Night Eyes (1990) – Jag Mundhra.

Supremely glamorous, recent divorcee (Tanya Roberts) has her luxurious Malibu property monitored by security firm Night Eyes, consisting of brothers Andrew Stevens and Cooper Huckerbee, and somewhat indelicately, one of their cameras fatefully records the exceptionally frolicsome activities within her sumptuous boudoir. Night Eyes is an enjoyably trashy, crudely voyeuristic erotic thriller given additional oomph with the handsomely decorative presences of a virile-looking Andrew Stevens and scintillating seductress Tanya Roberts. Jag Mundhra's superficially slick thriller Night Eyes has a De Palma-lite veneer, gaudily augmented with squalling saxophones and a mawkish sentimentality. Come to think of it, Night Eyes plays out glossily like a latter day Mastorakis, providing a derivative, blandly efficient genre peep-show with momentary flashes of lingerie-lurid incident. There's steamy, Zalman Kinged in-out, brusingly boisterous fisticuffs, and a serviceable twist, making Night Eyes a seductive enough midnight romp to those amenable to such.

 Sex Appeal (1986) - Chuck Vincent.

Diminutive schmendrick Tony Cannelloni (Louie Bonanno) desperately needs to get laid, and upon seeking guidance from crass self-help tome Sex Appeal, from inauspicious beginnings, this very soon, somewhat miraculously, transforms him into a modern day, pint-sized Casanova! Sex Appeal is an unapologetically dumb, fitfully amusing 80s smut-com, presenting itself like a Woody Allen flick, overly optimistically written by his priapic bookie. The bawdy gags are plentiful, and farcical, the mucky rumpy pumpy milieu herein suggestive of the clumsy bed-hopping of Robin Askwith's equally nebbish Timothy Lea. It's not all dross, some of Cannelloni's 'comedic' assignations are with undeniably attractive totty, but the mediocre text's ceaseless inanity offers little respite from the author's lack of invention. Sex Appeal is innately sexless, but may still provide desultory interest to more schlock-resilient smut-com completists, but be duly warned, Sex Appeal is manifestly NOT another undiscovered 'Last American Virgin'.

 Wildest Dreams (1990) - Chuck Vincent.

Luckless Schlemiel Bobby (James Davies) unexpectedly unleashes lusty genie Dancee (Heide Paine), thereby fatefully uncorking his sexual fantasies, leading somewhat crudely to a whole milky mess of asinine misadventures. This largely guileless example of slapstick n' tickle is given a momentary charge of pulchritudinous pep by the vivacious presence of Stella (Ruth Collins), Bobby's busty girl-next-door fantasy, but the prosaic text, and grossly exaggerated sitcom performances frequently proves enervating. Fortunately, Wildest Dreams isn't a totally indigestible shit shingle, there's plentiful, juicy-looking T&A, and the feisty, wise ass genie Dancee provides one of the film's more engaging performances. If one lowers expectations to the Pleistocene period, this unstintingly inane romp is arguably good for one or two begrudgingly goofy laffs. I didn't actively loathe it, Wildest Dreams ruthlessly shrill tone, excruciating score, and botched TV pilot aesthetic fitfully provided random trace-elements of unintentional hilarity. B-fans might be aware that James Davies appeared in slasher schlocker Pledge Night, the delicious Ruth Collins rocked audaciously hard in Doom Asylum and picante pop tart Heide Paine appeared in Olen Ray's Wizard of The Demon's sword.

 The Inconfessable Orgies of Emmanuelle. (1982) – Jess Franco.

Considering that the bawdily irrepressible Emmanuelle has been blissfully bonking her way through innumerable softwank adventures over the years, I would humbly suggest that she no longer has much to confess! Lovingly loyal, long-suffering husband (Mayans) and his lusciously lascivious wife Emmanuelle (Muriel Montossé) are currently enjoying a honeymoon period in an especially picturesque Iberian locale, but Emmanuelle's altogether confessable lusts predictably get the better of her, presented in a series of modestly erotic Sapphic/hetero clinches, and a not entirely convincing pseudo rape. Naturally, Mayan's is greatly chagrined by all this, but reacts sulkily, meanwhile local dissolute playboy (Tony Skios) arrogantly cuts in, ultimately proving himself to be a hilariously lacklustre lay! Franco dutifully peppers the final act with inane travelogue footage, some unintentionally amusing bonk-less elements, plus a frisson of lurid lady loving. At best, this is a crudely unsophisticated B-smut bacchanal, yet the hazy Mediterranean locations are quite lovely, as is the maddeningly exquisite Montossé, and the hedonistic marquis's pompous, self-aggrandising discourse proved unexpectedly delicious! Even a lesser Franco sexploitation flick will quite often provide viable content to serious schlock seekers, plus The inconfessable Orgies of Emmanuelle remains absolutely essential to fans of dazzlingly beauteous Euro-starlet Muriel Montossé. For me, Skios's dipso-disco majestically mansplaining marquis really made this a gas!

 Malibu Beach (1978) Robert J. Rosenthal.

Formulaic fleshy frolics by Crown International Pictures lustily presents a demographically aligned cross-section of hard-bodied, horn-dogging teenagers doing their utmost to consume as much pot, beer and pussy as humanly possible during their sultry, hormonally overloaded summer break. A sun-dazed dung beetle crawling his lugubrious way over a fresh roll of toilet paper could provide a more winning, shag-centric text, but as a vintage, nookie-nostalgic softwank, Malibu Beach is easy enough on the more prurient eye, if a tad 'too easy' on the cerebrum. Hey!!! It's a dumb ass 70s beach flick, the better dumb ass beach flicks feature beehived, hard-frugging 60s Go-Go dancers and cheapnis monsters, while Malibu Beach boasts studio sexy eye-candies Kim Lankford, James Daughton, Susan Player, and sherry Lee Marks. I'm not sure that I enjoyed this very much, I was hungover, but I certainly appreciated all the jiggly-tanned, bikini bits. I strongly refute the poster's spurious claim that 'everything can happen' on Malibu Beach, but I readily accept that a more truthful 'goofy shit happens' on Malibu Beach would be an advertising bummer. Truth be known, I preferred Rosenthal's earlier titty litter 'The Pom Pom Girls, but that's kinda like saying I rated one tepid cup of tap water over a moderately less tepid one.

 Mansion of The Living Dead (1985) – Jess Franco.

Like many dediated Franconians, some might share my especial fondness for his saucier works shot in, and around an exotically located hotel in a tropical locale (Gran Canaria), moistly focussing upon the hyper-sexual, explicitly lesbian exploits of saftig, frequently nude women. In this thrilling instance, four engagingly noisome burlesque dancers find their hotel eerily deserted, sombrely maintained by the no less vacant Antonio Mayans! Happily, this certainly doesn't deter these lively signorita's from their lusty bed-hoping, but it isn't all sun, sea and same-sex schtupping, as the bizarro concierge (Mayans) harbours an especially macabre secret! This mad, compellingly camp, deliciously schlocky admixture of bountiful girl-on-girl nookie and satanic zombie Templar knights also provides for some atmospheric, unexpectedly sinister digressions.

Muck maestro Franco is famously NOT stingy about lacing his fervid, ultra-cheapnis eroto-shockers with fabulously fulsome fleshly exploits, but he also effectively generates some palpable B-horror suspense, as our pulchritudinous, ill-fated protagonists are drawn fearfully into the malign shenanigans of these macabre monks. Mansion of The Living Dead is one of Jess Franco's many shunt-heavy 80s shockers to feature luridly lingeringly shots of his altogether majestic missus (Lina Romay), unselfconsciously roaming about the gaff in her immaculately sensuous birthday suit. Fans will already be aware of this maniacal Mansion's midnight movie mettle, but I'm equally convinced that it remains a worthwhile punt to any weirdo curious enough to venture a little further off Euro-horror's more well-trodden paths.

 German Angst (2015) - Buttgereit. Marshall. Kosakowski.

Like a great many other splatter mad hatters, I find the lurid lure of a grisly extreme-horror anthology hard to resist, and Teutonic terror trilogy German Angst proved darkly irresistible! Macabre Maestro Jorg Buttgereit's compellingly stark contribution, a glacial, surgically sharp dissection of a captivatingly strange young Fräulein's deservedly savage censure of a domestic abuser cuts pretty deep! Brutalist, gory, and inventively twisted, the bracingly confrontational portmanteau shocker German Angst remains a bravura, blut-basted blitzkrieg of sinister, ultra stylised Kraut-shock! The intense material herein provides for a thrillingly unconventional trip into coutured ultra-violence, psychosexual extremis, and stylised outré splatter. For all of its divinely nasty digressions, German Angst cannot completely disguise the palpable intelligence behind each of these cruelly cautionary tales. While all of the gifted filmmakers contributions have points of interest, for me, Buttgereit's sordid slice of skewed suburbia was the moist queasily memorable.