The Rites of Uranus (no director credited, 1975)

An hour-long, bottom-of-the-barrel wonder, The Rites of Uranus follows Sarah (Vivian Parks) into an anally focused cult whose members chant "Hail to Your Anus, Your anus takes my thrust and the penetrating force of my grey hot venom shall shatter the sanctity of the mind" over and over, although some of the more inebriated cast members mangle the pronunciation. And at 18:37 in my copy, a disembodied voice intones, "I'm going to enter your body through your anus," but the last two words are uttered in mock-Cookie-Monster style. 

Much sex occurs in the first twenty minutes before Sarah accidentally kills the high priest by sitting on his face. Sporting purple, sparkly knee-high socks, Sarah is thrown in a jail cell and seems distraught over her crime. But it's difficult to be certain since her dialogue sounds like those "I had a stroke" memes: "I didn't kill him. I killed him. But he was...he committed his own suicide" or "I want keys and a hard-on."

The narrative then abandons Sarah for a while and we're treated to a vaginal examination on a waterbed in a wood-paneled room. Cult members (Uransites, as they're referred to) in hooded robes perform various duties such as handing out fliers for the cult ("Lost? Find Yourself in Uranus.") and attaining hard-ons for ever more sexual activity. They manage to entice one hapless gal but not much happens with her beyond signing her life away to the cult (on a poster-size contract). 

Sarah has ever more sex with disrobed male cult members, one of whom is anally penetrated with a thin sword-dildo while mounting her in the missionary position. The climax reveals that the high priest did not, in fact, die. He returns in a tuxedo t-shirt and matter-of-factly sends her home for a hilariously deflating dénouement. 

The soundtrack is comprised of several Santana and Tomita songs including the latter's Firebird and, I think, his outer-spaced version of Holst's The Planets. There are also plane and car sounds even though the sets seems to be interiors. And check out the final screen shot for a glimpse of an early videotape machine.

Yet again, I'm supposed downgrade this kind of burned-out nonsense that is pornography's gift to humankind? Neauxp!

Grade: A-minus

Available on the Vinegar Syndrome collection Storefront Theatre: All Night at the Bizarre Art. 

Edit: This was directed by Richard Mailer according to Vinegar Syndrome's Joe Rubin.