Thank God It's Friday (Robert Klane, 1978)

Despite the fact that "God" and "Friday" are both wonky concepts designed to keep people enslaved by dates and things they cannot see, I am sincerely thankful that they're both employed in title of Thank God It's Friday (a.k.a. Gottseidank, es ist Freitag and Dieu merci, c'est vendredi), the gold-encrusted leather thong of pulsating disco movies. Other films with similar themes have tried to present 1970s dance culture in a responsible manner, but this Armyan Berstein (Cross My Heart) scripted, Robert Klane (Weekend at Bernie's II) directed masterpiece–and Academy Award winner–is one of the few chunks of cinematic amusement to accurately articulate the shimmering splendour that is Disco. Seizing on the genre's meaty hindquarters like a grief stricken piranha, the film attacks the viewer with accelerated sense of urgency. No wonder, it's got sixteen or so characters to introduce in a frightfully short amount of time. It successfully does this by utilizing a quick succession of scenes that show a handful of the participants away from the nightclub comfort zones we see them languishing in for the rest of the movie.

The reason we see the underage pairing of Frannie (Valerie Landsburg) and Jeannie (Berlin's Terri Nunn) giddily hoping onto a school bus in their lacrosse gear and a dental hygienist named Jackie (the delightful Mews Small) manically smiling as she puts on her favourite red wig is to properly convey their anticipation for the upcoming night of disco-fueled resplendency. It's important that the audience witness their pre-clubbing rituals, as it builds up our own level of expectancy for what it is about to transpire.

During my clubbing days the music was bland and the drinks were overpriced, but I wouldn't trade my brief existence as a nightclub flunky for the world. The feeling of communal oneness and the endless parade of sexily attired bodies writhing and heaving in a feverish frenzy are what I remember most from those days, and Thank God It's Friday manages to replicate the sensation of being a dancefloor junkie with a gratifying aplomb.

Of course, the clubs I went to weren't as large as the club depicted in this film. (This joint has a freaking jewelry boutique!) And the clientele weren't as varied. (I rarely ever saw anyone over the age of twenty-five.) However, the pressures that come with being unwittingly forced to participate in complex mating rituals and the sense of loneliness you sometimes feel even though you're surrounded by hoards of people was perfectly captured during the film's spry running time.

Episodic in nature, the plot, like in real life, is virtually non-existent. Instead, the film focuses on a smattering characters and their respective goals for evening. Most involve human companionship: Ken (John Friedrich) and Carl (Paul Jabara) want to get moisture on their penises, while Maddy (Robin Manken) and Jennifer (Debra Winger) want to get penises on their moisture. Well, actually, Ken and Jennifer are a little less forthright about their thirst for refried genitalia. But the desire for the things that fall under the hard and wet umbrella is clearly there.

Out of this particular grouping of club-goers, I found Debra Winger to be a bit of an annoying rag soaked in a gigantic vat of drag (her clumsiness wasn't endearing, either); and I thought John Friedrich (The Wanderers) was merely adequate as a dull nonentity named Ken. On the other hand, I did like disco composer Paul Jabara's performance as the occasionally bespectacled Carl, an excitable fella with a purse full of jaunty mannerisms who spends most of the evening locked in a stairwell. (I was a fan of his the moment he put on a dab of lip-gloss before entering the club.) I also respected the straightforward attitude of Robin Manken's Maddy. It's always refreshing to see female characters whose lustful temperament is on the same seedy footing as her male counterparts.

Uttering the expression, "You bet your sweet ass you're sorry," whenever someone would accidentally brush up against his lumpy frame– which happens a lot in crowded nightclubs, Gus (Chuck Sacci) is a short, surly garbage truck driver who isn't pleased with the tallness of his computer dating match, a sixth grade grammar school teacher named Shirley (Hilary Beane from the Forbidden Zone and Xanadu). He spends the majority of movie acting like an asshole, and, as you would expect, Gus's wretched behaviour slowly overwhelms Shirley's psyche. Pushed to the limit, the statuesque educator does what most of us would have done had we come in contact with such a vile specimen (never has a properly landed right hook been so satisfying).

The owner of the Zoo disco is Tony (Jeff Goldblum), a suave, narcissistic Lothario who, on the behest of Bobby Speed (the club's DJ played by Ray Vitte), attempts to romance Sue (Andrea Howard), an attractive woman celebrating her fifth wedding anniversary with her husband Dave (Mark Lonow). Brimming with grace and intelligence, you wouldn't think that Tony's sleazy charm would have much of a chance of working on a classy gal like Sue. However, the fact that her husband is one of the biggest schmucks the disco world has ever seen has given Tony just the right amount of wiggle room he needs to snatch the stylishly short-haired beauty out from under his cloying grasp.

Most captivating in terms of conventional trajectory were the vignettes that centered around Valerie Landsburg's Frannie and Terri Nunn's Jeannie effort to sneak into the Zoo club after being denied entry during their first attempt (their fake Idaho driver's licenses didn't pass mustard). The idiosyncratic Frannie is unconvinced that her prowess as a high school dance champion will transfer over to the unruly world of a grown up disco. Encouraged by her friend Jeannie, Frannie must overcome her self-doubt (and the chunkiness of her shoes) if she stands a chance of winning the big dance contest.

Helping out almost everyone he comes in contact with, Marv Gomez, "The Leatherman" (Chick Vennera) encapsulates the all-inclusive flavour of the fleeting era with his succinct mantra: "Dancing! Everything else is bullshit!" He also explains his unique philosophy using other words and phrases, but I found the declarative nature of his raison d'etre to be profoundly moving.

Obviously created with the intention of irritating the audience, I fell instantly in love with Jackie, the pill-popping, proto-raver played by Mews Small (credited here as "Marya"). Even though the dental hygeinist by day, disco free spirit by night has to share the same clubspace with a soul crushing yuppie jackass, I thought Jackie maintained her dignity quite effectively. Her vivid red wig (one side was wavy as a concourse of cotton candy cascading off a prostitute's pockmarked ass, while the other was crimped beyond the realm of reality) basking in the blinding ferocity of the club's arsenal of strobe lights, her unorthodox posture (which invited plenty of looks of derision) and overall glossy sheen subdued the violent thoughts I was repeatedly having toward some of the more trying characters.

A veiled excuse to fill the air with the constant throb of disco beats from the Casablanca Records catalogue, Thank God It's Friday's main musical plot involves disco queen Donna Summer repeatedly trying to get Bobby Speed to her demo (she plays a struggling singer named Nicole Sims) and the mysterious whereabouts of Floyd (Otis Day), the dude in charge of getting The Commodores' equipment to the Zoo.

The film's finest music moment comes when see Jeff Goldblum entering the club while "From Here to Eternity" by Giorgio Moroder oozes melodiously in the background. We can still hear Giorgio's synths in the background as Jeff's character scolds the club's elevator operator for not wearing his giant gorilla head; the bar and waitress staff wear zebra print tank-tops, the elevator operators dress as, you guessed it, gorillas.

Sadly, like this smattering of typed words, the film looses its momentum by the time The Commodores arrive at the club. In addition, the idea that an L.A. nightclub would close at midnight is ridiculous. Sure, the film was starting overstay its welcome, but what kind of club shuts its doors so early? A baffling tidbit in an otherwise enjoyable movie.

video uploaded by And Party Every Day-Casablanca

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Lost and Delirious (Léa Pool, 2001)

Stuffy academia surrounded by the lush greenery of nature has to be a metaphor for something. However, since I have no idea what that metaphor might be, I'll try to focus on what I do best: Describe, in intricate detail, the sensuous softness that are Mischa Barton's adolescent knees. Oh, to be kneed squarely in the groin by Mischa Barton in the summertime, what alabaster bliss that would bring. One minute you're enjoying a frozen treat by the ferris wheel, and then all of a sudden, blamo! Her exquisitely shaped knee is plowing its way across the sensitive peaks and valleys of your vast genital infrastructure with the ferocity of an out of control jackhammer. (Okay, can I stop you there for a second? Yeah, hi, while I'm digging all this knee to the crotch talk, I was wondering when you're going to get to the film at hand?) Whatever. Not to generalize, but when it comes to celebrating the female form on-screen, I find most attempts by male directors to be crass and uncouth. On the other hand, of course, continuing not to generalize, female directors, whether its intentional or not, seem to understand allure of the womanly form much better than their male counterparts.

This difference in temperament is blatantly on display in Lost and Delirious, a coming-of-age tale about forbidden love at an all girls boarding school located just outside Toronto, Ontario. (While the Blue Jays baseball team is mentioned in one scene, the movie was actually filmed on the campus of Bishop's University in Lennoxville, Québec). In the hands of a man, the film would have probably been overly sleazy and a tad coarse (not that there's anything wrong with that). But under the watchful eye of Léa Pool (Mouvements du désir), working from a script loosely based on the novel The Wives of Bath by Susan Swan, the film literally soars.

Deftly mixing pompous, high minded (a.k.a. gobbledygook) elements with plenty of shots of teenage girls frolicking in their burgundy uniforms (the paleness of their underage legs manage to entice and blind simultaneously), the film is an intense, and sometimes frightening, examination of what kind power love can have when it afflicts the mind of an impish juvenile delinquent. Of course, I don't mean to imply that love is some kind of disease. On the contrary, love is a crestless wave that envelopes the fullness of ones spirit with a fiery glow of pure happiness. But when that radiated beam isn't being transmitted from both parties, that's when the crazy can start to set in.

Following Mary "Mouse" Bedford (Mischa Barton) as she tries to fit in at a swanky boarding school, all the film's action is seen from her naive perspective. A timid girl (hence the petite nickname), Mouse is immediately sucked into the relationship between her roommate's Paulie (Piper Perabo) and Tori (Jessica Paré). In fact, she is so sucked in, that their late night moans of pleasure end up becoming a part of her dreams. Unfortunately, their relationship is still viewed as taboo at their aristocratic learning facility, and the less cocksure Tori ends the romantic aspect of their relationship in fear of upsetting the societal turnip wagon.

Embroiled in the tempestuous aftermath of the girls split, Mouse tries her best to sooth the wounded heart of the rambunctious Paulie– you know, by being there for her. But the lovesick Paulie has no intention of giving up so easily. Convinced that Tori's public declaration that she loves heterosexual male cock is sheer dupery, Paulie pulls out the stops to win back the heart of the skittish Tori. And while fencing, quietly sobbing to the music of Ani DiFranco, crazed outbursts, and nursing an injured bird of prey back to health aren't the most established techniques when it comes to re-wooing your beloved, they're the best she's got.

Actually, now that I think about, you can't go wrong with "crazed outbursts." I highly recommend it to anyone who is trying to reconnect with an indecisive loved one.

Anyway, the cinematic equivalent of a clenched fist being thrust in the air to signify the epic grandeur that is love, Lost and Delirious works on a number of different levels. However, since I would really like to shift the focus of my attention to the fantastic Mischa Barton, I'll just pick one level. And that would be the serious nature in which Léa Pool handles the material. Oh, sure, there are a couple of unintentional giggles here and there. But the weightiness of the script and performances by the actors are so precise, that the film's tone is never wobbly.

While Graham Greene brings his usual deadpan brilliance to the girl-centric undertaking as a campus gardener, and Jessica Paré is sexy as hell (though, I should say, her slow-motion breakdown was quite moving from an acting point-of-view), it's, for the most part, the Piper Perabo show. (Tonight on The Piper Perabo Show, Piper gently caresses Mindy Kaling's inner thighs with a peacock feather, an in-depth interview with author Donna Tartt, and the abstract electro industrial music of New Jersey's Smersh.)

In the hands of a less confident actress, a line like, "Don't ever touch a raptor" would definitely come across as comical (the added ruffled bird feather sound effect wouldn't have helped). Yet, Piper brought just the right amount of fearlessness to the role of the headstrong Paulie, that we end up believing that she is genuine pain. Seriously, the amount of gusto she brought to the proverbial table was astronomical. It's the kind of character you can't do half-assed, and Miss Perabo, utilizing the entirety of Perabovian arsenal, dives in at full force.

You'll notice I said, "for the most part," when referring to the film as "the Piper Perabo show." Well, that's because the gorgeous Mischa Barton is in the movie as well. And when you share the screen with Mischa Barton, you can never completely overwhelm the proceedings. First of all, just having her stand there takes down your appeal a couple of notches. And when she speaks–you know, actual dialogue, you can pretty much kiss your charisma goodbye, because you're about to get severely schooled in the art of quiet translucency.

Possessing the mannerisms of a mouse, which is crucial when playing character named Mouse, Mischa Barton gives a beautifully restrained performance that worked extremely well alongside the more boisterous Piper. On top of that, her character loved to garden. Also crucial was her ability to appear as if she was thinking actual thoughts, because at one point Graham Greene tells her that she looks like a thinker. And you know what? At that moment, Mischa did seem like she was processing thoughts with her brain.

No foolin', her mousy mannerisms and thoughtful disposition went a long way in shaping the flugbahn of her refined performance.

When I was a little boy fighting to survive in the wilds of suburban Toronto, I recall the day in kindergarten when we were all asked to stand up and tell the class what we want to be when we grow up. At first I was like, "Do you mind? I'm trying to take a nap over here!" But then I said, "Uh, yeah, I wanna be a fireman," or some stupid shit like that. In hindsight, I wish I had said, "When I grow up, I wanna be a teenage Mischa Barton." Now, I realize that Mischa did not exist at the time, but that does not change the fact that being a teenage Mischa Barton would be fucking awesome.

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Bacchanales Sexuelles (Jean Rollin, 1974)

Containing all the properties you'd expect something that is aggressively awesome to own, yet lacking that certain something, Bacchanales Sexuelles (a.k.a. Tout le monde il en a deux or Fly Me the French Way) is half-assed erotica at its finest. Failing to utilize the curvaceous fullness of its many nimble frames, director Jean Rollin (credited here as Michel Gentil) seemed genuinely disinterested in both the story and the plentiful sex acts that take place throughout this film. The latter was mishandled because the so-called "villainess" of the piece was underdeveloped. Every time she appeared on-screen, my interest in her odd quirks (she likes to shoot her pistol at mannequins) and strange allure (she has a multitude of seemingly loyal followers) would increase. Except, we only get to revel in her craziness in short, unsatisfying increments. What ultimately ends up filling this time is scene after scene of pointless sex. Of course, like any sane individual, I wouldn't exactly call the sight of Joëlle Cœur getting chocolate sauce licked off her chest to be "pointless," on the contrary, I think it's pretty enlightening, I was just hoping for more balance in terms of naked writhing and crazed cult leaders who enjoy having their toes sucked by small-breasted underlings.

Lovely in a conventional, non-threatening sort of way, Joëlle Cœur plays Valérie, a bored brunette if I ever saw one. House-sitting for her mysterious cousin, Valérie isn't digging the whole home alone routine, so she calls up her friend Sophie (the vivacious Marie-France Morel) to, you know, drink vodka, listen to weird jazz music, and of course, mock devour each other's pussies.

Exhausted after a night of purposefully smothering their faces in dark, rarely explored places, the gals go to sleep. Awoken by the sound of two masked intruders in mismatched leotards, Sophie is wrapped up in a blanket and forcibly removed from the apartment.

Just before she is whisked way, Sophie managed to make a call for help to her friend Paul (Jean-Paul Hazy). Now, I know what you're thinking: Why didn't she just wake up Valérie? Well, you should have seen the amount of facial energy Val put into lapping up Sophie's choice undercarriage earlier in the evening; it was so intense, that it broke the gauge that measures lesbian fortitude. In other words, you can't really blame her for being too exhausted when it came time to come to Sophie's aid.

Anyway, it doesn't really matter, because when Paul shows up, the last thing on his mind is the whereabouts of Sophie. Yeah, that's right, he's too busy trying to grope Valérie. His creepy perseverance eventually pays off, and Paul and Valérie end up fornicating multiple times over the course of the evening.

Meanwhile, poor Sophie is chained up in a dank dungeon underneath the head quarters of the high princess Malvina (Brigitte Borghese), lord and ruler of an unnamed order of suburban sex maniacs. Worse yet, they were supposed to kidnap Valérie's cousin, but nabbed her instead.

What will it take to get Valérie and Paul to stop fucking for more than five minutes and focus their frazzled minds on their missing friend? Two sexy maids beating the crap out of each other, that's what. You see, one maid named Jenny (the splendid Agnès Lemercier) comes over to clean up and have French bathtub sex with Valérie and Paul. Yet, another maid named Katarina (Virgina Loup) knocks on the door just after Jenny, Valerie, and Paul had completed a gratifying threesome.

Which one is the real maid? Valérie attempts to find out by quizzing them. I, on the other hand, would have spotted the imposteur by looking at their panties. In that, one of them wasn't wearing any panties. Remember kids, real maids always wear panties; tight, freshly-laundered, blood constricting panties.

After the maid mix up, Valérie and Paul finally put some clothes on (Joëlle has either been nude, covered in soap suds, or scantily clad since the film's two minute mark) and hatch a plan to rescue Sophie, who is having unrewarding dungeon sex with Malvina's favourite boy-toy as they leave the apartment.

A camp movie vixen crying out for more screen time, you could tell Brigitte Borghese wanted to steal Bacchanales Sexuelles out from under its less charismatic actors. Unfortunately, she isn't given a chance to fully realize the brainsick potential of her juicy character. That being said, I loved her lounging technique, the affected manner in which she walked, and the fact that she reminded me of a surlier than usual drag queen.

I have to say, the lesbian sex scenes were way more arousing than heterosexual ones. Mainly because I couldn't help but notice that the men in the hetero scenes were always clenching their butt-cheeks–you know, to keep their testicles hidden from view. Yeah, I recognize that this was necessary in order to maintain the film's softcore temperament. But still, I found their constant cheek clenching to be a distraction.

Most hardcore, overzealous Bacchanales Sexuelles fans, and you know who you are, will probably disagree, but I thought Marie-France Morel was the major hottie of the piece. Painted on eyebrows, a long mane of red hair, and legs for miles, Marie-France, whether arching her back so that Joëlle could gain better access to her wrinkled piece of heaven or cowering on a dungeon floor, brought a playful panache to the misunderstood Sophie.

Virtually forgotten by her hedonistic friends, Marie-France's pale visage stays in our minds because she brings out the good in all of us.

In addition, her heterosexual sex scene was the one of few that worked on any sort of erotic level. I'm not surprised. I mean, for one thing, she's freaking gorgeous. Wearing a saucy belly chain didn't hurt, either (her captors may have robbed her of her dignity, but they allowed her midsection to remain fabulous and fashion forward). Plus, the unflattering dungeon light really brought out the definition of her shapely legs), and she was on top throughout her lone penis encounter. And you that means? That's right: less male butt-clenching.

Speaking of gorgeousness, in casting a veritable bevy of babes, the task of watching this sometimes dull endeavour became that much easier. I mean, every frame is literally filled with beautiful women doing unsavoury things. Everyone from the real and fake maids (Agnès Lemercier and Virgina Loup) and the cult member prospect in the green lingerie (Annie Belle), to the blonde twins (Catherine and Marie-Pierre Castel) and Minia Malove as a loyal henchwoman were all scrumptious in their own unique way.

If only that kind of commitment could have had been applied to the art direction (bland interiors), dialogue (stiff and slightly wooden), and costumes (other than Brigitte's metallic outfit, Marie-France's mini-skirt, and the aforementioned green lingerie, I found the duds to be lacking in flavour).

video uploaded by SkyWookiee

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Riot on 42nd Street (Tim Kincaid, 1987)

If you live for the sensation that comes with letting sleazy, incompetent, and exceedingly violent pieces of trash cinema to scurry across the surface of your nonchalant eyeballs, then Riot on 42nd Street is a film you should seriously consider checking out. A barely proficient debacle masquerading as an ill-conceived tribute to a small strip of seedy concrete in New York City, filmmaker Tim "Joe Gage" Kincaid (Heatstroke and Breeders) has crafted an obscene, yet ludicrously well-meaning work of sordid brilliance. The film had me under its bizarre spell the moment we a catch a glimpse of 42nd Street in all its garish glory. Utilizing the sound of some Man Parrish-esque electro-funk, Mr. Kincaid simply points his uncomplicated camera in the general direction of the once infamous street and allows the unsavoury action to flow naturally. It's a shame the film couldn't have been just been a random collection of shots of movie theatre marquees, as the act reading of the names of some of the authentic grindhouse titles ("Vampire Hookers" and "Women's Prison Massacre") became a bit of an amusing lark after awhile. Unfortunately, a mustache-sporting stiff named Glenn (John Hayden) is observing the wounded aura of this unpleasant neighbourhood from the relative safety of a moving taxi cab, and is soon, whether we like it or not, going to be the driving force behind the film's straightforward plot. While riding in the back of the cab, Glenn sees lanky roller-skaters darting through traffic, saucy prostitutes applying unwanted pressure to the crotches of nosy cops, and leather-clad punks struggling to maintain their equilibrium. I found these three distinct groups to be quite charming in a demented sort of way. But I'm sad to say, that's it for them as far as camera time goes. Their sole reason for existing was to show Glenn how much the area has changed since getting out of prison.

Emerging after serving a three year sentence for involuntary manslaughter (he killed a man selling drugs in the aisles of his grindhouse theatre), Glenn, an underworld fixture, attempts to reconnect with the scruffy world he left behind.

A world that includes his brother, who is the leader of a street gang with matching jackets, his police detective lady-friend (Kate Collins), and his club-owning father.

With plans to open his own club (complete with gambling, music, comedy, and strippers), Glenn immediately attracts the ire of the shady gentleman who runs Love Connections, a strip club located across the street.

The fact that this new club is gonna siphon suburban low rollers away from his establishment isn't what pushes the Love Connections owner (Michael Speero) over the edge. Uh-uh, it's the fact that some of the strippers who worked for him have decided to jump ship and work for Glenn.

When sending his musclebound henchman (Carl Fury) to scare Glenn's staff before their grand opening ends in disaster, the Love Connections proprietor amps up the bedlam by delivering parceled severed heads and a throng of assassins armed with Uzi's.

As you would expect, Glenn is angered by this wanton display of firearm-based mayhem. Gathering up the survivors, he plans his revenge.

Awkwardly staged fist-fights and an extended strip club sequence were the only things Riot on 42nd Street had going for it near the halfway mark. I mean, I was satisfied, but I was hoping for more–you know, in terms of violence and degradation.

Then, all of a sudden, I noticed that the cinematic temperature begin heat up a smidgeon when the musclebound henchman cuts the head off a seemingly random dude hiding in an alleyway (complete with headless twitching and horror movie-quality arterial spray). However, the flood gates of insanity fly wide open the moment the assassins unload their lead cargo into the clientele of Glenn's club.

Now, I've seen plenty of people mowed down in movies before, but this was ridiculous. The sight of innocent patrons being sprayed with gunfire–in slow motion–was appalling and gleefully twisted all at once. And you have got to remember, The Garage (the actual name of Glenn's dive) has about four or five rooms, so that means the assassins have got to hit multiple targets. In any case, it is one of the most absurdly violent scenes I have ever seen.

Call me cruel, but the fact that Zerocks, the Brooklyn stand up comic, didn't happen to catch one of the many bullets flying through the club was a minor tragedy (his lameness was stupefying).

The only acting performance of note in Riot on 42nd Street is the one turned in by Frances Raines as the sharp-tongued girlfriend of the Love Connections owner. Despite the fact that every scene she's in seems to end with her being slapped in the face, I thought Frances hurled emasculating insults at her foppish boyfriend with a snotty grace.

In addition, I was rather enamored with way she stood; in that, she looked like a new wave goddess when looked at from a cockeyed point of view.

The rest of cast sport blank stares and are pretty much useless when came to displaying any sort of real human emotion. The corpse-like John Hayden has virtually zero charisma and Jeff Fahey smokes a lot and throws Kate Collins the odd look of disapproval.

Since the film is called "Riot" on 42nd Street, it made sense that an actual riot breaks out during the film's action-packed finale. However, as to why a riot ensues is still a mystery to me. Seriously, I had no idea why this particular group of people were fighting with one another. None of them, as far as I could tell, had anything to do with the movie. It seemed like, from where I was sitting, as just a mindless orgy of violence.

The shot of the little girl in the acid-wash jean jacket clubbing a man with a baseball bat was the most puzzling aspect of the riot sequence. I mean, what was she so angry about? I guess she was supposed the symbolize that violence can affect even the most innocent among us. It's a stretch, but it's all I got to work with. Anyway, it's a kooky moment in what turned out to be one seriously kooky movie.

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