Tuff Turf (Fritz Kiersch, 1985)

When Jack Mack of Jack Mack and the Heart Attack sings the line, "T-U-F-F, you're so tuff," he ain't talking about the guys in this film. No way, man. He's referring to the vision of loveliness in the black fishnets sporting the gigantic mane of recently crimped hair. Now, those of you who have already seen Tuff Turf know exactly where this is going. In other words, let's stop jerking each other around, shall we? You know, I know, hell, even the blind guy* who panhandles near Bloor and Spadina knows, the bulk of this review is going to focus on the inspirational performance given by Kim Richards as Frankie Croyden. To pretend otherwise would not only be frightfully dishonest, but it would be an insult to all those who depend on my aura to ooze pure righteousness around the clock. I don't know why I'm acting all defensive and junk, everything that occurs in this film is a direct result of Frankie Croyden. And why wouldn't it? I mean, look at her. No, seriously, look at her! In order to justify the drastic actions being carried out by the two young men currently fighting for the privilege to be with with this goddess in lacy fingerless gloves, the actress who inhabits her specific skin must have a certain quality about them to warrant this kind of attention. And? And what? Does she have what it takes? You better believe she does. To put it another way, Kim Richards rules! That being said, imagine if she didn't? Ahh, I don't want to think about it. Though, you have to wonder: How did such a cool chick end up with the kind of guy Clint Eastwood and/or Charles Bronson usually blows away at the end of most of their movies. Huh? I don't get that reference. He's a scumbag who doesn't deserve to breath the same air as her. Gotcha.

And while you're getting that, get this, this unworthy pustule uses her fishnet adorned gams and wavy strands of recently crimped hair to lull the victims of his switchblade-assisted brand of petty larceny into thinking their special before he, and his unctuous band of sycophantic goons, rob them of their valuables. I know, what an asshole.

I don't know 'bout you, but I think Kim Richards needs a little James Spader in her life. What I think you meant to say was, Frankie (Kim Richards) needs a little Morgan Hiller (James Spader) in her life. First of all, Frankie doesn't need anyone. And secondly, her fashion-forward sense of style is the stuff of legend at her Los Angeles high school. Meaning, actually, I don't really know why I added that second part; I guess I just wanted to emphasize the magnitude of her role as her school's resident trendsetter.

It's true, she doesn't need anyone. But this is James Spader we're talking about (put a wig on him, and I'll fuck him in a heartbeat - you know what, forget the wig, let's get it on right now). Oh, she's well aware that this Morgan Hiller fella, a recent transplant from the wilds of Connecticut, looks like James Spader, she's just not in that much of a hurry to jeopardize her cushy position as the girlfriend of the school's toughest hoodlum.

If you're wondering why the school's resident trendsetter needs to date the school's toughest hoodlum, look no further than the clothes on her back. Let me give you an example. Do you see those kooky belts that decorate the midsection of her many outre outfits? How do you think she pays for them? That's right, Frankie's expansive wardrobe is made possible thanks in part to petty crime. And wouldn't you know it, Frankie is about to help facilitate one of these petty crimes as we speak.

Leaning against the wall of the Reseda Yarn Shop, Frankie, who is using her left foot (which is wrapped in a red pump) for yarn shop leaning leverage, is stalking her prey.

Slowly approaching her victim, Frankie stands next to a man waiting at the bus stop (Francis X. McCarthy) and makes sure he gets an eyeful of her shapely black fishnet stocking-adorned legs and wavy strands of crimped hair. Meeting his penetrating gaze every so often, Frankie toys with the hapless rube for a few minutes. Convinced that she has him right where she wants him, Frankie goes in for the kill. Asking the man if he has change for a five, Frankie, when she notices that he's carrying a wad of cash, signals to her friend Ronnie (Olivia Barash), who, in turn, signals to Nick Hauser (Paul Mones) and his gang, who are browsing the magazines at a nearby all-night newsstand.

Springing into action, Nick and the boys bolt across the street, opening and closing their switchblades for dramatic effect. However, as their robbing the bus stop guy, Morgan Hiller comes rolling by on his bicycle. Disrupting their criminal act by spraying beer at the would-be robbers (you'll notice not a single drop of beer lands on Frankie), Morgan temporarily blinds them, causing the bus stop man to get away unscathed. Even though they still got their loot (the aforementioned wad of cash), Nick is not amused by this ill-conceived act of bike-based heroism/tomfoolery.

On the other hand, Frankie is clearly impressed by this brazen display of ill-conceived, bike-based heroism/tomfoolery. It's still early, but the look on Frankie's face as Morgan peddled off into the night spoke volumes. What I mean is, she's probably thinking to herself: Who was that striking blonde man on the bicycle? And why am I hanging around outside a yarn store on a Sunday night with a bunch of two-bit lowlifes?

I'll admit, I was also quite taken with the sight of James Spader riding his bike at night, especially when they show him peddling to the strains of "Love Hates" by Marianne Faithfull.

The reason I called Morgan's brazen display "ill-conceived" was because he had to know that he would run into Nick and the boys sooner or later, as it's the first day of school tomorrow. Did it ever occur to you that maybe Morgan doesn't give a shit? Wow, I didn't think of that. And besides, you can't woo a woman like Frankie by being timid.

In order for you to get noticed by someone like Frankie, you need to stand your ground, or, this film's case, stand your turf. Which he does when Nick and Frankie start messing around with Morgan's bike after class. He might be new at this school, but he already has an ally in the form of Jimmy Parker (Robert Downey, Jr.), who offers to let Morgan borrow his switchblade to defend himself. Of course, Morgan doesn't need no stinkin' switchblade. No, he simply confronts Nick in the parking lot. Sure, his bike is wrecked during the confrontation, and, not to mention, gets sprayed in the face with red spray paint for his troubles, but Morgan made his point.

The moment when Frankie's smirk slowly disappears from her face as a direct result of Morgan's hunky parking lot leering reminded me of the scene from Rebel Without a Cause when Natalie Wood loses her smirk under similar circumstances. Oh, and while you're enjoying the similarities between the two films, make sure keep an eye out for the extra in the Repo Man t-shirt. Out of all the people he could have befriended on his first day at a new school, how did Morgan end up becoming best buds with the drummer for The Jim Carroll Band?!? It's true, Jimmy Parker is the one who pursues Morgan. But still, talk about dumb luck. Either way, Morgan is invited to check out Jimmy's band, who are playing a warehouse near a row of porno shops later tonight.

How's he going to get there, his bike was wrecked, remember? I'm sure he'll figure something out. In the meantime, The Jim Carroll Band, with Robert Downey, Jr.(!) on drums, are in the middle of performing "It's Too Late" for an enthusiastic audience. While a lot of the credit has to go to the charismatic Jim Carroll, who seems to be channeling The Thin White Duke, major kudos have to go to choreographer Robert Banas for the amount of energy he brought to the dancing in this scene.

Reminding me of films like, West Side Story and Streets of Fire, the warehouse concert sequence in Tuff Turf is probably my favourite scene in the entire movie.

Wearing a tight grey dress, lacy fingerless gloves, a red headband, and an unamused sneer, the moment the stylish Frankie, with her equally stylish gal pals Ronnie and Feather (Catya Sassoon) in tow, enters the warehouse with a new wave thud, is when this sequence solidified its status as my fave scene. No-one, and I mean, no-one, makes an entrance quite like Frankie. I'm surprised everyone continued to dance, as I would have thought the sight of Frankie, in all her chic glory, would have caused a rift to occur in the space-time dancing to Jim Carroll music continuum.

The choreography goes into overdrive when Morgan grabs Frankie, who obviously doesn't want to be grabbed at this particular juncture, and forces her to dance with him. On several occasions, Frankie does attempt to flee his grasp, but the extras seem extra determined to prevent her from doing so.

After some mildly convoluted circumstances involving a stolen Porsche, Morgan and Jimmy take Frankie and Ronnie to a country club in Beverly Hills. Are any of them members? Nope. But thanks to his experiences living Connecticut, Morgan knows the lingo, and manages to talk his way into the club.

And, yes, I'm well of aware of the irony of this scene. You see, apparently, Kim Richards is now best known for being on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. So, to see James Spader give Kim Richards a tour of Beverly Hills (set to "Breaking the Rules" by Lene Lovich) was kind of prophetic. Anyway, I tried watching an episode of that loathsome franchise once, I think it was The Real Housewives of Orange County, and, let's just say, it didn't go well; the show slowly sapped my will to live.

That being said, no matter what Kim Richards is up to nowadays, I will not allow it to taint my view of her. As, in my mind, she will always be the new wave hellcat who causes James Spader's guts to go gooey in Tuff Turf. End of story. I mean, the scene where she cuts loose to the music Jack Mack and the Heart Attack is how I want to remember her.

As expected, Nick is not too pleased when he finds out that Frankie has been spending so much time with Morgan. Culminating with a showdown at the warehouse where the Jim Carroll concert took place, Morgan and Nick settle the Frankie issue once and for all.

You'll notice that Frankie's hair is shorter and no longer crimped during the film's final third. Now, was I disturbed by this unexpected change? Of course not. In order to remain on the cutting edge of fashion, you must be willing to change your look every so often. And judging by the look she sports near the end of the film, she has obviously decided it was time to go in a different direction. More power to her, I say. I want to say, "You go, girl!" But I'm trying to exorcise that expression from my vocabulary.

Make sure to stay through the closing credits. And, no, not just because Jack Mack and the Heart Attack perform another song, but because of the credit: "Synthesizer Realization by Jonathan Elias and Michael Morris." I love the idea that this film has "synthesizer realization."

* Oh, and I think the blind beggar on Bloor might be faking; I saw him sifting through the trash the other day and he was clearly looking at the items he was sifting through.

Dr. Alien (David DeCoteau, 1989)

Clumps of coagulated dandruff conspiring underneath the fingernails of possible existence, Dr. Alien (a.k.a. I Was a Teenage Sex Maniac and I Was a Teenage Sex Mutant) gently protrudes from the top of your head like a worm in search of substandard car insurance. A film like no other, yet strangely like other films in every way imaginable, this David DeCoteau (Creepozoids and Nightmare Sisters) directed piece of excitable sushi has one goal, and one goal only: to begin and to end. And speaking as a person who loves the living otherworldliness out of things that eventually cease to be (especially sporting events and award shows), I appreciated what this out of this world undertaking was attempting to pull off by ending so promptly. In the meantime, the fact that a wholly entertaining film was somehow squeezed between the start and the finish is a testament to the dedication of all those involved in the making of this profoundly touching and socially relevant enterprise. A stark examination of what it must be like to be the owner of an infrequently desired teenage cock, the realistic film follows a buttoned-down stick plunged into an expanse of mud named Wesley Littlejohn (Billy Jayne) as he tries to navigate the intricate nooks and crannies of collegiate life. Like most cautious individuals, his best friend, Marvin (Stuart Franklin), is the complete opposite when it comes to style and overall temperament. Together, they make for a mildly interesting movie pairing. The act of putting them in college as supposed to high school was also interesting; in that, it seemed to free up the filmmakers, giving them carte blanche be more aggressive in regard to implementing their more perverted flights of fancy.

Having just botched an attempt to talk to Leeanne (Olivia Barash), the girl of his dreams, Wesley finds himself all alone in biology class with the newly hired Ms. Xenobia (Judy Landers)–their regular teacher was put out of commission by a large spherical light–and her assistant Drax (Raymond O'Connor). He thinks he's their for an extra credit assignment, but the lab-coated twosome have some different in store for the awkward young man in the bland sweater.

Clandestinely injecting him in the buttocks with a syringe full iridescent green goo, Wesley feels a little woozy and then drifts off on top of a dissecting table. Waking up in a blurred haze, all he remembers is the dainty outline of Ms. Xenobia's complicated lingerie.

Now, I may not have noticed it instantaneously (my brain is not good sometimes), but it was right then and there that Dr. Alien attained its status as a masterwork of imperishable greatness. You see, by fusing the medical properties of lingerie with the eye-catching resplendence of bright liquid in a syringe, the film immediately established itself as a work of art that was worthy of my increasingly fickle gaze.

And you know no-one ever says: Old school garter belts and vividly coloured narcotics are the cornerstone of first-rate cinema.

The mysterious fluid coursing through his veins seems to have improved Wesley's life in every conceivable manner. He's more confident, his attire becomes more casual (no more ties and sweaters), and he's able to talk to Leeanne without tripping over his words. Only problem is that every female on campus wants his penis to be thrust inside their vaginas for a reasonably excessive amount of time whenever that worm-like antennae is sticking out from the base of his skull.

Of course, his friend Marvin doesn't see this as a problem (the prospect of having women crawling all over him is very appealing to him). But if Wesley wants to make any progress with Leeanne, he's gonna have to find away to control his male rivals girlfriend (Julie Gray) and countless horny coeds (the endearing Michelle Bauer from Café Flesh being one of them) who want to decimate his genitalia.

Narrated by Billy Jayne (Just One of the Guys) like it were a Достое́вский novel, Dr. Alien glides smoothly toward its life affirming message (you don't need green goo to be cool), thanks to skillful direction and humourous performances. Snicker obnoxiously if you must, but the combination of fundamental camera angles and comical acting should not be underestimated. Hellish landscapes, even Jim Hackett and Arlene Golonka were able to garner stilted laughter as Wesley's uptight parents.

Exuding a Stephen Sayadian brand of elan, the dream sequence involving Wesley being seduced in a lightless, smoke-filled netherworld was epic in terms of off-kilter brilliance. Standing before the disoriented youngster, undulating in an erotic state of deceleration, were Laura Albert (Dr. Caligari), Ginger Lynn Allen (New Wave Hookers), and Linnea Quigley (Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers). In charge of arousing his woolgathering subconscious, this legendary trio humped the murky air with a cock-teasing grace, as Judy Landers looks on in a pair of purple new wave shades.

Saddled with the role of the innocent wallflower who doesn't quite understand what the troubled protagonist is going through, Olivia Barash is cute when she has to be (her introduction was downright adorable) and feisty when things got hairy (I loved the part where she wields a chainsaw).

I couldn't help but be reminded of Repo Man during the scene where Wesley offers Olivia's Leeanne a ride as she walks down the street, as Otto does the exact same thing in the Alex Cox directed classic. The only difference being Otto is asking her after becoming a square (he used to be a rebellious punk), while Wesley is asking her after transforming into a character that is beaming with confidence.

Call me a misguided miscreant, but there has to be connection these two scenes. I mean, what are the odds of Olivia Barash being offered car rides from young go-getters while walking down the street in two movies?

Anyway, I think I've said enough to adequately advance Dr Alien's profile. Oh, did I mention that Laura Albert, Ginger Lynn Allen and Linnea Quigley also appear as a rock group called The Tangpoons? Yeah, it's entirely true. Sure, they probably don't any of their own singing, but you got to admit, the mental image of those three actresses doing anything together, let alone cavorting on stage in the gaudiest clothes the 1980s have to offer, is pretty fucking awesome.

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Repo Man (Alex Cox, 1984)

Canoodling my subconscious like a gentle virus, Repo Man is a film that has lived with me for almost twenty years. From the days when I would tape snippets of dialogue from off the television and splice them with homemade industrial music to the time I used to be driven around the seedier parts of town in a large automobile made out of metal, this film has been a trusty companion. My thoughts on everything from friendship to employment, to youth culture and faith was shaped by the nonsensicality that transpires in this amorphous teaching tool masquerading as a ninety-minute movie produced by the wool-hatted member of The Monkees. I have even used the film to help boost my self-esteem whenever I've found myself cornered by those who have the gall to think they're hipper than me. Now, I know what you're thinking, and no, I don't use the fact I've seen the film well over thirty times to stymie their shifty, hipness-challenging advances. Nope. I tell them I own the soundtrack. However, this bit of information alone doesn't do the trick. Uh-uh. It's actually when tell them I own the soundtrack on vinyl that their hipster asses begin to crumple under the weight of my overwhelming coolness. The rush of smugness that courses through my retired porn star body as I over enunciate the word "vinyl" is downright exquisite. Educational and life affirming purposes aside, the wonderfully subversive film by Alex Cox still manages, after all these years, to exude the nourishment my undeveloped nerve endings crave so dearly just through the simple act of watching it. The fact that I have it memorized doesn't take anything away from the sheer nihilistic delight the film bestows upon me each time I look at it.

A surreal tonic for the disaffected soul, Repo Man is one of the few films that can unify the members even the most adversarial of subcultures. Well, except Mods, they never seemed to "get it" (even though there are actual Mods in it). But for everyone else, it's like watching deranged poetry.

A punk rock-fueled opus that appeals to new wavers, rude boys, industrial freaks, astrochemists, car thieves, Stacey Q fans, and linguistics majors, the film teaches us that life can be intense sometimes and that excessive driving can cause brain damage.

Lacking the proper parental guidance necessary to survive in the city of Los Angeles circa 1984, the film follows the misadventures of Otto (Emilio Estevez), an aimless juvenile delinquent who finds the structure he needs under the guise of Bud (Harry Dean Stanton), a street smart fella who repossess cars from people who have fallen behind in their payments. Learning the ropes from Bud, and to a lesser extent, Lite (Sy Richardson), Otto finds the repo business to be tough yet lucrative (it sure beats stacking cans of beans). Things are complicated slightly for Otto when he meets Leila (Olivia Barash), a UFO enthusiast and a young lady who just happens to possess a severe form of cuteness. Anyway, she's looking for a Chevy Malibu with space aliens in the trunk, and asks the rooky repo man to help.

Called me jaded, but that sounds like an easy enough task. Only problem is a secret arm of the U.S. government (lead by a metal-handed, leg-tastic Susan Barnes), the Rodriguez Brothers (Del Zamora and Eddie Velez), Otto's repo co-workers, and Debbi (Jennifer Balgobin), Duke (Dick Rude) and Archie (Miguel Sandoval), a trio of crime-obsessed punks, are also looking for the much sought after Malibu. Which is being driven by J. Frank Parnell (Fox Harris), an unstable individual whose mind might already be starting to erode.

Despite many attempts to sully his status as a cult movie hero with multiple acts of out-and-out lameness since its release, Emilio Estevez manages retain an air of blank dignity as Otto (his wide-eyed defiance and hatred of authority still reverberate). However, this air is no doubt retained due to the fact he gets to rub shoulders with the legendary Harry Dean Stanton, whose Bud has the temperament of a sage. Extolling handy wisdom at the drop of a drink (none of the products in this film have names that go beyond what they actually are), Stanton is quietly brilliant as the gruff and weary car taker backer.

Speaking of quietly brilliant, my two favourite performances are just that, quietly brilliant. The dishevelled Fox Harris (Dr. Caligari) and the equally dishevelled Tracey Walter are tremendous at displaying calmness in this topsy-turvy world. As well reciting the films most memorable monologues: Mr. Harris' being the one about the wonders of the neutron bomb and his overall mental, while Tracy's focused on the origins of humanity.

Comedically, I'd say Dick Rude's Duke and Zander Schloss as Kevin (Otto's pre-repo friend and co-worker) are the funniest characters in Repo Man. Spewing some of the films most quotable lines ("Let's get sushi and not pay" and "There's room to move as a fry cook."), Dick and Zander prove themselves to be adept comics whenever they appear on-screen.

On a non-comedic level, nothing quite beats the image of mohawked Jennifer Balgobin (Dr. Caligari) pointing a gun while in a silver raincoat. The super-adorable Olivia Barash brings a playful femininity to her plucky fruitcake role. Vonetta McGee shines whilst kneeing one g-man in the crotch and chairing another in the face. ("Shut up, Plettschner.") And I was surprised to find myself drawn to the steely presence of Susan Barnes this time around, and just like Miss Balgobin, the sight of a leggy Susan pointing a gun was just as alluring. (On the film's DVD commentary track, Sy Richardson sanely points out Susan's great legs as well.)

Gliding though the cockeyed proceedings like a drunken research scientist is the dreamlike music score by The Plugz. Sure, the film features songs by the likes of Black Flag, Circle Jerks and Iggy Pop, but it's The Plugz that make the film literally soar into the stratosphere. Their surf tinged guitars and electronic knob twiddling create a terrific aura, especially during "Reel Ten."

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