The Beaver Trilogy (Trent Harris, 2000)

I love Olivia Newton-John. Now, in some less progressive circles, a statement like that might come off as a tad queer. But it's the truth, I love Olivia Newton-John, and I don't care who knows it. Oh, you're probably thinking to yourself: There's nothing queer, or even faggoty for that matter, about loving a woman, especially one who is a British-born Australian singer-songwriter and actress. That's true, you would think the sight of a man loving a woman would endear oneself to the heterosexual overlords who oversee all that goes on within the ovary-antagonizing gefilte fish factory that is the straight universe. But they're not. In fact, there's nothing more subversive than a man loving a woman. In an ironic twist, this is particularly true in a Utah town called Beaver. (Ironic? Twist?) I don't know how many people know this, but Beaver is another word for cunt. And the last time I checked, most women are fitted with the complex box-like doohickeys that are some times referred to as beavers and cunts. (That makes sense.) You see, the heterosexual overlords don't want you to love women, they want you to procreate with women. (There's a difference?) You bet your ass there is. Love is for sissys who regularly clip their toe nails. Real men, on the other hand, fuck pussy whenever possible. And the latter activity, which any doctor will tell you, is the leading cause of pregnancy the world over.

What if you loved Olivia Newton-John so much, that you wanted to be her? And by "be her," I mean the way she appears on the cover of her 1979 album "Totally Hot." You would most likely think that this person had totally lost his marbles. Well, in Trent Harris' The Beaver Trilogy, this question is explored not once, not twice, but three times!

Whenever I hear someone use the word "meta" in a sentence, I always wonder to myself: What the fuck does that mean? Using something called a "dictionary," or at least the modern equivalent of one, I looked the word up. After reading the definition of "meta" multiple times, I began to understand the word's meaning.

The reason I'm talking about the word "meta," is because I think it applies to this film. Truth be told, if I was in charge of writing the definitions in dictionaries, I would say The Beaver Trilogy is the definition of meta. I'd even go as far as say that I don't think a film has ever been this meta.

Anyway, moving on to less meta ground. Who would have thought that Trent Harris' chance meeting with Groovin' Gary in the parking lot of a Salt Lake City television station in 1979 would lead to a film that deftly explores the topics of fame, celebrity, intolerance and mortuary makeup application, and do so in a manner that would elicit so much humour and pathos? I know I sure didn't. I mean, when I first saw Trent Harris (Rubin and Ed) point his video camera at the world's biggest Olivia Newton-John fan, I had no idea what kind of poignancy lay ahead of me.

You know when Grandmaster Flash says, "Uh huh ha ha ha" at the end of raping the lyric, "It's like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder how I keep from going under" on the classic track "The Message"? Well, Groovin' Gary punctuates his sentences the same way.

Wearing bell bottom jeans and a rugby shirt covered in stripes (the stripes kind of reminded me of those old jerseys of the Vancouver Canucks used to sport), Groovin' Gary starts doing impressions of John Wayne, Sly Stallone and Barry Manilow for the cameraman. It's obvious right away the self-proclaimed "Rich Little of Beaver" loves being in front of the camera. After showing Trent his white 1964 Chevy Impala, Groovin' Gary drives off. But not before promising to contact the cameraman if any "good stories" occur in Beaver.

I don't know how much time passes, but Trent gets a letter from Gary informing him that there's a talent show happening in Beaver and that yours truly is headlining. Insisting that he attend, Trent drives down... or was it up? Trent drives to Beaver with his camera in toe. While it's clear, judging by his car, that Gary loves Olivia Newton-John (he has Olivia's name and likeness stenciled on the passenger side window). But just in case anyone in the audience had any doubts regarding his devotion to her, Gary plans on unleashing Olivia Newton-Don at the talent show.

Meeting Gary at the local funeral home, Trent films him as he gets makeup done. It's here where that film starts to really show its off-beat charm, as Gary repeatedly reminds everyone watching that he is in fact a man. But at the same time, he can't help but extol the many virtues of Miss Newton-John: "I love Olivia Newton-John... This is just for fun... I'm a man, not a girl. I enjoy being a guy... Where's my purse?"

After enduring some of the other local talent, it's finally Groovin' Gar... or I should say, it's finally Olivia Newton-Don's time to shine, as we get a wonky rendition of ONJ's "Please Don't Keep Me Waiting." Oh, and like I said before, Gary is dressed like Olivia as she appears on the cover of her 1979 album "Totally Hot."

If you want to know what life was like for Gary before being filmed in the parking lot of that Salt Lake City television station, you're going to have to wait until chapter three. But the black and white "Beaver Kid #2, starring Sean Penn as "Groovin' Larry," does explore the aftermath of his Beaver talent show appearance. And let's just say, it takes a dark turn. For starters, in this chapter, the cameraman, now played an actor, seems to have duplicitous intentions. It also implies that Larry's fellow Beaverites might not be all that thrilled to have a male Olivia Newton John impersonator living in their town.

While watching "The Beaver Kid," it never occurred to me that some people would frown upon having a male Olivia Newton John impersonator in their midst. However, "Beaver Kid #2" smashes any naive notions I had about small town tolerance.

The most relatable scene in the entire trilogy has to be the sight of Sean Penn in a blonde wig singing Olivia Newton-John's "Please Don't Keep Me Waiting" into a hair brush in front of a Xanadu poster. I mean, who hasn't done that? I'm a man, by the way. Don't get me wrong, I love Olivia, but just  not as much as I love being a guy.

Getting back to smashing naive notions. Part 3: "The Orkly Kid," smashes them even further by fleshing out the back-story of Groovin' Gary/Larry even further. What does Larry do when he's not hanging out in the parking lots of Boise (the action has now moved to Idaho) television stations or singing in Olivia drag at talent shows? He survives, that's what he does. He has a dream, and that dream involves being accepted for who he really is. Well, I have bad news for you, fella. It ain't going to happen in Orkly.

You would think that Carrissa, the diner waitress played E.G. Daily (Valley Girl), would more accepting of your unique lifestyle, but she's just as bad as the rest of them.

It's true, the first two chapters in The Beaver Trilogy lay a lot of the groundwork. However, The Orkly Kid is the jewel in The Beaver Trilogy crown. Anchored by a terrific performance by Crispin Glover, and great supporting work by Stefan Arngrim (Class of 1984), as Larry's "friend," The Orkly Kid takes the premise of an Olvia Newton-John obsessed eccentric from in a small town in Utah, and runs with it. Now, the fact that I watched the entire film in one sitting, means that I had to listen to "Please Don't Keep Me Waiting" at least six times. Meaning, you'll probably never want to hear the song ever again. That being said, the film is kind of rewarding... in a "This is awkward... make it stop" sort of way.

Streets (Katt Shea, 1990)

She's not a prostitute, she's a whore. What's the difference, you ask? How the hell should I know? No, actually, I do know what the difference is. You wanna know what it is? Oh, I see. Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. The reason I know is because I just watched Streets. Yeah, that's right, fucking Streets, a.k.a. Straßen des Schreckens. Yeah, that's right, fucking Straßen des Schreckens, a gritty tale about a deranged motorcycle cop who spends an entire day roaming the mean streets of Venice, California looking for a wayward Bundy. While to us, the difference between a prostitute and a whore might seem unimportant. But to Dawn (Christina Applegate), a teenage runaway who never had anything to runaway from in the first place, it's not a question of semantics, it's a question of dignity. If my vaginal and rectal cavities are never rented out to irregular cock on a basis that some might construed as semi-regular, but my mouth and hands are, am I not a prostitute? According to Dawn, no, she is not. When confronted with the question: What do you do? The street smart blonde seems to bristle when you try to label her a "prostitute." Without missing a beat, Dawn calls what she does to get by "whoring." In her mind, the difference between stroking the cock of, oh, let's say, a sheepish Tangerine Dream fan, with your hand, and between fucking the cock of, oh, let's say, a sheepish Tangerine Dream fan, with your pussy and/or asshole is astronomical. Blessed with the freedom to stick as many dicks in as many holes as she sees fit, Dawn is a pioneer when it comes to reducing the amount of cock traffic clogging up her sacred passageways at any given moment. So much so you'll be hard pressed to find any evidence of stretching or tearing. In fact, the insides of her creamy fissures are so pristine, you could stick your penis in them.
 

 

You can declare your corporeal corridors closed for business all you want, that doesn't necessarily mean everyone who approaches you to obtain the limited services you do provide is going to adhere to the strict regulations you have laid out regarding what you will and what you will not allow to be done to your body. For example, you can scream, "I don't do anal," until the cows are sleeping snugly in their beds, there are always going to be those who are going to ignore the rules. And looks like Dawn is about to meet one of the these people right this minute.
 

 

After making Stripped to Kill and Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls, writer-director Katt Shea probably wondered to herself: What did the strippers in my epic stripper saga do before they found salvation on the pole? All arriving in Los Angeles at one point or another with a resounding thud, the women must have wanted to do something other than stripping. I don't mean to sound like I'm putting down stripping; I happen to think it's a noble profession. I just don't think they came all that way to be leered at by strangers. Bullshit, man. What's the difference between being leered at in a stripeclub and leered at on a movie screen? I'll tell you what. It's the same difference between a prostitute and a whore. Anyway, providing no easy answers or solutions, Katt Shea has made her most intelligent and heartfelt movie to date.
 

 

Wearing what looks like a scraggly veneer, one that drips pure, uncut exploitation, Streets is, if you peel away the layers of scum, a deep and meaningful piece of work.  
 

 

You know how I said Dawn bristles when you call her a prostitute? Well, I bristle when I hear sappy piano music. However, since the sappy piano music that opens Streets features E.G. Daily on vocals, I'm going to look the other way. Why is that, you ask? Um, E.G. Daily is awesome. Duh.
 

 

Carrying his Yamaha keyboard on the handlebars of his bike. Nah, I don't like that. How about this: Armed only with his trusty bike, a Yamaha keyboard, and a dream, Sy (David Mendenhall), a teenage runaway, has no idea how drastically his life is going to change the moment he decides to take shelter underneath a Venice pier that fateful morning. Hearing a struggle taking place, Sy jumps to his feet to help a prostitute, I mean, a whore in need. It would seem that Dawn (Christina Applegate) didn't appreciate the aggressive demeanour of her blonde trick, and to show her lack of appreciation, she withdraws from him. Of course, this guy isn't making it easy for Dawn, so she scratches his face and and throws sand in his eyes. Not one to take a hint, the trick rips her earring out and starts shooting at her with his revolver.
 

 

When the shooting starts, that's when Sy does his thing. Rescuing Dawn from drowning, Sy helps her up a ladder, as the trick runs off (a cop on horseback spooks him). If you're wondering why Dawn seems spooked by the cop as well, it's because she's "working." Obviously a tad on the naive side, Sy doesn't understand right away what "working" means. When it does finally come to him, that's when the whole debate about the difference between "prostitution" and "whoring" takes place. In Dawn's mind, a prostitute is pro. She is, as she would say, "just whoring, it's different."
 

 

Which, if you think about it, sounds like great ad copy. "Are you tired of being beaten by unruly pimps? Sick of the irritation brought on by genital warts? Try whoring. It's different."
 

 

As the two soaking wet teens are drying in the morning sun, the blonde trick is at home grabbing his homemade double-barreled silent shotgun from its secret hiding spot. We can all agree that this is not good, especially for Dawn and Sy, who are still in the process of getting to know each other. Lending her a dry pair of pants, Sy and Dawn ride along the beach passing all sorts of off-kilter people of all shapes and sizes. It's here where we meet Dawn's intricate network of lowlifes and equally troubled youths.
 

 

First off, let's meet some of the lowlifes, shall we? Well, no Streets review would be complete without mentioning Bob (Patrick Richwood), a "flamboyant" drug dealer/infrequently washed man about town who seems to act as Dawn's protector. I wanna call him Dawn's pimp, but don't forget, she's not a prostitute, she's a whore; and, as we all know, to quote Heather Mooney from Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, "There's a difference. There's a difference." Another lowlife is Roach (Aron Eisenberg, Nog from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine), a kinda Mr. Fix-it. And we wouldn't want to forget the lovely Sheryl Bence as "Punk Girl," now would we? No way, man. She has a blonde mohawk and is wearing a studded leather jacket at the beach. Call me a silk shirt, but impractical beachwear makes me randier than a pre-op double-crested cormorant.
 

 

If you're starting to feel sorry for deadbeat Dawn, don't. She lives in a drainpipe. In other words, she's living the dream! Wait, that didn't come out right. She may live badly, but at least she doesn't have to work to do so. I don't like that either, but it's the best I come up with to make Dawn's existence not sound so shitty. Anyway, she lives in the drainpipe with Julie Jay (credited as "tattooed roommate") and Kady Tran (credited as "blonde roommate"), and things couldn't be better.
 

 

Don't tell Dawn this, but do you remember that blonde trick whose face she scratched underneath the pier? Yeah, well, it turns out he's a cop, a motorcycle cop. His name is Lumley (Eb Lottimer), and he's a by the book psychopath. Meaning, he doesn't mess around when it comes to inflicting pain and suffering on others.
 

 

And do you remember all those lowlifes and troubled teens I mentioned earlier? Well, there the one's who are going to bear the brunt of Lumley's rage first, as he pays each of them a visit while looking for Dawn. Some get off easy (street urchin Mel Castelo gets her hand stood on), while others aren't so lucky. I would like to go into detail about one of the so-called unlucky ones, but it too ghastly. In fact, just thinking about it makes my rectum quiver with fear.
 

 

Playing a drug-addicted (heroin is her drug of choice), street smart, illiterate (though, she knows the word "ineffable") teen prostitute (if you get paid to have sex, even if it's just "blow jobs and stuff, with strangers, you're a prostitute), Christina Applegate makes a valiant attempt to shed the Kelly Bundy  image she fostered so memorably on Married With Children; and when I say "memorably," I'm referring more to her hair and wardrobe than her actual performance (I was never a fan of the show, as I found it to be asinine). You can tell that Christina took the role seriously just by looking at her appearance. Robbed of her trademark big hair and skimpy acid wash skirts, Christina Applegate has to depend on her acting talent, and that alone, to get by. And, I must say, she does a pretty good job.
 

 

My favoutite Christina Apple moment in the film occurs when Dawn is about to service Alan (Alan Stock), one of her regulars, in his yuppie-fied automobile (I don't know what kind of a car it was, but it was definitely something a yuppie would drive). Telling him that she can't suck his dick because she just had a root canal (which is a lie, whores don't have dental plans), Dawn offers to give him a hand-job instead. Clearly crestfallen by this news, Alan agrees to the handy, but only if he can touch her legs while she strokes him off. He may be yuppie scum (ewww, his car has its own phone), but his priorities are rock solid.
 

 

Kudos to David Mendenhall for doing his own stunts. That nasty spill he takes on his bike while fleeing from Lumley looked like it hurt big time. Oh, and fans of the original Stripped to Kill should keep an eye out for Kay Lenz, who makes a cameo as Cody Sheenan. It's true, Lumley doesn't exactly call her by that name (he calls her "Sargent"), but I like to think that Katt Shea was making a subtle shout-out to his previous masterwork. Essential viewing for Christina Applegate fans and Katt Shea completests.

trailer uploaded by danielray6661

Streets of Fire (Walter Hill, 1984)

Starting your movie by flashing the words, A Rock & Roll Fable" on the screen and ending with the epic bombast of "Tonight Is What It Means To Be Young" are just two of the many attention-getting touches that elevate Streets of Fire (Walter Hill's phenomenal ode to music and machismo) beyond the realm of store-bought vapidity. Played extremely straight at times, this potentially hokey tale about a trench coat-wearing tough guy who fights for love and money has just the right amount of sincerity to it, that it avoids being a parody at every turn. Filled with neon signs, rain soaked girders, forthright loners and lots of leather, the world Mr. Hill is wallowing in is sort of similar to the one he orchestrated in The Warriors in that there's a kind of dreamlike unreality permeating the proceedings. However, the raucous period piece, that takes place during a nonspecific mishmash of the 1950s and the 1980s, is quite different. For starters, the gang in this film is just one guy. Sure, he employs others to complete the task at hand, but the way he man handled those Roadmaster wimps proves that he doesn't need help from anyone, as it was a thing of ass kicking beauty. (I would wager that at least two of those chumps died of embarrassment during their long slunks home.) And secondly, the soundtrack makes its presence felt from start to finish. From the boisterous crowd pleasers that bookend the film to sweaty biker rock of the Torchy's sequence, the music drives the simplistic narrative hard and fast in the general direction of its righteous conclusion.

The disaffected Tom Cody (Michael Paré) is called upon to retrieve Ellen Aim (Diane Lane), his rock star ex-girlfriend, at the request of his wide-eyed sister Reva (Deborah Van Valkenburgh) after she is kidnapped by Raven (Willem Dafoe), the leader of the Blasters Bombers, a gang of unruly motorcycle enthusiasts. Even though he's proven that he can handle himself in almost any situation, Tom brings along Billy Fish (Rick Moranis), Ellen's manager, who knows the neighbourhood, and the equally disaffected McCoy (Amy Manigan) as backup.

On top of being fraught with danger (the bikers are renowned for their unpleasantness), their rescue mission will include run ins with The Sorels (a singing group lead by Stoney Jackson), police roadblocks, and adorable groupies (E.G. Daily plays a hanger-on named Baby Doll). Of course, none of the people I just mentioned get along with one another, which leads lots of bickering, humourous put-downs and male posturing.

A colossal slab of uninhibited manliness, Michael Paré's Tom Cody ("Pleased to meet you") is one of the most straightforward, no-nonsense anti-heroes in cinematic history. My pussy seemed to get wetter than a Cambodian toilet every time he would annoyingly turn around to utter uncomplicated verbiage at someone who dared to interrupt his rigorous brooding regiment. In other words, his tough guy act is the stuff erotic dreams are made of. I mean, to be rescued by such an unabashedly masculine figure must have been tantamount to titillation torture to those who saw it during their developmental stage.

Viewed from an expandable penis point of view, the exuberant dancing of Marine Jahan at Torchy's was the definite highlight from a heterosexual male angle. Actually, I think almost everyone, no matter what the shape of your equipment, can appreciate what Miss Jahan brought to Streets of Fire, as the wildly physical dancer swayed and thrust the air like a deranged humping machine.

The sheer villainy of Willem Dafoe as Raven was a menacing tour de force. (Mmmm, leather overalls... and the prerequisite back acne that comes with them.) And the fight between Tom Cody and Raven with those axe/hammer things was topnotch in terms of brute strength and unflashy swinging. The weapon itself was rather frightening. I wouldn't want to be struck by it that's for sure.

To be honest, I don't exactly know what perverted subgroup this particular section is geared towards. But I know for a fact that people who have a rational proclivity for women in fingerless gloves will go nuts for the amount of fingerless-ness that goes on in this flick. This tight-knit cabal who love it when fingers poke through gloves that are purposely missing the material of the glove where the fingers normally go will get to see Diane Lane, Marine Jahan and E.G. Daily all appear in a state of being completely fingerless at one time or another.

All bring the digit-based sexy, but if I had to give the sexy edge to someone, it would have to be Miss Lane. The way the light hit her fingers as she mouthed the words to "Nowhere Fast" in those long leather babies was quite the ethereal sight.

I think that covers everything. Let me see: Michael Paré creates the kind of moisture that your house plants have no use for, Willem Dafoe is an asshole, but looked cool in shiny overalls, Marine Jahan proves that you don't need long hair and large chest melons to be sexy. Fingerless gloves. What else? Oh yeah, I thought E.G. Daily's character could have been fleshed out a bit more. But then again, her Baby Doll technically should have kicked to the curb the moment Rick Moranis told her to scram. And you know what they say, a little E.G. is better than no E.G.

...

Valley Girl (Martha Coolidge, 1983)

There are two distinct chapters in my life: The period of time before Valley Girl (a.k.a. Valley Girl - Das Mädchen und der heiße Typ), an appalling netherworld where magenta is nonexistent and everything for as far as the eye can see is covered in a suffocating layer of beige, and the one that existed after Valley Girl, a gleaming, effervescent place in which your average leg warmer isn't just a wooly thing that covers your legs, but a full-bodied cornucopia of bold colours and unique possibilities teeming with nuance and guile; a place where idiosyncratic social groups can commingle with one another to eat complicated sushi without fearing an unexpected kick to the crotch. Now, I don't think I have to tell you which realm I prefer living in, but just in case... Seriously though, I can't believe there was an actually increment of time where Martha Coolidge's seemingly accidental ode to passion and nothingness was not a part of my stunning existence. It baffles me to think that I once lived without knowing about the power of Randy and Julie's love for one another. A love that crosses so many boundaries, that it boggles the mind. I mean, he's a new wave punk from Hollywood and she's new wave preppy from the Valley. I'm no expert on L.A. geography, or alternative subcultures during the early 1980s, but that's got to be one of the most unorthodox pairings in the history of heterosexual dating.

Confounding shapely linguists and unhinged anthropologists since its righteous inception, Valley Girl represents a time and a place in the annals of human history that will never be duplicated. Which is why I treat each screening of the film as a sacred ritual. Sure, the clothes I wear as I watch the film may be the gothiest of jet blacks. But believe you me, and that creepy naked guy inhaling his own genitalia in the corner, my clothing is extremely pastel on the inside.

Ironically, it's colours and clothing that get the characters into so much trouble in this film. You see, when Randy and Julie first lay eyes on one another, they're at the beach and stripped of their tribal uniforms. However, when they meet again at a totally rad Val party, they're sheathed in their respective colours: Hers are light-coloured (lot's of whites, pinks, and soothing blues), while his are industrial (lot's of red and black, or, in much simpler terms, a Mussolini Headkick album cover come to life).

Anyway, this party scene is the nitty-gritty of Valley Girl, as we spend a good chunk of time there. In fact, every nugget of plot is launched at this swanky shindig: Fred's relationship with Stacey, the mother-daughter competition over a guy named Skip, Tommy's manipulation of Loryn, and, of course, Randy and Julie's first up close flirtation.

The way Randy and Fred standout at this Val party, and the way Julie and Stacey standout when the two aforementioned guys take them to a club in Hollywood, is the film's most compelling aspect. In that, everyone can relate to being dragged somewhere and end up feeling like an alien.

This so-called cultural exchange feels natural because the talents of Nicolas Cage and Deborah Foreman as the film's signature couple. I found their looks of longing and desire to be genuine and the heat they generate during their stare downs to "Eyes of a Stranger" by The Payolas and "A Million Miles Away" by The Plimsouls is stuff of teen movie legend.

The switch over sequence, however, is sent into stratosphere in terms of honest-to-goodness whimsicality thanks to the brilliant acting of Heidi Holicker and Cameron Dye as Fred and Stacey. Heidi in particular, whose constant whining is expertly realized through a series of sincere complainants (the music was a tad on the loud side) mixed with obnoxious bellyaching (let Fred grope you, you prude).

On an aesthetic level, I loved Miss Holicker's thighs. They're prominently on display during the infamous sleepover sequence, and, to be perfectly honest, I wanted to Holicker them like you wouldn't believe.

The extended dating montage set to "I Melt With You" by Modern English is the pinnacle of extended dating montages. It's true, the song has lost some of its lustre over the years (it's been used to sell everything from cheeseburgers to low cost fallout shelters), but the moment the songs blasts on soundtrack never seems to fail in jazzing me for some forbidden romance Summing up the awe-inspiring splendour that is Valley Girl in just over three minutes, this montage pretty much shows the blossoming of Randy and Julie's love for one another in a tight little package.

Speaking of tight little packages, never has anyone looked cuter than Elizabeth Daily does when we see her dancing in nothing but pigtails and zebra print underwear.

The soundtrack is one of the greatest ever devised by humankind. The Flirts, Psychedelic Furs, The Plimsouls (the girl with the extra long bangs who is seen excessively dancing to them at the Hollywood club looks exactly like my most prominent high school crush), Felony, and Sparks, (the mother-daughter subplot involving the gorgeous Lee Purcell and Canadian cutie Michelle Meyrink features the most excellent "Eaten By the Monster of Love"), and Josie Cotton and her 1950s accented pop.

In closing, to say that life has been different since Valley Girl would definitely be an understatement. A rewarding cinematic experience like no other, the film changed the way I appreciate things. In other words, it has taught me how to love, like, totally. Ugh.

...