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This softcore porn exercise from formerly talented indie director Brion Rockwell is marketed as a remake or "reimagining" (whatever the hell that means) of Nick Millard's 1972 clunker of the same name. It has no relationship whatsoever to that earlier movie or any of Nick's work -just a lame marketing gimmick used by the New Jersey video company that had previously packaged Nick films with some Misty Mundae rehashes.

In fact, the three-fer DVD set containing the FIRES IN HER BEDses is only watchable for Brion's 1997 movie WHERE THE AIR IS COOL AND DARK, a cautionary tale about drug use in the Generation X days. Though I still haven't figured out how air can be "dark", I enjoyed that fledgling effort which showed signs of a rigorous talent in the Seattle-based filmmaker.

Unfortunately, FIRE is a chamber piece of soft porn, which for all its lesbo-intensiveness is completely antiquated and irrelevant since it was made in an age when authentic lesbian cinema (made by women for a change!) has its own market niche. Poor Rockwell joined the Seduction Cinema team long after its boat has sailed -there just isn't any audience anymore for their once-popular junk pairing Darian Caine, Mundae, Julian Wells and other gals in soft or even hardcore couplings. The same company did handle his initial COOL AND DARK movie back when it was initially distributing worthwhile indie movies, but had long since (as admitted candidly in several producer's narration tracks by company head Michael Raso) switched to a strict diet of more lucrative horror and porn.

Here Rockwell cast two attractive unknowns who (probably by design) have no other IMDb credits. One is the submissive Ivy (Maria Palentini) while the other is the sadistic dominant Vera (Angelina Dekker). Palentini projects a dreamy sensuality that reminds me of (the young) Anne Archer, while Dekker is a generic looking anorexic blonde, sort of the type cast in those Cinemax TV series of the '90s where natural, unsiliconed females was the order of the day.

As attested to by the eight minutes of outtakes, which are neither better nor worse than the material included in the feature, the non-adventures of these two lesbians are simply uninteresting. Other than the masturbation potential of the duo licking/suckling/fondling each other in softcore fashion (which may or may not appeal to REAL lesbians out there), it's just another rather boring "where the boys aren't" exercise without the tongue-in-cheek (or anything remotely approaching comedy relief) approach of a Chi Chi La Rue.

For those keeping a scorecard, Rockwell includes plenty of fake and strictly softcore kinkiness in a bid to keep the fans' snoring down to a minimum, including Vera penetrating Ivy with one of those blue bottles they use as decoration or fake vases in restaurants; making Ivy wear a dog collar and leading her around the apartment on all fours by a leash; raping Ivy with a strap-on dildo; taking Polaroids (extremely antiquated for a 2009 video!) of Ivy in compromising positions; and as the coup de grace, blindfolding and handcuffing a naked Ivy and leaving her by an intersection to fend for herself. Perhaps the silliest bit of degradation, though it makes a nice still for our dear New Jersey exploitation team, is occasioned by Miss Vera's outrage when Ivy has the temerity to swear, causing her to put a big bar of Ivory Soap in the poor girl's mouth.

The only relief from this nonsensical "fun and games" occurs when Ivy's boy friend Luke is on the scene, but unfortunately one Peter Pistol (what's he got to hide with that stupid name?) portrays the guy in a boring, one-note fashion. When he rapes Ivy in the bathroom, angry at her turning the lesbo corner, the scene has no impact whatsoever.

This weak video is best summed up by one of Vera's pithy and pretentious pronouncements in the final reel, exclaiming "The world is full of talented people who don't produce anything". She's referring to her happy-ending wish that all the sexy horsing around will help student Ivy become a successful artist. I took it as the usual Freudian Slip found in most pornography, reflecting instead on Rockwell's meager credits and obvious decline from a budding Sundance-level indie hopeful to journeyman pornographer.

'I am someone! I am no one! I am everyone!' And with such an oblique opening testament begins iconoclast filmmaker Alan Lindus's morbidly fascinating, occasionally monotonous, downwardly spiralling cautionary tale about an interminably philosophizing, once righteously 'turned on' perkily psychedelic, Rock n' Roll waif, now burned out case, groggily spouting hoary epigrams like this especially odoriferous nugget 'I am lonely with a loneliness that smells!' Right on, loneliness stinks, baby!

Depending on one's robust tolerance for demonstratively incense infused, soft-lensed, Haight-Ashbury soaked, pot-addled hippie-dippy rumpy pumpy, the surprisingly melancholy, grimly nihilistic 'Fire in her bed' proves quite a head-trip into the groovily fatuous world of far out musicians, skeevey liggers and magisterially moustached male groupies. Muck-master Lindus's grubbily prurient expose of our sensually permissive, permanently boozy, dope-addicted destruction, the deliciously overwrought, crypto-zen narration is psychedelically drenched in sensationally shrill sounding sitar wrangling and in order to maintain the viewer's interest, there is some righteously blissed-out, grape-fueled sapphic grappling wherein our two exquisite looking, dark-haired, acid-headed angels zealously explore the tantalizing topography of their terrifically titillating pleasure-hungry bodies.

Heading inexorably to her self-administered, doomily narrated, psychological and physical dissolution, we see our increasingly jaded Heroin Hedonist (Donna Rae) finally succumb to the decreasingly groovy happenings about her, with mutual infidelity, chronic opiate abuse, and hella bad vibes taking their not inconsiderable toll, man!!! Sending our musically-orientated, sinuously-limbed, knee-painting, luxuriantly lascivious, terminally tormented, toxically tripping 1970s temptress into the void of despond. Not only is 'Fire in Her Bed' a fascinating period artefact, the heroically inane voice over is not infrequently pure comedic genius!

I shall leave the final eloquent words to the estimable word smithery of the loquacious smut-slinger Mr. Lindus: 'Let me destroy my soul, destroy my rock, let there be an end, and end to love, end to peace, and end to life, the finish of warm giving, of truth, my love died at my request, I am my hell! To lie screaming mad In a mad word in a mad world!!!!!'