Day of the Warrior (Andy Sidaris, 1996)

Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in. Except, "they" aren't The Mob (or the D-Mob, for you all acid heads out there) or The Church of Satan (or The Church of Extacy, for all you acid heads out there who didn't hear me the first time). Nope, in an act of pure desperation, I'm back suckling at the on the wonky nipple attached to the fake, disproportionately large tit that is your average Andy Sidaris film; and believe me, it's average, all right. How this came about, I'm not exactly sure. But I know one thing–and I can't believe I'm about to say this–I sure do miss Dona Speir (Click: The Calendar Girl Killer) and Roberta Vasquez (Picasso Trigger). The first film directed by Andy Sidaris to not star Dona Speir... Wait, let me rephrase that. The first film directed by Andy Sidaris since Hard Ticket to Hawaii to not star Dona Speir, Day of the Warrior features a brand new bevy of untalented actresses with suspect boobies for us to ogle and gawk at. Oh, sure, actual talented people like, Julie Strain (Fit to Kill), Rodrigo Obregón (Savage Beach), Gerald Okamura (Samurai Cop) and Richard Cansino (Guns) are back to make go of it. But everyone else is seriously lacking when it comes displaying the basic properties that make up charisma. Actually, that's not entirely true, there are some bright spots sprinkled here and there. And just because I like you, I'll try to isolate the few of the film's bright spots.

For the most part, however, the so-called "babes" who have been saddled with the task of providing this film with the prerequisite eye candy fail to achieve their primary goal.

And what, pray tell, you might be thinking, is that goal? It's simple, really, their goal is to give men erections. Anyone who tries to convince you otherwise is kidding themselves. Sadly, there won't be many erections unfurled during this film. Unless, of course, you're into skinny women with fake tits. If that's the case, you'll be unfurling untoward unicorn horns in your frontal trouser area until the cows come home.

Speaking of cows, check out the cow-print briefcase Cobra (Julie K. Smith) is carrying through chichi Beverly Hills, it's so tacky/awesome (and a nice subtle shout out  to Malibu Express - the protagonist in that film also carried a cow-print briefcase). What isn't tacky in the slightest, however, are the awesome black stockings currently holding her not-so shapely legs hostage. I didn't think it was possible, but the black stockings attached to Julie K. Smith's gams are having zero effect on the outward appearance of said gams. Meaning, her gams are not receiving a dramatic upturn in their sex appeal.

Don't look so stunned, I'm as shocked as you are. Like the true professional that he is, Andy Sidaris tries his best to film her black stocking-sheathed legs from every possible angle. But even that can't change the fact that Julie K. Smith looks like she's walking on a pair of shapeless stilts, all the while, trying to smuggle two comically large balloons underneath her pink jacket.

While I could sit here and trash Julie K. Smith's lack of legginess, I would really like to... You know what? Let's stick with this subject. Not to be cruel, but since Julie K. Smith stripping in a Beverly Hills strip club is the first thing we see in this film, we might as well start there.

Question: Is this supposed to be erotic? I mean, the sight of Julie K. Smith hurling her body across the strip club stage is doing nothing for me. Where's Sally Farb when you need her. (Sally who?) You know, Sally Farb, from The Curse of Her Flesh. Now there's a woman who knows a thing or about the art of burlesque. What Julie K. Smith is doing is basically a variation of that angry twitchy gyration thing Elizabeth Berkley does in Showgirls. In other words, it's not hot.

Welcome to the headquarters of L.E.T.H.A.L. (Legion to Ensure Total Harmony and Law). Sitting at her computer, Tiger (Shae Marks) is surprised to find out that the L.E.T.H.A.L. computer system has been violated by a criminal mastermind named "Warrior" (Marcus Bagwell). Realizing that the identities of all the L.E.T.H.A.L. agents currently in the field could be compromised, Tiger brings the news to Commander Willow Black (Julie Strain), who is exercising in her office in a skimpy leopard-print leotard.

Unable to warn the agents without blowing their cover, Willow sends Tiger into the field to get the word out. Assigned to work with a pilot named Tyler (Christian Letelier), Tiger is eager to go on an assignment, as it's been two years since... Holy crap! How does she walk around with those things? (What things?) What things?!? Those huge things sticking out of her chest. (Oh, you mean her tits.) No, no, no, those aren't tits. Those things are beyond tits.

Anyway, after recovering from the sight of Tiger's ginormous boobies (they're, like, totally out of proportion with the rest of her body), I was able to properly gauge the quality of Christian Letelier's acting. And, after thoroughly checking my instruments, I can safely say that he is in fact terrible.

In charge of bringing Doc Austin (Kevin Light)–who is working for a couple of the Warrior's underlings, Manuel (Rodrigo Obregón) and Kym (Raye Hollitt)–"in from the cold" (it's spy lingo), Tiger and Tyler head down to Southern Texas.

It would seem that the Warrior has some competition in the being buff in public department. No, not Kevin Light, silly. I'm talking about Raye Hollitt, who's built like a linebacker. Which is ironic since Kevin Light reminded me a little of linebacker Brian Bosworth circa his days with the Seattle Seahawks; and I do mean "days," as his NFL career lasted barely two seasons. Nonetheless, add Raye Hollitt's name to the vast list of women in this movie that I find unappealing.

In order to "take care" of L.E.T.H.A.L. agents Shark (Darren Wise) and Scorpion (Tammy Parks), the Warrior sends two stockbrokers/hitmen–who are currently posing as surfers in Malibu–to Las Vegas. Fans of Andy Sidaris, and the people who watch his films simply because there's nothing else on, will recognize one of the stockbroker-hitmen, as he is played by Sidaris regular Richard Cansino. Unfortunately, he's not paired with his long time partner Chu Chu Malave; who's been replaced by Cassidy Phillips. Sure, they're still bumbling and incompetent as ever, but it's just not the same.

The good news is, the stockbroker/hitmen go on a date with two sexy stock analysts before heading to Las Vegas. Granted, we don't actually see them go on a date, but we do get to see the leggy as all get out Christiva Turner and the silky smooth contours belonging to Carolyn Liu lounging by the pool.

And thus, breaking the film's streak of there of only being unattractive women onscreen up until this point.

Wait, what am I saying? Julie Strain has been onscreen several times already, and she's exceedingly attractive. And not someone you want to make angry, as she will straight up knock your dick in the dirt.

I'm sorry, but Julie K. Smith and Shae Marks aren't doing it for me. Yet, judging by the way Andy Sidaris' camera film's them, you'd think they were the most beautiful women on the face of the earth. His mind has obviously been conditioned to equate attractiveness with big tits. Which is fine, if that's your thing. But somewhere down the road he forget to equate a little thing called "personality." Something that Julie K. Smith and Shae Marks clearly don't have.

After watching her get dressed, we follow Julie K. Smith's Cobra, complete with her own theme music ("She's a cobra!"), as she heads to a shop on Rodeo Dr. to pick up some stolen diamonds from a guy who looks like the stuntman they would have hired if Skeet Ulrich had landed the lead role in The Ninth Gate. Again, not to sound cruel, but her clothes make her look like a 75 year-old woman. Not that there's anything wrong with being 75, it's just that Julie K. Smith clearly isn't 75.

While confidence is a quality I usually admire in a person, the confidence the characters exude in these films is especially off-putting. Just once I'd see a character in an Andy Sidaris/Arlene Sidaris/Christian Drew Sidaris production experience a moment of self-doubt. You could say the Sidaris' are mocking, in their own unique way, the tenets of American exceptional-ism. But even I'll admit, that's a bit of a stretch.

Coming close to experiencing a moment of self-doubt is Gerald Okamura's Fu, who headlines the Cloud 9 Lounge in Las Vegas under the name "Elvis Fu." Yet, despite the lackluster attendance of his show, Fu still seems to think he's doing great. Nonetheless, the teaming up of Julie Strain and Gerald Okamura is the best thing this film has to offer in terms of entertainment value.

As each L.E.T.H.A.L. agent gets their cover blown, the L.E.T.H.A.L. ladies must work extra hard to prevent their colleagues from being assassinated by the Warrior, who, despite having a cool look, is a pretty lame villain (he spends the bulk of the film inside a wrestling ring, while Rodrigo Obregón and the musclebound Raye Hollitt end up doing the lion's share of the legwork, villainy-wise).

If you're interested in micro mini-dresses, fake tits, old cellphones, piss poor shoot-outs (the one involving a bulldozer was sort of well-done, though), zebra-print stockings worn underneath PVC trousers...

Hold up, what the hell was that? I mean, we see Julie K. Smith in her room putting on zebra-print stockings, but seconds later she can be seen leaving in a pair of PVC trousers. Are we expected to believe that Julie is wearing zebra-print stockings underneath her PVC trousers? Um, I don't think so.

Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah... If you're interested in the stuff I just mentioned, and, not to mention, red leather skirts with zippers located in the front, films that feature plenty of third act acts of treachery, female finger pointing at board meetings, Ted Prior from Deadly Prey, and instances where muscular chicks shoot owls with shotguns, I don't know what to say. But if you're like me, and have seen way too many Andy Sidaris films than you'd care to admit, you might as well watch this one. Seriously, one more ain't going to kill you.

Deadly Prey (David A. Prior, 1987)

Whenever I see a musclebound man running around the jungle in jean shorts, my mind immediately starts to imagine what kind of tomfoolery his slumbering cock must be getting up to in there. Tucked away in an impregnable denim prison, what is it doing, what is it thinking? I know, I know, what in the name of lint-flavoured kielbasa am I blathering about? I mean, tomfoolery? Tucked away? Denim prison? Cock? Rest assured, I am not deranged. What I'm trying to do is make an elaborate point. Besides, can't a man think about another man's compressed junk for five, maybe ten seconds, without being peppered with prying questions and accusatory glances? Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, even though they're probably as sweaty and damp as a trailer park dishrag in the middle of monsoon season, the ripped protagonist in Deadly Prey, a movie where the sight of one man beating another man to death with his own severed arm is commonplace, at least has the piece of mind to know that his securely packed genitals won't be popping out while he's knifing yet another clueless mercenary in the chest. If you're about to ask yourself: "Why do you always seem to focus on the inner workings of the crotches of others"? Let me cut you off by saying: I dare anyone to watch this film and not constantly think about the stuffed adventures of his heterosexual dick.

He basically wears cutoff jean shorts for the entire movie! You tell me, what am I supposed to think about? And don't say his taint, as I lost my taste for taint years ago. You should have seen me back in my shemale hustling days, I was a scrotal-licking maniac with high self-esteem.

Mock his lack of clothing, if you must, but Michael "Mike" Danton (Ted Prior) knows a thing or two about stabbing mercenaries. The reason they're being stabbed has nothing to do with his dislike for men who wear green, it's because they want to kill him. When Col. John Hogan (David Campbell) told his subordinates to abduct another sap off the street–you know, so his gang of ragtag mercenaries could practice hunting human prey in a jungle-like setting just south-east of Los Angeles–the last person he expected them to grab was a highly trained killing machine, especially one that he had a hand in training.

Nabbed while putting out the trash, Mike Danton is brought to their super-secret training facility and told to run. Armed only with his wits and a skimpy pair of jean shorts, the scantily clad ex-soldier takes on the bloodthirsty, yet totally incompetent mercenaries with a truckload of gusto and back pocket full of pizzaz. Showing no mercy for the mercenaries, he uses stealth, and a recently acquired knife, to bump them off one by one.

As you would expect, this stabbing spree angers Col. Hogan, who, up until now, has been sitting at his pathetic desk (which is adorned with the world's saddest collection of hand grenades) underneath a ratty-looking tent blissfully unaware of the goings on out in jungle. The reason he's unaware is because Lt. Thornton (Fritz Matthews), Hogan's loyal number two, is the one responsible for conducting the hunts, not the colonel. While out inspecting the carnage for himself, Hogan realizes that the slaughter bares many of the trademarks of his old student. In other words, the colonel and his men (the ones who are unlucky enough to still be alive) are in a whole lot of trouble.

Meanwhile, back at home, Mike's wife, Jaimy (Suzanne Tara), who has since replaced her silky black negligee with a practical white tank top, is starting grow concerned about her husband's well-being. After all, the last time she saw him, he was being hit over the head by some Roddy Piper-looking motherfucker and getting dragged into a windowless van. Instead of calling the police, Jaimy decides to seek help from her father (Cameron Mitchell), a retired cop with over thirty years of crime-fighting experience. After a brief discussion about the colour green (she tells him, while clutching a brown throw pillow, the van Mike's kidnappers drove was a "funny kind of green"), Jaimy's daddy swings into action.

Just for the record: I love it when adult woman call their fathers "daddy." It's even hotter when they say it while they're tilting their heads slightly to side. (The blame for this abnormality rests squarely on the supple shoulders of Michelle Johnson from Blame It on Rio.)

Making the transition from leotards to camouflage with a buttery smoothness, writer-director David A. Prior puts aside the neon thongs of his previous film, Killer Workout (a.k.a. Aerobicide), and embraces the decidedly macho realm of outdoor violence with a rambunctious vigor. However, the inclusion of Dawn Abraham as Sybil, the lone female mercenary in the film, is proof that the director was not quite ready to leave the clingy world of spandex behind completely. Actually, it makes sense on a number of different levels to include a female mercenary, as the film's testosterone allotment was starting to make my brain hurt. Just having her stand there in the background, drinking New York Seltzer, wearing these ridiculously short camouflage short-shorts and scowling like Jane Badler on a bad hair day, was enough alleviate the macho pain I was suffering.

Call me a complete imbecile, if you must, but I thought Dawn Abraham's shorts were a little too short. Insane, I know. But it looked like she was wearing a baggy camouflage diaper. And, as most erection experts will tell you, the words "baggy" and "diaper" are titillation dead ends.

Speaking of short length, Suzanne Tara, who was cute as a fucking button, brought some much needed colour to the proceedings when she shows up midway through the film wearing a pair of pink shorts. You'll notice I didn't say, "short-shorts," well, that's because they were just shorts. At any rate, if I had a time machine, I would go back and alter her shorts so that they came down to a level I could live with. How much would I remove? Excellent question. Let's just say enough to appease the short length overlords that live inside my normal subconscious. However, since time machines don't exist yet, I've learned to begrudgingly accept the fact that I can't control the way fabric is strewn about the bodies of my fellow human beings.

Tired of the colour green, and sick of watching men kill each other–or in the case of Deadly Prey, watching one man with a blonde, finely-tuned mullet kill extras with impunity–Suzanne's no-nonsense pink shorts, despite the length issues I had, brought me a fair amount of joy. You could call it short-short fatigue, or cutoffs overload. Well, whatever you want to call it, I felt like Ted Prior's jean shorts and I had hit impasse in our relationship. What we needed was to take a break and see other shorts, and that's where Suzanne came in. The second my eyes slipped on her undemanding shorts, I knew they would fit. The way they stood out amongst all that drab greenery was like tripping over a jewel-encrusted tiara in the ladies room of a high end topless disco.

A bushy-haired William Zipp plays Jack Cooper, a mercenary with conflicting loyalties (he's an old buddy of Mike Danton), has an interesting way of making a name for himself in the Deadly Prey universe. My calling card used to be that I would rarely appear in public without a My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult t-shirt on my back, his signature is to leave live hand grenades underneath the heads of unconscious men. Weird.

Cleaning earthworms with his own spit, resetting a dislocated shoulder with an easy-going nonchalance, and setting boobytraps like an acne-scarred boy scout with nothing to lose, Ted Prior's performance as Mike Danton is the stuff of manly legend. His infamous cutoffs may get all the acclaim, but it's his steely brawn and headstrong determination that make Deadly Prey the action-packed classic that it is.

Impervious to shrapnel, yet prone to being snuck up on, Mike Danton kills because he has to, not because he wants to. It seems that most action heroes do not adhere to that simple credo. Sure, there are times where Mike appears to ignore the basic premise of the aforementioned credo as well (he must kill at least fifty people in this movie). But, then again, how would you feel if you were snatched away from your home (your shapely wife lying spread eagle on your jiggly waterbed patiently waiting to receive the pounding rhythm of your purposeful thrusts) and forced to stab strangers in a homoerotic setting? Not too happy. No, his rage is pure, much like the overall make-up of this totally badass movie.

...

Killer Workout (David A. Prior, 1987)

Maintaining the physical fitness of your organic structure in a pubic ashtray became such a high priority during the mid-1980s, that even the introduction of a faceless psychopath wielding an exceedingly large safety pin failed to put a damper on their desire to do aerobics in a brightly coloured clothing. The public's enthusiasm for grinding their tightly garbed crotches in unison to the sound of techno rock was at its height, and Killer Workout (a.k.a. Aerobicide) perfectly captures that exuberance with the steely resolve of a legwarmer smeared with enough tough actin' tenacity to fuel the economy of a small European nation for an entire year. Another in a short line of slashers that revolve around exercise, this one, written and directed by David A. Prior (Deadly Prey), wastes little time inundating the viewer's visual spectrum with multiple shots of clingy bits of fabric pressing firmly against the taut, semi-youthful flesh of the agile women (and one token man with a beard) bouncing up a storm at Rhonda's Workout. Quickly establishing a sense of time and place, the film introduces us to this dewy, groin-soaked world with the help of the brilliant "Only You Tonight" by Donna De Lory blasting on the soundtrack, and the director's intrusive camera, which gets as close as humanly possible to bodies of the spa's ridiculously fit members. In fact, his camera gets so familiar with some of the participants, you'd have to be a fool not to envy the spandex suffocating their tender places with their uncompromising commitment to tightness.

A wedged gift to everyone who thought Heavenly Bodies was a tad lacking in the men and women being mutilated with a pointy object department, Killer Workout is here to rectify those concerns by providing a harmonious balance between sexy leotards and pin-based murder.

The film opens with a scene depicting a woman named Valerie, sporting the latest new wave fashions, checking her phone messages and reacting happily to news concerning a much sought after modeling gig in Paris, France. Instructed to make sure that she arrives sporting a tan (speaking on behalf of pale people, I was offended by the caller's tan-centric ultimatum), Valerie immediately heads over to the tanning salon for a quick session under the bright lights. After a few moments, the tanning bed begins to go screwy and bursts into flames.

It's an odd opening scene, as we don't see Valerie's face, nor do we have any idea if she is all right (the flames were pretty intense). But I'm sure it will all be explained somewhere down the road. Until then, we're ushered to the main floor of Rhonda's Workout, a well-attended spa/exercise studio run by Rhonda Johnson (Marcia Karr), a grumpy gal who seems to have the weight of aerobic world resting precariously upon her sweatshirt-covered shoulders.

In the middle of conducting an aerobics class, the look on Rhonda's face is one of sheer irritation. The leering eyes of a personal trainer named Jimmy (Fritz Matthews) were definitely bothering her. But it was obvious it was something else. Spilling the contents of her condom-filled purse all over the parking lot as she got out of her black Porsche, the main pain in Rhonda's well-proportioned ass arrives in the form of Jaimy (Teresa Van der Woude), a tardy aerobics instructor who loves fingerless armwarmers, inhaling jockstraps and the secure grip that only a spandex thong can provide.

Annoyed by her employee's lateness, Rhonda scolds Jaimy, but it turns out she has a bigger problem on her hands when one of her regulars is murdered with a safety pin while showering (who, if you ask me, was using way too much soap). The pinprick covered corpse is taken away in a white body bag and a surly detective (David James Campbell) shows up to ask Rhonda and Jaimy a bunch of questions. The reason the detective is so surly has nothing to do with the convoluted nature of this particular case, it's because he's terrible at his job. (Free tip: Never take your eyes off a disgruntled woman with access to a shovel, especially if they're dressed like a copper lamé harlequin disco clown.)

While the white body bag makes several more appearances over the next few days (one of the morgue workers/paramedics snarkily tells the detective that he will see him tomorrow), Rhonda's Workout inexplicably remains open for business. As expected, a shy, leggy, (unfairly) outcast aerobics enthusiast named Diane (Laurel Mock) is followed home and pinned to death in her living room, and two, no make that, three, burly fellas are pricked in the weight room. Actually, the first victim is bludgeoned with a barbell, while the other two get the pin treatment (one of them takes a safety pin right to the forehead).

An outside agitator is thrown into the mix in the form of Chuck (Ted Prior), a mysterious blonde man who has just started working at the club, much to the chagrin of its easily exasperated owner. While Chuck ends up getting in multiple scraps with Jimmy (one involving a rake), confusing the hapless detective, and, of course, annoying the hell out of Rhonda, he does make some leeway with a full-bosomed gym patron in a pink leotard named Debbie (Dianne Copeland). Impressed by his fist fighting prowess against Jimmy, Debbie, her cock-obsessed brain seething with a visor-fueled brand of intensity, invites Chuck over to her place to drink Diet Pepsi and sit on yellow and white lawn furniture.

Obviously not content with the amount of people who have been violently poked so far with a safety pin, three teenagers (one with a large clump of crimped hair sitting atop her head) fall victim to the pin killer after they foolishly decide that it would be totally rad to graffiti Rhonda's Workout with the words "Death Spa" and "Aerobicide" (a clever play on the words "aerobic," to enhance respiratory and circulatory efficiency, and "homicide," to kill a human being). Anyway, this outdoor stalking sequence pads out the film's running time a bit, and it added some variety to the shots of women exercising to electro-pop. My favourite being: "Rock n' Rock" by Sunny Hilden.

You'll notice that I didn't say, "some 'much needed' variety." Well, that's because I will never tire of watching women exercise in tight clothing to synthesizer-based pop music. As my kindergarten teacher once mumbled under her breath after catching me steal a female classmate's lime green scrunchie, "the hetreosexuality is strong in this one." (Years later I would steal a scrunchie from the singer of The Young Gods during a show of theirs at the El Mocambo.)

Combining the oblique sensuality of Gina Genshon circa Showgirls with the rugged no-nonsense posturing of Nancy McKeon from the Facts of Life, Marcia Karr (Savage Streets) is a demented whirlwind as the vivacious Rhonda, a ballsy woman who takes her thrusting and heaving seriously. I love women who look as if they're always annoyed by something, and Marcia encapsulates this non-existent fetish wonderfully, as the quality of her vexation, especially in her scenes with, well, just about everyone, was truly sublime.

In terms humping the air in a leotard, Teresa Van der Woude is hands down the crown prince of humping the air in a leotard. If the muggy atmosphere inside Rhonda's Workout had an erect penis, it would no doubt be covered with splotchy bruises after working out with Teresa's Jaimy, the only character in the film, by the way, to display any empathy towards her dead peers (she can also sense the pain of the living). Dominating the aerobics sequences like an unbalanced, workout-obsessed fiend, Miss Van der Woude manages to maintain her dignity, while at the same time, flaunt her gingerly assets with reckless abandon.

Adorned with red pumps and black legwarmers (perfectly in tune with the chromatic palette of the film's opening credits), the hubbub that was taking place around the vicinity of Jaimy's feet and ankles was far more interesting than the content of some whole films. Of course, I don't want say which films in particular, as I'm sure no-one wants to hear that their film is less interesting than Teresa Van der Woude's foot and legwear in Killer Workout (I'm looking in your general direction How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days). But let's just say the overall spiritual temperament of Teresa's corporeal performance (which also includes her coin slot mouth, unpretentious cleavage and freshly blowdried hair) was one of the best examples I've seen of a modern day actress utilizing the entirety of her slender frame.

It's too bad Teresa's sister Vikki Lynn Van der Woude couldn't have been featured more (she plays a background actor). But then again, you don't want your film to suffer from Van der Woude Overkill. (10 out of 10 dentists have never heard of Van der Woude Overkill.)

Now I know what some of you are thinking, "Hey, man, this flick sounds an awful lot like Murder Rock." And you're right. An unknown killer bumping off sweaty people with a safety pin does sound an awful lot like Lucio Fulci's aerobics-based slasher film. However, Killer Workout has a couple of aces up its sleeve in the form of stylist Stacy McFarland and composer Todd Hayen. You see, while Murder Rock features bland-looking leotards (lots of browns and grays) and an incredibly cheesy music score by Keith Emerson, this film is a virtual cornucopia of colourful leotards (every shade is dutifully represented) and the synthesizer score is a tuneful, Chuck Cirino-esque treat. Using differently able words, it's the complete opposite that film, and one hundreds times more awesome.

If someone were to tell me that I was able to travel back in time to any specific moment in history, I would definitely want to go back to 1986 or early 1987. Why 1986 or early 1987, you ask? Duh, to tag along with Stacy McFarland as she went shopping for all the leotards that are seen in this movie, of course. Not to get greedy, but I would also like to be present when all the actresses (especially Teresa Van der Woude) and the extras (and not just the one's related to Miss Van der Woude) got fitted for said leotards. Oh, and I would make sure that all the shirts that bare the name "Rhonda's Workout" came with apostrophe s's, as, sadly, some of them did not.

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