Connie and Floyd

Sandy Dempsey is the only reason to catch CONNIE AND FLOYD, a crudely made early XXX movie. Its technical lapses and amateurish technique are a turnoff.

Dempsey, wearing an anachronistic short-short skirt, is picked up by notorious robber Floyd Baker (Jim Frost), driving a vintage '30s auto. That car is the only budget element they sprung for in this crummy effort.

Floyd stops to rob a store, but the entire sequence is omitted (too cheap to stage it), and instead we get some random black & white stills of the cast. The same cheap-jack approach is used when Floyd and his right-hand man George (a familiar looking sandy-haired porn player named Jim) rob a liquor store: scene omitted.

Connie and Floyd hole up in Floyd's hideout and have some sex, then go outside and have some more. The indefatigable Frost ends up delivering three money shots, no mean feat in a 1-day quickie production, but his moneymaker is decidedly limp & rubbery during the third go-round.

There's an orgy when George arrives with three girls, at which point Connie leaves in a huff, after Floyd starts to order her around like the male chauvinist pig that he is. An idiotic mustachioed sheriff shows up with cretinous assistant in tow, does some raping, and after some clumsy cat & mouse action shoots our title protagonists dead in cold blood. Thus ends the non-saga of Connie and Floyd.

The sheriff is played by the untalented Michael Donovan O'Donnell, who has dragged down several porn films, notably LOVE FROM Paris.

Anonymous director "Gene Knowland" does not know any of the niceties of filmmaking and it shows. The movie is sloppy, poorly photographed, badly acted and merely a pointless exercise in XXX footage.

An attempt at a "hip" screenplay is disastrous, as the cast keeps trying to throw in period lingo that misses every time. In an early scene Connie calls Floyd a "moldy fig", not "hip", referring to the now archaic '40s jazz talk wherein fans of old-timey jazz (think Wynton Marsalis's attitude on the current scene) were dubbed Moldy Figs in contrast to the post-war modern jazz be-boppers epitomized by Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie and Thelonious Monk. This was not an early '30s expression.

Other clunkers are "zig zag" referring to sex, as well as many other jazz terms bandied about for porn correlatives, "let's start giggin'" (having sex) or "jigging" (same). This is okay pseudo-hipness but the cast soon overdid it with many '60s exclamations like "Right on!" and "Outta sight" which may or may not have been popular among the goateed set in the '30s.

Similarly the music is generally '50s and '60s jazz, notably much use of a soulful tenor sax player backed by organ.

Perhaps the cleverest element of the entire junker is Floyd's insistence on keeping his gun belt and shoulder holster on during sex, even when otherwise naked. This astute bit of self-protection is oddly abandoned by him in the final scene, all the better to permit the sheriff to get the fatal drop on him.

Dempsey, butterfly tattoo and all, is all smiles and a pleasure to see as usual, but this is not among her better vehicles.