My Tutor (1983)

Directed by George Bowers
Starring Caren Kaye, Matt Lattanzi, Crispin Glover, Clark Brandon
Rated R
USA
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"Sue-Anne, would you like to dance with me?"
"No thank you."
"Then I guess a blowjob is completely out of the question?"

My Tutor stars Olivia Newton John's ex-husband, former Xanadu dancer Matt Lattanzi as Bobby, your average 17 year-old muscle-bound, feathered-hair sporting, upper-class virgin, currently lovesick over picture-pretty Bonnie (Amber Denyse Austin, Cathy Crosby's daughter) and best friend to a phlegmy, sex-obsessed, sweater vest wearing nerd named Jack.

Ahem. Clearly, this Lattanzi character is way too Alpha-male to be playing this role, and even an ugly rich kid with his own wheels can get laid plenty in high school, so this premise is deeply flawed from the start. But we're already ankle-deep, so let's just roll with it.

As the film opens, Bobby's slamming his head into the side of his bitchin' black van, in mortal agony over Bonnie's casual dismissal of his affections. Oddball Jack ambles over to lighten his load.
"It's over," croaks Jack (an already-creepy 19 year old Crispin Glover),"Time to kick out the jams. Summertime fun!" He says this like a serial killer. Not on purpose, but still.

Later that evening, Jack's gregarious older brother Billy (Fast Food's Clark Brandon) takes them to a whorehouse to lose their virginity. Crispin ends up with an S&M freak. Bobby gets Russ Meyer's ex girlfriend, Kitten Natividad. Crispin ends up bolting out of there in his boxers, crying his eyes out. Bobby, who gulped down a flask full of whiskey to bolster his nerves, just falls asleep on Kitten's mountainous tits. In his defense, they do look very pillowy.

The next morning Bobby meets with his dad (cranky genre vet Kevin McCarthy) who informs him that he will not get into Yale unless he passes his French final, which he just failed miserably. Dad's one of those nasty old fuckers with connections though, so he worked it out so that Bobby can take the final again, and this time, he's going to have a tutor to help him get ready. The very next day, while he's lazily splashing around in his in-ground swimming pool, his tutor arrives. Terry Green (sitcom vet Caren Kaye) is a pretty, no-nonsense 30-something that's taken the job as live-in tutor for the summer to escape an old boyfriend. She seems alright but Bobby, who really is a dick, is both snotty and vaguely lewd to her.
"I can tell, you're really going to work me hard this summer," he snorts.

Back on the pussy trail, Billy takes the fellas to a diner, where he introduces them to a melon-chested waitress named Silvia (Graem McGavin, Weekend Pass, Angel), who is also a part-time prostitute. Or maybe she's just really slutty, hard to say. At any rate, he convinces her to fuck these two idiots in his car in the back alley of the restaurant. Bobby's up first, but before they get too far, Silvia's psycho biker boyfriend (is there any other kind, in these movies?) shows up and chases a naked Bobby around. Biker gangs, loony bin whorehouses, and waitress-hookers...what town is this, Sodom?

Later on, Terry takes a nude moonlight swim, while Bobby hides in the bushes and beats off. Wow, this movie sounds sleazy on paper. Later on, he fantasizes about fucking Jewel Shepard. Who knows how Jewel got roped intro this, but she pops 'em out and then splits.

The fellas go to a bar with mud wrestling. Crispin, for whatever reason, has a fake ID with a black kid's face on it. He hands it to the (black) doorman, and says, in a wack 'urban' voice: "Hey blood, what's happnin', my man? Alright alright cuz, please lemme in!" I almost expected him to add "Hidey-ho!" on his way in. Fucking crazy. Anyway, Bobby waits outside, but Jack and Billy wrestle Katt Shea (Hollywood Hot Tubs, Preppies) and then get tossed out. A buncha bullshit happens and as they leave, Billy tears off Katt's dress, leaving her in the alley naked.

Meanwhile, Terry decides to reconcile with her asshole ex-boyfriend, but when she drops by, he's in his car getting a blowjob, so she picks up a weed whacker and tells him if he gets out of the car, she's gonna cut his dick off.

And then she goes home and fucks Bobby. I can't believe I actually saw this in the theater when I was 14. Without a raincoat, even. Anyway, the last half-hour shifts gears completely, as Bobby gets romantically entangled with Terry and all the main characters have to figure out who they are and what they want out of life. The usual 80's dilemmas, albeit with way more kink than most of us dealt with.

For a variety of reasons, My Tutor is clearly one of the best examples of the teen sex comedy. For one thing, it's practically swimming in tits, and even if it does attempt to wrap everything together in a sappy, everybody-wins ending, for most of it's running time, the film is about as morally vacant as you can get. Predating the modern obsession with older women and the alarming teacher-student hook-up trend by more than two decades, My Tutor presents a repercussion-free world where if it feels good, you know, do it. And that, after all, was exactly the message your average 80's teen was hoping to hear. The cast is top-notch, filled with once and future cult icons like Glover, McCarthy, Shepard, Natividad, and Shea, and for once, it looked like they tossed a few production-value dollars into the pot.

And then, of course, there's Caren Kaye, (still) the very definition of fetching, and quite liberal, at that point, with her nudity policy. And although she offered no bared skin, Amber Denyse Austin was a vision, a still-ripening peach that practically radiated with girl-magic. Unfortunately for us all, she only appeared in one other film. Fortunately for us all, it was the amazingly awful Neon Maniacs (1986), a classic badfilm howler that holds up to many (painful) repeated viewings. So we got that, at least.

Director Bowers followed this one up with the equally accomplished teen sex romp Private Resort (1985) but spent most of his career in the editing room, where he cut a number of seminal cult flicks: Galaxina (1980), The Pom Pom Girls (1976), The Beach Girls (1982), Buckaroo Banzai (1984), The Stepfather (1987), etc. He continues to work as an editor today. As for Caren Kaye, you'd think, given her near constant state of undress here, that she'd build up a long resume of sexy roles. Sadly, this was it. She spent most of her career in television, and now serves on some charity board somewhere, trying to make the world a better place. Ah, but you already have, Caren. I salute you, and your jutting nipples. May you both continue to inspire.

Availability: My Tutor is available on DVD from BCI (RIP), and as a rental from Netflix.
Get it at Amazon.


-Ken McIntyre

Preppies (1984)

Directed by Chuck Vincent
Starring Dennis Drake, Steven Holt, Peter Brady Reardon, Cindy Manion
Rated R
USA
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"I'm very big on oral."
"Well, you do have a big mouth."

I suppose there may be those among us unfamiliar with the term "preppies". It was a popular term-of-derision in the late 70's and early 80's, an accusatory slur aimed at people who attended private, "preparatory" universities. 'Preps' carried themselves with maximum snoot. They talked through their teeth in a halting huff and snorted whenever po' folks were around. The classic preppy look included a sweater wrapped around the shoulders, golf clothing in pastel colors, loafers, possibly a visor. Whether anyone actually wore these clothing combinations anywhere besides goofy movies like this is a mystery to me, as I have never known anyone that would fall into the preppy category. I barely even know any college graduates. In 1980, a satirical prep-guide, "The Preppy Handbook", hit the humor racks at bookstores and somehow became a smash hit. As legend has it, many did not care that the book was meant as a goof, and embraced it's fashions, fads, and upper-crusty notions, eventually resulting in a mini-cultural movement of people who were actually proud to call themselves preppies. Again, who the fuck knows. They say there really were 'valley girls' back then as well, but I don't remember any. All of this shit might have happened in California. Seems like a likely place for it. At any rate, in the 80's, any half-assed cultural movement would end in a bad b-movie - See Breakin'(1984), Thrashin' (1986), and Joysticks (1983) for three perfect examples - and so, 1984's Preppies, the final word on rich assholes in Izod Lacoste shirts.

Preppies was directed by Chuck Vincent, which should tell you a couple things right off the bat. First, lower your expectations. This is not going to be nearly as good as you'd like it to be. Second, squint a little, and you'll find a stray porn star or two in the cast. Famously, Mr. Vincent began his career as a director of adult films, and when he 'graduated' to z-level sexploitation, he tended to fill the productions with his old starlets and studs. That is certainly the case here, with veteran pipe-layer Jerry Butler in a small-but-vital role as elusive soap opera star Dick Foster, and a smattering of 80's goo-girls (Tish Ambrose, Sharon Kane, Annette Heinz) playing exotic dancers. The rest of the cast is made up mostly of first (and for most, only) time actors, which will become painfully obvious pretty quickly.

Our saga opens with three preppies - Chip (Dennis Drake), Bayard (Steven Holt) and Mark (Peter Brady Reardon, who really should've just used his own hilariously preppy-esque name) - getting a lecture from Chip's tennis-obsessed dad. Seems they've got exams coming up, and if Chip passes, he inherits the family's $50 million dollar fortune. If he doesn't, he's out on his ass, and his weird sexual deviant brother Blackwel (Leonard Haas) gets the motherlode.

Blackwel, by the way, is introduced to us in a scene straight out of Caligula, with dominatrixes, dog collars, topless stoned chicks, the works. It's pretty nuts. Blackwel is well aware of this situation, so on the weekend before exams, he dispatches a quartet of local party girls to seduce and distract Chip and the boys. It's not the world's hardest sell, as the prep-molls are strictly cold fish. About the most the fellas get from their girlfriends is when Margot (Hollywood Hot Tubs' own Katt Shea, in a very unconvincing blonde bob wig) strips naked and mashes her boobs against a glass door, allowing Mark to slobber on the other side. So, you know, they are certainly open to new options.

Oh, another thing about Chuck Vincent movies that you should probably know: there's always too many characters. Chuck is not happy unless there's half a dozen thinly written players jammed into the frame. I am surely baiting tedium here, but we must mention the good-time girls, since they are, after all, the film's real protagonists. There's Roxy (Nitchie Barrett), Jo (toothy, statuesque blonde Cindy Manion, instantly recognizable from Toxic Avenger), Tip (Kate Stelletello), and Suzy (Jo-ann Marshall). With the exception of Suzy, who is clearly the voice of reason, there is no nuance or affect that differentiates one of these characters from another; they are simply a bunch of girls who like driving around in a customized van and will, if you offer them $20,000, attempt to seduce some high-faluting jokers, even though they kinda-sorta hate preppies.


The girls attempt to snag their men, first by dressing up as waitresses at a country club and later as hot-to-trot stoner chicks at a disco ("This is erotic!" Jo squeals, as the six of them huddle in a men's room stall, smoking a joint and listening to other guys pee), but neither ruse works. Then they bait Suzy with the promise of a date with her favorite TV star, Dick Foster, if she dresses up like a preppy and infiltrates their inner sanctum. She does, allowing the other girls to decorate the place with streamers and a "Happy Birthday Jeff" sign ("What?" Roxy shrugs. "I got it from Jeff."), strip down to lingerie, and force their reluctant prey to party. But before they can completely destroy the college boys' lives, the prep-girls show up and ruin everything. This goes on for many, many minutes, so let us cut to the chase:

Yes, boners will be popped, particularly during the scene when stuck-up Margot and Trini (Linda Wiesmeier, Joysticks, Private School, and Playboy Playmate, July '82) practice hip-thrusting together.

Will you laugh, somewhere along the way? Depends on whether you think the following is funny:

Mark, staring at Jo's tits. "I really like those."
Jo: "Oh, thanks. I got them from my mother. And she got them from my grandmother."
Mark: "So, they're family heirlooms!"

That's about as fuckin' funny as it gets. It has a happy ending, like they all do. The acting veers drunkenly between over the top and woefully inadequate, although all the actors are very enthusiastic, and everyone is obviously working quite hard to pull off this ludicrous premise and barely-there script. Cindy Manion, who has crazy eyes, an even loonier smile, and a manic-panic energy about her that nearly bursts right through the screen, is particularly into it here; if this is anybody's movie, it's hers. Unfortunately for the world, this film and Toxic Avenger (also 1984) are her only significant acting roles. The music is terrible (Chuck Vincent also co-wrote many of the songs), the boom mic is clearly visible in a few scenes, and although there's a goodly amount of breast-baring (this was, after all, a "Playboy Production"), there is very little sex. And it's about preppies, which is a pretty fuckin' lame premise, even for the 80's.

Availability: Preppies is available on (murky) DVD from Jef. It's also available for rental from Netflix.
Buy Preppies on Amazon.
-Ken McIntyre

Hollywood Hot Tubs (1984)

Directed by Chuck Vincent
Starring Jewel Shepard, Donna McDaniel, Paul Gunning, Edy Williams
Rated R
USA
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"Oh god, what a time to lose my Valium!"

A legend amongst 80's skinema aficionados, Hollywood Hot Tubs is simultaneously wonderful and wretched, a cheap and often ugly film so far off in it's attempts at ribald humor that it almost plays like anti-comedy. On the other hand, it also offers perky naked breasts approximately every ten or so minutes, and a handful of scenes so absurd they border on the surreal. A devil's bargain, then.

In accordance with the established rules of 80's sex comedies, the plot is both simple and implausible. Shawn (Paul Gunning) is teenage ne'er-do-well who runs afoul with the law in a confusing opening scene involving two of his buddies, a car, a camera, a sexy girl, and...well, it's not important, although the opening dialogue is pretty funny:

Shawn's dorky friend number 1: "Can we stop at my house? I need to get my Asthma pills."
Shawn's dorky friend number 2: "Yeah, and I have to pee."
Shawn: "And I need to get new friends."

After getting nabbed by the police, he is escorted back home, where the cop and his parents discuss his fate. Turns out, it's either jail, or go to work for his Uncle Al, the plumber. And he's too pretty for jail.

Mom: "I'm only trying to save you from the butt slammers."

Uncle Al's plumbing company specializes in hot tub repair. Apparently, California was in the grips of Hot Tub Fever in 1984, because there's plenty of work to go around. Shawn is dispatched to various establishments to fix their hot tubs. Sex naturally ensues.

In one scene, future Carrie II director Katt Shea, playing a young starlet named Dee Dee, has sex with a Hairy Harry Reems lookalike on top of a hot tub while Shawn tries to fix the leak underneath. Later on, he visits an "Oriental Massage" parlor. Former Russ Meyer siren and perennial Z-movie fixture Edy Williams nearly rapes him. When she jiggles her ample, aged boobs, they punch in a sound effect of two balloons rubbing together.

There's also a giant penis lamp in the room. It's disturbing.

All of these jobs are small change, however. The real money is in scoring the Hollywood Hot Tubs account. HHT is an ever-expanding pleasure emporium that offers private rooms equipped with hot tubs and, apparently, whatever else you might need. The company is run by straight-laced Pam (genre vet Remy O'Neil), who employs her dizzy daughter Crystal (Jewel Shepard) as her secretary/Girl Friday.

It is at this moment that Hollywood Hot Tubs reaches a crossroads. Up until now, it is a pleasantly cheeseball 80's comedy. None of the jokes work and the music is dismal, but the constant threat/promise of tits keep things moving along nicely. And then along comes Jewel Shepard.

Miss Shepard needs little to no introduction to trashfilm fans. She is most easily recognized as Casey, the neon-mohawked punkette in Return of the Living Dead (1985), to say nothing of her voluminous nude modeling career. Agonizingly gorgeous and much smarter than her roles, Shepard was a bonafide exploitation movie goddess in the 80's. And this stunning role provides ample evidence why.

To say that her acting here is bad...that's like saying nuclear war is merely a bummer. Her acting her is phenomenally bad, jaw-droppingly awful, the stiffest, most awkward attempt at a bubble-headed 'valley girl' imaginable. And that's not all. Besides the teeth-gnashing "Like, you know" dialogue, Jewel performs every scene braless, her then-26 year old boobs jutting straight ahead like fleshy torpedoes armed and ready to strike. In one memory-searing scene, a half-shirted Jewel forcibly jiggles them up and down for five minutes straight, vibrating like a jackhammer for no other reason than the obvious.

Here, watch this. It'll blow your mind.



It's quite possible that Jewel's hamming is on purpose. After all, the worst actor in a film is even more memorable than the best. But whatever possessed her, we can only sit and stare and bask in her untamed badfilm glory. She is a colossal force in this film, and whenever she's in a scene, the rest of the cast dissolves into dust. There are other reasons to watch this movie, surely - the all-girl soccer team, for example, or Edgar Blood - but the reason to own it, savor it, and share it with friends and neighbors is because of Jewel Shepard's performance. It will rock you to the core.

Oh yes, the soccer team. The fellas fix a hot tub at HTT and somehow get an entire female soccer team topless in said tub. Well, all except for one headband-wearing blonde, who, oddly, wears a towel while soaking in the sudsy water. Watch this scene closely, because when Shawn tosses the soccer ball across the room, it ricochets back and accidentally smacks her right in the mug. It's an awkward gaffe that really should have been cut out, but...well, that's just not the kind of movie we're dealing with here.

There's another weird encounter with Edgar Blood (Victor Marko, who, sadly, never acted again), a Vincent Price-wannabe aging horror actor with a hot-tub equipped stretch limo. They drop him off in a cemetery, so that he can do 'research' for his next role.

And so on. I should mention Donna McDaniel, who plays Shawn's love interest. This is Donna's sole acting credit, but she is well-known in heavy metal circles for serving in the surely thankless role of back-up singer for Motley Crue. She was one of the 'Nasty Habits' during their late 80's tours. Her role here is pretty thankless as well. But probably less embarrassing.

What else? There's a three-man biker gang with one guy who appears to have escaped from the Hair Bear Bunch. There's a gay bath-house scene. At one point, two horny grannies buy a hot tub - the deluxe party model - to "orgy in." There's also the expected nutso party at the end, which features a Burt Reynolds impersonator, a beer swilling chimp, rubber monsters, a Mariachi band, and people just randomly running back and forth.

This all sounds like the most fun ever, especially when you consider that it was directed by porn-maven gone semi-legit Chuck Vincent, the hallucinatory anti-genius behind Summer Camp (1979), Hot T-Shirts (1980), Wimps (1986), and Slammer Girls (1987), and written/produced by Mark Borde, who also wrote Summer Camp and produced the Chuck McCann/Louisa Moritz jiggle-fest Lunch Wagon (1981). The reality - at least without the benefit of booze, weed, or LSD - is that it lumbers along in a rather clunky fashion, and only really brightens up when either a woman doffs her top or Jewel rolls her eyes and says something inane. Luckily, both things happen quite a bit.

Hollywood Hot Tubs is not on DVD. The VHS is pretty rare. Most people remember it from repeated viewings on USA Up All Night. It's not a good movie. Most of the time, it sucks. Chuck Vincent is, of course, dead. Mark Borde has gone on to produce A-list material, like...uh...Kickin' It Old School. Donna McDaniel sings back-up for Glen Frey now. Jewel Shepard is a mostly-respected culture reporter. Only old people and coke addicts sit in hot tubs anymore. Quite obviously, this film's time has come and gone. And yet, it remains mandatory viewing for sleaze-beasts and trash-fiends, and it probably always will be. Why?

Well, like, you know.

Availability: Hollywood Hot Tubs is available on VHS.
Buy Hollywood Hot Tubs from Amazon.
-Ken McIntyre

Link: Jewel Shepard