(egg) box frenzy

Trying to do an Easter vibe to entice new (any?) readers  so thought I'd give this a re-review cos it has eggs in it.

Andlet's be honest it doesn't ever get the love it deserves.

A wee bit like your mum.

But where do you start with such a classic?

With a brief resume of the directors career methinks.

(I'm actually getting paid by the word for this one).

From writing for the famous Italian movie magazine Galaxy and co-authoring Four Flies on Grey Velvet to directing such classics as Lou Ferrigno's big screen debut Hercules, Argento contemporary cum shopkeeper Cozzi's career trajectory has been nothing if not interesting.

Obviously you'll have to check out a film book/blog that cares about annoying things like facts and interesting content if you want to know more.

But for those readers with ADHD or busy lives there are three films in particular stand out from his resume, the frankly indescribable Caroline Munro starring Argento/Three Mothers sequel/tribute The Black Cat, the Caroline Munro (again, does he have dodgy pics of her stashed away?)/David Hasslehoff space fantasy Starcrash and the frankly magnificent...

Contamination (AKA Alien Contamination, Contamination: Alien on Earth, Toxic Spawn. 1980)

Dir: Luigi Cozzi (AKA Lewis Coates)

Cast: Ian McCulloch, Louise Marleau, Marino Mase, Carlo De Mejo, your mum  and a big green jelly.

Opening as most 80's Italian horror movies do - with grainy aerial shots of New York cut to a totally inappropriate synth score (this time supplied by Italy's finest prog rock legends Goblin) - Contamination begins with a mysterious 'ghost ship' approaching the harbour.

Not the one from Zombie Flesh Eaters tho', that was last weekend.

New York's finest, Lieutenant Tony Aris (played by the fantastically tanned Marino Mase) calls on the bizarrely out of (lip) synch Dr. Turner to explore the ship with him and a group of faceless (literally, they're all wearing bio-hazard masks) cops, who after wandering around in the dark for ten minutes come across the bloodied remains of the crew.

Turner is shocked, it appears that everyone on board either:

A. was replaced by shoddily cut up shop window dummies covered in cow intestines and jam.
or
B. exploded.

"Shite in mah....oh."

After depositing their lunch over one of the corpses (as you do) our intrepid band carefully creep into the ships hold, only to discover boxes upon boxes marked 'café' and a big green glowing egg under a pipe.

If that wasn't enough to make even the bravest man fill his trousers a strange and otherworldly noise, akin to a rusty tuba being played by an asthmatic beagle is spookily echoing around the hold.

Poking the egg with a pencil, Turner is shocked to see it burst open, showering him and all the team (save Lieutenant Aris) with what looks like a mix of PVA glue, green poster paint and KY jelly that has the fairly unusual effect of making all the non speaking extras stomachs explode leaving Aris looking slightly bewildered and the audience ready for 90 minutes of pure terror.

Probably.

"How'd you like your eggs love?"

Aris is whisked away to a top secret military base run by the, um, 'lovely' Colonel Stella Holmes (Marleau), who after stripping him naked, giving him an old blanket and locking him in a big fish tank explains that she runs a special operations unit (Section 5) specifically set up to combat the menace of scary eggs and would he like to join?

You would....and your Granddad probably did. Twice.

Aris jumps at the chance and, clad in a pair of Quick Fit overalls, accompanies Colonel Holmes and co. to a warehouse 'downtown' where they find what looks like a cut-price version of jive talking Italian 'B' god Bobby Rhodes guarding hundreds of the so-called killer eggs.

As the soldiers advance replica-Rhodes bursts one of the eggs causing him and his buddies stomachs to explode leaving the surviving eggs free to be destroyed by flame thrower equipped soldiers.

I have to be honest and admit that I'm really at a loss to explain the logic behind his plan.

"He did WHAT in his cup?"

If nothing else tho' it does allow Holmes to take a couple of them away to examine giving her time to deduce that these eggs could only have come from Mars and that they were brought back by astronauts on the last mission there.

You see, it appears that one of the crew, 'Mutha' Hubbard (played to angry ginger haired Scottish perfection by Italian horror veteran McCulloch) had been ranting about finding a cavern full of big green tuba playing eggs on the red planet but his usually jolly and humorous co-pilot cum ex-UKIP councilor Neil Hamilton, had calmly (some would say too calmly - as if possessed) told everyone Hubbard was a mentalist.

Rather than find a way of checking his story Colonel Holmes had him locked up.

Now there's only one thing she can do.

Yup, go round to his house, slag off his sexual prowess, apologize for calling him mad and ask him to join a secret mission to South America to investigate the company exporting the eggs.

McCulloch sighs, swigs some more Heineken and slaps the colonel round the head before agreeing to join her.

Well, he is out of booze and it's carnival season down there.

Cue stock footage of a radio-controlled plane, mixed with shots of holiday makers, children in big hats smoking cigars, Aris in a pair of obscenely tight trousers and white socks and we're off to the hotel.

But our heroes are being watched.

Hamilton didn't die in a mysterious plane crash (I forgot to mention that sorry) but is in fact running the alien egg export company and his got something big, throbbing and slimy just for Colonel Holmes.....

Your Gran's cum face. Possibly.

It's a race against time to rescue the by now showering Stella - c'mon she's fairly fit for an old bird - and save the world.

Will they discover the secret of Hamilton's link to the eggs?

Will Aris get his leg over with Holmes or will his quickfire one liners fail to ignite her passions?

Why has Hubbard stolen a plane without telling anyone (to find more Heineken apparently)?

And will they survive an audience with the pant wetting terror that is 'the alien cyclops'?

With his career catapulted into the stratosphere (sort of) with the success of Starcrash, director Luigi Cozzi decided that his follow up would also be a sci-fi epic and turned his dreamy eyes to Ridley Scott's film Alien for inspiration.

Luckily for him (and us) his producers agreed.

But how could anyone attempt to match the cinematic perfection that was - and still is - the Scott classic?

It's with this solution that Cozzi cemented himself as a true genius of modern cinema.

Forgoing the tight editing, oppressive cinematography and top-notch casting of his inspiration Cozzi decided to take the opposite route and with it's Shoddily shot, inanely plotted action scenes and a cast that appears to be sleep walking (yes my friends even Ian McCulloch), Contamination not so much pays homage to Alien than breaks into its house, strips Ridley's classic naked, bundles it in a cupboard and sticks its toothbrush up its arse before getting it's dog pissed and putting lipstick on it.

Under blue moon I saw you
So soon you'll take me
Up in your arms
Too late to beg you or cancel it
Though I know it must be the killing time
Unwillingly mine...Fuck me it's a massive egg!

Unfortunately audiences mistook this brave almost Cinéma vérité style for genuine cackhandedness and stayed away in droves whereas in the UK the films stark realism was mistaken for a documentary leading the film to end up banned as one of the notorious 'video nasties' that your granddad keeps harping on about.

That's right, you could be prosecuted for owning this back in the day.

But luckily not for making it.

Eventually the truth was discovered during the infamous Wikileaks saga and the film was rushed onto DVD to terrify a new generation.

And talking to that generation directly I'd just like to say can YOU find a more enjoyable egg based, exploding chest filled Eurohorror than this one?

I think not.


If you don't already own it go out and buy it now!

hang the deejay.

Sorry for the lack of updates (this is becoming a habit) but I've been dead ill so haven't been around much.....I even managed to miss a whole day of Frightfest hence the lack of reviews.


Luckily I have an understanding doctor who recommended a diet of David Warbeck (and daily masturbation) to aid my recovery.


Panic (AKA Bakterion, Zombi 4. 1982).
Dir: Tonino Ricci (as Anthony Richmond tho' to be honest I'd change my name if I directed this).
Cast: David Warbeck, Janet Agren, Roberto Ricci, José Lifante, Miguel Herrera Eugenio Benito, Ovidio Taito, José María Labernié, Ilaria Maria Bianchi
Fabián Conde, Vittorio Calò and Franco Ressel.

Something has gone terribly wrong at the local chemical factory -  eminent science Professor Gerry Adams (Ricci, son of Christina) has accidentally infected himself with something or other which has turned him bright green and lumpy with a thirst for human blood.

Oh and more importantly (and amusingly) it's also turned his teeth into Pez.

Escaping from the building and into the sewers it's left to the company president  Mr. Milton Bradley (Ressel) to come up with a cover story whilst attempting to discover the whereabouts of the missing scientist before the press find out.

Calling on Adams' associates - Dr. Jane Blake (Eurotrash stalwart Agren) and Dr. Vince Clarke (Miguel Herrera) for help he's shocked to discover that Adams, instead of testing shampoo on horses and making beagles smoke like he was hired to do had been secretly working on a vaccine for gout (or was it bunions?) and had kept all the data pertaining to his work hidden.

Tho' beware as the reason for his actual research may change later if and when the plot requires it.

Don't engage in phone sex with strange men....you may get hearing aids.

As the trio umm and aah over what to do the by now muchly mutated mental medicine man is busying himself tearing various extras limb from limb, starting with a young couple having uncomfortable fake sex in a Morris Minor.

Quickly arriving at the crime scene local policeman Sergeant Richard O'Brien (little mouthed Lifante from Let Sleeping Corpses Lie) soon realizes that he's out of his depth so calls on MI6's top agent Captain Kirk - yes really - to help.

Kirk (Warbeck....hide yourself) enlists Jane to not only help him find Adams but more importantly so he has someone to fire flirty banter at and the pair head over to the scientists house to look for him.

No idea why no-one else had thought to do that but there you go.

There's no sign of the scientist but it's not a total wash out as they do find his man 'friend' strung up in the fireplace covered in blood and green goo, which is nice tho' to be honest I did originally think it was just facepaint that had accidentally wiped off the monster during a cut fight scene.

And I'm pretty sure Warbeck thought that too.

Body on mah bonnet!

Performing an autopsy on the body (as opposed to fellatio obviously) Jane discovers something unusual is happening to its cellular structure but  to explain this would take up precious time where the mental mutant could be pawing at naked women so instead we quickly cut to a suburban house where a particularly harsh faced and hairy armpitted cockernee woman is about to have a shower.

The mutant - attracted by the overpowering smell of boiled onions -  sneaks in and kills her.

But not before we've had ample opportunity to stare at her breasts and lady garden obviously.

Examining the body our heroes realize that each of the victims are covered in radiation burns and green paint with nearly all the blood drained from their bodies.

Which is probably important tho' by the way it's glossed over you wouldn't think so.

is it in yet?

Bored with all this skulking around in shite and killing random women Adams decides to spend the evening watching a movie and so to this end turns up at the local cinema.

Via the sewers obviously.

Unfortunately having a face like a half-chewed caramel causes panic amongst the cinema-goers, especially busty bombshell - or is that busted bombsite? - Agnes (who it must be said looks uncannily like a young Helen Mirren, albeit one that looks like she's been taking crack daily for about 5 years but hey beggars can't be choosers), who after letting her boyfriend Clive have a wee fanny fiddle is feeling a little peckish.

Not feeling a little pecker which after this sparkling exchange I assume she'll be doing later:


Agnes: "That's just to begin with....If you want the rest you'll have to earn it."

Clive: "Now what do you want?"

Agnes: "One of those huge ice-cream cones from the jumbo bar."

Clive: "But it's too far away. It'll take me ages."

Agnes: "Don't be silly, it's just down the street and it's worth it because I'm going to thank you in a special way."

Clive: "You promise?"

Seriously, this actually happens.

Take a few minutes to let it sink in.

Anyway Adams goes straight after Agnes and strangles her before popping her over his shoulder and taking her backstage for a wee nibble on her neck.

Please note he may be a mental mutant but he's not mad enough to go anywhere near her pock-ridden fanny.

It's a wonder Clive has any fingers left.

And that he never found the car keys.

"I can see your house from here Peter!"

Still feeling peckish but with the police in hot pursuit Adams heads off to the local church where the priest is busy dishing out sweets to the young boys in the choir.

Talking of buggery it's not long before Adams is banging on the doors trying to get in forcing the petrified priest to force the boys into a hole (which makes a change from his usual pastime of forcing himself into their holes) as he vainly beats off the beast with a standing lamp.

You'll not be too surprised to find out that he dies.

Tho' luckily we're spared the sight of his (man) breasts as it appears only ladies get naked in this film.

As a trade-off tho' in the next scene Warbeck is wearing a pair of trousers so obscenely tight that you can see what he had for dinner.

I think him and Jane were having a serious conversation about Adams' work and how he was creating some new germ warfare shite but I'll be honest and admit that the trousers were so form-fitting that I couldn't concentrate on anything except the fact that he appeared to have a baby secreted in his left hand trouser pocket.

A baby with a massive head.

And a spine.

I need a shower now.

Anyway back in London the (obviously Tory) government have decided to send the army (all wearing berets with bobbles on top for some obscure reason) to quarantine the town, setting up roadblocks and disabling all the phones and TVs.

This scene is made all the more surreal by the fact that although the film is set in the UK the footage of the army driving down the street is obviously filmed in a Spanish seaside resort full as it is with palm trees and mountainous backgrounds.

Every so often tho' it cuts to a council estate wifey kicking a phonebox of a garden shed in the hope of convincing us that we're watching a small English town being overrun by soldiers.

Well at least they tried.

Just not very fucking hard obviously.

"Don't tell him Pike!"

The lack of TV coupled with the green shite covering everything begins to rile the locals who decide to storm the barricades and start rioting but this is soon brought under control when the army shoot up a Fiat 500 whilst shouting "Go home" thru' a megaphone.

If only real-life were this simple.

Milton (remember him?) worried about his family being stranded alongside the plebs phones his friend in Westminster only to discover the real reason for the quarantine.

It appears that Whitehall aren't convinced that the army will find Adams before he infects the whole town so have decided to authorize "Plan Q," which involves dropping a bomb on the town.

It's a good job the film isn't set in the West Midlands then because if you bombed that place no-one would notice.

Especially Tipton, a town so grim even the seagulls refuse to shit on it.

Tipton: Utter wank.

As the clock counts down to zero hour Jane and Vince (yup he's still here) attempt to find an antidote, O'Brien and Kirk take to the sewers in the hope of finding (and killing) Adams before it's too late...

Fuck, marry, kill?

Playing out like a (care in the) community version of Romero's The Crazies - or in this case The Crazy - crossed with Frankenstein (albeit one with featuring a monster with a potato for a head) via the genius of Nightmare City, Tonino Ricci's Panic is a threadbare, poundshop production marred by a lack of logic, budget or common sense that's held together purely by the presence of the late great David Warbeck and his spray on trousers ably aided by Janet Agren with a home perm and sensible slacks alongside the frighteningly ferrety José Lifante dressed for all the world like Prince Charming in a particularly shoddy school panto.

And whilst they leads may have gotten the short straw costume wise at least they get to wear clothes unlike the poor sods playing the beasts victims expected as they are to strip nude at a moments notice to allow the camera to linger over their harshly lit tits before being dispatched by a spud-faced freak dribbling poster paint everywhere. 

The things your mum had to do to pay the bills when you were growing up eh?

Laugh now!

Directed (if you can call it that) in a workman-like (as in he spent all day leaning on a spade wolf-whistling ladies) way by Tonino Ricci, the name behind the arse-numbing Thor the Conqueror amongst other classics - probably - Panic scarily enough was scripted by Victor Andres Catena alongside Jaime Comas Gil (who believe it or not wrote A Fistful Of Dollars) which makes me think that they were either having a bad day or someone did a wee bit of script editing before shooting seeing as entire plot points are left unresolved or ignored - the escaped guinea pig that may grow to the size of a dog, the fact that Adam's is contagious - as Ricci races thru' the threadbare story in order to maximize the amount of nudity on screen as he valiantly attempts to convince us that the entire thing (and not just the second unit stuff) has been shot in dear old blighty by getting Blur and Dick Van Dyke to dub the actors.

It's a pity then that the only Englishman in the cast is dubbed by an American.

Tho' it can't have been too much of a chore for Warbeck seeing as he appears to have gone on holiday for a fortnight halfway thru' turning up as he does around the 50 minute mark with sunburn and a new coat.

Which let's be honest is a fuck load more than we get for sitting thru' it. 

Still it's worth a watch for Warbeck tho.

And for this closing caption obviously:

Utter shit but in a good way and you can't say fairer than that.

 

video naschy.

I love Paul Naschy.

I love Maria Kosti.

I love corpses.

But scarily I'd never seen this till Wednesday.

I wont say too much about it because:

A. I don't want to give too much away.

B. I'll make it sound shit.

but more importantly

C. I really can't be arsed.

Enjoy.

A Dragonfly For Each Corpse (AKA Una libélula para cada muerto, Red Killer, 1974).
Dir: León Klimovsky.
Cast: Paul Naschy, Erika Blanc, Eduardo Calvo, Ángel Aranda, Antonio Mayans, Maria Kosti, Ricardo Merino, José Canalejas, Rafael Albaicín, Susana Mayo and Maria Vidal (not the one that sang Body Rock).

Welcome to the  fashion capital of the world, - tho' you wouldn't guess that from the state of the ties and collars -  the groovy city of Milan where a mentalist murderer clad in a ladies raincoat and massive red flares that are oh so slightly too short is busy ridding the city of what they term as 'undesirables'.

You know the types, monkey-faced junkies, various dirty ladies and skinny bearded men in big white pants who are dispatched using a variety of implements ranging from ceremonial swords to umbrellas with sharpened tips.

Which is nice.

But with this being a Giallo (as opposed to a common or garden slasher) the killer - by law - must leave a bizarre clue cum calling card which in this case is a shoddy dragonfly broach which appears to have been made by the producers hook handed blind child.

BBBBZZZZZ!!!!

Leading the investigation is girdle-wearing, bewigged bad boy of the old bill Inspector Paolo Scaporella (the legend that is Paul Naschy) - mustached machoman who loves nothing better than slapping perverts whilst chewing on a big cigar.

Oh yes, and cooking spaghetti whilst wearing a pink apron.

As the corpses pile up (tho' not literally mind) Paolo soon realises - with the help of his gorgeously ginger missis Silvana (The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave's Blanc) and their group of high society dinner party pals (which appears to include Jess Franco's evil twin) that all the victims aremembers of the cities criminal underworld and that the dragonfly is an ancient symbol used to denote bad people.

And whores obviously.

Blood on mah thigh!

As is the way with these films tho' it appears that many of their 'friends' have their own dark secrets which means that any one of them could be the next victim.

Or even the killer.

With a head full of conjecture and half-arsed theories, Paolo finally discovers a clue, it seems that one of the victims put up a wee bit of a struggle tearing a massive 'fashion' button from the killers coat so our hero enlists the help of his Kaftan-clad, haute couture homosexualist designer friend, Vittorio to try and track down the button's owner.

No, really.

But with the killer aware of Paolo's plan and Silvana taking to studying crime scene photos in the nude it's a race against time and good taste (plus a gang of biker neo-Nazis) to find the killer before there's no-one in the cast left to kill.

Or any viewers left to care.

Title.

Obviously bored with being stuck inside a furry suit 24 hours a day when making Waldemar Daninsky werewolf movies Paul Naschy decided to try a different tact  with A Dragonfly For Each Corpse and emulate the erotically charged Giallo's spewing forth from Italy at that time.

Well it was either that or he fancied a free holiday to Milan.

The result is, shall we say interesting.

George and Mildred: The Yewtree years.

Tho' nowhere near as polished or as accomplished as it's Italian counterparts Dragonfly is still a load of fun, partly due to the always watchable Naschy (and his mighty man breasts) alongside genre stalwarts Erika Blanc and Maria Kosti (or Kosty as she's credited here) but mainly because of the sheer amount of early seventies fashions on show.

Especially the ties.

No, really there are kipper ties, crotch covering paisley ties, ones with squared off edges and some so thin you'd mistake them for a hunger striker.

It's like a down at heel charity shop made flesh.

Add to that an arse end sixties style score, a stripper clad only in a crotched doily lounging in a coffin, Erika Blanc's tan lines, a group of geriatric Nazi boot boys and a climax featuring Naschy chasing a bandy legged transvestite thru' a kiddies playpark and you have all the elements needed for a top night in.

Recommended.

evelyn whoaaar!

With preparing for Frightfest, launching The Three Mothers and finishing up illustration duties on Dead Funny (available here and here) I've had precious little time to watch any movies of late.

Except the Paul Naschy classic A Dragonfly for Each Corpse (which scarily I'd never seen before) and this, which I had.

Hmmmm....I think I may be becoming a wee bit obsessed with Erika Blanc.

Again.

La Notte che Evelyn uscì dalla tomba (AKA The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave, The Night She Arose from the Tomb, The Night That Evelyn Left the Tomb. 1971).
Dir: Emilio Miraglia.
Cast: Anthony Steffen, Marina Malfatti, Erika Blanc, Giacomo Rossi-Stuart, Enzo Tarascio, Umberto Raho, Roberto Maldera and Joan C. Davis.

Welcome to the world of the filthy rich yet nutty as squirrel shit Sir Alan Cunningham (Steffen, AKA Antonio De Steffe, B-movie beefcake for hire) who, when not escaping from the local lunatic asylum on a monthly basis is hiring seedy down-at-heel hookers from down at the local docks for tuppence a time.

And the fact that Sir Alan uses fake number plates when picking up these sensuous ladies of the night really doesn't help the feeling that he may be after more than a wee bit of slap and tickle.

Arriving at his ramshackle stately home one night with a particularly rouge faced, ginger haired old slapper named Terri (no doubt played by your mum) Sir Alan leads her to a sumptuously seventies (in a kinda Roger Moore way) living room where he prepares a few glasses of J&B Whiskey (the Eurohorror drink of choice) while she slowly undresses in an incredibly bored manner.

Yup, definitely your mum.

Leslie Judd, up the casino, Wigan, 1974.....YESCH.

Stripped down to her market stall suspenders and big black Grannie pants she seductively follows Big Al into what she thinks is the bedroom.

So imagine her surprise when she discovers she's actually been led into a medieval torture chamber.

Before you can say bloodied breasts, Terri Whore finds herself strapped to a block of wood whilst Alan whips her before branding her soft white skin and finally stabbing her to death in a mentalist frenzy whilst screaming something about some woman named Evelyn.

Which is nice.

Early next morning Albert the grounds-keeper (Maldera, in a performance worthy of his own spin-off series), is angrily accosting Alan on the front lawn.

It appears that all the stabbings and torture kept poor Albert awake the night before and now he's too knackered to even consider mowing the grass.

Alan, being a considerate sort of chap gives Albert £30 in the hopes of winning him over (which indeed it does) so the crafty gardener heads into town to stock up on tissues and Pot Noodles, but not before a huge explanatory scene that serves to reveal that Evelyn was not only Sir Al’s (red haired) wife but also Albert's wee sister.

Stranger things are to come tho' as we discover that she died under 'mysterious circumstances' shortly after her husband became aware of the fact that she was having an affair.

Could this be related to the huge number of dead ginger whores in the cellar?

Eye hen.

That night, craving a wee bit more of the old sex and violence (well, it keeps him off the streets I guess....oh right), Alan phones his equally hatstand relative, George (the late, great Murdock star of The Etruscan Kills Again) to see if he fancies a night on the town.

George, next in line to the Cunningham fortune is the brains behind the operation, being the one that picks the 'nite spots' and back alley's that the duo frequent as well as deciding which red heads Alan should murder.

Which is more than any cousin of mine has done for me, except for that one time with the head in the fridge but that wasn't my fault.

All dressed up in the latest high fashions, the kinky pair head into town to the famous Barnsley Strip Emporium and Bingo Club where the harsh faced yet appealingly carrot topped stripper Susie (Blanc, the breast revealing star of A Dragonfly for Each Corpse and Will Our Heroes Be Able to Find Their Friend Who Has Mysteriously Disappeared in Africa?) is about to strut her stuff.

Oh, and get her tits out obviously.

Alan and George attempt to cover their tracks.

By the end of the evening, Sir Alan has hooked up with Susie, offering her a massive £1000 (in old money) to come back to his house for a stabbing.

I mean a shag.

Returning to Sir Al's pad, it's not long before Susie finds herself bra-less (tho' suitably huge panted), bound and standing in the middle of the torture chamber with Alan sweatily rubbing his hands together with glee as he approaches her menacingly.

A swift knee to the happy sacks gives Susie enough time to leg it into the garden, vault the fence and take refuge in a deserted chapel.

Within minutes the sinister sir has found the poor maiden, sneakily approaching her, his arms outstretched and his feeble erection rubbing against the thin polyester of his loon-pants, for the kill.

Luckily for Susie he's overcome mid throttle by vivid visions of his dead ex missis.

Next morning Sir A goes about his business as normal with no mention or sign of Susie, which is a good job really seeing as he has an appointment with the head psychiatrist from the asylum he used to regularly escape from (Rossi-Stuart from Gate of Hell, War of the Robots, The Last Man on Earth and Kill, Baby... Kill! playing the Doc not the asylum, obviously).

It's a pity then that Doctor Timberlake, sorry Timberlane (for that is he) appears to be as nutty as he is.

Not only is he confused as to whether his former patient should really be going out butchering sleazy burds but he reckons that holding a séance to get in touch with Al's dead wife to let her tell her hubbie to move on would be a good idea.

This has come about due to Doc Timberlane discovering that Alan’s Aunt Agatha (Davis, looking more like Al's younger sister) is a bona fide psychic medium.

Lionel.

The séance (rather unexpectedly to them but obviously not to us) is a huge success with Evelyn hovering above the dining table, but as she goes to speak Alan has another seizure, making the idea of having another ghostly chat experience a wee bit of an embarrassing idea for all involved.

So it’s back murdering gin soaked whores for Sir Alan.

And where better place to start than a cheap and tacky high society 'do' organised by the always helpful George?

Everything seems to be going to hell in a handbag until George introduces Al to an incredibly beautiful yet frighteningly big chinned girl with the amusingly unsexy name of Gladys (Malfatti from All the Colors of the Dark).

Enjoying her excited chat and horse-like laugh it's obvious that Sir Alan is besotted, so much so that it comes as a shock to all involved when he gets down on one knee and proposes to Gladys there and then.

Gladys all over.

With a swing in his step and a song in his heart Alan begins to restore the family mansion and put his past life of whore slashing behind him, gathering his entire family (well, his aunt and cousin plus Albert) alongside a bevvy of saucy blonde maids to begin preparations for what could be a wedding to rival the late, great Jordan's for out and out freak value.

not too surprisingly it's not long before things start to go wrong (and no, I don't mean that Al's fiancee is shite at cage fighting and wears a dress) when the theft of an an antique dinner service by a mysterious redhead dressed in a French maid outfit (wahey!) causes Alan’s Evelyn fixated hallucinations to begin again.

Putting two and two together to make 'random horror logic jump', Gladys begins to think that Evelyn might not be dead at all.

"Curses He-Man!"

Sod stolen tea sets and wedding bollocks tho' because after the spate of prostitute murders in the films first half the audience is now gagging for some more killings (preferably by a black gloved mentalist).

Well don't worry we won't have long to wait.

First up poor Albert is attack with a big snake and buried alive after being rendered unconscious by the reptiles vile venom then Aunt Agatha has a housebrick dropped on her (bulbous) head before being fed to Alan's pet foxes.

Ouch.

How the story may have been reported by
the press if it were real.(and yes I know he's a Lord but it wouldn't work if i put that).

And if that wasn't enough to keep the film lurching excitedly towards it's climax then the fact that glamorous Gladys has started seeing Evelyn floating outside her window at night  should make even the most jaded horror fan shriek with, oh I don't know...mild apathy I guess?

But what's this? Alan himself finally saw her too this time, so off he goes to the deserted chapel where her coffin lies.

Once inside, Alan is relieved to find not only the stolen dinner set (they're not cheap you know) but also Evelyn, who frighteningly still has a full curvy figure and ample breasts but alas also a face of utter skull fuckness.

Like Skeletor's head stuck on Lorraine Kelly's body.


Feeling a tad better for seeing his dead wife's breasts again, Sir Al is just about to seal her coffin when Evelyn suddenly opens her eyes and sits bolt upright!

A by now even more unhinged Alan starts to dribble before dropping to his knees and pissing himself (with fright, not laughter), his mind totally broken by this supernatural act.

Stepping out of her coffin and wandering off into the night, Evelyn waits till she's out of her husband's field of vision before pulling off the shoddy skull mask to reveal......

Gladys!

It appears that everything has been a big elaborate (some may say over elaborate) plot by George to get his hands on Alan’s title and fortune.

The dirty sod.

Celebrating his new found wealth George takes Gladys to his secluded love nest just outside Bridgenorth to celebrate, but once a sly bastard always a sly bastard and he turns on the big chinned chick too, poisoning her Champagne.

As Gladys lies on the sofa, foaming at the mouth and pulling a scarily accurate Bruce Forsyth cum face (I know what that looks like, my nan told me), who should walk in but Susie!

Yup, she was working for George too.

For fuck sake this is convoluted.

Gladys, half dead yet still bouncy, picks up a handy bread knife and lunges at Susie, sticking it into her shoulder-blade, Susie retaliates with a broken bottle.

Soon both ladies are cutting chunks out of each other with various handy household items as George looks on with a kinda manic glee usually seen on your mum's face when your best mate visits after swimming.

It's not long before the pair of them are lying dead in a huge pool of their own blood, leaving George with no witnesses or loose ends, just a huge pile of cash.

Leaving his house to begin his newly acquired playboy lifestyle, George is shocked to find Alan standing in his flower patch cradling a huge bag of nitric acid fertilizer to his bosom.

It seems the madness (well some of it) was just a ruse to out George for the bad man that he is and now Sir Alan wants revenge...

"Look at the dog!"

My God, Miraglia what the hell had you (and not to mention co-writers Fabio Pittorru and Massimo Felisatti) been drinking when you concocted this massively brilliant mess of a movie?

I mean, it took longer to explain the plot than it did to watch the film.

What director today would have the audacity to have a lunatic, whore slashing inbred English aristocrat as the put upon hero?

Then cast a swarthy Italian to play him?

But as it stands the whole film is just an excuse for a variety of deliciously red-headed Eurotrash babes to get their kit off at every given opportunity whilst the rest of the cast wander around gaudy as fuck sets in outfits that dear old Peter Wyngarde wouldn't be seen dead in spouting inane dialogue with all the emotion and feeling of a bag of clothes pegs.

And really, you can't argue with that can you?

If that's not enough to convince you tho' there are some fantastically shot scenes of undisputed genius in the film as well.

OK, there are two but who's counting?

Oh yeah, me.

Alan’s maddening pursuit of Susie from the torture chamber to the chapel alongside Evelyn's resurrection from the dead are heart stopping moments of sheer terror that really need to be seen to be believed and the films dementedly mad plot and choppy editing actually add to the overall joy to be had from Evelyn (both before and after her rise).

Essential family viewing.

bark at the moon.

It's finally here!

The stunning climax to this whole 31 days of horror rubbish I've been doing for the last, well 31 days (obvious really) and like everything else I do I started off with the best intentions but got bored towards the end and ended up posting any old rubbish.

Talking of any old rubbish I noticed that I'd not updated the piccies for this so Photobucket that I used to use had deleted them all so it's as good an excuse as any to revisit possibly the second greatest zombie movie of all time*.

So here just for Arena reader Mr. Dissolvedpaul of Smethwick, is a quick rehash of this review with his favourite quotes and various suggestions for comedic captions added.

Plus with the fantastic Weekend of The Dead coming up this very week (and a cut down, less childish version of this review appearing in the programme) I thought it was time to redo it seeing as a frightening amount of people seem to be discovering this classic for the first time.

For fucks sake where have you all been?

And by the way if you do (as you should) love this movie as I do, why not express that love by buying one of these fantastic Peter Bark T-shirts available here.

End of plug.

Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror (AKA The Nihgts of Terror, Le Notti del Terrore, 1981)
Dir: Andrea Bianchi
Cast: Peter Bark, Mariangela Giordano, Karin Well, Anna Valente, Simone Mattioli and Raimondo Barbieri.

"No, don't eat me. I'm your friend!"

Our tale of terror opens in a damp, dark cave - and surprisingly that isn’t a euphemism for Karin Well - where we join Santa's piss stained, fish-bearded and buggery obsessed brother examining some spooky cave drawings.

Obviously excited about this discovery he begins to bang on the walls whilst doing a - fairly erotic in the circumstances - drunk dance which unfortunately for him (but not for us) has awoken the dead that reside in the cave.

Dead that are hungry for human flesh.

And a wee bit of old man arse probably.

"Aye son, mah lottery numbers have

come up! oh no...ahv pished mah sel'."

Thru' the magic of cack handed editing it's suddenly the next morning where a motley band of visitors (three sexy young couples and a pot bellied dwarf  - sorry, small boy, my mistake) have arrived at the house and are looking forward to a weekend break in the country and catching up with their old pal Professor Ayres (the aforementioned bearded Barbieri).

Rocking up at the front door like some nightmare vision in Bri-Nylon our merry band are informed by the (fairly attractive in a kinda pound shop way) maid that the professor is out exploring and may be gone some time so they should make themselves at home.

Which in this case is an excuse for a quick bout of some hot sweaty sex-based shenanigans in the guest bedrooms.

Rushing to their rooms to unpack, undress and start shagging, poor little Michael (the legend that is Peter Bark looking for all the world like the result of an unholy pairing of Kevin Spacey and a warty testicle) is left alone in the downstairs lobby with only his Rubik Cube and Eye-Spy book of European arses for company.

Your mum and dad. Having sex.

In your bed.

After amusing himself for a few minutes playing with the hat stand and creepily chasing the maid, Michael decides to creep in on his mother and her mightily mustachioed lover in order to pick up a few sex tips.

We've all done it.

None too surprisingly the sight of a bowl headed, poppy eyed freak gazing lustfully from behind the sideboard does nothing for her growing passion so she throws a shoe at him screaming "Get out!".

As we will learn later, Michael has a wee thing for his dear mum and doesn't like her hanging around with perm haired, tanned Lothario's, no matter how tight their arses look whilst thrusting up and down on his mummy.

Fair enough.

Insert cock here.

After a morning of gin soaked sexiness and rampant STD's the couples settle down to some top grub whilst discussing the Professor's paper on the magical practices of the ancient Etruscans (ah, you studied that too eh?) before deciding to frolic round the lush gardens.

Michael on the other hand has decided to just sit and stare at his mums breasts.

Saying that tho' if my mums were half as bouncy I'd do the same.

But I digress.

Anyway, just in case you're wondering the frolicking in question mainly consists of sexy photography, breast fondling and general fanny flashing sauciness.

Fun for them maybe, but not for the viewer, unless you find the idea of middle aged Italian couples in nasty 70's fashion dry-humping to a sub Confessions score attractive.

"Can you smell cabbage?"

Luckily tho' just when you think the movie is going to descend into a soft core Euro-porn extravaganza, the dead do indeed start to rise from beneath the rosebushes and - remarkably for rotting centuries old Etruscans - manage to cut off any access to the cars, run the really annoying Janet (not the same of from Zombie Lake mind) into a handy bear trap, kill the non mustachioed man with a house brick and trap the shaky, shot to fuck survivors in the house.

And all within about twelve minutes, which isn't bad for a group of shite-covered tramps.

A shite moothed zombie

Etruscan yesterday.

The group are left with a big decision to make....do they:

A. Board up the house, arm themselves, find a safe vantage point (i.e. the attic) and defend it till help comes.

or


B. Argue among themselves, wandering off in a huff occasionally (alone).


Unbelievably Mr. mustache decides it would be best to board the house up! Everyone looks at him, then each other, then back at him (except Michael who's still staring at his mums breasts) and then start arguing.

"Hmmmm....

dirty pillows..."

One of the ladies (who cares which, they're all annoying) strops off and almost instantly gets killed by a knife wielding carnie zombie (unusual but quite nice).

Scarily he's not even the brightest one, I mean these zombies can actually plan attacks, use weapons and climb walls!

This skill is particularly useful when attacking the (still fairly hot) maid whom the undead horde manage to pin thru' an upstairs window and behead with a large scythe, which was unexpected to say the least.

"Just a trim madam?"

Whilst all this is going on, Lothario man decides that the best course of action is to let the zombies into the house whilst the survivors hide in the pantry (do houses still have pantries?) sobbing like babies.

Surprisingly all the survivors think this is a great plan, except Michael that is who has an even  better idea.

You see he reckons now would be the best time to try and shag his mum.

Tom Cruise: the high waisted years.

Not knowing anything about shagging mums (well, not my own anyway) I'm quite sure (tho' I could be mistaken) that grabbing her breasts and trying to stick your tongue in her mouth isn't the way to go about it.

Unluckily for Michael this is just the smooth move he uses on her.

Unsurprisingly his mum freaks out a wee bit and throws another shoe at him screaming "Get out!" (it's becoming a habit) and Michael waddles off, only stopping to get bitten by a zombie.

Poor boy.

The survivors are faced with another difficult choice:

A. Run in the direction of the cars and drive away.

or

B. Run past the cars into the woods blindly waving your arms about going "AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!"

Which choice will they make?

Will they drive to safety or encounter a monastery full of black cloaked zombies?

Will Michael return from the grave to be met by his terrified mother or will she try to breast feed him in the most uncomfortable scene ever filmed?

The answer may be yes to the last one by the way.

Rush out and buy Burial Ground (or The Zombie Dead as the cheapo Vipco release calls it) and find out.

A bloody (not shitey) mooth

earlier today.

For all it's faults (including abysmal acting, paper thin characters, inept plotting, joke shop zombies etc.) Burial Ground is possibly one of the most entertaining films ever made, mostly down to Peter Bark's portrayal of the freaky mummy fixated Michael.

I mean whoever thought a 25 year old pot-bellied dwarf in a wig and nipple high trousers would make a convincing 12 year old deserves a medal for the sheer audacity of suggesting it.

He wanders around the film like some scary clockwork Dario Argento doll, either staring at his mums breasts or just staring into camera.

For what seems like hours at a time.

But his moment of triumph comes in the films closing moments; surrounded by the undead and with no means of escape the zombie Michael is welcomed by his open bloused mum to have some "mother's milk..."

Frankly I don't have the words and you won't either when you brave The Nights of Terror.......because you know you want to.

If any film is worthy of the Electric Frog/BAAD events treatment it's this one.

Cinematic gold.

edwige and the angry bint.

Was out in 'The Edinburgh' last night watching the John Carpenter classic Prince of Darkness in a church as TST: The Southern Tenant played some spooky waxings.

Beforehand I met up with longtime reader Mr David and ne'er reader (she has taste), the part-time criminologist cum Gialli expert Ms Racheal for dinner and excited chat.

Bloody hell I'm cultured.

Anyway the conversation turned to classic films and quality directors as we all impressed each other with our wide and varied knowledge, until that is I mentioned my love of Andrea Bianchi and everything (Burial) ground to a halt.

I tried to save the conversation by saying that obviously it wasn't his best work before beginning to witter on about Edwige Fenech's massive pants in
Strip Nude For Your Killer and started to excitedly draw a picture of them on a napkin.

It's the last thing I remember before waking up in an alley with a black eye this morning.

Oh yes and my trousers on backwards.

It never rains eh?

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 voluptuous Italian women.

"You don't need to strangle me."

"Sorry."

Large of breast and curvy of hip 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!"

Unbeknown 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 before 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, almost immediately he sidles over to her and asks if he can see her breasts.

She's obviously reticent until he admits to being a fashion photographer and being smoother than a babies arse this is all it takes to get Lucia to strip off in a sauna enabling our leering Lothario to take loads of almost gynecological pics of her ample body before sticking it in her.

By that I mean put his penis in her vagina.

As in they have 'the sex'.

  

Anyway, back to the plot good 'n' proper where it transpires that Carlo works for the infamous Albatross modeling agency, an organization 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 in fact an honest sex obsessed pervert and, true to his word is soon dragging her 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 on this years The Apprentice which is a shame because Joanna Jarjue* is truly scrumptious.

Still it's only week four.

 Jarjue in mah sugary Alan.

With all this sinful bed hopping going on it doesn't take long for everyone to completely forget about poor Brenda's death as our creepy camera guys and curvy cuties carrying on with their day to day routines of swimsuit modeling, sexiness and vomiting.

Until one morning that is when Mario, the pink cravatted, 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?

It's hard to tell sometimes.

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 with 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) who proves the old adage 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 and more importantly will Joanne make it to the interview rounds?

"Gimme sum (Alan) Sugar!"

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.


















































*For those who have no idea who I'm on about, Joanna- In her current role - creates multi-channel strategies to improve the digital footprint of companies.

She considers being determined and a great talker to be her best qualities.

She hates being patronised, but will remain resilient on the show.

And according to that bastion of hate The Daily Mail she's a bikini loving selfie fanatic who adores being smothered in chip fat and shits baubles into Captain Birdseye's bath.