Warning: Arthur Marks’ The Roommates may cause whiplash. For its first 39 minutes, it plays like one fun-loving, fuck-me pump of a sexploitation flick. Then, at minute 40, one of its many lovely ladies takes more than 100 stab wounds to the torso, and not by choice.
No worries, though! Soon, the dial is cranked right back to happy-go-lucky, borrowing a pattern straight from that archaic TV nugget of the sock-it-to-me ’60s, Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In: minimal setup, corny joke, onto the next one. Mind you, this episodic structure actually proves to be a plus.
Delivered the same year he moved into the lucrative blaxploitation game with the Quentin Tarantino-beloved Detroit 9000, Marks’ film makes much use of its finest special effect: the bevy of beauties. As the titular Roommates, Pat Woodell (The Big Doll House), Roberta Collins (Death Race 2000), Marki Bey (Sugar Hill) and Laurie Rose (The Abductors) romp in the sand, discuss women’s lib, take showers and, eventually, summer at Lake Arrowhead.
They’re not vacationing as a foursome, however, which further lends the film a soapy layer similar to the Valley of the Dolls it name-drops. Joining Woodell’s Heather for the trip is her young, feisty cousin (The Stewardesses’ Christina Hart), who is more than happy to make Oedipal overtures after a conquest of Heather’s tells her post-coitally, “Oh, Heather, it’s just like old times, isn’t it? You’re as good as you were when you were 16!” Meanwhile, Rose’s Brea assumes nursing duties at a kids’ camp, where she and her tight Ts and short shorts garner a great deal of hormonal attention from overly (but justifiably) horny boys: “Boy, is she built like a brick shithouse! Boy, would I like to make it with her!” Get in line, brother …
In fact, I’d like to serially date the hell out of this movie. It’s too much of a carefree blast to not swing right along to its delectable rhythms and life-affirming scenery. —Rod Lott