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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Howard the Duck (Willard Huyck, 1986)

Tucked away amidst a vast field of downy feathers, the reproductive organs of your average cigar-chomping duck from the far reaches of the cosmos are just waiting to be provoked by the right kind of visual stimuli. And to think, I was originally gonna start this paragraph off with a frightfully pedantic bit on how to avoid using duck-related wordplay when talking about Howard the Duck, a wonderfully plumose film that will soothe your inner mallard. If you were a heterosexual drake from outer space (a "drake," by the way, is what people who abuse thesauruses call a male duck), what kind of female Earth creature would you want to rescue from the unguiculated clutches of the dark overlord of the universe? You're absolutely right, it couldn't be just any old female Earth creature. Certainly not V.I.C.I. (Voice Input Child Identicant) from Small Wonder, or its Indian counterpart, Karishma Ka Karishma, that would be creepy as all get out. No, I think most people will agree that they would have to be pretty darned special to justify the amount grief the anthropomorphic space duck in this cinematic lark has to endure on a daily basis. What I would like all the male's out there to do is stop thinking about Sandra Bernhard in a zebra-print negligée for five seconds and try to imagine what actress Lea Thompson would look like in a pair of pink tights. Oh, and don't worry, that slight tingle you just felt in the lumpy area near your groin after I finished writing the word "tights" is completely natural (feel free to adjust yourself if need be). Okay, now try to imagine Lea, while still thinking about her shapely legs crammed into a pair of pink tights, with crimped hair. Don't be alarmed, the moist sensation you're currently experiencing is not being caused by urine, no, you just ejaculated sperm, my friend, and it was achieved without any physical manipulation on my part.

Check this out, by simply telling you to picture Lea Thompson (it actually didn't matter what her legs were sheathed in or how wavy her hair was), I was able to extract a robust dollop of your precious jizz. Pretty radical, huh? Now what do you think would happen to the cock of a well-travelled duck if the first human female they came in contact with looked like Lea Thompson circa 1986? You know exactly what would happen, the feather displacement alone would be devastating.

In no way, shape, or form does it promote bestialty (Howard's a duck from another planet, and not a local duck), Howard the Duck is about love and acceptance, not crimped hair drenched in space spunk. Of course, I've made it seem that way–you know, with all my talk of duck erections and pink tights. But then again, can you blame me? Not to blow on a metaphorical horn that represents my greatness, but my ability to induce guys into discharging their semen is legendary.

Bursting out of the gate with more duck puns than any other film in history, Howard the Duck, based on the comic book created by writer Steve Gerber and artist Val Mayerik, starts off on a planet located in an unknown region of space. Sure, it looks like Earth, but upon further inspection, it's obvious that the planet is populated entirely by talking ducks. Plopping down in his chair after long day at work, Howard T. Duck (Ed Gale) can be seen flipping through channel after channel of duck-related programming on his television (my favourite was an ad for a product that promised to "eliminate feather fungus even in the most active of crotches"), when suddenly, well, first he checks out the centrefold ("hello, my airbrushed beauty") in the latest issue of Playduck magazine, but then suddenly, he's sucked out of his apartment and sent hurdling through space.

Floating through space, as the sound of Thomas Dolby's superb score twinkles on the soundtrack, Howard eventually crash lands in a magical place called Cleveland. Containing more punk and new wave cred in its first five minutes than most movies that are purportedly about punk and new wave, the wayward duck seems strangely at home in this kooky universe. However, despite it being replete with tough chicks who wear lingerie as outerwear, lesbian bikers (Satan's Sluts), and, not to mention, John Fleck in a leather jacket, Howard finds Cleveland a tad overwhelming (he's tossed around like a chew toy by a group of drunk punks).

Deciding to lay low in a trash can, Howard hears a bit of a kerfuffle going on outside (it sounds like two punks are picking on someone). Poking his head out to see what all the commotion is about, Howard lays eyes on Beverly Switzler (Lea Thompson) for the very first time (call me somewhat deluded, but the duck seemed to savour every saw-toothed inch of her jagged mane). Anyway, after he's done savouring her hair, Howard gives the punks a taste of what he likes to call "quack-fu" (okay, I'll admit, even I groaned at that one), which, to no one's surprise, causes Beverly's attackers to beat a hasty retreat.

Asking what Beverly what planet he is on (she thinks it's called "Earth"), it's right then and there that Howard finds out that he is in fact in Cleveland (he puts an emphasis on the space between "cleve" and "land" whenever he pronounces the city's name). Feeling sorry for the displaced water fowl, Beverly invites Howard to stay at her place. While doing her best impression of Soledad Miranda from Eugénie de Sade (she hugs her own legs while sitting on her window sill), Beverly watches her new feathered friend fall asleep. Which, of course, gives her the opportunity to poke through Howard's wallet without him knowing (paper money that was issued in the United States of Anatidae, a duck prophylactic, and a Bloomingducks credit card).

As is the case with most pop singers with crispy bangs–did I mention that Beverly fronts a new wave band (think Jem and the Holograms meets the Bangles) called Cherry Bomb? No? Well, she does, and her rendition of "Hunger City" rocks–Beverly knows a research scientist who works at the city's museum. The plan is to ask a twitchy fella named Phil Blumburtt (Tim Robbins) to help them figure how Howard ended up in Cleveland. Unfortunately, it turns out Phil is merely a lab assistant, which, for some reason, causes Howard and Beverly to get into an argument adjacent to a water fountain (the pinkness of Lea's pink tights really shine through during this scene).

Stomping off in a huff, Beverly leaves Howard to fend for himself on the cruel streets of Cleveland. Realizing that Earth ain't exactly the most duck-friendly planet in the galaxy, Howard quits his job at a massage parlour/spa and winds up back where he started, at one of Cherry Bomb's gigs. Employing his quack-fu on the corrupt management that oversee the financial well-being of Beverly's band (they were pocking their earnings all for themselves - after all... it's a competitive world), Howard apologizes for being such an ungrateful duck and takes over as their manager.

Meanwhile, back at Beverly's apartment, the sleazoids in the audience need to prepare themselves, because the infamous "pink panties/bed crawl" scene is about to commence. While the angle writer-director Willard Huyack ends up going with could have been more perverse, the end result (no pun intended) is still a terrific example of unforeseen titillation. Tormenting Howard with the minute smallness of her unwrinkled pink panties, Beverly causes the feathers on top of his head to become erect. Seeing this as a sign that Howard is ready to engage in a raucous session of interspecies loving-making, Beverly thrusts her taut, soon-to-be quivering body in the general direction of the demure space duck.

If you haven't finished masturbating by the time the pink panties/bed crawl scene comes along, I'm afraid you're... actually, I don't know whether to congratulate or ridicule you (the former for managing to thwart your orgasm this long, the latter because, well, duh, you're pleasuring yourself to Howard the Duck). Seriously, though, you better hurry up because the film quickly morphs into an action-packed thrill ride once Jeffrey Jones shows up as Dr. Jenning, a scientist at Dynatechnics who gives Howard the skinny on how he arrived in Cleveland. An exhaustive chase scene involving an ultralight aircraft (a sequence where a handcuffed Tim Robbins hams up a storm) and a chaotic laser cannon duel between Howard and a monstrous crab-like alien (a.k.a. the dark overlord of the universe) are the film's primary focus once Beverly covers her pink panties with a bed sheet.

I did, however, enjoy the post-pink panties/bed crawl scene at Joe Roma's, Cleveland's best Cajun sushi house. What I liked about this part of the movie, besides the fact that Howard tries to look up Beverly's skirt, the sinister nature of Jeffrey Jones's demon voice (the way he says, "give me the code key," was so '80s - code keys were all the rage during the Reagan Administration), and the phrase "hostility is like a psychic boomerang" is employed, was that all the waitstaff wore hachimakis. I don't know, there's something oddly appealing/off-putting about white people who embrace Japanese culture, especially cute white people like, Jorli McLain, who plays a waitress named Crystal (she also utters the psychic boomerang line).

Just for the record, the extremely raffish-looking shirt Lea Thompson wears during the diner section of the movie is definitely something I want to add to my nonexistent collection of movie wardrobe oddities.

Speaking of wardrobe oddities, the film's costume designer, Joe I. Tompkins, was definitely working at the top of his stylistic game in Howard the Duck. Take, for example, the character of Beverly Switzler, her outfits were off the charts in terms of creativity and playfulness. The seemingly erratic combination of fingerless opera gloves, black nylons, pink polka dot scarfs, brown coats, red high heel boots paired with purple socks, pink tights, tricked-out letterman jackets (the Keith Haring-esque sleeves were to die for), short tartan skirts with modest slits in the front, and jean jackets covered in metallic holes all screamed thrift store chic. Sure, from a slob's perspective, it appears that her many looks were simply thrown together in a haphazard manner. But if you look closely, and I mean really closely, you'll start to see a weird brand symmetry transuding from her mingle-mangle-inspired ensembles.

While the action scenes do drag on a bit during the film's final third, we do get to see Lea Thompson tied up twice. Yeah, that's right bondage fans, the leggy actress is bound in the back of a truck (the more she struggles, the tighter the ropes seem to dig into her flesh) and on a metal lab table (one equipped with built-in straps to prevent damsels from causing their captors any unnecessary distress).

The Paris Hilton of intergalactic duck movies, Howard the Duck is a prime example of decentralized decision making run amok. The negative ripple that washed over this movie upon its initial release was insurmountable. Yet none of its many detractors seem to bother mentioning Lea Thompson's legs, or her crimped hair, or even her penchant for fingerless gloves whilst stabbing it to death with their critical knives. Which is something that always struck me as rather odd. Could it be that their hatred of the upright duck has clouded their ability to watch filmed entertainment in a rationale manner? Part of me can see how the film might test the spiritual resolve of the fowl averse sitting in the audience, but everyone else should be busy basking in the new wave glow that radiated off Lea Thompson as she fell head over heels with a duck named Howard. Cringe if you must, especially when the duck is spouting lines like, "no more Mr. Nice Duck, but don't belittle a film that is, at its core, a love story for the ages.

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