Party Line (William Webb, 1988)

Am I seeing things or did Shawn Weatherly's impeccable nylons just go from being jet black to tan in the middle of her confrontation with a demented, eye-liner-sporting Leif Garrett? I know for a fact that her stockings and/or pantyhose were black when the scene starts. So, how does one explain the fact that they seem to turn tan on a dime? Oh, hey, don't mind me. I just watched Party Line for the very first time and this nylon-based continuity error is occupying the bulk of my thought process at the moment. I wish it wasn't, as I had this hilarious diatribe about Leif Garrett (The Spirit of '76) in a wedding dress all ready to go. But Shawn Weatherly had to go and undercut it with one well-placed knee to the groin. Nonetheless, in the wide shots, it's obvious that Shawn Weatherly is wearing black nylons as she struggles with Leif Garrett on the balcony of his large Bel Air estate. However, when the director, William Webb (California Girls), goes in for a close-up, it would appear that Shawn Weatherly is wearing tan hosiery. At first I thought it was merely the lighting that was making her black nylons appear tan. But then it dawned on me, these are black stockings and/or pantyhose we're taking about. Meaning, there's no way their inherent blackness could be diminished by wonky lighting.

What I think happened was, the director decided that the balcony brawl between Shawn Weatherly and Leif Garrett needed more physicality. In order to achieve this, they brought in Shawn Weatherly, or maybe even a stunt performer, and shot the knee to groin sequence at a later date. And it looks like no one bothered to point out that Shawn Weatherly's gams are literally a different colour.

Now, did this nylon-based continuity error hamper my ability to enjoy this late 1980s masterpiece? Of course not. No, the fact that the movie is kind of crappy did the lion's share of the joy-related hampering. If anything, the nylon-based continuity error was a refreshing anomaly in an otherwise lifeless erotic thriller.

Truth be told, there are actually quite a few anomalies of a refreshing nature peppered throughout this motion picture. And, yes, one of them involves Leif Garrett being slapped around by his sister while wearing his dead mother's wedding dress.

While I could watch Leif Garrett get slapped in the face while wearing a wedding dress for hours, my favourite refreshing anomaly is when Karen Mayo-Chandler (Stripped to Kill II: Live Girls) clam-jams the living hell out of Patricia Patts' teenage pussy. Seriously, it's one of the most forceful clam-jams I've seen in a motion picture. Oh, and in case you don't know, "clam-jam" is when a woman prevents another woman from getting laid.

Well, Karen Mayo-Chandler's character in Party Line takes it one step further. In that, she doesn't just stop another woman from getting a guaranteed helping of cock, she steals the cock all for herself ("it's a competitive world"). Little does she know, there's no cock to steal, as the man attached to this cock has no intention of using it to penetrate either of them.

You see, the man and, I suppose, his cock, has an Oedipus complex. In other words, his cock is his mother's property. Unfortunately, Seth, played by the always excellent Leif Garrett, can't insert his cock into one of his mother's many orifices since she's dead. Not to fear, though, Seth's sister, Angelina (Greta Blackburn, Chained Heat), has stepped in to fill the void left by his deceased mother. And let's just say, it's a kinky scene, man.

Obeying her every whim, Angelina has Seth slit the throats of the married men she lures into her bed by using "Party Line," a phone sex service that acts as a sort of public dating forum for the city's perverts, freaks and bored babysitters. I told you it was a kinky scene... man.

When the bodies of married men of a certain age start piling up at the morgue, Richard Roundtree's Captain Barnes decides to pair a rule-breaking vice cop named Lt. Dan (Richard Hatch) with Stacy Sloan (Shawn Weatherly), a buttoned-up district attorney special investigator; or as Lt. Dan calls her, "some yuppie cop."

Since Lt. Dan can't go five seconds without breaking the rules, he's thrown off the case almost immediately. As for Stacy Sloan, she's suspended after refusing to have sex with her boss. Despite these roadblocks, Lt. Dan and Stacy Sloan manage to put aside their differences and work as a team.

At first I was annoyed by the sight of Shawn Weatherly in her conservative lawyer clothes. But then my stance softened somewhat when Miss Weatherly dons a tight red dress with jet black hose during the film's third act. Worn for the sole purpose of luring a shadowy killer out into the open, Lt. Dan thinks her equally killer curves will be no match for the mullet-sporting mama's boy.

Really, Dan? I think the chloroform-soaked rag currently pressing against Shawn Weatherly's mouth might beg to differ.

Upon further [unnecessary] inspection, it looks like they used a stunt performer for the close-up shot of Shawn Weatherly kneeing Leif Garrett in the nuts. How did I come to this conclusion? Well, for starters, you can clearly see that they're wearing a blonde wig. On top of that, the stunt performer's legs are, let's just say, not as shapely as Shawn's legs. What the hell, I'm just going to come out and say it, I think the legs belonged to a man.

Anyway, fans of Leif Garrett, nylon-based continuity error occurs, red Ferrari's, clam-jamming, workplace sexual misconduct, scrunchies, nightclub scenes and the late '80s in general will definitely want to watch this flick in the not-so distant future.

Q: The Winged Serpent (Larry Cohen, 1982)

It screeches loudly when excited, possesses claws the size of traffic cones, and has a constant hankering for the supple flesh of window washers and sunbathers, yet it manages to allude detection. What, pray tell, am I babbling about? Why I'm describing the lead creature in the unexpectedly awesome Q: The Winged Serpent (a.k.a. American Monster - Das Ungeheuer von New York), an urban monster flick from Larry Cohen – yeah, that's right, the same guy who brought us The Stuff. Now, back in early June, if you'd said that I'd be spending the final days of summer fully enveloped in the goings on in a movie about a giant killer bird that threatens the human residents of Midtown Manhattan, I would have told you (utilizing my world renowned Jimmy Stewart impression) that you're screwy in the head. I mean, I'll pretty much watch anything–as I have proven time and time again–but I usually draw the line when it comes to films about carnivorous flying beasts who get the guys from Kung Fu, Shaft and Law & Order all in a tizzy.

Not one to let some imaginary line prevent themselves from looking at something for a predetermined length of time, I bravely soldiered into the feathery morass that is this loopy endeavour. And aw shucks on a stick, am I glad I did (cross the meaningless line, that is), because the preconception I had about this film completely was wrong. Sure, there's a large monstrosity with wings devouring roof dwellers willy-and-a-fair-amount-of-nilly. But there's so much more going on in terms of character development, theology, human frailty, entitlement, anthropology and class warfare, that you'll forget that there's an airborne menace afoot.

Okay, the chances that you or the many sane people out there will forget about the flesh eating behemoth in the sky is slim to none. In other words, as my notorious Aunt Judy would say, "it's kooky nonsense." However, the way Larry Cohen slowly reveals the identity of the serpentine scourge a little bit at a time, while simultaneously letting the personalities of the main characters blossom, was a clever example of the properly mix serious drama with the occasional severed head.

Grafting a yarn about a massive ambulatory predator onto a detective story involving Aztec mythology and a hard luck tale about a smalltime crook who longs to be a musician is no easy feat. But there they are, all flapping their figurative wings in perfect unison. Well, since the creature has wings, the wings aren't exactly figurative. Uh, let's just say they're doing everything at the same time, and doing so quite well.

A petty thief named Jimmy Quinn (Michael Moriarty) discovers the nest of a large vulture-like bird at the top of the Chrysler Building (a name that is not uttered once) while laying low after a botched jewelry heist. Tired of being treated like a schnook, the wily criminal decides to use the nest location to settle scores – you know, bring people he don't like up to see the nest without telling them that there's a gigantic killer bird living there. When that utilization runs its course, he employs his nest knowledge for monetary gain. Unsurprisingly, his on-again, off-again lady-friend (played ably by Candy Clark) is disturbed by Jimmy's transformation from meek mook to greedy opportunist.

While all this is going on, two detectives, Shepard (David Carradine) and Powell (Richard Roundtree) are trying to solve a recent slew of ritualistic slayings. The former thinks the murders are connected to the spate of rooftop irregularities that have plagued the city; a window washer lost his head (call me a sick twist, but I loved the way the glass stifled the blood from spraying out of gaping neck in a torrent manner). The latter, well, he couldn't give a shit if they're connected or not. Either way, people are still being plucked from atop buildings (one guy gets grabbed out of a rooftop swimming pool) and some are having their hearts forcibly removed from their chests.

Similar to the temperament put forth by Anne Carlisle's character in Liquid Sky, Michael Moriarty imbues his advantageous lowlife with an unhinged giddiness. Akin to the manner in which Miss Carlisle wittingly and unwittingly lured rapists, junkies and judgmental acting teachers to her modest, neon-adorned penthouse to kill them with her cunt, Moriarty–a cunt-less individual if I ever saw one–alternatively uses the giant killer bird perched atop a New York City landmark to deal with his enemies.

Giving a performance that is full of that nuance junk and containing a humongous tablespoon of moxie, Michael Moriarty is all over the map in terms of emotion in Q: The Winged Serpent. Crying, receiving body blows, muttering to himself in a crazed fashion, this isn't the guy you used to see on A&E seven times a day.

Even weirder was the sight of tough guy actors David Carradine and Richard Roundtree treating Moriarty like a two bit punk. It's a tad jarring at first (after all, he's one of the city's top district attorneys), but I got used to the strange role reversal. Much in the same way I got to used to the idea that I was spending my waning summer* watching this oddly entertaining film.

* Yeah, I realize it's not summer in my particular corner of North America right now.

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Angel III: The Final Chapter (Tom DeSimone, 1988)

The least talked about entry in the teen prostitution saga, Angel III: The Final Chapter seems miles away from the unsavoury sidewalks of Hollywood featured in the first two films. That might be because it starts off in New York City, where Molly "Angel" Stewart" now works as a freelance photographer. However, I think it has more to do with the fact that 1984 and 1988 are two totally different animals when it comes to "Living in the '80s." You see, the eighties can be broken down into two separate, yet equally important groups: The early '80s and the late '80s. The former was awash with creativity and avant-garde ideas, while the latter was a semi-bloated corpse yearning to remain relevant. For example, instead of going out and buying colourful bracelets at the mall and having irregular sex with Rick James, people in the late '80s seemed content to lie on their chesterfields watching individual beads of sweat struggling to outwit the mighty grip of Paula Abdul's world class thighs on their once state-of-the-art televisions. And if you ask me, that's a huge difference. Now, don't get me wrong, the latter half of the decade did contribute a fair amount of enchantment to the cinematic landscape (Teen Witch, Heathers, Killer Klowns from Outer Space), but Angel III: The Final Chapter isn't quite in the same league as those flicks.

The series has been completely overhauled and retains hardly any of the charm of the first two films. For starters, Angel creator Frank Vincent O'Neill has been replaced by Tom DeSimone (Reform School Girls), a man who definitely knows his way around a bag of sleaze. Yet, this guy just doesn't have the same visual flair as O'Neill. I mean, Los Angeles looks so drab and boring in this chapter. And jettisoning all the colourful characters that made the first two films such a pleasure to wallow in was an unfortunate turn of events.

I do, however, have to commend Mr. DeSimone for devising a plot that contains sexual slavery, cocaine distribution, x-rated cinema, and an ice cream truck. Oh, and not to mention, thank him for filling the screen with a cavalcade of naked breasts.

Anyway, the actual plot, and there is one, involves Angel being forced back onto the mean streets of Hollywood when she learns that her long lost sister Michelle (Tawny Fere from Rockula) has gotten mixed up with a distasteful throng of slave traders lead by a pimping visionary played by Maud "Octopussy" Adams.

Saddled with unenviable task of replacing Betsy Russell is the wonderfully named Mitzi Kapture. (Her kooky handle sounds like the working title of my unpublished guide to stalking bubbleheaded coeds.) Yeah, well, Mitzi does a competent job of filling out Angel's hooker wear. Despite the fact she doesn't really get to whore it up beyond humiliating a pimp and stealing his car.

On the other hand, I did enjoy the parts where she worked as a porno extra. The friendship/bond she forms with the other actresses was on the cusp of being fascinating, as it produced some insight into hopelessness some women must go through when they find themselves trapped in the unending shame spiral that is sexual exploitation.

Unfortunately, the romantic relationship Angel forms with a non-pornographic film editor played by Kin Shriner (General Hospital) was pretty much a dead on arrival.

The immensely talented Mark Blankfield (Jekyll and Hyde... Together Again) tries his best to imbue the proceedings with some playfulness as Angel's flamboyant, Disraeli-quoting friend, Spanky. But he can't quite match the get-up-and-go wackiness of Susan Tyrrell and Rory Calhoun (whose presence is sorely missed in this chapter).

The legendary Richard Roundtree (Shaft), the sensational Toni Basil (Rockula), cult actress extraordinaire Laura Albert (Mrs. Van Houten from Dr. Caligari) and the ubiquitous Dick Miller (A Bucket of Blood) are also in the film, but with the exception of Mr. Roundtree, their parts aren't much to brag about in terms of screen time. Which is shame, because when I saw Toni Basil appear onscreen looking all fabulous and junk, I figured she was gonna be Angel's new sidekick -- you know, ala Susan Tyrrell's Solly Mosler from the original film. But sadly, that never materialized.

Apparently there is an Angel 4 (Angel 4: Undercover) out there somewhere that stars the very blonde Darlene Vogel and a no doubt bewildered Roddy McDowell. But since I have heard nothing but negative things about it, I've decided to skip it, for now. Which is kinda a relief, because it doesn't seem to be commercially available (you know, other than used VHS copies on Amazon).

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