Wednesday, April 29, 2015

dog day afternoon.

Just finished up the Easter holidays so had a week of young master Cassidy taking charge of the teevee whilst his sisters run rampage in town*.

Well at least he's choosing something other than old Mister Maker episodes for a change.

"Come get me Yewtree I'm fucking untouchable!"

Sadomania (AKA Holle der Lust, Hellhole Women. 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 circa 1974) 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 Michael (Caballero from the brothel based drama L'oasis des filles perdues) are happily enjoying their South America honeymoon cum golfing holiday, which is always how these things start if I'm honest.

It's been sun, sand, huge amounts of cocaine, a wee bit of poverty and holes in one all the way so far and with a return home looming 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 womens 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.

Which reminds me of the reason I got expelled from school years ago.

Wilson: Like you'd have a choice.
After a quick telling off and a slapped wrist Michael 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.


Surprisingly Michael sheepishly bids farewell and saunters off without even a hint of annoyance at the thought of having to spend the final nights of his honeymoon in the company of mother fist and her five beautiful daughters, leaving poor Olga to be (roughly) taken up the prison to be 'processed'.

Which is nice.

Arriving at the prison gates and with her only experience of prison being endless reruns of Prisoner: Cell Block H and Bad Girls, Olga is surprised to find that this alleged top security complex looks more like an end of days Butlins as imagined by a crack-addled Robin Askwith, housing as it does around 40 women - of various degrees of attractiveness -  who spend their days sweatily toiling in fields clad only in Daisy Duke style hot-pants whilst (topless) female guards with machine guns watch them from either horseback or home made chariots.

A wee bit like your 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,  the prison rules are  simple enough for even her to understand.

And they go something like this:

 If a prisoner is caught trying to escape they are given a 60 second head start and then chased and shot (unless the inflatable Crocodiles don't get them first that is).


I told you they were easy to remember.

Don't worry if shooting or being eaten alive aren't your thing as there is an alternative.

For example if the local politicians wife, the luscious Loba (swallowing superstar Janssen from the Story of Q) is in a good mood, hand-picked prisoners are taken to her villa for a wee kiss and cuddle with her impotent husband Jeff Mendoza (Foster from Oasis of the Zombies and Zombie(s) Lake sporting the worlds greatest comedy moustache).

Or if they're really lucky a wee bit of sapphic sauciness Loba herself.
Now which UK political party would be brave enough to bring this bill in?

I for one would commit a dozen acts of wanton burglary if I was in with a chance of an evening alone with Scottish Conservative badgirl  Ruth Davidson.

Well I'm only flesh and blood.

"Now ladies....who fancies a wee bit o' mooth shite-in?"
It's not all fun and frolics tho' as wicked warden Magda has a strict zero tolerance approach to fighting amongst the inmates and anyone who breaks this rule is punished by both parties being bundled into a ramshackle cage and forced to fight to the death.

Whilst topless obviously.

And what of the winner?

Well they get the special treat of spending the night with Mendoza's (over) friendly Alsatian, Butch and a once in a lifetime chance to enjoy his own special brand of 'meat treat'.

If, for some strange reason, none of this works to break the prisoners spirits, the worst offenders (or those with the perkiest breasts) are sold to the ferret-like Mr. Jorge Lucas (director Franco with trademark pube beard in tow) and put to work in his brothel in order to bring pleasure to the local mine workers and various salty sailor folk that pass thru town.

Exactly like your mums old school.

Who's best...Samantha Cameron or Miriam González?.....There's only one way to find out! FIGHT!

Anyway, back to the non lesbian/torture/dog sex plot of the movie (yes there is one) and poor Michael, outwardly beginning to show the faintest signs of guilt in regards to leaving his missis in such a god forsaken hellhole - but more likely just jealous of missing out on all this girl on girl action - decides it's time to mount a rescue mission (as opposed to mounting a rescue dog or your gran) and free 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.

Which would be quite difficult seeing as he's quite ruggedly handsome if I'm honest.

Well for a dog anyway.

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, poorly acted, S/M fuelled trashorama sleaze in the way that only he can.

But to be honest is this a good thing?

Franco-philes, as some enthusiasts like to be called - probably - claim that the great mans movies have a genuine and legitimate artistry to them as well as a strong moral message lurking behind the sleaze and violence 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.

Most likely tho' is the fact that I really don't feel the need to over intellectualize my genuine love of saucy Euro-Trash and am quite happy to share it with anyone who'll listen.
Because let's be honest here, if I've got the choice of spending a Friday night watching Chiwetel Ejiofor being whipped by a bad man or a flee bitten Alsatian desperately trying to mount a visibly nervous Angel Caballero I know which one I’d go for.

And I don't care how hot Ejiofor looks topless and drenched in sweat.

Plus he's no Idris Elba is he?

Well, neither of them are really but that's a different topic altogether.

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

Whilst obviously never reaching the dizzy heights of Franco's all time classic Bloody Moon (but then again, what does?), 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 as well as my godmother.

Add to this the copious amounts of mindless violence coupled with the choice overgrown seventies bush on show and the oh so saucy hints of bestiality and you know you've got a winner on your hands.

Or at least a pitiful semi between your chubby little fingers.

You dirty, dirty boy.

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 just plain wrong (plus he's only half way thru' the Lucio Fulci back catalogue and I wouldn't want to confuse him).

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

superfly poster guy iv: the crackdown.

Even more fantastic poster art from the wacky world of Ugandan and Ghanan cinema..... 


Monday, April 20, 2015


I saw wee Jimmy Krankie at Sainsbury's in Partick yesterday.

You know the thing about Jimmy Krankie, he's got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eye.

When he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be livin'.

Until he bites ya and those black eyes roll over white.

And then, ah then you hear that terrible high pitch screamin' and the floor turns red and spite of all the poundin' and the hollerin' he comes in and rips you to pieces.

caribbean queen.

Only ten weeks till the summer holidays so to get you in the mood....

Papaya Of The Caribbean (AKA Papaya: Love Goddess of the Cannibals, Die of Pleasure, Fruta sexual del Caribe, 1978)
Director: Joe D'Amato.

Starring: Sirpa Lane, Melissa Chimenti, Maurice Poli
and some other people.

Our tale opens on the sun kissed beach of a scenic resort island somewhere hot, exotic and most importantly dirt cheap to film where the dusky and mysterious beauty known only as Papaya (Chimenti from Revelations of a Psychiatrist on the World of Sexual Perversion, obviously Laura Gemser was busy) is hard at work rubbing out of date fruit over a sweaty mans chest whilst giving him the 'oral pleasure'.

Ask your mum.

Which may seem a great way to spend your vacation until the moment of Climax that is when pervy Papaya bites off his penis, gobbling away like a really hungry hippo as he writhes about screaming like your nan when she got he breast caught in the blender.


But that's not all that's amiss in paradise.

Plans are afoot to build a brand spanking (as opposed to arse spanking  tho' with Joe D'Amato's involvement I wouldn't be so sure) new atomic power plant on the island, whether the natives agree or not.

It's no wonder tho' that with all this cock biting going on that work on the project is behind schedule meaning that the ruggedly sexy (and scarily hairy) company engineer Vincent (Rabid Dogs' Poli channelling Crossroads very own David Hunter) is sent to investigate.

Arriving on the island our pensionable aged professional soon comes across (in more ways than one) ace investigative journalist and 'old friend' Sarah (Lane, harsh faced star of Walerian Borowczyk's furry suited shagfest La Bette) and is soon indulging in some atomic reactions of his own.

By that I mean he has sex with her.


Honestly the sheer animalistic intensity of the intercourse being indulged in here would be enough to supply the entire island with energy without the power station and the only thing that cools down their ardour is the discovery of a mutilated corpse of one of the plant workers in their hotel room.

And to be honest I'm surprised they don't just roll on top of him and use his putrefying juices as lube.

It's not just the bath water that's dirty. Or smelling of shit.

Anyway, after a wee bit more shagging yet another worker is found dead and cockless, giving Vincent the idea that the deaths may be related. think so?

Deciding to take Sarah on a trip to the power plant (as opposed to say, up the arse) to hunt for clues they soon come across (not in that way, well not yet) the aformentioned Papaya, who persuades them that rather than investigate the murders their time would be better spent indulging in some three-way sex action.

Vincent, obviously eager to get as many STD's as possible over one weekend is more than happy to oblige.

Easy tiger.

What your mum and auntie get up to when they say they're at the bingo.

But fear not fright fans because it's not all flirty threesomes, groovy girl on girl action, onanism and water sports because Papaya - realizing that any movie of this type worth its ilk needs a wee bit of animal harm - also invites the couple to an island 'celebration' involving the slaughtering of a couple of defenceless pigs (real footage, cheers Joe), followed by a couple of hallucinogenic cocktails and, of course copious amounts of naked dancing to a stunningly sexy Stelvio Cipriani disco beat.

And let's be honest, would you have it any other way?

"Put it in me!"

But as is always the way with these things, the party can't last forever and the very next morning Vincent wakes to not only find a cluster of red lumps on his scrotum but that Sarah has been kidnapped by Papaya's crazed followers.

Will our humping hero suffer the same fate as the other unfortunate plant workers and what does Papaya have in store for the man-chinned, 70's breasted Sarah?

More importantly tho' will it involve any more soft focus, slow motion lady love culminating in saucy Sirpa biting her lip in her trademark erotic fashion?

Look I'm easily pleased obviously.

From the mightily mucky mind of the late great Joe D'Amato (AKA Aristide Massaccesi), Papaya Of The Caribbean is another of the great mans forays into - as we in the know call it - the 'sexy horror', sitting (or standing) proudly alongside the frankly wonderful Emanuelle And The Last Cannibals, Orgasmo Nero, Erotic Nights of The Living Dead and the subtly titled Porno Holocaust.

The latter more famous for not actually featuring a 'Porno Holocaust' in any shape of form preferring as it does to concentrate solely on actor Mark Shannon's weirdly warty balls.

Obviously that wouldn't have made half as good a title tho.

Unfortunately Papaya (the movie that is not the fruit which is quite tasty) lacks the humour (both intentional and otherwise) of Erotic Nights and is just nowhere near as bizarre as the genuinely wacky Last Cannibals.

It also lacks enough gore or shocks to be a bona fide horror movie and, if I'm honest isn't really that sexy, due in part to the usually luscious Lane deciding to spend the entire movie staring into the middle distance in the vaguely frowny, nonplussed manner of someone trying to ignore a bad smell which for a so called 'erotic' movie is a wee bit of a non starter

Surely Maurice Poli's recurring yeast infection wasn't that bad?

In its favour there are - tho' usually by accident rather than design when it comes to a Big Joe production -  actually a few genuinely spooky scenes on show - mostly those involving Vincent and Sarah exploring a deserted ghost town - tho' any tension they may have helped to build up is soon dispelled by the sheer amount of floppy cocks that appear at frighteningly regular intervals throughout the film.
I feel I now know Maurice Poli's better than my own.

Or your dads.

Friday, April 17, 2015

cod only knows.

Was out shopping t'other day when I came across (quite literally in this case) this little beauty looking all lost and forlorn on the shelf of my local charity shop and although I already own it (and let's be honest which self respecting film fan doesn't?) I couldn't just leave it sitting all alone so I just had to purchase it.

Best quid ever spent.

Rewatching it last night I remembered that I'd 'reviewed' it years ago when I still thought this was a serious film blog that people actually read (ah youth eh?) so I reckoned it was time to give it a revisit for those unfamiliar with this classic sea-based 90's horror.


Creatures from the Abyss (Aka Plankton, 1994)
Dir: Al Passeri (AKA Massimiliano Cerchi)
Cast: Clay Rogers, Michael Bon, Sharon Twomey, Loren De Palma, Ann Wolf and the legend that is Deran Sarafian.


“Damn it! Who opened the radioactive container?”

Enjoying a quiet vacation (as our Yankee cousins say) in Florida, an infinitely punchable group of all American 'teens'; horrible haired geekboy Mike (Rogers looking for all the world like a genetic splicing of Simon LeBon and James Spader gone awry), mumsy Margareth (Twomey, she of All Creatures Great and Small, A Fish Called Wanda and the classic Spiando Marina fame), Shane Ritchie wannabe Bobby (council estate Zach Galligan Bon), the peachy of arse yet scarily large of face Julie (Wolf) and her cutesy (in a human/My Little Pony hybrid way) Dorothy (DePalma - the director of Carrie dragged up for a rare acting role possibly) decide to hire a motorboat (well, a tiny dingy) and head out for a wee bit of salty sea based fun and frolics.

"Excuse me Shane but you've got shite in your mooth".

Running out of gas in the middle of the ocean things go from bad to very bad for our fabulously fashioned five as they're hit by a freak storm (well, buckets of cold water) then come across a floating plastic corpse that looks uncannily like Geoff Hoone before almost crashing (if a dingy can crash) into a handy Oceanographic Research Vessel (and by the state of the decor, part time knocking shop).

Climbing aboard in the hope of getting dry, a free meal and, in Bobby's case, laid the teens discover that the entire ship is deserted save a pube bearded, meth-headed, fish fiddling tramp in a lab coat, a couple of dead scientists in a diving bell and a laboratory full of cheap neon tubing and shit loads of frozen, mutated cod.

And a haddock with a hard on.

No....seriously, but I'll get back to that later.

Not wanting to let such piffling details get in the way of a good time the girls decide to raid the kitchen and rustle up a tasty fish supper whilst the boys scout around the cabins looking for condoms, Buckfast, crisps and the like.

Bobby Sands new career as a superstar
DJ hit a few problems when he mistakenly played
The Sash instead of the oft requested Sasha.

After gorging themselves on Aldi fishfingers, potato waffles and cheap gin our fabulous fivesome discover the crews stash of shitey Euro-pop Cd's so decide to indulge (and debase) themselves further by having a makeshift disco, which if nothing else gives us a chance to admire Twomey's killer moves.

Oh and DePalma's fake tanned arse as it valiantly tries to break free of her tiny swimsuit.

Unfortunately the party is interrupted when the tramp (obviously sick of Margareth's appalling Wigfield impersonation) decides to bite her before legging it down a corridor whilst giggling like a loon.

"I wouldn't want one of them swimming up my arse".

Having avidly viewed every episode of Love Boat and thinking that this is a rather strange way to behave at sea, Mike heads off to the lab in order to find some answers.

Luckily he's studying Ichthyology at college enabling him to figure out that the photo's of fish playing cards and wearing hats isn't normal.

Could someone have been tampering with nature?

"Laugh now!"

Meanwhile Dorothy has come down with a really bad case of sickness and diarrhoea, puking and shitting dayglo vomit and wriggly sea worms all over the ships spotless bathroom.

The friends decide that all she needs is a good lie down (well, it works wonders for me when I'm shitting haddock) and after tucking her up in bed the pals go their separate ways; Julie finally slips out of her horrendous pink, polka dotted Bratz style swimsuit and into a soapy shower as bad boy Bobby grumpily wanders around with a bulge in his pants whilst heroic (alright, just plain nosey) Mike and Magareth head back to the lab to find out more information on the strange fish.

"Kayleigh is it too late to say I'm sorry?
And kayleigh could we get it together again?
I just cant go on pretending that it came to a natural end".

After what seems like an eternity of Mike examining hundreds of frozen (re: model) fish inter-cut with flashes of Julie rubbing her soapy breasts, something finally happens.

But probably not what you (or I) was expecting.

Margareth, believe it or not, is attacked by a mutant fish that flies (using it's fins - and some industrial thickness wires) out of a cupboard and proceeds to give her a lovebite.

No, really.

This is the final straw for Mike, who goes a wee bit mental and starts smashing everything with a handy big stick, covering first Margareth and then Bobby in a sea of gooey white yoghurt.

Calming down, Mike reckons that they could all do with a rest and sends everyone off to their cabins before heading back to continue his research into what the hell's going on.

No need.

Finding a computer file cunningly named "What the hell is going on" Mike discovers the horrifying truth behind the centres experiments.

Now pay attention, here comes the science part.

According to the professor, the local fish have been lunching on radioactive plankton causing severe mutation as well as giving them hyper-sexual genitalia and a taste for human flesh.

In layman's terms this basically means that the centre is full of horny, cannibalistic flying fish hell bent on shagging the arse off you before lunching out on it.

And if that wasn't enough to scare the bejesus out of Mike then the fact that the professor and his cohorts, when given the choice between destroying the whole shoal of them or injecting the plankton into themselves before indulging in a wee bit of swinging with the fish decided to choose the latter.

Which makes then either sick or pretty damn forward thinking depending on how much you find the thought of cuddling with a carp a turn on.

"Is it in yet?"

Whilst all that sick filth is being uncovered, Julie has decided that a wee bit of 'the sex' would cheer everyone (well, her and Bobby) up, so doing her best slinky walk (you know, cartwheeling down the stairs and the like) enters Bobby's room to see if he's up for it.


Coming across like a sweatier, less punchable David Cameron he works his magic on Ms. Moonhead as she stands giggling, coyly stroking a gnome shaped table lamp with a huge gold painted cock sticking out of it.

Just as you thought the sexual tension couldn't get any more electric the pair pounce on each other with a loud grunt and an almost inaudible fart.

Tentacle rape: It's Japanese for Hello.

As the shagging gets noisier and squelchier and Julie's face goes from mild indifference to 'have I left the gas on' she begins to notice a rather rank and fishy smell in the room (judging from the look of her it'd make a change from stale piss and yeast) followed by loud plopping noises and throaty growls.

Looking up at Bobby she's fairly surprised to see that he's transformed from a jovial Alfie Moone-alike into a giant tentacled rape fish, dripping all manner of liquids as it thrusts stiffly at her naked and glistening spreadeagled form.

Luckily for Julie (not so for the Bob-beast tho') Mike and Margareth burst in at the moment of climax, scaring off the rape fish using a plate of chips and a salt shaker.

Mike, calm as ever announces that it would probably be in their best interests if they leave the ship quick-style, but as is the way in these situations, the fish have other plans.

And before you ask, yes I did feel strange typing that.

The storm outside is getting worse and, if that wasn't bad enough, it turns out that when poor Dorothy got bitten the fish passed on it's mutant cells to her via it's saliva.

Which begs the question, do fish actually salivate?

We may never know the answer to that age old question because Dorothy suddenly transforms into a freakishly horse-faced crab lady and tries to kill Mike.

It says a lot for De Palma (but more likely about me if I'm honest) when you realize that this is the most attractive she - or anyone else for that matter - has looked throughout the whole movie.

Julie, who's spent the last fifteen minutes searching for life jackets and tissues isn't doing too well either, noticing as she does that she's suffering from terrible wind and tummy ache, almost as if there was something growing inside her.


Sure as dammit it's not long till she starts firing forth hundreds of teeny tiny fish babies from her lady areas before collapsing in a sticky heap.

Now only Mike, armed with a few candles, some duct tape and a box of worms, remains alive to defeat the frisky fish menace....

"I said I wanted to PAWN mah earings!"

I'd love to have been at the meeting when writer Richard Baumann pitched this idea to Massimiliano (director of such classics as Flight to Hell and, ahem, Satan Claus) Cerchi.

Imagine the scene; Baumann, his shirt undone to his navel revealing an undergrowth of dark, matted chest hair, his action slacks skin tight in all the right places stands with one leg raised on a chair, his musky man odour wafting thru' the room.

Cerchi, clad only in a pair of orange Speedo's, turns slowly in his chair, water glistening on his firm tanned chest.

"Hey baby" drawls Baumann, "do I have a great idea for you....We take the best aspects of The Thing plus Piranha 2: Flying Terror, add a dose of the sexy sexy stuff from Humanoids from The Deep but set it on a floating brothel".

Cerchi gently strokes his beard, beads of sweat collecting on his brow.

He leans forward, his mouth almost touching that of Baumann.

"It soundsa great Richie!" His hands reaches out to caress Baumann's smooth inner thigh "but instead of your normal monster can we have horny tentacled Cod that do the dirty, dirty with da laydees?"

Baumann shows him the story outline.

It's the very same idea.

Their lips touch and their tongues intertwine, rolling onto the heavy shag carpet of the office the taste of success mixed with saliva in each others mouths.

Or something.

"Howdya like dem apples?"
(by apples she means breasts obviously).

Shot like an early nineties soft core teevee movie and with acting to match, Creatures from the Abyss is a gaudy and tacky exercise in exploitation dressed in day-glo market stall clothes and Lolita-esque swimwear topped of with the finest collection of footballers perms this side of a Liverpudlian street market.

The uniformly harsh faced cast blindly stumble from one scene to another as if on a mixture of Prozac and crack, faces frozen in permanent surprised as they're asked to deliver reams of nonsensical dialogue covering everything from Porky Pig impressions to in-depth discussions on the sex drives of irradiated homosexual fish and all whilst attempting to look cool and sexy in a variety of outfits that would make a colourblind Barbie doll vomit.

Honestly the constant sex talk (which lurches drunkenly between person and fish based shagging) is about as erotic as the thought/memory of being roughly touched up by a drunken carpet fitter in a filthy, kebab strewn phone box.

By the end of the movie you're willing to sell your soul (and your arse...again) just to see these monsters that have cruelly violated your entertainment genes die slowly and painfully before your eyes.

The US DVD cover....
scarily managing to feature

someone even more unattractive
than the film's actual cast.

You have to give Cerchi and Baumann their dues tho' and not only because they had the balls to commit this to celluloid.

The aforementioned fish rape (a crime that in reality goes too often unreported)  for example is handled subtly and with a totally non-sensational approach whilst the bed wettingly realistic stop motion monster that menaces poor old Clay Rogers at the movies climax haunted my dreams for, oh, minutes afterwards.

Plus if the thought of a dumpy, moon-faced actress covered in KY jelly writhing under a huge foam latex Sea Bass with a cock the size of a small child thrusting erotically between her legs does anything for you (and who here hasn't imagined that at sometime?) then this may be your perfect film.

Buy it, watch it, enjoy it but don't tell your friends.

Hmm....I really should have thought of that before I wrote this shouldn't I?

Thursday, April 16, 2015

stryke it lucky.

With the elections coming up I reckoned it was time to review the various party leaders favourite horror movies.

First up is UKIP leader Nigel Farage's choice*, dealing as it does with immigration, foreign types and the like but under the guise of being an Italian zombie film.

Clever eh?

Zombie Flesh Eaters 3 (AKA Zombie 4: After Death. 1988)
Dir: Claudio Fagrasso.
Cast: Jeff Stryker, Candice Daly, Don Wilson, Massimo Vanni, Nick Nicholson, Adrienne Joseph, Jim Gaines, your mom and some tramps.


Somewhere on a remote South Pacific island (or more likely in the kiddies play park behind the directors house), a scientific research team have been working on a cellular regenerative thingy in the hope of finding a cure for ingrowing toenails and bad breath.

In an attempt to get the local (glam rock frocked) natives onside, top science bloke Dr. Godfrey Soontodie has offered to use this frankly bollocks scientific discovery to help cure the voodoo witch doctor's daughter of her terrifying bunions.

As is always the case in these situations the wee girl unfortunately dies.

It's off screen tho' so it's not that upsetting.

"Touch mah titties!"

Not too surprisingly the witch doctor takes offence to this news and decides to put the famous 'curse of the dead' on the island, its visitors and inhabitants.

Which is understandable if not a wee bit annoying for the rest of the tribe.

With a wave of his mighty (and very beefy) arms and a flash of homemade fireworks (but not alas a flash of old man thigh) literally all hell breaks loose.

Well it would if hell consisted of an old lady in an ill fitting Halloween mask and a pair of Austin Powers teeth seemingly faking an orgasm whilst dancing like Ian Curtis (post suicide) on crack.

Laugh now.
It's not giving too much away to say that the dead rise and kill everyone.

Everyone that is except the lead scientists blonde moppet daughter, Jenny who survives the carnage thanks to a magic amulet given to her by her mother.

Well it's either actually magic or so cheap and nasty as to repel any self respecting zombie that sees it.

You can decide.

Flash forward 15 years later and a rescue team, led by the hunky Chuck (porn idol Jeff Stryker in a rare 'straight' role) is finally dispatched to discover why no-one has been returning their calls.

Well they took their time didn't they?

Also on the island (by some strange quirk of fate) is a by now all grown up Jenny (the late, great Daly from The Young and the Restless) accompanied by the slightly less attractive Louise (Joseph from Birds of a Feather), rentalunk Rod (Nicholson) and a couple of dirty mouthed gypsies.

Sod all this character stuff tho' we want to know what Team Chuck is up to.

Well, whilst wandering around in a cardboard cave left over from Michele Soavi's 'The Sect' our hero comes across the mysterious Book of the Dead.

Which is a change from my boyhood years watching him coming across a variety of buff arses whilst pulling a face not too dissimilar to the one your grandad pulled when he had that stroke.

But enough of the homemade erotica you want to know how Chuck knows that it's the real Book of the Dead and not a shoddy knock-off one of the kind featured here.

Well it does have the words BOOK OF THE DEAD printed on the cover in big bold letters  so I guess that clinches it.

"Shite in mah tramp bearded mooth!"

Anyway back to the plot (for want of a better word) where Chuck, in a vain attempt to prove he can read unaided - but alas proving that he's never seen a horror movie - begins to shout random passages from the book - intercut with him shouting "Yeah baby! You're so fuckin' tight!" and pulling his cum face probably -  not realizing that the words, when read aloud are capable of bringing the dead back to life.

This'll be the same living dead that have actually been wandering around aimlessly for the past decade and a half from when that witch doctor read the same book, remember?

The writer obviously doesn't.

Some immigrants stealing our jobs and benefits yesterday.

Within minutes our heroes (well the folk on screen) are running for their very lives as hordes (I say hordes but I mean dozens) of foul smelling pikeys and illegal Eastern European immigrants (possibly) begin to rise slowly from their shallow graves intent on tasting the legendary Jeff Stryker's ample meat.

Or something.

Meanwhile in the grassy bit behind the bike sheds, jumpy Jenny and co. have problems of their own (discounting the obvious ones like lack of acting ability and bad breath) when a lone, maggot covered tramp (obviously symbolizing the EU) falls on them from behind a tree covering a hapless member of her party in sick.

Running away screaming they soon stumble across the deserted medical research facility (in reality the directors local scout hut) once run by Jenny's folks where they're soon joined (c'mon, the running times not that long) by Chuck who has managed to escape the scary flesh eaters by leaving his team to die whilst he sneaked away sobbing like a baby.

What a guy.

Luckily for the survivors this peaceful medical centre is chock full of weapons  giving the male cast members ample opportunity to pose in a topless sweaty manner whilst firing a variety of semi-automatic weaponry indiscriminately at various unpaid extras who are then expected to fall off roofs and be set on fire in the vain hope of securing a work permit or at least a new pair of shoes for their kids.

Ain't capitalism grand?

But the humans are fighting a losing battle as one by one they are overcome by the advancing dead.

Deciding the blow up the centre in an attempt to convince the zombies it's Bonfire night and thus giving the humans a chance to escape (plus they reckon it might add a wee bit of much needed excitement to the movie), sole survivors Jenny and Chuck make a break for the woods only to find themselves back in the very cave where the spooky witch doctor started the undead plague to begin with.

With the zombie army closing in and Chuck down to firing blanks, Jenny clutches the magic amulet, praying for a miracle.

Well it's either that or she's cursing her agent.

Insert cock...well anywhere you fancy really.

Will our toothsome twosome escape?

Will the UK rise up and tell Europe where to stick its fishing quota?

Will the zombie hordes attack Jenny and eat her whole?

Or will they spit that bit out?

Or will Chuck die whilst something slight and fairly incomprehensible happens to Jenny?

Jeff Stryker, up the casino, 1988...Yesch!

Best known for it's frightening amount of alternate titles (After Death being the most common and Zombi 4 being the easiest to spell) as well as being shot on sets constructed for Michael Soavi's 'The Sect' and filmed entirely using camera's and equipment 'borrowed' from the set of Bruno Mattei's 'Strike Commando 2' (which was filming nearby), Claudio Fagrasso's -AKA Clyde Anderson- Zombie Flesh-Eaters 3 is the near pinnacle of bad movie making made flesh, a cinematic black hole so dire that not even light can escape from it's spiny celluloid fingers.

Imagine the worst unsafe sex ever with the most foul, STD ridden, crab panted whore imaginable, then imagine that as you're about to cum (against your better judgement) you look down and realize that this pock marked, toothless crone you've payed £5 to probably catch AIDS from is, in fact, your Gran.

You know...the dead one.

This is the effect After Death can have on a normal cinema goer.

But saying that, imagine how amusing it would be if you saw this happen to a friend.

And you just happened to have a camera handy.

So I guess you pays your money you takes your chance.

Funnel or tunnel?

Wise men say that you can't choose who (or what) you fall in love with tho' and like the three legged dog you should put down but decide to nail to a skateboard, After Death stays with you long after the DVD has been ejected, just like Hepatitis C or the feeling of shame you get after watching your parents home made porn.

Obviously just before realizing halfway thru' that you're actually the star, propped up on top of the wardrobe, drugged up to the eyeballs and wearing a dress.

But if like me you're one of the special few that actually enjoys Fragrasso's work - especially his top notch collaborations with Bruno ('Zombie Creeping Flesh' and 'Rats : Night of Terror') Mattei  - then jump in and enjoy.

I know I did.

But to be honest I really think that I should get out more.

Our Nige seen here reenacting his favourite scene from the movie. No, I didn't realize that it featured a bit where a bigoted halfwit almost gets garotted by a biplane either. Must have been cut in the UK.

*If I'd actually asked him that is but if he's reading this then get in touch and I'll review the real one.