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.)
Meanwhile, the police are baffled.
We finally meet The Curious Dr. Humpp (Aldo Barbero, The Naked Beast). While I didn’t find him so much curious as I did lecherous, it seems that the reason he sends out the monsters to collect the fornicating couples is to collect the “blood forces of sex.” Why would one need these sexy forces? Why, to keep eternally young, of course. These experiments consist of forcing couples to get it on and watch them. And watch them. And watch them. And watch them. His jealous, buxom-blonde assistant (Gloria Prat, Feast of Flesh) begs Dr. Humpp to “use my body to keep you alive.” Where can I find that kind of help?
Meanwhile, the police are baffled.
While I’m sure The Curious Dr. Humpp (aka La Venganza del Sexo) was a raincoat potboiler back in its day, the Spanish work is actually pretty tame by today’s standards. Yet it still works as a testament to outré ’60s bizarro cinema. This is the kind of movie that could have only been made back then, with half-baked sci-fi, no-baked monsters and fully baked bosoms. In other words, it has everything.
Meanwhile, the police are baffled.
One question: Is Humpp his real name? Just like if a kid’s name is Gannett McCaster, he’ll be a cop; Jet Rockway, an ace pilot: If your last name is Humpp, it’s a guaranteed life in the sex trade, science or not. What medical school did he go to? How did that graduation ceremony go? Were his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Humpp, in attendance? Were they proud? Are they proud now? What was his thesis? If only the WB could commission a pilot for Humpp: The Early Years.
Meanwhile, the police are baffled. —Louis Fowler
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.
Instead, I got a fifth-rate group of stoned community theater rejects/draft-dodgers — led by “comedian” Del Close — dressed as famed mass-murderer Che Guevara, rolling around in the mud while espousing anti-war sentiments and aimlessly driving sputtering jalopies. Improvised elections are held on a train, The MC5 blares on the soundtrack, and everyone remains happily unemployable. If this is what the young people were doing while our boys were dying face-down in the Vietnam jungles, sign me up to the Ohio National Guard and hand me a bayonet!