Are you sitting down? (Do I have to?) No, I really think you should be sitting down to hear what I'm about to say. Okay, so, there's this horror movie from the late 1980s called "Slaughterhouse Rock." It stars Toni Basil as the ghost of a dead rock star who is forever doomed to haunt Alcatraz. And are you ready for this? You don't get to see Toni Basil until at least the forty minute mark. Can you believe this shit? Yes, I realize there needs to be some build up before you unleash Toni Basil and her spectacular gams on an audience. But forty minutes?!? C'mon, man. This is ridiculous. No offense to Hope Marie Carlton (who helped me get through a number of those awful Andy Sidaris turds) and those kind of interchangeable brunette chicks, but there's no way they can compete with Toni when it comes to talent. She sings, she dances, she acts, she wears funny hats, she does it all. So, I'll ask again: What gives, movie I just watched? Why are you wasting mine and everyone else's time like this? I mean, you're clearly a movie that possesses zero originality (everything looks like it's been cobbled together from ideas stolen from better movies). Yet, you had an ace up your sleeve in the form of Toni Basil and, not to mention, Mark Mothersbaugh and Gerald V. Casale from Devo doing all the music, and what did you do? You squandered them. Squandered the living fuck out of them.
I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed. Think about it. Toni Basil shows up on set wearing a leopard print jacket and zebra print pants, and what do you do? You.... you drop the ball, that's what you do. Seriously, we're talking leopard print and zebra print all within the same outfit.
You know how many movies I've slogged through over the years waiting for someone to show up wearing an outfit that boasts leopard and zebra print elements? I don't know the exact number, but trust me, it's a lot. And when they finally do show up wearing the animal print combo I so crave, and it's being worn by none other than Toni Basil, I have to endure the frightfully lame Slaughterhouse Rock in order to do so.
I'm telling you right now, life isn't fair. And there's no greater example of life's unfairness than the mental drudgery I had to undergo while I watched in horror as Toni Basil's wardrobe fiasco/masterpiece be neglected by a brain-sick cabal of no talent twaddle pushers. That's right, the people who made this film push twaddle. They peddle twaddle. In fact, they wallow in twaddle. How else can you explain such a high level of unabashed egregiousness?
Granted, we do get a couple of nice shots of Toni Basil's killer legs during a key scene. I think it's the one where Toni Basil's "Sammy Mitchell" does some kind of voodoo dance to resurrect the spirit from the body of the still living Alex Gardner (Nicholas Celozzi), a teen with thick, dark Mediterranean hair. But the only reason we get a voodoo dance is because Toni took the director, Dimitri Logothetis, aside and asked them if she could bust a few moves. Her logic being: If you're not going to try to inject this turkey with any life, I might as well give it a shot.
Of course, I have no proof this scenario actually took place. But I decided early on that anytime something not lame occurs in this film, someone other than the people responsible for making it had to be behind it.
Since the description of the plot on the internet movie database written by an anonymous user is pretty succinct, so, I think I'll use it. Why not?
I'm paraphrasing: A dark-haired teen and his friends (and his dark-haired brother) travel to Alcatraz prison (at night of course) after said dark-haired teen has disturbing dreams about the people who died there. Soon after they arrive, the dark-haired teen's dark-haired brother is possessed by an evil cannibal demon. The ghost of a female heavy metal singer (Toni Basil) tries to help the dark-haired teen fight the monsters that are haunting his dreams and the island itself.
I think that makes sense. Well, it technically doesn't make sense. But it's pretty much the gist of the plot.
One by one, the dark-haired teens friends are attacked by the demon version of the dark-haired teen's dark-haired brother. And after each friend is attacked, they come back as wisecracking ghosts with gnarly neck wounds. Which, as most people know, is a trope borrowed from An American Werewolf in London. And, like I said, earlier, every moment in this film is taken from a better, more entertaining movie.
Which sums up this movie perfectly. Sure, not every horror movie stars Toni Basil and is loaded with late '80s era Devo songs, but there are literally hundreds of horror movies that are better than this piece of crap.
As for trigger warnings: There's an awful rape scene (it's so casual, ugh) / The dark-haired teen blames his weird dreams on his hormones (anytime hormones are mentioned I would feel uneasy) / Even though there are way too many men in this film... at least they all had plenty of hair on their heads.
Whether you decide to pierce, puncture or perforate it, there comes a time in everyone's life when you must penetrate the night, and when that time does come, don't forget to poke it really hard (a subtle prick will not suffice). You better hurry, though, because the all-enveloping blackness waits for no one. The unbearable harshness of the light of day not only saps the bulk of your strength, it exposes your physical flaws in a more pronounced manner. Let me put it another way, sunshine is fine and dandy for daises and daffodils, but the human animal needs darkness to survive. Procreation occurs mostly at night, and do you know where these procreation enthusiasts meet one another? I'll tell you where, in nightclubs. There's a reason there are no such thing as "dayclubs." No self-respecting man or woman would ever copulate will someone they met during the day. And let me ask you this, when was the last time you saw a movie that featured a montage that centred around a person getting dressed in the morning? The reason you can't think of one is because there's never been one. They put on their clothes, they go wherever it is those people go every morning, the end. On the other hand, the night is tailor made for wardrobe-based montages, and does Modern Girls ever have a doozy. Set to the apt strains of "Girls Night Out" by Toni Basil, this particular montage was so overpowering, so chromatically persuasive, that I felt the need to watch it with a smallish support group of like-minded individuals (the vibrant production design alone was enough to cause me to reach for my inhaler). Unfortunately, it's hard to find upright organisms who think like me on such short notice. And, to be honest, I don't think there's anyone in the metropolitan area whose brain is up to my level of deluded cleverness.
All alone, culturally alienated, and mildly intimidated, was I able to handle to the sheer amount of turquoise and pink that is thrown at me in Modern Girls? Of course I was. What do you think I am, some kind of pantie-flavoured lightweight? You're talking to someone who has seen Valet Girls six times. If anything, I felt myself growing stronger as the film progressed. Feeding off its gaudy nectar like some sort of scrunchie-stroking fiend, every witless flight of fancy, every nonsensical decision the characters make in this flick was like being repeatedly splashed with a revitalizing tonic.
Getting back to my original point, the dichotomy between the night and day dictum is sufficiently satirized the moment the words "Modern Girls" appear on the scree at the beginning of the film. And it's a good thing, as I was starting to get on my nerves. Here you are, yakking up a storm about the differences between night and day, all the while Cynthia Gibb's calve-hugging, thigh-beautifying pink leggings are being woefully neglected. At any rate, inside the words "Modern Girls" lies a neon-filled cityscape where fun is contagious and anything is possible. Outside the words is, well, a brightly lit netherworld full of tedium and drudgery.
Introduced just as their ennui was about to get the best of them, three young women living in Los Angeles are shown at their places of employment. The command "keep dialing" can be heard emanating from her supervisor as we meet Margo (Daphne Zuniga), a brunette telemarketer, who is having trouble staying awake. And who can blame her? Barking trite-sounding nonsense into a plain-looking telephone all day will test the resolve of even the most resilient of modern girls. Next up, we run into Kelly (Virginia Madsen), a blonde pet shop girl, and, judging by the plethora of guys milling around outside the store, she has many suitors. The final piece of this girlish puzzle is put into place when we encounter CeCe (Cynthia Gibb), a bubbly department store cosmetics salesgirl. Well, at least she was a bubbly cosmetics salesgirl. Fired after making an elderly woman look like a new wave hooker, and for distressing one too many garments, CeCe, a fashionable redhead, finds herself without a job when her friends come to pick her up.
Even though the jacket CeCe is wearing when she leaves the department store is clearly red (dig the frayed sleeves, girlfriend), you'll notice that the majority clothes the girls were wearing while at work were frightfully bland (lots of white and grey). Once darkness falls, the girls are totally unencumbered by the soul-suffocating rules imposed on them by the daytime world, and are free to express themselves in a more laid-back manner. Of course, before she can proceed to get in touch with her inner trendoid, CeCe needs to catch some z's.
Fully refreshed and ready to take on the L.A. club scene, CeCe tries on a series of fashion forward ensembles. Standing before her mirror, CeCe examines each outfit carefully before deciding whether to keep or discard the article of clothing currently being scrutinized. Oh, and, by the way, if you're wondering why I'm only focusing on CeCe? It's simple, the other girls don't matter. Radiating a weird, almost therapeutic brand of neon light, Cynthia Gibb's CeCe had a soothing quality about her that the other gals seemed to lack.
However, if you must know what the other two were up to while the fabulous CeCe was trying on clothes, Margo's going through nightclub flyers and making calls, and Kelly is, well, she's missing in action. This complicates matters for CeCe and Margo because Kelly took the car. How are they supposed to go clubbing without a car? The girls are obviously not fans of public transit. Thankfully, the answer to their car-less prayers rolls up in a convertible. Knocking on their door while Margo's taking a bath and CeCe was painting her toenails in a pink slip, Clifford (Clayton Rohner) is there to pick up Kelly (she apparently agreed to go on a date with him). A nice guy in a grey sweater, Clifford waits on their zebra print couch (complete with leopard print cushions) while the girls get ready. The girls hatch a plan to bring Clifford to Kelly (they have a general idea where she is), which in turn, will allow CeCe and Margo to arrive in style (Cliff is driving a borrowed Cadillac with a leopard print interior).
What initially endeared me to CeCe was not her ebullient attitude or kooky fashion sense, but the fact that she insisted on calling Clifford "Cliffy," even though he told her that he prefers to be called "Cliff." Guys can get a tad squirrelly when you try to stick a 'y' at the end of their names. How do I know this? Well, let's just say, a couple of Finnish girls I knew growing up taught me an important lesson about the subtle art of handle alteration. If a Finnish girl wants to add a 'y' to the end of your name, let them. But if a non-Finnish girl tries to do the same, nip that shit in the fucking bud as soon as possible. Anyway, Clifford does make a feeble attempt to nip it, but CeCe, who's clearly not Finnish, isn't your average bud.
After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, CeCe emerges wearing a turquoise skirt, pink tights (the way they complemented her skirt was simply divine), lacy black armwear, peach-coloured eye makeup, black heels, and carrying the world's strangest boa (tattered chunks of mulit-coloured fabric that looked like they were sewn together on a dare), while Margo is sporting a black dress covered in zippers, black pantyhose (calm down, perverts), black heels, and a pair of royal blue opera gloves (I'm all for wearing black, but even I thought the gloves added a much needed splash of colour to her get-up).
It's time to hit the clubs! The first club is called Powertools, and just as they're about to go in, CeCe and Margo lay down some of their clubland ground rules: Never pay for parking; never carry cash; never pay for drinks; and, most importantly, never wait in line. When they're finished educating Cliffy, they bypass the line and entre the club. The grey sweater-wearing scamp is immediately crestfallen when he finds out that Kelly, who is wearing a pink frilly number with lacy white pantyhose, has totally forgotten about their date (she didn't even remember his name). To make matters worse, Kelly is kissing a guy/asshole named Brad (Stephen Shellen), the club's DJ.
Call me pessimistic, but I don't think Virginia Madsen will be able to win back the audience after the way she treated Cliffy. Hell, she didn't even defend CeCe and Margo when Brad had the nerve to call them dorks (besmirch Margo all you want, but no one talks about CeCe that way). Clutching a copy of "Love" by The Cult while looking sad and mopey is a good start, but she'll need to do more than hold a beloved LP in her hands if she expects me, I mean, the audience, to like her again.
Feeling guilty over the fact that they used Cliffy, CeCe and Margo buy him a drink (the sign above the bar reads "lubrication"). Well, John Dye actually pays for the drinks, but it's the thought that counts. The egregious amount of cuteness on display as CeCe and Cliffy dance to "The Girl Pulled A Dog" by the Female Body Inspectors was off the charts in terms of allowable cuteness. Sadly, this cuteness is interrupted when Bruno X (Clayton Rohner) entres the club with much fanfare. Wait a minute, Bruno who?!? Oh my god, what planet are you from? It's Bruno X! He's only the biggest thing to hit MTV since Fad Gadget.
It's at this point in the film when Modern Girls truly finds its voice. Floundering without a purpose, CeCe's determination to meet Bruno X is what drives the plot of the movie. As you would expect, Bruno X falls in love with CeCe almost instantly (he may look like a pratt, think Billy Idol crossed with Peter Murphy with a hint of Gowan - "you're a strange animal," but he knows an angel when he sees one). I like to think that Bruno X fell under CeCe's chirpy spell the second he heard the "life in your new world turning round and round" part of Icehouse's "No Promises." I didn't, however, like the way Bruno X insisted on calling CeCe "Cecilia" (totally uncool, man, her name's CeCe!). Anyway, CeCe and Bruno X become separated from one another while the club is being raided by police (fire code violation).
The rest of the film centres around CeCe trying to locate Bruno X, the man she is "totally in like with." Employing the help of Margo and Cliffy (Kelly has disappeared again), CeCe's search leads them to The Gloom Room (an authentic-looking L.A. goth club filled with authentic-looking L.A. goths), a music video shoot where Cliffy acquires a new coat (oh, and keep an eye on one of the dancers in the music video, they're wearing pointy boots that are affixed with buckles - screw the other dancers, their boots, while pointy, are buckle-less), rescue a drug-addled Kelly from a bunch of L.A. rednecks (keep your other eye out for an equally drug-addled Pamela Springsteen in this scene), Melrose Avenue (love the neon signs), Club Voodoo (a tropical themed nightclub), and Mulholland Fountain.
Rarely do I get the opportunity to see my values represented on-screen in such a succinct manner. But there were, shimmering in the night sky like an underappreciated pair of iridescent fingerless gloves. And rarely do I get the chance to witness a piece of film acting this captivating, this bouncy, this mettlesome, this...well, you get the get the idea. Sure, the duel performance by Clayton Rohner as Cliffy and Bruno X was impressive and junk, but nothing comes close to topping Cynthia Gibb's stunning portrayal as the single-minded CeCe, the world's most vivacious fashion victim. I liked how Cynthia never seemed to shy away from character's vacuous temperament. A lesser actress would try to underplay CeCe's flaws, but Cynthia embraces the fact her character is cooler than everyone else. In addition, she's the only one who seems to be fully aware that she's living in the '80s, which is a testament to Cynthia Gibb's steadfast commitment to the role.
A feminist masterwork masquerading as a meaningless slab of fashion-friendly mishegas, the script by Laurie Craig, based on a story by Anita Rosenberg (Assault of the Killer Bimbos), pulls no punches when it comes mocking the whole knight in shining armor myth that permeates the majority of romantic comedies. In every other movie, a single gal needs the stability of a man in order to feel complete. However, in the Modern Girls universe, that stability is shirked with extreme prejudice. Don't be fooled by the neon lights, the food fights, and the pink tights, this film has bite. It's frothy and fun, but it also contains an important lesson about loyalty and friendship.
In a veiled attempt to stave off what is bound to be a profound case of Post-Modern Girls sluggishness, here are my favourite songs from the M.G. soundtrack: "Girls Night Out," Tony Basil; "Everywhere I Go," The Call; "But Not Tonight," Depeche Mode; "No Promises," Icehouse; and "Some Candy Talking," Jesus and Mary Chain.
Describing a scene where a mustachioed stranger in a zoot suit revives the life force of a man recently shot to death in order help him ride a donkey into a town run by a murderous tyrant isn't the wisest course of action when it comes to writing words about Greaser's Palace, an absurd mishmash of top drawer poppycock from director Robert Downey Sr. (Hugo Pool), but that's the best I can come up with. You see, the film doesn't yield an inch in terms of being weird. In fact, it's one the most relentlessly strange films I have ever seen. Of course, I still haven't decided whether or not if this uncompromising nature is a good or bad thing. On the one hand, you want the film to be able to freely express its inner mental patient. On the other hand, it'd be nice if it made a glimmer of sense every now and then–you know, for the sake of my sanity. Either way, there's plenty of cult-based meshugaas spread throughout this film to satisfy the voracious appetites of underground cinema fans. Just as long as you're willing to wade through a lot of bewildering nonsense.
Reminding me of one of those pop-locking dancers during the finale of Xanadu and the guy who kept doing back flips on the revamped version of the Sammy Maudlin Show called "Maudlin o' the Night," Jessy (Alan Arbus) wanders across the arid landscape of this unnamed universe looking to for away to get to Jerusalem (the only geographical reference in the entire film). Since his attire is more akin to that of Cab Calloway than your average gunslinger, the 1890s-era folks he meets on his journey look at him with a fair amount of confusion. The town he ends up in is controlled by a dictatorial madman named Greaser (Albert Henderson), a violent individual who keeps his mother locked behind bars and likes to defecate in an enclosed place.
Wearing white gloves, Jessy heals the sick and reanimates the dead with a simple touch; the latter of which is done to a little fella named Lamy (Michael Sullivan) not once, but three times. (Did I mention Mr. Greaser is a violent man?) The fact that we know the zoot suited stranger can mend wounds through molestation causes one to feel much anguish every time this seemingly random woman (Elsie Downey) appears on screen. Writhing and lurching over the parched earth like a maimed sloth, the bullet and arrow ridden adult female struggles to make her way through this cruel world. Instead of assisting this exceedingly hurt woman out, Jessy seems more interested in getting his acting and singing career off the ground.
Now, I may be misreading the film here, but I think Jessy is supposed to represent some sort of spiritual entity. The water walking, the stigmata (crucifixion wounds), the predilection towards healing, they all add up to him being some sort of saviour. Except, instead of answering to a god named God, Jessy was down with someone/something named Bingo Gas Station Motel Cheeseburger With A Side Of Aircraft Noise And You'll Be Gary Indiana. While not as intimidating as the classic, more traditional deity, Bingo Gas Station Motel Cheeseburger With A Side Of Aircraft Noise And You'll Be Gary Indiana was still able to affect the masses merely by casually uttering his or her unwieldy name.
Remember when I said Jerusalem was the only geographic reference in Greaser's Palace? Well, if you look closely at the name, Bingo Gas Station Motel Cheeseburger With A Side Of Aircraft Noise And You'll Be Gary Indiana, you'll notice Bingo Gas Station Motel Cheeseburger With A Side Of Aircraft And You'll Be Gary Indiana has the name of a city in the middle west section of the United States of America in its tail section. Anyway, as you'd expect, the amount geography-related egg on my face at the moment is astronomical.
Speaking of eggs, I mean, the U.S.A., the location of the film is probably the western part of that country. However, since non-native religions are inoperable in North America, the fact that a Christ-like figure would show up in a land founded by the faith and culture of the First Nations people baffled the living fudge out of my puny Canadian brain.
If all this talk of indigenous peoples and theological functionality is causing your crotch to itch (and not in a good way), don't worry, there's plenty of comedy sprinkled throughout the film to keep your mind sufficiently frazzled. I mean, if the sight of Hervé Villechaize (Forbidden Zone) aggressively hitting on Jessy doesn't cause you to loose interest in sex for at least six days, then you ain't hooked up right. Actually, the funniest moment comes when Jessy heals a man using a makeshift crutch to help himself walk. The sound of him declaring, "I can crawl again," over and over again was definitely tickle worthy.
In terms of traditional trouser titillation, I'd have to say the scene where always fabulous Toni Basil (Rockula) runs around topless was the best example of this all-important cinematic attribute. I also liked the acute symmetry of Luana Anders' face. (You might remember her as one of the commune Hippies from Easy Rider.)
Well-oiled drum machines pump out their righteous beats with a disjointed nonchalance, a rhinestone prosthesis is secretly acquired under the cover of darkness, and, while in the middle of a performing song on stage, a musically inclined vampire orders Chinese food; these are just a mere pittance of the colossal awesomeness on display in the uproariously funny Rockula, a film that spoke to me on a number of unwell levels. Seemingly lost in the pitiless void that is cinematic indifference, the physical act of discovering this headphone thumping rock masterpiece was a minor miracle. Yet another in a long line of entertainment slabs that have been gestating in an obscure funk just waiting for me to come along and overly bask in their nutritious glow. Bold and audacious at every turn, filmmaker Luca Bercovici has somehow managed to not only create the world's lone rock and roll vampire comedy starring Toni Basil and Thomas Dolby, but he has somehow managed to create the world's greatest rock and roll vampire comedy starring Toni Basil and Thomas Dolby. Replete with lavishly modest musical numbers that come and go with a delightful randomness, mirror-based tomfoolery, comical funeral advertisements, strange swords fights that employ even stranger swords, and the most clean shaven protagonist in the stubbled history of onscreen grooming, the film is a bizarre mishmash of things that shouldn't be mashed together. However, it all inexplicably commingles with one another like a first-class stew.
Making one long for that kooky period of time when the 1980s were starting to run out of gas, Rockula reeks of a decade on its last legs. It's this desperation that gives the batty opus its nonrepresentational sense of urgency. It is obvious that the powers that be will not be allowing so-called "creative types" to make musicals about virginal vampires who must save their true love every twenty-two years from a ham bone wielding pirate in the near future. So the time for action is now, and boy, did they ever act. The amount of sheer wrongness that takes place in this film is baffling. Nevertheless, this wrongness is always counterbalanced through the double-dyed commitment to excellence of the cast and crew. Which is important, because a movie like this doesn't make itself, it needs to be nurtured by the hands of skilled craftsmen.
Funny in a self-deprecating sort of way, Dean Cameron and his first-rate eyebrows shine bright as the Ralph LaVie, the world's lamest vampire. Cursed to see Mona, the love of his life, repeatedly killed by a pirate over the past three hundred years (it's a complicated curse), the lonesome vamp decides enough is enough, and tries to save Mona this time around by thwarting the murderous buccaneer through the power of rock.
The sarcastic Dean injects a witty charm into proceedings as the lovelorn bloodsucker, and has a terrific rapport with the more confident version of himself that lives inside reflective surfaces. He is also solid when comes to being romantic and junk with the lithesome Tawny Fere (Angel III: The Final Chapter) and belting out the rocking songs that are featured throughout the film (the nocturnal duet with Tawny blew me away and the Elvis tinged number was glorious).
He even shows off his rapping skills on, you guessed it, "Rapula." Sure, there's a mild cringe-like sensation at first, but when he sincerely raps the line "He's the DJ, I'm the vampire," but that cringe quickly turns to genuine laughter. Oh, and having the always amazing Susan Tyrrell (sporting a blonde bowl cut) manning the wheels of steel and Bo Diddley rocking the spandex didn't exactly hurt, either. Speaking of spinning wax, the attractive Nancye Ferguson mans the switchboard for Tawny's erotic number, "Turn Me Loose."
An absolutely scrumptious Toni Basil opens up a major can of fabulousness as the divine Phoebe LaVie, Ralph's animated mother. Putting the likes of Christian Death, Aqua, Bauhaus and The Sisters of Mercy to shame, the incomparable Miss Basil manages to out-goth them with a breathtaking ease while performing "The Night," a self-choreographed showstopper that renders all previous attempts at coquettishness inert and extremely flabby. Similar to the feeling one gets after being dipped a carnival dunk tank full of pure, undiluted sexiness, the act of watching Toni dance, cavort, and camp it up in this movie was beyond heavenly.
The misguided sense of privilege I felt as I watched Rockula unfold and hurtle headfirst toward that inevitable moment where the evil Stanley (a hilarious Thomas Dolby) receives his comeuppance was unfathomable. This movie needs to be savoured, not shunned. Like I said, at first glance, it may appear to be seeped in wrongheadedness, but deep down beats a heart that is truly awesome.
The least talked about entry in the teen prostitution saga, Angel III: The Final Chapter seems miles away from the unsavoury sidewalks of Hollywood featured in the first two films. That might be because it starts off in New York City, where Molly "Angel" Stewart" now works as a freelance photographer. However, I think it has more to do with the fact that 1984 and 1988 are two totally different animals when it comes to "Living in the '80s." You see, the eighties can be broken down into two separate, yet equally important groups: The early '80s and the late '80s. The former was awash with creativity and avant-garde ideas, while the latter was a semi-bloated corpse yearning to remain relevant. For example, instead of going out and buying colourful bracelets at the mall and having irregular sex with Rick James, people in the late '80s seemed content to lie on their chesterfields watching individual beads of sweat struggling to outwit the mighty grip of Paula Abdul's world class thighs on their once state-of-the-art televisions. And if you ask me, that's a huge difference. Now, don't get me wrong, the latter half of the decade did contribute a fair amount of enchantment to the cinematic landscape (Teen Witch, Heathers, Killer Klowns from Outer Space), but Angel III: The Final Chapter isn't quite in the same league as those flicks.
The series has been completely overhauled and retains hardly any of the charm of the first two films. For starters, Angel creator Frank Vincent O'Neill has been replaced by Tom DeSimone (Reform School Girls), a man who definitely knows his way around a bag of sleaze. Yet, this guy just doesn't have the same visual flair as O'Neill. I mean, Los Angeles looks so drab and boring in this chapter. And jettisoning all the colourful characters that made the first two films such a pleasure to wallow in was an unfortunate turn of events.
I do, however, have to commend Mr. DeSimone for devising a plot that contains sexual slavery, cocaine distribution, x-rated cinema, and an ice cream truck. Oh, and not to mention, thank him for filling the screen with a cavalcade of naked breasts.
Anyway, the actual plot, and there is one, involves Angel being forced back onto the mean streets of Hollywood when she learns that her long lost sister Michelle (Tawny Fere from Rockula) has gotten mixed up with a distasteful throng of slave traders lead by a pimping visionary played by Maud "Octopussy" Adams.
Saddled with unenviable task of replacing Betsy Russell is the wonderfully named Mitzi Kapture. (Her kooky handle sounds like the working title of my unpublished guide to stalking bubbleheaded coeds.) Yeah, well, Mitzi does a competent job of filling out Angel's hooker wear. Despite the fact she doesn't really get to whore it up beyond humiliating a pimp and stealing his car.
On the other hand, I did enjoy the parts where she worked as a porno extra. The friendship/bond she forms with the other actresses was on the cusp of being fascinating, as it produced some insight into hopelessness some women must go through when they find themselves trapped in the unending shame spiral that is sexual exploitation.
Unfortunately, the romantic relationship Angel forms with a non-pornographic film editor played by Kin Shriner (General Hospital) was pretty much a dead on arrival.
The immensely talented Mark Blankfield (Jekyll and Hyde... Together Again) tries his best to imbue the proceedings with some playfulness as Angel's flamboyant, Disraeli-quoting friend, Spanky. But he can't quite match the get-up-and-go wackiness of Susan Tyrrell and Rory Calhoun (whose presence is sorely missed in this chapter).
The legendary Richard Roundtree (Shaft), the sensational Toni Basil (Rockula), cult actress extraordinaire Laura Albert (Mrs. Van Houten from Dr. Caligari) and the ubiquitous Dick Miller (A Bucket of Blood) are also in the film, but with the exception of Mr. Roundtree, their parts aren't much to brag about in terms of screen time. Which is shame, because when I saw Toni Basil appear onscreen looking all fabulous and junk, I figured she was gonna be Angel's new sidekick -- you know, ala Susan Tyrrell's Solly Mosler from the original film. But sadly, that never materialized.
Apparently there is an Angel 4 (Angel 4: Undercover) out there somewhere that stars the very blonde Darlene Vogel and a no doubt bewildered Roddy McDowell. But since I have heard nothing but negative things about it, I've decided to skip it, for now. Which is kinda a relief, because it doesn't seem to be commercially available (you know, other than used VHS copies on Amazon).
