Babyface 2 (Alex de Renzy, 1986)

Ahh, look at me. I'm staring in the general direction of a motion picture of some kind, and, get this, I want to write words about it for some inexplicable reason. Now, I wasn't entirely sure if they still made motion pictures, or, "movies," as they're sometimes referred to. So, just to be safe, I selected one from a time period I knew was rife was movies. 1986, baby! I also picked one that featured plenty of disgustingly beautiful guys unloading lukewarm seminal fluid all over ultra-soft girl flesh. Why? Because that's what I like to pretend I like to watch/wallow in. Duh. I ain't kidding around, when the exhaustive orgy at the centre of Alex de Renzy's Babyface 2 goes into overdrive, I knew I had made the right choice. Actually, I felt a warm tingly sensation (where? I'd rather not say) when Jamie Gillis emerges from the cake at a well-attended bachelorette party taking place in some unnamed porno-soaked iridescent pantie stain of a city. Call me seriously unwell, but I'd rank Jamie Gillis introduction in Babyface 2 to be easily one of the greatest moments in cinema. Hyperbole? Maybe. Well, definitely, maybe, as I don't remember what 'hyperbole' means exactly. Just a second... an exaggerated statement or claim. Right. It might be that, but I swear to Satan, the sight of Jamie Gillis being all gross and slovenly as the stripper at a well-attended bachelorette party taking place in some unnamed rape-tinged overused diaphragm of a city was fucking glorious. Proving that he still knows a thing or two about defying conventions (from an anal and allegorical point of view), Alex de Renzy casts Jamie Gillis instead of, oh, let's say, the frightfully dim Francois Papillon as the stripper.

 

It's a stroke of genius.

Get it? Stroke? Most of the people (i.e. dudes) watching this movie will, at some point, stroke their blood-filled cock for pleasure-related purposes. Don't blame them for doing so, they do the bulk of their thinking with those things. Hmmm, I wonder what Ernest Borgnine's final erection would have thought of that pun? (You mean his final deathbed erection?) Yeah, that erection. I wonder about stuff like that when I'm not ovulating.

Anyway, I happen to think Jamie Gillis is gorgeous... in Waterpower from the mid-1970s. However, this film is from the mid-1980s. In other words, Jamie Gillis, to put it bluntly, looks like a scumbag. Yet, despite his overt scumbaggery, I can't help but overtly love the creepy fucking fuckface fucker.

  
I want to elope with the mustard stains on his undershirt... do crack cocaine on the outskirts of a fever dream until the end of time.

Out of all the cocks that appear in this movie, I'd say the one attached to Kevin James is the most appealing from a I want to suck it standpoint.

The main draw from a "I like to bang hot chicks all night long" angle, is, of course, Taija Rae and Lois Ayres.

I know, I know, why didn't open with a protracted soliloquy on the merits of Taija Rae's robust thighs or Lois Ayres' to die for new wave hairdo. Well, first things first, things are slightly different now. My brain is soaking in the mucus-laden contents of Tyne Daly's designer colostomy bag. So... That being said, I was relieved to see Jerry Butler's working class pelvic region cause Taija Rae's thick, Philly-raised buttocks ripple as a direct result of his equally working class pelvic thrusts. I sorely missed watching Jerry Butler mount Taija Rae for sex-related purposes.

Rivers of jizz, years of despair.

In fact, there were many moments in this film that caused me to get somewhat emotional. I didn't cry, exactly. But I started to realize midway through Babyface 2 how much I love well made sleaze. And Babyface 2 is definitely well made. Granted, it's not quite up to the level of Alex de Renzy's Pretty Peaches, Pretty Peaches 2, Pretty Peaches 3, or even Femmes de Sade. But it's way better than most of the putrid garbage floating around out there.

You could say, the film's biggest star is the wind machine, which keeps a steady indoor breeze going for the entire length of the film's epic orgy scene. But I won't say that... even though I sort of just did.

No, the film's biggest asset is its all star cast.

  
It's no secret, Taija Rae, Lois Ayres and Jamie Gillis are three of my favourite actors. And each get plenty of screen time.   

 
However, in the early going, the film belongs to Lois Ayres and Kevin James (Johnny Rico from Café Flesh).

(Why did you watch the video for "Magic" by The Cars before starting this review?)

Excellent question. First off, it's a great song/video (Ric Ocasek is seen walking on water in a pool... in a gaudy blazer... 'nuff said). And secondly, rumour doesn't have it that Alex de Renzy got the inspiration to make Babyface 2 after seeing the video on MTV. Oh, the reason I didn't said, "rumour doesn't have it," instead of the usual "rumour has it," is because I just made it up. That being said, this film's main theme does sort of sound like "Magic" by The Cars.

 
Picking up Lois, his cheerleading girlfriend in his white Trans Am, Kevin takes her to a shed (the owner of this shed is never revealed... maybe we'll learn his or her identity in Babyface 3??? ...whenever de Renzy gets his probably senile ass around to making it), so they have standard heterosexual sex in private. Now, while fucking in a shed isn't exactly commonplace, it's easily the most normal sex scene in the movie.
  

Of course, since the scene features Lois Ayres, I couldn't help but be drawn to Lois' hair and makeup. And laugh when Kevin James takes off his sneakers (Velcro!)

I did notice the garden tools hanging on the wall of the shed. As they fornicated, I kept imagining Lois and Kevin being brutally murdered with that giant tree pruner.

In what has to be one of the most romantic things ever, Kevin offers to use his sock to clean the physical representation of his orgasm off Lois' back.
 

She doesn't want his twitching seed slowly dying on her back as the rest of the day progresses, so he wipes away his sticky discharge with one of his socks. And they say chivalry is dead.

After we're done at the mystery shed, we're quickly whisked to Careena Collins' bachelorette party.

  
Everyone is there, Lois Ayres (sex toy enthusiast), Taija Rae (lingerie whore), Stacey Donovan (the world's biggest Skinny Puppy fan), Kristara Barrington (cock-starved shill for fruit flavoured lube), Lynn Francis (calamari!!!!! - my epic cunt smells like a dirty dish rag), and, of course, Careena Collins (her screams will be forever muffled by Jamie Gillis' filthy boxer shorts).

They play with sex toys, they giggle uncontrollably, they try on lingerie, they watch porno tapes, they... do a shitload of girly ass shit. It's fucking awesome.   

It's not a bachelorette party without a male stripper... Enter... Jamie Gillis. Like I said earlier, greatest entrance of all-time... hands down.

 
Drunk, dishevelled and drunk (Booger from Revenge of the Nerds/Bluto from Animal House), Jamie Gillis dances erotically for the chicks for a pretty long time. Wanting more, the ladies demand to see some skin. Give them a "proper show," as one of them puts it. Warning the women that they will be overcome with lust if he gets hard, Jamie Gillis unfurls his dirty, dry piss-covered erection... and, yeah... all hell breaks loose (clench your crevices, kids).  

The woman are, just like Jamie Gillis said they would be, overcome with lust, and start demanding cock.
  

 
Luckily for the women, a bunch of guys (and their cocks) do show up (including Tom Byron and Dick Rambone... Jesus), and the orgy to end all orgies breaks out.

Is the orgy scene exhausting? You bet it is. Did it cause me to think about how ridiculous the universe is when you get right down to it? How the fuck should I know? I was drunk on cloudy pickle brine when I watched this. However, you have got to admire a film that boasts an extensive orgy scene while a wind machine blasts the whole time. Think about it. Filming an orgy sounds like a logistical nightmare. Add the fact that the whole thing is done with a wind machine set on high, and you've got a potential disaster on your hands. While I'm sure the shooting of this sequence was difficult, the end result is nothing short of brilliant. Even if you have zero interest in watching 1980s drug addicts fuck on film, you have got to admire the execution. I mean, this is art.

  
It took me eight years to get around to watching Babyface 2. It was recommended to me by a blogger named "Gore Gore Girl." And I promised her that I would watch and review it someday. Um, sorry for taking so long. In my defense, I was waiting for a company like, Vinegar Syndrome, to put out a remastered, uncut version, and, yeah... the film looks amazing. It's a masterpiece.

Just realized it's the ten year anniversary of HOSI. Wait. Ten years?!? That's some fucked up shit right there.

The Devil in Miss Jones 4: The Final Outrage (Gregory Dark, 1986)

The last time we saw Justine and her temperamental guide, they were standing before a man dressed as a lizard in tennis sneakers uttering the phrase, "suck me" everything ten to fifteen seconds. And, thanks to Monique Montage (your go-to gal for all your continuity needs in the Devil in Miss Jones mid-80s-era sequel universe), that's exactly where The Devil in Miss Jones 4: The Final Outrage starts off. After a brief refresher course detailing all the unsavoury business that transpired in The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning, the fourth chapter, yet again under the watchful eye of Gregory Dark (New Wave Hookers), has Lois Ayres' Justine Jones and Jack Baker's Hell Guide doing what they do best: Arguing loudly in the most shrill and politically incorrect manner possible. This particular bit of contention revolves around giving the man-lizard (Kevin James, Johnny Rico from Café Flesh) fellatio. You see, in order to move forward through the bowels of Hell, someone needs massage this thing's penis with the contents of their mouth. And since Justine is the one who wants to continue on their journey, the sucking onus is placed squarely on her harmonious shoulders. Finally relenting after some intense soul searching, Justine drops to her well-defined knees and proceeds to treat the lizard-man's erect penis like it were a frozen treat of some kind.

After the lizard-man signifies that he has been properly gratified by spewing seminal fluid all over the pale lumps on Justine's chest, the film switches over to the documentary-style interviews that were so memorable in the previous chapter. Questioning people from Justine's past, an unseen interviewer asks a priest (Angst Argyle) with an ill-defined Eastern European accent, two ex-boyfriends (Tom Byron and the hilarious Robert Bullock), her uptight brother (Andy Nichols, Max Melodramatic from Café Flesh) and Justine's man-hating first lover (Tantala Ray, Moms from Café Flesh) to share intimate details about her life.

These interviews are the film's strongest non-sex-related element. Well, actually, the strange dynamic that develops between Justine and the loquacious Hell Guide is the film's greatest non-sex asset. But the interviews are definitely a close second. Everything from the acting to the quality of the writing crackled with an unexpected air of competence. I also found it quite telling that none of the interviewees (with the exception of Tom Byron) took part in any of the film's elaborate sex scenes. Speaking of not having sexual intercourse in pornography, I was impressed by the fact that Tantala Ray manages to appear in The Devil in Miss Jones 4: The Final Outrage and Café Flesh, two of the genre's best, and not once is she prodded with a penis. Good for her.

Meanwhile, back in Hell, Justine and her Hell Guide enter a room filled to the brim with horny weirdos of every stripe imaginable. Welcome to the Insane Asylum of Hell! A pungent place where sunglasses, dildos, studded collars, fake lesbians with methodically manicured crotches, and frilly bow-adorned ankle socks co-exist to harpsicord music. In other words, this sequence will take up a large chunk of your day. Mentally taxing, yet fascinating on a couple of unsanitary levels, this fiendish orgy features multiple participants feverishly hurling their lofty genitals at one another in a desperate attempt to become more moist.

Since there are so many people involved, and I'm not prepared to do the amount of legwork it would take to identify the various players, I'll just say that I got a perverse thrill every time a lacy fingerless glove would enter the extremely cramped frame. Even though the hands inside them were mainly focused on prying open flaps of crumpled skin, finishing off stubborn erections, or manipulating slabs of butt-cheek meat in order to gain better access to the rectal riches that lay beyond the crack, the gloves–some red, some white, none taupe, some black–were a joy to see no matter what the hands they covered were up to at any given moment. Because let's face it, sex can be terribly dull to watch some times. Lacy fingerless gloves, on the other hand (no pun intended), are never dull. Out of all the performers who appear in this exhaustive sequence, which included Ron Jeremy in black gloves with fingers and a diaper ("I've always wanted to lick your toes!"), Keli Richards, Steve Powers (who is dressed as a maid), and Erica Boyer (wearing an outfit with a school girl theme and white fingerless gloves), I'd have to say Krista Lane's shoeless nurse with the big hair was my favourite–you know, from a titillating point-of-view.

Taking on racism, incest, domestic violence, and issues involving gender and other seltsamkeit, The Devil in Miss Jones 4: The Final Outrage may be crude and a tad lewd at times, but it repeatedly goes places where most adult films are too afraid to venture. Sure, the scene where two racists are forced to fornicate with members of races they purportedly hate isn't the most subtle jab at bigotry I have ever seen. But the amount of courage it took to stage something so potentially incendiary needs to be at least acknowledged.

In the so-called "Racist Room," Patti Petite, playing a "Southern Belle," lets two "Zulu" warriors (F.M. Bradley and Robbie Dee) stuff her holes with their erect penises. And while that doesn't sound all that interesting (holes are being stuffed all the time), Patti's character, according to the Hell Guide, apparently despises black people. If that premise isn't scratching you where you itch, turn up the new wave-tinged music on the soundtrack and do what I did, try to make out the outline of Patti's feet, which are encased in a pair of white fishnet stockings. On the other side of the racist spectrum, a male bigot (Marc Wallice) finds himself in a situation where his slippery wiener is being double-teamed by Krista Barrington from New Wave Hookers and Purple Passion (Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout Black Chicks). I loved the way Kristara's red stockings seemed to get more and more torn as the scene progressed. It reminded me of this incident in Grade 5 when this freckle-faced girl jumped up on a table and pulled up her corduroy... Wait a minute! How do you know the man's the bigot? Just because he's white? Well, to keep us from becoming confused as to who's the racist, Marc wears a crudely made swastika arm band.

I couldn't help but notice that Gregory Dark seem to share Rinse Dream's disdain for the audience's erection. The way Mr. Dark would insert shots of Jack Baker carrying on like the demented jackass that he is during the sex scenes has led me to believe that the crafty filmmaker would rather be concentrating on the film's story. And let's face it, if it weren't for the crazy hairstyles, chichi handwear, and scrumptious lingerie the sex would have been unbearable.

A closeup shot of a faceless appendage plunging into an equally faceless Cutlass Ciera is nowhere as interesting as the hairs sitting atop Lois Ayres' gorgeous,well-proportioned head. Seriously, every time Lois and her cutting edge hairdo would show up on-screen, my spirit would soar. At any rate, the whole, "I'm not dead!" followed by "You're dead, bitch, and this...is Hell!" exchange that is cornerstone of this skull-laden* enterprise comes to a head when Justine and the Hell Guide (sporting yellow gloves with fingers) are seen, yet again, "discussing" (arguing loudly about) her unique predicament.

Bored with the sameness of the Hell Guide's anecdotes (they all seem to involve floating asses, huge disembodied dicks and talking pig heads), Justine wanders into "The Taboo Room" and comes across something quite disturbing. Of course, I don't want to say exactly what she comes across in there, but let's just say, it's not something you'd want to see on a regular basis. I will say, however, that Lois looked fabulous in a strategically ripped white mess top (one that is beautifully offset by a red bra and lacy red fingerless gloves), silver jewelry (multiple rings, sparkily earrings and a no-nonsense necklace), and a pair of dependable black pumps (three words: ample toe cleavage). Oh, and the hair and makeup by Ruby Midnight and Les Ismore's costume design really shine in this particular sequence.

With an ending similar to that of the original New Wave Hookers (oddly surreal with a touch of menace), The Devil in Miss Jones 4: The Final Outrage may be hampered by overlong sex scenes (and not enough of them featuring Lois Ayres), but the killer music, pseudo-documentary style, bold hairstyles, alluring fashions, and the unrefined wordplay that takes place between Lois Ayres and Jack Baker are real reason to devour this chapter of the epic series. A must-see for fans of Rinse Dream, 1980s pop culture, or anyone who loathes mainstream pornography.

* The comically named Pez D. Spencer (Mr. Joy from Café Flesh) is the film's production designer, and the amount of time he spent combing the head shops of Sunset Blvd. looking for skulls must have been off the charts. Or maybe he just used the same two skulls over and over again? Hmmm, that is almost interesting.

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"God bless the Yumster for all ye have given the children of the world, these fables of cocks and flames and hairspray and shit." ~ Thomas Duke

...

The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning (Gregory Dark, 1986)

A lively debate about the difference between a "hoe," a slender tool used mainly for gardening purposes, and a "ho," a derogatory term used to describe a woman who is drawn to the seminal fluid of others, is just one of the many unexpected treats to be found lurking underneath all the untoward thrusting and exhausted panting in The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning, Gregory Dark's epically bizarre interpretation of an adult classic. Fully aware that I have not seen the original Devil in Miss Jones from 1973, or, for that matter, the Henri Pachard-directed sequel, I've elected to skip forward to part three for a number of reasons. First and foremost, I was so impressed with the Dark Brother's New Wave Hookers, that I decided that I would pretty much watch anything he made during that particular era–even something with a title like, "Let Me Tell Ya 'Bout White Chicks." Secondly, the film features the exceedingly luscious presence of Lois Ayres, who, as far as I'm concerned, is the unofficial face of 1980s. The look she sports throughout this film perfectly encapsulates the stylistic temperament of the decade. Using words that are different than the ones I just typed, it is safe to say that the decision to bypass the first two chapters was a relatively easy one.

Blissfully unaware of what I was about to get myself into, it turns out the combination of Gregory Dark and Lois Ayres was so potent, that I almost had a new wave-induced body fever before the opening credits had even finished...crediting. It's true, I had readied myself beforehand like I usually do with some mild stretching exercises followed by a long, vigorous bike ride through the suburban nether regions of my mind. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Lois Ayres (also spelled "Ayers") showering to the awesome strains of "A Christian Girls Problem" by The Gleaming Spires. "I am talking serious drugs / I am talking mental health..."

The camera carefully follows Lois's cleansing motions as she washes every nook and cranny of her tantalizing frame. The sequence also gives us the viewer the chance to familiarize ourselves with her organic structure, which is important because we'll be seeing a lot of it the course of the next seventy-something minutes.

After the shower, we learn that Lois Ayres is playing Justine Jones, a woman who it turns out is the focal point of a some sort of documentary that involves former classmates, ex-boyfriends, clergymen, family members, and others being interviewed by an unseen man with a probing voice. An ex of Justine's named Bill (Tom Byron) is the first to be questioned and tells the mystery man an anecdote about an argument they had over the phone. You see, while Bill was talking, he was also lathering up the crotch of a woman in white lingerie (Jennifer Noxt). With a pink razor in one hand and a telephone in the other, Bill pathetically attempts to do both things at once. As expected, the former wins out as the activity Bill's simple mind would most like to focus on. Hairless in an instant thanks to this wanton act of pubic desecration (cunt-ruining reprobate), Bill's erect penis can be seen burrowing itself inside her many openings with the enthusiasm of an agitated mongoose.

Frustrated by Bill's insistence on fornicating with women who are not her, Justine's heads out to a local tavern. However, before she can go in, she is verbally accosted by a pimp ("crazy ass white bitch!"). Anyway, the scenes on the street and in the bar are the first where we really get a chance to appreciate the immensity of Lois's awesome hairstyle. The way her platinum blonde follicles seemed to reach out toward the sky was awe-inspiring. Complimented by a colourful dress and a saucy pair of red gloves, Justine looked like a cross between Margaret from Liquid Sky and Christina Moser from the Italian new wave group Krisma, particularly during their Clandestine Anticipation period.

Once at the bar, Justine meets a stood up groom in white (Paul Thomas). After some friendly banter, the two of them end up in bed together. Except, they don't sleep, their swollen genitals wind up hammering out an acceptable compromise with one another. I found the groom in white's gentle fondling of Justine's bright red stockings to be entirely satisfying. It was a rare tender moment in a film full of intrusive, ungentle prodding.

The slow motion shot of Justine's hindquarters undulating under the weight of the groom's thrusting bureaucracy was not included in order to crank up the titillation factor, but to accentuate the minor tragedy that was about to unfold. Crashing headfirst into her bed's purple headboard, Justine wakes up alone and naked in a very dark place. After some moments of semi-consciousness, Justine finds herself unwittingly discussing the mysterious allure of homonyms with a demented man dressed in clear plastic. It turns out Justine is in Hell, a fabricated netherworld full of fire and a smattering of brimstone, and the guy in plastic (Jack Baker) is her guide. Of course, she doesn't believe this for a second and demands that she be shown the way home.

The overt strangeness of The Devil in Miss Jones 3: A New Beginning really starts to come through once the Hell Guide's human horses start screwing. The Hell Guide rode in on a female horse (Chanel Price) and when he's ready take Justine to the first room of Hell, he calls a male horse (Steve Powers) and instructs him to stick his phallus in her lilac-scented poop chute. At first, I thought he was speaking metaphorically, but that's exactly what he ends up doing. This scene doesn't really exploit Chanel's 6ft. 3inch frame (being a horse, she spends most of her time on her hands and knees), which is a shame, but it does emphasize her wonderfully large rear-end, boast multiple participants in fingerless gloves, and features equine-based sound effects.

Entering the first room of Hell, Justine and her guide witness a place where voyeurs are forced to watch others have intercourse until the end of time. Torn fishnets and some strenuous spooning are the highlights of this room's first encounter, one that sees Marc Wallice and Careena Collins getting all up in each other's beefy junk like nobody's business. Only problem being that Marc's upside down banana dick didn't seem to want to remain ensnared inside Jennifer's precisely tuned vagina. The second encounter sees one woman–a silver pump-wearing Amber Lynn, who tosses her fingerless glove out of the arena with a breathless panache–take on two poles at once. A reinvigorated Marc Wallice and a buff Peter North (Party Doll A Go-Go!) insert their man-things simultaneously, causing a bit of a fleshy impasse. Nevertheless, the transvestite in the wedding dress, Justine's college roommate (Kari Foxx), and the three guys in tuxedos watching seem extra excited by the coordinated poking transpiring in front of them. And, of course, I liked the way the perspiration on Amber's red-hot thighs seemed to glimmer in the murkiness of the unflattering light.

Coming face-to-deformed-face with the unsavoury realm of the Slutmen, Justine is about to enter the film's most disturbing room. Animalistic in nature, the Slutmen are the definition of cloaked debasement. Their nasty charm entices Justine to the point where she winds up allowing two of them to ejaculate sperm on her. Thankfully, her wily Hell Guide steps in before she becomes addicted to their sticky deluge. You see, unlike the room where you spend eternity watching sex, this room, where the Slutman is king, you are forced to have degrading sex with them for, you guessed it, an eternity. It also explains why Justine and her Hell Guide are wearing plastic; it's basically raining cum in there.

Having sex forever is exactly what happens to Vanessa De Rio's Mandy (a woman who was in the same aerobics class as Justine). The sequence that follows is an unpleasant enterprise involving five Slutmen taking turns violating Mandy's ample, candy-flavoured clitoris. The pig noises, the gold chains, the deformed faces, and the general moistness of this scene all combined to create something that was truly sick and twisted.

The topless aura of Lois Ayres's bare performance reminded me of a lot of that other great topless performance by Gisele Lindley as the Princess from the Forbidden Zone. Sure, others have been topless in movies before, and, sure, I have a tendency to reference Gisele's blouse-free work in the Richard Elfman directed classic a little too often, but it takes a special brand of actress to be able to not have their performance overshadowed by their perpetual toplessness. The ability to create an air of nonchalance surrounding one's unclothed upper torso is an innate skill, much like, macramé or synthesizer repair.

Having only seen Lois Ayres in photographs and the odd movie clip, I was delighted to finally hear the sound of her non-moaning voice. I was afraid Lois's appeal was going to be limited to the boldness of her killer look, but all that seemed to melt away the moment she began hurling insults at the creeps trying to grope her cookies as she made her way to the bar.

She had a snotty intelligence about her that elevated the proceedings beyond your typical girl goes to Hell, fucks a bunch of guys flick. Her un-PC give-and-take with Jack Baker was hilarious at times and everything from their exchange about poet Robert Frost to their homonym debate ("Do I look like a garden tool to you?") crackled with an unforeseen sharpness. This sharpness came as a bit of a relief, because the film ends with a cliffhanger, and you know what that means? That's right, there's a part four. Woo-hoo?

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