Dudes (Penelope Spheeris, 1987)

Some might say the only genuine punk moment to take place in Penelope Spheeris' Dudes is when "Biscuit" asks "Hazekiah" (who's naming these people?) to sing "Holiday in Cambodia" by The Dead Kennedys when the latter tells his visibly annoyed audience that he does requests. Well, given the circumstances, you wouldn't expect a drunken old coot to know anything about The Dead Kennedys. And you would be right, he's not familiar with the song in question. However, I found this reference to punk rock to be a tad disingenuous. In fact, the second Biscuit mentions the song, I thought to myself: Oh yeah, these guys are supposed to be punks. The reason I forgot was because the soundtrack up until then had been nothing but Faster Pussycat, W.A.S.P. and Keel. Maybe sometime during filming Penelope Spheeris lost interest in punk rock and started get into heavy metal; after all, she would go on to make The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years soon after this film came out. It's also possible that the producers told Penelope to use heavy metal instead of punk, I don't know. But I do know the sight of three New York City punks driving through the desert in a beat up Volkswagen Bug to the sounds of Faster Pussycat is not punk. I don't care how adorable Brent Muscat is, and, believe me, he is adorable, punks don't usually go for hair metal. This is especially true for punks who spend their evenings stage diving at gigs that feature The Vandals, a punk band who appeared in Penelope Spheeris' seminal Suburbia (now that's a punk rock movie) and fighting over a salmon-gloved Pamela Gidley (Cherry 2000).

Quit your bellyaching, you sound like a freaking baby. Besides, this is one of them fish out of water thingies, so it makes perfect sense for the music to represent the opposite end of their cultural comfort zone. If that's the case, shouldn't the film be nothing but country and western songs? I mean, the film is basically a western. Good point. If I was forced to categorize this film, I would put it in the western section, as it contains all the ingredients that make up your typical western.

Still, I was disappointed by the lack of punk music in Dudes. That being said, I did take solace in the fact that Vance Colvig, Jr., the old drunk who doesn't know who The Dead Kennedys are, sings "Mexican Radio" by Wall of Voodoo at one point. Wait, did the punks request that song, too? Nope, he just starts singing it of his own volition. Awesome. Did he sing the line about eating barbequed iguana? Nah, just the "I'm on a Mexcican Ray-deeo / I'm on a Mexican whoa-oh ray-deeo" part. Nevertheless, it was a pretty cool moment. It also reminded me of that time when Kramer on Seinfeld sings "Mexican Radio" while installing a reverse peephole on his apartment door in the aptly titled episode, "The Reverse Peephole."

How can you complain about there not being enough punk in this movie when it opens to sight of Jon Cryer stage-diving to "Urban Struggle" at a Vandals concert? Yeah, I got to admit, it's quite the punk sight to behold. Bored with life in New York City, three punk rockers, Grant (Jon Cryer), Biscuit (Daniel Roebuck), and Milo (Flea) decide to move to Los Angeles. Whoa! Stop the presses. Bored with life in New York City?!? I'm sorry, but that doesn't make any sense. If you're bored in New York City, it's not the city's fault. What are you trying to say? What I'm saying is, you're probably the one who's boring. You know what? Forget about "probably," you're definitely the one who's boring.

Whether you agree with them or not, they're going to Los Angeles. Yeah, I get the whole "let's go to Los Angeles" angle, I'm a big fan of Los Angeles. It's just that they live in New York City. You know what I'm saying? Anyway, after getting in a fight with Pamela Gidley's musclebound boyfriend at a Chinese restaurant, the three punk rockers hangout in an alleyway to discuss their bleak futures. When Grant nearly falls to his death while jerking around on a pipe, those who were reluctant to sign on to Flea's idea to move to L.A. are quickly brought on board.

Hopping in their beat up VW Bug with a 1,000 dollars in cash, the punk trio hit the road to the strains of "Jesus Came Driving Along" by The Leather Nun. Now that I've had some time to think about it, I take back what I said earlier about Dudes not being punk enough. I mean, The Leather Nun song has a sort of goth punk vibe about. And not only that, Daniel Roebuck's mohawk is quite impressive when viewed in the harsh light of the open road. Believe or not, I had this strange idea in my head that it was a fake mohawk. You don't mean a faux hawk, do you? No, I wouldn't go that far. Either way, I grew to love it, no pun intended, as the film progressed.

Entering Utah (eww, that sounds kinda dirty), the punks help Daredelvis (Pete Willcox), an Elvis impersonator/renaissance man, whose trailer is stuck on the side of the road. The side of the road is also where Grant first sees Witherspoon (Cal Bartlett), his, as we'll soon find out, cowboy spirit guide.

While camping near a giant rock, Biscuit, named so because he loves dog biscuits, says the first thing he wants to do when he arrives in Los Angeles is to meet The Go-Go's. When Grant informs him that they split up, he remains defiant, declaring that he wants make babies with them. Now, that would be an amazing movie: A trio of NYC punks travel to L.A. to impregnate the members of The Go-Go's. If I had to pair Biscuit with a Go-Go, I would fix 'em with Gina Schock. Why? Oh, I don't know, he digs drummers, and she's into chubby guys who eat dog biscuits. Who cares? It would be a great movie.

You know who doesn't think it would make for a good movie? Lee Ving. You mean the singer from the band Fear? Yep, the very same. Playing a lowlife piece of human garbage named Missoula, Lee Ving and his unruly gang of thugs, including Wes (Glenn Withrow), attack the punk's camp and end up killing Flea in the process. No, not Flea! Who's going to impregnate Belinda Carlisle?

It's weird that you thought Flea and Belinda would... You know what? Never mind that. I guess Grant and Biscuit are going to have to continue onto L.A. without Flea.

Changing his mind mid-flee, Grant decides he wants to avenge Flea's death. Wanting no part of it, and no doubt still dreaming of ejaculating sperm inside Gina Schock, Biscuit refuses to go along with Grant's plan. That all changes, however, when Biscuit gets in touch with inner Native American while napping at Catherine Mary Stewart's house. It's at this point in the film when it starts to resemble an episode of The Lone Ranger, with Grant, helped by his cowboy spirit guide, as the titular lawman, and Biscuit, inspired by his tribal elders, as Tonto, his loyal sidekick. Of course, I've never seen an episode of The Lone Ranger, nor did I see the recent movie. But I'm sure it was something like this.

You probably noticed that I mentioned Catherine Mary Stewart in the above paragraph. Well, the reason I did this is because she is totally in this movie. She plays Jessie, a tomboyish tow truck driver who helps Grant and Biscuit with their Lee Ving problem.

Realizing that a rugged Catherine Mary Stewart isn't exactly going to drive teenage boys wild with desire (discerning teenage lesbians, on the other hand, will love C.M.S. in this flick), Penelope Spheeris calls upon her go-to babe Christina Beck (Suburbia) to play Lee Ving's floozy girlfriend in a brief yet pivotal scene that takes place in a Wyoming saloon.

Mixing the spirit of the wild west with punk and heavy metal might seem like a dicey combination, but Dudes is not about genre mashing, it's essentially about standing up for yourself, or more specifically, not allowing all the Lee Ving's out there to push you around. Getting reacquainted with their inner outlaws, Jon Cryer and Daniel Roebuck manage to grow a pair just in time for the climatic showdown with Lee Ving. Of course, at times it seemed like Jon Cryer and Daniel Roebuck were merely playing dress up. However, I thought they brought some unexpected pathos, along with some deft comedic touches, to their respective roles. Now, if I knew going in that the film would turn out to be a glorified western with a heavy metal soundtrack, I would have probably steered clear of Dudes. But now that I've watched it from start to finish, I can confidently say that it was a sort of worthwhile experience.

Nightflyers (Robert Collector, 1987)

You know your space adventure film is in serious trouble when its most entertaining moment comes when the guy who played the dad on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air equates happiness with fresh octopus. And as kooky as that may sound, that's exactly what happens in Nightflyers, an intergalactic riddle wrapped in a lifeless enigma about a primordial force that threatens to shorten the lives of a group of space travelers. The group's visual documentarian/cook is a man with some serious doubts regarding the mission he's signed up for. That is, until he smells the fresh octopus waiting for him in the ship's kitchen. After the fresh octopus has been sufficiently smelled, you'll notice that his demeanour goes from that of a cranky man whose nasal cavity is totally devoid of the smell of fresh octopus to that of a less cranky man whose olfactory organ is replete with the odor usually associated with fresh octopus in a matter of seconds. Holy shit, man, this flick must be the epitome of lame if you have been reduced to talking about fresh octopus. I mean, talk about your tangents from hell. Oh, and I know I just said it, and I'm about to say it again, but if you use the phrase "fresh octopus" one more time, I'm gonna punch you in the fucking face. Duly noted, my irrational friend. But you don't think I'm gonna let a little thing like fresh octopus slow me down? I don't think so. Unlike director Robert Collector, who, for some strange reason, is credited as T.C. Blake, I'm not afraid of this film, which is based on a novella by George R.R. Martin. Just let me check my memory banks, as there just might be something of note to salvage from the experience that is the act of watching this film; weirder things have happened. Yikes! I think I got something.

If there's one thing every women on earth, no matter their age, their race, their sexual orientation, or their marital status, has in common, it's that they all fantasize about having the power to beam a suave, tolerably awkward Englishman into their bedroom or sitting room at the touch of a button. In the 21st century, people will still smoke, say the word "fuck," and use pencils, but advances in holographic technology have reached a point where women have gained the ability to conjure up Englishmen with long, dark hair whenever they please. Okay, it's not that simple. However, in the mind of Miranda (Catherine Mary Stewart), the project coordinator of a deep space mission to find an alien lifeform, it might as well be.

We're suddenly ushered into the vast emptiness of outer space, where meet Miranda, a woman whose head is no doubt filled with thoughts of handsome Englishmen who care about her feelings (unlike those football-watching, North American neanderthals who never seem to be around when your armpits need a good licking), who is riding on a space-train. Where is she going? Duh, she's going to the Avalon Spacesport. With her on the space-train are the rest of the team who have been assembled on the cheap by Dr. D'Brannin (John Standing), a scientist whose spent the last twelve years trying make contact with an alien species called the "Volcrum," at least that's what I think they were called. Anyway, the other members of the team include: Audrey (Lisa Blount), a linguistics expert who, surprisingly, doesn't seen all that interested in being swept off her feet by a debonair Englishmen; Keelor (Glenn Withrow from Pass the Ammo), a recently unglued biologist; Darryl (James Avery) the mission's visual documentarian, and, from what I've heard, one helluva cook; and Lily (Hélène Udy), a cryptologist who works well with computers.

Meeting them at their destination are a couple of empaths, Jon Windermen (Michael Des Barres) and Eliza (Annabel Brooks), who have been brought along in case the aliens lack the means to communicate verbally. The former, besides loving white wine and shoulder padded trenchcoats, is what we in the empath game like to call: a class ten telepath. Which means, he can read the thoughts rattling around in just about anyone's mind. I wonder if Miranda, who also has telepathic abilities, albeit, somewhat limited compared to Windermen, is worried that he might find out that she's got a thing for guys who look like they would have no trouble whatsoever filling in as a member of Spandau Ballet if one of them, oh, let's say, Tony Hadley, happened to suddenly contract osmotic diarrhea after licking a couple of partially played with toy blocks at an unlicensed daycare in Swindon.

I'd just like to say–you know, before they get on board the ship, that the music score by Doug Timm was an excellent slab of synthified goodness if I ever heard one. It's definitely the best thing a guy named Doug has been associated with since the mighty Doug & the Slugs unleashed "Makin' It Work" onto a sluggish populace way back in '82. When I first heard Doug's synthesizer music over the opening credits, I thought that it had a cool Blade Runner vibe about it. These thoughts percolated even more when Miranda gets her eyes scanned at the departure gate, as the contraption they used on her reminded me of the one Dekker uses on Sean Young in the vicinity of an artificial owl.

Okay, enough with the Blade Runner references, let's get these people on board the ship already. Waiting for them in the spacesport is the Nightflyer, a large deep space freighter, which Dr. D'Brannin has chartered to take them out into the far reaches of space. Sporting a network of grandiose passageways, the team make their way to a spacious lounge, a tomb-like monstrosity that causes them to utter sounds like, "ooh," and to say words like, "wow," as they drink in its majesty. The team's visual documnetarian, as I've already pointed out, is quite impressed by the fact the ship's kitchen has fresh octopus. However, as the rest of the team are busy making themselves at home, you'll notice that Miranda is the only one who is not carrying on about the lofty nature of their new digs. Why is this? Is it because she senses something is amiss? Who knows.

After taking off (during which, the team are treated to a planetarium-style light show), they finally meet the ship's captain. Well, they sort of meet him. It would seem that Royd (Michael Praed) has decided to greet his passengers through a holographic projection. As Keelor, Darryl, and Lily are bemoaning the fact they were welcomed aboard by a hologram (a major social faux pas in their eyes), Royd can't seem to take his flickering eyes off Miranda, her blue, sleeveless dress shimmering in the lounge's mustardy glow. And who can blame him, always standing in a manner that reminded me of the work of famed illustrator Patrick Nagel, Miranda exudes a stylish grace. The fixation actually goes both ways, as Miranda seems to be enchanted by the dark-haired hologram. While they were making goo-goo eyes with one another, it was obvious that Miranda was thinking to herself: I'm so glad I decided to wear this particular shade of lipstick today, because Royd totally looks like the kind of guy who digs chicks who wear pale pink lipstick in outer space.

If I was a woman living in the 1980s...actually, scratch that. If I was a woman living during any period of time (era specific hairstyles and fashion trends be damned), I would walk into the nearest hair salon, plant my ample behind into one of the available chairs, cross my legs in a manner that conveyed to the staff that I mean business, and demand that they give me the "Catherine Mary Stewart in Nightflyers" look. Sticking with the whole female consumer theme, I want Miranda's clothes as well, especially that blue shirt she wears in the lounge when the kitchen blows up. Wait a minute, the kitchen blows up?!? Tell me more. Um, excuse me? I was talking about Miranda's shirt. Like, oh my god. How rude. At any rate, where was I? Oh yeah, of course, the shirt. Dotted with these little black symbols, I thought the blue shirt did a terrific job of framing C.M.S.'s face. The only criticism I had with the way Roger Taylor looks heavenward in the music video for Duran Duran's "Planet Earth" is that he isn't wearing a shirt like the one Miranda wears in Nightflyers. Think about it. His adam's apple could have looked even more new romantic had it been paired with a blue shirt.

Donning a white dress shirt with a matching pair of white boots, Miranda decides to get some work done in an isolated stairwell. She may be hidden from the prying eyes of her fellow team members, but she can't escape Royd, who can pretty much transmit himself to any part of the ship he wants. Impressed by her self-assurance, Royd opens up to Miranda (he admires her outgoing attitude). Sure, he doesn't tell her how he manages to keep his hair so silky smooth in outer space, but he does tell her that he was raised by the ship's computer. Spending his entire life on board the giant freighter, the hemmed in Royd wishes to leave, but his mother (who downloaded her soul into the ship's computer before she died) refuses to let him. And it's this mother-son tug of war that causes the majority of the drama in Nightflyers, as his desire to live a more human existence (enjoy a game of tennis, smear his pet beaver with marmalade, go record shopping, etc.) clashes with her decidedly misanthropic outlook.

The ship's computer, lacking the physical means to generate substantive change, uses Jon Winderman's telepathic brain as a conduit to stir up trouble. On top of exploiting his mental abilities, it also made sense for the computer to use him since he was the only one who felt the "malignant presence" of Royd's dead mother. As he is slowly taken over by the demonic motherboard, you'll notice that Michael Des Barres' performance goes from being mildly campy ("the ship is alive!") to extremely campy (check out the scream face he employs when he comes face-to-face with Royd's mother in a dream). I'm afraid the same can't be said for the rest of the cast, who basically, like the Nightflyer itself, drift aimlessly through the proceedings in a joyless haze. Only Glenn Withrow appears to be putting forth any effort as Keelor, a character who seems to be channeling Hudson from Aliens. Personal fave, Hélène Udy (Pinball Summer and Pin) utters a few lines here and there while staring at a computer screen, but her contribution is negligible. (Quirky fun fact: Nightflyers and her guest appearance on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine are the only instances, at least to my knowledge, where Miss Udy is credited as "Hélène." In most cases, she's listed as plain old Helene.)

If you're a fan of Catherine Mary Stewart, especially when she looks up, you'll definitely want to check out Nightflyers, as it's the best film in its class when it comes to showcasing the pride of Edmonton, Alberta gazing in an upwardly direction. Granted, some people will say Night of the Comet is the preeminent film in the rarely talked about "which film features Catherine Mary Stewart looking up more sweepstakes," some might even chime in by saying The Last Starfighter is the look up king. But the sane amongst us will no doubt agree that Nightflyers has got it going on in terms of Miss Stewart looking toward the sky.

On top of looking fabulous while looking up, Catherine Mary Stewart is a walking, talking style icon as Miranda, a role model for fashion-forward women the world over. Since I've already made it abundantly clear that I want to be her, let's give some love to costume designer Brad R. Loman and hair stylist Kay Cole for creating the plethora of exhilarating ensembles and hairstyles Miranda wears throughout this movie. Of course, they weren't exhilarating in the same way the hair and the clothes were in, oh, let's say, Liquid Sky (when in doubt, reference Liquid Sky), but they're no less chic.

A talkie version of Alien, Nightyflyers, a film that could have easily been called "Motherboard 2: The Possession," is a moderately interesting glob of sci-fi/horror (the film is surprisingly gory in places) that is repeatedly weighed down by its clunky script. Nevertheless, director Robert Collector, who according to IMDb: "left the production before the film's editing was completed, and requested that his name not appear in the credits" does have a flair for filming dramatic scenes in hallways and around bulkheads (the scene where the faces of Miranda and Jon Windermen are bathed in blue light while everything else was bathed in red was pretty cool). Recommended to fans of Catherine Mary Stewart and Vangelis, as for everyone else, stick with the Alien movies.

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Pass the Ammo (David Beaird, 1988)

Our shimmering neon crucifix is filled to the brim with underpaid operators who are standing by to receive your generous donation, so, please, look deep into your heart and give us a steaming wad of your hard earned cash. Oh, and when I say, "give us," I really mean give me. After all, I'm the one doing the majority of thr spiritual heavy lifting. Just a second, did you say, "neon crucifix"? Yep, I sure did. Wow, that must look amazing on television. Why just thinking about its chromatic glow washing over me as I sit motionless in my sparsely furnished living room makes me want to run next-door, masticate the living daylights out of my neighbour's insipid taint, and chug a can of Fresca (and since I'm already there, I might as well grab myself a complementary footstool). What I'm doing right now, believe or not, is I'm attempting to understand the mindset of the type of individual who would give their money to someone who gives them nothing in return. It's true, you could argue they're providing them with divine comfort, but its essence is purely hypothetical. If you told a stranger or a total stranger, let's say, while riding the subway, that you had just purchased a shitload of divine comfort for around fifty bucks, they would look at you funny and proceed to get off at the next stop, regardless if it was their stop or not. Judging by the mail streaming into the megachurch in Pass the Ammo, a blunt satirical attack on evangelical hucksterism from the director of, get this, My Chauffeur, they're sending more than just money. It would seem that nothing is off limits, as everything from jewelry to insurance policies, to even teeth are being sent their way. But why are they giving these freaks all their valuables? I'm no expert when it comes to irrational zeal, but I bet it's got something to do with the sheer size of the hair sitting atop the head of the preacher's wife? The only reason I mention her hair is because its largeness is the main reason I would send them any money (as a recovering Goth, I know hair spray ain't cheap).

If you're anything like me, then you no doubt spent a huge chunk of the late 1980s taping televangelists off the television in order to use their bizarre ramblings to spice up your homemade industrial music. Recording their sermons with a steely resolve wasn't always easy, as sometimes their preachy gobbledygook would seep into your feverish brain. Even though my memory of this period is a tad foggy, I could have sworn I bought six prayer clothes. Preachers, infomercial pitchmen, lawyers (particularly ones with offices in Cheektowaga), scumbag politicians (i.e. all politicians), those chipper ladies who sell bras on the shopping channel, they all prey on your vulnerabilities. In order for them to remove a sizable amount of cash from your wallet, they need to either scare you or belittle you. Your average televangelist does a bit of both, feeding off human weakness and general gullibility. It's no surprise that these shady godmongers have an air of superiority about them, one that definitely masks a sinister underbelly.

Feeding off your nonexistent ignorance by amusing the lint-covered receptors that dot the surface of your face, the Rev. Ray Porter (a wonderfully insincere Tim Curry) is the leading force when comes to distorting the teachings of Jesus Christ, a man who preached peace and love, not greed and pettiness. Hosting his garish gospel program along with smoking hot wife Darla (Annie Potts), even her name makes my flesh tingle with untoward satisfaction, the preacher with state's most hairless nostrils is literally raking in the dough. Hypnotizing his mostly yokel-based congregation with a kinetic brand of forthright evangelism, the oily reverend manages to extract millions of dollars from his devoted flock.

Am I shocked that the Rev. Porter was able to pilfer his followers so comfortably for so long? Hell, no. Have you seen his show? It's fucking awesome! Taking your racist grandmother's evangelism and jazzing up for the 1980s, the Tower of Bethlehem ministries, by adding Las Vegas-style production values, and employing MTV-style editing, have managed to turn apotheosizing into a multi-million dollar a year industry.

You only have to take a casual, non-judgmental glance over at Darla, her rarely violated body sheathed in a silver frock, to fully understand what the Tower of Bethlehem ministries are bringing to the highly lucrative preaching the gospel on TV racket. Smoke, neon, irregular pantyhose, and Engelbert Humperdinck-quality facial hair fill the air as Darla saunters down the stairs of the main stage. An audible gasp lingers in the audience as Annie Potts, channeling Kate Bush while performing choreography straight out of Liquid Sky, starts singing the line, "you're in paradise now," over and over again.

In order to emphasize how much money the sight of Annie Potts, the mousy blandness she exuded in Crimes of Passion has been completely exorcised, belting out religious show tunes as Darla makes for the church, we're subjected to a montage–one set to the strains of "Lay You're Money Down for Jesus" by twins John and Paul Cody–that depicts the complex machinery that operates behind the scenes (the church basement is packed with people whose sole job it is to oversee the cash flow). As we're down there, we also see Rev. Porter blessing the letters sent in by those suffering from various diseases (before he blesses a pile, a lackey informs him of which illness they're afflicted with).

Meanwhile, in another part of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, Bill Paxton is being straddled by a slip-wearing Linda Kozlowski (much respect to her for ignoring the waspy pricks who probably told her to change her name to something less Polish). Unsatisfied with life between Miss Kozlowski's able-bodied thighs, Bill Paxton, who is actually playing a character named Jesse, decides to rob the Tower of Bethlehem. You see, they took 50,000 dollars from Linda Kozlowski's dying bubby (Linda's character, by the way, is named Claire), and Jesse would like to get that money back.

Of course, they're gonna need a little help, after all, you'll need more than a fully grown Bill Paxton and a silky brunette woman in a slip (her dainty ankles beaming with Polish pride) to pull off a job like this. Enter Big Joe (Dennis Burkley), a shotgun-wielding career criminal who fancies himself a country and western singer, and Arnold (Glenn Withrow), the reincarnation of one of Marie Antoinette's handmaidens, two ex-cons just itching to "go do some crimes." Now you'd think these characters, simply by looking at them, would bring nothing but comic relief to the proceedings. But they're just as important as Jesse and Claire, even more so at times. Representing the healing powers of redemption, Big Joe humanizes the police with his stirring rendition of "Policeman," seeks financial advice from a crooked reverend, and uses his giant teddy bear-eqsue temperament to successfully placate Darla's impending meltdown, while Arnold finds love in the form of a choir member dressed as an angel (Debra Sue Maffett) and employs his playful nature in a way that allows the show's fake born again director (Anthony Geary) to reconnect with his inner rabble-rouser.

With his team assembled, it's time to head on down to the Tower of Bethlehem. Since no-one wants to watch a film where a megachurch is robbed without incident, Jesse, Claire, Big Joe, and Arnold find themselves, after taking a wrong turn, in the middle of Kenny (Brian Thompson, the weight-lifting helicopter pilot from Miracle Mile) and Darla's impassioned interpretation of the story of Samson and Delila.

When it comes to movies that feature hostage situations, I always side with the hostage takers, as I tend to identify with their status as outsiders who want to buck the system. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your outlook, Pass the Ammo presents a bit of a conundrum in that the character I would normally root against is so darn affable. If I had to blame anyone for this off-putting turn of events, it would have to Leland Crooke (Cat Fight from My Chauffeur). Charming, folksy, and always levelheaded, Leland and his Louisiana accent bring a lot of unexpected nuance to Rascal Lebeaux, a smalltown sheriff who's thrust into the middle of one doozy of a standoff. At first, it seemed like Sheriff Lebeaux was gonna be nothing more than your average redneck lawman (after all, he is duck hunting when we first meet up with him), but slowly, as the film progresses, the character becomes more complex.

Another dilemma arises when Claire points her pistol in anger at Darla during a particularly heated moment. I was all like, get that gun out of Darla's face, you hillbilly skank! Despite the fact that her head is filled with paint fumes and sautéed poppycock, Darla was able to win me over through her dedication to gaudy fashion (lots of slit-heavy gowns), and, of course, her overall babeiliciousness. It doesn't take a genius to figure this out, but while Linda Kozlowski was busy portraying Claire as a bit of a buzzkill, Annie Potts is secretly plotting the course that lead Darla to come off as sympathetic by the time the bullets (and tank shells) started to whiz through the auditorium.

You could say my favourite characters were Rascal Lebeaux, Darla, and, if I had to choose a third, I would probably have to go with either Dennis Burkley's Big Joe or Anthony Geary's Stonewall, as they were genuinely likeable, but not dicks about it. Besides, you gotta love a guy (Big Joe) whose idea of revenge is to blast two pricey pairs of cowboy boots with his trusty shotgun.

Lampooning televangelism is a little like shooting fish that have placed in a smallish container; they're an easy target. But Pass the Ammo, however, casts a wide net when it comes to its mockery. Ridiculing the corrupt machinations of local politics, the power of "Big God," redneck vigilantes, corn-fed reactionaries, and the scourge that is groupthink, writers Joel Cohen and Neil Cohen have fashioned a script, one that features the line, "they're gonna butt-fuck the preacher on TV," that seems to spare no-one.

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Special thanks to Russ for not only introducing me to this movie, but for providing me with a copy of it.

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