Julie Strain must be a cyborg. The six-foot-one Amazon B- movie Garbonza Goddess has been in a hundred movies, and every time I see her she has some new kind of cantilevered cross-your- heart gravity-defying Wonder Bra with leather studs on it. When she turns sideways in Seattle, they have a solar eclipse in Omaha. When she climbs on top of a bearskin rug, or a motorcycle, or a character actor, asteroid-sized craters can result. She says she entered the business at age 28, and she's been in the business for quite a while, so that porcelain complexion and the Ferrari chassis are already challenging the Second Law of Thermodynamics. All the various Playboy Playmates and Penthouse Pets have a nickname for her--"Big Momma"--and, although they say it with affection, she's a little scary. This woman could crush you to death with her thighs, and you would die with a goofy grin on your face. She's the high priestess of pain--never afraid to get nekkid and kung fu the cast--but there's something about that body that's been freeze-dried and preserved in sea salts, causing otherwise reasonable men to scream "Smother me! Smother me now!"

BATTLE QUEEN 2020 is the latest strained Strainer, with Julie and her Marquesa de Sade wardrobe starring as the chief pleasure mistress in a harem of slave girls who have been trained to service an elite race of post-apocalyptic rulers who stay alive by harvesting the pituitary glands of the imprisoned masses who live under the frigid blizzard-covered earth. (Hey, it could happen.)

Julie faces Cleopatra's dilemma. In love with the oppressive ruler--the tough-talking Jeff Wincott, who winces we he discovers the world's last cigar at the bottom of his humidor--she longs for her family, still huddling in underground sewers, coughing up phlegm and sacrificing the life of Julie's brother to the rebel band of snowmobilers led by Paul Rapovski and his nunchuck- slinging cohorts. When a young girl is brought to her for a little non-elective surgery with a bonesaw--part of the "rejuvenation process"--Julie goes berserk and starts karate- kickin the drooling class upside the head.

But not, fortunately, before she spends 80 per cent of the movie taking off Frederick's of Hollywood lingerie, toweling off, and engaging in Extracurricular Aardvarkus with Jeff Wincott. At one point she suffers from hypothermia, so her concerned comrades strip off all her clothes except for a spaghetti-strap T-shirt and pour hot water down the front of it. Works for me!

Thirteen dead bodies. Thirty-three breasts. Giant asteroid head-on. Two snowmobile armada battles. Multiple aardvarking. Bikini-clad fire-eaters. Anesthesia-free neck surgery. Hypodermic to the heart. One motor vehicle chase. Gratuitous heavy-bag workout. Eight Kung Fu scenes. Flamethrower Fu. Lesbo Fu. Poison- tipped dart Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Eva Dawn Nemeth as Priscilla the kung-fu dominatrix; Jeff Wincott as the cigar-chomping "Elite" leader with a tortured soul who says "I don't think we're gonna make it into the future"; and Julie Strain, as the Headmistress to the Elite, for saying "Oh baby, I love it when you get all Neandertahl on me like that."

Two stars. Joe Bob says check it out.

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