Girlfriend from Hell (Dan Peterson, 1989)

The mundane act of fixing up two shy friends on a blind date becomes a nightmare of epic and mildly irritating proportions in the intellectually appealing Girlfriend from Hell, another in the not-so long line of films that involve demons and dating (My Demon Lover). A sophisticated mishegas masquerading as a foolish slab of empty-headed nonsense, writer-director Dan Peterson (Vampire Knights) does an elegant job balancing the theological with the slapstick. And, not to mention, balancing the cross dimensional with impromptu penis touching (a scripture enthusiast gets his "pee-pee" fondled for the very first time). It's a tough symmetry to maintain – as everyone knows by now, flip-flopping between scenes that feature deep, philosophical conversations with God and frank discussion about what constitutes a "stupid balloon" are fraught with potential complications. But somehow the film manages to deftly allude the fate that befalls the majority of possession-based dark comedies that sport weird tonal shifts and alcoholic devil women. There's an unforeseen intelligence at work here that transcends actual content and the overrated conventions of reality. Now, this is the sentence where I'd normally give you an example of this lofty transcendentalism at work, but I don't really feel like enriching any minds with my sound logic at the moment.

What I really want to do is go on a ridiculously worded tirade that sufficiently glorifies the leg coverings that Liane Alexandra Curtis, Lezlie Deane, and Hilary Morse cavort about in during this movie. However, since my "doctor" has instructed me to ease up on the undergarment and hosiery talk, I've decided instead to focus my attention on the labyrinthian plot and the excessive amount of face punching that takes place in this film.

For those uninterested in minutiae, look no further than the film's spiffy title; as you will find everything you need to know just by reading it. I guarantee comprehension. As for the rest of you, the scripted structure of Girlfriend from Hell is part allegory, part wicked satire. The former is about the romantic adversity shy people have to face when trying to connect with one another on an appreciation basis. The latter shows up in the form of physical roughhousing (like I said, there's a lot of face punching) and spiritual tomfoolery (a character is repeatedly seen talking to some kind of cloud-centric supreme being).

Nevertheless, these two seemingly incompatible aspects commingle together in such an agreeable manner, that you'd think it was planned that way.

Seriously, the fact that the film's convoluted, and surprisingly far-reaching mythology, was able to gel at all with the dating ups and downs of an unsure girl who finds her body inhabited by the Devil was a minor miracle.

The film starts off with a desert showdown between God's go to "chaser" (Dana Ashbrook) and the Devil, who is actually a glowing glob of undefinable energy. This inflamed ball eludes its pursuer (who's carrying a strange-looking raygun) by shooting across the sky and landing squarely into the chest of Maggie (Liane Alexandra Curtis), a slightly awkward gal who has been set up on a date with the equally awkward Carl (Anthony Barrile) by her friends Diane (Lezlie Deane from 976-EVIL) and David (James Daughton from The Beach Girls and Malibu Beach). Up until the moment the diabolic entity enters her body, the date, which is taking place at the home of Alice (Hilary Morse) and birthday boy Rocco (Ken Abraham), has been going terribly.

This, of course, all changes when the dark forces start to take over. You could tell things were different by the way Maggie's stuffy opera gloves had magically become fingerless (a change she relishes). Also her hair had become more pronounced in the untamed department (evil and big hair are synonymous). Another way you could tell was that the once demure lady had this sudden urge to copulate with every guy in sight.

Making demonic possession seem like fun, Liane Alexandra Curtis (Critters 2: The Main Course) is a delightful scourge as the uncouth Maggie. Reminding me of cross between Bonnie O'Bendix (Papusha Demitro's character in Perfect Timing) and your typical Voivod-loving metal chick, Miss Curtis seemed to be having a hootenanny and a half. I mean, check out her posture during her post-bashful phase, the confident manner in which she stood, her uncreased red pantyhose tighter than Lee Aaron's urethra, is the stuff of upright legend. From a non-standing point-of-view: I loved the way she would yell emasculating put-downs (my personal favourite when it comes to insulting men with dicks) and bark orders at everyone. And the restaurant scene is a comedy classic as far I'm concerned (she openly mocks Jesus and spits wine at her fellow diners).

In a surprising turn of events (and believe me, this film's got plenty), it's the stellar work turned in by Lezlie Deane that dominates the film's dreamlike third act. Taking place in multiple dimensions, Lezlie's Diane helps Dana Ashbrook's "chaser" get back to modern day in order to save Maggie from becoming another satanic statistic (the Devil can only use a persons body for 24 hours). Anyway, on top of looking amazing in black pantyhose and a Heathers-style blazer, I thought Lezlie gave a well-rounded performance that worked well alongside the horny Ashbrook and Curtis's campy temptress schtick.

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Class of 1999 (Mark L. Lester, 1990)

When I heard the line: "The year is 1999... there is no law" verbalized with a slightly robotic intonation, I half expected the thumping bass intro of a killer techno jam to immediately follow its utterance. When that didn't occur, I knew I wasn't listening to my well-worn copy of Kickin Mental Detergent, but instead watching a violent oddity about a dystopian future that has already occurred. Taking place in the youth crime saturated netherworld that is the late 1990s, Class of 1999 is a film for those who love the sight of unconventionally dressed teens firing automatic weapons at one another in an after school setting, while simultaneously being stalked by their history, gym and chemistry teachers. Helmed by exploitation master Mark L. Lester (Roller Boogie), the merriment-filled flick combines the herky-jerky head movements and self-contained flamethrowers that permeate the rafters of almost every cyborg movie ever made with the sullen sneering and bad boy posturing of your typical gang picture. In other words: a marriage made in cinematic resplendence. Cap it all off with a Midge Ure song and we're really talking a marriage made in... Okay, enough already with the marriage talk; I've got cyborg action to overly praise. Focusing mainly on the post-incarceration life of Cody Culp (a hard-nosed Bradley Gregg), a recently released juvenile delinquent, the boisterous film follows him as he attempts to make it through high school in the exceedingly tough Free-Fire Zone, a section of Seattle that is off-limits to law enforcement.

Wary of his gang past (a pushy lot called the Blackhearts), Cody is hesitant to reestablish ties with his drug-addicted pals, which include Sonny (Darren E. Burrows), Mohawk (Sean Gregory Sullivan, a.k.a. the hyperactive gun dealer from Who's That Girl), and his little brother Angel (Near Dark's Joshua John Miller). Instead, he finds himself drawn to Christie (Traci Lind from My Boyfriend's Back), a comely young lass who just happens to be the principal's daughter.

On the faculty side of things, the principal (Malcolm McDowell) has given the go ahead to Dr. Bob Forrest (Stacy Keach) and his trio of cyborg teachers, Mr. Bryles (Patrick Kilpatrick), Ms. Connors (Pam Grier), and Mr. Hardin (John P. Ryan), to do a trial run at his heavily fortified learning facility.

A more clearheaded educator would have taken one look at Dr. Forest's cloudy eyes and suspect haircut and said to themselves: "This doesn't feel quite right." But the mechanical teachers are thrust into the classroom despite the obvious dangers. Monitored by a group of smart-looking people in lab coats (one of which was played by Lee Arenberg), the robo-teachers are quick to employ physical force as a means of generating obedience from the school's rambunctious pupils.

Of course, their disciplinary actions become more and more extreme as the week progresses. For example, the pipe smoking history teacher goes from rapidly spanking two students for fighting to asphyxiating one with his own drug paraphernalia after being tardy while high. When two of Cody's buds are killed, he starts to suspect that these newfangled chalkboard jockeys aren't exactly what they seem to be. It's at this moment when the Class of 1999 really starts to really crank up the crazy.

Procuring the help of Christie, Cody tries to uncover the sinister goings on at their school by doing do some suburban sleuthing (I knew it was the suburbs by the lack of sporadic gunfire), only to have the rogue teachers out maneuver them by inciting a gang war between Cody's the Blackhearts and the Razorheadz, lead by Hector (James Medina), who has already felt the heeled wrath of Pam Grier.

The showdown at the docks between the two heavily armed gangs was hands down my favourite sequence in the entire movie. The way they both positioned themselves, utilized mounds of debris as cover, and waited until everyone was ready were the first things I admired about this shootout. I mean, to see unruly gang members behave in such a chivalrous manner was rather refreshing. However, I nearly lost it when the actual shooting commenced. A virtual wave of irregular machine gun fire coming from all directions, this is exactly what I look for when it comes to on-screen mayhem. Forget about trying to figure out who's who and just sit back and watch the bullet-fueled insanity unfold.

There's one thing I can't decide, and that this, were the characters that populated this ultra-bleak universe more like the audience at your average Front 242 concert circa 1991? Or were they more akin to the loose assemblage of weirdos you might catch stage diving at a My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult gig, again, circa 1991? The sheer amount of black leather, studs, military footwear, and sullied denim worn throughout this film was mind-boggling. (Yeah, my mind is easily boggled.)

Speaking of being boggled, I'm still trying to figure out why Traci Lind's character is sporting a turban during a brief hallway encounter. She wasn't wearing it when the day began, and she certainly wasn't wearing it ended. Did she convert to Sikhism at lunch but decided to go back to her usual belief system by the time the afternoon bell rang out? Either way, it doesn't make sense because female Sikhs aren't big turban wearers. As they say, a mystery for the ages.

Anyway, heads are drilled, motorcycles are driven through the school's hallways, and flamethrowers are...thrown. Fun flick.

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Mirror, Mirror 2: Raven Dance (Jimmy Lifton, 1994)

"It's just wood and glass." Oh, movie nuns, why won't you allow there to be any wiggle room when it comes to believing in evil mirrors? Yeah, you heard right, I said "evil mirrors." Which can only mean on thing: The reflective surface that keeps on giving is back and ready to manipulate another attractive, young, socially maladjusted girl in Mirror, Mirror 2: Raven Dance, the unasked for sequel to the mildly campy 1990 flick about an outcast teen and her tumultuous friendship with a sinister piece of furniture. Taking the concept envisioned by Annette Cascone and Gina Cascone (I love it when sisters put aside their hair brush-related differences and team up to create mirror-based horror), writer-director Jimmy Lifton (he also produces and composes the film's music score) grabs the reigns and moves the action to a nunnery on the outskirts of a place where there aren't any nunneries. Unsatisfactory in terms of bloodshed, the second chapter of the glassy saga is missing the underlying menace of the first Mirror Mirror–where I recall many people being killed in a satisfactory manner. On top of that, it just happens to feature one the worst kiddie actors I have ever seen. Seriously, every line he utters was excruciatingly bad. Call me wrongheaded, but I kept wishing that the baneful mirror would straight-up murder his whiny ass every time he appeared on-screen with the seemingly inanimate object.

Of course, I'm not gonna let a couple of little things like awful child acting and a complete lack of mouth-watering gore ruin what is essentially a pretty good psychopathic mirror movie. No way, man, there's got to be something that merits a cockamamie tongue bathing. And I think I may found it floundering amidst the doctor-patient relationship that forms between Marlee (Tracy Wells) and Dr. Lasky (Roddy McDowall).

You see, the doctor is constantly trying to cover his patient's organic sexiness with blankets and sheets. Why he's doing this is a tad convoluted – it's got something to do with Roseyn (Sally Kellerman), her gaudy blazer-wearing stepsister, being left out of a will. But make no mistake, his desire to induce drowsiness is steadfast.

Now, I don't know if I've made this clear or not, but the sense of despair I felt every time Dr. Lasky rendered Marlee unconscious was palpable. I mean, to see her dainty frame repeatedly covered with nondescript nunnery linens was quite disheartening. However, the fact that Marlee would always resist the shady quacks "mild sedatives" was gratifying to say the least.

This defiance was expressed mainly through the majesty of dance, as Marlee seemed to feel most at peace while flailing around in a convulsive marrying of physicality and artistry. Take away her ability to dance, and you're dealing with one unhappy convent resident.

Only problem being that she owes a good-size chunk of her dancefloor prowess to the nondescript mirror languishing menacingly in the corner of her bedroom. A mysterious wild card named Christian (Mark Ruffalo) who shows up every now and then to act suave and give Marlee positive re-enforcement is also responsible for her new-found confidence. Not to sound paranoid, but I think the mirror and Christian might be in cahoots with one another. Either way, there's gonna be some serious consequences when all is said and done.

Everyone, with the exception of Tracy Wells (Mr. Belvedere), seems to talk to themselves in Mirror, Mirror 2: Raven Dance. Sure, I can see why William Sanderson (who was in the first film as a completely different character) talked to himself, as he was an alcoholic pantie sniffer with some intense mental problems. And I can see how Sister Aja (Veronica Cartwright - man, this film's got a pretty solid cast) might chat with herself on occasion, you know, because she's blind and might not realize the person she was talking to has left the room. But as for everyone else, shame on you.

Inheriting the making-out with a bloodstained mirror mantle from the alluring Rainbow Harvest, the resplendent Tracy Wells makes the transition between gamboling to being bedridden with an effortless rarely seen in straight-to-video horror films about malevolent mirrors. Whether searching for her cat (Pie-Whack-It), lying motionless, or pirouetting with spunk, Tracy takes not wearing pants to whole 'nother level of pantlessness.

To be honest, I tried my best not to notice that Miss Wells' lower extremities were never covered. Yet, despite the unscrupulous doctor's blanket-obsessed intentions, the film gave me no choice but to obsess over her stems. I'm not complaining or anything like that, I was just hoping to judge Tracy's performance from a non-leg-centric point-of-view. Which, as far as I could tell, was competent; even by Raven Dance standards.

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Who's That Girl (James Foley, 1987)

Pairing a buttoned-down square with an effervescent free spirit via contrived circumstances is nothing new–in fact, the sheer number of these films is a tad, oh, let's say, astronomical. However, if you add a buckle-booted pop singer and a rare Patagonian cougar to the well-worn mix, you'll probably end up with an instant classic. A nonsensical mishmash masquerading as a mismatched romance, Who's That Girl is a fanciful romp through the abrasive urban landscape that is mid-80s New York City. The punks and freaks that populated the city during the new wave era (1977-1985) have been mostly replaced by an indistinct throng of corporate slugs whose primary concern is earning (or stealing) enough money to preserve their increasingly affluent lifestyles. One of these so-called "slugs," though, is about to get their spiritual trajectory thrown seriously off course by an impulsive relic from the very era this flavourless piece of yuppie scum had a hand in destroying. Proving that even the stodgiest souls can be invigorated by an adorable dame in fishnet pantyhose, the James Foley directed lark tackles the unsuitable pairing genre with an aggressively simple aplomb. Quickly throw the unfit couple together, and sit back and watch the forced infatuation unfold. Oh, there's reason the unlikely twosome end up sharing the same airspace, but when the kooky chemistry inevitably starts to fester, you'll have long forgotten what their initial hookup was all about.

In order to maintain the appearance of an actual movie, the script, by Andrew Smith and Winnipeg's own Ken Finkleman (The Newsroom), will casually remind audience as to what is happening. Which, as far as I could tell, has something to do with a stuffy lawyer, Louden Trott (Griffin Dunne), being told to pickup an endangered mountain lion from a shipping dock, as well as drive a recently released convict named Nikki Finn (Madonna) to the bus station. With his future father-in-law, Simon Worthington (a shifty tycoon played by John McMartin), counting on him to successfully complete these tasks, the soon-to-be-married attorney finds them both to be fraught with unforeseen complications.

Actually, the cougar pickup goes as smoothly as the transportation of a large feline in a Rolls-Royce can go. It's the transportation of the unruly Nikki that proves to be the most troublesome for the clumsy Louden. I suppose the bungled mess that is the Nikki rendezvous is intended to show the layered dichotomy that exists between untamed animals and spunky chicks with thick yet unspecific accents. But then again, I'm in no position to be supposing that sort of shit. Anyway, you can't control either, and you'd be a fool to try.

Of course, that wonky advice is completely ignored, as Louden dives headfirst into the convoluted morass that is Nikki Finn's post-prison life. And, in a mildly deranged way, you can't really blame him for doing so.

The amount humiliation and mortal danger he endures while in contact with Miss Finn might have been off the charts, but the restoration of his soul thanks to the impulsive force of nature that is this divine creature more than makes up for any degradation he may have suffered along the way.

The most disturbing aspect about Who's That Girl was the prospect of Madonna spending the best part of the 1980s in prison. For one thing, the idea of her not being able to see A Flock of Seagulls live in concert during their prime fills my heart, and a couple of other organs I'd rather not mention in such a semi-public forum, with a giant dollop of overcooked sadness.

Nevertheless, once I got past this entirely made-up issue, I was able to enjoy performance for what was: an absolute delight. Sure, it took some time for me to properly savour her work – I found her unique vocal inflection to be slightly grating at first. But that all changed when she stopped by the record store to boost some cassette tapes. (Bert Rosario, the guy who played the perverted gardener in The Beach Girls, ends up taking the rap).

To be even more specific, the act of Madonna yelling "tricks" while in the mall parking lot was the exact moment I fell head over heels for the street smart Nikki Finn. Okay, the camera panning down, as Griffin Dunne sizes up her funky wardrobe, to reveal a wondrous short skirt (with the price tags stills attached) and an appropriately holey pair of fishnet pantyhose (much darker and robust than the pair worn by Susan Berman in Smithereens) had a hand in inducing some crush-like feelings. But it was Madonna's audacious playacting that won me over initially.

Let's just say, Madonna's acting prowess, deft physicality (she skips with a girlish glee), and chic ensembles (including a totally awesome pair of pointy-buckle boots) had a symbiotic relationship with one another.

In addition, her overall look was obviously a big influence on Big Tuna resident Perdita Durango (Isabella Rossellini's character in Wild at Heart). I mean, everything from her thick, unruly eyebrows to her fishnets practically screamed Nikki Finn.

For the millions of you out there who have a rational fetish for buckled shoes and boots, I'd have to say that Nikki's pointy footwear is probably best observed during the rooftop getaway. Here you will be able to see the buckles the way they were went to be seen: sparkling insouciantly while leaping between rundown buildings.

If you look closely, you'll notice that two out of four of Nikki's buckles are buckled. This unbuckled situation encourages the buckles that are not fastened to bounce around in an erratic manner. Which, as you would expect, causes a mild crease to form in the non-but-should-be-existent buckle-time continuum.

Playing a promoted version of his office drone character from After Hours, Griffin Dunne adds just the right amount of unbalanced kinetic energy to the proceedings as the increasingly put-upon lawyer. A sparingly used Robert Swan and Drew Pillsbury interject moments of police-based levity as a couple of cops tailing Nikki. And, surprisingly, it's James Dietz who earns two of the films most healthy laughs as a musclebound delivery man named Buck. His matter-of-fact delivery when answering the questions posed to him by Haviland Morris was spot-on. Oh, and the film's final third is extremely farcical; like the wedding cake, it's literally crammed with jokes.

Special thanks to the fine folks over at Adventures in Nerdliness and The Sexy Armpit for nudging me in the general direction of this wacky movie.

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Slums of Beverly Hills (Tamara Jenkins, 1998)

Recreating the freewheeling spirit of July, 1976 on a modest budget might sound like a lot work. But when you're dealing with a specific Los Angeles County zip code where nothing changes, the odds of making a quasi-realistic film about growing up middle class in the cities' most affluent community become a whole lot greater. Sporting no distinguishable characteristics whatsoever, this seemingly stagnant society, combined with the inherent blandness of the year in which it was filmed, is ready-made for the disco era. Proving that all you need is a couple of period specific vehicles (the bigger, the better), a couple of pairs of platform shoes, and some strategically placed Parliament jams on the soundtrack, Slums of Beverly Hills is a refreshing, appallingly precise coming-of-age tale about a nomadic family struggling to make ends meet in one of the world's most affluent neighbourhoods. Okay, it's not that "precise." I mean, the presence of Kevin Corrigan (Buffalo '66), for instance, does give the film a mild late '90s stench. But other than that, the film does paint a pretty accurate portrait of what it must been like to be a teenage girl with body issues during those heady days when kids could, without fear, openly watch H.R. PufnStuf while eating Trix in nothing but an expertly laundered pair of tighty whities.

For some strange reason, I've always dismissed this film as the one where Marisa Tomei does a lot of drugs while scantily clad. Why I once dismissed this film on those particular grounds, I'll never know. Seriously, what kind of jackass dismisses something because Marisa Tomei is constantly high and naked? It borders on being extremely stupid. I guess my chakras were not properly aligned back when I thought those thoughts.

Still, that doesn't justify the pure wrongheadedness of the above paragraph's opening sentence. In fact, that doesn't even sound like me. Who the fuck wrote that? It makes me come off as the type of person who doesn't like watching attractive women overdose in their underwear. And believe me, I'm not that type of person. Anyway, I think I'll wrap this section up by making one coherent point, and that is: Marisa Tomei gives a wonderfully unhinged performance as a flaky woman heading in no particular direction.

Blessed with the gangliest, juiciest, most jaunty legs ever to dangle from a pair of jean shorts, Natasha Lyonne (Freeway II: Confessions of a Trickbaby) is a beautifully awkward mess as Vivian Abromowitz, the lone female member of the wandering Abromowitz clan. Alarmed by the changes that are occurring to her body (she just got breasts), Natasha's trademark indifference and deadpan delivering are perfectly implemented in this deftly funny comedy about a somewhat dysfunctional family who moves from one dingy Beverly Hills apartment complex to another a semi-regular basis.

Whether staring blankly out the back window of a moving car or appearing bored while being felt up by a pot-dealing miscreant in a Charles Manson t-shirt (a piece of clothing he seems to wear everyday), the alluring Natasha will melt the hearts of those who have an appreciation for lopsided femininity.

The aforementioned molestation scene, the bedroom vibrator toss set to "Give Up the Funk (Tear the Roof off the Sucker)," and the usage of said vibrator were definitely highlights in terms of getting conventional Lyonne-based satisfaction. However, since I'm not about extolling the virtues of the obvious, I must say, the simple image of Natasha sitting on the floor watching television with her family is what sent my senses into overdrive.

Maybe it was the inadvertently seductive way the can of TAB she was holding perfectly matched her skin and ensemble, or the manner in which the elastic of her knee-high sport socks tightly gripped the smooth surface of her lithesome calf muscles. Either way, the simple act of lounging on shag carpeting solidified my positive feelings toward Natasha's character and the film in general.

The always welcome sight of David Krumholtz singing show tunes in his underwear and the unique voice of Alan Arkin make up the male contingent of Slums of the Beverly Hills. The former, playing the most well-balanced member of the Abromowitz family, isn't given much to do beyond the underwear scene and a couple of nicely placed comments of a snarky nature. The gifted Mr. Arkin, on the other hand, is given a lot to do as the aimless father determined to keep his kids in the Beverly Hills school district, in other words, away from Torrance.

The reason I keep mentioning undergarments is because they play an integral role in this film. Hell, even a menstrual belt is employed at one point in the film. At any rate, I think underwear is essential. Not only in regards to this film, but in an overall kind of way, especially when it comes to having clothes on under the clothes you're already wearing.

A wee Mena Suvari appears briefly as a girl with a recently corrected deviated septum. The nose bandage she wears threw me off at first, but I could tell it was her.

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