Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens (Russ Meyer, 1979)

It always used to take me a couple of tries whenever I attempted to write out Kitten Natividad's name. It's not the "Kitten" part that threw me, it was that thing lurking between "Nat" and "Dad." (You mean, the "Ivi"?) Exactly. Well, don't feel too sorry for me, as that will never be a problem again, for I have just witnessed the ultimate Kitten Natividad motion picture. Oh, I'm sorry, it's called Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens. And, yes, it's a chaotic filmed headache masquerading as a movie, but as far as worshiping every lumpy, bumpy inch of Kitten Natividad's exceedingly ample frame, it has to be declared a rousing success. I mean, to do otherwise, would be dishonest. Sure, the film can be aggravating at times. And, not to mention, a tad shrill in spots. But you cannot deny the work of art that is Kitten Natividad's organic structure as it bounced around from bed to lake bed in Russ Meyer's 1979 somewhat satirical ode to small town U.S.A. (Uh, don't you mean, bed to bed?) Uh, no, I don't. You see, Kitten Natividad fucks dudes, like most chicks do, in beds, but she also fucks 'em in lake beds. Hence, the expression, bed to lake bed. It's called being clever. Look into it. Anyway, the so-called "dude" Kitten Natividad fucks in the lake bed is actually a fourteen year-old kid. Which got me a thinking: The world would be a much happier place if Kitten Natividad went door-to-door popping the cherries of every teenage boy on the planet.

Go ahead, noodle with that thought for awhile. I guarantee, it will add at least five inches of pubic hair to your junk. What's that? You don't want more pubes on your junk. Well, then don't go noodling thoughts that your junk can't cash, 'cause the area north of your taint is about to get all hirsute up in this pickle factory, if you know what I mean.

I've just been handed a note informing me that no one knows what I mean. Which is a shame, because what I mean has intrinsic value. If people can't see that, than it's their loss.

This may come as a surprise, but Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens isn't about Kitten Natividad traveling the world extracting semen from underage genitals. It's true, she does sneak up on a wide-eyed fourteen year-old named Rhett (Steve Tracy) and does just that (extract semen), but the film's actual premise is just as surprising.

On the surface, the film is about a simple man named Lamar Shedd (Ken Kerr) who works at a junkyard in Rio Dio, Texas. Oh, I almost forgot, Lamar can't have vaginal sex with his voluptuous wife, Lavonia Langusta (Kitten Natividad), no, he digs anal sex and his favourite position to administer this "anal sex" is doggiestyle. Only problem being, Lavonia doesn't want Lamar's large dick  anywhere near her poop-chute. (Isn't the female vagina located near the  poop-chute?) What do I look like, a doctor? Ahh, what I meant to say is, she's doesn't want his large dick in her poop-chute. It's her poop-chute, her choice.

Underneath the surface, however, the film explores, thanks to a witty script (Roger Ebert) and a playful narration (Stuart Lancaster), the insatiable sexual appetite of a small town, one that obviously represents America's schizophrenic attitude towards coitus in all its forms.

And would you lookie here, that tempestuous Teuton, Martin Bormann (Henry Rowland), is about to get his Nazi penis serviced by Fräulein Roop (Anne Marie), a woman with giant breasts. (Wait a minute, are you telling me a woman with giant breasts is about to fuck Martin Bormann, the infamous Nazi?) Yes. (Oh, yeah, that totally makes sense. Giant breasts + Nazis = Russ Meyer. Carry on.)

Lying naked in a coffin, Martin Bormann waits patiently for Eufaula Roop hop on top of his cock. That is, if she can drag herself away from playing Pong long enough.

Some of that witty dialogue I alluded to earlier can be heard in the following sequence, as the narrator introduces us to the film's many characters. The most important, of course, being Lavonia Langusta, who, according to the narrator, is "hotter than a Mexican's lunch." I have to admit, I made a laughing sound after hearing that line.

In terms of lewd prose, I dug the sentence, "...ever girding her loins for low body blows... pubic to pubic."

Scratching her pubes in frustration, Lavonia lies naked on her bed, as her husband, Lemar Shedd, plays with a calculator in the kitchen. Ignoring her cries of sexually agony, Lemar continues to work as Lavonia writhes on her bed. Doing everything in her power to get him to notice her (seductive milk consumption, a dry foot job, etc.), Lavonia finally decides she's had enough and goes under the kitchen table. Receptive to the blow job his wife is giving him, Lemar returns the favour by sticking his cock in her ass. As you might expect, Lavonia isn't too thrilled by this anal turn of events and kicks Lemar square in the balls moments after he ejaculates in her rectum.

Driving off in Lemar's truck in a huff, Lavonia is clearly upset. Why can't Lemar look me in the eye when he fucks me, she must be thinking to herself as she drove off. Meanwhile, Lemar lies on the bed listening to Eufaula Roop's radio show on Rio Dio Radio: 100,000 watts of faith-healing power.

In a bizarre twist, I made a second laughing sound when we meet some of Lemar's co-workers down at the junkyard he works. It occurs when Tyronne (Aram Katcher) takes a dump behind some wrecked cars and Beau Badger (Don Scarborough) steals his leavings before he turns around to inspect his recently defecated feces. When Tyronne does turn around to inspect his recently defecated feces, he's shocked to find no crap whatsoever. To which he says, with confused deadpan perfection, "No shit."

Leggy and possessing a full bush, my absolute favourite segment in this film is when Lavonia hosts Semper Fidelis (Michael Finn), a door-to-door lingerie salesman. Hawking the latest from Frederico's of Wisconsin, Semper let's, the curvaceous to the point of madness, Lavonia, try on everything. (Even the crotch-less crotch-compromising panties?) Yep. (Even the cute garter belt and fishnet hose?) You know it. (Even the...) Let me stop you there, pal. She tries on everything.

"Garter belt's cute... it rhymes with root... Since you saw me in these here fishnet hose... I see how your affection grows." Is that great dialogue or what?

In the film's best reoccurring gag, every time a male character is hit in the face, his blood would represent his personality. Take Zeb (DeForest Covan), for example, his racist co-workers call him an "Uncle Tom," so when Beau Badger sucker punches him, he bleeds white blood. And when Lemar thrashes Tyronne and Beau Badger, after they interrupt the anal-based orgasm he was about to achieve all up in the expansive butt-hole belonging to Sal (June Mack), his fat boss, the former bleeds yellow blood, because he's a yellow-bellied coward, and the later bleeds green blood, because he's green with envy.

I guess the reason Mr. Peterbuilt (Patrick Wright), a not-so humble garbageman, bleeds red blood is because he's a real American. Hmm, I don't know 'bout that, it's just a theory. Anyway, my fave Mr. Peterbuilt moments are when Lavonia shoves a lit light-bulb into his ball sack region during sex and when he refuses to perform cunnilingus on Lavonia. "Get your ass out of my face," he tells her. "I don't eat pussy, it's un-American." It's comedy gold, I tell ya.

That's gold, all right, but that still doesn't change the fact that the film, for the most part, is quite grating in places. Aimless and shrill, the film keeps going long after the central plot has been resolved. And believe me, it's takes a lot to test the patience of this viewer, but even I was praying this cinematic nightmare to end. To summarize: I could have used more scenes with Francesca 'Kitten' Natividad acting demented, and less with Ann Marie spouting churchy nonsense over the radio.

The Toy Box (Ronald Víctor García, 1971)

What's the first thing that comes to mind when you think of The Toy Box? (Oh, I don't know, clenched male butt cheeks.) Okay, what's the second thing you think of? (Flaccid male penises pretending to thrust with the vaginal wherewithal of erect male penises.) All right, let me try one more time. What's the first thing you think of that's not, I repeat, not, related to the male anatomy in regard to The Toy Box? (Hey, I know what you're trying to do, you're trying to goad me into going on a brain-exhausting diatribe that openly extols the lumpiness of Uschi Digard's mouthwatering breasts, aren't you? Don't play coy, that's exactly what you're trying to do. If I'm going to go on any brain-exhausting diatribes in correlation with this film, and that's a big if, it's going to be either about Neola Graef's shapely gams (and the sense of pride she displays when wielding them in a van at a drive-in) or the profound ba-donka-donk being put forth by Casey Larrain's workmanlike buttocks at a hippie orgy on the outskirts of a fever dream. These are the types of things that come to mind when I'm not busy giggling over the fact that all the guys in this film are desperately trying to keep their assholes out of sight as they attempt to penetrate randy hippie chicks with their flabby hippie cocks. I'm no scientist, but there would be no human race if guys weren't able to fornicate in a free, anus-exposing manner.)

Is it porn? Is it horror? Is it science fiction? I don't know, maybe it's all three, who's to say? But do I know this, the foetal goo gestating inside the wombs located in and around the pronounced hips attached to the abundance of hippie chicks in this film are the luckiest foetal goo on the planet. (Don't tell me, they're lucky because they get to be ten and eleven years-old in the early 1980s?) Huh? No, I was thinking they were lucky because they got to gestate inside women with child-bearing hips. (Still not following.) There's room to move in a womb attached to a hippie chick with child-bearing hips.

You know how my alter ego said earlier that they weren't a scientist? I think I just proved it beyond the shadow of a doubt that we're not with that whole bit about children born in the early 1970s being more comfortable, womb-wise, than children born during other periods of time. (Don't be so hard on yourself, your theory is not as stupid as you might think. I mean, the women in this film do have wider hips than the women who appear in other films. And scientist or not, you would have to imagine that a baby would enjoy his or her stay inside a womb belonging to a woman with child-bearing hips more than his or her stay inside a womb belonging to a woman with no hips whatsoever.) I can't believe I'm about to say this, but you make a good point.

It's a matter of simple physics: Babies prefer women with child-bearing hips. And since there were more women during the early 1970s with child-bearing hips than at any other time in existence, all babies born during that period were better prepared to face life's many challenges.

(Word on the street is you're just stalling for time, because deep down you have no idea what The Toy Box is supposed to be about.) That's pure poppycock. I know exactly what this film is about. So, babies born in the early 1970s are better than babies born in the early 1980s, who would have thought that? Speaking of that, that Uschi Digard has some big ass titties.

Holy crap. I was so transfixed by Neola Graef's shapely gams, Casey Larrain's workmanlike buttocks, and even Uschi Digard's big ass titties, that I failed to mention the fact that the luminous Debbie Osborne is in this film. (Again, I think you're be too hard on yourself. I mean, you just mentioned her.) Yeah, but I should have done it sooner. Mentioning Deborah Osborne this late in the game is intolerable as far as I'm concerned. (This Debbie Osborne person sounds like she means a lot to you.)

Let me put it this way, if it wasn't Debbie's leg-tastic performance in the seminal Cindy and Donna, I don't think I would be the pervert, er, I mean, movie fan, I am today. Her stunning turn in that seemingly innocuous slice of low-grade sexploitation changed the way I viewed cinema forever. You see, before Cindy and Donna, I used to enjoy movies based on the quality of the acting and not to mention the film's ability to tell a good story. But after I saw Cindy and Donna, I began to watch films, oh, let's just say, differently. No longer constrained by the rules and regulations that dictate movie watching, I found myself free to focus on any aspect of the film I saw fit.

Anyway, say you're an alien from another world who gets high by feeding on human brains, what kind of human brains would you go for? (I'm no expert on the brain-eating habits of space junkies from outer space, but I'd say they would probably favour the brains belonging to depraved hippies.) Bingo! Only problem being, how do you get a gaggle of depraved hippies to congregate under one roof? That's simple, invite them over to a large house in the country, and tell them if they perform a vile sex act for "Uncle," they will get a reward. (Don't tell me, the reward is located in a toy box?) Bingo again.

It would seem that the word on the street about me not knowing what this film is about is a bunch of hooey. As you can clearly see, I know exactly what The Toy Box is about. Sure, it took two viewings for me to "get it," but you try concentrating on a film's plot that features a scene where Debbie Osborne's superabundant vagina is the focal point. Well, it's not really the focal point, but I felt like her vagina was being shoved in my face. Which might sound like a bad thing (most people are against having things shoved in their face), but it's actually a good thing.

In charge of assembling the depraved hippies for "Uncle" (Jack King) are Ralph (Sean Kenney) and Donna (Ann Perry), two sick twists who, by the looks of things, have been assembling depraved hippies in this manner for quite some time.

Arriving at the party just as two naked brunettes on chain leashes were about to orally devour the organic structure belonging to a naked and bound Uschi Digard, Ralph and Donna seem pleased by the turn out; the place is packed with depraved hippies of every stripe.

After the man wielding the whip finishes expelling his hippie spunk inside Uschi Digard, Casey Larrain hops to her feet and begins to dance. Credited on IMDb as "party guest in boots," Casey will continue to dance for most of the film's spry running time. You could blame Casey for the fact that I didn't notice Debbie Osborne right away, as the sight of her constantly shaking her ass is quite distracting. But I won't...blame her, that is. It's my fault I didn't notice that Debbie Osborne was sitting cross-legged nearby as Casey shook her meaty thang.

Fans of Uschi Digard will want to check out the next scene as she is groped by demonic/horny bed sheets. (Isn't their sentient bed linen in Something Weird?) Very astute observation, my nimble-minded young friend. There sure is. I guess sentient bed linen was a thing back in the hippie era.

In-between the sentient bed linen scene and the one where a Neola Graef shows off her legs to some creep, Donna loses her shit and decides that she wants to leave. Unfortunately, the doors are locked. In other words, no one is allowed to leave. A couple of more "tricks" are performed for Uncle, one involving butcher shop necrophilia and another that takes a place at a picnic. While the film's signature piece is an extended orgy sequence. Instigated by a naked Debbie Osborne, who says, "Let's play commando," the party guests roll around on the floor together in an attempt to achieve sexual enlightenment.

A still naked Debbie Osborne appears before Ralph and Donna as a giant. This is when I should have realized Debbie Osborne was in this film, as we get multiple close-ups of her face (and the top part of her pubic triangle). What really should have clued me in was Debbie's trademark half asleep style of acting. Mumbling her dialogue in an overly relaxed manner (she can barely keep her eyes open), Debbie, who towers over Ralph and Donna (like I said, she's a giant), gives them the skinny on what the hell is going on. Not too much skinny, however, as the film's big reveal is still to come.

When the "big reveal" finally does occur, which I already sort of alluded to, I was dumbfounded by its audacity. Okay, maybe I wasn't "dumbfounded," but I was definitely impressed by its boldness. It's not everyday that you come across a hippie era slab of sexploitation that is both deeply weird and occasionally on the cusp of being intelligent. I wouldn't hesitate to put The Toy Box on a double-bill with Café Flesh. Highly recommended.