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No, this is not the Brittney Spears story (dammit!) This is boogie man/boobmeister Jess Franco's gonzo soft core opus of sinister snugglebunnies and pseudo Sadism. But first, A DIRE WARNING TO THOSE NOT EASILY OFFENDED, there are many scenes of dialog where people are fully clothed and absolutely no sex is happening what-so-ever! Yep, and not only that, but, there's an underlying fashion sense on display so hideous and horrifying that it could only be described as Yellow Submarine by way of Madam Tussauds and Spongebob Squarepants. But, I digress (like this hole review isn't digression.)
Enter our heroine (well, not quite yet anyway) Eugenie (which is apparently pronounced in that insinuating European cadence "Oogeenie".) She's young, firm, innocent. A mall rat. A vixen (and with enough junk-in-the-trunk to make J Lo look like Calista Flockhart.) And as we're about to find out, she's a currency too - bought and paid for in a liason with a lascivious Contessa and Oogenie's dastardly Dad (this transaction transpires in what is surely the only incident in recorded history of a hot blonde boinking a bald guy.)
So, it's off to an island paradise for our fair Oogenie. Once there, she is summarily greeted by the Contessa, a mute maid, (who is alternately slapped and kissed) a guitar totin' karaoke black dude, (don't ask) and least, but not last, the Contessa's creep-a-thon, pervo, leering, Lurch-like lummox of a brother. Yep, this grab-ass goomba is gonna have a bright future in either the priesthood, NAMBLA, or as a Vertical Blind salesman (what the hell WAS that goofball doing with those window cover cords - landing a Cessna or signaling tuna boats?!)
There's alot of top dropping, breast caress, and nipple nuzzling, but director Jessy definitely gets penalized for a lack o' back field in motion - if ya know what I mean. The next thing you know Christopher Lee pops up with a ream of rejects from Let's Make a Deal who proceed to flog the flotsam out of poor Oogenie with what looks like a Parsley sprig attached to dental floss. Not to worry though, Chrissy boy is not there to enter the submarine races, just intone ominously from the book of the Marquis (though thirty years hence, he would really engender the fanboy boners in those lame-o Lucas and Jackson jamborees.)
So, before you know it, there are triple crosses, psycho shish-ka-bob, and spleen removals with nail file, tire gauge, and a grapefruit spoon.
And, I hear ole Franco has dozens and dozens of these celluloid soirees in his pornfollio (jeez, he must be cranking these suckers out on the way to Starbucks, while drying his underwear, or during his daughter's Girl Scout meetings.)
Anyway, in the time it took me to write this, he must have done three features, four public service announcements, two commercials, and a music video.
The way I figure it, that's 2.6 boobs per word...give or take an areola...
Hey, whatever gets the old lady in the mood...
Enter our heroine (well, not quite yet anyway) Eugenie (which is apparently pronounced in that insinuating European cadence "Oogeenie".) She's young, firm, innocent. A mall rat. A vixen (and with enough junk-in-the-trunk to make J Lo look like Calista Flockhart.) And as we're about to find out, she's a currency too - bought and paid for in a liason with a lascivious Contessa and Oogenie's dastardly Dad (this transaction transpires in what is surely the only incident in recorded history of a hot blonde boinking a bald guy.)
So, it's off to an island paradise for our fair Oogenie. Once there, she is summarily greeted by the Contessa, a mute maid, (who is alternately slapped and kissed) a guitar totin' karaoke black dude, (don't ask) and least, but not last, the Contessa's creep-a-thon, pervo, leering, Lurch-like lummox of a brother. Yep, this grab-ass goomba is gonna have a bright future in either the priesthood, NAMBLA, or as a Vertical Blind salesman (what the hell WAS that goofball doing with those window cover cords - landing a Cessna or signaling tuna boats?!)
There's alot of top dropping, breast caress, and nipple nuzzling, but director Jessy definitely gets penalized for a lack o' back field in motion - if ya know what I mean. The next thing you know Christopher Lee pops up with a ream of rejects from Let's Make a Deal who proceed to flog the flotsam out of poor Oogenie with what looks like a Parsley sprig attached to dental floss. Not to worry though, Chrissy boy is not there to enter the submarine races, just intone ominously from the book of the Marquis (though thirty years hence, he would really engender the fanboy boners in those lame-o Lucas and Jackson jamborees.)
So, before you know it, there are triple crosses, psycho shish-ka-bob, and spleen removals with nail file, tire gauge, and a grapefruit spoon.
And, I hear ole Franco has dozens and dozens of these celluloid soirees in his pornfollio (jeez, he must be cranking these suckers out on the way to Starbucks, while drying his underwear, or during his daughter's Girl Scout meetings.)
Anyway, in the time it took me to write this, he must have done three features, four public service announcements, two commercials, and a music video.
The way I figure it, that's 2.6 boobs per word...give or take an areola...
Hey, whatever gets the old lady in the mood...
