Ask any true believer of exploitation films about Isla, She Wolf of the SS (1974) and you can expect a brief moment of referential silence. As the memories begin sparking like roman candles, you can watch a glinting light, not entirely wholesome, begin to make the irises shine. Guilty pleasure? Well, She Wolf begs the question, can you have one without the other?

There had never been anything like She Wolf before it began burning holes in the screens of grind house theaters and the minds of American young men in the early 1970’s. Briefly told, She Wolf tells the riding-crop snapping tales of Ilsa, commandant of a Nazi concentration camp in WWII. Ilsa is, at the very least, a sadistic, perverted, homicidal, sex-addicted, dominatrix with a fetish for leather; and she submits the prisoners, guards and guests of "Medical Camp 9" to a wide variety of "experiments" in pursuit of her dark, wet satisfaction. That is pretty much all there is to the "plot" of She Wolf. To this day, the potent exploitation of sex, torture, Nazism, sadism, lesbianism, and fetishism makes for many a viewing experience well beyond the pale. It has not gone down a single notch on the offense-o-meter over time. She Wolf was (and still is) damned, banned, spit upon, screamed at; and so enormously popular that director Don Edmonds was approached almost instantaneously to make a sequel; which brings us to the Harem Keeper of the Oil Sheiks.

In Harem, Ilsa (Dyanne Thorne) has a whip made of long, blonde human hair instead of leather, and her extremely snug, cleavage-plunging uniform is desert tan instead of black. Other than that, things remain pretty much the same for Ilsa from the Germany of 1942 to the imaginary Arab sands of 1975 (for those wondering how Isla, who died at the end of She Wolf, could still be young, beautiful and alive 30 some years later - don’t be an ass hole. As director Edmonds so perfectly explains on the commentary track – the Ilsa films are set in “never, never time”). In Harem, Ilsa is the personal manager/harem overseer of one El Sharif (Jerry Delony). El Sharif stocks his harem with nubile young women kidnapped from around the world. Things are hunky dory until an American CIA agent (Max Thayer) has to stick his beak in and mess up the deal.

I gave this film five breasts, but really "five" is just a number that doesn’t begin to really touch the corrupted, should-be-repulsive-but-isn’t, hysterical eroticism of this film. Per example: the pulse- enriching nadir of the film comes as a "syphilitic beggar" (Buck Flower) is allowed to "torture" Ilsa, who has been stripped naked and had her wrists and ankles tethered to upright posts. As for other dank pleasures, did I mention that Ilsa has devised a vaginal diaphragm device that, once inserted deeply, explodes during vigorous (and I do mean vigorous) sexual activity? Well, she did; and uses it twice in the film. While I’m at it, I should probably mention the tit-mashing machine as well. Get the gist?

The film is well worth your time for three reasons (other than the boob press): first and foremost; ex Las Vegas showgirl, Dyanne Thorne. The woman is a tower of power as the tall, Germanic Ilsa, rivaling Betty Page as an "infamous" sexual icon. Yes, the role completely typecast her for life, but you’ll never hear her bitch about it. As Thorne (who still looks too hot to touch) mentions on the Anchor Bay DVD commentary track, few actresses ever get the chance to play so beefy a role, and she grabbed the part by it’s long, blonde hair and rode it straight into film history.

Two: Jerry Delony as El Sharif. This guy is El Sharif. The actor feels every, single inch of the part, and completely eats it up. Delony’s El Sharif is a grinning, greasy sex addict, a raging despot, driven to eye- bulging flights of madness by the twine engines of sex and death. Even Don Edmonds seemed a bit taken aback by Delony’s Deniro-like intensity. "This guy was never out of character," said Edmonds, recalling the actor on the commentary track, "He used to go home wearing the robes." El Sharif lives!

Last, watch this film for the wonderful film-making of director Don Edmonds. Edmond’s commitment to his work is evident throughout the film, from the wonderful, inventive sets to the fluid, clever use of the camera. I can serve the director no better than to let the man speak for himself: "I don’t make "B" movies. If I’m on the set, you get my "A" stuff. A film that you like is done without apology."

That, my friends, is how a real film maker, and a real artist, sounds talking about his craft. You really must see this movie. Remember, the Netflix envelopes are completely nondescript. Tell your busy-body neighbor it’s When Harry Met Sally.

My thanks to my favorite splatter man, Jorge Antonio Lopez, for giving me the opportunity to write about a film I care about. Keep the slime green, Jorge!