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.

Hard to Die (Jim Wynorski, 1990)

It's a dilemma that every director must face: How do I get my female characters into skimpy lingerie? You can't just have them walking down the street at the start of the film in nothing but their bras and panties, you need come up with a reason that will satisfy the people in the audience who require their entertainment to be based in reality. If I was directing, I would have said to hell with realism, let's get these women into some filly panties, stat! Unfortunately, I'm not directing. But luckily, Jim Wynorski (Chopping Mall) is, and if anyone knows how to get a bunch of leggy women trapped in a high rise office building to wear impractical clothing, it's him. Bringing his unique perspective to the proceedings, Mr. Wynorski somehow manages to find away to get the five actresses who appear in Hard to Die (a.k.a. Nighty Nightmare II and Sorority House Massacre 3) to sheath their luscious bodies in lingerie in a manner that will appease both pragmatists and perverts alike. It's quite the remarkable feat, if you think about it. If you don't think about it, well, I can't help you, because I'm only down with people who think about such things. There's no logical reason why the women who frolicked, romped, cavorted, blasted, and occasionally cowered their way through this film's low budget universe should have ended up dressed like that; it baffles the mind and tickles the tip of Ernest Borgnine's penis. It's a testament to the tireless effort put forth by everyone involved with this seemingly innocuous production that the film was able to soar to higher than any lingerie-based thriller has ever soared.
 

 

The answer to the question I posed earlier–you know, the one that pertained to the methods a director should use to get their characters to wear clothing that conflicts with their environment–is easy: Have your film take place at the headquarters of a company that produces lingerie. Done, and done. Okay, that's all fine and good, but that still doesn't explain how the women go from wearing their street clothes (jean shorts and little black dresses) to changing into lingerie. Don't worry, the makers of Hard to Die have a plan, a deceptively simple plan. 
 

 

First thing you need to do is sully the clothes they're currently wearing, the logic being they're not gonna change out of their clothes for nothing. Yeah, but how do you ruin the clothes of five characters simultaneously? You want all of them in lingerie, not just some of them. The best way achieve this is to have all your characters gather in the same room. When you've done that, utilize a fire sprinkler system. Just have it go off or something. Soaked with water and mildly annoyed, have your characters take a shower (the CEO should have one in his office). Instead waiting for their clothes to dry, have one of the characters suggest that they should wear lingerie in the meantime (it being a company that makes lingerie, finding some to wear shouldn't be a problem).
 

 

Learning who's who in a film like Hard to Die poses an even bigger quandary than getting your cast in lingerie, as the brain energy required to keep track of five scantily clad white women will no doubt sap the strength of even the most ardent of deviants. As luck would have it, each cast member had a unique quality about them that helped me distinguish one from the other. For starters, Shayna (Bridget Carney), street clothes: white cowboy boots - lingerie: purple nightie, had a Latino vibe about her, and Dawn Grant (Gail Harris), street clothes: jean shorts with red boots - lingerie: red panties, who sounded English, were easy pick out of the crowd.
 

 

The statuesque Tess (Melissa Moore), street clothes: black dress - lingerie: black nightie, was the only blonde in the group (plus, she had curves in all the right places), Diana (Karen Mayo-Chandler), street clothes: blue dress with titillation holes on the side - lingerie: blue nightie, was the ubiquitous tall brunette, and Jackie (Deborah Dutch) street clothes: short black skirt with matching pumps - lingerie: black panties paired with a red and black top, had the distinction of being the film's leggiest gal.
 

 

I just remembered that Diana, the tall, well, tall compared to Deborah Dutch, who couldn't have been taller than 5' 2", brunette actually didn't get sprayed with sprinkler water, because she was busy moving boxes marked "Acme Lingerie." The reason she takes a shower was because she was so sweaty from all that heavy lifting.
 

 

Lifting boxes?!? Yeah, that's right. The five women I just mentioned have been instructed to move boxes from the basement of a high rise office building for Acme Lingerie. Four of the ladies, while waiting for the elevator, are told the story of a sorority house massacre by a creepy janitor named Orville Ketchum (Peter Spellos) and handed a mysterious package.
 

 

After meeting up with the fifth member of their party (a tall brunette who's shtupping the guy who runs Acme Lingerie), the women decide to open the crazy-looking box that was inside the mysterious package. A demonic force shoots out of the box, and proceeds to fly around the room. The ladies shrug it off the supernatural weirdness that just transpired and decide to take showers, wear lingerie (Dawn requests a top that will compliment her red panties), and order Chinese food. 
 

 

The order in which the women take their respective showers will probably be the order in which they meet their inevitable demise at the hands with the ghost of a crazed killer. Which is a shame really, because I was content with just watching the women move boxes while wearing lingerie. But I guess some of them have to die, it's the way horror movies work.
 

 

Surprisingly, the first woman to be killed just happens to the one whose character is developed the most. Check this out, not only do we learn that she's trying to get an agent, we also find out that she hurt her back skiing the previous year. Other than the colour of their panties, I can't tell you much about the other women.
 

 

Speaking of panties, keep an eye on the red panties worn by Gail Harris as she makes her way up the stairs. Why would I want do something like that? Trust me, look at her red panties. If you do, you'll notice there's tag is sticking out of the back of her red panties as she climbs one flight of stairs. But as she tackles the next flight, the tag is missing. What happened between flights? Did the tag manage to tuck itself back inside her red panties thanks to the duress caused by the vigorous stair climbing or did Gail tuck it back in herself? Fascinating stuff.  
 

 

This is probably way off base, but I wonder if the other actresses in the cast were jealous of Deborah Dutch's shapely legs. The only reason I bring this up is because a lot of the shots in the film require the actresses to stand beside each other for extended periods of time, and while they were doing all this standing around, all I could think about was the sight of Gail Harris and Karen Mayo-Chandler growing increasingly angry between takes over the fact that had to stand next to Deborah Dutch, whose legs are pretty much perfect in terms of shapeliness.
 

 

Yeah, but can Deborah Dutch operate a telephone, fire an assault rifle, stab a janitor, use a trash can lid as a weapon, and recite dialogue in a semi-convincing manner? Yeah, well...okay, no, she can't do any of those things. But do you know who can? You're way ahead of me. The spunky Gail Harris, that's who. Saddled with the unenviable task of being the one responsible for moving the ridiculous plot forward, Gail, a former Page 3 girl from Batley, England, does the majority of the film's story-centric heavy lifting.
 

 

Sure, fellow Brit, Surrey's Karen Mayo-Chandler (Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls), lifts stuff as well, but Gail's lifting was way more important. I mean, if it wasn't for Gail's tireless commitment acting and junk, there would be no movie. All you would have is a series of lame kills and a dead on arrival police investigation subplot. 
 

 

Um, hello? You forgot about the lingerie. Did I? Oh yeah, I guess I did. To tell you the truth, the lingerie wasn't all that great. Seriously, if you're gonna make a movie about five leggy women trapped in a lingerie factory, you should at least have one of them wear a pair of stockings. You mean to tell me none of the women wear stockings?!? What the fuck? What the fuck, indeed. The people in the costume and wardrobe department should be ashamed of themselves for this nylon-based oversight.   
 

 

While somewhat better than Evil Toons (both feature a group of scantily clad women who are forced to perform manual labour in an enclosed space to the music of Chuck Cirino), Hard to Die still manages to come up short as a slice of undercooked schlock. You have to admit, the decision to kill off the characters in relation to their lack of talent (the less adept thespians are mercifully dispatched in the early going) was an admirable one. But I'll never forgive the film's mishandling of the lingerie. If only Jim Wynorski had consulted Jess Franco (Faceless) or Tinto Brass (All Ladies Do It), directors who know a thing or two about titillation and eroticism (his idea of sexy is to insert funny sound effects while the women wash their boobies in the shower), then you might have had something. Instead, what we're left with is a mildly amusing flick that is saved by a leggy gal from Titusville, New Jersey and a plucky chick from Yorkshire.

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Evil Toons (Fred Olen Ray, 1992)

A normal person, someone who doesn't live their life a quarter mile at a time, will look at the lack of animated monsters in Evil Toons (a.k.a. Qui a peur du diable?) and declare it to be a dismal failure. Others, however, those who approach obstacles with a decidedly different brand of gusto, will see the film's animation deficiency as a blessing in disguise. Whoa, wait a minute. What kind of freak would view this mess as a blessing, disguised or otherwise? I mean, the film has the word "toons" in its title. In other words, where are the fucking toons? First off, this film, written and directed by Fred Olen Ray (Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers) and photographed by the late great Gary Carver (Private Teacher), was made, judging by the quality of the special effects and the skimpiness of the sets, for practically no money. Using more otherworldly words, what did you expect, Cool World? (If you're not familiar with that particular film, think: Who Framed Roger Rabbit or Space Jam.) Secondly, why would anyone bother to insert cartoon characters into a live action movie, a process that's probably expensive and quite time consuming, when you have the luminous Madison (Party Doll A Go-Go!) at your disposal? Who the fuck is Madison, you ask? Well, if you must know, she the fuck is only one of the finest actresses ever to grace the silver screen. And if that wasn't enough, she also happens to possess the temperament of a living, breathing cartoon character. In fact, you could, if you were so inclined, rename the film Evil Madison, or Evil Roxanne (the name of the character she plays), and it wouldn't lose a single ounce of its tawdry appeal.

 
Four young-ish women: Jan (Barbara Dare credited as Stacey Nix), black bicycle shorts/micromanaged big hair; Terry (Suzanne Ager), cut-off jean shorts/micromanaged big hair; Megan (Monique Gabrielle), glasses/braided ponytail; and Roxanne (Madison), neon green tank top/black hair affixed with a neon green scrunchie, are dropped off in a white van in front of a large house by a guy in a pink work shirt named Burt (Dick Miller). Told that they need to...I'm sorry to interrupt you, but did you just say that Burt was being played by the ubiquitous Dick Miller? Yeah. I thought you did. Anyway, instructed to clean the spacious residence as some sort of punishment, the ladies have to stay in the house for the entire weekend.    

 
Starting off in the basement, two of the gals come across a mysterious trunk containing an old shawl and a weird-looking dagger.

 
It's was a minor shame that Roxanne had to relinquish her neon green tank top during an impromptu striptease performed for the benefit of her three friends, because the sight of her constantly adjusting her brightly-coloured garment's wayward arm straps (they kept falling off her lusty shoulders) was my favourite aspect of the movie up until this point. Even though the purpose of her fireside burlesque show was primarily titillation-based, the reason she starts to undress seductively to rock music was to accelerate the loosing up process within a certain member of their shapely party. You see, Megan, the girl in the glasses, she's a tad on the reserved side, and all Roxanne wanted to accomplish by shaking her thong-affixed undercarriage was to show her that the female body is something to be revered, not feared. 

 
Suddenly, there's a knock at the door. Why, it's David Carradine, and judging by the perturbed expression on his face, he's here to collect his paycheck. Unfortunately, there is no paycheck to be collected. Apparently, his character, Gideon Fisk, a mysterious man who hung himself in the seventeenth century against the wishes of a talking book, has to lurk ominously in the shadows a little while longer before he can get paid.
 

 
At any rate, back to the knock at the door, delivering a book to the ladies, yeah, that's right, the very book Gideon was holding when he committed suicide three hundred or so years ago, three of the girls reluctantly decided to open it. Puzzled by the language used in the book and horrified by the pornographic illustrations, the ladies call on Megan (who is currently ruminating over the largeness of her nipples in the mirror) to help translate the strange text; after all, she wears glasses, and, as most people know, shy girls with large breasts, who, of course, wear glasses, are experts when it comes to deciphering obscure languages.

 
After reading the aloud the section that clearly states that this section should not be read aloud, Megan and the others grow bored of the sinister-looking book and agree that it's time to go to sleep.

 
Good riddance, I say, as we're treated to the stellar facial work of Madison. Stellar facial work?!? Oh, haven't you heard? Her face is alive. I know, we all have faces that are technically "alive." But Madison's face is different. She uses it to convey a wide range of emotions by squinting, smirking, rolling her eyes, and, of course, by scrunching her nose. While most actors stare blanking into space, reciting lines of dialogue when it's there turn to speak, Madison is always expressing herself.

 
Now, you might be surprised to learn that film's most entertaining scene has nothing to do with evil toons or naked breasts. Hold on there, buddy. What could possibly be more entertaining than those things? Have you ever watched Madison try to open a difficult to open bottle of wine? 'Nuff said.

 
As she's waiting for her boyfriend Biff to arrive in man's shirt (don't worry, she has frilly purple lingerie on underneath it) with a freshly opened bottle of wine, Madison flips her hair, rolls her eyes, and scrunches the fuck out of her face. Instead of Biff, however, Madison is confronted by a cartoon; in fact, you could say it's an evil toon. Even though she screams for help (the cartoon beast is straddling her on the floor), her friends upstairs think it's just her having rough sex with Biff on the sofa.

 
While Madison is coming to grips with her new personality (less flippant hair flipping, more sinister glaring), we're treated to a long (and I mean, long) clip from Bucket of Blood and cameo by Michelle Bauer (Café Flesh) and a Seattle Seahawks trashcan. (You know a movie is floundering when I take the time to point out a trashcan.)

 
Comfortable in the knowledge that I have, up until now, done an okay job extolling the virtues of Madison Stone in Evil Toons, I still feel as if her many virtues could be extolled in further. Unfortunately, no-one else in the film's cast or crew comes close to the level of awesomeness Madison repeatedly puts out there in this cinematic atrocity. Actually, composer Chuck Cirino (Chopping Mall and Weird TV) does an excellent job with the music, as his synths at the top of their game, so it's not completely one-sided. But for all intents and purposes, Evil Toons is the Madison show. There's a reason writer-director Fred Olen Ray chose her to be the one who gets possessed by an evil toon. And, no, not just because she was the only one willing to get her top licked off by an animated demon hound. It was because she was the only one with anything close to resembling a functioning personality.
 

 
The first time I became aware of Madison wasn't in Party Doll A Go-Go! or its sequel Party Doll A Go-Go! Part 2, but in The Last Resort, a XXX feature from 1990. While the exact details of the plot escape me at the moment, I do recall a scene where she talks incessantly throughout a kitchen set sex scene with Joey Silvera (who is wearing a chef's hat). And, at the time, I remember thinking, damn, this is chick is funny.

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Chopping Mall (Jim Wynorski, 1986)

Rendering the rent-a-cop obsolete with the simple flick of a switch, the mildly satirical, yet altogether entertaining Chopping Mall presents an off-kilter world where your average shopping centre (Sherman Oaks Galleria) is crawling with killer robots, replete with waitresses in red Lacoste shirts who are told to get "more butter" by greasier than usual customers, and features a gun shop called Peckinpah's Sporting Goods (a crisp tribute to the ordnance-friendly director of the same name). Hilarious and provoking hardly any mental exertion whatsoever, the Jim Wynorski directed film is a nimbly paced, mall-based action flick masquerading as an Eating Raoul sequel. Yeah, that's right, Paul and Mary Bland make a brief appearance near the start of the film as restaurant owners. Sitting in the front row at a well-attended demonstration for this new state-of-the-art security system, Mary Woronov (her long, slender legs on full display) and Paul Bartel (his trademark baldness neutralized by his well-nourished beard) are periodically called upon to deliver a barbed comment or two. Of course, it's not the same as having a full-length sequel, but it was nice to see that Bland's were doing well. So much so, that they can apparently afford to buy expensive killer robots to guard their classy eatery.

Designed to protect the sanctity of any merchandise that lies within a building's sturdy walls from would-be thieves and bandits, these robots aren't actually supposed to kill (the term "killer robots" is a bit of a misnomer). But like with most newfangled gizmos and gadgets, the robots start to misbehave. Sure, strangling middle-aged bookworms (Gerrit Graham) and electrocuting surly janitors (Dick Miller) ain't gonna set off any alarm bells at the companies public relations firm. (Their market value is quite low according to the device that measures corporeal merit.) On the other hand, the tension is amplified when a throng of horny teenagers are in danger of being slaughtered. (Adolescents buy more, therefore, are more important in the long run.)

Now firing head-eviscerating laser beams from their eyes, the robots (three to be exact) are hellbent on exterminating eight young people who had planned on partying the night away in the Furniture King (three of the guys work there). Splitting up according to gender, the six (head-eviscerating laser beams have quickly reduced their numbers) teens battle the robots utilizing anything they can get their hands on.

Campy without containing the properties of something that is necessarily campy, Chopping Mall may appear to be a mindless tale of robots gone amuck. However, underneath all the crazy mayhem and clever one-liners ("Fuck the fuchsia! It's Friday!" and "Let's send these fuckers a Rambo-gram.") lies a fortuitous vision of the killer robot future we're all going to be living in the tomorrow to come.

Whether this was the film's intention or not, the sight of a glorified vending machine blowing the head off a lovely lass, whose only crime was looking absolutely scrumptious in a pair of pale panties and possessing a boyfriend who loves cunnilingus, was a stark reminder that machines are becoming more militarized. That being said, the head exploding scene was pretty sweet– you know, in terms of chunk ratio and splatter girth.

Nearly falling into a giddy stupor when I first heard its groovy magnificence during the film's spirited opening credits sequence (where beauty pageant contestants, skate boarding brats, and video arcade enthusiasts literally collide with one another), the 100% electronic score by Chuck Cirino is hands down one of the greatest accomplishments in the history of movie music. The synthesizers, the drum machines, everything seemed in perfect harmony, as its chaotic throb washed over me. Seriously, it's an awesome score.

Quirky fun-fact: Chuck Cirino was the SUV driving host/producer of Weird TV, a wonderfully insane late night program that aired on Global TV in my neck of the woods back in 1995.

Proving that the excessive cuteness she displayed in Night of the Comet was not a fluke, and, of course, establishing once and for all that she doesn't need to sheath her firm body in a light-blue cheerleading outfit to get noticed, the adorable Kelli Maroney imbues her character with intelligence, heart, and, most importantly, a delicate grace. As Alison Parks, a clumsy waitress who is set up by her friends with Ferdy, a slightly awkward (though a night fighting robots should cure that) furniture salesmen played by Tony O'Dell, Kelli embraces her inner badass when the robots decide to strike.

Exhibiting a nice counterpoint to the irrational and hysterical behaviour of Barbara Crampton (From Beyond), Miss Maroney is comfortable with firearms (much like she was in the comet movie) and isn't afraid to spout cheesy one-liners before offing belligerent robots. In other words: yet another reason to worship the spunky splendour that is Kelli Maroney.

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