According to Mondo Keyhole, which is not a mondo movie, only one out of 50 rape victims reports the crime. That’s because they feel guilt, and that’s because — in the narration of businessman/rapist Howard Thorne (one-time actor Nick Moriarty), “They ask for it and they know it.”

Editor’s Note: Do not use Mondo Keyhole as a credible and/or reliable source.

A pornographer by trade, Howard finds his many victims among those busty dreamers who audition for his magazines or who simply bounce down the street. He is largely impotent, despite having a white-hot wife, Vicky (Victoria Wren aka Adele Rein, Common Law Cabin). Unaware of her husband’s hobby that keeps him away from home until the wee hours, Vicky is so bored and so sex-deprived that she shoots heroin. Speaking of needles, turns out Howard can get it up — but only when the woman doesn’t want him, and here, poor Vicky is playing dress-up as Brigitte Bardot all for naught(y)!

Written and co-directed by Jack Hill (Spider Baby) with John Lamb (Mermaids of Tiburon), the black-and-white sexploitation film gets really weird when Howard accompanies Vicky to an “artists and models ball,” a swingers’ shindig of eating food off a naked lady and having shaving-cream fights in the pool.

For Howard, the party looks like a rapist’s paradise, since everyone is wearing masks to render them anonymous. What he doesn’t count on is one of his previous conquests being there, and she’s learned kung fu. Meanwhile, Vicky gets a personal tour of Hell by a guy dressed as a vampire and affecting a bad-Dracula accent (you know, “Bleh! Bleh! Bleh!”). Veering from grindhouse fare to film-school pretension, Mondo Keyhole begins to feel like the “unending torment” the would-be Drac describes. Until then, it’s a flesh-filled fantasy of one messed-up man. —Rod Lott

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Also known under the baffling title of Because of the Cats, Brutalization is an obscure sickie in which five young men pull Hanes Control Top panythose over their heads and rape a woman while making her husband watch — you know, just for kicks! They may have gotten their rocks off, but the viewer should not expect the same.

No worries, folks: Inspector van der Valk (Bryan Marshall, BMX Bandits) is on the case! The police inspector embarks on an investigation, yet punishing the “well-bred” boys ain’t easy because they come from fine family stock. Ranging in age from their late teens to early 20s, they’re tennis-playing sons of rich men who actually work … and who make a fuss when an authority figure dares suggest their offspring are anything but sterling gods of the community.

While fronted in promotional materials, Sylvia Kristel, Emmanuelle herself, is hardly the star, just as Brutalization is hardly a rape-revenge thriller, either. Fons Rademakers, an Oscar winner for his penultimate film, 1986’s The Assault, has a little more on his mind than S-E-X as he explores the social pecking order of the Netherlands (or anywhere, for that matter), but the movie is a procedural, and a deadly dull one.

It’s also a tough watch just for presentation of the subject matter alone, so give Fons some respect for not comprising or dumbing down the material. Truth in titling — or retitling, as the case may be — is strong with this one. —Rod Lott

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Having completed his Touch of Her Flesh trilogy, New York City writer/ director/producer/editor/perv Michael Findlay attempted to top his horndog histrionics with The Ultimate Degenerate. He failed. Watching it, if you can get through all of its 72 minutes, you may find yourself wishing some women would get murdered — not because you have something against the superior gender, but because the film needs something to liven it up. Nudity should not be so dull, even when accounting for black-and-white budgets.

Frequent Findlay skin-starlet Uta Erickson has zero inhibitions as Maria, a close-cropped blonde nympho with a thing for putting on window shows for an elderly neighbor. (As in Findlay fashion — one where moving mouths rarely match dialogue — viewers never see this old man.) Such exhibitionism sickens her live-in lover (Donna Stone, A Thousand Pleasures‘ Boobarella), so Maria answers a sex ad for a three-week gig that promises $500 per.

Said “job” is in the home of Spencer (Findlay), a wheelchair-bound man who pays various lovelies to bring his seemingly endless sexual kinks to life; to that end, he injects them with “a harmless aphrodisiac of my own creation.” Spencer’s right-hand man is played by Earl Hindman, who co-starred as Wilson on the long-running family sitcom Home Improvement. Remember how you never saw his face on that show? Well, sometimes you don’t see it here, either, but that’s because instead of being concealed by a backyard fence, it’s buried in whores’ crotches. #nomnomnom

Several of Spencer’s twisted games rely on dairy products sprayed from an aerosol can. On one occasion, “games” becomes literal, when a fully nude body becomes a board for whipped-cream tic-tac-toe. One might expect the scene in which Spencer pesters a rope-tied woman with a metal clamp to be the flick’s cruelest, but nope — my vote is cast for the extended one involving about a dozen cobs of corn. You may never eat this vegetable again … but if you do, may you be unable to think of anything but this sequence. More butter, friend? —Rod Lott

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Before Russ Meyer found his groove exercising his autonomy across a well-built body of work, he took on the for-hire job of adapting John Cleland’s notorious erotic novel of the mid-1700s for the silver screen of the mid-1960s. The result, Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, is far more faithful to its source material than to what we today consider the Meyer aesthetic.

At least the black-and-white period piece opens with a hint of That Meyer Touch, drawn in broad brushes of suggestive humor such as a fish landing in the cleavage of our heroine. The mayhem that ensues in this slapstick sequence would do Mack Sennett proud — a nod to him exists on the street’s “Pie Maker” sign — yet as if the film already tired itself out, it settles into an extended stay of conversation.

Orphaned teen Fanny (Letícia Román, The Girl Who Knew Too Much) falls into work at a curiously idle brothel run by the matronly Mrs. Brown (Miriam Hopkins, 1932’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde). Not only is the place staffed with girls not up to up to Meyer’s minimum standards of pulchritude, but Fanny is amateurish to the point of virginal. That hymen won’t stay intact forever.

Being a sex comedy with no sex shown is one of many reasons this version of Fanny Hill remains noteworthy. Others include Fanny’s true love being played by future Boogey Man director Ulli Lommel, and that the pushy producer is Albert Zugsmith (Touch of Evil). For all those asterisks, however, the movie isn’t any good — just a largely lifeless farce that would be all tease if it contained a libidinal pulse. It’s for Meyer completists only, and even that’s questionable. —Rod Lott

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Big girls? They don’t cry-yi-yi; it’s just an alibi. But what about bad girls? Oh, they totally do, as would you if you became a daytime whore.

Sally Downs (former burlesque star Misty Ayres) is just a small-town girl living in a lonely world, aka the big city to which she’s moved. Clothes start to shed before the film hits the three-minute mark, as Sally strips to her undies to don her “best ‘get a job’ dress.” It works, because in the next scene, she’s behind a diner counter, tending to a customer who encourages the naive girl to become a “model”; naturally, he happens to know a guy.

Being a dumb blonde, Sally immediately decides to pursue this line of “work,” only to find herself making a negative career move from slingin’ hash to slingin’ leg. Yes, Sally has become a professional prostitute at a bona fide whorehouse — or, from the looks of the two rooms in which most of the hour-long movie takes place, the living area and master bedroom of someone involved in the production.

In those two spots, the ladies lounge on the couch, dance and wrestle, sometimes in lingerie. Ayres’ beauty was a Marilyn Monroe-esque one, but the similarities did not extend to talent. In that aspect, Ayres is in great company, for Bad Girls Do Cry is full of performances and other things that fail to reach even mediocrity. The directorial debut (and next-to-last effort) of character actor Sid Melton (1951’s Lost Continent) and shot a decade earlier than its release, the drama has nothing to it but a time-capsule look at ladies’ undergarments. Its highest stakes arrive when a drunk hooker unknowingly takes a big swig of spoiled milk. —Rod Lott

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