Isla: The Wicked Warden (Jess Franco, 1977)

Do you recall that heated discussion I had with myself not so long ago–you know, the one about the colour of the stockings worn in the classic women in prison flick Women's Prison Massacre? You remember, part of me thought they were dark charcoal grey, while the other part thought they were black. You don't, eh? Are you sure? Okay, I believe you. There's no need to get testy. Anyway, as I sat down to watch Ilsa: The Wicked Warden (a.k.a. Wanda, the Wicked Warden and Greta - Haus ohne Männer), my brain readied itself for yet another hosiery-based entanglement; a collants conundrum, if you will. It's not that I expected there to be any issues regarding the firm-fitting garments worn throughout this movie, it's just that I like to be prepared for anything that is thrown my way. Low and behold, when a new inmate is handed her uniform, after being thoroughly hosed down, of course, she asks the guard: don't I get any panties? Laughing, the guard tells her flatly, no, this is all you get. I'll admit, I was a tad disappointed when I found out there will be no tights, stockings, nylons, pantyhose, or even socks for me to grouse about in this film, which, judging by the camera angles employed during the opening shower scene, was clearly directed by Jess Franco, the master when comes to focusing his lens on what really matters. On the other hand, the prospect of watching an extravagantly sleazy film without the usual array of perverted burdens hanging over my head was actually quite liberating. Besides, only a real sadist would force women to wear crotch-constricting lingerie in a tropical environment. Oh, that's right, Ilsa/Greta is a sadist. The only logical explanation I think of is that she's grown soft over the years. And, for some strange reason, has changed her name to Greta, dyed her hair red, and relocated to an unknown corner of Latin America.

Armed only with her trusty whip, her always improving German accent, and her trademark ample bosom, Greta (Dyanne Thorne), tired of torturing for the betterment of humanity (conducting medical experiments on prisoners of war is so last season), has decided to start inflicting pain on others for profit and political reasons. You see, the country she currently resides has enemies–and, judging by the number of women languishing in "the hole," it has a lot of enemies–and thanks to Greta, she has ways of making them talk. If you think about it, her mistreatment of dissidents makes sense (it's an excellent way to ingratiate yourself to a new government), but how does one earn money from degradation? Why, that's simple, you film the degrading acts with a hidden camera and sell the footage to unscrupulous pornographers.

A steady flow of cash, a chummy relationship with the nation's corrupt government, and the occasional free massage administered by the sanitarium's most attractive inmate, life at Clinica Las Palomas is pretty sweet for Greta and her dedicated staff. Who would have guessed that a tiny tittied troublemaker posing as a patient would be the person to threaten Greta's cushy existence? Not me, that's for sure. It just goes to show that a morally bankrupt woman with large breasts is no match for a self-righteous woman with small breasts.

Opening with some tranquil shots of an unnamed jungle, Jess Franco (Eugénie de Sade) quickly ushers us into the soft and squishy realm of feminine hygiene. Implying from the get-go that's there's a huge discrepancy between Greta's day-to-day life and that of the "patients" under her care, we're treated to a duel bathing sequence. On the one hand, we see Greta soaking in a tub without a care in the world; her massive jugs are covered with frothy bubbles. And at the other end of the bathing spectrum, we have a group of woman showering with low-grade soap as two burly female guards gawk at them. How burly were the guards, you ask? Well, let's just say, if my head happened to become lodged between either one of their chunkier-than-usual thighs (don't ask me how it got in there), the chances of me being rescued would have been pretty slim, as my screams for help would have been muffled by at least five or six undulating layers of pale, vein-covered flab.

Just a second, let me enjoy that mental picture for a little while longer. Okay, I'm good. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, showering. A group of female inmates are showering, when all of a sudden, one of them starts to scream. It would seem that this is all part of a not-so elaborate rouse to distract the guards so that another inmate could grab her "uniform" and flee the clinic.

Running through the jungle, the fugitive, a brunette woman named Rosa Phillips (Esther Studer), is being pursued by rifle-wielding guards in khaki shorts. Eventually finding her way to the home of Dr. Arcos (Jess Franco), the wounded (a couple of bullets grazed her during her perilous flight to freedom) escapee thinks she has found sanctuary. But think again, Miss Phillips. You're going to have to stagger more than a couple of miles through some dense bush to escape the clutches of Greta, the torturer. Mumbling about shock treatment as she's carted away, the doctor wonders why Rosa, a woman who is supposedly being treated for a sexual abnormality (nymphomania, lesbianism, and prostitution are the clinic's specialties) would need to be tortured.

Repeatedly denied access to the notorious facility, Dr. Arcos, intent on exposing the clinic's wrongdoings, needs to find a trustworthy witness, one who will uncover the veil of wickedness that hangs over the place, and put an end to Greta's reign of terror once and for all. And the witness he's been looking for literally lands in the backseat of the doctor's car. Her name is Abbie Phillips (Tania Busselier), and she's the sister of Rosa Phillips. Determined to find out what happened to her sister, Abbie allows Dr. Acros to have her committed to Las Palomas under an assumed name.

Reborn as Abbie Garcia, a teacher, who according to her forged medical records, was caught having sexual relations with a number of underage students, the undercover patient quickly finds herself at the mercy of the thick thighed guards I alluded to earlier. Commenting on the fact that she doesn't need a bra, the guards remove her clothes and hose her down. Cackling like a couple of wart-covered witches on payday when the water they're spraying fails to penetrate the density of her "pubic nest" (what she lacks in boobs, she more than makes up for in pubes), the guards clearly enjoy their work. When they're finished, one of the guards hands her her uniform (a white shirt that looked like the kind of garment a small child might wear if her or she were playing a doctor in a school play). Realizing that the shirt they gave her isn't going to provide her with the coverage she requires to feel comfortable, she says, "I would like to have some panties." As you would expect, more laughter erupts from the guards, who basically tell her that's it as far as clothing goes.

You'll notice, as she's being denied panties, that there's a number on her uniform. Which is nothing new, as most prisons, clinics and sanatoriums give their "guests" a number (it's a tried and true method when it comes to dehumanizing the people you want to control). What is new, however, is the punishment for when someone fails to use it while referring to either themselves or the other inmates. For example, if you say, see Abbie across the room and you would like to get her attention, don't call out, "Abbie." Instead, try shouting her number, which, in Abbie's case, is 41 (be careful, though, I'm not sure if Greta allows shouting within the walls of her clinic). If you don't, you'll get your number branded just above your left breast. Nowadays, of course, that wouldn't be seen as much of a punishment, as self-mutilation is all the rage. But back in the 1970s, the surface of your flesh was sacred, and having a number burnt into your chest would no doubt severely cramp your style.

While the guards might not have been impressed with the size of 41's breasts, 14, 10, and 24 can't seem to get enough of them (14, in fact, says, and I quote, "her tiny tits excite me"). Who are these mosquito bite aficionados? Well, all I know about 24 is that she has an English accent and has the number 24 branded above her left nipple. As for 14 (Peggy Markoff). Let's see, she's a post-op trans woman who enjoys knitting, lesbianism, and watching shower fights (oh, and get on her good side and she might let you call her 7). Who's kidding who? The only number in that group that really matters is 10 (Lina Romay), the sexist woman to roam the halls of a shoddily run correctional institute since a certain pigment challenged enchantress in dark charcoal grey stockings headbutted her way into my heart. Sauntering into the clinic's sleeping quarters, her arms akimbo, the short-haired slice of gorgeosity is clearly in command (keep an eye on her when sits on her bed, it's obvious she hikes up her uniform with the sole purpose of reveling more of her delicious pussy). Unfazed over the fact that 41 didn't notice her exposed vagina (not even a cursory cunt coup d'oeil is thrown her way), 10 jumps to her feet (which are covered with a pair of beige boots) and starts to inspect 41's super-tight body.

Impressed with what 41 has to offer, tightness-wise, 10 tells her that she'll play with her later. Running late for an appointment, 10 shows up at the door of Greta's swanky pad and proceeds to give her a massage. You should have seen the sublime curvature of 10's wonderfully proportioned backside as she straddled Greta, it was a thing of rotund beauty. Changing positions, Greta returns the favour. However, not by giving her a massage, but by sticking pins in her chest (I loved the close up shots Lina Romay's dark eyes during this sequence). If she screams, she'll send 41 to the hole (10 has made it clear to Greta that she likes 41). Luckily for 41, she doesn't, scream, that is.

Remember when I said Ilsa: The Wicked Warden was all about this woman trying to find her missing sister? Yeah, well, it's not about that at all. Okay, maybe it is about that (how the fuck should what things are about). But in my mind, what the film really about is one woman's epic struggle to obtain a clean culo. And besides Greta, who do you think is the one woman at Clinica Las Palomas in a position to demand a pristine culo? Why, it's 10, of course. And who do you suppose she wants to be her primary culo cleaner? You guessed it, she wants 41. Walking up to 41 in the shower, 10 tells her, "you turn me on," and instructs her to wash her back and to scrub her culo. As I watched the suds slowly trickle down the sharply defined contours of her sturdy back, I couldn't help but notice that her culo wasn't being scrubbed at all. An increasingly frustrated 10 catches wind of this as well and yells, "I told you to scrub my culo!"

A sense ease began to wash over me as the soap finally started to make its way into 10's culo. Unfortunately, this ease wasn't shared by the actually owner of the sublime culo sort of being scrubbed. Dissatisfied with the manner in which her culo was being attended to, 10 decides to express her unhappiness through physical violence (the chaotic nature of the brawl that ensued gave the audience some excellent shots of 10's partially scrubbed culo). What's the penalty for fighting in this joint? I have no idea. What I do know is that inept culo scrubbing gets you strapped to a table and tortured. After injecting some sort of numbing agent into 41's vagina with a syringe (a bug-eyed Dyanne Thorne looks right at home with a syringe in her hand), Greta tells her, "shock therapy will calm your nerves." And judging by the white foam leaking from her mouth, I'd say it didn't work at all.

No doubt wondering if her decision to come here was a wise one, 41 spends the next couple of days naked, shackled, and forced to listen to the paranoid ramblings of 20 (a woman with a terrible scar on her neck who's locked in the cell next to hers). When she's finally released from the hole, 41 is consoled by 14 (I'm no doctor, but I'm sure the faintness of her eyebrows will help soothe her pain). If you're wondering what kind of punishment 10 got for fighting in the shower, don't bother. The so-called "wicked warden" and 10 are in cahoots with one another (you scratch my back, I'll urinate all over yours). Returning to the hole, Greta whips a naked woman with one eye chained to a wall for some shits but hardly any giggles (I'll admit, the twitchy nature of the one-eyed lady with stringy blonde hair was strangely alluring), beats 20 in her hay-covered cell (20 manages to call Greta a "vampire cunt" before her beating commences), and tortures a patient that 41 might be interested in.

Telling 41 that she has information regarding the whereabouts of her missing sister, 10 arranges a meeting in the lavatory. With 14 there as moral support, 41 proceeds to beg 10 to tell her what happened to her sister. Unsatisfied with the quality of her groveling, 10, who is sitting on the toilet while all this is transpiring, instructs 41 to lick her boots. After she's finished, it's time to–you guessed it–clean her culo. Unsure whether or not 10 was going #1 or #2, 41 wipes her culo with a small piece of newspaper. Standing with a priggish air of a woman who is having her culo cleaned by someone other than herself, 10 tells 41 to lick her culo. "It's not so bad, lick it clean," she coos softly to the reluctant culo licker, as 41 struggles to maintain her composure as the entirety of her oral infrastructure soon finds itself fully engulfed within the tantalizingly plump confines of her magnanimous culo. You know what the say? Real sadness is the sight of freshly cried tears coagulating on the edge of a prison toilet seat as a result of being forced to clean a beautiful woman's culo with your lengua. Nevertheless, her sadness quickly turns to happiness as 10 declares 41 to be her friend.

Do you think Greta would ever lick 10's culo? Probably not. In fact, I don't think she realizes how truly special her culo really is. You could say, Greta's decision to underestimate the power of 10's culo is what ultimately lead to her downfall. While she's busy letting a general with a mustache slobber all over her plum pantyhose adorned legs in a sleazy motel room and hosting vile orgies that pit a rag-tag collection of depraved male convicts up against an adorable gang of mildly deformed female patients (poor number 9, how did she wind up in this group? she's way too cute to be violated in such a heinous manner), 10's culo is quietly gaining strength. And a strong culo, is a dangerous culo. If I took anything away from Ilsa: The Wicked Warden, it's that once a person licks your culo, the bond you share with that individual is unbreakable.

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Hellhole (Pierre De Moro, 1985)

If you like women, and I mean, really like women, you'll definitely want to check out Hellhole, the developmentally challenged Cadillac of women in prison movies. It's got every kind of woman your unvarnished heart could possibly desire. Of course, the catch being that all the women are somewhat meshuggeneh. However, if you're like me, and you can't stand being around women who have all their faculties in order, then have I got a treat for you. It's got women who swing axes, body blow absorbing nurses, sandbox girls (there's nothing hotter than the sight of a grown woman playing in a sandbox while wearing a nondescript hospital gown), beastly women who lurk in dark boiler rooms, jacuzzi lesbians, mud bath connoisseurs, Christian fundamentalists with crimped hair, glue-sniffing lesbians (actually, the jacuzzi lesbians and the glue-sniffing lesbians are one in the same, so it should read "glue-sniffing lesbians who like jacuzzis"), shock-haired psychotics, overly enthusiastic shower fight bystanders, and skittish binge eaters. Oh, my, I'm getting tingly just thinking about all the mentally unstable ladies who populate this film's rough and grimy universe. While it may seem like I'm rattling off a random list of socially maladjusted women for my own sick and twisted amusement, let me assure you, I'm not gently tugging on your proverbial carburettor (though I bet half of you wish I was), all these crazy chicks magically appear at some point during this Pierre De Moro-directed motion picture. Yeah, that's right, Pierre De Moro directed this motherfucker, directed the living shit out of it, if you ask me, and there's nothing you can do about it. Imagine if someone really did want to do something about it, wouldn't that be an unexpected turn of events? Out of curiosity, I'd like to see them try, because the makers of this film possess a steadfast dedication to the realm of sleazy trash, and its ornery cousin, trashy sleaze.

It's mildly absurd, well, at least it was to me, that the film's only sane female characters are played by Mary Woronov (Eating Raoul) and Judy Landers (Dr. Alien), two of my favourite people on the planet. Sure, the hospital's administrator (Terry Moore) and a couple of the nurses seemed to be on the cusp of being normal, but they're basically background characters. Besides, you'd have to be a tad unhinged to want to work at a hospital run by Mary Woronov (her legs alone are taller than your insignificant ass). Anyway, the absurdity I'm alluding to stems from the fact that Mary Woronov's Dr. Fletcher (a tribute to Louise Fletcher from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, perhaps?) is trying to cure insanity while behaving in a manner that was clearly sane. On the other hand, Judy Landers' Susan seemed sane simply because Judy's one of the few actress with the innate ability to appear as if she was born without a brain. And, as we all know, it's kinda hard to damage a brain when there's no brain to damage in the first place.

This air of cranial sluggishness adds a subtle layer of confusion to the proceedings, as Silk (Ray Sharkey), a hired killer with a bit of a sadomasochistic streak, is instructed to find the whereabouts of some important documents. You see, the exact location of these documents can be found buried somewhere inside the brain of Susan's mother (Lynn Borden), but since he strangled her in a fit of strangulation with his favourite strangling scarf, he's going to have to dig through the empty-headed morass that is her daughter's brain instead. It's safe to say, this is not going to be an easy task. Compounding matters is the fact that Susan has developed a serious case of amnesia as a result of a nasty fall, and the fact that she watched her mother get strangled to death by a sleazy fiend dressed in leather ain't helping matters, either.

How exactly does one extract information from a brainless twit with amnesia? Since one of Silk's employers is on the advisory board that oversees the state's hospitals, they have set it up that Susan spends her time recovering at not a regular hospital, but at the Ashland Sanatorium For Women. Trading in his usual studs and leather look for a less menacing one, Silk poses as an orderly, and begins to badger the forgetful blonde. Standing in Silk's way, however, is another imposter named Ron (Richard Cox). Pretending to be orderly named Steve, Ron has been hired by another member of the advisory board (one not affiliated with Silk's amnesia scheme) to keep tabs on the goings on at the controversial sanatorium (there have been reports of abuse at this particular facility).

While the fake orderlies both covet what's inside Susan's brain, Silk wants wrestle intelligence from it, Ron/Steve wants to shield its contents from harm, Dr. Fletcher wants to inject her brain with a serum. And not just any serum, one that will revolutionize the treatment of a wide range of mental disorders. Oh, and before you get all excited over the prospect of watching a film where Mary Woronov wields a syringe overflowing with iridescent fluid, I feel I should warn you. Are you ready? The fluid in her syringe doesn't glow; it doesn't even glimmer. But, hey, buck up, little camper. She uses a syringe and preforms liquid lobotomies in a subterranean stetting, what more do you want? Not to sound ungrateful, but how hard is it to fill a syringe with a substance that glows? Let it go, man.

"You're not mentally ill, you're emotionally disturbed," is my favourite line in the entire movie, and it's uttered by Mary Woronov's Dr. Fletcher when Judy Landers' Susan tries to explain that she doesn't belong in a place like this. The crazed-looking redhead constantly grabbing at her hospital gown, on the other hand, does belong in a place like this. If I was a fake orderly pretending to work at Ashland, she would have been the first patient I would have asked out on a date. Of course, she's not listed in the credits (alas, there's no one listed as "crazed-looking redhead constantly grabbing at her hospital gown"), which always seems to be the case when it comes to crushing on mentally ill women who appear in the background of women in prison movies made during the 1980s. Well, whatever your name is mysterious redhead who likes to grab at their clothing, I wanna play in the sandbox with you. Call me. Wait a minute, did you say, "play in the sandbox"?!? Yeah, that's right, I said play in the sandbox.

While I'm on the subject, it should be noted that the statuesque Dr. Fletcher is a big fan of sand (put it in a box-like structure and you're looking at one giddy doctor). In fact, my second favourite line spoken aloud in Hellhole is when Dr. Fletcher tells a curious visitor to the sanatorium that she "finds sand to be much more therapeutic than water" in response to their query about the merits having a sandbox on the premises instead of a swimming pool.

After watching a sandbox fight get broken up by a couple of Dr. Fletcher's goons (unlike the security who work at most hospitals, these guys wear all black, carry nightsticks, and use the c-word a lot), Susan finally musters up the courage to ask Ron/Steve about hellhole. Even though he plays dumb, the look of horror on his face when she says the word "hellhole" should tell Susan everything she needs to know about hellhole (it's too early to tell if her non-functioning brain was able to pick up on what he was putting out there with his face). Meanwhile, over in Silk's room (yep, he's moved into Ashland, all right, and has turned his space into a pervert's paradise), the sleazy assassin is confiding with Vera (Edy Williams), a shapely patient who is acting as one of his spies. Telling her to find out all she can about this Steve fella (who he calls "half a fag"), Vera starts snooping around the showers in her white panties wielding a bar of hypoallergenic soap.

Why is Vera wearing panties in the shower? And I had no idea they had hypoallergenic soap back in the 1985 (I thought everyone just used Dial and hoped for the best). An excellent question and a valid point. But there's no time to dilly-dally over such trivialities, a shower fight is about to commence. How do I know a shower fight is about to commence? Um, hello, a bunch of naked women are showering together (one, albeit, is inexplicably wearing white panties), the film's called "Hellhole," not A Walk to Remember, and a mean-looking chick sporting a mullet has just taken exception with the fact that Vera is currently washing her girlfriend's back with a bar of hypoallergenic soap, so, of course, a shower fight is about to commence.

The coolest aspect about this particular sequence was not the sight of two pantie-adorned–Vera's opponent (Ann Chatterton) is, you guessed it, wearing panties–women fighting in a shower while surrounded by a cheering circle of curly-haired cunts, but the fact that one of the C.C.O.C.C's almost buys it while running to get a spot in the circle. Remember ladies, whenever you find yourself in a situation where your presence is needed to make a girls only shower fight seem more exciting than it really is, always walk, never run, your safety and overall well-being is important to us.

When an unbalanced woman with crimped hair wearing Tretorn tennis shoes (Marneen Fields) has finished ranting and raving in the dinning hall, we get our first glimpse of Mary Woronov in all her evil glory. Didn't you mention Mary Woronov being in a previous scene? Yeah, I did. But she was seated during that particular scene. And you what they say? A walking Mary Woronov is a... actually, I have no idea what "they say." All I know is there's something about the way Mary Woronov moves in this movie. Every step seems to have been meticulously thought out beforehand, which gives her character a weirdly alien temperament. Anyway, the woman in the Tretorns stops ranting and raving almost immediately when Mary Woronov's Dr. Fletcher enters the room. After coaxing her down from the table she was standing on, the leggy doctor instructs her goons (one of whom is played by Robert Z'Dar, whose unique jawline is the stuff of nightmares) to take her away.

Take her way, eh? I wonder if they're going to take her to hellhole? Who am I kidding? Of course her crimped ass is going to hellhole; that's where everyone goes when they misbehave at Ashland. With the help her assistant, Dr. Dane (Marjoe Gortner from Starcrash), Dr. Fletcher injects five ccs of an experimental drug they've been working on into Miss Trethorn's brain. After some promising writhing by their unwilling test subject, the patient dies. No biggy, right? Little does Dr. Fletcher know that Don/Steve has been watching them from the shadows. The most disturbing part about Don/Steve's reaction was that he seem more horrified the post-mortal kiss Dr. Fletcher plants on the dead girl's lips than her actual murder (necrophilic lesbianism was, unfortunately, still frowned upon back in 1985).

Speaking of irregular lesbianism, Hellhole is chock-full of dyky goodness. While Susan is busy taking an unauthorized tour of hellhole (where she finds a world full of steamy pipes and rattling chains), the goons are busy busting up some equally unauthorized instances of girl-on-girl action. Two gals (Marie Lamarre and Judith Geller) are caught naked together inhaling amyl nitrate in their room, another two (Edy Williams and Natalie Main) take a mud bath together (Natalie is credited as "mud girl"), and one of the women from the first lesbian encounter I mentioned is found sniffing glue with a slender brunette (Lamya Derval), who is credited as "jacuzzi girl." Since it was the jacuzzi girl's first transgression involving unlawful cunnilingus, Dr. Fletcher doesn't send her to hellhole, but instead invites her to take a soak in her private jacuzzi... While she's soaking, a kimono-wearing Dr. Fletcher coyly offers up the shapeliness of her right leg as a gift to her newfound friend.

A brunette woman buys some grub at Tony's Tacos, yet there's no one in the credits listed as "brunette woman at taco stand" or "taco-eating lesbian with a perm." Weird. Just a second, it would seem that Michele Laurent plays the taco lady, and is credited as "Tony's Tacos Patron."

I'll admit, it was exhaustive work keeping track of all the crazed women who appear Hellhole. For example, did you know that Dyanne Thorne (Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS) shows up briefly as an inmate named Crysta? Well, she does. Let me give you some free Hellhole-watching advice: Don't let all the extraneous characters distract you from what's important. The bulk of your focus should be on Mary Woronov and Ray Sharkey, as they're the only ones who seem to be having any fun with their roles. The combination of Mary Woronov's imposing figure and Ray's coke-fueled unpleasantness was an absolute delight. It's too bad their characters couldn't have put aside their differences and gotten along better. It's true, she's a shy lesbian who's into medical experiments and pencil skirts, and he's a registered sex offender who likes to strangle people, but I'm sure they can find some common ground.. After all, I'm currently dating a deranged redhead with severe body issues, and I couldn't be happier.

Taking yet another look at the film's credits, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say the "crazed-looking redhead constantly grabbing at her hospital gown" was played by Tanya Russell, as she's credited as "freaked-out inmate," which is close enough, if you ask me.

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Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS (Don Edmonds, 1975)

If you were to attempt to make a gripping drama about the day-to-day struggles that come with living at an SS run concentration camp during the Great Patriotic War, how would you start things off? Some might open on a small patch of flowers flourishing next to an electrified fence–you know, try to capture the dichotomy between the beauty of nature and the scourge that is manufactured oppression. Others might cut to the chase and opt for a closeup shot of a swastika flag gently flapping in the midday sun. Well, the director of the justifiably infamous Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS doesn't care what you think, as he has decided that a side view shot of some mild commandant straddling followed by some not-so mild castration is the best way kick off your concentration camp movie. Right then and there, you know this film isn't going to about illuminating the populace about the ills of Nazism, a discredited movement whose sole appeal was that they had cooler uniforms than their drab enemies. Particularly Karl Diebitsch and Walter Heck's all-black SS uniform, manufactured by Hugo Boss. Utilizing the well-worn: titillate then repulse method of exploitation filmmaking, director Don Edmonds (Tender Loving Care) seems to revel in causing your aroused feelings to quickly turn into one's of revulsion and disgust. Having us cheering on a man's genitals to plunge as far as they can vaginally go one minute, only to have us wincing uncontrollably a mere ten seconds later when those very genitals are unceremoniously removed without even as much as a half-hearted auf Wiedersehen was a tad jarring.

If you enjoy watching men being tortured by female Nazis–and who doesn't?–you better savour the first five minutes, because after that you won't see any men harmed until at least the film's chaotic coda (throats are slit, necks are garrotted). No, this particular camp, Medical Camp #9, is all about performing gruesome experiments on young women. The camp commandant (the mild straddler I alluded to earlier), a stern lass named Ilsa (Dyanne Thorne), wants to help the Third Reich by making its soldiers become more resilient. And if that means employing maggots (mealworms), infectious diseases, pressurized chambers, scalding hot water and electrified dildos, than so be it (you gotta support the Wehrmacht).

A new shipment of ladies arrives at the camp, and you can tell immediately that Ilsa doesn't like Anna (Maria Marx) and Rosette (Jacqueline Giroux). The latter is merely an annoyance, in that she seems to ask way too many questions. It's the former who gets Ilsa's panzer panties all in a twist. You could sense the tension between then when they first meet. The way Anna stood naked before her, proudly displaying her no-nonsense breasts and bulbous pubic region seemed to irk Ilsa (the others sheepishly attempted to shield those particular areas with a balled up clump of their ratty clothes). However, the fact she won't satisfy the shapely commandant's perverted desire to hear her subjects scream whenever she would violently poke and prod them is what really puts Anna's organic structure in danger.

Realizing that their days as relatively attractive women with all their limbs are numbered, Anna and Rosette try to get a revolt going. Only problem being all their bunkmate's are all showing the signs of having resided at a concentration camp where medical experiments and gang rape are not only commonplace, they're in the brochure. (Medical Camp #9: "Come for the syphilis, stay for the sexual humiliation."). In other, less offensive words, they've been there way too long to be any sort of shape to help.

What these spunky gals need is a couple of strapping men. And wouldn't you know it, there are a bunch living in a dorm across the way. Employing prisoners of war and other riffraff to do menial work, the camp has a sizable number of non-Nazi men to choose from. The two Anna and Rosette convince to assist their cause are a dapper American newcomer named Wolfe (Gregory Knoph) and Mario (Tony Mumolo), a wily camp veteran.

If Mario has the demeanor of a man who has no testicles, well, that's because he doesn't have any testicles. His sole reason for helping the girls is based on his lack of testicles. In fact, almost every facet of his existence revolves around his missing testicles and exacting revenge on the person who removed them from their scrotal perch.

You see, while Ilsa loves to torture people for the sake of national security, she also loves cock. You could say it's her one true weakness, that, and an inability to say no to creepy Obergruppenführers when they inevitably ask her to expel urine on them. Her insatiable need to have an erect penis immersed inside the pure, reasonably unsullied confines of Aryan vag on a semi-regular basis is actually what leads to her downfall. She acquirers her daily allocation of cock from the ranks of the camp workers, and if their cock doesn't meet with her high standards (i.e. hump heartily until she achieves orgasm), she will instruct her black clad minions to haul you down to the lab, where she will personally take away your junk.

When Wolfe is eventually summed to stick his prick in Ilsa's shock-haired tissue box, Mario shoots him a "dude, your balls are so going to be in a jar by sunup" look. What Mario doesn't know is that Wolfe has a trick up his sleeve–his sleeve being his penis. As Ilsa points out, it's not exactly the largest rake in the tool shed–his rake being his penis. But as she soon finds out, its thrusting prowess is second to none. Craving its long lasting power like were an overly buttered piece of toast, Ilsa has become so captivated by Wolfe's unflappable shaft, that her dedication to sadism seems to waver over the course of the film. Actually, the opposite happens, as her desire to make Anna scream hits a fever pitch. Nevertheless, it's her obsession with Wolfe's steady member and Anna's plucky determination that cause the rebellion's plans to move forward at an accelerated pace.

I know what you're thinking. You mean to tell me, the fate of democracy depends on one man's ability to not shoot his goo inside a curvy blonde Nazi doctor in an expedient manner? Ridiculous as it sounds, Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS is all about postponing the ejection of seminal fluid. Simple as that. Anybody who tries to tell you otherwise has obviously chosen to approach the film from a perspective that is different than mine, and I respect that. But deep down they know I'm sort of right.

The off and on nature of Dyanne Thorne's German accent was, I wanna say, "adorable," but that doesn't feel right. Okay, how 'bout this: The manner in which Dyanne Thorne's German accent seemed to fluctuate from scene to scene was oddly endearing. Yeah, that'll work. To be fair, the only instance where I recall this actually happening occurred whenever she would say the word "Reich," as in the "Third Reich." At first, I noticed that she pronounced in the Anglo-American way. But then she started saying it the German way. It's as if her accent gradually got better as the film progressed.

As far as lady Nazi's go, Dyanne Thorne (Ilsa, Harem Keeper of the Oil Sheiks) isn't really my type. On top of being cruel, I like my lady Nazis to be card carrying members of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee (a.k.a.Winzig Brüstchen Ausschuss). Also, Ilsa's ample protrusions repeatedly hampered the symmetry of her fabulous SS uniform. Although, I thought the wide-eyed pride of Greenwich, Connecticut looked amazing whilst standing in front of a blood-spattered wall.

Is it possible for one to grow tired of female pubic hair? I didn't think it was humanly possible, but there were a few moments during this film where I actually thought to myself: "Someone get that poor woman a pair of pants. Her clit's gonna get hypothermia." But then again, it's pretty hard to electrocute a person's genitals if they're wearing pants.

The mayhem of the finale was an unbelievable mishmash of outdoor stabbings, stealthy strangulation, topless knife-wielding, pulsating arterial spray (thanks to makeup artist Joe Blasco), and bullet-ridden corpses. Some of the deaths, especially the one's performed by the guys who take their orders from an ex-poultry farmer/wannabe Mongolian, were wonderfully staged. It's the shame Ilsa and her female subordinates didn't wear skirts throughout the film, because that would have made things perfect. Yeah, that's right, perfect. Sure, the torture scenes are a bit much at times, there's no mention of Alfred Naujocks, and the camp seemed to lack guard dogs, but there's no denying that this film is a well-made piece of exploitative trash.

Oh, and just for the record, the skirts I would have chosen for the female Nazis would have been black with a smallish slit in the back. As far as length goes, I would say, oh, about ten centimetres above the knee. I think that would allow you to commit unspeakable atrocities and still look chic at the same time.

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