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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Q: The Winged Serpent (Larry Cohen, 1982)

It screeches loudly when excited, possesses claws the size of traffic cones, and has a constant hankering for the supple flesh of window washers and sunbathers, yet it manages to allude detection. What, pray tell, am I babbling about? Why I'm describing the lead creature in the unexpectedly awesome Q: The Winged Serpent (a.k.a. American Monster - Das Ungeheuer von New York), an urban monster flick from Larry Cohen – yeah, that's right, the same guy who brought us The Stuff. Now, back in early June, if you'd said that I'd be spending the final days of summer fully enveloped in the goings on in a movie about a giant killer bird that threatens the human residents of Midtown Manhattan, I would have told you (utilizing my world renowned Jimmy Stewart impression) that you're screwy in the head. I mean, I'll pretty much watch anything–as I have proven time and time again–but I usually draw the line when it comes to films about carnivorous flying beasts who get the guys from Kung Fu, Shaft and Law & Order all in a tizzy.

Not one to let some imaginary line prevent themselves from looking at something for a predetermined length of time, I bravely soldiered into the feathery morass that is this loopy endeavour. And aw shucks on a stick, am I glad I did (cross the meaningless line, that is), because the preconception I had about this film completely was wrong. Sure, there's a large monstrosity with wings devouring roof dwellers willy-and-a-fair-amount-of-nilly. But there's so much more going on in terms of character development, theology, human frailty, entitlement, anthropology and class warfare, that you'll forget that there's an airborne menace afoot.

Okay, the chances that you or the many sane people out there will forget about the flesh eating behemoth in the sky is slim to none. In other words, as my notorious Aunt Judy would say, "it's kooky nonsense." However, the way Larry Cohen slowly reveals the identity of the serpentine scourge a little bit at a time, while simultaneously letting the personalities of the main characters blossom, was a clever example of the properly mix serious drama with the occasional severed head.

Grafting a yarn about a massive ambulatory predator onto a detective story involving Aztec mythology and a hard luck tale about a smalltime crook who longs to be a musician is no easy feat. But there they are, all flapping their figurative wings in perfect unison. Well, since the creature has wings, the wings aren't exactly figurative. Uh, let's just say they're doing everything at the same time, and doing so quite well.

A petty thief named Jimmy Quinn (Michael Moriarty) discovers the nest of a large vulture-like bird at the top of the Chrysler Building (a name that is not uttered once) while laying low after a botched jewelry heist. Tired of being treated like a schnook, the wily criminal decides to use the nest location to settle scores – you know, bring people he don't like up to see the nest without telling them that there's a gigantic killer bird living there. When that utilization runs its course, he employs his nest knowledge for monetary gain. Unsurprisingly, his on-again, off-again lady-friend (played ably by Candy Clark) is disturbed by Jimmy's transformation from meek mook to greedy opportunist.

While all this is going on, two detectives, Shepard (David Carradine) and Powell (Richard Roundtree) are trying to solve a recent slew of ritualistic slayings. The former thinks the murders are connected to the spate of rooftop irregularities that have plagued the city; a window washer lost his head (call me a sick twist, but I loved the way the glass stifled the blood from spraying out of gaping neck in a torrent manner). The latter, well, he couldn't give a shit if they're connected or not. Either way, people are still being plucked from atop buildings (one guy gets grabbed out of a rooftop swimming pool) and some are having their hearts forcibly removed from their chests.

Similar to the temperament put forth by Anne Carlisle's character in Liquid Sky, Michael Moriarty imbues his advantageous lowlife with an unhinged giddiness. Akin to the manner in which Miss Carlisle wittingly and unwittingly lured rapists, junkies and judgmental acting teachers to her modest, neon-adorned penthouse to kill them with her cunt, Moriarty–a cunt-less individual if I ever saw one–alternatively uses the giant killer bird perched atop a New York City landmark to deal with his enemies.

Giving a performance that is full of that nuance junk and containing a humongous tablespoon of moxie, Michael Moriarty is all over the map in terms of emotion in Q: The Winged Serpent. Crying, receiving body blows, muttering to himself in a crazed fashion, this isn't the guy you used to see on A&E seven times a day.

Even weirder was the sight of tough guy actors David Carradine and Richard Roundtree treating Moriarty like a two bit punk. It's a tad jarring at first (after all, he's one of the city's top district attorneys), but I got used to the strange role reversal. Much in the same way I got to used to the idea that I was spending my waning summer* watching this oddly entertaining film.

* Yeah, I realize it's not summer in my particular corner of North America right now.

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