evening shade.

 

Nowt to say about this other than it's bloody brilliant.

Equinox (1970).
Dir: Jack Woods and Dennis Muren.
Cast: Edward Connell, Frank Boers Jr, Barbara Hewitt, Robin Christopher, Jack Woods, Fritz Leiber and James Phillips.

"If you knew what was in that book, you'd turn to jelly! It's not meant for worms like you! What did you think you were gonna do with it - sell it to a museum?"

Opening (as all good movie's should) with a little explosion coupled with the sight of a pair of bloody ladies feet sticking out from behind a bush, we're soon following blond-haired good boy Dave (Connell in his only acting role) as he high-tails it thru' a kiddies swing park and onto the highway only to get hit by a driverless car.

Yup, it's gonna be one of those days.

Suddenly we flash-forward a year and a day to find poor Davey boy confined to what looks like the janitors office of a school - no, hang on it's a special ward for mentalists in the local hospital - where ace reporter Sid Sloane (Bienvenido Hermano Andes star Phillips) is preparing to interview Dave for the local papers 'where are they now?' section.

David tho' isn't too keen on talking to anyone, especially when Sloane starts to ask questions about our mental mates rather lady-like crucifix that he refuses to let go of.

The constant badgering culminates in Dave trying to beat the rascally reporter with a baguette so Sloane, obviously not really being arsed with hearing the story first hand, does what any journalist worth their salt would do and retires to the doctor's office to listen instead to a recording made by Dave soon after being admitted.

Anything else he reckons, he can make up.

Anyway, are you sitting comfortably?

Then we'll begin.

"I can see Megan's house from here!"

It transpires that Dave, his pug nosed and square of face buddy Jim (the original Bruce Campbell and later star of WKRP In Cincinnati Boers,Jr.) and their 'hot'  dates; the curvy yet bird mouthed Susan (Hewitt, younger sister of Jennifer and now a Reverend) and bewigged Russian shot-putter Vicki (Christopher possessing the most terrifying arse ever seen on film) have decided to mix business with pleasure by planning to enjoy a mouth watering KFC picnic whilst Dave is away visiting his old college lecturer Dr. Dennis Waterman (believe it or not it is indeed that Fritz Leiber) who is busy conducting some secretive research on an ancient Sumerian book whilst living in a secluded cabin in the  woods.

Hang on, this sounds familiar.

Followed from afar by the mightily mono-browed forest ranger, Terry Asmodeus (director Woods, who later was in charge of the sound department for Xanadu) our freaky foursome soon find Waterman's cabin destroyed before being accosted by an old piss stained tramp living in a cave who hands them a foul smelling ancient book before skipping away giggling like a loon.

A loon, it has to be said wearing the highest waist trousers I have ever seen.

"Hmmmmm.....mooth shite!"

It seems that Waterman, not content with writing the theme tune and singing the theme tune, has started reciting spells and incantations from the ancient book, first conjuring a huge octopus that went on to destroy his house before accidentally causing a rip in the very fabric of space/time.

As one would.

Deciding it would be a waste of food if they didn't finish the picnic before leaving our heroes pop down a blanket and begin scoffing only to be rudely interrupted by Waterman himself, who grabs the book from their chicken greased fingers before running off into the trees.

Giving chase Dave clumsily cracks the poor doctor's head open on a rock but luckily his body vanishes just as Asmodeus appears from nowhere astride a huge horse.

Luckily he's only turned up to ask the boys to pack up their rubbish after the picnic and is soon on his way, riding off in the direction of the laydees who, even with all this bizarre shite going on, have decided to split up to look for 'something'.

Trip trapping along and using his eyebrows as a girl radar, Asmodeus soon comes across Susan (not literally, well not yet) and after dismounting whips out his magical ring and points it suggestively in her general direction.

Susan suddenly faints, giving Asmodeus ample opportunity to climb on top of her and fondle her peachy arse whilst pulling what can only be described as a stroke victims cum face.

"And when I feel frisky I pull THIS face!"

Dribbling stale spittle all over our hypnotised heroine's hosiery as he kneads her milky white breasts with his sweaty sausage fingers, amorous Asmodeus' advances are cut short when he spies her crucifix lying on the grass, causing him to recoil in terror and run away.

Phew.

It's not long before the rest of the gang find a slightly dishevelled Susan, all grass stains and grope marks sitting against a tree but with the boys being boys and Vicki being more interested in her next meal they totally ignore their pals plight and get straight down to trying to explain the plot to each other.

Dave, being the brainy one has figured that some of the drawings in the book (which I must admit are really good for a five year old) can be used as protection from arcane forces and after fashioning a few out of twigs for everyone (except Susan who's got her cross) head off to confront Asmodeus and hopefully find the doctor (or his still warm corpse) along the way.

Yabba dabba don't.

No sooner have they started walking when the stinky tramp appears from the bushes screaming and shouting, hastily followed by a huge testicle cheeked and tusked monster with ginger arm hair.

Which I'll admit was fairly unexpected.

Quickly catching up with the old man, the beast tosses him about like a tiny plasticine model before turning his attentions to our heroes who quickly hide behind a convenient rock.

"Laugh now!"

Jim realising that he's done absolutely fuck all for the last fifty minutes grabs a big twig that's conveniently lying nearby before sharpening the end and sticking it in the beast, killing it stone dead.  

But its corpse, much like Doctor Waterman's, vanishes before their very eyes (son).

Discovering an invisible inter-dimensional door in a clearing (did I not mention it earlier? Sorry) Dave and Jim decide to investigate further only to have their path blocked by a big green acne covered caveman sporting a handlebar moustache.

The dynamic duo have no choice but to fight.

Or in Jim's case get accidentally pulled thru' the space door by it.

Arse.

"Dave I love you....could it be magic?"

Dave, after telling the girls to head back to the car mounts a one man rescue mission into the unknown and quickly - some would say too quickly - finds a sweaty (and suddenly very large eyebrowed) Jim all set to go home as if nothing had happened.

Not only does he seem totally unphased by all these supernatural shenanigans but he also appears to have lost his memory, seeing as he's full of questions regarding the book, Susan's favourite pop group and how Vicki manages to walk with an arse that size etc.

This alerts Dave to the fact that this might not be his pal at all.

And by Jove he's right, it's really Asmodeus - or as we know him, The Devil - in disguise.

The Prince of Darkness politely asks Dave for the book one last time.

Dave, being a hero refuses giving the big D no choice but to transform into his true form; a cycling shorts wearing, hideous rubbery red demon with massive chicken feet and tissue paper wings before vowing to kill the girls, bugger Dave and take the book by force.

Or was that bugger the book, kill Dave and take the girls up the casino?

Either way it's not going to be pleasant.

"It's CCCCCCCCHHHHHRRRRRIIISSSTTTMMMAAASSSS!!!"

True to his word, Asmodeus flies away and promptly kills Vicki before turning his attentions to Susan.

But Dave, feeling kinda wired and armed with a crucifix and neat hair arrives in time to challenge Old Nick to one final battle.

Which seems to consist of Asmodeus shouting a lot and setting fire to stuff whilst Dave and Susan run away.

Until Susan is blasted into oblivion by a well aimed thunderbolt at least.

Dave, having the choice between checking his girlfriend is really dead or legging it to the highway chooses the latter whilst a very angry Asmodeus shouts a warning to our hero that he  will die in exactly a year and a day from this point.

Which is spookily where we came in.

Back at the hospital neither the Sloane nor any of the doctors believe any of Dave's story, preferring to imagine that he bludgeoned everyone to death with the KFC bucket before attempting to run himself over, even going as far as laughing amongst themselves when our reporter chum realises that he's 'accidentally' taken Dave's crucifix.

Making his farewells a smug as fuck Sloane is about to leave the hospital when he bumps into a fairly attractive young blonde in an old ladies suit.

Unknown to him the blonde is an undead Susan preparing to fulfil Asmodeus' prophecy of death.

Originally produced in 1967 by the special FX equivalent of Me Me Me; Dennis Muren, Dave Allen and Jim Danforth, Equinox: A Journey into The Supernatural (as it was then) was a lovingly made home movie love letter to stop motion and scary movies, an amateurish yet amiable enough way to spend seventy odd minutes.

But little did they know that sound editor extraordinare (and writer of Son Of The Blob) Jack Woods, having a few quid spare, would pick up the movie to allow it the cinema release it so richly deserved.

"Scarper! It's the parkie!"

As is the way with these things, Woods ordered some reshoots, chopped and changed the order of certain scenes and, feeling that what was missing from the film was a central villain so created the role of Asmodeus for the movie.


The self casting was probably due to the director being unable to find anyone convincing enough to play The Devil himself.


Either that or he just fancied thrusting his middle-aged semi against a couple of writhing young girls.

Take your pick.

 Monsta!

 Filling out this already mixed bag of professional actors (OK one professional actor), sixties style hotties and rubbery (thank you) monsters is the unlikely casting of horror writer Fritz Leiber as Waterman and, as the mysterious voice on the tape, sci-fi/horror God Forrest J. Ackerman meaning that not one performance on show is pitched the same way twice.


Other, less educated film types would say that this amateur hour mix of non-acting and vertigo inducing over the top-ness kills the film stone dead before it's even given a chance to begin but I like to think that it adds an almost guerilla style rawness to the proceedings, the performances enhancing the films nightmarish qualities to a point that transcends mere cinema and almost convinces you that what you are watching is somehow real.


Probably.

Worth a looksie if you've ever wondered what The Evil Dead would look Like if it had a budget of twelve quid and access to a rubber octopus, you owe it to yourselves and your family to see this masterpiece.

Look it's out on Criterion so it must be good.

playaway.

It's been a helluvah week here what with all three of the unholy trio on college holidays and me desperately trying to keep my autie-ness in check whilst I plan to sue all of Glasgow.

Well, bits of it.

Luckily I have the whole 31 days of horror thing to keep me sane.

Or at least I would if I could be bothered.

You're welcome.

The Devil's Plaything (AKA Veil of Blood, Das Schloss der schwarzen Hexen, Den pornografiske jungfrun, Plaything of the Devil, The Curse of the Black Sisters, Vampire Ecstasy and probably dozens more. 1973)
Dir: Joseph W. Sarno.
Cast: Marie Forså, Nadia Henkowa, Anke Syring, Ulrike Butz, Nico Wolf, Flavia Keyt, Irina Kant and a few other folk with even higher Scrabble scoring names.

“The hour of the wampire draws closer.”

Opening - as all good Eurohorror does - with shots of a shadowy and  foreboding castle somewhere in deepest darkest Europe (I'm thinking Germany by the size of the lady gardens on show) and to the trippy sounds of a conga beat to boot, we find ourselves privy to a groovy girls night-in being held in a cosy dungeon where a busty bevy of wobbly arsed women are undulating sexily - in a kind of mums drunk way - to the tribal rhythms.

Leading the festivities is a big of hip, poppy of eyes and scarily simian faced woman named Wanda (Henkowa from the classic Bibi: Confessions of Sweet Sixteen and the not so classic Baby Tramp) whose idea of a good time seems to involve aggressively touching up women and shoving her ample arse into the camera at any given opportunity.

Fair enough.

The party reaches it's climax with the announcement of the evenings raffle draw and after yanking the winning ticket from between a black lasses buttocks, Wanda fetches the winner (a dirty - in both senses of the word - blonde named Brenda) and lays her on the dining table before forcing her to masturbate herself silly with a big black dildo.

And all this before the opening titles.

I've no idea how they're going to top that but with the introduction of  the council estate Marlene Dietrich-alike Monika (the yumsome Butz, star of Love in 3D and What Schoolgirls Don't Tell) you can kinda guess where they're heading.

And it's not toward another Scottish independence referendum.

 

"Excuse me, I farted."

Wouldn't you know it but it turns out that this gorgeous (I use that word cautiously) pair are descendants of a lusty lesbian vampire cum posh bird Danielle Varga and our sexy strumpets are in line to inherit all her wealth.

Kerching.

But in order to collect their inheritance Helga and Monika must live in Varga’s spooky castle for a year, thus giving wicked Wanda plenty of time to seduce Monika and complete her plan of placing the revived spirit of Danielle Vaga inside the poor girls body.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well apart from Monika being completely straight and there being absolutely no hot girl on girl action in the next ninety minutes?

Yeah right.

"Is it in yet?"

Before we get a chance to think on this further, a battered old jalopy breaks down right outside the castles gates, I mean come on what are the chances of that?

Turns out that the car belongs to the local doctor (and expert in supernatural activities) Julia Malenkow (big haired Syring from Sexy Susan Sins Again) and her hunkily funky sideburned brother Peter (Confessions of a Sexy Photographer star and ex-Gladiator - possibly - Wolf) who decide, after a wee bit of uncomfortable flirting, to see if the castle has a phone that they can use.

Upon opening the door Wanda, now wearing a harsh school ma'am bun and a centre parting that looks like it's been burnt into her skull thereby revealing even more of her frightening monkey face introduces herself as the castles 'housekeeper' and invites the siblings inside to meet the house-mates and enjoy a nice bit of tea and toast.

Yum.

However, behind the smile (well grimace) Wanda is worried as to the real reason that a doctor of spookiness has turned up at the castle at the moment she's about to put her lesbian resurrection plan into operation so during supper she subtly asks Julia if she's just on holiday or if she's visiting because she think there's a bit of kinky vampirism afoot?

Julia, scoffing another Mini-Roll responds (rather enigmatically) by saying “I'm here to study the superstitious beliefs of the villagers.”

Wanda raises an eyebrow before deciding that Julia actually isn't too bad looking and she might enjoy a wee bit of the Sapphic action too.

A sly wink from Wanda is all that's needed for the local lesbian vampire coven (remember the pre-credits?) to begin seducing the house guests via the medium of modern dance and vaguely rude sounding German phrases.

"Juliet Bravo!"

As the disco seduction continues and the guests become much sweatier and much much more husky, Wanda's powers of persuasion become stronger.

But not strong enough to seduce Julia.

Tho' she has started to rub her brothers inner thigh whilst licking her lips, which is nice.

By this time our heroine has begun to notice something is amiss - the fact that everyone else has begun mounting candlesticks and anything remotely cock shaped was probably enough to give her cause for concern - and takes the precaution of hanging a huge necklace of garlic around her brothers big thick neck before taking to stalking the castle grounds waving a crucifix around like some harsh faced middle-aged Buffy The Vampire Slayer.

On crack.

Less Buffy The Vampire Slayer more Buffet The Snack Destroyer.

Will Julia be able to resist her brother's yummy manliness?

Will Wanda's plan succeed?

Will the all girl vampire dance troupe decide to enter Britain's Got Talent?

Will Monika fix her make-up?

And more importantly will anyone watching actually stop getting the blonde bucktoothed bimbette Helga (Forså, whose performance as Lajla the girl in aquarium in the smash hit Sex in Sweden is still talked about in hushed tones on the internet to this day) and Julia mixed up?

Seriously I only re-watched this last night and am still getting them confused.

From the mind of 60's sex-ploitation legend Joseph Sarno, The Devil's Plaything takes the vampire genre by the scruff of it's neck whilst tugging hard on it's genitalia to produce a warm and sticky mix of sex, horror, more sex and dancing.

The more appropriate title of Vampire Ecstasy suits the movie's tone better tho' given the distinct lack of neck biting on show, replacing as it does the usual vampire bloodlust with an ability to control their victims minds via the power of pure sexual arousal.

And copious amounts of front bums.

She'll catch her death going out like that.

Which shouldn't come as any real surprise seeing as the movie is really just one big lesbian porn film masquerading as a horror flick so as to not embarrass the producers parents.

This doesn't mean that the film isn't fairly enjoyable - and sometimes even for the reasons the makers intended - but let's be honest, it's heady mix of obligatory stilted dialogue, none too subtle phallic imagery and desperate attempt to appeal to both the art and porn crowd is more likely to raise more giggles than erections.

Tho' scarily there are a group of chin stroking movie critiquing no-hopers that harp on about how similar (and in some ways much more successful) Joseph W. Sarno's masterpiece is when compared to the works of Ingmar Bergman.

It's true, I've met some of them.

And yes before you ask, none of them have girlfriends.

Monica hadn't really gotten the hang of YMCA.

Sweaty, sleazy and a wee bit queasy, The Devil's Plaything comes across as a better made, (slightly) bigger budgeted version of any Jean Rollin movie you care to choose but populated by far less attractive actresses wearing the type of nightmarish Bri-Nylon fashions that even your Gran wouldn't be seen dead in.

Damning with faint praise?

Well it is what I do best.

xtro strong mince.

Was talking about this t'other night so thought it'd be nice to feature it in the whole 31 Days of Horror thing.

Xtro (1983)
Dir: Harry Bromley-Davenport.
Cast: Philip Sayer, Bernice Stegers, Maryam D'Abo, Tik, Peter Mandell, Tok, Anna Wing, Simon Nash and Danny Brainin.

You crazy maniac, you're out of your FUCKING MIND!

Our story opens on a dark, windy - and therefore typically British summer - night where doting dad and all round good guy Sam Phillips - no, not that one - (Sayer from the fantastic Slayground) after a nice game of kickabout in the park, disappears in a blaze of flashing lights (that look suspiciously like a helicopter) as a spooky synth soundtrack plays and his obscenely tight shorted wee boy Tony (Ex-Frankie Goes To Hollywood bassist Nash) looks on in horror.

Nothing like firing straight into the action.

And yes, this is nothing like that.

Chocadoomie.

Anyway with the backstory done and dusted in such an intriguing manner it's time to start the plot good and proper.

And jump forward (bloody hell they must have been long titles) almost three years later where poor old (and scarily just as little) Tony is still convinced that his dad didn't just up and leave but was abducted by 'the aliens'.

His mum, the button nosed, Uber-MiLF Rachel (Stegers from Lamberto Bava's Macabre) and her new, fashion photographer boyfriend Joe (Brainin, best remembered for his striking role as 3rd Reporter in Dreamchild. No, me neither) are a little concerned by his almost Autistic obsession but are far too busy having lots of brightly lit 80's sex to really notice.

Luckily Tony's sexy French nanny, Analise (former Bond babe D'Abo) at least listens to him occasionally, sometimes even nodding in a concerned way.

When she's also not having brightly lit 80's sex with her boyfriend or getting a milk bottle put up her arse that is.

"Woof!"

Surprisingly tho' it looks like he may have been right in his concerns as one night a UFO lands in the local woods and a bizarro alien, looking like a man on all fours with a mask stuck on the back of his head....(oh, hang on, that's exactly what it is) disembarks and sets off across the countryside for a late night stroll, killing the first person it comes across before impregnating the poor guy's still screaming girlfriend via a slimy tube in her mouth and some moldy Kinder Eggs.

Which, amazingly is even less tasteful than it sounds.

"Put it in me!...oh sorry, you already have".

The unfortunate lady wakes up the next morning, horribly hungover, breath smelling of Frenchman and with her make-up smudged only to discover that not only is her boyfriend dead but she's about to give birth.

To a full grown adult male.

Gah indeed Mr. Reeves.

After chewing thru his own umbilical cord followed by a quick shower, shite and shave, the reborn Sam (for it is he)  heads back to his old family home for a quick catch up, much to the dismay of Rachel and Joe who've only just got over the annoyance of Tony walking in on them mid shag.

Could've been worse tho'...could've been Peter Bark playing Tony.

Talking of which (Tony that is, not Burial Ground) the boy is absolutely delighted to see his dad again, admittedly he gets a wee bit freaked out when he catches him licking ooze from his own arm but in a fantastic bit of parenting that would make Dr. Tanya proud, Sam reacts by biting his son on the shoulder before sucking a big nob shaped lump of skin out of it.

From then on it's fun all the way as young Tony discovers he too has strange alien powers.

And not all of them lumpy skin based.

First up he summons a freaky dwarf clown (soon to be an Ewok Mandell) to play with before conjuring up a panther and finally a life-sized Action Man in order to kill his nosy, pet snake killing neighbour (Eastenders Anna Wing).

"Hello? Are you the French Polisher? You might just be able to save my life!"

Despite all this strangeness going down (as ver kids say), Rachel is willing to give Sam the benefit of the doubt regarding his fantastic tale of alien abduction, anal probing and nob suckling, deciding to head back to the Welsh holiday home where the couple were staying when Sam disappeared in order to see if anything jogs his memory, leaving Joe to a weekend of tearful anger ridden wanks and a Hot N Spicy Pot Noodle and Tony in the care of Analise and her bottle fetish.

How come that never happened to me as a child?*

There's no pleasing some kids tho' as Tony, now bored with his creepy dwarf, big cat and killer Action Man for company (the fool) is sitting about whining and complaining in that way that only precocious, stage school kids do, only settling down when Analise gives in to his demands for a game of hide and seek.

The rules must be different in their household tho' seeing as when I played it with my family I invariably ended up sitting in a cupboard for two weeks (once they actually went on holiday without finding me I was that good at the game) before passing out thru' dehydration because this particular version climaxes with Analise's boyfriend getting his head cracked open with a table lamp and the au-pair being knocked unconscious and cocooned in the downstairs bathroom
culminating with slimy alien eggs popping out of a hole at her feet into a bathful of green gunge.

I'm surprised Noel Edmond's never featured this on his House Party programme but seeing as it was cancelled around 40 years ago he might have and I've just forgotten.

Nightmarish, repulsive yet oh so slightly sexy....a wee bit like your mum.

Joe meanwhile has a suspicion that the trail of dead bodies/impregnated women/giant toys that have appeared around the house at random intervals since Sam's return may all be linked but just as he's about to phone the police (their special alien hotline obviously) Tony turns up at his door with the excuse that Analise was wanting to shag her boyfriend without him watching so could Joe babysit for a bit?

Joe decides to take Tony up the holiday home (isn't that illegal?) and confront Sam.

Your dad and his cum face.

By this point tho' Rachel (who's not just a pretty face and smashing blouses) too has an inkling that something is different about her husband.

Especially after she finds him writhing about on the bed, farting violently and shedding his skin.

Joe arrives in the nick of time to give Sam a stern talking to about family values, murdering people and misusing strangers wombs but just as he starts pointing his finger in a stern manner, Sam (or the Samalien as we call him in our house) shouts at him with his powerful 'space scream', killing poor Joe stone dead before taking Tony by the hand and returning to outer space.

Cor blimey that was a paragraph packing climax wasn't it?

"Who's not in bed? Igglepiggle's not in bed!"

And with that Rachel is left alone in a forest clearing to ponder the mysteries of the universe and how the hell she'll manage to explain why Analise is stuck to the bathroom wall to the employment agency.

 Now you to can experience the effect of watching this scene as a small boy whilst furiously masturbating as your Mum cooked tea.

Jumping between shlock horror cheapness - in the nicest possible sense obviously - and low budget indie fayre like the fantastic Smile Pretty and Frozen Kiss, Harry Bromley-Davenport is one of the few, true independent British film makers working today, always colourful, always interesting and always just outside the acceptable mainstream.

And his 1983 lo-fi sci-fi shocker Xtro is no exception.

Coming across for all the world like a darkly diseased distant cousin of Ridley Scott's Alien, the movie gets under your skin and behind your eyelids, leaving you with a nasty, itchy indie rash and a salty cinematic residue in the corner of your mouth.

Which frankly I adore.

The special effects, given the movie's non-existent budget, are both ingenious and incredibly disturbing to watch, in particular the scene where the naked, reborn Sam slowly crawls out from between his 'mothers' legs covered head to toe in slime and blood whilst our first glimpse of the alien walking thru' the misty woods is a truly remarkable sight.

"Turkey leg in mah mooth!"

The basic screaming-synth (the director's own description) soundtrack gives an air of menace and other worldliness to an already unnerving film which from the start is imbued with that stark nastiness only found in the British horror film.

And like most of blighty's horror output of the time it has a cast that, although not household names (D'Abo being the exception) each adds an air of unflinching authenticity to the proceedings.

Kudos especially to the great Bernice Stegers who, to this shy timid 13 year old on it's release, show that stern, Siouxsie Sioux style form teacher-types could be sexy too.

And maybe a wee bit mental.

It's all your fault Bromley-Davenport!

Stegers - just because.

Unfortunately outside the cult movie circuit, Xtro is most notorious for being one of the only two British movie's on the infamous DPP 'video nasty' list and tho' never prosecuted is best remembered for featuring (and I quote**) "...the most uncomfortable (yet greatest) 'saucy French actress and ex Bond girl becomes an alien egg incubator' scene ever filmed."

Oh yes, and for Lou Beale being stabbed to death by an Action man.

Quite frankly Xtro is screaming out for a double bill re-release alongside Norman J Warren's equally bizarre Prey.

Anyone?

I'd be first in the queue.

*That's right, it's because no-one cared.

**As said by my Nan back in the day after hiring it from Washvac Video in Coseley.

Aaah memories.

caribbean queen.

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

A wee bit like your mum.

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

Enjoy. 

 

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

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

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

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

This may seem a great way to spend your vacation you may be thinking to yourself and I'd have to agree, until when, at the moment of Climax, pervy Papaya bites off his penis, gobbling away like a really hungry hippo as he writhes about screaming like your nan when she got he breast caught in the blender.

"It's CCCHHHHRRRRIIISSSTTTMMMAAASSSS!"

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

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

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

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

By that I mean he has sex with her.

Twice.

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

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

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

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

Hmmm...you think so?

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

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

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

Easy tiger.

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

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

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

"Put it in me!"

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

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

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

Look I'm easily pleased obviously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I feel I now know Maurice Poli's better than my own.

Or your dads.

howl bennett.

Things are getting hairy at the halfway point (sort of) of the 31 Days of Horror countdown.

Or is that count up?

Like anyone cares.

Monsterwolf (2010).

Dir: Todor Chapkanov.

Cast: Leonor Varela, Robert Picardo, Marc Macaulay, Steve Reevis, Jason London, Jon Eyez, Griff Furst, Ricky Wayne, Nicole Barré, Amber Bartlett, Grant James, Dominick LaBanca, Chris J. Fanguy, Antonino Paone and Ritchie Montgomery.

"Jury duty is a civic duty".

Evil multinational oil company Badman Co. are busy digging huge random holes somewhere in the American backwoods - as oil companies do - when, after attempting to move an abandoned outside toilet with about 40 sticks of dynamite uncover what can only be described as a Stargate for dwarfs with a spooky blue flame hovering above it.

Ignoring the well known fact that such a phenomena could indicate the presence of natural gas and potentially blow everyone to fuck our fearless band of roughnecks continue blowing stuff up causing the flame to snuff it and a huge CGI wolf to appear in it's place, eating all the oil workers.

Grrrr!

"Teeth in mah mooth!"

Meanwhile back in town the nasty, balding executive in charge of Badman Oil Ned Stark (Star Trek: Voyager and Gremlins 2's Picardo) is busy going door-to-door in an effort to convince the local townsfolk to sell him their houses so that he can dig them up too.

Whilst a few citizens are concerned most our won over by Stark's secret weapon.

No, not a gold and red armoured suit but his newly acquired lawyer Maria (Varela from Blade 2 and Dallas sporting some very nice tattoos), a local gal turned big city hotshot.

You see in an act of cunning the likes of which the world hasn't seen since Blackadder's Baldrick breathed his last, Stark reckons that the locals are more likely to listen to 'one of their own' - and the sheriffs daughter to boot - when it comes to his business proposition.

Unfortunately for him, Maria begins to get more and more disillusioned with her boss' evil ways (you know the type of stuff, shouting at the local shopkeepers, calling everyone 'hicks', wearing brown shoes with a black suit etc.) and starts getting ever closer to her jury duty dodging ex-boyfriend Yale Locke (Jason London) who has noticed that when anybody actually sells out to Stark they're almost immediately eaten by a big hairy wild dog.

Or could it be a supernatural type monster wolf?

Or even a, gulp, Monsterwolf (one word)?

Well the police, led by the roguishly mustached Sheriff Lennie Bennett (Feast 2's Macaulay) reckon it has to be a wild animal of some kind but after it attempts to eat Maria, gets squashed by a truck and then scoffs the drunken driver locked in a prison cell the authorities aren't too sure, leading our heroes (alongside comedy sidekick Cannock Chase played by actor/director Furst) to visit the local native American and cliche ridden mystic Chief Turner (full time rent an ethnic Reevis) for if not help then some cheap drugs.

Guns don't kill people, skin tight nipple revealing vest tops do. Possibly.

With Turner waxing lyrical about loopy lupine legends, native American history and his plans to defiantly oppose Stark, our oil intoxicated bad man has only one course of action left him.

Yup you guessed it, he hires a band of professional mercenaries led by part-time Idris Elba alike and full time sex beast Coughlin (Eyez) to kill everyone who opposes Stark's plans.

Starting with Chief Turner.

And the difference between this and a fox?....about 6 pints.

As the mean arsed mercenaries draw ever closer, Turner explains to our heroes (via a fantastic animated flashback sequence worthy of Yo Gabba Gabba) that killing the wolf requires a tribal sacrifice.

A life for a life if you will.

And with Maria being the only other member of the tribe left (turns out she's adopted, I mean what are the odds?) her chances of making it thru' to the final reel alive are beginning to look about as slim as the movies characterizations.

Will eco-bollocks flower power save the day?

Will the mercenaries shoot everyone before returning to Manilla for some undisclosed reason?

Will Maria and Locke get to enjoy an 'R' rated sex scene where they at least get to remove their trousers?

Will Stark win the hearts and minds of the locals and eventually revenge the sacking of Winterfell?

And will Maria survive her fight to the death with our furry fanged fiend?

Or will the big bad wolf eat her whole?

I'm just asking because they usually spit that bit out.

From jobbing music vid' guy to straight to DVD hack for hire (in the nicest way of course) Todor Chapkanov - he who gave us Thor: Hammer of the Gods, Miami Magma and the snakes vs. cowboy classic Copperhead - comes probably the best Robert Picardo starring monster Wolf vs. oil exec' movies ever made.

True the plot's so old it's positively creaking and the movies cliché count goes so far off the scale it begins to bleep like the Chernobyl reactor about the 20 minute mark but it's at least watchable and, more importantly enjoyable too.

Unlike a lot of high budget fayre we've been subjected to recently.

Azreal anyone?

The pace is bright and breezy, the main characters likeable, the black-hatted villain hissable and while some of the CGI appears to have been rendered on an Amiga this only adds to the movies retro charm.

That and it's abject silliness.

Plus you name another movie where a cartoon wolf mysteriously (and without reason) turns into a giant lightning bolt in order to blow up the bad guys helicopter whilst a former Star Trek regular looks on in terror.

Buy it now, or at least tune into the Legend Channel until it turns up.

I mean they only have about 6 movies at the moment so it wont be too long a wait.

  

sores on the doors.

It's Wednesday and we're halfway thru' the holidays so better pick a good movie today as the brood are getting restless and talking about going to London (again) for a holiday to get away from me.

Well this should suffice.

Death Line (AKA Raw Meat 1972).
Dir: Gary Sherman.
Starring: Donald Pleasence, David Ladd, Christopher Lee, James Cossins, Sharon Gurney, Hugh Armstrong and Clive Swift.

Beneath Modern London Lives a Tribe of Once Humans. Neither Men Nor Women...They Are the Raw Meat Of The Human Race...or UKiP as we now know them.

Dirty old Tory politician - is there any other kind? -  James Manfred (professional TeeVee posh bloke Cossins) is cruising London's seedy Soho in the hope of scoring some sordid sexiness with a 'lady' after a hard day cutting disability benefit and taxing the dead.

Hang on, that's Labour under Keir Starmer isn't it?

Or is that John Swinney and the SNP?

Not that it matters tho' as even the scummiest prostitutes have told him to fuck off.

My heart bleeds.

Realizing he's onto plums (his own) Manfred sulks off to Russell Square underground to await a train home only to decide to throw caution to the wind and try to use his charms one final time on a young woman standing on the platform.

Unluckily - for him - a reply consisting of a swift knee to the nuts puts paid to that idea and leaves him stumbling about like a drunk, chinless penguin as, to add insult to injury the woman proceeds to steals his wallet.

I love her already, pity she wont be back really.

You know how they say trouble always comes in threes? - as opposed to in your mooth obviously - well in this case it's true as now sooner is Manfred back on his feet whilst gently cupping his tiny cock and balls when he's violently attacked by a stinky tramp with a fishy beard.

A bad night all round then, except for the young woman of course she's quids in.

"Hello French Polishers? Yes this is the same caption as last week why do you ask?"

It's about now that we get to meet the folk who will be our heroes for the duration of the film in the form of the groovy young couple, Alex (Ladd - annoyingly big haired and American) and Trish (Gurney - annoyingly cute brunette and English) who find the Manfred man face down on the stairs covered in blood, egg and semen.

Alex, thinking the guy is pissed ignores him tho' caring Trish insists on telling the station manager but, on returning with a policeman, Manfred has gone.

Being a prominent MP, a missing persons case is opened led by the very grumpy, tea obsessed Inspector Calhoun (Pleasence) who, being one of those typical 70s horror movie cops in the mold of the booze soaked bigot Inspector Barry B'stard in The Living Dead at The Manchester Morgue decides to blame the whole thing on Alex due to him having long hair.

Undeterred Alex and Trish now obsessed with the disappearance - well there's fuck all else for them to do - decide to start some investigating of their own, soon discovering that in 1892 the roof of a newly constructed underground tunnel collapsed trapping the (mixed sex) workers underground.

The local council, being tight bureaucratic types and in order to save cash left them all there to rot.

Where's Dominic Littlewood when you need him?

Inside Boris Johnson's mind.

In a scary twist of fate tho', a few survived and have been living in the tunnels ever since, feeding on the flesh of unfortunate travelers inbetween rutting away like pigs in the dark.

Exactly like that family that used to live at the bottom of your street when you were younger.

Unfortunately (tho' I bet the make-up team breathed a sigh of relief) years of inbreeding and a diet of tourists means that there are now only two left,  the aforementioned stinky bearded tramp man and his even stinkier (and also possibly bearded) pregnant missis.

She may look happy now but just wait till the tramp buggery starts.

Alas things aren't really going well for this 70's version of Eva Mendes and Ryan Gosling as mishap after disaster seems to befall them at every turn culminating in the poor lady-tramp dying during childbirth.

It's a wee bit like Brexit but slightly eggier.

Distraught yet still feeling - and smelling - fruity our shambly shmuck decides it's time to search for another woman to share his underground love nest.

Can you guess who he's set his sights on?

Clue: it's not Donald Pleasence.

 

 

A veritable classic of the cannibal genre, Gary Sherman's stunning debut feature is an undisputed influence on such movies as An American Werewolf in London, (the virtual remake) Creep and quite possibly every other underground-based bloodbath since.

From the (genuinely) spooky premise to the perfect moments of comedy (mostly from Donald Pleasence) this skewed American take on London life never hits a wrong note, it's at once wonderfully weird yet comfortably traditional with pitch perfect performances topped off with a proto-Soft Cell sleazy synth score from Wil Malone* that was just made for groping your gran to.

Trust me I know.

Put it in me!

And the sparkling diamond in this rough n' ready yet strangely magical mix?

That'll be Hugh Armstrong as the 'cannibal man', he takes what could be a one dimensional bogeyman and turns him into a believable and tragic victim of circumstance - his cry of "Mind the doors!" is his only way to communicate, whether it be at the tear jerking death of his mate or his fumbling attempts at seduction with Trish, the moaning broken voice is both tragic and terrifying.

And maybe, just maybe a wee bit sexy if you're in the right frame of mind.

Rats in mah mooth!

Sherman's direction is second to none - lingering and atmospheric he's not afraid to slowly build tension and confident enough to litter the movie with some fantastically macabre comic touches that he builds on in his later movies like the darkly disturbing Dead And Buried.

One of the greatest (yet most overlooked) gems of British horror.

Lovely.





































*Not Gareth fortunately.