"Watchers" are angels – good and bad. In Michael Raven's supernaturally-amped thriller, Watchers, it's somewhat puzzling, trying to discern the good guys from the bad; since the whole landscape is kind of like Touched By An Angel on steroids. Then again, that's coming from the Wizard of Oz generation, where Margaret Hamilton's was the symbolic voice of evil. To put the new millennium spin to it, there're a few of those characters populating Watchers whose voice boxes breathe fire and synth – which begs the question, who the hell would want to be a cop in this town? Hell, indeed.

Mr. Marcus, in his supremely defining moment in the adult business, flexes his pecs with swarthy Luciferian abandon and leads a mystery cult, preying on hookers for ritualistic sacrifice. Bridgett Kerkove scores sumptuously in his satanic majesty's sixway gangbang in the film's opener in which she gets it in the ass – literally and figuratively.

Since hookers are generally deemed the most disposable commodity in the human populace (at least by erotic thriller standards), this all makes sense, even though some elements of the plot don't necessarily follow suit. For instance Mike Horner, in a tormented, noirishly-defined (non-sex) role is a former highly-decorated cop who had been suspected in the past in connection with crimes similar to those committed, present-day, by Marcus and his followers. George Kaplan, as the police chief, explains details of the case to officers Julie Meadows and Dillion Day who, whether they want Horner's help or not, are investigating the updated equivalent of the crimes in which he was implicated.

I may be a little lean on the law degree side of things, but doesn't "implicated" mean Horner should be doing time somewhere in the Jeffrey Dahmer Honeymoon Suite? The story is deliberately vague on such points, and Sydnee Steele's nocturnal hallucinations are pretty much the same way to her until Randy Spears, as one of the "watchers," lends a soothing voice of theological reason. Spears is brilliant even when being casual, but of course there's something about his cryptic ways that keeps the viewer on the edge.

As the lord of darkness, Marcus has his necessary entitlements supplied quite handsomely by minions Katja Kean and Tavalia Griffin (particularly demonic when speaking French) who go about the business of screwing and procuring. Kean and Griffin practically eat Marcus alive in one scene, and Kean displays similar energy when she systematically penetrates Shay Sweet's ass with accomplished rhythm in another.

Dillion Day, whose rawhide demeanor suggests a Parris Island drill sergeant, is another new male actor on the scene who bears watching, and Day and Meadows finally indulge the sexual tension of their professional partnership with a lively, pile-driving finish on Day's living room couch. Meadows is the voice of the modern day chick: "Don't think you have to get romantic with me just because we fucked." But Spears proves that even guardian angels need some old-fashioned attention in that department when he and Steele get to that thank-you-for-liberating-me interlude that leaves a ton of angel batter on her pelvic region.

Smart, erotic, visually intoxicating and thought-provoking, Watchers, happy to say, finally gives Raven his due. Accomplished in virtually every creative facet, it'll be one helluva show to beat come January.