If you thought Motel Hell ("it takes all kinds of critters to make Farmer Vincent's fritters") was a nightmare, try Trent Roelan's seedy haven for corrupt cops, hookers and mentally unstable employees who contend that the fall of Rome was caused by threeways.
Proprietor Trent gets off on peeping through keyholes at the sexual activities of his guests, such as an emphatic Tera Heart/Alex Sanders anal. Neither of the motel's female clerks (Chelle and Amanda) could thumb through the mental disorder catalogue and remain unscathed themselves. Amanda shares Trent's penchant for voyeurism, which induces solo sessions involving the toe end of a shoe and a nipple hotwax. Chelle comes to the heartfelt conclusion that only Amanda is worthy of her love—right in the midst of an erotic shaving sequence.
Regualar motel patrons Dallas and Tony Tedeschi set the real erosion of Trent's sanity into motion by their remarkable resemblance to Trent's parents; his verbally sadistic father is present-day Tony's abusive cop, and his loving-yet-ineffective mother is today's dominatrix Dallas. Spying on Dallas' domination of Austin McCloud ("How would you like me to pull your spine out of your ass?) causes Trent to flash on an early parental-peeping session set in the 1950's.
Tony and Dallas' incarnations as Trent's parents are excellent. Tony's "real men don't eat pussy" sexual philosophy is in character and absolutely believable. When Dallas takes an obviously unprecedented sexual initiative, Tony's macho sensibilities leave him in a morass of disgust and intrigue. Dallas climbs onto his lap for a cowgirl; he objects halfheartedly, only completely reverting to type after he's shot his load, snarling, "You ever pull that again, you know what I'm gonna do to you?" Father of the Year realizes that Trent's witnessed his self-perceived emasculation and turns his fury on the kid; perhaps it's a simplistic explanation for this dysfunctional family's dynamics that have left adult Trent such an emotional timebomb, but it illustrates the point effectively.
Trent's mind is no longer his friend; increasingly haunted by his parent's voices he's taken up suffocating telephones and conversing with his reflection in the mirror. His emotional descent is nearly complete when he ponders the universal question of the mentally ill. "I'm real, aren't I?" before assuming the fetal position, only to be interrupted by the arrival of Chelle. He's not too far gone to service her gorgeous natural body when she climbs into his bed (great popshot), but his golfing-with-the-guys days are definitely over.
Trent's Richard Hell-on-a-protein-diet appearance helps his performance immensely; he pulls insanity off with aplomb. Admittedly, the editing isn't always perfect; a short Tony/Sally Layd/Steve Hatcher d.p. would have been hotter had it flowed more smoothly. The so-dark-it's-ultraviolet storyline is fetishistically and lovingly detailed; every aspect, no matter how small, is well thought out. Writer/director Phil M. Noir has accomplished a darkly fascinating story coupled with highly erotic sex.
Order extra copies. Story-with-sex fanatics and aspiring psychotics will thank you.