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.

bareback mountain.

Received this from a 'friend' as a (very) late birthday gift.

They must have assumed it was one of those seventies blaxploitation flicks.

At least that's what I hope.

God knows why they sent it me otherwise.

Enjoy.



Niggas' Revenge (2001).
Dir: Dick Wadd.
Cast: Chane Adams, Bobby Blake, Chris Blake, Flex-Deon Blake, Dallas Chalmers Bud Cockerham and Eric Top Stud.

"We're gonna have a barbecue tonight...and the main course is fresh Nazi ass!"

The small, everyday American town of Felchington is idyllic in every way; from it's picket fences, fat folk in high waist plaid trousers to it's neatly kept lawns.

But scratch the surface of any seemingly perfect place and something vile and slimy (and slightly rancid smelling) is bound to appear.

In this case it's a band of buffed up, bastard neo-nazi bad boys going by the terrifying monikers of Bud, Dallas and Chane who seem to spend their entire waking life shouting slightly sexually charged yet incredibly racist abuse at their brick shithouse of a neighbour, Mr. Robert Blake (not that one).

"Excuse me! Do you require any scissors sharpening?"

Hurling remarks that would make the writers of Love Thy Neighbour proud it's only a matter of time before Bobby (as he likes to be called), tired of the police doing nothing takes matters into his own hand.

Alongside his massive cock.

Ringing his 'partner', Flex (who works as a baker fact fans) and his brother (not too sure if it's his real brother or a 'brother' brother, showing a slight lack of important character development methinks) Chris, Bobby only needs to say three little words to get the (mini) posse running.

And those words?

"White boy trouble!"

Can you dig it?

Indeed I can sir.

Bunnet.

And so the fight begins as three skinny arsed white supremacists face off against three hulking, body building black blokes.

Now who do you think will win?

The clue is in the title by the way.

As the good ol' racist boys fight valiantly to protect their right to be arseholes, the gangs leader, Dallas interjects with some choice insults between his punches referring to Bobby as 'Uncle Tom', which I assume is a continuity mistake by the way, seeing as his name is Bobby and he's not an uncle.

Shame on you for such a glaring mistake Mr. Wadd.

Who's ready for a wee mooth shite-in?

You know what they say about sticks and stones tho' and before too long Dallas is knocked to the ground, a bloodied, muddy mess.

But Bobby/Tom/whatever has a special surprise for our racist chum.

Pulling down his leather trousers whilst pulling out his frankly terrifyingly large penis, the Bobster drenches Dallas in the golden warmth of his urine.

In the mooth.

Shaking every last drop from his mammoth member, Bobby leans toward Dallas and, with a big cheesy grin on his face announces that "There's gonna be a barbeque at Twelve Oaks tonight...and the main course is Nazi ass drenched in nigga piss!"

It was at this point I began to suspect that this wasn't actually an action movie ala Death Wish or Shaft and that I was, in fact watching what could be referred to as 'the porn'.

Tho' not being 100% sure I bravely soldiered on.

Bobby by now high on the smell of man sweat and piss fumes decides to clean up the urine soaked racist and dunks poor Dallas in a nearby septic tank before bending him (a wee bit like Beckham probably) over a barrel and beating his bare arse with a handy piece of 2x4 that just happened to be lying about in the back yard.

His fun is cut short tho' when the wood breaks, leaving Bobby weapon-less and Dallas with what looks like a bright red baboon bum covered in splinters.

But if he thinks this is as sore as his bottom is gonna get then he's in for a big surprise.

"I love you....could it be magic?"

Bored with mealy standing back and watching (albeit whilst sitting on Dallas' wriggly pals), Flex and Chris decide it's time to have some fun of their own and drag the three badboys off to bobby's basement games room cum sex dungeon...

From Dick Wadd, the worlds finest purveyor of the oft ignored genre of bareback arse assault comes what will probably go down in cinema history as the greatest (and most successful) attempt to portray the grim reality of racially motivated intolerance ever committed to celluloid.

Utilising the harsh black and white colour palette of both the sets and performers bodies to subtly represent the violent transfer of power between the attackers and the attacked, the film culminates with what is quite possibly the most powerful statement on racism ever seen; the image of the persecuted African American transforming the oppressive white man into his slave.

Then violently bumming him for 40 minutes inbetween forcing him to drink warm urine from a dog bowl.

"Here come the Belgians!"

As with all great works of art Niggas' Revenge has it's critics, unbelievable as it seems there are some (very stupid) individuals tho' that disagree with the accepted interpretation of the movie, seeing it as nothing more than an excuse for 90 minutes of forced interracial buggery and fisting intercut with the occasional golden shower scene and angry men shouting "Nigga!" a lot.

As if.

If you really feel you need to see it tho' and want a good excuse, tell your parents/partner/therapist that you're interested in experiencing the final on-screen performance by the legendary Bobby Blake (star of High Rollin': A Black Thang,  White Nuts & Black Bolts, Pumping Black: Hold on Tight amongst many others, go on ask your dad for more info who, in his autobiography (that bears the fantastically original title of "My Life in Porn: The Bobby Blake Story", musta taken weeks to come up with that) admits that due to the animalistic intensity of his buggery and pissing scenes that many performers refused to do movies with him, which aided his decision to retire.

Frankly I was terrified enough by the size of his cock.

I mean it was so big it hand an adult knee in the middle.

And a spine.

A spine of a giant.

Any other reasons?

Well it does feature the largest amount of urine ever unleashed in the man of interacial pornography.

Which in itself is frankly spectacular and worth the admission price (and shame filled evenings) alone.

File under 'hide from the babysitter'.

buio vista sociopath club.

Taking a break from completing the epic animated centrepiece to the GFT aftershow coming this weekend (It's called El Nitto Della Morte if any of you are interested) I thought I'd rewatch this personal favourite of mine.

Enjoy.

Buio Omega: Beyond the Darkness (AKA Blue Holocaust , The Final Darkness. 1979)
Dir: Joe D'Amato
Cast: Kieren Canter, Cinzia Monreale, Franca Stoppi, Anna Cardini, Lucia D'Elia and Sam Modesto.

"All right little boy, no one will touch your baby doll".

Our sad tale concerns the slightly intense and fairly lonely freak boy Frank Willer (Eroticoblues flaxen haired Canter) who, since the recent and not to mention mysterious death of his beautiful wife Anna (Monreale from The Beyond) spends most of his days skulking around his huge villa with only his frightening taste in late seventies fashions and his Mrs. Doyle-like, potato head onion odoured housekeeper Iris (stern faced Stoppi, star of Emanuelle fuga dall'inferno, The Other Hell and the underrated Bestiality among other things to gruesome too mention here) for company.

Being too rich (and too wet) to work Frank spends most of his (non whining) time either attempting to perfect his hobby (which is taxidermy) or suckling on Iris's left breast as she strokes his hair and calls him "Her little Frank".

You can probably already guess where this is going can't you.

Now there's a mooth made for shite-in in.

If you think that's a wee bit strange (or a little arousing) just wait till Anna's funeral, when just before the ceremony Frankie boy sneaks into the funeral home and quietly injects his wife's corpse with an embalming liquid.

Either because he's having the service on the cheap or that he has other plans for his dead missis.

Which do you think?

But unbeknownst to Frank, Mr. Kale (flash in the pan/cum in my pants Modesto) the friendly neighbourhood funeral director sees the whole thing.

Gah.

Obviously not wanting to spoil the funeral tho' he keeps quiet, allowing Frank to sneak (he does a lot off that during the film) back that very night and exhume Anna's still fresh, yet slightly stiff body, bundle it into the back of his Ford Transit and head home.

"You may feel a little prick dear".

But you know what they say about best laid plans and all that, 'cos the journey home is a disaster of Last of The Summer Wine comedic proportions with Frank first having to endure a flat tire followed by a run in with the police before finally coming across an obscenely chubby and squint eyed 'cock-er-nee' hitchhiker named Jan (D'Elia) who won't take no for answer.

But obviously has no qualms about stealing pies. 

Falling asleep in the van after one too many pasties, Jan is oblivious when Frank  drags Anna's corpse into the basement before slicing her open from boob to bush to remove her vitals and finally sucking her brain thru' a tube up her nose.

Which is fairly lucky really because no doubt the greedy bitch would've tried to scoff it all.

His luck can't last tho' and just as he's popping Anna's glass eyes in Jan stumbles into the basement (obviously drawn by the smell of fresh offal) to find Frank covered in blood, sweat, shit and shame whilst bending over the corpse.

Jan screams but as she turns to run the friction of her thighs rubbing together causes a bucket of intestines to fall on her, giving Frank enough time to beat her to death with a rolled up copy of Stuffed Bird Monthly.

You are what you eat...and you appear to have eaten a whole cake shop.

Iris, no doubt at a loose end after polishing off the china (and Frank) is soon on the scene to help tidy up the mess before helping Frank to carry Anne (not moss) to the bedroom, dressing her in a lovely nylon nightie and painting her finger and toe nails a luscious deep red colour.

Morning comes and Frank has a busy day, It seems that Mr. Kale wants a baboon stuffing (phnarr) and has been told that Frank's just the bloke to do it.

Sending a mutual friend to talk to Frank about the project (and to discover the secret of how to keep the arse really red) gives Kale the chance to sneak about in Frank's garage and the basement to look for stolen corpses but alas all he finds is a necklace belonging to Anna.

Spookily it was the one she was buried in.

Kale ignores this fact tho' and goes home.

No doubt to search T'internet for ape porn.

But the baboon has to wait tho' seeing as Frank still has a body to get rid of, so waiting till nightfall (and till his loyal housekeeper has done the dishes) he gets Iris to pop Jan's body in the bathtub (don't worry, it's a bloody big bath) and cover it in acid before pulping the remaining lumpy bits with a hammer.

The sight of Iris taking such pleasure from her work (well it's either that or the smell from her breath) is enough to make Frank vomit but luckily Iris is more than willing to 'take him in hand' and make it all better.

Which in case you found that too subtle means she gave him a handjob whilst pulling a face like your nan when she wins at bingo.

Celebrity Master Chef with John Leslie.

The next day Frank decides to go driving to help clear his head (and hopefully get rid of the smell of Iris' beefy fingers) and it's not long before his mind is completely clear of all things murder and old lady sex related thanks to the sight of an ample arsed, poodle haired jogger sitting at the side of the road suggestively rubbing her swollen ankle.

Steady on!

Frank, being the gentlemanly type immediately offers to take her up the villa for a thorough bandaging and the woman (Cardini but probably not the one I found on Facebook) obviously attracted to Bri-Nylon leisure wear, accepts his offer.

Anna Cardini: The Facebook one. Why not add her as a friend today?

No sooner have they arrived back than the pair of them are kissing, cuddling and engaging in general fondling on the sofa and Frank, happy to be finally pulling someone fairly attractive (as opposed to dead old or just dead) drags his new lady friend off to the bedroom for a quick shag.

You remember the bedroom don't you? You know the one where he keeps his dead wife.

Everything is going swimmingly till Frank decides to put it in her when just at the moment of entry he pulls down the bedspread to give Anna a good look too.

The juicy jogger turns her head and on seeing a completely different kind of stiffie leering over her begins to scream.

Frank has no choice but to kill her.

And stupidly before he's even climaxed.

Luckily Iris is on hand to (eventually) clean up both messes.

"Jam on mah throat!

Obviously jealous at the thought of Frank shagging someone his own age (and breathing) Iris decides that the best course of action would be to get rid of Anna's body and marry her, promising him a lifetime of vinegary hand-jobs and leek soup.

Frank isn't too keen on getting rid of Anna but scarily agrees to marry Iris (the sick fuck) and even offers to make her the mistress of the estate.

If it were me I'd rather carry on shagging the corpse.

Any corpse.

Even your nans.

Again.

Iris, desperate to keep her hands (and black toothed mouth) on Franks manhood begrudgingly agrees, promising to look after both Frank and his 'baby doll'.

Corpse in mah bed!

Iris, after buying a new dress and washing her bun, invites her family over to dinner to celebrate her engagement to Frank, but the groom to be storms off in a huff, locking himself in his bedroom with Anna, professing undying love for her whilst gently stroking her golden hair.

Which is kinda sweet if I'm honest.

Annoyed at her fiancés no show, Iris storms upstairs in an attempt to finally persuade Frank to get rid of Anna causing our hero to finally see the error of his ways.

By that I mean shagging a pensioner, not sharing a bed with a corpse obviously.

As the argument becomes more heated Frank realises that punching Iris in the face whilst calling her a dirty old whore isn't really going to help matters and the pair decide to call it a day.

Well Frank decides to call it a day, Iris on the other hand has gone totally fruitloops and she's decided to call it strawberry.

Whilst all this shouty stuff's been going on, Mr. Kale (remember him?) has been keeping his beedy eye (as opposed to the weeping squint one) on Frank and all the creepy goings on at the villa.

Between perving over primates obviously.

But just when Frank (and the audience) don't think the situation can get any worse (or convoluted), who should turn up but Anna's never before mentioned twin sister Elena (Monreale again) in order to pay her respects to Frank (she was obviously too busy getting her nails done to attend the funeral) but in reality just to give the director an excuse to send everyone off the deep end and into the murky waters of mentalism....

So will Frank come to his senses and end up marrying Elena?

Will Iris ever wash?

And more importantly will Kale ever get his hands on that stuffed baboon?

For an old bird she sure gives good head.

The late 70’s to mid 80’s was a prolific time for the European horror genre and is seen by many as the career high point for such directors as Lucio Fulci, Dario Argento, Luigi Cozzi and Umberto Lenzi, their work constantly pushing back the boundaries of cinema with increasingly exploitative plots and simply lashings of gore in such masterpieces as Zombie Flesh Eaters, Tenebrae, Contamination, The Beyond and Cannibal Ferox.

But the genres most underrated (and under appreciated) director must be the late great Aristide Massaccesi  (AKA Joe D'Amato, the man I share my birthday with).

Best known as a soft core porn director, he also contributed to the Euro-horror genre with such ‘classics’ as Anthropophagus: The Beast (starring Mia’s one eyed, ex cab driver sister Tisa Farrow) before wowing audiences worldwide with his fantastic forays into goreporn Erotic Nights of The Living Dead, Emmanuelle and The Last Cannibals (both starring dusky eyed beauty Laura Gemser) and  the subtly titled Porno Holocaust.

But perhaps his most accessible (and definitely least sordid) work is the wonderful Buio Omega: Beyond The Darkness.

With it's genius examples of Eurocentric 'panto acting, surrealist dubbing coupled with scenes of uncompromising violence and cheap gore the film stands up as D'Amato's most accomplished movie.

For one thing it has a vague semblance of a plot (usually his movies go: opening titles, shagging, murder, shagging, talky bit, shagging, misplaced 70's synth score, murder, end credits), a particularly strong lead performance from Kieren Canter (the only one he ever gave if I'm honest), a fantastically evocative score from Goblin, adequate (tho' barely) special effects and some even genuinely creepy moments.

Tho' it must be said that the best of these are when Iris attempts sexiness.

Gah indeed.

Meat in mah mooth.

But just imagine tho' how much greater still it could've been iin the hands of a more capable director (the bloke who directs all those Simon Philips films perhaps).

I'm sure there's a really bizarre alternate film universe where this is seen as a definitive Eurohorror classic, a kind of Italian Psycho or Peeping Tom. 

As it stands we have sometimes tense, slightly vile but entertaining movie with a heart as black as Iris'tightly curled pubes. 

And for once D'Amato resisted using actors with porn moustaches, frightful chest wigs and a bad case of genital warts, for which we can all be thankful.

sado.....noooooooooooooooooooo.

Cassidy has been off nursery with a bad cough so he's been in charge of the teevee recently.

Well at least he's choosing something other than HK action flicks now.

Sadomania (AKA Holle der Lust. 1981)
Dir: Jesus Franco.
Cast: Uta Koepke, Ursula Buchfellner, Ajita Wilson, Antonio Mayans (AKA 'Robert Foster'), Gina Janssen, Jesus Franco, Angel Caballero and a huge, horny dog.

"Look at the dog! Look at the dog!"

 Young(ish) and fairly groovy (for the west midlands) newlyweds, Olga (pert of breast and flaxen of haired Koepke, best known for her performance as Kirstin in the classic Drei Schwedinnen auf der Reeperbahn) and Michel (Caballero from the brothel based drama L'oasis des filles perdues) are happily enjoying their South America honeymoon cum golfing holiday, it's been sun, sand, huge amounts of cocaine, a wee bit of poverty and holes in one all the way so far and, soon to return home our loving couple decide to finish their hols with an idyllic picnic.

After packing the Tizer and egg and cress sandwiches they're soon on their way, taking a short cut to the beach thru' the grounds of the ominous Hacienda Blanco, notorious women's prison and general den of kinkiness.

As you can imagine this doesn't go down too well with the Hacienda's evil warden Magda (transsexual mega-star and Euro porn queen, the late great Ajita Wilson) who comes across the pair gobbling on some fruit.

Wilson: Like you'd have a choice.

After a quick telling off and a slapped wrist Michel is sent on his merry way but Olga on the other (slightly smaller) hand is charged with trespassing on private property and detained at (and for) the wardens pleasure.

Matron!

Michael, being all man and caring about his new wife, sheepishly bids farewell and saunters off without even a hint of annoyance leaving poor Olga to be (roughly) taken up the prison to be 'processed'.

Arriving at the prison gates and only being used to watching Prisoner: Cell Block H on the teevee, Olga is surprised to say the least, seeing as this alleged  top security complex looks more like a run down holiday camp for  angry, bed-wetting dykes, housing around 40 women of various degrees of attractiveness, clad only in Daisy Duke style hot-pants toiling in fields whilst (topless) female guards with machine guns watch them from horseback or from home made chariots.

A wee bit like my mums old school.

"Are you looking at my bra?"

Lucky for Olga tho' who to be honest isn't the sharpest tool in the tin, even tho' the whole prison experience seems a wee bit strange, the rules are oh so simple:

If a prisoner is caught trying to escape they are given a 60 second head start and then chased and shot.

Unless the rubber Crocodiles don't get them first that is.

Alternatively, if the local politicians wife, the luscious Loba (swallowing superstar Janssen from the Story of Q) is in a good mood,  they are taken for a wee kiss and cuddle with her impotent husband Jeff Mendoza (Foster from Oasis of the Zombies and Zombie(s) Lake) or even with Loba herself.

Which is nice.

"Now ladies....who fancies a wee bit o' mooth shite-in?"

Obviously inmate cat fighting is a definite no no and not to be tolerated, punishable as it is by both prisoners being bundled into a ramshackle cage and maked to fight to the death whilst the inmates and guards look on.

Obviously everyone is topless.

It's not all bad tho' as the winner gets the special treat of spending the night with Mendoza's (over) friendly Alsatian, Butch to enjoy his own special brand of 'meat treats'.

If, for some strange reason, none of this works to break the prisoners spirits, the worst offenders (with the best breasts) are sold to the nearest brothel owner Lucas (director Franco with trademark pube beard in tow) for the pleasure of the local mine workers and salty sailor folk.

Exactly like my mums old school.

Who's best...Dannii or Cheryl?.....There's only one way to find out! FIGHT!

Back to the non lesbian/torture/dog sex plot and poor Michel, obviously feeling guilty about leaving his missis in such a god forsaken hell-hole  (but more likely just jealous of missing out on all this girl on girl action) decides it's time to rescue Olga.

Yup, I know he's taken his time about it but they've got to stretch the movie out somehow.

But if he's ever to be re-united with his true love he must first face not only the wrath of Luba and her psycho-sexual perversions but the cunning wiles of the horny she-male Magda who, sick of sticking it in girls is searching for some fresh, virginal manass to corrupt.

Oh and don't forget Mendoza's dog.

Good old Jess Franco, director of such classics as Vampyros Lesbos and well everything you can think of with the words nude, little or vampire in the title really (oh and that cannibal one where Al Cliver loses his arm), brings this shockingly brutal and realistic tale of loose women, perverted prisons and militant feminism to the screen in a blaze of cheaply made, badly acted, S/M fuelled trashorama sleaze in the way only he can.

But to be honest is this a good thing?

Some 'enthusiasts' will claim that Franco's movies have some kind of 'genuine artistry' and a strong moral message but to be honest it's pretty well hidden here.

Maybe I should take a closer look as no doubt it's carefully hidden somewhere between the frankly bizarre cutaways to close-ups of a selection of wind-up tin toys when Mendoza's pup ravishes the foxy cage fighter and the bits prisoners get eaten by crocodiles.

Or maybe I'm just too thick to see past the exploitation excesses...answers in an e-mail please.

"Oh no! I have my woman's period".

But, whilst never reaching the dizzy heights of Franco's all time classic Bloody Moon (obviously), it still has much to offer the serious film connoisseur, from glimpses of how unattractive the majority of people in the 70's were when naked to a rare mainstream (sort of) performance by cult goddess Ajita Wilson, later to become Europe's highest paid transsexual porn star and my godmother.

And at the end of the day it doesn't matter how new man you feel, if you're home alone on a Friday night all you really want to see is mindless violence intercut with shots of some choice overgrown seventies bush and a hint of bestiality.

What your girlfriend really gets up to on bingo night.

By the way, before you complain to social services I was only joking about letting the wee fella watch Jess Franco movies, that would be sick (plus he's only half way thru' the Lucio Fulci back catalogue and I wouldn't want to confuse him).

edwige and the angry bint.

Busily preparing the GFT Sunday shock thing aftershow entertainment here whilst juggling with all three of our Midwich Cuckoo's being on half term so excuse the spelling mistakes and scant use of the phrase 'Laugh Now' in this review.

I'd noticed that the original version of it had mysteriously fallen off Blogger and frankly I'm not sitting thru' it again so any mistakes/appearances by flying demons or plot mix-ups put down to me still recovering from Altitude and my mind finally giving it to old age.

Strip Nude For Your Killer (1975)
Dir: Andrea Bianchi.
Cast: Edwige Fenech, Nino Castelnuovo, Franco Diogene, Femi Benussi, Claudio Pellegrini, Erna Schürer, Giuliana Cecchini (AKA Amanda) and various large breasted Italian women.

"You don't need to strangle me."

"Sorry."

Large breasted and curvy hipped Brenda, a young, vivacious and obviously whorish 'model', has accidentally fallen pregnant by a mysterious lover (not me) and panicking over how she'll ever fit into her snazzy fashions again decides to visit a reputable (is there such a thing?) back street abortionist (again, not me) to sort out her little problem.


Unfortunately (for her tho' not the plot) she dies of heart failure during the botched procedure. 

Being a conscientious kinda bloke the abortionist rings his pal Carlo (Scrabble winning Castelnuovo) to give him a hand taking her lifeless (but still fairly hot) body back to her house and pops it in the bath tub with a bottle of gin and a coathanger in the hope of covering up his little mistake.

You don't get service like that on the NHS. 

"I cannae see the car keys hen but I've found the transit van!"

Unbeknownst to Alan the abortionist he's being tailed by a mysterious, shiny helmeted, black clad motor-biking mentalist who, on following him back to his swish apartment, re-arranges his video tapes, knocks all his paintings slightly squint and finally cutting out his still beating heart.


Gah indeed.

When we next see creepy Carlo he's lusting over the harsh faced, tombstone toothed (but still hotter than your mum), bikini-clad beauty that is Lucia Cerrazini (ample arsed genre goddess Benussi) at his exclusive health club, immediately sleazing over to her and asking if he can see her breasts.

Admitting to being a fashion photographer (and smoother than a babies arse) is all it takes to get Lucia to strip off in a sauna enabling our leering lothario  to take loads of almost gynaecological pics of her ample body before sticking it in her.

Result.

  

Anyway, back to the plot good 'n' proper and it transpires that Carlo works for the infamous Albatross modelling agency, an organisation well known for having the prettiest models around and run with terrifying teutonic efficiency by the sapphic sexpot Giselle (Cecchini from the classic Il compromesso... erotico) and her sweatily man breasted, cake loving and frighteningly sausage fingered husband Maurizo (The Stendhal Syndrome's Diogene).

The very same agency that dead Brenda worked for.

Luckily for Lucia, Carlo's not just a sex obsessed pervert, he is in fact an honest sex obsessed pervert and, true to his word is soon dragging Lucia along to the aforementioned Albatross Studios to meet the bosses and work on her 'portfolio'.

Gisella especially is so impressed with Lucia's natural poise and photogenic properties that she has no option but to hire her on the spot.

And then have sex with her.

This never happens on Britain's Next Top Model.

Or unfortunately Junior Apprentice when Zoe Plummer was a contestant.

I'd plummer....Thrice.

With all this sinful bed hopping going on it doesn't take long for everyone to completely forget about poor Brenda's death, our creepy camera guys and curvy cuties carrying on with their day to day routines of swimsuit modelling, sexiness and vomiting till one morning when Mario, the pink cravated, camp as pants photographer (Death Walks at Midnight's Pellegrini) is found murdered, clad only in a G string and furry slippers.

Or was that my dad?

Next in line for the chop is poor Lucia, stripped nude not for her killer but for some rumpy pumpy with Gisella, the killer taunts her with the sound of running water before they put something in her too.

Only this time it's a big sharp knife, not a penis or leathery dildo.

Whilst all these killings are going on Carlo, never one to miss the chance of a wee bit of the sex, has hooked up with sexy, doe eyed art director Magda (the legendary Fenech, think a sleazier foul mouthed Audrey Hepburn and you're halfway there) splitting his time between fondling her frankly fantastic breasts and arguing Gisella over what to tell the police.

Could either of them be the killer?

I mean, Carlo seems to be very friendly with all the victims and Gisella is a lesbian which must mean she's Godless with no morals.

But to be honest do you really care when Edwige Fenech is stripping naked at the drop of a hat?

Fenech: Older than your gran but twice as dirty.

Oblivious to all this murder and back-biting, man-breasted Maurizio is still trying to get his end away with one (well any of them really) of the models, focusing his attentions on the strangely vole like Doris (blonde bombsite Schürer, famous for her appearances on the cover of many a Killink novel cover during the 60's and 70's).

They say that love is blind (and in this case lacking a sense of smell) because she actually says yes to his advances.

But her night of meat fingered fun is scuppered when the poor fella bursts into tears at the thought of doing it with a real live lady, preferring to spend the night clad only in a huge nappy with his faithful blow-up doll instead.

Unfortunately Maurizio's night of latex loving is cut short when the killer pops in and cuts his throat.

Which is a mercy killing quite frankly.

With (nude) bodies starting to pile up everywhere and Milan running out of models (plus the local cake shop losing it's best customer) you'd think that the local police would at least suspect a link to the Albatross Studios.

Wouldn't you?

But oh no, they're more confused than the viewer as to what's going on, the chief inspector still reeling from the fact that Mario was a, gulp, homosexual.

What enlightened times the seventies were eh?

"Look everyone I've found Maddie!"

With time (and cast members) running out it's left to Magda and the by now infinitely punchable Carlo to attempt to solve the case and unmask (or is that unhelmet?) the killer...

Directed by the genius behind the Peter Bark starring zombie classic Burial Ground, Lord Andrea of Bianchi, Strip Nude for Your Killer doesn't so much as steal from the best than break into their houses and spunks in their underwear drawers before legging it with all the credit cards and loose change.

 

But not before it's shoved their toothbrushes up it's arse.

Bianchi (again) has managed the impossible, making a film that is at once so squalid and sleazy that even the bathwater on screen is dirty but at the same time making it a joy to behold.

And that's even before you add Edwige Fenech to the equation.

 

From What Have They Done To Solange? to Scooby Doo Where are You? via Blood and Black Lace, nothing or no-one is safe from Bianchi's sweaty palmed mix of sleaze, nudity, sensationalist lesbianism, big pants, vibrant wallpaper, naked handstands and blood stained bedding. 

 

Plus it's one of the few movies that delivers exactly what it says on the box.

Which can't be all that bad.

moose flesh.

Just came across (quite literally) these gorgeous Italian posters for the fantastic (possibly) I Porno Zombi (AKA La fille à la fourrure, Naked Lovers, The Girl in the Fur Coat and Starship Eros).

Obviously I have to have it.

More later but until then...

Enjoy!

mental maggots.

After weeks of drawing buxom vampires and studly samurai's it's time to relax with a good movie.

Or a couple of shit ones.

I'm still stuck in a classic (well I say classic) sci-fright phase at the moment but fancied something a wee bit different to the norm.

Maybe even a bit of large rubber maggot on girl action.

Well, that must mean it's time to take a trip to the...

Galaxy of Terror (AKA Mindwarp: An Infinity of Terrors, Planet of Horrors. 1981)
Dir: Bruce D. Clark.
Cast: Edward Albert, Erin Moran, Taaffe O'Connell, Robert Englund, Ray Walston, Bernard Behrens, Zalman King, Grace Zabriskie and hissing Sid Haig.

"I live and die by the crystals".

Across the vastness of deep space lies the desolate, storm-lashed (and somewhat soundstage like) planet Morganthus, where the sole survivor of an offscreen (and therefore cheap) crashed spaceship is fighting a losing battle against an unseen (and therefore very cheap) alien force and the worst home haircut this side of Dario Argento.

No surprises when I tell you that the haircut wins.

Back at space headquarters (alright then, the portacabin round the back) the jolly crew of the good ship Quest are ordered to mount a rescue mission at the behest of the mysterious 'Planet Master', a strange old man in a second hand suit with a red lightbulb for a head who appears to spend his day playing a table-top version of Pong.

Welcome to the future, eighties style.

Leading the mission is the Planet Master's bezzie mate, the piss-stained and gin soaked soon to be retired Bobby Ilvar (Behrens, the voice of Obi Wan Kenobi in the Star Wars radio series) who, alongside his mismatched team that includes bewigged mentalist Captain Trantor (Twin Peaks hottie Zabriskie), the scarred lone survivor of a previous secret mission; the Tom Selleck alike Cabren (Albert from Power Rangers: Time Force) and the bottle rocket, wooden legged second-in-command Billy Baelon (soft core porn master and former Jesus, King), are charged with locating any survivors as well as looking for some vague and secret stuff whilst they're at it.

I tried not to think too much about the plot seeing as no-one involved seemed to be bothered.

"I can see your house from here Peter".

Also aboard is Cabren's ex squeeze, the harsh-faced psi-sensitive (whatever that means) Alluma (Happy Days' Joanie Cunningham, Moran, who's frankly seen better days - and much better gear before now), chief cook and bottle washer Melvin Kore (My Favourite Martian Walston), and the pube bearded, mightily manbreasted hardman Hilary Quuhod (genre stalwart Haig), master of the deadly Perspex boomerangs.

There are a few other folk aboard too but frankly it'd be easier all round if you just imagine a couple of pieces of hardboard decked out in sub standard bri-nylon (and nipple revealing) Battlestar Galactica uniforms.

Oh, and Freddy Krueger in a ginger Abraham Lincoln beard.

Engaging warp drive (which is just off Stella Street) The Quest soon arrives at it's destination and the crew begin their search for any survivors.

And the ships supply of chocolate biscuits.

And quite possibly any evidence of an original idea.

Unfortunately they find nothing but a load of leftover sets from Battle Beyond The Stars strewn with litter and a few shop window dummies smeared with jam and hanging from the roof.

Baelon, angered by such a waste of yummy toast topping goodness decides to set fire to everything around him whilst the rest of the crew (including the jittery Johnny Deadsoon) split up and have a wee scout around.

But obviously not in a John Wayne Gacy way.

Bored with burning stuff and annoyed by Alluma's constant whining about 'dark energies' Baelon orders everyone back to The Quest for tea and toast, a decision that cheers everyone up except poor Deadsoon, who has to stay behind to find his hat that he's dropped.

Suffice to say that within seconds of the others leaving he's killed by what looks like a big rubber testicle that jumps on his back and squeezes his head till it pops.

"And when I'm anally violated I pull THIS face!"

Realising one of their number is missing the crew head back across the studio rubbish tip (sorry, alien landscape) to look for him, giving the frighteningly pneumatic Dameia (O'Connell from Caged Fury) an excuse to tell everyone how much she hates maggots and how she'd be loathed to have one swim up her (ample) arse.

Reader take note, this may be important later.

Back on board The Quest everyone sits down for a quick Pot Noodle whilst Dameia and general dogsbody Powell Ranger (Englund with shit facial hair and some ginger pubes glued to his head) perform a fairly shoddy autopsy on their fallen comrade and the body of some bloke they found in a cupboard.

Their findings?

Both men were killed by terror.

A probable galaxy full of it.

A Galaxy (minus the terror) yesterday.

After pudding and a glass of milk our motley band decide to have a better look around the planet, starting with a huge pyramid-like structure they singularly failed to notice earlier (well it was a wee bit foggy) and Ilvar feeling a bit left out splits everyone (with the exception of Trantor who's frankly barking and chef who's busy cooking brine for supper) into two teams, their mission: discover stuff.

To make it more exciting Ilvar offers first group to reach the summit the chance of winning a teddy bear.

Buffeted by the harsh winds and spooked by the scary synth sounds Ilvar, Dameia and Cabren are first to clamber up the structure (the others have stopped for a picnic at the bottom), discovering a series of slightly sexual looking holes jutting from the pyramids sides, poor Ilvar, stuck between a moustachioed stud and a strip queen, decides to exert his manliness by abseiling down one of these mysterious openings for a quick poke around.

Unfortunately it's him that gets a poking from a gaggle of rubbery (why thank you!) blood sucking tentacles.

"Laugh now!"

Shrugging their shoulders in a fairly apathetic manner before moving on, Dameia and Cabren have soon met up with a still angry Baelon, a still whiny Alluma and always manboobed Quuhod at the pyramids summit where they find a set of giant plasticine doors that lead deep into the structures bowels.

Leaving Quuhod on guard at the entrance (frankly the stench of all that testosterone and sour man milk must be getting to them by now) the rest of the gang head down toward their destiny.

Which in Erin Moran's case is a lifetime of appearances at a number of supermarket openings, conventions and rehab centres.

Your mums cum face. Trust me, I know.

Back aboard the Quest Ranger is having a severe case of the sweats and Kore skulks around the kitchen in a mysterious manner whilst Captain Trantor sits in the ships gun turret, dribbling down her jumper and playing space invaders, swearing like a pikey on heat.

No change there then.

Bored shitless to a point where he's cleaning his nails with the sacred boomerangs, Quuhod is surprised by a scary "BOO!" noise behind him, causing the poor sod to accidentally chop off his arm.

If that wasn't enough the severed arm takes on a life of its own and proceeds to stab it's previous owner to death with his own weapon.

Which is nice.

Hearing the commotion and upset that her breasts are too large to enable her to squeeze any further into the pyramid, Dameia rushes to Quuhod's aid only to stumble over his by now maggot riddle corpse lying in a pool of blood and piss.

Hang on, did someone say maggots?

"Put it in me!"

As Dameia tiptoes around her dead comrades corpse she (remarkably) fails to notice that one of the maggots has started growing to giant size behind her, only realising that somethings wrong when the beast flops down on top of her like a big inflatable penis and begins to tear her clothes off whilst thrusting and grunting the way that normal maggots don't.

What your girlfriend was up to on
that girls night out last week.

Vainly trying to escape by wriggling her slimy arse and rubbing her gloop covered breasts, Dameia is soon overpowered by the horny horror, breathing her last as the beast pumps her full of it's manky maggot muck.

At this point I have to say that as a twelve year old I was under the impression that this was quite possibly the greatest scene ever committed to celluloid but as I got older and more aware of political correctness and the evils of sexism I began to realise that this wasn't the case.

It's far too short for one thing.

And it's way too dark.

(stringy) shite in mah mooth!

This sex based slaying is only the beginning of the horror tho', as within minutes Trantor has accidentally set fire to her face, the cook has gone AWOL, bow-legged Baelon has been bummed by the bin men and poor old Alluma has been squeezed to death by some rampant, slime covered Hoover attachments leaving a by now shot to fuck Ranger and a fairly concerned Cabren the only survivors.

As the perky pair approach the pyramids inner sanctum, they begin to realise that their might be more to the mysterious planet Morganthus than meets the eye and leaves them wondering....

Where the fuck is the chef?

From the minds of writer/director Bruce Clark, little known designer James Cameron and the genius that is Lord Roger of Corman, Galaxy Of Terror maybe a cheap and nasty knock off with more aliases than a serial adulterer and be more likely to give you crabs than a sleepless night but it's still capable of entertaining you along the way.

Just like your mum in fact.

You can imagine the whole thing being greenlit on the strength of the poster alone and when Clark turned round to Corman and said "Then this huge maggot shags a naked bird to death"
you just know it was a done deal.

But then any movie that features aliens, sex, gore and a former member of the Happy Days cast being squeezed to death by household appliances painted green should automatically be pushed thru' for immediate production, imagine how much better the world would be if this were the case.

As an added bonus it's great to sit back and enjoy self proclaimed "King of The World" James Cameron doing what he does best, that is operating a giant rape maggot as opposed to forcing badly plotted overlong remakes of Ferngully on us.

The scenes final moments when the huge quivering beast grunts and thrust one final time over O'Connell's prone form is at once incredibly arousing and mildly disturbing, you can imagine Cameron, teeth gritted and with a semi in his shorts sweating and cursing as he becomes one with the monster costume, imagining himself fucking every last dollar out of the worldwide cinema audience.

Or is that just me?

O'Connell: you would.

As you can probably tell, I secretly love Galaxy Of Terror in the same way as you always have a soft spot for that plump, middle aged housewife you got in touch with via those sleazy 'contact' magazines you purchased as a bet when you were fourteen.

You remember, the one from Edgebaston that made you a man then gave you tea,d biscuits and a cuddle whilst telling you about her disabled husband?

Galaxy Of Terror, scarier than your dad, sleazier than your little sister and a damn sight more fun drunk than both of them.

You need this.