GENRE: Gonzo Busty Pictorial Fetish
DIRECTORS: Ben Dover (Steve Perry)
STARS: Angelique, Barocca, Brittany Andrews, Candy Andes, Casey James, Chloe Vevrier, Danni Ash, Busty Dusty, Erica Evers, Europe Dichan, Fantasia, Fae, Heather Hooters, Lindsey Dawn McKenzie, Minka, Nicole Tyler, Sana Fey, SaRenna Lee, Traci Tops, Valerie Fields, Vanessa, Ben Dover
DATES OF PRODUCTION: 1997? 2003?
LENGTH: 150 mins with bonus material
When is porn NOT porn? When it's a two and one half hour infomercial for Score Magazine's annual tropical teat trek called Ben Dover Does the Boob Cruise. Featuring the unfunny hi-jinx of the entendre titled Mr. Dover and more bags full of saline than a metropolitan E.R., this asexual, uninteresting DVD is really just a travel guide for future participants in this passable passage into pulchritude paradise. The premise for such a vacation into vice is rather understandable: take 22 titanic titted babes, toss them on a ship with a lot of losers paying big money to see even bigger boobs and watch the waves of wanton lust fill the Caribbean seas. And, maybe had an actual film been made of the adventures onboard, including some of the hotter and hornier happenings, this disc would have stiffened your mast or hoisted that fleshy yardarm. But the problem here is that there is very little hardcore content and quite a lot of pointless product pandering. Aside from a far too long lesbian encounter between Sana Fey and Fantasia, and Ben's basic beach harassment of Angelique into some manual manipulation, all you'll see is the full fetish features of breasts in all their various and sundry sunning. So if you enjoy your images of mammaries being folded, spindled, mutilated, mangled, gnarled, oiled, ogled and oppressed, then step right up for this lackadaisical journey into unfunny frigating with painfully large jugs. But don't be surprised if boredom, not bawdy self-satisfaction, is the end result.
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Ben, the terribly cheeky British butt plug who thinks the word "Fuck" describes everything and anything he sees, is our tour guide of the 2002 (or maybe it's the 1997, who knows) Boob Cruise, Score Magazine's annual tramp into the tropic of tits. Gold old Ben (and I do mean old – this dude is pushing the mid-50s from the look of it) is a self-proclaimed ass-man (he is actually off by a few letters and a lot of intent) and he swears to being unimpressed with breasts (just like someone who hates garlic, how can you trust this man?). Avoiding the front of the female form – aside from the pussy, of course - he'd rather roast a rump than fluff a perky pillow. But he is about to take a seven-day (give or take three hours) tour with ta-tas of all sizes and circumferences to see if he can learn to appreciate the championship chest. And there are more than enough of these ample assets to go (and show) around. So with video camera in hand and half-wit in mind, Ben gives us a walking, talking and teasing tour of the high seas adventures of these triple H honeys. He interviews them. He reluctantly relishes and gropes their breasts. He uses multiple variations of the aforementioned four-letter expletive to describe the monstrous mounds. And on a couple of occasions, Ben actually gets down to some "business" with the immodest models, stroking their stretch marks or fingering their nether regions. Oh yeah, and there are a couple of times when Ben just can't control himself and whips out his wiener for a little "caught in extreme close-up" personal jack hammering.
There are two "scenes" in this 90-minute trip into tedium and, frankly, they are out of place and less than professional. Ben watches as Sana Fey and Fantasia put on a "private show" for him in their cabin, taking off their bikini tops and bottoms and engaging in some acts of shipboard Sappho sisterhood. There's lots of licking and sucking and fondling, but Ben's boring play-by-play (and occasional scenes of wanking his wand) dulls the desirability. Equally inept is Ben's foray onto the beaches of Antigua where he spots the Brazilian bombshell Angelique looking for some privacy and basically forces her into playing with herself for his amusement. Since each extracurricular engagement is surrounded by stupid scenes of stripping, tanning, greasing and grinning, the faux hardcore comes completely out of left field and there is nothing preparing us for the possible pornographic positioning. And then there is Ben's bullshit, his bastard babe in the woods wonderment that really grates on your nerves after about five minutes. His overuse of the copulation catchphrase aside, he is a piss-poor guide as he acts like he's never seen a naked boob before, but can't wait to fidget with them once they are unsheathed. His camera work is hand-held horrible and most of the women are shot in such extreme close-up that the image is filled with unidentifiable flesh (and numerous telltale scar tissue tracks). Rarely has nudity and naughtiness been as dreary and plain as the wealth of overworked wantons on display in Dover's diorama to dreck.
Let's face it: the majority of these women are plastic surgery created freaks, dames with modified melons that decry physics and physicality. While sometimes sloppy and occasionally awkward, a naturally large breast can be very enticing. But when you see a ship full of females sporting implants resembling the tops of major sports arenas, it is impossible to feel anything other than disquiet. Instead of a craven desire to cop a feel, one begins to experience arousal-killing curiosity. If there wasn't a market for them, would these ladies really ask to have their chests carved open and sacks the size of Volkswagens placed in their skins? How do they function in everyday life with a body part that is impossible to disguise (or avoid)? Are they secure knowing that men look at them as Oedipal pacifiers, offering - without actual intention - the mistaken belief that they are an easy lay? And do they ever think about the health risks, both mental and physical, to having hooters bigger than bull terriers? Frankly, engaging in such supposition is the only fun to be had with Ben Dover Does the Boob Cruise. While a couple of women are interesting in their large Marge-ness, the overall effect is creepy, not conducive to lustful lung desires.
Since this is a homemade camcorder production, the videography leaves a lot to be desired. Ben's no artistic director of photography and can't help but jiggle the frame around as he tries to create interesting compositions of the corporeal ladies. The camera's limitations really show up in direct sunlight or inside the ship's cabins. There, all color disappears and the image retains a milky, muted pallet. So if you like your porn on the Candid Camera, 'caught in the act' gonzo style, the picture here will not bother you. But if you are looking for natural skin tones or interesting lighting, avoid Ben's brand of independent idiocy.
Another aspect of the DIY nature of this production is the crappy sound. We can usually hear Ben fine, since his mouth is near the internal mic on the camera. But the women he talks to and the ambiance of the ocean are all but lost in a sonic cloud of hiss and white noise. Not offered in Dolby Digital anything (betraying the quick buck mentality of the DVD) the aural elements are just awful.
After 90 minutes of pointless presskit crap, what could be worse? Well, another hour of the same self-serving publicity earmarked as Bonus Footage. The material offered here is like a tawdry travel agent's video brochure for the Boob Cruise. The ship is described. The accommodations are outlined. Each and every actress/star who plans on attending the tit fest is described and given an in-depth dossier. Like a combination live action magazine and hard-sell ad campaign, this Bonus bunk makes Ben Dover's dumbness seem inspired. At least he was trying to spin his sin in a goofball fandom of funny. But this is professional preaching all the way, down to the constant guarantee that the large gozonga-ed gals will be available for the paying customers to "interact" with (how Better Business Bureau of them). Aside from a contract for surefire intercourse, this crass come-on is too much merchandising and not enough sensual mammary to warrant much worth. The other material here, including a trailer, a photo gallery and some web info is standard operating procedure for most adult entertainment. So if you discount the direct plea for travel bookings, there is really nothing interesting offered.
Nothing is more boring than pouring over a friend's scrapbook from a trip you didn't take, filled with snapshots of people and places you could care less about. What's worse is sitting through home movies of said adventure; the endless hours of "we thought this was interesting" quick pans that create more motion sickness than sense of locale. That is what Ben Dover Does the Boob Cruise feels like. For over 150 minutes we observe the unfortunate moveable mammary feast that makes up this annual Score Magazine madness in all its unappetizing, unprofessional pathetic-ness. Ben Dover (who's real name is Steve Perry) may be one of the most beloved gonzo provocateurs in the entire world, but if you had to base his brilliance on this pile of puke you'd have to speculate on what all the shit kicking is about. Chaotic, unfunny and definitely as dry as dirt, this DVD gets a 1 on the Disco Dirge Peter Meter and cannot receive a Cohabitation Certification for couples. It's hard to image that any men, except for those deep into breast fetishism (or locked in a maximum security facility of some sort), would enjoy this disc. While it is true that everything goes better with boobs, the oversized balloons on display in this disc will scare, not ensnare you. A large chest is a thing of beauty. But most of the manmade monstrosities here will test your aesthetic acclamation.