Odds are, the amateurish, plotless sex comedy known as C.B. Hustlers likely was dated the very day it was released. The title refers to a “rolling cathouse” of a pimp and his three shapely truck-stop whores, ready to service weary rig drivers at the drop of $25.

Using the CB handle “Hotbox” — presumably, “Moist Vagina” was taken — they communicate and negotiate over the airwaves to elude the Boss Hogg-ian police until a newspaperman (he’s the one with the card reading “PRESS” in the brim of his hat if you get confused) starts getting suspicious over all the talk he hears about “tunnel action,” “laying track” and “juicy watermelons.”

There’s not a laugh to be had in this mix of Hal Needham and Hee Haw, but its 85 minutes breeze by like those damned 18-wheelers on the freeway. A couple of reels were even out of order on the print I saw, but I didn’t mind at all, especially when I saw that Uschi Digard’s big sex scene was filmed from the perspective of the lucky guy beneath her.

Like this review, the movie — directed by Drive-In Massacre‘s Stu Segall — just sort of decides to end. —Rod Lott

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At Harrad College, they preach and practice free love. Boys and girls are paired up as roommates, encouraged to plug away and attend morning yoga sessions in the nude. This is all fine and dandy if you’re a smooth and suave ladies’ man like Don Johnson, wearing a beret and neckerchief, but a little daunting if you’re, well, Bruno Kirby (City Slickers).

Ironically, Bruno’s character, Harry, warms up and gains confidence with his skinny, sexy roomie (Laurie Walters of TV’s Eight Is Enough), whereas Stanley (Johnson) finds out — thanks to his homely partner, with whom he bonds over pot farming — that love can be, goshdarnit, so, like, complicated.

As heads of the school, James Whitmore (Planet of the Apes) and Tippi Hedren (The Birds) are top-billed, but hardly in it, to make room for all the young wangs and thatches. That Hedren, mother of Melanie Griffith, later would become Johnson’s mom-in-law in real life lends their sex-charged scenes a higher level of creepiness.

Certainly the wildly dated The Harrad Experiment remains an embarrassment to all involved, which makes it top-notch, unintentionally hilarious entertainment for you and me. “All involved” includes Ted Cassidy (Lurch on TV’s The Addams Family), of all people, for helping pen the screenplay, and director Ted Post, for whom only The Baby tops this for sheer weirdness among his CV. And about the only thing more unsettling than seeing Fred Willard in a flick like this is knowing that Brillo-haired comedian Marty Allen did the following year’s sequel, Harrad Summer. Zoom, zoom, zoom! —Rod Lott

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I have never seen more female nudity in a motion picture than the flesh on parade in Street of a Thousand Pleasures. Hell, I have never seen more female nudity anywhere — motion picture or otherwise. For that alone, you really don’t need to read further; just watch it.

What, you’re still here? Fine: For his job, a henpecked husband (Garth Ruger) travels to the Middle East one day, where he saves the life of a sheik (Abdul Ben Hassein). The sheik demonstrates his gratitude by allowing the American the pick of his harem. Plot ends there. (And the moral of the story? Be extra-nice to Middle Easteners.) Every loving remaining minute consists of the guy putting his paws over each of what looks like hundreds of naked women, sampling a little of the all-natural goods before choosing which ones to bed. Uschi Digard and Joyce Mandel are merely two of these bra-busting women, so you really don’t need to read further; just watch it.

Jesus, what gives, people? Okay: The genius of Street is that most of it is shot from our protagonist’s POV, so when he feels a breast or goes in for a quick nipple kiss, the camera is your eye, my friend, so you really don’t need to read further; just watch it.

Unbelievable. You must be female, gay or a recovering victim of breast trauma. Anyway, normally a movie this repetitious would result in flat-out boredom, but for some reason, that’s not the case here — blue balls, maybe, but not boredom. If there’s a beef with it, it’s that you have to see a couple of wangers. But looking on the bright side, the breast-to-penis ratio is something like, what, 4,200 to 3? I lost my ability to count. It’s like director Clay McCord filmed a dream I’ve had regularly since 1981. —Ed Donovan

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Why isn’t more softcore porn as educational (or gossipy) as this? Hollywood Babylon, pseudo-based on the best-selling Tinseltown scorcher by psychedelic Church of Satan co-founder Kenneth Anger, is the ultimate precursor to The E! True Hollywood Story, with a much-needed emphasis on the nastier side of fame. Granted, we’re never really told who most of the stars (repeatedly referred to as “the golden people”) are, but it doesn’t matter — you came for some ‘70s bush-filled debauchery, and that’s exactly what you get.

Here are a few highlights among its star-studded and stud-starred recreations:
• Corpulent comedian Fatty Arbuckle bangs a girl to death with a champagne bottle after saying things like, “Later, Toots, I’m in a lovin’ mood.” The narrator laments, “If only his fans could see their jolly, fat star now!”
• One nameless star falls in love with a 7-year-old girl, gets her pregnant at 15 and marries her in a Mexican village that “smells of human urine and donkey dung.” Now mortally afraid of normal penis-to-vagina sex, he vows never to have to do it that way again. So what does he do? He obsessively forces her to go down on him all the time, even bringing in other girls to teach her how to do it properly (i.e. no teeth — you fellas know what I mean).
• Hilariously German director Erich von Stroheim, when not filming orgies, masturbates and cackles maniacally (monocle and all) as he watches a “professional sadist” whip the shit out of a chained naked girl. Is it just me, or did Stroheim look like Dr. Hugo Strange?
• Notorious lover Rudolf Valentino liked highly masculine, domineering women, was married to two “renowned dykes,” was worshipped by “swishing sissies” and his final words were, “Now, do they still think me a pink powder puff?”
• Swedish sexpot Uschi Digard — the hottest, most buxom star of ‘70s adult cinema — gets into a face-slapping catfight that leads to one of the most erection-inducing sex scenes you’ll ever see. She then models lingerie for her director.
• Lastly, America’s first sweetheart Clara Bow invites the whole football team into her boudoir, with sexy results. In the best end credits sequence since Don’t Go in the Basement, they run over the final scene of the exhausted football team, exposed wangs and all, sprawled out in Bow’s room. —Louis Fowler

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Remember the good ol’ days of burlesque shows? Me neither, but from the looks of The Peek Snatchers, they really weren’t all that. As a matter of fact, they were nothing more than sub-Stooges sight gags, lame plots, lamer accents and a string of voluptuous ladies — sexy guts and all — dancing around to seedy nightclub jazz. In other words: Why wasn’t there a sequel?

After a newspaper headline (presumably from The Plot Exposition That Won’t Be Used Later Times) reads “Tel-Star Orbits the World, Claim Many Things Uncovered” and “Big Jewel Robbery — Two Scientists Missing,” we meet two goofballs who may be the scientists. They bumble and stumble around, say stupid one-liners and stare into a white piece of paper masquerading as a super-computer that can see anything in the world.

With all that power, do they fall into international intrigue or get involved in some sort of espionage? Nope. Instead, they stare at 1960s tits and ass. So in between gay cowboy jokes and Japanese Beatle gags, we see a chunky stripping Latina, a chunky stripping blonde, a chunky folk-singing stripping Asian and a chunky belly-dancing Arab — sexy ladies one and all.

So fellas, wait for the wife to go to work, drop the kids off at school and get ready to masturbate, old-school! —Louis Fowler

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