Hurricane Smith (Colin Budds, 1992)

Did anyone else find it odd that a black man, a black American  man, is greeted at the airport by two women without booties? (They must have had some booty?) I don't think so. Aerobicized to the point of nonexistence, the booties attached to the two blonde Australian women who welcome Carl Weathers to Gold Coast by handing him a stuffed Koala Bear and giving him a peck on the cheek were as flat as a board. Now, I'm not trying to body shame these two ladies by pointing out the minuscule nature of their respective booties. I'm just saying, Carl Weathers looks like the kind of guy who likes a little junk in the trunk. If you know what I mean. (Yeah, I think we all know what you mean. You openly ridicule two Aussie women from 1992 for not having "booties" and you're a racist who thinks all black men like big butts.) Hey, man. I'm just going by what esteemed linguist Sir Mix-a-Lot taught us back in, coincidentally, 1992. (He actually raps, "I like big butts." Not, "All black men like big butts.") True, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and declare that Carl Weathers' character, Billy Ray 'Hurricane' Smith, in Hurricane Smith likes his asses to be as thick as Tallahassee molasses.

You can clearly see it on his face every time an Australian person would say to him, "No worries, mate." I mean, if anything, he's got nothing but worries. Think about it. The first women he comes across on this kooky continent are sporting absolutely no oomph in the bum department (which does nothing for his slumbering trouser anaconda). But most worrying of all, his sister is missing. So, no worries, mate? More like, lot's of worries, mate, or, a shitload of worries, mate.

What the Gold Coast airport lacks in big bootied greeters, the rest of the city makes up for it with its robust leggy floozy population.

Of course, I don't mean to imply that the entire city is teeming with leggy floozies (on the contrary, the city seems to have a nice balance between those who are leggy floozies and those who are not... leggy floozies). I'm just saying, Billy Ray 'Hurricane' Smith seems to have hit the leggy floozy jackpot. Check this out: the first house he stumbles upon upon arriving in Queensland happens to contain the mother of all leggy floozies.

While most non-leggy floozies like to lounge around their places of residence eating Aussie Cheetos (each bag comes with a complementary tub of Vegimite - mmm, dark brown food paste) in hole-ridden sweatpants and ratty bathrobes (watching Neighbours, no doubt), leggy floozies like to slink about in black lace teddies and black nylons... and black heels.

Lucky guy. I mean, one moment he's a humble construction worker from Marshall, Texas, U.S.A., the next he's in Australia playing two-up, wooing leggy floozies and being called a "septic" by the locals. Now, you could classify Billy Ray 'Hurricane' Smith (Carl Weathers) as your classic fish out of water. But I wouldn't recommend doing that. You see, Billy Ray wants to find his sister (who was last seen in the resort town of Gold Coast), and, by the looks of things, he's in no mood for overused idioms.

Using clues he obtained from his sisters letters and postcards, Billy Ray ends up at the door of Julie (Cassandra Delaney, Fair Game), a leggy floozy/prostitute. Well, it's not really her door, she just works there... Anyway, Julie, who initially mistakes Billy Ray for a client, seems willing to help the handsome septic in the white jean jacket find his sestra ("septic," by the way, is Aussie slang for Americans and "sestra" is the Ukrainglish word for "sister" - Orphan Black is my shit!!!!). After all, Julie and his sestra, I mean, sister, knew one another before she went missing. However, just as Julie is about to fix Billy Ray a drink, Shanks (David Argue), Julie's "manager," storms in and sends Billy Ray packing.

If you're wondering what the difference between a leggy floozy and prostitute is. It's simple, really. A leggy floozy is what you call a female prostitute when she's not having sex for money. So, if you see a prostitute sitting in, let's say, a bar, she's actually a leggy floozy. On the other hand, if you spot the very same leggy floozy in the alleyway behind the bar she was just sitting in inhaling a man's cock with her mouth, she's now a prostitute. Any questions?

Oh, and the reason I didn't call Shanks Julie's pimp is because I didn't want to make Charlie Dowd (Jürgen Prochnow), Julie's actual pimp, cross. Trust me, he's not someone you want to make cross. Besides, I don't think Shanks has what it takes to be a pimp. I mean, look at how understanding he is when Julie tells him that she doesn't feel like having sex with Mr. Nelson, a regular who had an appointment. Pimps are not understanding.

Undeterred by what transpired at Julie's brothel, Billy Ray breaks into Charlie Dowd's beach house to look for clues. Only problem being, Charlie Dowd, Shanks, some henchmen and a ton of leggy floozies show up for a party.

As Billy Ray is poking around upstairs and Charlie Dowd is giving Shanks a refresher course on how to be a pimp, you'll notice that you can see the stocking tops of one of the leggy floozies. At first I thought: Oh, the reason you can see the tops of her stockings is because she's sitting in a manner that is conducive to stocking top display. But that's just it, she wasn't sitting down.

You know what that means, right? Exactly. The top portion of the stockings attached to the legs that belong to Rochelle (Suzie MacKenzie), "Ro" to her fellow leggy floozies, are always visible. Yep, you heard right. I said, always visible.

Whether she's changing a flat tire, doing jumping jacks in the rain, cramming for an algebra exam... in the rain, buying a new toothbrush, listening to the radio while lying in a hammock, painting a self-portrait, or putting another shrimp on the barbie, the tops of Ro's stockings will always be visible.

In an ironic twist, Ro can be seen sitting at a bar in the next scene. How is that an ironic twist, you ask? Well, if you had been paying attention earlier, you would have noticed that I basically said that sitting at a bar is what leggy floozies do best. And, I have to say, after watching Ro sit at a bar for a minute or two, I'm going to have to agree with myself. Leggy floozies and bar sitting go hand and hand.

Getting back to the plot for second. When Jürgen Prochnow (I didn't buy that his name was "Charlie Dowd" for a second - Jürgen is such a Jürgen) gets wind that an American is snooping around his criminal enterprise, and that Julie might be helping him, he sets in a motion a series of events designed to stop these unwanted incursions into his affairs.

Animal lovers beware, one of these so-called "series of events" involves the murder of an Australian cattle dog.

While I'm happy to report that no leggy floozies were harmed during the making of this movie, the same can't be said for stylish gangster's molls with fluctuating loyalties. It should come as no surprise, but it would seem that dating German-accented Aussie crime bosses who pimp on the side can be bad for your health.

Oh, and if you doubt my claim that she's stylish. All you have to do is take a look at the red blazer she wears at the horse track.

Sticking with fashion. Fans of volumizing scrunchies will want to keep an eye out for the blonde extra who appears in two scenes. That's right, I said two scenes.

You can see her in a crowd when Billy Ray and Julie are walking down the street and again when Billy Ray and Julie stop at a cafe to discuss strategy.

In closing: I like Carl Weathers, I loved the sudden influx of leggy floozies, David Argue is funny at times as Shanks (the fact that he wore a Warrant t-shirt helped a bit - Warrant apparel = Comedy gold), Cassandra Delaney is hot and I learned a little bit about Aussie culture.

Fair Game (Mario Andreacchio, 1986)

In an inhospitable land located down under, a woman with an intense distaste for trousers finds herself at odds with a group of boorish poachers in Fair Game, a straightforward slice of dingo-free Ozploitation from director Mario Andreacchio and screenwriter Rob George; one that you might recognize, as it was featured prominently in the superb Not Quite Hollywood. Except for the killing cute animals for monetary gain (mucho dollaridoos) aspect of their personality, these blokes don't sound all that bad. I mean, what's wrong with getting reacquainted with your inner lout every once and a while? In the grand tradition of the oral fetishists in Deliverance ("He got a real pretty mouth, ain't he?") and the English roofers with a taste for rape and tomfoolery in Straw Dogs, the uncouth trio saddled with providing a steady stream of undue harassment in this film are as nasty, crazed, and unsympathetic as they come. You might have noticed that I called them a "trio." While it's true, there are three of them. Which, by the way, is one of the most important factors when designating something a trio. You could count their red, demon-eyed devil truck as the unofficial fourth member of the lady persecuting gang, much like Dave "Rave" Ogilvie was considered the unofficial fourth member of Skinny Puppy.

Resembling a wild boar at times (and sounding like one), this truck (fitted with a network of silver exhaust tubes) transports our villains from one unpleasant situation to another. And make no mistake, they're "villains." You don't purchase a truck like that with the intention of traveling the countryside to perform random acts of kindness. Whether sticking amateur erotica to the inside of iceboxes or using barely clothed women as hood ornaments, these sick twists will stop at nothing until they have persecuted every square inch of their intended victim's supple frame.

It's hard to figure out what their motivation is, but there's no denying the fact that poachers Sonny (Peter Ford), Ringo (David Sanford) and Sparks (Garry Who) want to cause Jessica (Cassandra Delaney), the manager of a large nature reserve, and her multitude of animals, a modicum of discomfort over the next couple days.

Now this may sound difficult to believe, especially after alluding to the infamous hood ornament incident, but there was brief moment when I thought that the mildly dashing Sonny might be a bit of a softy–you know, in a "that's not a knife" sort of way. The key word there being "brief." Sure, he may not act as openly deranged as his two pals (who look like rejects straight out of a universe severely lacking in gasoline), but, like he says himself, "you can't always judge a book by its cover." Unless it's an atlas, which usually contains maps, or a cook book, which usually contains recipes.

In a pre-apocalyptic (or maybe it was post-apocalyptic, you never know some times with The Outback), arid, and unforgiving landscape, three scumbags who drive a scary ass truck do battle with a leggy animal lover. What starts off as gentle ribbing. Actually, I wouldn't classify running someone off the road, Road Warrior-style, as "gentle ribbing." But, to be fair, it was done in a playful, boys will boys, manner. Anyway, this playful behaviour gradually turns deadly serious and sees the foursome–quintet, if you include the guy's truck, sextet, if you count Jessica's dog, Kyle–engage in a tit for tat war with one another.

They put a dead kangaroo in her car, she uses a blowtorch to turn their collection of guns into an avant-garde work of art. It's goes back and forth like this, that is, until the infamous hood ornament incident takes place. Infamous because it features a live woman tied to the front of a moving vehicle, the mood of the film changes somewhat after they leave her battered and bruised on the Australian equivalent of her front porch. Instead reacting, Jessica begins to play a more proactive role when it comes to dealing with her tormentors. That's right, no more cowering in the corner of her kitchen grasping a butcher knife for this gal, she's got some elaborate booby-traps to set.

One of the key ingredients to successfully staving off a bunch of hostile yahoos is a strong pair of legs. I know, you thought I was gonna say, "Australian savvy." But let's be honest, legs are way more important. Think about it, savvy, whether it be the Australian or Lithuanian variety, will only get you so far in the not-so lucrative dodging psychopaths racket. On the other hand, a healthy set of gams will allow you to complete a wide array of arduous tasks. Whether you need to run through the underbrush, climb up a steep cliff, or kick in a groin, a well-motivated pair of legs can and will accomplish all these difficult sounding activities with relative ease.

Of course, the thousand dollar question being: Does Cassandra Delaney have the stems for the job? Holy shivering wombats, does she ever. Molded by the finest leg artisans this side of Geelong, Cassandra's all-powerful, gorgeous lower half command the screen whenever the appear–which is quite often. With the exception a few instances where she is inexplicably wearing long pants, Cassandra's unadorned legs–glistening in the harsh, Aussie sun, thanks, in part, to a steady stream of outback-induced perspiration–work hard to outmaneuver their determined foe, while at the same time, providing much titillation to the handful perverts sitting in the audience. It is, after all, an exploitation film, not a documentary.

Now that I've covered her unclothed portion of her delectable lower half, I'd like, if you don't mind, to move on and focus my attention on Cassandra Delaney's killer wardrobe. Sporting a total of six (yeah, that's right, I counted them) unique looks, Cassandra's Fair Game ensembles are practical, in that, they never impede her ability to flee or engage forces that are hostile in nature, yet exceedingly sexy at the same time.

Having previously alluded to her much publicized disdain for trousers, I feel should mention that two and a half of her outfits are in fact equipped with funnel-based leg coverings. However, in my defense, she does seem a lot more content, spiritually and emotionally, when her legs are unadorned with fabric. Oh, and why two and "a half," you say? Well, you see, her fourth look starts off sans pants (a red, gray and black flannel work shirt), but is affixed with a pair of jeans later on. Anyway, the first thing we see Cassandra's Jessica wearing is a plain white t-shirt (with the sleeves folded) and a pair of no-nonsense blue jeans. I won't lie to you, it's my least favourite of her outfits (she looks like she just walked off the set of a Canadian Heinz Ketchup ad circa 1990), but she does rescue an injured joey while wearing it. And, as we all know, helping animals does nothing but increase one's overall hotness.

A trip to the general store is the scenario put in motion for the unveiling of Jess's second outfit: a light blue shirtdress. Complemented by a brown leather belt (a shirtdress essential) and a chic hodgepodge of handmade jewellry (her black and white necklace was ethno-fabulous), this particular look informs the audience that she's not afraid to show a little skin, while, at same time, giving us a veiled refresher course on how accessories, if used properly, can invigorate the visual temperament of any outfit.

Out of all of Jessica's many outfits, my favourite would have to be her third look. Similar to her second look, yet not similar at all, the bluish gray mini dress, designed by Dianne Kennedy (Sabrina, the Teenage Witch), radiated an otherworldly quality as she wandered through the intense bush. Accentuated by a saucy belt, the wavy lines and Aboriginal flourishes that covered the dress (which you get some great close-up shots of when she's hiding under the edge of a cliff) reminded me of something you might see prancing around in a Parachute Club music video.

The lifespan of Jessica's fifth look is laced with controversy. A black skintight number that was initially worn for stealth purposes, this get-up is the one she is wearing when the gun-totting thugs tie her to the front of their truck. To the surprise of no one, the top and the trousers are both ruined (hunting knives will always win the day when pitted against stretch linen).

Fashion takes a bit of a backseat when it comes time to debut her sixth and final look. Sporting what you'd expect a pissed off Australian woman would wear after a bunch of wankers had just plowed their truck through her house, Jessica's "I'm gonna fuck your shit up" attire includes khaki shorts, a breezy short-sleeved top, brown wilderness boots, and a jaunty Akubra (a black and white headband is added to the mix when the operational integrity of the proverbial fan that measures the overall mood of the universe becomes blanketed with fecal matter). Partaking in a horse-motorcycle chase, causing a rock slide, and using an iron as a weapon, Jessica's new-found confidence when it came to dealing with these creeps was a thrilling sight to behold. An uncomplicated entry in the wilderness revenge genre, Fair Game is a must-see for fans of strong Australian women who like animals and despise being used as a hood ornament.

Oh, crap. I got so caught up in the excitement surrounding Cassandra's six looks, that I almost forgot to mention the excellent electronic music score by Ashley Irwin.

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