So, after Soap Boobs Hour, they go through more prep, jogging while Dickey mumbles the lyrics to “Rapper’s Delight.” Yup. Now, there are a couple points of actual humor in this movie, and one of them comes from the following scene, where Dickey quizzes the Spies on random political stuff for no reason. The answers were apparently improvised, and rather than using tired old punchlines, some ridiculous shit comes out their mouths. (Not literally.) My favorite:
“Millard Fillmore had a wife. Who was she?”
“Was he the one that was gay?”
Priceless.
Off we go to the Conservatory, located “somewhere in Switzerland.” Apparently the part that looks like the Valley. The Spies meet with the headmistress, Madame Kleevage (pronounced “clee-vahj,” in a nod to Young Frankenstein), who states that even she’s unaware which of her girls is the Da Vinci Coed. She only knows about the “moles on her ass” thing, and allows the Spies to work undercover there. Kleevage is played by Delia Shepard, a name I’ve heard before in the adult industry, and lemme tell you, she’s acting circles around everyone else in this thing. Experience trumps youth, I guess. I’m just glad I could understand her.
The Spies then split up to investigate the Conservatory, and Chesty first finds a random coed studying. She asks her what she was studying, and it just got too ridiculous. She was studying “Breast Theory,” or some such shit. The line “E = Double D squared!” actually happened. As is usual in a breast-related university, Chesty and the coed compare breasts, then start macking on each other. Again, causality. As they go at it, Chesty busts (get it? because of tits!) out the Sharpie, and tries to connect her ass moles. Sadly, no dice on the Da Vinci Coed, and they continue grinding as we fade out.
Then we follow Sunday (oy vey) to the kitchen, where she meets the mute butler named Manners. So we’re stealing characters from “Freakazoid!” now? OK. One character who can’t talk, another that shouldn’t. She asks him about ass moles, he doesn’t get it, she shows him her ass, and he holds up a sign that says “This is too good,” like Wile E Coyote.
He wants out of this picture, too.
They bone each other on the counter, which is just unsanitary, and as he climaxes, he holds up an “Aaaaahhh!” sign.
HELP! At least Sunday didn’t talk much.
After all that, we find Domino meeting another buxom blonde working out near a fireplace (because why not?). Domino recognizes her as Sunny Delite (for realz), the “World Breast Stroke Champion.” If you haven’t seen that sport, it’s because the Olympic Committee phased it out before Beijing. “Could you show me some of your moves?” asks Domino, like we know what the fuck she’s talking about. Sunny says yes, and we get ANOTHER sex scene. And the distracting part was that Domino kept looking at the camera while this was going on. FOURTH WALL! You ain’t Garry Shandling, girl! And then, scissoring. Much scissoring.
Then they did the double-ended anal dildo move, but there was no dildo. So, they were just lightly bumping asses. More like TERRORIST ass-bump.
After the scissoring, the Spies are discussing the case with Kleevage, who confirms Knowitall’s girls have infiltrated. She mentions they are having their “Big Bust Barbeque” fundraiser later (these boobs won’t study themselves!), and that some suspicious people were working on the “dessert bar.” Now, if you guessed that the Spies would go outside to find a neatly-arranged table of chocolate sauce and whipped cream, which they then slathered all over themselves and danced to bad techno, good work. If not, you’re not trying. Focus.
The sexathon continues with Manners bedding a random brunette in a bedroom. As the woman undresses, the camera pans off her, and the WORST ADR EVER has her saying, “Manners, you’re my favorite butler!” It was bad and out of place, like Patton Oswalt’s “Wackity Schmackity Doo!” bit on Werewolves and Lollipops. Manners drills her sideways, and we go to the next scene.
We see a young blonde girl ready to take a bath, when Svetlana comes in and threatens her, claiming she’s the Da Vinci Coed. This, of course, despite not looking anything like King Boulyabase. They got that from Gymkata, I guess. Svetlana breaks out the Sharpie, connects the moles on her ass, and BOOM GOES THE ASSAMITE! it’s the Bush of Sri Lanka. Svet demands to know the secret code, and DVC gives it to her:
Cute, and probably infringing. This sets off Svet’s vagina, and they start going at it, set against a techno song whose only recognizable lyrics are “Girls like girls,” over and over. AND OVER. They move on to the requisite scissoring, and while Svet seems satisfied, she still pulls a gun on DVC, and takes her.
And, like Peter Griffin throwing it over to Conway Twitty, we now inexplicably go to the Spies doing stripteases on a staircase. And, for some reason, the song playing keeps saying, “C’mon 2000/ C’mon c’mon!” This movie was made two years ago, lady. 2000 already came and went by then. Ugh.
After that mishigoss, the Spies return to Kleevage to confirm DVC’s kidnapping. They are about to leave the Conservatory to give chase, when Dr Knowitall arrives with Svet and DVC, informing them that he has the ring and the girl, and he’s gonna use their power to… make everyone fuck each other? Please! I’m raising my hand, teacher! OOH! OOH! During this, Knowitall threatens DVC with his stuffed kitten. I’ll just let that sink in for a moment, and move on. OK? Good. Domino then puts her hands together like a gun, and threatens Knowitall. OK. Then the other Spies pull guns and kill him. Even Domino’s hands fire bullets. Nice attention to detail. Good job not leaving her out.
With Knowitall dead, the Spies congratulate each other on a job well fucked. DVC takes the ring from the dead Knowitall, and recites the phrase from the beginning, “Sim sala bim, let the fun begin!” That activates all the ladies’ vaginas, and they start sexing each other right there in the foyer. And (bolded for emphasis) WITH A DEAD MAN ON THE FLOOR. Manners sees the ensuing sexuality, and, rather than pick up the corpse, he just holds up a sign that reads “Alright!” I guess lesbians going at each other with a fresh body on the ground is his thing. Thank god there’s a website for that. I don’t know where it is, but I’m almost positive there is one. Sapphicnecro.org? (It’s a non-profit.)
And we end the film on that pleasant note. Now, I took a record-long time ripping into this movie, and I don’t regret that, but to be honest, there were small chunks of awesome in Da Vinci Coed. The big one was Dickey, who I’m sure ad-libbed some of his jokes, and was remarkably entertaining in a non-ironic way. If it was just the Dickey & the Spies show, I think it would’ve been a better movie, and we’d still have plenty of jiggle and scissoring. And, again, Delia Shepard could actually act, or at least get very close. I know it’s shooting fish in a barrel to criticize the acting in a porno, but if there were stronger leads, this could actually be a legitimately funny film. But, we got Lucia Santos. So we make do.
LESSONS LEARNED:
Ring Pops make reasonable facsimiles for large diamonds.
It’s not weird to have a lesbian orgy with a dead guy in the room.
[Editor's note: This thing got the fuck away from me. We're talking some Wonder Boys shit. So, the merciful thing would be to split it in two, Kill Bill style, so that you're not overwhelmed.]
No, the title was not misspelled. Da Vinci Coed is one of those parodical movies I alluded to in my previous film review. Seeing as Areola 51 wasn’t a direct parody of an intellectual property, this will be my first crack at one of these staples of porn.
Not that this film hews at all closely to the source material; the Vatican-infuriating quest to prove Jesus had a kid (or whatever, I neither read nor saw it) is light years away. Instead, it focuses on the quest for a ring containing the “Pink Pussycat Diamond,” its power being the total mental control of anyone by whomever uses it. We get a demonstration in the opening scene, set in a castle in “Inner Slobovia” (a mansion in Studio City), where King Boulyabase (fat guy in a turban) is in a hot tub with two busty blonde girls (two busty blonde girls). He produces the ring, which is simply a strawberry Ring Pop, says the magic words, “Sim sala bim, let the fun begin,” and the girls instantly become mindless lesbian sex slaves (more so than usual – ooh, I’m mean!). Of course, we get a five minute show to drive the point home. It could be awesome, but meh. The background song really kills it; it sounds like one of Heidi Montag’s b-sides. I know, right?
After some of that, a tall, leggy redhead (are there any other kind?) in spandex confronts the king at the hot tub. She recommends a toast to him, then produces a toaster (?) and throws it into the hot tub, killing everyone in it with cheap CGI. “Shocking… simply shocking,” she says, taking the ring with her. There was no rimshot. We go to the credit sequence, where they were at least faithful to the original title’s font, if not anything else. The credits roll over completely unrelated scenes of intercourse, and we return to the plot, as it were(n’t).
Now, I’m gonna level with you all here: this film is an odd duck. It’s a sillier beast than the previous ones I’ve reviewed. The filmmakers make it well-known that they’re just making a bouncy-titty movie, and really make no attempts to stick to a plot, or engage in any sort of causality. When the movie breaks away from plot and goes to the sex, it goes miles away. Scenes come from out of nowhere, or are set up with very thin motivations. And instead of the usual “plot, fuckin’, plot” format other softcore engages in, this movie sometimes runs two or three sex scenes right after each other. As such, it’s gonna be harder to review in my usual way for two reasons:
Within approximately 74 minutes of film, there are only about 25 minutes of plot. There’s not much to discuss.
This movie is so silly and disrespectful of the fourth wall, it’s more difficult to write about it. Previous works were so self-serious, it’s easy to call them out on their ridiculousness. DVC, though, is a parody by design, so I can’t get snarky with things like, “Then they juggle their boobs in the shower” (which happens), because it was intended to be stupid.
I feel like I’m fighting at half strength here. But, I shall soldier on.
We return to a man on the phone with, I dunno, let’s say the Pentagon. He is discussing the theft of the PPD, and assures the Mayor of America, or whatever, that he’s sending in the Busty Spies. Oh, you don’t know who the Busty Spies are? Well, we get a rundown of each of them: Domino Falls, Sunday Brunch, and Chesty Drawers; each with their cup sizes. They’re the best at what they do, which I guess is jiggling. The Spies arrive, and are apprised of the situation. If the PPD is presented, and the secret code phrase spoken, it instantly unleashes whatever carnal desires are there, and essentially the victims become mindless sex zombies. The boss (I think his name was Dickey?) warns them what could happen if the PPD were used as a weapon, and the Spies don’t seem to mind. Because, you know, worldwide fucking.
Now, during this introduction, we run into the main problem with this movie: Lucia Santos, the lady playing Sunday Brunch. She was not born in this country, and as such, she has a bit of a problem with the language. As in: she sounds like Penelope Cruz, but with a thicker accent. And though porn is not an industry where one usually needs to speak, Santos does have lines, and she swims through them like a duck in a pool of syrup. Though the film doesn’t try to offer a believable plot at all, it does grind the film to a sadly hilarious halt whenever she speaks.
I still can't understand her.
The Spies are told the only two people who know the secret code are King Boulyabase and his niece. His niece is hidden from her enemies at the St Geneva’s Conservatory for Topheavy Girls in Switzerland. She is only known as the “Da Vinci Coed” (#famousmoviequotes), and can be identified by the arrangement of moles on her left butt cheek, which when connected form the “Bush of Sri Lanka.” Still with me? Yeah, I didn’t care either.
We cut to the hideout of main villain Dr Knowitall (see? get that?), who has the PPD and is discussing what he can do with it with Svetlana, the leggy ginger from the beginning. He also knows that the Da Vinci Coed knows the secret code, and asks that she and her assistants infiltrate the Conservatory and kidnap her. Svetlana (who has a British accent, whatever) goes outside to the hideout’s lawn (probably the lawn of the same mansion) and finds them, sunning themselves in bikinis. Like Blofeld’s henchmen did. She scolds them for not doing anything, but the girls pout and ask Svet not to narc on them. She agrees, the assistants ask her to join in with them, and they grind on each other for five minutes. All that happened exactly as I described, with that chain of causality. Aristotle’s Poetics in action.
We return to Dickey, prepping the girls for the mission. They say they’re ready, but he’s not convinced, “so let’s see ‘em!” And they drop their tops. He’s pleased, and tells them to hit the shower, the largest shower I’ve seen not in a gym. They go, and soap up and flop their titties around for another five minutes. I again stress: I’m not leaving out any other motivations or causes. This is all that happens.
But Bedi says in his court petition: “The company cheated me because in its advertisements, it says women will be attracted to you if you use Axe.
“I used it for seven years but no girl came to me.”
Mr Bedi, trust me, you don’t want a girl who likes a guy wearing Axe. Also:
Court officials in New Delhi have agreed to order forensic laboratory tests on dozens of his half-used Lynx body washes, shampoos, anti-perspirants and hair gels.
They actually have a crime lab doing that? Wow. Finally:
But India’s leading compensation litigator Ram Jethmalani warned: “There is no data to substantiate the supposition that unattractive and unintelligent men don’t attract women.
“In fact some of the best looking women have been known to marry and date absolutely ghoulish guys. I’d suggest that the company settles this issue out of court.”
Well, finally, a show that’s not set in either a radio station or a brothel. This one’s based in a bar; like “Cheers,” except instead of schlubby dudes, there are (moderately) hot women, and instead of Emmy-caliber writing, there are (moderately) hot women. And, as an amateur proofreader, I must congratulate them on properly constructing a compound word, unlike last week’s “Hot Line.” That’s what I’m in this for: the grammar.
The credit sequence is another one of those “throw a bunch of dialogue-heavy clips together” affairs, so by the time you realize it’s not a trailer, the show begins. DISTRACTION! CATCH IT! This one’s called “One Night Affair,” thereby completely differentiating this episode from every other episode of every other Skinemax show. We get dropped, in medias res, into quite the vigorous sexual coupling. In medias vagina, I guess. Now, as stated before, the first cardinal rule of screenwriting is “Show, don’t tell. So, going by that, the opening number tells us that the woman enjoys having her nipples violently fondled, and her guy friend is happy to oblige. Syd Field, this is for you.
So, after the comedown, and the kudos from each of them about the sex, we learn that they are fiances getting married in a couple days. They discuss the pact they’ve made: each is allowed one final night with whomever (or whatever) he wants, and there will be no questions asked. You know, like what happened before your wedding. Right?
Nope?
There are always these oddball plots in softcore that try to justify the mounds of sex that are to follow. I’m waiting for the Crank softcore: “My heart will stop if I don’t constantly get my dick sucked!” Actually, I think that WAS the plot to Crank. Anyhoo, they agree to this, and we fade over to the next scene, set at the bar, which looks like a Bakersfield Chili’s.
Have you tried our Awesome Blossom?
The bride-to-be (B2B, because I can’t even remember the girl’s name, the same fate that befalls people watching Finola Hughes’ character in Staying Alive) and the bartender, a MILFy blonde, are catching up on things, which involves them talking about how much wild shit they’ve done, and also involves busting out the tequila at what appears to be 2:30pm. Probably why they’ve been embroiled in so much wild shit. If you’ve got the worm before 4 o’clock, you’re probably not making the wisest decisions. Ask Tara Reid.
They toast to “the greatest sex ever,” and the talk turns to asking B2B if she’s worried about getting “bored” with her upcoming monogamous relationship. She says she’ll be fine, and mentions her agreement with her fiance about the last fling. The ladies (BTW, another woman, a sullen, cropped-blonde lass, has joined in) express their fascination with the idea, and discuss what kind of “final fling” they’d have.
Now, a flaw in this episode, and perhaps the whole series, is the overly precious dialogue between the ladies. I’m all for conversationalism, but it feels really forced, like a birth control ad, or those Yoplait commercials with the mousy chick from “L Word” and the black lady:
“This is railroad spikes in my eyes GOOD!”
Bartender begins, and lays out her scenario: she’s alone, locking up the bar, when a male stranger has stayed behind. As “sexy dance music” plays (i.e. infomercial backing music), the stranger makes his move. Bathed in swinging spotights, which make the scene look less like a seduction and more like a SWAT invasion gone horribly awry, the stranger (Joe Bologna in a suit) works his magic on Bartender as she sits on a tiny barstool. I don’t get these scenes where someone is sitting on a bench, or laid over a desk. You wanna know what sexy is? COMFORT. A goddamn bed, with 600 thread count sheets. You can’t roll over and pass out on a fucking chair.
We return to reality (well, relatively speaking) and Bartender says the evening would end with him “staring into my eyes, like he’s memorizing every detail of my face, then… HE’D LEAVE!” They all chuckle, as though she didn’t just describe what a serial rapist does.
The sullen friend, whom I later learned was named Kim, describes her fantasy as simply “watching other people have sex.” Oh, don’t go crazy there, Kim. Just as she’s about to go on with that, they ask B2B again about why she’s doing the “one last fling.” She talks about how it’s about trust between each other (or it’s a dare, or something), and goes on for another minute with some amateur psychology regarding the subject. And just as abruptly, they return to Kim, who says sheepishly, “I thought you guys were done with me.” We all were, Kim. We all were.
We flash to Kim’s fantasy, in a bedroom in Purgatory, or a similarly anonymous dimension, as she watches a random couple having sex behind the thinnest changing screen ever. She may as well have been standing in an open doorframe. Kim starts “taking care of herself,” if you get my drift (obviously, you do), and the couple continues to copulate as what sounds like the action scenes score from Patriot Games plays. I expected Harrison Ford to come running out from behind the screen.
Where's my family?!
Kim finishes herself off, and back we go to the Peoria Applebee’s, where B2B congratulates her on a story well told. “I liked how you described it; it’s like I was there,” she gushes, as though that isn’t exactly what storytelling, erotic or otherwise, is supposed to do. And if that wasn’t awkward enough, Bartender excuses herself to go pee. Thanks!
B2B asks Kim if she’s ever actually watched a couple having sex, and she replies, “Accidentally once.” What?! How does that accidentally happen? “Oh, it appears as though they’re simultaneously performing the Heimlich – nope, sex. Sorry.” Hallmark doesn’t make that apology card. If it did, though, it would need a gift card slot, as dinner at PF Chang’s is a proper peace offering in that situation. B2B then lays out her “last fling;” she asks Kim to come watch her at HER BROTHER’S LOFT. Let that sink in for a moment. Even though she’s not sleeping with her brother, why the fuck would you arrange this at a relative’s place? That’s what hotels are for.
B2B’s plan is to come home to her fiance dressed like a stranger, and have Kim watch from the window. Out in the cold and the wind. How is Kim supposed to get off with fire ants crawling up her hoo-hah? She’s not, that’s how. “Even if he recognizes me,” B2B explains, “I’ll still act like it’s our first night together.”
“That’s ballsy,” says Kim. It’s also insane, Kim. This is what delusional people do. B2B needs help, not a friend masturbating outside her window. Probably how both of them got so fucked up. I guarantee Kim was a cutter.
Back to the brother’s loft (barf), and the fiance opens the door to see B2B in a black bobbed wig and sunglasses. She acts like she saw him at some bar and followed him home, which is completely healthy. Fiance sees through this immediately, and asks what she’s doing. Ever the Method actress (Methodist?), B2B continues on: “I thought you were beautiful and wanted to make love to you.” He tries to protest, and she stops him: “Shh, be my fantasy.” Clearly, her fantasy is Christopher Knight, because that who he looks like.
As they get going, and B2B takes off the sunglasses – Hey, look! It’s Kim at the window! She obliges her friend, and starts flicking the bean outside the window as the couple has a typical tryst amongst the candles in the loft’s living room? bedroom? Is it a studio? The couple comes down from the sex (these were all remarkably short scenes), and make goo-goo faces with each other, and “You were my one true fantasy blah blah blah.” End plot.
Again, we return to the TGI Fridays in Key West, and Kim and Bartender have received a postcard from B2B, honeymooning in Tahiti. Mimi was her name, apparently. “We’re having sex everywhere,” she says, and they both feel good that they helped her accomplish whatever the hell this all was. And that’s it. Fun? No.
LESSONS LEARNED:
The closer to rape the fantasy is, the better I guess it’s supposed to be. Y’know, so the kids know.
