Basket Case 3: The Progeny (Frank Henenlotter, 1992)

Swarming with more unique individuals than you can shake a pockmark-covered albino wet dream at, Basket Case 3: The Progeny is the delightfully inappropriate and hilariously gory final chapter in the harebrained trilogy about a pair of formerly conjoined twins named Duane and Belial. Unlike most horror trilogies, this one has sprung forth from the singular vision of one man: esteemed writer-director Frank Henenlotter (Brain Damage and Frankenhooker). Involved with the making of all three movies (he's not the type to shirk responsibility), you really get the sense that his unique brand of twisted horror isn't being stifled by outside forces. While I'm sure he wanted it to be messier and more disgusting in places, the off-kilter and satirical temperament of the film never fails to shine through. This wacky disposition is best observed when Granny Ruth (Annie Ross) asks a pharmacist if he's got any extra large condoms for sale, and when Little Hal (Jim O'Doherty) videotapes the most nauseating birthing sequence in film history for posterity. (I liked the drugstore scene because it forces you to imagine what the mutated genitalia of a man with twenty-seven noses would look like encased in rubber.)

Performing double-duty as a penetrating public service announcement detailing the bane that is prejudice and a cautionary tale about the dangers that can come with being too fertile, the film covers some pretty deep themes. The matriarchal Granny Ruth and her band of oddities, still living on Staten Island, are planning a trip down south in order to procure the doctoring expertise of one Uncle Hal (Dan Biggers). Why do they need a doctor, you ask? Remember that revolting sex scene I mentioned that takes place between Belial and Eve in Basket Case 2? No? Well, it seems that Eve is pregnant and they want Hal to deliver the baby. Anyway, they all hop aboard a school bus (even Cedrik and his head of lettuce) and mosey on down to Peachtree, Georgia for some Dixie-based hospitality.

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the mixed-up Duane (Kevin Van Hentenryck) and his various issues involving his homicidal twin. Worried about his safety, Granny Ruth has fitted him with a strait-jacket for the long journey south. He still desires to be free from the freakish cabal, but he really misses his brother, and hopes to reconcile with Belial, the basket-bound expectant father who likes to rip people's faces off.

All the so-called "freaks" (I don't really like to call them that since I've grown quite fond of them) from the previous film are all back and more grotesque than ever. A large part of the enjoyment of parts 1 and 2 was gingerly basking in the pure inventiveness that must have gone into creating the various deformities. I mean, one of them has a head shaped like a half-moon.

Now, I know it's rude to stare and all, but every time they showed them in a room together, like, for example, the party celebrating Eve's multiple birth, I couldn't help but be in awe of the craftsmanship that was on display.

The aforementioned birthing sequence is quite the sight to behold. The way the little Belials kept coming, while comedically satisfying, was a sickening spectacle. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of the circle of life, it's just the screeching sound they made, and, not to mention, the manner in which they were all strung together, was all a tad much to take. Luckily, the bizarre play-by-play provided by Little Hal as the tiny terrors came out managed to alleviate the tension. In fact, some of his comments were quite funny. Of course, funny in a "did he just ask for some celery" kinda way.

Nothing is normal in the ooze-filled world of Frank Henenlotter.

Speaking of not being normal, I loved how the pristine-looking Opal, the daughter of the local sheriff, had a little bondage surprise for Duane during his brief stay in jail. It was just another in a long line of demented treats in this film. However, the fact that her disrobement led to unveiling of leather lingerie was actual not as big a shock as one might expect. I mean, I've found that it's always the quiet ones who exhibit the most perverted of tendencies. The other cool thing about Opal was that she was played by Tina Louise Hilbert, an actress who has the boast-worthy distinction of having Basket Case 3: The Progeny be their only motion picture credit role to date. I'm a big fan of actors who only have one film on their resume.

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Dolls (Stuart Gordon, 1987)

My childhood teddy bear is perched on a shelf overlooking the area where I like to sit and stare at stuff. (The T.V., the television, and the boob tube being my absolute favourite items to stare at in that particular area.) Sporting a dust covered blue tuque, a red sash, and a deflated purple birthday balloon tied to its left leg, the bear innocently watches over my inherent lameness with a stoic brand of hirsute dignity. I have to admit, I never gave much thought as to what its homicidal intentions might be (after all, it's just an inanimate object). But that all changed after I witnessed the killer playthings in Dolls, the lively Stuart Gordon (From Beyond) directed ode to pulseless malevolence. The second the motion picture was over, I immediately sprung into action. Grabbing the dangling ribbon attached to the deflated purple birthday balloon, I proceeded to tie the bear's legs together in a mentally unsound attempt to render the potential creature immobile. My logic being: if the furry bear was going to kill me, it would have to work extra hard to do so. (I'd like to see it try to untie a knot without thumbs.) Now I realize the chances of the furry bear hurling itself in the general direction of my face and clawing my eyes out were slim to none. Not because I tied its legs together, but because toys don't intentionally hurt people. However, the act of shackling the teddy bear did bring me the peace of mind I couldn't acquire with an unshackled teddy bear in the house; its red demon eyes watching over me with a lascivious hunger. This paranoid dementia of mine is a testament to the craftsmanship of Stuart Gordon and his crack team of doll wranglers.

Whether the dolls were inactive or desperately trying to saw a woman's hand off, the dolls were sufficiently fiendish. Actually, just the mere sight of the dolls standing en masse was enough to engage my moist regions in a positive and productive manner. I chose to view the fact that they also stabbed people as an added bonus.

The simplistic plot of Dolls was quite welcome, as my brain (my primary moist region) was in no mood for deciphering a convoluted storyline about a cursed toymaker and his wonky disinterest in all things grownup. Well, there's some of the latter in the film: Gabriel (Guy Rolfe) and Hilary Hartwicke (Hilary Mason), the sinister yet friendly elderly couple who have way too many dolls lying around and possess an unsophisticated disdain for adulthood. But for the most part, it's your typical car breaks down in front of a menacing-looking mansion during a violent thunderstorm, human contents of said car end up staying the night and battling depraved dolls story.

The first broken-down car contains the Bower family, David (Ian Patrick Williams) and Rosemary (Carolyn Purdy-Gordon) and their daughter Judy (Carrie Lorraine). A second car shows up a bit later carrying two English punk chicks, Isabel (Bunty Bailey from Hot Gossip) and Enid (Cassie Stuart), and a guy named Ralph (Stephen Lee) to give the film more in terms of victim variety. The fanciful Judy is the first to notice there's something evil afoot, while the rest carrying on blissfully unaware that they are surrounded by an armada of bloodthirsty, knife-wielding dolls.

Surprisingly, the least annoying performance in the film is that of Carrie Lorraine as the pigtailed Judy, an adorable little scamp who enjoys daydreaming; in fact, one of her daydreams involves an oversize version of her beloved teddy bear tearing apart her stepmother. As you would expect, this grisly vision gives us a terrific insight into Judy's strange psyche. Anyway, I enjoyed her puckishness and the on the cusp of being creepy relationship she forms with Ralph.

The punk rock hitchhikers were pretty good as far as being obnoxious and uncouth in a stuffy setting, but I definitely could have used more clear shots of their awesome makeup; the film is awfully dark at times.

If this film has taught me anything, it's that my wherewithal when it comes to telling the difference between fantasy and reality needs some serious tweaking. And that in the future, I shouldn't be so nonchalant about admitting that I watch doll-based entertainment from the 1980s with stuffed animals.

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Making Mr. Right (Susan Seidelman, 1987)

A film rife with enough quirky actresses to fill a mid-size sedan, fishnet stockings in every other frame, and uncircumcised android cock,* Making Mr. Right is a delightfully offbeat romantic comedy from director Susan Seidelman that repeatedly asks the question: Can love flourish naturally between a woman and a machine without it seeming perverted and sad? Now that may seem like a weird question for a film to being asking on a regular basis. But don't worry, the question is barely audible. Besides, this film's temperament so lighthearted and fancy-free, that you probably won't even realize that you've just watched an intelligent woman get swept off her yummy feet by a floppy-haired space mannequin with a detachable head for at least a couple of hours after it's over. Even by then, you'll still feel as if you've just witnessed something uniquely funny and stylistically exceptional. I know I sure did. The sight of John Malkovich playfully chewing on Ann Magnuson's contraceptive diaphragm sums up the former quite nicely, and the chic precision of Miss Magnuson's fantastic wardrobe does an adequate job describing the essence of the latter. Taking every (heterosexual) woman's innate desire to create the perfect man and advancing it to the next level, the film wanders purposefully through a month in the life of Miami, Florida resident Frankie Stone (Ann Magnuson), a public relations expert who finds herself put in charge of shaping the public image of Ulysses (John Malkovich), a state-of-the-art android (one that is intended for deep space travel) designed by Dr. Jeff Peters (John Malkovich). A sophisticated modern woman, Frankie, having just dumped her sleazy politician boyfriend (Ben Masters), finds working with the robotic Ulysses to be a refreshing change of pace. Plus, it keeps her away from the tumultuous situation that is taking place in her apartment.

Her roommate Trish (Glenne Headly) is going through a messy split with her soap star boyfriend (Hart Bochner), and, not to mention, liberates her from the stresses of sister's upcoming wedding (the sister is played by none other than Susan Bergen, Wren from Seidelman's debut feature Smithereens).

Anyway, the amount of time Frankie spends at Chem-Tech's subterranean laboratories causes Ulysses to become disinterested in space and starts to grow somewhat attached to her instead.

This attachment, as you would expect, alarms Jeff, the scientist; in that, the robot was designed to explore the far reaches of the universe, not have sex on the kitchen floor with Glenne Headly or shoot a wad of ketchup onto Laurie Metcalf's fabric-covered chest.

Nevertheless, in terms of advancing the film's comedic trajectory, this kooky turn of events served the proceedings quite well.

The bubbly synthesizer score by Chaz Jankel (I especially liked the music that played during Frankie's initial drive to Chem-Tech's headquarters), the costume design by Rudy Dillon and Adelle Lutz was superb (Miss Magnuson's outfits in particular), the sleek cinematography of Ed Lachman made late '80s South Florida look like a cyan and pink paradise, and the sight of a non-pompous, non-evil John Malkovich frolicking in a shopping mall setting as the wide-eyed Ulysses was an unexpected treat.

Deserving all the exaggerated praise I muster, it was absolute joy to see Ann Magnuson in a starring role for a change. Normally relegated to back up roles and cameos (she played a cigarette girl in Seidelman's Desperately Seeking Susan), you could totally tell that the gorgeous actress/singer/Club 57 DJ, sporting short red hair, was relishing the chance the play the lead.

Whether she was shaving her legs and armpits in traffic, doing a prat fall in a bridesmaid dress, or taking off her pumps mid run, Ann is physical perfection as Frankie, a stylish woman who doesn't let the impracticality of her wardrobe impede her ability to chase after a fugitive robot. It should go without saying, but Miss Magnuson is a leggy fiend in Making Mr. Right, and the fact she is obviously keenly aware of how great her legs look only manages to make her seem even sexier.

And as most sane people know: sexy stem cognizance is freaking hot.

Staying on the topic of actresses who mainly play second bananas, I was very impressed by the depth of the supporting players. A virtual who's who of underrated and quirky babes, Laurie Metcalf (also from Desperately Seeking Susan), Glenne Headly, Susan Bergen, and Polly Draper (thirtysomething) all showed up to lend Ann Magnuson a hand in her debut as a leading lady (at least, I think it was her debut). Sure, they probably showed up to support to Susan Seidelman–you know, since half of them have worked with her in the past. But it was cool nonetheless.

* Uncircumcised Android Cock (U.A.C. in New Brunswick and P.E.I.) was the pseudonym I used during my made-up days as an unsuccessful children's music producer in the late 1970s.

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The Wanderers (Philip Kaufman,1979)

A boisterous street gang flick masquerading as a rarely watched instructional video on how to coerce Italian, "colored," and Chinese thugs to work together to fight their Irish counterparts, The Wanderers is different from its cinematic cousin The Warriors, which was also released in 1979, in that it doesn't take place in a racially harmonious universe where comically attired gangs try to take over New York City after a robe-wearing idealist repeatedly asks a hastily gathered congregation if they can "dig it." No, this Philip Kaufman film, based on the novel by Richard Price, is set solely in the realm of reality. Following the small-time, yet sociologically relevant hijinks of The Wanderers, a gang of youths made-up of mostly teens from Italian extraction (fugetaboutit), the film tags along with four of the groups most headstrong members as they go about the daily routine. Which includes: race baiting fellow classmates (Racially Derisive Language 101 apparently makes up a large part of the their school's curriculum), molesting women on the sidewalk, fleeing from skinheads, recruiting burly new members, turning the tables on said skinheads by employing the inherent talents of said burly new members, cheating at strip poker (Mamma Mia! Toni Kalem* is one spicy meatball!), not fucking with The Wongs (the film's Chinese gang), and playing American football (a sport where you are, get this, given four downs to move the ball ten yards).

Now, I think the main reason I never saw this film on television growing up was probably because of its casual use of racial slurs and glamorization of outdoor melees. Either way, it's a shame it hasn't built up the same kind of cult following like The Warriors has enjoyed over the years. I mean, the unblinking nature of the racial tension in the history class scene (they don't saturate their language with a masking layer of sugar), the excessive brutality of the football field brawl (the musclebound father of one of the Wanderers uses a Ducky Boy gang member as a club), the romantic tug-of-war over a beatnik cutie (Karen Allen), and comradery between the guys in the gold jackets is all pretty compelling stuff.

Sure, the utilization of the JFK assassination and Bob Dylan's "The Times They Are A-Changin'" to point out the coming cultural reposition was a tad heavy-handed, and the shot of all various races putting aside their nonexistent differences to combat a mob of height challenged Irishman seemed a little far-fetched. But everything else was teeming with unwholesome and nostalgic goodness.

I'll admit, the prospect of connecting with the trials and tribulations of hooligans living in The Bronx during the autumn of 1963 appeared to be a long-shot, especially since I'm not a big fan of the era (actually, I'm more indifferent to it than anything else). However, the sight of three Wanderers: Ken Wahl, John Friedrich, and Alan Rosenberg (not an Italian name in the lot) being chased by an angry mob of skinheads was like staring directly into a mirror.

You see, I distinctly remember fleeing from hairless punks on several occasions as a pointy-shoe attired delinquent. Whether or not these purposely bald asswipes wanted to inflict any real bodily harm on me and my equally pointy-shoe attired brothers was never quite established. (We never stood around to find out.) Anyway, the chase sequence involving the Wanderers and the Fordham Baldies brought back a lot of bittersweet memories. Which is something I didn't expect in a film about a bunch of gumbas acting overly tough in an urban setting.

Since I've already mentioned Karen Allen's cuteness, alluded to Toni Kalem's hotness (her looks of jealousy while smacking her chewing gum were awesome), and made an offhand remark about the lack of Italian surnames amongst the male leads, I'd like to finish by lavishing some mild acting praise on the bizarre duo that was Erland van Lidth de Jeude (The Running Man) and Linda Manz (Gummo) made as Terror (the leader of the Baldies) and Peewee (the Baldies lone female member). The combination of Erland's unexpected eloquence and Manz' overall scrappiness was intoxicating. It's true, their scenes together had a real oddness about them (their make out scene in particular). But out of all the great shots in The Wanderers, nothing quite beats the image of Terror and Peewee staring down a lumbering Wanderer named Perry (Tony Ganios) in that dark alleyway.

Oh, and I couldn't have been the only one who thought it was ironic that The Fordham Baldies were the only gang in the film who didn't seem to discriminate when it came to race.

* Toni Kalem looked absolutely scrumptious in her retro lingerie.

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Chopping Mall (Jim Wynorski, 1986)

Rendering the rent-a-cop obsolete with the simple flick of a switch, the mildly satirical, yet altogether entertaining Chopping Mall presents an off-kilter world where your average shopping centre (Sherman Oaks Galleria) is crawling with killer robots, replete with waitresses in red Lacoste shirts who are told to get "more butter" by greasier than usual customers, and features a gun shop called Peckinpah's Sporting Goods (a crisp tribute to the ordnance-friendly director of the same name). Hilarious and provoking hardly any mental exertion whatsoever, the Jim Wynorski directed film is a nimbly paced, mall-based action flick masquerading as an Eating Raoul sequel. Yeah, that's right, Paul and Mary Bland make a brief appearance near the start of the film as restaurant owners. Sitting in the front row at a well-attended demonstration for this new state-of-the-art security system, Mary Woronov (her long, slender legs on full display) and Paul Bartel (his trademark baldness neutralized by his well-nourished beard) are periodically called upon to deliver a barbed comment or two. Of course, it's not the same as having a full-length sequel, but it was nice to see that Bland's were doing well. So much so, that they can apparently afford to buy expensive killer robots to guard their classy eatery.

Designed to protect the sanctity of any merchandise that lies within a building's sturdy walls from would-be thieves and bandits, these robots aren't actually supposed to kill (the term "killer robots" is a bit of a misnomer). But like with most newfangled gizmos and gadgets, the robots start to misbehave. Sure, strangling middle-aged bookworms (Gerrit Graham) and electrocuting surly janitors (Dick Miller) ain't gonna set off any alarm bells at the companies public relations firm. (Their market value is quite low according to the device that measures corporeal merit.) On the other hand, the tension is amplified when a throng of horny teenagers are in danger of being slaughtered. (Adolescents buy more, therefore, are more important in the long run.)

Now firing head-eviscerating laser beams from their eyes, the robots (three to be exact) are hellbent on exterminating eight young people who had planned on partying the night away in the Furniture King (three of the guys work there). Splitting up according to gender, the six (head-eviscerating laser beams have quickly reduced their numbers) teens battle the robots utilizing anything they can get their hands on.

Campy without containing the properties of something that is necessarily campy, Chopping Mall may appear to be a mindless tale of robots gone amuck. However, underneath all the crazy mayhem and clever one-liners ("Fuck the fuchsia! It's Friday!" and "Let's send these fuckers a Rambo-gram.") lies a fortuitous vision of the killer robot future we're all going to be living in the tomorrow to come.

Whether this was the film's intention or not, the sight of a glorified vending machine blowing the head off a lovely lass, whose only crime was looking absolutely scrumptious in a pair of pale panties and possessing a boyfriend who loves cunnilingus, was a stark reminder that machines are becoming more militarized. That being said, the head exploding scene was pretty sweet– you know, in terms of chunk ratio and splatter girth.

Nearly falling into a giddy stupor when I first heard its groovy magnificence during the film's spirited opening credits sequence (where beauty pageant contestants, skate boarding brats, and video arcade enthusiasts literally collide with one another), the 100% electronic score by Chuck Cirino is hands down one of the greatest accomplishments in the history of movie music. The synthesizers, the drum machines, everything seemed in perfect harmony, as its chaotic throb washed over me. Seriously, it's an awesome score.

Quirky fun-fact: Chuck Cirino was the SUV driving host/producer of Weird TV, a wonderfully insane late night program that aired on Global TV in my neck of the woods back in 1995.

Proving that the excessive cuteness she displayed in Night of the Comet was not a fluke, and, of course, establishing once and for all that she doesn't need to sheath her firm body in a light-blue cheerleading outfit to get noticed, the adorable Kelli Maroney imbues her character with intelligence, heart, and, most importantly, a delicate grace. As Alison Parks, a clumsy waitress who is set up by her friends with Ferdy, a slightly awkward (though a night fighting robots should cure that) furniture salesmen played by Tony O'Dell, Kelli embraces her inner badass when the robots decide to strike.

Exhibiting a nice counterpoint to the irrational and hysterical behaviour of Barbara Crampton (From Beyond), Miss Maroney is comfortable with firearms (much like she was in the comet movie) and isn't afraid to spout cheesy one-liners before offing belligerent robots. In other words: yet another reason to worship the spunky splendour that is Kelli Maroney.

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Star Trek (J.J. Abrams, 2009)

A circular spacecraft named Enterprise, bald aliens wielding a large drill, and the burgeoning friendship between two rivals are at the centre of an exciting new film called "Star Trek," an intergalactic tale about men and women who like to fly around the universe in gold, blue, and, if their unlucky, red outfits; in the men's case, the shirts are the only item coloured in this manner (their trousers and boots are typically black). Not knowing anything about this storied franchise beforehand, I sheepishly entered this film, which is directed by Felicity creator J.J. Abrams, like a newly hatched Jem'Hadar about to receive their first dose of Ketracel-white. This inexperience with all things Star Trek put me in a unique situation; in that, I was able to appreciate the space battles, macho posturing and planetary destruction from a fresh perspective. Similar to one of Weyoun's many clones, yet not similar at all, I approached the material with the stealthy cool of a disgraced member of the Obsidian Order. Now, I know what you're thinking, and you're absolutely right, I do sound more like a disgraced member of the Tal Shiar. But what super secret intelligence agency best represented my spiritual temperament as I sat in a room for two hours and stared at a giant screen that featured angry dudes with pointy ears getting all huffy is not important. What is important, however, is that I enjoyed the shapes, colours and sounds that washed over me in this film (you know, despite my fake ignorance).

Starting off on the planets Earth (which in the future looks like Iowa) and Vulcan, the film is basically about a cocksure human named James T. Kirk (Chris Pine) and conflicted a half Vulcan/half Human named Spock (Zachery Quinto), and their rocky journey to the bridge of the Starship Enterprise, the most powerful ship in the United Federation of Planets. The standoffish relationship between the forceful Kirk and the logical Spock is the driving force behind the film; as it should be.

The plot involving a deeply troubled Romulan (who are now bald and have facial tattoos) named Nero (Eric Bana) and his desire to destroy one of the Federation's most digable planets is just an excuse to get the two science fiction icons to stop bickering long enough in order to have them to team up and shoot lasers together by the third act. In terms of geekiness, the moment Kirk and Spock open up on a group of Romulans with their laser guns in the engine room of their vile looking ship was my favourite.

Looking at things from a purely action-based perspective, I'd have to say the skydiving sequence was the most thrilling. And on top of being an exhilarating spectacle, it also gave Sulu (John Cho) a chance to make his presence felt–he engages in a sword fight with a couple of Romulans on the roof of a giant space drill, and, of course, rescues Kirk. In fact, all the members of the supporting cast are all given the opportunity to rescue one another throughout the film– it's a quick and easy way for the ship's crew to build trust.

Out of all the characters who assist/rescue Kirk along the way, I'd say that I was most impressed with the hilariously gruff performance by Karl Urban as Dr. McCoy and Anton Yelchin's thick Russian accent as the boyish Chekov (who has dropped the mid-60s Rodney Bingenheimer look). I must admit, felt a kinship toward the surly doctor. Mainly because he was always annoyed with something–and let's face it, space can be pretty annoying at times. His line about space being "disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence" had me nodding slightly in dorky agreement.

While Chris Pine (Just My Luck) brings a swagger to Jim Kirk that is all his own (the only time he reminded me of William Shatner was while he was eating an apple during a battle simulation), Zachary Quinto (So noTORIous) is coolness personified as Mr. Spock. The blue shirt, symmetrical haircut and pointy ears all seem to fit him perfectly. Now, I don't want to say that he was born to play Spock– that would be extremely dweeb-like. But there was an air of nonchalance to the way Quinto brought the logic-obsessed Vulcan-Human to life. And I loved the how he said the word "fascinating," as it was very Nimoy-esque.

Oh, and how super terrific was it that Winona Ryder plays Spock's mom? Yeah, so it's not quite up there with Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael, but it was still kinda terrifically super.

Since Star Trek is rated PG, I knew going in that the chances of seeing Spock's space penis were pretty slim. Nevertheless, that doesn't mean the film is completely limp in terms of sex appeal. The image of Nichelle Nicols' Uhura sitting at her station, her beautiful, pantyhose-covered legs crossed ever so gingerly, is the stuff of sexy legend. Sure, I didn't see the original series until the mid-90s, but her healthy thighs remain an unmistakable part of my existence. So, in terms of pressure, I'd say Zoe Saldana (Centre Stage) had the biggest boots to fill out of the new actors. Of course, there's no way Zoe can replace Nichelle, but she does bring her distinct charm to the role. Sporting an expertly tied ponytail at all times, Miss Saldana is more than just a glorified secretary, she's a gifted linguist and a Vulcan jizz receptacle.

Anyway, Winona, babes with green skin (Rachel Nichols), ponytails, the skydiving sequence, and Karl Urban all make this "re-boot" an experience that is on the cusp of being worthwhile.

Star Trek Trailer
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