Cyborg Cop (Sam Firstenberg, 1993)

In a film replete with shoot-outs, leggy hostages, upskirts, leggy reporters, upshorts, leggy floozies, finger knives, uptowels and not-so leggy lascivious pre-coital fruit consumption, I can't believe Cyborg Cop had me looking up fanny packs before beginning my review. Whether you know them as waist wallets or bum bags, the fanny pack is the key to unlocking this film's many secrets. Sure, you can unlock its secrets by focusing on the other stuff I mentioned, but take away the fanny pack, and you'll be looking at yet another cyborg film chock-full of the usual nonsense. Now, I don't mean to imply that leggy hostages, upskirts, leggy reporters, upshorts, leggy floozies, uptowels and not-so leggy lascivious pre-coital fruit consumption are in anyway nonsense. I'm just saying: Thank you, David Bradley. Thank you for wearing a fanny pack. Seriously, I don't think I would have made it through the film without it. Of course, I realize that a lot of you are probably thinking to yourself: What's so amazing about this fanny pack? It's not that there's anything all that special about this particular fanny back (it's black and fits snugly around the waist). No, the reason I'm currently losing my shit over a fanny pack is the length of time David Bradley wears it in this movie.

While I would love to tell you that David Bradley wears a fanny pack from beginning to end during Cyborg Cop, directed by Sam Firstenberg (Ninja III... Dominion!), I can't, because I think he takes it off while having hot, naked, back arching heterosexual intercourse with a leggy lady reporter.

How cool would it have been had they shown that David Bradley was still wearing his trusty fanny pack as he plowed gingerly into the leggy lady reporter's not even close to being pugnacious lady vagina?

Judging by the excessive amount of head nodding I'm seeing out there, it would seem that most of you agree... that it would have been cool. Unfortunately, he doesn't wear it during sex. Nonetheless, he does wear it a lot in this movie.

What's that? You're saying that I've already established that David Bradley wears a fanny pack for an inordinate amount of time in this movie? Well, I'm establishing it again. In fact, anyone who fails to repeatedly mention the fanny pack clinic that David Bradley puts on in this movie for nearly ninety straight minutes is straight-up mentally-ill.

And not only are they mentally-ill, they must be blind as well. I mean, you can practically see his fanny pack from space.

You know what else you can see from space? The film's contrived I hate you/I love you relationship. Actually, when we're first introduced to Jack Ryan (David Bradley), a hard-boiled DEA agent who plays by his own rules, and Kate (Alonna Shaw), an ambitious lady reporter with legs for days, I had no idea they would meet again. However, it's obvious to anyone with a functioning brain and/or genitals that Jack and Kate will be straddling one another like a couple of shaved squirrels in no time.

However, before any kind of hairless rodent humping can commence, Jack Ryan's brother, Phillip (Todd Jensen), who is also a DEA agent, needs to be turned into a cyborg. And for that to happen, Phillip has to be sent on a doomed mission to bring down Kessel (John Rhys-Davies), a drug kingpin/cyborg expert who lives on a tropical island in the Caribbean.

Oh, and if you're wondering why Jack wasn't with his brother on this doomed mission. What's that? You weren't wondering that. Either way, Jack wasn't there because he was kicked off the force for gunning down the son of a prominent  Denver newspaper publisher. You see, his son (who, I guess, forgot to take his meds that day) had taken a leggy party girl (Kimberleigh Stark) hostage. Tracking him to a rundown warehouse, Jack and Phillip have him cornered. Instead of waiting for back-up, Jack decides to take care of it himself... Cobra-style. Personally, I thought it was a clean kill. Nonetheless, Jack is dubbed a "rogue cop" by the press and the self-proclaimed "double-trouble psycho cops" are all but finished as a duo.

As Jack is comforting the leggy party girl after the shoot-out, the press come rushing in. Lead by Kate, who is wearing a bulky naval-style blue blazer with a toilet seat collar, the press inundate Jack and the leggy party girl with pointed questions and flashbulb photography.

When I saw Kate burst onto the scene like that, I was like, Ooooh, I like this chick's style. Brash and blonde, Kate seems like the kind of gal who knows what she wants, and she clearly knows how to get it. After the warehouse scene is was over, I figured that was the last we'll ever see of Kate, the brash, blonde, leggy lady reporter.

In what has to be the biggest coincidence in movie history, Jack bumps into Kate while attempting to rent a car on the Caribbean island of St. Keith. The former is there, like I said earlier, to find out what happened to his brother, and the latter is there to do a story or some bullshit. While this meeting doesn't go smoothly (they mainly shout at each for the duration), you can totally tell that they have the hots for one another.

It's during their second chance meeting that they end up stuck with each other. Though, I have to say, the evolution of their courtship could have used a little more build-up. I mean, they go from constantly bickering with one another to eating fruit together rather quickly.

Anyway, while Kate is questioning the local authorities, Jack heads down to The Jive Bar to get some information on the whereabouts of his brother. While there, Jack fends off a couple of leggy floozies (leggy floozies love men in fanny packs) and beats up some of Kessel's henchmen. I don't know what I liked better, Jack's unique, kick his adversaries in the face fighting style or his leggy floozy fending off skills.

While the chemistry between David Bradley, his fanny pack and Alonna Shaw is undeniable, the cyborg action is a tad lacking. Other than a brief scene in the island morgue and a quick demo Kessel gives for some potential investors, the film is pretty light when it comes to cyborgs. On the bright side, we do get a lot of scenes that feature David Bradley gunning down henchmen. Sure, his shotgun would some times sound like a machine gun and his shotgun would some times sound like a machine gun, but I can't stay mad at a film that boasts a grown man blowing away henchmen and fending off leggy floozies while wearing a fanny pack.

Ninja III: The Domination (Sam Firstenberg, 1984)

What would you say is the best way to impress a white person in tan slacks? Oh, man, that's a tough one. Judging by the easily entertained rabble who attend NBA games on a regular basis, the forcible placement of a ball through a metal ring, or, as it's known on the street, a "hoop," seems to impress them. Yeah, they do love to watch tall black men dunk basketballs. But don't you think crushing a golf ball with your bare hands would impress them even more? Think about it. That little white ball, in a way, represents their testicles. So, in turn, you're crushing their reproductive dreams. Also, the game of golf is a subtle metaphor for evils of white supremacy. I mean, who else but white people could justify such an egregious waste of land? You just blew my mind. Seriously, when the ninja assassin at the beginning of Ninja III: The Domination crushes a golf ball with his hand before dispatching one of his target's body guards, I thought he was merely showing off–you know, look what I can do. But now I realize that he was making a point about the waning influence of white people on the global stage. Okay, smart guy. How about the scene where the assassin crushes a red billiards ball with their bare hands? How do you explain that? That's easy. Since the ninja assassin's spirit has been recently transferred to the body of a white woman, they're obviously making a profound statement about the dangers of  multiculturalism. What the fuck?!? I know, I know, you're going say, "think about it." Well, yeah, think about it. What colour are billiards balls? Uh, um. Exactly, they're a mixture of all sorts of different colours. In other words, I rest my case.
 

 

All this talk about crushing balls is making me thirsty. Are you sure that's it as far as balls go in this film? Let me see, the crushing of the golf ball represents white supremacy and the crushing of the billiards ball represents multiculturism, so are they're any other balls? Interesting question. Actually, no it's not. As it's just those balls that are crushed. Thank heavens. Because I don't know how much longer I can refrain from mentioning the  excruciating tightness of Lucinda's Dickey's leotard.
 

 

You mean to tell me that you've been blathering on and on about various types of balls being crushed when you could have been waxing semi-poetically about the sight of Lucinda Dickey playing Bouncer (an arcade game from the '80s) in white legwarmers? Is that what you're telling me? I'm afraid so. Then you my friend should be asham...Wait a second, you know what? I'm going to take it easy on you this time. Just promise me that you'll use the phrase "mouth-watering" to describe Lucinda Dickey's spandex-ensnared crotch in the not-so distant future. Why would I use the term "mouth-watering" to describe her, what did you call it? Oh yeah, "spandex-ensnared crotch," in a review about this film? Isn't it about ninjas and junk? Oh, you'll see. Okay, if you say so. Anyway, sure, I promise to use phrase "mouth-watering" in conjunction with a crotch that's been inexplicably ensnared in spandex.
 

 

When one of the first things you see onscreen are the words "A Golan-Globus Production" you know you're for a cinematic treat. However, it was the credit "Synthesizer Score by Udi Harpaz and Misha Segal" that got me all in a tizzy. Do I know who Udi and Misha are? Of course not. No, it was the phrase "synthesizer score" that set my tizzy in motion, as I've never seen a movie where the music is listed that way. And since I love synthesizer scores, I was dying to hear what Udi and Misha had to offer as far as...you know, synthesizer scores go.
 

 

As the dawn breaks in the desert, a golfer and a ninja were about to collide with one another; a collision that will have a profound affect on the well-being of countless individuals across the greater Phoenix area. The golfer, surrounded by body guards, and accompanied by his wife, is about to tee off, when suddenly, a ninja appears from the bushes. Picking up the errant ball the golfer's body guards were trying to locate, the ninja shows it to one of the body guards before crushing it with his hand. Dispatching the body guards with an alarming ease, the ninja then moves toward the golfer in a menacing fashion. After thwarting his pathetic attempt to flee in a golf cart, the ninja kills the golfer and his wife with his trusty sword.
 

 

The ninja's plan of attack was a flawless example of how to properly to kill a golfer (it was stealthy perfection, if you ask me). On the other hand, his escape plan needs a little work. Minutes after taking out the golfer, the Municipal Golf Course is swarming with cops. Killing about thirty of them, including three aboard a helicopter (this is one spry ninja), the ninja (David Chung) is finally surrounded by five cops wielding guns. Blasting him with everything they've got, the cops riddle the ninja with bullets. Yet, after the dust clears, the ninja is nowhere to be found.
 

 

Where did the ninja go? Oh, wait a minute, there he is. Staggering through the shrubbery, the ninja stumbles across Christie (Lucinda Dickey), a telephone repairwoman. Well, actually, it's Christie who stumbles upon the injured ninja. On top of being a telephone repairwoman (the kind that climb up and down poles), Christie is a member of the Give a Ninja a Helping Hand Foundation, a non-profit organization set up to help ninjas in need. And judging by the way he's staggering, this is one ninja who could use a helping hand. Of course, ninjas aren't the easiest people to help, so when Christie tries to assist the wounded ninja (who must have been shot over a hundred times), he's a tad standoffish.
 

 

Realizing that the shapely telephone repairwoman standing before him is trying to help, the ninja offers Christie his sword. After mumbling something in Japanese, the ninja dies. As she's holding the ninja's sword, Christie starts to see visions of the cops who shot the ninja. Which, as most people would agree, is not something that should be happening; in that, they're not her memories, they're the ninjas. Or are they?
 

 

After being questioned at police headquarters, Christie is harassed by a cop named Billy Secord (Jordan Bennett). Hitting on her in an aggressive manner, Christie finally puts her foot down and tells him that she doesn't date cops (you tell him, sister). I don't know 'bout you, but I really dislike this Secord fella. There's something about him that makes my skin crawl.
 

 

Climbing telephone poles all day and coming to the aid of wounded ninjas is hard work. So, can you blame Christie for wanting to unwind a bit?  I didn't. And what better way to do so than to play video games in aerobics gear. As the camera pans down Lucinda Dickey's frame, her mouth-watering crotch laughing in the face of the tight layer of spandex currently inundating the smooth nooks and crannies of its forked housing, as she played "Bouncer," a sense of relief washes over me. Why so? Well, I had no interest in watching an action-packed ninja film that shunned Lucinda's Dickey's spandex-ensnared pussy area. Which is what I thought this film, directed by Sam Firstenberg, was going to be; yet another ninja film that fails to cater to any of my freakishly specific needs and requirements. But like I said, those fears were quickly cast aside once we enter Christie's killer pad.  
 

 

An inordinate amount of praise has to go to production designer Elliot Ellentuck and set decorator Dian Perryman for the work they did in creating Lucinda Dickey's loft in Ninja III: The Domination, as her place is filled with dozens of unique pieces. Items in Christie's loft that caught my fancy: the industrial spool coffee table, the flight suit by the door, the wind turbine roof vent atop her fridge, the Patrick Nagel poster, the neon signs, the light pink Japanese-style blinds, the vintage lucite table, and, of course, the video arcade game.
 

 

You would think that working for Metro Telephone and helping wayward ninjas would eat up most of Christie's time. Think again. A buttery concourse of dimple-free crotches are thrust in our faces as we enter the gym where Christie works as an aerobics instructor. Barking exercise-based language at her students, Christie oozes fitness from every pore. As the lyrically apt "Body Shop" by Dave Powell is doing its best to induce us to sweat on the soundtrack, we can't help but notice that Officer Secord has decided to take Christie's class.
 

 

When the class is over, Christie notices four or five thugs harassing one of Christie's female students in the alleyway behind the gym. It would seem that she likes to help out non-ninjas as well, as Christie comes to the woman's aide. If you're thinking to yourself that Christie is no match for these guys. Don't worry, Christie makes short work of them. But get this, Officer Secord was watching as she almost got manhandled by five musclebound gym members. That's right, he just stood there. And to make matters worse, Officer Secord tells Christie that he could have her arrested for assault. What the...If anyone should be arrested, it's you. Um, hello? Dereliction of duty much? I don't care if you were off duty. What kind of man sits idly by and watches an aerobics instructor (one whose tightly packaged crotch brings so much joy to so many) get almost beaten up by a bunch of roided up neanderthals? I'll tell you what kind, the asshole kind.
 

 

Despite what I just said, Christie takes Officer Secord back to her stylish pad and has him drink V8 off her neck. I'm curious, did this untoward display cause use to lose any respect for Christie? Not really. I mean, sure, I don't like Officer Secord. But maybe there's more to him than meets the eye. He could, after all, have a nice cock. Yeah, but nice cock or no nice cock, did you see his shoulders? I know, he looks like an ape. And what's with the sleeveless shirts? Seriously. Someone with shoulders like that should never wear anything that doesn't come with sleeves.
 

 

If you thought Christie's apartment looked awesome before, wait until you see it when its been bathed in a thick layer of ninja mist. Oh, and don't bother checking my spelling, I said, ninja mist. You know, the mist caused by the spirit of a dead ninja? Anyway, the spirit of the dead ninja from the opening scene wants to live on through the body of, you guessed it, Christie, and does so through his sword.
 

 

Beckoning her from her closet, the dead ninja's sword floats around the room for awhile, until finally resting in Christie's hands. And since dead ninjas are famous for holding grudges, Christie must avenge the dead ninja by killing the cops responsible for his death, because she is now...ninja! She even knows where to find the dead ninja's super-secret stash of ninja goodies. Though, I don't remember seeing a black one-piece bathing suit in the super-secret ninja stash (Christie uses its thigh-accentuating tightness to kill one of the cops and a couple of floozies at a local health spa).
 

 

Does this mean Christie is going to kill Officer Secord? After all, he was one of the cops present when the dead ninja was killed. You bet it does. Woo-hoo! That being said, you just know that Officer Secord is going to be the one who stands in the way of her actualization as a ninja. And wouldn't you know it, he's taking her to see James Hong to get a ninjorcism (it's like an exorcism for ninjas) as we speak.
 

 

Which reminds me. Check this out, as Christie is taking her one way trip to Lindablairsville (Population: "Your mother sucks cocks in Hell!"), she utters the line, "You fool! Nothing can stop me! I am the nin...ja!" Pretty standard stuff as far as ninjorcisms go, right? Yeah, but get this, Officer Secord then says, "Ninja? I wanna know what that is." Hold the phone, what kind of person doesn't know what a ninja is? Granted, things would be different if it was, say, oh, 1934 (a ninja-less hellhole not replete with ninjas). But this is 1984, and ninjas are fucking everywhere.   
 

 

If given the choice between watching Lucinda Dickey work out to new wave music in nothing but white panties and a pink t-shirt, or, say, watching Sho Kosugi (a ninja with an eye-patch) kick orderlies in the face, I will always choose the former. But thankfully, Ninja III: The Domination dispenses both in a manner that I found both tolerable and acceptable. It's true, some of the fight scenes were repetitive, especially the final showdown. But the film's bizarre The Exorcist meets Heavenly Bodies temperament was enough to allow me to look past its cliches, and enjoy it as the dumb action movie that it truly is.
 

 

Can you believe that Officer Secord? What's a ninja? Hee-hee. What an asshat. An asshat who is currently lapping up the figurative contents swirling around Lucinda Dickey's mouth-watering crotch. I hate you, Officer Secord. You hairy-shouldered bastard. 

video uploaded by gonebats