Midnight Heat (Roger Watkins, 1983)

A hitman for the mob sits in a sleazy hotel room and reflects back on all the mistakes he's made over the course of his life. One of the mistakes, no doubt, was that time that he and a large breasted woman stood on a balcony overlooking New York City. I know, that doesn't sound like the kind of thing you might regret one day. Okay, how about this, the woman, whose large breasts have just been fondled by the hitman, initiates oral sex, but he tells her, "I'm not in the mood." After the hitman refused to have his genitals orally massaged by a large breasted woman, one who was wearing a black nightie, no less, I sat there in awe of what the hitman just did. And, no, I wasn't in awe of the hitman's herculean brand of self-control, but because never in all my years of watching sleaze have I seen a man stop a woman–who was in the middle of  implementing her descent to crotch-town, mind you–from performing fellatio on his slumbering member. Anything, whether it be intentional or not, that interrupts the flow of seminal fluid makes me happy. You heard me. Any film that causes the self-abusers in the audience to lose the ability to masturbate in the manner in which they're accustomed is doing something right in my book. And the gritty Midnight Heat is definitely one of those films. You want to make sperm? Grab the Sears catalogue, flip to the pantie section (use the handy index if you have any trouble finding the pantie section, but knowing you, that shouldn't be a problem), stare at the seemingly unending array of pantie-covered undercarriages by employing your eyes (don't bother looking for camel toes, as they have been air-brushed into oblivion), and, well, you know what to do next. However, if you want to watch artful smut with a hint of menace, Roger Watkins (Her Name Was Lisa) is here to provide you with a stimulating alternative.    
 

 

Am I tired of seeing Jamie Gillis' scrotum under constant mouth-based duress? You bet am I. On the other hand, I'm not entirely sure what a "scrotum" is to be honest. It's true, I could look it up. But I think I've past the point in my life where looking up the definition of scrotum is a viable option. Every man comes to what I like to call a "scrotal impasse," and looks like I just hit it. Either way, if you were to show me a picture of Jamie Gillis' scrotum, I could probably identify it without much difficulty.
 

 

Most x-rated movies, or "fuck films" as they're sometimes called, seem only interested in showing you the mechanics of sex. But what if these so-called "mechanics" were accompanied by shots of destitute souls wandering the streets of New York City during a rain storm? How would your raging hard on and/or perspiring clitoris feel about that? I think I can safely say that I bet they would be none to pleased to see their pornography treated that way. Well, you know who doesn't care about you or your poronography? The writer-director of Midnight Heat, that's who; hell, I bet cinematographer Larry Revene doesn't care, either.
 

 

On top of his scrotum, you better get used to the sight of Jamie Gillis staring out a window, as it's where Alan, a hitman for the mob, does his best thinking. And besides, why wouldn't you look out the window? You live in New York City. I mean, the idea of someone watching television in New York City doesn't make sense to me. Anything happening outside in New York City at any given moment, especially in 1983, is a thousand times more interesting than any show on television.
 

 

Opening with Alan sitting by a window, no doubt doing some of that thinking I alluded to earlier, when suddenly, he receives a call about a job. Utilizing a point-of-view camera angle, we find ourselves walking down the hallway of what looks like an office building. Coming to a doorway, a man sitting at a desk asks Alan, "What are you doing here"? Without saying a word, Alan calmly pulls out his gun, points it at the seated man, and shoots him.  
 

 

To celebrate yet another successful hit, Alan heads over to the apartment of his milf-tastic mistress (Dixie Dew), who is smoking a cigarette in an old school lingerie, for a little informal fornication, if you know what I mean. Yeah, we know, they're going to have sex. You know how I implied that all the sex scenes were peppered with these grim shots of authentic New York City street life? Well, this particular sex scene features shots an older gentlemen driving a car. In fact, this "older gentlemen" looks exactly like the guy in the picture that was standing upright on the milf-tastic mistress' vanity–you know, before she turned it face down (I guess she didn't want him looking at her as she brushed her teeth with Jamie Gillis' darkish cock). You mean to say that the guy in the car is the milf-tastic mistress' husband? Yep. And he's coming home.
 

 

What are the odds that the milf-tastic mistress' husband is also Alan's boss? I'd say they're pretty high. And since Alan works for the mob, that would make his boss a "mob boss." Instead of getting angry, the mob boss plants a big wet kiss on Alan's face. It would seem that Alan's days are numbered (he received "Il bacio della morte"). In order to delay his fate, Alan decides to hide out at a cheap hotel.
 

 

As he sits on the chintzy-looking bed, Alan reflects on his past mistakes. Well, I wouldn't call having sex with Tish Ambrose a mistake, exactly. However, when you take in account that Tish is playing Susan, the boss's daughter, the decision to do so seems fraught with more danger than usual. Oh, haven't you heard? Danger is Alan's middle name. It's true, I'm not even sure what his last name is, but I bet his middle one is Danger.
 

 

Anyway, after Tish Ambrose's mobster's daughter uses the word "facetious" in a sentence, Jamie Gillis pulls out his wiener. There's no lingerie in this scene, but Tish's terrific backside and the birthmark on her left breast are both prominently displayed. And she wears whites pumps throughout her encounter with the junk attached to Jamie's scrotum.  
 

 

While flipping through the hotel room's Bible, Alan comes across a flyer for "Mr. C's Escort Agency: "Beautiful People for Friends." And before you know it, Shirley (Joey Karson), a sexy blonde, and Diane (Cheri Champagne), a quiet brunette, are knocking on his door.
 

 

Telling the women that he likes to watch, Shirley and Diane perform the sixty-nine position on his bed. The erratic nature of the seams on the back of Joey Karson's fishnet stockings was the sexiest thing about this particular scene. I also liked Cheri Champagne's red satin garter belt; very classy.
 

 

When they're done, Alan asks Diane to stay. While Shirley protests at first, she eventually agrees to leave Diane, who is relative newcomer to the whoring business, all alone with Alan.
 

 

Proving that "Danger" is in fact his middle name, Alan, while looking out the window, of course, tell Diane that "danger motivates people."
 

 

In another flashback, we see Alan and his wife (Sharon Mitchell, fuck yeah!), sharing a passionate embrace. This so-called "passionate embrace" leads to oral and vaginal sex. The great thing about this scene is the way Sharon Mitchell's nose looks whilst filmed in profile.
 

 

During their post-coital chat, Sharon informs Alan that she is leaving him. Standing by a window, as usual, Alan seems unmoved by what his wife just said, as he basically shrugs his shoulders and says, "Do what you want, I can't stop you."

 

 

Just when you thought the film couldn't get anymore cynical and dark, we hear Alan, again, standing by a window, utter the line, "There's a lot of fucking weirdos out there." Of course, this line is accompanied by some street level shots of New York City that look like they were filmed with a hidden camera. As I watched the "fucking weirdos" shuffle down the street to classical music, I thought to myself: Is this film the most depressing porno ever made?
 

 

The film does nothing to counter its bleak reputation when we see, Diane, who gets her own flashback, waiting for her husband (Michael Bruce) to come home. Wait, that doesn't sound so bleak. Yeah, but the sex they have is not even close to being erotic. In fact, he pretty much treats her like a piece of meat. 
 

 

It would seem that it was a prostitute, played by the alluring Susan Nero, who suggested that Alan join the mob. Now, typically, after Susan Nero tells Alan that the mob is currently hiring, this is the point in the film where Jamie Gillis and Susan Nero begin to have sex. But Midnight Heat seems to shun convention at every turn. Even I was shocked when Susan Nero's pussy didn't get properly poked and prodded. Actually, if you think about it, Alan, as we learned during the scene with Shirley and Diane, has a no-sex rule when it comes to hookers. So, his not having sex with Miss Nero was in keeping with his character's unique temperament. However, that doesn't mean he can't break his own rules, as we'll see during the film's disturbing, and, of course, bleak finale.
 

 

As with all the Roger Watkins/Richard Mahler directed films I've seen so far, I would have loved to have seen the looks on the faces of the movie patrons as they filed out from the 42nd Street theatres that were showing this movie; what a confused lot they must have been.

video uploaded by permateen

Maniac (William Lustig, 1980)

Call him a deranged psychopath with unresolved mommy issues, if you must. But the mentally unwell protagonist at the centre of Maniac, my cinematic wheelhouse in a nutshell covered in two layers of creamy derelict jizz, is more akin to a shapeless mound of broken dreams and unrealized potential. Why did I choose to view him in this particular light? Clearly possessing many different talents, the so-called "killer" seems to be wasting away in a rent-free pit of  loneliness and despair. If the ability to stalk women after midnight was a valuable skill to have listed on your resume, he would be sitting pretty. Unfortunately, no-one needs a lumpy, middle-aged man who forcibly removes women's scalps in today's unstable job market. You would think they would at least be impressed by the fact that he recycles, a rare trait to have during the era of guilt-free orgasms and disco chic. But they couldn't careless that he reuses his victims hair and clothing to create art. Sure, it's disturbing art, but it's art, nonetheless. How do I know all this? Well, luckily, director William Lustig (Maniac Cop) and writer/executive producer/star Joe Spinell (Forbidden Zone) have decided to bypass your typical slasher film clichés by making one that's entirely from the perspective of the killer. You know what that means? Of course I do, you've already implied that you know what it means. Yeah, but...Okay, you're right. Either way, I was so happy when it dawned on me that there would be no police investigation, no red herrings, and no lame plot twists in this film. At around the midway point I thought myself: There's no way they would introduce a cop character this late in the game. And you know what? They didn't. It's true, some cops do show up near the end of the film, but they didn't even have any lines. The film does have a romantic subplot, but it's so awkward and strange, that it eventually morphs into a weird form of dinner theatre. Seriously, I'm still trying to figure out how Joe Spinell managed to get beautiful Caroline Munro (Starcrash) to even talk to him, let alone go on a date with his sleazeball ass. I mean, just the mere thought of them in the same room together sent shivers and shock waves up and down that the mysterious flap of skin languishing near my cavernous taint.
 

 

The cinematic wheelhouse I alluded to earlier had nothing to do with violence and degradation, which this film has in abundance, but the fact that it takes place, like the majority of my favourite films, in New York City during the era of cocaine sex and tight trousers.   

 

 

In order for his basement apartment to really come alive as a creepy hellhole, Frank Zito (Joe Spinell) needs to kill at least five or six women. Of course, I'm not entirely sure if that's his goal or not. But from where I was sitting, it seems like he's got a void in his life, and murdering women is the only way he knows how to fill it. Like most serial killers, Frank is not content with simply murdering his victims. No, he needs to keep a souvenir. In this case, he puts the clothes they were wearing when he killed them on female mannequins.
 

 

At first, it seemed like he was carrying their bodies home in a garbage bag. But upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that he's carrying mannequins. Where he gets them exactly is not-so clear. But since it appears as if he has some connection to the art world (his apartment looks like a close quarter art gallery), I bet he has a mannequin source. Well, it's obvious he does, as his apartment will soon be filled with them.
 

 

Filled with them, you say? Yeah, I'm afraid so. The first such victim is quickly dispatched down at the beach. Sneaking up on a woman with short brunette hair (Linda Lee Walter, who is credited as "Beach Girl"), Franks slits her throat while her boyfriend (James Brewster, who is credited as "Beach Boy") is collecting firewood. Don't worry, he's killed too. Waking up in a sweat the following day, Frank screams, moans, and rocks back and forth in his apartment, which is covered with candles and appears to have a shrine to a woman dressed as a nurse.
 

 

It's 1980, we're in Manhattan, and Frank Zito is walking the streets in a bomber jacket, what could possibly go wrong? Two prostitutes currently chatting about their trollop-based problems on the very street Frank Zito is walking on are about to find out. Well, one of them is. Initially, I thought Frank had solicited the hookers, but it was actually the hookers, specifically the one wearing purple satin disco short shorts, fishnet pantyhose, and a red scarf who did the bulk of the soliciting.  Played by the alluring Rita Montone, the nameless sex worker needs to bag one more trick in order to be able to pay her rent. In other words, desperation played a key role in her decision to solicit Frank as he moseyed on by on that chilly winter evening.
 

 

A gum chewing vision in purple satin disco short shorts, Rita Montone is too gorgeous to be choked to death and scalped in a cheap motel room. I don't care if Frank paid the motel manager an extra five dollars for colour television, that's no way for someone as attractive as Rita to buy it. You could tell Frank felt the same way. Sure, he's the one who's about to killer her, but the fact that he told her pose like a model ("yeah, like in the magazines") lead me to believe that Frank had second thoughts about killing her. In reality, he's not really killing her. Okay, that doesn't make a lot of sense. What I mean is, he's really trying to get back at his mother (as he strangles her, we catch glimpses of a different woman being strangled, one who could be his mother). Either way, her fishnet pantyhose are soon pressing tightly up against a dead vagina, as Frank adds another mannequin to his collection. Oh, and unlike the previous murder scene, we get an eyeful of Frank's gruesome scalping technique this time around.
 

 

Mumbling to himself ("I told you not to go out tonight"), then mumbling subconsciously ("It's got to stop"), Frank is clearly a person who spends way too much time wallowing inside his own head. Noticing that his recent beach killing has hit the front page of the local paper, Frank becomes agitated, pacing back and forth as eerie synths ooze their synthy payload in the background.
 

 

We all have different ways of reliving stress. Some like to garden, others like to write Jem fan fiction. Well, Frank likes to dress mannequins. Pulling her fishnet pantyhose, black leotard, and purple satin disco short shorts out of a bag, Frank begins to dress his new mannequin in the clothes the hooker was wearing when he murdered her. When he's done doing that, he takes her bloody scalp and nails it to the mannequin's head. As you would expect, the blood from the scalp drips down on the mannequin's face creating this lurid effect that was quite disturbing.
 

 

Telling the beach mannequin and the hooker mannequin that he'll "be right back," Frank heads out for the evening. Picking out a couple as they leave a disco called "Blossoms," Frank follows them to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Work those thighs, Tom Savini! Work 'em! What the fuck? I'm sorry, I got ahead of myself. The couple, played by Tom Savini (credited as, "Disco Boy") and a glittered-covered Hyla Marrow (credited as, you guessed it, "Disco Girl"), park underneath Verrazano Bridge to have sexual intercourse, and during foreplay, Tom Savini strokes the living hell out of Hyla Marrow's glimmering right thigh in the backseat of his car. C'mon! What do you mean? No disrespect to Hyla's thighs intended, but there's no way they were "glimmering," that's just thigh-based wishful thinking on your part. No, seriously, just ask Tom Savini. I'm sure he'll tell you that they were glimmering like a swarm of fireflies the night they shot this scene. It's true, most people remember this particular scene for the exploding head–which was awesome, don't get me wrong–but then again, most people aren't as heterosexual as they think they are.
 

 

At home in his jammies, Frank is combing his hair and babbling to himself about "fancy girls, in their fancy dresses and lipstick, laughing and dancing." I think the reason he handcuffs himself to the latest addition to his mannequin fleet, a glitter-covered disco queen with glimmering thighs, was because he has abandonment issues. Anyway, Frank decides to hang out in the park next day, where he spots Anna D'Antoni (Caroline Munro), a photographer wearing a super-chic jaguar print coat.

 

 

You know when people say, "me wanty" when they see an article of clothing they would like to acquire? Well, I can't really say things like that as I'm not quite equipped to pull off a garment as bold as a jaguar print coat. It got me to thinking, though. If I had a bunch mannequins, I could dress them up in the clothes I didn't feel comfortable wearing myself. While I initially loved the idea of having my own army of fashion forward mannequins, I do worry that it might start to come off as a tad creepy. Then it suddenly dawned on me. I need to get a girlfriend. Or better yet, a wife. Think about it, I could buy them a ton of clothes; dresses, shoes, purses, bracelets, you name it, and have them wear the items I felt skittish about donning myself. It's a genius idea, one that I'm definitely gonna noodle with over the course of the next few months.
 

 

Just to let you know, the reason I brought this up is because there's a scene that takes place after we meet Caroline Munro and her jaguar print jacket in the park that features Frank Zito window shopping late at night to synthesizer music. The way he stared longingly at the store's window displays reminded me of myself, as I've been known to stand out in front of, oh, let's say, Louise Vuitton, Prada (my personal favourite), or the Chanel boutique on Bloor Street late at night on occasion. Of course, I don't mean to imply that I understand his motivation to kill women at random (I'm a staunch believer in non-violence, especially the "at random" variety), I'm just saying that I'm attune with his desire for luxury.
 

 

Holy crap! Don't look now, but here comes Sharon Mitchell. And get this, she's dressed as a nurse! Sporting her trademark dark short hair underneath her nurse's cap (the same dark short hair that would set the 1980s porn world on fire over the course of the next ten or so years), Sharon Mitchell plays a nurse (well, duh) and Kelly Piper plays a fellow nurse. Yeah, we get it, they're both nurses. Uh-oh, does this mean Sharon Mitchell is about to be murdered by Frank Zito? Don't get your Michael Kors briefs in a bunch, girlfriend. She's gonna be fine. It's her co-worker at Roosevelt Hospital who should be the one worrying. As we say goodbye to Sharon Mitchell (bye, Sharon Mitchell. I love you), we're treated to the coolest synth flourish in film history. Employed to signify Frank Zito's malevolent presence, the synth sound is so deep, that it will penetrate the souls of uninitiated. After the synths have stopped flourishing, we're treated to some top notch subway stalking. Which, of course, ends with a woman being brutally murdered and a new mannequin added to the collection.
 

 

The Frank Zito line, "It's just a little blood...it'll wash out," will be familiar to Skinny Puppy fans as it was famously sampled on "Cage," a song from the Chainsaw EP. 
 

 

How this schlubby basket case managed to weasel his way into the life of a woman who wears jaguar print coats and makes tea in red leather pants I'll never know. But as I found out watching him crazy it up in Maniac, you should never doubt to persuasive powers of Joe Spinell, one of the most compelling actors of his generation. The scenes that feature him on the prowl are intense (particularly the encounter in the 59th street subway station), but it's the one's where it's just him alone in his apartment that I found to be the most unsettling, as Joe Spinell does a terrific job of capturing the killer's inner torment, while at the same time, giving us moments of bizarre levity (the part where Joe Spinell pretends he's a hairdresser, complete with sunglasses and a jaunty scarf, is the perfect example of this).    
 

 

You haven't lived until you've seen Joe Spinell holding a teddy bear. Okay, maybe that was a tad hyperbolic. But the fashion photo shoot where Caroline Munro snaps pics of a trio of models (Abigail Clayton, Joan Baldwin, and Jeni Paz) at a loft located in, oh, let's say, Soho, was important sequence when it came to determining whether or not Maniac was merely a satisfactory horror film with a few memorable moments sprinkled here and there or a genuine cult classic. Well, I'm happy to report that it definitely qualifies as the latter, as any film that features coked up fashion models posing to "Goin' To a Showdown" by Don Armando's 2nd Avenue Rhumba Band ("put on something nice / just in case you die / you'll leave a pretty corpse behind") is going to get overly praised by me. Speaking of me, if you're like me, and are a fan of films like, Eyes of Laura Mars, The New York Ripper, and Cruising, you'll surely get a kick out of Maniac.

uploaded by permateen

Waterpower (Shaun Costello, 1977)

Every time the tepid water would start to spew all over the victim's bathtub, this profound sense of relief would wash over me. Relieved that the worst was probably over for the person being forced to have their bowels cleansed at gun point, yet, at the same time, filled with dread over the fact that someone else was gonna wind up going through the exact same ordeal in the not-so distant future, Shaun Costello's Waterpower is unlike anything I have ever seen. Actually, that's not entirely true, I've seen plenty of films about crazed loners lurking the mean streets of New York City, but none where a quaint-looking item, one that can be purchased at any neighbourhood drug store, is used as the perpetrator's primary instrument of terror. Nowadays, the human beings you see walking the streets of almost every major city in North America have become so pacified by the glowing rectangles they carry around with them, that they rarely ever think about purifying the insides of their fellow citizens. They were originally designed to keep you connected to the world at large, but they're actually doing a better job of separating you from the human experience. In the middle of the 1970s there were no such distractions, everything and everyone was literally in your face whether you liked or not. The people you passed on the street were acutely aware of your presence and there was nowhere to hide as they sized up the structural integrity of your anus. In the like-minded Taxi Driver, Travis Bickle uses his taxi cab as a protective shield (it helped keep the so-called "scum" he is always railing against at a distance). In this film, however, our deranged protagonist is constantly exposed. Armed only with his denim jacket and a thick mane of curly brown hair, he seems to be stalking the streets rather aimlessly. I'm not one who usually likes to give such individuals advice, but I think this guy needs to get a hobby, or better yet, find a purpose in life.

Bored with the ho-hum nature of the pornography that is currently occupying his sock drawer, and clearly unsatisfied by what's on television (an early version of the glowing rectangle), Burt (Jamie Gillis), a solitary man with a lot of free time on his hands, is determined to find something that will sufficiently scratch him where he itches. While I could do without the random muggings, the aggressive dope pushers, and, of course, the surly pimps, I do envy the fact that Burt gets to wander 42nd Street during the time when it was seedy as fuck. However, being a jaded New Yorker, Burt is going to need more than a few hundred adult movie threatres and adult bookstores to keep his penis moist and giggly.

Turning to his trusty telescope, Burt searches for the object of his obsession. This particular object isn't in the sky, though it does spend a lot of time up there, it's the brunette flight attendant (Clea Carson) who lives across the street. Watching as she gets undressed (her imitation Pan Am uniform is gingerly unsheathed from her dainty frame), Burt talks as if he were in the room with her. And judging by the glossy black and white photos he has of her, it's safe to say that Burt has a thing for her. I'm sorry, did I say he has a "thing"? What I meant to say is that Burt is quite fond of the lithesome stewardess (stalkers hate it when you dismissively label their infatuations as a "thing").

After wandering around 42nd Street for a while (an eerie electronic sound throbs seductively the soundtrack), Burt decides to enter an establishment called "The Garden of Eden," a sort of high end sex palace for discerning reprobates. There he meets the joint's Hostess (Gloria Leonard), lounging on a hammock in black boots and hold-up stockings. A tad standoffish, Burt rebuffs her first couple of attempts to offer him some assistance (he says that he's just looking). It's true, I have no way of knowing what exactly is going on in Burt's mind, but I like to think it was the sight of Eve (a long-haired Sharon Mitchell), a woman in a silver, disco-flavoured pantsuit, that caused him to loosen up. Excepting her introductory offer, Burt hands the Hostess ten dollars and proceeds to take Eve to room number six.

While he's walking down the hall to get his half and half from Eve in room number six, Burt can't help but notice a woman named Leslie (the statuesque Marlene Willoughby) dressed like a nurse reciting medical jargon to herself. In the film's lone adorable moment, Burt asks if anyone is sick. She's not a real nurse, that's Leslie, she performs "specials," Eve tells the naive little scamp. As he's getting the first half of his half and half performed on him, you could totally that his mind was preoccupied with these so-called "specials." I'll admit, my heart was filled with a creamy dollop of sadness when I heard Burt say that he wanted to bypass the second half of his half and half, as I was really looking forward to seeing Jamie Gillis penetrate Sharon Mitchell's mythical pussy with his darkly glamorous penis. But the sight of Sharon reclining in the buff after an exhaustive oral workout was like receiving a consolation prize. In other words, her gorgeousness (her distinctive profile is a work of art) alone was enough carry me over to the next scene.

Getting nowhere with Eve when it came to finding out more about the "specials" (she's not allowed to talk about them), Burt is told to ask the Hostess (who is still lounging on a hammock in black boots and hold-up stockings) about the "specials" they provide. After she's finished talking on the telephone (a conversation where the line, "our watersports expert is on vacation" is uttered), the Hostess gives Burt the fullness of her attention.

Selecting the perversion that is right for you is very important step for a man, and the Hostess sees that Burt hasn't got one (an unperverted man is an unhappy man). Listing a wide array of depravity for Burt to choose from, the Hostess rattles off a bunch of kinky acts, including: BDSM, pantie worship, cross dressing, emasculation, spanking, and podophilia. While rifling through the many services they provide, Burt is intrigued by the words "high colonic." Not knowing what it is exactly, the Hostess informs him that "there in," and that one is currently being performed as they speak.

Escorting him to the viewing gallery of the operating threatre they have on the premises, the Hostess allows Burt to watch an enema being performed. A client posing as a doctor (Eric Edwards)—I'm under the assumption that he's not a real doctor—explains, in great detail, the history of enemas (they go back thousands of years). The dialogue employed during the enema tutorial, by the way, was outstanding ("your eyes widen at the mention of the word 'enema'"). Anyway, performing an enema on a woman named Pamela (Jean Silver), while the aforementioned nurse provides assistance (she gags Pamela with a piece of tape), the doctor tells his uncommon patient that she going to receive an uncommon enema. I don't know what that means exactly, but I did like the multiple use of the word "nozzle" as he prepared his inflatable nozzle.

As the murky water begins to exit her thoroughly lubricated anus, the Doctor and Burt both ejaculate semen. It's true, the former enrolls the help of nurse Leslie's mouth, and the latter uses his hand to achieve his orgasm. But make no mistake, it was the rectal water that induced the bulk of their liquid pleasure.

Feeling an overwhelming sense of euphoria, Burt declares enemas to be "where it's at," and disavows conventional pornography. His latest trip to the adult bookstore reflects this change of heart, as all his purchases are enema-based publications ("Water and Power" being the name of one of the magazines). However, this feeling of euphoria doesn't last long. While observing his beloved stewardess through his trusty telescope, he's horrified when he sees her with a man, and not just any man, a man with a mustache. He thought she was different, he thought she was, unlike all those whores out on the street, pure, yet there she was, engaging in a wide array of unseemly acts with a man with a mustache. It's right then and there that Burt decides that he needs to make her clean again, and the only way he can do that is to break into her apartment and perform an enema on her at gun point.

Suffering from delusions of grandeur, Burt bristles at the media's charge that he's a rapist (he sees his "job" as a public service, cleaning the bowels of the city, one anus at a time). On top of labeling him a rapist, the media also dub him, "The Enema Bandit." This distinction causes Burt to take his nozzle work more seriously (a recent trip to the enema store bears the fruit of this new-found seriousness). As expected, the police are determined to put a stop to his ass irrigating ways (they can't have some guy running around the city raping and performing enemas on people). Two rape squad detectives are put on the case, Jack Gallagher (John Buco) and Irene Murray (C.J. Laing). Will they stop him? Who knows.

Call me a cockeyed scoundrel, but I found Jamie Gillis to be strangely handsome as Burt, The Enema Bandit. What am I saying, "strangely handsome," he was a total babe from certain angles. Sure, it is difficult to crush on someone when they're, oh, let's say, forcing girls to expel watery fecal matter on one another while he urinates and ejaculates seminal fluid on them, but the moments when he wasn't doing that, which were few and far between, he looked kinda foxy.

Speaking of watery fecal matter, the way the ghastly scene featuring two teenage sisters named Ginger (Susaye London) and Candy (Barbara Belkin) being brutalized by The Enema Bandit (he catches them whilst dabbling in lesbianism) was edited together with a consensual sex scene that was taking place in another part of the city was downright heinous. If my genitals could talk, they would be cursing my brain for feeding it such a confusing melange of sick and twisted imagery.

The fact that the fake doctor at the beginning of the film did such an amazing job walking us through the ins and outs of your average enema was what helped me get through Waterpower pretty much unscathed. When the taupe water started to flow, I wasn't put off at all. On the other hand, the rough manner in which the enemas were implemented was quite disturbing. Make no mistake, with the exception of the first enema (which was performed in a controlled environment by willing participants), all the enemas performed in Waterpower were unwanted by the recipients. On top of being delusional, Burt is also full of contradictions. He says he wants to rid women of sin, but at same time, he usually ends up engaging in the same sinful acts he's purportedly against. This contradictory temperament gave Burt, and the film, an air of unexpected depth. If you like enema movies that contain more than just enemas, then I recommend you check out Waterpower, you'll probably regret it.

If you watch the Dutch version, the rape/enema/watersports scene has been, like I said, edited together with the consensual anilingus/dirty feet showcase. But if you watch the American version, the two scenes play out separately, which, I've been told, allows for easier self-abuse. Just for the record: I've seen both versions, but the one I'm writing about is the Dutch version (so-called by me because it has Dutch subtitles).

video uploaded by trailerparkblood

Special thanks to Jerry at Dead Eye Delirium for introducing me to this...um, unwholesome ordeal masquerading as a piece of filmed entertainment.

...