Take the best fart jokes Troma has to offer, the erotic sensibilities of any Surrender Cinema release and the CGI knowledge of a fifth-grader in Mrs. Delvecki’s keyboarding class and you have Titanic 2000, with emphasis on the first three letters.

The Titanic has been rebuilt and is about to set off for its second maiden voyage — only this time it’s called the “TIT-anic,” I guess because lots of breasts — or “tits,” as they are sometimes called — are seen a few times. On board are the typical gay stereotypes; the fat woman who eats a lot; the guys who farts a lot; a rock singer with a bad, overdone British accent; and a bunch of sluts who disrobe many, many times. The comparisons to James Cameron’s Oscar-winning Titanic end there, though, because also included is a vampire lesbian who needs to find a new bride. The new bride in question is the very hot Tina Krause, 100 times more attractive and a little more slutty than Kate Winslet.

The characters run around a lot, fart, show their breasts, do pratfalls, eat and fart.

The TIT-anic sinks in the end, not due to an iceberg, but because the hull was made of tinfoil. Tina and the vampire swim through many badly done blue screens and escape. In the water, their breasts float. They then go to Long Island (?) and have more lesbian sex. —Louis Fowler

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Talk about a housing crisis! In The Sinful Dwarf, lovely young female renters of a boardinghouse are locked away in a secret attic room, where they are stripped naked, drugged up and whored out. On the bright side, each woman gets her own dirty mattress.

Who’s the landlord of this hellhole? That’d be former showgirl Lila Lash (Clara Keller) and her pint-sized son, Olaf (Torben Bille). He’s the dwarf of the title, but to call him sinful is like calling Hitler mean: a major understatement. With a rapey grin, Olaf does a lot of the luring and administering doses of horse into the girls’ hungry veins via crooked, rusty needle.

Given the vacant, narcotized stares of these sex slaves’ faces, one might assume no acting was taking place. Olaf is eager to add Mary Davis (Anne Sparrow) to the stable; she’s one-half of a newlywed British couple forced by financial difficulties to take temporary residence there. They certainly break in the bed, explicitly.

Shot in Denmark, The Sinful Dwarf marks the directorial debut and swan song for Vidal Raski, and it’s the only credit for several of its stars, including Keller and Sparrow. Ironically, Bille enjoyed a fairly healthy career afterward, despite the horrible things he does with a wooden cane.

Notoriously sleazy, The Sinful Dwarf is every bit as unpleasant and depraved as its rep promises. However, amid all its dehumanizing elements, the worst thing about the film is how dreadfully boring it is. —Rod Lott

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For his first feature-length collection of exploitation trailers under the GrindhouseFlix banner, Full Moon Features head honcho Charles Band chose to focus on the topic of virgins. To host, he went with someone who may not remember what it was like to be one: Playboy‘s May 2012 Playmate, Nikki Leigh, who seems calm and comfortable in her underwear-clad duties on the bedroom set, if not exactly brimming with personality.

The result is Blood of 1000 Virgins — whose onscreen transitions mistitle it as Blood of a 1000 Virgins — an exploration into cherry-picked coming attractions dealing with doing “it” … or not. Who knew there were enough of those to jam into a single package? Surprisingly, the contents are not culled strictly from sexploitation pictures, as Mighty Peking Man‘s early appearance makes known.

The program is divided into five loosely defined categories: “Female Virgins,” “Male Virgins,” “Reasons to Stay a Virgin,” “Who Hunts Virgins?” and “Revenge of the Virgins.” This allows Band and company to traipse through many genres and subgenres, including melodrama (The Harrad Experiment), possession horror (Joan Collins in The Devil Within Her), sexy sci-fi (Invasion of the Bee Girls), crude comedy (Chatterbox, starring Candice Rialson and her talking vagina), arthouse darlings (Andy Warhol’s Dracula), rape-revenge (Ms. 45) and see-it-to-believe-it insanities (Doris Wishman’s Deadly Weapons). While they sometimes ignore their own theme, they also don’t settle for the usual suspects, either.

The print quality of the trailers varies wildly, but when you’re dealing with some real rarities, I can’t say I minded all that much. In fact, I half-expect them not to emerge pristine, to better convey the grimy feel of 42nd Street theaters. Whether featuring Linda Blair or Tommy Kirk, “these virgins need no urgin'” (to borrow an announcer’s line from Run, Virgin, Run). —Rod Lott

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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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