celebrity love island.

After another busy few days of work/school stuff and various terrifying things I decided it was time to revisit this quality Joe D'Amato 'classic' as a way of 'relaxing'.

I'm blaming this on the fact that I rewatched Wild Beasts t'other day and felt like a frisky femme fix after the joy of seeing Lorraine De Selle strut her sexy stuff.

Don't be too harsh on me tho' when I admit to having a really soft spot for this film, it was one of those movies that always sat at the back of your 'nasties' cupboard when you were 15 (alongside the Malcolm McDowell masterpiece Caligula and Mad Foxes).

The 80's: That's how we all dressed.

It disappeared from my collection during one of my frequent moves during the late 80's but bizarrely enough a few years ago I was sent a copy in the post by my mad uncle Quentin - alongside an out of date condom and a copy of the Anime series Sex Friend which he'd mistakenly purchased thinking it was called Sex Fiend but I digress.
 
So saddle up and prepare to revisit those heady days of Pop Will Eat Itself, Red Stripe in cans, starchy school uniforms and dodgy Marc Almond haircuts.....


Le Notti Erotiche Dei Mort Viventi (AKA Erotic Nights Of The Living Dead 1980)
Dir: Joe D'Amato
Cast: Laura Gemser, George Eastman, Mark Shannon, Dirce Funari and some other folk obviously but they're the most important ones.

Salty Oirish seadog, Captain 'amazing' Larry O'Hara (played by the half man half giant sweat gland that is D'Amato regular George Eastman, this time wearing Al Cliver's beard and Auretta Gaye's breasts) has been hired to take a big mustached, 'sexy' American businessman/playboy/STD riddled sex tourist Mr. John Wilson (yes, the Man in Haini's Fantasy from Orgasmo Nero himself, Mark Shannon) and his 'girlfriend' Fiona (the fantastically named Dirce Funari from D'Amato's Porno Holocaust) to visit the remote island of Briny Cleft where the businessman is planning to build an exclusive holiday resort.

Presumably one exclusively for the use of big mustachioed playboys wearing bri-nylon.

"Are you looking at my bra?"

After what seems like days of on deck shagging, drinking, comparing of man-tits and  the like they finally arrive at the island to find a spookily sexy voodoo lady (and I don't mean maybe) named Luna (Gemser, ask your mum) and her bony old dad Geoff waiting for them on the beach.

And they don't look happy.

Saying that tho' if someone told me I was going to have to put Mark Shannon's warty cock in my mouth for a measly 25 quid I'd be a wee bit pissed off too.

It appears that the island is cursed and bad things (other than the imminent risk of herpes) are going to occur if they don't scarper back to the boat pretty sharpish.

You see, this is an island of the dead and they don't take kindly to property developers disturbing their sleep.

Either by building stuff or having sex a lot.

Which is fair enough really.

"Excuse me I appear to have accidentally stuck my cock in you".

Obviously the only way to deal with this frankly terrifying revelation is to indulge in a bit - well a lot - more sex.

Which is nice.

And it must be our lucky day cos not only do we get to experience the sheer joy of Eastman's hairy arse thrusting up and down as he attempts to pleasure an obviously bored Funari but also the unbridled passions of Gemser and Funari (again - the poor girl will be knackered) as the pervy pair get down to some furious scissoring.

It's not all bareback bummings tho' because D'Amato knows what we're really here for.

Yup, the undead.

Oh go on then and took gaze in awe at the dusky and dirty pillowed Gemser.

But mainly the undead.

Who it has to be said do indeed rise to take revenge on the interlopers in a surprisingly tense scene that's actually quite cinematic and stylish thanks to the use of a fog machine and a couple of blue lenses.

Great cinematography in a Joe D'Amato flick?

Will wonders never cease?

Rrrrraaaaannnnggggeeerrrrssss!!!

It's at this point that the movie goes a wee bit strange - which seeing as it had a woman opening a bottle of Champagne with her fanny during the films opening is saying something - as without rhyme nor reason the lovely Gemser suddenly turns into a cat (or a child's cuddly toy I can't really tell) and back again before biting Mark Shannon's cock off as Eastman runs into the sea screaming before turning round and running out again.

Maybe it was too cold?

As a plus point it does give us a chance to see his huge hairy nipples rubbing against his wet vest so it's not all for nothing.

And what is the foxy Funari doing during all this I hear you ask?

Well she's sitting on the beach clad only in a massive pair of grey granny pants sobbing and snottering everywhere whilst the undead slowly creep toward her.

Will our heroes survive the zombie hordes and live to shag another day?

Go on, guess.

Like his other genre molesting crossover Porno Holocaust - both of which were shot over two weeks in the same Dominican Republic locations with only minor variations in cast and crew (mainly due to Tetanus jabs being required -  it's difficult to see who D'Amato was aiming these films at.

Present company excepted obviously.

The usual porn brigade are no doubt going to be put off by the scenes of undead induced violence whilst your everyday horror fan is probably not going to want to see Mark Shannon's wart-infested scrotum.

Possibly.It does beg the question is this a rare example of the unsung genius that is D'Amato sneakily toying with the porn crowds expectations and enjoyment by creating a genre defying work of cinematic art never since matched?

Probably not but it would be nice to think so.

Even for a short while.

"Put it in me!"

Yet, despite all the crap shags, woeful performances and the aforementioned sight of Eastman's girlfriend opening a bottle of Champagne with her vagina, the island scenes are steeped with a genuinely nightmarish atmosphere thanks to D'Amato's moody, if sometimes zoomtastic, cinematography.

Marcello Giombini's eerie score is suitably, um, eerie and the 'exotic' Laura Gemser is always worth a mention.

If not a quick hand shandy every now and then, especially if you're watching her fitness video.

Or so your dad says.

There is even the odd spooky scene along the way, like the one when Shannon, sceptical of the zombie curse, throws away a protective talisman only to see it transform into a cat as it hits the sand.

Pity this can't be said about the later scenes of zombies dropping from trees tho' seeing as they look exactly like what they are, which is groups of unfortunate drunk homeless men being pushed out of bushes.

Saying that it's probably better to be pushed off by D'Amato than wracked off.

Especially seeing as he's been dead nearly 20 years.

Funari: Smashing arse.

But for all it's faults and uncomfortable close ups of ugly warts, sagging arses and lopsided breasts (stand up and be counted Ms. Funari) Le Notti Erotiche Dei Mort Viventi comes across (quite literally) as the bastard, inbred offspring of Fulci's Zombi 2 and Jess Franco's Nightmares Come at Midnight with a wee bit of Ferdinando Di Leo's Klaus Kinski starrer Asylum Erotica thrown in - or up - for good measure.

I mean if you're going to steal steal from the best.

Plus it's slightly funnier than D'Amato's Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals (plus it hasn't got a bizarre arse obsessed subplot) and a damn sight more erotically charged than The Boy In The Striped Pajamas.

And that really isn't such a bad thing if you think about it.

peachy keen.

Celebrate the return of Twin Peaks with 90 minutes of Badalamenti beats, sinister soundbites and toe tapping tunes.

Pour yourself a coffee, cut a slice of cherry pie and download here.

Caution: may contain Melange.

born to be wild.

Whilst tidying Cassidy's room today I overheard the radio report of an 'incident' at Hamerton Zoo - folk were saying it was anything from an escaped lion to a meerkat with a penknife.

And what has this got to do with anything I hear you cry (well type but you know what I mean).

Well as the story broke I found a dusty old Betamax copy (ah Prism Vision where are you now?) of this behind his bed.

At first I put it down to spooky coincidence and the fact that he has a lion obsession.

Well it's either that or he's already punting my stuff down Cash Converters to get money for booze and burds.

I'm must admit to being slightly angry tho', not because he nicked it but because he actually kept hold of it.

Yes, it is that shite so I'll try to be quick.

Wild Beasts (AKA Belve Feroci. 1984).
Dir: Franco Prosperi.
Cast: Lorraine De Selle, John Aldrich, Ugo Bologna, some wild geese and an angry polar bear.

It's another sunny day at The Zoo of Frankfurt (16 Alfred-Brehm-Platz, opening times: 9AM-5PM during winter, 9AM-7PM in summer, price: Adult: 11 DM, child 5+ 5 DM), the zoo-keepers are busy feeding the animals and cleaning up the huge mounds of shite, the gift shop is re-stocking it's shelves and the polar bears are looking longingly at the dolphins.

Just a normal day then really.

Well, not quite (it'd be a pretty abysmal - well even more abysmal, movie otherwise) because during the night some mad mentalist bastard has put Phencyclidine (PCP, angel dust, supergrass, killer weed, sherm, shi-moo or rocket fuel for those street wise readers) in the zoo's water supply.

Within minutes of the gates opening and various parties of pensioners and school kids entering the zoo the animals have started to go a wee bit strange.

The elephants turn first as they attempt to stand on the keepers head, swiftly followed by the rats(?) who escape into the car park looking for convertibles to steal whilst the polar bears just stand around with their normal pained expressions.

No change there then.

"I wanted a Scottish flag hen!"

If that wasn't enough of a downer for a Monday morning it then appears that the sweat and drool from the junked up animals is infecting the local population's pets too.

Yup, the cats are eating babies, guide dogs are tearing the throats from their owners and border collies are madly licking meat paste from the naked bodies of middle-aged spinsters.

Or is that a different film?

A middle-aged spinster
(minus border collie) yesterday.

Only one man can save the city, enter (and by the look of his porn 'tache he wouldn't complain) world renowned zoo veterinarian Dr. Rupert Berner (Aldrich in his only film role outside gay tramp porn and snuff movies) who, aided by his scientist girlfriend Laura Schwarz (genre whore De Selle who's been in everything from House on the Edge of the Park and Cannibal Ferox via your dad's bed) and local hard nosed (yet scarily flaccid) cop, Inspector Natalie Braun (Nightmare City's Mr. Desmond himself, Ugo Bologna) must try to discover a way to stop the anarchic animals before they destroy the world.

But not before we've seen the frankly impressive sight of a cheetah racing an open-topped VW beetle in an attempt to eat the overweight driver.

Will our heroes find a cure that doesn't involve locking all the animals in tin sheds with bowls of chicken soup before the PCP tainted water finds it's way into the local school causing the kids to go mad too in an attempt to give us a shock ending?

Or will they think fuck it and just torch the poor beasts?

"Is it in yet?"

Ah Franco E. Prosperi you bad, bad man.

After quite literally spewing forth (alongside fellow hack Gualtiero Jacopetti) the whole 'Mondo' genre and giving us the racistastic Addio zio Tom, Prospero obviously reckoned that it was time to head back into animal murder mode and decided that a film about man's inhumanity to other creatures via the world of the zoo would be a good enough excuse to kill some rodents (and cows and cats) live on screen.

A polar bear angrily climbing some
stairs this morning.

Obviously influenced/enamoured by the 1949 Georges Franju documentary/drama recounting the lives of Paris slaughterhouse workers Le sang des bêtes (a film that David Lynch admitted inspired Inland Empire), Prosperi realised that the chances of him making a halfway decent movie starring Lorraine De Selle that used a zoo as a metaphor for Nazi extermination camps was pushing it somewhat, so in his wisdom he decided to junk the majority of the Franju's stark imagery and symbolism and just stick to the animal killings.

Which makes it kind of difficult to take the film's almost child-like (and naively childish) ecological message at all seriously.

De Selle happy in the fact that at least
her pussy wont get beaten
black and blue on screen.

The most shocking thing about the film tho' isn't the copious amounts of scenes of rats being burnt off windscreens and tigers let loose in cow pens but the fact that Prosperi's director of photography Franco Delli Colli seems to have decided to shoot the entire thing thru' a film of mud.

No taste, no talent, no mercy.

Tho' it is nice to see Lorraine De Selle getting enough cash to pay for he detox treatment.

sausage fingers.

Got a huge pile (ooeer) of brand spanking new movies to watch here at Unwell Towers so have spent days (well hours) pouring over what to watch first.

Unfortunately my ASD and fear of all things new kicked in so to calm myself down I ended up picking this old favourite.

Enjoy.

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

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

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

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

Pretty good job they weren't Filipino police really seeing as they'd have probably beaten the shite out of her then confiscated her teddy bear as a weapon before throwing the poor sod out of a helicopter.

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

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

Or the presenters of Channel 5's Milkshake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, dead.

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

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

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

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

Aye right.

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

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

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

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

But wait!

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

And more importantly is it still OK to fancy her?

Mondello: You would.

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

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

Result.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As a whore.

Oh the irony.

"Laugh now!"

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

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

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

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

Ouch.

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

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

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

Mondello: Any excuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do it now.

disturbing knitting pattern of the month.

Enjoy.

destination: penetration.

Been a wee bit busy with work recently (a bit shit I know but the kids crack habit isn't going to feed itself*) hence the lack of meaningful updates.

Tho' I did come across (quite literally) these amusingly monikered books whilst surfing the interweb.

Enjoy.

 

*To all those of you who feel the urge to report my blog for every single tiny thing I type can I just point out that THIS IS A JOKE. 

They're addicted to crystal meth obviously.

people you fancy but shouldn't (part 71).

Regular Show's uber BiLF Margaret Smith.

Sorry.