Michael Findlay’s immediate sequel to 1967’s The Touch of Her Flesh, the following year’s The Curse of Her Flesh begins with credits written as graffiti on a public bathroom wall. We read them (a show of hands if you think co-star A. Dick Feeler is a pseudonym) over the sound of a man’s urine stream hitting water — a meta statement?

One year after the events of the previous film, “famous weapons expert” Richard Jennings (Findlay himself) remains on the loose, slaying sexy women who remind him of his no-good philandering wife. For a subplot, he’s also seeking his wife’s lover, so he can introduce his machete to the dude’s member.

A couple of Jennings’ victims are strippers who succumb to a poisoned G-string — one directly and one indirectly, if you know what I mean (and if you don’t, Findlay shows you). Says a cop at the crime scene, “You could say they died from something they ate.”

Another dies from poisoned cat claws, but not until after this excruciatingly unsubtle exchange of dialogue hits you over the head:
Jennings: “That’s a nice little pussy you have there.”
Victim: “Thank you. Everyone who sees my pussy likes it.”
Jennings: “Is it friendly?”
Victim: “Oh, yes. Sometimes I play with it for hours.”
Jennings: “Does it ever get tired?”
Victim: “No, it never gets enough. Sometimes the girl next door comes over and brings her pussy, and puts it with mine.
Jennings: “Amazing how something so soft and pretty as this little pussy can be so dangerous.”

By the time he’s talking about the pussy being able to “swallow as much meat as it can,” she’s as sick of it as we are.

The curse of Curse is that its scenes — sex or otherwise — go on for so long, that when the soundtrack’s song is over, it starts back up. The movie is equally insane as its predecessor, yet less entertaining because it contains fewer murders. On the bright side, at least this one boasts recorded sound, not to mention a movie within a movie that will make you think twice about eating squash. —Rod Lott

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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

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For those who enjoyed The Most Dangerous Game, but thought it lacked balls — literally, sagging and unshaven balls — there’s The Suckers. I sure felt like one for sitting through it.

Directed by Stu Segall (Drive-In Massacre) under the pseudonym of Arthur Byrd, The Suckers transports a small group of fashion models to the middle-of-nowhere home of Steve Vandemeer (Steve Vincent, Mantis in Lace), “one of the top five game hunters.” The ladies believe they’ve been hired for a photo shoot to pose among the animals he’s killed. As their skeevy agent says, “It’s a little weird, but the money’s good.”

Vandemeer’s true intentions come to light when he tells him that they will be his prey. Why? “Because rape and slaughter go hand-in-hand when one is hunting human beings,” as if that explains everything. “I’m bored. Bored with the ordinary games of life.”

That sounds like a good ol’ exploitation setup; however, I had no idea going in that The Suckers was most interested in explicit sex scenes that play out in real time, complete with awkward copulation conversation: “Ooh, you just know, don’t cha?” While Segall stops a (pubic) hair short of showing penetration, it appears that the actors are doing the real deal.

Perhaps the raincoat crowd would love such a thing, but I was just bored; nearly 50 minutes passes before the nonsexual action starts. And after that, Seagall has more ass-tappin’ on tap, only now with the bonus element of rape. They’re ugly, repugnant scenes staged in such a way to turn viewers on. The Suckers once was a film considered to be lost; it should have stayed that way. —Rod Lott

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While The Blair Witch Project was by no means the horror masterwork as it was touted, it still had potential to be a good film. Obviously, director John Bacchus (Batbabe: The Dark Nightie) saw this potential, too, and decided to run with it, adding the essential elements needed in any great movie: gigantic, silicone-enhanced breasts and an on-the-loose ape.

Following the same basic plot of Blair Witch, The Erotic Witch Project follows three horse-faced hotties — Darian Caine, Katie Keane and Victoria Vega — as they venture to a remote wooded area to debunk the myth of the “Erotic Witch” for their sexuality class. They head off, even with news that an ape has escaped into the woods. The three bicker argue and lose their map. Pretty much the same so far, right?

Soon, the girls start hearing the orgasmic howl of the witch, which causes them to perform many, many sexual acts, both solo and with each other — one even using a twig! These scenes are never really “hot,” mostly because of all the stretch marks and pimples on the actresses’ asses. Also, they seem really forced and fake. Unlike so many others, these girls just don’t seem to really enjoy being exploited in a film that is just above porno.

They wake up in the morning and find dildos and an inflatable woman strewn all about the campsite. Then, the ape finds their camera and watches them get it on. I think he masturbates, too, but it is implied and not shown. Not that I really wanted to see it anyway.

Blair’s nonexistent chills, production values and dialogue are mimicked perfectly, but this is the better movie, which is really not saying much. —Louis Fowler

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