Straight from the Liberal Household Arts Building and into your lap come the four girls of Hollywood High. Their names are unimportant, because the girls are interchangeable, save for the only one (Rae Sperling, Game Show Models) who would earn a second glance from Russ Meyer.

This toke-and-poke sex comedy is lewd, crude and best left unviewed. The only directorial effort from beefy, prolific character actor Patrick Wright (Cannonball!, Graduation Day, Savage Harbor, et al.) carries no credited writer, which makes sense because it also carries no story. The movie is simply a string of interminable, music-backed scenes of the quasi-foxy foursome driving in a jalopy, jumping in the surf, making out, getting defiled, incorrectly chugging beers and having a food fight at that drive-in spaghetti joint.

Wandering into the picture are a screamingly gay teacher (Hack-O-Lantern’s Hy Pyke) who teaches Greek (get it?), a greaser named Fenzie (get it?), a little person named Big Dick (get it?) and a Mae West caricature named June East (get it?). For the record, the other three girls are played by Susanne Severeid, whose credits include Don’t Answer the Phone!; Sherry Hardin, whose only other credit is Ted V. Mikels’ 10 Violent Women; and Marcy Albrecht, who has no other credits, which is the way it should be.

In the final shot, each girl looks at the camera and takes a turn pronouncing one word apiece from the line “This is the end.” Enough, we get it. —Rod Lott

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The Jess Franco film Night of Open Sex is purported to be an adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Gold-Bug.” While I’ve always found that short story to be quite boring, the nonstop parade of black rugs in this movie does enliven the tale, even if it’s a bit much after the third or fourth erotic dance scene.

As you could probably imagine, performing said nude numbers is Franco’s longtime gal pal, Lina Romay (Cries of Pleasure), as stripper Moira; she and her sleazy boyfriend manage to get mixed up with a criminal syndicate looking for some badly foil-wrapped Nazi gold, presumably from a fake mustached general who uses nudie pics as generalized maps to said fortune.

To get this information, by the way, she shockingly uses a curling iron as a red-hot tool of vaginal extraction. And as psychotically titillating as that is, let’s be honest, cult fans: You’re really here for the continual sex and skin, the only thing the film’s really got going for it.

With many explicit scenes of depraved fornication out the hairy hoo-ha, the sex truly is open on this night, from fetish-based frenching to fruit-based rape; softcore fans will have to watch the film in five-minute increments, skipping through very little plot to get to elongated scenes of Romay rolling around on the floor, licking a porno mag and masturbating.

Still, director Franco manages to cameo as a rich dude offering up some social commentary, far more than I honestly expected from a film where I just watched a man straight up punch a woman in the gut. —Louis Fowler

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Filmed in a year when Spanish cult director Jess Franco made 12 (!) films, Cries of Pleasure tends to get lost in the pubic bushes, until now never released outside of his native country and, honestly, with good reason.

While Franco does have his strong points — usually in his far more outré sexual outings — when you’re making a dozen low-budget features, most of them can’t be winners. Pleasure floats somewhere in the crusty bottom; even though it’s another dip into de Sade’s bloody pool, it’s not strange enough to be all that interesting.

That being said, if you’re looking for plenty of simulated sex, included exaggerated acts of oral and very exaggerated squeals of arousal, this might elicit your own cries of pleasure as Franco favorite Lina Romay (Night of Open Sex) goes on a clitoral rampage with sensually mustachioed dynamo Robert Foster and his bevy of whip-smart beauties in a gorgeous villa overlooking someplace in Europe.

With loads of extended tongue-kissing and recoiled morality, there’s also a mentally handicapped Spanish guitar player who muses over what he sees as cinematic bookends; it’s easy, because as this unshaven team of deviants goes at it, he’s usually forced to sit there and strum his instrument — and I do mean his guitar, sadly.

For Franco completists and chronic masturbators — and those of you who tend to combine the two — Cries of Pleasure is a pleasurable outing that doesn’t really say anything, but shows a whole lot and, when it comes to most of Franco’s considerable output, I guess that’ll do, pig-boy. —Louis Fowler

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What a ship captain thinks is cotton below deck is actually nitroglycerin — Dangerous Cargo, if you will. This Greek-language picture of peril takes place almost entirely on the potentially doomed boat, but is far more interested in explosions of another sort. And with Body Double femme fatale Deborah Shelton aboard, who can blame it?

Resplendent in Crystal Gayle hair and a rainbow-sherbet dress when she first appears, the gorgeous Shelton plays the wife of the captain (Nikos Verlekis, Land of the Minotaur) on his maiden voyage. She used to be a thing with the ship’s first mate, which gets a little confusing since both men look the same: as the Greek James Brolin. The only one you need worry about, however, is the lead pirate (Minotaur alum Kostas Karagiorgis) of the group that smuggles the nitro on before departure (in a container labeled “DANGEROUS NITRO” in — no joke — peel-’n’-stick letters) for eventual ship takeover and subsequent destruction of oil wells.

The graying, bloated pirate has eyes — and hands and crotch — for Shelton, all of which he employs in multiple rape/sex scenes that uncomfortably teeter toward the near-gynecological, hairy ass cracks and all. An entirely different Kostas, last name Karagiannis, is the director of this clumsy, double-drachma enterprise, proficient only in zooming in to his fellow Kostas’ constant groping and squeezing and suckling of the most unfortunate American leading lady.

Dangerous Cargo may be a shaggy-dog precursor to the Cinemax-ready erotic thrillers that kept Shannons Tweed and Whirry busy for most of the 1990s, but imagine if the Andrew Stevens/Marc Singer role were filled by, say, Dennis Farina. (No offense, Dennis, and R.I.P.) —Rod Lott

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Have you ever wanted to voyeuristically watch as a woman gleefully masturbates a horse? If the answer is “yes,” then pull your pants down, take out your questionable member and liberally grease up for Emanuelle in America.

Notorious sexpot Emanuelle (the always alluring Laura Gemser) is back in New York, photographing nude models and calmly sexualizing murderers. With a hot tip from the sleazy periodical she dubiously works for, Emanuelle goes undercover on a sex farm, trying to raise some hard love. Thankfully, it comes (and cums) fairly easy for her.

From there, she’s traveling to all the pornographic hot spots in America to track down and graphically expose the sexual secrets of the rich and filthy. As a matter of fact, at one point, a Robin Leach-a-like licks creamy frosting off the body of a sexy model at an orgy. It’s a champagne wet dream that you wish you could wake from.

In the hundred-minute runtime, Emanuelle manages to bed most of the staff of every hotel she stays in, has a rather lascivious pool party with some girls on the payroll and, if the bestiality wasn’t enough for you — and it really should be — then how about some reasonably disturbing (but, I’m told, quite fake) snuff footage?

Yeah … you can probably pull your pants up now.

The always reliable Joe D’Amato directs (and erects) with the controversial flair that has made him and this film an outré fave amongst the horniest of film geeks for over 40 years, but it’s the stunning Gemser, an Indonesian model who outlasted and out-lusted Sylvia Kristel and her double-“m”s, that makes these smut films watchable long after the viewer has gone limp in hand-wiping disgust. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.