THE TV GODS ARE KIND: PASSIONS IS SAVED!!!

This has been a great day; I got a new job, a doo-wop band on the subway performed a beautiful rendition of "I Only Have Eyes For You" — my favorite song, especially the version by the Flamingos — I made an incredible seafood stew of scallops, catfish, and bacon in a creamy white wine sauce, and then I received news that put the icing on the cake: PASSIONS, the greatest TV show in the known universe, is moving to cable! Here's the scoop:

LOS ANGELES (Hollywood Reporter) - DirecTV is getting into the scripted series business for the first time with "Passions," the low-rated soap that will end its eight-year run on NBC in September. The show will move to the satellite broadcaster's original programming channel, the 101, on September 17 -- 10 days after it wraps on NBC.

While continuing to produce "Passions" for NBC didn't make sense because of the show's low ratings, it works great for DirecTV, said Marc Graboff, president of the network's corporate sibling, NBC Universal Television, West Coast. "The studio gets to continue to produce it, and its core audience of devoted fans gets to continue to watch it," he said.

NBC Universal TV has found a way to "produce the show effectively" by reducing the budget, accomplished mostly by going from five episodes a week on NBC to four on DirecTV. While the majority of the cast and crew are expected to continue on the series, the revenue from DirecTV still "more than covers" the studio's costs, Graboff said. What's more, the pact, a first between a major TV studio and a satellite provider on a scripted series, feels like a test deal for the future, he said. "I can see shows that are too narrow for the broad network tent but make sense to continue on other platforms finding a future there," Graboff said.

-Reuters/Hollywood Reporter

HIRED!

The last time I was unemployed I went for two years without a steady gig, existing on freelance writing jobs and the occasional stint as a dog walker. This time around my unemployment lasted for less than a month, and I have not had a chance to get used to the sleep-when-you-like, look-for-work-whenever lifestyle again. And that’s a good thing, because I am now the copywriter/proofreader for a design company located a stone’s throw from Grand Central Station and staffed with an abundance of comics geeks and other assorted fellow wackos. They do design work for all manner of sports, comics, and movie cards, among other things, and the place is riddled with colorful comics art and toys. A good fit, no?

I start next Wednesday morning — I have some outstanding freelance that needs attending to before I start a full-time gig — so wish me luck as I once more leap into the entertainment media arena!

I'M A JOKER, I'M A SMOKER, I'M A MIDNIGHT TOKER

I came across this still of Conrad Veidt from the 1928 silent film THE MAN WHO LAUGHS, and while I had heard that the visual for Batman's arch-enemy, the Joker, was cribbed from that film, I had never before found a letter perfect example. Well, feast your eyes on this shit:

I don't know what you think, but that's the motherfucking Joker.

In the film, the character was disfigured as a child, a permanent smile carved onto his face, and damn my eyes if he isn't creepy-looking as all fuck. That visage would go on to delight comics fans for over six decades, a countenance forever connected with diabolical schemes such as this; from "The Joker's Comedy of Errors," BATMAN #66 (August-September 1951):

Don't worry, dear readers! It's Batman, and I'm sure he can more than handle the Joker's boner!

MUSICALS DON'T HAVE TO SUCK

It's not every day that I get to share a Broadway matinee with my mom that includes a bunch of Muppet stand-ins singing songs with lyrics and visuals about jerking off to porno, fisting and pussy-eating, and having her laugh her ass off throughout, so I offer a deeply-felt thank you to the maniacs responsible for AVENUE Q, 2004's Tony winner for best musical.

The premise is simplicity itself: take a group of characters and a format obviously inspired by SESAME STREET, shift the target audience from wee ones to adults and deal with issues common to the grownup experience, fuel it with loads of risque — and tasteless — humor and songs that subvert the usual Broadway treacle, and you have a side-splitting show that is definitely not for the kiddies.

The cast includes various analogs to some of the Sesame Street-residents that we know and love (the Bert stand-in is a closeted homosexual with a crush on his straight roomie, and Lucy the slut, described by the creators as "What if Prairie Dawn grew up and went bad"), a non-puppet couple (one of whom is a Japanese woman who is so hilariously un-PC that they never would have gotten away with her if played by a non-Asian actress), a pair of young twenty-somethings whose romance is a lot more realistic than anything I've ever seen on the stage (including the infamous and graphic Long Island ice tea-inspired puppet sex scene), two cute little bears who resemble Snuggle and convince people to act on their worst urges (financial frivolity, drunkenness and possible suicide), a superintendent who happens to be Gary Coleman of DIFF'RENT STROKES has-been fame (not the real Coleman, but a woman playing him with borderline-vicious irreverence), and my favorite of the lot, Trekkie Monster,

a ribald "descendant" of Cookie Monster who lives for Internet pornography — he has a number devoted to that called "The Internet is For Porn" — and tunefully urges the audience to "grab your dick and double-click." And, no, he has nothing whatsoever to do with STAR TREK despite his name.

The set looks like a much seedier (read "realistic") version of the SESAME STREET neighborhood, and the stage is flanked with two large plasma screen TV's which broadcast animated segments that punctuate the piece and bolster the whole homage/parody effect, and unlike MEET THE FEEBLES, Peter (the LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy) Jackson's foray into Muppet-based offensiveness (which I love, but don't recommend to the squeamish), there's a real sense of loony fun to the proceedings. But keep in mind that the show's frank and tasteless content is not for all tastes and ages and may offend the blue-haired set, while simultaneously opening up doors of perception that those under fifteen or so may have some serious questions about. Knowing this, the official site lists the following among its FAQ section:

Is Avenue Q appropriate for children?

Adults love AVENUE Q, but they seem a little, er, fuzzy on whether it's appropriate for kids. We'll try to clear that up. AVENUE Q is great for teenagers because it's about real life. It may not be appropriate for young children because AVENUE Q addresses issues like sex, drinking, and surfing the web for porn. It's hard to say what exact age is right to see AVENUE Q - parents should use their discretion based on the maturity level of their children. But we promise you this - if you DO bring your teenagers to AVENUE Q, they'll think you're really cool.

That's definitely a fair assessment, so it's up to you to take it from there. My seventy-four year old mom absolutely loved it — but then again she raised my questionable ass, so she's been broke in, and was even persuaded to sit through %98 of PINK FLAMINGOS before she bailed — and I almost snarfed water through my nose when she exclaimed aloud, "Did that monster just say 'Grab your dick and double-click?'" after which she howled like a harbor seal. And it was also fun to behold a set of parents, seated directly in front of me, cringing during most of the running time while their eleven-year-old son absorbed cheerfully-conveyed foul language and two nude puppets sixty-nining.

Now I am by no means a fan of the tourist trap bullshit that passes for Broadway fare these days — tarted-up adaptations of movies and Disney cartoons, jukebox musicals where you'd do better to just shell out the cash for the "greatest hits" albums by the groups being covered for one tenth of the ticket price, overblown and soulless spectacles, turgid revivals of shows that were dated forty or more years ago — so AVENUE Q's originality, in execution if not concept, and confrontational nature are a breath of fresh air in a theatrical dumping ground for disposable multi-gazillion dollar performance junk food. I have not enjoyed a Broadway show since the incredible SWEENEY TODD back in 1982 — although I've got to give it up to THE LION KING for its truly amazing visuals — and the mere existence of a show like AVENUE Q gives me a glimmer of hope for the survival of true creativity on the Great White Way.

But the one downside to all of this was when the show ended and the cast did their curtain calls, and the actors appealed to the audience for money; I'm all for cancer-treatment charities and Actor's Equity, but I was amazed that they had the balls to beg for money from tourists and locals who shelled out, in some cases, over a hundred bucks per ticket. And that was after a number during the show proper where the cast leaps off the stage and canvases the audience for donations, and when they didn't get much cash from the theatergoers, they complained about it during the post-show begging. And then they compounded that by auctioning off a backstage tour and photo op with the puppets for whoever forked over the most cash, bidding starting at $150. All of this created a truly uncomfortable atmosphere, and the bidding petered out at $200, just after one of the bear puppets agreed to show off her boobs to the winner. Come back, funding for the arts!!!

But don't let that deter you. AVENUE Q is a pisser, even if you hate musicals.

INSPIRATIONAL FILM QUOTE OF THE WEEK

From TENACIOUS D in THE PICK OF DESTINY:

You guys, having some Satanic guitar pick isn't going to make your rock any better. Because Satan's not in a guitar pick... he's inside all of us. He's in here, in your hearts. He's what makes you not want to go to work, exercise, or tell the truth. He's what makes us want to party and have sex with each other all night long. He's that little voice in your mind that says, "Fuck you" to the people you hate.

Readers, I dunno about you, but I can totally relate.

R.I.P. MASSIMO BELARDINELLI, 2000 AD ARTIST (1938-2007)

For twenty-six years one of my favorite comics has been Britain's 2000 AD, a (mostly) science fiction weekly anthology that gave the world such strips as JUDGE DREDD, NEMESIS THE WARLOCK, and the exquisite STRONTIUM DOG, along with allowing a newbie Alan (WATCHMEN) Moore to cut his teeth, so what's not to love? The magazine has seen many of its strips evolve into long-running series, some of which started out brilliantly but ended up dragging on interminably, and there is no strip that exemplifies this problem more than the Pat Mills-scribed fantasy epic SLAINE. Its first five years rank among the most entertainging comics I've ever read, but it has grown stale and still lurches on, propelled by increasingly murky artwork. Such was not the case when in the hands of its second artist, Italian comics veteran Massimo Belardinelli.


SLAINE revolves around the adventures of its titular hero, an uncouth, unkempt, and generally unpleasant Celtic barbarian who kills just about everyone and everything that gets in his way, a task made simple by his ultra-violent nature and his ability to channel the power of Danu the Earth Goddess through his already lethal body in the form of the "warp spasm," a berserker state that gives him tremendous, inhuman strength and fury, literally twisting and contorting his body into a tableu of lysergic flesh. Author Mills said that it was a difficult concept to visualise, but when Belardinelli took over the series from Mills' wife, Angie, the perfect illustrator for the warp spasm was found thanks to Belardinelli's fleshily livid style. Sadly, though equipped with a wild imagination, Belardinelli's artwork was too turgid to match the rollicking scripts, and he was soon dismissed in the wake of reader objections, allowing the incredible Glenn Fabry to take over and launch the strip to the classic status that it richly deserved in its early days.

When his time on SLAINE was abruptly brought to an end, Belardinelli was handed the humorous sci-fi series ACE TRUCKING CO., never a favorite of mine, but the 2000 AD readers responded enthusiastically and it ran for quite some time. And now Belardinelli has passed on.

From Wikipedia:

Massimo Belardinelli (1938 - March 2007) was an Italian comics artist best known for his work in the British science fiction comic 2000 AD.

Bellardinelli had previously worked on a number of IPC titles and when 2000AD was being developed in 1978 he landed the plum job of drawing DAN DARE, which was to have been the feature strip of the new comic. However, Bellardinelli's vivid style and exaggeration of an established character displeased many readers, and after a year he was moved to the future sport strip Inferno (an installment of the popular Harlem Heroes series).

Series he worked on for the comic include DAN DARE, FLESH, MELTDOWN MAN, and SLAINE: he will be most affectionately remembered for ACE TRUCKING CO., which he co-created after requesting that writers John Wagner and Alan Grant come up with a strip featuring many different types of alien.

Represented in the UK by Studio Giolitti, he ceased UK work when that agency folded.

His work was notable for its delicate brushwork and imaginative depictions of the fantastic. Bellardinelli also hid numerous self-portraits in his strips. Many characters (and even some inanimate objects) bore a striking resemblance to their artist.

A self-portrait from 2000 AD.

YOU (DON'T) ONLY LIVE TWICE: BARRY NELSON, THE FIRST JAMES BOND, DEAD AT 89

I heard about this last week, and I can't believe I forgot to run it: And for the record, in the 1954 TV adaptation of CASINO ROYALE, 007 was rewritten as an American named "Jimmy" Bond. I know; I get the douche-chills when I think about that...

Barry Nelson, 1st on-screen James Bond, dead
LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- Barry Nelson, an MGM contract player during the 1940s who later had a prolific theater career and was the first actor to play James Bond on screen, has died. He was 89.

Nelson died on April 7 while traveling in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, his wife, Nansi Nelson, said Friday. The cause of death was not immediately known, she said.

After graduating from the University of California, Berkeley, in 1941, Nelson was signed to MGM after being spotted by a talent scout. He appeared in a number of films for the studio in 1942, including "Shadow of the Thin Man," "Johnny Eager" and "Dr. Kildare's Victory." He also landed the leading role in "A Yank on the Burma Road," playing a cab driver who decides to lead a convoy of trucks for the Chinese government.

Nelson entered the Army during World War II and went on the road with other actors performing the wartime play "Winged Victory," which was later made into a movie starring Red Buttons, George Reeves and Nelson.

After the war, Nelson starred in a string of movies, including "Undercover Maisie," "Time to Kill" and "Tenth Avenue Angel."

He is the answer to the trivia question: Who was the first actor to play James Bond? Before Sean Connery was tapped to play the British agent on the big screen in 1962's "Dr. No," Nelson played Bond in a one-hour TV adaptation of "Casino Royale" in 1954.

Nelson switched to the stage during the 1960s and 1970s, appearing on Broadway in "Seascape" "Mary, Mary" and "Cactus Flower." He earned a Tony nomination in 1978 for his role in "The Act," which also starred Liza Minnelli.

"He was a very naturalistic, believable actor," said his agent, Francis Delduca. "He was good at both comedy and the serious stuff."

Among his other film credits were "Airport" and "The Shining," and he also appeared on such TV shows as "Murder, She Wrote," "Dallas" and "Magnum P.I."

More recently, Nelson and his second wife (they married in 1992) spent a lot of time traveling. He planned to write a couple of books about his time on stage and in Hollywood.

Nelson is survived by his wife. He did not have any children from either marriage.

TECHNOLOGY ON THE MARCH: PLASTIC PUSSY FOR YOUR POOCH

I was alerted to the following gem on Gizmodo.com by my former boss at the barbecue joint and I just had to share it with you.

There's a product out called the Hot Doll that's basically a sex doll for for your horny dog. There's one sized for the wee pooch:

And a girlfriend for the slightly larger leg-lifter:

Having once had a dog who was so fucking horny that his nickname was "Humpy," I can totally understand and applaud the need for such a contraption, but the logistical horrors of its maintenance are pretty grody. I mean, do you just hold it with its nose in the air and let the pooch paste dribble out, or do you just leave it as is and hope the genetic ointment builds in layers and serves as shellac?

My mom's aged and horrible chihuahua has a stuffed toy octopus whose tentacles she'll randomly mount and frig herself dizzy, and when she's gotten hers she disdainfully dismounts the plush cephalopod, turns her nose to the ceiling and lets out a haughty "Hmph!" I have laughed myself silly at this spectacle for over a decade, and my mom and I now exclaim, "Here she goes again!" whenever little Mame wants to get her wank on. Then there was the local gas station dog near the Westport train station in the early 1980's who was the most loyal critter imaginable thanks to the sickos at the gas pumps who would merrily jerk the pooch off in full view of their horrified patrons. They'd call him over, grab him by the crank, and he'd wrap his forelegs around the arm of the kindly human and vigorously pump away, his eyes rolling backward, until he blasted potential puppies all over the tarmac. He'd then take a few moments to collect himself, and then he'd trot back over to his favorite spot and relax, tongue lolling out of his mouth. The looks of abject horror on the drivers' faces was admittedly hilarious, and I totally understand the need to do anything to alleviate boredom during a mindless work shift — a friend of mine worked at the gas station and participated in the canine handjobs — but that shit just went beyond the pale.

So I applaud the creators of the Hot Doll for sparing us such moments of public bestiality, but it's only a matter of time until some guy ends up in the ER with his turgid member lodged balls deep into a plastic Great Dane.

READJUSTING TO THE WAKING WORLD

Some of you have asked me what I’ve been up to since fucking off out of the barbecue joint, and how I’ve been doing. Well, thanks for your concern, but I’m doing just fine; the only odd thing is getting used to functioning on a mostly diurnal schedule like much of the rest of the world, but I’m still kind of programmed for late nights. Thanks to being currently unemployed I can come and go as I please, so I have happily wallowed in the hedonistic luxury of sleep whenever I like, interrupting my rest only to look for work, both in person and online. But fuck the full-time job search for now; I haven’t gone anywhere for a real vacation in nearly two years, and I certainly don’t have the scratch to so right now, so I’m mostly taking it easy for the time being.

My former co-worker, Joy, gave me an Amazon.com gift certificate as a going away present, and I used it to finally obtain the hard to find CD of the "best" of British comedy punk band Splodgenessabounds. The album's a truly bizarre and merrily sophomoric overview of the group's strange ouvre, including such non-hits as "Blown Away Like A Fart In A Thunderstorm," "I've Got Lots of Famous People Living Under the Floorboards of My Humble Abode," "Whiffy Smells," and of course the immortal "Michael Booth's Talking Bum," so that album has become the unofficial soundtrack to my recent liberty, therefore I extend hearty thanks to Joy.

I’ve been to the movies, I’m going to see AVENUE Q on Broadway next weekend with me mum — she’s paying — I’ve hung out with long-unseen friends, and I gotta tell ya, I love it. And while I’ve gone drinking socially, my once-legendary tolerance for the tequila and beer combo has receded to human level due to me not drinking to alleviate boredom and a general sense of my life going nowhere, so if you and I go out to hoist one, don’t expect me to be sucking down the cactus juice like I recently did.

Anyway, that’s what’s going on.

THE SISTER STREETFIGHTER SERIES (1974-1976)

The one and only Etsuko "Sue" Shihomi.

If you ever need to cite a film series that absolutely adheres to the theory of “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” look no further than the first three of Toei Studios’ four ONNA HISSATSU-KEN (“Killing Fist Woman”) flicks, the first of which saw release in the West as SISTER STREET FIGHTER.

Having nothing whatsoever to do with my man Sonny Chiba’s superlative THE STREET FIGHTER (1974), the importers sought to fool the chopsocky-hungry into thinking ONNA HISSATSU-KEN (also 1974) was part of a sister series by slapping the STREET FIGHTER name on it and playing up Chiba’s presence in the film despite the fact that he’s in it for maybe ten minutes. Such chicanery notwithstanding, SISTER STREET FIGHTER is a total blast from start to finish and sports one of the classic examples of hilariously ludicrous dubbed karate flick dialogue.

The story follows the adventures of Koryu Lee (Etsuko “Sue” Shihomi), a half-Chinese practitioner of Shorinji-kenpo, and her quest to find her missing undercover cop brother who has been captured by a bunch of Yakuza assholes. Koryu heads to Japan and not five minutes after the opening credits we are treated to the first of many hardcore ass-kickings handed out by our heroine against a restaurant full of creeps.

In two seconds these guys will have the living shit soundly kicked out of them.

From then on it’s non-stop — and I do mean NON-STOP — violence and carnage as Koryu screams, kicks and bashes her way across the Land of the Rising Sun, with the action slowing down only for the brief moments necessary to provide a character’s name or display topless junkie strippers writhing about and screeching, “Heroin! Heroin! I must have my heroin!” No joke, there are even fights during the expository scenes, for fuck’s sake!

During the course of all this madness it quickly becomes apparent that the film takes place in one of those movie worlds where the police exist in name only and everybody and their grandma knows karate. The main bad guy actually collects martial artists who spend most of their time hanging around his swimming pool and showing off their signature moves (each helpfully identified by subtitles) when not squabbling amongst themselves, a gang of guys run around with wicker baskets over their heads for no apparent reason,

Thai kickboxer chicks in Fred Flintstone outfits (???) with paper bags over their heads with no explanation,

a shirtless assassin decked out with a Mohawk, cape and wrasslin’ hose to accent his blowgun and shield, and there’s even a jaw-dropping bit when the basket-heads invade a ballet studio and have their asses handed to them by the head ballerina — in tights, no less — who just happens to be a master of Ryukyu Kojoryu Karate (a bit of info provided by subtitles during a shot of the petite dancer throwing some guy like he was an empty bag of potato chips).

By the time the “story” reaches its climax, Koryu’s brother is killed, thereby upping the ante into tried-and-true revenge cliché territory, and she must take on the main baddie, giving both of them the opportunity to display their hitherto unseen ability to fly through the air and float there during combat. Throw in aid from another cute karate chick, bolstered by the utterly gratuitous appearances by Sonny Chiba and Masashi “Milton” Ishibashi, forever infamous as Junjo from (you guessed it) THE STREET FIGHTER and RETURN OF THE STREET FIGHTER, topped off with a guy getting a sai shoved through his skull (horrible crunch noise included),

and you have a fast paced, logic-and-sanity-bending spectacle that will delight young and old alike with it’s “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. And while the violence is nowhere near as over-the-top as that on display in the rated-X-for-violence THE STREET FIGHTER, SISTER STREET FIGHTER acquits itself quite admirably, including five shorn minutes of gore and violence restored to the recently released uncut DVD, such as a great bit where Koryu twists a guy’s head one-hundred and eighty degrees, and his broken-necked corpse staggers backwards down a flight of stairs, oozing blood from the mouth and staring at the other Yakuza scumbags in the room before falling over.

Giving new meaning to the phrase “quickie sequel,” SISTER STREET FIGHTER: HANGING BY A THREAD hit the screen a mere four months after the original and it’s pretty much a remake of the first one, right down to having virtually the same cast as more or less the same characters, only with a lot more kinky sex and sadistic violence. This time out, Koryu leaves Hong Kong for Japan in search of some guy’s daughter who’s been kidnapped and discovers the girl has been sold into prostitution, addicted to heroin, and used as a mule for diamond smuggling by having the jewels surgically implanted in her ass cheeks.

Our heroine’s investigation brings her into contact with her long-unseen sister, an expert jeweler who doubles as a cutter for the Yakuza and horribly degraded mistress to the sleazy-as-all-fuck villain, another Mr. Big type who collects martial artists as a hobby. The sumbitch even has a training facility that would have been right at home on S.P.E.C.T.R.E. Island in FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE (my vote for the best James Bond movie ever made, BTW), complete with a small army of karate assholes, the worst among whom are the heinous Honiden brothers, a trio of martially-skilled sociopaths lead by Masashi Ishibashi in a role that is impossible to distinguish from his deceased character in the previous movie. There’s even a cocky thug-for-hire played by the awesome Yasuaki “Shoji” Kurata, veteran of more samurai and HK Shaw Brothers kung fu epics than I can count (perhaps most notably the Shaw Brothers 1978 classic HEROES OF THE EAST, aka SHAOLIN CHALLENGES NINJA), and while he whores himself out to the bad guys, he’s actually the brother of a cop who gets murdered at the beginning of the film and eventually teams up with our heroine.

The villains repeatedly attempt — and fail — to kill Koryu, and things just escalate to an insane degree, so much so that I, a man who’s endured at least three hundred martial arts films, got a headache. Don’t get me wrong; I had a great time watching the flick’s exquisitely-choreographed, ultra-violent carnage, but once Koryu’s sister betrays the boss and gets her eyes graphically gouged out for her efforts, and both she and the kidnapped girl get sadistically murdered, the film ceased to be good, sleazy fun and I found myself waiting for it all to end. That malaise wasn’t helped by the fact that the film apes its predecessor so mercilessly that I felt like I was stuck in an endless loop of SISTER STREET FIGHTER with some extra violence shoehorned into it, and most of the crazed exuberance taken out. If not for its cloned nature, SISTER STREET FIGHTER: HANGING BY A THREAD could have stood on its own as a competent thriller, but as is it’s just okay.

The third entry, RETURN OF THE SISTER STREET FIGHTER, was unleashed barely eight months after the last outing and once again the filmmakers more or less remade the first one, this time with the added twist of ripping off many tropes from ENTER THE DRAGON, most notably the villain with an artificial hand/weapon. Koryu sets out from Hong Kong to once more kick ass in Japan, her righteous fury this time directed against another Yakuza and his collection of badasses who have kidnapped her cousin and forced the woman to use her scientific knowledge in aid of their scheme to control the world’s gold economy (don’t ask, it makes no fucking sense). Yasuaki Kurata is also on hand again as pretty much the same guy he played previously, but Masashi Ishibashi shakes things up by ditching his persona from the previous two installments — to say nothing of THE STREET FIGHTER and RETURN OF THE STREET FIGHTER — and going for some skin dye and a pimp suit with a collapsible steel whip.

I don’t know if he’s supposed to be Black or Hispanic or what, but he sure as shit looks like a complete idiot.

And bad though that may be, there’s even a Japanese actor in head-to-toe blackface as an African warrior, complete with oogah-boogah over-the-shoulder leopard skin, animal hide shield and a big, honkin’ spear. I’ll spare you any further details because it’s just another trip down a well-traveled road, but I’ll let it suffice to say that the third installment suffers from the same “been there, done that” cloneness of number two, and just like the previous film it would have been just fine if the first movie didn’t exist.

I guess the filmmakers figured they’d milked the cookie cutter adventures of Koryu Lee for about all they were worth, so when 1976’s SISTER STREET FIGHTER: FIFTH LEVEL FIST came out, it was a sequel in name only, having squat to do with the previous three. Etsuko Shihomi is back, but this time she’s Kiku, an unmarried girly girl whose kimono salesman dad is desperate to see her married off, but since she’s a badassed karate instructor she’s not interested in matrimony (hey, unlike Koryu, at least this chick has a job, rather than just inexplicably wandering from ass-kicking to ass-kicking!). The plot, such as it is, once more involves drug smuggling and by this point I could not care less; the virtually action-free plot not only moves slowly, but also “treats” us to several unwanted musical numbers and attempts at comedy. Kiku has a cute friend named Michi (the half-Yank, half-Japanese Michi Love) who lives with her Black half-brother Jim (Hen Wallace), both orphans from Okinawa who share a Japanese mother and weathered the intolerance of cruel locals so their sibling bond is built on mutual suffering. Unbeknownst to Michi, Jim works as muscle for drug smugglers, and when he is killed she has an excuse to seek revenge but of course gets captured, prompting Kiku to finally get off her kimonoed ass and fight, by which point the flick has been running for a full hour and the wait just isn’t worth it. The rest of the running time drags on interminably, even when the fists and feet are bashing the shit out of everyone and everything in sight, so the final film in the series is a hugely disappointing washout. I guess someone tried to broaden the series’ appeal by softening Shihomi’s persona and introducing tear-jerking melodrama, but you usually can’t have it both ways in martial arts movies, so they should either have gone for a straight up festival of violence, or given Michi and Jim their own separate weepy (which would definitely have been more interesting than this film).

The glue holding all of these films together was star Etsuko Shihomi, a protégé of Sonny Chiba’s, and inarguably the most hardcore of the female asskickers to grace the Japanese cinema. Her every move was both visually captivating and savage, plus she was very easy on the eyes, reminding me of a Japanese Mariska Hargitay. I mean, look at those eyes:

Jesus H. Christ! The only Asian ass-kicking gal from the Good Old Days who comes close is the gorgeous Hui Ying-Hung, but that’s fodder for another article…

Sadly, like some other martial arts movie goddesses — most notably, her contemporary Angela Mao Ying — Shihomi got married in 1987 and has become more or less a recluse, retiring from show biz altogether and shunning the spotlight, including even granting interviews. Too fucking bad for us fans, because her like will never be seen again.

So, the bottom line: if you see any of these flicks, stick with the vastly entertaining first installment. If you mess with the rest of them, especially the last one, it’s on your own head. Hey, man, I suffer so you don’t have to.

TRUST YER BUNCHE!!!