Confessions of a Sex Maniac (1974)/ Love Variations (1969)
Distributor: Odeon Entertainment
DVD Release Date (UK): 28th February 2011
Review by: Ben Bussey
Okay, now that I’ve got your attention…
“Wait a second,” I hear you cry. “Isn’t this meant to be a horror movie site? Since when did they start covering porn?” Yes, this is, and no, we haven’t. But given how often horror fanbase tends to overlap with that of less genre-specific exploitation – take a couple of other recent UK DVD releases we’ve covered, Virgin Witch and Bare Behind Bars – I thought, what the hell, where’s the harm in taking a look at a little outright softcore smut? And this ‘Slap & Tickle Double Bill’ from Odeon Entertainment’s Best of British line is indeed harmless and smutty. Entertaining, though…?
It should perhaps be stressed straight away that Confessions of a Sex Maniac (1974, directed by Alan Birkinshaw) is in no way associated with the Confessions series starring Robin Askwith (Confessions of a Window Cleaner/Driving Instructor et al) which pretty much epitomised the 70s British sex comedy craze. But such was the success of that series, and such was the opportunism of low-rent British distributors, that various other sex comedies were made adding ‘Confessions’ to the title in the hope of drawing the same audience. (See also: Confessions From The David Galaxy Affair. Actually, don’t see it, it’s bloody awful.)
The film’s plot – which, of course, is by far the most important element in a film such as this (cough, ahem, etc.) – centres on a young man who, to use the venacular of the era, has it off with lots of birds. However, he also happens to be an up-and-coming (pun intended) architect, who unexpectedly lands a contract to design a major building. After much tossing and turning (again, pun intended) he has a eureka moment, and decides to model his design on the female breast. And so begins his search for the perfect boob to serve as his inspiration. Cue lots of the aforementioned birds taking their tops off, and a fair percentage of them being the birds with whom our protagonist has it off.
The term ‘low-rent sex comedy’ could easily be applied to the Robin Askwith Confessons films, but believe me, they look like Last Tango In Paris next to this. The pace is leaden, the sex scenes aren’t remotely erotic, and the comedy scenes aren’t remotely funny. About the only selling point, from a British perspective at least, is the presence of Roger Lloyd Pack in the lead, a British TV stalwart best known for Only Fools and Horses and The Vicar of Dibley. I rather doubt this one is highlighted on his CV today. Apart from that, Confessions of a Sex Maniac makes for a good conversation piece, as in 2001 a UK adult video store was successfully sued for selling it as hardcore porn, when it is clearly anything but.
There’s a bit more to be said for Love Variations (1969, directed by David Grant) as an example of sheer exploitation. It’s one of those supposed educational films, much in the spirit of that one Robert De Niro takes Cybill Shepherd to see in Taxi Driver. Subsequently the bulk of it is a very boring man, allegedly a family doctor, speaking in a most mild-mannered and unexcitable fashion about the importance of sexual awareness and openness between married couples. To this end, we have a young couple posing in a wide variety of sexual positions, whilst the family doctor talks us through the advantages and disadvantages of each one. (Naturally, the one pictured above is described as ‘difficult.’)
This is the kind of film that modern audiences enjoy with a sense of ironic detachment, a la Reefer Madness; we laugh and wonder how anyone ever took it seriously. I for one rather doubt that anyone ever did take Love Variations at all seriously at the time, least of all the tabloid journalists who stirred up a shitstorm over it on release; sex and scandal sells papers, after all. I guess it’s amusing to look at it today and think that back on release, this was the most sexually explicit stuff audiences had ever seen. Kind of makes you count your blessings that we’ve got better stuff to get off to nowadays.
Taken individually, these films are unlikely to be of interest to anyone other than hardline 70s cult completists; taken together, I suppose they at least offer value for money appeal. Otherwise, anyone seeking evidence of just how unsexy the sex act can be should look no further.