Shock Treatment (Jim Sharman, 1981)

A veiled attack on square values, mindless consumerism, the fleeting nature of fame, and totalitarianism in general, Shock Treatment may seem like a silly, inconsequential musical on the surface, but underneath the sticky glaze beats a thoughtful heart, one that oozes a lurking satirical pungency which caught me completely off guard. Catchy songs with rhyming lyrics, disco-flavoured grooves and an overall glam rock temperament float through the air like a capricious deluge of projectile vomit in this film about a secret sibling rivalry, television as a force for communal pacification, mental hygiene, and the over-medication of the masses (pills are painless). While that might sound like a lot of stuff for one thing to be about, I've actually only just begun to claw at the soft underbelly in terms of listing and arranging words that convey what this endeavour entails in the grand scheme of things. You see, the amount of subtle genius going on in this misunderstood masterpiece is insurmountable, and any attempt to unlock its many layers would be foolhardy. If your brain is unaccustomed to the discombobulating macrocosm that is nuance, then I recommend you train your simplistic gaze in the direction of Nell Campbell's exquisite gams. Unclothed and in a perennial state of brassy exhibition, these limber appendages will occupy the muscles in your cerebral cortex in a way that will provide the necessary sustenance to properly satisfy not only your most primitive needs, but also quell the depraved beast that lives inside of all of us.

 
Of course, I was able to enjoy the film's many subtle nuances and the blatant leg show simultaneously. Partly because I'm excellent at multitasking (I'm crocheting a cozy for my boyfriend's cock as I type this), but mostly because I seem to stubbornly like everything that others deem crap. This contrarian position never fails to give my hapless aura a warm coating of smugness that beats any kind of high or conventionally obtained orgasm.

 
Now, does Richard O'Brien's brain-sick musical furnish this coating? Yes and no. Yeah, sure, it doesn't have the same oomph that other film he wrote and starred in had. But then again, that film's success seems based solely on hype and trans* inquisitiveness. This particular enterprise, however, earns its bacon through sheer diligence.

 

 
On top that, the glorious art direction literally seeps gaudiness, as every frame is saturated in a garish shellac that invigorates the eyes and threatens the bowels. The costumes, especially the ones worn by the female characters, induce seizures through their overt chromatic splendour. (The shade of green used for the nurse get-ups was quite pleasing.) And the plot involving a Lawrence Welk-style television station called Denton, where celebrities are made overnight, was eerily similar to today's instant stardom/reality television universe.

 
Proving that exposed nipples, genitals and their crack-based cousins aren't necessarily needed when creating a work of erotica, Shock Treatment seemed determined to set some sort of leg fetish record, as it wonderfully utilizes the popular accoutrements that are used mainly for walking upright and kicking inflated balls. Seriously, the absurd amount of exposed stem in this film was mind-boggling. It comes as no surprise that the primary culprit of this leggy surplus is Nell Campbell. Playing Nurse Ansalong, a prompt care giver working for Dr. Cosmo and Nation McKinley (Richard O'Brien and Patricia Quinn), the squeaky voiced actress/singer/overall fabulous person is pure, unadulterated sexiness from beginning to end.

 
The way she would confidently stomp through the padded hallways of Dentonvale, bursting open its many doors with an indifferent aplomb, was a thing of heart palpitating beauty. Never have I seen a performer so keenly aware of their own prowess as a leg-wielding banshee than I did in the form of Nell's hem-challenged nurse.

 
Cementing her place as one of the coolest actresses in the history of recorded time, Jessica Harper is cuteness personified as Janet Majors, the bland housewife turned vixenish diva, who allows Brad (Cliff De Young), her equally bland husband, to be committed by the omnipotent Farley Flavors (Cliff De Young) after appearing on a cheesy game show hosted by the visually impaired Bert Schnick (Barry Humphries a.k.a. Dame Edna). Sporting a pink cheongsam like it were a deadly weapon, the wide-eyed Miss Harper shines bright during all her musical numbers.

 
In fact, her two solo songs, "In My Own Way" and "Me of Me," were, I thought, the best the film had to offer music-wise. And not one to let Nell Campbell have all the sexy fun, Jessica amps up the titillation factor through a series of thigh revealing outfits that will ruin countless trouser creases.

 
The aforementioned cheongsam was a flat out gorgeous piece of clothing, and the shiny ensemble that Richard O'Brien puts together during the aptly named "Little Black Dress" was totally bewitching.

 
Speaking of being totally bewitching, her name may be Claire "Toeman," but I think she should change it to "Legman." If you look carefully, you'll notice that Claire Toeman is putting on a bit of a Nell Campbell-esque leg clinic of her own as Brenda Drill, one of the DTV dancers. Usually dressed as a cheerleader and almost always standing next to the equally leggy Sinitta Renay, Miss Toeman's shapely, mouth-watering stems are gorgeous beyond belief.    

 
The multi-talented Jessica is quietly becoming one of my favourite thespians thanks to her consistently interesting work in offbeat fare like The Phantom of the Paradise, Suspiria, and now Shock Treatment. Which, despite having failed to attain iconic status of its more popular sister, is a worthy addition to my long list of unfairly maligned films.

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The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (Tobe Hooper, 1986)

An inoperative chainsaw as a metaphor for erectile dysfunction is just one of the many subtle intricacies that populate the astounding The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, Tobe Hooper's logically titled, demented follow-up to the highly influential 1974 horror flick about a crazed family of maverick meat packers. The roads of Texas may be unclogged of inquisitive hippies (the year is now 1986), but that doesn't mean there ain't tons of people driving around out there who are unwilling to become the prime ingredient in an award winning bowl of chili. What has always struck me as strange is how chainsaws, human butchery and Texas became intertwined with one another. I mean, the image of clearing brush on your ranch with a chainsaw has since become commonplace (even though I still don't associate the state of Texas with the lumber industry), but chainsaws and slaughterhouses are definitely a weird combination (the chainsaw is meant for wood, not meaty flesh). Nevertheless, it's the instrument of choice of Leatherface and the gang when comes to dispatching the human animal. And am I glad it is, as it is quite the menacing tool when wielded improperly in a non-forested environment. The story basically involves a cowboy hat-wearing Texas Ranger named Lefty (Dennis Hopper) who is obsessed with finding the Sawyer family, the cannibalistic cabal whom he believes killed his brother back in the '70s, and itching to exact some Texas-style revenge on them. Again, I'm not 100% sure if acquiring vengeance via the rumbling splendour that only a large chainsaw can provide is how things are normally hashed out in Texas. But for the sake of this movie, I'm willing to go along with it.
 

 
Helping Lefty out in his quest for man-eater blood is Stretch (Caroline Williams), a local DJ who listened while the Sawyer's took out a couple of obnoxious frat boys while making a request on their car phone, and, for some inexplicable reason, she wants to assist the slightly unbalanced lawman.
 

 
The opening shot of a head being turned into a broken water fountain assured me that I was in the presence of something special. However, it was the sheer looniness of the radio station confrontation and the extended nut-jobbery of the showdown in the subterranean labyrinth the Sawyer's call home that comforted me the most. It's true, the dinner party sequence pretty much plays out exactly the same way it did in part one; their now 137 year-old grandpa is wheeled out and encouraged to hit a woman in the head with a hammer. But this film had a romantic subplot, chainsaw thrusting, and a ruined Sonny Bono wig.
 

 
In a way, I can understand the other two, but a romantic subplot? Yeah, that's right, Leatherface (Bill Johnson) falls in love. Other than the sight of a totally bonkers Dennis Hopper screaming nonsensical gibberish of a biblical nature while sawing support beams, the humanization of Leatherface was the film's strangest turn of events. I get misty just thinking about the scene where Leatherface forces Stretch to wear the freshly cut-off face skin of a deceased co-worker.
 

 
If you thought Dennis Hopper's acting execution sounded a little kooky, he ain't got nothing on the stellar crazy turned in by Bill Moseley (Repo! The Genetic Opera) as Bo 'Chop Top' Sawyer, the most excitable member of the Sawyer brood. In a seemingly constant state of extreme agitation, Bill twitches and rants like a raving lunatic ("Dog will hunt. Get that bitch, Leatherface"). Abundantly supplied with quirky eccentricities of an off-putting nature, my absolute favourite had to be his penchant for heating the end of a wire coat hanger with a cigarette lighter and then sticking in his ear. I'm not sure, but I think he did this in order to loosen up his ear wax, so that he could consume it more efficiently (liberated ear wax is easier to eat than subjugated ear wax).
 

 
Anyway, I found this bit of oddness to be the insane icing on the top of an already messed up cake/performance.
 

 
A screeching angel wailing madly amidst all the chaos, Caroline Williams is gorgeousness personified as Stretch, the leggy DJ who entertains the Dallas area with her nightly rock and roll radio show.
 

 
The music heard on her radio show is surprisingly not lame. Check this shit out: Oingo Boingo ("No One Lives Forever"), The Cramps ("Goo Goo Muck"), The Lords of the New Church ("Good to Be Bad", and a couple of songs by Concrete Blonde.
 

 
Fans of Skinny Puppy will recognize some of the dialogue uttered in the film, as the band sampled quite heavily from it on their Cleanse, Fold, and Manipulate album. In particular, Stretch's "They live on fear" is used on the song "Shadow Cast."
 

Getting back to the subject at hand. Her scrumptious lower-half sheathed in a delectable pair of denim short-shorts, her upper-half in a never buttoned denim cowboy shirt (girl, I dig the sparkly touches on the collar), Miss Williams is put through hell in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2. In that, from the moment she finds Chop Top lounging in her radio station's lobby, she is under constant threat of being eviscerated by a chainsaw.
 

 
Saved only by the glistening sweat on her exquisite gams, the stressed out disc jockey repeatedly uses her sexy legs to sway Leatherface into not murdering her. Yet, when employing her shapely stems is no longer an option, I thought Caroline still did an excellent job of manipulating the lovesick chainsaw enthusiast; even it means wearing a co-worker's recently removed face as a mask.
 

 
If you're wondering how Stretch manages to keep her mouth-watering legs looking so taut, you needn't look no further than the stairs that lead up to the radio station she works. Walking up and down stairs is an excellent way to strengthen your leg muscles.
 

 
I also liked the inconsistency of her gutsiness. Sometimes she is able to fight back in an effective manner, sometimes she just screamed and hoped for the best. This plucky to non-plucky ratio is summed up perfectly during the film's mountain showdown; an epic struggle that culminates in with of the most satisfying and bold final shots of the era. In other words: This movie fucking rules.

video uploaded by The Tobe Hooper Fan Page

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The Slumber Party Massacre (Amy Holden Jones, 1982)

The sexualization of the power drill continues unabated in the aggressively unambiguous Slumber Party Massacre, a stalker-friendly slasher flick from director Amy Holden Jones (Maid to Order) and writer/feminist activist Rita Mae Brown. Unique in that the majority of the people working behind the camera are women, this teens-in-peril tale does little to separate itself from the macho heard. Briskly going about his boring business with the efficiency of a man wielding a larger than normal drill, the killer seems to mainly target young women. Sure, he'll drill an unwanted hole in a man, but only if they happen to interfere with his primary goal, which is to penetrate as many young women as humanly possible. The assailant's weapon of choice, the power drill, might have been the film's only feminine touch. Of course, there have been lots of films that feature madmen who slaughter comely women using implements that can be found in any tool shed, garage, basement or hardware store. But I'm sure it's no coincidence that the common power drill is the one item on the self that is the closest to resembling a man's penis. Moreover, the way the attacker held his tool in this movie was quite sexual. Leading one to believe that this film is an accidental critique of the male libido.

Resting it in the vicinity of his denim-covered crotch when he isn't drilling, the murderer–a recently escaped lunatic named Russ Thorn (the brilliant Michael Villella), who killed five women in 1969–thrusts his drill in a fashion that practically screamed sexual dysfunction. Not to mention, misdirected anger, overcompensation, and homicidal madness.

The number of female persons, and male bystanders, who are at risk of becoming the driller killer's next victim is quite large. At the top of the list is an 18 year-old named Trish (Michelle Michaels), a popular girl who has decided to take full advantage of her parents' absence by inviting a bunch of friends over for a party that may or may not involve slumbering. Though I doubt they will get to do either considering the fact that a massacre is about to commence.

Invited out of pity, but ultimately passing on attending the girly soiree, is Trish's classmate and next-door neighbour Valerie "Val" Bates (Robin Stille); she's decided to stay in and watch over her younger sister, Courtney (Jennifer Myers), an impish gal who looked absolutely delicious in a frightfully cute pair of orange short shorts. (Since it's 1982, skimpy shorts are the film's most prominent piece of clothing.) Anyway, as with most parties of this nature, their feminine solidarity is corrupted by the uninvited presence of two horny teenage boys (Joseph Alan Johnson and David Millbern), a nosy neighbour (the kind that murder snails with meat cleavers), and, oh, get this, a sexually frustrated power tool connoisseur.

While the inquisitive, overly helpful neighbour, and the lustful boys are a bit of a nuance, it's the guy lurking in the garage wielding the massive power drill who should be the main focus of the girl's anxiety. I mean, he's already taken out an attractive telephone repairwoman (Jean Vargas) and a book-forgetting senior (Brinke Stevens), so decimating the contents of an entire slumber party doesn't sound all that far-fetched.

The fact that the movie he's stalking in bares a striking resemblance to John Carpenter's Halloween isn't gonna stop him from getting the bore-based satisfaction is desperately needs. Hell, even the music (a synth-based delight by Ralph Jones), the street the film takes place on, and the camera angles were reminiscent of the film that introduced Michael Myers to the world. That being said, the drilling aspect of the film, while vaguely similar to the drilling that went on in Abel Ferrara's The Driller Killer, was still a pretty fresh concept as far as cinematic works of art that sport deranged killers misusing appliances go.

The alarming sameness of Michelle Michaels and Robin Stille when it came to their appearance and acting styles caused me to look elsewhere for my object of devotion. The short short-heavy basketball sequence (it was the yellow short shorts vs. the blue short shorts) and the obligatory shower scene (my inner pervert appreciated the lingering temperament of some of the bum shots) were quite illuminating when it came to serving up the delicious girl-bouquet that is on display in this movie. But it wasn't until the ladies were in the locker room getting changed that I laid eyes on my fixation.

Playing Diane with a catty glee, the gorgeous Gina Smika Hunter (credited here as Gina Mari) became my favourite slumber party girl the moment she cruelly dismissed Trish's feeler about inviting Val over to her house. What can I say? I love malicious brunettes who act like they're better than everyone else.

Insensitive, somewhat irrational (she doesn't want to invite Valerie to slumber party because "she drinks too much milk), and boasting a steady boyfriend (a tall, sneaky redhead), Diane pretty much insures that her supple body will be getting poked with a large drill in the not-so distant future. Nevertheless, I chose to throw my creepy gaze in her sexy direction. And, yes, she looked amazing in short shorts.

Just because my "creepy gaze" was centered on Gina, doesn't mean that I failed to notice the leggy tour-de-force that was being secretly orchestrated by Debra Deliso (Dr. Caligari and Iced), a statuesque blonde with an elegant physique. Wait a minute, "secretly orchestrated"?!? Are you kidding me? There was nothing secretive about the way her stunning gams playfully jutted out from the bottom of that no-nonsense U.S.A. basketball jersey, which doubles as a sporty yet chic shirt dress (with a generous slit down the sides for maximum leg appeal). On top of that, I liked the manner in which she screamed. What a lot of people tend to forget is how important the act of screaming is when it comes to films like this, and Debra, it should be said, can wail hysterically with the best of them.

The face of the man who attempted to deliver it may be full of holes, but that doesn't mean the pizza he was delivering has become any less edible since his tragic demise. What I'm trying to say is I found that Andree Honore's decision to eat the pizza the a recently drilled pizza boy was clutching in his dead hands to be strangely adorable. I mean, you gotta love the fact that she basically uses his lifeless corpse as an impromptu picnic table. Classic.

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Mannequin: On the Move (Stewart Raffill, 1991)

A cinematic masterwork that not only manages to comfort me even when I'm not looking in its general direction, but also unclogs my drains, Mannequin: On the Move is magnificence personified. A suicide prevention pamphlet masquerading as an openly lame boy loses girl, girl turns into a doll, doll finds boy as a girl, who is sometimes a doll a thousand years later tale, virtuoso filmmaker Stewart Raffill (The Ice Pirates) and his crack team of writers have thornily fashioned a heartfelt meditation on the power of unconventional love. Unabashedly celebrating inanimate copulation with window dressing and romantic whimsicality in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the breezy sequel is the greatest of all the Mannequin sequels; and not just because it's the only Mannequin sequel in existence. No, what goes on in this film will repeatedly put your joy muscles on high alert. There's an accidental brilliance at work here that can't spotted by merely staring at the screen. Uh-uh, what you have to do in order to receive the benefits that this film is offering at a reasonably low-cost is conjure up the purest, gayest part of your inner self, and, most importantly, be willing to let its rejuvenating nectar inundate your aura the same way expired yogurt attacks your central nervous system. Otherwise, what you'll get is the sensation that you have just watched a stupid movie about an average guy who wants to ejaculate his not-so average sperm (it smells like paprika) in the vicinity of a compact blonde who is sometimes a nonliving entity from a made-up part of Bavaria. And believe me, you don't want to feel that sensation.

Now I don't mean to imply that the act of watching Mannequin: On the Move utilizing more established methods, such as sitting and staring, will be an unrewarding experience. On the contrary, there's a lot of quality material floating around this garish cesspool. It just helps that you're a complete and utter moron. The sheer size of my intellect allows me to adapt to different types of entertainment stimuli. Using words that are different than the ones I just used, I was able to view the from the perspective of someone who is borderline mentally challenged. And I don't mean someone who has a learning disability or some kind of fucked up disease, I'm talking about someone who is just plain stupid.

The first thing that struck me as I watched the film from this more slow-witted point-of-view was the manner in which colours, shapes, and sounds were employed. Okay, maybe that's a little too dumb. But it's not that far off from the truth. Actually, Rolf, Egon, and Arnold, the grunting, colourfully attired, musclebound soldiers who are in charge of protecting the mannequin, epitomize all three of those things perfectly. So, yeah, I stand by my initial instinct.

A thespian in every sense of the word, William Ragsdale, not content with having starred in the best vampire movie of the 1980s (Fright Night), the dark-haired rapscallion attempts to dominate the 1990s right out of the gate. I mean, most wait until the middle of the decade to unleash their masterpiece. But William, an iconoclast in every sense of the word, proves that numbers and dates are pretty much meaningless and lashes out with the full fury of his acting arsenal.

It's true, that he has to mostly bounce this fury off a wooden Kristy Swanson and an excessively flamboyant Meshach Taylor. But, as expected, Mr. Ragsdale laughs in the face of this challenge. Carving out a performance that is teeming subtle nuances, William imbues Jason Williamson with a real sense of humanity. A performance that no stiff blonde or preening stereotype can taint.

When referring Kristy Swanson as "wooden" or "stiff," it should be noted that I'm talking about her work as a mannequin, not as a sentient actress; one that looked totally scrumptious in a series of tight leopard print outfits. However, the blankness of Kristy's face does assist her as Jessie, the freshly animated national treasure of the kingdom of Hauptmann-Koenig. In that, her deadpan expression is perfect for absorbing the wonders of the 20th century.

Playing an "enchanted peasant girl" who was turned into a mannequin by a magic necklace a thousand years ago, Miss Swanson does of an excellent job of displaying genuine wonder. Take, for example, her enthusiasm when it came to eating a Philly Cheesesteak and applying lipstick for the very first time, you really get the feeling that she hadn't done these things before.

The same logic could be applied to Julie Foreman as Gail. If the audience doesn't believe her when she offers a customer a complimentary spray of perfume, the film's integrity is in serious jeopardy. Luckily, the attractive Miss Foreman (no relation to Deborah) is up to task at hand: dispensing fragrances to strangers with a competent grace.

Altering our opinion of what it means to be real, Mannequin: On the Move is more than just a film that starts and eventually finishes, it makes a profound statement on what it must be like to be human.

video uploaded by sarafid

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Rock & Rule (Clive A. Smith, 1983)

In the grand tradition of The Apple and Phantom of the Paradise, the criminally overlooked Rock & Rule presents a dystopian universe where a powerful music label governs society, inclement weather is commonplace (lightning makes for an excellent alternative power source), Faustian deals are made, and the plucky and downtrodden dream of rock and roll stardom. The only difference being it's animated and features talking animals with names like Sleazy, Stretch and Zip. Now, I'm not one to watch "cartoons" on a regular basis, as it's no secret that my main motivation for watching movies is the opportunity to wade in the tepid pool that is partially clothed humanity without getting wet. And I'm definitely not motivated by the desire to be exposed to crudely drawn renderings of raccoons who insist on telling us that littering is unethical. However, I will gladly put aside my reservations (well, aren't you special) for this film directed by Clive A. Smith (co-founder of Nelvana). And, no, not just because its Canadian (the Maple Leaf makes a sly cameo), because it, for the lack of a better term, rocks. Opening with a Café Flesh-style foreword (all that was missing was the expression "nuclear kiss"), this bleak vision of a post-apocalyptic nether region, where everything's either decaying or covered in filth, is a visual and sonic experience like no other. Part Blade Runner, part Liquid Sky (the nightclub scene, anyway), the film wows us with its impressive shots of decrepit skylines, uncompromising depiction of life on gritty streets of Nuke York City, and the wide array of colours that were utilized throughout its economical running time.

I especially liked the use of pink and blue during "My Name Is Mok," and the film's overall cyberpunk aesthetic. I mean, the world may by rundown, but parts of it do glow with a neon sheen.

While the earlier allusion I made to talking animals wasn't that far off the mark, it should be said that these aren't your everyday animals. You see, after the humans eradicate themselves, the world is gradually taken over by the mutated descendants of cats, dogs and rats. This evolved trio are able to live in harmony with one another (I didn't notice a caste system) and pretty much carry on the same way the human race did.

Anyway, a burgeoning rock band comprising of lead guitarist Omar (Paul Le Mat/Robin Zander), keyboard player Angel (Susan Roman), a rhythm section consisting of Toad (Chris Wiggins) and Dizzy (Dan Hennessey) catch the attention of the sinister Mok (Don Francks/Lou Reed), a rock star/record mogul.

Unfortunately, he's not a fan of their music. He does, however, think that Angel's voice is the sound that will finally enable him to unlock the door to a hidden dimension. Unwilling to leave her fellow band members in the lurch, Mok is basically kidnaps Angel and whisks her away to Ohmtown (the power supply in Nuke York City was insufficient) in his massive blimp.

The headstrong Omar, replete with secret feelings for the attractive songstress, is not gonna let this injustice slide. Corralling his buffoonish bandmates, the brooding rocker is willing to attempt multiple rescues if that's what it takes to save the leggy(yeah, that's right, her legs were expertly drawn) Angel and stop Mok and his morally conflicted henchmen before they can carry out their monstrous plan.

Scanning over the soundtrack beforehand, I made a mental note of every song listed. Actually, I should say, I scanned over all the songs except one. Of course, that song would end up being my favourite; that's just the way it is. Heard during the exhilarating nightclub sequence, "Hot Dogs and Sushi" by Melleny Brown percolates with a bratty new wave flair that scratched me where I itch musically. I also loved how the comically proportioned Cindy (Catherine Gallant) dances wildly to it with a suave rat.

Now you could probably understand why I skipped over it when you take a gander at the other names listed om the soundtrack, but that's no excuse; judging songs by their titles is uncool. That being said, I was deeply impressed with "Send Love Through" by Debbie Harry (who provides the voice of the Angel character when she is singing), Lou Reed's "My Name Is Mok," and Earth, Wind & Fire's groovy "Dance, Dance, Dance" (also heard during the club scene).

If you can't tell already, it's obvious that I really enjoyed watching the action at Club 666. So much so, that I even liked the weird laser gun shoot-out that takes place in club's the lobby (a rat turns into a green puddle). On top that, I was strangely jealous over the fact that Toad got to press his nose up against the pulsating largeness of Cindy's animated buttocks.

video uploaded by sipFade2Black

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