The Blood Spattered Bride (Vicente Aranda, 1972)

It's a hot night in the city, and an equally hot lesbian is about to, as she puts it, "destroy my masculinity." Just as her fancy dagger was about to be plunged hilt deep into the operational hub of my favourite sex organ, I woke up to find myself lounging awkwardly in a reasonably priced leather chair. After I regained consciousness, I couldn't help but notice that I was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatshop-quality underpants (made in Turkmenistan, for her pleasure), my skin felt like it had been smeared with molasses, and the television was dripping blood from every orifice. Apparently, I was about to start watching something called The Blood Spattered Bride (a.k.a. La Novia Ensangrentada). And what, pre tell, might that be, you ask? Well, it's a moderately lurid tale of female empowerment, unorthodox ring arrangement, pigeon cage sex and sand snorkeling by writer-director Vicente Aranda, based on Sheridan Le Fanu's novel "Carmilla." As to how this particular slice of refined seediness ended up being put in front of face will probably remain a mystery–I don't recall buying it, or even putting it in the machine that I play movies on. However, once I spotted the woman in the gossamer getup lurking outside the hotel where the film's newlyweds were about to spend their first night together as a married couple, it failed to matter how this movie got put in front of me, all I knew is that I had to find out what kind of Euro-centric insanity this curious woman was going to unleash on this unsuspecting couple.

Just as blushing bride Susan (Maribel Martín)–the longness of her wedding veil in constant danger of being trampled or caught in a door–was about to enter the hotel, she notices a strange women watching her from a distance. She pauses to stare at her, and sports a look of unfulfilled longing as does so. On the other hand, her husband (Simón Andreu) doesn't observe this woman at all. His thoughts are mainly centered around the whims and wants of his napping Iberian cock. Unfortunately for him, and his napping Iberian cock, Susan imagines herself being raped by a man (his face obscured by pantyhose) who was hiding in a closet, and demands that they leave at once.

Relocating to her husband's palatial/ghoulish childhood home, Susan soon finds out that her husband and the imaginary rapist aren't that different when it comes to their overall sexual disposition. A tad on the rough side (loose bits of white thread from her bridal panties become ensnared in her dense pubic hair as he forcefully unsheathes them from their hip-hugging prison), Susan's husband seemed determined to fornicate with her in every room of the house. And while I've read that's quite common for newlyweds to fuck, or, at the very least, give tepid handjobs, in various different places during the early going of a couple's marriage, I'm just not sure many have attempted to get their stain on in a pigeon cage.

The pigeon cage sequence does an excellent job of showcasing the twisted nature of Susan and her husband's relationship. Locking the flimsy cage door, all to aware that he won't have too much trouble breaking it down, Susan makes the turtleneck-wearing degenerate work hard for his daily allotment of pristine girl pussy.

Husband? Turtleneck-wearing degenerate? What exactly was the name of Susan's husband? I mean, not once did I hear it uttered out loud during this film. I think I'm going start calling him Gerhard Landau. Why "Gerhard"? Well, I like the way it sounds when pronounced with a bad German accent. And "Landau" because Simón reminded me of a young Martin Landau (Juliet Landau's father)–you know, when looked at from certain angles. But then I thought, maybe he has no name because he is supposed to represent men in general. I know it's a bit of stretch, but that's all I could come up with. Either way, the rough-sex-enjoying motherscratcher is Gerhard Landau as far as I'm concerned.

Noticing that there are no portraits of female family members on the walls of her husband's house, Susan does a little digging. After grilling Carol (Maria-Rosa Rodriguez), the shy twelve-year old daughter of two the home's servants, she discovers that the women are all located in the cellar. Initially it's difficult to say why they're all down there, but it's safe to say the reason has got to be nonsensical in nature.

Occasionally, while frolicking around the grounds of the expansive estate, Susan would catch glimpses of a mysterious woman (Alexandra Bastedo) in flowing nightclothes. These occasional sightings soon turn into regular occurrences. It's gets to the point where the woman, who may or may not be Mircalla Karstein, a crazed family member who stabbed her husband on their wedding night two hundred years ago, is encouraging Susan to stab Gerhard in her dreams.

Reality and the dream world collide as the dagger Susan and Mircalla use to ventilate Gerhard in her dream shows up in their bed. At this point, The Blood Spattered Bride goes into what I like to call its "knife hiding phase." Now, should every movie have a "knife hiding phase"? Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. Nevertheless, it makes perfect sense to have one in this film since there's a knife and a person who doesn't want to be brutally murdered by said knife. Unfortunately for the latter, the knife has a habit showing up unexpectedly. You see, every time Gerhard would hide it, the sinister-looking blade would somehow reappear and end up once again in Susan's possession.

Tired of seeing the dagger re-emerge the way that it does, Gerhard buries it at the beach. While that sounds like a surefire way to permanently loose something, the film's script throws a naked women buried in the sand ten feet away from the very place he chose to bury the knife. Breathing via snorkel, Gerhard doesn't seem shocked by this discovery and takes the still naked women home with him. It turns out that snorkel lady's name is Carmilla and she is happy to stay the night with Susan and Gerhard. Of course, Susan, being quite the talented sketch artist, soon discovers that Mircalla Karstein and this Carmilla person bare a striking resemblance to one another.

Up until this point, the film has had a languid, almost dreamlike quality. This stuporous aura all changes the moment Gerhard starts to seek the advice a doctor (Dean Selmier). Suddenly, words like, "vampirism" and "lesbianism" are being bandied about, Susan and Mircalla/Carmilla are seen wandering the grounds in transparent clothing, and the notorious dagger is back (no beach can tame its desire to stab men over and over again in a bedroom setting). In other words, the crazy is substantially turned up. And I couldn't have been more pleased.

An exquisite example of stillness under extreme duress (her bridal bodice is forcibly torn twice in one evening), Maribel Martín gives a wonderfully dignified performance as Susan, the newly married gal who longs to stab her husband in the genitals while he sleeps.

In terms of creepy tweens who don't talk a lot, I thought Maria-Rosa Rodriguez was super cute in an off-kilter, I wonder if she's thinking about slitting my throat, kinda way. To say that I was mildly alarmed by the fabric-challenged temperament of her black skirt and the uncompromising tightness of her red knee-socks would definitely be an understatement.

If my significant other is going to be persuaded to kill me with a large dagger, I want them to be persuaded by someone who looks like Alexandra Bestado.

The perfect film for backward-thinking goths who are interested in lesbian relationships that involve vampires and shooting fox hunters in the crotch with shotguns, The Blood Spattered Bride, with its eerie organ score by Antonio Pérez Olea, manages to create an ethereal atmosphere with an effortless elan.

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This is yet another film I became aware of thanks to the highly influential "Eurotrash or American Apparel," a blog entry I came across at Love Train for the Tenebrous Empire.

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The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning (Gregory Dark, 1986)

A lively debate about the difference between a "hoe," a slender tool used mainly for gardening purposes, and a "ho," a derogatory term used to describe a woman who is drawn to the seminal fluid of others, is just one of the many unexpected treats to be found lurking underneath all the untoward thrusting and exhausted panting in The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning, Gregory Dark's epically bizarre interpretation of an adult classic. Fully aware that I have not seen the original Devil in Miss Jones from 1973, or, for that matter, the Henri Pachard-directed sequel, I've elected to skip forward to part three for a number of reasons. First and foremost, I was so impressed with the Dark Brother's New Wave Hookers, that I decided that I would pretty much watch anything he made during that particular era–even something with a title like, "Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout White Chicks." Secondly, the film features the exceedingly luscious presence of Lois Ayres, who, as far as I'm concerned, is the unofficial face of 1980s. The look she sports throughout this film perfectly encapsulates the stylistic temperament of the decade. Using words that are different than the ones I just typed, it is safe to say that the decision to bypass the first two chapters was a relatively easy one.

Blissfully unaware of what I was about to get myself into, it turns out the combination of Gregory Dark and Lois Ayres was so potent, that I almost had a new wave-induced body fever before the opening credits had even finished...crediting. It's true, I had readied myself beforehand like I usually do with some mild stretching exercises followed by a long, vigorous bike ride through the suburban nether regions of my mind. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Lois Ayres (also spelled "Ayers") showering to the awesome strains of "A Christian Girls Problem" by The Gleaming Spires. "I am talking serious drugs / I am talking mental health..."

The camera carefully follows Lois's cleansing motions as she washes every nook and cranny of her tantalizing frame. The sequence also gives us the viewer the chance to familiarize ourselves with her organic structure, which is important because we'll be seeing a lot of it the course of the next seventy-something minutes.

After the shower, we learn that Lois Ayres is playing Justine Jones, a woman who it turns out is the focal point of a some sort of documentary that involves former classmates, ex-boyfriends, clergymen, family members, and others being interviewed by an unseen man with a probing voice. An ex of Justine's named Bill (Tom Byron) is the first to be questioned and tells the mystery man an anecdote about an argument they had over the phone. You see, while Bill was talking, he was also lathering up the crotch of a woman in white lingerie (Jennifer Noxt). With a pink razor in one hand and a telephone in the other, Bill pathetically attempts to do both things at once. As expected, the former wins out as the activity Bill's simple mind would most like to focus on. Hairless in an instant thanks to this wanton act of pubic desecration (cunt-ruining reprobate), Bill's erect penis can be seen burrowing itself inside her many openings with the enthusiasm of an agitated mongoose.

Frustrated by Bill's insistence on fornicating with women who are not her, Justine's heads out to a local tavern. However, before she can go in, she is verbally accosted by a pimp ("crazy ass white bitch!"). Anyway, the scenes on the street and in the bar are the first where we really get a chance to appreciate the immensity of Lois's awesome hairstyle. The way her platinum blonde follicles seemed to reach out toward the sky was awe-inspiring. Complimented by a colourful dress and a saucy pair of red gloves, Justine looked like a cross between Margaret from Liquid Sky and Christina Moser from the Italian new wave group Krisma, particularly during their Clandestine Anticipation period.

Once at the bar, Justine meets a stood up groom in white (Paul Thomas). After some friendly banter, the two of them end up in bed together. Except, they don't sleep, their swollen genitals wind up hammering out an acceptable compromise with one another. I found the groom in white's gentle fondling of Justine's bright red stockings to be entirely satisfying. It was a rare tender moment in a film full of intrusive, ungentle prodding.

The slow motion shot of Justine's hindquarters undulating under the weight of the groom's thrusting bureaucracy was not included in order to crank up the titillation factor, but to accentuate the minor tragedy that was about to unfold. Crashing headfirst into her bed's purple headboard, Justine wakes up alone and naked in a very dark place. After some moments of semi-consciousness, Justine finds herself unwittingly discussing the mysterious allure of homonyms with a demented man dressed in clear plastic. It turns out Justine is in Hell, a fabricated netherworld full of fire and a smattering of brimstone, and the guy in plastic (Jack Baker) is her guide. Of course, she doesn't believe this for a second and demands that she be shown the way home.

The overt strangeness of The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning really starts to come through once the Hell Guide's human horses start screwing. The Hell Guide rode in on a female horse (Chanel Price) and when he's ready take Justine to the first room of Hell, he calls a male horse (Steve Powers) and instructs him to stick his phallus in her lilac-scented poop chute. At first, I thought he was speaking metaphorically, but that's exactly what he ends up doing. This scene doesn't really exploit Chanel's 6ft. 3inch frame (being a horse, she spends most of her time on her hands and knees), which is a shame, but it does emphasize her wonderfully large rear-end, boast multiple participants in fingerless gloves, and features equine-based sound effects.

Entering the first room of Hell, Justine and her guide witness a place where voyeurs are forced to watch others have intercourse until the end of time. Torn fishnets and some strenuous spooning are the highlights of this room's first encounter, one that sees Marc Wallice and Careena Collins getting all up in each other's beefy junk like nobody's business. Only problem being that Marc's upside down banana dick didn't seem to want to remain ensnared inside Jennifer's precisely tuned vagina. The second encounter sees one woman–a silver pump-wearing Amber Lynn, who tosses her fingerless glove out of the arena with a breathless panache–take on two poles at once. A reinvigorated Marc Wallice and a buff Peter North (Party Doll A Go-Go!) insert their man-things simultaneously, causing a bit of a fleshy impasse. Nevertheless, the transvestite in the wedding dress, Justine's college roommate (Kari Foxx), and the three guys in tuxedos watching seem extra excited by the coordinated poking transpiring in front of them. And, of course, I liked the way the perspiration on Amber's red-hot thighs seemed to glimmer in the murkiness of the unflattering light.

Coming face-to-deformed-face with the unsavoury realm of the Slutmen, Justine is about to enter the film's most disturbing room. Animalistic in nature, the Slutmen are the definition of cloaked debasement. Their nasty charm entices Justine to the point where she winds up allowing two of them to ejaculate sperm on her. Thankfully, her wily Hell Guide steps in before she becomes addicted to their sticky deluge. You see, unlike the room where you spend eternity watching sex, this room, where the Slutman is king, you are forced to have degrading sex with them for, you guessed it, an eternity. It also explains why Justine and her Hell Guide are wearing plastic; it's basically raining cum in there.

Having sex forever is exactly what happens to Vanessa De Rio's Mandy (a woman who was in the same aerobics class as Justine). The sequence that follows is an unpleasant enterprise involving five Slutmen taking turns violating Mandy's ample, candy-flavoured clitoris. The pig noises, the gold chains, the deformed faces, and the general moistness of this scene all combined to create something that was truly sick and twisted.

The topless aura of Lois Ayres's bare performance reminded me of a lot of that other great topless performance by Gisele Lindley as the Princess from the Forbidden Zone. Sure, others have been topless in movies before, and, sure, I have a tendency to reference Gisele's blouse-free work in the Richard Elfman directed classic a little too often, but it takes a special brand of actress to be able to not have their performance overshadowed by their perpetual toplessness. The ability to create an air of nonchalance surrounding one's unclothed upper torso is an innate skill, much like, macramé or synthesizer repair.

Having only seen Lois Ayres in photographs and the odd movie clip, I was delighted to finally hear the sound of her non-moaning voice. I was afraid Lois's appeal was going to be limited to the boldness of her killer look, but all that seemed to melt away the moment she began hurling insults at the creeps trying to grope her cookies as she made her way to the bar.

She had a snotty intelligence about her that elevated the proceedings beyond your typical girl goes to Hell, fucks a bunch of guys flick. Her un-PC give-and-take with Jack Baker was hilarious at times and everything from their exchange about poet Robert Frost to their homonym debate ("Do I look like a garden tool to you?") crackled with an unforeseen sharpness. This sharpness came as a bit of a relief, because the film ends with a cliffhanger, and you know what that means? That's right, there's a part four. Woo-hoo?

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Vicious Lips (Albert Pyun, 1987)

Tighten the safety straps on your overpriced sex chair, because I'm about to give you an unasked for tour of the inside of a budding rock star's dream-filled brain. Well, a Sue Saad aficionado named Albert Pyun (Nemesis, Radioactive Dreams) will be conducting the actual tour, I'm just a glorified messenger. But either way, that's exactly what we get in Vicious Lips (a.k.a. Pleasure Planet), a film about big dreams and even bigger hair colliding in a new wave extravaganza of intergalactic proportions. Tired of focusing on stocking covered legs and hands sporting gloves without fingers, I chose to aim the single-minded barrel of my leering gaze on the hair and makeup of the four gals that populate this strange and almost wonderful universe. And you know what? It wasn't that hard. All I had to do was tilt my head back ever so slightly, making sure to keep my eyes trained in the same direction I was tilting, and just like that, I was experiencing the sensation that comes with looking up. What I did see? Oh, man, where do I begin? Let's just say, watching a movie where rockers from outer space cavort and frolic with the confidence that accompanies a large, bountiful head of hair will always be more enjoyable than one that features ladies with limp and unmanageable hair. I mean, what's the point of even bothering to lift your head up if the hair that greets the pain and sweat of all your elevating effort hasn't been teased, crimped, or combed to the point of mental exhaustion?

On a bluish sphere some people like to call Earth, many creatures are trying to improve their genetic output by hurling themselves headfirst into dangerous climates in a desperate attempt to stave off extinction. The reasoning being that the extreme nature of the environmental change will cause their respective DNA to fluctuate, making it stronger, more resilient. But what do you do if your particular species has already reached the pinnacle of perfection? Well, in the case four new wave chicks from the "farthest reaches of the galactic perversion," the only rational option is to rock and rule the ill-defined void that is deep space.

You see, your average new wave chick is the most evolved entity on the planet. And since the future will always be located somewhere between 1978-1985, these fashion forward gals have taken the next logical step, and that is, space travel. It's true, I have no evidence that the four main characters who populate Vicious Lips are even from California, let alone the Valley (the made-up birthplace of new wave). However, the fact that the character's back stories are nonexistent means that you're free to create ones of your own.

I wish more films would leave gaping holes in the narrative structure, because other than a few scraps of information dropped here and there, Vicious Lips is pretty empty when it comes to character development. Which sort of sounds like a negative, but like I said, it gave me the opportunity to fill in the blanks. I know, it's the job of the screenwriter, not wily audience members to spin a film's tale. But I thought the narrative shortcomings were awkwardly charming at times. In other words, as far as I'm concerned, the members of the Vicious Lips were all highly evolved Valley Girls who lived in the future, but looked like they were from the early 1980s, which is technically, you got it, the future.

A dizzying amalgam of Pitch Black, Racist in the Year 3000, Persona, and Jem and the Holograms, Vicious Lips is all about reaching for dreams. In non-vague terms, the film follows the members of a music group (called the Vicious Lips) fronted by four large-haired women as they attempt to literally transverse the vast emptiness of space in order to perform a gig at Maxine's Radioactive Dream, a prestigious music venue on the other side of the galaxy. Having just lost their lead singer, the combative Ace Lucas (Angela O'Neill), to a rival band, the three remaining ladies find themselves without a voice. Luckily, their excitable manager, Matty Asher (Anthony Kentz), is able to find another singer (one sporting a space scrunchie) just in time for them to perform their catchy brand of synth rock at the Spacecraft Lounge, a local dive famous throughout the known universe for its chicken wings, the best this side of Marejaretus VI.

While keyboard player Wynzie (Linda Kerridge) and guitarist Bree (Gina Calabrese) welcome Judy Jetson (Dru-Anne Perry) into the lips fold, their chief songwriter Amanda (Shayne Farris) isn't convinced that she has what it takes to advance the band to the next level. As you would expect, an air of mistrust forms between them. Permeating throughout most of the film, Judy and Amanda's sparring is the signature conflict of the piece. In other band news: To save money on posters, Matty changes Judy's name to Ace Lucas (he's too cheap to print up new ones).

Impressed by what she heard over the video phone at the Spacecraft Lounge (the Vicious Lips perform a raucous ditty called "Save Me," which in reality is sung by the awesome Sue Saad), Maxine Mortogo (Mary-Anne Graves) invites the Vicious Lips to play her nightclub: Maxine's Radioactive Dream (a place crawling with shirtless male bouncers and upright aardvarks who seem to be channeling Max Melodramatic from Café Flesh). Commandeering a spaceship, Matty and the band immediately take flight (like I said, Maxine's venue is on the other side of the galaxy). Only problem being that Matty isn't a very attentive pilot. Although, to be fair, it's pretty hard to concentrate on space travel when Ace is singing "Light Years Away" (vocals by Mary Ellen Quinn). Of course, while Ace is wailing, Amanda can be seen scowling in the background. All this hatred toward the new Ace has got me believing that there was something cunnilingual going on between Amanda and the old Ace.

Anyway, crash-landing on a desolete planet, Bree, Wynzie, Amanda (she's actually listed in the credits as "Mandoa," but I prefer to call her "Amanda"), and Ace try to make due while Matty goes looking for help in the amongst the sandy dunes (i.e. get accosted by two scantily clad desert dwellers played by Jacki Easton Toelle and Tanya Papanicolas). Unbeknownst to the frizzy bunch, but a beastly surprise (Christian Andrews) is lurking on board their downed starship.

An authoritative mane of hair is nothing without a strong-willed woman to stand underneath it, and Vicious Lips has four young jackanapes who looked like they were itching to get their gigantic wig on. Actually, make that three out of four young jackanapes. You see, in order to make the characters seem unique, you must add little nuances to each of them to prevent the audience from getting confused about who is who. The makers of Trip with the Teacher dealt with this problem by making Dina Ousley's Bobbie dress in all yellow.

Well, in this film, Bree (Gina Calabrese) doesn't sport big hair, nor does she wear any bight colours. In fact, she's the antithesis of new wave. At first I was annoyed by her normal looking hair (which is some times covered with a fedora). I was all like, "Who does she think she is? Someone tell her to put on a fucking wig." But then it hit me, having Bree be bland was what made her stand out from the others.

Just because Bree stuck out like a taupe thumb doesn't mean the other gals are an insipid mash of woebegone hair spray and frazzled platitudes. On contrary, Linda Kerridge's Wynzie fully embraces the rock and roll lifestyle as the band's resident fashion victim. Seemingly changing her appearance from scene to scene, the keyboard player for the Vicious Lips displays a slavish devotion to the cutting edge styles of the era. And while this dedication to funky duds is a desperate attempt to remain relevant in the youth-centric world of synth-rock, I though Linda did a terrific job of making Wynzie seem sympathetic in spite of her vacuousness.

Even though she is hardly ever seen without an irritated expression on her excessively made-up face, Shayne Farris' Amanda does have the distinction of having the film's largest hair.

Appearing to look embarrassed at times, Gina Calabrese (The Vals) seemed uncomfortable while on stage with the Lips. It's true, there could be a thousand different reasons to explain Gina's awkwardness, but I like to think the fact that her musical instrument looked like an all-in-one bug zapper, flamethrower, satellite dish was the main culprit.

Sheepishly looking back and forth, almost as if she was checking to make sure that a scornful Susanna Hoffs wasn't hyperventilating off to the side of the stage cradling a rusty paint scraper, Dru-Anne Perry explodes onto the screen as the newly minted Ace Lucas. Sure, the booming vocals emanating from her delicious mouth hole were provided by Sue Saad and Mary Ellen Quinn, but the eye movement was pure Dru-Anne. Utilizing her eyeballs to communicate the trepidation she feels over being named the new lead singer of the Vicious Lips, the stunning actress gradually stops nervously moving her eyes in a demented manner and begins to display a still-eyed brand of synth-rock confidence.

This new-found self-assurance is best observed when she wanders around what looks like the set used in the music video for The Romantics "Talking In Your Sleep" (a place where diaphanous drapery and deformed space mutants oversee the visual spectrum) and during the performance of "Lunar Madness," an exhilarating sequence that rewards the band, its squirrelly manager, and, in some respect, the audience, for the pain and suffering we all endured on that sand-covered, overly shaved bikini zone of a planet. Now, I wouldn't suggest that anyone skip the rest of the movie and only watch the last five minutes (after all, you'd miss a lot of wig-based squabbling), but the finale does do an excellent job of encapsulating everything that was righteously perpendicular about this film.

Oh, and the only cast member to possess the wherewithal to exert the power of their sturdy legs in any way, shape, or form during this film, Mary-Anne Graves manages to titillate and repulse simultaneously as chain smoking impresario Maxine Mortogo, the trendsetting owner of the Radioactive Dream (also known simply as "The Dream").

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Special thanks to the priestly denizens over at Mad Mad Mad Mad Movies for pushing my spiritual infrastructure in the general direction of the superb slab of incompetent trash.

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Strip Nude for Your Killer (Andrea Bianchi, 1975)

There were numerous benefits to being European in the mid-1970s: Chic clothing, fuel-efficient cars, cities crawling with sexually liberated citizens with robust eyebrows, rotary phones, and law enforcement agencies whose ranks were overflowing with red pantie-obsessed reprobates. On the downside, being European in the mid-1970s also meant that you will be stabbed at one point or another during your voguish lifespan. Now, while being stabbed might not sound all that bad. You have to remember that the word "stabbed" does not mean what you think it means. To be "stabbed" implies that a foreign object is being forced into a place where foreign objects are not welcome. Of course, as most people know, there are certain places where foreign objects are welcome. In fact, I'm stabbing myself in one of those places right this minute. But the person doing the stabbing does not want to stab you there, their intention is to disrupt the operational integrity of one or more of your internal organs by thrusting a pointy piece of metal through them. And I'm no doctor, but the blood loss as a result of being stabbed with a pointy piece of metal will cause your cushy European existence to become fraught with unforeseen complications.

The human body, even the European variety, needs blood in order to function in a productive manner. I mean, for example, a European woman will have a better chance of putting on and taking off her exquisitely tailored lingerie more efficiently if she hasn't been stabbed. On the other hand, a European woman, one who has just been stabbed with, oh, let's say, a sharp knife, will have some difficultly manipulating the complex levers and pulleys of her garter belt.

The killer in Strip Nude for Your Killer (a.k.a. Nude per l'assassino), Andrea Bianchi's stylish giallo thriller set in the world of high fashion, is such a stabbing enthusiast, that I was actually worried for a second there that they were going to run out of people to stab. Luckily, the fashion industry in Milan is so heavily stocked with attractive and not-so attractive (sorry all you guys with plastic girlfriends and excessive back-fat) people to bump off, that I'm sure it will be quite some time before they run out of victims. Targeting the chichi employees of an unnamed photography studio, the killer, dressed head-to-toe in leather and wearing a black motorcycle helmet, systematically stabs their way through the joint's entire staff.

Every confrontation is greeted with an eerie clicking noise followed by the sound of water running from a tap. When you hear either of these things, you should immediately brace yourself, because you're about to be brutally murdered.

Even though she isn't wearing a single stitch of lingerie, my favourite murder was the one that featured the insanely gorgeous Femi Benussi roaming around her apartment.

Never has the investigation of a mysterious thud been so intoxicating, Femi's naked body and overall aura were downright electrifying. To watch her slowly lurk through the nooks and crannies her sparsely lit residence was the equivalent to being spanked with a spatula made entirely out of dead bunnies. (Those interested in animal rights will be reassured to know that if I were to make a spatula like that, the dead bunnies would be very much alive when I mutilated them.)

The assailant uses the running water diversion technique. In that, the moment their potential victim turns off one tap, another tap in the house is turned on. And, as you would expect, this does nothing but unnerve the hunter's prey. Well, in the case of Femi Benussi, who plays Lucia, an aspiring model, I wish they would have played the faucet game all night long. (Okay, we get it, you like watching Femi investigate strange noises in the buff.)

It should be said that Femi Benussi also makes a fantastic entrance in the film. Sauntering through a resort in a skimpy bikini with a curvaceous effrontery–the hypnotic back and forth of her child bearing hips caused a thicket of Italian men to strain their necks while trying to get a peak at her undulating femininity–Femi manages to deflect the perverted advances of an aggressively obnoxious fashion photographer named Carlo (Nino Castelnuovo) and look fabulous simultaneously.

On top of that, Femi was able to steal a scene merely by sitting with her legs crossed in an office. You see, the police are questioning Gisella (Amanda), the gal who runs the magazine/fashion agency/whatever, but our minds–and the mind of one of the detectives–is firmly focused on Femi's glorious red panties.

While I realize calling Femi Benussi "insanely gorgeous" is a bold statement, especially when you consider the fact that Strip Nude for Your Killer also stars Edwige Fenech, Solvi Stubing, and Erna Schürer (who are all gorgeous in their own right), I stand by my choice. What I did was carefully consider the evidence, weigh the pros and cons (navel density, thigh fluctuation, etc.), and after a long deliberation, came to the conclusion that Femi is the one for me. Nevertheless, that does not mean I'm going to sit idly by and let Edwige, Solvi, and Erna go unloved.

Boasting a strong pair of calves and an unexpected tender side, Erna Schürer's Doris is probably the film's most complex character. Experiencing the humiliation (constantly being forced to pose for pictures with mustachioed men and motorcycles) and degradation (constantly being forced to have sex against their will) that can come with being a fashion model in the mid-1970s first hand, Doris has seen it all. Whether being slapped around by her disgusting boyfriend, treated shabbily by pompous photographers, or forced to endure the sexual advances of creepy co-workers, she always manages to maintain an air of quiet dignity; which, I hear, is a hard thing to pull off while wearing a leopard print coat.

The way Erna handled the botched sexual encounter with Maurizo (Franco Diogene), the aforementioned creepy co-worker, was rather touching. Instead of mocking the his unsatisfactory performance, Doris was sympathetic towards him. I didn't expect this kind of pathos to come out of a bungled rape attempt, but there it was. And she managed to elicit it while wearing lingerie, a reoccurring theme in this film.

Proving my point, the statuesque Solvi Stubing does her best work whilst looking confused and chic in teal lingerie.

I'll admit, the sheer attractiveness of Edwige Fenech was overwhelming at times. Seriously, the fact that I was able to get through the entire film without seeing any drool escape from the mouth of my Aunt Judy's favourite armpit cyst was a minor miracle. Sporting an adorable haircut and always willing to show you the colour of her underwear (her black panties should have got a screen credit), Edwige oozes an intense form of elegance as Magda. Well, actually, now that I think about it, her character is quite clumsy. But there's no law that says you can't be clumsy and elegant. Sure, it's a bit of a contradiction, but I'm not really a big fan of using words in their proper context.

The so-called "hero" of the piece was, in reality, a sleazy asshole (he joked about anal rape, had no qualms about causing a healthy woman to develop an eating disorder, and seemed to enjoy mock strangling his girlfriend a little too much) and as per usual, I lost track (and interest) of what the killer was up to after a certain point. Yet, the the stunning actresses and the daintiness of their flimsy wardrobes kept me going until the big reveal at the end.

Oh, and don't worry, I haven't forgotten to praise the actress known simply as "Amanda." She rocked a red and black turtleneck ensemble in one scene like a superstar, and I liked the no-nonsense shape of her bum.

video uploaded by hassanlhr1

Special thanks to the wannabe mad scientists over at Love Train for the Tenebrous Empire for making me aware of this spicy, lingerie-flavoured dish. And make sure to check out those crazy kids over at Tower Farm Reviews; the phrase "humiliatingly sleazy Speedo" is employed.

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