The first big-budget release from San Francisco's Raging Stallion Studios, Raiders of the Lost Arse is an ambitious production about a group of archaeologists searching for the tomb of an Egyptian Pharaoh who was sealed in a hidden crypt as punishment for his homosexual activities. The group, far more interested in their own homosexual activities than in finding the tomb, is constantly distracted by their own gonads. The result is a standard loop film masquerading as a narrative epic.
The exposition and plotting are revealed in a series of title cards - in much the same primitive way that plot information was provided in silent films and in much the same sort of flowery, overblown language that cannot help but elicit an unintended giggle or two. (A case in point: "Parched and Petered Out, the two Adventurers Searched Across the Desolation that was Upper Egypt.")
One of the earliest title cards also misspells the word "Pharaoh," and although a porn flick is not a spelling bee, this sort of careless inattention to detail cannot help but make one a bit leery of what is to follow.
What follows is a seven-sequence production that runs a little over two hours in the retail version. In the mail order version, subtitled The Mummy's Hand, available only from Raging Stallion Studios (also available here from tla), roughly twenty minutes, comprised of two fisting sequences, have been added.
The film opens as the leader of the group (Jeff Allen, a striking screen presence with salt-and-pepper hair, who looks like a cross between George Clooney and William Devane) selects a spot in the desert to set up camp. Two of the group (Sam Dixon and Jeremy Tucker) slip away, find an oasis in the middle of the arid wasteland and stop to have a quickie matinee. Both Dixon and Tucker are veteran performers who have earned their star status with riveting sexual performances in the past, but here they seem to be working on automatic. The result is a pro forma, passionless sex scene in which Dixon briefly goes through the motions of giving Tucker head before he is topped anally over a dead tree fallen across a rippling brook. There is no sexual energy in the scene, and the quick dissolves (rather than actual oncamera transitions) from position to position constantly remind us that we are watching actors perform a loop instead of characters actually getting it on. It is a tepid opener.
The temperature rises considerably in the second vignette, in which Allen and newcomer Michael Soldier go at it among the giant boulders that rise out of the desert sands. Allen, who constantly displays a fondness for playing with his own nipples, seems to be a tradey Daddy-type here, allowing the voracious Soldier to service him thoroughly. Both are grizzled with five-o'clock-shadow stubble, and Allen's patina of dark chest fuzz is especially enticing. In this all-oral scene, Soldier is a powerhouse cocksucker, and Allen's money shot all over Soldier's face is hot as hell.
The third, fourth and fifth sequences intertwine. The first is a solo by Soldier as he watches Max Grand and Jason Hawke. Longtime performer Grand is still in top physical shape, although here he seems to be phoning in his performance. Hawke, with his youthful, naturally toned body, does most of the work as they give each other head. In time, Soldier skitters down off his perch and joins in to suck them and eventually to bottom for both. He is quite a groaner and is responsible for most of the scene's energy.
After this series of detours, the film finally returns to the search, and Allen finds his way into the tomb. Once the action moves inside, things improve noticeably - director Chris Ward's creative energy perks up, the setting is properly impressive and the sexplay far more heated. Allen discovers among the buried artifacts a statue of his Nubian Guard. When he touches it, it comes to life in the person of Simon Cox, whose ebony flesh and extravagant body piercings are quite a sight. The guard attempts to defend the tomb but is soon overpowered by Allen, who fucks him at length (although Cox remains only partially tumescent throughout). Both performers expend a great deal of energy, but the action is not varied enough to go on as long as it does.
Before long, the mummified Pharaoh himself appears to overpower Allen and reclaim Cox for himself. Clearly, theirs was a special relationship, and the following scene is potent stuff. The mummy is played by tall, dark and multipierced Bryce Pierce. (We counted more than a dozen piercings, including a Prince Albert and four bars through the shaft of his meaty erection.) Pierce, too, is strictly trade, and his raunch rap is more present-day Folsom Street than ancient Egypt. The verbal anachronisms are jarring, but the action is hot. Cox services Pierce orally with the desperation of a starving man, and the ensuing fuck, although Pierce is not always rockhard, is enthusiastic. A trio of money shots - Allen has come to and come, too - completes the retail version of the film.
In the mail order version, Pierce next fists Cox in a lengthy, latex-gloved handballing session. (Talk about anachronisms!) The two men are perfectly partnered - Cox is a squirming, squealing receptacle, and Pierce an inventive fister. They soon notice that Allen is watching them and once again overpower him. Before you know it, Bryce has gloved up once more and is going after Allen's ass. This surprising turn of events is both dramatically and erotically powerful, delivering the best scene of the entire tape. Allen proves to be quite a bottom, remaining hard most of the time that he is being impaled on Pierce's wrist and delivering an impressive splatter shot that ends this version of the film.
Throughout, the videography by Leif Gobo, is impressively inventive, although certain shots are bleached out and overexposed. The original, largely percussive score by film veteran J.D. Slater is atmospheric and sensual, constantly enriching the proceedings. Raiders of the Lost Arse gets better as it goes along, and if its reach exceeds its grasp, it is to be admired for its attempts to widen the perimeters of the adult film.
- Jerry Douglas
