Review: Beyond the Valley of the Dolls

Did I mention the breasts?

You see, man, like four girls in a ultra girl band, all young and hot and ready for decadence travel to California to grab a little cash from Kelly McNamara's Aunt Susan. Dragging behind them is the blue-eyed beau Harris who gets drop kicked almost as soon as they roll into town getting their first contact high. Not that they need any kind of illegal substance for that, the sexual energy of the place is enough to infect any small town virgin. It's in the air, on the streets and behind every day-glo corner.

Right after getting the commitment from Auntie that she'll split the Million Dollars with Kelly, they are traipsed off by said Aunt to the seedy underground of Trippiness. Ronnie 'Z-Man' Barzell is a direct ancestor of Dr. Frankenweenie, sufficiently sexed up, ambiguously gay and spouting intellectual Shakespearean dialogue and opening the gates of Holly-Hell for the young girls. Auntie Susan seems innocent compared to this wild scene but don't worry she finds love again. Stuck in the middle of it all for juxtaposition is Mr. Porter Hall just so we don't forget there are still squares in their world. He provides a nice contrast, like a proper Englishman scouting the African Bush for wild animals, he's there for the sights but he wears his straight suit like a mosquito net and has the same effect.

Before the first party is over the girls have rocked out with the Strawberry Alarm Clock and a video montage later, they're the next big thing, baby! The beau gets the boot and lands in the bed of man-eater, Ashley St. Ives, Porno Queen. After various romps and trips, the girls all find themselves too deep into it. However, sanity, of a sort, prevails.

Sex and nakedness is draped around the scenes, accessorizing the hippie dream with creamy goodness. Don't worry we have all the flavors. If you like sex, drugs and rock and roll, sixties style then this is the movie for you.

Now to the breasts.