Dr. Alien (David DeCoteau, 1989)

Clumps of coagulated dandruff conspiring underneath the fingernails of possible existence, Dr. Alien (a.k.a. I Was a Teenage Sex Maniac and I Was a Teenage Sex Mutant) gently protrudes from the top of your head like a worm in search of substandard car insurance. A film like no other, yet strangely like other films in every way imaginable, this David DeCoteau (Creepozoids and Nightmare Sisters) directed piece of excitable sushi has one goal, and one goal only: to begin and to end. And speaking as a person who loves the living otherworldliness out of things that eventually cease to be (especially sporting events and award shows), I appreciated what this out of this world undertaking was attempting to pull off by ending so promptly. In the meantime, the fact that a wholly entertaining film was somehow squeezed between the start and the finish is a testament to the dedication of all those involved in the making of this profoundly touching and socially relevant enterprise. A stark examination of what it must be like to be the owner of an infrequently desired teenage cock, the realistic film follows a buttoned-down stick plunged into an expanse of mud named Wesley Littlejohn (Billy Jayne) as he tries to navigate the intricate nooks and crannies of collegiate life. Like most cautious individuals, his best friend, Marvin (Stuart Franklin), is the complete opposite when it comes to style and overall temperament. Together, they make for a mildly interesting movie pairing. The act of putting them in college as supposed to high school was also interesting; in that, it seemed to free up the filmmakers, giving them carte blanche be more aggressive in regard to implementing their more perverted flights of fancy.

Having just botched an attempt to talk to Leeanne (Olivia Barash), the girl of his dreams, Wesley finds himself all alone in biology class with the newly hired Ms. Xenobia (Judy Landers)–their regular teacher was put out of commission by a large spherical light–and her assistant Drax (Raymond O'Connor). He thinks he's their for an extra credit assignment, but the lab-coated twosome have some different in store for the awkward young man in the bland sweater.

Clandestinely injecting him in the buttocks with a syringe full iridescent green goo, Wesley feels a little woozy and then drifts off on top of a dissecting table. Waking up in a blurred haze, all he remembers is the dainty outline of Ms. Xenobia's complicated lingerie.

Now, I may not have noticed it instantaneously (my brain is not good sometimes), but it was right then and there that Dr. Alien attained its status as a masterwork of imperishable greatness. You see, by fusing the medical properties of lingerie with the eye-catching resplendence of bright liquid in a syringe, the film immediately established itself as a work of art that was worthy of my increasingly fickle gaze.

And you know no-one ever says: Old school garter belts and vividly coloured narcotics are the cornerstone of first-rate cinema.

The mysterious fluid coursing through his veins seems to have improved Wesley's life in every conceivable manner. He's more confident, his attire becomes more casual (no more ties and sweaters), and he's able to talk to Leeanne without tripping over his words. Only problem is that every female on campus wants his penis to be thrust inside their vaginas for a reasonably excessive amount of time whenever that worm-like antennae is sticking out from the base of his skull.

Of course, his friend Marvin doesn't see this as a problem (the prospect of having women crawling all over him is very appealing to him). But if Wesley wants to make any progress with Leeanne, he's gonna have to find away to control his male rivals girlfriend (Julie Gray) and countless horny coeds (the endearing Michelle Bauer from Café Flesh being one of them) who want to decimate his genitalia.

Narrated by Billy Jayne (Just One of the Guys) like it were a Достое́вский novel, Dr. Alien glides smoothly toward its life affirming message (you don't need green goo to be cool), thanks to skillful direction and humourous performances. Snicker obnoxiously if you must, but the combination of fundamental camera angles and comical acting should not be underestimated. Hellish landscapes, even Jim Hackett and Arlene Golonka were able to garner stilted laughter as Wesley's uptight parents.

Exuding a Stephen Sayadian brand of elan, the dream sequence involving Wesley being seduced in a lightless, smoke-filled netherworld was epic in terms of off-kilter brilliance. Standing before the disoriented youngster, undulating in an erotic state of deceleration, were Laura Albert (Dr. Caligari), Ginger Lynn Allen (New Wave Hookers), and Linnea Quigley (Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers). In charge of arousing his woolgathering subconscious, this legendary trio humped the murky air with a cock-teasing grace, as Judy Landers looks on in a pair of purple new wave shades.

Saddled with the role of the innocent wallflower who doesn't quite understand what the troubled protagonist is going through, Olivia Barash is cute when she has to be (her introduction was downright adorable) and feisty when things got hairy (I loved the part where she wields a chainsaw).

I couldn't help but be reminded of Repo Man during the scene where Wesley offers Olivia's Leeanne a ride as she walks down the street, as Otto does the exact same thing in the Alex Cox directed classic. The only difference being Otto is asking her after becoming a square (he used to be a rebellious punk), while Wesley is asking her after transforming into a character that is beaming with confidence.

Call me a misguided miscreant, but there has to be connection these two scenes. I mean, what are the odds of Olivia Barash being offered car rides from young go-getters while walking down the street in two movies?

Anyway, I think I've said enough to adequately advance Dr Alien's profile. Oh, did I mention that Laura Albert, Ginger Lynn Allen and Linnea Quigley also appear as a rock group called The Tangpoons? Yeah, it's entirely true. Sure, they probably don't any of their own singing, but you got to admit, the mental image of those three actresses doing anything together, let alone cavorting on stage in the gaudiest clothes the 1980s have to offer, is pretty fucking awesome.

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New Wave Hookers (Gregory Dark, 1985)

Supporting the spiritual trajectory of a decade's counterculture has never been the strong suit of mainstream Hollywood. Take, for instance, the cinematic output of the 1980s. You can scour the frames of countless motion pictures that were made during that particular period of time and still come up empty in terms of finding era specific examples of the fashion, music, sexuality, and interior design that helped shape the Zeitgeist. The people in charge of making these movies clearly had no real interest in the chromatic explosion that was happening all around them. It's true, there were a handful of directors, costumers, and production designers who understood the full magnitude of what was going down. But for the most part, the film's reek of misguided nostalgia and broken dreams. If the bland and the feckless amongst filmmaking elite weren't going to remove their collective heads from the gaping asshole known as "the sixties" and properly capture the essence of the fingerless glove decade, who would? Pornographers! That's fucking who. The unsavoury world of pornography may have a lot going against it: wanton drug abuse, suspect production values, wonky acting skills, and scene after scene of unappealing double penetration action to name slightly more than a few. But when it comes to crystallizing what it meant to be alive in the 1980s, you should look no further than your average adult film made between 1980 and 1989.

Unashamedly embracing everything that has made the 1980s the shining beacon to all those who desire to be a little less lame in their day-to-day life that is today, New Wave Hookers is the most audacious, most shameless, most stain-covered '80s movie ever made. Fearless when it comes depicting new wave culture gone awry, writer-director Gregory Dark and his crack team of perverts (including set designer Pez D. Spenser) have come up with a premise so simplistic, yet so mind-numbingly brilliant, that it's no wonder it has spawned a truckload of sequels and a remake.

It starts off with two slackers named Jimmy (Jamie Gillis) and Jamal (Jack Baker) sitting on their couch watching pornography – this act itself is groundbreaking in that it breaks the pornographic fourth wall rule, you know, the one that stipulates that there is no porn in porn. Wondering aloud about how great it would be if they were pimps and could control their "bitches" with the sound of that newfangled new wave music.

Drifting off (the television is now nothing but static), the pair awake to find themselves sitting at desks in an office setting. Jimmy, wearing a studded collar and a sleeveless t-shirt with word "anarchy" written on it, and Jamal, sporting a yellow jumpsuit with matching sunglasses, are now in charge of New Wave Hookers Inc., a pimping agency that supplies new wave obsessed women to those who need to be sexually serviced. (It should also be noted that Jimmy, on top of getting a funky new wardrobe, now speaks with a bad Japanese accent.)

Oozing coolness from start to finish, New Wave Hookers grabs you from the get-go with its super-terrific opening credits sequence set to "Electrify Me" by The Plugz (the band responsible for the majority of this film's amazing music). Introducing the female cast through a series of tantalizing clips that feature them posing seductively and pawing at their genitalia, this smokey sequence gently moistens our eyeballs for the gaudiness to come.

The first scene involves a gal named Candy (Desiree Lane) roller-skating into the fledgling pimps' office in a pair of skimpy white denim shorts (she saw their ad in the Valley Gazette). The guys slap some headphones on her, no doubt blasting the latest new wave jam, and before you know it, Candy is feign consuming the cock of Jimmy and Jamal's dog (Steve Powers); yeah, their dog is a man (he also makes the ringing sound for the two phones in the office). Anyway, while the dog is getting his biscuit polished, Jimmy repeatedly slams his turpentine estrada into Candy's minimal compact, and Jamal can be seen masturbating off to the side.

Next up, Jimmy and Jamal send over Palace (Kimberly Carson) and Nora (Brooke Fields) to sexually gratify a fella named The Sheik (Peter North) in his indoor tent. Well, the ladies start off by gratifying each other: licking and groping the usual places. Now, don't get me wrong, the sheer amount of spunk produced by Mr. North was awe-inspiring (I thought their respective crevices were gonna overflow), but it was actually the irregular nature of Kimberly and Brooke's wardrobe and makeup that made the scene the worthwhile entity that it is.

With star quality written all over her, the sight of the angelic Ginger Lynn Allen standing between two nerds craving anal sex was the pinnacle of the film's off-kilter sex appeal. Sent over to satisfy the poop-shoot desires of two college students (Tom Byron and Steve Powers), Ginger plays Cherry, a forthright New Wave Hooker in a chi-chi retro number that was poodle rectum red, drive-in theatre blue, and covered in black polka dots. Even though both her southbound holes end up getting prodded with erect penises simultaneously, Ginger manages to maintain an air of dominance about her. Also, the industrial-sounding music that played during the scene was downright awesome and the assertiveness of Ginger's command for one of the dorks to lick her ankle was greatly appreciated.

The action returns to office where Jimmy, Jamal, and the dog expose Kammy (Kristara Barrington) to a three-pronged attack on a desk. All of them seem to love jabbing at Kristara's foxy organic structure with a profound vigour, yet I found Jack Baker's enthusiasm for her dainty curves to be the most pronounced when it came to heaving the contents of his mouth in her general direction.

This dedication to Kristara's ethically complex body continues over to the next scene. Moving to the storage facility of the New Wave Hooker offices, we find a trio of hookers languishing on a red spinning wheel (a.k.a. the "whoring machine"). The aforementioned Kristara is joined by Desiree Lane's Candy and an unnamed new face (the lovely Gina Carrera). When the wheel stops spinning, the dog ends up straddling Kristara's frequently visited undercarriage (Jimmy beats her softly with a belt), and two vice cops (Greg Rome and Steve Drake) busy themselves with Desiree and Gina. As usual, Jamal jerks off from a distance, shouting race-based encouragement ("Fuck those white bitches").

The coda of New Wave Hookers has a surprisingly surreal vibe about it. However, it shouldn't be that surprising; there is, after all, a giant Residents-style eyeball sitting on top of one of the desks and Jamal does go on this strange tangent about disembodied dicks in Borneo. At any rate, the sight of a recently awaken Jimmy driving through the neon-tinged city, reflecting on all the debauchery that has transpired, while the "New Wave Hookers" theme plays over the soundtrack, was the perfect way to wrap up this titillating masterpiece.

If archaeologists in the not-so distant future want to know what life was like during the 1980s, I say show them a copy of New Wave Hookers. In terms of fashion, crude stereotyping, politically incorrect humour, music, stylistic temperament, and sexual deviancy, you can't get a clearer picture than this. Hey, whatta you know, maybe the infamous scene featuring Traci Lords in devil horns and red lingerie will be included in this futuristic version.

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