(Rene Bonniere, 1986)
Saddled with a painfully anachronistic script confined almost entirely to a single set, the filmmakers set out to dress the turkey with great quantities of frontal nudity - even a splash of male dangle, ooh la la. But while by and large the babes come on with more energy and verve than the material deserves, the dangler in question is about the most hateful lech ever to appear in the smut-comedy genre, so the gesture doesn't come off as especially generous. At least Paul Boretski does appear to be performing, which cannot be said for Stephen Markle's narcoleptic turn as the photographer, a sucking black hole worthy of the film's self-serving take on the art-versus-commerce dilemma. In order to fill out his less than onerous 87-minute running time, Bonniere really, really drags 'er out, stretching each dead-end shtick like a botched facelift whether it's a running gag (Michael Rudder waving endless impotent implements of destruction at his plaster-imprisoned model) or a set piece ("Introducing Papusha", who blows almost ten 'climactic' minutes doing her witlessly heterofied Carole Pope impersonation - the last straw).