Granted, this delirious product of the long-running Stanley Long-Derek Ford partnership is unlikely to owe its disjointed, spaced-out nature to close semiotic study of the works of Luis Bunuel, but nevertheless, the strange, disorienting atmosphere of this chips-cheap, three-handed sauce portmanteau would have had the giraffe-burning artisans of 1930s Paris doffing their berets at its uncompromising oddness. Dennis Waterman conducts a fetishistic glamour photo shoot. Morose loner Victor Spinetti finds his lonely nights at home listening to tapes of road accidents interrupted by the arrival of a random sex-suicide theme party. Finally randy cabbie John Bird crashes his carriage and hallucinates a psychedelic orgy in the swimming pool of a remote cubist mansion. What this all means goodness knows, but the beyond-ramshackle filming and editing, as well as the fact that, for a sex comedy, there’s precious little sexy or funny about it, earns the film every right to take its place amongst the most heroically obtuse works of the pre-war fish botherers.
