The Shining (Stanley Kubrick, 1980)

What the hell? It says here that I'm about to review "The Shining." That can't be right. Wait, did Jess Franco direct this? No, I don't think he did. So... What gives? Actually, I think everyone knows "what gives." This movie, not directed by Jess Franco, but by Stanley Kubrick, happens to feature what I consider to be the greatest depiction of motherhood in the history of cinema. And, of course, that mother is played by none other than Shelley Duvall. (Um, sorry to burst your bubble, but isn't Shelley's Mrs. Torrence a needy, chain-smoking dolt who dresses like a deranged kindergarten teacher/beet farmer?) I guess. But none of the things you mention take away from the fact that she is an amazing mother. Well, I suppose exposing your child to toxic clouds of secondhand smoke is kind of negligent. Though, it should be noted that kids loved secondhand smoke back in 1980. In fact, it was their favourite thing right behind lead paint and asbestos. Anyway, I think most people will agree that Winifred "Wendy" Torrence's biggest test as a mother comes when she has to deal with her psychotic husband, a surly author who snaps while acting as the off-season caretaker of the Overlook Hotel, a massive hotel located in the snowy wilds of Colorado. Hold on a second. Did I just describe the plot of The Shining? Ewww, I think I just did. Speaking of ewww, am I currently reviewing a Stanley Kubrick film? (It looks that way.) That's fucking gross.

Well, at least I'm reviewing the only one of his films that's halfway decent. Just kidding, sort of. (You mean to tell me you don't like A Clockwork Orange?) Yeah, I like it... but only the first thirty or forty minutes. Let's get back to Shelley Duvall, shall we? I mean, let's be honest, she's the only reason any of us are here right now.

Of course, I'm sure there are a lot people who think she's completely miscast, not conventionally attractive, and just plain annoying. But those people are, let's face it, just plain wrong.

Miscast? What does that even mean? Who would you cast instead? Dolly Parton? Of course not... Actually, I'd watch The Shining if it starred Dolly Parton, in a motherfucking heartbeat. That's a bad example. Whatever, hey, call me old fashion, but if Jack Torrence is trying to hack down a door with a fire axe, I want Shelley Duvall on the other side of that door screaming at the top of her lungs in a purple bathrobe and taupe-ish turtleneck sweater.

Not conventionally attractive? Again, what does that even mean? "Conventionally attractive"? That has got to be one of the worst expressions out there. Not to get all social justice warriory on you, but that's cisnormative nonsense at its most cis-heinous. Call me two cans short of a six pack, but if I'm looking into my wife's eyes for comfort, they had better be the size of freakin' saucers. (And Shelley Duvall's eyes meet with these standards?) You're joking, right? They're glimmering dinner plates festooned with ocular splendicity.

Just plain annoying? Yeah, I can sort of see this. However, it should be noted that her husband is unhinged. (Yeah, the hotel makes him go crazy.) Does it, though? I thought Jack seemed a little unhinged right from the get-go. What I think I'm trying to say is, you'd be annoying too if you had to deal with the amount of hyper-masculine codswallop she puts up with in this movie.

By the way, the look on Shelley Duvall's face when Jack tells her to "get the fuck out of there" breaks my heart every time.

If you think about it, Jack Nicholson is the one of who's miscast. I didn't buy for a second that Stuart Ullman (Barry Nelson), the guy who runs the Overlook Hotel, would hire Jack Nicholson's version of Jack Torrence as the joint's off-season caretaker. I did buy, however, Wendy and Jack as a couple, as their body language when they're being lead on a tour of the hotel practically screamed loving heterosexual married couple circa 1980.

(You're just saying that because you secretly wish that it was you who was married to Wendy.) Yeah, so. Who wouldn't want to married to Wendy? (A lot of people, apparently.) Well, what do they know?

Okay, now that I've established, without a shadow of a doubt, that Shelley Duvall is the epitome of the bee's knees. Let's shift our attention to the film's most controversial aspect. And that is, Shelley Duvall's eccentric wardrobe.

Unique to the point of distraction, everything Shelley Duvall's character wears in this movie makes a statement. I know, you're probably thinking to yourself: How does wearing an olive overall dress make a statement? Trust me, they just do. The same goes for the gingham dress she wears over a red onesie.

It also helps that Shelley Duvall has the grace of a worn out a rag-doll. While this sounds like a bad thing. It actually tricks the audience into thinking that she will be a push over when rivers of blood start flowing down the hallways. That reminds me, isn't the hallway blood effect the coolest? What's that, you think the creepy little girls and the old lady in the bathtub scenes are the coolest. Actually, the film is chock-full of scenes that are pretty fucking cool.

Hell, even the shot of  little Danny (Danny Lloyd), Jack and Wendy's "very willful boy," riding his low-riding tricycle down the hallways is pretty fucking cool (the way the sound of the plastic wheels is suddenly muffled by the hotel's distinctive, and, dare I say, iconic carpet is strangely therapeutic - it's like audio bubble-wrap).

Speaking of "very willful boys," in terms of acting and overall creepiness, my absolute favourite scene is the one where Jack and Delbert Grady (Philip Stone) chat in the (very red) men's room. I don't know, there's something about the way Philip Stone delivers his lines that is very appealing to me. And, if I may be so bold, I especially like the way his character says the word "corrected."

The same can be said about Jack's interactions with Joe Turkel's Lloyd the Bartender. I liked the way Jack's demented brand of playfulness and Lloyd's uber-calm demeanor meshed with one another. Now that I think about it, the film is essentially one amazing scene after another (all set to this wonderfully sinister music - Wendy Carlos, yo). And the great thing about these so-called amazing scenes, is that no matter how many times you watch them, you always manage to see something new. So, yeah, The Shining is without a doubt my favourite Stanley Kubrick film. And it's definitely the one I've seen the most. I don't know, I think I must have seen it at least twenty times. And each time, no matter what, I keep rooting for Scatman Crothers to save the day... but we all know how that turns out.

Oh, and I watched Room 237... It was awful. I hope it doesn't taint future viewings of the movie itself.

On a personal note. I was asked just recently by my counselor/clinician what kind of woman do I envision myself being. And, I, without hesitation, said Shelley Duvall in The Shining. I know, talk about your easy questions. I mean, yeah.

Sexandroide (Michel Ricaud, 1987)

You remember when a leggy and wonderfully muscular-armed Angela Bassett lip-syncs Tina Turner's "What's Love Got to Do With It" as Tina Turner at the end of the movie of the same name? Well, that's what most normal people think of when they hear that song playing, oh, let's say, while browsing the frozen food aisle at their local corporate supermarket. Us abnormal people (a.k.a. cult movie fans), however, whether we want it to or not, have to contend with the dizzying image of a naked, belly chain-sporting, recently turned female vampire dancing up a storm to the song immediately popping into our heads whenever the classic '80s jam decides to make its presence felt (while, of course, we're out buying frozen peas). Unfortunately, most folks won't be able to enjoy the sight I just described as they probably won't make it to the end of the ultra-strange Sexandroide, come for the scantily clad torture, stay... as far as away from this movie as you possibly can. Seriously, no good can come from you watching it. The way I see it, the Tina Turner/"What's Love Got to Do With It" sequence that ends the film is the reward for those who were able to slog through such a heinous exercise. (It can't be that be that bad, can it?) Trust me, it can. For starters, two pairs of stockings, one red, one black, are torn asunder in this flick. (Oh, I thought you were going to mention the nipple piercing scene.) Yeah, that's pretty awful. But seeing two perfectly good pairs of stockings ruined was too much for me.

The Michel Ricaud-directed film, which is, thankfully, barely fifty minutes long, opens with a faceless man/woman/creature of unknown origin opening an envelope that contains a photo of a blonde woman. Without wasting any time, the faceless individual starts abusing the photo. Meanwhile, a blonde women (who looks like the blonde woman from the photo) in red stockings is sitting (with her legs crossed) at a bar...

(What kind of dress is she wearing?)

It's a simple dress, but the colour is nothing but. If I had to describe it, I would call it red hot poker-esque, as it mixes yellow and red in a similar manner as the flower of the same name.

While in the ladies room, the woman suddenly feels sick and vomits in the sink.

After she's done throwing up, she suddenly feels a force tearing at her clothes. While I was somewhat saddened to see her red stockings and matching garter-belt removed in such a violent manner, the sequence itself is kind of awesome. In fact, if the entire film had been a series erotic vignettes involving lingerie-clad women struggling to prevent their clothes from being torn off by an unseen entity, I would have no choice but to declare Sexandroide to be one of the greatest films of all-time.

In a way, the film does adhere to that basic principal. But the middle "vignette" is so disgusting that... Though, I have to say, it's only vignette where the stockings make out pretty much unscathed. And the twist ending was a pleasant surprise... Actually, now that I think about it, the film isn't all that bad.

Note to self: Try to decide whether or not you like a film before you start reviewing it, not during.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, the blonde in the washroom was being tortured by an unseen individual wielding some kind of voodoo-style power. After they're finished with the photo, the unseen individual starts poking a doll with needles. As expected, the blonde, whose sexy legs used to be sheathed in red stockings, begins to bleed from the places that are being poked on the doll.

I don't know why this happening to her, or why I'm watching it for that matter, but I have to give it up to the actress portraying the washroom blonde. She had me convinced an invisible presence was fucking up her shit big time. Kudos to you, unnamed actress from the opening scene of Sexandroide, your unorthodox thespian skills did not go unnoticed by this viewer.

If you thought the blonde's thespian skills were unorthodox, the lithe brunette in the black hold-up thigh-high stockings takes unorthodox acting to the next level.

After descending a staircase in a dramatic, unorthodox fashion, the lithe brunette stumbles upon a red carpeted room. Wait, why did she shoot that hooded figure and why is she setting her hands on fire? This movie has taken a bizarre turn. Oh, sure, it was bizarre before. But this is ridiculous. Whatever, um. Removing her black dress, the lithe brunette (who is sporting a bob-style haircut) begins to whip herself with a cat o' nine tails.

Interrupted by a ghastly man-thing in Frankenstein leisurewear, the lithe brunette finds her skinny ass in serious danger, as the ghastly man ties her to a chair. Sticking nails in her nipples and tongue, the ghastly man removes one of her eyes and eats it... Ugh... this is disgusting.

(Yeah, it's fucking gross. But look at her stockings... there's not a scratch on them.) It's true, the fact that her stockings make it through this unspeakable nightmare unsullied was worthy of a smidgen of uncut giddiness. But still...

Again, I have to ask: Why is this happening to her and why am I watching it? Never mind that. The twist ending is surprisingly romantic. Yeah, I know, how can eyeball-eating and self-disembowelment be romantic? If anyone knows how to make those things seem romantic, it's the makers of Sexandroide.

The final vignette contains the same amount of garment-tearing and general unpleasantness as the previous two chapters in the Sexandroide saga. But alas, this one features the infamous "What's Love Got to Do With It" dance number.

It starts off with (yet another) a lithe brunette in sexy goth funeral clothes mourning over a casket that contains what looks like a vampire. Suddenly, without warning, the vampire springs from the casket and begins to rip off the lithe brunette's clothes. Damn, those were some nice black stockings. But just like that, they're gone. It's a fucking shame, I tell ya.

Biting her on the neck, the lithe brunette collapses against the coffin, the end. Oh, wait. The lithe brunette is a vampire now. Which makes sense, I guess. What doesn't make sense is why is the lithe brunette vampire chick dancing to Tina Turner's "What's Love Got to Do With It"? Or maybe it does... make sense. Either way, Sexandroide is, to put it mildly, a fucked up movie. Sure it's gory and sleazy, like hundreds of other films. But there's just something off about it that I can't quite put my finger on. And it's this "off-ness" that makes the film sort of worth watching. SORT OF.

Sorority House Massacre II (Jim Wynorski, 1990)

I'll admit, after the mini-debacle that was the first Sorority House Massacre, I wasn't all that thrilled with the prospect of watching the same exact movie again. What's that? How do I know the sequel is going to be exactly the same as the first one? That's easy. Fresh ideas are hard to come by and I doubt the makers of Sorority House Massacre II are going to be the one's stumbling upon any anytime soon. Hold up, it says here that part two was directed by Jim Wynorski (Demolition High). Which means... Actually, this does not bode well, either. As Mr. Wynorski's track record when it comes to delivering the goods is a tad sketchy at best. For every 976-EVIL II and Chopping Mall, there are dozens of stinkers. While not exactly his best, this film is the forerunner to his Hard to Die (a.k.a. Sorority House Massacre III). Meaning, we should expect to see scantily clad bimbos running up and down stairs in bad lingerie. I know, what is exactly constitutes "bad lingerie"? I mean, how can lingerie ever be bad? Right, that's pure, unadulterated kooky-talk. Well, I have news for ya, fellas. The lingerie in this film pretty god awful. Though, I shouldn't be surprised, as I distinctly recall the lingerie in Hard to Die being pretty god awful as well.

For one thing, none of the women are wearing nylons. Seriously, there's not a single pair of stockings in the entire film. We do, however, get two jean skirts, one pair of jean shorts and a single pair of jeans. (Wow, that's a lot denim.) You got that right. And I'm still shaking my head over it. I can sort of see two of the women wearing denim of some kind, but four out of five? That's ridiculous.

What do we want? Less denim in Sorority House Massacre II! When do we want it? Um, now would be nice.

Since Dana Bentley's "Janey," is the only co-ed not wearing denim during pre-lingerie stage of the film, I immediately gravitated towards her. Of course, she's probably going to be the first to die. But I don't care. I'll take a gothy brunette dressed in all-black over four denim-slathered blondes any day of the motherfuckin' week. To make matters worse, when she does die, it will most likely be done off-screen, as I don't think this film was given much to work with as far gore budgets go.

Anyway, just like in Hard to Die, we're told the story of the Hockstatter murders that took place in Slumber Party Massacre. Yeah, I'm confused, too. After watching an entire scene from Slumber Party Massacre (narrated by one of the girls), the girls come face-to-face with Orville Ketchum (Peter Spellos), the large (creepy) man who lives next-door. Oh, and before you ask if Orville is the killer. Remember this, this is Jim Wynorski we're talking about, not Fred Olen Ray. In other words, expect the unexpected.

Other than Gail Harris' first-rate panties and Dana Bentley's shunning of denim, I would say that Orville Ketchum is the best thing about this movie. Yeah, that's right. The scary-looking fat guy who enjoys lurking and eating raw meat. He gives, believe it or not, a nuanced performance as the neighbour who can't be killed.

It's a shame the same can't be said about the rest of the cast, who all give the same variation of your typical stupid and confused late '80s co-ed.

You might have noticed that before I singled out Dana Bentley's denim snub, that I alluded to Gail Harris' first-rate panties. Which might seem odd, as you might recall, I pretty much dismissed every stitch of lingerie that appears in this film.

Well, I'm making an exception for Gail Harris' panties. Now, some of you might be thinking yourself: You only liked her panties because they wore you out. What I mean is, they were onscreen for such extended period of time, you grew to tolerate them.

While, yes, it's true. Gail Harris' panties, and, I suppose, her crotch and buttocks region, are featured quite heavily throughout this movie. I did fall madly in love with them the moment they appeared onscreen. But make no mistake, this was purely a pantie anomaly. Everything else is an abomination. (Even the black one-piece Dana Bentley puts on during the film's lingerie phase?) If it had been paired with stockings, I might have given it a pass. But black lingerie without stockings is unacceptable in my book.

I'm currently in love with a woman who has a port-wine stain on the left side of her face. She's beautiful and fierce as fuck. (I'm happy for you. But what's this got to do with the movie you're currently reviewing?) Oh, sorry 'bout that. If you look closely, you'll notice that Gail's panties have a port-wine bloodstain on them at one point. And I say, "at one point," as the bloodstain seems to change in-between shots. In one of the shots, her panties appear completely devoid of blood. Did she wash them while going from the living room to the kitchen? I doubt it.

I wonder who was Gail's pantie wrangler on this flick. Now, that's what I call a dream job. Although, I bet a large part of the job involves keeping the cross-dressing crew members from trying them on in-between takes (I hear precum stains are a nightmare to get out, especially on white panties). Oh, and who am I kidding, this film didn't employ "takes." If it did. Wow, that's pretty sad. No, this film looks like it was shot over a couple of days. The only one who seemed to put in any real effort was Chuck Cirino, whose score is top-notch, as usual.