(NOTE: This blog entry is going to be discussing the content of a mucky movie, and may well use some Rabelaisian and/or scatological language, and imagery which may produce powerful sensations in the brain and body. "Consider yourselves...WARNED!", as James Dean Bradley so eloquently yelled at the beginning of 'Repeat UK')
Ah, the pornographic parody film - so ripe for satire, lampoon and pastiche of any given subject but with the added bonus boon of boobs. Perhaps best remembered (by me, at any rate) for the early-2000s glut of straight to DVD Seduction Cinema 'classics' starring Misty Mundae and Darian Caine, such as Playmate of the Apes (John Bacchus, 2002 - co-written by and featuring scream queen Debbie Rochon as 'Dr Cornholeus'), Lord of the G-Strings (Terry M. West, 2003) and SpiderBabe (Johnny Crash, 2003 - starring Ms Mundae as 'Patricia Porker'), there has always been something of a genre bent being exploited: in recent years Axel Braun has produced a steady stream of semen-specked superhero scripts for Vivid Entertainment, spoofing and spoffing characters such as Batman, Superman, She-Hulk, Marvel's Avengers, Spider-Man,Wolverine, the X-Men and Wonder Woman (as well as other genre-related titles such as Game of Thrones, Ghostbusters and Charmed [featuring a Prue Halliwell who actually gives me less conflicted sexual thoughts than the original, which is odd but true]). Britain's favourite genre product of the BBC (as in British Broadcasting Corporation, rather than in its porn acronym sense) has had several sexy makeovers, including the Adult Channel's 2006 Doctor Screw which followed hot on the heels of the Christopher Eccleston season of Who with Mark Sloan as a leather-jacketed and priapic Time Lord (though his spiked hair and goatee beard make him more of a young War Doctor than an alternative Nine in my book), Wood Rocket's The Doctor Whore Porn Parody (Lee Roy Myers, 2014) featuring almost startlingly accurate randy reprisals of the Eleventh Doctor, Amy Pond and Rory Williams by the brilliantly names Brian Street Team, Jodi Taylor and Richie Calhoun respectively, and the same year's The Doctor (directed by the fnarr-fnarr monikered Dick Bush) from KaizenXXX - which confirmed its canonical status by opening with Mark Sloan of Doctor Screw being injured (must be all of that tumultuous buffeting from the tremendous buggering) and regenerating into new incarnation Danny D, who has lost none of his libido in the transition.
From the same production company and director, we come to 2016's Sherlock: a XXX Parody (is it just my grammatically-picky brain that flinches and wants that to be "An XXX Parody"? I suppose if you read it as "Triple X" it works...), which sets its sights and sweaty palms upon another of Steven Moffat's (a man who knows a bit about dodgy sexual exploits and bad jokes himself) TV shows.
Opening with a title sequence (aerial shots of London, familiar buildings and monuments) and theme tune that is redolent of the BBC's Sherlock whilst being different enough to just about skirt copyright, we start with the fundamentally-titled A Study in Brown (alimentary, my dear Watson!) with Dean Martin (no, not the piss artist cum singer cum actor!) as a gruff Lestrade calling in Holmes to help with the latest case to have him baffled, which interrupts Sherlock (the ludicrously-endowed Mr Danny D) as he indulges in an experiment to "test my deductive skills against all manner of distractions" as he's fellated by French fancy Nikita Bellucci - leading to a gag wherein Sherlock responds to both Lestrade's telephonic enjoinders to join him at the crime scene and his imminent unspooling in the gagging Gallic girl's gob by shouting "I'm coming! I'm COMING NOW!" with an elated vehemence that both perplexes and pleases the puzzled policeman. Another witness to this startling scene in Sherlock's study is medical student Jane Watson (played by the gorgeous crimson-maned Ella Hughes, who has actually made an appearance in a season six episode of Game of Thrones itself - with its alternate name of Tits and Dragons almost qualifying it as a porn parody in of itself, albeit with less jokes), who has arrived with a case for the celebrated sleuth but ends up with a casa - becoming his new flatmate in 221B Baker Street, perhaps aiming to parallel US 'modern Sherlock Holmes' series Elementary with its cross-gender casting of Dr Watson (in Elementary's case Lucy Lui as Joan Watson).
Holmes and Watson attend the murder scene, to find the latest in a string of corpses that show signs of having had intercourse ("Not just any sex - look at the beads of sweat: this guy was really going for it!" observes the sleuth) whilst expiring from poison ("So she likes to have sex with them whilst they dies? Sounds... delightful" says a dubious Jane): very much a case of a petit mort post mortem. The production plays with the tropes of Moffatian Sherlock, such as Holmes' 'mind palace' -
"If you don't mind, Jane," says Sherlock as he folds himself into his armchair, "i'm going to enter this information into my mind palace."
"Your mind palace?"
"Yes, my fucking mind palace! Is there an echo?"
- and the technique of quickly flashing Holmes' thoughts up in text form on-screen (like the 'datablasts' of Violet Berlin and Andy Crane fronted '90s gaming show Bad Influence! and Lee and Herring's pioneering Fist of Fun), such as "slight bruises on penis", "he fucked even though it hurt", "he had to fuck" and "fuck or die" as Sherlock pieces together the clues from the case to
"The antidote is locked in this safe."
"That's voice activated!" deduces Holmes, somehow. "They tried so hard, didn't they... Let me guess - the sound of your orgasm is the only thing to open it?"
After the revelation that he only has 30 minutes in which to get the siren to squirt, and pausing only to wonder whether or not to order the pizza now, the dying detective deploys his dong. The action that follows includes oral both ways - as Holmes is rewarded for his cunnilingus with some spit-drenched suckage - as well as doggy-fashion (Ms Bellucci's shrieks as Mr D's very generously-proportioned member ploughed into her from the rear causing me to wonder whether we were in for an abbreviated episode, as surely those squeals would activate the box?), anal (i assume sitting down would be involving a soft cushion or one of those inflatable ring things for a while) and reverse cowgirl before the desired decibel level is achieved (during some vigorous anal choke-fucking) and then Holmes unloads his ribbons of liquid joy onto the villainous vixen's buttocks and quaffs the antidote.
After all that though, i'd have to personally opine that Ms Hughes as Dr Watson, with her red hair and pale skin and clad in a leather jacket and a pair of jeans that accentuate her lovely buttocks, possibly did more for me than the carnal scenes in the episode. Why is none of your business, but maybe i'm just jaded like a cankered whore these days.
Episode two is once again punningly titled - this particular spin on Conan Doyle being The Sign of Whore - and entails Sherlock receiving a mysterious text message from the elusive Irene Adler, instructing him to go to number 14 Baskerville Road. The detective duo promptly arrive at the assigned address to find themselves in a sex club, greeted by a buxom receptionist (Linsey Dawn McKenzie - something of a UK porn legend in the '90s, and a favourite of those who like to see their sex starlets endowed with elephantiasis of the chesticles. Mammoth mammaries, Mycroft!) and the proprietor of this pleasure palace of impropriety who introduces herself as Irene Adler (the estuary-accented and slightly chavvy Chantelle Fox), who challenges Holmes to "a little game" if he can "pick out and fuck the girl [she's] describing".
"Um, sorry, wait - did you say 'fuck'?" asks an agog Watson, "we have to fuck them?"
"This is a very sexual place, Miss Watson. A place for sex" is the reply, and possibly the best example of that kind of gag i've seen in a movie since "Greeks. Men from Greece!" in Tom Green's opus Freddy Got Fingered.
After standing back to admire a display of his deductive skills that has him narrowing the description of a dominatrix down to the spexy secretary, Watson is surprised to hear Sherlock passing the sexing duties over to her ("Now go ahead, bang her brains out chop-chop!") and finds herself soon busily engaged in some receptionist rumpo involving a spanking session wherein Ms McKenzie smacks her alabaster buttocks a nice shade of pink. There follows some oral fun before the toys are produced - then inserted, then produced again - before a judding climax involving a very slippery nipple as Watson teases Adler's henchlady by rubbing her perky breasticles against her clitoris allsorts.
Episode three sees the series give up on turning Conan Doyle Holmes titles into puns and resorts to the simple "does what it says on the tin" title of Sexbomb, wherein Sherlock is working solo (Watson being away on her honeymoon, her husband having been introduced via a series of gag scenes - as opposed to gagging scenes which do happen in these sort of thing but are quite different - in the earlier episodes). He finds himself working alongside Inspector Sally Hopkins (Darlington's premier sexport Sienna Day), with whom he has an antagonistic/flirty banter relationship, on a case wherein a young lady (Carmel Anderson) has had a time-bomb strapped to her nether regions (a less erotic version of this scenario was played out in the Red Dwarf episode 'Entangled' - Craig Charles' charms being slightly less alluring than Ms Anderson's on that occasion).
"Thirty minutes 'til the big bang" says Hopkins in one of the most blatant signposts in a not exactly subtle series, before falling for the fiendish (and as yet unseen) Moriarty's trap by drinking what appears to be a glass of water but is in fact "that new female dodgy Viagra [that's] been all over the news - i need an antidote within the next few minutes, otherwise i'll die" (delivered with all the mortal panic of a malfunctioning toaster) "only your spunk can save me now!" Our priapic private investigator duly obliges of course, going straight in for some rimming of the policewoman's puckered posterior and ere long tongue is replaced by schlong for "a dip in the brown" that turns her frown upside down. This vigorous bout of bumming in various positions leads to Sherlock, who's got the medicine that she needs - in the wise, wise words of Lana Del Rey - filling her prescription good and proper and delivering it directly into her cupped hand to scoop and swallow as directed. How many times a day is not specified, but i hope it's only once, the lad looks knackered.
Oh, on the way out he defuses the bomb and frees the girl. I'd almost forgotten about her.
The fourth fit of febrile fun bears the moniker of Carnal Knowledge, neatly encapsulating the twin obsessions of both the production and the title character: the eternal yearning for both the pleasures of both the flesh and the sophia of wisdom (or, as Sir Steven Patrick Morrissey put it, "Does the body rule the mind, or does the mind rule the body? / I dunno."). Or perhaps i'm giving Dick Bush's writing a little too much credit. I dunno.
After being summoned by Lestrade to yet another murder scene, this time that of a terrorist suspect, Sherlock makes quick work dismissing the 'evidence' on hand - the various books and documents (along with a bomb) having been planted in the dead man's bedroom, as well as noticing that the necklace bearing religious symbols has caused an adverse reaction to the skin pre-mortem signifying that he didn't usually wear such an item - and concluding that the victim (who is sprawled before them on a bed with a large purple vibrator plunged into his chest) is the latest pawn in the game being played against him by the shadowy Napoleon of crime Professor Moriarty. Arriving back at his Baker Street lodgings, Holmes sends a text as urgent as his restlessly twitching member to Irene Adler asking her to meet him, his "I want answers" being auto-corrected to "I want anal", prompting the wholly (hole-ly?) appropriate response of "Bugger!" In timely fashion, Holmes enters his lodgings to rather serendipitously find Irene - this time the genuine article, you might say, rather than the decoy from the club earlier - waiting for him wearing nothing but high heels and a pearl necklace (an actual one: wait for it!).
"Sherlock!" cries flustered faithful landlady Mrs Hudson (June Smith) "I took Miss Adler's coat - but she didn't have any clothes on underneath!" before fleeing the room when her embarrassed enquiry as to whether tea should be served is met by Irene asking instead if there is any lube in the house. As you do, when circumstances look like it's about to be needed.
"I do love playing with people" purrs the ardently amorous Miss Adler (played by the gorgeous Italian-born queen of the British grot industry, Stella Cox - a Tyrrhenian temptress more "Ream 'us!" than Remus, and guaranteed to make one's Alba Longa), prompting a frustratingly Freudian conversation between Sherlock and herself ("Sex. All about sex." / "Isn't everything?") before his accusation that she is working for Moriarty and knows something of his plans, and that if she gives him the vital information to foil the professor's plot he will afford her protection.
"Saving those close to you isn't your forte" she smiles.
"You're not that close to me" counters Holmes.
"I could be. Maybe then, i'll tell you something" she says, sashaying to the mantelpiece and presenting her pert and peachy posterior and fingering her fillable fundament.
Obviously within seconds the twitching 'tec has taken the hint as is up behind her like a rutting Rottweiler, blithely taking the cup of tea offered by an aghast Mrs Hudson (who swiftly exits so traumatised she may as well be pursued by a bear) and sipping from it before resting it upon the dimples of Irene's lower back. Possibly indulging a repressed cosplay fetish, he places his iconic deerstalker hat on her head and bends her over his armchair (with Union Jack cushion - how 'Cool Britannia'. Is it 1996?) for some Sherlockian sodomy so eager and vigorous (can't blame him for excitedly ploughing that furrow i must say) that's it's bound to leave bruises in the morning. Don't it turn my brown eye blue, as the old song goes.
In the finale, Game On, it transpires that the majority of the preceding events have been set in motion by the devious deviant Moriarty (played by the marvelously pseudonymous Fred Passion giving a less OTT performance than Andrew Scott, at least) who has - in an inversion of the events of Moffat / Gatiss' Sherlock's premiere episode - been passing himself off as Holmes' brother Mycroft to gain the trust of Watson, whom he now kidnaps and lashes to a Bond villain-style laser trap. Sherlock is faced with the old "which switch?" dilemma with one deactivating button but two from which to choose, and so decides to opt for the patented Steven Moffat "cool shot in which the hero fires a gun at a random piece of equipment" get-out-of-a-cliffhanger gambit (C.F.: Sherlock 'The Great Game', Doctor Who 'The Time of Angels') before using his preternatural mental prognostication skills to outmanouvre and physically take out Moriarty's henchmen in the manner of Robert Downey Jr.'s Sherlock Holmes (Guy Ritchie, 2009).
"Fuck me, Sherlock - that was very unlike you!" exclaims Watson as she is untied.
"The only solution to winning his Game is not to play", responds the gnomic gumshoe, with a neat solution that perhaps should have occurred to Bruce Lee in The Game of Death and everyone in Game of Thrones. The twosome then rather thoroughly consummate their professional relationship, including the lovely Ms Hughes lying on a leather couch with her head back and taking Mr D's egregiously proportioned member down her throat, followed by some very eager and frantic doggy-style and cowgirl positions.
After Moriarty is surrounded and taken away by the regular constabulary and Sherlock has received a message from Irene assuring him that she's alive and not a victim of one of Moriarty's deadly assassins, there's even a guest appearance in the closing Baker Street scene by Danny D in the guise of his other porn parody character - that of the TARDIS-travelling titular Time Lord from The Doctor (Dick Bush, 2014), giving any fan of Doctor Who and Sherlock who's made it to the end unspent the crossover that Moffat never did. Which is nice, i guess.
'"My dear Holmes!", I ejaculated' - Dr Watson in 'The Adventure of the Resident Patient' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1893.