The biggest waste of time since the last time I was forced to watch Oprah. Don’t know what writer and director Iren Koster was trying to do when he wrote and directed this fifth-rate and amateurish car wreck, but unless he was really trying to make total crap, he failed in spades. Which is an inexcusable fucking shame, for it is beyond unforgivable that a film with such a nifty title and basic concept could be so gawd-awful and dreary. Die, Iren Koster, die — you deserve it.
And now the plot — in detail, with spoilers (on purpose), so that you have no reason to waste your time and money on this piece of straight-to-DVD digital shit.
Josh Henderson (Mark Parrish) leaves the house of his bitchy aunt one morning and gathers (as is normal, one surmises) with his various small town friends at the local diner (the cook is played by none other than the untalented director Iren Koster himself), where they overhear a couple of easy-rider wannabes talking about Mustang Sally’s place, the hot whorehouse they just wet their wicks at. Before you know it, out of boredom the six dudes decide to go buy some poontang. There is a lot of inane dialog exchanged between them which is supposed to be funny in a Porky’s (1982/trailer) or Road Trip (2000) kind of way, but without any of the Shakespearean linguistic depths of the of those older two films. Getting to Mustang Sally’s, they are greeted by Mustang Sally herself (played by Elizabeth Daily, who normally does and should stay with voice-over work), and instead of running away in terror of her collagen lips and unsightly bellybutton (her tummy, oddly enough, looks slightly Ethiopian, in a bloated sort of way) stick around for an interminable scene of bad acting in which they each get paired off with various business ladies of varying attractiveness but all featuring the same lack of thespian abilities.
Little do the young loaded guns know it’s all a plot of revenge: many years ago, their fathers raped Mustang Sally and got away with it unpunished; now they must pay for the sins of their fathers. In the course of the night, they all (more or less) die at the hands of the hookers — a few of the ladies die, too, but more than one simply suddenly disappears from the screen when no longer needed to fill the running time. But wait! The bigger twist is still to come: Josh is actually in on the plan! Mustang Sally is really his mother, and his hooker of the evening, Caressa (Lindsey Labrum), is actually his main squeeze. The film ends with the three and the easy-rider wannabes riding off into the sunset together…
It is virtually beyond comprehension how a film about a bordello full of homicidal business ladies could be as dull, unfunny, unbloody, overly clothed and uninteresting as Mustang Sally's Horror House is. The script is almost non-existent, much like the characterization and plot development. Not that the lack of those three basic qualities has ever stood in the way of the creation of an entertaining final product when garnished with the proper amount of sleaze, blood or simple gall, but the film lacks all that as well. Of the hard-working ladies, only three show breast — and they do so, so fleetingly that they might well be nuns instead of hookers. Unbelievably enough, the one with the most silicon — Titianna (Joni Kempner) — never gets out of her Victoria's Secrets. As for the guys, most look like they could have a good future in gay porn, but going by their acting abilities they might not want to endanger their day jobs. Special note must be given to the soundtrack (also by Koster, who supposedly graduated from Julliard — guess that place ain’t what it used to be either), which sounds for the most part a synth score lifted from a budgetless 80s horror film — only any given budgetless 80s horror film has a lot more to offer than this flick.
Neither sleazy nor entertaining nor funny nor interesting nor scary nor really cheesy nor in any way watchable, Mustang Sally's is the type of film that give fans of true trash the feeling that yes, maybe watching films like this is indeed a waste of one’s life. Sacrifice your kitty to the gods and pray that Iren Koster never makes another film.