Henri Pachard is largely on autopilot in this desultory, shot-on-video porn programmer. It came out back in the '80s and has since vanished without a trace.
Plot concerns a group of authors working for porn publisher R. Bolla. Unimpressed with their latest submissions, he sends them off over the course of the next week to do some "research" and bring that sexual energy to their next offerings, commanding, "Make me feel it."
This type of setup is de rigeur for the genre, as it easily lays out a simple structure on which to hang various scenes, as well as a clearly defined end-point to which everyone can return for an orgy. The film follows this template to the letter, and the scenes are, for the most part, strictly boilerplate: Jake West and Carol Cross end up in a three-way with Kristara Barrington, spying on them as they enact some kind of romance novel fantasy; Sharon Kane takes on Bolla with a lot of sassy back-and-forth about her book; and Taija Rae and George Payne end up making passionate love after Taija discovers her husband's sordid literary side-hustle. Kelly Nichols fares best, scoring two scenes with a couple hunky performers (Klaus Multia and Frank Serrone), each of whom has only a handful of credits to his name. Both acquit themselves well in the stud department, perhaps making viewers wish we'd seen a bit more of them.
The cast is largely attractive and game: the problem is that Pachard just seems to be filming and directing on autopilot, as though he was rushing through the entire production in a couple days (which was probably the case). There are no exteriors, no linking scenes: every sequence is disembodied, with only the thinnest whisp of a relation to the overall setup. The harsh videography doesn't help - it's far less forgiving than the gauziness of film - but the real problem runs deeper, which is that this feels like exactly the type of cheap-o, cash-in product that it is. Viewed decades later, it's not calamitous, just utterly uninspiring - exactly the type of pump-'n'-grunt boilerplate most laymen associate with the genre. From the great Henri Pachard, from whom most fans know to expect better, it can't help but rank as a disappointment.
Plot concerns a group of authors working for porn publisher R. Bolla. Unimpressed with their latest submissions, he sends them off over the course of the next week to do some "research" and bring that sexual energy to their next offerings, commanding, "Make me feel it."
This type of setup is de rigeur for the genre, as it easily lays out a simple structure on which to hang various scenes, as well as a clearly defined end-point to which everyone can return for an orgy. The film follows this template to the letter, and the scenes are, for the most part, strictly boilerplate: Jake West and Carol Cross end up in a three-way with Kristara Barrington, spying on them as they enact some kind of romance novel fantasy; Sharon Kane takes on Bolla with a lot of sassy back-and-forth about her book; and Taija Rae and George Payne end up making passionate love after Taija discovers her husband's sordid literary side-hustle. Kelly Nichols fares best, scoring two scenes with a couple hunky performers (Klaus Multia and Frank Serrone), each of whom has only a handful of credits to his name. Both acquit themselves well in the stud department, perhaps making viewers wish we'd seen a bit more of them.
The cast is largely attractive and game: the problem is that Pachard just seems to be filming and directing on autopilot, as though he was rushing through the entire production in a couple days (which was probably the case). There are no exteriors, no linking scenes: every sequence is disembodied, with only the thinnest whisp of a relation to the overall setup. The harsh videography doesn't help - it's far less forgiving than the gauziness of film - but the real problem runs deeper, which is that this feels like exactly the type of cheap-o, cash-in product that it is. Viewed decades later, it's not calamitous, just utterly uninspiring - exactly the type of pump-'n'-grunt boilerplate most laymen associate with the genre. From the great Henri Pachard, from whom most fans know to expect better, it can't help but rank as a disappointment.