Just about anyone who reached adolescence in the early days of cable TV can confess at least one or two stolen moments at the altar of what the kids affectionately refer to as “Skinemax” - an umbrella term describing the teasingly softcore offerings provided in the wee hours by HBO's first spinoff network. The late-night “adult” programming leaned heavily toward inane T&A comedies and '70s-era European sex romps; the latter were always badly dubbed (not that any of us could have turned the sound up in the guest room at 1 AM anyway) and featured lots of stock footage from whatever exotic locale served as the alleged setting for the imaginary plot - which itself basically served as a nudity delivery system. The brand leader in this quaint attempt at stirring up prurient interest was definitely the EMANUELLE series, which began as a semi-legitimate attempt at sophisticated erotica, but soon degenerated into a fairly dismal franchise that retained little more than the main character's name from one film to the next, to wit: EMANUELLE’S AMAZON ADVENTURE, EMANUELLE IN BANGKOK, EMANUELLE’S PERVERSE OUTBURST, EMANUELLE IN AMERICA, YELLOW EMANUELLE, SISTER EMANUELLE, DIVINE EMANUELLE, YOUNG EMANUELLE, EMANUELLE BUYS A SWEATER... I made up that last one, but it probably exists out there somewhere.

The lengthiest tenure of any actress to don this mantle would certainly go to Laura Gemser, veteran of dozens of European exploitation quickies spanning every sweaty subgenre from zombie horror to women-in-prison flicks and everything in between. Her first outing in the title role came as BLACK EMANUELLE in ‘75, and she held onto the title for nearly ten years, appearing in some of the more curious installments, as well as a few that only appropriated the Emanuelle moniker as a promotional afterthought. The best thing that I can say about EMANUELLE'S DAUGHTER (onscreen title EMANUELLE: QUEEN OF SADOS) is that this is one of them, and it's filmed in and around a string of sumptuous Greek islands. Other than that, it's about as memorable as a used Kleenex, and not even half as sexy.

This tedious excuse for a softcore skin-flick has the dubious distinction of being the first film of its kind to bore me into a state of near-total delirium, interrupted only by scenes which made me want to blow donuts. (I've helpfully described some of these scenes in this review. You're welcome.) Any film allegedly created for the sole purpose of arousing the libido is in serious trouble when the viewer finds himself wishing the sex scenes would end so he could stop averting his eyes.

I actually gasped with relief every time the filmmakers decided to exploit something truly attractive – namely the exotic local shops, cobalt-glass seascapes and brooding ancient ruins among which these pathetic naked shenanigans are playing out. Admittedly, there's a lot to admire in the “travelogue” portions of the film, as the photography in these glittering exteriors is consistently eye-pleasing. There's even some groovy '70s-era European vehicles to admire during those endless traveling scenes - including Emanuelle's clearly parked Mercedes being rocked back and forth by unseen crew members in a laughable attempt at poor man's process.

Not that Gemser herself is unpleasant to look at; her features are truly exquisite. But every scene in which the filmmakers were guiding my eyes across her supple, bronzed physique ended with me counting her protruding ribs. All of them. I swear, this woman is so skinny, I could actually spot the outline of her pancreas. Sure, a lot of guys are into the whole waif thing, but all I could think was “for god's sake, get this woman a box of crullers!”

Try as I might to focus on some sort of plot structure in order to distract myself from the aforementioned boniness – not to mention the sweaty, hairy crotch-bumping that is the series’ stock in trade - I just couldn't find any. The best I could glean from the proceedings was some kind of revenge tale in which our heroine successfully orchestrates the plane-crash demise of her shaggy-faced husband, who abused her and his daughter regularly (or maybe just once, though we are presented with the icky flashback on three separate occasions) in weird sex rituals that make no sense other than to demonstrate that he was a mean kinky bastard. In short order she inherits his sprawling orange empire (I think... we see a bunch of oranges rolling around on conveyor belts and stuff) and assumes custody of her teenage stepdaughter Livia (Livia Russo), to whom she is alternately bitchy and motherly, depending on... how much ouzo the writers were imbibing that day, I suppose. They are pursued to Greece by the fantastically sleazy Mario (Harris Stevens), who sports tent-sized flares, Ferrari shades and a rose ‘twixt his pearly teeth like a tango instructor in search of a student.

Seems Mario orchestrated the death of Emanuelle's husband, and might also be blackmailing her for... some reason I couldn't quite figure out. Anyway, he's reeeeealllly slimy, and loves the ladies – including young Livia, who naively welcomes his advances, much to stepmom's (and my) chagrin. Fortunately, the girl ends up falling for a much younger fellow whom she meets after a bout of lethargic go-go dancing in a goofy little club (in which the Village People's “YMCA” video flickers proudly in the background!), and it is to this eager boy she hopes to sacrifice her alleged virginity.

I need to borrow a minor tangent here to offer a word of warning: whether the actress herself was of... well, the age of consent at the time (which I kinda doubt), Livia is clearly being depicted as a mere child, probably no more than fourteen, which makes her numerous full-frontal nude and sex scenes downright unsettling. Ecccchhhh.

Anyhow, we get some more boring crap that stands in for a story: Emanuelle flirts a bit with her late husband's business partner, argues with his headstrong factory foreman and does a whole lot of shopping; Mario hops in and out of the sack with some local whores, a chick he met on the plane (who has a naked-cooking fetish... don't ask), Emanuelle's weird assistant (after stuffing her head in a toilet... again, don't ask); the murder plot is finally exposed, and the filmmakers manage to achieve a whole new low by having Mario rape Livia in a mud puddle. I sincerely hope the guy who wrote that scene subsequently choked to death on a spanikopita. At least Mario gets shot in the gut, courtesy of our heroine, who times her revenge perfectly to coincide with the arrival of the police, thus denying herself a clean getaway. Oops, I gave away the ending. Darn!

Well, I can’t fault Exploitation Digital for doing a professional job of packaging this anemic little skin-fest, as they really did their homework. The film’s original promo art is used for the packaging, and they found a pretty decent print to work with. The full-frame transfer (it says widescreen on the box, but it’s presented open matte in 1.33:1) retains both the sparkling colors of the Greek locales and the shimmering glory of Mario’s gold shirt and assorted chest medallions, and there is very little grain or print damage to be seen. The mono track is clean and clear, so you can really drink in the endless loop of bouzouki music on the soundtrack (in case you forgot the thing is set in Greece). Due to copyright issues, the Village People have been overdubbed with a generic disco tune featuring lyrics about “sand in my boxing gloves” or something like that.

Extras are limited, but probably comprise all the materials currently in existence: we get a reel of three trailers (all pretty much the same, only with more or less nudity); a brief stills gallery (including ad mats in Greek, which are pretty interesting) and a silent outtakes reel featuring a few arty beach poses from Gemser, a few innocuous dialog scenes and assorted slates. Trailers for other Exploitation Digital titles include the ludicrous PORNO HOLOCAUST (see review), also starring Gemser.

You've probably begun to infer at this point that I'm not terribly fond of this film. You would be essentially correct in that assumption. You would also be correct if you were to comment, “This film eats balls.” And you would thereby establish yourself as a reasonably enlightened being for saying so. Conversely, if you take issue with my negative stance and assert that this film is indeed worthy of merit, then I would suggest that you punch yourself in the head repeatedly until you lose consciousness.