Only three memorable things about this movie: Neith Hunter in a painted on dress that comes down no further than a bathing suit, in four inch spike heels, walking across some city streets. And then standing over Cheech as he comes out from under her car. Oh, my god. Jan Michael Vincent, no longer The Worldest Greatest Athlete. Now perfectly cast as a puffy, dim-witted, horrifying example of the wastes of alcohol. The theme song's not bad.
Review of Born in East L.A.
