In the early going, Russ Meyer gives the heartening impression of having regained his fittest form, especially in the snappy business around Martin Borman's Texaco station: a chesty coquette gyrates in the doorframe of the ladies' room while the ogling attendant squabbles on the phone with his wife, an insatiable man-eater who is at the moment lolling on her bed, striking a calendar-girl set of poses. But Meyer seems to be pressing harder than before for laughs (possibly he has been studying the "appreciations" of his work in highbrow film journals). He quickly exhausts his bag of razzle-dazzle tricks, and, with nowhere to hide or catch his breath in the single-track storyline, he slips into dull-witted and mechanical routine, interrupted only occasionally by a flurry of inspiration. Shari Eubank, a wishful, give-me-something-to-play-with look on her face, is a commendable discovery; and it's pleasing to see Meyer's past actors turning up all along the way, but most of them are given nothing to do and the pleasure dims in a hurry. (1975) — Duncan Shepherd
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