The Horror...The Horror...

As I previously mentioned, this past Friday the 13th a group of us decided to test our emotional limits by subjecting our eyes, ears and sanity to the horror that is Showgirls. Why, oh why, would we do this to ourselves, you might ask? Because we live our lives on the edge. Because we're extreme masochists. But, most importantly, because it's there.

I had already seen the edited version on VH1 (competing with sister station MTV for least relevant music channel on TV), where not only do they cut out all the best parts, they actually superimpose bras on all the girls. The squiggly, pastel lingerie look like a drunk intern smeared a fat marker all over the screen.

Of course, I didn't realize how much they were trying to cover up. When I suggested we all take a shot every time we see female nudity, my brother informed me we'd be trashed within thirty seconds. And he was right. I think their costume budget cost less than the cup of coffee I'm drinking right now. It became more shocking to see them actually wearing shirts, and even when they did they were barely covering anything.

But, more importantly, VH1 cut out all the best scenes and lines. Imagine my delight when viewing the extended sex scene in the pool, when Elizabeth Berkeley mounts Kyle MacLachlan and then proceeds to writhe like a flopping flounder (sexy!). Or how my ears tickled with such melodic dialogue as: "Man, everybody got AIDS and shit." Or picture the visual feast that is Gina Gershon in a leather S&M corset (!) reenacting a gang-rape (!!) through the art of a Vegas dance routine (!!!).

Luckily, the whole film is anchored by television-actress-turned-gymnastic-prostitute Elizabeth Berkeley, who resembles a seven-foot-tall transsexual amazon warrior. Not only does she have absolutely no chemistry with actor-turned-k.d. lang impersonator MacLachlan, she grunts after every gesture, every line of dialogue, and every dance step, showing us just how hard she's working to be the best worst actress ever. And when she turns down a suitor's advances by stuffing his hand down her pants to prove she's on her period, I'm sure women everywhere cheered their new feminist icon's methods of rejection and independence (her mother must have been so very, very proud).

Ironically, I capped off this weekend by watching Hostel, a horror movie whose horror is actually intentional. Even with sliced Achilles tendons, flopping eyeballs, severed fingers, beheadings and enough boobs to rival the first ten minutes of Showgirls, it's still the latter movie that had me considering gauging out my own eyes with a wooden spoon.

But I survived. I made it. And I'm a better, stronger person because of it.

(For more information, and I know you want more, check out my previous encounter with Miss Berkeley or IMDB's Showgirls trivia page.)