Grease 2 (Patricia Birch, 1982)

Bursting onto the screen like an unwanted skin condition, Grease 2 is a film that exists solely as an excuse extract money from saps and half-wits. However, since I just watched it for free for the first time on a channel that caters to saps and half-wits, I wasn't given the opportunity to throw any cash in its general direction. Which is something I will no doubt regret for the rest of my life, as the peppy sequel is a phenomenal example of to properly convey whimsy and frivolity in a cinematic context. (You see what did there? I started off like I was gonna trash it, then I switched gears and began to extol its virtues.) A dangling branch–a life preserver, if you will–to those drowning audience members who felt John Travolta was too narcissistic and Olivia Newton-John too pristine, this Patricia Birch-directed do over tries to not only to correct those faults, but attempts to improve on the magic of the first film. Jettisoning everything that made the original flick soar into the stratosphere (catchy songs, sneaker-assisted choreography, poodle skirts, sexual innuendo and tight pants), this version's success is exclusively dependent on the probably creamy shoulders of an unknown named Michelle Pfeiffer (Into the Night). She plays a reluctant Pink Lady named Stephanie Zinone, an attractive high school student who is on the outs with Johnny Nogerelli (Adrian Zmed), the leader of the T-Birds (a pretty lousy bike gang, if you ask me).

You might remember that The Pink Ladies wore pink jackets and were mainly made-up of women, hence the name. But the real reason they're called that is because their plausibly pulsating pussies are as pink as a prickly porcupine that has been spray-painted pink. (Just a little kernel of knowledge I felt like flinging.)

Anyway, as someone who has never been impressed by Michelle Pfeiffer or her unamused expression (though I hear she's quite funny in Married to the Mob), I thought she was borderline charming as the senior who desires a "cool rider." Increasingly indifferent towards Johnny and his sycophantic followers (their suck-uppery was embarrassing at times), Michelle's Stephanie expresses this boy frustration through the majesty of song. Picking up on this song-based frustration is Michael Carrington (Maxwell Caulfield), a fresh faced student from England.

The handsome, but slightly awkward newbie doesn't stand a chance with Stephanie as is. (Just for the record, I thought his handsomeness should have been enough to win over her over.) However, if he buys a motorcycle, never leaves the house without goggles, and gets in touch with his inner rebel, he should be able to attain the keys to fair young maiden's heart. It would also help if he sang songs and romped about gayly while wearing jeans. Chicks dig guys who can dance in denim. In fact, it's the cornerstone of western civilization (look it up).

Now, is Grease 2 as good as Grease? I have no clue. I mean, they both have catchy songs and feature choreographed dance numbers where counterfeit high school students frolic in unison. But other than that, they're pretty much the same. Only difference is the first film has the advantage of being deemed a classic by some unaffiliated group of pompous piss drinkers, while the sequel has been relegated to the pop culture dustbin. Which is, like, totally unfair. The amount of multicoloured pantyhose worn by Lorna Luft, Maureen Teefy and Alison Price alone should at least elevate the film's status to misunderstood cult oddity.

I think the fact that Pamela Adlon (nee Segall) was underutilized as the spunky Dolores Rebchuck (a Pink Lady wannabe) was the sequel's downfall. Early on, the pint-size Pamela shares a moment with Maxwell Caulfield outside the bowling alley that was, of course, cute as hell, but also sharp in terms of dialogue and overall tone. I'm probably the only person who thinks this (and this contrarian stance fills my aura with smugness), but I thought Pamela should have been the lead, not Michelle. Sure, the age and height difference between Pam and Maxwell would have made things kinda creepy. But creepy sells tickets, or at least it does in my neck of the woods.

...

Xanadu (Robert Greenwald, 1980)

I could sense a white-hot jealously emanating from my fellow pedestrians as I walked past them on the street the other day. I thought at first that it might be my hair, which has always been underrated (the slight hint of seborrheic dermatitis gives it an unpretentious sheen). Then I figured it might have something to do with the good-natured bumpiness of my trouser bulge. But then it dawned on me (it took five days for this dawning to materialize), they weren't jealous of me in a superficial context. Nope. What they were jealous of was the fact that I had just watched Xanadu, the eye-catching tribute to willowy muses and the whooshing sound they make when travelling between celestial dimensions. You see, there must have been a minute trace of the film still in my bloodstream after I watched it. Now, I know it sounds like I'm making all this up, but I read somewhere that Xanadu, the fantasy musical directed by political activist Robert Greenwald about a place where dreams come true, can have a profound effect on the bodies' central nervous system after it has been viewed from start to finish. Apparently, there's something about the undefiled gaudiness of the film's visual spectrum that causes a purplish beam of light to cascade from your eyeballs. A beam which proceeds to circumnavigate the entirety of your organic structure until you're nothing but a shimmering blob of pure, unadulterated goodness. Hence, the green-eyed ogling I received from the nosy throng of passersby.

A ridiculously hot Olivia Newton-John stars as Kira, the pluckiest spitfire in the Nine Muses, a well-groomed group of gals who are sent from some magical place to inspire and foster artists across the globe.

The impish Kira is sent specifically to nurture the artistic drive of a painter named Sonny Malone - an extremely charismatic Michael Beck (Swan from The Warriors).

The Nine Muses are introduced in a stunning sequence that features them frozen in a giant mural. Coming to life one at a time, they begin to frolic about in an intoxicating mishmash of Hellenic robes, flailing limbs and freshly shampooed hair.

Once the frolicking has subsided, Kira starts to stalk the long-haired artiste, inspiring him with come-hither glances and inaudible cooing noises. Which somehow sets the stage for the opening of a lavish nightclub.

The always amazing Olivia gives a performance so potent, so devastating, that she literally melts the audience through the sheer power of her unclothed shoulders. And the sight of ONJ in a pair of knee-high roller skates and one of those aforementioned robes is gorgeousness in its cleanest form. She is bliss on wheels, gliding through the film's whimsical atmosphere like a wistful waterfall drenched in a nonpoisonous brand of watermelon-scented turpentine. Uh, to put it in simpler terms, Olivia's performance is like having the hole where the corn goes, gently wiped with an unsullied wet-nap.

A fancy-footed Gene Kelly dominates the screen during one of my favourite sequences: a shopping montage that features The Electric Light Orchestra's "All Around the World" blaring on the soundtrack. A sequence that includes spider-web hosiery, pelvic thrusts, a leggy blonde straddling a golden pole, new wave clerks in Liquid Sky-friendly makeup, and costume changes galore.

If you were to take a photograph of the inside of my head at any given moment, it would look exactly like the grand finale of Xanadu; a garish orgy of colour and movement set to the string-enhanced rock of ELO. This fifteen minute explosion of dissonance and luminosity is the apex of cinema. In fact, anyone who tries to top this spectacle is a fool. Even the finale's intro, with its industrial drum sounds and pulsating electro-grooves, gives me chills every time. The anticipation over Olivia's appearance is palpable. Thanks to some precise hand clapping, the yelling of "Ho!" and the sporadic screaming of the film's title.

Everyone from the pop-locking quintet in the suspenders and their aggressively attractive cohorts, to the velvety armada of roller skating boys and girls are at the height of their craft as they encircle the insanely beautiful Olivia Newton-John, who is electrifying in a series of song and dance numbers that not only transcend genre, but time and space itself.

And no matter what your sexual orientation, the tiger print number she wears during "Fool" will definitely compromise the structural integrity of your genitals.

Every time I watch the film I get a warm, gooey feeling in my stomach. A feeling that has lead me to believe that Xanadu is love personified -- the essence of love in film form.

video uploaded by (rormeno)²

...