dead dwarf.

Day 5 of 31 days of horror and I'm frankly amazed that I've not gotten bored yet.


Although you probably have.


I Don't Want to Be Born (AKA It Lives Within Her, It's Growing Inside Her, Sharon's Baby, The Baby, The Devil Within Her, The Monster 1975)
Dir: Peter Sasdy.
Cast: Joan Collins, Eileen Atkins, Ralph Bates , Donald Pleasence, Caroline Munro, George Claydon, Floella Benjamin (yes, THAT Floella Benjamin) and John Steiner.

Let's begin as we mean to go on with  a sweating and screaming Joan Collins (as the - very - high class stripper Lucy Carlesi) giving birth to a huge baby boy who, obviously annoyed at having such a glamourous mum tries to scratch her eyes out when handed to her for a hug.

Joan should really have noticed something was wrong when the doctor in attendance is played by Donald (my mortgage has gone up) Pleasence.

Her husband, the rich Italian - for no discernible reason other than for Ralph Bates to try and crack the cast up with his authentic 'accent' obviously - businessman Gino Carlesi is overjoyed to have an heir and puts the babies size, strength and demonic demeanor down to his sexy Italian genes.

Lucy's having none of it tho' fearing there's something seriously wrong with her child but when she consults Dr. Finch (the aforementioned Pleasence) he tells her she's got PND and prescribes some patented happy pills.

Sorted.

Joan Collins, up the casino, Brighton, 1978.....YESCH.

So whilst Lucy spends her days either asleep, drinking, chatting to a badly dubbed yet still fragrant - I should know, I've sniffed her - Caroline Munro whilst looking increasingly shot to fuck as she stares up at the strange noises coming from the nursery, a gaggle of nannies, nurses and well wishers are systematically gouged, bitten, beheaded, stabbed or just plain murdered (to death obviously) by the tearaway tyke, who grins and gurgles sweetly after each killing.

You can tell whoever wrote this didn't have kids cos frankly that's the kind of thing that babies actually do.

I will endeavor to refrain from captioning either "shite in mah toothless mooth" or "insert cock here" on this photo, honest.

Gino beginning to actually believe that his wife may not have been lying about the baby decides to take matters into his own hands.

Which if I'm honest is a much more tasteful concept than him taking the baby in his mouth.

Saying that tho' it was the 70s and that kinda thing was acceptable back then.
 
Bypassing the paediatric doctors, social work, the mid-wife and even NHS direct Gino instead decides to call his sister Albana (Eileen Atkins...how the fuck did they get this cast?) a local nun-about-town, for help.

Tho' why he wouldn't just ring childcare guru and professional minx Dr. Tanya Byron I've no idea, I mean that's what I'd do.

To be perfectly frank I'd ring her if I didn't have kids hoping that, after my constant calling in the wee smalls hours that she'd finally snap and sternly tell me off.


Just me then?

Dr. Tanya Byron: No explanation needed.

Using her divine superpowers Sister Albana deduces that the child may well be possessed by a devil.

Well it's either that or ADHD.

Tho' not Autism obviously because it didn't exist back then seeing as we all know it was caused by the MMR jag*.

How and why this has happened is a mystery to the parents tho'....I mean who the fuck would want to enter Joan Collins child and make them do bad things?

Unless it was Tara Newley obviously.

Newley: Twice.

The cast stand about scratching their heads (or in Bates' case rubbing his semi-erect manhood against the coffee table) trying to think of a reason for their family traumas when suddenly (I think she must have just woken up and realised where she was) Lucy suddenly remembers a bizarre event that happened a few years before she met Gino whilst she was appearing in what looks like a community centre stage version of Moulin Rouge.

Tho' to be fair the filmmakers are desperately trying to convince us that this is a realistic 1970's London strip joint.

Working alongside a grumpy dwarf juggler cum dance star named Hercules (ex-Oompa Loompa George Clayton), Lucy would get her tits out to music whilst he tottered about on a unicycle regurgitating goldfish.

Which to me sounds a sure fire way of winning Britain's Got Talent next year.

Tho' I'm allergic to fish and my tits are frankly disappointing.

Eight thumbs up.....never touched the sides.

It appears that Herc' had a soft (well fairly hard if I'm honest) spot for Lucy and, after one particularly erotic 'Gypsy Rose Lee' inspired dance turn decided to creepily walk into her room and, without saying a word stand behind her touching Lucy's ample breasts with his sweaty sausage fingers.

Although there are a dozens of women (and men for that matter) that would love this kind of attention, Lucy it seems just isn't one of them, storming as she does out of the room and into the arms of her rat like boss Tommy (John Steiner).

Feeling a wee bit left down the little fella curses Lucy and her first born before disappearing into the night (still dressed like one of Santa's helpers) in search of a Pot Noodle.

Is it in yet?

With no time to spare - the film isn't that long - it's up to Sister Albama, armed with only a crucifix and a bottle of SMA mixed with Holy Water to exorcise the child.

But time - and audience goodwill - is quickly running out.

Say what you like about the films actual fright factor but that hand baby is fucking terrifying.

Any movie with the balls to rip off the undisputed classic of paranoid motherhood Rosemary’s Baby and then have the audacity to add a sexually frustrated dwarf to the mix is worth a couple of hours of anyone's time and with I Don't Want To Be Born director Peter Sasdy (he of the bosom baring Countess Dracula and The Stone Tape fame) delivers one of the campest, trashiest movies of all time.

But whether this was intentional or not well the jury is still out.

The cast is a veritable who's who of cult stars, featuring as it does the combined acting talents of the fantastic Joan Collins (as the worlds only fully clothed stripper), Ralph (Doctor Jekyll and Sister Hyde) Bates, Donald (anything for the money) Pleasance, the lovely Caroline Munro, Play Schools Floella Benjamin and the frankly ludicrous idea of casting the wonderful Eileen Atkins in the Max Von Sydow role.

Genius or utter madness?


I honestly don't know.

What I do know is that by far the bizarrest thing about the whole endeavor is the fact that everyone is playing it dead straight, it's almost as if they're all convinced that this is a seriously scary horror picture, a dwarf based British answer to The Exorcist that will change the way the audience see demonic dwarf based possession forever.

And it's for that reason alone that many (serious) horror connoisseurs put this film head and shoulders above Friedkin's attempt at supernatural terror.

Beware the binmen!

You still need convincing?

Well how many movies can you think of that feature a baby in a vile 70's frill covered pram punching out it's victims, drowning nannies and attacking all and sundry with an axe before trying to bite an actress of Ms. Collins statures nipple as she attempts to breastfeed him?

Well I'll do the maths for you.

The answer is none.

I counted twice to make sure.

And that's what makes I Don't Want To Be Born the undiscovered classic it really is, not to mention it features the greatest pervy little person since Torben Bille beat that teenage girl over the head with a stick in the opening minutes of The Sinful Dwarf.

Angelina and Brad: The pikey years.

Why Bille and Claydon never teamed up on screen is a mystery that may never be answered, they could have made a road movie with the pair traveling the length and breadth of Britain in a tiny VW camper van tempting hitch-hikers into the back with evermore hilarious results.

Just imagine, it'd be like Max and Paddy's Road To Nowhere.

Only funny obviously.

But alas this was never to be, so let's count ourselves lucky that the pint-sized pair appeared in two such fantastic (and top quality) movies leaving a legacy that will never be matched.

Bille and Claydon we salute you.





















*Just to point out before anyone complains that this is me being sarcastic, we all know the causes of Autism are either washing your dog whilst pregnant, wearing make-up or refrigerator mums.

beastly.

Day 4 of 31 days of horror....It would have been MetalStorm but after viewing it last night (I know I really should have seen it before, sorry) I realized that:


A. It's not horror.

B. It's shite.


Unlike this classic which is a wee bit like Alien.

Probably.

La Bestia nello spazio (AKA Beast in Space, The Beast of Space 1978)
Dir: Alfonso Brescia (AKA Al Bradly....like that makes any difference)
Cast: Sirpa Lane (as Shirpa Lane), Vassili Karis, Lucio Rosato, Venantino Venantini, Marina Hedman and Maria D'Alessandro.

Please note: the costume is not this convincing (and Shirpa's arse isn't that big).

Sometime in the far, far future and somewhere in the inky blackness of space in a place where swimming caps are de rigeur and droopy facial hair is the law what appears to be a Petits Filous pot with a few bendy straws attached gracefully drifts thru' the heavens towards Space Station Gerard.

Well, that's what it sound like on my scratchy 5th generation VHS copy.

Aboard is the Tefal headed, pube haired John Holmes alike Captain Larry Madison (Karis, wearing Gianni Garko's hand-me-downs from the directors other SciFi opus Sette uomini d'oro nello spazio), ready for some much needed rest and recreation.

Slinking into the station bar like a tiger in heat he zero's in on a bubble permed space babe with an out of this world plunging neckline propping up the corner of the bar, with teeth like tombstones he smiles sexily before ordering "A bottle of Uranus".

The plot (?) screeches to a standstill allowing us to marvel at Madison's chat up techniques and gaze in awe at the spacey costumes on show but luckily - after what seems like 17 hours - a bar room brawl breaks out (which I guess gives it the edge on The Next Generation), giving Captain Studly the excuse he needs to drag the space babe off for some interstellar lovin'.


Fuck yeah.

"Is it in yet?"

Obviously fast-forward thru' these sausage-based shenanigans to get to the plot (look I haven't got all day) it transpires that during a wee bout of post-coital snoozing the nameless perm headed lady begins to have vivid (and very saucy) dreams about a woman in a toga being chased thru' a forest by a hairy monster with a massive erection.

Or it may be a horse seeing as they only show its hooves.

By that I mean the creature, the woman most definitely has feet.

Tho' if any women are reading this that are afflicted with a condition that gives them hoof-like feet please don't worry, I'm sure you're very attractive.

But I digress.

It's not too surprising that she awakes screaming with terror and leaps straight into the arms of Madison for comfort who, after a wee bit of concerned face acting and a few back pats, makes his excuses and jogs away to 'space captain headquarters' to report for his next exciting mission.

Inside Theresa May's mind.

Busily discussing space and stuff with his man-breasted colleagues Madison quickly tires of of the endless chats regarding time factor warps and the moons of Uranus so quickly changes the subject by mentioning the Christmas tree a bauble he, um 'found' during the pub fight, excitedly showing it to his pals he's amazed to discover that it is, in fact a piece of Entalium.

Admit it, you never saw that coming.

It appears that this ultra-rare element is crucial to the construction of the space fleets weapons or something, so Madison is ordered to retrieve more from a mysterious planet ASAP as the safety of the universe relies on the missions success.

Tho' surely it'd be easier just to ask the crewman he stole it off if he has any more?

Nah that'd be silly plus we still have 60 odd minutes of sexy space adventure to fill.

Madison accepts the challenge but explains that he's got to return to the bar first to shag, sorry recruit Lt. Sondra Richardson (harsh faced Euro soft core babe Sirpa Lane) an expert in Entalium extraction before raiding the dressing up box in the hope of finding enough bri-nylon romper suits for everyone and blasting off into the unknown.

"Are you looking at my bra?"

Minutes into the journey tho' things start to get a bit strange as Sondra too begins to have saucy dreams about the petrifyingly penised predator.

Could it be linked to the spooky glowing Entalium?

To be honest no one seems to care, so they continue on towards the planet where, upon landing the crew are confronted by its enigmatic alien leader - possibly named Geoff or something, I too was past caring by this point - and his followers.

Ask your mum.

It seems that he's been telepathically sending saucy messages to Sondra in the hope that she'll shag him.

He must be a fan of her early work.

But hopefully not Papaya Of The Caribbean tho' seeing as it really is utter shite.

Understandably curious as to how Geoff would think that transmitting beast-based bonking across time and space would in any way be helpful in attracting the attentions of a passing spacecraft our brave crew members are surprised to find Geoff not guilty.

Being both beffcake-like and brainy, Madison  - alongside Geoff and his horny horde - soon realize that someone or something else on the planet is responsible for the spate of phantom fanny fiddling currently affecting the ships female crewmembers.

But to what ends?

Peow!

Will the crew escape with the Entalium before they're forced into an alien sex orgy?

Will Sondra end up shagging both the centaur and the alien leader?

Will the alien leader then be revealed as a shite cardboard robot who has taken human form in order to truly understand the human condition of love?


Will any of the shoddily inserted sex scenes actually feature the pervily puffy-lipped MiLF Marina Frajese - the star of Play Hotel - seeing as this is one of the reasons I purchased this.


Look I've been a huge fan of hers since she absolutely nailed the role of the first girl at the audition in the 1978 classic How to Lose a Wife and Find a Lover, so sue me.

But more importantly will there be a pound shop light saber fight?

The answer to the last one is yes by the way.

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

Part Italian Star Wars rip-off, part re-make of Walerian Borowczk's erotic masterpiece La Bete, part unedited glimpses into the mind of a madman - La Bestia nello spazio transcends not only genre pigeonholing but all boundaries of good taste and coherent storytelling in one fell swoop.   

Which is pretty good going seeing as up until this point director Alfonso Brescia was best known (feared?) for such threadbare fantasy epics as The Terror of Rome Against the Son of Hercules and The Magnificent Gladiator.

Like most folk at the time tho' he decided to make a - drunken and clumsy sausage fingered - move into the space opera genre after seeing Star Wars (tho' from his work I'd be more inclined to believe it was after seeing Bleep and Booster) bringing us the classics Battaglie negli spazi stellari (Cosmos: War of the Planets) and the cleverly titled sequel War of the Robots as well as giving us the robot invasion movie Star Odyssey.

Always one to save a bit of cash (usually by employing non-actors and getting his kids to write the scripts) Brescia often utilized the same sets and costumes in every one of his space epics, giving an (unintentional) uniformity to his visions of the future that lesser films such as the Star Trek franchise failed to deliver.

Saying that they also failed to deliver scenes of Lt. Uhura rubbing one off whilst watching a couple of horses copulate in a field but heyho.

But whilst his earlier works are (kinda) kid friendly action packed - well I say packed -  romps, La Bestia nello spazio plays out like a kinda cheap (and much dirtier) Italian version of Torchwood.

Albeit a version that's been totally lobotomized rather than just beaten around the head a few times.

Tho' the fucking abysmal Cyberwoman episode comes close.

"...And if you pop this jar of liver in the microwave for a few minutes it'll feel just like fanny!"

Saying that tho' if Torchwood had attempted a Gwen Cooper/alien donkey sex episode (rumour has it that it would have been the opening episode of series 4 before they canned it for Children of Earth) you know for a fact the beast would have been slightly more convincing than the one on show here.


Plus let's be honest, Eve Myles has a much nicer arse than Sirpa Lane.

And not just because Lane's been dead for 17 years.

Shite in mah....oh that's not shite is it?

Talking of Sirpa Lane (which I must admit is quite often) how does La Bestia nello spazio compare to Walerian Borowczk's aforementioned (and better known) Euro-tic shagfest and is it worthy of comparison?

For those of you who've never experienced the joy of Borowczk's take on Beauty and The Beast (as in the film, your dad drunkenly coming into your room and fondling you under the covers doesn't count)  here's a wee bit of background.

Filmed in 1975 it tells the story of the nutty Esperance family, whose financial stability depends on a marriage between their nuckle dragging son, Mathurin and young English girl Lucy Broadhurst.

Here come the Belgians!

When she arrives arrives at the family home she becomes obsessed with their most (in)famous ancestor, Romilda (Lane in a huge powdered wig and a lacy undies), whose torn corset - bizarrely enough -  has pride of place in the family living room.

This is after all European so we should embrace such things.

With nothing to fill her time (her betrothed is poorly) Lucy comes across - not in that way, at least not yet - Romilda's diary and soon begins to experience feverishly erotic dreams about her sexual encounters with a huge hairy beast in the woods.

Cue much Chuckle Hounds-based buggery and the like.

Now as great as La Bete is (especially if you like seeing ladies in 18th century garb being chased thru' woods by men in crap bear suits with big black rubber cocks attached and let's be frank about this - who doesn't?) not even I would think it'd translate into a great (or not even a fair to middling) Science Fiction movie no matter how drunk I was, but it seems that director Brescia wanted to prove us all wrong showing that you can mix soft core porn and Sci-Fi for a family audience.

Which if nothing else you should at least admire the balls of the guy.

If not the hastily painted paper-mache ones on the space beast.

What your girlfriend really gets up to on her girls nights out.

Worth a look if you're an Italian Sci-Fi completist, Shirpa Lane fan or if you have an appreciation of pantomime animal costume sex romps.


And if you tick all three boxes tho' this'll be your favourite movie of all time.

Scarily there will be someone out there that this'll apply to.

God help them.



Tomorrow some actual, proper 'horror'.


I promise.

kissy, kissy, funny fanny.

Day 3 of 31 days of horror.

Or as I call it an excuse to trawl thru' reviews from way back in 2007 then rewrite them with added mooth shite-in captions.

Surprisingly I'm not bored yet.

But I do have a funny feeling in my tummy now.

Daughters Of Darkness (AKA Blood on the Lips, The Promise of Red Lips 1971)
Dir: Harry Kümel.
Cast: Daniele Ouimet, John Karlen, Delphine Seyrig and the enigmatic Andrea Rau.

It is since long that I have crossed the river Ocean!

Long faced professional dormouse Valerie (Ouimet best known for loads of stuff in French that I can't be arsed listing) and her frighteningly hamster-faced hubby, the grumpy (but tres manly) council estate Tom Skerrit Stefan (Cagney and Lacey's Harvey himself, Karlen), after honeymooning in 'The Europe' are upset to find themselves stuck in a dilapidated, off season hotel on their way home to dear old Blighty.

It seems that bad weather has caused the cancellation of the only car ferry home and that there won't be another for at least a week.

Or until Valerie is seduced by a lady vampire.

Whichever comes first.

Yourself not included obviously.

Vowing to make the best of the situation the cutesy couple unpack their bags (or in Stefan's case empty his sacs) before settling down to what appeared to be the main pastime of 1970's newlyweds - spousal abuse and drinking.

The angry cum-face montage is cut short when the pair are invited to dine with the only other guests at the hotel, the enigmatic Countess 'Thin' Lizzy Bathory (Seyrig from so much quality arthouse fayre it'd be a sin to sully her career by listing it here) and her drop dead sexy servant, the librarian-like Ilona (art school crush and quite possibly the sexiest actress to ever appear in an artsy Euro-vamp movie Rau).

"Is it in yet?"

"I can't tell you how completely happy I am to have you here tonight. You are both so perfect. So good-looking. So sweet." The countess playfully announces as she teases the cheese board whilst the dusky Ilona just gazes at Stefan, licking her full blood red lips.


For what seems like hours.


Tho' trust me, I'm not complaining.

I don't know about you but at this point I'd make my farewells and leave, but Stefan wants to stay.

Who am I kidding?

As a teen the thought of sitting in a draughty hotel dining room whilst Andrea Rau licked her lips at me was number one on my list of things to do before I die.

It still is if I'm honest.*

Even this early into their marriage - and the movie - we can see that it's on rocky ground, partly due to Stefan's habit of beating Valerie with a belt if she disagrees with him and partly due to the fact that he's a closet bisexual, ringing his secret male lover whom he calls 'mother' and just to hammer the point home we're treated to numerous shots of Valerie nodding at her hubbie blankly intercut with the occasional scene of her slowly unzipping his bri-nylon action slacks whilst staring into space with her head tilted to one side.

Just how your mum used to.

The cold, barren emptiness of the surrounding area tho' (and the fact that the funfair is shut and the candyfloss seller has died) means the couple have no choice but to hang about with Countess and her 'companion' - well, it's either that or sit playing cards with the toothless concierge all night - but it's not all cake, crisps and strong European coffees because between lunches Stefan fills his time by either shouting loudly at Valerie whilst slapping her arse with a belt or looking lustfully at the countess.

Being a clueless bloke in a 70s erotically charged vampire movie tho' he's doesn't actually realize that she's far more interested in Valerie.

"Patience," purrs our Take That quoting Countess as she strokes Ilona's thigh. "Patience."

My word.

Belt up.

Just when you think the movie has forgotten it's actually a vampire film  - and it's slow build up to vamp on housewife action is just there to tease you into watching - a bicycle riding wannabe Van Helsing turns up at the hotel looking for vampires and almost immediately deduces that the Countess is one of the bloodsucking undead.

To be fair it's not like he actually figured it out himself, she was in fact standing in front of a huge mirror whilst chatting to him casting no reflection at the time, he'd just turned up to ask directions.

Lizzy, understandably annoyed by this badly dressed interloper turning up to spoil her sapphic shenanigans has a plan tho', she waits till he's out cycling the next morning and runs him off the road with her car.

Leaving us wondering why Christopher Lee never thought of doing this to Peter Cushing.



In the course of one of the pairs frequent Hammer team-ups obviously, not in real life that would be terrible.

No amusing caption just the confession that I could stare at this picture for hours.

So that's the mindless violence quota upped but what about the sex?

Leave it to Stefan to sort that one out.

It seems that whilst Valerie and Lizzy have been spending time enjoying more and more frequent walks around the crazy golf course our bullish beau' has become 'involved' with Ilona.

By involved I mean indulging in lots and lots of sex with her.

Which on first viewing this as an impressionable 13 year old left me devastated as I'd already decided that she was saving herself for me.

I know I was.

Bastard.

"Is it a book or a film?"

Being too enamored by her frankly stunning breasts, full sensual lips and cutesy pageboy mop top Stefan has failed to see the obvious.

And no it's not that she was secretly thinking of me during their love trysts but that Ilona is a vampire.

But with hindsight let's give him his due, it's not something you think about with a new girlfriend is it?

Well maybe he should of (I know it's always been at the forfront of my mind when chatting to new people) because then he would probably have realized that trying to drag her into a shower for a bout of bubbly soap sex was a bad idea.

Especially when the poor lamb starts screaming and struggling in absolute terror.

Double bastard.

Fortunately she manages to break free from Stefan's manly grasp which wouldn't be so bad if she didn't then trip over a loofah and fall on an open razor.

Now how is he going to explain that to my nan?

And who will Lizzy pick as her new companion?

Clue: not Stefan.

For those of us who spent their teenage years in the 80's writer/director/professional Belgian Harry Kümel’s Daughters of Darkness is a perfect example of the type of film you'd sneakily watched on Channel Four on a Friday night whilst your parents were either out or drunk, crouched infront of the TV with the sound turned down to a whisper you'd sit entranced at the thought of what was to come.

Breasts! girl on girl vamp action! old men playing bridge! violence!

To a terribly twitchy and awkward teen with a Louise Brooks fixation this was cinematic perfection.

Looking back on it now thru' (slightly) older eyes you realize that there's so much more to it than that.

For those of you who've ever wondered what the perfect teen masturbatory fantasy looks like well here you go. You're welcome.

Balancing such diverse themes as blood sucking badgirls and spousal abuse with an arthouse aestheticism not seen again until Neil Jordan's 2012 classic Byzantium, Daughters of Darkness never betrays its low budget roots, its sweeping vistas and stark lonely locations counteract with the flowing deep reds of Seyrig's gowns - the film somehow manages to be both cold and forbidding yet dangerously seductive in equal measures, partly due to the almost English sensibilities playing against the exotic 'euro-ness' of it all.

The acting from the four leads is frankly magnificent, from John Karlen's sadistic bastard of a hubbie, Danielle Ouimet's young wife on the verge of a breakdown and the amazing ice queen that is Delphine Seyrig as Bathory, a performance that mixes icy European charm, breeding and wit with an underlying air of almost animalistic menace but the standout performance is from the painfully perfect Andrea Rau, her character dominates every scene she's in as the tragic Ilona, longing for purpose and an existence of her own as she realizes that her mistress seeks another companion.

Perfection embodied. That is all.

Stylishly sexy and hip without trying, Daughters of Darkness pre-dates the cultural 'Vampire revolution' started by movies like The Hunger and Teevee fare like Ultraviolet by almost 20 years, and the lack of accepted 'vampire lore' (fangs, shape changing and the like) just adds to the movies unique feel.

It's almost as if the (very real) couple have stumbled into a nightmarish Grimm fairytale for adults; where the gingerbread is twice as nice and the evil stepmother (or at the very least her companion) is far more alluring than the virginal Snow White.


















*If you (or any of your family are reading this Andrea, you know how to get in touch.

mind your language.

Still attempting that 31 days of horror thing but needed something to get rid of the taste of Francois Sagat out my mouth.

Figuratively speaking.

This one has the word 'horror' in its original title so must be fairly suitable.

Invaders of The Lost Gold (AKA Horror Safari, Safari of No Return, Greed 1982).
Dir: Alan Birkinshaw.
Cast: Stuart Whitman, Edmund Purdom, Woody Strode, Laura Gemser, Harold Sakata, David De Martyn and Glynis Barber.

 Now with free starburst filter!

The year is 1945 and somewhere deep within the lush, verdant jungles of the Philippines a crack squad of (really sweaty) Japanese soldiers and their native minions are carrying huge wooden crates of gold to the coast where it will be shipped back to Japan to help the war effort.

All is going to plan until the (frighteningly bare arsed) local cannibal tribe decide it would be a good laugh to jump out of the bushes and start firing arrows at the unfortunate soldiers before beheading them and dancing about with the said heads on poles.

Which is nice.

Damn good head.

After an out of focus minor skirmish the Japanese that still have their heads attached run away and hide the gold under a pile of leaves in a handy nearby cave before beating a hasty retreat back to the Holiday Inn or wherever they've been staying during the films production.

Before leaving tho' they make a vow to one day return together to retrieve the booty.

Without warning we suddenly jump forward in time 36 years to join weaselly Englishman Rex Larsen ('B' movie ne'er was Purdom) as he cruises the mean streets of Tokyo looking for the three surviving soldiers to 'persuade' them to take him to the caves so he can get his stinky little mitts on the gold.

Things aren't going that well for poor Rex tho' as a mix of bad manners (and bad luck) means that he accidentally kills the first soldier he came across (oops) and the second one he spoke to commits Hari Kari (must be his aftershave or his rotten fish breath).

"Oi! Purdom! get in mah belly!"

Luckily the surviving squaddie, Mr. Jeff Tobachi is always looking for ways to fund his pie habit and offers to lead a team to the cave for a very generous 30% and all the cakes he can eat.

All that's left now is to get Brit Toff Douglas Jefferson (De Martyn in his only big screen role. Shame) to put up the cash for the expedition and pick a motley band of adventurers to head out into the jungle to retrieve the gold.

Rex is very annoyed to hear that Jefferson is insisting on using piss stained mercenary Mark Forrest (one time star and full time alcoholic Troy Tempest lookalike Stuart Whitman) to lead the team, it appears Rex and Mark have a history (but not of the sexy kind) and the thought of having to share a tent with him has left Rex all riled.

"If I lie on mah hand till it goes numb I can pretend it's wee Jimmy Krankie's".

Cut to grainy (well grainier than the rest of the film) footage of sexy bar signs and slinky hipped oriental girls dancing badly. In between the baying sailors and bespectacled tourists is our hero Mark slumped over a bottle of finest J & B and dribbling like a baby.

Enter Cal (Strode), Mr. Jefferson's right hand man sent to find Forrest and offer him a deal. Pausing only to admire the dancers stomach muscles his enjoyable night out is spoiled by one of the group of sailors standing in front of him turning round and uttering the immortal (and possibly offensive line) "Check out the big black bastard here!".

A big black (bald) bastard yesterday.

Ignoring the barrage of thinly veiled insults as he bops along to the glorious disco sounds Cal finally loses his cool when one of the sailors admits to 'not liking niggers' causing the until now calm Cal to become a frenzied fight machine intent on kicking the absolute shite out of anything and anyone near him.

This is enough to sober up Mark who decides to join in.

Mark attempts his party stopping Fatty Arbuckle impression.

Waking in the cells all snuggled up the next morning Mark and Cal have a quick chat about jungle trips before bidding their farewells and going their separate ways.

Mark however is interrupted a few hours later still drunk and mid shandy by Jefferson clutching a wad of cash.

Before Mark gets the wrong idea Jefferson explains that the money is to secure his services as team leader for the expedition.

Mark hiccups and drops off to sleep in a warm bed of his own urine.

"Mooooooooooooooon!"

Jefferson has only one option left open to him and that's to send his beautiful young daughter Janice (Glynis - Dempsey and Makepiece - Barber in a shocking wig) to seduce Mark into coming.

On the jungle trip obviously.

"Sing Lofty!"

Well this seems to do the trick as next thing we known he's standing on the bow of a boat in all his safari shirted, open necked, man breasted glory as a team of stereotypical natives carry tins of peaches and condensed milk on board.

One of the party appears to have there own (evil) agenda tho' and if that wasn't enough, Mark's ex girlfriend the sultry Maria (purring pussycat Gemser) and her chubbie hubbie are acting (if that's not too strong a word) as guides for the team.

With this mix of ex minxes, jolly Japs, evil Englishmen and alcoholic Americans what could possibly go wrong?

David Yip, up the casino, Brighton, 1986.

They've only just finished setting up base camp before the horrible (and 'accidental') deaths begin.

First up Maria's fat hubby is killed by a snake (after first embarrassingly having a tent collapse on top of him) then a nameless man is killed in slow motion by a photo of a crocodile (or five photo's of a crocodile in a jammed, second hand Viewmaster, tho' it may have been an alligator the picture was so scratchy it was hard to tell) and Rex disappears (whilst shaving no less).

The new Ronco cock in a box available now!

Mark, between bouts of drinking and sticking it in Janice decides that the merry gang should stick together in case anyone else suffers a mysterious accident which is Maria's cue to go skinny dipping (she's already disappointed us by not having a big sexy lesbian shagfest - as she does in every other one of her movies - with Glynis so this is the next best thing).

"Not my wanking hand!"

After a good (and I do mean good) ten minutes of Lovely Laura frolicking about in the water the soundtrack goes all sinister whilst the picture went all grainy and slow-mo.

I actually thought my player, having finally had enough of all the shite I force it to play had become sentient and decided to end it all.

Worriedly fiddling with the front of the player whilst randomly hitting buttons on the remote control I was brought back to reality by Ms. Gemser's shrill screams as an unseen horror appeared to do bad things to her under the water.

Or something.

Anyway the next thing we know she's lying face down in a puddle, her arse shivering in the cold air as Cal shoots at something strange in the trees.

Yup, after 30 minutes screen time and nary a minge-munching in sight Gemser is out of the picture.

I know the lovely Glynis is still around but honestly what are the chances of her wanking off a monkey at the directors request?

"It's Chriiiiiiiiiisssssttttttmmmmaassssssss!"

Now everything has gone to Hell in a handbasket (I still have no idea what that means), Mr. Tobachi is sweatily blaming Cal, Mark is feverishly searching for a bottle of scotch to dull the pain of the script and Cal is playing guitar as Janice and her dad stand around looking like right tits in their pith helmets.

But the quest for the gold must continue tho' as there's still 25 minutes left on the running time (not to mention that seeing as there are less folk now it means the survivors will get more cash) but will any of them make it out alive?

Will Cal fall off a rope bridge and fall to his death in a 'bottomless' 15 feet deep cravas?

Will Jefferson end up skewered like a big leathery posh kebab?

Will Tobachi ever have a full tummy and will the cannibals re-appear to protect their sacred land?

You'll have to see Invaders of The Lost Gold to find out.

Tho' the answer is rather upsettingly no to the last one by the way.

Same shit, different smell.

Invaders of the Lost Gold is one of those unique movies that transcends it's simple, cack handed film making roots to become something so much more.

You actually begin to feel sorry for the cast and crew as the film plays out it's threadbare plot, taking the obvious pain and hurt in their eyes as your own, every disappointed glance and hungover action begins to affect you on a personal level, almost as if you been the victim of some cruel crime from which you suffer waking nightmares and flashbacks.

"Put it in me!....oh wait somebody already did".

After a gung ho opening that offers us guns, gold and gory cannibal action the film jumps forward in time and grinds to a halt never regaining its momentum as it's unfortunate cast are forced to deliver clichéd line after clichéd line whilst wandering around the directors garden in the vain hope we'll think they're in the jungle.

Minutes of valuable screen time is used showing the cast erecting brightly coloured garden party marquees on freshly cut grass whilst chatting inanely about about the green jungle hell and the dangers therein when (as viewers will testify) the only danger facing anyone is the very real possibility of Stuart Whitman collapsing from too much drink, his puffy red eyes and hideously sun burnt neck reminding one of the old tramp you always find sprawled out in the local kiddies play park on hot summer days.

Standby for (tongue) action!

True, there are some scenes of genuine horror in the movie but they're inadvertently the ones where the geriatric and bloated Whitman is giving it full on tongue action with the fresh faced Glynis Barber.

You can almost hear the strain of his trousers as he gets more excited than he has for years (or at least since his last drink) and this image if nothing else will haunt me till the day I die.

Add to that the fact that this was made the same year as Raiders of The Lost Ark and you can be guaranteed a chill down your spine just thinking about it, I mean what was director Alan Birkinshaw on?

Whatever it was he must have continued taking them seeing as he followed up this classic with the terrifying straight to video hell that is The Best of Gilbert and Sullivan (featuring one time Master Peter Pratt) and the star studded An Orchestral Tribute to the Beatles (?) before 'modernizing' a couple of Edgar Allen Poe and Agatha Christie stories and redeeming himself with three episodes of the fantastic Gerry Anderson 'cops in space' show Space Precinct.

His last known whereabouts was directing the German Teevee series Die Unbestechliche in 1997.

He's been missing ever since.

It's just a pity this film isn't.

But saying that, if you follow this blog chances are you'll love it.

I know I did.

beware the bin men.

Was gonna attempt to do that whole 31 days of horror October thing in the hope of pulling a few more (any?) readers to my blog.

Enjoy.
L.A. Zombie (2010).
Dir: Bruce LaBruce.
Cast: Francois Sagat, Rocco Giovanni, Wolf Hudson, Eddie Diaz, Andrew James, Matthew Rush, Erik Rhodes, Francesco D'Macho, Adam Killian, Tony Ward, Santino Rice, Sly (but no Family Stone), Tim Kuzma, Trevor Wayne, Deadlee and the mighty N.asa.

It's a beautiful sun filled day in good old Los Angeles, the streets are empty, the beaches deserted.

Think Blackpool but with less dried vomit and fat birds.

Suddenly and without warning (tho' not the film Without Warning as that would be too bizarre and probably a wee bit more exciting) the waters begin to bubble and squeak as from out of the oceans depths appears some kind of massive man-breasted (and ever bigger cocked) alien cum zombie cum bucket (Fistpack 7: Twist My Arm's Sagat...ask your dad) stumbling blindly as it tries to make some kind of sense of it's new environment.

"Touch mah wee titties Morag!"

Emerging from the bushes onto an empty roadside it's not long before our blue skinned buddy is picked up by a passing surfer 'dude' who, obviously nonplussed  by the hitch-hikers pallid blue complexion and lack of footwear begins a conversation taking in everything from the physical manifestations of self loathing  to the delusional behaviour associated with severe schizophrenia.

With strangely enough are the subjects of the directors last film Otto, famous for it's uncompromising gut-fuck sequence and being one of your uncle Jims favourite films.

Unfortunately for all us art-fags watching, the conversation is cut short due to a massive crash that throws our zombie pal clear of the wreckage but leaves the poor surfer dead at the wheel.

Bemoaning the loss of his only friend the zombie has no choice but to attempt to fuck surfer boy back to life.

In glorious close-up.

As you do.

How your dad got that pay rise last month.

Bizarrely enough the salty love juice from this strange creature, when gently injected into the poor fella's gaping chest wound (and over his face), does indeed bring the him back to the land of living.

So probably worth a try next time you get a hangover or toothache then methinks.

Realizing the almost messiah-like gift he has, the zombie wanders away from the accident (and the by now living yet stickily sore surfer), finding himself drawn to the rough backstreets of L.A where the cities homeless population live a meager existence, shunned and forgotten by society.

"I have to suck out all the poison before you die!" shouted TV host Dominic Littlewood as he seduced another victim.

Like some body painted, plaid shirted, bald Jesus our zombie hero, with no thought to his owns comfort or needs proceeds to search the streets of the Greater Los Angeles area looking for dead hobo's to fuck back to life.

But only those who work out obviously.

For just over an hour.

"I can see your house from here Jamal!"

Don't get put off by all this talk of gay sex tho' as there's some metaphysical shenanigans going down too as Sagat's zombie often changes into a bedraggled human for no reason in between the sexy stuff.

No, me neither.

He actually does neither, but I guess the tagline 'He spunks sticky black goo in your mooth then forces his massive member up your arse!" didn't sound as good.

Expanding on the themes and ideas first seen in his earlier, hoodie based Zombie flick Otto: Or up with Dead People, director, artist and professional dirty boy Bruce La Bruce refines, restyles and ultimately re-imagines the zombie genre as a religious parable for an uncertain age as our nameless hero quite literally uses 'the power of love' to resurrect those forgotten and ignored by society, the meek if you will.

This bold redux of accepted ideas doesn't just stop there tho' as La Bruce has also redefined the look of the undead too.

No more light blue paint and drooling mouths no sir, in a moment of artistic genius La Bruce has decided to give his undead a dark blue pallor and as well as a nice line in prosthetic penises.

Joe D'Amato will no doubt be spinning in his grave whilst Paul Morrissey will probably be ringing his lawyers to see how much he can sue La Bruce for for stealing his ideas.

Laugh now!

Treading the fine line between gore movie, action thriller (there's a totally unnecessary subplot involving a drugs ring), religious tract and gay porn effort, you can't fault La Bruce for at least trying to do something a wee bit different with his weekends plus it's a damn sight more entertaining than most of the shite I've had to sit thru' so far this year.

Cheap as chips and queerer than your uncle, LA Zombie is the perfect ice-breaking date movie.

Honest.