Directed by Carlos Tobalina
Written by Carlos Tobalina
Starring:
- Erroff Lynn as Peter Allison
- Carlos Tobalina as Carlos
- Marsha Jordan as Mrs. Allison
- Maria Tobalina (credited as Maria Pia) as Lisa
- Vincent Barbi as Kidnapper
- Anita de Moulin as Rosina
Release Date: July 19, 1969
Rating: 
Long before cult status came calling, Infrasexum had already become an outlaw. The infamous, idiotic, yet oddly important Infrasexum—that bargain-bin softcore about erectile dysfunction that Colorado prosecutors dragged into court for “obscenity.” The trashy little skin flick whose director had the balls to countersue the very people trying to bury it. And the same damned movie that got a projectionist and a theater manager hauled off in handcuffs in Birmingham, Alabama, giving Los Angeles-based Peruvian director Carlos Tobalina one of exploitation cinema’s most notorious introductions.
But what exactly is so scandalous about Infrasexum that it sent America’s self-appointed morality police into a panic at the dawn of the sexual revolution—before Miller v. California, no less? Search me. Carlos Tobalina’s oddball skin flick is a little bit of everything, but nowhere near the corrupting menace the authorities made it out to be. If anything, it belongs to the “pretty” side of sexploitation rather than the grimy one. Sure, there’s one wildly out-of-place splash of Herschell Gordon Lewis-style gore, but it’s little more than a drive-by detour in a movie that’s ultimately about one washed‑up married man trying to get his mojo back.
If you’re looking for nonstop exploitation lunacy, Infrasexum probably isn’t your ticket. But if, like me, you use these old skin flicks as passports to places that no longer exist, then this one is a beauty. It takes you cruising through the battered streets of late-’60s Los Angeles, detours into a gloriously shabby Las Vegas, and eventually drops you into the stunning silence of California’s Sierra Nevada. That’s the sort of cinematic tourism exploitation movies do better than almost anyone.
Among the many filmmakers who passed through Los Angeles’ X-rated underworld, Carlos Tobalina may have done more than anyone to shape it. The Peruvian immigrant didn’t just transform Hollywood’s swankiest homes into makeshift porn sets; he helped organize the city’s hardcore industry with the same entrepreneurial hustle David F. Friedman and Dan Sonney poured into their legendary Pussycat theaters. As owner of the historic Mayan Theater in downtown Los Angeles and the X Theater on Hollywood Boulevard—back when the boulevard was crawling with skin houses—Tobalina became to Los Angeles porn what the Mitchell brothers were to San Francisco. And it all started with Infrasexum: technically clumsy, visually rough around the edges, yet bursting with enough goofy charm and satirical bite to announce the arrival of one of adult cinema’s true pioneers.
Infrasexum kicks off with our exhausted, sexually defeated hero Peter, played by an actor billed as Erroff Lynn—a name that’s about as subtle as a brick through a grindhouse marquee, and an obvious wink at Hollywood’s legendary Errol Flynn. Coincidence? I seriously doubt it. Flynn’s off-screen reputation was every bit as notorious as his on-screen swagger, so I couldn’t shake the feeling that Carlos Tobalina was taking a playful jab at the aging screen idol. Peter doesn’t just borrow Flynn’s name; he even sports the same pencil mustache. By the time the credits rolled, I was convinced Infrasexum was imagining an alternate Errol Flynn: older, washed up, stripped of his movie-star invincibility, and suddenly unable to conquer the one battle that really matters—his own impotence.
The setup couldn’t be any dumber—and that’s exactly why it works so well. Peter can’t get it up, and the poor bastard will try just about anything to fix that little inconvenience. He abandons his life, leaves behind his wife and her rather impossible-to-ignore breasts, punches out of work, and ditches Los Angeles for the bright lights of Las Vegas. No dice. Not even Sin City can convince his stubborn manhood to wake up. Defeated, Peter crawls back to L.A., where a stroll down the Sunset Strip introduces him to the endlessly chatty Carlos, played by none other than Carlos Tobalina himself.
Good old Carlos comes to the rescue the only way a late-’60s skin-flick hero knows how: weed, gorgeous women, and the promise of a good time. Even that can’t wake Peter’s sleeping libido. Somewhere between the obligatory lesbian frolics, oral gymnastics, bouncing boobs, shapely backsides, and the occasional burst of violence, Infrasexum unexpectedly starts looking inward. Peter’s hunt for a hard-on slowly becomes a search for purpose. Tobalina doesn’t always pull it off, but you’ve got to admire the guy’s nerve. The movie wants to be a sex comedy, a melancholy character piece, a satire, and a sleazy skin flick all at once, somehow keeping one foot in good taste and the other ankle-deep in glorious bad taste. It’s a perfect snapshot of why late-’60s sexploitation could be so weirdly exhilarating. Tobalina’s later hardcore output would bounce wildly between awful and inspired, but every last one of them carries the same magnificently grubby heartbeat that first shows up in Infrasexum. In the end, it’s the sly satirical streak running beneath all the smut and sleaze that makes Infrasexum so disarmingly charming. It’s the kind of magic only Carlos Tobalina could pull off—formless, scrappy, completely undisciplined… and somehow richer for all its imperfections.
