Stunners: Gird Your Loins and Grit Your Teeth

You know that when porn dares to break the fourth wall that you're in for something.

There was a time when porn didn't especially want to fracture its spell by having performers openly gaze into or address the camera, but with the medium in an existential tailspin as of late, it seems willing to call attention to its artifice.  I myself prefer the diegesis of a closed-off blue movie world -- like an X-rated snowglobe -- but to each his own.  Some Videodrome antics won't kill my buzz.

Falcon's latest fuck-fest Stunners isn't particularly interested in establishing the viewer with a familiar sense of place like a frat house, a barnyard, or a beach.  It opens in this chilly, industrial, blue-lit otherspace -- a sexual netherverse or an impossibly avant-garde strip club out of a Roger Corman titty movie like Stripped To Kill or Midnight Tease -- complete with chain-link fencing, fluorescent tube bulbs, and wooden go-go boy pedestals.  This is the kind of place where I can only assume that sex is serious business, stallion.

Stunners is about nothing if not macho charisma focused like a laser beam.  The men glower at the camera seductively, giving their best Tom of Finland sex sneers as they invite the audience to visually consume their many charms.  Coverman Sean Zevran, certainly the DVD's main marketing, um, tool, is all muscle and pelt, looking like scientists succeeded in grafting Damien Crosse's head onto Tom Katt's torso before attaching Max Grand's arms and legs (I'm becoming evermore convinced that there is a highly-secret gay porn cloning project that combines the most desirable attributes of the stars of yesteryear and today into the hot properties of tomorrow).  Anyway, the sex in Stunners -- again, sounds like a female strip club, am I right? -- is the shut-up-and-spread variety that dispenses with all the giggling and goofing around you'll find at Corbin Fisher and borders on the type of sleaze that Treasure Island trades in.  It's a nice balance if you're not all that enamored of the former but not exactly thrilled with the latter.

Zevran's the big star here, garnering two scenes that have him taking it hard from behind before practically snorting steam and turning his co-stars over, spreading 'em wide, making 'em air-tight, then spraying into their open mouths.  The guy's got one of those asses that's so engorged and overdeveloped that it doesn't even clench or move as he thrusts.  Long 'n coiffed Adam Ramzi is the lucky one who gets to break him in first.  The fucking throughout the movie's running time carries the same tone -- no real verbal interaction, plenty of fervent grunting, aggressive smacking and spitting, and even some mildly edgy hands around the neck.  Josh Conners really gives his all as he gets jack-hammered by Zeveran, gorging on his spent sex stick after getting his haunches tenderized.

The intensity summoned up by the cast is well-maintained across the board -- everybody sure seems into it to me -- and so the callowness of the age of college-jocks-go-broke porn is happily left at the wayside.  Andrew Stark makes quite the meal out of Colt Rivers, chowing down on his ass (none of that wussy fake rimming on display from these alley cats) before turning him every which way but loose.  Rivers moans very convincingly throughout, and at certain points when he's pogoing up and down on Stark's shaft, his voice will raise a few octaves.  The drawback?:  that obligatory" Falcon "look" is at times undifferentiated in a cast of nine players.  Nikko Russo and Mike De Marko can grunt and grind pleasingly, but in truth, I had some trouble distinguishing Russo from Conners and De Marko from Ramzi.  It's a minor quibble, but the ultra-modish sneaks on display are awfully goofy.  They wouldn't look out of place in Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo.

Oddly enough, despite the banner amount of press granted to Zeverin -- I wouldn't blame the other cast members for feeling somewhat overlooked, though I can't exactly fault Falcon for wanting to lavish ballyhoo on an exclusive player, either -- it's one of the feature's lower-wattage models who really did it for me.  Paul Wagner, despite being much in-demand, has always curiously struck me as one of those reliable, versatile second-string stars who can consistently deliver on camera and often steals the spotlight.  He's not so artificial, I guess:  he's neither chemically over-pumped nor gauntly starved-down, he's got a simple haircut, his facial hair gives the impression that he simply opted not to shave that day instead of spending an hour expertly trimming in front of the mirror, and he has these sensitive eyes that seem to plead "Please don't hurt me."  Here he's paired off with Billy Santoro -- who, with his Elvis-style hair-do,  exudes '50s Biker Movie vibes -- and together they make a fine photo negative duo, going at it with gusto as each gets to have his way with the other.  There are some very impressive uptilt shots of Wagner quivering with delight as Santoro rams his pelvis away at his ass, using Wagner's jockstrap for leverage.  Bravo, gentlemen.  A Best Supporting Actors turn for you both.

Bottom line:  if you like your sex no-nonsense, hardscrabble, and schmaltz-free, Stunners will leave you feeling satisfyingly tased.

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Go grab your very own copy over Stunners over at Falcon Studios