Psycho Gothic Lolita

Well, because the title, that's why.

As the trailer for Psycho Gothic Lolita announces: "Beauty, modeling and action! The core of Japanese films all in one!" There's also a goodly bit of splatter. Also known as Gothic & Lolita Psycho, it's a fast-moving series of fight scenes, punctuated with gallons of fake blood, none of which gets on our heroine's fabulous outfit.

 Basically the story is that Psycho Gothic Lolita's mom was murdered and her dad (who is apparently a priest) was paralyzed by some gang in black trenchcoats and now, of course, she is out for vengeance. I don't think we ever find out why the killed her family and there is an absurd twist at the end that would make even M. Night Shyamalan say, "That shit was contrived and unnecessary," but what kind of fool watches something called Psycho Gothic Lolita for the plot?

 

Our heroine has five people she needs to off in order to even the score for mom--each one is represented by a tarot-style card, a device that, like so many things in Psycho Gothic Lolita, remains unexplained. Her father, who is now in a wheelchair, is her Q and builds her a number of interesting umbrella-based weapons but we have no idea why she has to dress up in Gothic Lolita drag to get revenge--in the (tedious, overused) flashbacks, she is conventionally attired

As our Psycho Gothic Lolita, Rina Akiyama looks great, but isn't much in the charisma department: Not so much implacable killing machine as a outfit and a gimmick with a catchphrase that doesn't make sense. Although it is a hell of an outfit--love the umbrella-styled sleeves and laced-up skirt even if the Marie Antoinette via Michaels hairdo doesn't really do it for me. Also, i know it's all about consistency, but I wish she'd had one or two more outfits. The movie is about fashion, so give me some costume changes, dammit!

It also feels like they missed some opportunities with her opponents. Her biggest adversary, Elle, is in Gyaru style with pink lipgloss and a TLC-style eyepatch, as well as a pair of knife/guns, one of which has a built-in cellphone. (Wait--Elle with an eyepatch and guns? Well, I guess it's nice to see someone stealing from Tarantino for a change.) But the rest of the folks she battles are a sort of random assortment--if we're here for fashion, every one of them should have been some kind of Tokyo street style stereotype. She should have had to take on a Kogal schoolgirl or some Fairy Kei bitch in a Care Bears T-shirt and pastel fake fur.

 

There is one brilliant scene where she runs into "KAMIKAZE," a ridiculous bunch of Westerners that are half-Karate Kid, half-West Side Story and completely hilarious. Psycho Gothic Lolita ain't no Sex and Fury and it ain't no Heroic Trio. Hell, it's not even Tokyo Gore Police. But it does have its moments.

Las Vegas Schlock

Here's a link to three brief writeups on Vegas-set B-movies I did for my day job at the Vegas Seven. There's the Mamie Van Doren 50s heist flick, Guns, Girls and Gangsters. Then a piece of absolute crap from the 80s, a tale of showgirls turned mercenary commandos, Hell Squad. Finally, a little 90's indie downerdom, Speedway Junky, in which a runaway hits Vegas, gets rolled and becomes a hustler.

Want to go for the gold standard of bad movies? Enjoy a timeline of how Showgirls went from hype to flop to cult classic. Of course, if you like movies that are actually good, here's an oral history of the shooting of Casino. And, finally, you can take the Vegas movie quiz.

Daughter of Horror

I have watched a lot of movies that make no sense. However, i cannot recall one more bewildering than Daughter of Horror.

 

 A bizzarro horror-noir-expressionist-surrealist mishmosh, Daughter of Horror--also known as Dementia--is a late 50s silent film about a schizophrenic beatnik chick. It's basically one long dream sequence with a lot of jazz clubs and sweaty, creepy guys and a weird fixation on knives and cigars. It is the sole film credit of many of the people involved. That is probably a good thing.

While Daughter of Horror is a silent film, it does not lack for sound. The music is by avant-garde composer George Antheil (who also helped Hedy Lamarr invent the cellphone) with wordless melisma by Marni Nixon (who also did the vocals for Natalie Wood in West Side Story and Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady), doing an excellent impression of a Theremin. There's also a brief digression into a basement jazz club featuring Shorty Rogers and his Giants. And, occasionally, we get some truly bombastic narration courtesy of none other than Ed McMahon.

In fact, that's the first thing we get: An underexposed image of the sweaty visage of a young Ed, looming in a field of "stars" and intoning, "Let me take you into the mind of a woman who is mad! This is a place where there is no love, no hope... in the pulsing, throbbing world of the insane mind, where only nightmares are real, nightmares of the Daughter of Horror!" 

If you thought the opening of Howling II: Your Sister Is a Werewolf was a low-rent ripoff of Night of the Hunter, it has nothing on Daughter of Horror. 

Our heroine--she looks kind of like a cross between Leslie Caron and  Rachel Maddow in beat girl drag--awakens in a seedy hotel room and finds her two totem objects in a drawer: A groovy medallion necklace and an ominously large switchblade. She wanders out, past a bruised, sobbing woman, a guy being hauled away by the cops and a handful of rubberneckers. Out on the streets of Venice Beach, Beatnik Chick runs into "MYSTERIOUS STABBING"--oh, for the pre-Buzzfeed days of the totally opaque headline. The newspaper is being waved by a little person because, well, as Peter Dinklage himself once said, "The only place I've seen dwarves in dreams is in stupid movies like this! "Oh make it weird, put a dwarf in it!"

Some drunks grab, her, some guy beats up the drunks, some other guy summons her over to a car where another guy--a sort of Orson Welles and Jack Black hybrid--flashes his wallet. Beatnik Chick gets into the back of the car with him... wait? She's a hooker? A hooker in a suit and a turtleneck with no lipstick?

Beatnik Chick swings between laughing hysterically and laughing psychotically, a pattern she will continue throughout the movie. It's not that Beatnik Chick is out of fucks to give: She never had any to start with.

They go to the first of a series of nightclubs that we will wander into during the course of Daughter of Horror. It's a pretty good way to kill time: Nightclub montage. It's more interesting than the extended scenes of Beatnik Chick staring into a mirror or looking intensely at various objects or running down the street pursued by the spotlight of paranoia--or maybe it's the cops, who can tell?

Over the sound of horns and leers of the Creepy John, the over-the-top tones of Ed McMahon are heard: "The pulse of the neon lights, like a hammer at your brain! Tormenting you, haunting you! Forcing you to think, forcing you to remember your guilt, your horror!" And now we head into a flashback--well, i mean, kind of a flashback, given that this is the dream of a crazy person, so it's hard to tell. But anyway, some guy with a bodega-robbery stocking over his face leads her to a graveyard and then we see some kind of re-enactment of her childhood amidst the tombstones...

Dad smacks daughter (of horror), mom cheats on dad, dad shoots mom, daughter stabs dad. Boom.

Post-flashback, Beatnik Chick and Creepy John go to his apartment, which is in some kind of huge office building with giant stairs. He has a grand piano and a full bar but what really compels his attention is an enormous plate of greasy chicken wings. He scarfs wings, scarfs wings, scarfs wings, ignoring the increasingly agitated murderess sitting about six feet away.

Yeah, he gets his, as does any cigar-smoking man of girth who gets handsy with the Daughter of Horror. In some ways--delusional, intermittently catatonic heroine who represses shit and stabs people--Daughter of Horror is also like a D-grade proto-Repulsion. I wonder if Polanski ever saw it.

Anyway, after killing him, Beatnik Chick realizes he's grabbed her medallion as she pushed him (and his money) out of the window of his skyscraper (Take that, Ayn Rand! Emma Goldman and Diane Di Prima all the way!) She has to get it back! Thus we have the dismemberment, more faceless men, more Venice at night, more jazz club montage, more Beatnik Chick hysteria, more Ed McMahon: "The face of your first victim! Pursuing you relentlessly through your haunted dreams! Hunting you mercilessly through the twisted corridors of your tortured mind!"

Daughter of Horror is an inexplicable flick. One cannot figure out why it was made or how or by who. It's also reminiscent of the movies my college roommates used to make for their film schools--not the final project, but the projects they had to turn in a few times a year, which were inevitably underplanned and then stuffed with random surrealism and excessive portentiousness as some kind of feeble compensation. And, like here, all of the shots went on too long--when one is planning a student film or cable access TV show, one tends to be surprised at how quickly everything goes on screen. You thought something would take 90 seconds, it takes 30. If you're a pro, you know that already and plan, or you find a way to make something happen for that 90 seconds. If not, you just let that damn shot drag on three times as long as it should.

Still, there is something to be said for Daughter of Horror's unique brand of insanity and bargain-basement surrealism. It would make a fine TV backdrop for any Halloween party--actually, it's the film the teenagers were watching in the original version of The Blob when the blob invaded the movie theater. It's a B-movie's B-movie: That should tell you something about Daughter of Horror.

The Wild World of Batwoman

What do you get when you combine go-go-girls, seances, "happy" pills, hearing aids, bare midriffs, lecherous middle-aged men, "Oriental languages," chocolate milk, the Watusi, mad scientists, pool parties and government surveillance?

The Wild World of Batwoman, that's what!

Another flick that operates on an Ed Wood-level of competence, The Wild World of Batwoman is an odd hodgepodge of leftover plot points and cheap sets. It makes the 60s Batman television series look like Game of Thrones..

There's an odd opener of two blondes (one of whom looks a lot like Amy Schumer) and a brunette in baby doll nighties blathering about strawberry yogurt and vampires--apparently this bit was tacked on when the producers were sued for copyright infringement (Who knows why they wouldn't want their intellectual property associated with such a fine work of art as this?) and the movie had to be retitled She Was a Hippy Vampire, although this is all we will hear of vampires. Picking up scraps is part of the the aesthetic of The Wild World of Batwoman--the monster shots are cut in from another movie, there's also street footage of what might be Sweden.

Batwoman is played by une femme d'un certain age with a cockade of Siouxsie Sioux hair, a bustier and a Batman symbol drawn on her cleavage--with eyebrow pencil, I'm guessing. The Batgirls seem to be a random assortment of go-go dancers and cocktail waitresses who recite a lot of Girl Scout-like oaths and "fight evil with all sincerity." We see a guy get mugged, a Batgirl get roofied and kidnapped--the Batgirls' crime-fighting skills seem to be limited to the Frug, the Pony and calling for help. Compared to them, Yvonne Craig's Batgirl is Imperator Furiosa.

So, one of the Batgirls is kidnapped by a couple of motley henchmen and an inept mad scientist with the standard creepy deformed assistant. It turns out they are in the service of Batwoman's arch-enemy, Rat Fink--no idea if he's related to Ed "Big Daddy" Roth's Rat Fink or the Rat Pfink of Rat Pfink a Boo-Boo. Apparently he is trying to get hold of some magical hearing aid that can eavesdrop on anyone, anywhere. And it's also an atomic bomb. Or something.

You know the Ajax company that occasionally pops up in the Disney universe, employers of incompetent ghost exterminators and spluttering ducks? They are too high-end for The Wild World of Batwoman, hence they use the knockoff, factory seconds version...

So, there's much rushing back and forth and escaping and getting kidnapped. The mad scientist keeps dispensing happy pills to everyone, because somehow there's not enough footage of Batgirls (and the occasional hunchbacked assistant) endlessly go-go dancing in midriff tops. That's what the happy pills make you do: Gyrate like it's inpatient talent night on American Bandstand.

Then our plot takes another bizarre turn as suddenly Batwoman needs to contact the spirit world (by holding hands around a table, these folks being too cheap to spring for a Ouija board) to tell her where the bad guys' lair is. Which is odd, because Batwoman has already been to said lair, but "it was dark" and she just can't find it now. Huh? Is it in one of those subdivisions where all the streets are named for types of cacti and all of the houses look alike? Which is actually entirely possible--like the "torture chamber" of Olga's Girls was obviously someone's basement full of random stuff, the "lab" in The Wild World of Batwoman is clearly a garage down to the shelves of cardboard boxes and side door entrance.

The Wild World of Batwoman is dopey and illogical but amusing nonetheless. It's girl power at its goofiest--actually, Amy Schumer's next movie should be a low-budget piece of superchick schlock with Neil Sedaka's "Bad Blood" as a theme song. All the girls will be non-supermodels--Melissa McCarthy, Margaret Cho, Kristen Schaal, Niecy Nash, Jinkx Monsoon, Fran Liebowitz, holographic LaWanda Page. They can let Jennifer Lawrence be their Lena Dunham, maybe bring John Waters out of retirement...

The Donny & Marie Star Wars.... Special?

The Star Wars Holiday Special is considered by many to be the Holy Grail of crappy Star Wars kitsch and, oh, it is not. That honor belongs to the Star Wars episode of Donny & Marie. It makes the Holiday Special look like it was scripted by Billy Wilder and directed by Francis Ford Coppola.

Unsurprisingly, we open with Marie in Leia drag and Donny Skywalker (in white, stack-heel go-go boots) boogieing through their first excruciating musical number in front of a bunch of glitter-covered risers. R2-D2 and C3-PO wander in, along with Chewbacca and Darth Vader because the producers apparently had a platinum account at Western Costume.

But then things start to get (really) weird: Redd Foxx meanders past a primitive green screen as “Obi Ben Okefenokee,” while Paul Lynde briefly turns up to whine and wave his hands in the air as the Grand Moff Tarkin. But the oddest guest star is a visibly, erm, out of it Kris Kristofferson, wearing aviator shades and leaning against a cardboard rocket ship like it’s the only thing that’s holding him up. He lurches through a half-assed disco cover of “I Want to Take You Higher” (Sure you do, Kris, sure you do.), then a half-dozen Stormtroopers show up, accompanied by a slew of chorus girls in white unitards and motorcycle helmets for an awkward dance routine to Up With People-like renditions of “Get Ready” and “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” The whole experience takes about thirteen minutes: Ten to watch and three to try to figure out what the hell you just saw.

Made in Paris

Really, we're just here for the outfits.

Costumes by Helen Rose, hair by Sidney Guilaroff

Made in Paris was released in 1966. But, frankly, aside from the fabulous hair and lovely costumes, it could have been made 10 or 20 years earlier. Especially when compared to other 1966 films like Blow-Up and Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, Made in Paris is a straight-up throwback to the days of Doris Day, for whom this film was originally slated. And male chauvinism. Good lord, i tend not to give much of a crap about these things, but Ann-Margret is so relentlessly patronized by everyone she comes into contact with, you kind of want to smack all of them. Her included, because she usually tolerates it and sometimes invites it..

This begins even before the credits, where Ann-Margret is on a fancy dinner date--caviar, Crepes Suzette--with a rich Ken Doll, who is apparently the son of the owner of the department store where she is an assistant buyer. He takes her home, he insists on coming in, he thinks he's entitled to some (caviar and Crepes Suzette, after all), she smacks him. The next day at work, he tries to get her in trouble with a client (She adroitly gets out of it.), is found groping one of the models (She rolls her eyes.) and generally acts like an ass.

 "Her only qualification is a good figure."

"Oh, suddenly the little girl's not so sure of herself."

But suddenly Ann-Margret discovers that the head buyer is getting married and now she's going on this season's Paris buying trip. The head buyer--a delightful broad played by Edie Adams--tries to hint that she has a rather, ah, personal relationship with one of the designers there, but then Ken Doll brings Ann-Margret a sandwich and la la la can't hear you. Because now she loves him. And he loves her. Or something.

But off to Paris and the wedding cake-like suite all buyers are apparently ensconced in. No one--not the getting-married buyer, not the (alleged) comedy-relief housekeeping staff--tells Ann-Margret about her predecessor's relationship. Because apparently her sensibilities are too delicate and the screenwriters couldn't bring themselves to have anyone speak the words "sex" or "mistress" or even "nookie." But, what do you expect? The prop department was also apparently unaware that Absinthe is green.

So Ann-Margret changes from her smashing traveling outfit to an adorable nightie. After she falls asleep, the designer, played by Louis Jordan, turns up, puts on his silk pajamas and is about to get into bed with what he thinks is Edie Adams when.... it's Ann-Margret and she is pissed. And now he is pissed. Made in Paris wants to be a bawdy bedroom farce, but nothing happens in any of the bedrooms except people getting cranky and storming out.

 Anyway, Ann-Margret and Louis Jordan make it up over one of the many fashion shows--Made in Paris is like The Women or How to Marry a Millionaire for fashion shows, complete with Euro-accented woman reading out ridiculous names and detailed descriptions--where they bond over their shared love of glamorous clothes. Jourdan drinks Champagne and makes proclamations like "I believe the woman enters the room first, then the gown." As  Mr. Diva says, "Just about the only actor in the whole mess who isn't miscast is Louis Jourdan. And that includes the City of Paris."

Remember how Ken Doll only fell for Ann-Margret after she turned him down? And she only fell for him once he was not just an arrogant, spoiled prick but an arrogant, spoiled prick who would bring her a sandwich? Well, now Ann-Margret wants Louis Jordan because he gave her the brush off and she listened to him make a date with another woman. So she recruits a pal of Ken Doll's to escort her to all the same places so she can stalk him. (This is pretty much the only part of the film i can relate to.)

I do enjoy that Ann-Margret keeps stuffing herself with fine Continental dining while some schmuck with Brylcreem in his hair tries to put the moves on her, only to be given the old... eh. Occasionally she shows some sass and some spine and tells someone to buzz off, but it's usually not so much because they've patronized or belittled her, but because they have outraged her sense of propriety and chastity. (If you want to see a chick in fabulous outfits having a wild time in Paris and regretting nothing, there's always The Scarlet Lady.)

So first Ann-Margret hated Louis Jordan, now she's hooked up with Louis Jordan. Then Ken Doll shows up. Ken Doll brags about the "thirteen hundred and twenty eight women" he's been with, but the idea of Ann-Margret having one mildly risque night with a Frenchman in Paris makes his fucking head explode.

Along with trying and failing to be a sexy, witty, chic comedy (Okay: Chic, yes. Partial credit on the chic.), Made in Paris also sorta wants to be a musical, because it has the singing, dancing Ann-Margret. But no one else in the film sings or dances, so we have the odd situation of her every now and then bursting into song by the side of the Seine or hitting the floor in a nightclub with a flash mob of backup dancers.

Jourdan does justly call her out as wanting the romance and the drama, but not the messy reality (you know, the part with diaphragms and wet spots). In one breath she lays into Ken Doll for his possessiveness, but in the next it's "I believe in marriage." Ken Doll offers her the suburbs and housewifery and a wedding ring. Louis Jordan offers her Paris and Provence and her career and... well, we'll see about the ring.

"I wanted to get married and move to the suburbs and have children. 

Maybe even a station wagon."

Of course, she goes the way of every filmic career girl--which is to give up her career, surrender everything she is passionate about and has worked for, all the things she has achieved... to be someone's wife. We're supposed to pretend that we don't all know that, in three or four years, Ken Doll will be moving on to women thirteen hundred and twenty nine, thirteen hundred and thirty and the rest. And Ann-Margret will be stranded out in Greenwich or Westchester with three kids, subscriptions to Vogue and Harper's Bazaar, a bottle of tranks and a growing sense of resentment. She's no Peggy Olson: She's not even a first-season Joan Holloway.

Made in Paris isn't much of a film on its own--the unfunny comedy of morals and misunderstandings doesn't do much for me, the characters are dippy or douchey or both. But, again, those costumes. And, while it's a dullish movie with great costumes, it's not as much of an exquisitely clad snoozefest as Grace of Monaco. Just remember: We're only here for the fashion show.