Heard the buzz? It’s just Marsha Jordan’s vibrator. At the movie’s start, she rubs the battery-burnin’ device all over her face and head, which is not how it’s supposed to work. Not for nothing is this titled Her Odd Tastes!
Credited (and misspelled?) as “Marsh Jordon,” Ms. Jordan positively #girlbosses her way through as dildo saleswoman Christine. After she and her sister (Capri, College Girls Confidential) examine one another for precancerous lumps, Christine is nearly raped by a knife-wielding medical researcher studying pleasure. She’s saved by a book publisher who proposes she continue testing her attacker’s theory by retracing his thrusts steps collecting, um, data worldwide.
Christine does, starting in Hong Kong, where a prostitute injects her with opium. In South Africa, she attends a party where everyone wears masks, à la Eyes Wide Shut, not realizing the shindig is actually a satanic orgy — replete with a mascot goat’s head!
Dazed, Christine stumbles around (stock footage of) safari animals before she’s found by a game hunter and his wispy-mustached son, Mark. Because Mark’s girlfriend turned out to be a boyfriend, the anguished young man nurses a broken heart, until Christine lets him nurse her sizable bosom, among other activities. When the father tries to muscle in for sloppy seconds, Mark shoots so Dad can’t score.
Finally, in Nairobi, she oils up with a greasy sheik and his belly dancer for a threesome. Admits Christine, “My life is just one sexual merry-go-round.”
And how. Like the wrestling sequences in Santo movies, the sex scenes go on far too long. That said, Jordan is nearly as screen-scorching here as in The Divorcee and Marsha the Erotic Housewife, the latter of which shares writer/director Don Davis with this globetrotting romp-de-bomp. Therefore, I will be visiting the set for impromptu auditions once I finish building my time machine.
And speaking of bizarro contraptions, the film ends with the publisher mounting Christine atop a horizontal-enough La-Z-Boy recliner. Lightning strikes; the chair explodes; they die; the end! As these things go, Her Odd Tastes is a scream. But shhhhh, lest you wish to wake the wife and kids. —Rod Lott
While Roger Corman’s reputation of frugality holds merit, it’s all too often considered synonymous with “talentless,” which simply isn’t true. Whenever someone has questioned Corman’s competence as director, his cycle of Edgar Allan Poe films for AIP has served as my go-to defense. Genuine art and entertainment reside in that octet. 
Gotta give it to the 40-meter silver-shiny superhero Ultraman: He sure as hell doesn’t look 55! It helps that 
