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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Motorama (Barry Shills, 1991)

One of the weirdest films I have ever seen, Motorama is an enigma wrapped in a package made out of golden cat...Uh, that thought isn't really going anywhere, let me try something else... I don't want sound like a piece of self-flagellating cheese, but when I say something is "the weirdest," it's gotta be weird. Boasting the hippest supporting cast ever assembled and the most aloof protagonist since Valerie and Her Week of Wonders, the film, written by After Hours scribe Joseph Minion, leaves you with a feeling of unease; the tone of the movie always seems a little off. I mean, it's almost as if it's set in alternate universe: the currency is rainbow-coloured, the states and provinces have names that don't appear on any map I'm aware of, and no one seems to be the slightest bit freaked out by the sight of a little boy purchasing gasoline for his red 1965 Mustang. However, once I got used to the bizarre spirit of the film, I was able to appreciate what it was getting at. Which is, that the road is an unforgiving place, and sometimes you've got to ditch your children at a roadside picnic area in order to break-even after an impromptu game of horseshoes goes awry. Motorama is essentially about Gus (Jordan Christopher Michael), a single-minded ten year old who decides to hit the open road and the adventures he gets into along the way. His main goal is to collect these special game cards that contain letters that spell out the word "M-O-T-O-R-A-M-A" (the name of a chain of gas stations) and win the substantial cash prize. It may sound straightforward: find the letters, spell the word, don't get killed by bikers. But procuring the 'R' is gonna be tough.

The film's surrealistic bent is exposed early on when Gus meets Phil (John Diehl, who played the killer in the original Angel), a gas station attendant who is minding a yellow kite tied to the antler of a plastic deer when the youngster pulls in. The kite has a picture of Phil shaking hands with a police officer (Robert Picardo), and apparently it's his way of showing an unseen entity that lives in the clouds that he's a decent human being.

After that, things just seem to get progressively stranger, as the diminutive road warrior plunges deeper into the offbeat landscape that is this nonspecific country.

It's not always the case, but having a child actor carry the bulk of a movie on his or her shoulders can be a risky endeavour. But in the case of Motorama, I think they bypassed disaster with Jordan Christopher Michael.

He imbues Gus with a sauciness that sets him apart from his more adorable brethren. For example, Jordan swears like a person who swears a lot, wears an eye-patch, arm wrestles Meat Loaf, and washes his face using rainwater that has collected in a discarded tractor tire. Things I can pretty much guarantee you would never see Jeremy Miller or Danny Pintauro doing in a million years.

The best part of the film (you know, the parts that didn't involve looking for letters or beautiful desert scenery) was the wide array of kooky people Gus comes across on his journey. It's a veritable who's who of unorthodox cool. Seriously, any film that sports VJ extraordinaire Martha Quinn as a shiftless bank teller and Jack Nance as a squirrel-hating motel clerk has got to have something going for it.

Add the fact that cult movie queen Mary Woronov (Eating Raoul) appears as an apathetic kidnapper (she is paired with Sandy Baron - Jack Klompus from Seinfeld), Red Hot Chilli Peppers bass player Flea shows up as an opportunistic busboy and the ubiquitous Dick Miller can be seen as an unpredictable father of two, and things get even cooler.

But wait, there's more!

The always delightful Susan Tyrrell (Forbidden Zone) serves Gus a cup of coffee, a pre-Poison Ivy Drew Barrymore waves at our hero while wearing a floral garland, a surprisingly leggy Robin Duke epitomizes your typical corporate shill, and Allyce "Moonlighting" Beasley plays a receptionist.

You see, this movie is steeped in coolness. Which, I must admit, is quite odd for something that was conceived during the extremely cool-free year of 1991.

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Angel III: The Final Chapter (Tom DeSimone, 1988)

The least talked about entry in the teen prostitution saga, Angel III: The Final Chapter seems miles away from the unsavoury sidewalks of Hollywood featured in the first two films. That might be because it starts off in New York City, where Molly "Angel" Stewart" now works as a freelance photographer. However, I think it has more to do with the fact that 1984 and 1988 are two totally different animals when it comes to "Living in the '80s." You see, the eighties can be broken down into two separate, yet equally important groups: The early '80s and the late '80s. The former was awash with creativity and avant-garde ideas, while the latter was a semi-bloated corpse yearning to remain relevant. For example, instead of going out and buying colourful bracelets at the mall and having irregular sex with Rick James, people in the late '80s seemed content to lie on their chesterfields watching individual beads of sweat struggling to outwit the mighty grip of Paula Abdul's world class thighs on their once state-of-the-art televisions. And if you ask me, that's a huge difference. Now, don't get me wrong, the latter half of the decade did contribute a fair amount of enchantment to the cinematic landscape (Teen Witch, Heathers, Killer Klowns from Outer Space), but Angel III: The Final Chapter isn't quite in the same league as those flicks.

The series has been completely overhauled and retains hardly any of the charm of the first two films. For starters, Angel creator Frank Vincent O'Neill has been replaced by Tom DeSimone (Reform School Girls), a man who definitely knows his way around a bag of sleaze. Yet, this guy just doesn't have the same visual flair as O'Neill. I mean, Los Angeles looks so drab and boring in this chapter. And jettisoning all the colourful characters that made the first two films such a pleasure to wallow in was an unfortunate turn of events.

I do, however, have to commend Mr. DeSimone for devising a plot that contains sexual slavery, cocaine distribution, x-rated cinema, and an ice cream truck. Oh, and not to mention, thank him for filling the screen with a cavalcade of naked breasts.

Anyway, the actual plot, and there is one, involves Angel being forced back onto the mean streets of Hollywood when she learns that her long lost sister Michelle (Tawny Fere from Rockula) has gotten mixed up with a distasteful throng of slave traders lead by a pimping visionary played by Maud "Octopussy" Adams.

Saddled with unenviable task of replacing Betsy Russell is the wonderfully named Mitzi Kapture. (Her kooky handle sounds like the working title of my unpublished guide to stalking bubbleheaded coeds.) Yeah, well, Mitzi does a competent job of filling out Angel's hooker wear. Despite the fact she doesn't really get to whore it up beyond humiliating a pimp and stealing his car.

On the other hand, I did enjoy the parts where she worked as a porno extra. The friendship/bond she forms with the other actresses was on the cusp of being fascinating, as it produced some insight into hopelessness some women must go through when they find themselves trapped in the unending shame spiral that is sexual exploitation.

Unfortunately, the romantic relationship Angel forms with a non-pornographic film editor played by Kin Shriner (General Hospital) was pretty much a dead on arrival.

The immensely talented Mark Blankfield (Jekyll and Hyde... Together Again) tries his best to imbue the proceedings with some playfulness as Angel's flamboyant, Disraeli-quoting friend, Spanky. But he can't quite match the get-up-and-go wackiness of Susan Tyrrell and Rory Calhoun (whose presence is sorely missed in this chapter).

The legendary Richard Roundtree (Shaft), the sensational Toni Basil (Rockula), cult actress extraordinaire Laura Albert (Mrs. Van Houten from Dr. Caligari) and the ubiquitous Dick Miller (A Bucket of Blood) are also in the film, but with the exception of Mr. Roundtree, their parts aren't much to brag about in terms of screen time. Which is shame, because when I saw Toni Basil appear onscreen looking all fabulous and junk, I figured she was gonna be Angel's new sidekick -- you know, ala Susan Tyrrell's Solly Mosler from the original film. But sadly, that never materialized.

Apparently there is an Angel 4 (Angel 4: Undercover) out there somewhere that stars the very blonde Darlene Vogel and a no doubt bewildered Roddy McDowell. But since I have heard nothing but negative things about it, I've decided to skip it, for now. Which is kinda a relief, because it doesn't seem to be commercially available (you know, other than used VHS copies on Amazon).

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