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Ladytron Deep Blue
You must’ve been aware that this was coming. I couldn’t possibly spawn 26 different tributes to death in horror without, at some point, opting to mention those hapless victims who are slayed as they were born, totally butt naked. Nudity has been almost a pre-requisite in the genre for as far back as my memory serves and this is because erotica and horror complement one another so beautifully. Both have been frowned upon by zealots and both blamed unjustly for the delinquency levels of our generation. On both counts this is absolute badger shit.
The rating system is there for a very distinct reason and, when abided to, works out reasonably well. However, adult material can easily slip into the wrong hands. At eleven I huddled away in my room with a couple of pals and shared the delight of Bob Clark’s Porky’s for the first time, while my parents watched television downstairs oblivious to my sordid session. There was nothing malignant about my intentions that evening and I was just a young child on the cusp of adolescence who had finally sussed out the advantages of possessing genitals.
It all went horrendously wrong on that occasion as my parents switched channels at the precise moment Paulie the Penis began to poke through the shower wall to an audience of naked co-eds. Rumbled in some style, if there was a silver lining then it would have to be that at least I wasn’t flying solo. If I had then the sight that greeted her that night as he burst into my chamber unannounced would likely have shattered my poor mother’s perception of her innocent choir-boy cherub. As it stood I was merely loading the rounds into my chamber for later and the ever versatile memory wank.
Aside from Porky’s, horror did a bang-up job in providing ammo and, as a child growing up in the eighties, it had become almost customary for at least one pair of jiggling breasts to do their cha-cha-slide for our amusement/defilement. If we were really lucky, there may even have been a fleeting glimpse of bush, not the shaven havens of the new millennia, we’re talking dense furry thickets. Massive growling haunch-beards which almost constituted a credit on their own, such was their all-encompassing hairy majesty, minced around before us at the precise time we paused our videos and jotted down the exact time of sighting.
Shedding your linen was a surefire way of being slaughtered right through the eighties, and the slasher sub-genre, in particular, cottoned straight on to the opportunity for a little harmless show and tell. Every group of cum-filled teens came complete with a resident slut and she wasn’t required to tug at our heart-strings, and instead was present for one reason alone. It became almost a tick-box exercise to include at least half a dozen increasingly bloody dispatches and at least one midnight swim or bout of unprotected coitus. This kept the genre fresh as a lily and satisfied our desire on two different levels.
Tape was never quite as durable as digital discs and, having worked in a video store for my entire teens, I knew exactly where the wear-and-tear began to manifest. At the time, erotica was in something of a lull with the BBFC clamping down on anything vaguely pornographic. So good old horror stepped up for its brethren and led the bushy charge. It was considered a unique selling point in slashers, where impossibly handsome young co-eds loved nothing more than to shed their garments for that ill-fated skinny dip. Friday the 13th owned the monopoly during that epoch so I guess our story should undoubtedly begin there.
Jason was an unfortunate pre-adolescent. While his freakish mother chastised a gaggle of horny counselors, this sorry sap was sinking in the swim. She really had no right to be distressed with them, after all they were only following their junk. Pamela, on the other hand, was too busy copping an eyeful and then exercising her superiority complex to even notice that her beloved boy was getting to second base with Ariel in an open oyster shell on the seabed. We live in a blame culture and Pam added kerosene to that particular fire by taking it upon herself to rid the world of these tanked-up teens. She almost got away with it too.
By the time the iconic machete had been passed and Jason began doing his own legwork, there was a clause in every contract that stated “if you grab yourself some sweet candy, y’all gonna die horribly and without a stitch of clothing on”. Friday the 13th Part II gave us a midnight swim to remember, with Terry peeling off to the sheer delight of every growing lad with a penis and some hand lotion. There was nothing wholesome about the treatment she received as Jason began to prove that his mother’s prudish blood ran through his ventricles also.
If you have never watched Tony Maylam’s The Burning then I have only two words for you…both of them tsk, and the second more deliberately delivered. Friday the 13th came along and stole Cropsy’s cheese from under his nose as the film never received the adulation it richly deserved, reflected in its poor box-office return. I wear my burning heart proudly on my sleeve, believing it to eclipse Friday in virtually every area. In Cropsy, it had a real mean-spirited bastard whose shears knew less than no mercy.
He had every reason to gripe, after all, he received nearly 100% burns courtesy of a misfiring prank and was left making Rocky Dennis look like Rob Lowe. There were two scenes which resonated with a hormonal Keeper and one of them didn’t lead to blood-shed so really there is no excuse for its inclusion. The solid gold moment came when fresh-as-a-daisy Sally took a hose down in the camp cubicles adjacent to her cabin. I have to come clean with you, this is notable for one very clear reason in particular. You see, old Sal had possibly the most mystical glands I had seen up to that point.
Small and perky, their true treasures laid in her delectable areolae which gripped like plungers in mid-suction creating a set of dimensions akin to pyramids. You couldn’t blame camp loner Alfred for desiring to catch two peepers full of her puppies, after all they were the stuff legends are made from. Sally did “git it” later and this time she had just taken a disparagingly brief pummeling from dufus Grazer but, alas, this was the only kill of the film which transpired off-screen. Missed a trick there Savini.
Fortunately Karen was on hand to fulfill the fluff quota as she took a midnight dip with randy Eddie, only to rebuff his advances and take that walk of shame as she exited the swim. Cropsy had the right idea on this occasion, leaving her garments strewn across the quayside just to eek out a few more seconds of forbidden flesh for his audience. Ultimately, his chargrilled member would’ve chafed just too much to continue so he treated us to one of the eighties’ most brutal and lingering throat slices.
Michael Wandmacher Prodigal Son/First Responder
I now glance forward nearly thirty years to a remake of one of the superior slashers of its era, My Bloody Valentine. If ever a movie did exactly what the tin stated then this was it. As well as ludicrous amounts of well-handled grue, it also ladled on the full frontal nudity. The film was well received and turned tidy profit at both sides of the Atlantic, cashing in on the still relatively fresh 3D gimmick.
But one moment in particular needled many critics and this involved a scene, almost five minutes in duration, whereby a busty blonde was entirely in the buff. No shadows or mist, she put it all out there without procrastination and this was deemed exploitative in some quarters. Personally I’m not sure she was at odds with filming the scene as she certainly wasn’t self-conscious. Either that or she should’ve bagged herself a Grammy.
Canadian-born director, David Cronenberg, has never been backward moving forward and, in 1975, he brought us the first of his seventies body horror trilogy, Shivers. Set entirely in a suburban high-rise apartment building, it featured a randy parasite which turned the occupants into sex-crazed fiends with a penchant for S&M. This was before the eighties’ AIDS outbreak and his film can be considered as something of an early warning sign as the sickness was spread via sexual contact, making seven minutes of horizontal folk dancing punishable in the worst possible way. By the quite frankly bat shit conclusion, the entire block had been reduced to wrong ‘uns, and the message was as clear as the nose on Gérard Depardieu’s face. Coitus kills.
Two years later, Cronenberg went one better, casting porn starlet Marilyn Chambers in the leading role of Rabid. After being involved in a near-fatal motorcycle accident, Rose undertook experimental plastic surgery, and developed an underarm phallus which enabled her to pass on the pestilence to anyone she came into contact with. If her body was crafted by seraphs, then her concealed mini-member came straight from hell on express delivery. Needless to say, no mortal man could hope to resist her charm, and soon the entire city was subjected to a rabies epidemic which turned them all into frothing zombies. While the position of her reproductive organ was admittedly ominous, I would have been stripped down to my jockeys before she could flutter those lustrous lashes. Some things are worth that dash of rabies.
Adrienne Barbeau was a source of constant masturbation during my teens and, as gruff toned Stevie in John Carpenter’s effective ghost story, The Fog, she was responsible for making a man out of me. She showed up in many of my favorite movies from that era and, in Wes Craven’s Swamp Thing, we were finally provided a further glimpse of her magnanimous wares. Botanist Alec transformed into the titular swamp thing and set aside his hatred for unscrupulous nemesis Arcane while he got better acquainted with Alice. As she waded through the swim with her glorious mammalia exposed to the elements, Swamp Thing wasn’t the only one taking out his garbage.
Grueheads should be very much aware of the lofty regard in which I hold Linnea Quigley. She always excited my inner monster, whether feeding her breast a lipstick in Night of The Demons or stripping down to only her leg warmers as Trash in Dan O’Bannon’s mercurial zombie masterpiece, The Return of The Living Dead. Her Horror Workout from 1990 was a rousing success and worked on two levels entirely. Keeper cannot lie, I shed a lot of beans to this scream queen, enough to fill the mill in Witness. She lacked the inhibitions of so many of her sisters, oozing bubblegum sass from every pore and exhibiting her fruits with a candid but always charming conviction.
I always had a strange desire for Bernice Stegers. Not what you would call your run-of-the-mill sex kitten, she fitted a mantra made popular almost two decades later. Damn right she was a MILF, something about this prosaic siren got a rise out of me every time. In Harry Bromley Davenport’s Xtro, she kept her hands where we could see them. However, in Lamberto Bava’s Macabre, we were shown this woman’s assets courtesy of the obligatory bath tub scene. Any longing was tempered by the fact that she played a necrophiliac and stored her lover’s disembodied head on the top shelf of her refrigerator along with numerous other body parts. But we appreciated Bava’s sentiment.
Roger Donaldson’s Species introduced us to Sil, a government produced alien-human hybrid and Natasha Henstridge puffed out her magnificent chest as she teased and tormented a team of scientists tasked with tracking her down before global panic ensued. Donaldson’s film received a lukewarm reception but the base concept was sound enough for it to spawn three progressively hapless sequels. Like Rose from Rabid, it was game over the very moment she pouted her lips and I guess there are worse ways to go than cracked like a walnut between her scaly thighs.
Gifted scientist Sebastian Caine had precisely the right idea when developing a serum which made him invisible. Paul Verhoeven’s The Hollow Man was applauded for its outstanding special effects and lambasted on just about every other level fathomable. As Caine’s morality vacated the premises, he embarked on a voyage of voyeuristic discovery by sneaking around his co-workers’ personal chambers after dark and realizing his deepest dark desires. With Rhona Mitra and Elisabeth Shue fair game, the lean Bacon made the very most of his new endowment, and returned to the lab to wank himself hollow, with neither any the wiser. If Seth Brundle thought he was a shoe-in for the Nobel prize then I would suggest he take a look at Caine’s serum and stop fraternizing with house flies.
Brad Fiedel The Terminator
One for the ladies now as James Cameron’s The Terminator was also on-hand to teach Brundle how to successfully relocate without metamorphosing into a wretched insect. Arnold Schwarzenegger was proud of his chiseled frame and it had already bagged him a record seven Mr. Olympia titles. As the T-100 model, he decided to travel light and commenced his dogged pursuit of Sarah Connor with the wind whistling past his alloy spunk pods. Eventually he claimed his boots, shades, and leather jacket trifecta, but not before punching Bill Paxton’s chest through and copulating with a discarded vacuum cleaner in a nearby dumpster. This gave new meaning to the term “rise of the machines” as well as “pumping iron” although all those steroids may well have left him in need of a disk clean-up in that department.
Naked flesh looks decidedly spiffing when caked in deep red coulis…FACT. Our final lady in waiting is testament to that. The scarlet lady I refer to is none other than our modern-day slasher sovereign, Diane Foster. The body is a most resplendent piece of kit and Lady Die embraces her own shell by sharing and caring, much to the delectation of every single straight guy on the planet and a large portion of straight females also. We thank her for this honesty daily, actually we thank the living shit out of her. Now I know I can be one crude motherfucker but, with our flaxen-haired angel of death, it is so much more than mere one-dimensional infatuation.
As Audrey Miller in Matt Fransworth’s The Orphan Killer she held our hands and took us through the ringer alongside her. When she was safe we felt safe and when she was crudely dangled by biting wire cuffs, we felt the pinch also. I affectionately remember stating in my appraisal for the film at the time, before I knew Farnsworth or Foster, on her performance being the most emotionally affecting since Marilyn Burns ran the gauntlet, with Leatherface hot on her flip-flops. Keeper never lies.
There was a shower scene which redecorated my hippocampus and still provides the screen saver to my dream-state even now. Ah the importance of being idle. Fishnets, fishnets, fishnets. I apologize, but I am at a rare loss for prose right now. Can’t I just sit with you guys for a bit and simply exhale? When the net dropped to reveal her insanely exquisite back-rack (which I have likened to two skinheads in a lift), I was floored like human Jenga. “Oh my…” was my first internal retort as I imagined spreading these scones with a nob of country butter and presenting them at the village fete.
As Farnsworth punctuated our glee with ominous flashback, we enjoyed a lengthy soak with our queen. Now, possession of buttocks that bodacious is one thing, but when the camera panned to showcase her perky and most precious pearls, we were dazzled momentarily. She evokes our affection without effort, such is the organic radiance our monarch emits in such spades while her pelt is softer than a shrews and actually provides its own light sourcing, such is its divine glow. We all love her dearly and that says all that needs to be said about Diane Foster. After that I’m in need of refreshment, after all, how can you possibly follow-up Lady Die? Precisely, you can’t.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014 (Director’s Cut 2015)
Strip Nude For Some Filler
The closing gallery has become something of a mainstay of the True ABCs of Death sequence and there is no conceivable way I shall be letting standards slip when speaking of the naked body. I celebrate the pelt in any shape or size and the often laborious of sourcing imagery really isn’t a big deal on this occasion. It has been remarked that a picture can paint a thousand words and, with that in mind, paintbrushes at the ready as I’m feeling particularly chatty.