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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Desperately Seeking Susan (Susan Seidelman, 1985)

The urbane charm of New York City lures yet another suburban dreamer into its concrete vagina in the cockamamie Desperately Seeking Susan, Susan Seidelman's tangled followup to the more straightforward Smithereens. Taking place during the apex of new wave culture, the fashion conscious film covers the same the territory as Miss Seidelman's debut effort did, in that, they both feature gals who want to escape their ho-hum lives in New Jersey and undergo a dramatic rebirth of sorts. However, whereas Smithereens' Wren was essentially a bratty bag lady who urgently wanted fame and fortune at any cost, Roberta (Rosanna Arquette) just wants a little excitement in her life beyond hosting parties for her hot tub selling husband and his yuppie scum friends (her journal paints an even more mundane picture). And if that means buying a chichi jacket, inadvertently pretending to being the amnesiac boyfriend of a constantly touring rock star, landing a job as a magician's assistant, and replacing Liquid Sky's Anne Carlisle as the girlfriend of a dreamy, cat-loving projectionist who lives above a Chinese restaurant, than so be it. I don't know about you, but it sure beats another night of not sucking the wrinkled cock of a sauna salesmen.

The manner in which Rosanna Arquette's Roberta longingly gazed across the river was quite revealing in it the way it revealed, you know, stuff. You see, the 1980s didn't come to New Jersey until March 1, 1994, and so what Roberta was doing was hankering for the opportunity live through the 1980s during the 1980s. Speaking as someone who was alive during the 1980s, but didn't technically "live" through them, I found plenty to sympathize with Roberta and her many spiritual quandaries.

Sure, I've never been bored housewife, or coveted a gold jacket with a giant pyramid on the back. But as a little girl growing up wherever the fuck it was that grew up, the desire to be swept off my feet by a guy who looked like Aidan Quinn, his extra large eyes drinking in the shapely contours of my sexy body, was just as strong as hers. Even more so, when you factor in that I'm considered clinically insane in most provinces and territories. (Provinces and territories? Hey, that means that I probably grew up somewhere in Canada. Weird.)

The cryptic messages left by a musician (Robert Joy) to his flaky lady friend Susan (Madonna) in the classifieds are what give Roberta the courage to breakout of her comfort zone and experience the rejuvenating splendour that is New York City circa 1984. Like I said, new wave was at its height during this period, and Susan Seidelman's unique directorial vision, Santo Loquasto's costume and production design, and the lush, synth-friendly music score by Thomas Newman (Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael) really do the era justice. I mean, check out the authentic street flavour of the scenes that take place in Greenwich Village. There's a crackling vitality to these sequences.

The opposite is true when we venture into the vaudevillian haunt known simply as the Magic Club. Yet even these seemingly old fashioned scenes had a new wave sheen to them. It was probably because the stylish Ann Magnuson lurked in the background as a cigarette girl.

Or maybe it was the fact that when Anna Levine (Sue) takes off her frilly magicians' assistant clothes, the neon gaudiness of her green and pink ensemble is revealed for the world to see. (Seriously, those are some bright tights.)

The use of Material Girl's "Into the Groove" during the nightclub rendezvous between Gary Glass (Mark Blum), the hot tub guy, and Susan has always my favourite sequence in Desperately Seeking Susan from a purely aesthetic point of view. The way the multi-coloured lights cascade across the crowd of hardcore new wavers was a true thing of beauty. Particularly when it hit the gothy guy in the corner who seemed enamoured by the ruffled nature of his fabric-generous sleeves. Of course, there's something innately perverse about dancing so enthusiastically to your own music, but I think Madonna is one of the few people who can safely get away with such an egregious act of egocentricity.

Even though they don't really interact much in terms of screen time together, you really get the sense Rosanna Arquette and Madonna are each other's throat in this movie. The envy on Rosanna's face as she gazed at her co-star from afar was palpable, and the frustration Madonna displayed over the fact that her jacket was being worn by someone pretending to her literally oozed off her skin. Actually, that's a tad reaching. Madonna's character, and apparently the pop singer herself, is so aloof and self-involved, that something as serious as identity theft wouldn't even faze her.

At the any rate, the two get into a bit of a farcical cat and mouse over a pair of expensive earrings (the kind you might see in a Klymaxx video). Scandalous!

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Tank Girl (Rachel Talalay, 1995)

Made during a time when everyone was obsessed with making films that made sense and stuff, Tank Girl is a different breed of entertainment, one that casts aside pesky cinematic nuisances such as a cohesive structure and levelheaded plotting to create something bold and erratic. Unfolding in a near future that is post-apocalyptic in nature, the world is dry as a bone that isn't wet and the malevolent folks at Water and Power have a monopoly on the planet's liquids. That is, until an extremely plucky young woman named "Tank Girl" comes along to, oh, I don't know, rescue little girls, blow stuff up, force brothel workers to sing Cole Porter at gun point... you know, the usual. Armed with a vast array of punky hairstyles, the tank-driving cutie, in addition to a subterranean crew of kangaroo-human hybrids and her jet plane flying gal pal (the aptly named Jet Girl), dares to challenge their fascistic authority by employing sheer feistiness, an unmatched can-do spirit, and the occasional well-placed tank shell.

Engulfed in pure wrongness at every turn, on the surface Tank Girl may appear rancid and covered with moldy cheese, but underneath all that incompetence lies the beating heart of a movie that doesn't know meaning of the word quit. Whether I was watching the fabulous Ann Magnuson being pressured to perform "Let's Do It" as an armada of silver-wigged dancers kick their shapely legs in unison (it was kinda like watching a Company B video on more acid), or basking in the sight of a post-apocalyptic fashion plate paragliding behind her tricked-out armoured vehicle, I always felt as if I was in the presence of something utterly unique.

Akin to films like Barbarella and Radioactive Dreams, Rachel Talalay's film is saturated with such a goofy charm, that its idiocy cannot be denied. (Did I mention that it features Ice-T as a talking kangaroo named T-Saint and Naomi Watts as a shy brunette?)

Now, I don't know exactly how many actresses auditioned to play the poster girl for the apocalypse, but I do know one thing: Lori Petty is "Tank Girl." I mean, if there ever was a person put on this earth to play a woman who wishes she could masturbate whilst wearing a straitjacket, it's Lori.

Reciting ridiculous dialogue like it were poetry, not to mention, and sporting the coolest haircut (shaved sides on a woman make life worth living) since Deborah Goodrich in Remote Control, Miss Petty dives headfirst into the role of the carefree troublemaker. Imbuing her with enough moxie to fill a medium-priced kiddie pool. She fearlessly lashes out against conformity and good manners, yet I found the film's over reliance on animated sequences to be an insult to Petty and her performance. It was almost as if the producers were saying they lacked confidence in her or something.

Oh, and even though it was filmed during the dark days of 1995, the soundtrack is refreshingly grunge-free, as it features songs by Devo, Björk, Richard Hell, Portishead, and Belly.

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Hugo Pool (Robert Downey Sr., 1997)

Those looking for Alyssa Milano-based titillation–you know, like the kind you accidentally stumbled upon in Embrace of the Vampire–will disappointed with Hugo Pool, a curious comedy from Robert Downey, Sr. (Greaser's Palace). Those, however, looking for Alyssa-based titillation of a more banjo playing nature will be delighted with what the shapely young actress brings to the hottie table as Hugo Dugay, a diabetic pool cleaner who employs the help of her dysfunctional parents on her quest to service forty-something swimming pools in one day. Now, I don't want to describe the characters Hugo runs into on this quest as "quirky," but the film leaves me choice. Instead, I think I'll call them "beyond quirky." I mean, they're so quirky, they make Crispin Glover seem like a florist (which is still kind of quirky, if you think about it). This isn't a bad thing, because it was their collective offbeat attitude that kept things interesting for me. Each pool brings the wide-eyed Hugo in contact with new level of strangeness. Whether it's the socialite (the leggy and always fabulous Ann Magnuson) who likes to fake drowning just so her Canadian lifeguard can have an excuse to press his muscular torso up against her bongwater-infused frame, or the perverted old man who is willing to give away his retirement annuity for just one peek down Hugo's shorts, these, and a cavalcade of other weirdos (a totally demented Robert Downey Jr. randomly appears an extra murdering film director) give the film an extremely off-kilter vibe.

The creamy, chlorine-infected centre of the film is the touching relationship that forms between Hugo Dugay and Floyd Gaylen (a strikingly handsome Patrick Dempsey), a man living with ALS who tags along with Hugo and her gambling-obsessed mother (the occasionally luminous Cathy Moriarty) on their cleansing adventure. It's quite poignant in a he talks through a voice box, her main concern is picking leaves out of other people's glorified puddles kinda way.

I liked how the fantasy sequences that revolved around Hugo were sporadically inserted throughout the film. These sequences gave Alyssa Milano a chance to make use of that unconventional titillation I was referring to earlier; as the gorgeous actress cranks up the eroticism in a series of dreamy vignettes. However, it was Alyssa's subtle acting, unique walk (she shuffles with a zany flair), and the nonjudgmental spin she brought to her character that impressed me the most. This is definitely Milano's best work since Dance 'Til Dawn.

The film's biggest laughs/confused looks came during the scenes with Malcolm McDowell and Sean Penn (Fast Times at Ridgemont High). The kooky factor goes through the top part of a building's structure when these two unexpected knuckleheads are onscreen. Mr. McDowell plays Hugo's recovering drug addict father (he injects heroin into the arm of a hand puppet that bares his likeness); while Penn is a peculiar stowaway in blue shoes. They spend the majority of the film inside a water truck (Hugo has instructed her father to pick up three thousand gallons of water from the Colorado River) and I found some of their exchanges to be contractually hilarious, especially the ones that focused on Mr. Penn's shoes.

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