Cavegirl (David Oliver, 1985)

The last thing I expected to hear at the beginning of a film produced by Crown International Pictures was the synth-tastic sounds of SSQ's "Synthicide" blasting on the soundtrack. Another thing I didn't expect was the sight of a helicopter zipping across the sky. I mean, since when did films produced by Crown International be able to afford helicopters? And I'm assuming they had more than one helicopter since the helicopter in the opening scene is being filmed from what looks like another helicopter. Complicated aerial photography and the music of SSQ?!? Something does not compute. You think that doesn't compute, eh? Wait until I tell you the name of the movie I'm currently writing about. What's that? Oh, you say you already know the name of the movie I'm writing about. Well, anyway, for those who don't, it's Cavegirl. It's been a dream of mine to watch a film that features nothing but SSQ songs on the soundtrack, and it looks like Cavegirl is the film that has decided step up to the plate to fulfill that dream. I repeat, Cavegirl is the film that has made my wish to hear non-stop SSQ music in a motion picture finally come true. Cavegirl. Sure, you can hear SSQ's music in The Return of the Living Dead. You can even hear it at the end of Beyond the Black Rainbow. Yeah, but Cavegirl is not only wall-to-wall SSQ, the film's score is by Jon St. James, and even Stacey herself has a small post-prehistoric role as the enabling girlfriend of a bully/asshole.

In case you're wondering, SSQ (who started off just as "Q") was a music group who produced high-quality synth-pop in the mid-1980s. The band renamed itself Stacey Q shortly afterward, and released the worldwide smash "Two of Hearts." Of course, the focus had shifted to Stacey Swain at this point, but Jon St. James continued to write and produce her music.

In fact, Stacey Swain and Jon St. James recently collaborated on a new Stacey Q album called "Color Me Cinnamon" (an obvious allusion to the name of Stacey's character from the television show The Facts of Life). I've listened to some of the new songs, and, I must say, they're pretty good; I'm partial to "Euphoria" and "Pandora's Box."

I'm no behavioural expert, but you don't sound too pleased. What are you talking about? I was just giving you a brief refresher course on the history of Q/SSQ/Stacey Q. No, you don't seem too thrilled about the idea of watching a movie that is basically about a dork in a fedora who falls for a prehistoric blonde. I'll admit, it wasn't exactly what I was hoping for. I mean, synth-pop and prehistoric times don't really go together; they're not a natural fit.

However, any movie that kicks things off to synthy sounds of SSQ's "Synthicide" is okay in my book. Besides, I like prehistoric blondes. As Stacey is singing about her digital fix ("I gotta have my digital fix today"), we follow a helicopter flying over an arid landscape. Communicating with a nearby computer truck, the helicopter seems to be testing some sort of missile system. I don't know how this all fits into the plot a film called "Cavegirl," but I am somewhat intrigued to find out.

Meanwhile, an anthropology student named Rex (Daniel Roebuck) is clumsily making his way to school on his bike. As he's doing this, you'll notice that a slowed down instrumental version of "Synthicide" is playing in the background.

If you thought Rex's attempt to get to school was clumsy, you should see his attempt to ask Karen (Syndi King) out on a date. Let's just say, it doesn't go all that well. Instead of stammering nervously about food, Rex should have complimented Karen on the white scarf she had in her hair. Chicks dig it when you notice their accessories.

In order to meet his obligation to Crown International Pictures, writer-director-cinematographer David Oliver has Rex accidentally wander into the women's locker room. How did he mange that, you ask? One of Rex's primary tormentors removes the 'wo' from the women only sign on the door. How he got in there doesn't matter. What does matter is what he saw once he got in there. Removing her top almost immediately, Michelle Bauer and a bunch of her soon to be topless friends enter the locker room with a girlish glee. When they discover that a doofus named Rex in their midst, they proceed to chase him around the locker room; if you look closely, you'll notice that Michelle Bauer is brandishing a tennis racket during the chase.

Even though he survived the attack of the topless coeds, Rex isn't out of the woods yet. While attending his favourite class, anthropology, more pranks are pulled on him. What is this, Prank Week? I think the reason we're being inundated with scenes that feature Rex being humiliated is to show that humanity hasn't evolved much over the past 25,000 years, and to make us understand Rex's reluctance to want to go back to 1985.

The pranks continue as Rex, his fellow students, and their professor go on a field trip. Visiting a mine/cave complex, Hank (Chris Noble), doesn't waste any time as he instigates a multitude of pranks on Rex seconds after they arrive. One involves putting a stink bomb in a portable toilet (while Rex is inside, of course) and another has to do with replacing the contents of Rex's backpack with rocks.

Keep an eye out for Stacey Swain during the portable toilet mischief/backpack tampering sequence as it's the most time she spends onscreen. You mean to say that Stacey Swain isn't the cavegirl? I already said she plays the girlfriend of one of the bullies who gives Rex such a hard time. I know, I was just expressing my dissatisfaction regarding the puniness of her role. Are you good? Yep, I think my dissatisfaction has been properly expressed. So, I can continue? Yeah, go ahead.

Remember that helicopter? Yeah, well, the missile test it was conducting, and some weird crystal, cause Rex to be transported back to prehistoric times. If I sound a tad nonchalant about all this, I'm not alone, as Rex seems to take his relocation in stride. Oh, sure, he seems concerned, but not to the agree I expected. After being chased through the brush by some cave people, Rex takes some time to reflect on his unique situation. Wondering if this all a dream, Rex stares at the sky, which is gorgeous (nice work, David Oliver), before falling asleep by a rock.

The cave people during this period must have had a pretty sweat dental plan, because the cave woman, or "cavegirl," who wakes Rex up is sporting perfect teeth. You were looking at her teeth? Huh? Never mind. If you want to nitpick, I don't think cave people had perms, either. Okay, so Eba (Cynthia Thompson), a.k.a. "cavegirl," doesn't look like your average cave person. But remember, this isn't a documentary (there were apparently no humans in North America during this period as well). Though, I must say, the location of Twin Oaks, California had an authentic, prehistoric quality about it.

Stuck in prehistoric times with a leggy blonde who doesn't speak English, Rex must learn to survive in an environment that is foreign to him. Luckily, his trusty backpack is filled with everything one could possibly need to survive in the wilderness; deodorant, Animal Crackers, a Walkman, a tarp, waterproof matches, a bear-shaped bottle of honey (or, as Eba might called it, "bincha-shaped"), and a can of shaving cream.

The shaving cream actually comes in handy in a way that doesn't involve shaving. You won't believe this, but Rex uses it to bond with the other cave people; the inquisitive Argh (Jeff Chayette), the chubby Aka (Cynthia Rullo), the perpetually dumbfounded Char (Charles Mitchell), and, of course, the Patti Smith-esque Saba (Saba Moor-Doucette). It also gives David Oliver an excuse to use "Walkman On" by SSQ, as the song goes perfectly with the sight of three cave people and a socially awkward dingus in a fedora spraying shaving cream on one another in a playful manner. Giving up trying to teach Eba to say, "May I sit on your face," Rex tries to woo the cave-residing cutie using more traditional means. He might have succeeded had it not been for Dar (Darren Young), the nosy leader of this small band of cave people.

A love story for the ages, Cavegirl managed to reaffirm my belief in the healing power of love. Call me mentally unwell, but the moments when Rex and Eba are apart were some of the most agonizing scenes to watch. This, I think, is a testament to not only Daniel Roebuck and Cynthia Thompson, who give career defining performances, but to visionary writer-director David Oliver who allows their relationship to build slowly over the time. And because he used this patient approach, the scene where Rex eventually has to decide which century he wants to spend the rest of life in is so gut-wrenching. As "Anonymous" by SSQ plays over the end credits, I think most people in the audience will agree that Rex made the right decision. And the same can be said for my decision to watch this underrated exploration into the jagged nooks and crannies of the human heart.

Stripped to Kill (Katt Shea, 1987)

Topless dancers aren't allowed to go within five feet of the patrons, and a pair of fishnet stockings can be purchased for around fourteen dollars. These are just two of the many things I learned while watching Stripped to Kill, a glorified lingerie ad masquerading as a slasher film. The former has to do with a rule that stipulates that no dancer can be topless within a certain distance of the shady rabble sitting around the pole-plentiful stage the scantily clad women perform on. The latter occurs when a macho cop blurts out the price of fishnet stockings seconds after his female partner asks him what your average pair might cost; only problem being, she thought she was asking a rhetorical question. Okay, so you know about the strict rules that dictate how far a topless stripper can be to, oh, let's say, that sleazoid in the stained hoodie, while gyrating in a garter belt, and you know that some male detectives have an acute talent for being able to price lingerie, but what else did you learn? Actually, to be honest, I think that pretty much covers it. If you've seen the movie, then you really can't blame me for my lack of retained knowledge when all was said and done. Forget about being an educational tool, is it even a horror movie? I mean, from where I was sitting, all I remember seeing was hot chicks doing handstands in lingerie. And since the film was produced by Roger Corman, the music they dance to is generic eighties strip club pop; in other words, stuff that sounds like the popular music of the day, but was made by people you've never heard of. All right, we've established that the film has no redeeming qualities when it comes to spiritual enlightenment and that many corners were cut in order to save on music, so where did all the money go? I'll tell you where. Lingerie!

Filled to the brim with lacy bits, smooth bits, and, of course, feathery bits of skimpy underwear, the lingerie budget must have been astronomical. How else can you explain the total absence of anything else? Sure, the film has actors who utter the occasional line of dialogue, like the late great Normal Fell, but as far as I'm concerned the film is basically one long lingerie fashion show. And you know what? I'm totally cool with that. In fact, and this may sound a tad out of character, but  I wish more movies would focus their attention on women who wear lingerie for a living.        

 
As a person who is sick and tired of watching films that feature no lingerie whatsoever, I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of attention writer-director Katt Shea, a woman who clearly knows what perverts want, gave to the frilly underthings in Stripped in Kill, as they're pretty much featured in almost every scene.  

 
The film wastes little time introducing us to this filly world as it opens in a strip club where we find a big haired beauty named Brandy (Lucia Lexington) putting on a poll dancing clinic in a black negligee for a small yet captive audience. Actually, the audience is basically made up of two people, Ray (Norman Fell), the owner of the Rock Bottom club, and a stripper named Angel (Michelle Foreman), but she pretends the house is packed, nonetheless, pointing seductively to the non-existent patrons as she grinds pole number two. Poll number two?!? Yeah, it would seem that Brandy was giving the club's new duel poll layout a test drive, or a "test dance," in this case.

Anyway, near the end of her number, she removes her top for eighteen seconds. Which, as we'll soon find out, was twelve seconds short of meeting the thirty second rule; which stipulates that all Rock Bottom dancers must appear topless on stage for at least thirty seconds or incur harsh penalties.   

 
"Circling above the drinks / I wonder what she thinks / You can't deny the night."

 
Next up, it's a blonde firecracker named Dazzle (Debbie Nassar), the sexiest dancer in Rock Bottom's deep roster of garter belt pushers, and her prop is a motorcycle (parked underneath a graffiti-covered wall), and a her uniform consists of is a silver thong that doesn't know the meaning of the word quit, a matching top, and a pair of high heel boots (the right one has a bandana tied around it). Wait a minute. What do you mean, "next up,"? Isn't there any plot development between the Brandy's dance number and the one you're currently blathering about? Not really. Okay, just checking. Carry on. Bathed in pink light, Dazzle makes poll dancing seem easy as she slides her taut body up and down its smooth circumference with an effortless elan.

 
As she's performing back flips in time to the synth rock being blasted by the club's DJ, we can't help but notice that a man in a grey hoodie has taken a seat by the stage. It's the ubiquitous Mr. Pocket (Peter Scranton), a Rock Bottom regular who will feature heavily over the course of the next eighty or so minutes.

 
Meanwhile, down in the park, an undercover police detective Cody Sheenan (Kay Lenz) who is posing as a homeless woman, suddenly finds herself with a flaming stripper on her hands. A flaming stripper? Is that hooker code? No, the detective comes face-to-face with a stripper who is thrown off a bridge and set on fire. In fact, she would have been torched as well had it not been for Detective Heinenman (Greg Evigan), her quick thinking partner. After the two detectives make their way home, we ushered back to Rock Bottom where we find Zeena (Athena Worthy) performing a dance number with a fire theme. When she's done, Roxanne (Pia Kamakahi), who had to be convinced by Ray, goes on and performs a routine that can best be described as unenthusiastic. In her defence, she does end strong (she finishes by poring champagne over all her body).

 
What we have so far in terms of suspects are a dancer who uses fire on stage, a creepy patron in a stained hoodie who gives the dancers paper flowers ("nothing real is worth shit"), and the victim's disillusioned lesbian lover. Oh, don't get me wrong, there are others I've got my eye on (the lesbian has a brother who just oozes shadiness). It's just that these three are the one's who are scratching my itch the hardest so far.

Take Ray, for instance, he just scolded Dazzle for not taking her top during her routine (she felt the audience didn't deserve to see her tits), and maybe the "harsh penalties" I alluded to earlier involve a can of gas and a pack of matches. But why would he kill his own employees? No, it has to be someone else, someone with a grudge against strippers.

 
The next morning, Cody and Heinenman are discussing the case outside Randy's Donuts, a scene which, by the way, solidifies the film's commitment to capturing the gritty underbelly of Los Angles. Somehow convincing her that she needs to go undercover as a Rock Bottom stripper (they seem to think the killer is either an employee at the club or an audience member), Heinenman sets the stage for Cody's stripping debut. After a quick makeover down at police headquarters by Shirl (a scene stealing Diana Bellamy), Cody is ready to wow the perverts with every succulent inch of  her 5"1 frame.

 
As with the majority of contests that involve the dreaded applause-o-meter, Cody's transformation from Detective Sheenan, the city's most tomboyish street cop, to Sonny, the shapeliest exotic dancer to ever to slip into a pair of size six fuck me pumps, is fixed. Are you telling me that a woman who can't dance would beat Debra Lamb?!? Who's Debra Lamb? It doesn't matter who she is, what matters is that Rock Bottom's "Amateur Night" was rigged. True, the cops had the audience packed with ringers (a modest group of off duty policemen who were told to applaud loudly for Cody), but there's no way Cody/Sonny would have beat those five other women. The only reason she won was because she danced last. And, as most people know, the applause-o-meter always favours those who go last.

 
Of course, if we were to judge them solely on the length and girth of their nipples, than Cody/Sonny would destroyed the competition. To sort of quote Jimbo Jones from The Simpsons, "I hear Kay Lenz's nipples have their own congressman." Or to make it more Canada friendly, "I hear Kay Lenz's nipples have their own Member of Parliament." But it wasn't about nipple size, it was about dancing (the DJ calls her stripping technique, "minimalist dancing," in that she barely moved). That being said, I did like the way Cody/Sonny used the gigantic slit on her blue dress as ripping leverage after she struggled to get her dress off via conventional means (the zipper was stuck). And I bet it was her ability to improvise under pressure that landed her the top prize: three hundred dollars and the chance to become a full time Rock Bottom dancer.

 
Flaunting her legs sheathed in black stockings in front of strangers is one thing, catching a psycho-killer is quite another. As Cody/Sonny contemplates her new position (she tries to ingratiate herself to the other dancers), Cinnamon (Carlye Byron) is hitting the stage. You know how I said Dazzle was the sexiest dancer at Rock Bottom? Well, I think I was a little hasty in that regard, as Cinnamon (not to confused with "Cinnamon," Stacey Q's character from the Facts of Life), is, to use the crude food metaphor, a tasty dish. Not only did she wear opera gloves during her routine, and playfully gave her thong-ensnared muff box a pat, she danced while high on drugs (a wide array of pills to be mildly more specific). What can I say? I dig strippers who are addicted to pills.

 
Unfortunately, the club's owner doesn't share my affinity for pill-popping pasty pushers, and her fires her skanky ass; the fact that she fell into the audience was the last straw. A dancer who isn't in danger of falling over is a goddess with crimped hair named Fanny (Tracey Crowder), as her poll work was sublime. Yeah, but she seemed to take her job way too seriously, so I didn't gravitate towards her the same way I did Cinnamon.

Speaking of which, as Fanny is doing the splits with an alarming ease, Cinnamon is staggering pathetically (she's got a bum knee) from the Rock Bottom club (her right boot is untied and she can't seem to hail a taxi). Imagine being canned from a place called "Rock Bottom" while wearing blue sequin tube top? That would mess up my self-esteem like you wouldn't believe. Oh, man, now I'm depressed. Stay strong, Cinnamon. Things will work out for you in the end. You''ll see.

 
My favourite non-stripping scene is definitely the one that involves Kay Lenz (who's sitting next a cactus) asking Greg Evigan (who's nowhere near a cactus) about the price of fishnet stockings. Which went something like this: Cody: "Have you any idea what a pair of fishnet stockings cost?" Heinenman: "Fourteen bucks." Now, while that might not sound all that great on paper, it's the speed in which Evigan delivers the line that makes it such a memorable moment. It's soon after this cute little exchange that Cody/Sonny breaks the five foot rule (all dancers must stay at least five feet away from the audience while topless). Wearing lingerie (duh), Cody/Sonny, who is sitting on a chair with zebra print upholstery, and showing off her legs, which this time are encased in white stockings, she wanders topless over to a patron who is holding what looks like a ten dollar bill in his hand. You see, you're not supposed to do that, and Ray gives her a warning.    

 
Even though the five feet topless incident was an honest mistake, is Cody getting sucked into the stripper lifestyle. The awkward amateur from a week ago has been replaced with a woman who seems to relish the power that her protruding nipples provide her on a nightly basis. Will she be able focus on the task at hand (stopping a serial killer who is targeting strippers) or will she become hopelessly addicted to wearing lingerie in front of strangers. Call me insensitive, but I'm hoping the latter occurs.

 
If you're like me, and you dug the sight of Kay Lenz in white lingerie, be sure to stick around for her third dance number. It would seem the longer you dance at Rock Bottom, the more freedom you get when it comes to staging your routines. Playing a tired woman coming home from a long day at the office, Cody sits in front of a set of blinds and gets undressed like a normal person, well, sort of normal, as her movements still bear the markings of low rent erotic entertainment. If you're a fan of costume designer Beverly Kline (Heathers, Remote Control, and Modern Girls), and happen to think Ted Lin is the shit when it comes to choreography, then you'll love Kay Lenz's new wave businesswoman routine, as it encapsulates everything that is great about Stripped to Kill; what I wouldn't do to be able smell Kay's white garter belt corset after she had finished twirling in it for who knows how long.

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Party Monster (Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato, 2003)

Mixing fabulousness with murder is always a risky endeavor. Yet that's the challenge the mildly entertaining Party Monster has to contend with on a regular basis, as it celebrates hedonism while scolding it at the same time. A disco pulsating enterprise that technically should be my favourite movie all-time, the Fenton Baily-Randy Barbato directed muckle is too blemished for me to love unequivocally. No, my adoration comes with reservations. Which is rare, because when I take a liking to something, I usually go all out or not at all. However, the fact that the dead are people are real kinda put a damper on the self-indulgent thrill ride my inner tight trouser wearer was looking to freebase on. The biographical film, based on the book, Disco Bloodbath by James St. James (the self-described "original club kid"), tells the story of a group of extroverted club goers who became moderately famous for their extravagant clothing and drug-fueled antics in Manhattan during the late '80s-early '90s, and of how their self-appointed leader, the loathsome Michael Alig (Macaulay Culkin), ended up killing a drug dealer/hanger on named Angel Melendez (Wilson Cruz). Anointing himself the new Andy Warhola after the famed Ruthenian dies, the brattish Alig quickly moves up the city's social food chain by utilizing the advice given to him by the more even-tempered James St. James (Seth Green) and sucking up to the Canadian born owner of the Limelight, a New York City nightclub renowned for its cutting edge music and drug scene.

Incompetent in terms of basic storytelling and severely lacking when it came to maintaining a cohesive structure, the film relies solely on its music and costumes in order to propel it towards the finish line. Actually, it also depended on these fluky little scenes that somehow managed to perk up the proceedings. The doughnut shop encounter where club kid extraordinaire James St. James begrudgingly teaches neophyte wannabe Michael Alig how to be fabulous, for example, was a delightful nugget of a scene that sort of just creeps up on you and reminds us that great things can be learned at doughnut shops.

A delightfully mishmash of old school new wave sounds and new school house and electro grooves, the Party Monster soundtrack is one of the most exhilarating I've heard spring forth from the sound system of a modern movie. Every track is used perfectly. Whether it be "Go" by Tones on Tail or Waldorf's "You're My Disco," the thumping nature of the songs heard throughout the film numbed much of the horribleness that was washing over my eyeballs. Besides, I can't stay mad at a film that depicts the music of Stacey Q as some sort of sonic solution that can miraculously resolve the world's problems simply through the act of listening to it.

Giving one of the most annoying performances in the history of cinema, Macaulay Culkin takes a character that is already obnoxious to begin with it, and somehow manages to increase his obnoxiousness to an almost astronomical level. The third quarter addition of a leggy Chloë Sevigny to his side did alleviate a small portion of my vexation towards him. But by then it was too late, the damage had already been done.

Luckily, Seth Green is on board to show everyone how to act flamboyant without irritating the audience. Playful when it came to dolling out quips ("I'm not addicted to drugs, I'm addicted to glamour."), and a real trooper in the outrageous costume department (I adored his bloody bride ensemble), the smallish actor strikes a fabulous pose as the fabulous James St. James, the reluctant sidekick in Michael Alig's sick and twisted buddy movie. His DJ advice to a wooden Wilmer Valderrama, the drinking pee face made to the strains of Stephen Duffy, zany haircuts, Stacey Q dancing, and overall impishness was joy to immerse oneself in. It's a shame the film couldn't have been solely about Seth's James, and featured more Mia Kirshner, and hell, found away to add the saucy Lisa Edelstein (a real life club kid back in the day) to the wacky blend. Now that would have been a great film.

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Repo Man (Alex Cox, 1984)

Canoodling my subconscious like a gentle virus, Repo Man is a film that has lived with me for almost twenty years. From the days when I would tape snippets of dialogue from off the television and splice them with homemade industrial music to the time I used to be driven around the seedier parts of town in a large automobile made out of metal, this film has been a trusty companion. My thoughts on everything from friendship to employment, to youth culture and faith was shaped by the nonsensicality that transpires in this amorphous teaching tool masquerading as a ninety-minute movie produced by the wool-hatted member of The Monkees. I have even used the film to help boost my self-esteem whenever I've found myself cornered by those who have the gall to think they're hipper than me. Now, I know what you're thinking, and no, I don't use the fact I've seen the film well over thirty times to stymie their shifty, hipness-challenging advances. Nope. I tell them I own the soundtrack. However, this bit of information alone doesn't do the trick. Uh-uh. It's actually when tell them I own the soundtrack on vinyl that their hipster asses begin to crumple under the weight of my overwhelming coolness. The rush of smugness that courses through my retired porn star body as I over enunciate the word "vinyl" is downright exquisite. Educational and life affirming purposes aside, the wonderfully subversive film by Alex Cox still manages, after all these years, to exude the nourishment my undeveloped nerve endings crave so dearly just through the simple act of watching it. The fact that I have it memorized doesn't take anything away from the sheer nihilistic delight the film bestows upon me each time I look at it.

A surreal tonic for the disaffected soul, Repo Man is one of the few films that can unify the members even the most adversarial of subcultures. Well, except Mods, they never seemed to "get it" (even though there are actual Mods in it). But for everyone else, it's like watching deranged poetry.

A punk rock-fueled opus that appeals to new wavers, rude boys, industrial freaks, astrochemists, car thieves, Stacey Q fans, and linguistics majors, the film teaches us that life can be intense sometimes and that excessive driving can cause brain damage.

Lacking the proper parental guidance necessary to survive in the city of Los Angeles circa 1984, the film follows the misadventures of Otto (Emilio Estevez), an aimless juvenile delinquent who finds the structure he needs under the guise of Bud (Harry Dean Stanton), a street smart fella who repossess cars from people who have fallen behind in their payments. Learning the ropes from Bud, and to a lesser extent, Lite (Sy Richardson), Otto finds the repo business to be tough yet lucrative (it sure beats stacking cans of beans). Things are complicated slightly for Otto when he meets Leila (Olivia Barash), a UFO enthusiast and a young lady who just happens to possess a severe form of cuteness. Anyway, she's looking for a Chevy Malibu with space aliens in the trunk, and asks the rooky repo man to help.

Called me jaded, but that sounds like an easy enough task. Only problem is a secret arm of the U.S. government (lead by a metal-handed, leg-tastic Susan Barnes), the Rodriguez Brothers (Del Zamora and Eddie Velez), Otto's repo co-workers, and Debbi (Jennifer Balgobin), Duke (Dick Rude) and Archie (Miguel Sandoval), a trio of crime-obsessed punks, are also looking for the much sought after Malibu. Which is being driven by J. Frank Parnell (Fox Harris), an unstable individual whose mind might already be starting to erode.

Despite many attempts to sully his status as a cult movie hero with multiple acts of out-and-out lameness since its release, Emilio Estevez manages retain an air of blank dignity as Otto (his wide-eyed defiance and hatred of authority still reverberate). However, this air is no doubt retained due to the fact he gets to rub shoulders with the legendary Harry Dean Stanton, whose Bud has the temperament of a sage. Extolling handy wisdom at the drop of a drink (none of the products in this film have names that go beyond what they actually are), Stanton is quietly brilliant as the gruff and weary car taker backer.

Speaking of quietly brilliant, my two favourite performances are just that, quietly brilliant. The dishevelled Fox Harris (Dr. Caligari) and the equally dishevelled Tracey Walter are tremendous at displaying calmness in this topsy-turvy world. As well reciting the films most memorable monologues: Mr. Harris' being the one about the wonders of the neutron bomb and his overall mental, while Tracy's focused on the origins of humanity.

Comedically, I'd say Dick Rude's Duke and Zander Schloss as Kevin (Otto's pre-repo friend and co-worker) are the funniest characters in Repo Man. Spewing some of the films most quotable lines ("Let's get sushi and not pay" and "There's room to move as a fry cook."), Dick and Zander prove themselves to be adept comics whenever they appear on-screen.

On a non-comedic level, nothing quite beats the image of mohawked Jennifer Balgobin (Dr. Caligari) pointing a gun while in a silver raincoat. The super-adorable Olivia Barash brings a playful femininity to her plucky fruitcake role. Vonetta McGee shines whilst kneeing one g-man in the crotch and chairing another in the face. ("Shut up, Plettschner.") And I was surprised to find myself drawn to the steely presence of Susan Barnes this time around, and just like Miss Balgobin, the sight of a leggy Susan pointing a gun was just as alluring. (On the film's DVD commentary track, Sy Richardson sanely points out Susan's great legs as well.)

Gliding though the cockeyed proceedings like a drunken research scientist is the dreamlike music score by The Plugz. Sure, the film features songs by the likes of Black Flag, Circle Jerks and Iggy Pop, but it's The Plugz that make the film literally soar into the stratosphere. Their surf tinged guitars and electronic knob twiddling create a terrific aura, especially during "Reel Ten."

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