If, as a certain 1960s adult film suggests, Bad Girls Go to Hell, one wonders what kind of blazing inferno is being reserved for errant spouses with a yen for chocolate fudge sandwich cookies. You will have a clue to the speculation once viewing the sexually propulsive, superbly acted Bad Wives. However, good sportsmanship prevails in this instance and certain plot elements shall remain state department secrets.
Safe to say, Bad Wives is deliriously unconventional both in the story it tells and the way it tells it. And, somewhere along the line, Steven St. Croix, who plays a supermarket bag boy, turns into a bad boy Jack Nicholson lookalike. All of which means that St. Croix has finally come up with a purpose for his eyebrows other than to serve as a toll bridge for his nose. The first half of the picture almost plays like a silent short with emphasis on body language, reflex action and spinning eyeballs. Dialogue is as scarce as a sincere woman in an outcall agency. But, in the second half, the acting guns all across the board come out smokin' as we move into Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf territory.
Dyanna Lauren's character has just turned 36, allowing anyone in the viewing audience over 37 little sympathy with her spastic freak-outs. The "spoiled-rotten" Lauren compensates by helping herself to cookies straight out of the bag at her local supermarket, while friend Melissa Hill chews bars of soap and guzzles dish detergent straight up. Because their husbands (Jon Dough and Tony Tedeschi) are accomplished pricks, both women find it rather convenient to sexually fantasize about St. Croix, a cosmic nutcase, we're to discover, who stores frozen women in a meat locker. The sex is as accomplished, physically, as the concept itself is goofy.
In their pairing, Dough and Lauren take a tour of their living room that would put the designing team of Macy's furniture department to shame. The philandering Tedeschi fucks his secretary Tricia Devereaux practically into a light grid on one occasion, and launches a substantial payload in Missy's ass on another. Playing footsie with the laws of physical science, St. Croix works up a Gold's Gym-like sweat as he shares some beautifully protracted lap glides with Hill and Stephanie Swift in a food freezer. St. Croix later pokes Lauren in the ass, prompting one to suspect that if atomic sex were alcohol, this scene would be pulled over for driving under the influence.
As weak links in a chain go, Bad Wives features nary a scene that could be remotely considered a delicate bracelet. And that's extraordinary. Rarely will you witness an adult film that puts it all together with as much finesse and fun heaped in for good measure. In a showdown with Bobby Sox, Bad Wives just about relegates its competition to the hamper.
There might not even be enough categories to go around for this wickedly clever picture come nominations time.