A semi-invigorating look-see into the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles circa 1981, Amanda by Night is a smart detective story that is almost ruined by its insistence on showing its performers aggressively rubbing up against one another with hardly any clothes on. At first, I didn't know what was going on. I mean, why were touching each other for so long? And what the heck was that milky substance that miraculously appears around the time the mutual molestation is over? Even the participants who weren't producing any whitish goo seemed excited to see it when it finally came – some even insisted on having it placed on their face (I know, bizarre). Anyway, I sat there in complete befuddlement as a perfectly adequate dead call girl yarn was literally being sullied by these mystifying acts of consensual degradation. However, after doing some extensive research, and remembering some of the lessons I learned while at an advanced cunnilingus class I took back in the late 1980s, I found out that the acts performed in this film were perfectly normal, and that my outrage surrounding them was, in hindsight, kinda stupid. Sure, the normalcy of being shot in the face with someone else's cum (an euphemism for the seminal fluid male animals carry around in their testicles) is debatable, but everything else is apparently quite commonplace. In fact, I hear there are millions of people out there who not only enjoy watching others engage in sexual congress, but enjoy engaging in it themselves. Again, something I did not know. But that's why I attentively stare at things the way I do; my thirst for knowledge is unquenchable.
Opening with this odd "bow chicka wow wow" guitar groove on the soundtrack, Amanda by Night wastes no time getting down to business at hand, which is a murder mystery about shady pimps, high-class prostitutes, and the honest cops who love them; punctuated by extended scenes of a sexual nature. On the murder mystery side of things, Amanda (Veronica Hart), a chic trollop with exquisite gams, receives a phone call from a John asking her to come over to his pad to engage in some fem-dom activities in an indoor setting (the sun is notoriously unkind to the human anus). The genteel prostitute declines the offer (she's got a virgin to deflower at ten o'clock), so she sends over two of her best gals instead. When one of the ladies Amanda sends over ends up dead, all sorts of suspicious characters come out of the woodwork.
The dead hooker story at the centre of the film is quite engrossing. Filled with junkie pathos, non-synthetic bodies, and moments of genuine kindness, director-producer Gary Graver (credited here as Robert McCallum) definitely knows a thing or two about making a compelling film that just happens to have a lot of fornicating in it (he did the same thing with Private Teacher). On top of that, he does a terrific job of showing the dichotomy between gentle fornication and rough fornication. It also helped that the chemistry between Veronica Hart and Robert Kerman (credited as R. Bolla) as the detective investing the death of Amanda's fellow working girl was strong.
The gorgeous Miss Hart oozes class and sophistication and Mr. Kerman's acting was surprisingly excellent. It's true, the beard and the fisherman hat was significant factor in the overall appeal of his character, but I like to think that Kerman did it mostly on his own.
On the sex side of things, the supple frame of the full-bosomed Lisa De Leeuw is the first thing that springs to mind; as her pale legs sheathed in black stockings and her freckle-covered shoulders writhe under the sheer weight of Ron Jeremy's permanently strapped-on caulking gun. The ample Miss De Leeuw and her fake Southern accent also shined during the bondage scene where she and Samantha Fox abuse some cretin in a leather mask. I loved how De Leeuw and Fox kept calling their mock victim a "worm," as that is the same insult Doris the Dominatrix (Susan Saiger) liked to use in Eating Raoul (a film in which Mr. Graver worked on as a second unit director).
Other tidbits of titillation included the short-shorts of the desk clerk at the massage parlor, the shape of Mai Lin's first-class hindquarters during the pimp party threeway, and, of course, the awe-inspiring way Veronica Hart's legs looked while aloft. Hell, they almost looked as good as Honey Wilder's aloft legs. Which is quite the compliment considering she's the queen of aloft legs. I'd list more arousing things, but since my experience with such crudities is limited, I'll quite while I'm ahead.
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