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There was a time when Ginger Lynn Allen was the hottest girl on Earth.

Well, obviously that’s a bit of an exaggeration, and there are names both personal and filmic that equalled if not supplanted hers, but damn if she wasn’t some kind of ideal I chased after in my own then-nigh exclusive pursuit of blondes and strawberry blondes.

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Petite, perky, sassy, with a smoking hot Madonna meets metal chick dress sense, she was both fun loving (what other adult film starlet can you name that seemed quite this happy go lucky, always with a big smile and easy laugh, even in the rudest of situations?) and drop dead gorgeous, with that frosted, feathered hair and a tight body that wouldn’t quit – perfect from every angle.  There’s no question I had a “thing” for the girl, and any girls I managed to rustle up that looked, dressed or acted anywhere close to her. Close friends of the period can probably start naming names.

She was the quintessential “bad girl” with a good girl vibe – she never seemed sleazy or skanky like so many of her peers.  Yeah, it was a long time ago, but for a few years there, Ginger Lynn was the shit.

So it was with no small measure of raised eyebrow and twinkle in the eye that I saw my youthful…is “crush” the right word to use?  Probably not.  But to see that Vinegar Syndrome was making another dip into the final heyday of porn, and digging up a Ginger Lynn vehicle no less…well, alright.

Now, these days and many life experiences later, I can hardly look at most blondes – I’m an “any color but” man at this point, and those who know me (or faithfully follow these reviews over the years) can probably suss out my favorite types of lady.  But much like Bardot, Ginger…at least in films of a certain period…still kinda does it for me.  At the very minimum, I can see just why I felt the way I did about the lady back when, and that’s a hell of a lot more than I can say for 99% of the blondes out there, filmic or otherwise.

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So yeah, this is ostensibly a vehicle for someone named Angel – she’s pretty cute in the face and has a nice bush, but you know, nothing overly special. But screw that. This is a Ginger Lynn film.

So Angel and Ginger are apparently good little Catholic schoolgirls (cough – ever met a Catholic schoolgirl?  Why do you think their parents send them to private school in the first place?) who’re sitting in the garden with nun Lisa De Leeuw (cough) as sleazy Rufus Jefferson makes the kind of obvious innuendo-laden faces that’d get him locked down as a sex offender these days. For no reason whatsoever, Angel passes out and hallucinates the rest of the movie.

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So pal Ginger is now a hooker, and she brings her Sominex-swallowing friend along for the ride. Jamie Gillis is the john, and he gets Ginger all a-quiver (literally). Then they head down to the brothel, run by defrocked novitiate De Leeuw, and she peeps on pervy rollerskating 70’s pimp Jefferson (as “Mr. Love”, a goofy-ass moniker which he repeats incessantly like some moron mantra) banging skanky (and if you believe Jerry Butler’s Raw Talent, stinky) Lois Ayers, with her purple Wendy O pseudo mohawk.

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Rinse, repeat with some beefy girl I didn’t recognize, before she gets invited upstairs to a scene straight out of Sade (or Jesus Franco, for that matter), where she gets put up for bid between a Stephen Spielberg analogue (Ed Longly), a fat priest (Michael Morrison nee Milton Ingley), some Col. Klink type (Klaus Muller) and a cigar smoking senator (Eric Edwards), all of whom are busy getting serviced by Ginger, goofy bubblehead Bunny Bleu and a few more nobodies, before she manages to escape in the most ridiculous and stereotypical plot device imaginable.

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In Candy (or for that matter, Pretty Peaches) fashion, she then runs afoul of two sleazy cops (gay porn star Rick Cassidy in one of his rare straight roles being one of them) who interrogate her in ways that’d get them tossed off the force, gets accosted by a homely flasher cum rapist in a basement (on a fur lined mattress on the cold stone, yet) and finally winds up dead, only to be revived from her funeral by Harry Reems in a magician’s…er, “undertaker” outfit.

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Fittingly, as this film falls pretty close to Harry’s own retirement from the adult industry (where he claims to have found himself woken in this very predicament, forcing a life reassessment), she wakes up in a dumpster, only to find “help” from a pervy lezzie who has her way with the girl in the backseat of a car as some very gay leatherboy cruising types (one of whom is none other than Francois Papillon) peep in from outside the car and, er…wash the windows, you could say.

Then she wakes up, makes a cheap Catholic joke and winks at the camera.  Jeez, Michael Morrison got fat…

Only one extra, a commentary with director Victor Nye and producer Suze Randall, for those so inclined.  As one of the rare female directors in hardcore of the era, much less one with such a positive reputation among female performers she’d worked with, it’d be interesting to see her chat about her time in the industry onscreen, but the film length commentary track is there if you want it.

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Look, it’s got the stunning Ginger Lynn, doyenne of the mid-80’s adult scene, doin’ her thang, and while she’s kind of middling at best in terms of body and knowing how to use it (or not), “Angel” is a very pretty girl who at least seems to halfway enjoy getting down and raunchy with all the sleazy bastards who (cough) come (ahem) her way.  De Leeuw, Gillis, Edwards and Reems have seen decidedly better days, and up and comers like Bleu and Papillon are at best cameo performers here, so it’s all about whether you dig classic Ginger Lynn and/or this girl Angel.

You already know where I stand.  Now I’m just waiting for stuff like The Poonies, Ten Little Maidens and Blame it on Ginger to start making their way to Vinegar Syndrome’s restoration team…hell, even the first Loose Ends might be worth a laugh after all these years (insert hearty guffaw here).

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