We All Have a Bad Side

Readers, I have a very important question to ask, and I expect honest, relationship-killing answers:

Did you know about Doppelganger?

If you responded "no,", then have I got a treat for you!

If you said "yes, yes Emily, I've always known about this 1993 mashup of dissociative identity order tropes, mannequins in face/off masks reveals, gooey unexplained demon exoskeleton attacks, and nuns running phone sex businesses, but I guess I forgot to tell you", then you are dead to me.

Unless you added "oh! I didn't tell you because there's a dead cat." Then I'd say, well golly, you truly do understand.

Quick Plot: Holly Gooding is a poor little rich girl with a 5'4 problem: her titular doppelganger is making life VERY difficult.

After maybe stabbing her mother to death in the wealthy family's New York City penthouse, Holly flees to LA to sort out her trust fund and visit her institutionalized brother (who just might have murdered their missing father). Despite being, you know, NYC penthouse/trust fund wealthy, Holly decides to rent a spare room from struggling screenwriter Patrick Highsmith and his ill-fated cat Nathan.

Patrick is your typical nerdy earnest good guy writer type hero, meaning he's blander than the grape jelly toast he dresses up with mustard. Thankfully, he has a far sassier writing partner named Elizabeth who lends some fast-talking pop when needed.

As you can expect from any movie about a heterosexual man and woman suddenly living in close quarters, Patrick and Holly become intimate...or do they? After a wild night of dirty kitchen floor sex, Holly is apalled by Patrick's memory of the act and is forced to explain that her double sometimes slips into her life.

As Elizabeth cannily points out, men will put up with a lot of insanity if the sex is good. Maybe it's that Drew Barrymore's doe-eyed innocence is naturally irresistible, but Patrick accepts A LOT: her wild mood swings, a fast-talking FBI agent hiding out in a laser-lit empty apartment next door, and Holly's arrest for the murder of her brother.

I know I've gone into what seems like a lot of detail about the plot of Doppelganger, but it's necessary to explain just how insane this story becomes. Things start getting weird when Sally Kellerman (who I have to assume owed writer/director Avi Nesher a large, "I know where the bodies are buried" favor) shows up in a cameo as, I kid you not, a former nun now running a phone sex operation but still the preeminent LA expert on the subject of doppelgangers. For whatever reason, she keeps a Raggedy Anne doll on her work desk.

What. Is. Happening.

I'm going to spoil the ending(s) of Doppelganger, because I'm terrified I haven't sold it hard enough for anyone to sit through a few commercials on Tubi and stream it free of charge, and that would be a true shame. It's not every day that you stumble on a '90s thriller that whiplashes from soap operatic multiple personality disorder saga to latex face/off disguise reveal and ends with Drew Barrymore being ripped into two gooey monster halves that resemble what the spinal structures of the creatures from Mac & Me would look like in that famous Bodies touring display.

Didja get all that?

Doppelganger's poster looks like it's selling a sleazy pre-Lifetime-but-totally-Lifetime sexy thriller. The fact that Greg Nicotero and Robert Kurtzman's names show up in the opening credits should alert you that some practical FX are going to ooze onscreen, but when you're 80 minutes into a 90 minute non-supernatural film, IT'S A LITTLE BIT SHOCKING. Especially when you're still trying to come to terms with the fact that a half dozen characters (including The People Under the Stairs' Sean Whalen) have actually been Dennis Christopher's abusive psychiatrist in face puddy. THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS.

Avi Nesher showed up once before here: for the Cryptkeeper-less Tales From the Crypt movie Ritual, another film that had a lot of ambition in its style. Like Ritual, Doppelganger doesn't fully work as a film, nor does its gender politics age well in any way. There's a lot to squirm about in how the barely 18-year-old Barrymore is ogled by both the camera and every man she encounters, particularly her very own psychiatrist. The film considers him a monster because he dresses up in latex faces and murders at will, but you never get the sense that his lust is actually on trial.

Still, it's pretty hard to discover such bonkers and not walk away elated by its grand strokes.

Why has this movie been forgotten?

High Points
I'm a sucker for a grand, ridiculous reveal, and it doesn't get much wackier than a mannequin club...followed up by...

...whatever the hell this is supposed to be

Low Points
Seriously. This poor teenager has been sexually abused and exploited by her therapist, but it seems to only be considered a crime because he also went on a very bloody killing spree. Eff you, the '90s

Lessons Learned
The best prosthetics can do wonders with altering your facial structure, height, and voice

Common writers' afflictions include weak eyesight and being bad with names

The key to identifying which Drew Barrymore is nice and which Drew Barrymore is here evil doppelganger/rapist-murderer psychiatrist can best be identified by measuring the darkness of her lipstick

Your Moment of Zen
I was a teenager in the '90s, which meant I attended my share of awkward school dances where I, like so many of my peers, attempted to move my body to mediocre music in a way that made me look attractive. It's incredibly refreshing to watch actual hot people do the same and realize, in a true moment of enlightenment, that yes, I did indeed look stupid, but so does Poison Ivy-era Drew Barrymore because you know what? THERE'S NO WAY TO DANCE SEXY TO '90s PARTY MUSIC

The Winning Line
"You don't own me. You're not my father!"
Um?

Look! It's -
A fresh-faced (well, as fresh a face as I've ever seen) Danny Trejo as the sexually harassing construction worker whose catcalls are ickily subtitled "foreign language" as if no one in California has ever heard of this thing called "Spanish"

Rent/Bury/Buy
In case you couldn't tell, I realllllllllly enjoyed Doppelganger. It's terrible, dated, offensive, and possibly not that good a movie, but it's also WILD. You can survive a few ads for stock apps on Tubi. Give it a go.

Load Up the Calamine Lotion

Poison Ivy is one of those much-referenced ‘90s sexy thrillers that I’m guessing less people have seen than used as a punchline. I do not tolerate such hijinks.

Quick Plot: Darlene Connor--er, Sylvia Cooper--is a lonely teenager making minor attempts to revolt against her wealthy, recovering alcoholic dad (Tom Skerritt and later, Tom Skerritt's butt) and beautiful but dying mother (Cheryl Ladd). To her surprise, the socially awkward Sylvia befriends the blond, beautiful, and rebellious new girl on a scholarship named (sorta) Ivy.

They each buy one half of a best friend necklace, help each other with their homework, and team up to win the big science fair competition.

Wait, that must have been the R-rated editions. Let me change the settings on this DVD.

OH.

While she begins with the lovable smile of Drew Barrymore, it only takes a month or so for Ivy to draw our her inner Crush-era Alicia Silverstone (pre-chewing up food and spitting it in her baby's mouth, naturally).

Directed by The Rage: Carrie 2's Katt Shea, Poison Ivy is certainly a film of its early '90s time period, most notably in its smoldering saxophone infused score. The film was fairly infamous and went on to spawn three sequels, all (as far as I can tell from quick synopses) with the same basic formula of a mystery hot chick befriending a wallflower and overtaking her life. We've seen it before and I can't imagine living in a world where we won't see it again.

That being said, I was surprised at how much fun I had with Poison Ivy. Barrymore, an actress I've always found to be likable but limited, manages some of her best work with Ivy, conveying a trashy sweetness in early scenes and carefully transitioning to her sexy inner sociopath. Sarah Gilbert was always the best thing on Roseanne (and considering the talents of Laurie Metcalf and John Goodman, that says a lot) so it's no surprise to see her nail a similarly alienated teen. 

Also, this film is SLEAZY. I'm talking "Tom Skerritt orally pleasing an underage Drew Barrymore on the bed that this dying wife is sleeping on" sleazy. Maybe I should have saved that bit for the--

High Points

I mean, this film has Tom Skerritt orally pleasing an underage Drew Barrymore on the bed that this dying wife is sleeping on. You can't say the film doesn't go for it

Low Points

It's not necessarily the film's fault that since its debut 22 years ago, Lifetime has produced dozens and dozens of movies with the exact same premise and beats

Lessons Learned

TMJ almost killed Burt Reynolds

You can’t put 200 people on the sidewalk just cause you don’t like an editorial

When in doubt, never forget the powers of a sexy saxophone score

Rent/Bury/Buy

Poison Ivy is a Long Wait on Netflix, leading me to believe it's out of print (oddly enough, the same goes for Shea's The Rage). While this isn't the kind of movie you need to start eBaying madly, I do certainly recommend a watch if it crosses your screen. Particularly if you’re in the mood for true and utter sleaze.

We Didn't Start the Fire (Drew Barrymore Did)

Though it's true that Drew Barrymore's heat-rising Charlie is the protagonist of 1984's Firestarter, she’s still something of a petite monster, what with her ability to set ablaze anyone or thing that crosses her path. Hence it’s inclusion here at February’s Vertically Challenged Villainy!

Quick Plot: Pyrokinetic Charlie and psychic(ish) dad are on the run from the evil government seeking to study their paranormal abilities, powers caused by some voluntary testing Dad David Keith/Keith David/The White One Of The Two did with wife Heather Locklear back in college. Hitchhiking brings them to the happy-go-lucky farm run by Art Carney and in a rare non-villainous role, Louise Fletcher, but even the safe haven of every Wookie’s favorite neighbor and Nurse Ratched can’t protect them from evil suit Martin Sheen and his maybe-pedophiliac henchman played with oily wrongness by the great George C. Scott as an eyepatch wearing ponytailed maybe Native American.

Whatever.

Let’s get this out of the way: Firestarter has one glaring flaw, and that blazing fire of a problem is kind of important.

It’s boring.

Obviously, not every Stephen King film can be 90 minutes of ridiculous dumb joy like Maximum Overdrive or well-crafted tension like Misery. But when a promising story is put in the hands of the kind of filmmaker like Mark Lester, the man whose youthful energy made Class of 1984 pop and Class of 1999 positively explode, one can’t blame ME for having high expectations.

Having not read the novel, I don’t necessarily know which direction the film should have taken but having, you know, SEEN the film, I’d like to say: not that one. Safely between E.T. and rehab, young Drew Barrymore is perfectly fine and eerily confident in the lead role, while David Keith/Keith David/I Will Never Know For Sure makes a believable, sympathetic father. Sheen and Scott can do this kind of work on the toilet and still manage to earn awards for it. Performance is hardly an issue for Firestarter.

So what is? The fire stunts are impressively dangerous (though some bullet magic comes off a tad silly) and the IDEA of a government exploiting its people in the name of science has its merits. But much like David Cronenberg’s head-popping Scanners, Firestarter just doesn’t seem to know how to make its universe as interesting onscreen as the concept is on paper.

By no means does it mean Firestarter is a terrible film or on par with the drudges of Stephen King’s filmography. But given the choice between watching kid Drew Barrymore get tormented by scary Cat’s Eye goblins or nondescript government agents, I assume the choice is obvious.

High Points

George C. Scott rarely missteps when it comes to acting, and his creepy role here as a man obsessed with Charlie’s power is easily the most interesting thing onscreen. Or maybe I just dug the fact that Patton was wearing an eyepatch and ponytail. Who can say?

Low Points

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Lessons Learned

If you find yourself stuck in a Stephen King project, never, and I mean never, put your trust in Martin Sheen

Rarely should you believe a man who carries $500 bills

When the person standing next to you is gunned down by a sniper, the proper next step is probably not to remain in place

Credits Curiosity

For whatever reason, the opening credits list the cast “In order of appearance.” I don’t see how this is a good idea

Personal Connection

So there was a hidden reason for my excitement at revisiting Firestarter: as a child, the title happened to be my very own parent-given nickname, based on the fact that my-then blond hair and still-eternal hotness (body temperature-wise, not that I was a sexy two-year-old) made me something of a dead ringer for li’l Charlie. Clearly our career trajectories continued to parallel one another (I don’t want to talk about the dark days and what my equivalent of Babes In Toyland or Tom Green was)

Rent/Buy/Buy

Stephen King fans or ‘80s enthusiasts might find Firestarter worthy of a gander, though speaking as someone who could mildly classify herself in either category, I was let down. The DVD is absent of extras, a shame since Lester’s commentaries are often as interesting as the films themselves (and come to think of it, a commentary by the craft service caterer or Barrymore’s on-set tutor might have been more interesting than the final product). It’s there, and if you want to watch it, I promise not to set you on fire or anything. Unless you’re mean about it. Then I’m breaking out the marshmallows and having some REAL fun…

Horrible Non-Horror! The Cincinnati Christmas Edition

Drew Barrymore. Eileen Brennan. Jill Schoelen. Richard Mulligan. Pat Morita. Some guy named Googy Gress. 

GOOGY!

Could this be the greatest cast ever assembled for a Christmas movie?

Quick Plot: Young Lisa (off the wagon Barrymore) has no time for sleds and Barbie. See, she’s from Cincinnati (where, according to song, the girls are pretty, boys are feisty, and the town is natty...which sounds racist, though the town is completely white and therefore may indeed be really racist). Also in Cincy is Lisa’s flaky mom (Mrs. Peacock), minimum wage slave big sis, sis’s boyfriend Ted Theodore Logan, his chubby friend George (some guy named GOOGY!) and their smarmy boss, played in his glorious sleep by the phenomenal Richard Mulligan.

On Christmas Eve, a storm of Every Christmas Movie You’ve Ever Seen proportions strikes, causing a mini-car accident that sends Lisa into the magical world of Toyland. There she meets alternate versions of her Cincy pals, now rough derivatives of nursery rhyme characters. Evil boss (now named Barnaby) is attempting to marry Lisa’s not-sister (now Mary), much to the chagrin of her true love Jack (still pretty much Ted Theodore Logan). 

It’s vital that Jack be named Jack, primarily so that we get the line “Jack be nimble. Jack be dead!” at a key moment towards the end of the film.

Naturally, the only person who can help the young lovers is Pat Morita, aka The Toymaker (not to be confused with the homicidal craftsman of the same name in Silent Night Deadly Night 5). With magic toy soldiers, bottled up evil, and an incredibly terrible song that doesn’t even attempt to rhyme its lyrics, the little man spreads his glee throughout Toyland and inside the hardened heart of young Lisa.

Babes In Toyland is a bizarre and fairly hilarious television movie from the golden age of television movies that was the 1980s. Decorated with deflating balloons and mascots that look like their fur has been fading in a Hollywood warehouse since the ‘50s, the film feels more like an elementary school play than big budget special. I almost wonder if the actors thought they were simply rehearsing and didn’t know until later that there was film in the cameras.

That’s a wonderful thing.

You know what else is wonderful? The fact that Babes In Toyland is a musical. Kind of.

Listeners of GleeKast (that’s you, right?) know of my dislike for the modern crutch that is AutoTune, but Babes In Toyland certainly makes a case for it. Non-singing actors like Morita and Mulligan get through their brief musical interludes mostly by just shouting the lyrics. Hey, even the greats have to compensate somehow.

Lessons Learned

In Toyland, only the bride dresses up for a wedding. Guests are encouraged to wear the same clothing they’ve been in for the past week

Wooden soldiers aren’t much in demand anymore, and that’s appalling

The best way to fight evil is to be from Cincinnati. And to sing about it

Rent/Bury/Buy

Instant Watch was invented for one reason, and one reason alone: movies like these. Babes In Toyland is a cheap, awkward and not at all good holiday movie that drags in places and makes you laugh your ears off in others. In other words, it’s a tasty Christmas cookie that you owe it to yourself to enjoy.