Inexplicably, when bumped up to directorial duties, Mr. Wood - always a highly capable videographer - throws in the towel. Hidden Desires feels like it was created in a vacuum where style and originality cannot exist. Between hopelessly lame set-ups, which have nothing to do with "hidden desires," the performers just perform, and the camera just records. Nothing more; nothing less.

The sole exception is Destiny Deville's scene. Or rather, her actions. First the girl spews dirty talk like a screaming banshee. Then, like Spinal Tap's Nigel Tufnel, she turns the knob to 11. Incessantly. When her [uncredited] partner beings to wrap his hands around her throat, we could only cheer. Unfortunately this doesn't last, and before long she's cackling like a soap-opera villain as he douses her cake hole with frosting.

Retailing: Potty-mouth fans will soil their trousers with delight.