Reviewed by SexHerald Staff
Even by the meager standard of pornography, the plot of Quality Time is thin, inane and a laughably transparent excuse for sex. None of which would matter, of course, is the sex was hot, but even here the movie fails, presenting a series of dull, mechanical scenes between physically unremarkable performers displaying little inspiration.
The “plot,” such as it is, is nothing but a handful of loosely related couples talking about and having sex. It’s meant to be romantic, if you can believe that; a magical celebration of the loving physical bonds between partners. It would be generous to call it ineffective, more accurate to say it is miscalculated at every turn.
In the first scene, the movie’s main characters, a married couple, are served dinner by their housekeeper, who then meets her husband in the kitchen where they suck and fuck on the kitchen counter (is there no respect for hygiene?). Is this a precursor to some sort of kinky wife-swap scenario? Of course not. That wouldn’t be romantic, and it would also represent some semblance of a plot. Instead we’re expected to find the couple’s shenanigans moving, and to believe that the employers, who sit eating dinner literally in the next room, simply don’t notice that 20 feet away their hired help is busy staining the grout with various bodily fluids.
In the next scene, we’re expected to believe that it’s a fairly common occurrence for a couple to fuck on a blanket in the park in broad daylight without even making the slightest gesture towards discretion. No secretive up-the-skirt fuck here. Instead, the pair strip down and give each other the full porn treatment: fellatio, cunnilingus and the usual battery of positions before finishing with a facial (ah, love). We’re further expected to believe that the three joggers in the background, who clearly notice the couple, find it deserving of no more notice than a casual double-take.
One of the joggers is the wife who employed the housekeeper in the first scene, and she and her friends are out for a little Sunday morning exercise (the sight of porn actresses jogging, incidentally, is a special kind of entertaining, what with all that jostling silicone and their very obvious lack of familiarity with the endeavor). They soon stop and discuss their sex lives, and here we get a series of flashbacks, each more forgettable than the last.
The main problem with the sex is that porn sex — whatever else it may be — is rarely or never romantic. And I feel comfortable guessing that very few viewers turn to porn for touching stories about intimate emotional connections. Most people like it for the fucking, and the dirtier the better. So, in the final scene, we get the unintentionally comic combination of a romantic piano piece and the sustained sound of Spears’ balls slapping over and over again against Vincent’s ass. And that little detail just about sums it up. QualityTime
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