In the very first scene of Oliver Stone's fascinating but heavily flawed cult hit, Lewis is grooving to the jukebox. A redneck dances with her, and she appears to enjoy his affections -- moments before she smashes his beer bottle from his mouth and beats him up.

Mallory's a firecracker alright, one that unpredictably oscillates between violently wonderful lovemaking to complete manslaughter, and its this volatility -- and that livid vocabulary -- that makes us want her, albeit fatally.