Performer Brandon Irons has this amiable doofus persona. Engaging as that might be for L.A. bars and its pick-up potential, it's counterproductive, to say the least, for the kind of serious statements Sins of the Flesh tries to make.

Otherwise, director Powers has delivered one of his most stylish and powerful sexual vehicles in ages, albeit one wrapped in factory-issue soap box oratory. And speeches none too persuasive at that, either, since compelling dialogue ain't this show's forte. Imagine the read-from-the-cue-cards acting style found in public service gonorrhea films from the 1950s and you've got some idea. Even vet Dave Hardman falls prey to the temptation to negotiate lines with a blank stare.

Irons, a Republican Party go-getter, is employed by party activist Herschel Savage (miss-billed in the credits as "Sausage") to defuse a potential embarrassment in the person of erotic artist Hardman. Though he's the brother of a presidential candidate, this doesn't stop Hardman from conducting a 24-hour orgy service in his home, where his latex-clad models (many wearing masks) reside. Every nook and cranny is occupied with some form of grand fetishistic perversion, and it ain't long before Irons' frigid wife, Marylin Star, finds her G-spot in a nighttime Jacuzzi scene with two of Hardman's minions.