJay might have thrown Hi-Fi an obscene finger gesture; hence the punch to the face. Either way, the two become fast friends, despite the fact that they usually start and end every conversation with a punch to the face, and start talking, in rapid fire Italian, about music. 
 

 

Sharing a mutual love for Italo disco, Hi-Fi and DeeJay wind up in the town of Rimini, where the former is supposed to install lights for a nightclub that is about to open. After employing some interracial highfives in the DJ booth of an another nightclub, Hi-Fi and DeeJay decide to form an alliance. It would seem that they work well together; if only they could stop punching each other in the face.
 

 

The plan is to open their own disco. But not just any disco. Their club will be the greatest disco the Adriatic Coast has ever seen. Working from from the back of Hi-Fi's truck, the "America Videodiscoteca," the pair, whose shirts are always scant in sleeve department, hit the streets in search of financial backing. Wearing a pink shirt, which, strangely, had sleeves (they were rolled up, of course), Hi-Fi starts off by schmoozing a local business man at the Park Hotel. The funny part about this scene, besides the fact that Tom Hooker's shirt has sleeves, is that the business man kept telling his leggy daughter to shut up.
 

 

Actually, while Hi-Fi is looking for backers, DeeJay is doing what he does best, and that is, shopping for records in a slightly gay manner. But then again, DeeJay does everything in a slightly gay manner.
 

 

On top of that schmoozing, they also use Hi-Fi's truck cab as a mobile promotional tool (DeeJay spreads the word via the truck's public address system while Hi-Fi drives) and they plaster the city with posters. And judging by the poster's contents, it looks like opening night will feature the Italo disco music of The Creatures, a group not to be confused with the Siouxsie and the Banshees side project of the same name. You better get good look at the posters while you can, because a bike gang is about to tear most of them down. If that wasn't enough, their chief investor, the business man with the leggy daughter, is arrested for fraud.
 

 

There's no time to worry about any of this, as a shapely brunette woman named, oh, let's call her, Sabrina–you know, after famed Italian pop star, Sabrina Salerno–is about to complicate the lives Hi-Fi and DeeJay even more. Played by, get this, an actress named "Patricia Moore," the destitute Sabrina is allowed to sleep in the back of Hi-Fi's truck. How 'bout that, huh? Sure they punch each other face over the course of a single day more than most people shake hands during an entire week, and they hate sleeves with a misguided passion. But deep down, they're nice guys.
 

 

Switching up their duties, DeeJay sweet talks a rich woman; telling her that their disco will be the best in the world. While Hi-Fi starts to get romantically involved with Sabrina. I don't know if it was DeeJay's meeting with the mature rich lady or the fact that Hi-Fi is dating Sabrina. Whatever is was, Hi-Fi and Deejay get into their biggest fight yet. Usually, their brawls begin and end with one of them sucker punching the other. But this one was different in that the person on the receiving end of the of the sucker punch actually returns the favour. Anyway, I think a love triangle between Hi-Fi, DeeJay and Sabrina is starting to form. I wonder if this will further complicate their efforts to open their club at L'Altro Mondo Studios. Probably. In meantime, let's enjoy some montages set to the music of The Creatures.
 

 

As a person who listened to the radio for a large chunk of their adolescence, I was forced to absorb all kinds of innocuous garbage masquerading as music. You see, the playlist put together by your typical program director normally reflected the narrow confines of the English-speaking world. Meaning, only artists from Canada, U.S.A., U.K. and Australia/New Zealand need apply. To be fair, there were places on the dial that would play artists from nations other than the one's I just listed. But, for most part, they usually stuck with Anglophone artists. A genre where language shouldn't have been an issue is the one featured in Jocks, and that is, Italo disco. An umbrella term used to describe any form of electronic disco pop from Europe, Italo disco songs were sung in English. Now, some people don't like the term "Italo disco," as not all Italo disco artists were from Italy. But whenever you here someone complaining about an artist's music being called "Italo" when they're not from Italy, always remember that nationalism is a form a mental illness. At any rate, my point is, unshackled by the restraints of radio, nowadays a person can listen to any style of music they want, whenever they want.
 

 

Speaking of which, here are all the songs heard throughout Jocks: The Creatures - "May Be One Day," "Breaking Breaking" by Bata Drum, The Creatures - "Believe In Yourself" (this song is played during the film's epic finale and features the gorgeous Patricia Moore dancing in a super-tight black leotard), "Queen of Witches" by Kano (great track, but you might be more familiar with his other Italo anthem, "Another Life"), The Creatures - "Starting From Here" (the lyrics of this song pretty much explain the film's plot), "Let's All Dance" by Band Of Jocks, The Creatures - "Inspiration," "Fantasize" by Orlando Johnson and Trance, The Creatures - "Aida," and "Shame" by Stephany.
 

 

Even though the genre has been around since at least the mid-70s, it took me until 2005 to know of its existence. And one of the artists I quickly familiarized myself with were The Creatures, a band formed in 1981. Using an elaborate stage show to present their synth-heavy sound, the group use flamboyant sci-fi costumes, dancers, lights and pyrotechnics as part of their act. Well, in the film Jocks, we get a front row view of this show during the dialogue-free finale. You could argue that the film would have been better off had the whole thing been dialogue-free, as the montages were the film's greatest asset. But that's neither here not there. What is here, and, in some cases, there, is the spectacle of the film's finale.
 

 

A weird mix of Barbarella, Starcrash and the "Carrousel" scene from Logun's Run, the finale is an exhaustively awesome exercise in '80s excess. It only makes sense that the show Hi-Fi, DeeJay, and The Creatures put on be over the top, especially when you consider the amount effort, face punching, and sleeveless elbow grease they put into it. Of course, some might say the surly extras who play the audience members let them down in the end. But I found their surliness to be strangely appropriate, as most club-goers, when you get right down to it, are huge assholes. Which, if you think about it, is a fittingly way to sum up the relationship between the artist and his or her audience. The artist wants to express themselves in a profound manner, the audience simply wants to get drunk and get their genitals wet.

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Tapeheads (Bill Fishman, 1988)

Firstly, let me start off by saying that I needs to get some chicken and waffles down my gizzard toot sweet. I don't know what it is, but I've recently developed a serious hankering for deep fried bird meat and pancake-based breakfast food. Oh, and if that wasn't kooky enough, I've also acquired this sane yet remarkably specific desire to chew on Mary Crosby's thighs (yeah, that's right, the same Mary Crosby who played the scheming Kristin Shepard on Dallas). I'm no addiction specialist, so I can't possible begin to speculate as to why I've become infected by these peculiar afflictions at this particular point in the space-time continuum. However, I did just finish watching Tapeheads, a wonderfully sardonic film that was recommended to me, oh, let's say, four or five million years ago by an astute linguist whose love for The Swanky Modes is legendary, and if there are two things people takeaway from this curious undertaking that repeatedly shuns the unsubstantiated tenants of antiquated verbosity, it's that fried chicken should always be served with waffles, and that Mary Crosby has succulent thighs. Actually, if you think about it–putting aside the waffles for a minute–it seem the items I'm currently obsessed with are both leg-based meals. Of course, one of the items is consumed for real, while the other, depending on the level of your kink, is consumed figuratively. Either way, you gotta love it when a warped theory comes together in a manner that seems truly organic, but in reality, was completely accidental.

Speaking of which, accidental greatness is what propels a couple of music video directors to great heights in Tapeheads, a film that celebrates, and, at the same time, mocks the music industry with a playful aplomb. Wait a minute, did I just say that it celebrates the music industry? No way, man, if anything, this film, directed by Bill Fishman and produced by Michael Nesmith (Repo Man), mostly mocks it, and it does so in a manner that was spot-on in terms of skewering a subject matter ripe for scornful derision. Record label execs who expect their minions to work for free, mullet-sporting Animotion-wannabes from Sweden, heavy metal fans who abuse the word "awesome" (Zander "there's fuckin' room to move as a fry cook" Schloss plays a headbanger who attends a concert that might feature Menudo, "might" because the marquee says "maybe Menudo"), and right-wing politicians who like to be spanked by women who look like Susan Tyrrell and Courtney Love, all get ridiculed to some agree in this satire of that faraway world that was once dominated by music television.

Nowadays, I can watch any music video I want, whether it be a scintillating slab of italo disco or an ear-destroying piece of post-industrial sex music. My eyes are never more than a click away from immersing themselves inside the warm, Mediterranean embrace of Sabrina Salerno's gyrating cleavage (in most cases I would have said "thighs," but I'm awfully close to using up my thigh quota for this entry, and I'm only on paragraph three). But back in the late '80s, what came in contact with our eyes and ears was strictly regulated by the reticulated forces of unseen lameness. Think about that, a small group, or, in some cases, a single individual, would dictate what kind of music you could and could not listen to. Put another way, while I was bravely enduring music videos by the likes of Honeymoon Suite and Glass Tiger, classic clips by Fancy and Missing Persons were going completely unmolested by my discerning eye and ear areas.

Disturbed by the fact that the cultural landscape is being saturated with shoddily produced music videos, two childhood friends who used to work as security guards decide to start their own video company called "Video Aces." Handling the business end of things is Ivan Alexeev (John Cusack), a real go-getter who seems to be channeling Midge Ure circa Vienna, while the more artistic inclined Josh Tager (Tim Robbins) supplies the creativity. Acquiring a spacious studio loft, free of charge, thanks to Belinda (Katy Boyer), a painter with a penchant for volumizing scrunchies and shooting her canvas with the occasional shotgun blast, Ivan lands the fledgling startup a gig directing a commercial for a local fast food restaurant.

An instant classic the moment Roscoe (King Cotton), the self-assured purveyor of Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles, enters the frame, this particular commercial, despite having a middle-aged white guy rapping at its core, is a smashing success. Sure, Ivan and Josh are paid in chicken and waffles (which apparently are "just pancakes with little squares on 'em"), but sheer scope of the yellow and black world they create, one that features a trio of succinct soul sisters who cross their legs in unison while singing about chicken and waffles, gives them the confidence to seek out bigger clients. Okay, gigs that involve filming séances for recently deceased dogs and the living wills of a bedridden men aren't exactly setting their bank accounts on fire, but it's a start.

What does a music video made on "spec" look like exactly? Well, it kinda looks like three Swedes trying to play synthesizers while having buckets of house paint dumped on their mullet-covered heads (glitter, feathers, fireworks, and water from a fire hose come later). Hired by the dapper Moe Fuzz (Don Cornelius), CEO of Fuzzball Records, the Video Aces land a plum job directing a music video for "Baby Doll," the new single by Cube-Squared (which, in reality, is a DEVO song). Unfortunately, they're working on spec, which means they're not getting paid (not even in chicken and waffles), and, to make matters worse, the video they submitted, according to Mr. Fuzz, "lacks production value" (in other words, no "tits and ass").

Frustrated by their inability to catch a break, the music industry is a fickle hosebeast, Ivan and John decide to apply some "shrewd market penetration," and find themselves at an upscale party hosted by Norman Mart (Clu Gulager), a well-hung presidential hopeful ("I'll put my slab on the yard stick against Gorby any day," he boasts at a press conference) and his garishly dressed wife, Kay Mart (the fabulous Jessica Walter). There to videotape the limbo themed festivities, the Video Aces get unintentionally sucked into a botched blackmail scheme conceived by Nikki Morton (Susan Tyrrell), Norman's excitable mistress (you have to admire a guy who employs Susan Tyrrell as his go-to deviant). The mildly depraved politician (he likes to ride Miss Tyrrell while wearing in a pink tutu) looses track of a videotape containing a previous session of perverted madness, so he orders his team of special agents to find it.

Of course, the tape ends up in the possession of the Video Aces. But more importantly, Ivan gets to massage the exquisite thighs attached to the sultry frame belonging to Samantha Gregory (the gorgeous Mary Crosby), a rock journalist/foxy babe/no-nonsense business woman. Just a second, why is he massaging her thighs? Covered in a maze of thigh-accentuating laces, Samantha's tight-fitting, burgundy dress is being felt up by Ivan because he was looking for a missing contact lens. Duh, squared. Anyway, impressed by his hands on approach to finding her missing contact, his obsession with money and success, and, of course, his overall Midge Ure circa Vienna vibe, Samantha decides that she wants to exploit Ivan for her own personal gain (that's people did in the '80s).

Since new wave and white rap has already been properly mocked, it's time for Tapeheads to ridicule the pomposity of heavy metal, and who better to encapsulate that pomposity than Stiv Bators as the leader a band called The Blender Children. Now you'd think I'd dig this scene because it features scantily clad women jumping into a giant blender, but I actually preferred Xander Berkley's use of the c-word and the fact that one of the blender bimbos asks Tim Robbins to teach her how to read. Oh, and keeping you abreast of Mary Crosby's wardrobe (designed by Elizabeth McBride): she wears a black leather dress with a matching pair of gloves during this sequence.

My favourite scene was the one where Samantha, nunchucks/black leather, and Belinda, duel butterfly knives/red pajamas, engage in a battle for the very soul of the Video Aces. You could say that their fight represented the overall temperament of the 1980s: Samantha, who craves fame and worships material wealth, vs. Belinda, who's all about artistic integrity and neon scrunchies. Well, whatever it represented, nothing beats the sight of Mary Crosby wielding nunchucks.

"You look ravishing and I'd like to chew on your thighs." And with that forthright utterance, John Cusack's Ivan Alexeev jumps to the top of my list of beloved movie characters. Akin to Craig Wasson's panty rescue in Body Double, Ivan's compliment with cannibalistic overtones to Samantha while they dined together at a seafood restaurant was the sanest thing I've heard uttered in a motion picture in a long time. Making matters even more awesome, he also tells her that he wants to flambe her flesh with his tongue. (I'm telling you, I love this guy!) These are the kind of thoughts that rattle around inside my head while I'm riding the subway, and to see someone in a movie actually verbalize these thoughts was mind-blowing.

If things couldn't get any better, after dinner (don't judge me to harshly, but I made an actual laughing sound when John Cusack mistakenly took a sip from a candle), Ivan and Samantha head over to the local cemetery, where he inspects the tightness of her red and black lingerie with a probing beam of light (a.k.a. a flashlight).

Accidentally recording the audio from The Blender Children video shoot onto a tape containing black and white footage of a funeral they shot recently, Ivan and Josh are shocked to learn that their apparent fuck up is being hailed as a work of post modern genius (a critic played by John Fleck declares it so at a viewing party) after it airs on RVTV (the luminous Martha Quinn introduces the clip). And just like that, Video Aces become the darlings of the music video world. However, unlike most inadvertently successful people during the 1980s, Ivan and Josh, well, Josh, anyway, are determined to use their new-found success for good instead of evil. This goodness manifests itself when they decide to help resurrect the career of The Swanky Modes (Sam Moore and Junior Walker), a washed up singing duo that Ivan and Josh have been huge fans of since they were kids.

The plan is to commandeer a Menudo benefit concert (one that is being shown around the world via the miracle that is satellite television) by inserting The Swanky Modes onto the bill instead. Of course, things don't quite work the way Ivan and Josh had originally planned (don't forget, Norman Mart's merry band of incompetent henchman are still looking for the missing videotape), but in the end, after Samantha is finished dodging shrapnel (kudos to Mary Crosby for doing her own stunts), The Swanky Modes take the stage and rock the house with a stirring rendition of "Ordinary Man." The End. Oh, and the word "waffle" is paired with "unlawful" during Roscoe's closing credits rap.

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