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The goal is to recreate Seventies grindhouse juiciness in the antiseptic Eighties, the result is quite the roisterous women-behind-bars sendup in the Verhoeven manner. The opening launches the penal henhouse with a plucky inmate, a scummy guard, a small army of synthesizers and slow-mo shotguns, practically a Michael Mann précis. Rape, lezzie groping and ritualistic vendettas, all witnessed by the plucky rookie (Linda Blair) before she's even done getting booked. Somewhere in the dungeon is the tacky bachelor pad of the nefarious warden (John Vernon), an aspiring smut auteur for the shapely inmates ("Call me Fellini," he roars in the jacuzzi with camera in hand). Dope lines and prostitution rings behind the scenes are orchestrated by the captain (Stella Stevens) and her pimp beau (Henry Silva), snitching is a trade of its own and dealt with using blades and wire. Unbuttoned denim is the norm, Sybil Danning and Tamara Dobson are the amazons who square off with shivs and chains as part of the main event. "Ladies, ladies. That's no way to solve a problem." Paul Nicholas can't possibly match the cellblock sisterhood, political engagement or offhand surrealism of Demme's Caged Heat, instead he offers a comic-strip epitomization and eulogy for a subgenre soon to be doomed to the direct-to-video dustbin. A gallery of seasoned comedians eat it up: Vernon luxuriates in grandiose sleaze, Stella's ebullient deadpan is complemented by Silva's flashing caricature, Louisa Moritz resuscitates Jayne Mansfield for a scene or two. "Ooooh, I've always wanted to be part of a riot!" Soapy showers and colored gas bombs point the way to the insurrection, plus a grain of Auden, why not. "Aren't we all prisoners of some sort?" With Sharon Hughes, Kendal Kaldwell, Nita Talbot, Monique Gabrielle, Robert Miano, and Edy Williams.
--- Fernando F. Croce |