Call this softcore entry Star Whores or Fuck Rogers. Described by its very own producer, David F. Friedman, as “the worst science-fiction movie ever made,” Space Thing is so no-budget, its opening credits are painted on naked breasts (including the ever-dubious “written by Cosmo Politan”). Not that you’ll be complaining.

Our hairy-backed hero, James, is an avid sci-fi reader, much to the dismay of his horny wife. After she convinces him to make love, he drifts off to sleep and dreams he’s an alien, disguised as a human, in the year 2069 (natch) aboard a spaceship filled with intergalactic honeys and ruled by the lesbian Capt. Mother, who looks an awful lot like Rose McGowan.

The plot — James wants to stop them from reaching a California desert, oops, I mean far-off planet — is simply an excuse to allow the various and numerous sexual couplings. Strangely, the women (one of whom is named Portia — a Shakespearean reference, perhaps? Nah!) are allowed to fully disrobe, but the guys keep their pants on and simply do a lot of rolling around. Capt. Mother even gets her groove on with another girl and wields a stinging whip to another.

Something Weird Video’s special edition includes the original trailer — which tastefully references one sequence as “planet of the rapes” — as well as a gallery of Friedman advertising art and two future-themed short subjects, one involving a giant robot butler. —Rod Lott

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Starring Swedish voluptuous vixen Uschi Digard, Getting into Heaven is your basic sex comedy with better-than-basic bosoms. By “comedy,” we don’t mean funny — just wacky. You know the kind: cartoon sound effects, sped-up voices, predictable pratfalls, acknowledgment of the camera, and dialogue exchanges like this:

“That can get you into trouble?”
“Are you trouble?”
“No, I’m Heaven!”
“I’ll say!”

As you may have guessed by now, Uschi plays the titular Heaven, a new-to-L.A. gal who hits (and gets) it off with a nerdy cop, who becomes her boyfriend. She and her roommate want to be movie stars, but they don’t really have any talent other than harboring large breasts, so they hold a producer hostage and bang him continually — we’re talking more than 100 times — until he gives in. Happy endings all around. Just maybe not with you. —Rod Lott

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How many Pollacks does it take to make Fantom Kiler? I don’t have the answer. Regardless, Fantom Kiler — yes, that’s right, only one L — has to be the single most fucked-up movie I’ve ever seen.

In a bus station, two bumbling janitors — one of whom looks like Super Mario, so we’ll call the other one Luigi, for the sake of balance — push their mops and imagine what all the women there look like naked. Among them is a skinny brunette, who then slips in front of them and rejects Mario’s painful advances. So he imagines the woman walking through a spooky forest at night, gradually losing her pieces of clothing to tree branches and barbed wire before she is stark naked, whereupon she meets Fantom Kiler. With his trenchcoat and bandaged face, he looks exactly like Darkman, except you can’t see his eyes. He slashes her body all over and rapes her with a knife.

Back in reality, Mario (who resembles SNL’s Seth Meyers with a fake mustache) is in his office (since when do janitors have offices?) when the new cleaning woman arrives. She comes to work in the acceptable maid attire — namely, a short tube top that barely covers her breasts and cut-off shorts. Much to Mario’s delight, she starts scrubbing things up in suggestive positions, often exposing her breasts. Then she offers to demonstrate why she is the reigning Miss Butt Beautiful and does something with a wooden spoon that I just can’t bring myself to put into words; let’s just say “spoontang” and leave it at that. Then Mario dreams she meets the Fantom Kiler. She dies, while buck naked.

This cycle repeats, with Fantom Kiler ready to “kile” any naked woman he meets. He picks up one blonde in a car, which then conveniently stalls. While checking the oil, the Fantom Killer needs a rag, so the hussy offers her pantyhose. Oops, she isn’t wearing any, so she takes off her shirt, too. Her shorts mysteriously disappear, only to reappear underneath the car, thus not only allowing the viewer to see what her gynecologist sees in horrifying close-up, but also allowing Fantom Kiler the prime opportunity to ram a metal spike all up in her pooper with a mallet.

This goes on and on, later with Ms. Spoontang reappearing to get intimate with Fantom Kiler’s mop handle. Then Mario, too wrapped up in his imagination, chokes on a peanut and dies. And so does the Fantom Kiler. Meanwhile, Luigi has been investigating this string of murders, even though they were all in the mind of Mario, who again, met his untimely demise by choking on a peanut.

I know you think I just made all this up, but I swear to you I did not. —Rod Lott

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If anything, Private School serves as fair warning that just because a director makes a critically acclaimed cult movie (that very few people have actually seen) early in their career doesn’t mean that’s what the world will remember them for.

In 1968, Noel Black made Pretty Poison, a darkly comic thriller about a mentally ill man (Anthony Perkins) whose life is taken over and ruined by a very pretty teenage sociopath (Tuesday Weld). Fifteen years and several flops and made-for-TV movies later, he found himself at the mercy of producer R. Ben Efraim (the man who gave us Private Lessons and Private Resort) with Private School. I suspect he took the job assuming such a seemingly inconsequential project would remain as obscure as his other films. What he could not have imagined was that Private School would take on a life of its own in the then-new world of home video, where it easily became his best-known work.

The question, then, is why such a truly terrible teen comedy that only ever works as a desperate parody of itself succeeded when Black’s other films didn’t? The answer is simple: Betsy Russell riding topless on a horse. If you’re a heterosexual male between the ages of 30 to 40, you probably “watched” this scene at least a dozen times before you moved out of your parents’ house. And if you didn’t, you likely live a life of constant turmoil and regret.

Much like Black. —Allan Mott

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Is marijuana an aphrodisiac? While I know some women who would easily fellate you for a dime-sack of high-quality, hydroponic sticky-icky with no hesitation, I have a feeling that has more to do with low self-esteem and the lack of a positive male role model than it does any type of magically seductive ingredient laced within those tenderly pungent pot buds.

Sadly, I personally have never been privy to such THC-leazy doings — although it hasn’t been for a lack of trying — nor have I ever been to a swanky cocktail party wherein a joint is casually passed around and eventual inhalation of the demon weed leads to a spontaneously nude encounter group session wherein pock-faced, fully-bushed cuties are told to stare at your bathing-suit area and gently caress your mons pubis, as I am repeatedly promised in this 1971 sexploitation relic.

Sorry, Aphrodisiac!: The Sexual Secret of Marijuana, but while you dubiously proclaim that cannabis is an ancient sexual enticer that will lead even the most frigid broad to drop trou and let you plow, in my experience, it’s typically just two or three dudes chafing it up on a Goodwill couch, barely watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force and, almost ritualistically, going to sleep, alone, with a belly full of Salsa Verde Doritos, depressed they can’t even maintain the most pathetic of erections for some tearful self-stimulation before passing out to side one of Jefferson Starship’s Red Octopus.

Your visual dissertation just doesn’t hold (bong) water, Aphrodisiac! It does, however, hold other, thicker fluids. While I’m sure in their heart-of-hearts, the filmmakers thought they were presenting a strong case for the use of marijuana as a sexual aid, all that hard work and scientific research is pretty much lost entirely the first moment onscreen penetration occurs between two of the saddest, most unphotogenic, low-rent porn actors the Bowery-based modeling agency could rustle up.

And, you know, I kinda liked that, actually. The idea of a director trotting out to the nearest homeless shelter, paying a belligerent morphine addict $10 to mime the most reptilian of sexual encounters with an equally uninterested, possibly dead hooker, using every diseased thrust as an opportunity to feel something other than the lifetime of mind-numbing regret and stomach-growling hunger … well, that’s some sexy shit. It makes me feel like a shadowy Italian businessman who just paid $5,000 to sit in a hotel room with other equally shadowy businessman — mostly Japanese — to watch a Bolivian snuff flick. I’m sure we can all relate. —Louis Fowler

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