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.
While sitting down to sign her no-nudity clause, did it ever occur to Megan Edwards that they're are perverts out there who find nudity to be embodiment of dull? I wonder. Take, for example, the folds in the cloth of your average tennis skirt. The so-called "accordion effect" causes the perverted person looking at the ripples to become sexually aroused, especially if the pleated garment in question is moving from side to side. And if there's one thing I know about tennis–you know, besides the fact that Kim Clijsters has killer thighs–it's that pleated skirts have a mind of their own. You know, given the fact that they're always in motion when they're out on the court. Oh, hello. In case you're wondering. The pleated tennis skirt I'm currently talking about appears in, of all things, Poison Ivy: The New Seduction, the third chapter in the semi-popular series of erotic thrillers about duplicitous women in their late teens/early twenties who attempt to destroy the lives of wealthy middle-aged men, while, at the same time, try to corrupt the innocence of their teenage daughters. The reason I started off on that whole tangent about the pleated tennis skirt worn by Megan Edwards, and not something more logically sound, like, say, the tight grip of Jaime Pressly's golden thong, the drawn on resplendence of Susan Tyrrell's eyebrows, or even Michael Des Barres' off-kilter handsomeness, was because I was thinking about pleated tennis skirts as I sat down to write this about this non-abomination. Duh. You could also say that I want to build up to those other, decidedly more awesome things; spread them out more evenly over the course of this journey I'm about to embark on, if you will. It's a good idea, because this film, written by Karen Kelly and directed by Kurt Voss, is pretty stingy when it comes to doling out the camp and sleaze. In other words, you better be prepared for those agonizing moments when sex and violence are not the film's primary focus.
Ask anyone who has seen Poison Ivy: The New Seduction what their first thought was when the title "Poison Ivy: The New Seduction" flashes on the screen and I bet the answer will sound something like this, "Why am I watching Poison Ivy: The New Seduction"? As the opening credits continue, you'll notice the last cast member listed is Jaime Pressly, who is given the classic "and introducing" credit. It's during this moment that you finally realized why you started watching this film in the first place. From my perspective, the prospect of watching an erotic thriller starring two of my favourite actors, Susan Tyrrell (Forbidden Zone) and Michael Des Barres (Nightflyers), was something that I was perfectly at ease with. Though, I will admit, seeing Jaime Pressly's name in the credits did put my mind at ease.
We will have to wait at least five more minutes before Jaime Pressly appears onscreen, because it seems that producers of Poison Ivy: The New Seduction have decided to open their film with a flashback to 1985. I know what you're thinking, "but I want to see Jaime Pressly act all evil and junk right now," be patient, she's coming. In the meantime, let's ridicule their pathetic attempt recreate 1985, shall we? The film opens with a pool boy driving his beat up car through a posh L.A. neighbourhood circa 1985. How did I know it was 1985? Well, the radio in his car is playing a baseball game where the announcer repeatedly mentions that it's 1985. And, hey, if the man on the radio says it's 1985, it's 1985.
Planning to do more than clean the pool, the pool boy grabs Rebecca (Athena Massey), the housekeeper for the Greer family, and the two of them proceed to "get in on." As they struggled to take off each other's clothing, I couldn't help but notice that Rebecca's lingerie was totally wrong. The shape of her panties practically screamed Joan Severance's panties in Lake Consequence. (Any Lake Consequence fans in the house? *crickets*) Meaning, her panties were from the future! And not only that, her boobies seemed off in terms of eighties era buoyancy. The only things they did get right was Michael Des Barres' Ray-Ban sunglasses. (If you wan't to look like a bag that contained a plethora of douche-like properties in 1985, you wore Ray-Ban sunglasses.)
The reason we're languishing in this anachronistic reenactment of 1985 is to establish the origins of Violet's bitterness. You see, the reason the eight year-old version of Violet (Teneya Erich) is going to grow up to be a ruthless dominatrix is because her mother, Rebecca, a woman whose hair is surprisingly flat given the fact that "Obsession" by Animotion was currently burning up the charts, is kicked out of the house after she's caught having an affair with the pool boy. It didn't help matters that the affair she was having with Ivan Greer (Michael Des Barres) was exposed to his wife, Catherine Greer (Merete Van Camp), five seconds after the pool boy affair came to light.
Well, Violet's back, and she now looks like Jaime Pressly; if you listen carefully, you can hear the audience gasp as her right foot, which is affixed with a strappy high-heel shoe, sets foot on the Greer driveway for the first time in eleven years. Hoping to reconnect with Joy Greer (Megan Edwards), her best friend back in 1985 (growing up in the same house, they were practically sisters), Violet cautiously approaches the Greer estate and is greeted at the door by their new maid Mrs. B. (Susan Tyrrell). Wait a minute, Susan Tyrrell is playing the maid?!? I was hoping that she might play the sexy aunt or at very least Joy's deranged piano teacher. Oh well. Anyway, wearing a red, belly revealing top, Violet and Joy, who is wearing a white pleated tennis skirt with a light blue top, embrace one another like nothing ever happened (yay! girl hugs!).
Even though she didn't ask, Violet somehow manages to convince Joy's father to let her stay in the guest room, by giving them this sob story about working as a waitress to save up enough money so that she can attend a junior college ("being twenty is hard," she tells Ivan and Joy at one point). And before you know it, Violet is washing herself in a bathtub with swan-shaped fixtures and fittings.
Meanwhile, Joy is in her room combing her hair. Counting each brush stroke (she's at ninety when we catch up with her), it would seem that Joy has an obsessive–compulsive disorder. I wonder if Violet is going to take advantage of that? In case we were having doubts about Violet's intentions, Jaime Pressly flashes the first of her many, "I'm about to do some evil shit" looks at this point in the film. It's a good thing they reminded me that Violet was up to no good, because I was beginning to think that she sincere about wanting to bond with the Greer family. Just kidding, the expression Jaime Pressly wears on her face throughout Poison Ivy: The New Seduction practically oozes trouble; and I mean trouble with a capital 'T,' even I initially spelled it with a small 't.'
If anyone in the audience is still having trouble picking up on Jaime Pressly's "cruel intentions," they show her putting on her dominatrax outfit to quell any lingering doubts surrounding Violet's sinister plans. I didn't need to be told that Violet's personality was a tad unhinged, but I did appreciate the scene from a titillation point-of-view. Gliding her hands along the surface of the fishnet stocking attached to her right leg, Violet makes sure that there are no bumps or creases in the diamond-shaped material. Why is she doing this? Well, she realizes that Joy's boyfriend Michael (Greg Vaughn), who she met at a backyard party for Joy's preppy friends (keep an eye out for Susan Ward, she's the one who mocks Violet for attending a junior college), is frustrated by Joy's lack of enthusiasm when it comes to engaging in sexual intercourse during the mid-to-late nineties, and intends on exploiting this nugget of gossip by seducing Michael with her volumizing ponytail and her leather lingerie (I liked how it made this creaking sound whenever she got up).
Didn't it make you feel a little bit sad when you saw Susan Tyrrell reduced to buttering toast in Poison Ivy: The New Seduction? Of course it did. She should be wearing wild makeup and telling squares to go fuck themselves, not making Jaime Pressly's bed. However, I'll watch Susan Tyrrell in just about anything. And, as I like to say, it looks like I just did. At any rate, while I enjoyed the scenes where Susan's Mrs. B verbally sparred with Jaime's Violet, I thought she was pretty much squandered in this movie.
Unfamiliar with how the fast-forward and rewind buttons work on your media player? Don't fret, the producers of Poison Ivy: The New Seduction are here to lend a helping hand. Hold up, did a pool side Jaime Pressly just drop her robe to reveal her beautiful ass ensnared in a golden thong? Yeah, that just happened. Pretty awesome, eh? What do you mean you weren't paying attention? Well, don't worry, the robe drop is shown multiple times from different angles and at varying speeds. Possessing the temperament of a true artist, editor John Rosenberg (Mannequin: On the Move) molds and shapes the sequence in a manner that will surely satisfy the alarmingly specific whims of every pervert, deviant and weirdo watching at home.
Oh, and just in case anyone was wondering, the reason Violet dropped her robe in the manner in which she did was in order to lay the groundwork for her eventual seduction of Joy's father. And judging by the frazzled expression on Michael Des Barres' face, the enticement-based foundation has been sufficiently laid.
Getting Joy and her friend/tennis instructor Jaimie (Shanna Moakler) drunk (a scene awash with plenty of pleated tennis skirts), chatting openly on the telephone with her one of her dominatrix clients (a conversation Mrs. B purposely overhears), pretending to have lesbian sex with a passed out Jaimie (she tricks her into thinking that they spent the night having kinky sex with one another), performing Red Shoe Diaries-approved heterosexual sex (nipples are deliberately soaked in champagne) on Michael (plus, plant a vile of crack cocaine in his jacket when he's not looking), and gingerly massage Ivan's spreadsheets with her fingers (she treats his spreadsheets like they were his cock and/or poodle), Violet, as you can see, is laying a shitload of groundwork. Whether it pays it off or not, is anyone's guess. But be that as it may, you got to admire Violet's tenacity when it came to messing with these upper class twits. After all, she's here to "play to win," as she often says to herself during moments of evil self-reflection.
People often stop me as I'm, oh, let's say, strolling across College St., or gallivanting along Queen St. West, and tell me, "I wouldn't have taken you for a Jaime Pressly fan." Well, for starters, I think the main reason for their disbelief has a lot to do with Jaime's appearance. When you look at the blonde enchantress from certain angles, she does come off as just another in a long line of fashion models who have tried to make the transition to acting. However, if you stare at her for an inordinate amount of time, you'll notice that there's a fearlessness emanating from her saucer-like eyes. Unafraid to appear foolish, or even downright stupid at times, Jaime's sexiness stems from the fact that she exudes confidence, yet she doesn't come across like a pompous git.
Even though I've yet to come across a vehicle that has been able to properly harness Jaime Pressly's unique talent, Poison Ivy: The New Seduction comes pretty close to capturing her essence as a sentient life form. Just look at the scene where she extracts a sticky dollop of baby boomer sperm from Ivan's aging reproductive system. Sure, a slinky, pucker-free red dress had a lot to do with the successful withdrawal, but it would be foolhardy for anyone to underestimate the power of Jaime's innate allure. How else can you explain the fact that I was rooting for Violet to ruin the lives of characters played by Susan Tyrrell and Michael Des Barres? I mean, do whatever you want to Greg Vaughn's Michael and Megan Edwards' Joy (they're a notch below showroom dummies in terms of charisma). But Miss Tyrrell and Mr. Des Barres? These are my peeps.
If you were to judge Poison Ivy: The New Seduction solely as an instructional guide on how to film Jaime Pressly dropping a robe with her back to the camera, you would have to declare it an unparalleled success. Yet, when evaluated purely as an erotic thriller, my enthusiasm is somewhat subdued. Well, the ending, for starters, was such a letdown (most audience members will no doubt feel gypped). And I thought the scenes that featured Jaime in her dominatrix gear were totally mishandled (the film needed more clear, unobstructed shots of her prancing around in her shiny outfit). So, in closing, I would only recommend the film to hardcore Jaime Pressly fans.
