While Judge Bill Gibron has nothing against ladies who love to drop blou and trou, he found nothing fetching or frightening about this nudity-driven nonsense.
Proof that T&A has become an ineffective low-budget cinematic cure-all.
Long before Salem slaughtered its witches, Count DeMarco was gathering up gals in and around the greater New York area and performing perverted Satanic rites on them. This usually consisted of copping a feel and then biting their boobies. Convicted of numerous crimes against morality, he is walled up alive in his ancestral home—which turns out to be some tract house in Jersey. A few mindless millennium later, a middle-aged mook with a hairline receding faster than his scruples spends his days peeping on the neighborhood nookie. Once sure he can slip in unannounced, he grabs his well-labeled bottle of knockout drops and proceeds to paw his way around the neighborhood. After his victims are done undressing, he too steals a feel before strangling the bare babes with a pair of stockings. Even with numerous warnings about letting strangers into their house and keeping their doors and windows locked, several additional dames get to know our terrorizing Tom a little too well. But one death in particular causes more problems than pulchritude. When the Peeper kills some relative of the undead Count, he comes back to life and makes the deviant his disciple; together they fondle females with abandon. It will take a magical cross and a D cup-sized amount of disbelief suspension to fathom this foolish, formless Knight of the Peeper.
Oh, boy, is this an odd one. Somewhere between an old-fashioned exploitation film and the kind of gimpy, gratuitous softcore sagas usually helmed by Fred Olen Ray, Knight of the Peeper is about as unpleasant an entertainment experience as a non-14-year-old adolescent male can have. Anyone who's not packing pre-or post puberty hormones in uncontrollable boner bushel baskets should probably steer clear of this full-frontal skin flick-a-thon—unless, of course, the thought of various New York/New Jersey strippers showing off their breast augmentation scars gets your geriatric gonads in an uproar. Then by all means, lube up your longings and feast your festering eyes on this sad excuse for a fright flick. Actually, it's unfair to the entire horror genre to consider this effort even close to the motion-picture macabre we all know and love. Instead, this is grating grindhouse material at best, the kind of seedy smoker reel made by dudes who need to pay to know the touch of a woman. In co-screenwriters Claude Anders and Dan Dare, we have such a pair of proto-perverts. It's bad enough that these men create a narrative which has our villains doing nothing but groping gals in their all together, but both then cast themselves as the monstrous molesters. That must have been some fun casting call ("Ummm, ladies…ummm…these will be the hands fondling your chest, okay?").
Indeed, what does it say about the actresses here that they are willing to spend untold minutes in the barest of birthday suits doing no more than giving off glamour fits in front of the camera? There is no acting involved here (and, believe me, none given) and it's obvious that other elements like talent, shame, and actual human symmetry were not required either. While a couple of our victims are obviously sporting their own natural gal gourds, there are more than a few medical malpractice mammaries included that boggle both the mind and the man parts. One unfortunate sister in saline is so uncomfortable with her bowling-ball bosoms that she spends her entire carnal cabaret trying to figure out ways to move without falling into her own cleavage. Similarly, another artificially endowed "dancer" exposes her obvious M.D.-made mommy bags in what appears to be a direct lift from her local gentlemen's club routine (she even uses the torture device she was tied to as a pole—ew!). In reality, the clothesline plotting gives away the production's porno propensity quite well. Since more time is spent on close-ups of female genitalia than any sort of characterization or cleverness, what we end up with is the gonzo equivalent of an erotic thriller. No narrative, nothing nasty, just lots and lots of naked chicks getting friendly with found objects…like soap.
Though it's impossible to prove via a basic Googling of the so-called talent involved, this is definitely the work of some East Coast XXX people. The way in which the women act, the filmmaking style that uses a set formula of posing pretense (in the bedroom, trying on lingerie, in the shower, back to the bed), the extreme close-ups of girl grooves, all point to a production design that understands what horny, hard-up men want and exactly how to deliver it to them. Such Vaseline-and-Kleenex cinema is difficult to discuss seriously since people either cotton to the showing of sexuality on screen or find it a sin greater than Jessica Simpson's continued acting career. When you can't quite tell why an extended sequence of breast-oiling is included in the middle of something supposedly suspenseful, if you're wondering why our titular knight, described as being overloaded with Satanic powers, must first hypnotize his honeys before he does a little pre-murder molesting, you're in for a long, lewd haul. Knight of the Peeper makes no attempt at explaining itself. It's the kind of film in which a cameo-level cop tells off a responsible citizen, in which the lead loser who's obviously an underhanded deviant has hours to stare at his victims before "violating" their space, and where the limited gore looks like corn syrup sans its sanguine coloring. There will be a wealth of desperate and dateless men who will make Knight of the Peeper profitable. Nothing, however, could make it competent…or entertaining…or professional…or memorable.
This is hand-held camera quality filmmaking here, the kind you expect to see popping up on YouTube under a label like Girls Gone Mild. The 1.33:1 full-screen image is sloppy, unexciting, and barely tolerable in areas like framing, lighting, and composition. On the sound side, the Dolby Digital Stereo 2.0 mix is made up of internal microphone recorded, barely discernible dialogue, and lots of public domain classical music. How completely uninteresting. Finally, the added features are forgettable at best. The two deleted scenes feature one of the actresses painting her toenails—in the nude, naturally—and another gal taking a shower. Add in a photo gallery and a trailer for something called The Apartment of Erotic Horror and you've got nothing to get excited about—kind of like the main movie itself.
Look, there is nothing wrong with sex and violence—except when it is poorly done sex and violence. For some, the artificially enhanced mall madams of Knight of the Peeper may seem like personal self-pleasure fodder, but when it comes to actual cinematic skills, these wenches and the exploitative element behind the camera, make for awkward, unrewarding bedfellows. This is basic bad filmmaking, bar—make that bare—none.
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Scales of Justice
Studio: Power of 3 Productions
• Deleted Scenes
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