Andy Sidaris plays to his strengths in Savage Beach, a mediocre B-movie from 1989 that assembles such luminaries as Dona Speir, Hope Marie Carlton, Teri Weigel, and Michael J. Shane. This bevy of bodacious bods stacks the vacuous feature with plenty of eye candy, continuing Sidaris’ proclivity for “bullets, bombs and babes.”
As with previous entries like Picasso Trigger and Hard Ticket to Hawaii, Savage Beach looks like the lovechild of The A-Team and Baywatch. The sun is always shining, the women are always finding a reason to go topless, the men are always dunderheaded fools with magnificent pecs.
This outing finds everyone’s favourite drug enforcement officers Donna (Speir) and Taryn (Carlton) tasked to deliver medical supplies to an island because why not. They make the drop and run into a storm on the way back. They make an emergency landing on another isle and find themselves in the middle of an international incident.
Filipino mastermind Martinez (Rodrigo Obregón) is on the lookout for a supply of gold that went missing in the Pacific Ocean during World War II. Donna and Taryn just so happen to be on the island where the gold is, which sets up an encounter between good, evil and a Japanese soldier (Michael Mikasa).
While the women traipse around the island and get into trouble, they keep in touch with their flighty supervisor Shane Abilene (Shane). At one point, Shane attempts to spark some innuendo in a discussion about weaponry but winds up coming off flat. And in this world of silicone enrichment, flat simply will not do.
There are a few sex scenes, with the moustachioed Rodrigo and the non-moustachioed Anjelica (Weigel) handling most of the heavy lifting. As is typical in Sidaris terrain, the sequences involve a lot of posturing, rubbing and saxophone music. At one point, Rodrigo and Anjelica get it on in the backseat of a car while the fortunate driver has a gander.
Most of the nudity is of the “oh, look, boobs” range, with Speir and Carlton taking their tops off at arbitrary intervals. The best of these randy recesses takes place on the plane in the pounding tempest, as the aviators make the executive decision to change their damp clothes before anything inconvenient should befall the cockpit.
The action of Savage Beach is on the flat side, with very little by way of novelty. The silly Frisbee throws of Hard Ticket to Hawaii are a distant memory, as Mikasa moseys around and half-asses his way through some “martial arts.”
By the time Savage Beach reaches midway, Sidaris has run out of steam – and scenarios. Sure, the women romp on the coast and Howard Wexler runs through an assortment of redundant wide shots. And sure, the silhouetting aspect of two sinfully symmetrical blondes plays well against the bloodshot dip of the sun. But what does it all mean?
Nobody wanders into a show like Savage Beach expecting anything less than a breast-infused binge of bedroom bonanzas and big bangs, but the reiteration of this particular jaunt leaves a lot to be desired. Sidaris, to his detriment, focusses a little too much on the “plot” and loses the thread.
Unfortunately, Savage Beach is less savage than safe. It plays more made-on-TV than its pithy precursors and seems to be missing a spark. As volatile as things can get on the island, Sidaris’ B-movie series loses heat with this entry.