I'm glad Sharon Thorpe didn't completely take the fall for this ridiculous white-coater from Carlos Tobalina. She's the star, as a doctor and sex researcher Lizzy Caplan could only dream of becoming, and receives a most unusual credit upfront of "assistant producer- director", but I blame CT for the overall mess.
He gets things off with a bang by misspelling his own hog-it-all credit: Written, Produced, Directed & Fotographed by.." Thorpe gets an equally stupid credit as "Mss. Sharon Thorpe" - wonder what the extra s stands for? Why the title includes "Haven" but highly billed Annette Haven only has a brief, token cameo role is apparently a marketing rather than creative question.
Sharon and uncredited Ken Scudder, both wearing those trademark white coats when not nekkid run a sex institute where Sharon especially gives hands-on demonstrations of technique to pep up marriages. Four couples, including Frisco's favorite Black talent Deisree West and Dashile Miguele (billed here as "Miguel Jones", adding to a confusion of him and similar actor Mick Jones), briefly expose their problems and then get cured.
Tobalina's pretentious but always dumb inter-titles inform us that 30% of the U.S. population is Black ("and increasing"), patently false stats as he ponders the question of since they have larger families does that mean Black couples
are happier? But that is not the most ludicrous issue on the table here.
No, it is Tobalina's in-depth examination of the secrets of the Latin Lover, which he posits stem from the legendary Inca Knot - a handily diagrammed sexual motif whereby the man's shaft is positioned at the proper angle to stimulate the clitoris during intercourse. Similarly, Thorpe teaches exercises to tighten those vaginal muscles, in order to please one's hubby.
The stories of the couples, particularly recidivist crook Joey Silvera, are stupid and just an excuse for them to swap partners at will during the Tobalina-trademarked orgies that pass for sex education classes. About the only genuine laughs are generated when Thorpe, wearing her usual symbolic rose-colored glasses, over-explains things "scientifically", such as: "we shall call it the pussy" or I refer to the clit as "the joy button".
Least surprising element of this stinker is the end credits, which include lots of written discussion trying to justify why this junker is "protected" by its copious amounts of -no, not that, but rather socially redeeming educational, literary content. And of course by its plentiful supply of white coats.
