Having just missed out on being Hades Playmates of the Month, the girls run to a local sheriff named B. L. Bubb (GET IT?!?) and ask for help. Instead, they get lessons in stall tactics and how to wear underwire properly (thanks, in most part, to the policeman's rather Zaftig wife). The now cheerless squad just wants to get to the big game. Old Constable Bubb just wants to have fun, or a virgin sacrifice, whatever comes first. The girls think this is a bad idea (not regarding virginity; the sacrifice. They gave up on the big 'V' a LONG time ago) and escape. The sheriff calls a throng of Pluto's favorite fiends and they set out to round up the rah-rahs. When their own evil efforts appear useless, they send out a couple of Dobermans, who really enjoy the whole teeth bearing thing. But dammit if Patti ain't up to her old spellcasting tricks again. She keeps the hounds from Hell at bay and manages to lead the ladies right back to Satan's selective surgery pyre. When the mob of minions shows up to complete the Devil's directive, a missing piece of the puzzle of perversity is discovered. Satan will only stomach an unsullied maid as his future baneful bride to be. And it turns out Ole' Bubb "rubbed out" the last remaining virgin in town when he manhandled Ms. PE in a moment of assault. Oops!
God Bless Satan's Cheerleaders. While that may be asking a lot, obviously, if the one Lord can allow sinners to recant on their death bed, he should at least give this great, goony groove-a-thon a little dispensation. For anyone who grew up in the middle of disco's ducking, this crazy comedic corn factory will hone your hustle like nothing modern can even imagine. So jam packed with bad humor and lame jokes that you'd swear you were watching reruns of Love, American Style and about as believably Satanic as Anton LaVey's infamous documentary on the subject, Satanis: The Black Mass, this is easily one of the most culpable contentments ever to grace a drive-in screen. This is a movie drenched in exploitation; it understands that the title tease is far better than the product ever delivers. With a label like Satan's Cheerleaders alone, the carnal mind goes T & Ape-poopie. Amusement mathematics makes the parameters very clear: cheerleaders means hot sex and lots of nubile flesh. Satan means monster movie madness and horror hi-jinx. Well, someone forgot to tell director Graydon Clark (a foul little cinematic stain responsible for such simpleton shite as Angel's Revenge, the spook spoof Wacko and Lambada: The Forbidden Dance. Yikes!) what was expected of him. He thinks that this movie is some kind of misguided milk jugged Omen. There are times you swear he takes this trash seriously. Thankfully, the cast more than make up for any of Clark's cracked creativity.
Now, this dated dozy is far from perfect. There is just not enough boob to justify all the posing going on here (half the cast rest their cocked arm on their hip, chest thrust forward like they're advertising breast enhancement surgery). Aside from Patti's unleavened cakes and a partial glimpse of clothed pulchritude, the nakedness is kept to a...bare minimum (Har-dee, har, har). More skin would have guaranteed a win. Then there is the dialogue. The initial forty minutes or so is like a French farce version of H.O.T.S., with more blatant come-ons and quirky double entendres than the entire run of Three's Company, Married with Children and Sex and the City combined. EVERY retort is ripe with ribaldry. This is the kind of movie that can make "Coach. I think I fractured my collarbone" sound like the most seductive suggestion ever (after all, it does have the word "bone" in it). True, every once in a while we have to witness the result of all this horny hinting, but there is not the kind of boldfaced bonking that made such similar themed celebrations like The Pom Pom Girls seem so smutty. When you add in the corpulent caretaker - who wears a bedazzled shirt (it's so shiny and sparkling) and spies on the showering sideline distractions, Porky's style - and Bubb's police headquarters/ ranch house in Marina Del Ray with its own altar to the Dark Lord, there is easily enough fodder for lax jaw dropping and unintentional entertainment.
The casting here is just insane. John Ireland never met a B-movie he didn't belly up to and his performance as the harried, half-hearted Devil worshipping sheriff is just sublime. His constant arguments with his wife Emma seem less about damnation and more about general nagging. As said suspicious high priestess, Lily Munster, a.k.a. Yvonne DeCarlo looks like she's been lunching on Herman-sized helpings of headcheese since Eddy shed his eyeteeth (her ample assets confirm what Tony Curtis once suggested. When asked how someone could have a good time in Hollywood, he gave the following response: "Yvonne DeCarlo!"). The final fifteen minutes of her on screen screaming consists of a petulant prayer repeated over and over and over and over and over and over again. Eek! The there's a monk character played by Charlie Chaplin's son Sydney in an acting job of substantial creepers jeepers. He's not really a man of the cloth so much as he is Paul Lynde's long lost life partner. When he says he understands women, Sheriff Bubb asks "How?" In a swishified fashion he says, "I'm very well read...and I dream. I dream a lot". Priceless (it's a safe bet to assume that Stephen Stucker studied Sydney's signature moves when planning his equally effete 'Johnny' for Airplane!). Perhaps the biggest surprise in the film, and this is not strictly from a stoutness circumstance, is Oscar Nominee (for The Apartment, no less) Jack Kruschen. As the rhinestone encrusted slop bucket Baron, he brings new meaning to the word "squalid". The notion that he thinks he can get nookie from these pretty young things speaks volumes for Satan's ability to deceive.
But it's the cheerleaders themselves who leave the most losing impression, begging the query "Where are the now?" – mostly with the answer "Why should we care?" Picked because they resembled used up high school slut trash perfectly, this movie has so little faith in its narrative (or its performers ability to create a character) that the girls run around with their names emblazoned on their chests (and trust me, you'll still forget who they are). Obviously, the bravest of the babes in the aforementioned Patti, who makes pre-pubescent boys feel top heavy with her grape seed cleavage. Sherry Marks portrays Sharon like she's got body issues. She is always twisted and contorted when she moves, like she's afraid someone will confuse her bosom for the rolls of lard she's hiding. Debbie is a tomboyish pixie who makes up for her lack of feminine whiles by being the most easily available piece of tail known to any man (Hell, she even tries to do it with Ireland and special guest cameo crazy, John Carradine). But perhaps the most out of place member of the school spirit squad is Hillary Horan's Chris. Mustached, with almost no torso whatsoever (her banana bust seems to hang just above her wide load ass) she's far too pear shaped to be a glee clubber. She looks like a grown-up version of Dodie from My Three Sons. Yes, the thought of that should make you nauseous. Leading our quasi-bodacious bunch is Jacqueline Cole, who appears to have taken acting lessons at the Krofft Puppet School of Performance. She is a mass of facial and body tics. She can't stand still when she delivers a line, and even when she's frantic, she sounds like she's telling you her secret strawberry jam recipe, not crying out in anguish.
From the retro-retard soundtrack that confirms why punk had to happen to the optical offal that is supposed to suffice as supernatural nonsense (the screen goes red whenever Moloch goes mental) Satan's Cheerleaders slides down easy and tickles your innards in a way that Mountain Dew never could. It's more of a laugh riot than a softcore sex fest and the ham-fisted, hilarious acting consistently undermines the horror element. Just when you think there is no hope for humanity, when the world seems awash in a billion bad points of empty light, something like Satan's Cheerleaders comes along and gives you back your hope. Hope that when the local Studio 54 festooned handyman abducts you for rape and ritualistic sacrifice, you'll have a perky P.E. teacher around to say 'stop it' a lot. Hope that upright religious administrators from a local University are actually anti-pious pervs who love to sneak peeks in the girl's locker room. Hope that there is indeed a fabric and elastic system able to cradle Yvonne DeCarlo's heavy hooters without testing load bearing and tolerance levels. And hope that you can uncover an unctuous, obvious piece of something pleasurably guilty and savor it 'til you shiver. They just don't make 'em like they used to, and before you shout "GOOD" just remember how empty the planet would be without seasoned slices of matured pork and cheese to give cinema the skanky sensating it so desperately needs. If you like your movies on the mindboggling side, then give these touchdown tarts a roll in your digital backseat. You'll be glad you did.