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before that, Lucifer’s Women is overloaded with weird as director and co-writer Paul Aratow — later the producer of outdated comic-strip pics Sheena and The Spirit (the good, made-for-TV one) — dishes out a mute magician named Bobo, a butterfly girl, lines and lines of cocaine, the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

Get it at Amazon.

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 chompers 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

Get it at Amazon.

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

Get it at Amazon.

If you’ve ever watched a Dirty Harry film and thought it needed some graphic sexual depictions as well as scummy violent content, I suggest Clint Eastwood in Tightrope. But, if it also needed some proper British comedy, I then recommend The Playbirds, starring the late sex goddess Mary Millington as a policewoman who goes way undercover.

And by undercover, of course, I mean fucking.

Here, she’s bobbie Lucy, a well-meaning copper working with some straight-laced detectives to find out who’s strangling the cover girls of the nudie mag Playbirds. Who could it be? Is it the horndog publisher? The anti-porn protestor? One of the policemen who called uniformed women into his office to arbitrarily doff their clothes for the case?

Agatha Christie, it’s not. Then again, I don’t remember Murder on the Orient Express having this much pubic hair.

Willy Roe’s directing style is the opposite of Millington: very flat. Still, you could tell he was trying to do something different with the British sex film and I guess it worked, man-cementing Millington as the ultimate Union Jack sex bomb. It’s something I can understand, but not necessarily endorse, as the blood flow to the penis is significantly decreased by the incredibly bleak ending.

Or even more increased, you vile pervert. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

Srdjan Spasojevic’s A Serbian Film is so repellent, so sick, so depraved, it may turn you xenophobic. It begins with a toddler watching his father, Milos (Srdjan Todorovic), pounding away at some woman on a porno. Oh, the memories! Milos since has retired from the industry, but the one-time “Balkan sex god” is in need of some cash, so when he’s approached by some high rollers to shoot an arty film they claim is only for foreign markets, and offer him enough money that he’ll be set for life, he’s ready to throw his hat — and by hat, we mean dick — back into the ring.

You’ve likely already heard about the atrocities Milos commits for the camera, so you may be thinking, “Should I really watch it?” That depends on how much you wanna see Milos jerk off next to a Dumpster while he gazes at an underage hooker, or hear a story about monks making a sandwich spread out of blood, semen and milk.

And that’s nothing compared to him beating and ultimately beheading a woman as he rapes her from behind. Or having to fuck a newborn baby. Or finding out that the masked person under the sheets he’s been raping is his own son. Or punching out a guy’s eyes with his bloody, erect member. A friend warned me, “There’s no reason to watch this. Turn it off now before you see things you can never unsee. And this is coming from me.”

He was right: There is no reason to see A Serbian Film, even out of sheer curiosity. I mean, what’s the point? That raping people is bad? I already knew that, Spasojevic, thanks. Claim it’s pointed, political art all you want, but I have to disagree. I shudder to think there’s someone out there literally getting off on the acts it portrays — and you know he/she/them exists. Whoever you are, please consider incarcerating yourself. Kthx. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.