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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Radioactive Dreams (Albert Pyun, 1985)

If you have ever wondered what goes on beyond that imposing vault-like door that keeps the fallout at bay in Café Flesh, look no further than Albert Pyun's Radioactive Dreams, as I feel this film is the only film to truly capture what life must be like if the apocalypse really happened. I've said it once and I'll say it again, I'm tired of seeing the apocalypse depicted as a negative in popular culture. Sure, lot's of people will probably end up dying, some horribly. But with fire and brimstone comes endless fashion opportunities. No longer shackled by the frightfully lame rules and regulations that dictate what is acceptable to wear in public, the apocalypse is best time to let your fashion freak flag fly. Let's say you want to start an all-girl motorcycle gang who wear red wigs, black leather jackets and Nina Hagen-style makeup. But your husband won't let you. He wants you to drive little Tyler to soccer practice instead. Well, thanks to the apocalypse, your husband and little Tyler have both been vaporized. Meaning, you can start that all-girl motorcycle gang you've always wanted to without having to worry about nagging husbands or stupid ass children and their equally stupid ass needs. If that example didn't get my point across, how about this one: You're a charismatic singer with a powerful voice, yet the only place that will allow you to sing in front of an audience are those cringe-inducing reality shows that seem to be popping up all over the place nowadays (and by "nowadays," I mean, 2004).
  

  
I know, you're thinking to yourself: If the apocalypse comes, won't it wipe out most of my audience along with the deluded judges and annoying hosts? Yes, a sizeable chunk of your audience will probably end up dying, some horribly. But you know who enjoys post-nuke new wave punk rock with a splash of heavy metal? That's right, the red wig-wearing members of a newly formed all-girl motorcycle gang.
  

  
The reason I mentioned the leader of the all-girl motorcycle gang and the so-called "punk district singer" before the two male protagonists is because that's the way I do things. Deal with it. No, seriously, the reason has a lot to do with another thing the apocalypse has in its favour. And that is, there's room to move as a woman in the apocalypse. No longer constrained by societies socially accepted gender roles, women and men are to free to explore their true potential as human beings.
  

  
It's true, there's more wiggle room in the apocalypse for women to stretch their muscles. But not all women will approach this newfound freedom in a positive way. In fact, some will start behaving like certain men did in the pre-apocalypse world. Embracing attributes such as greed and employing chicanerous (deplorable, I know) tactics, there are two women in this film (not the all-girl bike gang leader or the punk district singer) whose behaviour will shock and appall  those of you who are not used to seeing women acting all duplicitous and junk, especially when you find out what it is they're trying to acquire throughout this film.
  

  
If you can believe this, Miles Archer (Lisa Blount) and Rusty Mars (Michele Little) are both pursuing a set of keys—and not just any set of keys, these keys unlock the firing mechanism to the last known nuclear missile on Earth (all expect one were launched back in 1986). As you would expect, these keys give the owner a great deal of power.
  

  
In an embarrassing twist, Miles Archer did have the keys at one point, but ended up losing them while trying to humiliate some dick named Marlowe Hammer. (Marlowe Hammer? That sounds like the name of a character from a 1940s detective novel.) It's funny you should mention that, as Marlowe Hammer (Michael Dudikoff) and his pal Phillip Chandler (John Stockwell) both grew up in a bomb shelter with nothing but 1940s detective novels and other relics from that decade (jazz records and argyle socks).
  

  
Left, or, I should say, locked, in the shelter by their fathers, Dash Hammer (George Kennedy) and Spade Chandler (Don Murray), in 1986 as children, Marlowe and Phillip are forced to fend for themselves.
  

  
When they finally do manage to escape from the shelter some fifteen years later, Marlowe and Phillip are ready to face a world populated by radiation-scarred punks, disco mutants, all-girl bike gangs, cannibals, greasers, hippies, and, worst of all, a couple of shrewd women named Miles and Rusty.
  

  
Actually, now that I look over that list again, I don't think Marlowe and Phillip are properly equipped to deal with this world. I mean, look at 'em. How are two socially inept dweebs (a couple of real "mondo nerds") who fancy themselves as private detectives going to survive in a post-apocalyptic netherworld that is filled to the brim with people/creatures (designed by the Chiodo Brothers, no less) that want to straight-up kill their asses?
  

  
Take the leader of the all-girl bike gang, played by the always alluring Hilary Shepard, for example. After jumping on the hood of his car Road Warrior-style and licking the entirety of his face, Hilary Shepard totally tries to murder Phillip. To be fair, though, Marlowe and Phillip do have the keys at this point (Miles accidentally dropped them in Marlowe's lap - I know, what an idiot). So, it makes sense for the all-girl bike gang to want kill them. Of course, Marlowe and Phillip have no idea how important the keys are. But they will soon enough.
  

  
However, before they do find out, Marlowe must unleash at least twelve groan-worthy puns that revolve around the word "dick." We get it, Marlowe. Dick means private detective and it means penis, too. I don't know 'bout you, but I wanted to beat some sense into Marlowe, as his wide-eyed, aw-shucks attitude is driving me insane.
  

  
After hooking up with Rusty Mars (she survived a roadside ambush by a couple of disco mutants - including Demian "Two Dollars" Slade), Marlowe and Phillip arrive at the Red Onion, a "swanky gin mill" just outside of Edge City, where the former is [thankfully] slapped around by some of the bar's female patrons.
  

  
Burned by Miles, you would think they would be wary of attractive women who sport headbands. Wrong! Marlowe and Phillip end up getting double-crossed by Rusty, as well, who sells them out to a gang of cannibalistic creepozoids.
  

  
Unlike Miles, though, Rusty feels guilty about what she did. Unfortunately, Marlowe and Phillip are in no mood for apologies, as the experiences of the last twenty-four hours have seemingly turned a couple of naive dicks into a couple of hard dicks over night. Meaning, when an Uzi-wielding Rusty shows up to help Marlowe and Phillip, they rebuff her offer of assistance with extreme prejudice.
  

  
The fact we never get to see Rusty fire that Uzi is a crime. And that it pretty much sums up how I feel about this movie. It's get the set up right, it's just that it always seems to botch the follow through. The costumes, the music, the makeup, the sets, and the overall look of the film is top-notch. But the story, despite having an amazing concept, is a tad lacking in the compelling department. And I didn't buy for a second that Marlowe, one of the most irritating film characters in recent memory, would become a badass in the blink of an eye (once a mondo nerd, always a mondo nerd).
  

  
The only scenes I would recommend watching are the one's that feature Hilary Shepard's red-wigged bike gang and the scene where Sue Saad sings "Guilty Pleasures" for a crowd of Edge City punks and freaks.