Bad Influence (Curtis Hanson, 1990)

Let's say you're a yuppie who has it all. It's 1990, you got a sweet apartment (one that is filled with the kind of stuff yuppies like), you live in a nice neighbourhood, you're engaged to be married to Marcia Cross, your job, while tedious, pays well, and... Wait. Did I mention it's 1990? Or, more importantly, did I mention that you look like James Spader? I know, talk about having it all. Or does he? Have it all, that is. I don't think he does. Let's see. He doesn't really like Marica Cross, he doesn't need half the junk in his apartment, his slacker brother is always asking to borrow money and he hates his job. Sure, he still looks like James Spader, the sexiest man alive as far as I'm concerned. But even that doesn't seem to get him anywhere in Bad Influence, the film that begs the question: If James Spader approached Lisa Zane in a bar, would she really reject him? We'll get to that in a minute. Looking like James Spader can apparently only get you so far in Los Angeles circa 1990. But what if James Spader had a douchebag coach? What I mean is, what if James Spader had a sort of tutor that taught him how to be an asshole. I know, you're thinking to yourself: Isn't being an asshole a bad thing? Not in the world depicted in this film. In fact, the film should really be called "Good Influence." However, since Hollywood doesn't want it to get out that being a total dick/colossal hosebeast is the best thing a person can do for themselves in terms of self-improvement (everyone in Hollywood is either a total dick or a colossal hosebeast), the film turns into a cautionary tale about the dangers of ambition at around the midway point.

Enabling him to ditch his bland blouse-wearing fiancée is just one of the things James Spader's asshole tutor manages to swing for him. He also helps him turn things around at work, and finds a use for some of the stuff in his apartment. For example, the video camera (a purchase his stoner brother dismisses as wasteful) comes in handy in the dumping of his fiancée.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, James Spader's asshole tutor is played by Rob Lowe. Was there any doubt? I don't think so. With the stench of his sex tape scandal still lingering in the air, it made sense to exploit Rob Lowe's newfound bad boy status by casting him as an immoral con man/yuppie whisperer.

While any old con man can fleece a bunch of Hollywood phonies, it takes real skill to rehabilitate an under-performing yuppie. That being said, most of us will continue to ask the question: Does James Spader really need to be rehabilitated? Or, I should say, does Michael Boll (the name of Spader's character) really need rehabilitating? Of course, to most normal people, he's doing just fine. But to those living inside the L.A. douchebag bubble, he's floundering pretty badly. I mean, for one thing, this Paterson guy (Tony Maggio) at work is repeatedly making Michael look like a massive tool.

If Rob Lowe's "Alex," isn't fleecing Michael, why is he helping him? What I mean is, if it's not about the money (which Alex could have stolen from him without much effort), what does he want? Who knows? Seriously, though, I have no idea. Not much about Alex's background is revealed. It's true, the air of mystery that surrounds Rob Lowe's character gave him an almost supernatural quality (his apparent ability to disappear at will also added to this quality), but part of me would have liked to have known what his deal was.

The opening scene, which shows Alex leaving a woman's apartment in the early morning hours under suspicious circumstances, implies that he spends his days drifting from one con to another. But what is it about James Spader that makes him invest so much energy trying to improve his place the L.A. yuppie-verse of 1990?

At the end of the day it doesn't matter why he's helping him, all that matters is that Alex, despite his unorthodox methods, gets results.

And when I say "results," I'm talking about Lisa Zane's dynamic dick-pocket pounding the living fuckitude out of Michael's wayward cock.

As I just said, the film opens with Alex removing himself from the life of some woman in the early morning hours (he painstakingly gets rid of any photo that he's in and trashes all his personal-effects). Meanwhile, Michael is having a bad day at work. Not only does that aforementioned Paterson guy misplace "schedule 47," an important computer file of his, Marcia Cross, his fiancée, has decided to pop-in to tell him that she wants to postpone the wedding to November. You would think things couldn't get worse, but they do. The boyfriend of some chick at a nearby bar picks a fight with him and his brother, Pismo (Christian Clemenson), is asking for money again.

On the positive side, Rob Lowe's Alex steps in to help Michael with the whole bar fight situation. But unfortunately, Alex disappears before Michael can thank him. Oh, wait. There he is. While out jogging in black athletic clothes at night (fuck yeah), Michael spots Alex standing on a pier. After thanking him for saving his ass earlier in the day, Michael begins to wander away... when all of a sudden, Alex takes an interest in Michael's yuppie troubles.

Using the first of many nightclub passwords ("Dominate Athletic Woman"), Alex takes Michael to a club to see The Nymphs (an L.A. rock band fronted by Inger Lorre) and hit on Lisa Zane's Claire, the coolest woman... I want to say "the coolest woman on the planet," but let's not get carried away. Let's just say, she's the coolest woman currently in this club. Which is nothing to sneeze at, as the club scenes in this movie are chock-full of cool ass people.

Initially rebuffed by Claire, Michael... I don't know, man. Even though they have tried to make James Spader seem kind of dorky, he's still James Spader. Meaning, Claire should be wetter than an otter's taint. (An otter's taint?!?) What? They're pretty freaking wet. Anyway, after the Claire debacle, things begin to turn around for Michael when he out maneuvers, using advice he got from Alex, that Paterson guy at work the very next day.

Bumping into Alex later that evening, Michael is taken to an art gallery, where Alex introduces Michael to Claire. But instead of introducing him as Michael, he calls him "Dominique." It would seem that Alex (who now speaks with a French accent) has created a whole new persona for Michael. At first I thought, this seems unnecessarily convoluted. But then again, it gets results. And when I say, "results." I'm talking about Michael taking Claire back to his apartment to fuck her brains out.

Did I mention that Claire never leaves the house without a black backless dress and black stockings attached to her legs? I haven't? Well that's weird. The dress Claire wears during the art gallery/apartment scene is my favourite Claire outfit, as it boasts a healthy slit and had these oddly-shaped patterns around the neckline.

Asking what Michael fears and wants most in the world, Alex decides to speed things up, and takes his mentor-ship of Michael to the next level. Sabotaging his relationship with Marcia Cross and "neutralizing" his rival at work, Alex has done more for Michael in the past few days than anyone has in his entire life. However, and this is where things get complicated. You see, Michael has scruples, while Alex clearly does not. These differences in their characters end up clashing with one another and cause their almost brotherly bond to sour some bit.

While it was sad to see their relationship flounder the way it ultimately does, they at least got to attend what I consider to be one of the most awesome L.A. parties ever. Now, granted, the party isn't the wildest, nor does it feature music that I was particularly found of, but the atmosphere is too die for. A sort of late night goth garden party, the party (password: "Gay White Male") is teeming with black-clad denizens of the night. Call me crazy, but I could have sworn I saw Rozz Williams of Christian Death/Shadow Project fame hanging out on the stairs.

If you thought that party was awesome, wait until you get a load of the one where Pismo spies on Alex. First off, the club (password: "Fun Loving Couple Seeks...") is blasting "Who's Laughing Now?" by Skinny Puppy as lingerie-clad performance artists swing fluorescent lights with a reckless brand of abandon. And secondly... Actually, there is no "secondly." What else could you want? I mean, Skinny Puppy and lingerie. As far as I'm concerned, nothing else matters in this world.

It's too bad Michael and Alex couldn't have worked out their myriad issues in a less over the top (i.e. less violent) fashion, as I would have loved to have seen them (with Claire, of course) at this club together. Oh, well.

As with most thrillers of this type, the film gets super-ridiculous during its final third. That being said, the film is aesthetically superior to most of the junk I see on a regular basis. Let me break it down for you: James Spader, Rob Lowe, Skinny Puppy, black clothing, lingerie, slits, club scenes, Rozz Williams(?), and yeah. Wait, I almost forgot, Lisa Zane! I love her look. And, actually, you can thank her for making me aware of this movie. Oh, sure, I had heard of it. But after seeing her in the atrocious Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare, I thought to myself: I need more Lisa Zane in my life. So, I looked at her filmography, and the title "Bad Influence" jumped out at me. Thanks, Lisa and Freddy.

The Dark Backward (Adam Rifkin, 1991)

In most movies, when a character stumbles upon the body of a naked woman at the local dump, their first instinct is to call the authorities. Well, how should I put this? The Dark Backward is not even close to being most movies. In fact, it's unlike anything I've ever seen. Oh, sure, parts it reminded me of Eraserhead (and I'm not just saying this because it mentions it on the film's poster), Blade Runner, Shredder Orpheus, The King of Comedy and Dr. Caligari. But the film, written and directed by Adam Rifkin (Detroit Rock City), is definitely a unique experience. Don't believe me? Um, Judd Nelson plays a struggling stand-up comic whose best friend is a chubby chasing, accordion-playing garbageman played by Bill Paxton. Any questions? I don't mean to toot my own horn (or squeeze my own accordion), but what was great about that last sentence is that I didn't need to allude to the fact that Judd Nelson's character grows a third arm. What's not so great about that last sentence is the fact that I called Bill Paxton's character a "chubby chaser." Trust me, he ain't no chubby chaser. The chicks he bangs in this movie are beyond chubby. Not to get too graphic, but I think Pickles' left bicep weighs more than me (Pickles being, of course, one of the morbidly obese women Bill Paxton mounts-thanks to sheer industriousness-and ultimately fucks in this movie).

Wait, that wasn't graphic at all. What I should have was: I think Pickles' rarely seen labia weighs more than me ("rarely seen" because it's shielded by a mountain range of abdominal flesh). While not factually accurate (her labia doesn't gain weight, and, hence, it does not weigh more than me), I think most people will agree that labias are funnier than biceps. Actually, anything cunt-based is a hundred times funnier than anything arm-based; just ask  jazz aficionado Soupy Sales. Whatta you mean he's dead? Criminy.

It's too bad Marty Malt (Judd Nelson) and I weren't best friends, as I could have taught him a thing or two about comedy. Instead, he's best friends with a guy named Gus (Bill Paxton), a sycophantic cheerleader who fills Marty's head with delusional nonsense on a daily basis. The biggest delusion being that he's actually funny.

They say the majority of comedy comes from pain, and it looks like Marty Malt is going to find this out the hard way when a painful nodule on the middle of his back grows into a human arm. I know, I said cunt-based humour is superior to arm-based humour. But arm-based humour is nothing to sneeze at. Granted, I can't think of any comedians off the top of my head who have had successful careers utilizing arm-based humour in their act. But I don't see why someone couldn't. I mean, arms can be funny, especially if you know a how to flail them properly.

I'm sorry, I'm trying to figure out why I compared The Dark Backward to Blade Runner a couple of paragraphs ago. The others I can sort of see. But Blade Runner? I'm just not seeing it. Hold on, I just remembered. When Marty and Gus are leaving Syd's comedy club after another terrible/awesome show, the camera hovers over this rooftop. And as we're doing so, I spotted a pile of dust-laden trash. Well, in Blade Runner, when Deckard is entering the police station, the camera hovers over the roof of Bryant's office. Anyone care to guess what's on the roof of Bryant's office? That's right, dust-laden trash.

Though, I think it's safe to say that The Dark Backward beats the snot out of Blade Runner in terms of garbage. Seriously, this film is wall-to-wall trash. And I mean that as a compliment.

Did I mention that Gus forces two of his morbidly obese girlfriends to eat dog food off his nipples?

Introduced to the "comedy stylings" of Marty Malt right off the bat, a sweaty Judd Nelson takes the stage at Syd's, a local club that seems to cater to the over 75 crowd. Telling a joke about buying stamps and one where his pet turtle turns out to be a rock, things are going pretty bad for the comedian in the pea green suit. Or are they? According to his accordion-playing pal Gus, he was hilarious and tells him afterward that the audience was laughing on the inside.

I'm thinking that Gus is either humouring his friend or that he has serious mental problems. I'm leaning more toward the latter. Judging by Gus' overall demeanour, he seems to have a few screws loose. (You mean he ain't hooked up right?) That's exactly what I mean, and Bill Paxton plays up Gus' insanity to the hilt. If you're like me and thought Bill's wacky antics were the best things about Aliens and Near Dark, you'll love his performance in this film, as he makes Nic Cage's gonzo turn in Deadfall seem restrained.

One of the keys to impressing me, cinema-wise, is the ability to create a world unto itself. And The Dark Backward manages to do that and then some. Shirking nationalism and popular culture, the film has its own ecosystem.

Take, for instance, the whole "Blump's" thing. Now, I'm not entirely sure what Blump's is, but they seem to have cornered the market for pretty much everything. Whether it be squeezable bacon, pork juice, beef, scab medicine, cigars/cigarettes, lemon fresh suppositories or cheddar-scented cheese, Blump's have got you covered.

Even Marty and Gus seem to be under the thumb of Blump's, as they work for their sanitation division. Though, I have to say, they're not very good at their jobs (the bulk of the trash they pick up rarely ever makes it into the back of the garbage truck).

One day, as they're out on their route, Gus notices a lump in the middle of Marty's back. No biggie, right? It's just an insect bite. After Gus molests a corpse at the dump, Marty takes a second stab at Syd's club. And like the opening set, it does not go well, as the geriatrics in the audience remain stone-faced throughout his painfully unfunny act.

While Marty has Lara Flynn Boyle's diner waitress to lean on for support, Gus has his portly harem of obese woman to eat stir fried dog food off his nipples. Lucky bastard. (Which one?) Which one what? (Which one is the lucky bastard?) Uh, I'd rather not say at this particular juncture.

As Marty's lump grows into an arm, he looses the support of Lara Flynn Boyle (she can't handle dating a guy with three arms) and gets nothing but confused looks from Dr. Scurvy (James Caan) and Nurse Kitty (Claudia Christian). But he does find an ally in Jackie Chrome (Wayne Newton), a talent agent. When Jackie saw Marty's act without the third arm, he reacted the way almost everyone does: Hostile indifference. But now that Marty has a three arms as supposed to just two, Jackie sees this as an opportunity to turn his abnormality into fame and fortune.

Re-branding them as "Desi the Three-Armed Wonder Comic and his musical accompaniment Gus," Jackie books Marty and Gus at a number of different clubs throughout the city. Of course, the results are the exactly same as they were before the third arm came along (Marty is still not funny, and Gus' accordion playing does nothing but confuse the audience), but Jackie seems to think the three-armed comic has potential.

It's true, production designer (Sherman Williams) and art director (Wendy Guidery) deserve a lot of the credit for making this the cult classic that it is today, it's actually the visionary weirdness of writer-director Adam Rifkin that elevates it to the status of off-kilter masterpiece. Screw that, everyone involved with this film needs to be commended.