What’s a nudie cutie without the nudie? Why, it’s What’s Up Front!, directed by Bob Wehling, scripter of 1962’s infamous Eegah. In fact, this film is something of an Eegah reunion, being co-written by Arch Hall Sr. and co-starring caveman-kidnap victim Marilyn Manning.
Homer L. Pettigrew (the weasel-resembling Tommy Holden, Magic Spectacles) used to sell pots and pans. Now, through a setup even a sitcom would reject, the founder of Johnson Bras (Hall Sr. himself) anoints Homer as its first door-to-door brassiere salesman. Homer proves a real mover and shaker, but the sales manager (Carmen Bonacci) schemes with secretary Candy Cotton (Manning) to take credit for all the sales.
Not much of a story hangs on the flick. I’d ask you to forgive that pun, but What’s Up Front! is full of them — all of them. For example, Mr. Johnson laments declining sales by telling his troops, “Bras are sagging!” Homer moves from one mishap to the next, including accidentally stepping on the dress of Mr. Johnson’s lovely daughter (Carolyn Walker), ripping it partly off. His visit to hillbilly territory yields one true laugh when a prospective buyer says, “Last time we bought anything from a travelin’ salesman, I was 13! Just married!”
For a movie about female undergarments, that focus never veers to the fetishistic. Thus, What’s Up Front! feels remarkably modest, as if it’s fearful to take action beyond a wink — sexy, yet sexless. Amid the nudie-cute boom at the box office, its total absence of bared skin makes it a curiosity. So colorful and carefree, it might be mistaken for a Walt Disney picture if production values were present (for example, underwater ocean scenes are so clearly a swimming pool, you can see the floor). Is the sight gag of a goat with lingerie tied to its horns really all that far from a field goal-kicking mule? —Rod Lott
Contrary to popular belief, the worst type of movie isn’t a bad one; it’s a bad one that’s not any fun. 
Between its kills are enough padding to generously stuff the fluff of the pillows of every orphanage, hospital and hostel within a 100-mile range. I get the curiosity factor; I, too, succumbed. But I implore you: Stick with the trailer. Life’s too short. So short I’ll tell you how the movie ends: Pooh repeatedly stabs Maria in the head; fade to credits; everyone is the audience is agog, like, “What? That’s the finish? Is a scene missing?”
Even if only for marketing purposes, the possessive movie title is usually reserved for your Alfred Hitchcocks and John Carpenters and your Stephen Kings — you know, your name-brand filmmakers and creatives. Nonetheless, here’s Phil Herman’s Doomsday Stories. 
In merging horror with racial politics, Florida-based filmmaker David Liz seems to draw inspiration from Jordan Peele’s 
