caribbean queen.

The best thing about the whole 31 days of horror thing is to be able to go back and re-review (slightly) stuff that's been sitting about unloved here for years.

A wee bit like your mum.

Plus let's be honest it wouldn't be the same without a Sirpa Lane movie.

Enjoy. 

 

Papaya Of The Caribbean (AKA Papaya: Love Goddess of the Cannibals, Die of Pleasure, Fruta sexual del Caribe, 1978).
Director: Lord Joe of D'Amato.
Starring: Sirpa Lane, Melissa Chimenti, Maurice Poli and some other people.

Papaya: My name is Papaya.
Sara: Papaya? What a funny name!
Papaya: And what's your name?
Sara: Me? Sara!
Papaya: Oh! What a funny name!

Our tale opens on the sun kissed beach in 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Psychiatrist on the World of Sexual Perversion - obviously Laura Gemser was busy, or in rehab) is hard at work rubbing out of date fruit over a sweaty mans chest whilst giving him the 'oral pleasure'.

And if you're not sure what I mean, just ask your mum.

This may seem a great way to spend your vacation you may be thinking to yourself and I'd have to agree, until when, at the moment of Climax, 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.

"It's CCCHHHHRRRRIIISSSTTTMMMAAASSSS!"

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 channeling Crossroads very own David Hunter himself the late great Ronald Allen) 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' Sara (Lane, harsh faced star of Walerian Borowczyk's furry suited shagfest La Bette and the scifi classic The Beast In Space) and is soon indulging in some atomic reactions of his own.

By that I mean he has sex with her.

Twice.

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 followed by a bit of flirty bantz the pair discover that yet another worker has been found dead - and cockless - giving Vincent the idea that these deaths may be related.

Hmmm...you think so?

Deciding to take Sara on a trip to the power plant (as opposed to say, up the arse) to hunt for clues the pair rent a jeep  - as opposed to a whore - and begin their journey only to be accosted on the way by the aforementioned Papaya, who is hitch-hiking into town to buy lemons.

Much chat and even more flirty banter ensues as Papaya persuades the pair that rather than investigate the murders their time would be better spent indulging in some three-way sex action instead.

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.

Fear not fright fans because it's not all saucy 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 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 Sara 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 Sara?

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.