"Promises, Promises! " (1962) d/ King Donovan

A lot of folks these days are rediscovering Marilyn Monroe, albeit mostly through misquoted junk mail memes on social networks, but I digress...She was never my bag, personally, I was always more into Jayne Mansfield, the busty star of tonight's review, the movie that saw her become the first American actress to appear fully nude for Hollywood cameras. Publicity shots from the set appeared in the pages of Playboy in June of 1963, earning some consequent obscenity charges for Hugh Hefner. The film, on the other hand, was a big success for the bubbly-yet-brainy blonde with a party girl personality and 40-21-35 measurements. Phew. Also owns the distinction of having been banned in Cleveland, of all places.


Rub-a-dub-dub, bubbly bub boobles, errr, boob bubbles...
Two married couples, the Brooks' and Banner's, respectively,  share a romantic cruise together, with Jeff Brooks (Tommy Noonan) downing Wild Turkey by the fifth in dealing with his wife Sandy's (Jayne Mansfield) obsession with having a child, despite four years together and nary a rug rat to show for their combined efforts, even though Sandy perpetually frolics around their cabin utterly nude. In the adjoining cabin, Claire Banner (Marie McDonald) has her hands full with her husband, King (Mickey Hargitay), a muscle-bound, health food nut/ perfectionist who plays tennis and lifts weights for kicks. Jeff, who may or may not be impotent since his time in the service,  has been seeing the ship's doctor (Fritz Feld), who prescribes him some aspirin as a placebo to finally impregnate his wife, though an alcohol-fueled mix up sees all four down the pills by mistake, leading to a blurred evening where spouses seemingly get swapped, or so Jeff believes and fixates endlessly upon, irl, and in fog machine-enhanced dream sequences.


I'd have that look on my face, too, if I didn't have any scenes with Jayne, sans gear.
Sandy, under the impression that Jeff has gotten her pregnant, lip syncs a few forgettable pop tunes (though one she performs covered only in soap bubbles in the tub...Madonna!) and throws an extravagant baby shower where her swishy stylist, Babbette (T.C. Jones) models wigs and does impressions of Tallulah Bankhead, Bette Davis, and finally, Jayne Mansfield (get it?). Meanwhile, Jeff is convinced that King is the baby's real father, and further drowns his sorrows, alienating his busty spouse, in the process. After that particular joke has been beaten into the low budget set floor with spiked baseball bats, Claire discovers that she, too, is pregnant, having just set Jeff's mind at ease, filling him in that King, is most likely impotent, himself. Oh,  these zany early sixties cruises that folks apparently used to take. So, who's fathering who's babies on this damned ocean liner, and where the fuck is Merill Stubing for these hijinks? Shaken, not stirred on that AMP martini,  Isaac...


"I'm pitching an a- frame tent at the thought of cha cha-ing next to those chachabingos, baby!"
Jayne's bra-battering bobblers, once a gig killer early in Jayne's career, look fantastic here, without regressing too much into a wild eyed Neanderthal, pounding his hairy chest with a rock bat and screaming "Urrrrgghh!!!" into the Paleolithic night air, hopefully. I'm a man, though, and when a man like me sees women of such aesthetic beauty, I can only admire them in my own... many, inimitable ways and twirl the hair in my goatee. There's only one reason you're gonna wanna see tonight's movie, and that's Jayne, who, in turn, rewards the viewer with every last of her natural assets here, at their very peak and at the best possible angles, no less. The late movie critic Roger Ebert venomously dissed her for doing this one in his Chicago Sun-Times column...prior to his collaboration with Tit King Russ Meyer, I'd be willing to wager (two years prior, if you're splitting hairs). Never really appreciated any of that guy's opinions, but I appreciate that he had opinions, in the first place. Rare, these days! Since I also have a few opinions of my own, here are mine on tonight's review: Two wops on the scale, not many laughs delivered in the end, and heavy on the corn, but lots of Jayne to make up for it. Insert wolf whistle here.


Seeing you rolling around like that is getting my Mickey all Hargitay.

"The Geek" (1971) d/ ?, "Erika's Hot Summer" (1972) d/ Gary Graver

Tonight, I figured we'd gaze upon a double dip of exploitative shorts from the seventies, one's a forty-seven minute Bigfoot porn from San Francisco, the other's a sixty-five minute showcase of buxom brunette bombshell Erica Gavin, of Russ Meyer (Vixen, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls) fame, courtesy of Gary Graver, the cinematographer-turned-porn-director (as Robert McCallum) who supplied such carnal classics as 3 AM (1975) and The Ecstasy Girls(1979). Neither of tonight's films is particularly effective or well-executed, but Erica's monumental assets are always easy on the eyes, under any circumstances. And to call The Geek a bad movie is tantamount to calling Sophia Loren good-looking, retaining a nanoparticle of entertainment value with it's cheap, laughable fun.


"Oof! I can't tell where your dirty nipple ends and the carbuncle begins..."
After some cunt with a posh British accent provides us with a half-baked sasquatch (or, as he's also known for this particular stag loop's intent and purpose, and nowhere else, "The Geek") back story narrative, three pairs of unsavory-looking couples (Ric Lutze, porn performer and longtime partner of sex queen Rene Bond, is in there somewhere) pull up in a white Volkswagen mini bus, backpacking over flat, rolling hills (and flat stock music), looking for Bigfoot and not afraid to whip their ugly hippie junk out on camera and have graphic sex that's as unsexy as it is repugnant to behold. As if the smell couldn't have gotten any worse, the titular horny Geek makes the scene, only he's less sasquatch than he is lanky hillbilly moonshiner in a fur coat with shoe polish on his face, hands, and feet. Of course, that doesn't stop him from fumblingly showing a couple of the hippie broads the joys of interspecies rear penetration. Not even Bigfoot can maintain an erection in this mess. And if you thought the sex sucked, wait 'til you get a load of the climactic fight scene between hippie menfolk and a three-times-horny Geek that makes a vintage Santo punch up look like Drunken Master II. "Someday I'm going to get that filthy animal!", exclaims one of the wounded campers, no less a filthy animal, himself.


What an autographed copy of La Sexorcisto might have cost for a White Zombie groupie back in '71.

and our second feature...

During the intermission, where the ordinary lumber off to the concession stand for greasy snacks, watered down soft drinks, and those glow-in-the-dark footballs for late night sporto/meathead fun on the beach that they sold back when Kojak was king, and the extraordinary would be tagging into backseat dibs on bong packin'/sixer crackin'/honeydip mackin' action during the second feature, I just figured I'd take the opportunity to tell you that we offer zero of the aforementioned distractions of yesteryear here, as a movie review blogsite, and not an actual seventies style drive-in theater. Just to avoid any confusion...


Nevermind chuckling at the checkers, Wop'd drop the dimples between those swollen pimples.
The cooling calm of the ocean's rushing tide often inspires Erika (Erica Gavin) to strip naked and stretch her ample-assed curves in the sun, to the strains of a poor man's Bobby Gouldsboro, crooning a folky guitar tune about the brunette with epic ba-zooms. Then there's the resident cocksmith/erotic photographer named Steve (Walt Phillips) whose boobs out-style leads to several loose Lucys easily seduced into giving up the caboose, with hilarious X-rated piped-in pillow talk, to boot. When Erika socks it to him, though, her earthy pussy nearly blows the cat's mind, leaving his stable of go-go gals-on-the-side feeling less than appreciated, under the circumstances. The whole groove gets abruptly disturbed before the credits can roll, by a trademark seventies downer ending.


With those natural buoys, aquaphobia was only a fear ongoing to Erika's lovers.

"Vampire Cop" (1990) d/ Donald Farmer

From the guy who gave you Demon Queen (1986) and Cannibal Hookers (1987) comes this no-budget SOV vampire opus that's tit-heavy with the heavy tits of cult face, Melissa Moore, who you might recall from things like Sorority House Massacre II (1990) and The Invisible Maniac (1990), lots of spurting stage blood and prop fangs, and a cameo from none other than Mal Arnold, who apparently hadn't learned a thing about acting in the nearly thirty years since he first graced the screen as H.G. Lewis' homicidal Egyptian caterer, Fuad Ramses, in Blood Feast (1963). Chances are, you won't mistake this movie for Herzog's Nosferatu.


I haven't seen that much hanging ham since I walked past the slaughterhouse that time.
...So after seeing a sleeping blonde dreaming of an acid-washed denim-wrapped arm (it's 1990 all day) reach down to silence her and some prop fangs,  there's a bikini contest at a club full of mulleted mooks and meatheads shaking their asses and then this vampire cop named Lucas (Ed Cannon) interrupts an abusive guy forcing himself on a skinny redhead, tearing his shooter hand off and giving him a bloodless neckbite for his troubles. The dreaming blonde (I'm not sure if her dreams constitute nightmares, save for the viewers themselves) turns out to be a reporter named Melanie (Melissa Moore) who's in cahoots with Lucas; their hotel room sabbaticals packing less heat than the Larry O'Brien Trophy Ceremony this past week.


"This was my only role ever!", hisses Lucas (Ed Cannon) of Vampire Vice.
Anyway, lots of dialog is lifelessly delivered by embarrassingly dressed people on depressing-looking sets, some of these people may or may not be drug dealers seeking vindication by kidnapping a prying Lt. Ryan (Mal Arnold), who's getting too close to their operations with his live news commentary, and off-camera chainsawing him up like so much firewood, which his squinty, hesitant line delivery reminds one of at times. There's a featureless finale where Lucas pits his Party City vein-drainers against these polluting palookas, one of which goes vampire himself, and gives a slo-mo plastic-toothed kiss to Melanie before Lucas can overpower him, ending up in a lackluster flaming latex-y sunlight purge and a news report that Joe Dante more effectively showed you nine years earlier. Eject.


"Garbage compactor-cam, after all these years you've caught up to me..." says Fuad Ramses, errr..Lt. Ryan (Mal Arnold).
I probably picked this one up during my storied rental run at Gateway Movieland Video on morbid curiosity born from the words of Michael Weldon's Psychotronic magazine, long-time staple food for my brain, and the opportunity to revisit a guy like Mal Arnold, whose on-camera ineptness kept every kid in my neighborhood in stitches in the early eighties during my parlor screenings. Whatever the case was, it still wasn't worth it. Flesh-wise, it didn't dent the armor of Cinema 309's selection of sin of which I was well familiar with by then, and my ample blood supply from superior underground lenses of the likes of Buttgereit and Peter Jackson (then) remained monopolized, as one might expect. One might also expect the paltry score of a single Wop on the ratings scale for Vampire Cop, and they wouldn't be wrong in doing so. Skip it.


"Look at me, I'm Dee Wallace!", exclaims Melanie (Melissa Moore).

"Voices of Desire" (1972) d/ Chuck Vincent

While on the subject of Sandra Peabody/Cassell a few reviews back, you may recall my remark that her engaging and tragic turn as Mari Collingwood in Wes Craven's Last House on the Left (1972) probably stands as the classiest production she ever acted in, when you look at some of the sweaty softcore sexploitation she left behind, in comparison. Some stuffy moralistic drapes would include tonight's review in the latter column, the first feature from prolific porn director Chuck Vincent (as Mark Ubell here), a grainy, scratchy, choppily-edited documentation of the former actress' assets shot the same year as Last House, available directly from those exemplary film folks at Something Weird.


Anna (Sandra Peabody, as Liyda Cassell) derives masturbatory manna from a bunch of grapes while she fellates a banana.
We meet a shaken Anna Reed(Peabody) as she relates her unbelievable story to a city detective, flashing back to the first time she heard those mysterious voices, breathing heavily on a pay phone, no less. Talk about getting your dime's worth. The walk home isn't any less strange, with mismatched foley footsteps, whispered beckons and brief images of a guy wearing a hangman's noose as a neck tie and a chick getting c.t.f.o.ed cut in for good measure. At home, her magazine time is interrupted by the pesky voices, who, combined with footage of a pair of average-looking folk copulating on a black backdrop, possess one of her hands that strips her naked so she can writhe around in bed with a bunch of grapes in her crotch as she gives a nearby banana a blowjob while awkwardly rolling an apple around on her ass.


You're so tiny and adorable. Can I put you in my pocket?
As she tries to duck out on her horny inner voices, she's drawn instead to their house of origin, where, after drinking a glass of the house wine, she goes into erotic spasms, and gets stripped and shrimped on camera by a couple of greaseballs by black candlelight. Her gross hippie piggies get a thorough once over while an orchestra plays and psychedelic lights flash. A groovy simulated threesome follows, with a brief lesbian sequence and obligatory orgy scene hard on it's heels, then the house's occupants all menace her with butcher knives, followed by a red-tinted fake romp with some dude with a mustache. There's always at least one in these movies, isn't there? She escapes to tell the tale to the detective, who tries to put it all into perspective for her, then is influenced once again to run (she runs like a gimp with a dump in her panties, for the record) back to the house, as a romantic piano plays in the background. Makes sense.


"After I pop my cookies on your belly, will you wear my Mood Ring, baby?"
Make no mistakes, Chuck Vincent's work in adult films is distinctive, with an experimental, arthouse feel unlike many of his straight forward porn peers of the era, and his unmistakable flair is evident here, with the use of classical pieces in the soundtrack, sprawling, picturesque exteriors shot guerilla and filled with magnificent metropolitan architecture, and weird insert shots. It doesn't hurt having a little sweetie like Sandra Peabody to focus your lens upon, either. If light fiddle-fodder for the raincoat crowd was the only kind of gig that the pixie-esque Peabody/Cassell was getting offered, no one could blame her for walking away when she did, for more fulfilling climes. Overall, Voices is a curious piece of vintage forty-deuce sexploitation, worthy of a pair of Wops on the scale, and definitely worth checking out if you're an admirer of Sandra (who isn't?).


While you're in a walkies kinda mood, cupcake, Scranton's only one hundred twenty-eight miles away. Just sayin'.

"Teenage Hitchhikers" (1975) d/ Gerri Sedley

Once upon a time, before the advent of interstate serial killers, teenage girls often took to the roadside, flashed some cleavage, and flipped up a thumb to get where they were going. Of course, the unwritten hitchhiking commandment was something like, "Gas, grass, or ass. Nobody rides for free.", so every excursion was a potential adventure waiting to jump off. In tonight's review, we document the madcap hijinks of a pair of hippie chicks, Sandra Peabody/Cassel, who you'll remember as the sweet young thing who gets her chest stiletto-autographed like a high school desk by Krug Stilo, in Wes Craven's seminal shocker, Last House on the Left (1972), and Chris Jordan, who broke into movies four years earlier in a production called Piss Orgy (1971), as they set out to do just that.


"Just look at that halitose halibut...and there's a fish in there, too."
We follow the misadventures of a perky pair of  hippie ride-thumbers named Bird (Sandra Peabody) and Mouse (Chris Jordan, as Kathie Christopher) as they hitchhike their way towards liberation, sexual freedom, and total independence, finding fleshy fun and tumbling into titillating trouble along the way. They get picked up by a camperful of  zooted dirt merchants, and when it looks like they have designs on jackrolling the girls, they sing a rancid hippie folk song instead, and proposition them to a life of groupiedom. The girls splash around in a stream, and Bird catches a trout with her panties. At a roadside diner, they get topless and embarrassingly go-go dance off beat in their drawers for food, which they don't even get, and rightfully so, they're horrible dancers.


This particular Bird (Sandra Peabody) is fogging up my spotting scope.
Before the end credits roll, these two take turns balling a bald-headed travelling salesman, interrupt a crazed, escaped rapist as he's about to force his way onto a chick in a backwoods meadow (sheesh, there was a whole lotta raping going on in movies back then) by stripping down themselves and critiquing his form(!) before okie-doking his ass and tying him to a tree. A wealthy lesbian also succeeds in sapphically seducing the hitch-sisters before the whole zany affair comes to a head at a far out hippie orgy, with thrusting bodies strewn about the pad like mad, Dad. In the end, we see them hitching a ride once again, but when a male driver stops to give them a lift, they run to their convertible, and speed off, giving him a playful bird. Oh, those teenage hitchhikers.


Though the groovy hippie orgy is semi-simulated, bouncy nipples like these will surely leave you stimulated. 
This would be the last film appearance for the sweetly sexy Sandra Peabody/Cassel, who walked away from the industry to produce children's television and teach drama, after having scored seedy credits in things like Love-In 1972 (1971), Voices of Desire (1972), and Filthiest Show in Town (1973). Getting tortured/raped/murdered by David Hess turned out to be her high water mark, cinematically speaking. Chris Jordan, who was once married to porn star Eric Edwards (who scores an uncredited cameo in the hippie orgy scene, by the way) also co-starred with Peabody in 1973's Massage Parlor Hookers, and banged out (ahem) soft and hardcore work up until the mid-seventies in movies like NY sexploitation king Joe Sarno's Confessions of a Young American Housewife (1974) and Misty (1976), before passing away in 1990. Claire Wilbur, you'll recall seeing in Radley Metzger's Score (1974). On the scale Hitchhikers thumbs it's way towards a pair of Wops, worth a look if you dig this sort of thing.


"We've got our own transportation now, so, like, down with you, maaaaaan!"

"Autumn Born" (1979) d/ Lloyd Simandl

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.

"Candy" (1968) d/ Christian Marquand

Ewa Aulin is probably my favorite blonde of the late sixties/early seventies, exuding a child-like innocence with sensuality so pure, your heart'd probably stop if you tried to snort a line of it. Nowhere is this more evident than her 1968 star-studded counter-culture sexploitative romp, Candy, based on a satirical update on Voltaire's Candide in the form of Terry Southern's novel (but you knew that already). Unfortunately,  Ms. Aulin's acting ability never attained the same levels as her beauty, and this is also painfully obvious to anyone watching the movie, with the bubbly starlet often phonetically sounding out words like she's never heard them before. Propping her up throughout, like a theatrical crutch, are the likes of Richard Burton, John Huston, John Astin, James Coburn, Walter Matthau, and Brando himself. So she's no Bette Davis. She's fucking great to look at.


I'd give the Gobstopper to Slugworth for some of this Candy (Ewa Aulin).
Mr. Christian (Astin) has got his square hands full with his teenage daughter, Candy (Aulin), who's snuck off to see Mac Fisto(Richard Burton), the great poet/piss artist who tries to compromise her morals in the back of his glass-bottomed limo (praise heaped upon the upskirt Gods here), as driven by his faithful manservant, Zero (Sugar Ray Robinson), on a ride home from school, with her father walking in on the self-pickled performer raping a mannequin as his daughter sinks Emmanuel the Mexican gardener's (a completely rotten Ringo Starr in his acting debut) balls atop the pool table. While sending Candy off to live with her libidinous uncle (also John Astin), Mr. Christian is knocked unconscious on the airport runway by Emmanuel's vengeance-minded sisters (with no less than Florinda Balkan among their ranks!) just as they board a plane full of soldiers, as led by General Smight (Walter Matthau), and he naturally tries to play 'hide the bayonet' with Candy at 50,000 feet, before sky diving after his men. I'm starting to notice a pattern developing here...


Flint's knocking at yer backdoor, and he's comin' in.
Back on Terra firma, Candy's unresponsive father is operated on in New York by Dr. Krankheit (James Coburn), an unorthodox neurosurgeon who implants an electrical outlet into the back of his domepiece (later used to power a transistor radio at the raucous after party), triumphantly flipping a bloody bird at the medical theater before helping Candy with her...posture. Ahem. When the patient deliriously wanders out into the street, Candy gives chase, after which she's fucked inside a grand piano by a hunchbacked art thief (Charles Aznavour), groped by a pair of beat cops, and enlightened (insert another 'ahem' here, please) by a phony guru (Marlon Brando) who lives inside a customized eighteen-wheeler.She leaves him frozen solid and follows a mysterious hooded figure that turns out to be her father into a collapsing temple before strolling through a meadow in a plain white dress past all the colorful characters she has encountered along the way; her dress becoming more ornately decorated as she goes, finally returning to her otherworldly form and returning to the stars from whence she came.


"That doesn't feel like a 'Super 8' to me!!"
The striking Aulin turned up in such genre favorites as Giulio Questi's Death Laid An Egg the same year, and Aristide Massaccesi's Death Smiles on a Murderer as well as Jorge Grau's Legend of Blood Castle, both 1973, as well as an episode of Monty Python's Flying Circus during it's premier season, interestingly enough. I think many negative critics of tonight's film have been unreasonably austere in their judgment. This one plays like a bump n' grind version of an early Jodorowsky journey, though you'll find more honest to goodness T n' A in Alejandro's work than you ever will here. The thrills, like most of the chuckles you'll encounter in Buck Henry's mirthfully satirical dialog, are cheap, harmless fun. A cult classic packed with groovy psychedelia and frenetic energy that entertains throughout that I'd deduce is easily worth three Wops on the scale.


Could you imagine Brando getting airborne like this in '78? Me, neither.

"Revenge of the Cheerleaders" (1976) d/Richard Lerner

Anybody that can't get a few cheap kicks out of a good vintage teenage sex comedy from the seventies is either dead inside or harbors some deep-seated resentment towards young people having a blast a la Dennis the Menace's drape neighbor, Mr. Wilson, that old fuddy-duddy. High school serves as a good diving board towards embarking on a lifetime tour as a partying wildman from Borneo if you play it the right way; my only regrets are that I didn't pull more shit back then than I did. Had dimepiece genre chicks like Rainbeaux Smith, Penthouse Pet Helen Lang, Jerii Woods, Patricia Rohmer, and Susie Elene gone to my school, I probably would have thought about dosing the coffee pot in the teacher's lounge to score some pom-pom poonany, but at my school, it wouldn't have affected most of the drug addict bastards one bit! Or so I heard...


You German readers see anything in this screen cap you like?
 At Aloha High (Cali, Hawaii, what's the difference), you can pretty much do whatever you want, maaaan. The school maintains a constant anarchy and healthy buzz thanks to it's cheerleading squad (Lang, Woods, Pohmer, Elene, and Smith in the latest stages of pregnancy possible), who spend their days getting high, fucking, and lazily executing corny choreographed disco dance numbers with the rhythmically-challenged "Boner" (Hasselhoff) and the basketball team, when they aren't infiltrating rival school Lincoln Tech, holding the students hostage with a fire extinguisher while robbing them of their narcotics and booze, leading to the inevitable altered states cafeteria food fight (I was never a big 'food fight' guy, always found that kinda gross)/ mid-day bubble bath gym shower orgy with state inspectors in attendance, no less.


So that's where the peanuts in a CMP sundae come from...
Now that you've stopped pissing yourself laughing at the care-free hijinks that would get you expelled/prosecuted/jailed (in that order) in today's era of fake tolerance, let's get to the meat of the story. Except, it's more like a pink meat paste substitute, in this case. A greedy land baron by the name of Hartlander (William Bramley) has his beady eye set on Aloha, with plans to bulldoze it and turn it into one of those awful shopping malls, and worse, his ambitions will force a school merger with the rival gearheads from Lincoln. To speed up the process, he even contracts out Aloha's evil nurse (Eddra Gale) as a spy/ kidnapper, who abducts their beloved principal, leading to the inescapable chase sequence in and out of the massive dinosaur sculpture in the Cali desert that you last saw in Pee Wee's Big Adventure (1985) and some ambitious spatial reasoning leads to the consequential Bronson Caves, which just so happen to lead to Hartlander's mall HQ. Of course, they save the day in the end, and a parting shot reveals Heather is no longer pregnant, proudly holding her newborn son for the cameras (Smith's real-life son, Justin). Awwww...


"Heaven smells kinda salmon-y..."
It's become pretty trendy for everyone to get their cheap jollies by shitting on Hasselhoff for his early "work" (I say work, because his scenes are pretty much an endurance test for anyone who happens to be watching) here, as though "Knight Rider" and "Baywatch" were the equivalent of Master-fuckin'-piece Theater, ferchrissakes..."Drunk Floor-burger" is the best thing the guy's done, IMHO. Let's not forget a memorable appearance from Carl "McHale's Navy" Ballantine as the most easy going school principal ever committed to celluloid. Still, all the softcore-level promiscuity (there's a sequence between a pair of cheerleaders and a boy scout in the woods that pushes the envelope on that assessment, if you're wondering) and wanton full-frontal nudity in the world can hardly mask the technical ineptitude of tonight's cheapie, a one Wop flick if there ever was one, but then again, nobody's sitting down to this one and expecting Casablanca.


My favorite Rainbeaux in the spectrum, obviously.