Bare Behind Bars (Oswaldo de Oliveira, 1980)

Underwear. What purpose does it serve, and why do we wear it? These questions, and a whole lot more will no doubt be scurrying through your polluted little brains while you watch Bare Behind Bars, a nasty, filthy, totally abhorrent piece of anti-lesbian, anti-underwear propaganda from República Federativa do Brasil. What can I say? They scurried through mine, and my brain is not even close to being polluted. In fact, it's as clean as Rupaul's justifiably revered taint on laundry day. I'm intrigued. How underwear averse was this film? I mean, it couldn't have been more scant in the pantie department than any of the other films that populate this specific genre, or could it? (Don't worry, I'll get to the film's stance on lesbianism in a minute.) Taking underwear aversion to the far reaches of ungovernable insanity, writer-director Oswaldo de Oliveira (Amazon Jail), a man who should be ashamed of himself, has created a world where everything from a stiff breeze to a roving hand has been given free reign to caress your hardworking genitals. Anyone who desires to grope the crumpled patch of paradise languishing between the legs of, oh, let's say, prisoner #371, need not worry about the prospect of there being any material impasses standing in their way. The lack of a substantial fabric barrier in the vicinity of my crotch does not necessarily give you carte blanche to feel up my junk. After all, we live in a society that has laws, and one of those laws clearly states: No matter what the level of coverage, whether it be a thick swath of Bangladeshi cotton, a thin stripe of nylon, or nothing at all, a person has the right not to have his or her privates subjected to unsolicited touching or groping. It's true, unrestricted fondling is not allowed in so-called "normal society." But since when has a dingy women's prison, one with an overcrowded clandestine cemetery located somewhere out back and an insatiable lesbian/slave trader/sadist as its warden, ever been considered "normal society"? Let me jump in and tell you when it has: Never.

I'll admit, lumping lesbianism alongside something as heinous and morally repugnant as the slave trade makes my heart hurt; if anything, lesbianism is the epitome of normal. This film, however, does not view things this way. They see lesbianism as the leading cause of violence and degradation within the society I just got finished deeming normal. Nevertheless, just because I found their take on lesbianism to be totally offensive, doesn't mean I'm going to hold it against them. You have to admire the ill-conceived gusto in which it tries to besmirch lesbianism, as it is so misguided, it comes off as desperate and sad. It's almost like watching an after school special at times. Except this particular "special" has pineapple dildos and dogs eating penises at its core.

If they [society] would just treat lesbianism as just another facet of human sexuality, people like, Sylvia (Maria Stella Splendore), wouldn't have to get jobs as cruel prison wardens in order to get dates. Unfortunately, that's exactly what happens in Bare Behind Bars (a.k.a. A Prisão), a no holds barred women in prison flick that will surely satisfy even the most jaded proponents of the genre. Sitting in her office that overlooks the exercise yard, the sound of the women playing outside is causing Sylvia to feel a dull pain in her loins. Longing to rub her face against anything with a pulse (just as long as they have succulent breasts and a mossy beaver), Sylvia sits and stares at the i.d. card of an inmate named Cynthia (Danielle Ferrite), prisoner #341, and thinks to herself: I wonder what her pussy tastes like?

As they're playing handball in the yard, which was like watching five year old's play soccer (i.e. disorganized chaos), one of the girls is stabbed with a shank. In an effort to calm the situation, the guards move in with the hose. Spraying them with gallons of water (kudos to the butch guard with red hair for her top-notch nozzle work), the girls are reduced to a flailing mound of wet noodles. Determined to find out who the culprit was, Sylvia employs various means of torture to get the girls to talk. When that doesn't work, she invites #341 to her office, so that may chat in private. Who is she trying to kid? She's not interested in having a frank discussion about who killed #170, or whatever her number was, she wants to feel #341's soft, immature flesh pressed firmly against the weatherbeaten fullness of what's left of her no-nonsense femininity. It's true, she does make a somewhat feeble attempt to offer #341 a kind of package deal for her cooperation (a nicer cell, better meals), but it's rather obvious that her mind is mainly focused on attaining sexual satisfaction.

Still ticked off about the stabbing incident, Sylvia decides to punish the inmates by taking away some of their privileges. All meals from now on will be served in the prisoner's cells and exercise in the yard has been suspended. Oh, and the reason #341 is washing her coño with the water dripping from the leaky faucet in her cell is because bathing has been curtailed as well. The biggest shake up, however, occurs when she launches a prison wide inspection. Uncovering a plethora of illegal weapons, the exhaustive search for contraband, while managing to unnerve Sylvia's delicate psyche, does introduce us to the film's greatest asset, and that is, of course, Nurse Barbara (Marta Anderson), the Mamie Van Doren-esque ether-sniffer who loves, no, wait, scratch that, who adores raspberry pudding. While inspecting a prisoner's many crevices, Nurse Barbara declares that she that is in love with #241 (Marliane Gomes), and will do anything to make her happy. Okay, maybe she doesn't exactly declare that. But you could totally tell that the on the cusp of being buxom healthcare provider liked the structurally sound brunette that lay before her in the prison's infirmary. Promising to give her a massage and a bath, Nurse Barbara treats #241 like a brand new puppy.

If you're like me, you're probably also wondering how Sylvia manages keep her hair looking so silky smooth on a prison warden's salary. Well, it turns out that Sylvia has quite the money-making venture on the side. On top of being a sadist and a lonely lesbian, Sylvia sells prisoners to her fellow lonely lesbians for a hefty price. And today is the day when a lonely lesbian dressed head-to-toe in yellow has arrived to pick up #514, a.k.a. Betty (Nadia Destro), a prisoner Sylvia has been "grooming" for the past several weeks. Happy with what she sees through the peephole (Sylvia keeps all potential lesbian life partners in a private room), the lonely lesbian pays Sylvia a large amount of money for the right to take Betty home with her.

While the majority of the action transpires within the walls of the prison itself, we're periodically given updates regarding the status of the lonely lesbian and Betty's relationship throughout the film. In addition to keeping us filled in as to the development of their imposed courtship (Betty is essentially a sex slave), this subplot, which usually takes place on a yacht or at the beach, gives the audience a much needed break from the drudgery of prison life. However, I wouldn't call what #241 endures "drudgery." Sure, she's picked on from time to time by the other inmates, but the pampering she receives at the hands of Nurse Barbara was overindulgence run amok. Lying naked on her examination table, her hair adorned with daisies, Nurse Barbara has a present for #241: a strap-on ready dildo. I know what you're thinking. A dildo? Big Deal. It's true, a single dildo might not seem like much in today's booming dildo economy. But back then, the dildo was a symbol of power and strength. There's a reason, "She who controls the dildo, controls the universe," was West Germany's on and off motto for most of 1974.

Accepting her gift, #241 shares the dildo with the rest of the prison population. If you look closely, you'll occasionally catch a glimpse of the dildo being transported from one cell to another via a crude clothesline-based dildo delivery system. The women have obviously devised a schedule that determines when a certain cellblock can use the much sought after sex toy, or else it would been anarchy. My favourite instance of this glorified dildo outreach program comes during the scene where a guard and a prisoner in solitary confinement give one another handjobs through a small hole in the cell door. The way the dildo cable car sneaks into frame as the guard and the isolated prisoner are vigorously rubbing the consecrated viscosity out of their swollen pussies was strangely beautiful.

Since the lonely lesbian in yellow is off cavorting with Betty, that means there's a vacancy in Sylvia's private lesbian life partner grooming room. Who's gonna be a next lucky girl to be the indentured girlfriend of a rich lesbian? A new prisoner named Annette (Sonia Regina) might just be what Sylvia's been looking for. While things get off to a rocky start (Sylvia slaps Annette when she refuses to be called #578), they gradually improve once Nurse Barbara examines her. With her muscular calves rest in her trusty stirrups, Barbara, after testing the dampness of her sex, declares #578's box to be so clean, that you could literally eat off it.

As Nurse Barbara is sitting on the corner of her desk extolling the virtues of raspberry pudding, Sylvia is getting ready to implement her plan to transform #578 into the ultimate lesbian sex slave. Meanwhile, out in the yard (exercise and bathing privileges have been reinstated), #578 is way ahead of Sylvia, and has started do calisthenics, along with #241, #341, and #218, in the nude. The idea is get Sylvia's attention, and you know what? The plan works like a charm, as #578 is quickly summoned to Sylvia office. Staring at her with a fiery intensity, Sylvia tells #578 to take off her gown. The "gown" is basically a sea green coat with the prisoner's number written on the front and back in black. Anyway, Sylvia's stare grows even more intense after #578 does a little spin for her (making sure the warden gets a look at every nook and cranny her exciting body has to offer).

Even though she doesn't communicate it with words, the expression on Sylvia's face as #578 spun for her sums up how she felt at that particular moment. Screw those the other lonely lesbians, she probably thought to herself, this lonely lesbian has found a slice of womanly perfection, and has no intention of sharing her with anyone else. Yeah, that's right. Her name is #578, and her ass belongs to me. After she's finished inspecting "the goods," Sylvia takes #578 for a test drive by grinding her body against hers in a highly erotic manner. And judging from the cunnilingual bruises that dot her inner thighs the following day, there's no way Sylvia's letting some dried up hosebeat intertwine her scabby legs with the robust stems that jut from #578's taut torso.

Are you a middle-aged lesbian who likes to fornicate with girls who are more than half your age? Of course you are. Don't you just hate it when their enthusiasm for eating out your expensive pussy causes your crotch to become parched, sluggish and barely recognizable to the microscopic lickspittles that live on the outskirts your infrequently manicured bush? Well, the next time your fanny region is itching like an underpaid motherfucker, just fill your bathtub with lukewarm water, add a tablespoon of radioactive oregano, keep the affected area submerged for at least five to six hours, and voilà, watch those pesky blemishes go the way of the daguerreotype.

As the bubbles and the radioactive oregano are soothing Sylvia's aching minge, a vision of loveliness sporting a volumizing scrunchie is busy laying the groundwork for her inevitable downfall. Wait. Did you just say, "volumizing scrunchie"? You bet I did. Okay, just checking. The prison's assistant warden, Sandra (Neide Ribeiro), disapproves of Sylvia's methods (she thinks she's a sadist who's letting her thirst for underage cooter cloud her correctional conviction), and wants to put an end to her reign of sapphic terror.

If it seems like #241 and #578 are enjoying their time as lesbian playthings, think again. Tired of playing horsy (Nurse Barbara likes it when #241 rides her bareback while eating watermelon) and performing all-night oral stimulation, #241 and #578 decide it's time start planning their escape from this hellhole. Along with prisoners #341 and #218, the girls hope to use their connections with Sylvia and Nurse Barbara to help speed up the process. Of course, while Sylvia is completely in the dark as to what #578 is up to, Nurse Barbara has no qualms about aiding the unruly foursome.

In terms of exposing skin, all the principal players do their part to titillate the unwashed rabble sitting in the audience. Even the gorgeous Neide Ribeiro gets with the program near the end of the film, as she appears naked while getting dressed in her bedroom. Despite the shortage of fastened buttons on her prison issue blouse, Sandra has been a model of modesty for most the film. All that changes on the day mass is scheduled to be performed in the prison's chapel, when we see her brushing her hair sans clothing in front of a mirror. Numbed by the sheer amount of bare bums, butts, and asses that are barefacedly exposed to throughout this talking picture, I thought to myself: Yawn. Not another unclothed behind. However, I was pleasantly surprised by the oomph of Neide's well-oiled backside when it finally decides to badonk its way onscreen. It not only boasted a pleasing shape, but it also had a certain twinkle about it.

Flashing the contents of your bodacious Brazilian booty is nothing compared to what #241 and #341 get up during the film's final third. Just a second, I'm trying to figure who made the bigger sacrifice. Okay, I'm gonna say #241 took the greater risk. You see, while #341 performs authentic sexual intercourse (squalid slum sex), shot a couple of people, and participates in the gang rape of a minor, #341 cuts off two penises (the first was a flaccid penis that she fed to a noisy dog, while the second was a fully erect penis that she fed to the man who used to be attached to the fully erect penis), participates in the gang rape of a minor, walks around with a razor in her vagina, and is forced to lick a pineapple dildo. So, it's rather obvious who the "winner" is when it comes to championing debasement.

My biggest complaint in relation to watching films like Bare Behind Bars has nothing to do with the torture or the degradation, it's the implausible tan lines. This particular film, like others in the genre, seem to make a concerted effort to point out that the prisoners are wearing no undergarments whatsoever. Yet when it comes time to film the obligatory shower scene, all I see are tan lines in the shape of bikini bottoms and tops These women are supposedly living in an underwear scarce universe, and have been for years, but you wouldn't know it judging by lines of pale skin that cover the bodies of some of the inmates. I know, it's difficult to find women who hate going to the beach, especially in a country as beach-friendly as Brazil, to appear in borderline pornographic women in prison flicks on such short notice. But can't we find away to persuade the actresses not to go to the beach before principal photography begins? I don't ask for much.

...

Bad Girls Dormitory (Tim Kincaid, 1986)

When I first caught a glimpse of the giant wall fitted with barbed wire that surrounded the correctional facility at the centre of this deft love letter to female captivity, my initial reaction was: Damn, someone clearly doesn't want anyone living behind it to escape. However, after spending a few moments inside the inadequately run dormitory for wayward girls, I've come to the conclusion that the concrete and barbed wire wasn't there to keep the girls from breaking out, it was there to keep me from breaking in. Now, I've seen my fair share of films over the past couple of months that sport incarcerated ladies under duress, but none of them have featured as many potential life partners as Bad Girls Dormitory does, the overpriced root beer of women in prison flicks. One-by-one, I would fall deeply in love with their gruff exteriors, can-do spirit, and murderous gusto–and, not to mention, their feathered hair, parched lips, and the ease in which they were able to dance to the music of Man Parrish in an enclosed space. The only logical explanation I can come up with is that all the girls were from New York City. Sure, one of them was playing a fresh off the bus small town girl. But even then, I think she was from Staten Island. (I'm no authority on the subject, but her curly hairdo was definitely styled somewhere within the five boroughs.) While I worshiped the girls for their brash, big city attitudes, I was mildly horrified when it came time to unveil the uniform the girls at this unnamed dormitory (which seemed more like a prison, than an actual "dormitory") will be wearing for the duration of this awe-inspiring motion picture. Suddenly, the girls appear onscreen, and low and behold, their lower extremities sheathed in a pair of blue jeans and the upper part of their torso is adorned with a no-nonsense white t-shirt. In other words, the girls are being forced to dress like that asshole from that ketchup commercial that was inexplicably popular twenty years ago. (Oh, and, just for the record, I'm a big fan of that commercial.) Oh, and when I say, "a pair of blue jeans," I don't mean, "jean shorts." What I'm talking about are your run-of-the-mill blue jeans (the kind your mom wears when she's pulling weeds in the garden).

Did I let the fact that I was a tad underwhelmed by the ho-hum nature of the uniforms the girls had to wear in this movie undermine my enjoyment? What are you fucking kidding? If anything, it actually enhanced my enjoyment. You see, writer-director Tim Kincaid (Riot on 42nd Street) is an artist, and like any artist, he knows how to turn something that is bland and uninspiring into something that will uplift and arouse greatness in others. The blue jeans and the white t-shirts were like a blank canvas, and Mr. Kincaid's imagination was the paint. In a stroke of genius, he allowed each inmate to tinker with the structural makeup of their white t-shirt. Some simply rolled up the sleeves, while others just cut them off all together. I don't want to overstate this, but I think the decision to let the girls to endow their t-shirts with individual characteristics was one of the greatest in film history.

In the spirit of transparency, some of the t-shirts were already sleeveless (i.e. they were manufactured as such). But for the most part, the girls did add personal touches to their shirts. I guess when you first enter the dormitory you're given a choice between a t-shirt with sleeves or a t-shirt without sleeves; what you do with after it's been handed to you is entirely up to the person wearing it. One girl who wisely chose to go sleeveless was Paige (Natalie O'Connell), as her ample bosom would have suffocated underneath all that excess t-shirt fabric. Anyway, mere seconds after arriving at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, Paige finds her ample bosom in a degrading situation. Hoping to make some money as a model, Paige is suddenly topless in the office of a sleazy pornographer. Just as she was about to be violated by a naked man named Roland (Harve Soto), the operation is busted by some prudish vice cops. And Paige is, you guessed it, sent to a juvenile detention centre run by Miss Madison (Marita), a stylish Colombian woman.

Earlier that day, in another sketchy part of town, Marina (Teresa Farley) is left holding a bag of cocaine in a ramshackle room on the third floor of a condemned building. Is she shocked when her boyfriend Paco (Jeffrey Iorio) and a female drug dealer wearing a leopard print fingerless gloves bail on her when the cops arrive. Actually, I bet she wasn't surprised at all when the spiky-haired drug dealer (her vest was leopard print as well) took off when things started to get out of hand, but she was definitely hurt by Paco's actions. (Why, Paco? Why?) You could totally tell, as she stood there in her black, mesh tank-top, that she didn't expect to be left in the lurch like that.

In the crazy, mixed up world of Bad Girls Dormitory, there's no time to ask Paco why he bolted or explain to the cops that I'm a simple country girl from Staten Island, because, before you know it, Marina, Paige, and another girl, who we'll later come to know as Eula (Renata Cobbs), are listening to Dr. DeMarco (Dan Barclay) and the lovely Nurse Stevens (Rebecca Rothbaum) lay down the ground rules as they prepare to administer a full body search. Telling them to "lean over," the doctor begins his examination. I wonder if he found anything? I doubt it. In fact, I have a nagging suspicion that the whole ordeal was just an excuse for Dr. DeMarco, and, yes, Nurse Stevens, to get a sneak peak at the latest line of underage undercarriages to hit the dormitory, as both of them, as we'll soon find out, are unabashed when it comes to idolizing the vaginal plateaus of others.

Meanwhile, Miss Madison, who obviously does not share the orificial obsessions of her pussy-starved staff, is giving Ron (Rick Gianasi), a handsome social worker, a tour of her first-class correctional facility (well, in her mind, it's "first-class"). Informing her that he'll find his own way out after the tour is over, Ron starts poking his head around the place. The first place he pokes his head is the basement, but all he finds down there is Jen (Jane Donadio), a shy, virginal redhead smoking weed. However, he hits pay dirt with the next place he pokes his head when stumbles upon some young ladies showering. Lathering her taut body with enough soap to clean a small Guatemalan family, Tim Kincaid's camera is in love with LeeAnne Baker (a.k.a. the reputed pleasure droid from Mutant Hunt). Playing an inmate with short hair, LeeAnne's unnamed character is a pro when it comes to washing her perky frame in front of her bratty peers. Strangely enough, Ron's not interested in the svelte brunette from Necropolis, no, his lustful gaze is focused squarely on Lori (Carey Zuris), an equally slender woman with dirty blonde hair. Unlike the other so-called "grown ups" who work in this hellhole, Don's perverted leering is tinged with an air of sadness. Staring at one another for quite some time, Lori, who's too depressed to bother to wash herself with any zest whatsoever, eventually tires of his empathetic leering and curtly asks him, "Seen enough?"

Feminine chaos is best way to describe what transpires next, as we're ushered into the dorm's mess hall. A veritable cornucopia of charming tough chicks, the cafeteria is awash with cigarettes, soda pop, plastic utensils, chocolate bars, white t-shirts, big hair, and, of course, the sound of Man Parrish's expertly programmed sequencers and drum machines. Now, I should warn you, people who are unaccustomed to seeing this many attractive women gathered together in a small space might want to look away during this sequence. As for the rest of us, let's dig in.

The mess hall scene is probably the most important in the entire film, as it introduces us to all women we'll be spending next eighty or so minutes with. Having already been introduced to the so-called "fresh meat," this section of the film gives us an opportunity to meet the dormitory's more hardened residents. And you can't get any more hardened than Lisa (Jennifer Delora) and Rebel (Donna Eskra), two gals who take bullying to new and exciting places. Eyeballing Lori almost immediately, Lisa stakes her claim by telling her she has pretty eyes. However, she's distracted when she discovers that Barb (Frances Raines) is cutting Jen's meat. The "Red" of the Bad Girls Dormitory universe, the excessively blonde Valeska (Charmagne Eckert), the dormitory's most alluring "guest," tells Paige, Marina, and Eula that she's the girl to talk to if you need anything (whether it be a nail-laden baseball bat or a slightly used box of tampons), because she's got "connections."

Even more eyeballing takes place when we encounter Dottie (Kate McCamy), a shock-haired cauldron of bewitching unpleasantness who takes exception with the fact that Deke (Parri Shahmanesh), a butch lesbian, and her bubble-headed gal pal Lenka (Cathryn Bissell), are giving her the stink-eye. I'm guessing the reason behind their stink-laden stares might have had something to do with Dottie's plastic fork-themed attempt to flirt with McCoy (Bill Peterson), a guard/rapist who works at the dormitory. At any rate, employing an undercooked hot dog to help accentuate the overall impact of her hand gestures, Dottie tells them point blank, "Don't make me get up. If I do, I'll be twisting some tits." After she finished uttering that line, I couldn't help but notice that I was starting to develop strong feelings toward her. As this was happening, I began to think to myself: Try not to get too attached, you never know which of these girls is going to die horribly.

Luckily, we only see Dottie two more times after her verbal spat with Deke and Lenke, as the more I thought about her, the more I wanted to swoop in and rescue her from this banal existence. After lights out, we see Dottie, who I didn't recognize at first, screaming, "Shut up, you stupid fruitcake" to a disruptive individual in another bunk; her brash demeanour reminded me of Antonia Basilotta (a.k.a. Toni Basil), as I could totally picture the famed actress, singer, choreographer, and all around fabulous person telling someone to be quiet in this manner. Her final appearance takes place during visiting hours in the mess hall when she is briefly seen talking to her boyfriend. Well, "talking" is a bit of a stretch, as he says, "Hey, baby," to which Dottie responds, "You motherfuckin' scumbag!" I'm no expert when it comes to inner workings of the human brain, but I think Dottie even realized that "motherfuckin' scumbag" might have been way harsh. But then again, her assessment could have been right on the money. Hey, maybe he was a "motherfuckin' scumbag." Who knows.

Okay, with Dottie out of the picture, who am I supposed to obsess over now? I liked the transition Paige makes in the film, as she goes from being a naive bumpkin with large breasts to a savvy sex pot...with large breasts. The way she slumped in her chair, opened a couple of buttons on her button-fly jeans, and told Dr. DeMarco, "I'm a whore," in response to his question, "Why are you here"? was, I'll admit, pretty bad ass. Yet, I still found her to be too soft. No, I like my bad girls to be always hard.

How 'bout Rebel? Oooh, I loved her. She was complex, horny as fuck, scrappy (she picks a fight with Marina in the mess hall after mail call), and always full of surprises. Choosing a sleeveless top to express herself, Rebel is essentially Lisa's big haired sidekick (one who gets told to "shut her hole" on occasion), but she wasn't a mindless sycophant. Far from it. Her decision to help Gloria (Sherry Hoard), a girl who is trying to hide her pregnancy from Miss Madison and the guards, was very out of character. (You would think that Dr. DeMarco and Nurse Stevens would have noticed that Gloria was pregnant–you know, with them being on the cusp of the medical profession and all. But I doubt they took their jobs seriously. In fact, I bet the only reason they worked there was to capitalize on the abundance of cheap heroin and guilt-free poontang.)

While the unexpected kindness she displays was a nice touch, the Rebel I prefer is the one who's constantly craving sex and facilitating the murder of her friend's rivals. The best examples of the former come when she finishes appeasing the carnal desires Dr. DeMarco and Nurse Stevens with the mollifying moistness of the throbbing fissure festering between her legs. Sapped of their strength, Rebel takes advantage of their post-coital lethargy by ridiculing them. My personal favourite was the way she told the doctor he was the "worst lay" she's ever had while simultaneously flipping her hair with her hand (the best after sex hair flip I've seen all year). Actually, telling Nurse Stevens, "I don't want a bitch, I want a man," while she smoothed out the creases in her white pantyhose was pretty great as well.

In terms of facilitating murder? Hmm, I'd say the look on Rebel's face when Lisa dispatches one of her rivals in the basement with piano wire was the best example of this specific character trait. Oh, and if the nonchalant look on the Rebel's face while Lisa murdered her rival reminded you of the equally nonchalant mug the luminous Laurie-Ann Gill wears in the music videos for Nudimension's "Amour Programmé" and "Living On Video" by Trans-X, then we share the same brain.

In one of the film's more bizarre scenes, Rebel agrees to escort Gloria to the bathroom (she is suffering from morning sickness). However, instead of helping her, she winds up getting sidetracked when the opportunity to have sex with a male guard (Mark Umile) comes along. The back and forth between the two, as Rebel fucks and Gloria pukes, was memorable because it's set to the music of Man Parrish, the electro pioneer behind such classics as "Hip Hop Be Bop (Don't Stop)" and "Boogie Down (Bronx)." The result is a strangely musical scene, where Gloria's repetitious cry, "Rebel, I need you," and Rebel's reply, "Just a minute...I'm coming," come across as lyrics when paired with Man's beats and synthesizers.

If the scene with Rebel and Gloria was the most bizarre, the mess hall sequence set to "Hose Me Down" by Man Parish and Beth Rudetsky was definitely the most awesome. Determining that the girls need to blow off some steam after the recent rape-induced suicide of one of their own (permitting male guards to work at a girls dormitory was a questionable decision), Miss Madison chaperones what has to be the greatest mess hall dance party scene in the history of cinema. Since she allows their boyfriends to attend, the scene suddenly becomes veritable haze of headbands, tank-tops with Japanese writing on them, Jheri curl, faint facial hair, studded bracelets, Polo cologne, and fingerless gloves. The way their break dancing duds combined with the residual new wave and punk styles that were still prevalent at the time was quite the eyeopener (the gap between masculinity and femininity was virtually nonexistent). Anyway, not only do we get to see LeeAnne Baker dance, we also get a glimpse into how shoddily run the dormitory actually is (while Miss Madison is overseeing the dance party, drugs are being sold and guards are groping girls right under her nose).

Judging by her pushy nature, you knew she was doomed the moment she started boasting to the new fish about her talents when it came to acquiring smuggled goods (which, as everyone knows, is Lisa's racket). But you got to give up to the gorgeous Charmagne Eckert for being so delectable as Valeska, the slenderest slice of womanly excellence to ever stalk the grimy halls of a girls dormitory. Sporting a natural gift for self-promotion, and, not to mention, the most lickable thorax in the known universe, Valeska's downfall may have been rapid, but her knack for laughing at the misfortunes of others was downright adorable.

Since they probably didn't shoot enough material to qualify as a feature length film, someone decided to include three drawn-out fight scenes to pad things out. And since Jennifer Delora (Frankenhooker) is a black belt in judo, why not have her fight one of the female guards? Sure, the rivalry between Lisa and a guard named Harper (Rachel Hancock) isn't really explained (I guess they just don't like each other), but their brawl in the girls' sleeping quarters was still pretty great. However, midway through their rematch in the basement, I couldn't help but notice that I was starting feel a tad sluggish. It got so bad, that I almost fell into a coma when another extended fight scene breaks out between a male guard and Marina's boyfriend. The fact that this fight occurs immediately after Lisa and Harper's second dust-up had ended was just plain egregious. In spite of that, I'm happy to report that Tim Kincaid's first non-gay porn foray into the lube-free realm of exploitation cinema is a smashing success.

uploaded by solidspace
...

Isla: The Wicked Warden (Jess Franco, 1977)

Do you recall that heated discussion I had with myself not so long ago–you know, the one about the colour of the stockings worn in the classic women in prison flick Women's Prison Massacre? You remember, part of me thought they were dark charcoal grey, while the other part thought they were black. You don't, eh? Are you sure? Okay, I believe you. There's no need to get testy. Anyway, as I sat down to watch Ilsa: The Wicked Warden (a.k.a. Wanda, the Wicked Warden and Greta - Haus ohne Männer), my brain readied itself for yet another hosiery-based entanglement; a collants conundrum, if you will. It's not that I expected there to be any issues regarding the firm-fitting garments worn throughout this movie, it's just that I like to be prepared for anything that is thrown my way. Low and behold, when a new inmate is handed her uniform, after being thoroughly hosed down, of course, she asks the guard: don't I get any panties? Laughing, the guard tells her flatly, no, this is all you get. I'll admit, I was a tad disappointed when I found out there will be no tights, stockings, nylons, pantyhose, or even socks for me to grouse about in this film, which, judging by the camera angles employed during the opening shower scene, was clearly directed by Jess Franco, the master when comes to focusing his lens on what really matters. On the other hand, the prospect of watching an extravagantly sleazy film without the usual array of perverted burdens hanging over my head was actually quite liberating. Besides, only a real sadist would force women to wear crotch-constricting lingerie in a tropical environment. Oh, that's right, Ilsa/Greta is a sadist. The only logical explanation I think of is that she's grown soft over the years. And, for some strange reason, has changed her name to Greta, dyed her hair red, and relocated to an unknown corner of Latin America.

Armed only with her trusty whip, her always improving German accent, and her trademark ample bosom, Greta (Dyanne Thorne), tired of torturing for the betterment of humanity (conducting medical experiments on prisoners of war is so last season), has decided to start inflicting pain on others for profit and political reasons. You see, the country she currently resides has enemies–and, judging by the number of women languishing in "the hole," it has a lot of enemies–and thanks to Greta, she has ways of making them talk. If you think about it, her mistreatment of dissidents makes sense (it's an excellent way to ingratiate yourself to a new government), but how does one earn money from degradation? Why, that's simple, you film the degrading acts with a hidden camera and sell the footage to unscrupulous pornographers.

A steady flow of cash, a chummy relationship with the nation's corrupt government, and the occasional free massage administered by the sanitarium's most attractive inmate, life at Clinica Las Palomas is pretty sweet for Greta and her dedicated staff. Who would have guessed that a tiny tittied troublemaker posing as a patient would be the person to threaten Greta's cushy existence? Not me, that's for sure. It just goes to show that a morally bankrupt woman with large breasts is no match for a self-righteous woman with small breasts.

Opening with some tranquil shots of an unnamed jungle, Jess Franco (Eugénie de Sade) quickly ushers us into the soft and squishy realm of feminine hygiene. Implying from the get-go that's there's a huge discrepancy between Greta's day-to-day life and that of the "patients" under her care, we're treated to a duel bathing sequence. On the one hand, we see Greta soaking in a tub without a care in the world; her massive jugs are covered with frothy bubbles. And at the other end of the bathing spectrum, we have a group of woman showering with low-grade soap as two burly female guards gawk at them. How burly were the guards, you ask? Well, let's just say, if my head happened to become lodged between either one of their chunkier-than-usual thighs (don't ask me how it got in there), the chances of me being rescued would have been pretty slim, as my screams for help would have been muffled by at least five or six undulating layers of pale, vein-covered flab.

Just a second, let me enjoy that mental picture for a little while longer. Okay, I'm good. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, showering. A group of female inmates are showering, when all of a sudden, one of them starts to scream. It would seem that this is all part of a not-so elaborate rouse to distract the guards so that another inmate could grab her "uniform" and flee the clinic.

Running through the jungle, the fugitive, a brunette woman named Rosa Phillips (Esther Studer), is being pursued by rifle-wielding guards in khaki shorts. Eventually finding her way to the home of Dr. Arcos (Jess Franco), the wounded (a couple of bullets grazed her during her perilous flight to freedom) escapee thinks she has found sanctuary. But think again, Miss Phillips. You're going to have to stagger more than a couple of miles through some dense bush to escape the clutches of Greta, the torturer. Mumbling about shock treatment as she's carted away, the doctor wonders why Rosa, a woman who is supposedly being treated for a sexual abnormality (nymphomania, lesbianism, and prostitution are the clinic's specialties) would need to be tortured.

Repeatedly denied access to the notorious facility, Dr. Arcos, intent on exposing the clinic's wrongdoings, needs to find a trustworthy witness, one who will uncover the veil of wickedness that hangs over the place, and put an end to Greta's reign of terror once and for all. And the witness he's been looking for literally lands in the backseat of the doctor's car. Her name is Abbie Phillips (Tania Busselier), and she's the sister of Rosa Phillips. Determined to find out what happened to her sister, Abbie allows Dr. Acros to have her committed to Las Palomas under an assumed name.

Reborn as Abbie Garcia, a teacher, who according to her forged medical records, was caught having sexual relations with a number of underage students, the undercover patient quickly finds herself at the mercy of the thick thighed guards I alluded to earlier. Commenting on the fact that she doesn't need a bra, the guards remove her clothes and hose her down. Cackling like a couple of wart-covered witches on payday when the water they're spraying fails to penetrate the density of her "pubic nest" (what she lacks in boobs, she more than makes up for in pubes), the guards clearly enjoy their work. When they're finished, one of the guards hands her her uniform (a white shirt that looked like the kind of garment a small child might wear if her or she were playing a doctor in a school play). Realizing that the shirt they gave her isn't going to provide her with the coverage she requires to feel comfortable, she says, "I would like to have some panties." As you would expect, more laughter erupts from the guards, who basically tell her that's it as far as clothing goes.

You'll notice, as she's being denied panties, that there's a number on her uniform. Which is nothing new, as most prisons, clinics and sanatoriums give their "guests" a number (it's a tried and true method when it comes to dehumanizing the people you want to control). What is new, however, is the punishment for when someone fails to use it while referring to either themselves or the other inmates. For example, if you say, see Abbie across the room and you would like to get her attention, don't call out, "Abbie." Instead, try shouting her number, which, in Abbie's case, is 41 (be careful, though, I'm not sure if Greta allows shouting within the walls of her clinic). If you don't, you'll get your number branded just above your left breast. Nowadays, of course, that wouldn't be seen as much of a punishment, as self-mutilation is all the rage. But back in the 1970s, the surface of your flesh was sacred, and having a number burnt into your chest would no doubt severely cramp your style.

While the guards might not have been impressed with the size of 41's breasts, 14, 10, and 24 can't seem to get enough of them (14, in fact, says, and I quote, "her tiny tits excite me"). Who are these mosquito bite aficionados? Well, all I know about 24 is that she has an English accent and has the number 24 branded above her left nipple. As for 14 (Peggy Markoff). Let's see, she's a post-op trans woman who enjoys knitting, lesbianism, and watching shower fights (oh, and get on her good side and she might let you call her 7). Who's kidding who? The only number in that group that really matters is 10 (Lina Romay), the sexist woman to roam the halls of a shoddily run correctional institute since a certain pigment challenged enchantress in dark charcoal grey stockings headbutted her way into my heart. Sauntering into the clinic's sleeping quarters, her arms akimbo, the short-haired slice of gorgeosity is clearly in command (keep an eye on her when sits on her bed, it's obvious she hikes up her uniform with the sole purpose of reveling more of her delicious pussy). Unfazed over the fact that 41 didn't notice her exposed vagina (not even a cursory cunt coup d'oeil is thrown her way), 10 jumps to her feet (which are covered with a pair of beige boots) and starts to inspect 41's super-tight body.

Impressed with what 41 has to offer, tightness-wise, 10 tells her that she'll play with her later. Running late for an appointment, 10 shows up at the door of Greta's swanky pad and proceeds to give her a massage. You should have seen the sublime curvature of 10's wonderfully proportioned backside as she straddled Greta, it was a thing of rotund beauty. Changing positions, Greta returns the favour. However, not by giving her a massage, but by sticking pins in her chest (I loved the close up shots Lina Romay's dark eyes during this sequence). If she screams, she'll send 41 to the hole (10 has made it clear to Greta that she likes 41). Luckily for 41, she doesn't, scream, that is.

Remember when I said Ilsa: The Wicked Warden was all about this woman trying to find her missing sister? Yeah, well, it's not about that at all. Okay, maybe it is about that (how the fuck should what things are about). But in my mind, what the film really about is one woman's epic struggle to obtain a clean culo. And besides Greta, who do you think is the one woman at Clinica Las Palomas in a position to demand a pristine culo? Why, it's 10, of course. And who do you suppose she wants to be her primary culo cleaner? You guessed it, she wants 41. Walking up to 41 in the shower, 10 tells her, "you turn me on," and instructs her to wash her back and to scrub her culo. As I watched the suds slowly trickle down the sharply defined contours of her sturdy back, I couldn't help but notice that her culo wasn't being scrubbed at all. An increasingly frustrated 10 catches wind of this as well and yells, "I told you to scrub my culo!"

A sense ease began to wash over me as the soap finally started to make its way into 10's culo. Unfortunately, this ease wasn't shared by the actually owner of the sublime culo sort of being scrubbed. Dissatisfied with the manner in which her culo was being attended to, 10 decides to express her unhappiness through physical violence (the chaotic nature of the brawl that ensued gave the audience some excellent shots of 10's partially scrubbed culo). What's the penalty for fighting in this joint? I have no idea. What I do know is that inept culo scrubbing gets you strapped to a table and tortured. After injecting some sort of numbing agent into 41's vagina with a syringe (a bug-eyed Dyanne Thorne looks right at home with a syringe in her hand), Greta tells her, "shock therapy will calm your nerves." And judging by the white foam leaking from her mouth, I'd say it didn't work at all.

No doubt wondering if her decision to come here was a wise one, 41 spends the next couple of days naked, shackled, and forced to listen to the paranoid ramblings of 20 (a woman with a terrible scar on her neck who's locked in the cell next to hers). When she's finally released from the hole, 41 is consoled by 14 (I'm no doctor, but I'm sure the faintness of her eyebrows will help soothe her pain). If you're wondering what kind of punishment 10 got for fighting in the shower, don't bother. The so-called "wicked warden" and 10 are in cahoots with one another (you scratch my back, I'll urinate all over yours). Returning to the hole, Greta whips a naked woman with one eye chained to a wall for some shits but hardly any giggles (I'll admit, the twitchy nature of the one-eyed lady with stringy blonde hair was strangely alluring), beats 20 in her hay-covered cell (20 manages to call Greta a "vampire cunt" before her beating commences), and tortures a patient that 41 might be interested in.

Telling 41 that she has information regarding the whereabouts of her missing sister, 10 arranges a meeting in the lavatory. With 14 there as moral support, 41 proceeds to beg 10 to tell her what happened to her sister. Unsatisfied with the quality of her groveling, 10, who is sitting on the toilet while all this is transpiring, instructs 41 to lick her boots. After she's finished, it's time to–you guessed it–clean her culo. Unsure whether or not 10 was going #1 or #2, 41 wipes her culo with a small piece of newspaper. Standing with a priggish air of a woman who is having her culo cleaned by someone other than herself, 10 tells 41 to lick her culo. "It's not so bad, lick it clean," she coos softly to the reluctant culo licker, as 41 struggles to maintain her composure as the entirety of her oral infrastructure soon finds itself fully engulfed within the tantalizingly plump confines of her magnanimous culo. You know what the say? Real sadness is the sight of freshly cried tears coagulating on the edge of a prison toilet seat as a result of being forced to clean a beautiful woman's culo with your lengua. Nevertheless, her sadness quickly turns to happiness as 10 declares 41 to be her friend.

Do you think Greta would ever lick 10's culo? Probably not. In fact, I don't think she realizes how truly special her culo really is. You could say, Greta's decision to underestimate the power of 10's culo is what ultimately lead to her downfall. While she's busy letting a general with a mustache slobber all over her plum pantyhose adorned legs in a sleazy motel room and hosting vile orgies that pit a rag-tag collection of depraved male convicts up against an adorable gang of mildly deformed female patients (poor number 9, how did she wind up in this group? she's way too cute to be violated in such a heinous manner), 10's culo is quietly gaining strength. And a strong culo, is a dangerous culo. If I took anything away from Ilsa: The Wicked Warden, it's that once a person licks your culo, the bond you share with that individual is unbreakable.

video uploaded by theskunk

...