SPOILERS INCLUDED Few British movies have managed to convey such a torrid atmosphere than Alan Birkinshaw's Killer's Moon. A 1978 tale of LSD crazed maniacs terrorising choirgirls complete with sex, violence and dialogue like `if we ever get out this alive, maybe we'll both live to be wives and mothers'. Once seen never forgotten seems a fitting epitaph to a movie that itself includes a ridiculous epitaph to a three legged dog. Killer's Moon was one of the last explicit British movies from the 70's nether world of naked starlets, Kensington gore, rag-bag scripts, fly by night distributors with addresses in Soho, and where sex and horror films seemed interchangeable. Indeed Birkinshaw's previous movie was a low budget sex movie, produced under his Rothernorth banner in 1974. Apparently Birkinshaw toyed with the titles Design For Lust and The Man Who Couldn't Get Enough before settling on Confessions of a Sex Maniac, a title that although barely relevant to the plot, must have been the envy of Birkinshaw's competitors. Sex Maniac was released in 1975 by David Grant's daring Oppidan company. The Kingpin of London's sexploitation distributors, Grant is chiefly remembered for releasing foreign fare like Succubus and Pussytalk. The movie itself is a half way interesting ditty involving an architect (Roger Lloyd Pack) working against the clock for his slaphead boss. Reading an architecture book and a Men's magazine Pack imagines buildings and a pair of breasts are synonymous to each other. With this burst of inspiration he sets out to design a building in the form of a pair of breasts, much to the astonishment of his bosses secretary (Vicki Hodge-in the most dreadful blond wig ever seen in a movie). Like in Killer's Moon you are never sure if the dialogue was meant for laughs or as preposterously pretentious as it sounds `you foolish creature the line between madness and genius is but a fragment of shallow minds'. In his quest for a model to inspire his building Pack attempts to pick up a woman who feels closer to animals than humans, before taking the obligatory walk around Soho flesh-pots checking out Diary of a Half Virgin, Wife Swapping French Style, Sex of their Bodies, Love Hungry Girls, Love Makers and The Reluctant Virgin in that order. Pack decides to place an ad in `something trendy, slightly underground...that all sorts of different birds will read' (a funny moment at the expense of London listings magazine Time Out) which leads to a parade of dolly birds ready to drop em, among their number Monica Ringwald- The Sexplorer Herself. Like Birkinshaw's Killer's Moon, Confessions of a Sex Maniac is Sohoian brass and vulgar through and through. Sex scenes have never been more seedily shot or put together with such little rhyme or reason. There is a good argument for the whole movie existing solely for the lengthy scene where Pack inspects girl's breasts with a microscope and painful looking measuring instruments. Mirroring Killer's Moon's failure to remember who's been killed and how, at several points Sex Maniac looks to have been re-written to accommodate yet another naked starlet, the presence of Ava Cadell a graduate of hard-core shorts adds to the loop nature of these encounters. The latter half all but abandons its bust search premise in favour of haphazard seductions of some British sex film perennials (the repressed housewife, the hippy girl) all of whom fall for a man dressed like a down on his luck end of pier comedian. In a startlingly obvious conclusion the secretary with the bad wig provides the final itching to Pack's creative scratching. Several of the same crew worked on both Sex Maniac and Killer's Moon, making the two quite familiar viewing experiences. Both benefit from John Shakespeare and Derek Warne's curiously driven jazz music and cues that seem at times more suited to the horror movie. The late Arthur Lavis's camerawork however is dreadful, subsequently the colour of both films is an underlit dark blue. In the opening half of the film Pack laments losing his most attractive girlfriend Susan, but given that their love games are shot so dark to pass as silhouettes this has to be taken on word of mouth. Lloyd Pack has gone on to better things, namely comical roles as hopelessly dopey individuals in sitcoms. Here its more of the same, but his stone faced deadpanning seems out of place, for a man who gets more than his fare share he goes through the motions with the joy of a funeral pall-bearer. While scenes of Pack walking around a market leering at women's chests or making phone calls along the lines of `you don't understand I need breasts, I need breasts for my work' rank him alongside David Dixon in Escort Girls as the screens most repellent Jack the Lad. If nothing else Confessions of a Sex Maniac is a fitting companion piece to Killer's Moon, neither are one for the sophisticates, but you can't help but admit that as exploitation films they hit their targets where it matters. Amazingly Sex Maniac's budget seems to have extended to a helicopter, but unfortunately not enough to depict Pack's final peek design. Instead Alan Birkinshaw and Confessions of a Sex Maniac end as they always mean to go on- another soft core groping.
