Cyberfonque

Children and weebs no doubt have their own picks for best animated feature film this year, but your host is still very much smitten with Jérémie Périn's Isaac Asimov inspired Mars Express (2023/24) as it's basically I, Robot (2004) without Will Smith being Will Smith in it. Also, it's probably because it's the only animated French sci-fi I've enjoyed (and most likely seen) since Ulysses 31 (1981-82).

The only real gripe I have with the film is the soundtrack is a little too generically Daft Punk.

Brian Bennett - Solstice

Voyage (A Journey Into Discoid Funk), 1978

Why couldn't Jérémie Périn incorporate some proper futuristic space sounds into his film like anything off Brian Bennett's classic Voyage (A Journey Into Discoid Funk) EP? A timeless recording which has me picturing the human race becoming truly enlightened beings and exploring the farthest reaches of the cosmos as celestial gods. Or some shit like that.

The highlight off Bennett's EP is undoubtedly Solstice which would have been the perfect accompaniment to the epic finale in Périn's film. Solstice also happens to be a tried and tested staple of space funk as it's been sampled for decades on various rap songs. However, in more recent times, last weekend, to be more exact, your host heard it amongst all the Goblin choons, Lucio Fulci OSTs and S-Express in the background to my favourite film and television essayist Crab Apple's penultimate episode in his superb Amicus Films documentary.

"We Want Information... Information... Information!"

The cult sixties TV show The Prisoner (1967-1968) might be the earliest example of toxic fandom as it resulted in its creator and main star Patrick McGoohan going into hiding with his family when the finale aired and the fans were none too happy. The reason: they felt cheated with the answers they got to the various mystery box questions introduced as the crux of the show. Why did McGoohan's Number Six angrily resign from his job? Did Number Two and Number Forty-Eight symbolise the authoritarian establishment and the carefree youth, respectively? Are we prisoners of ourselves? How did Rover, the terrifying weather balloon, work exactly?

With the bright and colourful veneer of an eccentric, secret agent themed show, typical of the 1960s, The Prisoner revealed itself as an allegory of individualism versus collectivism. The ever defiant McGoohan would yell the forever quotable "I am not a number; I am a free man!" at the start of the show. The Orwellian series became increasingly bizarre once its script editor, George Markstein, left the show and McGoohan was veering towards a nervous breakdown. Thus, when Fall Out, the film's utterly surreal final episode, had aired it was a head scratcher for many viewers.

Decades later, the avant-garde finale is still theorised by various fans and scholars in various media. No surprise then, that McGoohan would feel awkwardly uncomfortable and fed up every time he was asked to explain The Prisoner's ending during the remainder of his years. Ironically, his inquisitors had become like the ever changing Number Two in that respect.

Viewings: September 2024

At last, a month stacked like Sydney Sweeney! Two problematic oldies appeased my degenerate taste; namely, Shanty Tramp and Guest House Paradiso. As for modern times,  Kneecap proved to be my favourite comedy released so far this year. Coralie Forgeat's stylish body horror The Substance was a significant step above practically everything else I've watched. Therefore, it wins the Dada Debaser Film of the Month™ and then some.

Film:

Guns, Girls and Gangsters (Edward L. Cahn, 1959)* 

Stark Fear (Ned Hockman, Skip Homeier•, 1962)*

Shanty Tramp (Joseph G. Prieto, 1967)*

The Bat Woman (René Cardona, 1968)*

Beware the Black Widow (Larry Crane, 1968)*

Scars of Dracula (Roy Ward Baker, 1970)

Bat Pussy (Unknown, 197?)*

Blood from the Mummy’s Tomb (Seth Holt, Michael Carreras•, 1971)

The Hitcher (Robert Harmon, 1986)

Death in Brunswick (John Ruane, 1990)*

Pump Up the Volume (Allan Moyle, 1990)

Return of the Living Dead III (Brian Yuzna, 1993)

The Doom Generation (Gregg Araki, 1995)

Guest House Paradiso (Adrian Edmondson, 1999)*

The Convent (Mike Mendez, 2000)*

Hendrix (Leon Ichaso, 2000)*

47 Metres Down (Johannes Roberts, 2017)*

The Coffee Table (Caye Casas, 2022/2024)*

The Crow (Rupert Sanders, 2024)*

Kneecap (Rich Peppiatt, 2024)*

MaXXXine (Ti West, 2024)

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga (George Miller, 2024)

Sasquatch Sunset (David Zellner, Nathan Zellner, 2024)*

Subservience (S.K. Dale, 2024)*

The Substance (Coralie Fargeat, 2024)*

Uglies (McG, 2024)*

Television:

Doctor Who - Day of the Daleks (Sydney Newman, 1963-2024)*

Hammer House of Mystery and Suspense - Black Carrion (John Hough, 1984)*

Hammer House of Mystery and Suspense - The Late Nancy Irving (Peter Sasdy, 1984)*

Hammer House of Mystery and Suspense - Czech Mate (John Hough, 1984)*

The Misinvestigations of Romesh Ranganathan - The Death of Jimi Hendrix (Chris Cottam, 2022)*

America's New Female Right (Layla Wright, 2024)*

Mastermind - Episodes 4-6 (Bill Wright. 2024/2025)*

UEFA Nations League: Republic of Ireland vs England (2024)*

*First time viewings.

•Uncredited.

Dada Debaser Notes:

• Don't think The Coffee Table will ever be completely wiped from my memory.
  
• Undoubtedly, one for the hipsters, but Sasquatch Sunset did contain some genuinely emotional moments outside of a family of Big Foots mostly pissing, shitting and wanking for comedy.
  
• I reviewed The Empire Strikes Back of the unofficial Christian Slater trilogy.
• Waxed lyrical on one of my favourite zombies turned MILF.
• M3GAN Fox may have hit the wall ages ago, but she was still perfectly cast as a sexy, emotionless robot in Subservience. The film equivalent of Milo Manara's temptation illustration.
  
• Had no idea the notorious Bat Pussy was a pornographic film, along with it being the worst I've ever watched.
• For a film which states in the opening titles "A heterosexual film by Gregg Araki", The Doom Generation is still a remarkably gay offering. I am a big fan of Rose McGowan in it, though. Funny seeing Perry Farrell's cameo after his recent onstage outburst.
  
• Death in Brunswick was fine, but I can't help wishing it was all about Sam Neill's mate Dave instead. Top class Aussie.
  
• Furiosa was even better the second time around; MaXXXine wasn't, sadly.
• My copy of The Hitcher arrived over the weekend. How did I not realise it was inspired by The Doors song Riders on the Storm? John Ryder! "If you give this man a ride, sweet memory will die. Killer on the road".
  

Lastly: RIP James Earl Jones! Blessed with a voice perfectly suited for one of the greatest sci-fi villains, along with playing the O.G Skeletor - Thulsa Doom; another classic baddie.

Iron Maiden - Rock in Rio, 1985.

It's Coffin Time

Ever since Sergio Corbucci's popular, ultra violent western, Django (1966) graced the silver screen, a plethora of other films would feature the titular hero (eighty-five films, apparently) in one way or another cashing-in on the name. There was only one official sequel, when Franco Nero returned decades later to reprise the role that brought him fame in the Rambo-esque Django Strikes Again (1987).

 

Gianfranco & Gianpiero Reverberi - You'd Better Smile

Preparati La Bara! AKA Django, Prepare a Coffin, OST (1968)

Of all the unofficial sequels, I do have a soft spot for Django, Prepare a Coffin (1968), AKA Viva Django! It's because I always found its lead, Terence Hill, Italy's third most waspy-looking actor (after Al Cliver and Ray Lovelock), versatile at playing both serious and comedic parts while still maintaining a cheeky, badass persona. It's also because it sees the return of the character's trademark Mitrailleuse volley gun kept inside a coffin. Another reason is because I love the vowel chewing main song, You'd Better Smile, equally as much as Louis Bacalov's original theme. 

Anyone who copped the video game Red Dead Revolver (2004) would have heard it there, too; albeit, the instrumental titled Lucas. The game's soundtrack was a veritable goldmine for soundtrack fans like me, as it served as the definitive Spaghetti Western compilation which wasn't chock-full of Ennio Morricone hits, and it had me seeking out a bunch of films because of it. Sadly, its sequels didn't follow suit.

Gianfranco & Gianpiero Reverberi - Nel cimitero di Tucson

Preparati La Bara! AKA Django, Prepare a Coffin, OST (1968)

Even if you've never seen Django, Prepare a Coffin, or heard its soundtrack, you'll probably be familiar with Nel cimitero di Tuscon on account of it being sampled by the group Gnarls Barkley for their hit song Crazy in the mid-noughties. Despite being played ad nauseam ever since, in retrospect, it probably did us a favour as it kept Quentin Tarantino from recycling it anytime soon for one of his films.

Beauty is the Beast

The Substance (Coralie Fargeat, 2024) 

Our celebration of beauty and youth is hardly a new concept; they've been well documented in art, literature and music throughout our history. Achieving such perfection often comes at a high price. Coralie Fargeat critiques these impossible standards in the satirical body horror that is her sophomore film, The Substance (2024). All this, while waving the tricolore flag as the true queen of New French Extremity.

Much like her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, celebrity aerobics instructor Elizabeth Sparkle's career (Demi Moore) has lost its lustre. The knives are out for the fifty year old fitness guru. Eavesdropping her obnoxious slime boss Harvey (Dennis Quaid), the search is on for a young and attractive replacement for Elizabeth as she will be unceremoniously carted off to the knacker's yard. The distressing news leads to her being involved in a car accident. Whilst at the hospital, she learns from a member of staff there of a wonder treatment simply known as the Substance.

"Have you ever dreamt of a better version of yourself? Younger, more beautiful, more perfect. One single injection unlocks your DNA, starting a new cellular division, that will release another version of yourself. This is the Substance. You are the matrix. Everything comes from you. Everything is you. This is simply a better version of yourself. You just have to share. One week for one and one week for the other. A perfect balance of seven days each. The one and only thing not to forget: You. Are. One. You can't escape from yourself."

Elizabeth's desperation leads to crawling below a roll shutter in a dodgy backstreet alley where it leads to a brightly-lit, Kubrickian white room. With no other human interaction, this mysterious area is where Elizabeth obtains the black market miracle drug known as the Substance. Resembling Herbert West's fluorescent green serum from Stuart Gordon's classic film Re-Animator (1985), the wonder drug comes with a bunch of vacuum packed plastic utensils that ordinarily be off-putting for anyone. The procedure is almost fetishistic adds and highlights the ridiculousness procedure involved to be young and beautiful again.

The film firmly arrives at destination body horror when Elizabeth injects the serum into her body, and in the first of many Cronenberg inspired scenes, gives birth to her younger and improved genetic double. The execution of this sequence is sublime. The mononymous Sue (Margaret Qually) is the Mr. Edward Hyde to Elizabeth's Dr. Henry Jeckyll. Whilst one of them is active, the other is in a catatonic state. Sue requires a daily stabiliser to keep going; essentially the spinal fluid she retrieves from Elizabeth.

While not stating the obvious, the pair are remarkably different in behaviour. While Elizabeth is timid and uncertain, Sue is confident and brash. People don't see Sue and bump into her without giving her a second look; her younger version has slack-jawed men dumbstruck by her beauty. Needless to say, she lands the aerobics job as Elizabeth's replacement. The Substance holds no restraint in its critique of society's idolisation with beauty and youth. Sue's aerobics show is far more lurid in comparison to her predecessor's routines. Stylistically speaking, it's evocative of the risqué dance music videos which were popular in the noughties. The camera is completely and utterly fixated over Sue's fit and supple body. No complaints from me.

At its core The Substance has a similar structure to Forgeat's impressive debut, Revenge (2017), as they both feature a small cast, along with being films which blend the fantastical with reality. This is all about  satirising both the beauty and entertainment industries in an extreme fashion. For this reason, The Substance comes across as cartoonish on the surface, yet completely fathomable with our assumptions of these fields. The outrageousness style is further reinforced in the film's aesthetic production design, as well as its obnoxiously loud EDM soundtrack..

Possibly Demi Moore's best performance captured on film, as she's perfectly cast as an ageing beauty. The obvious cosmetic work on her face only reconfirms the film's commentary on our obsession with capturing our prime again. One scene in particular, where she's getting ready for a date, is almost as disturbing as the grotesque body horror scenes elsewhere in the film, as she's in complete distress trying to look good to validate herself. Her dysmorphia reveals her complete fragility as she tears at her hair and face in anguish. Qually, on the other hand, is equally effective playing the ultra desirable femme, since she also exhibits personality flaws as well; notably her greedy selfishness to extend her allotted seven days, which is detrimental to the older host which sustains her. Thus the Jeckyll and Hyde parallel becomes more symbiotic and extreme.

Fargeat takes a huge risk in the third act by going in a direction which might lose folk who didn't pick up on the film's intentional humour. Without giving away any spoiler details, the film goes completely off-the-rails, albeit in an outlandishly spectacular way; evoking notable films by Brian Yuzna and Brian De Palma. The icing on the cake is how it leads to a deeply poetic scene right before the end titles. 

Regardless of the cinephile fodder which rear their heads around this season, The Substance is undoubtedly one of the biggest highlights for me this year. It won me over by completely catering to my love for genre cinema, and based on my observation at my screening, entertained me about as much as the turd wave feminists who were also in attendance. It earned my respect for putting a huge smile on my face, making its epic two hours and twenty minutes run time (which was admittedly off-putting, initially) completely fly by.

The Substance is a deeply impressive sophomore film and a grotesque work of art.

Coffee Break

Can definitely see Caye Casas' The Coffee Table (2022/2024) being nominated as one of the most disturbing films this year.

Not going to spoil, or link any trailers and clips, as it's best going in completely blind. However, here's the film synopsis:

Jesus and María are a couple going through a difficult time in their relationship. Nevertheless, they have just become parents. To shape their new life, they decide to buy a new coffee table. A decision that will change their existence.

I will add that its writers must be twisted individuals for even conceiving such a premise, let alone make such a deeply uncomfortable comedy out of it.

Currently available on Shudder.

Can You See Me?

"Hey (Prop) Joe, where you goin' with that gun in your hand?"

Had no idea there was a Jimi Hendrix biopic that came before the soporific Jimi: All Is by My Side (2013), starring André 3000.

Hendrix (2000), which I watched for the very first time this week, is only a fraction better than the above. Wood Harris looks absolutely hilarious while wearing a bunch of party wigs. He earns points for getting some of Hendrix's mannerisms right, however. The rest of the film is both flat, one note and let down by a poor supporting cast (Billy Zane is really bad and equally comedic in a Chop Top toupee), so you're mostly spending your time shaking off the immersion breaking sight of Avon Barksdale with a rubbish looking afro.

Being the anniversary of Jimi Hendrix's death today, I fear we'll never get a quality film about the rock god, as we'll probably get the utterly insipid Justice Smith miscast as the eponymous music legend. What feels like a lifetime ago, my personal choices were Laurence Fishburne or former England defender Des Walker (he was a dead ringer during Italia '90).

No idea who would fit the role today, but I do know what I want in another biopic. Here are five scenes I want to see in a Hendrix biopic:

1. On the day of Cream disbanding, the BBC news being delayed while Hendrix paid tribute to them during his live set on the Happening for Lulu TV show.
2. Hendrix covering for sixties crooner Engelbert Humperdinck's guitarist not showing up and performing behind a stage curtain. Hence, the photo of the pair backstage, along with Cat Stevens holding a gun.
3. A young Ian Kilmister AKA Lemmy working as Hendrix's roadie and doing LSD with him.
   
4. Gered Mankowitz's photo shoot where Hendrix posed for his most iconic photograph.
5. Denny Dent's incredible speed painting of Hendrix, from my old Jimi Plays Monterey VHS tape, being incorporated in the end credits of the film.
   

It's an absolute insult that the only thing that's Jimi Hendrix related during his anniversary is a rubbish episode of The Misinvestigations of Romesh Ranganathan which pretends to investigate whether foul play was the cause of his death. Alternatively, you can just watch that old The South Bank Show episode about him featuring actual people who knew Hendrix (most of them long dead now).

Native Tongues

Kneecap (Rich Peppiatt, 2024)

Despite being drawn to the trailer and a handful of preview clips, my enthusiasm over Kneecap (2024) hit the backburner once early reviews were comparing it to Danny Boyle's Trainspotting (1996); a film which really made me feel I was in Bizarro World after all the unworthy praise it received. Thankfully, Frankie McNamara, the most entertaining culture critic from the Emerald Isle since Tom Paulin, gave the film his glowing approval. This was the impetus I needed to get off my arse and check it out.

Set in Belfast, Northern Ireland, this raucous comedy/docu-drama is essentially a semi-fictional origin story of the rap group Kneecap. Introduced as two young lads up for the crack, Mo Chara and Móglaí Bap are ceasefire babies - the common description of the generation grown up during Northern Ireland's more recent and peaceful period. The duo have been inseparable tearaways since they were wee weans putting weed in the Catholic priest's censor. In young adulthood, they are lairy and shell-suited street kids.

When the pair aren't dealing or partaking in various narcotics, they're making rap music in their indigenous language. Their insistence to rap in Irish serves two reasons: the preservation of their mother tongue and an act of defiance to the Northern Irish authoritarians. A noble cause which is shared with school music teacher JJ Ó Dochartaigh, who, after being summoned by the local police to serve as a translator, winds up becoming the third drug-binging member of Kneecap. Thus, donning his trademark tricolour balaclava as DJ Próvai.

At this point, I'm compelled to reveal my complete ignorance of Irish Rap; save for the confession that I copped the CD single Ship Ahoy back in the day by commie Hip-Hop group Marxman (in hindsight, the band’s name and their debut album cover were glaringly obvious). It were the love of Irish flutes and Sinead O' Connor's angelic singing on the chorus, Your Honour. They alone had me overlooking the painful, vowel-chewing rhymes of these rappers, and the rest of their horrid music. Really regret not climbing over the greased metal railings back in 1990 when myself and a bunch of mates snuck into Highgate Cemetery. If it weren't for the graveyard scene in The Omen (1976) being burned in my brain, where Gregory Peck caught his sleeve on an iron spike while a pack of rabid rottweilers were gnashing at his legs, I could have climbed over and pissed on Comrade Karl's grave and avenge the millions who perished from his ideology.

 

Back to the film. Kneecap is something of a gem on account of not dwelling on its subplots longer than necessary, which keeps the film moving at a breezy and entertaining pace. This is perhaps one of its greatest strengths. It's both satirical and slapstick; able to mock what some might consider sensitive issues, whilst also indulging in juvenile humour - especially when it pertains to drug consumption. A prime example is when the band mistakenly consume ketamine before a gig and Móglaí Bap's face turns into Sinn Féin's Gerry Adams. The anarchic group are caught in the crossfires of both the Belfast Police and the fictional paramilitary organisation known as the R.R.A.D (Radical Republicans Against Drugs), which leads to hilarious shots at both sides.

The supporting cast are particularly strong. The film's most recognisable star is undoubtedly Michael Fassbender as Móglaí's estranged father, Arló Ó Cairealláin; a paramilitary who faked his own death to avoid capture. Amazingly, Fassbender managed to carry the swagger of a bad ass, despite his scraggly ginger beard and wearing a pair of sandals. The gag Bobby Sandals was not lost on me. The affect of him being in hiding for so many years has had adverse affects on his family. His wife, Dolores (Simone Kirby), has become an agoraphobic and is literally a prisoner in her own home. Jessica Reynolds plays Mo Chara's love interest Georgia, a Protestant girl whose dirty talk during sex is both hilarious and messed up. She could pass for Annabelle Wallis's younger, brunette sister. Can definitely see her as a star in more mainstream films in the foreseeable future.

A huge shame the band's music isn't my cup of tea, however. For a bunch of rowdy rap lads with such immense energy, I kind of cringed to their EDM beats and awkward rapping. Obviously, their music is meant for less discerning broccoli-haired zoomers than an old git like myself, but it does set an obvious barrier. I suppose the concert performance scenes in front of a jam packed and completely rocking audience might be akin to Public Enemy's legendary Hammersmith gig to young 'uns, but the quality of their music is nowhere near in the same universe to a boom bap dinosaur, sadly. This is the one real drawback of the film. Kneecap isn't a band whose music I like enough to buy. Kneecap is a film I like enough to cop on blu-ray, however.

It might offend some for its colourful language and heavy drug use, but Kneecap contains plenty of boisterous energy and smart social satire that you can't help being won over by it. Much like Baz Luhrmann's Elvis (2022), Kneecap is another musical biopic which kept me entertained throughout its run time.

Highly recommended.

Saints and Mostly Sinners

Shanty Tramp (Joseph G. Prieto, 1967)

Respect to Nicolas Winding Refn for curating and restoring a bunch of lost films from the dingy annals of B-movie cinema. Joseph G. Prieto's extreme slice of Southern Gothic melodrama, Shanty Tramp (1967) is one such forgotten entry. Bereft of a modest budget, and a cast possessing an ounce of acting talent, the film is a riveting viewing experience, thanks to its gritty atmosphere and a sleazy plot that chaotically descends into unexpected and shocking direction. This exploitation cinema of its era that still packs some potency today.

Emily Stryker (Eleanor Vaill; credited as Lee Holland) is the titular scrubber in question, and much like the the Rising Sun, has been the ruin of many a poor boy. From the God fearing simpleton to the corrupt and sleazy minister; Emily gets a kick out of teasing men and having them lusting over her. Bizarrely, she hardly looks the southern belle type like Daisy Duke, therefore, it's both equally amusing and perplexing watching men fawning all over her. Despite Vaill's only landing the lead for her nonchalance in getting her kit off. She's surprisingly convincing delivering the odd line or two.

The film's opening titles has the titular character strutting her stuff while a bombastic rendition of the hymn When the Saints Go Marching In is sung. Sardonically, it sets the tone of the film, as male bar patrons ogle at Emily's round derrière. The song gets rinsed again once it jumps to Preacher Fallows (Bill Rogers), the travelling minister, swindling his geriatric congregation to chip in some dough for his collection basket. Unsurprisingly, the conman evangelist has carnal desires for the flirtatious floozy attending his night time sermon and wants to show her "the power and the glory!" in the back of his caravan.

Despite warnings from his religious mother, country bumpkin Daniel  Smith (Lewis Galen) falls victim to the tawdry thirst trap. Like a knight in shining armour, he rescues the wicked wench from a potentially serious encounter involving the Chuck Connors-lookalike biker Savage (Lawrence Tobin). Unbeknown to Daniel, there's a revenge attack at his home while he's busy gooning for the salacious stop-out. Succumbing to Emily's temptations in a barn, he quickly regrets slapping cheeks with the heinous harlot as the pair are caught by her drunken white trash of a father (Otto Schlessinger; credited as Kenneth Douglas). "Blasphemy!" he yells. Falsely crying she was raped, Daniel is now on the run. Since Daniel is black, and Shanty Tramp is set in a Dixie town, you can put two and two together and see where this is headed.

Worth noting Shanty Tramp was released in the same year as other and more familiar Southerns: the racially charged In the Heat of the Night and the prison drama Cool Hand Luke. The micro-budgeted Shanty Tramp isn't anywhere near the level of competency of those two films. However, it does have them beat with a whole array of Southern preconceptions of the region. Nearly every southern film cliché is check marked: the trashy temptress; the inebriated and abusive patriarch; rampant racism; the innocent black victim; the police manhunt, replete with tracker dogs; the bible thumping evangelist; the moonshine distillery in a rickety shack; the elderly eccentric with an Old Testament sounding name, like Ichabod or Jeremiah. All of those elements are herein, painting a rich canvas.

Some flaws, like the unprofessional actors' bad performances, don't inadvertently lend to the film's charm. An important loose end involving Savage's biker gang is left completely unresolved. Without giving away too much, it's a crucial element, which was either edited out, or completely forgotten about during the writing process. Much of the dialogue sounds like it was recorded in a bathroom during post-production; it's out of sync with the actors' lips. There are also noticeable jumps in some of the dialogue scenes, which suggests that some of the derogatory racist language might have been edited out, although, according to Refn's restorationists, there doesn't seem to be a stronger cut of the film in existence. It is jarring in the film, however.

The cast might be relative unknowns, but Shanty Tramp's director is a name I'm somewhat familiar with, having seen Joseph P. Prieto's feverishly bizarre horror Miss Leslie's Dolls (1973). What's puzzling about this director is he might be an alias to Joseph P. Mawra; the director who helmed the notorious Olga roughies from the sixties. Although, there's no solid confirmation available online to confirm this, Google and MUBI lists Mawra instead of Prieto as Shanty Tramp's director. What is for certain is Shanty Tramp's second unit director is none other than Bob Clark; who went on to direct personal faves Black Christmas (1974), Murder by Degree (1979) and Porky's (1981).

Unsurprisingly, Shanty Tramp never earned any plaudits for its handling of social political issues; especially ones engrained in America's turbulent racial history. Realistically speaking, the film was made to court controversy in the aid of getting bums on seats. Almost sixty years on, and it still packs some punch to the easily offended today. However, for those of a less sensitive disposition, Shanty Tramp excels at weaving an entertaining exploitation romp; comparable to southern trash masterpieces Two Thousand Maniacs! (1964) and Mudhoney (1965). For this reason alone, Shanty Tramp is an uncouth, yet beguiling film that is definitely worth checking out.

Peak Era #3

Melinda Clarke

Rewatching Return of the Living Dead III (1993) over the weekend reminded me how hot Melinda Clarke (credited as Mindy Clarke in the film) was as the tragic, grungy femme Julie Walker; both before and after her exposure to the zombie gas Trioxin. Way hotter than Linnea Quigley's Trash from the first film, in my honest opinion. The concept of being eaten alive by the undead is absolutely terrifying, but I’d rather it be Julie chomping on my noggin than that horrifying CeeLo Green looking zombie in Zombie Flesh Eaters (1979). Every self-respecting horror film aficionado ought to include Julie Walker when compiling their Greatest Zombie Characters lists.

It's an absolute travesty that the best scene in the film; the part where Julie prepares for battle by piercing her face and body with pieces of sharp metal and glass to fight against the evil thug Santos and his street crew (perhaps the most middle-aged looking Latino gang on film), is only available on YouTube in its censored version, and to rub further salt to the wound, a poor quality VHS  rip. For shame!

From Julie Walker to Julie Cooper, Melinda Clarke managed to draw me to the naughties teen drama The O.C. (2003-2007) as the show's resident Alexis Colby. Melissa had aged like fine wine and reached upper echelon M.I.L.F status during her tenure on the show. Her come-to-bed eyes could bring any man to ruin. Little wonder she turned gold digging into an art; like marrying her best friend's mega wealthy, old dad, cheating on him with her daughter's boyfriend, and conspiring with his murder.

To emphasise what a veritable fox she was during this period, ruminate over this: when Melinda Clarke hit her forties, she looked like this. Can't say the same about her ex co-stars nearing the same age today; including the once great Olivia Wilde.