When a quartet of high school graduates take on jobs at a Mexican resort, in lieu of the traditional summer vacation, they hope to take advantage of some residual fringe benefits as the assortment of oddball guests pile in for the season. What follows is a fun, brainless romp of sex and adultery, typical of the soft-porn comedies that were a fad of the eighties.
Think "Porky's", "Meatballs", "Private Lessons" or "Joysticks", multiply the debauchery tenfold, and you'll come close to "Hot Chili". The guests are diverse, and their characterisations honed for maximum ham value, incorporating some cracker dialogue that won't soon be forgotten. There's Herr Fritz (Bromilow), the Ruger-clutching Bavarian chasing fat boy Arney (Rubbo) around the resort screaming "where are you salami boy?" after he catches him with his nymphomaniac Frau Brigitte, herself incessantly moaning "I am bekomming!" as she climaxes at every given opportunity.
But if that's not austere enough for your moral compass, you might prefer the nudist music instructor (Fiedler) always willing to give intimate cello lessons to visitors, or, the sleazy hotel manager (Lazarus) who's too busy chasing tail to notice his establishment has become a brothel in which the randy guests are knocking each other off like guinea pigs on heat. Unbeknownst to them all, their sordid escapades are being covertly taped, and a litany of affairs is exposed in an hilarious highlight reel at the film's conclusion.
Louisa Moritz might be the cast's biggest name (Ferdy Mayne's role is very brief), which gives you an idea of the scale, although Federico Gonzales is particularly amusing as the sleepy taco, with little interest in the promiscuous activity of the guests.
Obviously if you're not accustomed to the teen sex comedy styling of the eighties, you might be offended by the content, although it's pretty tame by today's standards. William Sachs ("The Incredible Melting Man" being his piece de resistance) directs this tongue-in-cheek tale with little attention to narrative, poring maximum emphasis on T&A for the adolescent male audience to enjoy. If you were going to sample this genre from the 80's halcyon era, "Hot Chili" must certainly be mandatory viewing.
Think "Porky's", "Meatballs", "Private Lessons" or "Joysticks", multiply the debauchery tenfold, and you'll come close to "Hot Chili". The guests are diverse, and their characterisations honed for maximum ham value, incorporating some cracker dialogue that won't soon be forgotten. There's Herr Fritz (Bromilow), the Ruger-clutching Bavarian chasing fat boy Arney (Rubbo) around the resort screaming "where are you salami boy?" after he catches him with his nymphomaniac Frau Brigitte, herself incessantly moaning "I am bekomming!" as she climaxes at every given opportunity.
But if that's not austere enough for your moral compass, you might prefer the nudist music instructor (Fiedler) always willing to give intimate cello lessons to visitors, or, the sleazy hotel manager (Lazarus) who's too busy chasing tail to notice his establishment has become a brothel in which the randy guests are knocking each other off like guinea pigs on heat. Unbeknownst to them all, their sordid escapades are being covertly taped, and a litany of affairs is exposed in an hilarious highlight reel at the film's conclusion.
Louisa Moritz might be the cast's biggest name (Ferdy Mayne's role is very brief), which gives you an idea of the scale, although Federico Gonzales is particularly amusing as the sleepy taco, with little interest in the promiscuous activity of the guests.
Obviously if you're not accustomed to the teen sex comedy styling of the eighties, you might be offended by the content, although it's pretty tame by today's standards. William Sachs ("The Incredible Melting Man" being his piece de resistance) directs this tongue-in-cheek tale with little attention to narrative, poring maximum emphasis on T&A for the adolescent male audience to enjoy. If you were going to sample this genre from the 80's halcyon era, "Hot Chili" must certainly be mandatory viewing.