Hologram Man (Richard Pepin, 1995)

I don't mean to start off on a somber note, but what I'd like to know is: Who, if anyone, is going to bury all the henchmen and cops that are killed throughout this action-heavy sci-fi action movie? Since, the film, Hologram Man, is supposed to take place in the future, I guess they could have developed some kind of newfangled way to dispose of dead bodies (corporeal vaporization perhaps?). But still, the sheer number of henchmen and cops who fall to the ground as a direct result of gunfire in this Richard Pepin-directed masterpiece is ridiculous. Unless the henchmen and cops who buy it were grown in some kind of lab, I'm going to go ahead and assume they all have families. And if that's the case, I think it's safe to assume that the members of these so-called "families" aren't going to be too pleased when they find out their loved ones (whether they be dastardly henchmen or deluded cops) were killed by holograms with amazing hair. Okay, maybe calling the hair on the head of the one responsible for killing the cops "amazing" might be pushing it (though, fans of the KoЯn look may beg to differ). Nevertheless, I think it's safe to say that the dreamy-looking fella who kills henchmen like it were a bodily function has the best hair ever.

(You never really explained why the families of the dead henchmen would be upset when they found out the man who killed their loved ones has amazing hair.)

And I never will. Just kidding. The reason is simple. They all had this idea in their heads that their loved ones were slaughtered by a cruel, inhuman monster. Which, granted, is annoying, but understandable (it's what cruel, inhuman monsters do). However, the second they find out their loved one was done in by someone so exceedingly hunky, they're going to be quite angry. In fact, I'd go as far as to say their anger was tinged with a hint of jealously. Anger, for obvious reasons. As for jealously. Think about it. Who wouldn't want to gunned down by a man with long, flowing locks? I know I would, and I'm not even that big a fan of being gunned down.

In my own convoluted way, what I think trying to say is: A lot of people are killed in this movie (most of which are shot to death, but some are blown up... blown up real good), and that Joe Lara has great hair.

While I am somewhat jealous of Joe Lara's hair (it's so silky and manageable), I was actually more jealous of Evan Lurie. No, not because of his hair (to be honest, I found his KoЯn-do to be revolting). The reason I was jealous is because his henchmen are played by Nicholas Worth (Don't Answer the Phone), Tommy "Tiny" Lister and William Sanderson!!!

(Don't forget Cole S. McKay as "Thug with Flame Thrower.") Fuck yeah, that guy ruled.

If that wasn't enough, he engages in multiple position sexual intercourse with his blonde lady friend in the film's second scene. At first I was like: Why does Evan Lurie get an epic sex scene and Joe Lara only gets a pre-coitus fade out? It's simple, really. Evan Lurie wrote the screenplay. Meaning, Evan Lurie gets an extended sex scene. If Joe Lara wants an extended sex scene in a movie, he should write a screenplay.

Anyway, before we're subjected to this so-called "sex scene" (I almost threw up when Evan Lurie does a mid-thrust hair flip while plowing into his lady friend's futuristic vagina with his futuristic penis), we get a taste of what to expect from this movie in terms of entertainment value.

Opening with an intense shoot-out between–you guessed it–a heavily-armed gang of henchmen and an outgunned collection of cops, the film makes it clear early on that a lot of people are going to get killed in this movie. Though, I have to say, the henchmen and the cops are mostly to blame for the excessive body count. No, not because they're the one's shooting at each other, but because they don't seem to know how to use cover. I mean, standing out in the open in firing your weapon aimlessly is a surefire way to get yourself killed. I tried yelling: Use the parked cars as cover!!! But I guess they couldn't hear me.

(I'm not surprised, with all that gunfire, and the fact that it's only a movie.)

In the end, the cops, lead by Wes Strickland (John Amos), a veteran cop who doesn't play by the rules, are the one's who come out on top during this particular shoot out. And while he appreciates the fact that it was his partner's non-rule playing ways that lead them to narrowly defeat the henchmen, Decoda (Joe Lara), a regulation following rookie cop, is conflicted by his unorthodox methods.

When a plot to assassinate the governor is uncovered, Wes and Decoda are put in charge of protecting him. Using his loyal sidekick One-Eye (Nicholas Worth) as a diversionary tactic, super-villain Slash Gallagher (Evan Lurie) rams the governor's motorcade with a stolen bus. As expected, a shoot out ensues, followed by a car chase. Both of these events lead to the death of the governor and Wes Strickland, and the capture of Slash Gallagher.

Instead of being put in a normal prison, Slash Gallagher is placed in holographic stasis. You see, in the future, prisons as you and I know them are obsolete.

We flash-forward five years to find Decoda somewhat stressed. You might think, what's this guy got to be stressed about? I mean, he's still got great hair, he's got a reasonably attractive lady scientist lady friend. In other words, what's the deal?

Haven't you heard? Slash Gallagher is up for parole today. I know, you're thinking: There's no way they're going to grant him parole... he killed the governor, and, not to mention, a non-rule playing cop. That's true, there's zero chance Judge James Daughton (The Beach Girls and Malibu Beach) would allow this to happen. However, while Slash has been in holographic stasis, his loyal henchmen, including the aforementioned One-Eye, computer expert Giggles (William Sanderson), Eightball (Tommy 'Tiny' Lister) and Thug with Flame Thrower (Cole S. McKay), have been hard at work trying to free him. And they see Slash's parole hearing as the perfect opportunity to spring him.

How do you free someone whose been separated from their physical body? I got one word for you: Cyberspace. Downloading Slash's holographic essence, his henchmen manage to free him during his parole hearing, much to the chagrin of Decoda and his new partner, Carradine (Anneliza Scott), a blue jean-wearing lady cop.

The coolest thing about Decoda's quest to recapture his nemesis is that the system he works for is just as corrupt and malevolent. Caught between the sheer villainy of Slash Gallagher and the fascist California Corporation, or "Cal Corp, " (a domed section of Los Angeles run by a ruthless Michael Nouri), Decoda must struggle to come to terms with the fact that both entities are evil.

When you hear Decoda's simplistic solution to this quandary in the film's final scene, you'll probably think to yourself: That might just work. That being said, a lot people are going to have to be shot and killed for it to do so. Seriously, if you piled the dead on top of each other, you could probably reach the top of the tallest building in Dayton, Ohio; which, at 124 meters, is pretty freaking tall.

Girlfriend from Hell (Dan Peterson, 1989)

The mundane act of fixing up two shy friends on a blind date becomes a nightmare of epic and mildly irritating proportions in the intellectually appealing Girlfriend from Hell, another in the not-so long line of films that involve demons and dating (My Demon Lover). A sophisticated mishegas masquerading as a foolish slab of empty-headed nonsense, writer-director Dan Peterson (Vampire Knights) does an elegant job balancing the theological with the slapstick. And, not to mention, balancing the cross dimensional with impromptu penis touching (a scripture enthusiast gets his "pee-pee" fondled for the very first time). It's a tough symmetry to maintain – as everyone knows by now, flip-flopping between scenes that feature deep, philosophical conversations with God and frank discussion about what constitutes a "stupid balloon" are fraught with potential complications. But somehow the film manages to deftly allude the fate that befalls the majority of possession-based dark comedies that sport weird tonal shifts and alcoholic devil women. There's an unforeseen intelligence at work here that transcends actual content and the overrated conventions of reality. Now, this is the sentence where I'd normally give you an example of this lofty transcendentalism at work, but I don't really feel like enriching any minds with my sound logic at the moment.

What I really want to do is go on a ridiculously worded tirade that sufficiently glorifies the leg coverings that Liane Alexandra Curtis, Lezlie Deane, and Hilary Morse cavort about in during this movie. However, since my "doctor" has instructed me to ease up on the undergarment and hosiery talk, I've decided instead to focus my attention on the labyrinthian plot and the excessive amount of face punching that takes place in this film.

For those uninterested in minutiae, look no further than the film's spiffy title; as you will find everything you need to know just by reading it. I guarantee comprehension. As for the rest of you, the scripted structure of Girlfriend from Hell is part allegory, part wicked satire. The former is about the romantic adversity shy people have to face when trying to connect with one another on an appreciation basis. The latter shows up in the form of physical roughhousing (like I said, there's a lot of face punching) and spiritual tomfoolery (a character is repeatedly seen talking to some kind of cloud-centric supreme being).

Nevertheless, these two seemingly incompatible aspects commingle together in such an agreeable manner, that you'd think it was planned that way.

Seriously, the fact that the film's convoluted, and surprisingly far-reaching mythology, was able to gel at all with the dating ups and downs of an unsure girl who finds her body inhabited by the Devil was a minor miracle.

The film starts off with a desert showdown between God's go to "chaser" (Dana Ashbrook) and the Devil, who is actually a glowing glob of undefinable energy. This inflamed ball eludes its pursuer (who's carrying a strange-looking raygun) by shooting across the sky and landing squarely into the chest of Maggie (Liane Alexandra Curtis), a slightly awkward gal who has been set up on a date with the equally awkward Carl (Anthony Barrile) by her friends Diane (Lezlie Deane from 976-EVIL) and David (James Daughton from The Beach Girls and Malibu Beach). Up until the moment the diabolic entity enters her body, the date, which is taking place at the home of Alice (Hilary Morse) and birthday boy Rocco (Ken Abraham), has been going terribly.

This, of course, all changes when the dark forces start to take over. You could tell things were different by the way Maggie's stuffy opera gloves had magically become fingerless (a change she relishes). Also her hair had become more pronounced in the untamed department (evil and big hair are synonymous). Another way you could tell was that the once demure lady had this sudden urge to copulate with every guy in sight.

Making demonic possession seem like fun, Liane Alexandra Curtis (Critters 2: The Main Course) is a delightful scourge as the uncouth Maggie. Reminding me of cross between Bonnie O'Bendix (Papusha Demitro's character in Perfect Timing) and your typical Voivod-loving metal chick, Miss Curtis seemed to be having a hootenanny and a half. I mean, check out her posture during her post-bashful phase, the confident manner in which she stood, her uncreased red pantyhose tighter than Lee Aaron's urethra, is the stuff of upright legend. From a non-standing point-of-view: I loved the way she would yell emasculating put-downs (my personal favourite when it comes to insulting men with dicks) and bark orders at everyone. And the restaurant scene is a comedy classic as far I'm concerned (she openly mocks Jesus and spits wine at her fellow diners).

In a surprising turn of events (and believe me, this film's got plenty), it's the stellar work turned in by Lezlie Deane that dominates the film's dreamlike third act. Taking place in multiple dimensions, Lezlie's Diane helps Dana Ashbrook's "chaser" get back to modern day in order to save Maggie from becoming another satanic statistic (the Devil can only use a persons body for 24 hours). Anyway, on top of looking amazing in black pantyhose and a Heathers-style blazer, I thought Lezlie gave a well-rounded performance that worked well alongside the horny Ashbrook and Curtis's campy temptress schtick.

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Malibu Beach (Robert J. Rosenthal, 1978)

Exploring the tenets of freedom, and I mean actual freedom, not the pretend version they hawk in national anthems and on game shows, Malibu Beach is one of the most dangerous movies I have ever seen. Tantamount to a wet, sloppy air kiss in the general direction of anarchy, the esteemed Robert J. Rosenthal (The Pom Pom Girls and The Van) has created a film so subversive, that it attacks intellectualism at every turn (show an interest in something that doesn't involve partying at the beach and you will quickly find yourself on the outside looking in). Boldly promoting its hedonistic agenda with a wanton disregard for socialites loosely held up moral infrastructure, the characters in this film have no interest in gainful employment, politics, or the community at large. Now, if that's not a recipe for bedlam, I don't know what is. Sure, the film's main female protagonist works as a lifeguard, which in some cultures is considered a real job, but she's been warned not to wear a bikini while on duty, and yet, she knowingly ignores this rule, proceeding to piss on it with a casual nonchalance. It should be said that she's the exception to the rule, as the rest of the characters that populate this free-and-easy plane of existence take listlessness to whole another level of lazy.

Even the police, usually the most uptight and caustic in a genuinely free society, are anarchists at heart.

This sun-baked strain of rampant lawlessness and self-indulgence has even infected the animal kingdom. This furry, and sometimes feathered group, are normally only interested in acquiring food, mating, and the act of sleeping. Well, you can add bikini tops to that list, because a dog who likes to hang out at the film's titular sandy shore has developed a taste for the stringy garment. The women he or she stealthy takes the tops from seem upset by the theft and usually give chase.

However, the success of their pursuit, in most cases, depends on the ample nature of their breast weight (the smallish seemed to run with a greater ease than the ones with an extra bit of jiggle on board). The mysteries of mammary distribution aside, the women always fail to reacquire their skimpy chest coverings from the swimwear pilfering pooch.

Anyway, back to the realm of humanity, Malibu Beach is basically about nothing. Yeah, that's right, nothing. On top of being anarchistic, the film has nihilistic overtones. The chiseled Bobby (James Daughton) and the wiry Paul (Michael Luther), two blonde American males, who have just escaped an educational prison of their own making, boast no interests beyond having sex with their blonde counterparts and driving mindlessly through the energizing warmth of their beachfront community in their massive jeep.

The guy's minimalist outlook is eventually complemented by the equally vacant Dina (Kim Lankford) and Sally (a super-cute Susan Player), the former being the aforementioned lifeguard. I say, "eventually," because the initial pairing had its share of bumps and kinks. The fact that they failed to create sparks with their first choice in sex partners gave the film its most poignant moments. I mean, who knew the shy and the extroverted could work so well together? It's this kind unexpected illumination that keeps me coming back for more moving pictures.

Repeating the same songs over and over again on the soundtrack gave the film a wonderful carefree edge to it that unashamedly thumbs its nose at those paying attention in audience. In reality, the producers probably realized they were out of songs midway through the film and decided to just recycle the ones from the first half. Nevertheless, I chose to see this repetitiveness as yet another act of cinematic subversion.

All this talk of anarchy and repetition has caused me to forget about the rivalry the forms between James Naughton's Bobby and the musclebound Dugan Hicks (a mildly hilarious Steve Oliver) over the affections of Dina the lifeguard. Conventional face punching is employed on a number of occasions, but the swaggering twosome turn the machismo up a notch in a series of death defying challenges. Don't worry though, this feeble attempt at plot-based storytelling doesn't interfere with the film's central theme, which is carelessness in the late twentieth century.

A film that makes me long for the feeling of warm air on my neck, Malibu Beach is cinema in its purest form; lowbrow nectar for the soul, if you will (if you won't, I'll fuck your shit up, old school).

Celebrate nothingness and go to the beach. I won't be waiting for you. Uh, I don't tan well, and I'm deathly afraid of large bodies water. But I'm sure others will be there.

You know, like, Tara Strohmeier (I can't believe I almost forgot to mention her). At any rate, go now, go!

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The Beach Girls (Bud Townsend, 1982)

Unencumbered rays of warm, invigorating California sunshine penetrate the unclothed nether regions of a brash throng of thong-less cupcakes strewn haphazardly across the unsullied sand; a bikini-top stealing canine, who unwittingly causes pruriency in passers-by, makes off with another skimpy yet vital piece of fabric; and an accident prone gardener (Bert Rosario) is about to find his genitalia engorged with his own blood. All of these things are in the process of infringing on each others personal space in the delightfully straightforward The Beach Girls (a.k.a. La Boum En Folie), a film, written by Phil Groves and Patrick Sheane Duncan and directed by Bud Townsend (Coach), that shamefully wears its heterosexual agenda on its sleeve at all times. Which is ironic, since nary a sleeve can be found in this film. Taking place on Paradise Beach, the well-bosomed and skittishly pedantic Sarah (Debra Blee) arrives at her spacious beach house blissfully unaware of the titillating firestorm that is heading her way. She's invited a couple of friends over to keep her company over the summer, but has no idea what the capriciously-named Ginger (Val Kline) and Ducky (Jeana Tomasina) have in store for her.

You see, these girls are the complete opposite to Sarah, the wide-eyed gal with braids in her hair. I mean, not only are they anti-intellectual in temperament, they're also not-as-well-bosomed. Which on the surface could be seen as a disadvantage, but Ginger and Ducky have such an untamed whimsicality about them, that it cause such trivialities to become inconsequential. Besides, both are blessed with long, slender legs. And, in the grand scheme of things, that's all you really need.

Anyway, the playful duo (their incessant giggling would disarm even the most ardent of assholes and asswipes) are immediately shocked by the lack of boys at the beach house–they brought along a chiseled boy-toy by the name of Scott (James Daughton), but he's taken a liking to Sarah–so the girls devise a strategy to acquire enough man-sustenance to satisfy their inflated carnal desire. As you would expect, much partying ensues when various members of the dick-wielding underclass start arriving at their door. Periodically upsetting their plans is Uncle Carl (the actual owner of the beachfront residence) and a ball-bearing obsessed Coast Guard Captain (Herbie Braha).

The jokes are corny, the plot is as thin as a piece of paper, and the film is definitely a tad wanting in the cerebral department. But what it lacks in those three areas, it more than makes up for it in the realm of naked flesh. Never in all my years of film watching have a seen a film so devoted to the brandishing of tits and ass (and yes, some untanned male crack is exposed).

It is also the perfect film for prepubescent children, in that it doesn't contain any pelvic thrusting whatsoever. (I have found that the sight of a penis barging into a vagina confuses more than it does illuminate.) There's such an artless innocence about it, that it's almost educational at times. Yeah, sure, rampant drug use (garbage bags full of marijuana wash ashore) and unchecked promiscuity aren't the most positive messages to send out into the cultural stratosphere. But then again, it's better than violence and apathy.

In terms of the aforementioned naked flesh, I would have to say the vivacious Val Kline was hands down my favourite scantily clad person in The Beach Girls. She plays the force of nature that is Ginger and gives a performance that transcends time and space. Employing her femaleness like it were an unsheathed sword of shapely aggression, the gorgeous Val attacks the apprehensive libido of Uncle Carl (Adam Roarke) like a ravenous beast. (He is threatening to curb their partying ways and she uses her untapped sexiness to convince him otherwise.)

The lovely Jeana Tomasina does a competent job assisting Val when it came time to win over of Carl as Ducky, a brunette whirlwind with a cheerful disposition. An actress/model who can be seen prancing around in the majority of those popular music videos ZZ Top made during their early '80s Eliminator period, it should be said that no one in the history of cinema has ever looked better in a pair of tight red trousers than Jeana does in the red trouser-friendly, non-beach-related scenes that are liberally sprinkled throughout this movie.

It should also be noted that the always awesome Corinne Bohrer (Vice Versa and Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol) shows up every now and then as the headband-sporting, purple bikini-top-wearing "Champagne Girl." (Who, I'm guessing, is so named because her character is always carrying, and occasionally drinking from, a large bottle of Champagne. And, of course, is female. Hence, the use of the word "girl.")

The bubbly Tessa Richarde as the kindhearted "Doreen"

Oh, and Catherine Mary Stewart (The Apple and Night of the Comet) appears onscreen for five seconds at a wienie roast as "The Surfer Girl" (a character who makes it abundantly clear that she'd rather be making out with her shirtless boyfriend than surfing).

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