To say that Sorority House Party is juvenile is like saying that a cross-country joyride in a stolen Testarossa, blasted on blue agave tequila with a topless underaged filly in the passenger seat is juvenile — sure it is; the point ain't maturity, it's fun. And so is this frothy flick, filled as it is with hot babes running around in revealing underwear, a father & son hit-man team (the son's a college graduate in aroma-therapy!) looking to knock off a rock star dumber than a bag of ham­mers, and a plot so gloriously silly that it makes Risky Business look like The General Motors Quarterly Earnings Report.

How said rock star (Attila; now there's a stage name with commanding presence) winds up handcuffed to the bedpost of cute young sophomore April Lerman (of TV's Charles In Charge) is a needlessly contrived affair which plays second fiddle and a wah-wah pedal to the numerous marginal gags, both verbal and physical, that infest the story with infectious humor. I mean, how can a party scene with the ghost of "Shemp" being spelled out on a ouija board be all that bad? How

'bout a trailer for a film called "Mennonite Fury"? Or a bar run by "Indian Joe" in a Tonto suit — only this Indian is of the eastern variety — which serves curried buffalo wings?

Needless to say, April and Attila fall for each other like Malibu beachfront property in a mudslide, and soon the team (along with April's perky blonde roommate Kim Little) are on the run from mobsters and the record company. Along the way, we're treated to topless pool-partying and a brief (clothed; sigh) appearance by Playboy cover-girl Avalon Anders, but the bulk of the titty-flashing arrives in a lovemaking sequence with the amorous leads. The cast, on the whole, is far better than the flaccid direction, often sustaining comic bits in wide, drawn-out takes that would have played better as close-ups. Sorority House Party is kind of like the Vegas Elvis of the '70s — weak in the middle, but highly entertaining just the same.