Judge Bill Gibron wishes that, for once, people would just leave poor Dolly Parton alone.
They make plowboys into playboys!
The dry heat of the Nevada desert is no match for the always moist misery of the sweltering horndog Georgia. This woman is a sexual steam engine, hoping to hump as often and as many as she can. She'll take on anyone, anytime—except her overbearing, overweight husband "Big" T. Thankfully, the ranch they both live on is filled with potential paramours—or at least two, in the personas of Cal the freelance farm hand and Le Roy, the imbecilic stable guy. Georgia even has her eyes on stepdaughter Virginia, especially since the teenage tease enjoys riding her horse nude through the prairie. In between bouts of balling, Georgia must keep Big T from beating up on Virginia for no good reason at all. She also starts suggesting that, if the looming lummox had an "accident," no one would be overly heartbroken. But all this scheming and subplotting is secondary to the sex life of Sweet Georgia. Apparently, this tumbleweed-filled wasteland is quite the aphrodisiac for our always hot to trot tart.
Over in the California desert, the remaining members of a band are having a really bad day. They're late for their next gig, have less than the required number of musicians to fulfill their end of the bargain, are almost out of gas, and are down to their last ten bucks. Naturally, this means they have to stop and pick up a couple of hitchhiking honeys along the roadside. A randy rest stop later, and our couples are glowing in post-copulation camaraderie. Eventually making it to the honky tonk Tampa Bar (located in Canoga Park?), they meet Mike, a miserable cuss of a country singer, who happily takes them on as part of his C&W combo. What our dueling doofuses don't realize is that this is all a set-up. Mike is a crook, whoring out the help to fuel his floating prostitution ring. Now, smack dab in the middle of a flesh peddling mess, our heroes and their paid paramours want out. But Mike has some homicidal ways of dealing with deserters, and if they aren't careful, they might just learn how strong his pimp hand is, especially with Country Hookers.
Sweet Georgia takes the standard potboiler story of a nymphomaniac wife burdened by a big fat sow of a husband and adds a lot of sweltering heat and deserted Nevada locales just to prove once and for all that, if you've seen one Harry Novak hillbilly sex farce, you've seen them all. Marsha Jordan, whose obviously someone's idea of a fetching female fornicator, flaunts her floppy flesh folds and crooks her incredibly pinched nose all throughout her turn in the title role. Looking at the DVD cover, you'd think Georgia was some hotsy totsy blonde with a randy rack and a come-hither stare that melts men's members. But as personified by the decidedly older Jordan, our Sweet star looks like the kind of over-the-hill barmaid you see begging for tips from long haul truckers. And since her choices of bed pals are a rather ripe lot (there's Cal, a salt and pepper haired skunk hunk; the retarded pasty-white stable man; and her really rotund hubby), she's always touching herself in a never-ending series of sex-starved tics.
Not every facet of this film is focused on friggin', though. There are lots of other plot points that arrive and are then left dangling like participles in a junior high essay. Georgia's obese betrothed is trying to reopen an old gold mine. We never learn if he succeeds (though guessing from his inability to walk without chafing, one assumes he'll never quite makes a go of it). Cal and Georgia seem to be plotting a way to get rid of the human lard ass—Postman Always Rings Twice style—but nothing comes of that either. From the stepdaughter who's beaten for no good reason, and fluctuates between morose and molested (she also loves to ride her favorite horse bare back, literally), to the unexplained reasons why Georgia would ever marry such a backwoods lump in the first place, Sweet Georgia is a series of unanswered questions held together by bonking. With its slowed down scenarios (several outdoor sequences have action and voices that appear to be played at 20 frames per second instead of 24) and atrocious theme music (which appears to be a combination of free jazz and bluegrass), there is very little to enjoy here.
The problem with Country Hooker, on the other hand, can be described in one simple sentiment: There is just too much country and not enough hooking. On the bumpkin side, we get minute after minute of awful ersatz picking and grinning that sounds like it was recorded by a band with highly individualistic ideas of rhythm and tone. As the bass and guitar thrash away aimlessly, the violin and vocals struggle against each other to see which one best resembles a diseased piglet in agony. And within the prostitution parameters, we get only one surefire pimp-ho moment. The rest of the movie is just clothesline excuses to have our leads doing interpersonal pliés every five minutes. Indeed, unlike Sweet Georgia, that tries to give us a little sweltering sweaty Gothic for our Double Indemnity dollar, there is very little narrative surrounding the nookie in Country Hooker. People come to a bar, hear a really crappy band, and a guy occasionally buys himself a little company for the night. Wow.
If Georgia is Mason's domain, Hooker belongs to Rene Bond. Showing off a set of newly acquired grapefruit-like implants and herself resembling the head of a pimple about ready to pop, this charmless chipmunk gets two long sex scenes with a pageboy redhead named John Paul Jones, and each is a true test of erotica endurance. As with most Novak fark films, the scenes of sharking seem to go on forever, and feature an inert amount of interpersonal pumping. The musical score masks the lack of any real sizzle, and the fake fun strewn across the actors' faces proves that not everyone can be a softcore porn performer. With a title like Country Hooker, you'd expect some kind of hillbilly hussies lounging around on tree stumps, picking at their privates, and chewing tobacco. Then an overall wearing reject would wander up to the Appalachian Jezebels and offer them a jug of moonshine for a little slap and tickle. Comedy and carnality would naturally ensue. But instead, we get a lot of urban cowpie here, a miserable musical excuse for pseudo pay-for-lay excitement.
Novak is notorious for kvetching over the preservation and condition of his negatives, and this means that Something Weird is able to give us a couple of pristine prints of Sweet Georgia and Country Hooker. The 1.33:1 full screen transfers are amazingly colorful and free of defects. While the direction in both films means we get lots of crazy compositions and flawed framing, at least we don't have to sit through scratches, drop out, or editing muffs. The Dolby Digital Mono is mixed well, meaning we can usually hear all the half-assed dialogue, heinous harmonics, and stupid sex noises clearly and distinctly. On the bonus feature front, SWV heaps this disc with a series of sensational trailers (many of which are far more entertaining than the films offered) and a couple of archival shorts featuring Ms. Jordan. They are nothing more than excuses to see more of her massive, mottled mammaries.
It takes a certain mindset to ignore the sense of sameness that rambles through the Harry Novak sex flick catalog and enjoy these dithering dioramas on their own individual merits. If you love Marsha Jordan, or think Rene Bond is as cute as a corporeal button, then you may be able to derive some diversion from these flaccid frig fests. But for everyone else, this is just another couple of entries in a far too formulaic line of lewdness.
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Scales of Justice
Studio: Something Weird Video
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