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

Following her Playboy heyday, billionaire wedding and many, many Drake’s Cakes, Anna Nicole Smith showed us just how far starlets can fall and how pathetic they can really be (yet still be alive), in a softcore quasi-documentary that’s one of the least sexy things the year 1998 had to offer, along with the Nairobi Embassy bombing and the last ski trip of Sonny Bono. If there’s anyone who could make sex a turn-off at the time, it was Smith, in what could be called the Schafer’s Honey-Glazed Ham era of her career.

Interspersed with demonstrations of Anna’s uninspired fantasies are semi-interviews with Anna herself, in which she says things so stupid, you wonder why she had to read them off cue cards. (Example: “My favorite place to masturbate? Definitely the tub. I get the shivers just thinking about it.”) Serving as a framing device, Anna poses for a calendar that never hit the market.

Clearly, Anna Nicole Smith Exposed: Her Fantasies Revealed does not feature the early-’90s Anna that made her a household name; here, her face is all puffy and her once-celebrated breasts look bruised from excessive beatings. (“With a body like this, who wouldn’t want to masturbate?” she asks, and I assume rhetorically. “What a great way to start the day.”)

Nevertheless, several guys were (paid to be) eager to join her for some simulated sex, including Darren, a houseboy who gets his RDA of calcium from a morning romp with his bloated employer (“Darren, wonderful Darren. I pay him a lot to do nothing but please me. … Oh, and he also has a pretty good butt.”) Also falling prey to her scripted wiles is Jason, a shirtless pastry chef who moves like an animatronic robot on the fritz. (“I see Jason pounding out some dough on that hard, cold marble counter with his bare hands. … I just get sooo excited.”)

Coming to an end, Exposed presents some of Anna’s nude scenes from her starring roles in the action films To the Limit and Skyscraper. In theory, this would save you from having to rent them, but they’re even funnier than this misbegotten project. —Rod Lott

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Indonesian beauty Laura Gemser (Black Cobra Woman) stars as the oft-naked Emanuelle, Queen of the Desert. Except she doesn’t really play Emmanuelle as she has many a time, but rather a generic hussy going by the exotic name of Sheila. I understand the title switcheroo, as Sheila, Queen of the Desert sounds about as marketable as, say, Marcy, Ace Groundskeeper.

As the film’s story begins, Emanuelle Sheila is washing her breasts at a river when she’s approached by a scruffy guerilla soldier named Victor, who asks, “Have you ever screwed a guy you just met?”

She says, “Yes,” so he promptly jumps atop her. But she says if he wants “free pussy,” he has to work for it, so off she runs into the mountains. Victor angrily gives chase, eventually threatening to kill her with his knife if she doesn’t put out. Being crafty, she distracts him with her body so that Victor loses his footing and accidentally stabs himself in the gut as he rolls down the mountain to his death.

And that, ladies and gentleman, is how you get to be Queen of the Desert.

Soon, his buddies discover his blue-balled body and go looking for his murderer, although they’re already lost and don’t realize that the woman who’s just offered to be their guide is also responsible for his doom. Before long, she’s using her feminine wiles to get them to turn on one another.

What begins as sleazy fun then becomes a sleazy depressant, with rape, murder and gratuitous fruit-eating. The only thing more ludicrous than its claim that it was based on a novel is that … well, no, that covers it, really. —Rod Lott

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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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