Didn't the Surgeon General's edit about second-hand smoke filter down to this production? We don't mean coffin nails, we mean literal smoke, like the kind that often gets blown up one's ass.
Granted, there may be smoky atmosphere at a cocktail party or in a bedroom, but there's something unintentionally funny about a dentist's office clogged with swamp gas or a karate studio which could cure an Easter ham. The whole tape looks like the ending of Casablanca, minus the trenchcoats and passion. The fluff that dreams are made of.
Some of the world's finest female models are coupled with a half dozen cigar-store Indian studs who, for all the genuine lust generated here, would be just as happy fondling each other. Or maybe it's just that damned smoke suffocating the heat.