Sins of the Flesh
I cannot recommend the following movie to you with a clear concience.

I just can't. To ask you to see this film would be comparable to pushing you down a flight of stairs. I can certainly say that I'd enjoy watching it, but for the unprepared person, it would be a confusing, disturbing, and even scarring event. And even if you did make it all the way through, the next time we met, would you be able to trust me in the same situation? Would you even be able to ask yourself that question over the sound of your own voice screaming colorful remarks about my lineage as you attempted to milk revenge from my blubbery hide with your fists?

Which is why such things are classified as guilty pleasures, which most people have the good sense to hide. Take the nervous guy in sunglasses lingering over the porn rack in your local convenience store store. He's jumpy for a reason, and not just because of the wind cutting through the lingerie he wears beneath his trenchcoat. It's because if exposed, no one would understand. And that's a good thing, because he's a horrible man. However, I'd like to think I'm a couple rungs up the perversion totem pole, as my hideous hobby doesn't involve sexual deviance or ride up on me when I walk.

Pretty Hate Machine
Stacy is but a facet of my particular obsession (thought I'd forgotten I was reviewing something, didn't you?), in particular, bad movies. Comparing personal worsts with others is an icebreaker of mine, the badder, the better. Don't get me wrong, there are a galaxy of films that are so awful that upon seeing them I'd launch into a justafiable killing spree; but the question with films is the same as guilty pleasures -- what's fun and what's just plain twisted? When does eating cookies become answering to the name 'Cookie' while wearing a sailor suit and a spiked dog collar?

This sick flick in particular walks this fine line with an admirable amount of balance given its subject matter. You see, Japan has a problem (besides all of the obvious ones): in the near future, teenage girls begin to undergo changes that no high-school hygeine film could properly cover - they're dying at an alarming rate, and returning to mallwalk the earth as TRLegions of undead. These maneaters are classified as Stacys, causing me to suspect the first case of these zombies was found not in Japan, but Southern California. The subjects start by exhibiting NDH, (Near-Death Happiness), causing them to act like, well... giggly schoolgirls, then die and come back as flesh hungry females. Certain unknown stimuli hits the Stacy's z-spot, causing it to glow and emit fairy dust known as Twinkle Butterfly Powder. I am telling you this as proof I didn't make this up myself, though with Japan at the labeling helm I'm shocked the zombies weren't christened "Perfect Shining Murder Revolution Sailors."

My So-Called Unlife
This is all a paper-thin excuse to serve up some of the most earnest bad acting I've seen in any language. Apparently the zombie direction for the girls was 'pretend you're half-awake with a head cold walking down a dark hallway.' The human acting is just as terrible: for example, a mad professor served by a small paramilitary squad trying to discover the Stacys' secret is one part Charles Bronson, two parts absolutely fucking crazy. And the movie gets every last drop of blood out of its gore budget - thie opening scene of a rogue Stacy being brutally put down would make Samara from the Ring clutch her Chucky doll in disgust.

That's not to say that the movie is bereft of touches of outright cleverness, though - the government force designated to deal with the Stacy threat is titled the Romero Repeat-Kill Squad, who have the best enlistment pitch I've heard ("Men, kill your daughters! Be the one to kill your girlfriend!"). Aside from having to enforce the law that sex with a minor equals necrophelia, the Romeros also have to contend with freelance threesome the Drew Illegal Repeat-Kill Squad. Named for their fanatical love of Drew Barrymore, the Drew girls are hot and hammy scene-stealers that resort to kung-fu, katanas, uzis and nunchucks to put down their prey, and by far they're my favorite part of the film. The most memorable honor, though, goes to an infomercial you must see to believe with a girl in a bunny suit hawking a hand-mounted anti-Stacy chainsaw dubbed the Bruce (spelled Blues) Campbell's Right Hand 2.

Having stated the case for and against Stacy, the choice is now in your hands. Whether the concept is 'whoo-hoo!' or 'eww...' to you is hardly my concern, since this review basically amounts to me flashing an internet park full of strangers with my perverted pastime and dashing away. If you like it, you know where you can get more, baby. If not...

... hey, fuck you. It was cold outside, all right?

On the web: Stacy DVD