The Real Tragedy of the Fake Boobs of Andrea Davis; Teenage Midnight Madness; Breast Pictures of 2008

As far as this devotee of natural breasts topped by extraordinarily huge nipples sees things, the worst developments of 2008 were the twin sacks of silicone implanted in the torso of formerly flawless softcore siren Andrea Davis.

Blonde Andrea’s unenhanced upper anatomy -- revealed repeatedly in offerings from Seduction Cinema on the order of Lust for Dracula and Dr. Jekyll and Mistress Hyde -- could barely dent an A-cup but, once stiffened with arousal, her mountainous milk-spigots could conceivably utilize bras of their own.

Alas, it appears now as though Ms. Davis has poisoned her previously perfect protrusions with plastic.

Andrea’s artificial inflation is evident in the oddball new Alternative Cinema release Suzie Heartless, in which she portrays a seminal figure in the life (and maybe death) of the titular teen prostitute (a part that was once intended to go to Misty Mundae, who we must pray will keep herself delectably concave and not follow this fraudulently expansive example).

Unfortunately, Andrea’s performance is irrevocably marred for me when she removes her shirt and out juts too-tan skin stretched over two rock-hard ovals. That’s when Suzie Heartless turned into McBeardo’s hard-break.

The Davis nipples those magnificently mammoth, enchantingly extensive, intoxicatingly titanic nipples are there, but no longer do they swoop heavenward from deliciously demure dairy pillows. Now they’re just immobile ornaments athwart uncomfortable-looking store-bought hardness.

Please, Ms. Davis, return those cursed fakes from whence they came, and charm us with the chest you grew on your own. Going organic has never before seemed so vital to the interests of all humanity.

As for the rest of Suzie Heartless, to call it one of the goddamndest things ever released by the people who normally supply the world with stuff like Lord of the G-Strings would be an understatement.

Shot entirely without dialogue, Suzie Heartless chronicles what are described as the last days of a streetwalker.

Walk the streets our heroin(e) does, meandering from a bit of brutality to a couch where she sits next to an older blonde with an open vagina, then back outside, then into an energetic finger-banging courtesy of a heavily tattooed nude lesbian, then to a semi-threeway with the aforementioned Andrea Davis, and so on.

It’s all very arty and fitfully effective. The cinematography transcends the budget and writer-director Tony Marsiglia aims for David-Lynch-style off-centeredness, which he nails remarkably often.

Let us all support Suzie Heartless, then, if only so that we can convince one particular cast member to render herself Andrea Implantless again.

***

My big YouTube score of 2008 is a complete 1981 episode (in chunks) of the Tom-Bosley-narrated film-clip series That’s Hollywood! dedicated to Midnight Movies.

That’s Hollywood! was produced by 20th Century Fox and thus naturally accentuated the studio’s films. Such preference worked out well in this case as Fox’s Rocky Horror Picture Show was still cresting in popularity and the “not a sequel, not a prequel, but an equal” Shock Treatment had not yet been released (to disastrous rejection worldwide).

The other Midnight Movies singled out are Night of the Living Dead, Eraserhead, The Groove Tube, and Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, along with a big nod to John Waters and Pink Flamingos, and an extensive probe of Polyester’s Odorama process.

While it’s not surprising that the show skipped over sex-driven favorites that were then regulars on the late-night circuit such as Emmanuelle, Behind the Green Door, Blonde Ambition, and even Last House on the Left, it is somewhat surprising that, given its Fox pedigree, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls didn’t warrant a mention.

This edition of That’s Hollywood! debuted in November ’81. I was 13 and obsessed with cult films in general (I was a subway ride away from midnight movies seven nights a week in multiple Manhattan theaters, and all over Brooklyn on the weekends), and the above-mentioned titles in particular (I had conned a couple of hippie aunts and an uncle to taking me to see Rocky Horror a year or so earlier). So there was no way I could miss this.

A major problem arose in how That’s Hollywood! aired at 7:30 on Fridays and the McBeardo family was still two Christmases away from its first VCR.

At issue was that Green Beret/Vietnam vet Pops McB was making me to attend Boy Scout meetings on Friday nights and no way would he let me cut out to watch this rat-bastard homo-stoner crap (his initial fury after discovering that I’d seen Rocky Horror was: “Jesus Goddamned Christ! He probably got a contact high!”).

I saw one solution and I took it: crying jag.

The fact that I’d had to kick off my weekends with Christian paramilitary training in the school basement while the cool kids mocked us from the yard was accelerating my already propulsive suicidal ideation, so I simply focused on that and let the hysterics erupt freely.

Pops McB gazed upon his chubby, effeminate, D-minus-averaging, newly teenage progeny and, as I had hoped, stormed out of the house in (thoroughly understandable) disgust.

Thanks, Pops!

I was then free to take in That’s Hollywood!, which I did and which you can now, too, by clicking these links.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

There is one chilling punchline to this That’s Hollywood! saga. As a result of skipping Boy Scouts that night, I was spared stumbling onto a gruesome crime scene directly across the street from school.

Later that evening, my cousin John, who did attend the BSA gathering (and who could really stomach that shit), called me up and said: “Hey Mike, you know Shy Chester?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“He’s DEAD!”

Now despite how “Shy Chester” might sound like a poetic nickname, Shy was this individual’s actual first name (it might have been short for Shia or something Biblical) and he hailed from the Chester family. He was one of the local schmucks I knew from sitting on stoops in the neighborhood, and he had a blisteringly filthy mouth.

Now here’s the un-fun part: Shy Chester was seven years old. He was executed in bed alongside his mother by an Israeli mafia assassin. Shy’s 18-year-old cousin also had his brains removed via bullets, right down the hall. It sucked to be home in their house that night.

The murders were a message to Shy’s father, a mid-level soldier who’d been operating with both the desert-dwellers and Russian mobsters in Brighton Beach, and who was then presently locked up in a Kentucky, where he was about to turn state’s evidence.

A neighbor kid we called Coconuthead found the bodies when he stopped by to pick up a hockey stick. The front door was open and oh, boy.

So here we are 27 years hence and I’m getting to re-watch the Midnight Movies episode of That’s Hollywood here at my naked-lady-eyeballing job and I still don’t know whether I made the right call to stay home or if I truly missed out on the drama of the squad cars and the yellow tape and the body bags and the way that, when you’re a horrible kid, tragedy that doesn’t directly destroy you seems like the coolest thing in the world.

Aside from Midnight Movies, of course.

***

Tits the season for Breast of the Year lists. The new movies I liked most in 2008 were Inside, Quarantine and, if you really must know, Rachel Getting Married. Alas, none of those contain nudity and, after the previous detour in teen male sobbing and second-grader murder, let’s bring on some boobulas.


Teeth
Director Mitchell Lichtenstein’s vagina dentate meditation is bold, witty, and wince-inducing without ever stooping to cheap “horror comedy” tropes. Elevating the endeavor to legitimate art-film status is the lead performance by Jess Weixler, who makes us feel her inner torment as pointedly as a series of scumbag sex-partners experience her biting rage. Well, almost.

The Ruins
Affection for Day of the Triffids aside, killer plants have previously proven best handled by Little Shop of Horrors and not tapped for legitimate terror. The snaking vines of The Ruins is not only palpably threatening, but the sight of what happens once they burrow into human skin could convert meat-eaters into vegetarians simply for revenge. And then there are those Mayans. Laura Ramsey’s glorious TA revelation early on makes her ultimate fate all the most tragic.

Green Lust
No-budget underground Chicago filmmaking at its most skinspired. The crackpot plot, about a sexless nerd O.D.-ing on aphrodisiacs, sets in motion some uproarious chaos, which is punctuated by ace nudity from

volcanically voluptuous knockout Stacy Hargrave, pussy-spreading tight-body Simone Rawski, and wonder-nippled love of everyone’s life who has ever lived Meg McCarville. You will even get to see McBeardo’s cock-and-balls, up close and in lusting color. Put that in your stocking and stuff it.