Malibu Express (Andy Sidaris, 1985)

Since my track record with films that contain the word "Malibu" is pretty rock solid, I decided to dive headfirst into Malibu Express while wearing nothing but a black lace négligée and a smugger-than-usual smirk on my face. I'm curious, did the floppy nature of the lace on your négligée happen to get caught on say, a protruding branch or rock before your body hit the film's bosomy surface with a resounding thud? No, but why do you ask? No reason. Actually, that's not entirely true. You see, I desperately wanted to see that precious smirk you always seem to wearing wiped clean off your exceedingly punchable face, and was interested to know if this film, written and directed by Andy Sidaris (Hard Ticket to Hawaii), was able to put a dent in that pompous bubble of unsubstantiated self-satisfaction you seem to float around in. Well, that's good to know. It's funny you should mention smirking, because the hero in this particular venture does a whole lot of smirking. In fact, he smirks so much, that it caused a riff to form in that special section of the space time continuum that oversees the implementation smirks within the known universe. While some folks might take issue with the amount of smirking that transpires in this flick, I, on the other hand, had no problems whatsoever with its abundance of first-class simpering. Besides, if you were a babe magnetic on the level of which Darby Hinton is as Cody Abilene, your inflamed hindquarters would be fleering like a bi-curious banshee in heat as well. Call me loopy and unhinged, but I feel sorry for all the heterosexual men who inadvertently stumble across this film while cleaning out their tool sheds. On top of sporting a red DeLorean DMC-12 (non-structural brushed stainless steel catnip for the straight boy in all of us), the sheer number of hotties and temptresses who prance, gesticulate and cavort about during this unnecessarily convoluted enterprise will cause the genitals of the discerning men in the audience to melt into a pile of thoroughly emasculated goo.
 

 

Okay, maybe "thoroughly emasculated" is somewhat of an overstatement. But I guarantee, they're will be goo. Why? Well, because there's not a dud in the bunch. Every actress, and, I'll be the first to admit, the term "actress" is a bit of a stretch in some cases, whether they're playing a race car driver with large breasts or a phone sex operator with delicate toes, puts in a herculean effort in terms of putting their body on the line for the benefit of art. There were times when I thought the wanton display of womanly flesh was a tad excessive, but, for the most part, I...Wait a second. Did you just use the words "flesh" and "excessive" in the same sentence?!? Bad pervert. 
 

 

You might have noticed during all that smirk talk that I called Cody a "hero." Now, as most as people know, I don't usually use that term, as I find it be crass and unseemly. However, I'm willing to make an exception in Cody's case, because his desire for justice doesn't leave a trail of bullet-ridden corpses. Sure, henchmen do end up getting shot, some even lose their lives at the end of the day, but Cody's lack of skill when it came to the handling of firearms means that there a lot henchmen walking around out there who wouldn't be if he wasn't such a lousy shot. We get a firsthand taste of his firearm incompetence when Cody takes his trusty .44 Magnum down to firing range in the films opening scene. Sure, as he brags later on (he hit the board that held the target), but none landed on the actual target. 
 

 

Fans of antiquated technology will dig the opening credits, as they feature a secretary (complete with long fingernails) typing out the names of the cast and crew on an old computer. Which is fitting since the film is basically about unsavoury characters trying to sell American computers to the U.S.S.R.
 

 

Undaunted by his lousy showing down at the firing range, Cody heads over to the race track in his red DeLorean DMC-12 to meet June Khnockers (Lynda Wiesmeier), his race car driver girlfriend, and Rodney (Jeanine Vargas), her official photographer. I don't know what the purpose of this scene is exactly, but it does give us our first sighting of a pair of naked breasts. They belong to Miss Wiesmeier, and I must say, I wasn't that impressed. The sight of Lynda and Jeanine standing with their backs to the camera as Cody drove off, on the other hand, was quite impressive. Seriously, this film is gonna have its work cut out for it if it expects to top the image of Lynda (teal) and Jeanine (purple) standing on a race track wearing short shorts.
 

 

Two gals from Corpus Christi named Fay (Kimberly McArthur) and Faye (Barbara Edwards) make a valiant attempt to steal Lynda and Jeanine's thunder by surprising Cody at his house boat, the Malibu Express. And, judging by the amount of heterosexual drool that littered floor, they were  pretty successful. Again, I can't quite tell you what purpose this scene is supposed to serve in the grand scheme of things, but from the perspective of a rarely shaven, down of his luck bikini inspector, it was greatly appreciated. Just for the record: Faye's the brunette in the blue bikini and May's the blonde in the pink bikini twirling a baton.
 

 

It's a good thing Sybil Danning shows up when she did, as I was beginning to think that this film was going to be just a series of random scenes where some blonde dude with a mustache interacts with a bunch women who can't act. One of the few actresses in this film with any experience, Sybil commands the screen as Contessa Luciana, a secret agent working to stop the Russians from stealing U.S. technology. Wearing an alluring red and black off the shoulder number with shades (the entire ensemble looked like something she might have "borrowed" from the set of "V"), talks to some guy about who knows what. The important thing is that she's supposed to meet Cody for dinner. Bringing her a dress to wear, Cody, after she gets changed, accompanies Luciana to a fancy eatery. The dress Cody brought her, by the way, a red sequined monstrosity, was downright awful. Anyway, after wining and dining her, Cody smokes cigarettes and has dehydrating sexual intercourse with the contessa, in that order.
 

 

Given the task...Oh, have I mentioned that Cody is a womanizing private investigator from Texas? Well, he is. Given the task of watching over the Chamberlain's, a rich, mildly eccentric family living in Bel-Air, Cody ingratiates himself their matriarch, Lady Lillian Chamberlain (Niki Dantine), in order to find out who's been selling computer technology to the Soviets. Pulling up in a beat up Ford (the DeLorean needed to be serviced), Cody meets the aforementioned Lady Lillian, Shane (Brett Baxter Clark), their live-in butler/chauffeur, her daughters Anita (Shelley Taylor Morgan), a leggy gal with a perm (who enjoys tennis) who's having an affair with Shane on the side, and Liza (Lorraine Michaels), a non-permed brunette who might enjoy tennis (how the hell should I know?) who is also having an affair with Shane on the side, Anita's husband Stuart (Michael Andrews), who Cody thinks might be a little "light in the loafers," who is, of course, having an affair with Shane on the side, and Maid Marian (Robyn Hilton), their sexy housekeeper, who, for some strange reason, wears a giant blonde wig; I'm not entirely sure if she's having an affair with Shane on the side or not. But given Shane's voracious appetite for tight wet holes, I would be surprised if he was penetrating the maid's plush, fishnet pantyhose-adorned pussy on a semi-regular basis as well.
 

 

Just when I was starting to think that there were way too characters for me to keep track of in the Malibu Express universe, they introduce us to Sgt. Beverly (Lori Sutton), Cody's best friend/exercise buddy/occasional sex partner, and Peggy (Peggy Ann Filsinger), some brunette gym patron who appears in two scenes. In fact, why am I even mentioning the gym patron? Um, hello? She looked hot in a pink leotard. Yeah, but...No, you're right. That's a good enough reason. But still, half of these people have no business being in the film industry. Just because you were born with larger than normal breasts doesn't mean you should be allowed to utter dialogue in motion pictures, especially one's that have plots. I'm well aware that I'm contradicting what I said earlier about there not being "a dud in the bunch" when describing the "actresses" who appear in this movie. But now I would like to clearly state, with the exception Miss Danning, of course, that all the women who appear in Malibu Express are, for the most part, terrible actresses.
 

 

Anyway, it turns out that Shane doesn't have a voracious appetite for tight wet holes. Oh, sure, he doesn't mind doing it; penetrating them, that is. But the real reason he's doing it because he wants to blackmail them in order to help pay off the 30,000 dollars worth of gambling debts he's racked up. Using "state of the art video," he films himself having sex with the Chamberlain girls, Stuart included, and plans to extort money from them at a later date. Well, that "later date" has come sooner than expected, as the mob want their 30k right now. He decides to shakedown Stuart while driving him to a nightclub on Sunset Blvd., but he's having nothing of it. Why should he care? Everyone knows he's a card carrying friend of Dorothy. Following Shane's limo to the club, Cody is shocked when he discovers that Stuart has emerged dressed as a woman (he got dressed, or should I say, "glammed up," in the car). And not just any woman, a "gorgeous woman," as Cody puts it. Yep, I totally agree with Cody on this one, Michael Andrews is a fox.  Oh, and the fact Cody was able to appreciate Stuart's stunning appearance made me like him even more. He may be a good ol' boy from Texas, but he knows an attractive drag queen when he sees one.
 

 

At a swanky party being held at the Chamberlain estate the very next day, a catty Liza tells Anita that the maid was, and I quote, "Raped by two homosexuals. One held her down and the other did her hair." Ouch! At any rate, despite the fact that a lot of plot-based intrigue occurs during this particular shindig (one that allows women to wear sunglasses indoors), all I could think about was the sight of Sybil Danning in that snake skin bikini. I mean, damn!
 

 

Employing the help yet another character, Sexy Sally (Suzanne M. Regard), a sex phone operator with nice feet, Cody tracks down a lead. Luckily, Sgt. Beverly (whose feet are just as nice as Sexy Sally's) is there to bail him out when the bullets start to fly. While there's no doubt he's super smooth when it comes to the ladies (he practically has to beat them off with a stick), he can't shoot for shit. Just like his ability to appreciate an attractive drag queen, Cody's lack of skill when it came to firearms was oddly endearing.
 

A dumb movie with an overly complicated plot (Cody's explanation of all the plot details is exhausting), Malibu Express is lighthearted escapism for those who love naked breasts. Speaking of which, I don't know who told Lynda Wiesmeirer that her breasts had the power to persuade men to her bidding, because I thought they mostly induced sadness. If I would have to peg anyone in this movie to be in the possession of the kind of power to persuade others, it would have been Lori Sutton or Shelley Taylor Morgan, as their attractiveness seemed to come from a moist and sincere place.  

 

 

Ironically, the film's only genuine laugh is attained by an uncredited Andy Sidaris, who plays a Winnebago driver who picks up Cody and Lynda Wiesmeirer (and, yes, the reason he stopped was because Lynda flashed her breasts) after they get stranded in the middle of nowhere. Don't worry, though, it's not all tits and drag racing (Cody is periodically challenged to drag race by the Buffington family), Maid Marian wears fishnet pantyhose, Sexy Sally wears legwarmers at one point, Shelley Taylor Morgan looked absolutely smashing in her tennis gear, and don't forget about Peggy Ann Filsinger and her pink lycra spandex get-up.

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Chained Heat (Paul Nicholas, 1983)

My fragile grip on reality suffers another blow, as I find myself yet again under the drably attired spell of a women in prison film. It's gotten so bad, that every time the WiP movie I'm watching decides to leave the walls of the prison, the sebaceous cysts that litter my back feel like they're going to simultaneously explode. Of course, you could avert this pus-laden calamity by steering clear of the genre altogether. You have got to be kidding, right? And miss the opportunity to watch Linda Blair (Hell Night) and Sybil Danning (They're Playing with Fire) play inmates at a prison where John Vernon (Savage Streets) plays a hot-tubbing warden who likes to dabble in amateur pornography and Henry Silva (Megaforce) is a drug dealing pimp with a thing for fortysomething women who like to wear grey slacks? I don't think so. If you catch me watching Chained Heat II, then you'll definitely know I have a problem. Hell, I'll even check myself into rehab. But until then, let me enjoy my sleazy movies, I'm not hurting anyone. Spoken like a true addict. These films are not only rotting your brain, they're ruining your outlook on life. Remember that attractive woman you were telling me about? Yeah, the one you saw in the bookstore the other day. Well, do you recall what you told me the first thing that sprang to mind when you saw her coquettishly standing in the cookbook section? If memory serves me correctly, and it usually always does, the image of her fighting a group of unruly lesbians in the shower of a poorly run correctional facility was the first thing that popped into my head. You see, that right there, that's not even close to being normal. In fact, it's totally fucked up if you ask me. You used to be so well-adjusted, but now you're just creepy and sad. Really, you haven't imagined what total strangers might look like if they were to take part in a prison shower fight? Of course, I have. But that's not the point. My thoughts, unlike yours, aren't limited to shower fights. I think about wind surfing, crochet, antique furniture, cycling, and misappropriated anilingus. What you need to do is expand your horizons. Run a marathon, take kayaking lessons, read The Help, buy an electric toothbrush. In other words, branch out and embrace the non-prison shower fighting beauty of this world.

Is it okay if I write an obsessively wordy tangent about this particular movie? Like I said, it's got Linda Blair in it. Since you have already started, you might as well finish it. And besides, I'm dying to know what you thought about Marcia Karr's legs; word on the street is that they're killer in this flick.

You know how the sound of church bells ringing beckon the faithful, and how the laughter coming from a child's chocolate-stained laugh hole makes the elderly smile? (Ugh, just typing that gave me a yeast infection.) Well, the sound of keys jingling, prison bars slamming, women screaming, and nightsticks being purposely knocked against metal are what cheer me up when I'm down in the dumps. On a related note, do you know how some people like to sleep with those noise machine thingies by their bed? Yeah, well, if I was in charge of designing those "thingies," I would add "women's prison" to the list of available sounds. In fact, I'd slap that puppy right between "rainforest" and "white noise."

Informing us right from the get-go that the unnamed women's prison located on the banks of the L.A. River is no afternoon picnic with bass player from Fashion, Chained Heat opens on a blonde prisoner who seems to be at the end of her tether. How do I know this? Well, for one thing, she's sitting in the foetal position, and you don't have to be a body language expert to figure out that people who sit like that aren't exactly the happiest of campers. Tired of being raped by a guard named Stone (Robert Miano), Susie (Jonna Lee) decides to put a stop to his raping ways by pulling a gun on him. Unfortunately, she doesn't get very far, as she is blown away by a series of shotgun blasts.

The sole purpose of this little vignette is to show what kind of hell Carol Henderson (Linda Blair) is getting herself into. A so-called "prison virgin," Carol is on her way to serve an eighteen month sentence for vehicular manslaughter. Luckily, Carol happens to be sitting next to Val (Sharon Hughes) during the van ride over. A veteran of the California penal system, Val decides to look out for Carol, whose innocent demenour is no match for the hardened criminals who populate this supposedly overcrowded prison (overcrowded my ass, there are never more than twelve inmates onscreen at any given moment). As Carol, Val, and two others, Blue Eyes (Jody Medford) and a "TV freak" named Bubbles (Louisa Moritz) wait to be processed, we're introduced to some of these hardened criminals. Chiefly, a chain-smoking blonde named Ericka (Sybil Danning), who, judging by way she gave non-verbal instructions to her equally blonde underlings, the statuesque Lulu (Greta Blackburn) and the rough and tumble Bobbi (Dee Biederbeck), is in charge of the prison's drug trade. Whoa, you mean to tell me Sybil Danning is a prisoner in this dump? Even if Val is protecting her, Linda Blair doesn't stand a chance against Sybil Danning. I mean, look at Linda, she's so soft and innocent, and Sybil is, well, she's none of those of things.

If there's anyone who can keep Sybil Danning's luscious thighs in check it's Tamara Dobson's the Duchess, the leader of the prison's black population. This power struggle is on display early on as Ericka, who, as usual is flanked by Lulu and Bobbi, asks the Duchess for permission to kill Debbie (Monique Gabrielle), a shapely snitch who's in the warden's pocket, or, in this film's case, naked in his hot tub. While there was some mild racial tension between Albina and Emanuelle in Women's Prison Massacre, Chained Heat is the first WiP I've seen to examine race relations to the extent where it becomes part of the film's plot. At any rate, the Duchess sanctions the murder, just as long as her people don't experience any of "the heat" her death may produce.

It's hard to believe that while all this going on, that Carol, Val, Blue Eyes, and Bubbles haven't been processed yet. Still waiting in the holding cell, Linda Blair gets to try out her transvestite empathy face. What's a "transvestite empathy face," you ask? Well, it's the face mildly chubby actresses make when they see transvestites being picked on by curly-haired lesbians. Powerless to do anything to help the transvestite in peril, all the mildly chubby actress can do is weakly protest by saying something along the lines of "leave him alone." Even though there isn't much of a chance that her objection will cause the curly-haired lesbian to stop picking on the transvestite, Val tells Carol not to get involved. It's an excellent piece of advice, as even a harmless discussion about daytime soaps can lead to chaos.

An inordinately leggy inmate named Twinks (Marcia Karr) finds this out the hard way when the Gina Gershon look-alike agrees with Bubbles' opinion regarding The Young and the Restless. When she's not fighting transvestites over the ownership of cigarette butts, the curly-haired lesbian is getting in Twinks' grill over soap operas. Don't worry about Twinks, though. You know how Val looks out for Carol? Well, Twinks has a beanpole named Paula (Edy Williams) to protect her.

As you can tell, I could watch what transpires in this holding cell all day long. But Carol, Val and the others eventually do get processed and make their way to the dorm. Of course, not before witnessing the stabbing of a black inmate (the Duchess is gonna be none too pleased). Mere moments after they have settled in, Carol and Val are confronted by Ericka and Bobbi. This particular sequence gives us our first real look at the outfits the ladies will be wearing throughout the film. While not the sexiest duds I've seen in a movie like this, the grey, oversize, one-hundred percent cotton number with buttons in the front is probably the most comfortable. This scene is also famous in that it features a kiss between Linda and Sybil. Unfortunately, it's one of those forced, sitcom-quality same-sex kisses. In other words, it's super lame. If you want titillation, check out Sharon Hughes' big hair, or better yet, feast your eyes on Dee Biederbeck's knees. If you're like me, and you love misshapen knees, check out what Dee's got going on at the joint located between the thigh and the lower leg, it's knobby heaven down there.

It should go without saying, but everyone who works at this dump is corrupt. The prison's warden, Mr. Bachmann (John Vernon), sells drugs and shoots homemade erotica in his lavishly decorated office, the co-warden, Captain Taylor (Stella Stevens) sells drugs and has no qualms about murdering anyone who stands in her way, Dr. Lester (Henry Silva), at least I think he was a doctor, sells drugs and pimps out the inmates on weekends, and the guards are all rapists and sadists.

The fight to secure Carol's loyalty begins as Ericka, the warden, Lester and the Duchess all make their plays to bring her into their respective folds. The warden wants to Carol to replace the deceased Debbie as his go-to snitch, Ericka has her sights on her to be a member of her gang and as her possible lover, Lester is thinking about utilizing her generous curves at the swanky coke parties he throws out in Beverly Hills, and the Duchess wants her to reveal the name of the inmate who killed one of her black sisters.

All this pressure to satisfy so many opposing viewpoints leads Carol to become somewhat dejected. And who better to convey this glum temperament than Linda Blair, the queen of rosy-cheeked grumpiness. One of the few inmates to show any signs that they're unhappy over the fact that they're in prison, Linda employs her mopey face like it were a broadsword. Undermining the goodwill of everyone around her, Miss Blair saps her co-stars and audience of their will to live. If you thought she looked morose while taking a shower, folding laundry, and playing checkers, you should see her when she wears a blue, cocaine-inspired disco pantsuit; it's like someone had just killed her goldfish. Either way, Linda Evans circa Dynasty would definitely approve of Linda's chic getup.

Shepherded out of the prison via a sewer pipe and placed into the back of a limousine, Lester takes Carol and Val to an upscale party. Judging by the easy-going nature of Val's staircase striptease, it's obvious she's done this before. Reduced to a pair of black fishnet stockings, black pumps, one black opera glove and a white bustier, Val hurls her dainty frame back and forth in a veiled attempt to appease the pent-up desires lurking inside the hearts and minds of the party's drug-addled clientele. On the other hand, Carol knows nothing about the subtle art of seduction, and finds herself woefully unprepared for the untoward solicitation that is about to come her way. ("Get on all fours. I wanna see your ample hindquarters ripple as a result of my purposeful thrusts." is an example of what someone might to say to her.)

Severely lacking when it comes to furnishing the over-the-top theatrics of its peers, Chained Heat desperately needs someone to step up and employ some affected mannerisms in a prison setting in order to remain relevant in today's camp-based world. Challenging Sybil Danning's character to a fight, Tamara Dobson (Cleopatra Jones) contributes to the cause when she calls her a "chalk-faced whore." Which is, hands down, the film's greatest line. Sadly, though, Tamara is too self-righteous to be taken seriously as a camp icon. Wearing grey slacks with an inexcusable amount of poise and dignity, Stella Stevens comes close to providing the campy goods. But other than her proclivity for dark eye makeup and the tirade she throws while in the midst of railroading an inmate for a crime she didn't commit, Stella's Captain Taylor is ultimately a bit of a disappointment, camp-wise.

While not even close to being a factor when it came to rescuing the film from its camp-free shortfall, Marcia Karr (Killer Workout) gives the film's best stealth performance. You may not always notice her, but Marcia is never far from the action as Twinks, a shy brunette who likes to draw and show off her tantalizing stems. Present during the holding cell sequence, there when Ericka and Bobbi do some of their best bullying (she's ushered to the prison's primary "rape room"), and you can see her sitting on the floor (her beautiful legs stretched out for the perverted world to see) while Carol rallies the troops, Marcia quietly rules over the proceedings with a leggy grace (I was gonna say "leggy sang-froid," but I don't want to come across as a pompous prat). Anyway, I'm glad someone did–you know, be leggy and junk, because I need more than an expertly coiffed she-mullet and sparsely attended prison riot to satisfy my frightfully specific WiP kink.

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They're Playing with Fire (Howard Avedis, 1984)

In the mediocrity-laced afterbirth that is now, the sight of an older woman seducing a much younger man has become so commonplace, that you can't seem to go anywhere, entertainment-wise, without running into some disproportionately aged pairing flouting societies meaningless rules and regulations. Whether it be poorly made porn or overly smug TV shows, this not-so newfangled combination has reached its saturation point. Particularly in the former, where the women are barely thirty, reek of cosmetic surgery, and the guys violently prodding at them with their veiny malformations look like musclebound sexual predators straight out of an inexplicably published gangbang how-to guide. Anyway, as the more discerning amongst us would expect, I was rather taken aback by the nonjudgmental nonchalance in which They're Playing with Fire goes about laying the groundwork for the mismatched venereal alliance at the centre of its tawdry mire. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the adolescent male had an extra boyish quality about him, or maybe it was because the more experienced female literally oozed sophistication. Either way, I found their pairing to be quite mischievous–you know, as supposed to off-putting and sad. In fact, their relationship was so mischievous, I couldn't help but notice that male's face barely reached the apex of the female's bumpy acreage whenever he was seen trying to vigorously plow through her bawdy wheat field.

Yet another sleazy film from writer-director Howard Avedis and writer-producer Marlene Schmidt (Miss Universe, 1961), the husband and wife team who brought us the definite article obsessed trilogy that consisted of The Teacher, The Stepmother and The Specialist, They're Playing with Fire sees them (with the help of famed cinematographer Gary Graver) continuing to explore the realm of pampered dissatisfaction; a world that is crawling with seemingly well-off citizens who always seem to want more out of life.

This desire invariably revolves around money and sex. And since it's the 1980s, a time when the pressure to succeed was at its zenith, having a respectable job is not enough to fulfill the pricey needs of the era.

Even though the film's poster misleads us into believing that we're about to watch a lighthearted sex comedy along the lines of My Tutor and Private Lessons, the sinister underbelly of this trashy undertaking unveils itself when a first-year student, Jay Richard (Eric Brown), at Oceanview College is coerced by his English professor, Dr. Diane Stevens PhD (Sybil Danning), and her psych professor husband, Dr. Michael Stevens (Andrew Prine), into burglarizing the palatial home of the latter professor's rich mother.

The intent is to scare his churlish mother (K.T. Stevens) and wheelchair bound grandmother (Margaret Wheeler) into moving to a nursing home. Of course, the plan goes terribly awry from the get-go, as mother Stevens gets wise to the break-in and chases after Jay with a high-powered rifle. Luckily for Jay she's not much of a markswoman.

Apparently, Mr. Stevens' mother does not approve of Mrs. Stevens; she's low-class and totally beneath them. The only way he can get hold of any inheritance is to prove to the lawyers that she's mentally unstable.

After Jay flees, another visitor shows up moments later and murders mommy and granny. Wondering how the plan went, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens and Jay go back to the house later that evening. The traces of blood on the wall cause the married professors to suspect that their student accomplice did something untoward to the two elderly women. Much finger pointing ensues, and the threesome begin to play an unsavoury game with one another.

Who killed the old ladies, and who had the most to gain?

Approaching the material with a workmanlike efficiency, Howard Avedis brings his trademark no frills technique to the sordid project. It's true, he doesn't bestow a high energy montage on us (he's a product of the mostly montage-free 1970s), but he does manage to arrange it so that Sybil Danning ends up in a state of undress near the end of every scene she is in. And from a pragmatic point-of-view, that's all that really matters. It is clear that Mr. Avedis saw early on that Sybil was the film's greatest asset, and, like any rational person would, attempts to utilize her natural gifts at every turn.

While Sybil Danning nakedness is always a plus, the structurally sound actress managed to enliven the genitals of the great unwashed no matter what she had or didn't have on. One of the most visually pleasing women to walk the lumpy surface of Rigel 7, the seductive Austrian exudes an animalistic allure as the sultry English professor with killer thighs. The sight of her merely walking from place to place was intoxicating. Whether running long distances in heels or lounging on the deck of her yacht, Miss Danning brings new meaning to the term: elegant practicality.

Which brings me to her co-star. Now I don't know exactly what his deal was, but the indifference Eric Brown displays as Sybil's character is straddling him was dumbfounding. He could have been suffering from a severe case of "I can't believe my unworthy freshman cock is sploshing around inside Sybil Danning-ittis," or maybe he was just a player with super mad lady skillz. After all, he is seen throughout the movie repeatedly rebuffing the advances of an attractive classmate/amateur private eye (the extremely expressive Beth Schaffell*). But still, I didn't really get that much of a man-about-town vibe from him. I guess it's just one of those inexplicable things that defy explanation. Much like the wonky twist this flick tries to pull off during its inevitable conclusion.

Most Howard Avedis films end at around the 95 minute mark, and this one is no different.

* Having lost the ability to evaluate the quality of a movie acting back in 2004 (I blame a dangerous combination of Napoleon Dynamite and Xanadu), I wasn't sure about the temperament of Beth Schaffell's performance as Cynthia, the gal who pesters and spies on our young hero. Call me meshugana, but something seemed a tad off about her. And while a part of me did enjoy the idiosyncratic nature of the many strange faces she sports in this film, the other half had a sneaking suspicion that she was not doing this on purpose. In other words, she was merely a terrible actress.

In all my years of looking at stuff, never have I been this conflicted by the work of an actress in a motion picture. Which is sort of compliment, especially when you consider the fact that the film features Sybil Danning getting undressed in every other scene. Oh, and as is the case with the majority of performances of this type, this was Beth's lone screen credit.

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Reform School Girls (Tom DeSimone, 1986)

The sound of ungroomed carpet being vigorously munched may not have been audible, but you can bet your bottom dollar that many rugs were being cleaned in Reform School Girls (a.k.a. Naked Birds), a headstrong, bloomers optional women-in-prison flick with an insatiable appetite for new poon on Monday. The unsavoury splendour that greets us as we peak behind the doors of Dorm 14 at Pride More Juvenile Detention Centre was so pronounced, so aggravated, that even the most ardent of cock swallowers will end up turning to the dykeier side of the mattress. A robust cornucopia of supple, young flesh–a virtual who's who of shapely legs and taut midriffs, and a gang bang worthy mishmash of teased hair, spiky jewelry, and clingy night shirts–the film, directed by Tom DeSimone (Angel III: The Final Chapter and Hell Night) is a smouldering cauldron of womanly fury. The not-so intricate plot can basically be found amidst the contents of the film's three worded title: Troubled blonde (Linda Carol) gets sent to notorious reform school, much unpleasantness involving the other girls transpires upon her arrival.

However, it's the demented dialogue and its many outlandish performances, not the narrative, that elevate the tawdry proceedings from a ho-hum exploitation picture to a genuine slab of depraved satire; one that just happens to be rife with girl-on-girl face punching, cruelty towards stuffed bunnies, shower scenes (keep an eye out for Michelle Bauer from Café Flesh as "shower girl"), fanny branding, and farm work without pants.

The timbre of the cast can be pretty much broken down this way: Wendy O. Williams and Pat Ast rule the school, while everyone else struggles to keep up. Hell, even Sybil Danning couldn't compete with Wendy and Pat, who's best moment was when she gets hit in the head by an errant dinner roll.

The rambunctious Miss Williams, best known as the singer for punk band The Plasmatics, literally devours the screen as Charlie Chambliss, the toughest chick to ever commondere a school bus and crash it into water tower while wearing a leather thong. In fact, she's so bad ass, the cafeteria grub she eats doesn't even want to get chewed by the likes of her (food particles kept trying to escape her oral cavity the same way a sea cucumber expels its intestines when threatened).
  

Sporting nary a stitch of clothing (bikini bottoms, fingerless gloves and a stained bra), Wendy thrusts her meaty crotch in the general direction of anyone who dares look at her funny. Seriously, her performance was extremely vigorous. I mean, she was constantly grabbing and clawing at her shipshape organic structure like it was covered with invisible monkeys who just happen to be on fire.

If Wendy O. was over the top, then Pat Ast must have been looking down on the punk princess and laughing manically. Playing the sadistic Edna as if her life depended on it, the rotund actress stomps across the screen like a detestable beast. Spewing spiteful put-downs and barking orders with an tyrannical glee, Pat gives one of the most frighteningly amusing performances I have ever seen. Her insistent screaming of the of the phrase "Complete Control" caused my eyes to bulge with giddy disbelief.

On the sexy side of things (not that Wendy and Pat weren't able to induce a tingle here and there), Darcy DeMoss and Tiffany Helm prevailed when it came to providing the film's first-rate feminine eye candy. The two punky babes play key members of Charlie's clit-licking clique and can be seen sexily lurking in the background of almost every scene that features the incomparable Wendy.

In terms of conventional acting, I'd have to say I was most impressed with the work of Charlotte McGinnis as Pride More's guidance counselor. Reminding me physically of Sean Young, yet boasting the temperament of Desperate Living-era Mink Stole, Charlotte gave her character just the right amount of righteous indignation to make us believe she actually cared about the girls' well being.

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