The Telephone Book, heralded as “THE GONE WITH THE WIND of 60’s/70’s Underground Cinema” by Richard Winters, is the pinnacle of Sexploitation. This hyperbolic and highly exaggerated statement comes from one who hasn’t the knowledge of the 70s X-Rated film movement, but I know a little somethin’ somethin’.

Why this film is damn perfect, is it’s showcasing of our inner pleasures. Humans, always secretive about sex — or at least Americans, since we’re such prudes concerning the act of coitus and it’s secular pleasures — fear the day their inner most fantasies be made public. And that’s what The Telephone Book does, to some extent (it can’t cover all fantasies, or else my llama/red panda fantasy would be in the first act, but that’s neither here nor there).

Let’s start with who is John Smith. I stole this from an IMDb review: John Smith is “every man’s deepest fantasy of course.” He is the “perfect male.” With the luscious voice, the verbosity to collective moisten hundreds of panties, he is who all men aspire to be.

Sarah Kennedy plays the Utopian female. Easily swooned and open to acts of deplorable carnality. Cute and dapper, and you needn’t worry about feeling intellectually incompetent.

I refuse to delve deeper into the story, for that would just ruin your enjoyment of the film. You must go in somewhat blind, because it’s the only way you can really admire the piece of art you’re viewing. One thing you should know is you will feel a certain amount of sadness knowing Nelson Lyon hadn’t directed anything after. I beg you to restrain your tears, because being a one hit wonder isn’t all that bad.