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All models were at least 18 years old at the time of their performance. 18 U.S.C. 2257 Record-Keeping Requirements Compliance Statement.
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Betrayal Of Innocence 3

Betrayal Of Innocence 3

Released Sep 01st, 1994
Running Time 68
Director Scotty Fox
Company Coast To Coast Video
Cast Sallai, Caludia, Zoli, Steppy, Monica (I), Vasas, Jennifer (I), Zsasza, Gina (I), Gingi, Zita, Jennifer (II), Kati, Dynamite, Katy Paul, Angel (I), Lazlo, Bartos, Jaqulin, Hudacsek, parking by Gergo, Alexa (I)
Critical Rating AA 1/2
Genre Feature



Conceptually, Betrayal is a straw man just waiting to be blown away by a scant breeze of honest criticism. Essentially Scotty Fox stretches a one-day wonder scenario like salt-water taffy, plunking naive Hungarian waif Tanya (also billed as Angel, depending on the volume) in the big bad city after she kills her rapist stepfather. Pursued by a mysterioso detective, she keeps a profile as low as a President-elect and has just about as many torrid affairs.

Eventually, her sexual awakening leads to a state of mental repose somewhere between Erica Jong and Hunter S. Thompson — wherein everyone in the streets, the casino, her home, even department store mannequins are participants in one big world fuck-a-thon. Not a bad idea in itself; but after three volumes of schtupping and running around aimlessly, the borscht is getting pretty thin. Scotty, even the most derivative of film students wouldn't be caught dead emulating the hopelessly clichéd finale, which posits Tanya/Angel smack in a field of flowers for a nauseating reunion with her lover Miklos. So much for pathos.

The foreign cast is fresh and generally comfortable with each other. Like most American vids they bring to their work an ethic that approaches dutiful craftsmanship more so than outright desire. Lensing is routine, hardly ever going for unusual angle or initial penetration shot, but plenty of semen-splashed faces ought to please the raincoaters. Betrayal 3 really works best when the girls let loose on themselves, whether with tongues 'n fingers or strap-ons, particularly when they venture where the Hungarian sun never shines.

Presumably because the cast doesn't know a lick of English, the theatrics linking the sex scenes are accomplished entirely as voice-overs. Fair enough — many a feature's gotten away with this hoary device, provided the narration was clever and the delivery robust. In Betrayal, it's neither. Adding insult to injury, the music, which seems to have been mixed by Quasimodo the deaf bell-ringer, is so disproportionately loud that it renders the narration virtually useless!

Market the feature for customers who crave new faces and locations, particularly the Private line, and it should move. It's in a great box.

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