Flash Gordon

Cue the soundtrack: "FLASH! AAAAAHHH!"

There are some movies that seem to exert a personal hypnotic force. You're flipping the channels, you come in halfway  and you feel compelled to watch it the rest of the way through. I feel that way about All About Eve, Some Like It Hot and Enter the Dragon because they are stellar achievements in cinema and i love them profoundly and personally. But i'm not sure why Flash Gordon also falls into that category for me.

One of the most peculiar things about Flash Gordon is the casting. Art house deity Max Von Sydow as Ming the Merciless. Italian indie queen Ornella Muti as his daughter, Princess Aura. Future James Bond Timothy Dalton and a whole raft of top-shelf British character actors. But the mighty Flash himself?  Played by one Sam Jones, a former football player who Dino DeLaurentiis' mom saw on a game show, a man whose later career was limited to guest shots on A-Team and Silk Stalkings. His lady Dale Arden? Melody Anderson, who at least had (limited) recurring roles on Manimal and All My Children. Two more vacant-eyed human beings would be hard to find.

I also just have a rule about people who have their on names on the front of their tight International Male T-shirts. So, to get along with it, Ming and his awesome (and peculiarly analog) mixing board of disaster are plaguing the earth with earthquakes, tidal waves and something called "hot hail."

The weather causes the little plane carrying football star Flash Gordon (yawn) and travel agent Dale Arden (I remember travel agents. I also remember coral lipstick.) to crash into the lab/lair of Dr. Hans Zarkoff. He's the only one on Earth who realizes that we are! Under! Alien! Attack! So he's built a rocket, but he needs Dale Arden to, i dunno, shift gears while he steers or something. And soon the three are hurtling through space to crash-land on planet Mongol, where they are promptly captured and brought before Max von Ming.

"FLASH! AAAAAHHH! HE'LL SAVE EVERY ONE OF US!"

Just look at that set. Cecil B. DeMille, eat your heart out.  Flash Gordon may be the most grade-A B-movie ever made. Everything was maximum quality except for the script and the two lead actors. The sets, costumes and production design were by Danilo Donati, to whose genius i bow down. Not only are the sets totally Cedric Gibbons Wishes You a Happy Chinese New Year, but the costumes involve more bugle beads than... than... than... nothing. The amount of bugle beads defies anything i can even conceive of. And i have been to Radio City Music Hall and the Liberace Museum. Donati did most of Fellini's later films, as well as working with Pasolini and Zeffirelli and winning two Academy Awards. The man clearly had an idea how to design a full-out, full-on, fully integrated aesthetic. The fabulous look of the film helps disguise some of its shortcomings -- and the fact that Donati never read the script probably helped him put forth his best effort.

Never was the absurdity more glaring than in what i will call, for lack of a better term, The Football Battle. During this, Flash brawls with a bunch of Imperial Guards as though he was at a football game because tossing an urn around suddenly makes him able to kick ass. (Max von Ming to Metalface: "Are your men on the right pills?") Also, Dale cheerleads in such a manner that i still have distinct recollections of my eight-year-old self being embarrassed for her. What does save the scenario is a wailing Brian May guitar solo. Truly, the Queen soundtrack for Flash Gordon is one of the greatest movie soundtracks of all time. This is not the first time Freddie Mercury will save this move from disaster; it will not be the last.

Flash is captured, of course. He he hustled off to be executed, while Dale is hustled off to be "prepared for our pleasure." Flash is dressed up in the spiked helmet, iron manacles and leather hotpants because apparently part of a Mongol public execution is heavy bondage -- i guess he's being prepared for our pleasure as well, but in a slightly different way. However, it turns out that the execution was faked by Princess Aura, who has fucked every man on the planet and sees in Flash some rare fresh meat. The two fly off to Arboria for.... some reason.

"FLASH! AAAAAHHH! KING OF THE IMPOSSIBLE!"

Now, there's a title. "King of the Impossible." I wish i could put that on business cards, except it wouldn't be quite appropriate and "Queen of the Impossible" doesn't quite have the same ring. Speaking of Queen of the Impossible, Dale has put on some Bob Mackie drag and is chillin' on the waterbed, knocking back a roofie with green apple Four Loko.

Dale manages to escape and find Dr. Zarkoff -- apparently during the executing and pleasuring and roofie-ing, he managed to survive a brainwashing -- and not just any brainwashing, a level 6 brainwashing! In the meantime, Aura has left Flash on Arboria in the care of her sometime-boyfriend, Prince Barin, played by Timothy Dalton is full Errol Flynn mode. As you can imagine, the guy Aura was banging does not much like the guy Aura is planning on banging... or does he?

Arboria is basically the gay Boy Scout sleepover planet. All the boys wear tight pants and have drum circles and dare each other into fisting various damp holes. In a tree. It's that bizarre sci-fi ceremonial shit they do sometimes but Riff-Raff from the Rocky Horror Picture Show is there just to make sure you get that it's all twisted. After bonding over the fisting, the boys head for the planet of the Hawkmen.

The Hawkmen are better explained as the Flying Leatherdaddies -- although given that Vegas has a "men's gym" called the Hawk, perhaps this does make sense. their leader is played by Brian Blessed, who spends most of the film howling big fake jovial pirate laughs through a jaw that seems to unhinge like a snake's and have two rows of teeth like a shark. Why this butch bunch hangs out someplace that looks like Ghostbar is beyond me.

In the meantime, Princess Aura is being tortured by Klytus Metalface -- apparently there is one guy in the planetary system she hasn't boffed and it's him. People make fun of him at parties. This is the part where we all get to say it in unison: "Oh no! Not the bore worms!" And if those don't work, he's putting on the leeches of ennui.

So, somehow Flash and Zarkoff and Dale are reunited at this Hawkmen metrosexual disco. Flash fights Barin on a spiked lazy Susan. Then Klytus shows up. (Again, parties are uncomfortable for him.) Then Ming shows up and offers Flash a position as ruler of the Earth, just 'cause he likes his style. (This is where having a charisma-free wooden statue playing Flash proves problematic for the plot. Jones' performance is not helped by the fact that all of his dialogue had to be post-dubbed. He was nominated for the first-ever Razzie Award for this movie, but lost out to Neil Diamond for The Jazz Singer.) Flash refuses, Ming carries off Dale again for yet another imperial wedding. Why does Ming keep trying to put a ring on it?

"FLASH! AAAAAHHH! SAVIOR OF THE UNIVERSE!"

Eh, pretty impressive, but King of the Impossible is still better. Anyway, yeah, Flash is leading everyone in rebellion against Ming, because I guess it never occurred to them to band together and kick his ass. Or they're shamed by the fact that someone as obviously dim as Flash Gordon has the sack to stand up to Ming. Suffice to say, with the help of the Hawkmen, the gay Boy Scouts and an incredibly phallic-looking spaceship, Flash wins! The movie ends with what the dweeb who did the cover art calls "the greatest shot in movie history" -- and, no, he's not being ironic, even though it's actually pretty much the dumbest, worst shot in movie history. The DVD comes with two interviews and it's amusing to contrast the palpable humiliation of the screeenwriter with the unbridled worship of the cover-art guy.

Time has been kind to Flash Gordon. Or perhaps it's that time has been cruel to us: After shit like Cowboys vs. Aliens and John Carter, this movie does big-budget bullshit right and nails camp in a way that would not be equaled until RuPaul's Drag Race. Actually, that is the one thing this film is missing: RuPaul. She would fit right in, though it might be hard to get her outfit back at the end of shooting....
"FLASH!  AAAAAHHH! HE'S A MIRACLE!"

I wouldn't say that. What would have been a miracle was if de Laurentiis had gotten the director he wanted for this film -- the legendary Federico Fellini. Of course, he turned it down -- this may be why Princess Aura's pet dwarf on a chain is named Fellini. (The dwarf is played by famed Indian little person Deep Roy, who played all of the Oompa Loompas is Tim Burton's unnecessary Willy Wonka remake. Again: Everyone but the two leads was quite talented.) I'm sure this was a smart move on his part, though it would have been interesting to see. Even more interesting, i should say.

Howling II: Your Sister Is a Werewolf

I like to think that Christopher Lee has no shame. So he can look back at  Howling II: Your Sister Is a Werewolf and feel okay about it. This movie is a fine example of the "so bad it's good" concept. I recall first watching this flick at my friend Jeremy's place in Los Angeles several years ago. We had just come home at around 1 a.m. with some last call In-n-Out, flicked on the TV for a brief, idle accompaniment to our double-doubles and landed square in the first ten minutes of Howling II. And we could not look away. Not until the very end. Not until we'd seen Sybil Danning rip off her top 18 times in succession.

The movie (i was going to write "film," but that seems wrong somehow) begins with Mr. Lee floating before a field of stars, intoning from the "Mother of All Whores" passage from the bible. It's kind of like the bit with Lilian Gish that opens The Night of the Hunter, except Christopher Lee has a skeleton next to him and is talking about whores -- and, of course, Lilian Gish is in a movie that all thinking people agree is a masterwork, as opposed to one where even the dimmest bulb in the sign can still tell that it sucks.

So, blah blah, funeral for Karen White, who was murdered. Her blonde denim-clad dunderhead brother is sad, Christopher Lee comes up to him and says some enigmatic shit about her death, then some dipshit blonde newslady runs up and announces, "Your sister is a werewolf!" and we cut to a new wave band in a graffiti-painted basement. A crowd of extras mimes enthusiasm. Get used to the band. They're called Babel and they will never be more than 90 seconds away from here on out. Which wouldn't be (quite as) objectionable if they had more than 1 1/2 songs and had shot more then two minutes of footage.

You know who else is in the crowd?

 

   Yup. Wearing wraparound new wave sunglasses.

This particular scene and this particular song will be revisited literally dozens of times during the movie. Marsha Hunt picks up some repulsive locals and lures them to an abandoned warehouse to rip 'em up and feed. It's kinda of like that scene at the beginning of The Hunger, where Catherine Deneuve and David Bowie pick up Ann Magnuson at a Bauhaus concert except nowhere barely even near as glamorous. Which is too bad. Marsha Hunt should have been able to pull off something -- she was best known in her day as a backup singer for a number of big British bands, Marc Bolan's paramour and collaborator, the woman who "Brown Sugar" was written about and Mick Jagger's original babymama.

So,Christopher Lee shows Denim and Dipshit some footage of sister turning into a werewolf, there's some tussling in the graveyard with some werewolves. I would like to note that, while Dispshit may try to come off all assertive career woman, when the chips are down, she's just an old-fashioned, stand-there-and-scream type of girl. Christopher Lee drops some yadda yadda about Stirba, the evil werewolf overlord (Overlady?) who Must! Be! Stopped!

So we all head for Eastern Europe. Marsha Hunt and her sunglassed co-wolves are picked up by two of the local werewolf sycophants and ride to the local castle. Now, i'm not the Queen of the Werewolves or anything, but even i travel under more luxurious conditions than in the back of a military surplus truck, carrying luggage that was a freebie with a Drakkar Noir giftset. And if i stop for road food it's a milkshake and some kind of ostentatiously garnished fries from Mad Greek or Sonic, not "food" in the form of a pair of lederhosen-sporting German tourist types.

Christopher Lee rides in the back of the minicar while Denim and Dipshit bicker and flirt. This is actually the only time he actually looks pained and/or mortified during the entire misbegotten debacle that is Howling II. Off to the tiny medieval town with its sinister, superstitious, pointy-toothed populace locked into their perennial festival of death, chortling at puppet shows and accordion music and inept dancing.

Meanwhile, the werewolves are having their own shindig, which resembles an HBO After Dark swinger's convention.

After some bullshit, they raise Stirba from the dead -- well, not dead, but really old, which is even worse for a blonde with big tits. Stirba is played by none other than Sybil Danning, who starred in the Giallo glamourslasher The Red Queen Kills Seven Times, the Roger Corman Star Wars knock-off Battle Beyond the Stars, Chained Heat with Linda Blair... and, yeah, under all of that, somewhere in the resume fine print is Howling II. Especially the fine work during the werewolf three-way.  I'm sure her Method training helped tremendously...

During this, we are treated to a simultaneous montage of Denim and Dipshit finally Doing It. I've never understood the whole idea of "We're surrounded by zombies/we're fleeing from Nazis/the Terminator is on his way--let's fuck!" The moment one is out of danger, sure, absolutely, with gusto. (This is one of the many reasons i enjoy the outstanding Romeo Must Die: Jet Li and Aaliyah have chemistry for days and some intense moments, but the "Let's go home," is saved until the bad guys are dispatched,) But as far as remembering to suck in my stomach or suppress my gag reflex or relax enough to enjoy it, no. Dipshit has no such problems. But she seems to be an exceptionally laid-back chick. I mean, i'd have to be married to a man for 30, 40 years before i'd let him see me in a Quacker Factory sweater. But Dipshit: Hell, right after the first bang, she rolls out of bed and puts on her best red n' green n' embellished acrylic knit.

And the werewolves continue to party down.

Impressively, they seem to have flown the band out.  Along with all of the band's fans. And the band's club. Wait... these sequences in The Howling II -- and there are many -- cut carefully back and forth between the Transylvakian palace werewolf orgy and the cheesily graffiti-ed "club" like they want us to believe they're in the same place. But, given that both sets look completely different and we've already seen all of this footage several times already. How could they expect us to believe it? Or do they think -- not incorrectly -- that by this point the audience has not suspended their disbelief, but is simply sitting on it to pad out the running time.

So, Christopher Lee and Denim and Dipshit and some other stooges go off to try to stop the werewolves from doing... whatever it is they're going to do. But i hear it's bad. We get some special effects that might be gruesome were they not so ridiculous. Lots of movies toss dwarves. But tossing an undead dwarf culminating in impalement? Sure, most movies have little demon puppets. But skull-fucking, egg-laying blasphemous demon puppets?

Let's just say we can be sure of one thing: At the end of The Howling II: Your Sister Is a Werewolf, the band will still be playing. And we'll all be howling....

Sex and Fury

This movie is a fucking masterpiece. I am not exaggerating. Sex and Fury is one of my all-time favorite films. I have never watched it with anyone whose mind was not utterly and completely blown.

Sex and Fury is a period piece, set in Tokyo circa 1905, the conflicted Meiji period. (Also the setting of Jet Li's Once Upon a Time in China movies.) Like many martial arts movies, it begins with a "they killed my family/master/dog and now i will spend the next decade-plus training for my eventual vengeance" bit. In this case, our heroine's police detective father is suddenly murdered (with horrible Burroughs-esque ripping sounds), leaving behind several playing cards elaborately decorated with a boar, a deer and a butterfly.

After some psychedelic opening credits -- our now-grown, tattooed and katana-wielding heroine Ocho, posing amidst the graphics, vaguely like James Bond and Bond Girl rolled into one. Then the movie proper begins, with a pallsy meeting between the new Yakuza President (as in he is a Yakuza and the President), local politicians and a few roundeye devils. Suddenly, a guy in a Dracula cape and emo-manga bangs tries to stab Yakuza President (y'know, that would be a good band name) and flees into a maze of streets. He is hidden by Ocho, who pickpockets a locket from him ("Force of habit.") with a sepia-toned photo of a fetching brunette lass inside.

On to the gambling house. A man is caught cheating at cards, followed by brawling and stabbing. The cheater confesses to Ocho (through a mouthful of blood) that he did it to buy his sister's freedom from a whorehouse. He entrusts Ocho with the money to free her but, hell, our girl could probably handle this shit without cash.

Next follows one of the film's great set pieces: The swordfight in the snow. Ocho is bathing when she is attacked by dozens of thugs; without missing a beat or putting on any clothes, she grabs a sword and dispatches them, the bloody battle crashing through the house out into the snow. It is one of the most stunning action sequences ever. Let me reiterate: It is snowing, she is naked and slicing Yakuza in half like blood is worth money and she intends to outfit herself in Prada from panties to earmuffs.

But, back to the plot! To win the girl's freedom, Ocho must play against a "western female gambler" at a mansion called the Guinness. The gambling lady is the one whose picture had been in Manga Bangs' locket and none other than Christina Lindberg, whom the truly erudite amongst you may recognize as the heroine of  Eurosleaze sex n' violence revenge flick They Call Her One Eye aka Thriller, A Cruel Picture. She plays a dancer/gambler/spy who dresses as Cinderella -- her first entrance is descending a staircase in hoopskirts, ringlets and tiara. Although she spends most of the film naked, when she is wearing clothes, it's straight-up Disney Princess.

The ladies play their game but are interrupted by Manga Bangs who's trying to stab someone again and Christina wants to shoot him, but is bewildered by flashbacks of the Cinemax After Dark flick the two of them apparently made together -- by the time she regains her senses, a bunch of Ninjas and Gilbert & Sullivan policemen are fighting in the ballroom, so they go back to their cards. Did i mention that it's 1905 and they have multicolored plastic poker chips?

So Ocho wins the game, but the guy decides to rape little sister before turning her over. Ocho finds the girl sobbing and talks her out of suicide but, man she is pissed. She is even more pissed when the girl adds that the man had a deer tattoo on his back -- just like one of the guys who killed Ocho's dad. Oh, a motherfucker is going to pay!

Sex and Fury is a stylish, action-packed picture, but it does have a few more plot twists than it can use. Suffice to say that once Ocho finds one of the bastards she needs to kill, the others are not far away. But it won't be easy. Not with the platoon of switchblade-wielding nuns in her way.  Or the bizarro psychedelic-blasphemous torture sequence. Not to mention the enmeshed political intrigue of several nations that somehow involves far-right President Yakuza, some Jack the Ripper-mustached guy who is Christina Lindberg's boss and wronged lefty Manga Bangs. And an Opium War. It's complicated. We also do tend to stop dead for more softcore sexytime. And some rather heavy-handed comedy bits. And a Romeo and Juliet-meets-Anna Karenina death scene (among many other death scenes). But did i mention the magic lantern light show? The fringed buckskin bikini? The poisoned lube?

Reiko Ike is remarkable as Ocho, a warrior of singular purpose and implacable wrath. She hacks through dozens of opponents -- swinging her blade through crowds that disintegrate into dismembered limbs and puddles of tempera-paint stage blood. By the end, entire gangs flee, knowing that all you can do is try to run because there is simply no stopping her.

If you see just one female martial arts exploitation vengeance flick -- and there are many, thank our lucky stars -- make it Sex and Fury. Even if you're not a fan of the Pinky Violence genre, it does not disappoint.

Phantom of the Paradise

I remember this one from when i was a kid. The Phantom of the Paradise -- not to be confused with Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park, a completely different piece of over-the-top 70s rock n' roll cray-cray -- was on late-night TV quite often back when one's selections for late-night viewing were limited indeed. The story is a weird hybrid of Phantom of the Opera and the Faust myth with a bit of The Picture of Dorian Gray, directed by Brian DePalma and starring Paul Williams -- who wrote all of the music -- as a sort of Satan/Phil Spector figure and the villain of the piece.

Paul Williams was the sound of the 70's. He wrote "We've Only Just Begun," "You and Me Against the World," "Evergreen," and many, many more. He wrote most of the songs for The Muppet Movie (yes, "The Rainbow Connection" was his) and did the music for Bugsy Malone, the Scott Baio/Jodie Foster preteen gangster musical that was one of the most mystifying filmic efforts of 1976 and a longtime favorite of mine, as well as one of the most popular children's movies of all time in Britain. (I'll get to it...)

We open with a celebration of the enigmatic writer/singer/producer Swan, with Rod Serling intoning, "He brought the blues to Britain. He brought folk and rock together...." and some ersatz Sha Na Na act doing some kind of faux Shangri-Las teen-death doo-wop number. Then we get the greasy-haired manager bitching about his recalcitrant singer "now she wants to give free concerts for gook orphans." Swan is unconcerned, he's mostly worried about opening the Paradise, a glorious vintage theater and finding the right music for said opening.

Right on time with that new music, our hero, Winston, a nebbish with a bowl cut, nerd glasses and crewneck over a turtleneck, thumps away at a soundstage piano. (How many movies have featured the "discovery" at that practice piano?) Manager tries to get Nebbish's songs, but Nebbish will not part with them, since they're part of his 200-page Faust cantata. Yup.

Nebbish gets the (surprisingly contemporary) brush-off at Swan's Death Records. (Fun Fact: It was originally Swan Song, but Led Zeppelin beat De Palma to the copyright for the label name. Thus, if "Death Records" seems to be awkwardly painted/superimposed onto things, that's because it is.) He heads for Swann's gothic mansion (actually a Texas government building on Dealey Plaza.) and is met by a Babel-like scene of auditioning singers. Of course, the only one singing in tune, shining like an angel on the stairway is Jessica Harper, who you might recognize from Suspiria. She beat out Linda Ronstadt and Sissy Spacek for the part. I'm not sure she should have.

 Anyway, it turns out Tiny Evil Paul Williams has stolen Nebbish's cantata as bait for poontang... oh, and to open the Paradise. Jessica Harper passes on the round waterbed orgy, but Nebbish sneaks in (in drag) and is soon roughed up by security. Shortly thereafter, he is framed for drug dealing, goes to prison, has his teeth replaced with metal dentures, escapes from prison and gets his face melted in a record press (okay, so we finally found a downside to vinyl), thus becoming... The Phantom of the Paradise! This sequence is supposed to be horrifying, but it's so over-the-top one can't help but snicker. I also think there's some overcranking going on.

Of course, the Phantom in his bitchin' new leather n' metal drag goes after Tiny Evil Paul Williams but it only takes Tiny Evil Paul Williams thirty seconds to rip off the Phantom's mask, make him cry and get the him to work rewriting his precious cantata for Tiny Evil Paul Williams. As long as Tiny Evil gets Phoenix to sing the lead. Yeah, once a Nebbish, always a a Nebbish. Throw in some vague promises of possible pussy somewhere down the road and he'll work all kinds of overtime.

The Phantom of the Paradise is at its best when its odd blend of horror, comedy and camp churn together, as when Tiny Evil Paul Williams -- coming off like a cross between Truman Capote and Barry Gibb -- gets the Phantom Nebbish to sign over his soul with a contract the size of a phone book -- "All articles which are excluded will be deemed included." Or when it's sharp musical wit shows, as in the ever-morphing Juicy Fruits/Beach Bums/Undead or the scene where Tiny Evil Paul Williams sits in the middle of his awesome gold record desk and chooses what kind of artist will replace Phoenix, as acts from from folk rock to singer-songwriter to country to R&B to glam rock appear in an unbroken pan. Phantom is not only slick with its genres, but also spoofs the self-indulgence of the 70s rock scene, with suitcases full of pills, limos full of groupies, doped-out stars, money-grubbing businessmen and boot-licking hangers-on.

Our replacement star is Beef, a bizzare prissy-macho glam queen. Gerrit Graham turns in a performance of Walken-level weirdness, from the moment he emerges from his private jet -- in a coffin, wearing a breastplate. There's plenty of during-rehearsal diva-business and microphone twirling and Beef kicks through the musical numbers like David Lee Roth possessed by Dr. Frank N. Furter, cock rock with a limp wrist.

A showertime visit from Phantom Nebbish (best and briefest Psycho parody ever) and Beef is scuttling away in a Santa Claus coat, babbling that "The karma is so thick around here, you need an aqualung to breathe!" Greasy Manager brushes him off, but Beef continues the hysterics: "You just pass the stuff out! I take it! I know drug-real from real-real!"

But, of course, neither we not the Phantom Nebbish will be denied a big finale. I must say, Glen Danzig and Jerry Only must be furious that someone got to this staging first, for Faust opens on a Caligari-inspired set with naughty undead nurses, audience mock-dismemberment, pyrotechnics and Frankenstein. (I must admit that this is where i get a little confused. So, Beef the glam-rocker took Phoenix's role in the Faust cantata. So she was supposed to play Frankenstein? I don't get it... I mean, i really like the idea, but i'm not sure how it would work. If the idea is that she was supposed to be the Gretchen/Marguerite figure to begin with, then why the problem with having someone play Faust? Or is Frankenstein the Devil?

The Phantom of the Paradise has developed its own fanatical cult over time -- like most cult flicks, it flopped on arrival, expect in Winnepeg, Canada, where it ran for almost two straight years. There's been a variety of Rocky Horror-style audience participation screenings, stage productions, a possible remake. And it really is a solid, watchable film, if a bit eccentric and on the higher-end of DePalma's work. Sure, it's no Scarface or Carrie, but it sure as hell ain't Bonfire of the Vanities or Mission to Mars or The Black Dahlia either.

Who Killed Teddy Bear?

This film is truly a work of art of the highest magnitude and no, i am not kidding. Shot in glorious, high-contrast black-and-white, it reeks of exploitation from the note of the cheesy theme song all the way through the strobe-cut ending and every horn-blaring, high-heeling, hip-grinding moment in between. Who Killed Teddy Bear? is sleaze cinema with a Freudian twist and a healthy shot of vintage NYC atmosphere.

Sal Mineo plays a busboy obsessed with aspiring actress/club DJ Juliet Prowse, coming off like a perverted puppy dog. Star dancer and former Sinatra fiancee Prowse is at her foxiest in this one, with her pencil skirts, kitten heels and cat eyes, thus it's no surprise that the lady is being stalked by an obscene caller and the phone call bits--all heavy breathing, bulging tightywhiteys and sweat--will make you want to leave the theatre and take a shower.... Well, okay, you're not going anywhere until this is over. Shower later.

But who amongst Prowse's many admirers is it? Mineo seems likely. But there's also mod dyke club owner Elaine Stritch, who is eager to listen to Prowse's problems, let her stay overnight, fondle her fur (so to speak). Or the mute, staring doorman (This Lurch-like character is played by future Hill Street Blues police captain Daniel J. Travanti. I sometimes like to image the theoretical narrative trajectory that would turn one character in an actor's career into another but this is one I've never been able to conjure.) Or perhaps one of the many fans of her DJ gig -- back when being a DJ meant spinning vinyl in an evening gown...

Of course, the Joe Friday-like cop who is called upon to investigate Prowse's stalker has issues of his own --  obsessively playing audio tapes of various twisted criminals'confessions as his daughter listens wide-eyed from the other side of the door. The motif of the locked-away child -- or child-like -- female is also present in Mineo's mentally challenged kid sister, who hides in a closet, playing with the eponymous teddy bear.

Odd sexual tension and vaguely inappropriate relationships abound -- cop & victim, boss & employee, brother & sister, coworkers -- and the mix of titillating sleaze and psychological complexity is what sets Who Killed Teddy Bear? apart from other black-and-white 60's exploitation flicks. There's also the strong cast, evocative cinematography and intriguing plotline. And, of course, the protracted scenes of hip 60s clubgoers in cocktail dresses and suits dancing themselves into a sweaty frenzy. Listen, i love me some Bad Girls Go to Hell or Olga's Girls, but Who Killed Teddy Bear? is in a whole different class.

Sal Mineo is quite the slab of beefcake in this film --  dig the homoerotic protracted sequence of Sal working out at the gym, swimming in the pool and roaming the Deuce in a pair of tight, white hustler jeans. The puppy eyes and vulnerability that made Plato so endearing are still here, but Mineo also brings sexy and creepy. And how about the "twist lesson" that brings the film to it's climax (no pun intended)?

Another asset of this great piece of cinema are its New York City location shots, especially when Mineo goes walking the city at night, window shopping for porn, cruising and being cruised in scenes that must've influenced Taxi Driver -- actually, Michael Chapman, the assistant camera on Who Killed Teddy Bear? went on to become the cinematographer of Taxi Driver.

(As long as we're in the odd connections quadrant, may i also point out that Who Killed Teddy Bear director Joseph Cates was the father of actress Phoebe Cates, who was fetishistically filmed poolside in Fast Times at Ridgemont High and whose godmother was none other than Jacqueline Susann of Valley of the Dolls fame.) Also appreciate the William S. Burroughs titles mixed in with the pulps and the porn in the window of the "dirty bookshop."

I cannot recommend this movie highly enough. Who Killed Teddy Bear? remains hard to find for legal reasons i remain uncertain of, although there is a chunked, grainy dub on Youtube. So, should you run across a copy or a screening, be there!