Michael Findlay’s immediate sequel to 1967’s The Touch of Her Flesh, the following year’s The Curse of Her Flesh begins with credits written as graffiti on a public bathroom wall. We read them (a show of hands if you think co-star A. Dick Feeler is a pseudonym) over the sound of a man’s urine stream hitting water — a meta statement?

One year after the events of the previous film, “famous weapons expert” Richard Jennings (Findlay himself) remains on the loose, slaying sexy women who remind him of his no-good philandering wife. For a subplot, he’s also seeking his wife’s lover, so he can introduce his machete to the dude’s member.

A couple of Jennings’ victims are strippers who succumb to a poisoned G-string — one directly and one indirectly, if you know what I mean (and if you don’t, Findlay shows you). Says a cop at the crime scene, “You could say they died from something they ate.”

Another dies from poisoned cat claws, but not until after this excruciatingly unsubtle exchange of dialogue hits you over the head:
Jennings: “That’s a nice little pussy you have there.”
Victim: “Thank you. Everyone who sees my pussy likes it.”
Jennings: “Is it friendly?”
Victim: “Oh, yes. Sometimes I play with it for hours.”
Jennings: “Does it ever get tired?”
Victim: “No, it never gets enough. Sometimes the girl next door comes over and brings her pussy, and puts it with mine.
Jennings: “Amazing how something so soft and pretty as this little pussy can be so dangerous.”

By the time he’s talking about the pussy being able to “swallow as much meat as it can,” she’s as sick of it as we are.

The curse of Curse is that its scenes — sex or otherwise — go on for so long, that when the soundtrack’s song is over, it starts back up. The movie is equally insane as its predecessor, yet less entertaining because it contains fewer murders. On the bright side, at least this one boasts recorded sound, not to mention a movie within a movie that will make you think twice about eating squash. —Rod Lott

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