Judge Bill Gibron does wish he had wings...so he could fly away from this fetid double bill.
Whores that soar!
Unless you've seen The Naughty Stewardesses, you might find this all a little perplexing. Perhaps you should go on and read the plot summary of that film first. It's two paragraphs down. Go ahead…we'll wait.
Okay, you see, old man Brewster from the first film has moved out into the desert (to avoid a cold-blooded murder rap, obviously—again you had to see the first film…) and started up a dude ranch. Naturally, the horse-based resort is about to go belly up, so he decides to cure his financial ills with that salve of city and state alike: casino gambling! In order to celebrate his little slice of Sin City, our horny, decrepit coot calls in his airline pals, the newly renamed Blazing Stewardesses from the first film, to help him out. Unfortunately, instead of getting Debbie, Barbara, Jane, and Diane, a group of gals he knows in the Biblical sense, he is down one dame and stuck with a close facsimile of Deb and Barb, as well as some dizzy dope named Lori.
Apparently not as nasty as they once were, these girls give new meaning to the phrase "party pooper" as they basically sit around and act stupid all day long. In the meantime, Brewster is baffled by several disturbing problems. First, his foreman, the feisty and persnickety Trask, is giving him grief about the whole roulette routine. Next, masked bandits are stopping shipments to his glorified glue factory, keeping his customers away from the bankruptcy-inducing joys of his resort. And finally, a brawny, blousy babe named Honey is warm for his fossilized form. It's up to the feminine floatation devices to discover the truth behind all the badlands bedlam before Brewster actually has to ditch his home on the range.
Proving that, at one time, these winged wenches did indeed have the loosest slots in town, we travel back to when our heroines spent the vast majority of their on the job training with their tray tables and seat backs in the fully reclined and ready position. Learning how these "stews" went from prude to lewd, we follow Debbie, a regular hick from the Midwest, as she becomes engulfed in the debauchery and flight delays of her newly chosen profession. Rooming with Barbara, Jane, and Diane, we discover that these wanton women party like it's Love, American Style. They even shave each other's nether regions for fun. Debbie falls in with a photographer who has a SLA-style secret, while Barbara's boy is a pornographer by vocation. But all heads turn when the distinguishingly graying temples of rich reprobate Brewster become far too frequent flyers.
The girls all take turns wetting themselves over the thought of Brewster's millions and eventually the old fogy gets Debbie to do something other than Dallas. But when her shutterbug boyfriend turns into a hyper-jealous stalker, he threatens Deb with a fate worse than death—more of his moody, overacting attention. Eventually, our cameraman and our carnal carnival barker get together and hatch a plot. They will kidnap their women, call Brewster, and demand the whooping ransom of…hold on…$50,000. Yikes! But our wealthy ice weasel has another idea. Taking the motto "have gun, will recklessly shoot someone I don't even know just for the heck of it" to heart, he grabs a rifle and heads for the hills. There is nothing sexier than swift vigilante justice, unless it's meted out by a man who looks like a sun-dried shar pei.
In the hierarchy of supposedly horny career gals, the stewardess (excuse me…"inflight personnel") has always had a reputation as soiled as the backseat of Paris Hilton's limo. But thanks to the 42nd Street grindhouse desire to dip into each and every potential pulchritude possibility on the planet, our DC-10 tarts have become the #1 sluts of the appropriately named "cockpit." If you want to view their jet-lagged legacy as the "coffee, tea, or me" minxes of the Delta hub, then you'd better steer clear of Blazing Stewardesses. Anyone hearing the title and hoping for tantalizing titties aplenty needs to redirect their dirty pillow proclivity in another direction. This mostly breast-free balderdash was a sequel of sorts to The Naughty Stewardesses, and from a pure softcore strategy, it's about as sexy as a skin rash, as funny as an infected lymph node, and as interesting as a conversation with a corpse.
Thanks to producer Sam Sherman's love of all things pre-'50s cowboy, this revamp of that previous Naughty pork-a-thon now smells like a badly broken-in saddle. So deathly dull that giving Gabby Hayes a sponge bath would be more provocative, we get nothing but several pre-rigor mortis moments in this old-fashioned cow flop. The cast includes some decent fly femmes, but our roster is mostly made up of performers with one foot in the crematorium Green Room. Such Hollywood warhorses as Yvonne DeCarlo (that's Mrs. Lily Munster to you!), Robert Livingstone (who actually made oaters back in the days of the actual Wild West), Don "Red Rider" Barry (who, believe it or not, was the cowpoke who hawked the BB gun that little Ralphie Parker soiled himself over all throughout A Christmas Story), and two of the surviving Ritz Brothers are present to place that famous cemetery Forrest Lawn on high alert for the entire production.
Mixing sex with six guns is not exactly new, but Blazing Stewardesses (yes, they were ripping of Mel Brook's racism farce) feels like five films found in the bottom of a forgotten storage bin and spliced together by monkeys with hoof and mouth disease. There is very little ribaldry, even less character development, and a reliance on ridiculous chase scenes that appear to be shot in slow motion. Only problem is, someone forgot to speed up the playback. Just like everything else here, our storyline has a throwback mentality to a far simpler, or perhaps more simpleton, time. You know your movie is in trouble when a visit to a local whorehouse is about as memorable as a meat mole. If there is anything that will stick with you after this non-erotic horse opera is over, it's the over-the-top bug mugging of the Ritz Brothers. Proving why they hadn't made a movie in decades, their ancient antics are so horrible that one brother up and died instead of co-staring along with his hambone siblings. When an old vaudevillian trading on politically incorrect homosexual stereotypes is the best your babefest has to offer, it's better to corral this crap and stick it on a reservation, where is can be isolated from the rest of the regular citizenry.
On the other end of the unendurable spectrum is that original airplane atrocity, The Naughty Stewardesses. Unless you are a dirty old man, dreaming of the day when you took can pick up high flying hookers during a layover in Albuquerque, you'll find this flesh foolishness more quaint than quackenbushing. This story of sexual awakening, told through the eyes of a completely naïve newbie, must have made the octogenarians in the local Pussycat Theater spill their Geritol in hopes that they too could pickup and plook a twentysomething sex bomb just because they were careful with their retirement funds. Indeed, the whole rich man machinations here reek of a pre-feminist foolishness, suggesting that the only way a gal could get ahead in this world is by putting out for men with disposable income, no matter their agility or age bracket.
Then there is the porn/political storyline, which is so surreal that Salvador Dali's estate is suing for copyright infringement. First, to believe these single-engine slags would end up with cads as corrupt as the photographer/radical and the freelance flesh peddler is not that far off, but the thought that they could have done much better does cross your mind every once in a while. Then, to have them both turn criminal and snatch the ladies is just ludicrous. After all, just because Brewster is banging them doesn't mean he's willing to part with his change purse. This means that the entire last half of the film devolves into a laughable larceny storyline that's as boring as the bonking that filled out the rest of the running time. As further examples of Al Adamson's inability to make cogent motion picture entertainment, The Naughty Stewardesses is just slightly better than its horrendous follow-up, and it's only because there is 100% more bare bodkin here. Otherwise, both films cause more consternation than titillation.
Retro-Seduction Cinema has decided to release both films—lord knows why—in a special edition, numbered, two-disc DVD set that challenges the very definition of a collector's item. After all, who but absolute devotees of this dung will want to fork over funds to see these shoddy films? As it stands, the transfers are decent, if not just a little dilapidated from age and source defects. The 1.33:1 full screen images are plain, more or less color correct, and lacking any real artistic or cinematic merit. Those who long for copies of their beloved Stewardesses romps will squirt their shorts over the prints proffered on these discs (even though Naughty is just a re-release of a disc that came out a few years back). Others will be unimpressed.
On the sound side, both films offer Dolby Digital Stereo Surround made somewhat clean and presentable by the digital process. While Blazing is a bonanza of old Hollywood B-movie western scores, Naughty has a very ephemeral pop song soundtrack by some early '70s California crap rock band. Practically every scene is bathed in this Cowsills style saccharine. As for extras, we get producer Sam Sherman (solo on Naughty, with film "historian" Ed Hulse on Blazing) going commentary on our asses. He walks us through all the mindless minutia of both films. Want to know who the third guy from the right's sister was married to? Sam's got that info. Need to understand why some shots seem strangely out of sequence? Sam's the man. Want to know why the original comedy team—the dead or dying Three Stooges—wound up being replaced by the Ritz retards in Blazing? Sam has a nice long response to your inquiry. Honestly, the man does give good alternative narrative track. Too bad it's in support of such stupid stable droppings as this. (There are also some trailers, TV spots, and below average outtakes, just in case you are interested.)
At one time, the minds of Madison Avenue had no problem allowing ladies of all nationalities and genders to plant their prettiness before the impressionable viewing public and utter creepy catchphrases like "I'm Heather—Fly Me!" And a nation of post-pubescent males, some removed from such glandular ramifications by decades, wanted to take these teases up on their slutty suggestion. Too bad no one in the Sherman/Adamson camp knew how to put on the poon. A good dash of debauchery would have done both Blazing and Naughty Stewardesses some good. As it stands, while the original has more monkey noises than the sequel, both films will have you hoping for a sold-out/standby situation the next time you travel. These are exactly the kinds of airline acts of terror our government should be protecting us against.
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