Not too long ago my girlfirend forced me to sit through an updated musical version of the classic Opening Of Misty Beethoven from the 70s. No wait, come back! It really isn't that bad.

All it means is that it has more bad music than a normal porn film and better-looking women. In theory. But it's been done worse. Trust me. Here is what happens:

A man leans on the outside wall of a club. A woman on her knees is blowing him like he is the last balloon on the planet. He looks like he used to be in the military and has a temper. She looks like her father used to be in the military and had a temper.

Let's just say there is something generally disquieting about them. While she fellates him, he sings along with some nu-metal by old people, howling, "Sex is good. Sex is what I crave. Why do I have to be so motherfucking depraved?"

He whines about some imagined "problem" that will probably be the fulcrum around which the 'plot' of this 'film' revolves before simply repeating that he needs "a little class".

Just so you know, his name is Darren Daly and the woman whose tongue he is about to cum on is Allison Craves. The following dialogue includes the hilarious observation that, "The skin flute is an instrument, in this case a wood instrument, that you play with your mouth."

He smirks like it is funny. Like he thinks he is sharper than a page of Simon Cowell's put-downs etched onto a stained-glass image of a 7ft lemon which was then smashed over the head of Oscar Wilde and sprinkled into the mix for the gummy Venus de Milo and rolled in razorblades. Be warned: there is more of his sub-Cannon and Ball humour to come.

Next we see Mr Daly sipping champagne in his slick apartment during one of those unappealing sex parties where you can only get in if you are so sexually experienced that your genitals have been eroded or at the very least desensitised, leaving you indifferent to any form of physical stimulation. This room full of sexual sourdough could fuck all night and feel nothing. I can think of no better metaphor for the world of porn.

A succession of women suck his cock. One after another he describes their efforts as "boring" until Allison Craves (who, incidentally, is being rimmed by an odd-looking extra) suggests that perhaps he is the boring factor in the sexual equation.
"You are projecting your perceived boredom onto the actions of others, you ungrateful, snivelling malcontent," is what she would have no doubt said if this film wasn't aimed at the semi-literate.

We also learn from this template for moral underachievement that he is 34 years old and although he isn't as rich as God, he "is closing in on it". Those were his very words. It raises an interesting question about why he perceives the most significant wealth of an omnipotent being to be monetary but there is no room here to explore it, more's the pity.

Seeking resolution to this dilemma he does what any sex-obsessed narcissist with no grasp on reality would... and starts talking to his cock.

His penis, looking Darren straight in his own eye, replies, "You are a retard." Then it starts singing.

"You're the proud owner of a big boner. I'm your cock. I'm like a rock. I'm your best friend. I'm delicious. And nutritious. Like a protein bar that never ends. I'm delightful and rarely spiteful, so if I spit in your eye it doesn't mean we're not friends."

Reviews of this film have raved about the novelty of a singing penis, but in an age where Ronan Keating makes a very handsome living out of an act that isn't that dissimilar I can't see what all the fuss is about.

For some reason Daly is reminded of Misty Beethoven and decides to go "slumming for a purpose". They end up in a club. Darren Daly is wearing a ridiculous cream-coloured turtleneck that makes him look like a homosexual Michelin man and Allison is following him around like his parole officer.

Inside the club a red-haired woman leans off the stage to suck dick. While her ass is being by defiled by a bandanna-clad Fred Durst-alike, her mouth is being filled by an OAP. Then they change ends.

The scene ends abruptly with her fingering herself while the men come on her. All the time she looks like she is trying to cough up a furball.

Next we see (now pay attention, this is really important to the plot of the film), a woman wearing a brunette bob wig, a black boob-tube, a red miniskirt and a pair of PVC 'fuck anyone' boots. She yawns while giving a listless handjob to a guy dressed like Napoleon. She is more uninterested than Will Young at the Bunny Ranch; a fact not lost on Darren Daly.

He schmoozes on over and asks her for a blowjob before revealing that he is offering the chance for an "absolutely sexless, bottom-of-the-barrel woman" to win a million dollars if she turns herself into a supervixen. No doubt charmed by his rhetoric, she says no then yes and we end up outside the building, where he asks her her name.
I only mention this part because the DVD includes outtakes of this scene where Misty is trying to say the two words 'Misty Beethoven' in response to the question, "What is your name?" She needs two dozen takes to just say her damn name. The problem is the word 'Beethoven'. She pronounces it "Bay Toe Bun", "Bay Toe Pen", "Bait Ho Pen". Anything but 'Beethoven'.

Nothing of note happens until we arrive in another similar but altogether different club. There is a band playing. The bass player looks like Duff McKagan in drag. The female singer is wailing, "Bang me! Bang me! To within an inch of my life!" The camera pans to Misty looking as excited as her limited acting skills allow. She declares that being fucked onstage in front of a crowd is what she would really like to do. "It's been my ambition since, like, three minutes ago," she would say if this film was a little bit more honest. So she's been seduced by the glamour of being fucked in front of a crowd of leering sex offenders and she is on her way to superstardom. I shall call this section of the film 'The Parable Of The LA Pole Dancer'.

In the club is Dr Seymour Love, the satanic patriarchal figure who morally corrupted the original Misty all those years ago. Darren sidles up to him and they talk. We learn that the original Misty is now dead. They don't say why or how, and it would be cheap to speculate that she contracted AIDS and wasted away while people shunned her. Or that, although dead, she can still be seen in private screening rooms across the globe, forever young, beautiful and minutes from being 'snuffed' by a respected captain of the industry.

Dr Love compliments Daly on the "lovely piece of trash" he brought with him.

Then we move on to the part where Misty is groomed for cocksucking stardom. She is made to re-enact the blowing-the-three-butlers scene. But this time, as this is a musical, they are miming vocals that have been laid down over some Chili Peppers-lite guitars.

In an attempt to make her look sophisticated they remove Misty's wig, an action that backfires when it reveals a blonde mane that transforms her features into a combination of Sharon Davies melted onto a young Linda Robson. Nothing much more happens during her 'training' apart from Misty watches porn with Darren while he leers and she winces.

Now Misty is ready for her first challenge. After much deliberation by Daly, during which he liberally uses the phrases "cookie cutter" and "meat puppet", he decides her trial should be something anal. "These are ass-fucking days," he proclaims. However, he is instantly talked out of it by Allison.

In the end, Daly reveals the test is to seduce the music producer Ewan T Others. Misty's clit pulses as she hears the name; he is semi-famous. Darren warns her there's no room for sentiment; she should treat Ewan like "nothing more than a sexual object to be milked until he gives you every-thing you want".

You're probably wondering what is so difficult about seducing a record producer, given the majority of them are nigh-on sex addicts. The catch is he is head over heels in lust with one of his clients, Nara Chance, but she is unattainable because, as Daly informs her, "you are only attracted to people who hurt you". Mr T Others can't hurt her but still pines for her and this, by Daly's estimation, makes him "a loser".

Somewhere in this segment of the film we learn Misty can sing. Well, she thinks she can. We know this because she screeches a charming ditty about how she slipped into prostitution: "I was born in the gutter. And torn from my mother. What was a poor little fucker like me to do? Hit the streets!"

Then we are on a plane because, although it is never actually explained, Misty is travelling to whichever part of the country Ewan is working in. Cutting out the bad acting, here is what happens: The female pilot licks, sucks, rubs and penetrates Misty with some exotic sex toys simply because Misty feels insecure about Darren treating her like an experiment rather than a sex-on-tap fuck machine.

These sexual shenanigans are cut with Ewan T Others, who incidentally looks like Meat Loaf in an exceptionally flattering hall of mirrors, singing about Nara Chance: "She should have been miiiiiinne!"

We are then treated to Nara being violated by her peroxide ape of a boyfriend whose all-over tan has missed his asscrack. Which wouldn't be so bad if we weren't given an extended close-up of it.

The inevitable culmination of all this pornographic frippery is that Misty seduces Mr T Others - unbelievably, he was charmed by her crooning a song that begins, "I see you when I go to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep" - but only because he is thinking of Chance while they are at it. Still, Misty gets a three-record deal as a result.

When she reconvenes with Darren and Allison the smug gimp Daly gloats, "Am I a genius or what?" The reply, as you probably already expected, comes back, "Or what!" (Why do people say "OR what?" You don't retain the 'or' in any other similar verbal situation and yet nobody ever questions it.) Right now all it needs is for someone to say, "Hot enough for you?" or "No sugar thanks, I'm sweet enough already" and I would be able to tick all the boxes on my porn-film-verbal-cuntery list. (It's a bit like I-spy for the physically grown-up.)
Daly starts to talk about the next test but is stopped in his tracks when Misty refuses. She loves Mr T Others and she isn't going to hurt him. Blah blah. Sentimental crap... improbable, forced dialogue... strange face-pulling to accompany awkward gesticulation of Misty...

"The deal is off!" Misty no longer needs Darren's cum-drenched money now she has a record deal (that she seems to have forgotten was a reward for sucking dick).

Daly tells her she is "absurd" and reminds her that Ewan T Others is still in love with Nara, who "hasn't as much as dipped a cunt hair in his coffee cup". Despite this most convincing of arguments, Misty refuses to take on the new challenge.

Curiously, after having about as much pace and direction as a drunk Heather Mills McCartney enjoying a midnight pedalo ride, the film is now moving faster than a Darren Day relationship. And sure enough, within minutes, we are in the club where Misty was inspired by the live sex show.

But this time she is the star. And a musical star to boot. How do we know this?

It is because of the crowd noise that sounds like it was lifted from the sound desk of a Wembley Stadium gig. The impressive cheer Misty receives is more than a little undercut by the fact that it looks like the extras budget was spent on additional rolls
of film to accommodate Miss T BayToeBun's inability to pronounce her name correctly.

There are all of about a dozen people in this dingy little club, supposedly there to catch a glimpse of the hottest young starlet on the planet. First up for his final lines is Dr Seymour Love. He takes the stage like a head-master on nativity play night, and smugly reminds us that he has "seen it all, done it all... and in so many ways".

Then it is Misty's turn to step onto the X as she sings her dark little heart out, telling us she "fought on up from the bottom to the top, blah blah". Bare facts? Misty uses the word 'impart'. Allison is on bass. The music is appalling.

The film closes with Allison fucking Daly (I think they have found love), while Misty fingers herself. They cut the sexual depravity only to bring down the curtain with the information, "Pussy is the ruler of the world." Hurrah! Women are free! No longer enslaved by men they can, er, get their own record deals thanks to their, er, singing talent... you too can drag yourself off the streets into a life of sucking more famous cock for more money! Women are free! Hurrah...

Misty Beethoven? APPROVED!

approved!

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