Before Rinse Dream turned the sex club in an atomic nightmare, director Willy Roe — with skin queen Mary Millington in her last film — turned it into a kitschy daydream, erections not included.

In London’s lily-white Blues Club — apparently the top spot for the hair-filled nudity in Mayfair — the so-called queen of the joint, literally and figuratively, is Millington, who writhes around on stage, moving her pubic mound up and down for all the patrons seemingly live there to see. In between, the rampant backstage cattiness of nude infighting truly makes Queen of the Blues a film to watch.

The main plot, if you can call it that, is about gangsters demanding protection money from the owner, although it’s probably around five minutes of actual film, as so much of this is dedicated to the sexy strippers, with a preamble by a terrible comedian who tempts me to push the fast-forward button.

A just a little over an hour — a mercifully short running time I definitely miss in film — Mary and her stripper friends soon attempt revenge on the gangsters. The sad thing is that Millington, by then the prime porn star of England, looks tired and, soon enough, would be found dead. Her publisher, however, was able to farm her buxom body into two more features, both of which are terrible.

Also, in case you’re wondering, there is no actual blues music to be heard here, but plenty of horrific dance tunes. I guess Queen of the Disco wouldn’t work, though. —Louis Fowler

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As the story surrounding Crazy Nights goes, French sex symbol/disco queen Amanda Lear thought she was shooting a documentary about herself. Instead, she was tricked into hosting a mondo movie of most prurient interests.

Why was she targeted? Her ideal last name notwithstanding, one guesses Lear represented the perfect mix of naïveté, narcissism and affordability. How strange to think a director as upstanding Joe D’Amato (Deep Blood) would engage in such chicanery when just a year before, he advanced the art of cinema by filming a woman masturbating a horse. Ethics? Neigh.

The finished product — Crazy Nights, not a wrist coated with stallion semen — is a look at either “sordid pleasures from around the world” or “the wild, wicked world of night.” Take your pick; either way, its bits are obviously staged and embarrassing enough for Lear to bring legal action — an act that earned the picture scads more attention than it deserves, then and now.

After a cape-clad Lear performs her hit song “Follow Me,” we’re supposed to do just that, and believe me when I say strap in, because the ride will be bumpy. By definition, mondo movies are supposed to be weird, but when Tokyo frickin’ Japan is the site of the most “normal” activity of all — a woman and man bite strips of newspaper from the other’s unclothed body — you know something is seriously off. Mondon’t.

Our globetrotting tour of kink, mink and stink begins at a Vegas stage show, where one lucky audience member is bamboozled into fucking a goat. Next, in an underground cavern located in a country I didn’t catch (like it matters), a couple copulates atop an altar, prompting the men watching to hike their numbered black robes up just enough to form a human millipede. Much later, a ballerina act in Stockholm proves to viewers once and for all that, by gum, blue is the warmest color.

An S&M hotel in Berlin affords an unclothed elderly man his fantasy of getting nailed. Oh, I don’t mean intercourse — I mean a woman in leather hammers a metal spike into his genitals. (To each his own, recht?)

Meanwhile, in Beirut, a witch demonstrates her ability to levitate things: first, a toupee (yes, of course the string is visible); then, penises. Move over, Peter Popoff!

Do you like magic? Wait, don’t answer yet! A magician in Marseille produces live doves, colored hankies and more — all from the vagina of his assistant. Okay, now answer.

I have neither the wherewithal nor fortitude to talk about the panther, the suspenders, the gender-switcheroo box, the necrophile or the excruciatingly explicit blowjob. I will tell you that Lear appears in between segments to show off her property. Finally, in a gold jumpsuit and on a motorcycle, she returns at the end to sing another hit, “Enigma (Give a Bit of Mmh to Me).” Then, as the credits roll, she tries on wigs. —Rod Lott

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Let’s just get this out of the way: The most memorable thing about Lucifer’s Women is that four years later, Al Adamson hacked it into Doctor Dracula. The runner-up: It’s edited by David Webb Peoples, future screenwriter of Blade Runner and 12 Monkeys.

Now we return to Lucifer’s Women, already in progress: Professor Wainwright (Larry Hankin, Billy Madison) not only has written about a book about the second coming of Svengali, but believes he is just that, down to claiming psychic powers of control and having the appropriately ratty, assured-to-reek beard — so pointed it looks pilfered from the Pistachio Disguisey disguise kit.

The narcissism is catching. Also believing himself to be a reincarnation is his publisher, Phillips (single-hitter Norman Pierce), who needs “a pure soul” for an upcoming black mass so he can ensure an all-new possession. He convinces Wainwright to procure that meat for him, complete with awfully specific instructions: She must be killed at the point of orgasm, precisely at midnight, on her 21st birthday.

Seriously? I can’t even get my own wife to slip on a pair of going-out shoes with 45 minutes’ advance notice. But Svengali 2.0 accepts all these conditions, like “No problemo!” His target is the naive Trilby (Jane Brunel-Cohen, whose only other role is in Freebie and the Bean), who somehow fits the “pure soul” portion of the bill despite being a stripper and freein’ her bean while reading underground sex comix at night.

As the fated, er, stroke of midnight approaches, both men cough and wheeze, making the movie all the more disgusting than its drab, gauzy brownness already does a bang-up job of doing. It all, um, climaxes with horned-goat-head rape at that satanic crucifixion as scheduled. Weird, right?

Even before that, Lucifer’s Women is overloaded with weird as director and co-writer Paul Aratow — later the producer of outdated comic-strip pics Sheena and The Spirit (the good, made-for-TV one) — dishes out a mute magician named Bobo, a butterfly girl, lines and lines of cocaine, the professor leaping spectral planes and a menage a trois a single thrust from becoming porno — especially since the tripod of that triumvirate is played by XXX star Paul Thomas (Ready, Willing and Anal).

And it’s all really, really boring. What can I say? The devil made me do it. —Rod Lott

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Life changes come in pairs for fashion writer Freddie Horne (David Kernan, Carry on Abroad). Not only is he engaged to the gorgeous Rosalie (Andrea Allan, The House That Vanished), but starts a new gig working for a publisher of religious magazines — or so he thinks! Turns out, the godly rags are a mere front for its true cash cow: a nudie-cutie mag For Men Only!

Freddie gets tricked into visiting this film’s version of the Playboy Mansion, where the Hefner-inspired Fanthorpe (Derek Aylward, Come Play with Me) surrounds him with temptation in the form of giggling, bikini-clad “birds” (as the credits call them). If you think the story contrives to get Rosalie to Fanthorpe’s pad, writer/director Pete Walker has a real table-turner in store! I lied; Walker clearly missed his true calling as a scenarioist for Three’s Company.

Before a career helming horror films (House of Whipcord, House on the Long Shadows and movies with non-abode titles), Walker cut his UK choppers on nearly two dozen slapsticky slap-and-tickle shorts, of which For Men Only was his penultimate. Especially when the sound mix is as weak as it is here, turns out 40 minutes is just the proper length (yeah, I said it) for this sort of thing — you know, sex comedies with lines like “C’mon, darling, it wasn’t like I ripped her dress off on purpose!”

Its one surprise is quite a shocker: There’s no nudity, unless you count the top half of a butt crack. (At age 15, I might have; at age 50, I do not.) For Men Only is quite the tease, but that’s the way I like it. —Rod Lott

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In Confessions from the David Galaxy Affair, the third film to star sexy British siren Mary Millington — but just barely — we enter immediately into the ultimately sleazy conquests of decidedly non-sexy psychic David Galaxy (Alan Lake) as he hosts a beauty pageant filled with mostly topless women. Apparently, if you’re into sexually harassing women, late-1970s Britain was the place to be!

Part James Bond (the worst part) investigative police are hot on his tail, apparently for a 1930s robbery a few years back that really makes no sense. Still, Galaxy goes from the bare bosoms of women with low self-esteem to the creamy thighs of women with even lower self-esteem, for reasons that are unknown to me, extreme horniness aside.

One of the said buxom broads includes the famed Millington as a society debutante, complete with a Cockney accent. While there is very little backstory to her with exception of “she’s rich,” their highly horny encounter has a bar full of lecherous perverts listening via ham radio as she duly shags his brains out, not that he really had any.

Maybe I’m expecting far too much from late ’70s British softcore pornography — let’s call a spade a spade, right? — but Galaxy is such a smirking dullard that you actively cheer on the cops, hoping they bust him then take him to a back alley and beat his brains in with a truncheon, paying for his crimes against women with life in prison and a permanent limp.

And, I assume, for the dated robbery as well. —Louis Fowler

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