H.O.T.S. is sexploitation at the lowest level; a quarter-hearted attempt at a subgenre that is difficult to master. The MPAA rating assigned to said subgenre separates the men from the boys. Because sexploitation god Russ Meyer (ďKing LeerĒ) was branded with X or UR, his films were rebellious and less accessible, unable to be shown in say a Loews or Regal cineplex. Gerald Seth Sindellís R rating lumps it into the major marketing land of Animal House, a film it desperately tries to rip from. Though Sindell canít be blamed entirely, the issued rating does tarnish a novelty sexploitation films are noted for.
Sindell does have one thing right, though: the bimbos comprised of playmates, a pornstar, and an assortment of other headlight holders. Each one is dumber and (mentally) flatter than the next, just as this sort of movie sees fit. And whatís a sleazy romp without the obligatory phallical symbol? Here itís seen as a bathtub-occupying seal, which stands upright at all the right moments. Nevermind the homemade robot that enters the scene, itís the bathlion that steals the show.
But not many scenes are this strangely comedic. Much of H.O.T.S. is cruel, like the overweight girl (think Flounder from the John Landis film) whose scenes focus either on her flattening a fratboy or shrugging her shoulders when a tape measurer doesnít quite fit around her stomach. Hardy har har.
But you donít care about that, not if youíre the fratboy who planned on watching this. After all, youíre not renting (or buying) this for the social commentary regarding sororities and how buying your friends is lame. As long as thereís a variety of tits, right? So letís get to the highlight of the movie: a climactic strip football game wherein the rules are simple: when your team scores, your opponent must remove an article of clothing (donít worry, enough points are scored by the end). The scene has become something of a cult favorite amongst sexploitation aficionados, and with that huddle, how could it not be?
So when weíre not in stitches over fat jokes or ogling at breasts, weíre left with the Rosebud-esque mystery surrounding what H.O.T.S. is an acronym for. And no, itís not Huge Olí anything, as weíre led to believe for 90 minutesÖ