Oh, My God! Ninja! A Brit's Take on Arnie, Icky Sex and Other Fun Movie Stuff: Ice Dog Movie Guide, #4

By Dave Franklin

I have of late, wherefore I know not, lost all of my mirth…

Man delights not me; no, nor women neither.

 

In my dreams (and increasingly during my more whimsical waking moments) I wander through Movieland. Sometimes I chat to Kelly McGillis about being in a 4G inverted dive with a MiG-28 while a strung-out Withnail stands close by complaining about going on holiday by mistake. At others a xenomorph near the bus stop rips off Forrest Gump's head before being machine-gunned by the ED-209. I close my eyes, take a contented breath, and reopen them to see Frau Blücher upsetting the horses again as Tony Montana snorts coke and tells the permanently agitated Don Logan that this town is like one giant pussy waiting to get fucked.

 

I wander and I wander and I never want to leave…

 

Some movies, you see, contain magic. Magic that seeps into your soul and becomes a part of you. I mean, why waste your time travelling the world, having a career, nurturing dreams or taking a woman seriously? Such pursuits involve a great deal of effort and invariably end in disappointment. Surely it's better to stay invisible at home while exploring a rich cinematic odyssey alongside the likes of Marty McFly, Jessica 6, the Black Knight, Bill Kilgore and a Stepford wife or two?

 

Come now. Partake in the madness. Let me hold your hand and lead you nowhere.

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baby Ice Dog Press
• Release date: Jul 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215177112

Dave Franklin

Dave Franklin is a Brit who lives Down Under. He has also written ten novels ranging from dark comedy and horror to crime and hardcore porn. His naughty work includes Looking for Sarah Jane Smith (2001), Begin the Madness: The Straitjacket Blues Trilogy (2014), The Muslim Zombies (2018) & Welcome to Wales, Girls: A Violent Odyssey of Pornographic Filth (2018).

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Spread Your Legs for Daddy

Back in my mid twenties I was in bed with one of those lovely females making sweet love and thinking that life wasn’t too bad when she clamped her teeth on my ear and half-snarled: Stick it up me arse! Now I know some men appear obsessed with snugly traversing a lady’s poo pipe, but I’m afraid I’m not one. Indeed, I froze at her forthright request. I mean, this was only our second date, prompting my hopelessly fertile imagination to go into overdrive. What the hell would she insist upon during future encounters? Maybe I’d end up crucified over the bed on a Facebook livestream while she threw darts, flicked her pea and cackled. After all, thanks to a lifetime of movie consumption, I’ve long learned that sexual relationships are a minefield.

Nine and a Half Weeks (1986)

The story: A New York divorcee (Kim Basinger) and her ‘heart-shaped ass’ meet a sexually liberated but controlling Wall Street broker (Mickey Rourke) and... nope, that’s it. Initially a box-office flop, this one gained helluva second wind and turned its two handsome leads into stars.

Does it make me wanna incorporate anything into my sex life? Er, what sex life? It must’ve been six years since I... Oh, come on, Dave, play the game. All right, I guess I didn’t mind Basinger doing her lengthy striptease to Joe Cocker’s You Can Leave Your Hat On. Women tend to look good removing their clothes, especially to music, although I must admit I’m still perturbed by a gross-a-gram shedding her tent-like attire and getting her sandbag-like tits out at my older brother’s 18th birthday party. Basinger’s alluring disrobing, however, will always make the likes of Wayne and Garth go bug-eyed and squeal Schwing!

Then there’s the semi-famous bit where a bathrobe-clad Basinger sits on the kitchen floor in front of an open fridge and Rourke feeds her a variety of foods. One question: why doesn’t his fridge start bleeping given the amount of time it’s ajar? Mine does after about thirty seconds. Surely that would interrupt a bout of sexiness, if not become plain annoying. Anyway, somehow Basinger doesn’t puke, given she ingests everything from jalapeno peppers to cough syrup. Milk, honey, strawberries and sparkling water also end up all over the floor. I wouldn’t be happy about that. I mean, my post-coital high would definitely plummet if I then slipped over and broke a leg. So, in short, any lady up for messy food sex with me would have to agree to mop everything up straightaway.

What did I learn about the ladies? Talking about murder on a first date doesn’t put them off. However, buying them a $300 French scarf probably gives you a bit of leeway to blab on about whatever the fuck you like. Ditto the purchase of a gold watch and the regular delivery of bouquets of red roses to their workplace. On a second date it’s fine to blindfold them. They’re also partial to melting ice cubes being dripped on their belly while wearing the aforementioned blindfold. However, if you have a predilection for spanking a misbehaving lady, you have to get the approach right. You can’t just say: You’ve been a very bad girl. I want you to face the wall and raise your skirt because I’m going to spank you. Said lady is likely to get angry and retort: You are kidding? Who the fuck do you think you are? And then start pummelling your chest before submitting to a vaguely rapey bit of sex. Then again, maybe that was your plan all along.

Unfortunately, even a classy, well-adjusted piece of crumpet like Basinger is also capable of making your heart sink with stuff like: I want you to meet my friends. Weeks portrays a volatile, unusually intense relationship, but I guess there’s no escaping some of the opposite sex’s dreaded requests.

Most unbelievable bit: Well, that’s easy: Basinger wandering around New York’s night-time streets dressed as a man, complete with a stick-on tash. Blimey, this whole sequence is groan-inducing. Beforehand, she casually remarked in a Wall Street bar that she’d love to know what it’d be like to be ‘one of the guys’ so Rourke sorts her out a tuxedo, hat and cigar and off they go. Is this supposed to be amusing? Some sort of cross-dressing commentary? Rourke indulging in a little pseudo-homosexuality? I don’t know, but maybe it’s worth it just to see Basinger stab a mistaken homophobe in the arse with a switchblade.

How bad is it? I’m a big believer that small stories should be concisely told. However, director Adrian Lyne dawdles for nearly two hours, forgetting to add such necessary ingredients as a supporting cast and a plot. Instead we get a protracted bout of bed-buying, lots of songs on the soundtrack and a confused old man fondling a fish. Yes, Lyne has a lovely eye for local colour and sure knows about moodily lighting a scene to maximum effect, but this remains a padded, vaguely self-conscious watch. Still, I thought the leads were excellent, even if I couldn’t shake the feeling it’s the sort of thing that nice, middle class couples settle down in front of when they’re feeling naughty. Weeks’ main surprise is that safe sex is never mentioned (let alone practised) during the height of the genitalia-shrivelling fear of AIDS.

Boxing Helena (1993)

The story: A brilliant surgeon is like a jellified puppy around a former one-night stand. This results in either saving a little boy’s hand at work or chopping off a woman’s four limbs at home. Swings and roundabouts, I guess.

Does it make me wanna incorporate anything into my sex life? Not really, as I quite like my women to have arms and legs. Now love and relationships can be tricky things, what with all that doubt, jealousy, exasperation and mind games so Boxing’s outlandish concept taps squarely into our desire for control. Sort of like reducing your other half to your other quarter. And when you think about it, there must be something soothing about saying goodbye to your loved one in the morning knowing she’ll be in exactly the same place when you return home. No need to check her mobile phone to see what she’s been up to, eh? However, even if I succumbed to such a naughty fantasy, it would be tricky to lay my hands on an operating theatre, not to mention the skill to carry out the necessary surgery. I’d most probably end up with a dead stump of a chick and I’m not quite ready for a bout of necrophilia yet.

What did I learn about the ladies? They initially object to being reduced to a head on a stick but get over it after watching you fuck a busty hooker. In other words, faint heart never won fair lady.

Most unbelievable bit: That Madonna, who was originally in the frame, somehow sniffed out that Helena was a dog of a role and passed. A shame, really, as this would have been the perfect companion piece to Body of Evidence. It’s also hard to swallow that Boxing was written and directed by a woman. Letting the sisterhood down there, girl.

How bad is it? Rampant implausibilities abound. It sure as shit ain’t good, but its whacked-out central idea and the way everyone deliriously overplays their hand do turn it into a pleasing sniggerfest until its appalling climactic copout. I enjoy how Helena (Sherilyn Fenn) always looks fabulous, despite her supposed physical and mental anguish. Meanwhile Dr. Nick Cavanaugh (Julian Sands) is a simpering wet leg with mummy issues, a highly qualified professional who makes a fourteen-year-old schoolboy appear poised and sophisticated. Boxing is supposed to be an examination of unrequited love and a warped psycho-sexuality, but matters aren’t helped by Helena being so rude, sullen and heartless. She’s a bitch that revels in her tormenting power whether attached to her legs or not. I think I’m trying to say that this pair of fuckwits deserves each other.

The Piano (1993)

The story: Plinky-plonk, Harvey Keitel wants a bonk.

Does it make me wanna incorporate anything into my sex life? Well, that depends on whether I meet a woman with a fanatical attachment to a large musical instrument.

What did I learn about the ladies? They can stop speaking in childhood for a reason they don’t even comprehend and instead express themselves through playing a hand-carved piano. I doubt this is a recipe for happiness. Frankly, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that the perverse Holly Hunter should’ve binned the old joanna long ago and started enjoying a chinwag again. I also gleaned that a lady can respond most favourably to sexual blackmail, a piece of grubby knowledge that has certainly made my nasty little brain start whirring.

Most unbelievable bit: Even though it conjures up 1850s New Zealand with ease, The Piano feels contrived. An air of ridiculousness and vague pretentiousness hangs over most of it. I imagine the titular instrument symbolises something or is a metaphor for repression, but I didn’t manage to pin down exactly what. Far and away the daftest bit is Hunter passionately playing the bloody thing while asleep.

How bad is it? From the outset Hunter and Anna Paquin, who both won Oscars, are a pair of annoying twats in stupid bonnets. I particularly wanted the effervescent, precocious brat Paquin to be torn apart by wolves, but Hunter’s incessant sign language, mannered performance and the three and a half feet of her singularly unerotic presence also underlined that this is not a bloke movie. In fact, for some reason I tried quite hard to dislike it, but it does possess a weird, icky quality. It’s also nicely filmed and you can’t argue with how director Jane Campion captures the contrast between the wild, muddy landscape and something as genteel and unthreatening as a piano. Shame it cops out big time at the end.

The Piano is at its best when Keitel commandeers the piano and starts wheedling his way into Hunter’s knickers. One moment he’s sniffing her jacket, the next he’s lying on the floor probing a hole in her stockings with his dirty fingernails. Given he gets up to his old full frontal antics, I was a little disappointed he didn’t go full Bad Lieutenant and make her do a blowjob face while she tickled the ivories and he blew his beans over the side of it.

Last Tango in Paris (1972)

The story: In a cause célèbre the Godfather tries a little anonymous humping. Bloody hell, now he’s the Prodfarther.

Does it make me wanna incorporate anything into my sex life? You don’t have a name and I don’t have a name, either, Brando tells Maria Schnieder early on. No names here... I don’t wanna know anything about you. Whaddya think, folks? This could be an interesting experiment in which all love, tenderness and affection is removed from coupling, reducing the act to its bare physicality. Oh, wait a sec, I think most of my relationships have already been like that.

What did I learn about the ladies? They can orgasm running down a hill.

Most unbelievable bit: The first fuck. It comes out of nowhere. The voluptuous Schneider passes an aging, disorientated Brando on the street; by sheer coincidence they both end up looking at the same apartment two minutes later. With his dishevelled hair and paunchiness, Brando is more hobo than Romeo. Neither does he wow her with his charm or sense of humour. In fact, he’s barely coherent, a mumbling weirdo that nice ladies would surely cross the street to avoid. No matter, he just picks her up, snogs her and rips her panties off so violently you hear them tear, a series of events that gives me hope that age, personal grooming and social niceties are irrelevant when it comes to banging twenty-year-old totty.

How bad is it? Look, I think it’s arty, pretentious, drawn-out, ridiculous, solemn and unintentionally funny. There’s some contrived film-within-a-film stuff, a scene in which our star-crossed lovers pretend their names are a series of animal grunts, and dialogue such as: My childhood was made up of smells. I mean, there is some sort of interesting idea at Tango’s core in that Brando essentially wants to construct a safe place. The apartment represents not so much a clean slate, as a sterile one where the possibility of emotional attachment, pain and grief cannot come into being. Or as Brando concisely puts it: Everything outside this place is bullshit. He wants uncomplicated physical pleasure and nothing else, a desire many of us may have flirted with after a traumatic break-up or the loss of a loved one. Unfortunately, such a promising concept runs out of gas almost immediately. I never believed this is how people talk and act. It’s one of those flicks where I ended up thinking that actors can be a bunch of right silly fuckers.

Shame (2011)

The story: Brandon (Michael Fassbender) is a good-looking ladies’ man. He’s also a porn addict, rampant masturbator, sex toy devotee and promiscuous, big-dicked fuck machine. Not the cheeriest chap, though.

Does it make me wanna incorporate anything into my sex life? This is the sort of slow-burn flick that I think a fair few men can occasionally relate to. Many go through a sex-obsessed stage during which numbers matter as women are viewed as little more than a collection of orifices. Penetration, conquest and possession are the name of the game. Some grow out of it and some don’t. I’m older now and Shame enabled me to at least pick up on shards of my younger self’s attitude, if not behaviour (although I can’t ever recall clogging a work computer with hardcore porn). You don’t want to be like Brandon. He’s not a rapist or a pedo, but from the first scene of him lying in bed dazedly staring at the ceiling this one is all about sex’s amazing ability to make you miserable. They say obsession is an attempt to fill a void and it’s clear that Brandon’s life is bereft of anything meaningful. The guy has no friends or hobbies while his austere, colourless flat reflects his emotional core. Is there even a picture on the wall? All he has is the next fuck, using women like they’re a knotted rope to try to haul himself away from the spiritual hell he inhabits. Problem is, he doesn’t even seem to derive any joy from dipping his wick. Promiscuity is not the answer yet he can’t imagine being in a relationship, either. Or as he tells a date: I don’t understand why people wanna get married, especially these days. I don’t see the point. Worse, when he meets a gal that he appears to see as a real human being rather than a walking vagina, he can’t get it up. The man’s well and truly stuck between a cock and a wet place.

What did I learn about the ladies? Some make up their minds about sleeping with you on the first glance. Others might run away, mull it over and later give you the green light. Then there are some that don’t mind blunt sex talk and being fingered in a pub, even if their boyfriend is sitting ten yards away.

Most unbelievable bit: Hmm, well, I went along with most of the stuff in this one. It’s smartly acted and believably links sex with alienated self-disgust, but I found it a bit head-scratching that Brandon ends up in a gay nightclub batting for the other side. You gotta draw the line somewhere, fellah.

How bad is it? I don’t believe in sex addiction. It’s the latest in a long line of 21st century excuses for shitty behaviour. Just act badly, refuse to accept responsibility for your actions, and then present yourself as a victim in a misguided bid for sympathy. Pathetic.

Or in Brandon’s case, fucking pathetic.

Saying that, Shame is an explicit, pretty good hundred minutes. It’s not pacy and a bit too arty in places with lingering shots of people staring into nothing, but I like how we’re left guessing at the reasons for Brandon’s single-minded, self-defeating behaviour. It might have something to do with a head injury, although at one point his equally fucked-up, self-harming younger sister cryptically says: We’re not bad people. We just come from a bad place. Don’t go watching Shame for any answers, though, especially if you have difficulty keeping your cock in your pants. Of course, people like Brandon could always try exercising some goddamned willpower.

Striptease (1996)

The story: Demi Moore gets paid more than twelve mil to show off her fake tits in a boring vanity project.

Does it make me wanna incorporate anything into my sex life? Surprisingly, there’s no sex in this one. It’s just a lot of clothes shedding so I guess it comes down to whether I wanna hang around places like Moore’s place of employment, The Eager Beaver. Problem is I’ve already been to the odd strip club and it gets awfully dull watching a procession of pneumatically-enhanced strangers disrobe while sipping on some hideously overpriced drink, especially as you know that although they’re smiling your way there’s little doubt they loathe you. The most telling line comes from the Beaver’s owner: I haven’t had a hard-on since I started running this place.

What did I learn about the ladies? They can possess a staggering lack of self-awareness. See below.

Most unbelievable bit: This is honest work, one of Moore’s fellow ‘dancers’ says during a pep talk. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Two minutes later she takes to the stage dressed as a cat, crawls on her hands and knees, shakes a tail glued to her butt and opens her legs for a load of drunk, whooping punters. Yes, Miss Integrity, you can definitely be proud of yourself.

Moore, however, is even blinder during a minor confrontation with her boss in which she objects to the saucy new design of the club’s coasters and napkins. They degrade women, she insists with a straight face. Er, Demi, sweetie, aren’t you the one doing that? At the very least you’re putting the perception of women back fifty years or so. You literally earn your living by choosing to present yourself in a sexualised way night after night so save us the feminist ire. And given you fancy yourself as a good mom, why the hell do you think it’s appropriate to allow your seven-year-old daughter to hang out backstage?

How bad is it? Unlike Nine and a Half Weeks, Striptease doesn’t take itself seriously. It’s a knockabout dark comedy, but Moore doesn’t understand this, preferring to strut through its near-two hours in love with herself. She’s all outspoken honesty and tedious indignation as she goes about fighting a dreary custody battle for her kid. Now I don’t mind her contributions to A Few Good Men, Disclosure, Ghost and that unintentional laugh-a-thon G.I. Jane, but I imagine even she’d admit that she’s never been known for her bouts of sparkling comedy. Here she doesn’t generate one chuckle. In fact, she’s so out of tune with the rest of the cast that Striptease helped derail her career. The sole reason to watch is Burt Reynolds as ‘Congressman Dildo’, a corrupt, drooling politician that likes to occasionally cover himself in Vaseline and make love to Moore’s ‘fresh hot lint’. He grasps the necessary angle of approach in a performance that served as a forerunner to his superior Boogie Nights turn. Just the touch of your hand, he tells Moore, sets my pecker on fire.

Secretary (2002)

The story: A dominant, uptight lawyer (James Spader) employs a self-harming, subservient secretary (Maggie Gyllenhaal). Unconventional true love blooms.

Does it make me wanna incorporate anything into my sex life? Lots of sexual relationships originate at work. It’s probably the number one place where people hook up. Most working days (those mundane, hateful eight hours or so that you spend in the proximity of colleagues with which you often have fuck all in common) are probably given over to a fair amount of sexual fantasising. After all, how else are you supposed to get through such a quiet hell?

As for me, I once worked with a nonentity by the name of Lisa. She was nominally my immediate boss and I couldn’t stand anything about her, especially her lank, centre-parted, straight hair; her nasal voice and predictable, work-based conversation; her lack of curves; her fondness for wearing a denim jacket in some sort of misguided attempt at a casual look; and her bovine, humourless personality. She was dull as ditchwater and the sight of her five days a week made me want to smash a fist into the wall.

And boy, did I wanna fuck her. Not in a nice way, either.

Given that scenario, there are a couple of bits in Secretary that tap into such icky frustration. Gyllenhaal has pissed off Spader again (with her sniffing, minor incompetence and all-round hair-twirling gawkiness) so he tells her to bend over with both elbows planted on his desk. He then repeatedly wallops her behind, so hard he leaves bruises. Later he tells her to pull up her skirt before dropping a load over her buttocks. Get these forms filled out, he breathlessly tells her afterward, and then you can take your lunch break. And every time I watch such fantastic scenes, among the most memorable in twenty-first century cinema, that’s me and Lisa finally getting down to business. I’m retired now but, oh boy, I’d go back to work in a flash if I could do that to her.

What did I learn about the ladies? In Nine and a Half Weeks Kim Basinger vehemently objected to being made to crawl around on her hands and knees. In Secretary it’s Gyllenhaal’s idea of heaven. No wonder I’m confused by women, and I haven’t even been sent a dead worm in the post by any of them.

Most unbelievable bit: True love’s one thing but proving it by sitting at a desk for three days straight, a fanatically committed non-move that attracts media attention, is a (wee) bit much. Then again, maybe Gyllenhaal really wants his money.

How bad is it? Actually, it’s pretty damn good. The perfunctory, Schrader-like title sure doesn’t promise a lot, but it shows how good writing can make the most mundane shit (a woman getting a typing job) interesting. I like the way it captures workplace frustrations, arousal, secret longings, mind games, pretences, self-disgust, hesitation and uncertainties in a burgeoning sexual relationship. Both leads are tremendous. Spader, of course, has long been au fait with playing furtive oddball perverts (see below). Here he’s particularly uncomfortable in his own skin, in turns stern and pathetic. Gyllenhaal, with her weird/pretty face and expressive eyes, initially embodies a mousey dowdiness as she tries to grasp the ‘intimate tendril’ sprouting from one of Spader’s ‘darker areas’. In these dismal days of modern cinema, where women frequently slug it out toe to toe with men and win, it’s refreshing to see an actress take on such a superficially humiliating role. Indeed, Gyllenhaal’s whole-hearted portrayal of a sexual doormat (and disinterest in any sexual harassment bullshit) enables her to turn it into a Strong Female Role. That’s weirdly contradictory when you think about it. Anyhow, Gyllenhaal and Spader generate terrific chemistry as we watch two warped misfits painfully grope their way toward each other.

Secretary makes two minor mistakes, though. Firstly, it does that irritating Carlito’s Way thing by starting with how things pan out, thus taking a sledgehammer to suspense. Secondly (and I can’t believe I’m going to say this) but it’s needlessly graphic. Secretary creates a genuinely erotic mood (just listen to the rustle of a skirt being pulled up) so there’s no reason to show all of Gyllenhaal’s front bits, especially as they’re wheeled out when the flick’s almost finished. In the days of free internet porn, less is most definitely more. However, it’s still a terrific depiction of a woman embracing her sexual nature and a man doing his damndest to deny his.

Crash (1996)

The story: Car crash survivors James Spader, Holly Hunter and Rosanna Arquette regularly gather to talk sexy nonsense about dicks, sodomy, wrecked bumpers and blood-spattered speed dials. One man even lives in a huge car that’s like a ‘bed on wheels’. Shame it smells of semen. Oh, hang on, that’s a good thing. Chilly, po-faced coupling abounds.

Does it make me wanna incorporate anything into my sex life? Well, as I’ve never had a serious car crash, I don’t really know. If I do ever end up in traction or a wheelchair, I’ll report back on my level of horniness. All I can say is that I’ve