It’s hard to believe there was a time when the name Pia Zadora was on everyone’s quivering lips. For one moment in history, she was lauded as our nation’s highest female ideal, a growth-stunted pixie with a mischievous, Lolita-esque twinkle in her eye. She was the Megan Fox of her time — a time when our country was less judgmental about its objects of sexual fantasies. Today, she’s nothing more than another cultural oddity, a punch-line name best left for Trivial Pursuit questions and cameos in John Waters flicks, but she got her masterpiece in the Depression-era, depression-inducing melodrama Butterfly.

Zadora is the bee-stung-lipped Kady, a seductively wanton tween who surprises her estranged pop, Jess (Stacy Keach), one afternoon and proceeds to turn his life upside down as she offers him her own downside up. Yes, she teaches this gruff loner to love again — not in the life-affirming, “I want to be a better father!” kind of way, but more in the “I want to massage my daughter’s nubile breasts while I bathe her!” kind of way. To Kady and Jess, incest is the best way to pass time as they mine for ill-gotten silver. I personally would’ve just stuck to singing old slave spirituals, but then again, Zadora isn’t my nympho daughter.

Orson Welles shows up as a drunken judge and bloats all over the screen, delivering a wonderfully unintelligible performance that is so bitter and careless and drunk on Paul Masson, I doubt he knew the cameras were rolling. But maybe that’s just Matt Cimber’s charmingly free-flowing directorial style which, coincidentally, made him the Razzies’ pick for worst director that year. (That’s okay, Matt, the Razzies have been the stupidest award show since … well, ever. Consider the source.)

Watching Butterfly, you’re filled with wistful visions of Zadora’s unrealized promise. I say it’s about time for this little spitfire’s comeback, if only for a feature-length realization of her post-apocalyptic video for “When the Rain Begins to Fall.” I’m sure Jermaine Jackson would be down for it. And probably Cimber, too. —Louis Fowler

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While I would hope that viewers give the genre-defying Bellflower a chance, I’m astute enough to know that won’t be the case. So odd is its tone and so initially awkward are some of the performances — not the least of which from its leading man, writer/producer/director Evan Glodell — that I can sense people hitting “STOP,” if not “EJECT,” after just a few minutes, if even that. I can’t say I blame them; I almost did myself.

The thin-at-first story shuffles behind 20-something best buds Woodrow (Glodell) and Aiden (Tyler Dawson), whose shared pastime is jerry-rigging flamethrowers and other apocalyptic-ready tools for kicks and out of love for the Mad Max movies; Woodrow’s car even has been modified to include a whiskey dispenser in the dash. They also drink a lot of alcohol, smoke a lot of a cigarettes, and utter a lot of “fuck”s and its variations.

Then Woodrow meets Milly (Jessie Wiseman) during a cricket-eating contest in a bar, and the two hatch an instant relationship. What occurs after the meet-cute is where Bellflower gets really engrossing … and details of which I can’t share, lest the moments be spoiled. I can say that moods are flipped like someone with an unmedicated diagnosis of bipolar, that Woodrow’s very existence is shaken to its foundation, that things unfold in a manner incongruent to predictable movie plots, that Bellflower grows considerably weird and wild and even unsettling.

I can also say that when it was over, I wasn’t quite sure what had just gone down, but was anxious to give it another spin to see if it could process it in full. A week later, I was still haunted by it. In other words, Bellflower is a challenge, but in the same way that Mulholland Dr. or even Inception were: a welcome mind-rape. It may not be for everyone — in this case, it’s safe to say it’s nearly the opposite — but don’t you owe it to yourself to take one hit? —Rod Lott

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Gossip columnist Walter Winchell appears in the prologue of Single Room Furnished to heap praise upon its late lead actress, Jayne Mansfield, calling it the work of “the dramatic star she always hoped to be.” Strong words coming from a man whose last name is now equated with libel. In other words, don’t you believe him. She’s not good, but the movie is awful.

Mansfield stretches more than her shirts by daring to play a woman with three different hair colors. Her sad story as Johnnie/Mae/Eileen — all the same character, just in different stages in a miserable life — is told to an angry teen girl (“Oh, you … foreigner!” she barks at her mother) by her father in the apartment building where it all went down. You get three stories in one, none of them worth your time, all in community-theater monologues you’d walk out of.

In the first, Frankie (Martin Horsey) and Johnnie recall the night they met, and she mopes over unmade egg salad sandwiches. He talks like Dustin Hoffman after getting kicked in the head by a horse. Twice. In the next tale, Mae finds herself pregnant and seeks the solace in Charley (Fabian Dean), her lumpy schmo of a neighbor.

He’s got his own girl troubles, as the marina fishmonger Flo (Dorothy Keller) has the hots for him. She’s quite a catch: “Charlie, where do clouds come from?” It’s like watching a courtship between Richard Kind and Frances Farmer. She gives him crabs (from the ocean), and he goes and plays with his balls (on a pool table). Then he proposes marriage, even if they’ve never gone on a date. So does the young john of Eileen, now a prostitute, until he breaks her doll and she makes fun of his monkey ears.

It’s the most heavyhanded melodrama imaginable. You could tell Mansfield thought she was truly going to win an Academy Award. Where was her head at? —Rod Lott

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If the thought of watching a low-budget slasher/Goth musical co-starring Paris Hilton makes your blood run cold, you’d do best to stop reading now, because you won’t find a truer example of this incredibly rare sub-genre than Repo! The Genetic Opera, from Saw sequel director Darren Lynn Bousman. If, however, you find yourself intrigued, by all means read on … and please seek some obviously much-needed psychiatric help.

Joining the hotel heiress are The Devil’s Rejects’ Bill Mosely and Skinny Puppy’s Ogre as the scions of Paul Sorvino, the ruthless owner of Geneco, the medical corporation that essentially rules a future world where elective organ transplantation is the norm. Diagnosed with an inoperable fatal disease, Sorvino sets in motion his plan to gain his final revenge on a past romantic rival (Anthony Head), which involves the corruption of the man’s sheltered young daughter (Spy Kids’ Alexa Vega).

Also along for the ride is a still-fetching Sarah Brightman as Blind Mag, Geneco’s spokeswoman, whose upcoming retirement comes at a significant price. The film’s title references Head’s day job, which requires him to repossess the organs of unlucky Geneco customers unable to make their payments.

Bloody and over-the-top, the film plays like an oddly compelling combination of Ken Russell’s Tommy and Tim Burton’s Sweeney Todd, and while it doesn’t measure up to either of those films, it does feature impressive production values for what was obviously a very low budget, and a wordless cameo from Joan Jett, which is the best kind of cameo there is. —Allan Mott

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Times Square is the kind of movie I love not despite its flaws, but because of them. Rather than be put off by its lack of authenticity and enormous leaps of logic, I find myself instead pulled into its fantasy and want to stay there for far longer than I am allowed. It’s not great. It’s probably not even good. I don’t care.

Directed by Allan Moyle, who also made Pump Up the Volume (which is great), the film follows two mismatched young girls who meet in a hospital room while being tested for their psychosomatic fits. Pam (Trini Alvarado) is the daughter of a well-known New York councilman. Nikki (Robin Johnson) is a charismatic delinquent who likes to cause trouble. The two run away together and become famous, thanks to a popular radio DJ (Tim Curry) who relishes the irony of the councilman’s daughter being a street kid on the very street her father has been tasked to transform.

In reality, the girls would have been torn apart by the titular location within minutes of their arrival, but Times Square is a fairy tale. Viewed as such, it is a well-made and moving one, thanks especially to a stand-out performance by Johnson (who should have gone on to much bigger things, instead of her only other film, Splitz). Equally important is the amazing soundtrack, which features not only the best music of the era, but also two great original songs performed by the leads.

I can’t recommend that you check Times Square out, because you’ll probably hate it, but I love it all the same. I’ll take uplifting musical fantasy over gritty, depressing reality every single time. How does that not make sense? —Allan Mott

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