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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Legend has it — at least within the realm of Surrender Cinema/Full Moon’s ultra-cheap skin flicks — that deep in the wild exists a strange yet voluptuous creature named Shandra: The Jungle Girl, who kills men by pleasuring them to death. Naturally, some scheming, slimy millionaire-type with the devious name of Travis Fox (David Christensen, The Mangler 2) wants to capture her and sell her to the highest bidder.

Fox recruits a couple of scientists (or rather, softcore porn actors decked in white lab coats) and the token tubby Hispanic, Diego (John Lopez, Mutant Species), to accompany him into the jungle, played here by a largely barren field in Southern California, complete with man-made rock walls. (Likewise, in the movie’s opening jungle montage, one shot is of a parrot who’s clearly at a zoo, what with the concrete sidewalk and barbed wire visible in the background.)

The team finds and snares the mute Shandra (Lisa Throw, aka Neena Quiroz, I Like to Play Games Too), but only after they speak this three-line exchange twice: “Hear that?” “Sounds like a dream girl, doc. She’s close.”

Shandra feeds on her prey by sneaking up for a kiss on the lips before moving on to more carnal activities. The men falling victim to her wiles fully cooperate, whereas I wouldn’t be able to get past the vaginal-hygiene issue. Call me old-fashioned. (Speaking of victims, the first guy to go says shortly beforehand, “No sign of the creature described to us by the Amazonians. In fact, other than a gaggle of squirrel monkeys above my campsite, there’s been no contact with any life at all.”)

After examining “the jungle bitch,” the scientists determine she has the ability to implant footage from previous Full Moon films into the minds of whoever she touches. That’s really quite a gift … to pad out the running time, of course, because director Cybil Richards (Femalien) had to have something beyond grammar-be-damned dialogue (“Doctor, you have did the test to determine Shandra’s actual age?”) and unsexy simulated sex. And, hey, who knew feral women were afforded the benefits of underwire support? —Rod Lott

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In his second film, cult-crap director Ted V. Mikels (The Corpse Grinders) directs Dr. Sex, a nudie-cutie comedy that dares to combine exhibitionism with psychiatry. At last!

In preparation for a textbook project on which they’re about to embark, three shrinks — Dr. Sex, Dr. Schmutz and Dr. Lovejoy — swap tales of their oversexed, horndog patients. And speaking of dog, one is actually a poodle that gets its doggy kicks by watching its female owner undress and soap up in the tub. To each his own.

Another patient is a quite type who believes the mannequins he dresses for work are real, and thus, serves them coffee. The funniest patient — comparatively speaking, of course, as Dr. Sex is funny to no one, save perhaps your grandfather who jacked off to it in its day — is the fat guy who has naked ghosts cleaning his home, prompting some priceless facial expressions from the poor slob.

At the end, the docs throw one wild shindig — so wild that Schmutz turns into a poodle! Wait, huh? Exactly. Dr. Sex is impossible not to fast-forward through. The most interesting thing about it is that it’s co-written by Wayne Rogers of TV’s M*A*S*H, making him the Roger Ebert to Mikels’ Russ Meyer. —Rod Lott