Wednesday, June 30, 2010

june stiffs.

Stop! Stiff time!

And this months column appears to be packed full of movies, comics and porn.

No change there then.

First up is Viveka Babajee, ex Miss Mauritius World 1993 and Miss Mauritius Universe 1994, best known for her KamaSutra condom advertisements and for her involvement in the 1994 Metro Manila Film Festival scandal (tho' not the one involving the severed arms of construction workers....I think).

Also last month we lost the goldest (and hottest) of those golden girls, Rue McClanahan as well as porn star cum (in mah mooth) and latterly murder suspect Stephen Clancy Hill, who clumsily fell off a cliff.

Talking of falling of things (but this time for comedic effect) Viana Júnior, the Brazilian comedian actor, best known for his character Apolônio, the sidekick of A Velha Surda (The Old Deaf Woman) on the hit teevee show A Praça É Nossa licked his lips one last time as did the star of Operation: Mystery, Silver Mask, Kikaider 01, Himitsu Sentai Goranger and Ultraman Mebius & Ultraman Brothers, the fantastic Norio Ikeda.

Sticking with cinema June also saw the death of the director of the classics Ozhukkinethire and Sphotanam, P. G. Viswambharan.

The world of the comic book lost one of it's greatest last month too with the death of the legendary Al Williamson, who work on everything from Secret Agent X-9, Star Wars, Daredevil, Spider-Man, and Spider-Girl. His biggest claim to fame tho' was when he once criticised my inking style in a convention toilet.

Or was that Archie Goodwin?

But the saddest news last month was the passing of Chris Sievey, the musician and comedy genius better know as Frank Sidebottom.

From us all I'd like to say a huge "Thank you."

lollywood babylon.

More movie madness from around the globe and this time we're visiting Pakistan (the city of Lahore to be precise) foe some luscious Lollywood poster art.


I'll stop know in case you begin to mistake this for a well researched and educational film blog.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

happy birthday ray.

Ray Harryhausen is 90 today.

A true pioneer and an inspiration to us all. Happy birthday sir!

sausage fingers.

The Wax Mask (AKA M.D.C. - Maschera di cera, Gaston Leroux's The Wax Mask. 1997).
Dir: Sergio Stivaletti
Cast: Robert Hossien, Romina Mondello, Riccardo Serventi Longhi, Daniele Auber, Umberto Balli, Gianni Franco and Gabriella Giorgelli.

It's the romantic city of Paris in the year 1900 and a portly, middle aged couple have just been bludgeoned to death in their beds by a cloaked, top-hatted fella with a groovy metal hand.

There are limbs and various bodily parts everywhere and the sheets are ruined leaving the local police at a loss as to who or what could have done such a thing.

Well after a few minutes heated discussion they all agree that it definitely wasn't the wee girl they found hiding under the bed.

Pretty good job they weren't Canadian police really seeing as they'd have probably beaten the shite out of her then confiscated her teddy bear as a weapon.

Shite in mah.....well shite everywhere really.

Jumping from blood stained sheets to semen stained slappers it's now twelve years later and we're in a brothel in Rome (not in reality that would be too much to ask), where the besuited and bookish boys are enjoying the company of the prettiest (and cleanest looking) whores this side of Pretty Woman.

Between the shagging and drinking of tea the conversation turns to a brand new wax museum that's soon to open across town, no-one has seen it yet but rumour has it that the place is frankly terrifying with the most realistic sculptures ever.

Everyone reckons that it could it the scariest waxworks ever (yes, even scarier than this one) and it's not long before the weasely Terry McBeardo has accepted a £5 bet to spend the night in the place.

Waved off (and no doubt cracked off) by his favourite and particularly bouncy blonde prostitute (imagine a rouge lipped, corseted, bad AIDS ridden and even more council estate scum Baby Spice and you're partway there) he heads inside to find a quiet place to sleep between the spooky wax figures.

Wandering between the exhibits he comes across a door leading to a basement room and being a nosey bugger heads down to investigate.

Bad move seeing as the place is full of bottled babies, body parts and jars labelled 'bad things'.

Oh and a spooky hooded man busy working away on something not nice.

The sight is so horrific that poor Terry can't help poohing himself a little bit, the smell of which attracts the attentions of the aforementioned hooded man who gives chase, easily catching the by now whiffy fella and killing him dead.

Yes, dead.

"Is that a leaky biro in your pocket
or have you cum in your pants?"

Investigating Terry's disappearance and being quite well known in the local brothels, the police end up at the waxwork and soon find Terry's shite stained body curled up in a corner just behind the Brad and Angelina tableaux.

Due to the smell the coroner decides that he died of fear.

Enter Boris Volkoff (well as played by the very old yet still very sexy Hossein you'd not think twice), the owner of the waxwork who, of course knows nothing about the death.

Aye right.

Tis the next morning and young, fresh faced wannabe fashion designer Sonia Lafont (the Asia Argento like - just slightly less sleazy - Mondello) has applied for a job making costumes at the wax museum but Alex (Balli from the cult Bobby Rhodes starrer Tre), Volkoff's lanky, pretty lipped and pudding bowled assistant despises her hairstyle and attempts to send her home.

Boris on the other (non metal) hand finds young Sonia fascinating and hires her on the spot.

Well I say on the spot but he actually offers her the job in his office but you get the gist.

This is the first bit of good fortune Sonia has had in years seeing as her parents were butchered by a madman and that she's had to spend the last twelve years living with her vastly overweight and blind auntie Francesca (cinema legend and ex-model for the Sadistik photo-comic Giorgelli) .

But wait!

Does this mean that she's the wee girl from the start of the film?

And more importantly is it still OK to fancy her?

Mondello: You would.

Leaving the waxwork museum with a spring in her step and a heaving bosom Sonia is startled by the young news pup Andrea Conversi (Longhi, star of I tre volti del terrore and some other stuff) sneakily taking photo's of her.

After first wanting to slap him, Andrea's smooth movies and easy good looks soon have her, if not eating out of his hand at least knobbing him for a promise of a McDonalds and a movie.


But seeing as we're in an Italian horror movie it's no surprise that whilst all this mushy (and fairly sticky) stuff is going down, the mad bloke with the cloak, top hat and metal hand is skulking about the local parks buying wee urchin's candy floss before sticking a huge syringe into his neck, stripping him down to his undies and filling him with warm sickly liquids.

Too late Noel Edmonds discovered he'd
left his special wanking hand on the shelf.

Whilst all these murders are going on, Andrea comes to the conclusion that they may be related in some way to the wax museum.

Sonia on the other (metallic this time) hand is too busy to care seeing as she's being romantically pursued by Boris (who gives her a really classy pearl necklace) as well as wondering if the metal hand murders could be in any way related to her parents deaths.

Hmmmmm......a hard one that.

Meanwhile that blonde whore from earlier is kidnapped, stripped to a pair of (leather) undies and injected with stuff before being placed in a display featuring Jack The Ripper.

As a whore.

Oh the irony.

"Laugh now!"

Andrea with his patented sweet talking and even sweeter cock (possibly), manages to 'talk' Sonia into letting him into the wax museum after hours to take pictures of the exhibits before heading off for tea at Aunt Francesca's house.

The conversation turns to Sonia's childhood and Francesca tells the sad story of Sonia's mother, Gayle who was unhappily married to a weird bloke named Boris who did bad things with candles.

Finding solace in the arms of a nice (non mental) man named Victor, Gayle began a torrid affair but as is the way in these things, Boris caught them red handed (and sore arsed).

Being slightly upset at finding his wife spread eagled across the bed like a common strumpet Boris leapt at Victor and some serious bitch-slapping ensued culminating with Boris falling arse over tit into a huge vat of boiling hot wax that just happened to be bubbling away in the living room.


The patented Abi Titmus mooth shite-in chair,
only £19.99 from Paliwank industries.

Andrea begins to suspect that Sonia's dad maybe the same Boris that now runs the wax museum and heads back to over there, leaving Sonia just enough time to get herself kidnapped and threatened with being fed to some hungry pigs.

Rescued by Boris before any hot pig on pretty lady action can take place (booo!) Sonia is taken to the museum (rather than being taken up the casino which is what Boris would rather do, you can tell by the look in his eyes), dragged down to the secret laboratory and stripped down to a pair of leather undies (I hope they're clean) ready for embalming.

Mondello: Any excuse.

But don't fear (oh go on then, fear a wee bit) because the ultimate crime solving force of Andrea and the blind Francesca are hot on Boris' trail and determined to rescue our sweaty and trussed up like a turkey heroine.

Will they find Sonia before her dad fills her with his special liquid?

Will there be any more unnecessary close-ups of her glistening breasts?

And will a giant, steam powered Terminator style robot turn up for no reason?

Co-written by the late, great Lucio Fulci and the hardly ever late but still great Dario Argento with effects genius Sergio Stivaletti behind the camera how could a movie like Wax Mask fail to entertain?

Throwing caution, logic and budgetary constraints to the wind (but keeping hold of those handy red filters), Stivaletti has crafted a stylishly saucy slice of pure cinematic gold that's as cheesy as it is chilling, tho' whether the cheesiness is intentional is up for debate.

I for one don't care when a movie is as enjoyable as this.

Often cruelly slated by 'proper' fans of the genre, there's lots to love about Wax Mask if you're willing to let yourself go with the flow, not least the wonderful production values, the vivid deep colours, the lush score and lastly but by no means least, the yummy Romina Mondello strapped to a steampunk style operating table wearing nowt but some leather briefs and a layer of shimmering sweat.

Even the cack handed dubbing (the worst I've ever heard) courtesy of distributors Film 2000 can't detract from the movie's overall greatest, if anything it adds another unique dimension to the proceedings, as if the dialogue was being presented thru' some kind of bio-mechanical drunken trumpet.

And there aren't many films you can say that about.

Apart from the bizarro sound mix used on the Warner two disc release of the Peter Cushing Dalek movies back in the early nineties.

At once a celebration of the best (and worse) excesses of Italian horror cinema, Wax Mask deserves to be re-evaluated and smothered with the love, attention and sticky kisses it so richly deserves.

Do it now.

Monday, June 28, 2010

moro comico el filtho.

Friday, June 25, 2010

bin raidin'.

The Raiders Of Atlantis (AKA Atlantis Interceptors, Atlantis Inferno, I predatori di Atlantide. 1983)
Dir: Ruggero Deodato.
Cast: Christopher Connelly, Gioia Scola, Tony King, George Hilton, Ivan Rassimov, Mike Miller, Bruce Baron, Michele Soavi, Giancarlo Prati, Maurizio Fardo, Mike Monty, John Vasallo, Lewis A. Cianelli, James Demby and Audrey Perkins.


"This don't look like no advanced civilisation
to me - just a bunch of trees!"

Rough and tumble, pastel clad heroes for hire Mike Smith (mottle skinned Connelly from Manhattan Baby) and Geoff 'Mohammed' Washington (King AKA Malik Farrakhan from Cannibal Apocalypse and BJ and the Bear), make ends meet by chloroforming then kidnapping old men on the orders of the US government for $50,000 a shot.

Which is nice work if you can get it.

Having delivered the old fella to a mysterious colonel whilst wisecracking about Vietnam and Washington's conversion to Islam, the pair decide to set sail to the Caribbean for a well deserved holiday.

By some strange coincidence, a secret Navy project is getting under way in the same bit of ocean and the tiny faced (and frighteningly insectoid) science type, Dr. Cathy Rollins (Desirable Teacher's Scola) has been (forcibly) drafted in to help decipher an ancient, skull embossed plaque discovered on the ocean floor.

The projects head, the bespectacled and knee length shorted Professor Peter Saunders (Hilton from such classics The Case of the Bloody Iris and Holy God, Here Comes the Passatore!) explains that they came across it whilst trying to raise a Russian sub that had sunk a few months earlier.

Being an expert on pre-Columbian dialects of almost Daddy Pig proportions, Rollins has absolutely no trouble in translating the strange markings on the plaque and announces that it tells the whereabouts of the fabled lost city of Atlantis.


Meanwhile in a mysterious Caribbean isle hotel room, a mysterious man in his granddad's suit slowly opens a wall safe and removes a joke shop plastic skull mask, he gazes lovingly at it before popping it onto his tiny head.

Talking of tiny heads, it's action stations all the way back on the government submarine stealing base as Rollin's takes a break from transcribing ancient inscriptions (and a sell out spoken word tour) to peer at a grainy black and white monitor showing superimposed images of a child's bath toy slowly rising to the surface of a fishtank.

Suddenly the whole place goes haywire as indoor firework style sparks shower the set and the light fuses blow. As the crew run around like small girls being chased by a wasp it's left to the director of Delamore Dellamorte to lead everyone to the lifeboats.

But what's happening back on that island with the skull-faced man I hear you cry?

Well so far nothing seeing as we've cut to a garishly clad couple, Arthur and Maude who, upon leaving their house are shocked and frightened by the amount of grainy stock footage of thunderstorms in the distance.

Maude is understandably upset and wants to go back into the house but as she turns to enter the porch plastic skull face turns up (surrounded by a motley assortment of leather clad and mohawk headed pikeys) and shoots her in the throat before parking his bike up Arthur's arse .

The Jade Goody sex mask: Available now!

Mike and Washington, alongside their oiled Filipino cabin boy Manuel (Vasallo in his only credited screen appearance - shame) are having problems of their own trying to guide the boat thru' giant waves whilst dodging the huge domed city that's appeared out of the ocean in front of them as the outboard motor fries and the last crate of beer falls overboard.


Luckily the films fades to black before it can get too exciting (or expensive) and next thing we know it's the following morning. The sea is calm and Washington and Manuel are busy rescuing the survivors (including Italian cinema's sexiest man, Sir Ivan of Rassimov in the pivotal role of daredevil pilot Bill Cook) from the base whilst Mike makes googly eyes at Cathy.

Who appears to be young enough to be his daughter but let's not dwell on that.

Mercifully for the viewer this uncomfortable display of old man lust is cut short when Manuel suddenly becomes a mentalist and grabs Cathy by her scrawny throat, threatening to kill anyone who gets in his way.

It appears that Manuel has received a psychic message telling him that 'Cathy is needed'.

It mustn't be that important tho' seeing as he's happy enough to jump overboard without her.

"To me!" "To you!"

With everyone just standing about staring at each other trying to figure what just happened, nobody notices that the boat has run aground on a deserted beach until Cathy decides to go skinny dippy, jumps overboard and grazes her knee on a discarded Irn Bru bottle.

Mike being the oldest (by about seventy years) takes charge and decides that they should head inland and try to find a phone.

Or at least find the guy who runs the donkey rides across the sand.

Approaching the nearest town our intrepid (or is that tepid?) band are shocked to find the whole place in ruins with buildings ablaze, cars overturned and corpses hanging from every telegraph pole.

Mike mistakenly thinks that they've arrived in Manchester and whilst desperately trying to score some skag of an illiterate inbred on a street corner bumps into his old pal Manuel, still nutty as squirrel shit and here to warn them to get Cathy back to the boat before 'they' arrive to take her.

Driving Ms. Daisy: the S & M years.

But it's a warning too late as the infamous 'they' (plastic skull face and his merry band of homo-erotic bikers) arrive and start shooting at things whilst showing their oiled nipples to all and sundry forcing Mike and co. to take shelter in a church.

All that is except the resident ginger man who runs towards the leather clad gang shouting “They’re human! They’ll listen to reason!” before being shot in the arse and nailed to a tree.

Which is fair enough I reckon.

Waiting till nightfall and the badboy bikers going home to bed, Mike and Bill lead the survivors to the (relative) safety of a nearby warehouse packed with cases of rifles, unlimited ammunition and a big box of napalm.

Which is pretty damn lucky if you ask me.

On a less interesting note the warehouse is also hiding place to a balding camp man in a tuxedo (Fardo from The Bronx Warriors 2 and Demons 6), his fairly unattractive daughter and his very unattractive wife.

Don't worry tho', they'll be dead soon.

It's not long before the barking bikers return to torment and taunt Mike and his pals whilst handily standing still on top of walls within easy shooting distance.

“We have returned!” shouts plastic before sending his men into the warehouse to snatch Cathy, leaving Mike no alternative but to give chase.

What a guy.

Running around the backlot, his turkey neck glistening with sweat Mike chances upon a hefty German man (Mike Miller, not the northern comedian I assume) wearing a headband who goes by the name of Klaus who's been wandering around for days spoiling for the chance to fight someone.

Not too surprisingly he jumps at the chance to join Mike's quest.

Returning to the warehouse and reading thru' Cathy's notebook (in the hope of finding some nude pictures of her obviously) Mike discovers that Atlantis sank as a consequence of a big civil war culminating in the use of a nuclear bomb, ergo the radiation leaking from the downed Soviet sub is what must have caused the island to rise again.

Obvious really.

There's a downside to all this domed city and psychic nonsense tho' as it seems that the radiation has caused all the surviving Atlanteans to become forgetful which is why they need Cathy kidnapped for her knowledge, which they need to achieve their plan of raising Atlantis for good.

And yes, I know it's all bollocks, I've just had to type it.

Hidden knowledge, shite sofa.

But Mike, being brave and desperate for a shag has a rescue plan which involves commandeering a bus to travel to the local airport and steal a helicopter to fly to Atlantis, kill everyone there and leave with Cathy over his shoulder.

Yup, works for me.

After an exciting bus journey and a few more killings they do indeed steal a helicopter and fly toward the bubblicious Atlantis where, upon landing they kill a few more leather-clad Atlantean types whilst Professor Saunders (yes, he's still alive and wearing shorts) decides that neutralising the radiation from the submarine may indeed cause Atlantis to sink again, saving everyone from being over-run by plastic skull wearing mentalists on motorbikes.

Or something.

A transparent breast yesterday.

Whilst all this killing and science is going on Cathy has had time to dress up in a seventies disco-whore outfit and have a conversation with some old men projected onto a wall.

Her lack of any visible acting ability makes me think that she's either drunk or under hypnosis seeing as she's not only readily agreed to help the Atlantean's take over the world but seems to believe all the frankly techno-bollocks chat that's being banded about.

Saying that tho' her legs to look particularly nice in those glittery tights so it's not all bad.

But time (and the viewers patience) is running out.....

"Shite in mah Atlantean mooth!"

Will Mike be able to rescue Cathy in time to take her out for the promised spinach supper?

Will the Professor be able to turn off the nuclear radiation?

Or will the plastic skull man take over the world?

Go on, guess.

What film are we talking about?

The controversy courting king of the cannibals Ruggero Deodato's little seen action epic Raiders of Atlantis is a majestically mental mix of gruesome gore, mystical mumbo jumbo and post-apocalyptic thrills, riffing Indiana jones and the Hong Kong classic Fantasy Mission Force along the way before mixing the entire thing to a tepid disco beat courtesy of the fantastic Guido De Angelis and Maurizio De Angelis under the alias Oliver Onions.

I'll give you a second to take all that in and then ask....

What's not to like?

Whilst attempting to interview Deodato
for the Arena I failed to notice he'd written
'Shite in mah mooth' in marker
pen on my back.
What a card!

For better or worse, Deodato will probably only be remembered (by all but the most devoted film enthusiasts) for his infamous mockumentary shocker Cannibal Holocaust (and possibly House on the Edge of the Park but for all the wrong reasons) which is a shame really, as his most enjoyable (and accessible) works are the ones that no-one seems to have seen.

And if they have they rarely seem to talk about them.

From the sexy swashbuckling Lucretia love starring comic book adaptation Zenabel to the sublime crime thriller Live Like a Cop, Die Like a Man (AKA The Terminators) via the lo-fi Airport: 79 rip off Concorde Affaire '79 (AKA Concorde Inferno '79), Deodato is a director whose genuine love of cinema (and more importantly an appreciation of the sheer enjoyment that films can give) shines thru' even the most threadbare and nonsensical plots.

And much like the great man's drug busting actioner Cut And Run, The Raiders Of Atlantis might be total bollocks but you can't deny that it's utterly enjoyable bollocks.

And you can't say fairer than that can you?

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

love bites.

It's been a long time coming but here, as promised is that review of probably the second gayest vampire movie of all time.

Next to Twilight that is.

Gayracula (1983).
Dir: Roger Earl.
Cast: Tim Kramer, Steve Collins, Rand Remington, Randal Butler, Michael Christopher, Ray Medina, Max Montoya, Doug Weston, Douglas Poston and Davin McNeil.

"You have done me a great service....

now I shall service you!"

Our dark tale of undead bloodlust begins with a group of robed and mysteriously seventies haired monks carrying a coffin thru' the California desert to a fairly inoffensive sub-Jerry Goldsmith Omen-esque score.

So far so so.

Entering a dark, dank cave or hooded pals force open the coffin to reveal a jug-eared young man in his granddad's tuxedo lying within.

As the lead monk Brian attempts to stake him thru' the heart our be-suited chum suddenly opens his eyes and sits upright before metamorphosing into a bat whilst filling the cave with what looks like eggy bad-dad gas.

As the monks shriek and scream in terror the bat makes it's escape (via fishing wire and a big stick) to the cave entrance before reverting back to it's human form....

Naked apart from a cape, patent leather brogues and socks the monks can only cower in fear at the evil that is Gayracula.

Ladies and gentlemen....
live on stage....5ive!

Jump forward (backwards?) to the year is 1783 (well according to the dodgy Letraset font superimposed over a kids drawing of a Halloween castle it is) and the fantastically monikered Gaylord Young (The late Tim Kramer of California Jackoff fame) , a courier for the legal firm of Crotchley, Bloomfield and Smythe (like it matters) has been dispatched to Transylvania to deliver a family heirloom to the mysteriously moustachioed Mark Shannon alike (and even more fantastically monikered) Marquis de Suede (Collins last seen in Falconhead Part II: The Maneaters).

Being so grateful for the personal touch of delivering the said artefact to his imposing castle by hand, de Suede offers Young a hot meal and a bed for the night.

Oh yes, and offers to suck on his huge throbbing manhood as if it were an oversized Chupa Chup then firing his own undead vampiric muck all over Young's lily-white arse before biting him on the neck.

All in gloriously over-lit clinical colour.

Which is nice.

The year they invented Crayola obviously.

Waking the next morning to a head full of red and an anus like a sugared doughnut, poor Gaylord stumbles over to the mirror to examine his neck only to see not his own reflection but the face of de Suede laughing maniacally at him before the mirror explodes in a shower of sharp pointy shards.

The curse of the vampire has been passed to a new victim.

Gaylord Young, legal eagle is no more.

He has become the king of the undead.

Something less than human but with a cock the size of a newborn baby.

Which is a plus point if you think about it.

Suddenly (and without so much as a warning or even a crudely crayoned flashframe) we're transported to 'modern day' Los Angeles, where Boris the manservant (allegedly some bloke named Rand Remington but frankly I'm convinced is Tom Savini) and Geoff the delivery boy (Christopher last seen in the 1991 erotic thriller Fade In, an undiscovered classic that featured gay half-men, half-spiders who devour their sexual partners after trapping them in webs of sticky cum...seriously) are busy tidying and decorating a huge mansion ready for the new owner to move in.

Worn out after carrying a big wooden coffin into the lounge Geoff has to rest for a while but luckily Boris appears to be a trained sports therapist and offers to massage his stiff shoulders.

With his penis.

Geoff, grateful for the help notices that Boris looks uncomfortable sitting on a rough wooden box so, assuming his bottom must be getting a wee bit sore offers to massage that in return.

Boris agrees and the two men indulge themselves in a bout of manly massage.

"Tonight Matthew I'm going to be...
Gary Barlow!"

All this excitement, groaning and testosterone (not to mention the copious amounts of semen dripping into his coffin) is enough to wake Gaylord from his slumber.

Having been asleep for 200 hundred years tho' he's rather peckish and makes short work of poor Geoff's bum draining every speck of blood from his body.

Now Gaylord, rested and fed can begin his mission.

Your dad, working late at the office last night.

It seems that Gaylord has discovered that the Marquis de Suede is still around, posing as an agent and running an all male dance troupe in a theatre just off Hollywood Boulevard and our vampiric chum and the Marquis have some unfinished business to attend to.

Revenge for turning Gaylord into a vampire?

A battle to the death to decide who is the king of the undead?

Or is it that Gaylord just can't get enough of the Marquis' ungodly shaft?

Go on, guess.

"Flames in mah mooth!"

Arriving at rehearsals and given a front row seat (and key to the mysterious 'backroom') by the Marquis, Gaylord's sex plans are thrown into disarray when he comes across (not literally, well not yet) the young, virginal Gavin (McNeil star of Malibu Days Big Bear Nights), a waiter at the theatre and falls instantly and hopelessly in love with him.

Using his powers of persuasion to entice Gavin to his home the pair make beautiful (well sticky and sweaty) love together and, as Gavin falls asleep in Gaylord's arms, the vampire vows never to suck the young boys blood and to only indulge in rimming on a Tuesday.

Aw, aint love sweet?

Abstaining from blood drinking tho' leaves Gaylord weakened and stumbling thru' the streets in a daze and it's only thru' sheer luck that he manages across the local bloodbank where, as is usually the way with these things, the hunky doctor is far too busy sodomising one of the (even hunkier) patients to notice our hero draining the blood supply dry.

Returning home Gaylord vows to tell Gavin the truth about his unusual affliction.

But will their love survive?

"Put it in me!"

Three cheers for Roger Earl for producing a vampire movie with all the passion, romance, horror and copious scenes of buggery sadly missing from such big budget offerings as Bram Stoker's Dracula, Twilight and the like. It's micro-budget never once compromises Earl's vision and tho' he may have had to incorporate props and sets left over from the arse end of the seventies (cracked and wobbly disco balls, silver clad dance 'numbers' and a couple of unfortunate moustaches) he stays true to his aim of producing a film that not only delves deep into vampire lore whilst dealing with the universal issues of love and belonging but also manages to feature the most varied and frankly disturbing scenes of fucking, rimming, sucking and cupping I have ever seen.

And for this reason alone I take my hat off to him.

Who am I to judge tho? Earl may have just been making a low budget gay porn film and not realised the truly heart warming effect it would have on viewers, I invited my next door neighbours 11 year old Twilight fan daughter to watch it with me whilst we babysat her and she was left crying and shaking with emotion as the tender love story played out in front of her.

Something I'm sure Robert Pattinson has never manage to do with his big square face and glittering shite.

I've not seen her since but when I do I'm sure she'll thank me for sharing the experience with her.

As will you after viewing this lost classic.

You can thank me later.