Jim Wynorski, cowriter-producer of ‘Prison Planet’, boasts that his film will “go beyond anything ever done - since we`re set on a distant planet many thousands of years from now”.
The story line involves a female James Bond who poses as a prisoner to learn the truth about “terrible” goings on, including lobotomies.
He promises a nude shower fight - in a laser shower yet: “The girls are rolling around, in between these rays of death”. Plus an outer space brothel, a battle between Earth girls and Delta girls (they are fishlike, with gills), and the warden`s ominous “brain chair”.
Explained Wynorski: “If you turn the dial in one direction, you experience ultimate pleasure. But if you turn it the other way…”
Will our heroine also encounter lesbianism?
Wynorski was taken aback: “Lesbianism? Lesbianism? I`m appalled! Of course, we`ll have lesbianism - gratuitous lesbianism”.
From Glow, Rick James’ forthcoming (posthumous) autobiography:
I’m having these crazy dreams in jail. The dreams are so vivid—so wildly creative—that I know God is in charge of my imagination. I couldn’t dream up this shit without God. God has to be the author of my dreams. In one dream, I’m with Miles Davis. We’re dressed like African princes. Our robes are blue and gold. Miles is singing and I’m playing trumpet. Black angels are surrounding us. We’re bathed in sunlight. We’re on top of the Empire State Building and everyone in the city of New York can hear us. The people are assembled on the street; they’re hanging out their windows and waving flags from office buildings. Helicopters are flying over us, but our music is so powerful that we drown out all noise. Our music is some symphony that has the angels dancing in the sky.
“Didn’t know you could play jazz so good,” Miles says to me.
“Didn’t know you could sing so funky,” I say to him.
The music is so beautiful I start crying through Miles’s horn.
Someone says, “The hospitals are clearing out. The patients are healed.”
Someone else says, “The churches are clearing. The congregations are in the streets.”
“I told you,” says Miles. “I told you we could do it.”
When I put the trumpet to my lips again, the horn turns into a megaphone. When I start to speak, I hear the voice of my mother.
“My son has the answer,” she says. “Miles gave him the answer. Listen to my son.”
I turn to Miles, who rarely smiles, and see that he is smiling.