Female Trouble (John Waters, 1974)

The demented soliloquy that is the sound of a car aerial being repeatedly thrashed against a supple, un-violated behind was something I unfortunately never experienced as a child (I was so freaking well-behaved). However, through the magic of inelegant cinema, I have since been able to witness this alternative child rearing technique first hand. Where, you might ask, did I find such a film that showed this irregular nurturing in action? Well, I saw it in Female Trouble (a.k.a. Rotten Mind, Rotten Face), John Waters' salacious ode to crime and beauty, that's where. One of the most educational and enlightening films about parenting I have ever had the pleasure of viewing with the seeing part of my face, this moralistic adventure through the disgusting mire that is city living mirrors my life almost exactly. For example, I, too, openly ate meat ball sandwiches in class; cut my daughter's umbilical cord by using my teeth; let my hippie husband breach my vagina with needle-nose pliers; and giggled my flabby hindquarters at a go-go bar. Wait a minute, none of these things happened to me. Talk about gross. I mean, meatballs? On a sandwich? Eww! Seriously though, tantamount to staring directly at some sort of mirror-like object, to see my values shamelessly spewed across the screen like they are in Female Trouble was liked being bathed in a vat of coagulated saliva. Now, the dewy contents of people's mouths invading your clogged pores may not be the most flattering way to describe the sensation of watching a film. But if you've seen the film from beginning to end multiple times like I have, then you know that it's the highest praise one can give. It sure beats the old, "I liked the movie. It was funny" routine.

The film diligently follows the unbalanced life of one Dawn Davenport: thief, stripper, waitress, single mother, prostitute, abused wife, disfigured super-model, liquid eyeliner addict, and mass murderer.

It might be hard to believe, but the reason she became all of those things can be attributed to the lack of cha-cha heels in her life. Her friends, Concetta (Cookie Mueller) and Chicklet (Susan Walsh), were warned as to what might happen if her parents failed to bestow her with cha-cha heels on Christmas morning, so it shouldn't have come as a surprise when Dawn flipped out when she discovered they weren't under the tree. Her father tried to tell her that "Nice girls don't wear cha-cha heels," but Dawn was so dead set on cha-cha heels, that she burst from her house in nothing but a puke green nightgown and never looked back. Of course, this leads her to partaking in all the activities I listed above.

The only positive thing to happen to her after the cha-cha heel incident was her acceptance as a regular customer at the exclusive Lipstick Beauty Salon (you have to go through a rigorous audition). Run by the dictatorial Donald and Donna Dasher, Dawn experiences a brief taste of happiness at the selective salon. Brief, because the Dasher's are making plans for Dawn, sinister plans.

There are a lot of things to overly praise about Female Trouble: the unpleasant sex, the bizarre outfits, and the unsavoury posturing. However, it's the outlandish dialogue that keeps me coming back for more, as John Waters' script features some of the most clever one-liners I've ever heard said aloud in a movie. And the quintet of Divine, Mink Stole, Edith Massey, Mary Vivian Pearce and David Lochary are more than up for the demanding task of reciting it in the most exuberant manner possible.

One of the few films that I'll watch with the subtitles switched on, the dialogue is like listening to twisted poetry as spoken by an over rehearsed gaggle of drug addicts. Take, for example, the dinner party scene: the amount of sheer funniness in this segment never fails to bring a single tear to my urethra. A classic, not only in terms of comedy, but in terms of depicting humanity in an honest and forthright manner.

The legendary Divine is spectacular as the misguided Dawn Davenport, the world's most unfit mother. Playing an insolent teen and a grotesque freak in the same movie is one thing, but engaging in a sex scene with yourself on a dingy mattress on the side of the road has to be the pinnacle of high art. Oh, and call me slightly unhinged, but I think Divine has a timelessness about him. I mean, his face is quite appealing. Don't worry, when fantasizing, I try to imagine Divine's head in on Kirstie Alley's body circa 1991 ('92, if I'm feeling extra naughty).

I loved Mary Vivian Pearce and David Lochary's possessed enthusiasm as the sex-hating, beauty-loving Mr. and Mrs. Dasher. The brief exchange they have with one another as they're walking towards Davenport's ramshackle house was priceless; especially Pierce's nervousness over the prospect of rats gnawing on her brand new nylons.

Of course, as with all of John Waters' early films, it's the gorgeous Mink Stole who shines the brightest. Playing Dawn's fourteen year old daughter, Taffy Davenport, the sexy Mink repeatedly makes Meryl Streep look like a dishevelled whore through her unblinking industriousness.

Attacking Waters' dialogue like a ravenous beast, the way the refined actress hurls complaints and insults in this film was the equivalent of listening to a rogue scholar give a commencement speech on the wonders of crystal meth. The mere thought of Mink uttering her lines like a normal person makes me shudder.

Dressing Mink in little girl clothes was also a nice touch, as it causes your aroused state to doubt itself every time she'd stomp into the room. Anyway, Taffy Davenport is hands down the coolest movie character ever to be filmed rubbing Ketchup all over their chests while pretending to be in a car accident on a garbage dump-quality chesterfield.

Oh, and "I wouldn't suck your lousy dick if I was suffocating and there was oxygen in your balls" is not only the greatest line ever to be uttered in a film, it's my new mantra.

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Jawbreaker (Darren Stein, 1999)

Question: When you were in high school, did any of the girls wear stockings with seams? Personally, I can't remember anyone who wore stockings at all, let alone ones with seams. Such is one of the many interesting stylistic conundrums that flooded my psyche as I gazed upon the super sheer glow of Jawbreaker (a.k.a. Der Zuckersüße Tod), a dark, yet optically soothing film about candy-based manslaughter and the pressures that come with trying to fit in at a cruel collegiate institute. The teens that populate this hyper-colourful adolescent world all looked as if they were pushing thirty. I mean, they didn't look "too old" in the classic sense, they just looked overly sophisticated; hence, the seams. However, it seemed to go beyond archaic stocking design. In that, the confidence the main characters projected had an almost regal air. This royal smell is most prominently on display when the catty foursome find themselves walking down the hall in slow motion to the strains of Imperial Teen. Opening with the semi-accidental killing of the benevolent member of a cocksure clique of chichi seniors, Jawbreaker manages to out Heather Heathers with its morbid commencement: Three girls plan on celebrating their friends birthday by pretending to kidnap her and doing all sorts of prankish deeds to her lively organic structure. Unfortunately, things go terribly wrong from the get-go, when an ill-conceived gagging technique goes awry and their angelic friend ends up asphyxiating on a golf ball-size ball of dissolving candy (a.k.a. a jawbreaker or gobstopper).

The alpha female of the group immediately takes control of the unique situation and all seems to be going "peachy fucking keen" (a weak yet plausible cover-up is already in the works).

Then Fern Mayo shows up.

Now, the film's tone is pretty toxic up until this point; thus, my comparison to the Daniel Waters penned classic. However, things don't stay so dark for long. Oh, don't get me wrong, it's got lot's of bite here and there. It's just that it softens a tad after the body is hauled away.

What I did enjoy this time around was the unspecific approach to when the film actually takes place. The moderately-sized cell phones, some of the music, and references to cyberspace put it taking place squarely in the late 1990s. But everything else had an indistinct quality about it that kept me guessing. For example, they use of an old style diner, the drive-in theatre, the Connie Francis ditty, and the car the hunky hero (Chad Christ) drove all screamed 1955.

Unclear periods of time are great and stuff, but what keeps coming back to Jawbreaker again and again is the opportunity to bask in the coordinated attractiveness of Rebecca Gayheart, Rose McGowan, Judy Greer, and Julie Benz. I mention Julie last because her Marcie Fox fails to exhibit any individuality (she's a sycophant of the worst kind). Though, I should say, Miss Benz does garner two or three hardy laughs.

The always amazing Judy Greer gets to play two characters: The socially awkward Fern Mayo and the instantly popular Vylette. The chance to go from grungy earth-tones to gaudy pinks must have been a joy for Miss Greer. And, for some strange reason, the way she towers over McGowan and Benz during the slo-mo walking sequences always cracks me up.

The statuesque Judy narrates the film's prologue and to hear one of favourite actresses call another one of my favourite actresses "the leggy one" was the kind of treat only I could extract pleasure from. The actress denoted as leggy was the fabulous Rebecca Gayheart, who gives a measured performance as Julie Freeman, the films conscious. I never noticed this before but I was quite impressed by the physical dominance she had over the other ladies. Check out her proficiency during the film's many walking scenes for proof of this control.

The high school equivalent of a genocidal madwoman, Rose McGowan is a force of nature as Courtenay Shayne. Immoral, unscrupulous, mean-spirited, and a tad kinky, the shapely actress is gorgeously evil from start to finish. Boasting not a single redeeming quality, I loved the pure nastiness of character. Plus, I can't imagine any school allowing someone that sexy to walk halls of their installation. An impotent principal (the always appealing Carol Kane) tries to curb Courtnay's sexiness by asking her to button up her blouse, but such actions are rendered futile when looked at from a distance. Seriously, you can see her delicious curves from space.

Anyway, I truly believe, if given the chance, that Rose's character would kill a million people if, say, there was some sort of lip gloss theft or an incident involving a broken heel. Yep, she's that depraved.

The legendary Pam Grier, Riff Randell herself P.J. Soles, Ann Russo (credited as Ann Zupa), Marilyn Manson, Jeff Conaway (as Marcie's dad), Lisa Robin Kelly (Laurie from That 70's Show), The Donnas and the tastily stemmed Tatyana Ali all make brief appearances throughout the film, but they're not in it enough to justify any sort of long-winded spiel.

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The Wild Life (Art Linson, 1984)

An impulsive, unrefined free spirit repeatedly finds himself clashing with a bunglesome bore in the casually commendable The Wild Life, a.k.a., one of the best things to ever to crawl its way out from the overly nostalgic head space of sentimental tripe pusher Cameron Crowe (Fast Times at Ridgemont High). A rambunctious examination of adolescent devilment circa 1984, and, not to mention, a first-rate peek into what it must have been like to come-of-age in Torrance, California, this Art Linson directed teen flick failed to impress me the first time around–you know, beyond the usual larks and superficialities that typically bubble near the surface in films like this. But looking at it again, I was struck by how much light it sheds on the importance of creating memories during one's youth. Think about all those unseemly things you did as a reckless adolescent. Have you got the images in your mind? How would you feel if those memories weren't there? Sure, some of the memories might be painful, and their disappearance could be seen as a blessing. But without those memories, even the bad ones, you wouldn't be yourself, you'd be a mindless zombie with no discernible personality. The moments of embarrassment some of the characters endure in this movie are what end up forming the building blocks of their very souls. Whether it be you're dorky boss forcing you to confront a shoplifter in the trendy mall boutique you work at or being romantically rebuffed by a couple of bikini clad stewardesses (Brynja McGrady and Leigh Lombardi) as "Mirror Man" by The Human League plays on the soundtrack, these moments are integral to your overall growth as a human being.

Following the adventures of a glum nineteen year-old with reddish hair, one who, get this, has just broken up with his strikingly beautiful girlfriend, Anita (Lea Thompson), Bill Conrad (Eric Stoltz) is looking forward to branching out on his own and moving into a swanky apartment complex. He sees it as liberation from his childlike existence, hence, the dumping of his high school girlfriend. However, his best friend and fellow bowling alley employee isn't quite ready to grow up. Wait a minute, what kind of asshole breaks up someone who looks like Lea Thompson?!? This course of action baffled the living fuck out of me. I mean, Lea Thompson? What a tool. It's true, Bill does eventually come to his senses. But this bizarre act was the main reason I saw a dark cloud hovering over Bill's head for the majority of this movie.

Anyway, his best friend, Tom Drake (Chris Penn), is the complete opposite of Bill, in that, he loves his high school girlfriend (Jenny Wright) and lives to party. These two lifestyles are incompatible with one another and cause much conflict between the mismatched buds.While the aforementioned "girlfriends" in The Wild Life may not party as hard as the guys, and aren't given succinct catchphrases to utter (Tom's mantra, "it's casual," permeates the proceedings like a carefree head cold), they are just as interesting as the boys; even more so at times, if you ask me.

An insanely gorgeous Lea Thompson (Howard the Duck) and the alluring Jenny Wright (Out of Bounds) play gal pals, Anita and Eileen, and I found their boy-related stress to be fascinating, and, strangely enough, downright illuminating at times. Call me grossly incognizant, but I enjoyed their heart to hearts about their futures and respective fellas.

The most interesting girlfriend was by far Eileen, a high school senior who is currently working (the film takes place in late August) at Fashion Dynasty, a new wave inspired clothing store (watch the mannequins closely, as some of them are actually played by living, breathing people). She not only has to deal with the erratic behaviour of Tom, her smothering, mentally challenged boyfriend (his steady stream of marriage proposals are pushing her over the edge), but also the untoward advances of her boss (Rick Moranis), a bespectacled fashion victim with poofy hair who thinks Eileen is the bees knees.

Played with sexy aplomb by Jenny Wright, Eileen perfectly symbolized the unease that came with growing up new wave in a heavy metal world. In theory, that makes no sense, but when approached with from a slightly skewed angle, it makes some sense. At any rate, everything from Jenny's spiky haircut to the annoyance she displays after another surprise visit from her boyfriend was wonderfully realized by the attractive actress. One in which involves him costing her sale (he rightly tells a potential customer that the jacket he's about to purchase is too small) However, my favourite surprise visit had to be the one where Tom watches her as she gets undressed through her bedroom window, as the sight of Miss Wright enjoying the sumptuous contours of her world-class organic structure was an absolute delight.

Oh, and I loved the closeup shot of her legs as she sat cross-legged outside her school. The perverted manner in which the camera lingered on her ankle bracelet (the little heart-shaped jewels caressing the upper part of her right foot) and slowly moved its way up her body was breathtaking.

As cute as a button-like substance, Lea Thompson plays Anita, a Donut City employee who's having sex with an older man (Hart Bochner). And when I say, "having sex," I'm not being unnecessarily crude, the older man, who's a police officer (yep, policemen like to order more than just donuts) refuses to take Anita out on a normal date. Again, what's wrong with these people? Actually, he, as we'll soon find out, has got a pretty good excuse for not wanting to be seen in public with Anita, but I digress. Looking adorable behind the donut counter, Lea imbues her character with enough bewildered looks and sweet smiles to make us forget that she likes to straddle a mustache-sporting lawman amidst irretrievable sprinkles and coagulating clumps of gooey dough.

The best Lea-based look of bewilderment comes when she realizes that her cop lover has stood her up.

It also makes think about the sheer amount of effort she made to look nice for him, as the scene that preceded her bewilderment shows Anita struggling to encase her shapely gams into a pair of white pantyhose. Okay, she wasn't exactly "struggling," but the pantyhose fetish crowd will most likely love it when Lea Thompson playfully stretches the waistband of her hose all the way up to her chest.

The misguided lure of the conflict in Vietnam (1959-1975) consumes the aura of a disaffected teen named Jim (Ilan Michael-Smith), as he pretends to carry the burden of that particular entanglement (the militaristic clothing he wears and the classic rock blasting from his boombox reflect this fake burden perfectly). Oh, just in case I didn't mention it earlier, Jim is Bill's younger brother, and his subplot runs parallel to the ones about Tom and his pseudo-engagement to Eileen (a pseudo-bachelor party he attends at a Les Girls features the lovely Ashley St. Jon as Stripper #1, Stripper #2 is played by Kitten Natividad), Bill's attempt to gain autonomy, and Anita's affair with the police officer. Anyway, Jim's tough exterior is justifiably softened when in the presence of Brenda (Simone White), an angelic girl with blonde hair and braces. The two may only glance at each other a couple of times and exchange hi's with one another at the local bowling alley, but I found their subtle flirting to be mildly intoxicating.

Other than forgetting to mention Ángel Salazar's amazement over the fact that Les Girls accepting Visa and MasterCard (the way he pronounces, "mastercharge," is comedy gold), I think that covers just about everything.

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The Warriors (Walter Hill, 1979)

A manly chill washes over me every time the iridescent grandeur of the Wonder Wheel, a Ferris wheel in the Coney Island section of Brooklyn, New York, appears onscreen in the first scene of The Warriors, Walter Hill's gritty tribute to urban mayhem and vest-wearing togetherness. There's a chill because I know I'm guaranteed for one sweet night of head busting and reluctant romance. The no-nonsense film grabs you from the get-go, introducing us to a virile plethora of street gangs as they're getting on the subway (public transit was one of the few affordable forms of gangster chic back in the '70s). The outfits of the gangs ranged from menacing (I'd cross the street if I saw the guys in camouflage coming my way) to the ridiculous (what were those mime motherfuckers thinking?). But the way the sequence was put together never fails in getting me jazzed for some unlawful, yet playful acts of physical violence. I mean, it just crackles with an energy that gets the audience pumped for the big rally up in the Bronx. The gangs (nine members each) are going up there to listen to a charismatic prophet named Cyrus (Roger Hill) speak about geopolitics and ask the surly throng if they can "dig it." Since we can't follow the adventures of every gang in attendance (I would have loved to have hitched a ride with those suave dandies in the purple sequined vests), we end up leeching onto The Warriors, an interracial gang from Coney Island whose look has a bit of a Native American vibe (leather vests, feathers, etc.) Now, I always wondered why The Warriors were hesitant to go to the rally, but I now realize that it must have had something to do with the immense distance between Coney and the Bronx. I know I wouldn't want go all that way (without weapons) just hear some messianic hoodlum give a speech. Anyway, there's a bit snafu at the rally, and before anyone can yell "He shot Cyrus!" the feisty boys from the place where Nathan sells hot dogs find themselves being hunted by every gang in the city. Each itching to waste their denim-covered asses.

The fun of The Warriors, for me, anyway, has always been the disjointed comradery between the respective gang members. These guys technically have no business being together (their distinct personalities always seem to be at odds with one another), but its this friction that makes their journey so compelling. It is also the reason I find myself rooting for them to kick the snot out of the other gangs. You see, normally I would root for the rival gangs to win (I'm a dick that way).

However, since the Warriors are so darn appealing, you know, with their cocksure bragging and rakish running technique, that I couldn't help but smirk when they lay a severe beat-down on the face-painting goofballs of the Baseball Furies, the second coolest, yet most strategically incompetent gang in the movie. (They all had baseball bats!)

It should be said, though, The Orphans, a lower-level outfit in green t-shirts, had a super-lame strategy as well. Sure, the Molotov cocktail was kinda unexpected, but come on guys, you had them outnumbered by, like, a lot. Oh, and I've always had a soft spot for Paul Greco's leader of The Orphans. Perfectly encapsulating the scourge that is male pride, the ease in which this squirrelly fella was manipulated pretty much summed up everything that is wrong with the world.

Stoic to the point of catatonia, Michael Beck (Xanadu) is the righteous glue that holds this tough potpourri together. Playing Swan, the take charge leader (war chief) of The Warriors, Mr. Beck oozes a restrained form of defiance. I liked the way he chose his battles in the film. You see, his main rival Ajax (a headstrong James Remar) would constantly disagree with his decisions ("I'm sick of this running crap"), but the choice to fight or run should always be considered carefully, and Swan made the right choice almost every time. The rest of the actors in Swan and Ajax' gang were varied in their memorableness. However, it was the demented work of David Patrick Kelly as the leader of the Rogues that caused me to high-five my inner psychopath. Every strange mannerism and enunciated word he uttered was rife with originality.

Even though she is called all sorts of unpleasant names (especially the one that rhymes with chore), I thought Deborah Van Valkenburgh (Streets of Fire) was enchanting as Mercy, a gutsy chick The Warriors hook up with during their southbound adventure. Sheathed a slightly purplish getup that was alluring (but not too showy), Deborah is awash with grit and sex appeal. So much so, that she somehow managed to unfurl the sleepy contents of Swan's impassive crotch. It must have been Deborah's beautiful mouth that awoke his slumbering cock, because it is one helluva gob.

Speaking of mouths, the bite Deborah inflicts on the shoulder of one the overall-wearing punks during the washroom brawl was just one of the many fantastic deployments of violence in that wonderfully brutal scene. A raucous throw-down that pretty much puts the first exclamation mark on the film (Kelly's bottle work and beach scream are the second and third). At any rate, this toilet-based brouhaha is one of the most visceral cinematic punch-ups I have ever witnessed.

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Spun (Jonas Åkerlund, 2002)

If you enjoy strip clubs, adult video shops, convenience stores, external pieces of Mena Suvari's well-earned excrement, and cooking speed in stuffy motel rooms, then have I got good news for you. An unclean sore on the over trafficked anus of modern society, this film is pure filth. If you don't once think about your own personal hygiene while watching Spun, the hyper-kinetic ode to methamphetamine and the humanitarians who abuse it, then you my friend are not an earth-born individual. Every character that populates this seedy world needs to desperately get themselves reacquainted with the squarish miracle that is soap. It was obvious to me early on that the director (a Swedish dude renowned for his music videos), has no idea how to make a conventional movie. And you know what? I couldn't be more happy. Filmmaker Jonas Åkerlund's incompetence as a storyteller actually elevated the proceedings and gave the film the disjointed, meandering quality it needed. I mean, the idea of watching a well-made, or worse, insightful, movie about drug addicts gives me the willies. No, what want to see is scenes involving wretched degradation and comical anguish all mixed together without any thought whatsoever put into things like, pacing and continuity. And Jonas delivers in that regard. Creating an atmosphere where every single action is heightened.

A sordid mishmash of lowlifes traversing the outskirts of some sunburnt refuse heap near Los Angeles, Spun is aimless film-making at its finest. One that basically focuses on a tweeker named Ross (a greasy-haired Jason Schwartzman) and his need to score meth on a regular basis. However, little things like, a battle with sleeplessness, running errands for a cowboy/chemist with a wrestling fixation, the big brown eyes of the cowboy/chemists' stripper girlfriend, keeping his own stripper girlfriend tied to his bed, and trying to reconnect with his non-stripper ex-girlfriend are obscuring his main goal; getting high.

The cast were all game when it came to looking absolutely awful. Whether it was excessive sweatiness, bad skin, or unwashed hair, each character brought their own unique brand of nastiness to the table.

A leathery Mickey Rourke commands the screen as The Cook, an aloof versifier who is tirelessly dedicated to his craft; a perennially shirtless John Leguizamo is flat-out disgusting as Spider Mike; Deborah Harry is a kindhearted yet firm lesbian phone-sex operator who helps the protagonist's current stripper girlfriend out of an unpleasant jam (a disturbing subplot that causes the audience to look at Schwartzman's character in a different light); Eric Roberts was outstanding as The Man (his feminine mannerisms and blonde Elvis wig were topnotch); and the gorgeous China Chow appears briefly an escort (I loved the way struggled to walk across the motel parking in those impractical hooker pumps).

I'd have to say that Mena Suvari looked the worst out of everyone in the cast as Cookie (which, I guess, is sort of a complement). Her baked bean teeth, contusion covered face, chapped lips, soiled pajama bottoms, and equally soiled sleep mask were nauseating. (It shouldn't be said, but I could watch her struggle make fecal matter for hours on end.)

When most of us think back to the heady days when we wore acid wash jeans, we think, "Wow, what was I thinking?" Nikki, on the other hand, wears them year in, year out without a hint of shame. Played brilliantly by the enchanting Brittany Murphy, Nikki is probably my favourite character because she is the most sympathetic. For one thing, she doesn't leave anyone tied to a bed for three days, nor does she shoot anyone in the testicles. However, when Nikki disagrees with you, prepare to have your ear area peppered with a creative mix of curse words and demasculinizing put downs.

Combining the sisterly sweetness of an overly caffeinated half-wit and the open-mindedness of a lesser known porno actress, Brittany Murphy is a skanky delight from start to finish. The hopeful nitty-gritty of this bleak head-trip of a movie, the tasty actress with the large eye sockets (her makeup looked like it had been applied by a paint-ball gun) made Spun mildly worthwhile in the end.

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Cruel Intentions (Roger Kumble, 1999)

When I first saw Cruel Intentions (a.k.a. Eiskalte Engel), the updated version of Les Liaisons Dangereuses (the Choderlos de Laclos novel, not the German electro group who pioneered industrial dance music during the early 1980s), I thought it was merely a WB sitcom masquerading as edgy satire (you know, with its racy language and backstabbing). On top of that, the cast just screams low ratings and mainstream indifference. However, upon further inspection, I was surprised by how much I was able to delight in the scheming antics of the Kathryn and Sebastian, two mentally-adroit step-siblings, especially during the film's early going, when they were at their most ruthless. Sure, it still struck me as tame, and even wholesome at times, but Roger Kumble's snarky dialogue filled in the non-titillating gaps wonderfully. Taking place in Manhattan's Upper West Side, the film is basically about this bet between the aforementioned siblings, a swishy pair of bored teenagers who seem to have no parental guidance whatsoever. One wants to get back at a doltish classmate (a naive young half-wit), the other just wants to stick his dick in a new hole. I think that sums it up. Oh, wait, get this, Sebastian, the adventuresome shaft wielder, ends up falling in love with his intended victim (a virginity enthusiast and ill-defined Jesus supporter). And, as you would expect, this upsets Kathryn, who openly wants to feel the exquisite hardness of his brother's well-seasoned cock in her ass. You see, him penetrating her in any opening he desires is her reward for winning the bet. Or is it his reward? I can't remember. Anyway, much teen-based treachery and adolescent blackmail ensues.

Bringing conniving while lounging to a whole new level of hose-beastery, Sarah Michelle Gellar just plain rocks in Cruel Intentions. It's true, she has the juiciest part to begin with, but Sarah Michelle seems to revel in playing a catty brat. I can't think of another actress I'd rather see hurling emasculating put downs while lollygagging than SMG.

Horny and extremely unpleasant, I loved the calculated and devious looks she would throw the outmatched Ryan Phillippe. And her revilement towards Selma Blair's Cecile, well, that was an unsavoury treat to bask in. I mean, the way she mumbled insults under her breath was exceptional, especially when Selma was engaging in her infamous "secret society" dance.

Now the tongue massage tutorial that takes place in Central Park between Sarah Michelle Gellar and Selma Blair is one of coolest mouth kissing scenes I have ever seen, and is justifiably extolled by reprobates and sane people the world over. However, what most fail to realize is what a fantastic sexy leg feast this film is when looked at from that particular angle. Yeah, yeah, the underrated Tara Reid is seen sitting at a desk, not a tantalizing gam in sight. But as for everyone else, it's a veritable stem-off.

You know you're in for something special when even Swoosie Kurtz and Christine Baranski are given the opportunity to shine, leg-wise. Hell, the film opens with Ryan Phillippe complementing Swoosie on her "killer legs." Selma is shameless when comes to showing some leg (there's nothing sexier than a woman who is keenly aware that she has great legs), while Sarah Michelle is a little more subtle. She waits until the third act to unveil her first-rate legs, but when she does, it's a beautiful thing. Reese Witherspoon, on the other hand, was very stingy when came to exposing some stemage. And... nope, I think that covers everything.

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