Hell Night (Tom DeSimone, 1981)

A convoluted night of collegiate hazing involving four potential fraternity and sorority pledges being forced to spend the night at a creepy mansion in period clothing sets the simplistic stage for Hell Night ("Pray For Day"), a highly effective survival horror flick that plunges our collective faces deep into to dark recesses of Linda Blair's cavernous, bodice-assisted cleavage. Now, it may be dark down there, but the nook and cranny filled abode is thankfully well-endowed when it came to lit candles. Of course, I'm talking about the luminosity of the Garth Manor, not the exquisite plumpness of Miss Blair's bosom segmentation. Anyway, akin to the photographic work of John Alcott in Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lyndon, cinematographer Mac Ahlberg (My Boyfriend's Back) and director Tom DeSimone (Reform School Girls) have fashioned a shadowy infernal region where light and darkness literally battle each other in a series of enclosed, dimly lit spaces. Decked out in 19th century regalia, four prospective members of the prestigious Alpha Sigma Rho find themselves willfully confined to the foggy grounds of a roomy mansion with a murderous past. Eloquently informed of this ominous history beforehand by the fraternities charismatic leader, Peter Bennett (Kevin Brophy), the foursome enter the house and split into groups of two.

Party animal/surfer dude Seth (Vincent Van Patten) is paired with a British lingerie fancier named Denise (Suki Goodwin), while the dashing Jeff (Peter Barton) and the classy Marti Gaines (Linda Blair), a hush-hush mechanic who believes in ghosts, team up for the long night ahead of them. Not one to let an opportunity for nocturnal prankishness slip through his fingers, Peter Bennett and a couple of his buddies (Jenny Neumann and Jimmy Sturtevant) have booby trapped the house with a wide array of spooky bells and whistles.

Initially, the pranks are a minor annoyance (a harmless mix of bloodcurdling screams and disparaging shrieks), but when the pranksters themselves begin losing their heads in a non-consensual manner, the stories about deformed freaks living in the tunnels underneath the house start to sound less and less far-fetched. Boasting multiple scenes that revolve around quiet lurking, Hell Night is somehow able create to a lurid atmosphere through simple act of depicting a character slowly investigating their sinister surroundings in a patient manner.

Keenly aware that some people might get a tad weary of watching overdressed youngsters inquiring about the origins of a particularly curious noise, Tom DeSimone does subtle things like focus of the foppish symmetry of Suki Goodwin's garter belt, and makes sure the fright that punctuates each exploratory endeavour is well-earned.

The gorgeously attired presence of the lovely Linda Blair was the predictable highlight of this surprisingly taut slasher film. Sure, the fact that the deformed entity, who threatens our fraternal/sororal heroes/heroines was kept hidden for a good chunk of the piece, did a terrific job of generating suspense, and I liked how the film's overall Gothic tone rarely clashed with the year it was set. (You almost forget that the early 1980s are chugging along beyond the mansion's spiky iron gates.) However, to pretend not be moderately enamoured by the undiluted elegance that Miss Blair put out there as Marti would be an act of extreme foolhardiness.

Saddled with an outfit so dainty, that even the most accomplished of actresses would be intimidated by its apparent uncomfortableness, Linda Blair takes her frilly, bodice gown, shell cameo (attached to a tasty neckband), and white boots and proceeds to execute her thespian duties like a seasoned professional. In search of something different after the leg revealing splendour that was Roller Boogie, it's obvious that Linda wanted to shine the spotlight on the partition that keeps her ample breasts from touching one another for a change.

Which was not only appreciated on a perverted level, but also a cinematic one.

You see, the film, like I said before, is rather dark from a photographic point-of-view, and most time Linda's pearlescent cleavage was the sole object visible at times. As you would expect, this chest-based beacon not only elevated her performance, but was the main reason why this slasher turned out to be a resounding success.

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Repossessed (Bob Logan, 1990)

I realize that there's no way to officially quantify this, but I'm just go right ahead and say it: 1990 is by far the cheesiest year, pop culture-wise, in the history of human existence. Proving that this cocksure proclamation of mine is entirely factual is the heinous Repossessed, a diseased corpse masquerading as a mainstream comedy. Boasting enough bloated references to Morten Downey Jr., Rob Lowe's home movies, Manual Noriega, Sean Penn punching photographers, and Technotronic to compel one to invent a time machine solely for purpose of traveling back to January 1, 1990 in order to commit suicide, the film, written and directed by Bob Logan, is so egregious in terms of soft penises dangling in a non-laughing state of bemused paranoia, a character is named "Luke" just so a couple of lame Star Wars gags could be properly implemented. However, that being said, any film that features the adorable Linda Blair yelling "lick me" while dressed as an ice cream cone can't be all that bad, can it? The stench of 1990 really permeates this film like no other I've ever seen. I mean, some films are able to mask their affiliation with this peculiar period of time by using well-established themes to tell their story.

This film, on the other hand, cannot hide behind universal truths and the poetic grandeur of a sentence spoken in the English language, uh-uh, it has to rely upon the idiocy of the day. And if that means priests rapping and Leslie Nielsen engaging in the millionth parody of that Robert Palmer video (you know the one), than so be it.

Despite all the sucking going on, Repossessed does have one feather in its cap, and that is: Willie Garson, who ventures outside his acting comfort zone to play a nerdy student who insists on asking Leslie Nielsen's Father Mayii a lot of probing questions. Just kidding.

Actually, the alluring Melissa Moore is the real star of the film.

Credited simply as "Bimbo Student," the shapely actress teases Father Mayii by recklessly molesting her own legs in a shameless attempt to arouse all those in and around her sexy aura.

Aided by the fact that her stems were sheathed in some sort of stocking-like material, the seated enchantress has the priest (who rarely acquires an erection via an adult female) and all the saps in the audience under her command.

Unfortunately, the moment "Bimbo Student" stops provoking her gams with her fingers is the moment this film runs out of gas and becomes the cinematic equivalent of being beaten to death with a Bible that was purchased from a vending machine that sells Bibles.

Luckily, the gorgeous Linda Blair is front and centre during the film's opening and closing. Yeah, that's right, opening and closing. I have no idea why she goes AWOL during the film's middle section, but her presence is sorely missed. This is especially true during the sequence that takes place at the heath club, as it was one of the longest, most unfunny chunks of cinema I have ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, playing Nancy Aglet, a housewife who becomes possessed by a demon after sitting to close to the television, Linda seemed surprisingly comfortable writhing around on a bed while covered in painful lesions and dry sick. Though, I wasn't surprised that she took to being evil so easily; I'd be aligned with Satan and spewing fire-hose-quality vomit, too, if I was married to an overly chipper asshole (Goodyear pitchman, Thom Sharp) who thought her possession was a some kind of Joe Cocker-related ailment.

In case you're wondering, Nancy's son thinks it premenstrual syndrome and her daughter thinks...well, I don't remember what she thinks. I do, however, recall Nielsen's character saying something about both kids being terrible actors. Now that was a funny bit.

The overall level of humour in Re-re-re-Repossessed can be gauged (measured) simply by watching the scene where a stagehand pokes an announcer with a pool cue after being told to "cue the announcer." If that tickles your funny area, you should definitely be able to extract some positive nectar from this film (you know, despite the abundance of stale 1990isms). If not, than I would recommend you do something else with your time. Of course, if you're Linda Blair fan, this should be mandatory viewing, as she manages to look scrumptious even covered in slime. I just hope you have an easier time getting through the extended exercise sequence than I did. Hell, pure, unadulterated Hell.

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Savage Streets (Danny Steinmann, 1984)

In the gritty realm of this unbelievably gritty film, thoughts of revenge may sprout while you're immersed in a tub of a warm water, but when that vengeance pierces the night air, and has properly toweled itself off, penis owners the world over better watch their back, or, in this case, they better watch their front. Why is that exactly? Well, a grim-faced chick named Brenda is straight-up irritated by all the wanton rape and murder that's been befalling those close to her as of late. The equivalent of an unclean hand slapping against your wart-covered inner thigh whilst perusing the results of your ex-girlfriend's chlamydia test, Savage Streets (a.k.a. Straße der Gewalt and Zombie Brigade) is cinematic filth at its finest. Exploding with tactless dialogue, synthesizer-enhanced metal riffs, stupefying shower fights, outdoor strutting, gratuitous camera angles, and the most intrusive boom microphone in movie history (Edit: I'm happy to report that the intrusive boom microphone is nowhere to be found on the new DVD), this trashy flick from writer-director Danny Steinmann (Friday the 13th: A New Beginning) is a raw and ugly look into the tightly-garbed underbelly of teenage gangsterism. Pulling no punches when comes to depicting a society so obsessed with sex and violence, that it can no longer protect its citizens from experiencing both on a semi-regular basis, the barely competent highly entertaining film gingerly sets the stage for its unabashedly full-bosomed champion to implement her unique brand of urban comeuppance. And when that juicy retribution is finally distributed, I have to say, the satisfaction I felt went way beyond the normal constructs of conventional giddiness. So much so, that I kinda wish she could have killed some of them more than once.

Sporting her trademark curvaceous body, a healthy mop of wild yet manageable hair (only the sauciest of headbands dare tame this ample mane), and the foulest mouth this side of Wilshire Boulevard, Linda Blair is a festering cauldron of unmitigated sexiness as Brenda, a scrappy as fuck, crossbow-wielding juvenile delinquent who takes on a smallish throng of leathery hooligans called "The Scars."

Proving yet again that she is one of the most accomplished thespians of her generation, the vivacious Linda Blair is literally seeping toughness as Brenda, a no-nonsense mega-babe who isn't afraid no-one. Take the opening scene, for example, it shows her aggressively prancing up and down Hollywood Boulevard with her gal pals. Solidifying her toughness, her strutting style is awash with an unfermented feistiness. Sheathed in light blue satin trousers (which is apt, since her gang is called "The Satins"), a light blue, chest-enhancing tube-top, and a light blue headband (as you probably guessed, light blue is her preferred colour for this evening), Brenda, and, to a lesser extent, her friends, stalk the streets looking for trouble.

As they're walking down the street (window shopping, perusing smutty magazines, eating ice cream), trouble actually finds them in the form of The Scars, a gang lead by Jake (Robert Dyer), an ill-tempered thug with a Boston accent. Coming close to running over her deaf-mute sister Heather (Linnea Quigley) with their convertible, this near tragedy causes Brenda and Jake to pepper one another verbal insults. Realizing that he was in wrong, Jake apologizes to the girls. Well, actually, Jake makes Fargo (Sal Landi), the strongest member of The Scars, apologize -- you know, since he was driving. Either way, the two gangs go their separate ways.

Unsatisfied by the way the altercation with The Scars played out, and still reeling over the fact her sister was nearly killed by a bunch of contemptible lowlifes, Brenda devises a plan to get back at them. Okay, I wouldn't exactly call stealing their car, going for a joy ride, and filling said car with clumps of Hollywood trash when they're finished with it the kind of action that needs a plan. But that's precisely what the girls end up doing. Of course, the whole joy ride episode upsets The Scars like you wouldn't believe. Sure, their car, other than being a little smelly from all the garbage, is still drivable, but you could totally tell they were not going to let this go.

Unamused by the fact they're being forced to exercise (they get plenty of cardio stalking the streets of Hollywood on a nightly basis) in the school's gym, Brenda and her friends, Rachel (Debra Blee), Francine (Lisa Freeman), Stevie (Marcia Karr), Maria (Luisa Leschin), and Stella (Ina Romeo), move their shapely bodies with as little enthusiasm as humanly possible.

Speaking of shapely bodies, while Linda Blair gets the majority of the attention in the film, and justifiably so (she wields a crossbow in skintight clothing), I thought Marica Karr (Killer Workout) was the most attractive member of Brenda's gang. The sight of Marcia (who's a dead ringer for Gina Gershon) hopping around in that cut-off tank-top (which, in actuality, was an altered Specials t-shirt that was not cut-ff but rather cinched above the waist), striped leotard bottom, and those black footless tights (the clingy material pressing snugly against her tender thighs) during the exercise sequence was a thing of erection-based beauty.

We're introduced to two more female characters in the form of Cindy (Rebecca Perle) and Valerie (Kristi Somers), two blonde, bubbly cheerleaders. Taking exception with the fact that Wes (Brian Frishman), her purported boyfriend, was flirting Brenda while she pretended to exercise, Cindy confronts her in the girls locker room and basically tells her to stay away from him. A fight breaks out, which eventually moves to showers. Surrounded by a weird mix of clothed and naked girls, Brenda and Cindy battle it out in the school's steam-laden girl's shower room (a couple of naked girls can be seen fighting with one another in the background, but the exact nature of their beef is unclear).

Meanwhile, back in the gymnasium, as Brenda and Cindy are being reprimanded by Principal "Go Fuck an Iceberg!" Underwoord (John Vernon) in his office, the Scars are laying a nasty trap for Heather. As the punk-infused Red (Scott Mayer) plays nice with her (he's pretending to be an upstanding gentlemen with, albeit, creepier-than-usual overtones), the rest of the Scars, which include the aforementioned Jake, the vest-wearing Fargo, and the pint-size Vince (Johnny Venocur), the only Scar who actually still goes to school, wait for their opportunity to strike.

What takes place next is a brutal gang rape, which obviously sets the stage for Brenda's revenge. Of course, she doesn't know who's responsible for the crime, so she ends up spending most of her time brooding at a local nightclub and getting in fights with Cindy, the cheerleader (in a classic scene, Brenda forcibly removes her rival's top during a science class dust-up). However, when she does find out, the Scars better watch out, because Brenda takes her revenge seriously. How seriously? Well, let's just say, she has an already outfit picked out for the occasion (when seeking retribution, never, and I mean, never, underestimate the importance of fashion).

Whether calling an insensitive gang member a "motherfucking moron," or pulling at the hair of a blonde adversary, the pugnacious Linda Blair exudes a genuine quality that comes across like a burning sceptre floating in a mound of mucus. In other words, when the contents of her right fingerless glove make a fist, you know every rapist in town will be expelling a fair amount of pee come judgment day.

video uploaded by Tony

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Roller Boogie (Mark L. Lester, 1979)

Just when I thought that I had consumed every last morsel of yummy goodness that the 1970s had to offer, along comes a cinematic master work so potent, so purifying, so funky, that I literally got down on my hands and knees and thanked the unseen overlords who inhabit the warm and gooey confines of my easily-impressed heart for allowing me to witness such an unequivocal work of art. In Roller Boogie (a.k.a. Roller Fever), a perfect amalgamation of pulsating disco beats and balletic roller skating if I ever saw one, acclaimed directer Mark L. Lester (Class of 1984 and Class of 1999) has made a bold and audacious statement. You see, by making a film that is predominantly made up of montages, the cagey filmmaker has created what I like to call: A silent movie with sound. Hurdling the story towards its gratifying, fist-pump-worthy, super-awesome conclusion, these montages helped flesh out the characters without the nagging hassles that come with reciting dialogue. However, when the characters do speak, it's a rich tapestry of sentences and words. The script writing person (Barry Schneider) could have easily had the actors just verbalize guttural noises and it wouldn't have taken anything away from the film's majestic splendour. But this movie ain't about cutting corners. Uh-uh, it's about romance, friendship, syntax, integrity and personal autonomy. That, and the finding of ones self while gliding around in crotch-confining short-shorts.

The story centres around Terry Barkley (Linda Blair), a bored flautist who is tired of her rich, ineffectual parents. So, one day, she grabs her skates, puts on her sexiest pair of light blue shorts–with matching leotard, three loopy bracelets and a red belt tie the ensemble together, hops into her Excalibur Phaeton, picks up her well-groomed gal pal (Kimberly Beck), and heads down to Venice Beach to skate her gorgeously aerobicizied butt off.

There she meets Bobby James (played by ultimate where-are-the-now candidate Jim Bray) and his motley band of boogie-woogie skating enthusiasts. The brash Bobby pursues her romantically–you know, because he's a sane man with a functioning set of eyeballs. While Terry wants Bobby to teach her to skate well enough so she can enter Jammer's Roller Boogie Contest.

Complicating matters is Terry's parents, who disapprove of her new lifestyle, and a shady land developer who wants to turn the roller rink into a shopping centre.

Will Terry and Bobby be able to stave off a gang of malignant crooks, appease her fuddy-duddy parents, and save their beloved roller rink from demolition in time for them to win boogie gold? I don't want to spoil the ending or anything like that, but let's just say my fist, and most of my arm was being thrust upwardly in a celebratory manner near the end.

The throbbing disco soundtrack was an amazing showcase for the much maligned style of music, and the limb-twisting agility displayed during roller antics were wonderfully realized. But who am I kidding? It's Linda Blair that makes Roller Boogie really soar.

You'd have to been born without genitals or a complete moron not to receive any enjoyment from the sight of Linda Blair skating around in tight-fitting outfits of every colour imaginable; her glimmering, deliciously substantive thighs basking in the warm California sun.

Far-fetched as it may sound, but Linda's acting is just as astounding as her first-class organic structure. The adolescent boozehound from Sarah T. - Portrait of a Teenage Alcoholic shows a new-found maturity as Terry. Playful, yet dead serious at times, she imbues her delusional drama queen with enough moxie to fill a travel-size tube of toothpaste.

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