Showing posts with label Judy Landers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Judy Landers. Show all posts

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Hellhole (Pierre De Moro, 1985)

If you like women, and I mean, really like women, you'll definitely want to check out Hellhole, the developmentally challenged Cadillac of women in prison movies. It's got every kind of woman your unvarnished heart could possibly desire. Of course, the catch being that all the women are somewhat meshuggeneh. However, if you're like me, and you can't stand being around women who have all their faculties in order, then have I got a treat for you. It's got women who swing axes, body blow absorbing nurses, sandbox girls (there's nothing hotter than the sight of a grown woman playing in a sandbox while wearing a nondescript hospital gown), beastly women who lurk in dark boiler rooms, jacuzzi lesbians, mud bath connoisseurs, Christian fundamentalists with crimped hair, glue-sniffing lesbians (actually, the jacuzzi lesbians and the glue-sniffing lesbians are one in the same, so it should read "glue-sniffing lesbians who like jacuzzis"), shock-haired psychotics, overly enthusiastic shower fight bystanders, and skittish binge eaters. Oh, my, I'm getting tingly just thinking about all the mentally unstable ladies who populate this film's rough and grimy universe. While it may seem like I'm rattling off a random list of socially maladjusted women for my own sick and twisted amusement, let me assure you, I'm not gently tugging on your proverbial carburettor (though I bet half of you wish I was), all these crazy chicks magically appear at some point during this Pierre De Moro-directed motion picture. Yeah, that's right, Pierre De Moro directed this motherfucker, directed the living shit out of it, if you ask me, and there's nothing you can do about it. Imagine if someone really did want to do something about it, wouldn't that be an unexpected turn of events? Out of curiosity, I'd like to see them try, because the makers of this film possess a steadfast dedication to the realm of sleazy trash, and its ornery cousin, trashy sleaze.

It's mildly absurd, well, at least it was to me, that the film's only sane female characters are played by Mary Woronov (Eating Raoul) and Judy Landers (Dr. Alien), two of my favourite people on the planet. Sure, the hospital's administrator (Terry Moore) and a couple of the nurses seemed to be on the cusp of being normal, but they're basically background characters. Besides, you'd have to be a tad unhinged to want to work at a hospital run by Mary Woronov (her legs alone are taller than your insignificant ass). Anyway, the absurdity I'm alluding to stems from the fact that Mary Woronov's Dr. Fletcher (a tribute to Louise Fletcher from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, perhaps?) is trying to cure insanity while behaving in a manner that was clearly sane. On the other hand, Judy Landers' Susan seemed sane simply because Judy's one of the few actress with the innate ability to appear as if she was born without a brain. And, as we all know, it's kinda hard to damage a brain when there's no brain to damage in the first place.

This air of cranial sluggishness adds a subtle layer of confusion to the proceedings, as Silk (Ray Sharkey), a hired killer with a bit of a sadomasochistic streak, is instructed to find the whereabouts of some important documents. You see, the exact location of these documents can be found buried somewhere inside the brain of Susan's mother (Lynn Borden), but since he strangled her in a fit of strangulation with his favourite strangling scarf, he's going to have to dig through the empty-headed morass that is her daughter's brain instead. It's safe to say, this is not going to be an easy task. Compounding matters is the fact that Susan has developed a serious case of amnesia as a result of a nasty fall, and the fact that she watched her mother get strangled to death by a sleazy fiend dressed in leather ain't helping matters, either.

How exactly does one extract information from a brainless twit with amnesia? Since one of Silk's employers is on the advisory board that oversees the state's hospitals, they have set it up that Susan spends her time recovering at not a regular hospital, but at the Ashland Sanatorium For Women. Trading in his usual studs and leather look for a less menacing one, Silk poses as an orderly, and begins to badger the forgetful blonde. Standing in Silk's way, however, is another imposter named Ron (Richard Cox). Pretending to be orderly named Steve, Ron has been hired by another member of the advisory board (one not affiliated with Silk's amnesia scheme) to keep tabs on the goings on at the controversial sanatorium (there have been reports of abuse at this particular facility).

While the fake orderlies both covet what's inside Susan's brain, Silk wants wrestle intelligence from it, Ron/Steve wants to shield its contents from harm, Dr. Fletcher wants to inject her brain with a serum. And not just any serum, one that will revolutionize the treatment of a wide range of mental disorders. Oh, and before you get all excited over the prospect of watching a film where Mary Woronov wields a syringe overflowing with iridescent fluid, I feel I should warn you. Are you ready? The fluid in her syringe doesn't glow; it doesn't even glimmer. But, hey, buck up, little camper. She uses a syringe and preforms liquid lobotomies in a subterranean stetting, what more do you want? Not to sound ungrateful, but how hard is it to fill a syringe with a substance that glows? Let it go, man.

"You're not mentally ill, you're emotionally disturbed," is my favourite line in the entire movie, and it's uttered by Mary Woronov's Dr. Fletcher when Judy Landers' Susan tries to explain that she doesn't belong in a place like this. The crazed-looking redhead constantly grabbing at her hospital gown, on the other hand, does belong in a place like this. If I was a fake orderly pretending to work at Ashland, she would have been the first patient I would have asked out on a date. Of course, she's not listed in the credits (alas, there's no one listed as "crazed-looking redhead constantly grabbing at her hospital gown"), which always seems to be the case when it comes to crushing on mentally ill women who appear in the background of women in prison movies made during the 1980s. Well, whatever your name is mysterious redhead who likes to grab at their clothing, I wanna play in the sandbox with you. Call me. Wait a minute, did you say, "play in the sandbox"?!? Yeah, that's right, I said play in the sandbox.

While I'm on the subject, it should be noted that the statuesque Dr. Fletcher is a big fan of sand (put it in a box-like structure and you're looking at one giddy doctor). In fact, my second favourite line spoken aloud in Hellhole is when Dr. Fletcher tells a curious visitor to the sanatorium that she "finds sand to be much more therapeutic than water" in response to their query about the merits having a sandbox on the premises instead of a swimming pool.

After watching a sandbox fight get broken up by a couple of Dr. Fletcher's goons (unlike the security who work at most hospitals, these guys wear all black, carry nightsticks, and use the c-word a lot), Susan finally musters up the courage to ask Ron/Steve about hellhole. Even though he plays dumb, the look of horror on his face when she says the word "hellhole" should tell Susan everything she needs to know about hellhole (it's too early to tell if her non-functioning brain was able to pick up on what he was putting out there with his face). Meanwhile, over in Silk's room (yep, he's moved into Ashland, all right, and has turned his space into a pervert's paradise), the sleazy assassin is confiding with Vera (Edy Williams), a shapely patient who is acting as one of his spies. Telling her to find out all she can about this Steve fella (who he calls "half a fag"), Vera starts snooping around the showers in her white panties wielding a bar of hypoallergenic soap.

Why is Vera wearing panties in the shower? And I had no idea they had hypoallergenic soap back in the 1985 (I thought everyone just used Dial and hoped for the best). An excellent question and a valid point. But there's no time to dilly-dally over such trivialities, a shower fight is about to commence. How do I know a shower fight is about to commence? Um, hello, a bunch of naked women are showering together (one, albeit, is inexplicably wearing white panties), the film's called "Hellhole," not A Walk to Remember, and a mean-looking chick sporting a mullet has just taken exception with the fact that Vera is currently washing her girlfriend's back with a bar of hypoallergenic soap, so, of course, a shower fight is about to commence.

The coolest aspect about this particular sequence was not the sight of two pantie-adorned–Vera's opponent (Ann Chatterton) is, you guessed it, wearing panties–women fighting in a shower while surrounded by a cheering circle of curly-haired cunts, but the fact that one of the C.C.O.C.C's almost buys it while running to get a spot in the circle. Remember ladies, whenever you find yourself in a situation where your presence is needed to make a girls only shower fight seem more exciting than it really is, always walk, never run, your safety and overall well-being is important to us.

When an unbalanced woman with crimped hair wearing Tretorn tennis shoes (Marneen Fields) has finished ranting and raving in the dinning hall, we get our first glimpse of Mary Woronov in all her evil glory. Didn't you mention Mary Woronov being in a previous scene? Yeah, I did. But she was seated during that particular scene. And you what they say? A walking Mary Woronov is a... actually, I have no idea what "they say." All I know is there's something about the way Mary Woronov moves in this movie. Every step seems to have been meticulously thought out beforehand, which gives her character a weirdly alien temperament. Anyway, the woman in the Tretorns stops ranting and raving almost immediately when Mary Woronov's Dr. Fletcher enters the room. After coaxing her down from the table she was standing on, the leggy doctor instructs her goons (one of whom is played by Robert Z'Dar, whose unique jawline is the stuff of nightmares) to take her away.

Take her way, eh? I wonder if they're going to take her to hellhole? Who am I kidding? Of course her crimped ass is going to hellhole; that's where everyone goes when they misbehave at Ashland. With the help her assistant, Dr. Dane (Marjoe Gortner from Starcrash), Dr. Fletcher injects five ccs of an experimental drug they've been working on into Miss Trethorn's brain. After some promising writhing by their unwilling test subject, the patient dies. No biggy, right? Little does Dr. Fletcher know that Don/Steve has been watching them from the shadows. The most disturbing part about Don/Steve's reaction was that he seem more horrified the post-mortal kiss Dr. Fletcher plants on the dead girl's lips than her actual murder (necrophilic lesbianism was, unfortunately, still frowned upon back in 1985).

Speaking of irregular lesbianism, Hellhole is chock-full of dyky goodness. While Susan is busy taking an unauthorized tour of hellhole (where she finds a world full of steamy pipes and rattling chains), the goons are busy busting up some equally unauthorized instances of girl-on-girl action. Two gals (Marie Lamarre and Judith Geller) are caught naked together inhaling amyl nitrate in their room, another two (Edy Williams and Natalie Main) take a mud bath together (Natalie is credited as "mud girl"), and one of the women from the first lesbian encounter I mentioned is found sniffing glue with a slender brunette (Lamya Derval), who is credited as "jacuzzi girl." Since it was the jacuzzi girl's first transgression involving unlawful cunnilingus, Dr. Fletcher doesn't send her to hellhole, but instead invites her to take a soak in her private jacuzzi... While she's soaking, a kimono-wearing Dr. Fletcher coyly offers up the shapeliness of her right leg as a gift to her newfound friend.

A brunette woman buys some grub at Tony's Tacos, yet there's no one in the credits listed as "brunette woman at taco stand" or "taco-eating lesbian with a perm." Weird. Just a second, it would seem that Michele Laurent plays the taco lady, and is credited as "Tony's Tacos Patron."

I'll admit, it was exhaustive work keeping track of all the crazed women who appear Hellhole. For example, did you know that Dyanne Thorne (Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS) shows up briefly as an inmate named Crysta? Well, she does. Let me give you some free Hellhole-watching advice: Don't let all the extraneous characters distract you from what's important. The bulk of your focus should be on Mary Woronov and Ray Sharkey, as they're the only ones who seem to be having any fun with their roles. The combination of Mary Woronov's imposing figure and Ray's coke-fueled unpleasantness was an absolute delight. It's too bad their characters couldn't have put aside their differences and gotten along better. It's true, she's a shy lesbian who's into medical experiments and pencil skirts, and he's a registered sex offender who likes to strangle people, but I'm sure they can find some common ground.. After all, I'm currently dating a deranged redhead with severe body issues, and I couldn't be happier.

Taking yet another look at the film's credits, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say the "crazed-looking redhead constantly grabbing at her hospital gown" was played by Tanya Russell, as she's credited as "freaked-out inmate," which is close enough, if you ask me.


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Monday, December 13, 2010

Skatetown, U.S.A. (William A. Levey, 1979)

A feeling of misguided satisfaction coursed through my nimble frame as I finished watching Skatetown, U.S.A., a non-stop disco party that repeatedly shuns reality and subverts the conventions of modern cinema. Why such an extreme reaction to something that, on the surface, appears to be stupid and trivial? Well, I like to brag about the fact that I enjoy watching Roller Boogie, the movie where Linda Blair's gorgeous thighs are constantly being strangled by a pair of purple tights, and Xanadu, which is also a "movie," except in this one, Olivia Newton-John provides the bulk of the thigh-candy. As you would expect, or maybe you wouldn't, what the hell do I know, the weird look of pity/puzzlement they give me as I'm telling them all about my love for these culturally important movies bathes my fragile aura with radiant waves of energy nectar. Only problem being is that I'm deathly afraid that one day one of these fine, nectar-providing folks is gonna ask me if I've seen Skatetown, U.S.A. You see, saying you're a fan of movies that involve disco and roller skating is completely meaningless if you haven't seen Skatetown, U.S.A., the kind of movie where yo-yos, rainbow suspenders, tai chi and short shorts all appear within the same frame. It's like saying you're a fan of the music of Nitzer Ebb but haven't heard That Total Age. In case it isn't obvious yet, I'd like to officially announce that my days of nervously boasting about my love of roller disco movies are over, for I have been to Skatetown, U.S.A., and let me be the first to tell you, it was glorious.

The act of gliding on wheels to disco music, as supposed to walking to the screeching racket that is rock music, has always been the principal allure of roller disco cinema. When riding in a car or traveling across town on a bus, you feel as if your moving but there's a bit of a disconnect. On the other hand, when the wheels are actually attached to your body, the sensation is more tactile, more granular. Add the synthetic pulse of a well-oiled disco beat, and we're talking some serious harmony up in here.

Just because walking and talking is the most popular way to depict two people in a relationship on-screen doesn't mean it's the most effective. Having your characters on wheels not only enhances the romance, it accelerates the wooing process. Take a couple who do things the old fashioned way: they walk to a restaurant, they eat, they engage in small talk, it can be quite tedious. Now take a roller skating couple, like, for instance, Stanley and Allison, the couple in Skatetown, U.S.A. played by Greg Bradford (Zapped!) and Katherine Kelly Lang (The Bold and the Beautiful), the two barely say a word to one another, yet their chemistry on the roller disco dance floor is undeniable. There is just something to said about love when it's on wheels. It blossoms in a way that no walking person could ever understand.

Since I've already done an excellent job proving that moving on wheels to disco gives you a sense of spiritual autonomy and vastly improves your love life, I'd like to talk about this particular film and its radical approach to storytelling. Written Nick Castle (Escape from New York) and directed by William A. Levey (Wam Bam Thank You Spaceman), Skatetown, U.S.A. bypasses things like scripted dialogue and character development all together, and aims to create a universe that seems lived in, but not in a way that seems contrived or phony.

The sight of hordes of scantily clad roller skaters rolling along the concrete pathways of Venice Beach in the opening scene is the only proof we have that this film takes place on Planet Earth, because after that, the film takes place entirely inside the iridescent realm that is Skatetown, U.S.A., an awe-inspiring roller disco paradise run by a father and son duo named Harvey (Flip Wilson) and Jimmy (Billy Barty); the former, by the way, also plays Harvey's mother (yeah, that's right, Flip Wilson appears in drag). Under the spell of The Wizard (Denny Johnston), the joints giant white afro-sporting DJ, we are subjected to a balletic display of tightly packaged disco crotches, flashing disco lights, glowing disco balls, pulsating disco beats, and knee-molesting disco doctors.

You'd think the film would rest on its laurels by employing the tried and true roller disco movie formula: montage, dialogue, montage, a brief shot of Ruth Buzzi in a yellow hat, dialogue, montage. After all, it worked so brilliantly in Roller Boogie. However, Skatetown, U.S.A. takes the formula one step further by eliminating the dialogue completely. Oh, sure, there's still a ton of dialogue uttered in the film (most of it incoherent nonsense), it's just that it seemed like I was watching a 98 minute montage. Which, if you think about it, is more attune to reality. If you think about it some more, there's no dialogue in real life, so why should there be any in the movies?

Seriously, forget about even a sentence, when was the last time you heard someone verbalize actual words in order to advance a plot? For me, you'd have to go all the way back to the late 1970s, and I wasn't even alive back then.

There was one line of dialogue expressed audibly in the film that I do remember, and that was Dorothy Stratten's "pizza please." Asked repeatedly every time an elderly vaudevillian would finish telling her what was usually a terrible joke, Dorothy, aptly credited as "girl at snack bar," would gradually increase the frustration level in her voice after each pizza request went unfulfilled. Other than the film's obligatory skate competition, it's safe to say that the tension surrounding the serving of Miss Stratten's pizza slice was the film's primary source of drama.

Predictable, yet completely necessary, the rivalry that forms between skaters Stanley (Greg Bradford) and Ace (Patrick Swayze) is the dominate storyline during those smallish chunks of time that exist in-between the film's many musical numbers (the majority involving skate crews with names like, "New Horizons" and the "Hot Wheelers"). Egged on by Richie (Scott Baio), his bookie pal, and placated by his sister Susan (Maureen McCormick), Stan from the Valley must overcome the brash Ace, the leader of the West Side Wheelers, the toughest roller skating gang this side of Wilshire Boulevard, find out if Katherine Kelly Lang is real or not (she has the charisma of a fuck doll that's never been inflated), use a shitload of poker metaphors in an argument, and partake in a game of chicken involving a rickety old pier and motorized roller skates.

Employing his sycophantic underlings to sabotage his opponents (which include skaters with names like, Uncle Sam and Pistol Pete), even though he doesn't have to (he kicks ass both in the singles and mixed doubles competition), Ace's determination to win has severely clouded his judgment. The best example of this cloudiness can be observed whenever you would see Ace and his second in command Frankey (Ron Palillo) sitting together. While Ace's lady-friend/skating partner is attractive and all, it was clear to me that gals leaning on each of Frankey's bony shoulders were two of the hottest chicks in all of Skatetown, U.S.A. Or maybe Ace is just not that into leather-clad women who combine the elegance of Buckwild from Flavor of Love 2 and the wayward spunk of Polly from the movie Teen Witch. Either way, it's his loss.

Sporting a studded dog collar and a churlish disposition (one that was downright unhorshackian at times), Ron Palillo's henchmen character represented the ugly side of disco peer pressure. In constant fear of losing his place within the gang's complex hierarchy, Frankey carries out his master's orders without fail.

Meanwhile, over at the change rooms. The moment the word "pantyhose" rolled off her exquisite lips was the exact instant I knew the bespectacled Eleanor (Harlene Winsten) would be the Skatetown, U.S.A. character for me (she trips and falls before she even puts her skates on). Recently married to a nebbish clod named Irwin (David Landsberg), a man who clearly does not appreciate her inherent foxiness, Eleanor sets the disco floor on fire with her frumpy attire and spastic roller moves. Unfortunately, the winsome Miss Winsten only appears sporadically throughout the film. Nevertheless, I treasured every scene of hers like it were a rare gift from the roller disco movie gods.

Half-heartedly spouting feminist slogans when confronted, a more wide-eyed than usual Judy Landers (Dr. Alien) tries her best to figure out the club's simplistic ticketing system as Tery, Skatetown's breathy doorperson. (Remember kids: Orange passes are for last week, green passes are for this week, and free tickets cost five dollars.) Sadly, Judy spends the majority of the film sitting behind Skatetown's ticket counter; I would have loved to have seen her skate.

I liked how Maureen McCormick (The Brady Bunch), head-to-toe in pink, would disappear on occasion. Which makes sense, since, according to her memoir: Here's the Story: Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice in Maui, she was doing a lot of cocaine during the making of the film, and, as we all know, cocaine enthusiasts aren't exactly the most reliable people when it comes to truancy. Coked up or not, Maureen looked amazing in her tight pink short shorts, and her character's sexual attraction to Ron Palillo, while strange and slightly off-putting, gave hope to millions of deluded dirtbags the world over. Oh, and I loved the empty-headed, trollopy manner in which she chewed her gum.

Shooting laser beams from his fingers and promoting the joint's nasty snack bar whenever possible, The Wizard (Denny Johnston), the skate palace's mystical DJ (he can make crooner Dave Mason appear and disappear at will), spins a groove-tastic array of killer disco tracks. My faves being: the totally awesome "Born To Be Alive" by Patrick Hernandez (it's the song that introduces us the shimmering universe that is Skatetown, U.S.A.); Heatwave's "Boogie Nights;" "Macho Man" by the Village People (a song I always associate with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding); a cover of The Rolling Stones' "Under My Thumb" by the Hounds (Patrick Swayze and April Allen destroy all comers to this song); and, of course, Earth, Wind and Fire's "Boogie Wonderland."

It's hard to believe, but in 1979, a straight man could wear a pink tank top with white slacks while performing an elaborate roller skating routine (complete with muscle flexing) to the strains of "Macho Man" without an ounce of fear. Anyway, I sure am glad I finally got the chance to visit Skatetown, U.S.A. The only downside being that I reek of flat 7Up and soggy pizza.


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Monday, March 8, 2010

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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