celebrity love island.

Another busy day of work, another repost of a quality Joe D'Amato 'classic' (I'm blaming that Evil Sex Trap nonsense).

You can think what you like tho, I'll admit to having a soft spot for Le Notti Erotiche Dei Mort Viventi, it was one of those movies that always sat at the back of your 'nasties' cupboard when you were 15 (alongside the Malcolm McDowell masterpiece Caligula and Mad Foxes).

The 80's: That's how we all dressed.

It disappeared from my collection during one of my frequent moves during the late 80's but bizarrely enough a few yearss ago my dear father sent a DVD copy to me as a present (alongside a copy of the Anime series Sex Friend which he'd mistakenly purchased thinking it was called Sex Fiend but I digress) and the poor review has been sitting alone and unloved way back in the 2007 section.
 
So, let's revisit those heady days of Pop Will Eat Itself, Red Stripe in cans, starchy school uniforms and dodgy Marc Almond haircuts.....


Le Notti Erotiche Dei Mort Viventi (AKA Erotic Nights Of The Living Dead 1980)
Dir: Joe D'Amato
Cast: Laura Gemser, George Eastman, Mark Shannon, Dirce Funari.

The plot (what there is of it) goes thusly.....

A salty Oirish seadog Captain 'amazing' Larry O'Hara (played by the half man half giant sweat gland that is D'Amato regular George Eastman wearing Al Cliver's beard and Auretta Gaye's breasts) takes a big moustached, 'sexy' American businessman/playboy/STD riddled sex tourist Mr. John Wilson (yes, the Man in Haini's Fantasy from Orgasmo Nero himself, Mark Shannon) and his 'girlfriend' Fiona (the fantastically named Dirce Funari from D'Amato's Porno Holocaust) to visit the remote island of Matoul (snigger) where the businessman is planning to build an exclusive holiday resort (presumably for big moustachioed playboys to have sex).

"Are you looking at my bra?"

After Much on deck shagging, drinking, comparing of man breasts and such-like they arrive at the island to be met by a spookily sexy voodoo lady (and I don't mean maybe) Luna (Gemser, ask your mum) and her bony old dad Geoff.

After a bit more sex (involving Gemser but not the old man unluckily) the trio are warned that the island is cursed and bad things (not including 70's style 'sexiness' and herpes) are going to occur if they don't scarper sharpish.

You see, this is an island of the dead and they don't take kindly to property developers disturbing their sleep (either by building or having sex a lot).

"Excuse me I appear to have accidentally stuck my cock in you".

After a bit (well a lot) more sex (this time involving Eastman and Funari then Gemser and Funari, bloody hell she should be knackered!), some character driven tension and a nice use of a fog machine and blue lenses the dead do indeed rise from the grave....intent on ridding the island of these kinky interlopers....

Phwoooaaarrr!!!

It's then that the movie goes a wee bit strange (which seeing as it earlier had a woman opening bottle of Champagne with her fanny is saying something)....Gemser turns into a cat (or a child's cuddly toy I can't really tell) and back again before biting Mark Shannon's cock off (well he really shouldn't leave it dangling about like that).

Eastman meanwhile runs into the water (giving us a chance to see his huge hairy nipples rubbing against his wet vest) screaming then runs out again and Funari sobs a lot.

After a while the zombies (all wearing huge nappies) kill them.

The end.

"Big Issue mate?"

Like his other genre buggering crossover gem Porno Holocaust (the two films were shot in the same Dominican Republic locations with only minor variations in cast and crew due to Tetanus jabs being required), it's difficult to see who D'Amato was aiming this film at (present company excepted).

The usual porn brigade are no doubt going to be put off by the scenes of undead induced violence whilst your everyday horror fan is probably not going to want to see Mark Shannon's wart-infested scrotum, taking it's place centre stage and in widescreen glory.

Possibly.

Is this a rare an example of the unsung genius that is D'Amato sneakily toying with the porn crowds enjoyment?

Probably not but it would be nice to think so.

"What's for tea?" "Fish fingers!"

Yet, despite all the crap shags, woeful performances and the aforementioned sight of Eastman's girlfriend opening a bottle of Champagne with her vagina, the Matoul scenes are steeped with a genuinely nightmarish atmosphere thanks to D'Amato's moody, if sometimes zoomtastic, cinematography.

Marcello Giombini's eerie score is suitably, um, eerie and the 'exotic' Laura Gemser is always worth a mention.

If not a quick hand shandy every now and then, especially if you're watching her fitness video.

Or so my dad says.

There is even the odd spooky scene along the way, as when Shannon, sceptical of the zombie curse, throws away a protective talisman only to see it transform into a cat as it hits the sand.

Pity this can't be said about the later scenes of zombies dropping from trees tho....

"Warty cock in mah exotic mooth!"

For all it's faults and uncomfortable moments of ugly warts, sagging arses and lopsided breasts (stand up and be counted Ms. Funari) Le Notti Erotiche Dei Mort Viventi comes across (quite literally) as the bastard, inbred offspring of Fulci's Zombi 2 and Jess Franco's Nightmares Come at Midnight with a wee bit of Ferdinando Di Leo's Klaus Kinski starrer Asylum Erotica thrown in - or up - for good measure obviously, I mean if you're going to steal steal from the best.

Plus it's slightly funnier than D'Amato's Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals (and with less arse obsessed subplots) and a damn sight more erotically charged than Sophie's Choice.

And that isn't really such a bad thing if you think about it.

golden oldie.

Been tres busy here with birthdays, virginal sacrifices, re-watching old Amicus portmanteau movies (a December tradition) and preparing for Christmas.

Normal service will resume soon.

Until then here's a yummy little movie from 'The France' with probably one of the greatest titles ever.

Laydees and gents I give you....

La Nuit de la Mor (AKA Night of Death! 1980).
Dir: Raphaël Delpard
Cast: Isabelle Goguey, Charlotte de Turckheim, Betty Beckers, Michel Debrane and Ernest Menzer.

 “What could go on in a place like this?”

Luscious librarian type and Nicola Roberts alike Martine (the copper topped, slinky hipped Euro-tottie Goguey, last seen in Paradigma) has just gotten a new job at a local old folks home, the not at all creepily named Deadlock House caring for - and occasionally cuddling - the elderly residents.

Arriving a day early, much to the chagrin of the home's director the frighteningly efficient Hélène (the magnificent Beckers, all French fancy and no knickers, probably), Martine is introduced to her fellow carer, the leggy blonde Nicole (de Turckheim) who is, understandably peeved that she's getting replaced without being consulted and the hulking, wooden of legged and bowl of haired handyman Jules (Debrane) before being sent off to the attic to unpack her bags.

It seems that bossy bitch Hélène has warmed to the thought of having Martine there a day or so early because it means she can put her to work without having to pay her.

Well, that's the French for you.

Martine slowly parted Hélène's beefy curtains...

Joining Nicole on her rounds, our ginger princess is finally introduced to the residents, every single one of them an egg and cress sandwich short of a picnic basket whilst poor Jules lusts quietly after Nicole, rubbing his thighs in the corner whilst trying to hide the smell of warm milk emanating from his crotch area.

Yup, most definitely French.

Apparently taking a shine to her new employee, Hélène offers Martine the night off to spend with her boyfriend before starting the job good and proper, which is nice because the rules say that she wont be allowed out for at least twenty eight days after her contract starts.

But that night, whilst Martine is doing the dirty in the back of her beau's Fiat Uno, Nicole is dragged from her bed in the middle of night by the ancient, turkey necked residents who, after stripping her naked tie her down to a picnic table and gut her before finally eating her whole.

Tho' they may have spat that bit out.

Aye Son!

With grass in her hair and mud on her knees, Martine returns to the house the next morning and is surprised to find Nicole (and her collection of seventies cocktail dresses) gone, the result of a blazing argument over Nicole being prettier than her according to Director Hélène.

Thinking nothing of it, our red headed raver gets on with her chores, closely watched by jittery Jules in-between his daily burnings of mysterious bags of ladies clothes and whipping the residents.

As the days go by Jules it seems, is becoming more and more obsessed with marrying our heroine (just as he was with Nicole), the old folk have taken to forcing Martine to drink what looks like fresh vomit at meal times and she's found the burnt remains of Nicole's suitcase behind the bins.

Suffice to say Martine (although not the brightest tool in the box) is by now beginning to suspect that there's more to Nicole's disappearance - and the batty old folk - than meets the eye and decides in her best Nancy Drew fashion (tho' not fashions which is a shame) to investigate.

""Can you smell petrol?"

As the clues keep a coming and the kooky crinklies get more crazy, Martine begins to understand the true meaning behind the bizarre lunch ritual that the potty pensioners partake in on a daily basis and discovers just why they're all so concerned about her weight.

And if that wasn't enough, there's also the little problem of the town's resident murdering mentalist, nicknamed The Golden Needle Killer for Martine to deal with,  as well as the most important thing in her life; deciding what film to go and see at the cinema with the local milkman on her next day off.

"It's CCCCCHHHRRRRIIISSSTTTMMMAAASSS!!!!"

Coming across like a bizarre French adaptation of an unmade Pete Walker script, writer/director (and sometime actor) Raphaël Delpard's little seen La Nuit de la Mor is one of the creepiest, blackest (in both humour and atmosphere) films to come out of the early eighties and a surprising departure from what's normally associated with the French horror genre.

Imagine The House of Whipcord spliced together with bits of Rosemary's Baby and populated by an entire cast of Ruth Gordon's and your halfway to understanding the sheer genius of this movie, played just the right side of camp by all involved and directed in a pleasant, surprising non fussy style by Monsieur
Delpard and whilst there may be no real surprises in the plot, it's the sheer creepiness of both the characters and overall atmosphere of the movie that makes it so great.

Your dad's custard cousins yesterday.

And what characters!

From the brilliant Betty Beckers as the delightfully evil Hélène to the flame headed floosie that is Isabelle Goguey via Michel Debrane's jizz-stained Jules and the entire cadre of oldies everyone is perfectly presented in such a playfully perverse manner that you can't help but become involved in the whole sordid story.

Highly recommended.

ursula undress.

Another oldie redone to add a few more comedy 'mooth shite-in' gags, this classic from the director of Suspected Death of A Minor, Gambling City and The Strange Vice of Mrs. Wardh is probably the nearest thing to a classy cannibal film, yup it's the Star studded (sort of) Mountain of The Cannibal God.

Less mondo and more macho than many other entries in the Italian cannibal cycle, I also happen to be married to one of this movies biggest fans, hence the nice and non-bitchy review.

Enjoy.

Montagna Del Dio Cannibale (AKA Mountain of The Cannibal God, Primitive Desires, Slave of the Cannibal God, Prisoner of the Cannibal God. 1978)
Dir: Sergio Martino.
Cast: Ursula Andress, Stacy Keach, Franco Fantasia, Antonio Marsina, Claudio Cassinelli and some gypsies.

A foreign film poster yesterday.

Busty businesswoman Susan Stevenson (Andress, obviously slumming it to pay her monthly Botox bill) has recently arrived in Pakistan to look for her explorer husband Henry and, more importantly, to stock up on duty free fags and booze.

It seems that while on an expedition in New Guinea, her hubbie took a wrong turn whilst out looking for the local post office and hasn't been seen since.

Aided by her sleazy (and overtly camp) brother Arthur (star of the classic Demons 6 Marsina, looking frighteningly like Frasier's Niles Crane) poor Susan has spent the last few days begging various government officials to lead a rescue party into the jungle, but all refuse.

Bastards.

Giving the Pakistani government a huge "Fuck you!" the super siblings decide to plan their own expedition and hire the oh so slightly tipsy Edward Foster (moustachioed muffin magnet Keach needing to buy his ex-wife a new house), an old colleague of her husbands to lead it.

Always the gentleman, he explains to the sultry Susan (and to the viewer at home) that it's more than likely that Henry isn't lost in the New Guinea jungle at all and that it's more than likely that he got on the wrong night-bus, ending up on the island of Roku, home of the Puka tribe who spend most of their time showing off their arses to all and sundry whilst worshipping a 'cursed' mountain.

Foster is sure there's something else quite important about the tribe but can't remember what it is.

No doubt it'll come back to him later.

Antonio Marsina wonders who stole his arm.

Filling their rucksacks with fizzy pop, crisps and egg and cress sandwiches our heroic trio, along with a non entities and locals obviously marked for death, head into the jungle encountering stock footage, sweaty palms and various displays of plot driving character motivation along the way.

Three days (and six bottles of J&B) into the journey Foster remembers what it was that he was meant to tell everyone, you see it seems that a few years back he visited Ra-Rami island and held captive by the Puka who, it transpires, are actually a group of vicious, hairy palmed cannibals who forced the poor guy to partake in the devouring of human flesh!

Gah indeed.

"Stop!......Keach time!"

Finally arriving on the island (damn those private taxi's), they set up camp with the kindly Father Moses (Disney classic Fantasia) and his hunky 'friend' Manolo (the late great genre god Cassinelli), who within minutes of setting eyes on Ursula, is rolling about on the dusty floor of a grass hut with her, kneading her ample breasts like so much sweaty dough as she bites her lip in that mildly erotic way that only women of a certain age can.

Trust me, I've seen your grannie do it enough times.

Not wanting to miss out on the chance of any more ex-Bond bird bonking, Manolo offers to accompany them on their quest for the missing hubby.

Perhaps he fancies a threesome?

After a series of high octane jungle trekking excitement (spiders up your trouser leg, snakes in your pants etc.) and a wee bit of highly dangerous white-water canoeing that ends with Foster (well a shoddy facsimile made from a beetroot and some old rags) falling to his death, they find the holy cave of the Puka tribe.

A cave packed with Uranium.

Hmmm.....could this be the real motive behind Stevensons' visit to Ra-Rami?

Or was it really for the cheap drink and whorish teens?

"I could drink you under the table Ursula."

Manolo and Arthur's manly hugs and cries of "We're rich! We're rich!" and Susan's sexy dancing are short lived however as the Puka's launch a surprise attack from the trees like an army of less hairy (yet probably much smellier) Ewoks who, after sticking a sharpened stick up Arthur's (frankly accommodating) arse, take the survivors to their mountain hideaway where Susan is (fairly) surprised to find that her husband is now revered as a God.

Which would be pretty cool for him if he wasn't a rotting buck toothed corpse with a clicking Geiger counter rammed into his chest cavity.

well at least Manolo is happy. 

Susan however has another surprise heading her way.

It seems that long legged, stunningly breasted blonde bombshells are few and far between in the jungle (a wee bit like finding a virgin in Wolverhampton) so the Puka, being rational types, decide that she must be a Goddess sent to them from the heavens.

And what do you do with visiting deities?

Why you strip them naked, cover them head to toe in clay (making sure you do it in lingering, free handed slow motion), get a couple of fairly attractive (and ample bottomed) native lasses to fondle her breasts before finally dressing your religious visitor in a big paper hat ready to partake in a bizarro ritual.

Or three.


Will Susan escape unmolested?

Will Manolo and his trusty beard save the day?

And will Arthur ever recover from his new found appreciation of anal violation?

"Touch mah titties hen!": your mum 
and your girlfriend yesterday.

As mentioned earlier, Sir Sergio of Martino's Mountain of The Cannibal God is often seen as a classier, more legit relative of the late seventies/early eighties cannibal cycle, featuring as it does an international 'name' cast, a more action/adventure oriented plot, fewer scenes of graphic animal mutilation (the ones that are killed onscreen are ugly things like spiders and snakes so that doesn't count) and more importantly absolutely no Mel Ferrer what so ever.

More importantly tho' it does feature a dwarf cannibal tribesman, the first (and possibly only) one ever committed to celluloid.

Surely another reason (if anymore were needed) to buy this movie.

"I fell off my beanstalk Ian!"

The Keach-man gives it his all, as does the late great Claudio Cassinelli, the pair of them igniting the screen with pure, unadulterated testosterone. Antonio (star of Antonio Margheriti's gritty Vietnam war epic Tornado) Marsina is great as the slightly fey sibling of Swiss bombshell Ursula Andress and Andress herself adds a certain air of legitimacy to the scenes that call for her to be slowly daubed in mud by topless female extras.

I've viewed this scene time and again (for research purpose) and not once does Andress look anything other than absolutely terrified.

Tho' it may be boredom, I was slightly distracted.

Go on, buy it.....you know you want to.

out on a limb.

Been a strange month here at Arena Towers with a mix of waiting for pay cheques, having commissions rejected, general work type stuff and my plea last month for someone (anyone) to find me something halfway decent to watch before I end up stabbing the sofa.

Again.

Luckily longtime Unwell urchin Dissolvedpaul was kind enough to recommend this movie to me, saying it was the finest film he'd ever seen.

And he never lies.

Saying that tho' can you really trust a man who released a four CD boxset musical tribute to Peter Bark?

The Last House in the Woods (AKA Il Bosco Fuori. 2006).
Dir: Gabriele Albanesi.
Cast: Daniela Virgilio, Daniele Grasseti, Gennaro Diana, Santa De Santis and a few other folk who should really know better.

There are some lines that must never be crossed...
beyond them all...
is The Last House in the Woods.

Driving along a deserted country round after attending a waiters lookalike party Geoff Soontodie, his fish-lipped wife Brenda and his ball headed boy child Crispin, confused by the eye searing inconsistencies between the day and night shots on-screen manage to make their rented hatchback screech uncontrollably off the road and career headlong down a muddy bank.

Luckily a handy tree helps stop the car before it gets too damaged.

Which is more than can be said for Geoff's face.

Escaping from the car in an amusing wobbly manner, Brenda and son head back to the road to hopefully flag down a passing motorist.

It doesn't take long before help seems to be at hand when a nice sturdy family style saloon comes a trundling down the road towards the pair.

Thinking that a huge faced, bow tie wearing dwarf may put the driver off helping Brenda pushes Crispin to the side of the road (and into daylight bizarrely enough) just as the car slams into her, spraying her pretty dress with mud and ruining her lipstick.

Obviously trying to help the driver steps out of the car and tries to wipe it up by repeatedly hitting her in the face with a large brick.

Crispin, fearful for his life (and possibly of losing his bum virginity) runs into the woods....

"Paging Mr. Herman!"

Meanwhile back at the plot good and proper the chisel of chin and lank of hair Aurora (Italian teevee queen Virgilio) is busy drawing funny faces in crayon whilst her on/off (and constantly hen-pecked boyfriend) Rino (Grasseti from Nature: Consuelo...no me neither) takes her up the arse.

And the reason?

He (allegedly) wants to see what great masterpiece she can create in the throes of ecstasy.

Either that or he's banned from working as a classroom assistant.

Rino and his novelty bike stand yesterday.

Within what seems like minutes the pair have messily split up and Rino has taken to driving around in his Fiat Uno hoping for a glimpse of Aurora's bouncy breasts as she stomps passed him.

Makes a change from sitting at home indulging in a tearful wank and a Pot Noodle I suppose.

But why did these young lovers part I hear you ask?

Seems that Aurora can't decide if she loves him or not, playing the 'I'm really confused' card whilst still expecting him to drive her around and give her sweaty car seat shagging on demand.

Typical woman then.

"Blood in mah big fishy mooth ya bastard!"

Meeting up one day the pair decide to head off up the road from the movies beginning for a bit of 'the sex' and a chat about why she's such an evil cow and wont have him back.

But as the sweaty ex-sweethearts discuss their future (or lack of it) they're interrupted by the arrival of three Hush Puppy wearing, nipple revealing t shirt clad bad boys driving around in a bright pink Fiat hatchback (does the directors dad own a dealership?) looking to partake in a wee bit of fighting and raping.

But not necessarily in that order.

Nicola Bryant, up the casino, 1984.....Yesch!

Beating Rino to a pulp (which to be honest is no show of manliness seeing as a gentle breeze would probably send him flying he's so wet) before locking him in the boot of his car, the three stooges decide to turn their lascivious gaze toward Aurora, pinning her down in the dirt and taking it in turns to gyrate against her thighs and threatening to show her their cocks.

Luckily a nice middle aged (and armed) couple (the facially challenged Diana and the sleazily seductive De Santis) drive up and scare the bad lads away, saving us from having to see their (possibly scabby) penises and Aurora from having to touch them.

A win/win situation as far as I'm concerned then.

"Is it a book, film or song?"

As our would-be beast pals run off into the slowly fading light, the man (Antonio) and his wife (Clara) invite Aurora and the by now free but still-unconscious Rino (I for one couldn't tell the difference between him awake or asleep) back to their house for a cup of tea, a quick clean up and a digestive biscuit.

Aurora, being a greedy bitch agrees and they all drive off down a quiet country lane.

Well I say all drive off but it's really only Antonio doing the driving, the others are passengers.

Obviously.

Arriving at the couples secluded mansion things begin to take a sinister turn for the strange, Rino is huddled off into a room by the sexily pneumatic Clara whilst Aurora is sent to sit in the dining room with the smooth talking (if pube haired) Antonio and his clumsy attempts at seduction.

He does manage a quick snog tho' so he can't be all that bad.

Either that or Aurora's a manipulative whore.

But alas, we'll never know as the creepy couple are thankfully interrupted when, in one of modern cinemas finest 'Laugh Now' moments Antonio's rat-toothed, bowl headed and jam covered seven year old son enters the room asking for a pair of fresh beef curtains to munch on.

Laugh when?

Being thick as mince Aurora doesn't notice anything peculiar about this at all and only begins to worry (and then only slightly) when Antonio comes at her with a hypodermic needle shouting "I kill you now!"

Trying to escape from her slightly strange host, our heroine runs upstairs where she finds a by now conscious Rino strapped to a chair and being forced to watch Cbeebies with toothy boy and his mum.

Fearing an appearance by Big Cook, Little Cook Aurora jumps out of the window and disappears into the night.

Followed by some slow motion flashbacks of ball-boy from the films opening.

This man loves Peter Bark...in EVERY way.

Spooked by the recordings of owl songs and frightened by the distant sounds of growling, Aurora hides under a tree till the cameraman's night filter falls off before heading to a burnt out caravan parked by a nearby bush, surely she'll find help there, I mean it's not like you get inbred cannibal type hicks in the backwoods of Italy is it?

Well, yes you do actually.

I know, I was vaguely surprised by this turn of events too.

not as surprised as Aurora tho' who not only gets her cheeks stroked but gets hit on the head for good measure.

Christmas at Heather Mills house.

Waking back at the house, our lippy loser soon finds that she's strapped to a cheap wicker chair next to an unconscious (yes again) Rino.

Who appears to have lost a few limbs along the way.

Continuity error or food for the spiky toothed cannibal child?

Go on...guess.

Screaming and shouting (oh and getting really angry because she's just decided that she loves Rino after all) Aurora is told the terrible tale of Ratty's birth.

Seems the poor boy was born with a perfect set of gnashers and and overwhelming love of man-meat.

Obviously the only solution to the problem was to fortify the house and begin kidnapping anyone who drives down their street.

As a parent I can totally see the logic behind that.

Whilst all this back story is being filled in toothy Tom is bust salivating at the thought of munching out on Aurora's ample thighs and eating her whole.

Tho' I've heard cannibals usually spit that bit out.

I'm sorry but that's not a skirt it's a belt.

Meanwhile our terrible threesome are driving back from a night of booze, big bands and blow-jobs when their car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. With none of their phones working the boys decide to walk thru' the woods, occasionally stopping to pull action poses and look for a house where they can get help and/or some more sex.

Oh and as the none too bright Ginger adds "We can steal a DVD player too!"

It's not long (or big, or clever) before they begin to hear screams in the distance which Biffa, the lead thug mistakes for the sound of shagging, reckoning if they can follow the sound they can all have sex too.

And they say romance is dead.

"Sorry hen but you've got the wrong last house!"

Still tied to a chair and being forced to watch a fat man with a scabby lip chainsaw her beau's arm off it actually comes as a blessed relief to Aurora when she see's her would-be molesters face peering thru' the window.

To Antonio's family tho' this is one meal-time interruption too far and, after packing little toothy ratkin off to bed the entire clan arm themselves with whatever comes to hand and head out to catch the interlopers and protect the family secret locked away in the cellar....

Will Aurora survive with all her limbs still attached?

Will Robbie Rapist turn good guy or attempt to stick it in her again?

Will we ever find out what the significance of bow tie boy is?

And will Rino manage to get trousers to fit him now?

Same shit, different smell.

Writer, director and non trick pony Gabriele Albanesi after force feeding himself a diet of classic seventies shlockers and classic eighties splatter has manage to vomit up a mish mash of influences and ideas so bizarre and unrelated as to make a film that's beyond parody, redemption and possibly criticism.

How else can you explain how arse numbingly bad yet at the same time head fuckingly brilliant
The Last House in the Woods is?

It's quite honestly the film your twelve year old self never made, a junior school version of Phenomena via The Texas Chainsaw Massacre with an added cameo from Last House On The Left villain Krug's slightly stupider younger brother, slightly less soiled linen and considerably more arse shots.

Is this a good thing? I can't possibly say.

But what I can tell you is that if Amer is the ultimate tribute to the Eurohorror genre then this is the hook handed idiot sibling, cowering and dribbling in the basement whilst constantly masturbating over faded, soiled pictures of Marilyn Burns.

And Pete too probably.

"Sorry, I have my woman's period".

Chock full of bizarrely inappropriate dialogue, full frontal amputations, shocking denim fashions, kiddie friendly cannibalism, chainsaw-wielding inbred hicks and a flagrant disregard for the laws of editing not seen since the heady days of Plan 9, the acting veers wildly between the stiffly Formica (Grasseti I'm looking at you) to ear bleedingly shrilly (Virgilio) with a supporting cast that seems hell bent on hitting every emotional point in between whether we like it or not.

Except for the wee toothy boy that is, who seems to spend the entire film in a dribbly, Prozac fuelled daze.

And who says child abuse can't be entertaining?

But fear not for there is one saving grace in this sea of mediocrity and that's the gorgeously ghoulish Santa De Santis.

Coming over like Daria Nicolodi's slinkier, sleazier little sister with a penchant for sensible A-line skirts, De Santis knows exactly how to play it, giving (the fairly sketchy) role just enough 'arch' as to make it the most memorable performance on show.

And in a film packed to the brim with lump-headed freaks, mutant kids and various ginger folk that's no easy task.

And that's why we love her.

De Santis: Twice.

The Last House in the Woods elicits the same feelings of wrongful passion that you get when gazing at your neighbours daughter or your younger cousin in her Girl Guides uniform, you know it's wrong but you just can't help yourself, sneaking a peek from the corner of your eye whilst adjusting you trousers.

Damning with faint praise or too much information regarding my social life?

You decide, I'm off to dress the Cassman in a waiters outfit.

underground pervy.

Been reading back thru' my old reviews and realised how little the phrase 'shite in mah mooth' appears and more surprisingly how short and serious they are.

Almost like I used to think that this was a serious film blog that folk actually took notice of.

I'll soon change that.

Anyways, time methinks to revisit the cinematic backstreet abortionist that is Norman J. Warren and his classic tale of monsters, mums and bums.

Ladies and gents I (again) give you....

'Inseminoid' (aka Horror Planet. 1981)
Dir: Norman J. Warren
Cast: Judy Geeson, Jennifer Ashley, Stephanie Beacham, Dominic Jephcott, Steven Grives, Victoria (sister of David) Tennant, Rosalind Lloyd, Robert Pugh and Kevin O'Shea.

Inseminoid's subtle poster campaign.

Somewhere in space (OK it's Chislehurst Caves in Chislehurst, Kent. Obviously Wookey Hole in Somerset was overrun with Cybermen at the time) a British led scientific/mining/archaeological mission is busy digging up rare alien artefacts and even rarer colourful rocks.

You can tell it's a British mission because whereas the Yanks have shiny rockets, jetpacks and lasers, this bunch here have buckets and spades, Kwik Fit overalls and a chainsaw (?) amongst their equipment.....oh, and big 80s hair.

Imagine Alien remade with the cast and crew of On The Buses and you're halfway there.

Digging about in the tunnels one day the team come across a shiny plastic rock much like the type you get on fireplaces which immediately explodes directly in front of the blond beefcake of the group, Dean (Brit teevee stalwart Jephcott) Gaffney's face, causing some nasty chafing and more importantly a serious case of mascara based alien possession.

This possession manifests itself when Dean begins to run around the base in his pants and socks around trying to strangle his fellow team members before escaping into the tunnels.

But not until he's pushed payload specialist Gayle Tuesday (Lloyd who was once in Doctor Who) over so violently that she gets her foot stuck in a hole.

Bastard.

"Laugh now!"

If that wasn't enough to ruin her day her life support system heater has run out and she hasn't got any spare coins for the meter.

Obviously worried by this turn of events she breathlessly radio's the base for help.

Pity the groups resident sponge-bob, Gary is on communications duty that day.

Rather than waste valuable preening time going out and rescuing her, Gary suggests that she pulls the air pipe off her spacesuit, stick it in her tiny, bird like mouth and suck on it whilst hacking at her ankle with a blunt nail-file.

The following scene is no mooth shite-in but it does come close.

As did I.

"Pipe in mah mooth!"

It comes as no surprise to the viewer that the poor cow dies from a mix of blood loss and septicaemia due to putting a dirty hoover attachment into her gob.

But this is only the beginning of the horror that is Inseminoid.

You see whilst all this limb lopping and pipe moothin' is going on sexy button nosed biologist Sandy (English Rose Judy - I have never done a nude scene honest - Geeson) has been busy scraping algae off some rocks with her equally bookish pal Roy (Pugh possibly, it's dark and he's wearing a goldfish bowl on his head).

After passing some particularly eggy gas in her suit Sandy passes out and just as Roy scrambles to help her he's violently decapitated (but is there any other kind of decapitation?) by an unseen alien menace.

"Mooooooooooooooooooooooooon!"

Sandy awakes to find herself stark bollock naked and spread-eagled on a pool table as a moon headed alien attempts to impregnated her using a length of hosepipe, 4 litres of Fairy washing up liquid and a carton of green painted free range eggs.

Watch out watch out....John Leslie's about!

After what seems like an eternity (well, just long enough to have a fag and make a cuppa) the surviving team members find the poor woman fully clothed (yet strangely fresh smelling) and resting against the slain body of Roy.

The crew decide to take her back to the base for a hot chocolate and a Rich Tea biscuit.

It's not long tho' before Sandy is experiencing sticky egg based nightmares, reliving (in glorious, sweaty close-up) every detail of her Venusian vaginal violation (as in the creature was from Venus, not that she has a bizarre, Giger-esque fanny tho' never having seen it she might. Judy?) which culminates in the cold blooded murder and cock eating of one of her hapless buddies.

Walking into the bathroom for a quick pee, the mumsy Barbra (Tennant) is taken aback to see Sandy, giggling away to herself as she sits astride a corpse, covered in blood and with a testicle hanging from her lips before uttering the immortal line: "Sandy! what's wrong?"

Well, that's the understated British for you.

Jumping to her feet and snarling like fairly vicious tabby, Sandy chases after Babs (in that faintly embarrassing way that girls run) who locks herself in the teevee room before pressing a load of buttons and declaring a state of emergency.

The rest of the crew, being hardened space veterans all shite themselves simultaneously.

"I'm sorry, I have a woman's period!"

Imbued with supernatural strength, a mad glint in her (boss) eyes and a frightening ability to wave her arms around like deadly windmills, Sandy will stop at nothing to protect her unborn babies which means sixty minutes of her stomping around a collection of spacey Portacabins killing everyone she meets using a collection of items you'd be surprised to find on a high-tech space mission including a nail gun, a rusty shovel and one of those long lighter things you use to start a barbecue.

Will the surviving crew find a way to defeat this mentalist mum to be or will they all die leaving the alien offspring to sneak aboard a passing rescue ship heading for Earth?

Go on, guess.

More or less tasteful?

From the grumpiest man in cinema Norman J. Warren, the man behind such classics as the dog nosed alien potboiler Prey, the slightly saucy Satan's Slave and the spooky Terror comes a bloodier, bad taste British version of Alien, filmed on a budget of £12.50 and using props and sets stolen from the Blake's Seven production office, Inseminoid is Ineptly made, hideously contrived, suspectly sexist but incredibly entertaining none the less.

Plus any film that gets banned in Iceland must be worth at least a few minutes of your time.

The film can barely stretch to a lighting let alone an FX budget but even this actually works in its favour, giving the film a frantic, frayed edged realism.

What it lacks in polish it more than makes up for with bloody violence and a strong cast including the mega-MiLF Victoria Tennant and the yummy Judy Geeson becoming sweatier and sexier the more shot to fuck her character gets.

"Put it in me!"

Even the minimalist electronic score by jazz guru John Scott, commissioned when Warren discovered that he couldn't afford a full orchestra is an asset rather than a hindrance, the sub Radiophonic workshop farts and plinks gentling adding a final layer the lo-fi ambience permeating the rest of the film.

Sexy Sci-Fi: British style!

From skimpy pants to dodgy model work via paper mache space sexbeasts, Inseminoid truly has something to offend everyone....and if that hasn't convinced you, then try to think how many other films allow you the pleasure of seeing an ex Carry On girl strapped naked to a table with a hosepipe stuck up her fanny in a vain attempt to suggest extra-terrestrial rape.

That'll be none then.

Buy it now and thank me later.

cannibal xerox.

Mondo Cannibale (AKA Cannibal Holocaust 2, Cannibal Holocaust: The Beginning, Cannibal World. 2003).
Dir: Bruno Mattei.
Cast: Helena Wagner, Claudio Morales, Cindy Jelic Matic, Antoine Reboul, Kevin Maxwell, Brad Santana, Michael Garland, Foster Howard, Eniko Bodnar, Zsilvia Chernel and Chan Le.

Well, somebody had to buy it.

Fame-hungry femme fatale cum harsh faced ace reporter Grace Forsythe (Wagner, daughter of the composer of The Ring Cycle possibly) has had her hit show "Forsythe In Mah Mooth" cancelled due to plummeting ratings and general crapness.

I heart fisting.

Understandably angry (and a wee bit aroused by the sweat on her top lip) at the decision she storms to the station and confronts Tefal browed studio boss Geoff Head about the situation and in a flurry of professionalism unseen since the heady days of Vanessa Feltz faking guests offers him a quick tumble behind the scenes if he recommissions her show.

Classy.

Beware the human testicles!

Obviously holding out for a better offer (or a crack at her flaxen haired, Goddess like co-star Matic) he resists Grace's bullish charm but does offer her a deal.

If she can persuade her ex co-star (and former lover) Bob Manson (professional sexy man and star of Land of Death, Morales) to accompany her on a trip to the Amazon to film a no holds barred expose of cannibal rituals he'll commission a second series.

The only rule is that she mustn't be naughty and go around faking any footage or burn any villages downs.

Fingers crossed behind her back Grace agrees.

Five go mad on Meth.

With the contracts signed and the sun block packed our dynamic duo, along with their merry band of ratings hungry teevee professionals (including the platinum princess of power herself Matic as the ace troubleshooter and token buxom blonde Cindy Blair) in tow excitedly descend into the Amazon jungle determined to find the legendary last remaining cannibal tribe at any cost.

But first things first and there's just enough time for a wee bit of topless sunbathing and a chance for their native guide Brian to get all hot under the collar as he nervously rubs lard all over Grace's hairy back and arse.

Unfortunately (for the viewer) he gets sent off to perform some odd jobs before he can get round to oiling up Cindy and so with a heavy heart, heaving bosom and slightly damp undies Cindy and Grace get dressed (slowly), round up the troops and venture forth into the unknown.

Which is lucky really, seeing as last time they ventured fifth and only won a coconut.

"And when I want a good mooth
shite-in I pull THIS face!"

Sweating and farting their way thru' the undergrowth (or in this case the playpark behind Mr. Mattei's house), Bob is surprised when a group of battle hardened soldiers appear from behind a bush. Seems that they're members of some elite UN jungle protection force charged with stopping the locals eating each other and protecting the trees from loggers and the like.

But today is Wednesday which means that they can forget all that and spend a few hours hiding in the local fauna taking pot shots and the scantily clad, pot bellied natives.

Bob is appalled by such random acts of violence and in a manly display of testosterone fuelled righteous anger stamps his foot for a bit whilst tutting.

Grace on the other hand reckons that a wee bit of random violence is just what the show needs so gives the soldiers 50 pence and a bag of Haribo Starmix each to continue shooting the locals.

Best. Caption. Ever.

Switching off the live news feed with a promise of more gruesome goodies to come our intrepid band of bad men and ne'er do wells bed down for the night.

Their next stop, according to the map is a village of friendly tribes folk.

Grace reckons that this might be a bit boring for the viewers so suggests that they should set fire to the village before shooting all the old folk in the face, Bob however, being a world weary and cynical type, thinks that there's enough violence in the world without causing any more, especially in the name of ratings.

Grace gently reminds Bob that he's getting paid at least £48 and all the Monster Munch he can eat for taking part in the programme so he'd better stop whining and start killing.

Thinking it over for at least a minute Bob sighs and gets to work polishing his massive weapon.

Grace sneaked away from base camp
to scoff the gangs last Snickers bar.

Meanwhile back at the studio, Geoff Head is foaming (at least it looks like foam) at the mouth whilst viewing the incoming footage and can hardly contain himself when the viewing figures are released.

It seems that everyone on the planet bar three people in West Bromwich (who don't have a teevee) are avidly watching the groups every move.

Geoff's dad (and owner of the station) is less impressed tho' feeling that what the audience really want is less violence and more ventriloquist acts.

After a tense board meeting the old fool is sent packing as the entire committee contact Grace to demand more buggery alongside the murders.

"Raugh row!"

Grace and company are more than happy to deliver and spend the next few days burning down villages, shite-ing in peoples gardens and parading old, shaggy breasted grannies before the cameras in between raping the odd virgin and skinning various animals all in the name of sensationalism.

Everyone seems to be enjoying the ultra-violent holiday, egging each other on to commit more and more sordid and sick acts of depravity, except Cindy that is who, in a moment of clarity shouts the age old question "I wonder who the real cannibals are?" at the group as they roughly bugger a wee native girl.

As heartfelt as her question is, she really hadn't thought it thru', I mean the real cannibals are the ones in grass skirts that eat folk aren't they?

Hats.

As the violence continues unabated and the studio demands more and more shocking images (some involving goats) the film crew approach the jungle home of the infamous man-eating 'Invisibles', the most primitive and savage tribe ever recorded.

And you can bet that they don't give a monkeys ball about ratings.

Will our merry band survive their descent into the green hell?

And if so, what will be left of them?

Sneakily promoted as Cannibal Holocaust 2: The Beginning in some territories (is this the most over-used title ever?), lo-fi exploitation king Mattei's homage to (OK, shameless rip-off of) Ruggero Deodato's legendary mockumentary classic harks back to a more simple age of film-making when local video store shelves were stacked to bursting with low budget versions of hit movies and shit movies alongside cheap as fuck Brit movies but for all it's faults (and there are many) Mondo Cannibale is a highly enjoyable piece of fluff from an always entertaining director.

A meaty Matic sandwich....yum!

Like most of his horror output (from Zombie Creeping Flesh to Zombies: The Beginning), the screenplay is an almost exact copy of the source material in question but as with nearly all of his later work, cheaply (and quickly) made on video in the Philippines with a core band of actors and technicians that he would use till his untimely death.

"Ah fell aff mah beanstalk!"

But if you're worried that a drop in budget would somehow taint the great man's vision then worry ye not as there's plenty here to enjoy, from blood drenched breasts to flabby thrusting man ass via a tasteful pole-based abortion, Cannibal World is the perfect date movie for those romantic nights in.

And who knows?

Just like the bouncy native girl chased thru the jungle by a horny Claudio Morales you may get lucky too.