The Great Texas Dynamite Chase (Michael Pressman, 1976)

Not quite sure who wears the cut-off jean shorts in this here movie, I started to panic. Why, oh, why, I thought myself, why did I announce my plans to review "The Jean Short Trilogy" without making sure the third film features Claudia Jennings in cut-off jean shorts? I know, you're thinking to yourself: Why does Claudia Jennings have to wear cut-off jean shorts? After all, it's called "The Jean Short Trilogy," not "The Claudia Jennings in Jean Shorts... Trilogy." That's true, it's not. But I would really like there to be a consistent theme. And that theme involves Claudia Jennings in cut-off jean shorts. The reason I wasn't sure Claudia Jennings was the one who wears cut-off jean shorts in The Great Texas Dynamite Chase is because her co-star looks exactly like Claudia Jennings. Yep, you heard right, Jocelyn Jones is a dead ringer for Claudia Jennings. And since they both appear in almost every scene together, this caused much unnecessary confusion on my part. Oh, sure, I could tell them apart up close. But when things got a tad distant, I had no idea who was who. The only instance where looking alike seemed to pay off is when they pretend to be sisters. But other than that... Okay, they look similar, let's move on, shall we?

Unpredictable, volatile and highly persuasive. You could use these words to describe the explosives and the women who wield them in The Great Texas Dynamite Chase (a.k.a. Dynamite Women), a Roger Corman-produced action flick with heist and road movie elements that occasionally feels like a sex comedy with feminist undertones.

Actually, everything you need to know about the film can be found in its straightforward title. Let's break it down:  The definite article gives the title a sense of purpose right out of the gate; "Great" lets the audience know going in that something special is about to transpire ("The Texas Dynamite Chase" just doesn't have the same ring to it).

"Texas" is the same as "Great," in that, who would want to watch "The Great Delaware Dynamite Chase"? I know I wouldn't, and I love Delaware (in addition, Texas is the perfect setting for crime flicks that involve fugitives from the law as Mexico is conveniently located just to the south); "Dynamite" makes sense as it's the favourite weapon of our sexy bank robbers and it also implies action; and "Chase," well, since the beginning of time, the pursuit (the "hot" variety in particular) has always been integral part of the human psyche.

Getting back to cut-off jean shorts, accentuating the acute firmness of her centerfold-quality legs, the sight of Claudia Jennings in cut-off jean shorts is so titillating, so provocative, that it should be against the law.

Forget about robbing banks with sticks of dynamite, someone arrest this woman for violating The Trouser Integrity Act of 1973, which clearly stipulates that the freakish deformities located near the crotch area of your average human male shall not be aroused from their crumpled slumbers by outside stimuli, particularly in the form of attire that emphasize the thighs and calves of the members of the opposite sex.

I can't believe I'm about to say this, but I need to make a point that doesn't involve Claudia Jennings in cut-off jean shorts. No, no, no, hear me out. It's just that I noticed that the three characters Claudia Jennings plays in 'Gator Bait, Unholy Rollers and The Great Texas Dynamite Chase have more in common than just an affinity for cut-off jean shorts. I'm officially declaring Claudia Jennings a feminist icon. Think about it, the characters she plays in these three movies are headstrong, forthright and are the kind of women who rarely ever take guff from anyone.

While Desiree Thibodeau from 'Gator Bait is definitely headstrong and Karen Walker from Unholy Rollers is pretty fucking forthright, I would say Candy Morgan in The Great Texas Dynamite Chase is all three.

Breaking out prison as the film gets underway, the opening of the film plays out like the end of a women in prison film, as Candy can be seen running down a hill in a grey prison shirt paired with white knee-socks. Meeting her sister, Pam (a pre-Van Nuys Blvd., pre-Malibu Beach Tara Strohmeier), on the dirt road, Candy changes her clothes and heads straight to the nearest bank armed with a fist full of dynamite.

Meanwhile, Ellie-Joe Turner (Jocelyn Jones) is just waking up. Grabbing her pantyhose off her dresser, Ellie-Joe combs her hair and heads off to work... at the Bank of Alpine.

After arriving late, Ellie-Joe's boss decides to fire her. But just as he's doing so, guess who stomps in wielding two sticks of dynamite? That's right, it's Candy. Realizing she has nothing left to lose, Ellie-Joe helps Candy bag her cash more efficiently.

With no job and no prospects, Ellie-Joe hitches a ride out of town (don't worry, she leaves her cat with some dude). When the first guy she bums a ride from turns out to be a massive pervert, she tries her luck again. Anyone care to guess who picks her up next? Yep, it's Candy. Who has just returned from giving her family the money she acquired from the Alpine heist.

I'm surprised the first thing they didn't talk about was how much they lookalike. Sure, Candy's a redhead and Ellie-Joe's blonde, but other than that... At any rate, the conversation soon turns to robbing banks with dynamite.

Teaming up to rob banks, Candy and Ellie-Joe's first attempt to rob a bank together fails miserably (wonky dynamite). I'll give them this, though, they sure looked classy in those red (Ellie-Joe) and yellow (Candy) dresses.

When they're done reaffirming their commitment to one another, Candy and Ellie-Joe set out to procure some dynamite that actually works.

This leads them to Jake (Christopher Pennock), a.k.a. Dynamite Boy. When Dynamite Bo... I mean, when Jake asks Candy if she has a permit to buy dynamite, she should have just gestured toward her shapely stems, which were jutting out from a skimpy pair of cut-off jean shorts. Actually, she sort of does just that. Except, instead of gesturing, Candy crouches. And, as most people know, it's impossible to say no to Claudia Jennings when she's crouching in cut-off jean shorts.

Equipped with a box of brand spanking new dynamite, nothing can stop Candy and Ellie-Joe from robbing every bank from Alpine, Texas to the Mexican border.

After Candy and Ellie-Joe rob their third bank, you have to wonder though: How much money do these chicks need? I mean, do belly-chains and cut-off jean shorts really cost that much?

Nonetheless, if you like films that are shot predominantly outside and one's that feature two skinny white women who sort of lookalike robbing banks with dynamite, do yourself a favour and check out The Great Texas Dynamite Chase. But really, what are you going to do instead, read a book?

Van Nuys Blvd. (William Sachs, 1979)

On the surface, it looked like just another strip of nondescript asphalt baking in the midday sun. Yet to the sexy residents of Southern California circa 1979 (the last days of disco), it was the road to paradise. Piercing the darkness like an iridescent dashboard, the titular roadway in the righteous masterwork Van Nuys Blvd. (a.k.a. Kadun kulkurit), the crowning achievement in the cinematic realm of hot chicks and cool vans, represented a shining beacon to the countess number of disaffected and apathetic citizens that populated the tight-panted morass that was the known universe. Skillfully depicting the aimlessness of youth with an understated panache, writer-director William Sachs (Galaxina) has created not only an extremely playful film, but also a surprisingly insightful one. Letting us tag along with a casually assembled group of leggy van enthusiasts, over the hill hot rod junkies, svelte car-hops, and lustful half-Italians, the rambunctious film perfectly captures the flighty tone and attitude of the era. Teeming with a life affirming message and sporting a spontaneous outlook when it came to affairs of the heart, I couldn't help but be transfixed by these dopey characters and their staunchly anti-fascist views when it came to personal freedom.

The lure of the infamous boulevard literally pulls Bobby (Bill Adler from The Van and The Pom Pom Girls) off the glistening body of his perennially naked trailer park girlfriend (Susanne Severeid) and into warm embrace of the street that doesn't know the meaning of the expression "fuel efficient." A van lover, who dreams of souped-up engines and consensual intercourse, the wide-eyed Bobby arrives on Van Nuys with his head full of metaphysical vinegar (a pseudo substance that nourishes adolescent woolgathering).

After a food-based sexual encounter with Wanda (Tara Strohmeier), a lithesome waitress, Bobby meets Moon (Cynthia Wood from Apocalypse Now) and Camille (Melissa Prophet), a couple of fellow van drivers (sexy female van drivers) and challenges them to a drag race. (Every conversation, by the way, usually ends with a drag race challenge.)

Thrown in the slammer by the power-tripping Officer Zass (Dana Gladstone), Bobby and the girls meet the moustache-adorned Chooch (David Hayward), an aging rebel in a hot rod, and Dennis Bowen's adventurous Greg, a character who had already tried hitting on Camille earlier in the evening, so he sees this co-ed jail cell reunion as fate.

Anyway, Bobby and Moon start to make goo goo eyes with one another in-between their van-centric posturing; Greg's flirting with Camille intensifies; and the easy-going Chooch is, for now, just content with being Chooch. The unlikely fivesome eventually become a mirthful force of nature and embark on a freewheeling adventure that will change their lives forever.

The moment this freewheeling adventure is implemented is the moment when Van Nuys Blvd. really comes alive and breaks out of its shell. That's not to say that the film was tedious beforehand. I mean, I wouldn't call Greg's guileless sexual encounter with "Motorcycle Girl" (Di Anne Monaco) tedious, or the car smash up scene, for that matter. It's just that when we see these people riding roller coasters, merry-go-rounds, and winning stuffed animals, it brings a fair amount of perspective to the proceedings.

Amusement park rides as a metaphor for life's ups and downs are terrific, but it's when the foursome (Chooch is done for the day) enter the discotheque and we see The Kansas City Kings Glitter Girls hit the floor, that whimsy level goes through the roof. The film as a whole depicts disco music in a positive light, but once in the nightclub, the positivity is downright groovy, baby.

This sequence is brilliantly directed, as simple camera angles capture all the disco action. The fact that the strobe lights were allowed to blink unfettered was also a deft move on Mr. Sach's part. I'd definitely rank this as one of the finest portrayals of disco music and culture in a modern motion picture.

The rivalry between Bobby and Moon dominates the film, and rightly so, it's the film's emotional centrepiece. Coming in second in terms of importance is Camille's desire to fuck Greg in her parents' house (with them home of course). These story-based nuggets are well acted and contain enough romance and humour to fill up a smallish jar.

However, the character I enjoyed the most was Wanda. Played by the insanely gorgeous Tara Strohmeier (the angel in the gold lamé jacket from Malibu Beach), the character of Wanda may not have been in the original quintette that met in prison, but she is integral to the lives of the main participants during their night of fun.

Using her striking beauty and propensity for deviant sex, Wanda manipulates Bobby and Officer Zass to get what she wants. Yet, in the process, she causes them to evolve, to grow. Which, when you think about it, is what the film is all about.

Oh, and the relationship Wanda develops with Chooch was freaking adorable. I could watch them play air hockey and Super Bug together until the end of time.

...

Malibu Beach (Robert J. Rosenthal, 1978)

Exploring the tenets of freedom, and I mean actual freedom, not the pretend version they hawk in national anthems and on game shows, Malibu Beach is one of the most dangerous movies I have ever seen. Tantamount to a wet, sloppy air kiss in the general direction of anarchy, the esteemed Robert J. Rosenthal (The Pom Pom Girls and The Van) has created a film so subversive, that it attacks intellectualism at every turn (show an interest in something that doesn't involve partying at the beach and you will quickly find yourself on the outside looking in). Boldly promoting its hedonistic agenda with a wanton disregard for socialites loosely held up moral infrastructure, the characters in this film have no interest in gainful employment, politics, or the community at large. Now, if that's not a recipe for bedlam, I don't know what is. Sure, the film's main female protagonist works as a lifeguard, which in some cultures is considered a real job, but she's been warned not to wear a bikini while on duty, and yet, she knowingly ignores this rule, proceeding to piss on it with a casual nonchalance. It should be said that she's the exception to the rule, as the rest of the characters that populate this free-and-easy plane of existence take listlessness to whole another level of lazy.

Even the police, usually the most uptight and caustic in a genuinely free society, are anarchists at heart.

This sun-baked strain of rampant lawlessness and self-indulgence has even infected the animal kingdom. This furry, and sometimes feathered group, are normally only interested in acquiring food, mating, and the act of sleeping. Well, you can add bikini tops to that list, because a dog who likes to hang out at the film's titular sandy shore has developed a taste for the stringy garment. The women he or she stealthy takes the tops from seem upset by the theft and usually give chase.

However, the success of their pursuit, in most cases, depends on the ample nature of their breast weight (the smallish seemed to run with a greater ease than the ones with an extra bit of jiggle on board). The mysteries of mammary distribution aside, the women always fail to reacquire their skimpy chest coverings from the swimwear pilfering pooch.

Anyway, back to the realm of humanity, Malibu Beach is basically about nothing. Yeah, that's right, nothing. On top of being anarchistic, the film has nihilistic overtones. The chiseled Bobby (James Daughton) and the wiry Paul (Michael Luther), two blonde American males, who have just escaped an educational prison of their own making, boast no interests beyond having sex with their blonde counterparts and driving mindlessly through the energizing warmth of their beachfront community in their massive jeep.

The guy's minimalist outlook is eventually complemented by the equally vacant Dina (Kim Lankford) and Sally (a super-cute Susan Player), the former being the aforementioned lifeguard. I say, "eventually," because the initial pairing had its share of bumps and kinks. The fact that they failed to create sparks with their first choice in sex partners gave the film its most poignant moments. I mean, who knew the shy and the extroverted could work so well together? It's this kind unexpected illumination that keeps me coming back for more moving pictures.

Repeating the same songs over and over again on the soundtrack gave the film a wonderful carefree edge to it that unashamedly thumbs its nose at those paying attention in audience. In reality, the producers probably realized they were out of songs midway through the film and decided to just recycle the ones from the first half. Nevertheless, I chose to see this repetitiveness as yet another act of cinematic subversion.

All this talk of anarchy and repetition has caused me to forget about the rivalry the forms between James Naughton's Bobby and the musclebound Dugan Hicks (a mildly hilarious Steve Oliver) over the affections of Dina the lifeguard. Conventional face punching is employed on a number of occasions, but the swaggering twosome turn the machismo up a notch in a series of death defying challenges. Don't worry though, this feeble attempt at plot-based storytelling doesn't interfere with the film's central theme, which is carelessness in the late twentieth century.

A film that makes me long for the feeling of warm air on my neck, Malibu Beach is cinema in its purest form; lowbrow nectar for the soul, if you will (if you won't, I'll fuck your shit up, old school).

Celebrate nothingness and go to the beach. I won't be waiting for you. Uh, I don't tan well, and I'm deathly afraid of large bodies water. But I'm sure others will be there.

You know, like, Tara Strohmeier (I can't believe I almost forgot to mention her). At any rate, go now, go!

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