The Beach Girls (Bud Townsend, 1982)

Unencumbered rays of warm, invigorating California sunshine penetrate the unclothed nether regions of a brash throng of thong-less cupcakes strewn haphazardly across the unsullied sand; a bikini-top stealing canine, who unwittingly causes pruriency in passers-by, makes off with another skimpy yet vital piece of fabric; and an accident prone gardener (Bert Rosario) is about to find his genitalia engorged with his own blood. All of these things are in the process of infringing on each others personal space in the delightfully straightforward The Beach Girls (a.k.a. La Boum En Folie), a film, written by Phil Groves and Patrick Sheane Duncan and directed by Bud Townsend (Coach), that shamefully wears its heterosexual agenda on its sleeve at all times. Which is ironic, since nary a sleeve can be found in this film. Taking place on Paradise Beach, the well-bosomed and skittishly pedantic Sarah (Debra Blee) arrives at her spacious beach house blissfully unaware of the titillating firestorm that is heading her way. She's invited a couple of friends over to keep her company over the summer, but has no idea what the capriciously-named Ginger (Val Kline) and Ducky (Jeana Tomasina) have in store for her.

You see, these girls are the complete opposite to Sarah, the wide-eyed gal with braids in her hair. I mean, not only are they anti-intellectual in temperament, they're also not-as-well-bosomed. Which on the surface could be seen as a disadvantage, but Ginger and Ducky have such an untamed whimsicality about them, that it cause such trivialities to become inconsequential. Besides, both are blessed with long, slender legs. And, in the grand scheme of things, that's all you really need.

Anyway, the playful duo (their incessant giggling would disarm even the most ardent of assholes and asswipes) are immediately shocked by the lack of boys at the beach house–they brought along a chiseled boy-toy by the name of Scott (James Daughton), but he's taken a liking to Sarah–so the girls devise a strategy to acquire enough man-sustenance to satisfy their inflated carnal desire. As you would expect, much partying ensues when various members of the dick-wielding underclass start arriving at their door. Periodically upsetting their plans is Uncle Carl (the actual owner of the beachfront residence) and a ball-bearing obsessed Coast Guard Captain (Herbie Braha).

The jokes are corny, the plot is as thin as a piece of paper, and the film is definitely a tad wanting in the cerebral department. But what it lacks in those three areas, it more than makes up for it in the realm of naked flesh. Never in all my years of film watching have a seen a film so devoted to the brandishing of tits and ass (and yes, some untanned male crack is exposed).

It is also the perfect film for prepubescent children, in that it doesn't contain any pelvic thrusting whatsoever. (I have found that the sight of a penis barging into a vagina confuses more than it does illuminate.) There's such an artless innocence about it, that it's almost educational at times. Yeah, sure, rampant drug use (garbage bags full of marijuana wash ashore) and unchecked promiscuity aren't the most positive messages to send out into the cultural stratosphere. But then again, it's better than violence and apathy.

In terms of the aforementioned naked flesh, I would have to say the vivacious Val Kline was hands down my favourite scantily clad person in The Beach Girls. She plays the force of nature that is Ginger and gives a performance that transcends time and space. Employing her femaleness like it were an unsheathed sword of shapely aggression, the gorgeous Val attacks the apprehensive libido of Uncle Carl (Adam Roarke) like a ravenous beast. (He is threatening to curb their partying ways and she uses her untapped sexiness to convince him otherwise.)

The lovely Jeana Tomasina does a competent job assisting Val when it came time to win over of Carl as Ducky, a brunette whirlwind with a cheerful disposition. An actress/model who can be seen prancing around in the majority of those popular music videos ZZ Top made during their early '80s Eliminator period, it should be said that no one in the history of cinema has ever looked better in a pair of tight red trousers than Jeana does in the red trouser-friendly, non-beach-related scenes that are liberally sprinkled throughout this movie.

It should also be noted that the always awesome Corinne Bohrer (Vice Versa and Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol) shows up every now and then as the headband-sporting, purple bikini-top-wearing "Champagne Girl." (Who, I'm guessing, is so named because her character is always carrying, and occasionally drinking from, a large bottle of Champagne. And, of course, is female. Hence, the use of the word "girl.")

The bubbly Tessa Richarde as the kindhearted "Doreen"

Oh, and Catherine Mary Stewart (The Apple and Night of the Comet) appears onscreen for five seconds at a wienie roast as "The Surfer Girl" (a character who makes it abundantly clear that she'd rather be making out with her shirtless boyfriend than surfing).

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The Apple (Menahem Golan, 1980)

The amount of anguish I had to endure before savouring Menahan Golan's insanely brilliant The Apple was out of control in terms of prankish prodigality. I started off with some Nepalese breathing exercises followed by some mild calisthenics. However, I felt I needed an extra boost in the celestial department, so I decided to cleanse myself spiritually by pretending to cut a misshapen triangle into my forehead with a dull X-Acto knife. Now whether these unnecessary rituals assisted my viewing experience or not will never be debated by scholars. But the fact remains that this festering hunk of nonsensical cinema is one of the most electrifying musicals ever made by a man born in the ancient city of Tiberias. Oozing undiluted meretriciousness–and I mean that literally, just ask the floor in front of my flickering box, The Apple is a mind-blowing spectacle that soars beyond the meager realms of art and commerce. Transcending the dilapidated confines of heaven and earth with its unapologetic use of colour, the florid film provides enough tawdriness to nourish even the most hardened of fruit lovers for the duration of at least twelve lifetimes. Unfolding in a futuristic netherworld, where the antithetical spheres of fascism and body glitter collide with one another to create a hellish state of illusionary happiness, this salacious tale of disco decadence gone awry follows the musical misadventures of Alphie and Bibi (two wide-eyed singers from Moose Jaw) and their attempt to make it in the concrete domain of Mr. Boogalow, the founder and president of BIM (Boogalow's International Music).

Now, you're thinking to yourself: "How does the CEO of a record label control an entire city"? Well, it's simple, he's multilingual, owns a receding hairline and possess a well-lubricated sense of self. Plus, he's got an army of jackbooted BIM-police to do his bidding. Anyway, enough about Mr. Boogalow (Vladek Sheybal), the important question is, will Alphie (George Gilmour) and Bibi (Catherine Mary Stewart) be able to transverse the morass of BIM-ville without selling their souls? It's hard to say, and I've seen the film three times this week alone, but you'll care. Believe me, you will care.

What I liked most about The Apple was how all the songs were audible. I mean, the fact that I could hear them just by using my ears was a bold masterstroke by the filmmakers. The songs, while not as catchy as the ones heard in Xanadu, somehow still managed to sound like actual music. I may be standing on a limb overlooking a precipice, but I'd say the use of musical instruments such as keyboards, drums, guitars, and a wide variety of horns, no doubt helped the film achieve this astonishing feat.

The always wonderful Catherine Mary Stewart (Night of the Comet) lip-syncs her little Albertan heart out as the naïve Bibi. Her transformation from wide-eyed folk singer to sexy disco queen was as smooth as Donna Summer's thighs on a mid-October morning. The manner in which she kicked and screamed during "Speed" was a definite highlight.

Picture if you will, Catherine's expertly-combed hair (imbued with an odd array of pinks and blues), triangular BIM-mark (which is struggling to stay stuck to her perspiration-covered forehead), and sexy silver outfit skillfully meshing with a throng of bi-bikers in black leather, and you will understand the eye-catching magnificence that is The Apple.

Despite his lacklustre Moose Javian accent (more like suburban Regina), George Gilmour's many looks of abject confusion and hallucinatory flights of fancy were still topnotch as the integrity-plagued Alphie. The misguided allure of Vladek Sheyhal's constant winking and sinister hand clasping were a force to be reckon with as the depraved Mr. Boogalow. And his right-hand man Shake (a fabulous Ray Shell) and Grace Kennedy's Pandi added that extra bit of zing to the proceedings. Grace's voice during "Coming For You"–and not to mention, all the unclothed leg kicking–could melt broccoli.

This may sound a tad ill-sorted, but my arousal-based infrastructure usually juts outward in a departing fashion when I'm watching most movies. However, since The Apple isn't most movies, I couldn't help but notice that my one-eyed penetration baton seemed to jut inwardly, almost as if it was trying to violate itself. Weird. Still, can you really blame it?

Seriously, the production design by Hans Jürgen Kiebach (Cabaret) was out of this world and the costumes by Ingrid Zoré were downright awe-inspiring. I mean, you'd have to be completely inactive on the inside not to find the sight of fifty or so sequin-covered crotches cavorting in what looked like an abandoned food court somewhat appealing. Screaming titillation at every turn, the visual splendour that is this movie will energize even the most stagnate of nimbuses.

Oh, and one more thing, unlike most of the people who have attempted to type words extolling the virtues of The Apple–you know, the ones who seem enamoured with their own glibness–my love comes from an extremely sincere place.

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