Hosted by the inimitable and verbose Russ Meyer (no stranger to vixens of either lower or upper case), this light-hearted, top-heavy paean to boobage contains at least one insinuative adjective to every pair of astonishing mammalian protuberances.

Immediately one grasps the director's sense of playful homage to the master as the girls float into frame in a cacophony of slow-motion cleavage, twisting and twirling as if launched from an unseen trampoline, while the Blue Danube spins on the soundtrack - and Strauss spins in his grave.

For all the excess flesh passing before the lens, the film is light and frothy as a Schwab'sfountain soda, which not-so-coincidentally is also one of the elements in a fabulous 50's scenario. Also on hand is gentle parody of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Here the tuxedoed gentlemen are treated to much more than a peek down Marylin Monroe's sequined dress, as the platinum look-alike reveals her ample assets on a ruby, heart-shaped bed. Another sequence finds a Stokowski-ish conductor leading a nearly-naked orchestra; that is, until they begin leading him! Talk about your g-string quartets!

Perhaps the most amusing scene revolves around the antics of some bathing beauties who decide to let it all hang out at the prestigious Beverly Hills Hotel. Once the California girls abandon their wispy bikinis, the lifeguards go into topless shock syndrome, chasing the gals around the pool with towels but (thankfully) never managing to cover the highly mobile nudists.

For diehard Meyer aficionados or simply those with double D's on the brain, one would be hard-pressed to find a better soft-core presentation of mountainous boobery.