Imagine not being able to, oh, let's say, ride the bus without the ability to drown out the thoughts of the other passengers. I think most people would agree that the constant of barrage of inner inanity would slowly erode a person's mental well-being. Luckily for us, we have no idea what other people are thinking. However, to a small segment of the population who exist in the world of David Cronenberg's Scanners, the scenario I just described is all too real. It should be noted, however, that, yes, it's true, most people can't read people's minds. But for a brief moment there, I did have to listen to other people's conversations (which are like thoughts, but more verbal). You see, when the mobile phone first started to become an acceptable mode of communication within the non-brain surgeon/non-drug dealing community, I felt like I was being inundated with pointless bather non-stop. It was only when talking on the phone became passe (eventually replaced by texting) that I felt secure that my brain cells would not have to be subjected to such tediousness. Every once and awhile I'll hear someone talking loudly on their phone. But since they're usually speaking a language I don't understand, I try not to get too bent out of shape about it. Oh, and just to let you know, I have a strict "No English Allowed" policy on my bus.
Anyway, getting back to Scanners. Does anyone know if Margaret Gadbois, who plays "Woman in Mall," was wearing a full slip or a half slip underneath her dress? The only reason I ask is because I'm a huge pervert. Just kidding. But seriously, does anyone know?
The reason I ask is because the sight of Margaret's not quite middle-aged, not quite elderly gams kicking and flailing on the floor of a mall food court is the first image to grab my attention in this film, which, should come as no surprise, explores the destructive nature of the human body.
According to David Cronenberg, the human body (specifically the human brain) propels us forward, but ultimately let's us down.
(What caused Margaret's oldish legs to flail so violently?) What are you doing, man? I was trying to make a profound point. (You already made that point in your review of David Cronenberg's Rabid.) I did? Let me check... Well would you look at that...
If that's the case, let's get back to talking about those kicking and flailing old lady legs, shall we? Like I said earlier, the legs belong to an oldish woman who is sitting in a mall foot court with a friend. Noticing a mildly dishevelled man eating scraps of food off the bolted-down tables that have recently been vacated, the woman and her gal pal start to think disparaging thoughts about him. The reason we can hear their thoughts is because the man, Cameron Vale (Stephen Lack), is a scanner, the name given to a powerful group of telepaths.
Except, Cameron doesn't know he's a scanner. Nevertheless, while attempting to block out the women's thoughts, Cameron inadvertently causes one of the women (the leggy one wearing the full or maybe half slip underneath her dress) to convulse on the food court floor.
As she twitches violently (her friend and some passersby try to calm her), two creepy dudes in trench-coats begin to pursue Cameron through the mall. After a brief chase, the men eventually shoot Cameron with a tranquilizer dart and take him to a warehouse run by CONSEC, a Blackwater-style security company, who, in the grand tradition of David Cronenberg films, are shady as fuck.
Lulled into thinking he's amongst friends, Cameron is given a drug that will help him suppress his powers (or "quiet the voices") by Dr. Paul Ruth (Patrick McGoohan), the world's foremost scanner expert.
Meanwhile, over at CONSEC's main headquarters, a scanner is giving an audience a demonstration of what a scanner can do. Asking for a volunteer from the audience, the scanner... oh shit! (Don't tell me, another woman just showed her slip while being scanned.) No, the audience member who volunteered is played by Michael Ironside. (You're right. Oh shit.) This does not bode well for that scanner's mental health. *splaaaaat!* Wow, now that was quite the understatement.
Irked that a scanner was able to infiltrate their organization and cause their scanner (the only one they had on the payroll) severe cranial distress, CONSEC hire Braendon Keller (Lawrence Dane) as their new head of security.
While the hiring of Keller is initially seen as a step in the right direction, Dr. Ruth manages to convince the CONSEC higher-ups that the only way to stop a scanner is to use another scanner. And that's where Cameron Vale comes in.
Sent on a mission by CONSEC to infiltrate the so-called "scanner underground," Cameron Vale goes literally head-to-head with Daryl Revok (Michael Ironside), the world's most powerful and therefore most dangerous scanner.
Culminating in an epic battle, one that will test the structural integrity of his mind, Cameron Vale quickly discovers that not all scanners are socially awkward misfits. Some have plans to take over the world, while others are merely content to look awesome in high-neck knitwear; I'm looking in your general direction, Jennifer O'Neill, from Lucio Fulci's The Psychic.
In one of the film's best scenes, Cameron Vale also discovers that he can hack high security computer systems simply by picking up the phone.
Boasting top-notch make-up effects (especially during the scanner showdown), an appropriately throb-friendly film score by Howard Shore and the always terrific Michael Ironside (in what is easily one of his best roles), Scanners does an excellent job of mixing the silly with the cerebral. Which, and I think most people will agree with this, is the key to making a successful David Cronenberg film.
Let's get this out of the way first, shall we? The only thing American about this cinematic nightmare is that crumpled wad of American cash resting on the nightstand of the wonderfully flat-chested prostitute played by Alexandra Paul; who is American herself, so let's say, there are two things American in this film (money and small tits). And both are nowhere to be found after the five minute mark; well, there are plenty of small tits after the five minute mark, just not American small tits. Everything else is pure 100% Toronto-reared sleaze (mmm, slice it thick, ma). Since "Toronto Nightmare" isn't nearly as catchy, they went with American Nightmare. And you can't really blame them for that, as the film will probably do much better in international markets with a title like that. However, to someone who knows the streets depicted in this Don McBrearty-directed slasher flick all too well, this film is hands down one of the greatest tributes to the city of Toronto I think I've ever seen. Of course, I'm talking about the Toronto of yesteryear, as the Toronto featured in this film does not exist anymore. Oh, sure, the Zanzibar is still there in all its perverted glory, but everything that was scum-laden and beautiful that used to surround it has long since disappeared. If, by the way, I'm starting to sound like a nostalgic New Yorker bemoaning the gentrification of their precious Times Square. That's good, as that's the sound I'm going for. Sick of waxing poetically about the changes that have occurred over the years in city's I've never lived in, it was refreshing to watch a movie–a gritty, sexy, violent movie with incest, cross-dressing and pimps–that boasted locations that I've actually been to. And what was cool about the way the locations were filmed in American Nightmare was that nothing, as far as I could see, was altered in order to make the various locals seem more grimy. In other words, everything in this film looked authentic.
Well, authentic to a point. I mean, would an adult bookstore/porno theatre (all adult bookstores, all the decent ones, anyways, had a porno theatre in the back) really carry Crescendo Magazine?!? If you look closely, you can see that the magazine is clearly in the miscellaneous section. Still, a magazine geared toward lovers of classical music does seem out of place in a shop that carries, or, hopefully carries, the latest issues of Razzle, Pleasure, Escort, and Whitehouse.
Opening on a pair of white panties lying in a heap on the floor of a cheap motel, American Nightmare makes an impression almost immediately. Slowly the camera moves off the panties and shows us that the panties are not alone. Resting near a some taupe pantyhose and a white bra, the panties, before they were tossed on the floor, were once wrapped snugly around the barely eighteen undercarriage that belongs to Tanya Kelly (Alexandra Paul), a prostitute with small breasts.
The reason the panties are not furnishing her crotch and buttocks with the coverage they were engineered to provide is because she needs those areas to be free of artificial barriers. Why's that, you ask? She needs them to be uncovered so that her clients, like the one who is currently in the bathroom, can enter her without there being any obstructions.
As Tanya waits on the bed in a leggy manner for her client to finish up in the bathroom, you'll notice that the television on the fritz. I have no idea if the decision to make the television's picture quality poor was on purpose or not. Nevertheless, I thought it was the correct decision. I'm not sure if I said this before, but a television with a fuzzy picture is much more interesting, from a visual point-of-view, than a television that is transmitting a clear picture.
Returning from the bathroom, the man, who is wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of surgical gloves, walks toward Tanya and... Hold on. Did you say, surgical gloves? Yeah, so? I don't have access to the hooker handbook at the moment, but surgical gloves have got to be listed as a red flag. They might be, but you've got to remember, Tanya is a young prostitute. Meaning, she probably hasn't gotten that far in the handbook yet. Well, it's not going to help her now, as the guy in the towel is slicing her neck with a razor.
What's most tragic about Tanya's death is the fact her brother, Eric Blake (Lawrence Day), a concert pianist, spends most of the movie looking for her. What I mean is, we know Tanya Kelly, who's real name is Isabelle Blake, though, I prefer to call her Tanya since she died as Tanya, is dead, but Eric doesn't. And that gives the film a real sense of hopelessness.
Despite what we know, Eric continues to look for Isabelle/Tanya. He even manages to find the apartment building (a real dump) her sister's been living for the past two years. The only person he finds is Dolly (Larry Aubrey), her Friend of Dorothy-aligned neighbour from across the hall; I loved the way Dolly played with his necklace as he chatted with Eric, as it was so flamboyantly creepy.
All Eric gets out of Dolly is that he hasn't seen her for at least two days. This leads him to reluctantly visit his father, Hamilton Blake (Tom Harvey), the owner of Uni-Save, a successful television station he runs with his right hand man Tony (Neil Dainard). Unfortunately, his father hasn't seen Isabelle/Tanya in over two years. Oh, and the reason he was reluctant to turn to his father is because he can't stand him. I'd even go as far as to say that he hates him with a fiery passion.
The reason no one was home when Eric knocked on the door is because Louise (Lora Staley) and Andrea (Claudia Udy), Isabelle/Tanya's roommates, are all down at the Zanzibar taking their clothes off for money. Actually, before we meet Louise and Andrea, we're introduced to a stripper named Tina (Lenore Zann), who is talking with her boyfriend Mark (Page Fletcher), a guy who doesn't like the fact that his girlfriend is a stripper. What I think they were trying to do with this scene is establish Mark's dislike for the stripping profession. And, in turn, make us believe that he might start killing strippers, or small-breasted prostitutes for that matter. Either way, I like the idea that Lenore Zann works at a strip club called the Zanzibar.
At first, I was impressed by the Scorchy poster the ladies had on the wall of their dressing room. But then I saw something on the wall that impressed me even more. Wait, something more impressive than a Scorchy poster? Way more impressive. Are you ready? A Marlene Willoughby poster!!! Yikes! That is impressive.
How come I don't have a Marlene Willoughby poster on my wall? It's not fair. I'm stupid enough to actually go down to the Zanzibar, which, like I said, is still in business, and ask them if the Marlene Willoughby poster featured in the early '80s slasher film American Nightmare is for sale. Hell, I'm not even sure if the interior scenes were filmed inside the actual club. Nonetheless, that still doesn't change the fact that I want that poster.
Convincing Louise that Isabelle/Tanya is in fact her brother by showing her a picture of them together, Eric manages to finally get inside her apartment. Much to Eric's disappointment, however, Louise, despite her legginess (she has the legs of a dancer), is not much help.
If you're wondering why Eric hasn't gone to the police. Wonder no more, as he heads down to the police station to inform Sgt. Skylar (Michael Ironside, yeah, baby... this guy rocks) that his sister is missing.
To make Lora Staley's Louise more likable, the writers, including John Sheppard (Flying), give her a pill addiction. I know, how does one become more likable by being addicted to pills. Trust me, it just does. It's hard to explain, but just knowing that Louise has a pill habit on the side made her more appealing to me. At any rate, she gets her pills from a pimp/drug dealer named Fixer (Michael Copeman), who "works" out of the porno theatre located in the back of an adult bookstore.
As she's buying her pills, she tries to help Eric out by asking Fixer where Isabelle/Tanya might be. But scumbags named "Fixer," one's who push pills for a living, aren't exactly the most helpful people in the world. While leaving, she notices that Eric is on the cover of Crescendo Magazine. Like I explained earlier, I thought it was strange that a place like this would carry such a classy-looking magazine.
Just a second. I know, a killer is targeting strippers and prostitutes. But Lenore Zann is about to go on. Like most strippers in the '70s and '80s, Lenore Zann's Tina has a gimmick, and hers is a devil motif. Carrying a red pitchfork (don't worry, the points have been neutralized) and wearing devilish lingerie, Lenore, with the help of a feather boa, manages to turn the wrinkled crotch meat festooned to the members of the unwashed rabble at the Zanzibar into rigid no-fly zones with minimal effort. Huh? Her innate sexiness made their cocks hard. Oh.
As she's dancing, Sgt. Skylar informs Louise that one of her friends has been murdered. With one friend missing and one friend dead, Louise turns to Eric for help. Only problem is, Eric is not that experienced when it comes to dealing with distraught strippers, and pretty much bungles the situation. Needing comfort, Louise looks to Dolly, who, as we have since learned, is a cross-dressing sex worker.
Since her apartment isn't the safest place to be at the moment (not only was her friend killer there, but she was almost killed there herself), Louise decides to forgive Eric. And just like that, the two of them become quite the effective crime-fighting team. The streetwise stripper uses her connections to the city's unsavoury underworld, while Eric uses his brawn to further their cause. Um, I thought you said Eric was a concert pianist? Yeah, well, that's because he is. Okay, it's just that the words "brawn" and "concert pianist" don't really go together. You're right, they don't. But you've got to remember, Eric isn't your average pianist.
He might be pegged to be the next Glenn Gould, but he's got a little Charles Bronson in him as well. Don't believe me, just ask the mugger who confronts Louise and Eric in an alleyway. Oh, and when asking him, make sure to fire your question toward his right ear, as Eric, the pianist, ripped off his left one when he tried to mug him and his stripper girlfriend.
Girlfriend?!? Well, not yet. But things are getting there. The sight of Louise dancing at the Zanzibar definitely showed Eric a different side to her. Which, no doubt, did a lot to speed up the wooing process. Oh, and by "different side," I'm talking about her thong-ensnared ass being thrown across the dimly lit stage in a frenzied attempt to arouse and titillate total strangers.
After a great sex scene, Eric heads over to the Sundown Motel to shakedown the manager. Now, the only reason I'm mentioning this scene is because the motel manager is played Paul Bradley of Goin' Down the Road fame. And, as most people know, that film is a Canadian classic. Which, of course, was famously parodied in an SCTV sketch called "Garth and Gord and Fiona and Alice." And what's the line most people remember from the SCTV parody? That's right, "Yonge Street!!!" It's where John Candy and Joe Flaherty would go whenever their characters would get depressed.
Both American Nightmare and the SCTV sketch capture Yonge Street when it was, for good or bad, the city's cultural epicentre. Nowadays, however, there's no real point of walking up or down Yonge Street. Unless getting a deal on a cellphone is your idea of fun. I mean, without the tawdriness, the street has lost what made it so charming in the first place. For example, the fact that no one has asked me if I want to buy drugs on Yonge Street in years is downright depressing. With no record stores, no video arcades, no porn, and no army surplus stores, Yonge Street has ceased to be the centre of the universe.
Anyway, enough of my nostalgia-based whining, if you want to see Yonge Street in all its sleazy glory check out American Nightmare, it's a well-acted slasher movie that involves strippers in peril.
Ostensibly crawling with an unending supply of immobile victims, and, not to mention, sporting lax security and easy access, hospitals are the perfect breeding ground for serial killers and rapists. These blights on society are cowards and will do just about anything to lessen the strain of their heinous acts. (Look me, sticking it to murderers and their raping cousins.) The fictional perpetrator in Jean-Claude Lord's Visiting Hours, however, is the opposite of lazy. He's a spry psychopath who just happens to stumble across the advantages of stalking the halls of the local hospital purely by accident. In fact, if wasn't for his general sloppiness as a sleazy killer with woman issues (and I don't mean his issues with his vagina transplant, the dude hates women), he probably wouldn't have discovered the wonders of hospital homicide. Anyway, proving to be quite the improviser when it comes to devising new ways to sneak into hospitals in order to lavish malevolent praise on his intended victim with the sharp end of his fiendishly pointy friend, the killer comes and goes with an alarming ease.
A cautionary tale about the dangers of insecure health care facilities, this Montréal set film that pretends to be set in America is your classic stalker vs. victim endeavour, but with a medical twist. Inflaming the ire of the already unhinged Colt Hawker (Michael Ironside) with her uncompromising support for a woman on trial for killing her abusive husband, a no-nonsense talk show host named Deborah Ballin (Lee Grant) finds herself at his deranged mercy. Unperturbed by the fact that Debbie thwarted his initial attack on her by escaping via the laundry shoot located in her spacious home, Colt looks to finish off the severely wounded "journalist" by paying many antisocial visits to the hospital she is recuperating at.
Unhelpful in terms of protecting her ass from being straight up killed while sleeps in her room are the police; who thankfully aren't featured too heavily in this film -- I would have hated if this had turned into a lame procedural. Also unhelpful is a television colleague played by McGill alum William Shatner. In other words, Deborah is basically all alone. Luckily for her, Colt is a tad whimsical when it comes to stalking. Overhearing a young nurse belittle his talents as a lunatic while chatting on the telephone, the impulsive sicko right then and there decides to begin stalking her; he despises strong women, especially one's who criticize psychopaths in public.
Clearly intent on proving to the unaffiliated members of the demented weirdo community that he can stalk multiple victims at once, Colt jumps at the chance to pursue Nurse Monroe (the adorable Linda Purl) in an unromantic fashion. Besides, killing Deborah is turning out to be a lot harder than he thought it'd be, so a change of stalking pace is probably a good idea for all involved. Well, except for Nurse Monroe, who I'm sure doesn't appreciate all this newfound attention.
Armed with a simple switchblade and occasionally seen wearing a leather undershirt, Colt is the only interesting, non-Harvey Atkin aspect about Visiting Hours. Oh, sure, there were handful of other things that scratched my itch, horror wise, like, the point-of-view camera angles and final showdown, but it was Michael Ironside and the character he manages to create with minimal dialogue that keeps the film from being one long clichéd bore. Too repugnant to out-and-out root for, yet too charismatic to openly besmirch, the hopeless disquietude of Ironside's perverted rage made for some mildly fascinating viewing.
The fact that Colt was a bit of genius when it came to gaining entrance to the hospital (which was fortified after a couple of his attempts to kill the object of his murderous desire met with failure) and that he was apparently a voracious letter writer (his wall is a testament to his editorial prowess) were also on the cusp of being fascinating.
Now, there are a number of different reasons to look at Canadian slasher flicks from the early 1980s. The nail biting intensity of the stalking scenes, for example, are always a big draw when it comes to these types of films (the experience can be very primal). However, I mainly watch them for the oft chance I might get to the opportunity to bask in the extraordinary glow that Lenore Zann radiates whenever she is on-screen. It's true, that in the case of Visiting Hours you gonna have to wait quite some time for her to appear. But when she does, it's totally worth it.
The Australian born, but wholly Canadian as far as I'm concerned, actress plays Lisa, a woman with low self-esteem Colt picks up at a scuzzy diner. Displaying the same beguiling sexiness she exhibited in One Night Only, Lenore manages to bring her trademark allure to what is essentially a thankless role. In that, by merely boasting crimped blonde hair, energetic trousers, a gorgeous pink, cyan and black top, and the tightest pair of panties this particular planet has ever seen, she somehow makes garish seem angelic.
I'll admit, the scene where Miss Zann and Mr. Ironside tease each other (her with her large Brittany Murphy style eyes and he with the shiny smoothness of his leather undershirt) was titillating... in a tawdry kind of way. But you could tell something egregious was about to go down. And I must say, that unnerving quality hampered my enchantment to some degree. Still, the sight of Colt's unpretentious switchblade slowly caressing the tantalizing lengthiness of Lenore's world class gams was pretty freaking awesome.
Out of all the Prom Night movies (there are four of them, five, if you include the frightfully lame remake), I thought for sure, judging by its flaky title and campy poster, that this one would be the worst of the bunch. Burn my legwarmers, I couldn't have been more wrong, because Hello Mary Lou: Prom Night II is an absolute blast. Encompassing everything I hold dear in the realm of inappropriate entertainment, the film, which was shot in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, and directed by Bruce Pittman, is a fanciful trip through the schizophrenic headspace of a real blonde with a scrumptiously low centre of gravity. Nothing is off limits when it comes conveying the lead characters sense of exaggerated disquietude, as everything from volley ball nets that resemble spider-webs to soul-consuming blackboards (come on in, the water's evil) have been turned into objects of unorthodox terror. The pressures that come with fitting in at your average high school are common motifs of youth cinema, but in the Prom Night series, that pressure is tenfold because you're expected to be crowned something called "prom queen" during a lavish ceremony usually held in a garishly decorated gymnasium. Obviously, the pressure to attain the crown is more pronounced if your a teenage girl (the rewards that come with being crowned "prom king" are pretty immaterial). The question this particular film asks is: What would happen if the winner of the prom queen crown (a jewel-encrusted tiara) was brutally murdered just as her victory was being savoured?
Teeming with full frontal nudity, mystical weirdness, and a totally rad array of late '80s fashions, this giddy sequel follows the vengeful antics of Mary Lou Mallony (Lisa Schrage), a garter-wearing (the sheer amount of nylon, metallic hooks, and straps lurking underneath her voluminous prom dress must have been a perverts paradise) strumpet who was accidentally set ablaze by a spurned prom date just as she was about to be crowned prom queen way back in 1957. A quick side note: She must have been wearing the most combustible prom dress ever devised by prom dress artisans, because that thing went up faster than a pile of kindling. Well, it's now 1987, and Mary Lou's back, and she's ready exact her revenge. Using the shapely body of a modern day student named Vicki Carpenter (Wendy Lyon), a wonderfully endowed Tina Yothers lookalike who owns the world's creepiest rocking horse, as a conduit, Mary Lou, on top of punishing those who wronged her in the past, has her sights on winning the prom queen crown.
One day, while poking around one a dusty storage room looking for a suitable dress to wear to the prom (her ultra religious mother won't let her buy a new one), Vicki opens an eerie-looking trunk and unwittingly unleashes Mary Lou's deranged essence via a magic cape and tiara (I don't know why they're magic, but then again, I'm not one to ask such questions). Anyway, before you know it, Mary Lou's ghostly presence is wreaking havoc in the halls of Hamilton High. And can you blame her? After all, she's still a tad miffed about the whole being setting her on fire during her prom snafu. Oh, and, of course, the humanitarian who torched her in 1957, Bill Nordham (Michael Ironside), is now the principal of the very school where she met her fiery demise.
The first target of Mary Lou's fury is Jess Browning (Beth Gondek), a stylish student who thinks all this prom business is a colossal waste of time (which is too bad, because I would have loved to have seen what kind of outré outfit the fashion adventurous student would have worn to the meaningless soiree). Anyway, unamused by the fact that Jess is messing around with her tiara (she's trying to extract the jewels) and cape in the school's sewing room, the spirit of Mary Lou sets off a gruesome chain of events that leave the fashion victim dead and all messed up.
A rival of Vicki and her best friend Monica (Beverley Hendry), Kelly Hennenlotter (Terri Hawkes), a big fan of Diet Pepsi (she's rarely seen without a can of the fizzy beverage in her hand), makes an insensitive comment about the competition being somewhat thinner since Jess' untimely death (which was ruled a suicide). Upon hearing her comment, an angry Vicki tells Kelly to "shut your fucking mouth, bitch." The retort to Kelly's snide remark, while justified, seemed a little out of character. You see, Vicki's normally a cool-headed gal who likes pink corduroy and drawing, and this outburst made it clear to the audience that something strange was afoot.
Keen observers will definitely notice that most of the characters are named after famous horror and cult movie directors. Hell, even Beverley Hendry's Monica Waters is named after the great John Waters. Oh, and just when you thought things couldn't get anymore self-referential, Josh (Brock Simpson), a nerdy kid who has the hots for Monica, uses the term "Lindablairsville" at one point (not to be confused with your ex-girlfriend Linda who moved to Blairsville, Georgia five years ago). Quirky-fun fact: Brock Simpson appears in all four Prom Night movies... of course, as different characters.
The principal of Hamilton High, Bill Nordham (the always terrific Michael Ironside), senses Mary Lou's presence the moment her trunk is flung open. What he doesn't realize is that her ominous spirit has shacked up in the curvaceous frame of Vicki, a student who just happens to be the girlfriend of Craig Nordham (Louis Ferreira). It's no coincidence that Vicki's boyfriend and the principal share the same name, they're related. As you'd expect, the prospect that the vengeful ghost of the girl he murdered in 1957 is gonna start putting the moves on his son in 1987 doesn't sit well with the balding educator.
If Hello Mary Lou: Prom Night II sounds like it ignores everything that happened in the first one, that's because it does. This sequel completely reinvents the Prom Night universe, and I'm totally cool with that. Sure, the eerie music is still here (Prom Night 1-4 are all scored by Paul Zaza) and the random shots of dark Hamilton High hallways remain intact, but this chapter drops the slashing and focuses more on the supernatural end of things to tell its macabre tale.
Whether it be implied father-daughter incest, corn-haired characters who wear yellow sports jerseys (the kind of jerseys that accentuate the wearers legs in a manner that causes them dangle better than they've ever dangled before) in a bedroom setting, or hobby horses with functioning spit glands, this film has everything one could ask for from a prom-centric sequel. Actually, the part where the hobby horse is licking Vicki's hand is the exact moment when I thought to myself: "This movie is freaking awesome!"
The tormented Vicki Carpenter is brilliantly played by Wendy Lyon, a bodacious blonde with a scrumptious pair of gams (what they lack in length, they more than make up in shapeliness). Giving an alluring and unselfconscious performance, the tantalizingly beautiful actress takes the sheer ridiculousness of the film's plot and runs with it. I mean, when she's being sucked into the paradoxical goo that is her possessed home room blackboard, I bought it wholeheartedly.
She also displays great dramatic range, especially when she's consoling Beth Gondek's Jess, the angst-ridden new wave chick I alluded to earlier–you know, the one with the teased hair and a wardrobe so eclectic that she makes the members of Strawberry Switchblade seem drab by comparison . Showing a tremendous amount of verve when it came time to vocalize dialogue with her smallish mouth, Miss Lyon, whether uttering the nonsensical "a-wop-bop-a-loo-lop a-lop-bam-boo" before crushing a classmate to death, or the more straightforward "places to go, people to kill" is a master at conveying an aura of understated menace.
I'm telling ya, I could watch Wendy apply lipstick for hours. Watching her get hit in the head with a volleyball over and over again is also something I could do for hours, but I'd rather not get into that right now.
The scene in which Wendy makes the biggest impression has to be the bare-assed roguishness of the locker room pursuit. A sequence so rife with full-frontal nudity (it was like skipping through a golden wheat field), coltish frivolity, and steam-enhanced terror, that all I could think about was the image of me purchasing the DVD the very next day. Seriously, the amount of time Wendy spends in the buff was astronomical. It is definitely one of the best shower/locker room scenes with demonic overtones to ever to be captured on film.
