A-whaling for to go (10/11/06)
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The Witches Of Breastwick. [Jim Wynorski, 2005.]
With many, many apologies to John Updike:
Unhinged by recurring dreams of three improbably topheavy Druid temptresses who rip off what little clothing they possess during a firelit pagan ritual and then abruptly terminate an incipient orgy by rendering him a [mortally tumescent] human sacrifice, hapless meathead Matt Dalpiaz tosses not-exactly-flatchested-either wife Monique Parent into the rumble seat and motors off into the California mountains in search of the truth concealed behind the veil of appearance — or, failing that, the mother of all melon patches; and, after a brief pause to boink his spouse among the redwoods, makes a great show of surprise when his car breaks down in front of an isolated mountain cabin — where, knocking on the door to seek assistance, the disoriented wayfarers discover purported writers Julie K. Smith, Stormy Daniels, and Glori-Anne Gilbert energetically researching a historical novel [a roman a treble clef] in the Jacuzzi.
The trio are, as one must expect, the embodied images of our hero’s dream girls; complications predictably ensue, most of them involving sudden loss of clothing and feigned frantic humping on any available surface, and Wynorski methodically enumerates the combinations of five people [six, counting Woman of Mystery Who Bears a Warning Taimie Hannum] taken two and three at a time — which means, given the inevitable bias toward heterosexual activity, that Dalpiaz here must handle about twenty gallons worth of mammary glands in the line of duty [a rough gig, but, after all, somebody had to possess the skill codes appropriate to the job; or then again, maybe he just bribed the producers] and repeatedly screw his face up in feigned coital concentration while the bimbos take turns bouncing up and down upon his lap — sneaking those side looks at the camera that seem to have become the standard means of putting postmodern quotation marks around fake fucks.
All this is supposed to have something to do with an immortal Wiccan spirit with enormous hooters [Antonia Dorian — whose principal notice in the trailing credits is, nonetheless, as “director’s mistress” — Wynorski’s way of flaunting the perks of the B-movie auteur] who returns repeatedly from the grave to wreak revenge upon the descendants of her ancient enemies by fucking them to death.
At least I think it was that. I confess to being more than a little disoriented myself. — And no wonder. — “Were these in your dreams?” asks Julie as she pulls her shirt off. — Sheesh. — Well, they are now.
____________Death by water (8/28/06)
