Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers (Fred Olen Ray, 1988)

The consistency of the arterial spray may have been erratic at times, the sets sparsely decorated, and the sexual innuendo was not even close to being indiscreet, yet Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers somehow manages to live up to its righteous name. Brilliantly combining the seedy, neon-tinted netherworld that is Hollywood, the cutting efficiency of a gas powered chainsaw, and the compassionate functionality of your average hooker, writer/director/schlockmeister Fred Olen Ray warmly embraces his low budget and lurid premise with an overly medicated brand of gusto. Casting aside pesky little things like refinement and dignity, the surprisingly competent production has a straightforward ambition: Show as many topless women wielding chainsaws as humanly possible without seeming too unsavoury in process. Now, do they succeed in this regard? It's hard to say. I mean, as far as crossing the line in terms of unsavouriness goes, I have no idea. (I lost the ability to distinguish between tasteful and distasteful years ago.) However, the fact that Michelle Bauer, Linnea Quigley, and Esther Elise all appear unclothed while using chainsaws in a non-brush clearing capacity is irrefutable proof that this film delivers on its promise. Which is something that not all cinematic yarns about prostitutes who commit ritualistic murder with chainsaws in Hollywood can attest.

Proudly wearing its debased premise on its freshly shaved bikini area like an itchier than usual rash, you'd think the film would be about chainsaw hookers from Hollywood. Of course, people who think that are naive and a tad decelerated in the intelligence department. On the surface, the film is essentially a detective story about a 1940s-style private dick named Jack Chandler (Jay Richardson) who is hired to locate a runaway teen named Samantha (Linnea Quigley) but ends up sidestepping the creaky chainsaw blades of a chainsaw worshiping cult along the way.

Digging deeper though, one won't find anything else, so don't bother digging, there's nothing down there. That being said, if looked upon utilizing my not-renowned cockeyed point of view, the riches to be found in this deceptively moronic film are galactic in their immenseness. When visually serviced using my untreated brain, the film's outlandish mix of shameless nudity, strange violence, and smart ass dialogue all coalesce to create a powerful elixir, one that somehow renders all the images that dance before you on the screen profound and illuminating.

This unforeseen profundity and illumination is best observed during the film's opening salvo in which the gorgeous Mercedes (Michelle Bauer) seduces a barfly named Bo (Jimmy Williams) and proceeds to take him back to her minimally furnished place of residence. Humorously disgusting, yet playfully erotic at the same time, Mercedes entices Bo with the first-rate shapeliness of her astounding physical structure. This genuinely serene moment gives the rosy-cheeked Mercedes a chance to showcase her wittiness (lot's of saucy comments directed towards his imminent ejaculation). This barrage of drollery lets the enchantress unveil her regulation-size chainsaw without alarming her not-yet dismembered date.

I also liked how Mercedes took the time to cover her painting of Elvis with a plastic sheet and offered her victim a shower cap (to shield his hair from the intensity of his splattering blood). The absurd courtesy of this gesture had me thinking about rolling around on the floor in laugh-fueled stupor for a solid five seconds.

It should go without saying, but I think Michelle Bauer (Café Flesh) is the bee's knees when it comes to being facetious while naked and crazy. Whether she's calling herself Michelle McLellan or Pia Snow, Miss Bauer manages to ooze a well-groomed form of levelheadedness no matter what role she happens to be inhabiting at the time.

Making lacy ankle socks with high heels and a blue micro-mini skirt seem like the sexiest thing on the planet, horror movie veteran Linnea Quigley (Savage Streets) literally emits sparks and billowing smoke as Samantha, a teen runaway who gets caught up with a cult of chainsaw enthusiasts run by a mysterious man in a beard (Gunnar Hansen). Sure, the sparks and smoke were mostly as a result of her chainsaw antics during the unbelievably hot virgin dance of the double chainsaws, but everything else was pure Quigley-based awesomeness. I adored her small scale approach to being sexy (she uses her smallness to great effect) and the off-kilter chemistry she has with Jay Richardson's wisecracking gumshoe.

Adding to the deranged appeal of Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers is the presence of Fox Harris as a baseball bat fetishist named Hermie. The actor best known for Repo Man and, in some circles, Dr. Caligari, does a tremendous job selling his unique perversion to the audience. Employing the toothsomely legged services of a woman named Lisa (Esther Elise and her effervescent eyebrows), Fox demands that she pose sexily whilst holding a brand-new baseball bat, so that he may photograph her. Of course, he doesn't know that his model is a chainsaw hooker, but like majority of the citizens that populate this tawdry world, the last thing they expect is to be killed by an attractive woman wielding a chainsaw. Which, I must say, pretty much sums up the overall appeal of this unpolished turd/endeavour.

Ritualistic Body Paint + Chainsaws = Hesitant Drool.


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Reform School Girls (Tom DeSimone, 1986)

The sound of un-groomed carpet being vigorously munched may not have been audible, but you can bet your bottom dollar that many rugs were being cleaned in Reform School Girls (a.k.a. Naked Birds), a headstrong, bloomers optional women-in-prison flick with an insatiable appetite for new poon on Monday. The unsavoury splendour that greets us as we peak behind the doors of Dorm 14 at Pride More Juvenile Detention Centre was so pronounced, so aggravated, that even the most ardent of cock swallowers will end up turning to the dykeier side of the mattress. A robust cornucopia of supple, young flesh–a virtual who's who of shapely legs and taut midriffs, and a gang bang worthy mishmash of teased hair, spiky jewelry, and clingy night shirts–the film, directed by Tom DeSimone (Angel III: The Final Chapter and Hell Night) is a smouldering cauldron of womanly fury. The not-so intricate plot can basically be found amidst the contents of the film's three worded title: Troubled blonde (Linda Carol) gets sent to notorious reform school, much unpleasantness involving the other girls transpires upon her arrival.

However, it's the demented dialogue and its many outlandish performances, not the narrative, that elevate the tawdry proceedings from a ho-hum exploitation picture to a genuine slab of depraved satire; one that just happens to be rife with girl-on-girl face punching, cruelty towards stuffed bunnies, shower scenes (keep an eye out for Michelle Bauer from Café Flesh as "shower girl"), fanny branding, and farm work without pants.

The timbre of the cast can be pretty much broken down this way: Wendy O. Williams and Pat Ast rule the school, while everyone else struggles to keep up. Hell, even Sybil Danning couldn't compete with Wendy and Pat, who's best moment was when she gets hit in the head by an errant dinner roll.

The rambunctious Miss Williams, best known as the singer for punk band The Plasmatics, literally devours the screen as Charlie Chambliss, the toughest chick to ever commondere a school bus and crash it into water tower while wearing a leather thong. In fact, she's so bad ass, the cafeteria grub she eats doesn't even want to get chewed by the likes of her (food particles kept trying to escape her oral cavity the same way a sea cucumber expels its intestines when threatened).
  

Sporting nary a stitch of clothing (bikini bottoms, fingerless gloves and a stained bra), Wendy thrusts her meaty crotch in the general direction of anyone who dares look at her funny. Seriously, her performance was extremely vigorous. I mean, she was constantly grabbing and clawing at her shipshape organic structure like it was covered with invisible monkeys who just happen to be on fire.

If Wendy O. was over the top, then Pat Ast must have been looking down on the punk princess and laughing manically. Playing the sadistic Edna as if her life depended on it, the rotund actress stomps across the screen like a detestable beast. Spewing spiteful put-downs and barking orders with an tyrannical glee, Pat gives one of the most frighteningly amusing performances I have ever seen. Her insistent screaming of the of the phrase "Complete Control" caused my eyes to bulge with giddy disbelief.

On the sexy side of things (not that Wendy and Pat weren't able to induce a tingle here and there), Darcy DeMoss and Tiffany Helm prevailed when it came to providing the film's first-rate feminine eye candy. The two punky babes play key members of Charlie's clit-licking clique and can be seen sexily lurking in the background of almost every scene that features the incomparable Wendy.

In terms of conventional acting, I'd have to say I was most impressed with the work of Charlotte McGinnis as Pride More's guidance counselor. Reminding me physically of Sean Young, yet boasting the temperament of Desperate Living-era Mink Stole, Charlotte gave her character just the right amount of righteous indignation to make us believe she actually cared about the girls' well being.

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Tomboy (Herb Freed, 1985)

Fast cars, dirt bikes, miniature golf and the unequaled beauty of Betsy Russell collide to create one of the most misunderstood masterworks of the twentieth century. On the surface, Tomboy is a trashy spectacle, one that appears to be preoccupied with hollow thrills, especially ones that involve booby-based buffoonery. However, if you take the time to examine the highly-developed subtext that permeates the film's witless screenplay, you'll notice that there is a superfluous amount of intelligence and vitality floating in-between the sentences uttered in this film. You see, the underlying feminist makeup of the plucky protagonist's puritanical posture probably didn't register in the halls of the National Organization for Women at the time of its release. But, believe it or not, there's a strong women's libber bent to Tommy, a headstrong, yet socially awkward grease monkey who finds herself thrust into the featherbrained world of dating and auto racing by her coquettish best friend, Seville (played by the gorgeous Kristi Somers). For one thing, Tommy has an aversion to pornography, and second, she doesn't like guys telling her what she can and cannot do. Nor does she like being pawed at by strange men at cocaine-fueled parties. (Tommy plants her right knee squarely into the crotch of one particularly grabby party-goer.) And I appreciated her integrity in that regard. She's not gonna let the fact she has a killer physique interfere with her chances of beating some smug jackass (Gerard "Superboy" Christopher) in a car race.

Now, Ben Zelig may have only one screenwriting credit to his name, but he has filled it with everything an abnormal human being could ask for in a ninety minute motion picture: a group shower scene (a playful Kristi Somers looks great washing off her eyeliner); a dirt bike chase, a basketball game (complete with interracial high-fiving); an extended getting-to-know-ya montage (which boasts a round of miniature golf and a trip down a water-slide)...

A leg warmer-assisted aerobics audition (a wonderful merging of heteroeroticism and homoeroticism); a titillating doughnut commercial audition scene; the aforementioned car race; and an energetic party sequence (where Kristi Somers does an acrobatic striptease).

Behold, as Kristi Somers uses pastry-centric sexual innuendo to land an acting gig.

Danna Garen is cutely funny as "Girl in Hall."

Yikes that's a lot of praise for Kristi Somers (not that she doesn't deserve it, she rocks in this movie).

Nevertheless, I need to give Betsy some love...

Despite the fact that she sports a not-so flattering hairstyle, Betsy Russell reaffirms my belief that she is one of the most scrumptious people on the planet. She had already set my heart and other things afire with her work in Private School, but as the tomboyish Tommy, Betsy gets to play a complex character for a change.

Sure, it may be a bit of stretch for Betsy to inhabit the skin of a gruff mechanic (she's hot no matter what you do to her hair), but somehow she makes it work. Imbuing the feisty grease monkey with a shitload of moxie and just the right amount of sticktoitiveness.

On a more unsavoury note, the way Herb Freed's camera slowly pans up, revealing Betsy's pantyhose-covered legs in a leather skirt at the party was stunning example of artful perversion. Which pretty much sums up Tomboy: Perverted art at its finest.

Oh, and keep an eye out for Michelle Bauer (Café Flesh), she makes a brief uncredited appearance as "Woman in Corvette."

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Nightdreams (Francis Delia, 1981)

One of my first experiences with public fornication was when I observed a member of the Belgian industrial group à;GRUMH... orally massage the band's drummer, who was, at the time, conveniently performing an unclothed handstand. This unexpected bit of acrobatic mouth-to-crotch resuscitation had a profound affect on my underdeveloped mind. In that, it corrupted my view of oral sex from that day forward. Now every time I see a film or back alley demonstration that involves head being given, I let out a fake yawn. Well, my friends, perverted and non-perverted, my days of insincere yawning are over, for I have just witnessed the tongue-based resplendence that is the cowgirl cunnilingus scene in Nightdreams, Francis Delia (a.k.a. F.X. Pope) and Stephen Sayadian's disturbing and surreal look into the sexual psyche of an overly lascivious housewife. Set to the electronic twang of Wall of Voodoo's version of the Johnny Cash classic, "Ring of Fire," the beautifully rustic sequence crackles with an unseen artistry. Every nook and cranny is explored with an aggravated brand of devotion, as the trio of campfire cowgirls feast on each others naughty fissures like they were ice cream covered sandwiches laced with liquefied self-assurance.

Now I don't know what exactly it was about this particular scene that changed my oral outlook. But whatever it was, feline-quality, clitoral grooming is now just swell with me.

The other scenes in Nightdreams ranged from unsettling to off-the-wall. Each exploring the depraved fantasies of Mrs. Van Houten (Dorothy LeMay) and featuring a twisted and playful approach to on-screen lovemaking. Though, I have to say, some of the fantasies were downright terrifying in nature. The scene where Miss LeMay's prickly beaver is repeatedly stabbed by the one-eyed meat cleaver owned by a demonic jack-in-the-box, for example, caused my junk to get up, give my houseplants a dirty look, and leave the room.

However, it's not all limp and unmanageable: the scene where Dorothy is admiring her lingerie in the bathroom was on the cusp of being erotic. Unfortunately, a fedora-wearing miscreant bursts into the room and insists on doing her doggie-style over the toilet.

Strangely, the most conventionally arousing scene that didn't involve the inspection of lingerie was the one where a box of Cream of Wheat receives gratifying fellatio from a hungry LeMay, while a saxophone-playing slice of bread frantically toots his horn by the stove. "It really fills a girl up. Nutritious and delicious. Eat it before it gets cold."

You probably noticed that I mentioned Dorothy LeMay a bunch of times in the words typed above. Well, that's because she's in every scene. Which is quite impressive when you think about it. I mean, one moment she's being double-teamed by a couple of hookah-smoking sheiks, and the next she's being poked by a two-pronged phallus in the depths of Hell (Michelle Bauer from Café Flesh watches while chained to the wall). I tell ya, that sounds like a lot of work. Seriously, Dorothy is excellent as the film's unhinged test subject (she's being studied by two research scientists). Her ability to be jizzed on without flinching is one thing, reciting brainsick dialogue with poise and grace is quite another.

The fact that Nightdreams sports money shots in Heaven and Hell only solidifies my opinion that Stephen Sayadian (credited here as Rinse Dream) is a demented genius. For someone to have been able to make iconoclastic films in the artistically bankrupt world of xxx features is a testament to his talent and conviction. Rinse Dream Forever!

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Café Flesh (Rinse Dream, 1982)

The temptation to awkwardly provoke your genitals with nonsensical grabbing and hapless taunts will no doubt cross your feeble thought-making machine as you savour the salacious splendour that is Café Flesh, a poetic slab of high end erotica for the post-nuke crowd. I, on the other hand, am not you, I'm me, and had no problem neglecting my usual indecent inclinations as I took in Rinse Dream's gleaming lump of salivating bawdiness. You see, the story is crafted in such a way, that there are times when you can't wait for the sex to end. And while that may sound like the kind of kooky-talk that would have gotten you killed in my parents' kitchen back in the day (my mother was a staunch supporter of consensual copulation during my days as a peppy young person), it's absolutely true. The scenes that didn't feature Sex Positives invading each others personal space weren't as involving as the film's astute narrative. Sure, the scene where a guy dressed as a house painting rat milkman plunders the fleshy confines of his a leggy housewife with his tail and whiskered snout, as three bone-wielding babies look on from the relative safety of their highchairs, was as perplexing as cinematic liquid exchanges get. But in terms of sci-fi pornography set in a post-apocalyptic netherworld, you can't anymore cerebral than this. And believe me, I've looked long and extremely hard.

Unfolding, like I said, in a post-apocalyptic netherworld, Café Flesh takes place in a universe where 99% of the population are considered Sex Negatives - people who are unable to engage in the physical act of love (they become sick if they even try touching another human being). The radioactive dust from a recent nuclear war has rendered them sexually inert, so in response to this inconvenience, the Sex Negatives force the Sex Positives (the 1% left unaffected by the fallout) to perform bizarre, surrealistic sex acts for their amusement.

These acts are performed in a smoky nightclub setting, complete with a sarcastic M.C., elaborate sets, props, and external oozing. The meat of story, however, involves two Sex Negatives named Nick (a delightful Paul McGibboney) and Lana (Michelle Bauer), and their struggle to cope with the whole "no sex" thing. You see, Nick's grown tired of the sex watching scene, and Lana, well, she just wants to be able to rub up against someone without vomiting.

A well-hung cornucopia of contorted Cold War cunnilingus and strident straddling, writer-director Stephen Sayadian (Rinse Dream), along with director/storyboard artist Mark S. Esposito, writer Jerry Stahl (a.k.a. Herbert W. Day), costume designer Polly Ester (Party Doll A Go-Go!), cinematographer Francis Delia (F.X. Pope) and camera operator Fred Gonk, have made a film that the will satisfy the needs of the unwashed raincoat crowd, nihilistic weirdos with a penchant for black nylons, and anti-social conservatives.

The way it balanced that fine line between sleaziness and stylishness was like watching a tasteful ballet in crotchless panties. I mean, the guy with the giant pencil for a head may have soiled the garter belt of a shapely co-worker on a desk in front of an oil field backdrop, but at least he practiced his technique beforehand with a strenuous flurry of perfectly timed dry humps and herky-jerky dance moves. I'm surprised his pelvic rhythm wasn't compromised by his naked secretary, who kept asking him if he wanted her to type a memo. In addition, it didn't hurt that the film's imaginative production design (Paul Berthell), I loved the use of zebra-print furniture, and smooth camera work were top-notch in terms of creativity .

"Do you want me to type a memo?"

The cast is uniformly brilliant. Yeah, that's right, they're all brilliant. I'm sure a statement like that might shock some people, but I'm serious, the acting is quite excellent. Hell, even the extras brought their 'A' game. (I loved the way the editor would periodically cut to the Negatives sitting in the crowd, revealing a first-rate mélange of new wave faces.) The loquacious Andy Nichols (Night of the Living Babes) gives an amazing performance as Max Melodramatic, the grudge-filled, sardonic M.C. at Café Flesh. A Sex Negative with a healthy sense of fun, Andy spews out the film's warped and extremely wordy dialogue with a nonchalant ease.

The multi-talented Michelle Bauer (Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers), credited here as "Pia Snow," is tantalizingly naughty as the Lana, a Sex Negative with a secret. Watching her slowly come to grips with own sex positivity was a hypnotic spectacle. I found Miss Bauer's masturbation/revelation scene, and, not to mention, her empowering march towards lust fulfillment, to be two of the most emotionally draining scenes I have ever seen. The self-love scene in particular is helped greatly by its use of eerie synthesizers and strange droning sounds (the score was composed by Mitchell Froom, who also did the music for Dr. Caligari).

A menacing Dennis Edwards (The Little Mermaid) gives good creepy as a determined Enforcer (black clad goons who hunt Sex Positives); a broad-armed Paul McGibboney is terrific as the tortured Nick; a wide-eyed Marie Sharp is the embodiment of Wyoming-bred naivete; and Tantala Ray (Suburban Satanist) reminded me of Annie Sprinkle in the role of Moms, the bird-loving proprietor of Café Flesh, or as she calls herself: "The June Taylor of the Nuclear Set."

Oh, and, call me wrongheaded if you must, but the sight of dispossessed clumps of irregular lotion languishing amidst thick, lustrous fields of jet black short and curlies made my spirit soar like an alabaster butterfly flying in-between intricate rows of barbed wire. Just thought I'd put that out there.

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