Powder (Victor Salva, 1995)

Hey, 1995. What's with all the slack-jawed gawking? Haven't you ever seen a guy in a fedora before? I know, it's been nearly ten years since Duckie donned his iconic old-timey chapeau in Pretty In Pink, so, it's probably been quite some time since you seen anyone outside of an old black and white movie wearing one. But still, you really need to get over your fear of fedoras, it's so unbecoming, it's so... 1995. What's that? Really? Well, I've just been informed that 1995 wasn't just staring at Jeremy 'Powder' Reed (Sean Patrick Flanery), the lead character in Powder, because he was wearing a fedora, a lot of it had to with the fact that he's so pale (and, before you ask, yes, I consider "1995" to be a sentient life form). You mean to tell me that they don't have Goths or Goth-adjacent people in this part of Texas? I mean, if Jeff Goldblum is allowed to be a science teacher, I'm sure they can deal with a rat pack reject with gothy skin. What think I'm trying to say is: I found the town's reaction to Powder's chalky complexion to be a tad over the top. However, at one point Lance Henriksen's Sheriff character does remind his Deputy (Brandon Smith), who finds Powder's ashy appearance to be off-putting, the irony of a Texas police officer being prejudiced against another human being for being too white.

Speaking of things that are ironic, anyone else find it odd that Powder's primary antagonist looked exactly like Eddie Vedder? It's true, Pearl Jam technically didn't release an album in 1995, but I think most of you will agree that no-one represents 1995 more than Eddie Vedder. And if there's one thing the Eddie Vedder's of this world hate, it's pigmentally-challenged hipsters who dress like Dean Martin circa 1955.

That, and super-smart freaks of nature who are able to cleanse, fold and manipulate the forces of the universe; they totally hate people like that.

After causing cafeteria cutlery to smoosh together of its own accord and showing a deer hunter the face of death, you would think the Eddie Vedder-aligned populace would learn that you shouldn't mess with albinos from Texas, especially one's who have memorized Moby Dick. But if they didn't, mess with them, that is, there wouldn't be a movie. And who wants to live in a world without movies like Powder? I know I sure don't. Seriously, this movie is uplifting and shit. It's like Begotten meets Edward Scissorhands, and it features Susan Tyrrell!

Not to continue to pick on 1995, but I have to say, Powder couldn't have picked a worse time to emerge from his cellar. I know, he had no way of knowing that his grandpa would was going to kick the bucket in 1995, nor did he know that 1995 going to be such an asshole. But still, 1995 is no place for... (Pigmentally-challenged hipsters who dress like Dean Martin circa 1955?) Exactly.

If Powder had, oh, let's say, emerged from his cellar in 1977, he would have been the toast of New York City. However, instead of hanging out with Andy Warhol, Little Edie and Bianca Jagger at Studio 54, Powder is stuck with a bunch of bland, non-cocaine abusing ninnies.

Anyway, after Powder's grandpa dies, Sheriff Doug Barnum (Lance Henriksen) enlists the help of Jessie Caldwell (Mary Steenburgen), who is the director of a reform school for troubled boys. (Where the fuck is the school for troubled girls?!?) I have no idea. Nevertheless, since Powder is still a minor, he's forced to live at this place, which, yep, you guessed it, is also home to Eddie Vedder and his evil band of moistly sprocketed toadies.

Accusing him of being a "vampire from outer space" and asking him if he's was kicked out of "cancer camp," Eddie Vedder makes it's clear that he doesn't like Powder from day one. And it's when Eddie Vedder tries to initiate the hairless newcomer (some stupid ritual involving a spoon), that he gives him his first taste of his Powder power.

(Hold up, you mean to tell me that Eddie Vedder gets multiple tastes of Powder's powerful Powder power?) Yeah, so? (Didn't he learn his lesson during the first demonstration?) Oh, I hear what you're saying. That's just it, the Eddie Vedder's of this world are super-stubborn. In other words, it's going to take a lot more than causing forks and spoons to collide with one another in the cafeteria of a Texas all boys reform school to quash this bully.

Allowed to attend a regular high school, Powder, using the muscles in his neck, turns his head to look at Lindsey (Missy Crider) during science class. Of course, Mr. Ripley (Jeff Goldblum), notices this, and incorporates it into his lesson plan. I was surprised Powder didn't give Mr. Ripley a look as if to say: "Uncool, bro... uncool" (in other words, cock block my chalk-covered cock again and I'll cold cock you). But since he's the kind of person who is amazed by power windows, no such look is forthcoming.

Anyone else think it was somewhat peculiar that on his first day of school Powder attends a class that boasts a demonstration of a Jacob's Ladder? Talk about your plot contrivances. Either way, Powder is zapped with enough electricity to kill five elephants. After a brief stay at the hospital, Powder is told by Ray Wise that he's a genius. When this happens, I was like, great, let's get this boy to New York City, or at the very least, Dallas. But what happens instead? Powder goes on a camping trip with Eddie Vedder. This movie is starting to make less and less sense as it goes along.

Senselessness aside, I did experience some mild wetness in and around my eye-holes during certain moments. However, in all honesty, that just means the film is good at manipulating saps who are easily moved. And manipulating saps is like shooting fish in a barrel. That being said, I ain't no sap. Meaning, it must have been my allergies that were causing my eye-holes to well up. (But you don't have any allergies.) Shut the fuck up. There's no way I'm admitting in public that I was moved to tears by a movie this maudlin. Uh-uh, it's not going to happen. Powder is a movie I watched. If you want to do the same, be my guest. Warning: The film, for the most part, does take place in 1995.

Night Warning (William Asher, 1982)

Let me quickly start things off by giving all you fine folks out there some free advice: Never turn your back on Susan Tyrrell when she's holding a meat cleaver. I don't care if it seems like she's in a good mood, the odds that she will try to hit you with said meat cleaver the moment you turn your back are pretty high. In fact, forget about not turning your back, I would avoid being in the presence of Susan Tyrrell all-together when she's holding a meat cleaver. On the other hand, if I was in Susan Tyrrell's kitchen (let's say I was over there to fix her television) and she began hiking up her skirt in an erotic manner, I would be tickled pink by the sudden upshot in Susan Tyrrell-based titillation. Now, both the scenarios I just put forth do occur in the decidedly off-kilter Night Warning, but it was the so-called "sudden upshot in Susan Tyrrell-based titillation" that sent me over the edge. Envious that Phil Brody (Caskey Swaim), television repairman extraordinaire, was chosen by Susan Tyrrell's Aunt Cheryl to be the man to satisfy her sexual hunger, I sat back and waited for Phil to mount his shapely prize on the kitchen table with bated breath.

Get between those milky thighs, you lucky bastard. Get between them real good. Is what I thought to myself, when I realized that Phil was about to be taken on a wild, pelvic ride.

However, the only thing that's going to be penetrated on this day is Phil's jugular. You heard right, Phil rebuffs Aunt Cheryl's attempt to seduce him. I'll get to jugular penetration in a minute. But let's just say I was flabbergasted by the sight of Phil rejecting the advances of an amorous of Susan Tyrrell; I had trouble fathoming that anyone in their right mind would this.

I mean, does this movie really expect me to believe that a grown man would turn down a free helping of Susan Tyrrell-orchestrated poontang?

Just as I was about to dismiss this movie as unrealistic poppycock, the film throws us a plot twist that does a lot to explain why Phil shunned Aunt Cheryl's lewd overture so assertively.

While a plot twist like this would have been greeted with yawns if it were from a movie made today, back in 1982, the subject was still taboo.

The gayest horror film to come out of the 1980s, Night Warning (a.k.a. Butcher, Baker, Nightmare Maker) doesn't receive this distinction because the film's primary crime solver is a raging bigot with a grudge against "fags." Nor does it receive this distinction because Susan Tyrrell has an inordinate amount of camp appeal. No, the reason this film is so gay is because Jimmy McNichol appears shirtless onscreen a total of seven times. If I have to explain why that's gay, then you clearly don't know gay.

Oh, and, yes, I kept track of how many times Jimmy McNichol appears topless in this movie; it's what I do.

It's a good thing Julia Duffy, the actress who plays Jimmy's heterosexual girlfriend, Julia, was wearing black pantyhose when she talks to a shirtless Jimmy during basketball practice. (Why?) Isn't it obvious? Her pussy would have exploded otherwise. (That doesn't make a lick of sense.) Um, the tightness of her black pantyhose no doubt bore the brunt of the vaginal blast. Duh.

What I think I'm trying to say is this: Whether you're gay, straight, somewhere in-between or Bill Paxton, your genitals won't stand a chance when up against the shirt-free onslaught Jimmy McNichol unleashes in this movie.

You could say this is why Aunt Cheryl (Susan Tyrrell) is so possessive of Jimmy... she wants him all to herself.

After opening with a flashback that shows Billy's parents being killed in a horrific traffic accident back in the late 1960s (his dad's face is smashed in by a log), we jump forward to the early 1980s, where a teenage Billy (Jimmy McNichol) is living in a large house with his Aunt Cheryl. I was going to say that things seem normal enough, but I just remembered that Susan Tyrrell plays Aunt Cheryl. Now, I'm not saying Susan Tyrrell can't play a sane person. But let's get real, shall we? I mean, look at the way Aunt Cheryl wakes up Billy. That's just plain weird.

While Aunt Chery putters around the house in ratty housecoats for most of the day, Billy can usually be found playing basketball at school (he's apparently quite good... despite not being Lithuanian).

Tired of being celibate, Aunt Cheryl gets fixed up and offers herself to the television repairmen. When he rejects her (he pushes her away), Aunt Cheryl does what any cock-starved shut-in would do, she stabs him to death. Just as this is taking place, Billy's comes home. Embarrassed that the television repairmen rejected her, Aunt Cheryl tells Billy that he tried to rape her; a story that Billy believes.

Unfortunately, the same can't be said of Detective Joe Carlson (Bo Svenson) and Sgt. Cook (Britt Leach), who have different theories as to what happened. And, yes, I meant to pluralize the word "theory." You see, Carlson and Cook both have differing opinions as to what transpired in Aunt Cheryl's kitchen. The former thinks Aunt Cheryl is a butch lesbian covering up for her gay son, who killed the gay television repairmen during a lover's quarrel involving Billy's gay basketball coach. While the latter thinks Aunt Cheryl is, to put it mildly, a psycho-hosebeast.

You might be thinking: Wow, Sgt. Cook's assessment of the case is dead-on. However, that doesn't mean it's an open and shut case. The problem is Det. Carlson is so obsessed with the case's gay angle, that all logic is thrown out the window.

I loved how Det. Carlson is set up to be the film's hero, but turns out to be the world's biggest asshole. Of course, I don't know if this was done on purpose or not, but his dogged determination to spin the case into a gay-themed homicide was one of the film's most appealing aspects. The key phrase there being "one of," as there's nothing more appealing than a movie that features a shirtless Jimmy McNichol and a more deranged than usual Susan Tyrrell.

Poison Ivy: The New Seduction (Kurt Voss, 1997)

While sitting down to sign her no-nudity clause, did it ever occur to Megan Edwards that they're are perverts out there who find nudity to be embodiment of dull? I wonder. Take, for example, the folds in the cloth of your average tennis skirt. The so-called "accordion effect" causes the perverted person looking at the ripples to become sexually aroused, especially if the pleated garment in question is moving from side to side. And if there's one thing I know about tennis–you know, besides the fact that Kim Clijsters has killer thighs–it's that pleated skirts have a mind of their own. You know, given the fact that they're always in motion when they're out on the court. Oh, hello. In case you're wondering. The pleated tennis skirt I'm currently talking about appears in, of all things, Poison Ivy: The New Seduction, the third chapter in the semi-popular series of erotic thrillers about duplicitous women in their late teens/early twenties who attempt to destroy the lives of wealthy middle-aged men, while, at the same time, try to corrupt the innocence of their teenage daughters. The reason I started off on that whole tangent about the pleated tennis skirt worn by Megan Edwards, and not something more logically sound, like, say, the tight grip of Jaime Pressly's golden thong, the drawn on resplendence of Susan Tyrrell's eyebrows, or even Michael Des Barres' off-kilter handsomeness, was because I was thinking about pleated tennis skirts as I sat down to write this about this non-abomination. Duh. You could also say that I want to build up to those other, decidedly more awesome things; spread them out more evenly over the course of this journey I'm about to embark on, if you will. It's a good idea, because this film, written by Karen Kelly and directed by Kurt Voss, is pretty stingy when it comes to doling out the camp and sleaze. In other words, you better be prepared for those agonizing moments when sex and violence are not the film's primary focus.

Ask anyone who has seen Poison Ivy: The New Seduction what their first thought was when the title "Poison Ivy: The New Seduction" flashes on the screen and I bet the answer will sound something like this, "Why am I watching Poison Ivy: The New Seduction"? As the opening credits continue, you'll notice the last cast member listed is Jaime Pressly, who is given the classic "and introducing" credit. It's during this moment that you finally realized why you started watching this film in the first place. From my perspective, the prospect of watching an erotic thriller starring two of my favourite actors, Susan Tyrrell (Forbidden Zone) and Michael Des Barres (Nightflyers), was something that I was perfectly at ease with. Though, I will admit, seeing Jaime Pressly's name in the credits did put my mind at ease.

We will have to wait at least five more minutes before Jaime Pressly appears onscreen, because it seems that producers of Poison Ivy: The New Seduction have decided to open their film with a flashback to 1985. I know what you're thinking, "but I want to see Jaime Pressly act all evil and junk right now," be patient, she's coming. In the meantime, let's ridicule their pathetic attempt recreate 1985, shall we? The film opens with a pool boy driving his beat up car through a posh L.A. neighbourhood circa 1985. How did I know it was 1985? Well, the radio in his car is playing a baseball game where the announcer repeatedly mentions that it's 1985. And, hey, if the man on the radio says it's 1985, it's 1985.

Planning to do more than clean the pool, the pool boy grabs Rebecca (Athena Massey), the housekeeper for the Greer family, and the two of them proceed to "get in on." As they struggled to take off each other's clothing, I couldn't help but notice that Rebecca's lingerie was totally wrong. The shape of her panties practically screamed Joan Severance's panties in Lake Consequence. (Any Lake Consequence fans in the house? *crickets*) Meaning, her panties were from the future! And not only that, her boobies seemed off in terms of eighties era buoyancy. The only things they did get right was Michael Des Barres' Ray-Ban sunglasses. (If you wan't to look like a bag that contained a plethora of douche-like properties in 1985, you wore Ray-Ban sunglasses.)

The reason we're languishing in this anachronistic reenactment of 1985 is to establish the origins of Violet's bitterness. You see, the reason the eight year-old version of Violet (Teneya Erich) is going to grow up to be a ruthless dominatrix is because her mother, Rebecca, a woman whose hair is surprisingly flat given the fact that "Obsession" by Animotion was currently burning up the charts, is kicked out of the house after she's caught having an affair with the pool boy. It didn't help matters that the affair she was having with Ivan Greer (Michael Des Barres) was exposed to his wife, Catherine Greer (Merete Van Camp), five seconds after the pool boy affair came to light.

Well, Violet's back, and she now looks like Jaime Pressly; if you listen carefully, you can hear the audience gasp as her right foot, which is affixed with a strappy high-heel shoe, sets foot on the Greer driveway for the first time in eleven years. Hoping to reconnect with Joy Greer (Megan Edwards), her best friend back in 1985 (growing up in the same house, they were practically sisters), Violet cautiously approaches the Greer estate and is greeted at the door by their new maid Mrs. B. (Susan Tyrrell). Wait a minute, Susan Tyrrell is playing the maid?!? I was hoping that she might play the sexy aunt or at very least Joy's deranged piano teacher. Oh well. Anyway, wearing a red, belly revealing top, Violet and Joy, who is wearing a white pleated tennis skirt with a light blue top, embrace one another like nothing ever happened (yay! girl hugs!).

Even though she didn't ask, Violet somehow manages to convince Joy's father to let her stay in the guest room, by giving them this sob story about working as a waitress to save up enough money so that she can attend a junior college ("being twenty is hard," she tells Ivan and Joy at one point). And before you know it, Violet is washing herself in a bathtub with swan-shaped fixtures and fittings.

Meanwhile, Joy is in her room combing her hair. Counting each brush stroke (she's at ninety when we catch up with her), it would seem that Joy has an obsessive–compulsive disorder. I wonder if Violet is going to take advantage of that? In case we were having doubts about Violet's intentions, Jaime Pressly flashes the first of her many, "I'm about to do some evil shit" looks at this point in the film. It's a good thing they reminded me that Violet was up to no good, because I was beginning to think that she sincere about wanting to bond with the Greer family. Just kidding, the expression Jaime Pressly wears on her face throughout Poison Ivy: The New Seduction practically oozes trouble; and I mean trouble with a capital 'T,' even I initially spelled it with a small 't.'

If anyone in the audience is still having trouble picking up on Jaime Pressly's "cruel intentions," they show her putting on her dominatrax outfit to quell any lingering doubts surrounding Violet's sinister plans. I didn't need to be told that Violet's personality was a tad unhinged, but I did appreciate the scene from a titillation point-of-view. Gliding her hands along the surface of the fishnet stocking attached to her right leg, Violet makes sure that there are no bumps or creases in the diamond-shaped material. Why is she doing this? Well, she realizes that Joy's boyfriend Michael (Greg Vaughn), who she met at a backyard party for Joy's preppy friends (keep an eye out for Susan Ward, she's the one who mocks Violet for attending a junior college), is frustrated by Joy's lack of enthusiasm when it comes to engaging in sexual intercourse during the mid-to-late nineties, and intends on exploiting this nugget of gossip by seducing Michael with her volumizing ponytail and her leather lingerie (I liked how it made this creaking sound whenever she got up).

Didn't it make you feel a little bit sad when you saw Susan Tyrrell reduced to buttering toast in Poison Ivy: The New Seduction? Of course it did. She should be wearing wild makeup and telling squares to go fuck themselves, not making Jaime Pressly's bed. However, I'll watch Susan Tyrrell in just about anything. And, as I like to say, it looks like I just did. At any rate, while I enjoyed the scenes where Susan's Mrs. B verbally sparred with Jaime's Violet, I thought she was pretty much squandered in this movie.

Unfamiliar with how the fast-forward and rewind buttons work on your media player? Don't fret, the producers of Poison Ivy: The New Seduction are here to lend a helping hand. Hold up, did a pool side Jaime Pressly just drop her robe to reveal her beautiful ass ensnared in a golden thong? Yeah, that just happened. Pretty awesome, eh? What do you mean you weren't paying attention? Well, don't worry, the robe drop is shown multiple times from different angles and at varying speeds. Possessing the temperament of a true artist, editor John Rosenberg (Mannequin: On the Move) molds and shapes the sequence in a manner that will surely satisfy the alarmingly specific whims of every pervert, deviant and weirdo watching at home.

Oh, and just in case anyone was wondering, the reason Violet dropped her robe in the manner in which she did was in order to lay the groundwork for her eventual seduction of Joy's father. And judging by the frazzled expression on Michael Des Barres' face, the enticement-based foundation has been sufficiently laid.

Getting Joy and her friend/tennis instructor Jaimie (Shanna Moakler) drunk (a scene awash with plenty of pleated tennis skirts), chatting openly on the telephone with her one of her dominatrix clients (a conversation Mrs. B purposely overhears), pretending to have lesbian sex with a passed out Jaimie (she tricks her into thinking that they spent the night having kinky sex with one another), performing Red Shoe Diaries-approved heterosexual sex (nipples are deliberately soaked in champagne) on Michael (plus, plant a vile of crack cocaine in his jacket when he's not looking), and gingerly massage Ivan's spreadsheets with her fingers (she treats his spreadsheets like they were his cock and/or poodle), Violet, as you can see, is laying a shitload of groundwork. Whether it pays it off or not, is anyone's guess. But be that as it may, you got to admire Violet's tenacity when it came to messing with these upper class twits. After all, she's here to "play to win," as she often says to herself during moments of evil self-reflection.

People often stop me as I'm, oh, let's say, strolling across College St., or gallivanting along Queen St. West, and tell me, "I wouldn't have taken you for a Jaime Pressly fan." Well, for starters, I think the main reason for their disbelief has a lot to do with Jaime's appearance. When you look at the blonde enchantress from certain angles, she does come off as just another in a long line of fashion models who have tried to make the transition to acting. However, if you stare at her for an inordinate amount of time, you'll notice that there's a fearlessness emanating from her saucer-like eyes. Unafraid to appear foolish, or even downright stupid at times, Jaime's sexiness stems from the fact that she exudes confidence, yet she doesn't come across like a pompous git.

Even though I've yet to come across a vehicle that has been able to properly harness Jaime Pressly's unique talent, Poison Ivy: The New Seduction comes pretty close to capturing her essence as a sentient life form. Just look at the scene where she extracts a sticky dollop of baby boomer sperm from Ivan's aging reproductive system. Sure, a slinky, pucker-free red dress had a lot to do with the successful withdrawal, but it would be foolhardy for anyone to underestimate the power of Jaime's innate allure. How else can you explain the fact that I was rooting for Violet to ruin the lives of characters played by Susan Tyrrell and Michael Des Barres? I mean, do whatever you want to Greg Vaughn's Michael and Megan Edwards' Joy (they're a notch below showroom dummies in terms of charisma). But Miss Tyrrell and Mr. Des Barres? These are my peeps.

If you were to judge Poison Ivy: The New Seduction solely as an instructional guide on how to film Jaime Pressly dropping a robe with her back to the camera, you would have to declare it an unparalleled success. Yet, when evaluated purely as an erotic thriller, my enthusiasm is somewhat subdued. Well, the ending, for starters, was such a letdown (most audience members will no doubt feel gypped). And I thought the scenes that featured Jaime in her dominatrix gear were totally mishandled (the film needed more clear, unobstructed shots of her prancing around in her shiny outfit). So, in closing, I would only recommend the film to hardcore Jaime Pressly fans.

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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.

video uploaded by Darryl347
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