A rarely seen, late seventies S & M-fueled endurance test from our pals up north that stars the lusciously voluptuous body of beautiful murdered Playboy Playmate of the Year, Dorothy Stratten. I'm forced to objectify the late actress here, as the bobbery concerning her untapped, unrealized acting skill everyone's always on about when she comes up in conversation, which is definitely not on display in this, her starring debut, of sorts {a full year before the spectacle that wasn't Galaxina (1980)}, seems like, well... bobbery. What remains has the feel of a Swedish Erotica loop minus the wah-wah guitar, Seka's red scarf, or the woolly penetration close ups. What fun is that, you ask? Not much at all, sez I. Not much at all.
Try on those satin rollerskate shorts next. All of Pomeroy's is belongings to you, baby.
Tara Dawson (Dorothy Stratten)'s compulsion to purchase polyester discoey looking outfits en masse not only serves as a lengthy opening montage for the high maintenance teenager to show off her adult curves while trying the dresses on, as the camera records them for perverted posterity (her pubic mound features prominently here), but also as a springboard for her unsavory, controlling uncle, Grant (Nate Macintosh) to vent repetitiously about, filling the frame with enough wood to keep Grizzly Adams' fireplace lit all winter long. Of course, it's not just the nineteen hundred dollar clothes bill that has her unc on the schiz, it's also the fact that she's about to turn eighteen and inherit her father's assets, all of which he's currently in control of. What's a guy to do, besides hire an icy dominatrix to torture his niece into signing everything over to him, obviously.
Never realized that you Canucks liked your camels filtered.
With Monica (Jocelyn Fournier) on board to adjust Tara's obnoxious sense of entitlement, and also horsewhip Tara's supple buttocks into submission, the spoiled teen is soon taught the value of clumsily-acted out discipline, and also not to paint her toenails in detestable rustic shades(seriously...). At one point, her captors introduce a wind up mouse to her, then sing the Three Blind Mice rhyme where the farmer's wife chops off the rodents' tails from the next room, forcing the distraught, hysterical girl to try to hide her new prized possession from tail surgery, in the walls. But that's not all. There's also flat dialog shouted at walls, humiliating assisted baths in tiny washtubs, sparkless sapphic hints that fizzle out at the Eskimo level, spirit-shattering rape and degradation. Something for nobody, really.
As far as sideboob goes, this marvel produces more tears than 'Send in the Clowns' .
Speaking of missed opportunities, I could easily see Dorothy Stratten in a vintage Svetlana or de Renzy porno, among the busty ranks of Desiree Cousteau, Seka, or Anna Ventura, instantly becoming a favorite of porn proponents everywhere(as if she wasn't already, to a lesser degree). After bearing witness to this, one can see where Bob Fosse drew his inspiration from in creating Dorothy/Mariel's flubbed blood pellet scene in his Stratten biopic, Star 80. The acting rots like the teeth of a diabetic moonshiner after his third two liter of generic Mountain Dew of the night, while the direction is flatter than his fourth, after being left open on the counter overnight. If you're so bewitched by Dorothy's physical assets that you're going to sit down to this one, any got-damned way, despite my best efforts to steer you in the other direction, I suggest you mute the sound, and keep a ready thumb on the fast-forward button. O solo Wop-o.
Can't make jokes here either. Her ass was definitely not one.
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