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Jesse Jane: All American Girl
 Studio: Digital Playground
Director: Celeste
Cast: Jesse Jane, Celeste Star, Carli Banks, Karlie Montana, Joey, Nadia, Valerie Vasquez, Scott Nails, Jerry
I believe in America, despite this administration's efforts to make the country literally incredible. That is why I had my Congressman send me Jesse Jane: All American Girl.
It is always a pleasure to see Jesse Jane work. Like many female celebrities, she is smaller in person than one might expect, but her facial features are large. Director Celeste, who often (always?) eschews dialogue for the rental music that comes with the editing program, makes use of Jesse's expressiveness to tell very hammy, sexy, pointless, and goal-oriented stories.
A disclaimer: while the credits identified as many people as appeared in the movie, I didn't recognize anyone else. So I will just refer to the rest of the cast by the performers' individual gender, as if each is a piece of meat.
In the first scene, Jesse's ball becomes detached from its paddle. A man consoles her with the paddle. She returns the favor. Charming!
Next, Jesse's sharing of a peppermint stick compels a woman to fuck her. Note to self: keep Christmas in my heart. Jane shows off her new Playboy tattoo in this scene.
Then things turn grim.
What follows is a scene which validates America's reputation as a wasteful country. A woman is ostensibly eating her Froot Loops, but instead plays with her food. Jesse Jane is not involved in this scene, and for good reason: if she is the All-American Girl, this is the sort of behavior we all should avoid. If the wasteful woman were staying at my house - and who says she isn't? - I would tell her to stop playing with the goddamn food.
Jesse and another girl then interrupt a mohawked guy (Scott Nails, now I remember) in his music room. It's just as well, because he is reading a book of sheet music backwards. The gals do what every woman does with musicians, even bad ones: they kneel down so he can shoot a load on their expectant faces.
Cheerleader Jesse then performs a solo scene, which made me think the team must have been at a disadvantage.
Several more scenes, including one with the returned Mohawk Guy, follow. As an American, I have beeen conditioned to only expect five or six sex scenes in my pornography. Celeste provides many more.
This All-American Girl does not really provide a cohesive or representative picture of America, so I wonder what it is supposed to tell us about ourselves as citizens. Come on one another's face? Don't waste cereal? Come on one another's face again?
One thing is certain; Jesse must move to Canada with me.
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Dirty Movie
 Studio: VCA
Director: Barry Wood
Cast: Katie Morgan, Hillary Scott, Sandra Romain, Samantha Ryan, Sammie Rhodes, Evan Stone, Kurt Lockwood, Tommy Gunn
Evan Stone inherits his grandfather's house when the mysterious old man dies, finding a projector stocked with Jazz Age dirty movies. He falls in love with one of the celluloid heroines (Katie Morgan), much to the consternation of his wife, played by Hillary Scott.
"Are you actually getting turned on by that old woman?" Scott asks. "You have the real thing right here."
There's something about what cable markets will buy and the product that is generated for them that makes content of this type unwatchable. Normally Evan Stone is allowed to be a ham, and normally Hillary Scott doesn't really have to talk. Both virtues are denied to them here as they are forced through dialogue that is wooden even for porn with a canned soundtrack reminiscent of a video game I would never finish.
Director Wood frames some of the first sex scene between Stone and Scott through the takeup reel of the projector, and Scott's yelling is probably overcompensation for the hurt and jealousy she must be feeling. It is important to know that the old woman to whom Scott referred wasn't old on screen; Scott was merely projecting the superannuation we all feel at times like these.
Scott leaves Stone alone in the "creepy" house (maybe it was creepy in the script - it's actually a very nice house, though grandfather's "basement" is several miles away in Los Angeles). He immediately fires up the projector again. Scott conveniently calls and breaks up with him. She was cramping his style anyway. Meanwhile, Katie Morgan and Sammie Rhodes slake their flapper passion onscreen.
Stone is on a quest. He tracks down the grandson of the moviemaker (I thought his grandfather was the movie maker, but I guess Stone's granddad was just a connoisseur), Kurt Lockwood, who is a sleazeball porn director himself. Lockwood explains that his grandfather burned all the copies of his films except the one Stone now has in his hand. Then Lockwood goes off to fuck Samantha Ryan, who is credited as Samantha Ryder.
Back at his grandfather's house, Katie Morgan comes out of the screen to service Evan Stone. It's like "The Ring" with scarier music. Though she is dressed like Daisy Buchanan, Morgan's pubic area is shaved in a decidedly un-Gatsby fashion. Post load-blow, Stone wakes from his reverie and we are treated to a long sequence of him rethreading the projector.
It turns out the film is cursed, God damn it. Morgan is like a black widow drawing everyone in to her filmic lair. Grandpa's there, the old porn director is there, and now Stone has been snagged, too. Best buddy Tommy Gunn comes by the house looking for Stone, who hasn't been seen in weeks. Luckily Gunn has brought Sandra Romain along. Though they hardly speak the same language, they know how vitally important it is to fuck in the projection room, which they do.
Romain is European, so she knows better than to engage the spirits lurking in the film can. As the scene fades, however, Gunn turns the projector on. Oh snap!
A little attention to detail might have helped this movie, because the art deco font used for the credits just wasn't enough. Obviously there was a script, and there was a great deal of dialogue. Perhaps a P.A. might have been dispatched, then, to get a period hat for the old guys captured in Morgan's web. Perhaps Morgan's 80-year-old character might have said "Hie thee to my grotto" or whatever Coolidge-era people said rather than "Fuck my tight pussy."
Ah well. The movie has girls having sex in it. That's all that matters.
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Wonderland
 Studio: Metro/Cal Vista
Director: DCypher
Cast: Katie Morgan, the other Violet Blue, Charlie Laine, Trina Michaels, Steven St. Croix, Eric Masterson, Evan Stone, Candy Summers, Kris Knight, Herschel Savage
Like J. Alfred Prufrock's life is measured out in coffee spoons, each performer's name in the opening credits of DCypher's Wonderland is represented suitably. Harried businesssman Steven St. Croix sits behind a desk on which his name is spelled out in paper clips, stripper Trina Michaels is a series of dollar bills and, judging from the substance Eric Masterson's name is writ in, we have a pretty good guess about what his character will be like.
It is a Wes Anderson title sequence on a porn and public domain recording of Peer Gynt budget.
It's not tough jamming literary themes into porn. Fucking someone on meth brings new life to the line "you have but slumbered here." The problem is fitting literary dialogue into porn movies. How to do it and still fit in five or six sex scenes and, more importantly, why to do it when there are five or six sex scenes is the dilemma directors who want you to know how smart they are face.
DCypher and his cast pull it off, mostly with voiceovers, starting with a fantasy "light of my life, fire of my loins" sequence between body-glittered Lolita object Violet Blue and Steven St. Croix, who winds up equally besparkled. He happens upon her dancing in a porn set version of a woody glade (someone found a prop deer) and mounts her on a PosturePedic with a leaf-patterned quilt.
St. Croix's character is married to Katie Morgan, who might be a full six months older than his fantasy subjects. While she does her best to entice him by serving eggs in nothing but an apron, she is clearly an old cow. He dreams about his step-daughter (Candy Summers), her roommate (Shakespeare-spouting Blue), and anyone who crosses his path. He believes that Morgan is cheatng on him with the likes of Evan Stone. He fantasizes about it graphically.
 While St. Croix's Lolita angle can be understood,considering his predilections, Blue's Shakespeare references don't really fit, though she delivers them admirably. They are distracting and showoff-y. Only a strip club scene with the weapons-grade Trina Michaels can erase Blue's needless "quintessence of dust".
So Wonderland is a little bit Midsummer Night's Dream by way of Hamlet with some Lolita thrown in (if there were other references, they went over my head). When DCypher gives Blue a line like "I've been sleeping with older guys ever since my father died", it underlines that he's best when he's being original.
That line is uttered in a scene with "older guy" Herschel Savage, as Blue's means of paying her way through college are being examined.
St. Croix's character ends up alone, a pool cleaner with a cable installation job on the side. Presumably he has lost the crone-like Morgan for sampling Blue's forbidden hookerfruit. DCypher presents this in a funny credits sequence.
St. Croix, like other veteran male performers, proves why he's lasted so long (though he either flubs his last "tale told by an idiot" line or the script got it wrong). He's smart and funny where those virtues aren't distractions. He doesn't take himself too seriously. He knows that it ain't Shakespeare. DCypher almost does, too.
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 Studio: Hustler
Director: Andre Madness
Cast: Hillary Scott, Eva Angelina, Cindy Crawford, Claire Robbins, Chloe Dior, Steve Austin, Joe Friday
"When an apartment supervisor sets up a surveillance system to reduce crime, he can't resist watching his tenants fuck their brains out."
In the transition between what was shot and what was written on the boxcover, poor slob Anthony (played by Steve Austin) has had a job change from cable guy to apartment supervisor, but this is only the first of the injustices which populate this movie, including confusion over who is actually in the movie, who pays utilities, cops with highlighted hair and chin studs, and date rape in one long pornographic allegory of the current wiretappers-against-terrorism controversy.
In seedy downtown L.A., the police answer a routine fire alarm call (?) to discover a building security system and a box of surveillance tapes that capture the sordid doins of tenants.
Each social commentary/sex scene is played in a place the cable guy has just visited. His recent presence acts as an aphrodisiac. Somehow our hero has managed to install not only basic cable + Showtime but also several wireless cameras. Then Anthony leaves to watch the hot renter-on-renter action on his own television.
The fist scene features Cindy Crawford and her boyfriend, Kris Knight. They are fighting because she has discovered a tape of him servicing her sister in their bed. The tape was placed in Cindy's purse by Anthony, indicative of the way consumer culture contains the mechanics of its own sabotage. The discussion that follows touches on how the tape got there, who actually pays the utilities, if it is worse for Knight to have fucked her sister or to have taped it, and where did they get that nice couch (actually, that was my question).
As everyone knows, one's girlfriend will stop telling you to leave your own apartment if you force her to have sex with you, which happens here. My jury is still out about the morality of having sex with one's girlfriend's sister, though. If Cindy's sister was a twin, it would be tough to pass up. But Crawford's potty mouth made me think that even I might be driven into the arms of her sister.
Scene two deals with our nation's ambiguity about the Iraq war. Post-boobjob Hillary Scott's fiancee, Jerry, is home from a six-month tour of Iraq. He is foreign and unenthusiastic, symbolizing our coalition partners in the War on Terror. Despite having not seen him in months, Hillary does not appear particularly enthusiastic. After their debriefing session, he pops an incriminating tape into the bedroom VCR. We only hear Hillary's adulterous moans. He kicks her out. The message: war is stupid, and people are stupid.
Nice-haircut Claire Robbins' scene is next. Her purple lingerie and carpeted apartment (the rest of the dwellings have hardwood floors and high ceilings) symbolizes the church, I think.
For fans of Lexi Love, who is credited in the beginning and the end of The Pornographer for a scene actually performed by Claire Robbins, understand that sometimes getting up in the morning and showing up to work is a chore and a torment.
Anthony encounters struggling model Eva Angelina in the stairwell and gives her directions to the modeling agency in 318. Not one minute after Angelina tells creepy model agency hack Tony T. that she will not do nude modeling, she is both nude and scissoring her legs to accommodate both him and the regret that is Hollywood. Regret has never been so satisfying as with Eva Angelina, however. She gets her glasses fucked off.
The Javert of this story is Detective Lee, played by Joe Friday. Why he could not play himself is problematic. More problematic, though, is the ineffectuality of our nation's law enforcement personnel, for Det. Lee's own wife, played by Chloe Dior, is the final victim of Anthony's cable promotion, penetrated aloft by Lee Stone.
It turns out Friday didn't get enough evidence to bust The Pornographer, so this film is ripe for a sequel. Austin does a great job as the low self esteem cable schlub, and director Madness doesn't mess around during the sex scenes, keeping the camera just where it should be and not sweating the small stuff, like why Gram Ponante Towers doesn't have such a high hottie residency.
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One would be wrong, but it would be reasonable to assume that after a long day in the porn mines, my main squeeze and I would ride Go Karts or drink Merlot or something. Fools! Tonight we watched Digital Playground's Control and Chatsworth Pictures' Donkey Punch.
I don't usually do compare-and-contrasts (not since seventh grade, anyway), but these two had things in common that I didn't expect.
Studio: Digital Playground
Director: Robby D.
Cast: Lanny Barby, Rita Faltoyano, Keri Sable, Jade Hsu
 The idea of Lanny Barby in a bodybag intrigued us, so Control was first on the menu. Director Robby D.'s high-end gonzo project opens big, with the future Vivid girl pulled from the trunk of a car in a clear plastic bag. What follows is two discs of very pretty scenes with actresses as diverse as future Wicked girl Keri Sable (now out of the industry) and Rita Faltoyano, who gives a blowjob through a cage.
Strange, though, that the makeup never ran.
Aside from a bonus scene with a (chemically-altered/really smart - we couldn't agree) Jade Hsu, Control seemed like a movie for tourists, like a Club Med on the edge of a dangerous place.
Studio: Chatsworth Pictures
Director: Cram and Grip Johnson
Cast: Deja Daire, Rachel Luv, Haley Scott
 Donkey Punch, on the other hand, wasn't pretty. (A donkey punch is when a fist is administered to the back of one's partner's head at the moment of ejaculation. Well, that's the classic donkey punch, anyway) It was harsh and crude and hilarious.
People like Deja Daire were treated most cruelly. Others, like Rachel Luv, looked like the Six Flags ride they were strapped into was violently disagreeing with them. There were tears that interfered with the mascara, and threats to donkey punch in retaliation.
The difference between the two movies was more than cosmetics. Both approached the dark side from different angles, like competing prom dates. Control dressed it up but Donkey Punch took it out. How close you want to get will determine which movie you pick.
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 Studio: Vivid
Director: Paul Thomas
Cast: Tera Patrick, Monique Alexander, Shy Love, Syvette Wimberley, Spyder Jonez, Tommy Gunn
As everyone knows, Los Angeles is all seedy underbelly, all the time. Tera Patrick, as a naive dreamer, and Spyder Jonez (aka her husband Evan Seinfeld), as the violent object of her inexplicable affection, find some kind of love through the squalor of prostitution and other vices in Desperate.
Spyder Jonez' character, Spyder, is a scared little boy. Even when Tera Patrick lays all her best moves on him, he tells her to fuck off, and to get the fuck away, and to go back to fucking Kansas, bitch. Yet she pursues him, follows him back to the warehouse he shares with his badass robbery buddies and a couple of gun molls. When will Tera ever learn?
Spyder and his business associate, Tommy Gunn, use molls Shy Love and Syvette Wimberley to maneuver rich men into vulnerable positions. Then Jonez and Gunn break up the action dressed as police officers. I do this all the time.
Why Tera is attracted to Spyder, why her love for him persists despite his never saying a kind word to her - even as she descends into prostitution - is a mystery. The key, I feel, is the tremendous guilt writer/director Paul Thomas must still feel for denying Ted Neeley all those years ago.
The collapse of Spyder and Tommy's near-foolproof scheme is not Tera's doing, but a twist ending probably would have justified her slavish devotion to him. Instead, the message of "Desperate" is that the worse one treats his girlfriend, the more she loves him.
Fans of Tera, Shy Love, and Monique Alexander will get an eyeful (as does Tera) and Tommy Gunn, who has been in every other porn movie released in the oast two years, is all Method as Spyder's right hand man.
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Studio: Digital Playground
