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Lost Hienie

Lost Hienie

Released Feb 01st, 2003
Running Time 114
Director Veronica Hart
Company VCA Pictures
Cast Kellyfire Steele, Julie Meadows, Sabrine Maui, Keisha (I), Chris Cannon, Kristal Summers, Steve Hatcher, Hamilton Steele, Ian Daniels
Critical Rating Not Yet Rated
Genre Feature



Couples, film buffs, people with brains and genitals that both work.


In a porn world defined lately by how many cocks can be shoved up the asses of Euro-bims who don't speak English and how much degradation can be visited upon unwitting newbies who don't know that a "blowjob scene" means "we're gonna shove dicks down your throat till you puke," Veronica Hart brings us a witty, clever and sexy send-up of David Lynch movies, probably just to piss off the knuckle-dragging Visigoths to whom a video isn't "porn" unless it has — in Jonathan Morgan's memorable phrase — "double anal fisting."

Ian Daniels is an FBI agent sent to investigate a severed plastic fake-elf ear and gets started when his nubile teen assistant Julie Meadows tests his powers of concentration by blowing him and fucking him as he drives down the Sunset Strip, which flies by on a chroma-key background as she sits on the steering wheel as he eats her snatch. (The scene-ending pop is punctuated by fireworks.) They hit pedestrian Kristal Summers with the car and take her to a diner along with a whiteface-wearing detective ("Brunetta") with a cockatoo on his shoulder who just appeared in the back seat. "You can take that to the bank," Brunetta smirks.

Sex scenes, in-jokes and clues to the mystery follow, including clever bits like the group in a theatre watching Keisha (yes, that Keisha) in a Carmen Miranda headdress lip-syncing Deutschland Über Alles and Home on the Range into a vintage RCA 77-D microphone as Summers observes, "Public domain sucks."

Later, Daniels' FBI boss sees Justine Romée as a six-inch high blonde-wigged dancer and hallucinates himself into a six-inch woman who does a g/g with Romée right before Steve Hatcher, heavily inhaling something through a mask, yells, "I thought we sprayed for these fuckin' things!" and attacks her with a broom.

The plot collapses when Daniels tries to tell his story ("I've been trying to get this out for the last 11 pages.") but he gets overpowered by Hatcher who shoves the gas mask over Daniels' face. Hatcher then gasses Meadows, who jumps up, energized, and howls, "Let's fuck! I will fuck anything that moves!"

There are several solid lengthy sex scenes (the better to fit into the cockeyed ambiance) and enough mainstream references to keep an SC film class busy for weeks, including references to Dune, Fellini and several VCA productions represented by posters in the background. Witty staging of sex scenes includes a d.p. in a movie theatre lobby punctuated by the sounds of a popcorn machine overflowing (and the guys actually pop in a filled tub of the stuff, adding a visual pun to the audio one) and a well-shot threeway in a diner with Meadows' solo work in the foreground framing the b/g action in the background.

By the time Hart closes with Bridget Powerz dancing under the marquee of the theatre and shoots up at her heavily lipsticked mouth saying, "Zip up your pants, it's over. Zip up your pants. Zip up your pants. Zip up your pants. Zip up your pants. Zip up your pants." You'll want to play it again. Play it again. Play it again. Play it again. Play it again. Play it again.

Pre-noms to Hart for direction, James Donlon for script, Romeo Lovell for music, Hatcher for support, the Baz/Jake Jacobs/Cronin MacDuffy troika for videography, and the whole thing for Sex Comedy.

Play it again.

Marketing: Couples, film buffs, people with brains and genitals that both work.

Play it again.

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