(Len Kowalewich, 1983)
So Britt Ekland is – get this – a sharpshooting Mountie, whose husband, a hateful moron Mountie, decides it would be a good idea for her to seduce her way on to a narcotic-smuggling sailboat in scenic Colombia. Being one of your less security-minded drug runners in cinema history, and having just sent his mysteriously murderous assistant to a watery grave, the guy – who was hired for the job specifically because he can sail the boat all by himself – shrugs and says come on board, after about fifteen seconds of uninspired banter. On the way down to the shore, there’s this musical interlude thing – one of those numbers where a guy and a girl point at unidentified offscreen objects and laugh joyfully – and may I mention in passing that the music in question is the most hideously, laughably overstated Euromarimba wank that has ever assailed my ears, and that it just won’t go away. Anyway, about an hour later we are forced to conclude that that scene, by itself, was really, truly supposed to signify Ekland falling in love with the hangdog schmuck, to the point where she would forsake mission, career and marriage to be with him. I repeat: there’s NOTHING else; they barely even touch. She fell in love on the way to the boat. That’s how stupid this movie is. I hope everyone involved got sun stroke and/or screw worms.
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