Cherry 2000 (Steve De Jarnatt, 1987)

As everyone knows, losing access to your robot girlfriend can be a major inconvenience. On the other hand, losing access to your robot girlfriend in a futuristic netherworld where guys depend on their robot girlfriends almost exclusively for sex and companionship is the definition of sadness. Such is the kooky, yet strangely touching framework for the dazzling Cherry 2000 (a.k.a. Boneca Mecânica), a masterful, post-apocalyptic, action-infused joy ride extravaganza from director Steve De Jarnatt (Miracle Mile) that asks the question: What's better? The dependability of robot love or the unpredictability of real love? The proudest person ever to hail from Anaheim, California, the film follows Sam Treadwell (a mild-mannered department store employee) and his plan to obtain another Cherry 2000 (the name and model number of his mechanical lady friend). You see, his Cherry broke while he was making out with it in a heap of soapy suds, and unable to get it fixed and unsatisfied with the selection of robot women at the showroom, Sam decides hire a bounty hunter and secure the metallic passion he desires by any means necessary. Even if that means heading out to the barren Zone 7 and hanging out with a shapely, porcelain-skinned non-robot.

Well-nourished with the kind of incoherent shoot-outs and last minute escapes I get proper moist over, the sort of visionary (sentient sex dolls are just around the corner) movie is drenched in an off-beat style that exacerbates its uniqueness and sports a creative set design that'll keep your eyes occupied. (This creativity is best viewed during the scenes at the Glu Glu Club and the Sky Ranch.)

The film's crowning achievement, however, is the splendiferous crane vs. automobile sequence. Our horny for robots hero and E. (the bounty hunter, or "tracker" as they like to be called) take on Lester (Zone 7's warlord extraordinaire) and his unmerry band of henchmen at what looks like a giant quarry. What makes this scene standout–you know, besides its unequaled flair–is the fact that everyone involved is using missile-based weaponry. We're talking rocket propelled grenades, rocket launchers, stinger missiles, and good old fashion bazookas.

It should be stated that the tin can loving Sam uses an uzi during the precarious mayhem, which the last I checked isn't exactly a "missile-based" weapon. But on the positive side of things, his uzi does spit out shell casings when fired (a very important detail in my mind). Anyway, this action centerpiece sets the tone for rest of the movie. In that, its sheer awesomeness imbues the proceedings with a cocksure veneer.

Proving that high camp is where she is at her most formidable, Melanie Griffith is a revelation as tracker Edith 'E.' Johnson. Inexplicably, the squeaky-voiced starlet has mainly focused on serious drama, but I think the actress is best suited for roles like this. Roles that accentuate her innate badness, as suppose to ones that expose her lack of talent. Giving her a mop of red hair and a silenced assault rifle was also smart move on Mr. De Jarnatt's part. Anything to mute the acute lameness we all know is bubbling under the surface.

The aforementioned Sam Treadwell is portrayed by the blandly named David Andrews. I thought he played the everyman angle to his character quite well. He also had a quiet intensity about him and you really got the sense that he loved that robot.

The manly Tim Thomerson is quickly becoming one of my favourite actors. Sure, I've only seen him in a couple things here and there, but from what little I have seen, he strikes me as a fun guy. I loved the demonic glee he displays as Lester. I mean, he may be a dictator and a psychopath, but he's so darn likable.

Rounding out the cast is Jennifer Balgobin (Dr. Caligari) as a hotel clerk, the legendary Ben Johnson as retired bounty hunter who collects toaster ovens, the lovely Cameron Milzer adds some far-out sex appeal as Lester's gal pal, and Pamela Gidley provides the mainstream sex appeal as the in demand titular robot. Oh, and keep an eye for cameos by Laurence Fishburne as a Glu Glu Club pimp and Brion James as a rival Tracker.

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My Boyfriend's Back (Bob Balaban, 1993)

Representing the biggest leap forward in the promotion of tolerance towards the recently deceased, the delightfully morbid My Boyfriend's Back (a.k.a. Johnny Zombie) should be shown at daycare centres, minimum security prisons, and poorly run outreach programmes nationwide. A crudely worded love letter to those who have dedicated their lives to championing the rights of the dead, the educational film tackles prejudice head-on. In that, it brilliantly uncovers the seedy underbelly of dead hate. Sure, wrapping that message in the shrewd veneer of a teenage zombie comedy might not seem like the most obvious way to illuminate the minds of those who are steadfastly against the idea of dead people attending chichi social functions, but it sure beats the looks of disgust you'll receive when you try to hand a pro-zombie flier to a man who's only use for his penis is expelling urine and penetrating his favourite trækkerdreng once every two weeks. Trust me, the story of a recently murdered teenager coming back to life so he can take the love of his life to prom will eliminate more prejudice than any stupid flier ever could. Now, it should be said, I went into My Boyfriend's Back thinking it was gonna be another lame horror comedy. You know the type, filled to the brim with overlong montages and pink leggings, but lacking in substance. However, this film, while it does sort of start off that way, has a surprising edge to it. I mean, once the deadness of Johnny Dingle (Andrew Lowery) is established, the film soars into an absurdist wonderland. One that just happens to be jam-packed with dark, prickly humour, clever comic book-style storyboards, and dialogue so deadpan, you'd think they were uttered by a battalion of obtuse robots, that you can't help but root for the dead boy to prevail.

What makes the film even more wonderful was the blase attitude the other characters employed when reacting to Johnny's return. Some, of course, seemed genuinely shocked by his unexpected bout of walking and talking, but for most part, they appeared to show no stress whatsoever when they first laid eyes on the slightly decayed sophomore. I'd say, the parents of the stiff adolescent represented this stress-free manner the best.

Portrayed by the wonderful Mary Beth Hurt and Edward Herrmann, these two chipper guardians fully embrace Johnny's lifeless condition, and in the process, extract baskets worth of comedy gold.

Other cast members such as Jay O. Sanders, Paul Dooley, Cloris Leachman (as Maggie The Zombie Expert), Austin Pendleton, Phillip Seymour Hoffman (sporting a backwards baseball hat), and even Matthew Fox (I've never seen him this clean shaven before) all do adequate jobs at maintaining straight faces while reciting ludicrous dialogue. I'd compliment Matthew McConoughey's work, but I felt he was a tad lacking as "Guy #2."

The absolutely enchanting Melissa Taub appears briefly as "Beefy Girl In Library."

And the wonderfully quirky Nannette Brown (Swamp Thing) shows up as a "news reporter."

Oh, and I was disappointed by Traci Lind's wardrobe in this film. I know, it's 1993, and should have known better than to expect her to wear garish colours and pointy footwear. But nonetheless, her clothes were frightfully bland.

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Reform School Girls (Tom DeSimone, 1986)

The sound of un-groomed carpet being vigorously munched may not have been audible, but you can bet your bottom dollar that many rugs were being cleaned in Reform School Girls (a.k.a. Naked Birds), a headstrong, bloomers optional women-in-prison flick with an insatiable appetite for new poon on Monday. The unsavoury splendour that greets us as we peak behind the doors of Dorm 14 at Pride More Juvenile Detention Centre was so pronounced, so aggravated, that even the most ardent of cock swallowers will end up turning to the dykeier side of the mattress. A robust cornucopia of supple, young flesh–a virtual who's who of shapely legs and taut midriffs, and a gang bang worthy mishmash of teased hair, spiky jewelry, and clingy night shirts–the film, directed by Tom DeSimone (Angel III: The Final Chapter and Hell Night) is a smouldering cauldron of womanly fury. The not-so intricate plot can basically be found amidst the contents of the film's three worded title: Troubled blonde (Linda Carol) gets sent to notorious reform school, much unpleasantness involving the other girls transpires upon her arrival.

However, it's the demented dialogue and its many outlandish performances, not the narrative, that elevate the tawdry proceedings from a ho-hum exploitation picture to a genuine slab of depraved satire; one that just happens to be rife with girl-on-girl face punching, cruelty towards stuffed bunnies, shower scenes (keep an eye out for Michelle Bauer from Café Flesh as "shower girl"), fanny branding, and farm work without pants.

The timbre of the cast can be pretty much broken down this way: Wendy O. Williams and Pat Ast rule the school, while everyone else struggles to keep up. Hell, even Sybil Danning couldn't compete with Wendy and Pat, who's best moment was when she gets hit in the head by an errant dinner roll.

The rambunctious Miss Williams, best known as the singer for punk band The Plasmatics, literally devours the screen as Charlie Chambliss, the toughest chick to ever commondere a school bus and crash it into water tower while wearing a leather thong. In fact, she's so bad ass, the cafeteria grub she eats doesn't even want to get chewed by the likes of her (food particles kept trying to escape her oral cavity the same way a sea cucumber expels its intestines when threatened).
  

Sporting nary a stitch of clothing (bikini bottoms, fingerless gloves and a stained bra), Wendy thrusts her meaty crotch in the general direction of anyone who dares look at her funny. Seriously, her performance was extremely vigorous. I mean, she was constantly grabbing and clawing at her shipshape organic structure like it was covered with invisible monkeys who just happen to be on fire.

If Wendy O. was over the top, then Pat Ast must have been looking down on the punk princess and laughing manically. Playing the sadistic Edna as if her life depended on it, the rotund actress stomps across the screen like a detestable beast. Spewing spiteful put-downs and barking orders with an tyrannical glee, Pat gives one of the most frighteningly amusing performances I have ever seen. Her insistent screaming of the of the phrase "Complete Control" caused my eyes to bulge with giddy disbelief.

On the sexy side of things (not that Wendy and Pat weren't able to induce a tingle here and there), Darcy DeMoss and Tiffany Helm prevailed when it came to providing the film's first-rate feminine eye candy. The two punky babes play key members of Charlie's clit-licking clique and can be seen sexily lurking in the background of almost every scene that features the incomparable Wendy.

In terms of conventional acting, I'd have to say I was most impressed with the work of Charlotte McGinnis as Pride More's guidance counselor. Reminding me physically of Sean Young, yet boasting the temperament of Desperate Living-era Mink Stole, Charlotte gave her character just the right amount of righteous indignation to make us believe she actually cared about the girls' well being.

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Ginger Snaps (John Fawcett, 2000)

Expertly uniting lycanthropy with menstruation, Ginger Snaps is a brilliant Brampton-filmed exercise, a sort of sisterhood of the unraveling pancreas, that proves the pain that comes with attaining functioning girl bits is eerily similar to the stress your body goes through when one finds themselves mutating into a werewolf. Now, I realize that cramps are real and that wolf-girl hybrids are not, but you can't deny the connection between the two is downright spooky. The witty, "what the fuck"-laden script written by Karen Walton and director John Fawcett makes the link seem plausible. This authenticity gives the film a satirical edge that most horror entries seem to lack, and the fact that it comes from a female perceptive only adds to the realism. Sure, all the talk of syrupy discharges and heavy flow could have probably been learned from any medical textbook, but there was something different about the way womanly issues were discussed in this film. And hence, genuine moments of a comedic nature were able to flow, uh, I mean, cascade in a self-generated manner. Menstruation aside, the film is essentially about Ginger (Katharine Isabelle) and Brigitte Fitzgerald (Emily Perkins), teenage sisters with a levelheaded obsession with death (okay, it wasn't that levelheaded). Outsiders at their local high school, the inseparable twosome plan on committing suicide in the near future. However, this not-so lofty goal gets postponed when Ginger starts growing hair in weird places, bleeding vaginally, and ends up sprouting a cute little tail after she's attacked in the woods by a mysterious creature with a circumcised dick. A concerned Brigitte employs the help of Sam (Kris Lemche), a horticulturist/drug dealer, and tries her best to keep her sister's affliction hidden from her classmates, teachers, and parents, all the while looking for a cure. Only problem is Ginger has developed a serious appetite for members of the opposite sex. Which, of course, hampers Brigitte's efforts to keep things quiet.

Rife with terrific scratch-based gore (some of the abrasions were beautiful) and bubbling over with dark humour, Ginger Snaps takes the period metaphor and runs wild with it. Whether they're perusing the tampon aisle or hanging out during field hockey practice, the Fitzgerald sisters make being a teenage girl seem like a blast.

The sisterly bond they share is the gooey essence of the film. In other words, take their relationship out of the movie and pretty much don't have one.

An absolutely sublime Emily Perkins plays Brigitte, the unsure Fitzgerald sister who gains confidence as the story progresses. When looking at filmed entertainment rarely do I see anyone that I can relate to (superheroes, noble-minded lawyers, offbeat serial killers, spies, rogue psychics are at the bottom of the list). Brigitte, on the other hand, is me. In fact, the act of watching Emily's performance was like staring into some sort of reflective surface. It's kinda creepy.

Now, I may not share her obsession with mutilation, animal skull jewelry, and all things bloodstained, but the disaffected teen angst, layered black clothing, awkward mannerisms, and anti-social disposition all rang true for me. Take the scene where she emerges from the garage carrying an extension chord, a blow torch, and a can of gas, the look she throws the kids playing street hockey is the kind of look I would describe at length in the pages of my adolescent diary (the pink and teal one adorned with Punky Brewster stickers).

On the opposite side of the teen angst spectrum, the gorgeous Katharine Isabelle plays Ginger with a tawdry self-assurance (tighter outfits and more makeup). Gliding down the hallway, overflowing with newfound confidence, she exudes an animalistic quality that just screams mattress maniac. Possessing the better posture, Katharine may get to ham it up more than her frumpish sister, and garner more attention from the hottie pundits, but I thought she did a tremendous job of grounding her character when things started get out of control.

It should be said that a non-poker playing Mimi Rogers is wonderful as Ginger and Brigitte's clueless mother. The scenes where she tries to explain sex and boys to the girls were hilarious. Plus, I liked that she was into gardening.

Whenever I hear the question: "What is your favourite opening titles sequence?" I always blurt out, without a hint of hesitation, Ginger Snaps. It's true, I have a major soft spot for the Wang Chung fueled resplendance that is the one for To Live and Die in L.A. But I have to say, nothing comes close to topping the image of the Fitzgerald sisters simulating a dizzying array of household and backyard suicides. I mean, not only are the credits disturbing, but they're also strangely erotic. Striped tights, picket fences, exposed undergarments, lawnmowers, leg braces, poison tea parties, unconfined entrails... Need I say more? In fact, there's more creativity in this three minute sequence than the entirety of some films.

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Tank Girl (Rachel Talalay, 1995)

Made during a time when everyone was obsessed with making films that made sense and stuff, Tank Girl is a different breed of entertainment, one that casts aside pesky cinematic nuisances such as a cohesive structure and levelheaded plotting to create something bold and erratic. Unfolding in a near future that is post-apocalyptic in nature, the world is dry as a bone that isn't wet and the malevolent folks at Water and Power have a monopoly on the planet's liquids. That is, until an extremely plucky young woman named "Tank Girl" comes along to, oh, I don't know, rescue little girls, blow stuff up, force brothel workers to sing Cole Porter at gun point... you know, the usual. Armed with a vast array of punky hairstyles, the tank-driving cutie, in addition to a subterranean crew of kangaroo-human hybrids and her jet plane flying gal pal (the aptly named Jet Girl), dares to challenge their fascistic authority by employing sheer feistiness, an unmatched can-do spirit, and the occasional well-placed tank shell.

Engulfed in pure wrongness at every turn, on the surface Tank Girl may appear rancid and covered with moldy cheese, but underneath all that incompetence lies the beating heart of a movie that doesn't know meaning of the word quit. Whether I was watching the fabulous Ann Magnuson being pressured to perform "Let's Do It" as an armada of silver-wigged dancers kick their shapely legs in unison (it was kinda like watching a Company B video on more acid), or basking in the sight of a post-apocalyptic fashion plate paragliding behind her tricked-out armoured vehicle, I always felt as if I was in the presence of something utterly unique.

Akin to films like Barbarella and Radioactive Dreams, Rachel Talalay's film is saturated with such a goofy charm, that its idiocy cannot be denied. (Did I mention that it features Ice-T as a talking kangaroo named T-Saint and Naomi Watts as a shy brunette?)

Now, I don't know exactly how many actresses auditioned to play the poster girl for the apocalypse, but I do know one thing: Lori Petty is "Tank Girl." I mean, if there ever was a person put on this earth to play a woman who wishes she could masturbate whilst wearing a straitjacket, it's Lori.

Reciting ridiculous dialogue like it were poetry, not to mention, and sporting the coolest haircut (shaved sides on a woman make life worth living) since Deborah Goodrich in Remote Control, Miss Petty dives headfirst into the role of the carefree troublemaker. Imbuing her with enough moxie to fill a medium-priced kiddie pool. She fearlessly lashes out against conformity and good manners, yet I found the film's over reliance on animated sequences to be an insult to Petty and her performance. It was almost as if the producers were saying they lacked confidence in her or something.

Oh, and even though it was filmed during the dark days of 1995, the soundtrack is refreshingly grunge-free, as it features songs by Devo, Björk, Richard Hell, Portishead, and Belly.

video uploaded by Nathan Tails Productions

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Student Bodies (Mickey Rose, 1981)

The horror movie, the cinematic celebration of gashed throats and bleeding babysitters, needed to be mocked unmercifully back in 1981, and only one film dared fill that need, and that film was Student Bodies (a.k.a. Was macht der Tote auf der Wäscheleine?). You see, up until then, the serious-minded genre had been coasting along, spouting out unfunny drivel without a care in the world. That is, until the unrestrained kookiness of Mickey Rose (Bananas and The Dean Martin Comedy Hour) decided the time had come to spoof the living excrement out of it. Unlike other films that lampoon and deride, this one comes from the demented mind of a single individual. I mean, there's no multi-headed committees or dehumanizing group think for Mr. Rose to contend with. There's a refreshing single-mindedness to the rapid fire stupidity that appears onscreen. In that, all the jokes have a consistency to them, causing the proceedings to be saturated with a number unforeseen laughs. Concentrating its mockery on the teen slasher wing of the horror genre, Student Bodies employs an accelerated approach to dispensing the funny. Sure, some of the gags miss their mark, but you don't have much time to contemplate their inaccuracy, as another fifteen or so attempts at generating a ha-ha sound are already flying out of the film's proverbial comedy barrel.

The plot revolves around The Breather (Jerry Belson), an asthmatic serial killer in galoshes who likes to murder teenagers just as they're about to engage in the sex act.

The Breather dispatches the boys using an everyday garbage bag, while the girls are treated to a wide array of unusual implements - eggplant, paperclip, blackboard eraser, etc.

The film cleverly keeps track of The Breather's conquests by flashing a number on the screen, indicating the order of each of victim. Also provided are pertinent clues that help guide the slower members of audience. However, the main appeal of the film is its quick succession of the braindead one-liners and absurdist tomfoolery.

The cast ,with the exception Mr. Belzer (who remains unseen throughout the movie), is made up of mostly first timers, or in the case of the lovely Kristen Riter, first and last timers. Nevertheless, Kristen is the star of the movie and does a competent job of looking sexy in a pair of maroon knee socks.

Also, her transformation from virginal good girl to slutty sleuthhound was quite impressive.

The brilliantly deadpan Joe Flood gives the film's funniest performance as Mr. Dumpkin, a wood shop teacher with a levelheaded obsession with horse head bookends. His speeches extolling the many virtues of the horse head bookend were strange, erotic and absolutely wonderful.

Coming in at a close second in the funny department is Malvert the Janitor, played with a gangly aplomb by The Stick, yeah, that's his name. Anyway, his third person line readings ("Sometimes Malvert pee red") were pretty hilarious.

A cavalcade of unabashed idiocy and accidental brilliance, Student Bodies is a horror parody with bite. The success rate of the jokes may be a tad on the wonky side, but the effort put forth should be commended.

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