De Jour; Sin City; Dir., Kris Kramski; Stars: Jessica Drake,
Tina Tyler, James Bonn, Angela D'Angelo
This widescreen shot-on-film
feature is not
a remake of the Luis Buñuel classic starring Catherine
Deneuve. Kramski couldn't get the
rights to the screenplay so he adapted his film from the
novel--a better idea on paper. Jessica Drake is a lonely
bird in a gilded cage who sits at home idolizing her doting,
but often absent husband. Jessica looks like she belongs
to the "Stepford Wives" club, or, she graduated from the
school of wooden acting. Down at the tennis court, Angela
D'Angelo tells Jessica that a mutual friend works on the
side at an exclusive brothel. The Stepford Wife goes blank,
then goes on to narrate her repulsion for her handsome,
successful doctor husband.
"Give me the penis of a monster;
that I could swallow," her inner monologue creaks along
as she undresses before the mirror. Jessica gets it on with
the curling iron while ruminating on whether she should
leave her husband or kill him. My kinda girl. Her stuck-up
Beverly Bitch routine contrasts nicely with her sodomizing
herself in front of the mirror.
James Bonn fucks Angela D'Angelo
and her tattooed tits on the leatherette. Bonn is actually
practicing law as he fucks his client, D'Angelo, while charging
his usual hourly. Needless to say, he comes all over her
glasses like seagull shit on the windshield. No wipers.
Jessica's frigid, except around
curling irons, so she drives around in her Volvo trying
to get up the nerve to visit the exclusive brothel. (All
frigid women drive Volvos; where as men who drive Volvos
are closet gay.) The madam, Tina Tyler, takes 60%, just
like any greedy, seedy pimp. She could get a better deal
at the Bunny Ranch. She leaves, and not because of the uneven
split. Kramski's script falters and Drake's acting stumbles
more. Hard to fault the director for attempting an original
film that includes explicit sex. Obviously, serious thespians
aren't lining up to make fuck films. Imagine a Meg Ryan
in the role of rich, neurotic housewife-turned-hooker. Whoa.
Back to reality. Belle De
Jour tries to run but she can't hide from her inner 'ho.
The madam turns into a tough pimp who gets her bitch back
in line and into the arms of a greasy pig customer. Inner
monologue continues which the violins under cannot save.
"The more I sin, the better
I feel," she confesses to the teak tabletop. She wants
to degrade herself to be a filthy whore filled with rancid
semen. That's preferable to her disgusting life of opulent
excess, shopping for the right curtains on Rodeo Drive.
Some Eurotrash shows up to collect a debt from the madam.
She offers him head instead. He takes both--the cash and
the head. Belle De Jour continues to whore in the afternoon.
The balls may be smaller but it beats tennis at the club.
The lawyer drops by to see the madam and finds his best
friend's wife there, Belle De Jour. She spreads her legs
for him but he declines because "that would be too easy."
Inspected and rejected, she goes to visit the madam's
muscle, Marcelle, who makes her suck dick with her eyes
open. Apparently the eyes-open-thing is what's been lacking
from her sex life because she suddenly becomes a sex machine;
or, it could be the wicker furniture making all those
seductive squeaking sounds.
Belle De Jour finds out the
attorney's set up a meeting with her husband to spill
the dirt on her. She hires Marcelle to head off the meeting
at the pass. Gunfire ensues. Her husband is shot in the
crossfire between Marcelle and the attorney and disabled
for life. Sitting in his wheelchair, she feeds her husband's
slobbering mouth baby food; then she takes out his cock
and gives him a blow job. Fortunately, his infirmity doesn't
extend below the waist. This is the best blow job of a
cripple in a wheelchair I've ever seen.
Lessons; Filmco; Dir., Stuart Canterbury; Stars: Chloe,
Nicole, Ava Vincent, Frank Gunn...
This film has a Contessa and
a broken-down jalopy for a stretch limo they picked up
at a junk yard. Dogs. An English professor gets picked
up in said limo to meet with the Contessa for lessons
in lust. Actually, English lessons, but you know the only
words grunted will be the language of love. Chloe, who's
the Budapest Contessa's errand girl, gets fucked by the
chauffeur. He puts a nice choke hold on her while he finger-fucks
her, then she chokes down his manmeat. I swear, Chloe
barely breathes while she's sucking dick. Either that
or she's mastered some cycle breathing technique that
famous jazz musicians, like Kenny (barf) G, employ to
play on without ever lifting their mouth from the instrument.
Budapest boys don't get to fuck big porno stars like Chloe
every day and the chauffeur is properly impressed with
just whose pussy he's fucking anyway...Chloe can't come
with the fat Eurodick in her pussy so she takes him in
her ass. Her ensuing multiples, reverse cowgirl, were
probably felt in Prague.
Lots of girls masturbating
in this feature that degenerates into a plot straight
out of the mind of a meth rat. Eventually, the English
teacher bags the Contessa but by then you're doing something
meaningful like working out with your Ab-Slide (tm).
Watch Chloe come and then switch over to cable.
Black Attack; Sin City;
Dir., Julian St. Jox; Stars: Nadia and other Eastern
Director Jox grabs some
bro's and takes them to the former Soviet bloc to attack
the commie whores with their giant incoming missiles.
We're talkin' ICBM's--I see black meat. The Russian
ho's look the best--better than the Budapest babes.
A guy on holiday finds some girls who want to pose for
his camera as a prelude to playing "Shaft." This whole
expedition is actually a CIA Black Op. We will bury
you in black dick up to your eyeballs, baby. This way
the CIA gets to infiltrate the Russian Mob (who control
the ho's) and set up operations to launder money from
their drug ops in the Golden Triangle. Or, it's just
another porno movie exploiting the cheap labor behind
the old Iron Curtain, willing to do anything, without
condoms, for a few good Ben's. In this interracial East-meets-West
fuckfest, we can see Karl Marx's theory, "Class is the
only distinction" devolve into, "Ass is the only distinction."
So, what I've learned is
this: only people with flat, hard stomachs get to be
popular and enjoy life--this according to my favorite
infomercial. So that's my problem. Either that or the
disaffected outsider, brooding artist thing is just
too last millennium.