Remember the good ol’ days of burlesque shows? Me neither, but from the looks of The Peek Snatchers, they really weren’t all that. As a matter of fact, they were nothing more than sub-Stooges sight gags, lame plots, lamer accents and a string of voluptuous ladies — sexy guts and all — dancing around to seedy nightclub jazz. In other words: Why wasn’t there a sequel?
After a newspaper headline (presumably from The Plot Exposition That Won’t Be Used Later Times) reads “Tel-Star Orbits the World, Claim Many Things Uncovered” and “Big Jewel Robbery — Two Scientists Missing,” we meet two goofballs who may be the scientists. They bumble and stumble around, say stupid one-liners and stare into a white piece of paper masquerading as a super-computer that can see anything in the world.
With all that power, do they fall into international intrigue or get involved in some sort of espionage? Nope. Instead, they stare at 1960s tits and ass. So in between gay cowboy jokes and Japanese Beatle gags, we see a chunky stripping Latina, a chunky stripping blonde, a chunky folk-singing stripping Asian and a chunky belly-dancing Arab — sexy ladies one and all.
So fellas, wait for the wife to go to work, drop the kids off at school and get ready to masturbate, old-school! —Louis Fowler
Somewhere in Argentina, a doctor — a curious doctor, if you will — is up to no good. At night, he sends out his pasty-faced, failed-conceptual-art experiments to round up various lovers in different states of doing it. From a teen couple and busty ’60s lesbians to a drunken nympho and couple at a weed orgy, these monsters are the very definition of coitus interupptus, always attacking before the sex gets hot and heavy — damn you, Dr. Humpp! (In between all this, a monster walks into a bar, orders a drink and watches a burlesque show … and no one bats an eye.)
It’s hard to believe there was a time when the name Pia Zadora was on everyone’s quivering lips. For one moment in history, she was lauded as our nation’s highest female ideal, a growth-stunted pixie with a mischievous, Lolita-esque twinkle in her eye. She was the Megan Fox of her time — a time when our country was less judgmental about its objects of sexual fantasies. Today, she’s nothing more than another cultural oddity, a punch-line name best left for Trivial Pursuit questions and cameos in John Waters flicks, but she got her masterpiece in the Depression-era, depression-inducing melodrama 
Orson Welles shows up as a drunken judge and bloats all over the screen, delivering a wonderfully unintelligible performance that is so bitter and careless and drunk on Paul Masson, I doubt he knew the cameras were rolling. But maybe that’s just Matt Cimber’s charmingly free-flowing directorial style which, coincidentally, made him the Razzies’ pick for worst director that year. (That’s okay, Matt, the Razzies have been the stupidest award show since … well, ever. Consider the source.)
So I just saw 
Loki escapes from Hell with a handful of dragon dogs and heads up to Asgard, which, awesomely enough, looks a lot like the lush forests of Southern California. He wants the Hammer of Invincibility — basically a sharp rock tied to a stick — so he can rule the world, or at least a cost-effective portion of it. Odin gets his ass slayed, and the Hammer is sent to another dimension. Thor must man up and find the Hammer in modern-day California alleyways. He’s taught how to use a Uzi and … well, that’s something I’ve always wanted to see my entire life. God bless you, The Asylum. Monsters attack the city, Thor forges a new Hammer, and Grieco gets to eat for another week.