Oh, Emanuelle in America—where the “wild ride” isn’t just about Emanuelle’s voyages through the world’s seediest locales. If you’re in the mood for a film that provides everything from snuff films to graphic violence, questionable taste, and a plot so incoherent it might just be a fever dream, then this 1977 Italian sexploitation film directed by Joe D’Amato will be your passport to an unforgettable cinematic experience.
Starring the iconic Laura Gemser as the titular Emanuelle, the third entry in the Black Emanuelle series somehow manages to be both disturbingly indulgent and utterly confusing. It’s as if someone tried to make an art piece, but ended up with something resembling a dirty napkin after an all-night pizza and whiskey binge.
Story? What Story?
Let’s talk about the plot, which feels more like a jumbled collection of set pieces from every taboo-laden film you’ve ever seen. Emanuelle, a journalist with questionable decision-making skills, gets caught up in the world of snuff films, something that sounds way more intriguing than it actually is. The film starts with her taking part in a nude photo shootbecause, why not, right? When you’re not posing, you’re investigating sexual depravity, or so the plot seems to assume.
Then there’s Tony—the virgin philosopher who wants to kill her because of her sexual immorality. Naturally, she talks him down (naturally?), and they have an impromptu therapy session in the form of… well, let’s just call it an impromptu act of oral enlightenment. Then, for some reason, Tony runs away, clearly traumatized, because, as we all know, being in a softcore film will either make you a lover or a victim, with very little in-between. No middle ground here. A few phone calls later, Emanuelle and Tony are doing… other things. The cycle of confusion, questionable behavior, and bizarrely misplaced focus continues throughout the film.
But it’s not just about Tony. Emanuelle decides to investigate snuff films for her journalistic cause. First, she infiltrates the harem of a shady billionaire, Elvize, whose wealth is matched only by his ridiculous sexual games, which include more meaningless lesbianism, snuffy BDSM undertones, and a random game of poker dice for money. The narrative is as clunky as it sounds, often stretching moments into absurdity that make you question why this was ever filmed at all. We’re in peak 70s exploitation, folks, where plot was a mere formality between the lewd acts.
Seriously, Was This Written by Actual Humans?
The film does have its iconic moments. It’s bold, it’s brash, and it feels like a series of feverish late-night brainstorming sessions where someone said, “Let’s throw in bestiality, a creepy harem, some odd psychological trauma, a dash of snuff films, and, oh, maybe a car chase? Sure, why not.”
Emanuelle’s investigation into snuff films leads her to meet a U.S. senator who, while participating in a sex scene with her, nonchalantly explains how he also produces snuff films (like that’s the norm for a casual convo). She ends up traveling to South America to witness a completely unrelated and gratuitous scene of torture and rape—which is, you know, just another casual day on the job as a journalist. Does she seem distressed? Nope. Just incredibly well-litthroughout.
The cherry on top of this grimy sundae is when Emanuelle finally encounters a tribe in the jungle, who seem to mistake her for an exotic offering—until her boyfriend, Bill, “sells” her to them for a shell necklace. Because, really, why wouldn’t you trade your girlfriend for some beads and beer? Emanuelle, in turn, is… okay with it. Is this supposed to be empowering? Or is it just lazy scriptwriting at its finest?
The Horror – It’s All Here, in the Worst Possible Way
Look, Emanuelle in America is not a horror film in the traditional sense. Sure, it’s violent, but not in any kind of “scary” way. No jump scares, no unsettling atmosphere—just the creeping discomfort of realizing you’re watching a mess of exploitation tropes with no clear direction. The characters are all walking clichés, using their bodies for moments of mindless gratification and lust, while the viewer awkwardly looks at the screen, wondering if they’ve just watched a woman give a blowjob to the world’s most morally corrupt script.
By the time you realize that the film has devolved into a meaningless sequence of sex scenes, it’s too late to escape. It’s like trying to leave a bad date at a nightclub—you can’t get out fast enough, and when you do, you’re haunted by the memory of what could have been but wasn’t.
Why Was This Even Made?
So, why does Emanuelle in America exist? That’s a question that likely haunts anyone who’s ever had the misfortune of stumbling across it. In the 1970s, sexploitation films like this one were dime a dozen, and Emanuelle was the crown jewel for those looking to push boundaries—albeit in all the wrong ways. The dialogue is laughably bad, the performances equally unimpressive, and the moral compass? Nonexistent.
The film makes the error of trying to combine shock value with mystery, but only succeeds in being utterly uncomfortablefor all the wrong reasons. The feminist commentary is buried under an avalanche of unnecessary nudity, sadistic violence, and inexplicable scenes of “therapy” that seem more exploitative than insightful. There’s nothing remotely empowering about a woman who gets sold for beads, has sex for a scoop, and has zero agency in the face of a creepy senator.
In Conclusion: An Embarrassment of Perversion
At the end of the day, Emanuelle in America is a testament to a genre that was all about excess—of violence, sex, and generally nonsensical plot choices. It’s so bad, in fact, that it actually becomes entertaining in a twisted, almost laughable way. If you’re watching it for its “artistic” take on sexuality and power dynamics, you’re bound to be disappointed. If you’re watching it for the weirdness, the unintentional humor, and the gross-out factor, then congratulations—this film has everything you need to make you question your choices and wonder why on earth you’re still watching.
In the end, the real horror of Emanuelle in America is not the graphic scenes or the outrageous dialogue—it’s that it was ever greenlit in the first place.
