As was confirmed in the splendid John Holmes biography A Life Measured in Inches by Jill Nelson and Jennifer Sugar, to which I was directed by my invaluable buddies over at the avmaniacs erotica forum, "J. Angel Martine" was a sometime pseudonym (though, according to my virtual partner in slime Casey Scott, also a real person, further confusing an already muddled issue...) employed by Roberta Findlay mostly for producer's credits throughout the '70s and '80s (found on most efforts by the late Chris Covino a/k/a "John Christopher") and, in a later stage, to differentiate between her 35mm and shot on video endeavors. New York porn was well on its way out, its grimy apartments and dank basements offering precious little appealing alternative to the West Coast's sun-kissed shenanigans, when she made EATEN (or EATIN') ALIVE, but one of a spate of unremarkable mid-'80s projects she directed largely on auto pilot if presumably intended as that sorry lot's flagship title since it's one of the few actually shot on film stock.
Dumb plot has blandly good-looking Chris Reeve lookalike Michael Knight (who made a surprise comeback during the '90s, marginally improved as an actor as his performance in Paul Thomas' enjoyably silly THE SHOW attests) portraying the nefarious Mr. Pink, long before Tarantino's RESERVOIR DOGS invested the moniker with a modicum of coolness, who runs a deserted dive bar called the Pink Paradise. To drum up business, he has flight attendant girlfriend Pam (Taija Rae, who had just entered her glamor phase and winds up as the flick's foxiest female somewhat by default) tell prospective passengers at the nearby airport that all flights have been delayed and whether they would like to go for a drink at her beau's establishment. As luck would have it, all the people who turn up are suffering severe sexual problems. Pink's plan is to serve them a concoction of his own making, appropriately colored brightly (er, better make that sickly) pink, that will guarantee them a year of incredible sex. As any dope dealer worth his street corner knows, the first fix is for free. Pink assumes they will all come back for a refill a year from now. He'll pretend he doesn't have a clue what they're going on about so the disappointed patrons will run up huge booze tabs to drown their disappointment. Talk about a long shot !
Taking place on two (count 'em !) dingy sets, the makeshift airport "lounge" (which consists of little more than a desk and a few travel posters) and the thankfully dimly lit Pink Paradise littered with throw pillows for the cast to strut their stuff, the sex scenes sort of blur together with scant evidence of passion on the performers part. Sole exception comes courtesy of Barbie Dahl (of all people), a dour-looking East Coast starlet presumably best remembered as the other woman moving in on boyfriend Johnny Nineteen, causing the titular trek that puts Leslie Brooks' A PASSAGE THRU PAMELA in motion. Originally hailing from Germany, she's oddly cast as a sex-crazed Southern belle but has a spirited tumble with Knight, who clearly doesn't know what hit him, and wraps things up in sleazy yet serviceable fashion by blowing all the guys once their girlfriends have realized the scam and scram.
Sloppy cinematography by Steve Kaman (who trained under Larry Revene on WANDA WHIPS WALL STREET so there's no excuse) manages to make two of the prettiest performers at the time, Tracey Adams and Melissa Melendez, look like nuthin' special. For the record, Tracey's married to Ron Jeremy (in just what universe is this taking place exactly ?) and Melissa's stuck with underwhelming NY stud Rod Retta whose classiest credit was undoubtedly for Chuck Vincent's overlooked SEX CRIMES 2084. Stalwart George Payne completes the cast as half of a bickering couple with Ashley Welles, another low rung lust provider briefly appearing in the late Roger Watkins' swan song DECADENCE as well as the aforementioned Revene's terrific DEEP THROAT II.
1 of 2 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful to you?