A preacher's wife (think Reverend Lovejoy's wife from "The Simpsons") gets her bony ass regularly shtupped by a muscle-bound sex-monkey drifter cute-as-a-button boy-toy with a very high-maintenance pompadour hair-do (think Snake from "The Simpsons") just as her sanctimonious husband is about to conclude a lucrative televangelism deal. Complications ensue. There is nothing wrong with this film once you admit it's really pornography for women. There is really nothing unnatural about that, per se. Some works of this genre have attained cult and classic status, like, say, oh, I don't know, "Jane Eyre". Everybody with ovaries enjoys this kind of pastime. It's just regrettable that American women - and Anglo-Saxon White Protestant women especially - feel that their pleasure can only be complete with the inclusion of large doses of guilt, deceit, bitchiness, gossip, mental illness, paranoia, greed, medical near-emergencies, police and media involvement, skeletons in the closet, triple-generational incest, double adultery, shame, ruined reputations, scandal, murder, blackmail, public exposure, bad driving and ultimately humiliation, punishment, mutilation or death of the "guilty" parties. Refer again to all the works of the Brontë sisters and their Gothic Harlequin romance and afternoon soap-opera descendants. Everyone should be able to enjoy sex when they can, but why all the hypocrisy?
The film score alternates between torridly sexy sax solos for the soft porn scenes and abysmal "fear music" that would make the History Channel proud for everything else. A Black Gospel choir is also trotted out on stage every time the viewer might be forgiven for concluding those small-town fundamentalist Christian nutjobs must surely be racist Republican tea-baggers to boot.
