I’d like to think that even if writer/director Michael Findlay could have afforded real credits for The Touch of Her Flesh, he still would have chosen to project them on the parts of a naked lady. Yes, Virginia, production value can be God-given.

Findlay also essays the lead role of Richard Jennings, and it’s no mystery why: so he could act out his sexual fantasies. His Richard is an author of a “weapons book” successful enough to send him on a business trip out of town. Seconds after he walks out the door, his wife, Claudia (the unimonikered but double-breasted Angelique, from Joe Sarno’s The Love Rebellion), welcomes her lover through it.

Having forgotten an item, Richard returns home, only to catch the two in the act. The shock sends him running into the streets, where he is “hit by a car and hurt very badly” (so says the doctor, twice). In fact, Richard’s lost an eye … and gained a thirst for revenge.

In the rare case when the film isn’t showing curvy dames undressing or writhing in the nude, it’s showing them befall a cruel fate. From a topless go-go dancer to a street hooker, Richard’s vowed to kill them all, whether via a rose with poisoned thorns, a crossbow or his own bare hands. When it’s Claudia’s turn, Richard takes time first to molest her breasts: “Let me see them again and feel them again before they die!”

Shot in black and white with sound recorded after the fact, The Touch of Her Flesh is padded with wall-to-wall lovin’ touchin’ squeezin’. It’s obvious Findlay had a type: naturally busty. So long as his women met that stringent qualification, nothing else mattered — not even Angelique’s armpit hair, not even a script. The project is completely inept, yet I couldn’t look away. Two sequels followed, because boobs. —Rod Lott

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In The Bare Wench Project, the umpteenth Blair Witch Project parody of that year, four sorority sisters and their lunkheaded guide, Lunk, venture into the hills to search for the “Bare Wench.” Because this is written and directed by Jim Wynorski (Scream Queen Hot Tub Party) and the sisters include Skinemax vets Julie K. Smith, Nikki Fritz, Lorissa McComas and Antonia Dorian, it’s less a spoof and more an excuse for wall-to-wall boobage. To date, it also has spawned four sequels to its source’s measly one.

No sooner has our skank quartet embarked on its trek when one whines, “My twins are sweaty,” prompting a brief stop in the shade so they all can remove their shirts. (This scenario repeats several times with slight variation over the next 70 minutes.) Wynorski would have you believe that if you got four nubile chicks in the middle of nowhere and switched on a video camera, numerous acts of lesbian lovin’ would occur: south-of-the-border kisses, impromptu campfire stripteases, bumping nipples together with devil-may-care abandon. There is more flicked-tongue action in Bare Wench than the last three snake movies I’ve seen combined.

Instead of Blair Witch‘s iconic twigs, the girls encounter dildos and other sex toys. Instead of hearing children’s voices in the middle of the night, they hear a braying donkey. Instead of keeping the witch unseen, they show Julie Strain (Heavy Metal 2000) in a long white wig.

The only scene offering any true parody is of a flashlight-lit Smith making a dead-of-night confession into the camera. But whereas Heather Donahue was shot neck up, a buck-naked Smith is shown from the waist. The shot is held so long, you’ll go from amazement to wondering what kind of magic lens Wynorski must have employed.

If you found Donahue annoying in Blair Witch, wait until you get a load of these ladies. (The end-credit bloopers make one wonder how they mustered enough knowledge to remove their clothes, much less walk.) There’s nothing funny to be found in Bare Wench, unless you’re the type to chuckle at character names like Dick Bigdickian; I am not. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.