Bad Biology (Frank Henenlotter, 2008)

The epitome of unsavoury and vile, Bad Biology is a film that will cause you to look at your genitals with an air of distrust by the time it's over. The long awaited return of writer-director Frank Henenlotter (Basket Case, Brain Damage), this sebaceous cyst masquerading as cinema repeatedly tests one's tolerance for things that secrete an unconventional brand of ooze. Teaming up with rapper turned writer-producer R.A. Thorburn (a.k.a. The Rugged Man), the wily filmmaker has dragged his wonderfully disgusting outlook kicking and screaming into the 21st century. It's true, the campy effects, unprofessional acting and gritty locations of his past movies are well represented in this outing, but they don't quite feel at home in this starkly modern universe. (Hip Hop and Henenlotter is a dicey combination.) While not as aesthetically pleasing as his previous films, the outrageous premise and twisted humour more than make up for its lack of flair. Outrageous premise? Really? I mean, Mr. Henenlotter's previous films involve a murderous mound of flesh who gets around via a wicker basket, a parasitic worm who shoots hallucinogenic blue liquid through a straw located in its mouth, and an amateur mad scientist who reanimates his dead girlfriend with spare hooker parts, so how outrageous can it be? Blessed/cursed with having seven clitorises, Jennifer (played by gorgeous newcomer Charlee Danielson) is the world's only true nymphomaniac. You see, the crass term, which according to her, was invented to make women feel guilty about wanting to have sex with anyone besides their husbands. Well, in Jennifer's case, her complicated genitalia has a genuine craving for the sturdy relief that only a hard and properly motivated cock can provide.

Most of the men who enter the oceanic discomfort of Jennifer's vaginal expanse have no idea what they're getting into when they penetrate the unruly quagmire that is her squishy petunia. And since some of them become acutely aware of what's going on down there the moment they approach her from a strictly oral sex point-of-view (the pronounced throbbing alone will cause even the most seasoned pussy lickers to run for less dewy ground), Jennifer has limited herself to engaging in unsatisfactory one night stands. You know, because cunnilingus is rarely on the menu; particularly when it comes to impromptu junkyard fornication.

The only problem (actually, there are plenty of problems, but let's focus on them one at a time, okay?) is that Jennifer's orgasm is so intense, that she usually ends ups killing the man in an outburst of gratifying passion (much like a female praying mantis will bite the head off its male counterpart after copulation has been completed). These post-coital dispatches have an upside, however, in that she takes photos of her victims and passes them off as ghoulish erotica.

The downside to having so many clits is that her metabolism is a tad erratic. Meaning, she usually gives birth within a few minutes of having intercourse. The fact the she leaves the babies where they come out or puts them in the trash may shock some people. But, as Jennifer points out, the babies are mutant babies, and therefore, not worthy of our sympathy. While their cries do sound human, the shot of that one baby writhing in the bathtub makes it abundantly clear that they're grotesque monstrosities.

Still, it makes you think about all the mutant babies that must be out there twitching and fidgeting without a mommy.

While boasting the most receptive hatchet wound in all of New York City may seem like a blush-coloured happy place filled with a constant profusion of strange and fantastic delights, her cock-possessing counterpart is living in a hellish nightmare where his unstable junk is ruining his life. While most men will be able to relate to a man whose day-to-day existence is completely dominated by the unquenchable thirst of his one-eyed trouser snake, the extreme situation a guy named Batz (Anthony Sneed) finds himself in will no doubt alarm the majority of the penis owners in the audience.

Injected with every kind of drug there is, Batz's headstrong member has grown a mind of its own. Placating it with an industrial-style masturbating machine, lulling it with farm animal narcotics, and keeping it under wraps via the magic of duct tape have all begun to lose their effectiveness, as his penis is starting to literally getting away from him.

One day while doing a photo shoot featuring vagina-faced models in a yellow house in Brooklyn, Jennifer sees Batz yelling at his penis. Curious about the romantic possibilities that might blossom between a woman with a lively vagina and a man with an autonomous penis, Jennifer shows up later that night in the hope that she may have found her ideal partner. Of course, with Batz and his penis not exactly on speaking terms, Jennifer may have found him too late. That's right, his cock has decided to take a walk.

You haven't lived until you have seen a self-governing penis bust through a hardwood floor and attack a half-naked woman lounging in her penthouse.

There were moments during Bad Biology where I felt like I was watching a low budget porno. The "actresses" used during the pecker assaults had a real scruffy and cheap vibe about them. However, the sheer gusto that Charlee Danielson and Anthony Sneed display as Mr. and Mrs. Bizarre Crotch repeatedly save the film from being a distasteful mess with no redeeming values. You have to admire the manner in which the two actors were able to express themselves in a coherent fashion, especially in the scenes where the freaks living between their legs carried on like a couple of junkie sleaze-bags.

The sadness on Sneed's face after his penis leaves him had a hint of Brando about it, while the deadpan way he bemoaned the fact that his penis didn't even say good by was pure Henenlotter. And having the luminous Charlee Danielson wear stockings that were attached to a garter belt throughout the film was a surprising and bold choice (her shapely legs are always tightly encased in nylons, and I couldn't have been more pleased), as they not only did enhanced her performance, but they gave Bad Biology a much needed touch of class.

While not as satisfying as his previous films, it is still comforting to know that there is someone out there willing to take chances when it comes to making disgusting and subversive horror films.

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Basket Case 3: The Progeny (Frank Henenlotter, 1992)

Swarming with more unique individuals than you can shake a pockmark-covered albino wet dream at, Basket Case 3: The Progeny is the delightfully inappropriate and hilariously gory final chapter in the harebrained trilogy about a pair of formerly conjoined twins named Duane and Belial. Unlike most horror trilogies, this one has sprung forth from the singular vision of one man: esteemed writer-director Frank Henenlotter (Brain Damage and Frankenhooker). Involved with the making of all three movies (he's not the type to shirk responsibility), you really get the sense that his unique brand of twisted horror isn't being stifled by outside forces. While I'm sure he wanted it to be messier and more disgusting in places, the off-kilter and satirical temperament of the film never fails to shine through. This wacky disposition is best observed when Granny Ruth (Annie Ross) asks a pharmacist if he's got any extra large condoms for sale, and when Little Hal (Jim O'Doherty) videotapes the most nauseating birthing sequence in film history for posterity. (I liked the drugstore scene because it forces you to imagine what the mutated genitalia of a man with twenty-seven noses would look like encased in rubber.)

Performing double-duty as a penetrating public service announcement detailing the bane that is prejudice and a cautionary tale about the dangers that can come with being too fertile, the film covers some pretty deep themes. The matriarchal Granny Ruth and her band of oddities, still living on Staten Island, are planning a trip down south in order to procure the doctoring expertise of one Uncle Hal (Dan Biggers). Why do they need a doctor, you ask? Remember that revolting sex scene I mentioned that takes place between Belial and Eve in Basket Case 2? No? Well, it seems that Eve is pregnant and they want Hal to deliver the baby. Anyway, they all hop aboard a school bus (even Cedrik and his head of lettuce) and mosey on down to Peachtree, Georgia for some Dixie-based hospitality.

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the mixed-up Duane (Kevin Van Hentenryck) and his various issues involving his homicidal twin. Worried about his safety, Granny Ruth has fitted him with a strait-jacket for the long journey south. He still desires to be free from the freakish cabal, but he really misses his brother, and hopes to reconcile with Belial, the basket-bound expectant father who likes to rip people's faces off.

All the so-called "freaks" (I don't really like to call them that since I've grown quite fond of them) from the previous film are all back and more grotesque than ever. A large part of the enjoyment of parts 1 and 2 was gingerly basking in the pure inventiveness that must have gone into creating the various deformities. I mean, one of them has a head shaped like a half-moon.

Now, I know it's rude to stare and all, but every time they showed them in a room together, like, for example, the party celebrating Eve's multiple birth, I couldn't help but be in awe of the craftsmanship that was on display.

The aforementioned birthing sequence is quite the sight to behold. The way the little Belials kept coming, while comedically satisfying, was a sickening spectacle. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of the circle of life, it's just the screeching sound they made, and, not to mention, the manner in which they were all strung together, was all a tad much to take. Luckily, the bizarre play-by-play provided by Little Hal as the tiny terrors came out managed to alleviate the tension. In fact, some of his comments were quite funny. Of course, funny in a "did he just ask for some celery" kinda way.

Nothing is normal in the ooze-filled world of Frank Henenlotter.

Speaking of not being normal, I loved how the pristine-looking Opal, the daughter of the local sheriff, had a little bondage surprise for Duane during his brief stay in jail. It was just another in a long line of demented treats in this film. However, the fact that her disrobement led to unveiling of leather lingerie was actual not as big a shock as one might expect. I mean, I've found that it's always the quiet ones who exhibit the most perverted of tendencies. The other cool thing about Opal was that she was played by Tina Louise Hilbert, an actress who has the boast-worthy distinction of having Basket Case 3: The Progeny be their only motion picture credit role to date. I'm a big fan of actors who only have one film on their resume.

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Basket Case 2 (Frank Henenlotter, 1990)

The dark and mysterious caverns of the Sanctuary Vampire Sex Bar on Queen Street West and the unmistakable sexiness of Jamie Stewart's bang-friendly haircut bobbing about in the music video for The Cult's "She Sells Sanctuary" are first things that lurch/pop into my mind whenever I hear the word "sanctuary" bandied about in a public forum. What this particular nugget of information has to do with Basket Case 2, Frank Henenlotter's surprising yet logical followup to the first Basket Case, I'm not quite sure. But you gotta admit, I'm one groovy chickadee. I was gonna add this tasty morsel about this reoccurring dream I've been having lately, one that involves me easily winning a Rossy de Palma lookalike contest being held out in the wilds of Etobicoke and blowing my prize money on the recently stained pantyhose of porn stars who appear in pornographic movies where stains and pantyhose go hand in hand, but that would be overkill. Well, whaddya know, while I was not going on about adding my Rossy de Palma/pantyhose dream to the word mix, I happened to recall why I started off on that tangent about sanctuaries: It's because this chapter is all about Duane and little Belial's struggle to find sanctuary in a world that repeatedly rejects them. Somehow managing to survive their plummet-based engagement with the cold, hard sidewalk outside the Hotel Broslin in Manhattan, erstwhile conjoined twins Duane (Kevin Van Hentenryck) and Belial (???) find themselves living with Granny Ruth (Annie Ross), Susan (Heather Rattray) and a vast cornucopia of unique individuals in a stately home out on Staten Island. Of course, not before Belial can claw violently at the face of the policeman who was guarding the hospital room they were recovering in; it's what the twisted little scamp does best.

Luckily, the nurse, played by the statuesque Alexandra Auder (Viva Superstar's daughter, who looked like Zooey Deschanel from certain angles), is spared the unwanted facial rearrangement.

Anyway, a champion for disfigured freaks the world over, Granny Ruth has created a mini-mutant paradise in her spacious attic; a place where the deformed and the hideous can feel a sense of belonging, and not have to worry about the scornful glares of the so-called "normal people."

Feeling out of place in an environment where humans who look like frogs and have twenty-seven noses help carry in the groceries, Duane tries yet again to extricate himself from his needy twin brother. Falling gaga for the deceptively normal Susan, Duane dreams of running away with her and starting over. Only problem is she is just as dedicated to the creature cause as Granny Ruth. Plus, a nosy reporter (Kathryn Meisle) who works for a sleazy newspaper and a private dick (Ted Sorel) have caught wind of the goings on at the monster manor (Duane and Belial's story have become tabloid fodder), and threaten to expose the collection of oddballs to the unforgiving light of day.

The complex decision Duane has to make, you know, whether to stay and help his freaky brethren fight the intrusive outsiders or seek the autonomy he has always desired, is the film's strongest element. Sure, the face gouging and the jarring nature of some of the attic dweller's appearances were topnotch in terms of forcing out the facial contents of others and abnormalcy, but it was Duane's conflicted loyalties that elevated Basket Case 2 beyond the realm of your average freak show.

You see, he doesn't see himself, nor Susan, as one of them (other than the huge scar down his side, there's nothing overtly repelling about his visual presentation). The only thing keeping him there is his misguided commitment to his clearly deranged brother. Which, when you think about it, is a pretty astute metaphor for the festering sore that is family.

As with the first chapter, the film benefits greatly by the deadpan presence of Kevin Van Hentenryck as the mildly troubled Duane. Delivering each line with an unnecessary sincerity, the lanky actor, who, for some reason, only seems to appear in Frank Henenlotter films, manages to create a sympathetic character with a seemingly feckless brand of ease. The best example of this kindly earnestness comes when Kevin evilly explains the dichotomy of being normal in a world populated entirely by freaks to Ted Sorel's P.I. at a local watering hole.

Going in the opposite direction when came to acting strange in a suburban setting, Annie Ross (Pump Up the Volume) camps it big time up as Granny Ruth. Her pep talk to inspire her tight-knit horde of contorted weirdos against those who would dare violate their sanctuary displayed the kind of crazy that I can confidently throw my support behind.

The sex scene between Belial and a similar-looking creature of the opposite gender proves once and for all that Frank Henenlotter ain't hooked up right. It's true, that Belial tries to rub against the shapely thighs of Beverly Bonner (who makes a cameo in this film) in the first chapter – so, he is interested in sex. But I had no idea he had a functioning penis. I don't know what's more disturbing, the look on Belial's face the moment he made his pleasure ooze, or the fact that Kathryn Meisle can be seen at one point wearing white socks and sneakers with her ladies business suit.

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Brain Damage (Frank Henenlotter, 1988)

When you get right down to it, life is all about having blue goo swimming around inside your brain on a semi-regular basis. The big question being: How does one get the blue goo in there? I'm no brain doctor, but I don't think the blue goo is gonna inject itself. Well, if there's one person who can shed some light on this unique dilemma, it's definitely writer-director Frank Henenlotter (Basket Case). The most comprehensive cinematic guidebook for all those unfortunate souls out there who have unwittingly found themselves ensnared in a symbiotic relationship with a thousand year-old parasitic, psyche-devouring, hallucinogen spewing slug named Aylmer, Brain Damage is a touching parable about a young man who has gotten so hooked on the blue nectar, that he fears for the brains of his loved ones. You see, Aylmer needs to consume brains, while you require a steady dose of the psychedelic ooze that only Aylmer can provide. And while you're tripping out, blissfully riding a wave of colours and transcendental gladness, Aylmer might be eyeballing the skull meat of your irregular girlfriend. A disgusting worm with a large oral cavity replete of jagged teeth, Aylmer is actually a rather charming fellow once you get to know him. And, believe me, when he becomes attached to you, the chances of being exposed to his world famous charm are quite high. Fleeing the apartment of an elderly couple when he grows tired of eating animal brains, the leech-like Aylmer decides to shack up with Brian (Rick Hearst), a nondescript chap living with his brother Mike (Gordon MacDonald). Piercing his flesh with a retractable straw, Aylmer gives Brian's brain its first blue sludge hit while he's asleep.

The shock of waking up to a find that there's a small hole on the back of his neck starts to dissipate when he stops fidgeting and begins listening to the light. A vibrant kaleidoscope of bright colours and blurred shapes greets the youngster's cerebral cortex with an orgasmic thud.

Alienating himself from his brother, his adorable lady friend Barbara (Jennifer Lowry), and the world in general, Brian, after some trepidation, seems to be at ease with his newfound acquaintance. Filling his room with buckets of water and spending an inordinate amount time in the bath (Aylmer is a big fan of water), the withdrawn teen starts to bring his slimy pal out with him on nocturnal jaunts to junkyards and punk clubs.

This relaxed attitude is upset somewhat when Brian discovers that Aylmer kills people when he eats their brains (it's virtually impossible to eat someones brains without causing the brain owner a modicum of harm) . The potency of the drug sloshing its way through his noodle may have clouded his recollection of the exact moment a person's brain was eaten, but the fact that he is starting to notice that is clothes are, more often than not, covered in blood when all is said and done is an alarming trend he could do without.

Saturated with the kind of unsettling gore and freakish behaviour I've come to expect from Frank Henenlotter, Brain Damage is a disgusting, yet wonderfully deranged affair that will have you laughing and gagging at the same time. Blessed with a haunting synthesizer score by Clutch Reiser and Gus Russo (particularly the music heard during that long, unbroken tracking shot of Brian walking down the street), and fantastic special effects (I loved the throbbing meatballs that looked like brains), the film beautifully mixes moments of playful absurdity with ones of absolute revulsion.

Obviously, the scenes where Brian and Aylmer (voiced by an uncredited John Zacherle) talk to one another were rife with an indescribable oddness. How else would you describe the image of a rational man conversing with a worm-like creature that exudes a hallucinogenic substance that looks an awful lot like toilet bowl cleaner? The fact that Aylmer's voice was so friendly sounding (as supposed to the unfriendly sounding brain-sucking slugs in all the other blue sludge spitting parasite movies I've seen) did nothing but add to the film's status as a cockamamie work of demented genius.

Brilliantly deadpan, Rick Hearst (General Hospital) perfectly conveys the horror one must go through when they find themselves locked in a soul draining relationship with a debilitating entity, especially one you originally thought was named Elmer. (I can only imagine how humiliating it must be to fucked in the back of the neck by something called "Elmer.")

Whether projectile hemorrhaging from his right ear hole or having his parasitical companion receive an alleyway mouth massage from an attractive punk club patron (Vicki Darnell) in the zipper region where his penis should be, Rick does everything within his power to make Brian seem like a regular guy. But not too regular; I thought the band posters that adorned his bedroom were a nice touch, as I spotted ones for The Cramps, Bauhaus and Suicide. They gave Brian that slight edge one needs when battling a crippling addiction. I mean, who wants to watch a fan of The Replacements or Hüsker Dü come to grips with the creature injecting a blue gel directly into his medulla oblongata? I know I sure don't.

Anyway, no matter what kind of posters Brian had on his wall, there is no doubt in my mind that Brain Damage is a great film.

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Basket Case (Frank Henenlotter, 1982)

We've all had parasitic family members who have, at one time or another, leeched off our revitalizing auras for the welfare of their own spiritual trajectory. But what if that family member was attached to your pelvic girdle and prevented you from fornicating with others at every turn? Well, that's exactly what the bushy haired boob in Frank Henenlotter's wonderfully sordid Basket Case has to contend with on a daily basis. An unabashedly sleazy and extremely low-budget affair, the film is essentially about sibling jealously (I, too, would be envious of a sibling if they got to date bosomy receptionists, while I had to spend all day in a basket with nothing but raw hot dogs to keep me company), malpractice (dining room surgery rarely turns out for the best), basket-based curiosity (the desire to know what's inside the basket crosses every character's mind at least once), and revenge (forcing conjoined twins to separate, even if one of them is a wheezing monstrosity, isn't always the sanest course of action). However, the film is about so much more than that. For example, the amount of insidious nuance that takes place amidst all the flesh tearing was off the charts in terms of intricacy. The film is also quite romantic. Case in point: The awkward relationship that forms between the vengeful basket carrier and the receptionist was touching and realistic (their open mouth kisses were tantalizing). Plus, I liked the way the both had an affinity for unkempt hair. In fact, it's probably the main reason their eyes locked so intensely when they first met (see, intricacies). The decision to have them go to the Statue of Liberty for their first date was a brilliant one, as the unpredictable winds of Ellis Island had field day with their ungainly locks. All this hair raising and unexpected courting was groovy and all, but the principal reason for the film's existence is to show quacks being torn apart by a screeching mound of flesh with a score to settle, not the coquettish dalliances of a couple of people who really need to get to a salon.

An accidental love letter to city of New York circa 1982, Basket Case, like most films that were shot there during that particular time period, benefited greatly from the energy the lively metropolis was putting out there. The sight of Duane Bradley (Kevin Van Hentenryck) simply walking down the street, basket in hand, is enhanced by the fact that he's walking in Times Square (42nd Street). The lights, the street life, the sleazy movie titles on the cinema marquees, and the noise all contributed to the overall vitality of the piece.

The story of a young man wanting to get revenge for a past wrong is nothing new. On the other hand, the story of a young man and his deformed brother, whom he carries around in a large wicker basket, wanting to get revenge on the doctors who forcibly separated them is quite unique. After dispatching one doctor in their small town in Upstate New York, Duane and his brother head to New York City to take care of the other two.

Staying at a cheap hotel, the wide-eyed Duane befriends Casey (Beverly Bonner), a shapely hooker with iridescent lipstick, and makes goo-goo eyes with Sharon (Terri Susan Smith), the receptionist of one of the doctors on their kill list.

These relationships complicate their mission, as the brother in the basket grows increasingly jealous of Duane's ability to interact with attractive ladies (the hand basket resident communicates his displeasure telepathically). Whereas, all he seems good for is mutilating people. It's this sibling rivalry that drives the film forward to its inevitable conclusion. There's an excellent flashback sequence that explains the origin of the Bradley brothers' grievances.

The combination of outlandish gore and earnest acting are what Basket Case a classic in my warped mind. I mean, you have commend the actors for playing it so straight. This is especially true when comes to Kevin Van Hentenryck, who spends most of his time emoting with a basket and running naked through Manhattan. The slightly askew vibe that Terri Susan Smith brought to the girlfriend role was a surprising delight. I think I already mentioned this, but her kissing technique was downright yummy (it was almost as if she was inhaling his entire face). And the securely built Beverly Bonner reacted the way any normal person would react if they found a demonic head with arms in bed with them.

The many flesh ripping scenes, while disgusting, had a strange, almost playful air about them. Maybe it was the semi-hilarious image of a screaming doctor trying to fend off what is essentially a severed head with claws that made these violent scenes so carefree. I don't know. But either way, the excessive blood seemed reasonable and the amount detail that went into creating the gashes was topnotch.

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Frankenhooker (Frank Henenlotter, 1990)

How any plot-based motion pictures got made after the uncontaminated perfection that is Frankenhooker was unleashed onto an unsuspecting world in 1990 is totally beyond me. Okay, I realize that what I just said might sound a tad implausible as far as warped theories go (people are gonna continue to make movies no matter how amazing a film that combines the Frankenstein legend with New York hooker culture is). However, I should say, with its prostitute-related mirthfulness, playful leg measuring, grisly yet totally preventable lawnmower accidents, wacky depiction of indoor crack consumption, bunion filing, and multiple scenes where budding mad scientists deliver morbid dialogue in deliciously deadpan New Jersey accents, you really gotta wonder why anyone would even try to top its awesomeness. I guess it's just one of those things you've got to accept and move on. Careening wildly from the demented skull of Frank Henenlotter, the warped genius behind cinematic classics such as Basket Case and Brain Damage, this cautionary tale about a man and his collection of mangled but gout-free body parts is awash with the properties essential in the rapid creation of a mind-blowing work of art. Yeah, that's right, I used the term "art" to describe this strange undertaking. How else would you describe a film that manages to shine a light on the importance of lawnmower safety, while, at the same time feature a touching scene where an increasingly anti-social individual has dinner (pizza with a nice Beaujolais) with his beloved girlfriend's severed head? Personally, I can't think of one.

First of all, the protagonist sticks a power drill into his own head (it's a pre-drilled hole and sticking a drill in it helps him think and alleviates his "cluster headaches"). And, as most sort of sane people know, head drilling is one of the key ingredients that go into the metaphoric sauce that spices up things that lack head drilling.

Secondly, nine (count 'em, nine) harlots of various shapes, ethnic groups, and deviating levels of attractiveness are seen exploding in a semi-orderly fashion. Actually, two of them blow up "real good" simultaneously, which irked the flow a tad. But I'm not gonna be the one who complains about the manner in which hookers explode after consuming a chemically enhanced form of crack cocaine (a.k.a. super-crack).

The third, and probably most important component to the film's undeniable awesomeness, was the cut and paste hooker of the film's title. The purple streetwalker gear, chunky footwear, mismatched body parts, and delightful facial ticks all fused together to forge one of the most striking movie monstrosities to emerge from a fake movie laboratory in recent memory.

A simple man named Jeffrey Franken (James Lorinz), one who works for a New Jersey electrical company, dreams of becoming a scientist. Unfortunately, medical school's upset him, so he's pretty much stuck doing experiments in his girlfriend's mother's kitchen (when we first meet him, he's working on some sort of eyeball-brain creature). On the day of his girlfriend's father's birthday, tragedy strikes when the lawnmower they're giving him as a present runs over Elizabeth Shelley (Patty Mullen) and sends her limbs all over the backyard.

While a normal person would classify this as an accident, and move on with his life as a failed scientist, Jeffrey, sensing an opportunity to prove himself, is determined to put his girlfriend back together. Only problem being, there's not much left of her to work with (the lawnmower took care of that). Whilst dining with Elizabeth's severed head (he managed to salvage her head), Jeffrey comes up with a fiendish idea. Why not use the limbs of prostitutes? After all, Manhattan is apparently full of them. And so... the search for replacement parts begins.

Wearing his lab coat with pride, James Lorinz (Street Trash) is a comedic tour-de-force as aspiring mental case Jeffrey Franken (a.k.a. "Jersey Boy," a nickname given to him by his new prostitute pals). An amateur (mad) scientist who finds himself flirting with amorality after the untimely death of his pretzel-loving girlfriend ("I'm not killing them," his says, "I'm just placing a lethal form of crack in their presence"), James imbues the skittish New Jerseyan a complexity you don't often find in your average dead girlfriend reassembled from dead prostitute parts. Sure, a lot of the credit has to go to the film's writing, which is extremely clever at times, but I thought Mr. Lorinz's line delivery was spot-on. Plus, I just loved the way he was able to keep a straight face most of the time, especially while apologizing to a room full of unattached hooker limbs (their shapely legs still wearing their lacy socks and no-nonsense pumps as they lay scattered across the room).

Even though her role as Elizabeth Shelley is reduced to being an inanimate head floating in a freezer full of pinkish feminine fluid for the first half of the film; she's even likened to a tossed human salad at one point by a witty newswoman. Nevertheless, the moment the gorgeous Patty Mullen is reanimated and then reborn as "Frankenhooker," she injects the newfangled trollop with a zesty, almost ebullient air. The aforementioned facial ticks and clumsy walk were wonderfully realized, but it was her repetitive vocalization of non sequiturs and frank hooker come-ons that sealed the deal.

"Wanna date?"

If you thought Carissa Channing was scrumptious as a brunette on Seinfeld (she appears in "The Keys," but I mostly know her from "The Cigar Store Indian" episode), you should see her as a blonde. Yowsa!

I literally had to stop watching Frankenhooker at one point, not because of Carissa Channing's innate hotness as a blonde, but because the crack ingestion scene in Jeffrey's hotel room was too much for me to handle. Its twisted approach to wayward stimulation, the sheer amount of gyrating floozies, the focus on body parts (Jeff is definitely a leg man), the abundance of fishnet stockings, and the overall titillating nature of the scene was so awesome, that I could hardly contain myself.

I tell you, if I was five and a half years younger, and perhaps named Claudio, I would go into great detail about the physical makeup of each individual prostitute. Well, fuck age and to hell with this Claudio clown, Honey (Charlotte J. Helmkamp), the de-facto leader of the Zorro's girls, her second-in-command Amber (Kimberly Taylor), the goofy Angel (Jennifer Delora), the leggy Crystal (Lia Chang), Anise (Susan Napoli), Chartreuse (Heather Hunter), the bosomy Snow (Gittan Goding), Sugar (Vicki Darnell), and Monkey (Sandy Colosimo) deserve to be lavished with an inordinate amount of praise for their scintillating work as the hookers of Frankenhooker.

While my perverted gaze was immediately drawn to Gittan Goding as Snow (her short blonde and black opera gloves were a divine combination), all the ladies had something about them that made my spirit soar. Even though I was able to take comfort in the fact that their sexy parts were being recycled, it's a shame they all had to blow up as a result of inhaling a giant bag of tainted crack.

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