When a young man of reasonable intelligence presented a VHS copy of this to me along with the assurance it was his favorite movie of all time, I admit I expected a modicum of film integrity. Boy, was I ever wrong. Interesting that flatulence is mentioned more than once in this script, as it's a fitting metaphor for the output of Eric Schaeffer's creative genius. Both in method and in form. I am truly baffled at the mystery of how he gets work. I see he made one bad movie the year before, only to follow it up with something far worse. Pure movie evil such as this should be nipped in the bud.
I look back on the torture I endured and wonder, what was the highest peak of my displeasure? Was it the combined auditory torture of flaccid poetry set against a dizzyingly varied and wildly inappropriate soundtrack? Or was it the racy depiction of the heroine donning a strap-on and violating Eric Schaeffer in the name of love? As for the young man I mentioned before, we're no longer friendly...
I look back on the torture I endured and wonder, what was the highest peak of my displeasure? Was it the combined auditory torture of flaccid poetry set against a dizzyingly varied and wildly inappropriate soundtrack? Or was it the racy depiction of the heroine donning a strap-on and violating Eric Schaeffer in the name of love? As for the young man I mentioned before, we're no longer friendly...