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

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Café Flesh (Rinse Dream, 1982)

The temptation to awkwardly provoke your genitals with nonsensical grabbing and hapless taunts will no doubt cross your feeble thought-making machine as you savour the salacious splendour that is Café Flesh, a poetic slab of high end erotica for the post-nuke crowd. I, on the other hand, am not you, I'm me, and had no problem neglecting my usual indecent inclinations as I took in Rinse Dream's gleaming lump of salivating bawdiness. You see, the story is crafted in such a way, that there are times when you can't wait for the sex to end. And while that may sound like the kind of kooky-talk that would have gotten you killed in my parents' kitchen back in the day (my mother was a staunch supporter of consensual copulation during my days as a peppy young person), it's absolutely true. The scenes that didn't feature Sex Positives invading each others personal space weren't as involving as the film's astute narrative. Sure, the scene where a guy dressed as a house painting rat milkman plunders the fleshy confines of his a leggy housewife with his tail and whiskered snout, as three bone-wielding babies look on from the relative safety of their highchairs, was as perplexing as cinematic liquid exchanges get. But in terms of sci-fi pornography set in a post-apocalyptic netherworld, you can't anymore cerebral than this. And believe me, I've looked long and extremely hard.

Unfolding, like I said, in a post-apocalyptic netherworld, Café Flesh takes place in a universe where 99% of the population are considered Sex Negatives - people who are unable to engage in the physical act of love (they become sick if they even try touching another human being). The radioactive dust from a recent nuclear war has rendered them sexually inert, so in response to this inconvenience, the Sex Negatives force the Sex Positives (the 1% left unaffected by the fallout) to perform bizarre, surrealistic sex acts for their amusement.

These acts are performed in a smoky nightclub setting, complete with a sarcastic M.C., elaborate sets, props, and external oozing. The meat of story, however, involves two Sex Negatives named Nick (a delightful Paul McGibboney) and Lana (Michelle Bauer), and their struggle to cope with the whole "no sex" thing. You see, Nick's grown tired of the sex watching scene, and Lana, well, she just wants to be able to rub up against someone without vomiting.

A well-hung cornucopia of contorted Cold War cunnilingus and strident straddling, writer-director Stephen Sayadian (Rinse Dream), along with director/storyboard artist Mark S. Esposito, writer Jerry Stahl (a.k.a. Herbert W. Day), costume designer Polly Ester (Party Doll A Go-Go!), cinematographer Francis Delia (F.X. Pope) and camera operator Fred Gonk, have made a film that the will satisfy the needs of the unwashed raincoat crowd, nihilistic weirdos with a penchant for black nylons, and anti-social conservatives.

The way it balanced that fine line between sleaziness and stylishness was like watching a tasteful ballet in crotchless panties. I mean, the guy with the giant pencil for a head may have soiled the garter belt of a shapely co-worker on a desk in front of an oil field backdrop, but at least he practiced his technique beforehand with a strenuous flurry of perfectly timed dry humps and herky-jerky dance moves. I'm surprised his pelvic rhythm wasn't compromised by his naked secretary, who kept asking him if he wanted her to type a memo. In addition, it didn't hurt that the film's imaginative production design (Paul Berthell), I loved the use of zebra-print furniture, and smooth camera work were top-notch in terms of creativity .

"Do you want me to type a memo?"

The cast is uniformly brilliant. Yeah, that's right, they're all brilliant. I'm sure a statement like that might shock some people, but I'm serious, the acting is quite excellent. Hell, even the extras brought their 'A' game. (I loved the way the editor would periodically cut to the Negatives sitting in the crowd, revealing a first-rate mélange of new wave faces.) The loquacious Andy Nichols (Night of the Living Babes) gives an amazing performance as Max Melodramatic, the grudge-filled, sardonic M.C. at Café Flesh. A Sex Negative with a healthy sense of fun, Andy spews out the film's warped and extremely wordy dialogue with a nonchalant ease.

The multi-talented Michelle Bauer (Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers), credited here as "Pia Snow," is tantalizingly naughty as the Lana, a Sex Negative with a secret. Watching her slowly come to grips with own sex positivity was a hypnotic spectacle. I found Miss Bauer's masturbation/revelation scene, and, not to mention, her empowering march towards lust fulfillment, to be two of the most emotionally draining scenes I have ever seen. The self-love scene in particular is helped greatly by its use of eerie synthesizers and strange droning sounds (the score was composed by Mitchell Froom, who also did the music for Dr. Caligari).

A menacing Dennis Edwards (The Little Mermaid) gives good creepy as a determined Enforcer (black clad goons who hunt Sex Positives); a broad-armed Paul McGibboney is terrific as the tortured Nick; a wide-eyed Marie Sharp is the embodiment of Wyoming-bred naivete; and Tantala Ray (Suburban Satanist) reminded me of Annie Sprinkle in the role of Moms, the bird-loving proprietor of Café Flesh, or as she calls herself: "The June Taylor of the Nuclear Set."

Oh, and, call me wrongheaded if you must, but the sight of dispossessed clumps of irregular lotion languishing amidst thick, lustrous fields of jet black short and curlies made my spirit soar like an alabaster butterfly flying in-between intricate rows of barbed wire. Just thought I'd put that out there.

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