buio vista sociopath club.

Have absolutely no idea why but all this talk about Prince Andrew being a nonce has reminded me of this movie.

I even had a dream about it last night but with Randy Andy replacing Kieren Canter and Sarah Ferguson essaying the role of Jan.

Which I think probably say more about me than anything else.



Buio Omega: Beyond the Darkness (AKA Blue Holocaust , The Final Darkness. 1979).
Dir: Joe D'Amato.
Cast: Kieren Canter, Cinzia Monreale, Franca Stoppi, Anna Cardini, Lucia D'Elia and Sam Modesto.

"All right little boy, no one will touch your baby doll".

Welcome one and all to the sad, mad and thoroughly bad world of the slightly intense and incredibly lonely freak boy Frank Willer (Eroticoblues flaxen haired Canter) who  since the recent and not to mention mysterious death of his beautiful partner Anna (the lovely Monreale from The Beyond who bizarrely enough owns a piece of my artwork - small world) spends most of his days skulking around his huge villa with only his frightening taste in late seventies fashions, a pair of patent leather Kickers and his Mrs. Doyle-like, potato headed and onion odoured housekeeper Iris (stern faced Stoppi, star of Emanuelle fuga dall'inferno, The Other Hell and the underrated Bestiality among other things to gruesome too mention here) for company.

Being too rich (and too wet) to work Frank spends most of his - non whining - time either attempting to perfect his hobby (which is taxidermy, this may become important later) or suckling on Iris's left breast as she strokes his hair and calls him "Her little Frank".

Just like your mum does when you go to visit.

Stoppi: A mooth made for shite-in in.

If you think that's a wee bit strange - or even a little arousing - I wont judge - just wait till Anna's funeral, when just before the ceremony Frankie boy sneaks into the funeral home and quietly injects her corpse with an embalming liquid, either because he's having the service on the cheap or that he has other plans for his dead missis.

Which do you think?

Unbeknown to Frank, Mr. Kale (flash in the pan/cum in my pants Modesto) the friendly neighbourhood funeral director sees the whole thing.

Gah.

Obviously not wanting to spoil the funeral he keeps quiet and heads off home for a drink or three which allows Frank to sneak (he does a lot off that during the film) back that very night and exhume Anna's still fresh, yet slightly stiff body, bundle it into the back of his Ford Transit and head home.

But you know what they say about best laid plans and all that, 'cos the journey is a disaster of Last of The Summer Wine comedic proportions with Frank first having to endure a flat tire followed by a run in with the police before finally coming across an obscenely permed and squint eyed 'cock-er-nee' (the dubbing director must have been either very drunk or very bored) food obsessed hitchhiker named Jan (D'Elia) who won't take no for answer.

Or by the state of her that bag of chips away from her mouth.

Falling asleep in the van after one too many pasties, Jan is oblivious when Frank  drags Anna's corpse into the basement and then slicing her open from boob to bush to remove her vitals before finally sucking her brain thru' a tube up her nose.

Which is fairly lucky really because no doubt that greedy bitch Jan would've probably tried to scoff it all.

His luck can't last tho' and just as he's popping Anna's glass eyes into her exquisite skull Jan stumbles into the basement - obviously drawn by the smell of fresh offal - to find Frank covered in blood, sweat, shit and shame whilst bending over the corpse.

Jan screams but as she turns to run the friction of her thighs rubbing together causes a bucket of intestines to fall on her, giving Frank enough time to beat her to death with a rolled up copy of Stuffed Bird Monthly.

Which is better than she deserved if I'm honest.

Which I am.

Always.

Eamon Holmes and Kate Garraway's Strictly Come Dancing routine failed to impress a stern-faced D'Arcy Bussell yesterday. Or was that today?

Iris, no doubt at a loose end after polishing off the china (and Frank) is soon on the scene to help tidy up the mess before helping Frank to carry Anne to the bedroom, dressing her in a lovely nylon nightie and painting her finger and toe nails a luscious deep red colour.

Which actually improves her look no end, complementing as it does her massive blotchy chin.

As a new day dawns Frank sets about his daily routine as if nothing untoward had happened.

Which is probably a good thing seeing as her has an urgent appointment with  Mr. Kale who wants his baboon stuffing.

But Kale has other things on his mind.

And it's not discovering the secret of how baboons manage to keep their arses so red and peachy.

You see it seems that word has gotten out that someone stole Anna's corpse and Kale suspects Frank of the crime and in a sneaky plan that Columbo would be proud of arranges for a mutual friend to discuss the project whilst he sneaks into Frank's basement.

Alas Kale doesn't come across any corpses - he's probably still spent from doing that at work on slow days -  but does find a necklace belonging to Anna.
Spookily it was the one she was buried in.

Tho' Kale ignores this fact and goes home.

No doubt to search T'internet for ape porn.

He must have really loved that baboon.

Boiled onions!

We've no time for monkey sex tho' (which is unusual for D'Amato) because Frank still has a body to get rid of.

Waiting till nightfall (and till his loyal housekeeper has done the dishes) he gets Iris to pop Jan's body in the bathtub - don't worry, it's a bloody big bath - and cover it in acid before pulping the remaining lumpy bits with a hammer.

The sight of Iris taking such pleasure from her work (well it's either that or the smell from her breath) is enough to make Frank vomit but luckily Iris is more than willing to 'take him in hand' and make it all better.

Which in case you found that too subtle means she gives him a handjob whilst pulling a face like your nan when she wins at bingo.

Cardini: your dad did. Twice.

The next day Frank understandably decides to go driving to help clear his head.

And hopefully get rid of the memory - and smell - of Iris' beefy fingers.

It's not long tho' (it is a fairly short movie) before his mind is completely cleared of all things murder and old lady sex related thanks to the sight of an ample arsed, poodle haired jogger sitting at the side of the road suggestively rubbing her swollen ankle and Frank, being the gentlemanly type immediately offers to take her up the villa for a thorough bandaging.

The woman (Cardini coming across like a slightly saucier version of top 70's teevee star Susan Stranks and one of the few actresses to get a 4 out of 5 'nice feet' rating on Wikifeet) obviously attracted to Bri-Nylon leisure wear, accepts his offer.

No sooner have they arrived at Frank's pad than the pair of them are kissing, cuddling and engaging in general fondling on the sofa and Frank, happy to be finally pulling someone fairly attractive (as opposed to dead old or just dead) drags his new lady friend off to the bedroom for a quick shag.

You remember the bedroom don't you?

You know the one where he keeps his dead wife.

Everything is going swimmingly till Frank decides, just at the moment of entry, pulls down the bedsheets revealing Anna's corpse.

The juicy jogger turns her head and upon seeing this completely different kind of stiffie leering over her begins to scream.

Frank has no choice but to kill her.

And stupidly before he's even climaxed.

Luckily Iris is on hand to (eventually) clean up both messes.

"Sssssh! You'll wake me mam!" - That's you losing your virginity that is.

Obviously jealous at the thought of Frank shagging someone his own age (and someone who's breathing) Iris decides that the best course of action would be to get rid of Anna's body and persuade Frank to marry her, promising him a lifetime of vinegary hand-jobs and leek soup.

Frank not too surprisingly isn't too keen on getting rid of Anna but scarily agrees to marry Iris (the sick fuck) and even offers to make her the mistress of the estate.

If it were me I'd rather carry on shagging the corpse.

Any corpse.

Even your nan's.

Again.

Desperate to keep her hands (and black toothed mouth) on Franks manhood she begrudgingly agrees, promising to look after both Frank and his 'baby doll'.

I've already done a 'mooth shite' caption.....damn.

After excitedly buying a new dress and washing her bun Iris invites her family over to dinner in order to celebrate her engagement to Frank but things get off to a sticky start when the groom to be storms off in a huff, locking himself in his bedroom with Anna, professing his undying love for her whilst gently stroking her golden hair.

Which is kinda sweet if I'm honest.

Annoyed at her fiancés no show, Iris storms upstairs in an attempt to finally persuade Frank to get rid of Anna causing our hero to finally see the error of his ways.

By that I mean agreeing to shag a pensioner, not sharing a bed with a corpse obviously.

As the argument becomes more heated Frank realises that punching Iris in the face whilst calling her a dirty old whore isn't really going to help matters and the pair decide to call it a day.

Well Frank decides to call it a day, Iris on the other hand has gone totally fruitloops and she's decided to call it a strawberry.

Whilst all this shouty stuff's been going on, Mr. Kale (remember him?) has been keeping his beedy eye (as opposed to the weeping squint one) on Frank and all the creepy goings on at the villa.

Between perving over primates obviously.

But just when Frank (and the audience) don't think the situation can get any worse (or convoluted), who should turn up but Anna's never before mentioned twin sister Elena (Monreale again) in order to pay her respects to Frank.

She was obviously too busy getting her nails done to attend the funeral.

In reality she's only turned up to give the director an excuse to send everyone off the deep end and into the murky waters of mentalism in preparation for a blood soaked climax.

So will Frank come to his senses and end up marrying Elena?

Will Iris ever wash?

And more importantly will Kale ever get his hands on that stuffed baboon?

Answers to the usual email address.

The late 70’s to mid 80’s was a prolific time for the European horror genre and is seen by many as the career high point for such directors as Lucio Fulci, Dario Argento, Luigi Cozzi and Umberto Lenzi, their work constantly pushing back the boundaries of cinema with increasingly bizarre plots and simply lashings of gore in such masterpieces as Zombie Flesh Eaters, Tenebrae, Contamination*, The Beyond and Cannibal Ferox.

But the genres most underrated (and under appreciated) director must be the late great Aristide Massaccesi  (AKA Joe D'Amato, the man I share my birthday with).

Best known as a soft core porn director, he also contributed to the Euro-horror genre with such ‘classics’ as Anthropophagus: The Beast (starring Mia’s one eyed, ex cab driver sister Tisa Farrow) before wowing audiences worldwide with his fantastic forays into goreporn Erotic Nights of The Living Dead, Emmanuelle and The Last Cannibals (both starring dusky eyed beauty Laura Gemser) and  the subtly titled Porno Holocaust.

But perhaps his most accessible (and definitely least sordid) work is the wonderful Buio Omega: Beyond The Darkness.

 

Prince Andrew - Prince Albert not shown.

With it's genius examples of Eurocentric 'panto acting, surrealist dubbing coupled with scenes of uncompromising violence and cheap gore the film stands up as D'Amato's most accomplished movie.

For one thing it has a vague semblance of a plot (usually his movies go: opening titles, shagging, murder, shagging, talky bit, shagging, misplaced 70's synth score, murder, end credits), a particularly strong lead performance from Kieren Canter (the only one he ever gave if I'm honest), a fantastically evocative score from Goblin, adequate - tho' barely - special effects and some even genuinely creepy moments.

Tho' it must be said that the best of these are when Iris attempts sexiness.

Gah indeed.

Insert amusing caption here, unlike the 8th in line to the throne who'd probably just insert his engorged member. Violently.

 

But just imagine tho' how much greater still it could've been in the hands of a more capable director (the bloke who directed Lords of Salem perhaps or Eli Roth?)**.

I'm sure there's a really bizarre alternate film universe where this is seen as a definitive Eurohorror classic, a kind of Italian Psycho or Peeping Tom. 

As it stands we have a sometimes tense, slightly vile but entertaining movie with a heart as black as Iris' tightly curled pubes. 

And for once D'Amato resisted using actors with porn mustaches, frightful chest wigs and a bad case of genital warts, for which we can all be thankful.































*OK maybe not Contamination. 


**For my American readers this is what we call irony.

acting the goat.

31 days of horror and we've not had an exorcism movie yet.

Well we may have but I've not really been paying attention.

And by the distinct lack of hits on this blog neither has anyone else.

Thanks for nothing.

L’Anticristo (AKA The Tempter, The Antichrist, Besatt. 1974-ish).
Dir: Alberto De Martino.
Cast: Carla Gravina, Mel Ferrer, Arthur Kennedy, George Coulouris, Anita Strindberg, Alida Valli, Mario Scaccia and Umberto Orsini.

"I've been waiting 400 years but I piss on that time!"

You have to feel sorry for poor Ippolita Oderisi (actress cum politician and star of the fantastic A Bullet for the General Gravina), not only does her name appear to have been pulled randomly from a Scrabble box but years ago due to her dad Massimo's (Ferrer - no introduction necessary) rather reckless driving her mother was killed and she's now confined to a wheelchair.

Tragic I know and her sad story gets even worse when you realize that on top of this she's cursed with wiry, pube like ginger hair.

Poor girl.

Joining the story ten years on from the aforementioned accident we discover that just about every doctor in Italy (including Giovanni Frezza and Dr. Butcher MD no doubt) have given her the once over and not a single one of them can find anything wrong with her spine (her haircut is another story however) yet she can barely lift herself out of her wheelchair and has to stand with the aid of a cane.

Did I say poor girl?

Sorry I obviously meant lazy cow.

Massimo, fed up with being made to feel guilty over his daughters indolence (oh and killing her mum whilst pissed) decides to take her to a wee church deep in the countryside where a frighteningly butch (and bright blue for someone unknown reason) statue of the Virgin Mary is reputed to have miraculous healing powers.

Sounds legit.

Surrounded by a throng of scarily praying pikeys and filled with the love of God Ippolita attempts to stand only to almost immediately fall flat on her (harsh) face.

Wonder! Wonder! Wonder Wheels!

Her dad is understandably mortified (as a plus point at least the locals are grateful for such a good laugh first thing in the morning) but Ippolita seems almost nonchalant about the whole thing, almost as tho' she expected God to ignore her.

But why would she think such a thing? I hear you cry.

Well there in hangs a tale.

You see it appears that she's recently been having fairly blasphemous - and incredibly saucy - thoughts.

Mostly about a really pervy painting of Jesus, resplendent with a huge 14 inch cock and balls leatherier than Sean Connery's manbag.

And how do we know this?

Well apart from me being the one that painted the Jesus picture Ippolita has confessed as much to her uncle Brian who, it turns out,  just happens to be the local bishop (another top turn from everyone's favourite drunken Oirish man Kennedy).

Beware Beadle's wanking hand!

And if that wasn't enough, she's also taken to having nasty violent thoughts about her dad's new squeeze Greta (big boned Strindberg from Fulci's classic Lizard in a Woman’s Skin).

Turns out that Ippolita is insane with jealousy at the mere thought of her father showing affection toward anyone but her.

It's like The Jeremy Kyle show but with better teeth.

Or Christmas Day with my family as I call it.

Fuck the satanic possession....check the nightie.

It's not long (thankfully - there's only so much angry cripple tripping I can take in one film) before nearly all of Ippolitia’s family (and even the maid) are mightily pissed off with her frankly childish behavior and come to the conclusion that she needs locking up.

Luckily her uncle knows a good psychiatrist, the smooth handed Dr. Marcello Sinibaldi (Orsini the camp as pants 'star' of Diary of a Cloistered Nun) whom he invites to a big bash at the family villa, the idea being that he can check out lil' miss mentalism without her being any the wiser.

As well as drink as much free booze as he can handle.

Sneaky.

Unluckily for them - but a huge surprise for us it must be said - Ippolita has psychic powers enabling her to see right through the pairs plan.

But not alas their clothes.

In a change to her normal angry reaction to every little thing she doesn't throw a stroppy fit for once.

And why is this?

Well it seems that she's vaguely interested by Sinibaldi’s claim that her paralysis is really psychosomatic and that he can cure her of both it and her mentalism with a wee dose of hypnotic regression.

I'm convinced.

"Tongue in mah mooth".
(But luckily not up a goats arsehole).

Ippolita, being well up for a wee bit of hypnotic regression (but aren't we all?) excitedly turns up - well, wheels up if I'm honest -  to the dishy docs office the very next day and is quickly put under his spell.

Let's be honest here he is quite dreamy.

Anyway after the obvious pretend you're a sheep and eat this onion it's really an apple gags something interesting happens.

For the first time so far in this movie I hasten to add.

You see, it turns out that one of Ippolita's ancestors was burned at the stake for witchcraft some 500 years ago.

Well I say witchcraft but according to the foggy flashback it was actually for  eating a toad and - I kid you not - rimming a goat.

No really.

We get to see it played out on screen.

And in glorious technicolour no less.

Unluckily the uncovering of this deep, dark family memory inadvertently triggers a case of demonic possession.

Ain't that always the way?

That's your dad that is.

Starting with the obvious (you know talking in a deep, sexy voice in various languages - or is that just the abysmal dubbing?) she soon moves onto more impressive stuff like psychokinesis - well, she moves some plant pots and a chest of drawers - and, most amazing of all, walking!

And how does she use her new found mobility?

Well as anyone in this situation would, she uses it to sneak out of her villa to seduce (then snap the necks of) young Germans.

Sinibaldi tries his best to think up a reasonable scientific explanation for everything that's going on but is frankly stumped whilst Irene (the aforementioned nanny/maid/hired help) secretly phones the local expert in the art of folk magic Big Tony (The Perfume of the Lady in Black's Scaccia - no me neither).

Pity then that everyone in the movie is a devout Catholic meaning that they just stand tutting and umming at the very mention of so called 'magic', reckoning that any such power can - and will - ultimately be linked to the devil himself.

The upshot of this is that all of Tony's flashy words and wizardy tricks are totally useless.

You do have to wonder why they really bothered with this plot thread.

Maybe Mario Scarria owed the director some cash?

Your mum in her best clothes on a night out.

Finally, the bishop (who's obviously taken so long to get to the phone because he can only move diagonally) rings professional demon fighter for hire Father Jeff Mittner (The Woman Eater's Coulouris).

A man whose credentials, it appears, seem to consist of being the only person in the film who's not only seen The Exorcist but also made extensive notes, seeing as the movies ever building climax is lifted almost wholesale from that film.

But if you're gonna steal you might as well be honest about it.

Can he sort out the pesky demon once and for all?

Cue a frighteningly long and wordy exorcism complete with a floating lady, vomit, seductive glances, green facepainted nipples and an utterly terrifying Tefal headed, Rod Stewart wigged Ippolita swearing.

 A lot.

"Sorry Father....I farted."

But being a cut-price Eurohorror The Exorcist isn't the only movie to be violently buggered for ideas here as - in a shocking turn of events - the film suddenly becomes a (very) cut rate Rosemary’s Baby, with the shocking reveal that the true purpose for Ippolita’s possession is for her to carry the baby Antichrist.

In her tummy that is, not in a Moses basket.

Will the might of Catholicism be enough to avert the birth of the devil himself?

Seriously, what do you think?

Alberto De Martino's fantastically crass retread of The Exorcist (to name but one 'influence') boldly goes where other cheap Euro' rip-offs fear to tread.

Whereas most cash-ins cut back on expensive effects, name actors and the like L’Anticristo positively revels in it's cut price glory, featuring as it does not one but two Hollywood has-beens and some brilliantly conceived (and not to mention insanely bonkers) stand out set-pieces.

Kennedy and Ferrer give us more ham than a butchers market and in an attempt to outdo Linda Blair floating above a bed, L’Anticristo has Gravina not only rising out of her wheelchair, but gracefully gliding out of an open window before entertaining us with an airborne dance number.

Well, it's not just John Wayne who's big leggy.

But the movies greatest scene must be when Ippolita's possessed right hand floats across the room and starts to strangle the white wizard man.

Unfortunately the film is scuppred by DiMartino’s desperate direction — you can almost feel his ultimately futile attempts to make an honest to goodness scary movie collapse around him.

Luckily he had the amazing Aristide Massaccesi working as his Director of Photography to help save the day.

And who the hell is Aristide Massaccesi?

Well, as regular readers will already know he's none other than the cinematic god also known as Joe D’Amato.

So it's probably him we have to thank for the classic devil worshiping scene, featuring as it does kinky naked orgies, the eating of a toad and the aforementioned goat/tongue/arse interface.

And for this we salute him!

And the ass saw the angle was
slightly wrong for a good photograph.

Oh, and De Martino, you did not bad yerself big fella.

Top-notch thrills for lovers of devil movies, harsh ginger birds and goat sex everywhere.

Which is probably just me thinking about it.

An essential Halloween treat (if not a wholly legal one).

bern baby bern.

You know who doesn't get enough cult movie love but should?

The really rather wonderful Monika Zanchi.

I first encountered her when, as a shy retiring 12 year old, I accidentally came across a copy of Joe D'Amato's Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals whilst looking for a Marathon bar in the back of a cupboard, obviously I had to see what it was about because the title didn't give it away obviously and, after what seemed like days of D'Amato's trademark ugly people having sex mixed with hard core gore shtick and just as I was starting to feel a wee bit ill she appeared - all strawberry blonde locks, freckles and wide eyed innocence and looking for all the world like a cutesy librarian dropped naked into a cesspool of cannibal kinkiness.

And from that moment I was smitten in a way only a 12 year old could be.

Damn you D'Amato springing Zanchi onto me as an innocent, horror loving teen.

I mean between her and Nastassja Kinski in Cat People is it any wonder it took me nearly so long to find a girlfriend who lived up to such perfection?*

 

 

*As an aside I should point out that apart from being absolutely beautiful and a damn fine actress to boot Zanchi also performs the second best masturbation scene ever committed to celluloid in this very movie.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**The best being Harvey Keitel's car window Nat West in The Bad Lieutenant obviously.

celebrity love island.

With it being the home stretch of this whole 31 days of horror fiasco I've decided that it's time to revisit this quality Joe D'Amato 'classic' as a way of 'celebrating'.

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.

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 sister.

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 disco 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.

eating out.

OK last cannibal caper for now.

I promise.

Emanuelle E Gli Ultimi Cannibali (AKA Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals, Emanuelle's Amazon Adventure, Trap Them and Kill Them, Emanuelle Chez Les Cannibales 1977)
Dir: Joe D'Amato (who else?)
Cast: Laura Gemser, Donald O’Brien, Monica Zanchi, Susan Scott, Gabriele Tinti, Geoffrey Copleston, Annamaria Clementi, Nieves Navarro, Percy Hogan, some cannibals.

Saucy sex minx Emanuelle (D'Amato regular Laura Gemser) has momentarily given up whoring for a living and is currently residing in New York, making her cash as an ace newspaper reporter famed for getting to the heart of gritty 'human interest' stories.

And her current assignment?

To expose an evil lesbian nurse.

But frankly is there any other kind?

Posing as a mentalist she enters (phnar) the hospital with plans to get her story by any means necessary, which in Emanuelle's case involves sneaking into patients rooms in the dead of night and masturbating the information out various incarcerated loons.

Whilst all the time carrying a doll with a camera hidden in its eyes.

I'll have to check with a journalist friend, but I'm pretty sure that isn't common practice but if it is the Piers Morgan/Donald Trump interview just got even more sinister.

The best performance in the whole movie.

After a night of finger-based fun, Emanuelle is surprised to see the nasty nurse she's supposed to be pursuing stumbling drunkenly from a patients room covered in blood from a bite wound on her chest.

Obviously there's only one course of action open to our heroine if she wants to find out what's happened.

That's right, she enters the room and gets right back into fiddling.

Whilst goosing the information out of the mad cannibal woman Emanuelle notices a strange (re: shite) tattoo hastily scrawled on the loopy ladies tummy and - using her free hand - gets a picture of it before legging it out of the asylum and heading straight over to her editors office.

Her editor is amazed, explaining to her (and us) that this tattoo proves the existence of a supposedly extinct stone-age cannibal tribe in the Amazon.

Who'd of thought it?

Well who apart from the obviously drunk screenwriter obviously.

Intrigued by the thought of a gang of flesh eaters running an online shopping company Emanuelle decides to visit her old anthropologist buddie Dr. Mark (not the star of Oliver!) Lester (the exploitation genres very own George Clooney, Tinti), who tells her that the symbol belongs to one of the world’s last practising cannibal tribes, tho' you'd think that they'd be pretty good at it by now.

Thanking him for useful history lesson with a quick bout of the sex, Emanuelle persuades Lester to lead an expedition to the Amazon to find the tribe.

"More bass!"

In no time at all, Lester and Emanuelle arrive in South America, first stopping off to visit an old colleague of his, Professor Wilkes (Copleston from almost every movie ever made) to get supplies - oh and have sex - (but not with the old bloke obviously) before being joined on their quest by the old man's daughter Isabel (top teen tempting tottie Zanchi) and a random, tho' fairly sexy nun (Clementi). 

"Hello? Are you the blind man?"

Fueled (and fucked) up, our frisky foursome head off into the jungle (in reality D'amato's local garden centre) for an appointment with a mightily manbreasted missionary called Father Rick Morales, an expert on cannibals as well as God.

Which is nice.

Obviously with such a hazardous and long journey ahead of them, Emanuelle decides that it'd be best to stop every few miles for (even more) sex.

And with our luscious leading lady being a modern equal opportunities type, she makes sure that everyone gets to join in, flitting - and fondling - between the hunky Lester and the eager to learn Isabel. 

And it's during one of the movies many muff-fests that Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals' - or perhaps the whole of cinemas - greatest scene unfolds; the two ladies, whilst having a quick wash in a pond, begin fondling each other (in clinical close-up) whilst a chimpanzee sits watching them from the riverbank.

And all to a sexy jazz (mag) score.

If that  wasn't enough to cement D'Amato's place as a cinematic God tho' he pulls out all the stops by dressing the chimp in a pair of big sunglasses and forcing it to smoke a fag.

Genius on celluloid.

And before you write I, yes I am aware - as I'm sure dear Joe was, that Chimpanzees are African, not South American animals so there's probably a good reason for him being there.

Who knows there's bound to be a cut scene explaining that he was the planes co-pilot or something.

Possibly.

Just be grateful that Gemser doesn't try to have sex with it.

"Aye son!"

Bored with monkey - and master - baiting the pair soon come across (snigger) hardened adventurer Don MacKenzie (Dr. Butcher MD himself, Donald O’Brien) his Rula Lenska-like, big black cock obsessed wife Maggie (Navarro) and his 'handyman' (and owner of an aforementioned big black cock) Salvador Daley.

It appears that the trio are determined to find the wreckage of a plane that went down (oooeeerr) in the jungle with a fortune in diamonds on board.

Unfortunately they have bad news concerning Morales mission; the Father is missing presumed lunch and all of the nuns have been massacred by cannibals.

Obviously no-one takes this news well and they all end up having a lot of sex in order to boost morale.

Except MacKenzie who goes to sleep.

Emanuelle struggles with a huge
(non trouser) snake. For a change.

Shagging their way across the Amazon basin for what seems like eternity, it's a blessed relief when the group are finally attacked by 'cannibals' (played with conviction by a dozen or so out of work Brazilian bin men in Beatles wigs) who, just to show how savage they really are steal Lester’s boat, most of the party’s supplies (including the cheese and onion flavoured condoms and KY jelly) and kidnap the pretty (non shagging) Nun.

Being nappy wearing primitive types tho' they have absolutely no idea what to do with her so end up tying the poor cow to a tree before stripping her naked and eating her whole.

No they don't spit that bit out.

It'll come as no surprise to find that everyone is a wee bit upset - oooh for literally minutes afterwards - by this but quickly cheer up when Don's aeroplane (with its cargo of diamonds) is found.

Celebratory sex all round then?

"Now this is podracing!"

Wouldn't you know it tho' but just as the frantic fucking is about to get interesting those kooky cannibals pop out from behind a bush and snatch Maggie.

Which is possibly much more painful than it sounds.

Lester being the hunky hero type - and the only male member of the party who hasn't stuck it in her yet - hatches a plan to save her.

In any other movie this would be a great idea and possibly lead to an Indiana Jones style climactic chase.

With more bellends obviously.

But alas this film was co-written by Romano (Zombie Holocaust) Scandariato, so this daring rescue attempt consists of Lester and Co. sneaking into the cannibal village disguised as wolves or something, sneaking up behind the cannibal chief and shouting 'look up there! it's Fred Titmus!' before grabbing Maggie and running back into the jungle.

I'm afraid to say - but not at all surprised - that it doesn't work.

Sex machine Salvador is quickly killed whilst Donald and Isabel taken captive leaving Lester limping about with a petted lip whilst Emanuelle sits around with the look of a woman who can't remember if she left the gas on.

Our heroines problems are of little consequence to poor Don tho' who suffers the indignity of being tied to a tree before being cut in half and forced to watch as his legs, arse and cock are scoffed by the greedy tribesmen which leaves him for all the world looking like a bizarro hand puppet.

Or it would if the whole shoddy effect wasn't achieved by Sellotaping a photocopy of the actor to a couple of rose bushes and quickly tearing it in half.

Meanwhile Isabel, being the first ginger the tribe have ever seen, has an even more convoluted fate awaiting her because being drugged, stripped naked and gang banged by the entire tribe is exploitative enough so to top it off the terrifying tree dwellers are planning to sacrifice the poor girl to their river goddess.

The official Ronco Douglas Bader
Washing Line: available now!

Have no fear tho' for it's Emanuelle's turn plan a rescue attempt and this one's a corker.

She quickly removes all her clothes before getting Lester to daub the tribe’s emblem on her belly (luckily she has a face painting kit with her).

Luckily Lester's a dab hand with a brush and before too long Emanuelle is made up to look the  spitting image of the aforementioned river goddess.

Now tell me in all seriousness that you saw that coming.

Pants.

Will Emanuelle be able to rescue Isabel in time?

Will they escape the tribes wrath?

And more importantly will they be able to fit any more shagging into the last 10 minutes of the movie?

G on, guess.

"Look at me Emanuelle...I'm from Dudley!"

All hail the late, great Joe D'Amato as he spews forth another of his trademark ugly people having sex mixed with hard core gore 'epics' and again falls down the scary thematic thigh gap between the two genres.
 

It's not all bad tho', lovely Laura Gemser is always watchable and at least she can act, plus the amazing Monica Zanchi is far more attractive than the majority of D'Amato's female cast; all strawberry blonde locks, freckles and wide eyed innocence, looking for all the world like a cutesy librarian dropped naked into a cesspool of cannibal kinkiness.

Which is quite frankly the best description of a perfect woman as you'll ever find.

Damn you D'Amato springing Zanchi onto me as an innocent, horror loving teen.

I mean between her and Nastassja Kinski in Cat People is it any wonder it took me nearly so long to find a girlfriend who lived up to such perfection?

As an aside I should point out that apart from being absolutely beautiful and a damn fine actress to boot Zanchi also performs the second best masturbation scene ever committed to celluloid in this very movie.

The best being Harvey Keitel's car window Nat West in The Bad Lieutenant obviously.

To be honest if you're in any way a serious film fan then Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals is worth viewing just for that scene alone because let's be honest, you're not watching it for the plot and realistic effects are you?

Well I am but that's to be expected.

Zanchi: I love her.

 And whilst it never manages to scale the dizzyingly daft heights of Erotic Nights of The Living Dead at least the sex scenes aren't as arse clenching as those featured in Emanuelle in America (no horses for one thing), the film does at least have a slightly more attractive, less warty cocked (stand up and be counted Percy Hogan) cast than is usual for a D'Amato movie and thankfully none of the animal cruelty that blights most cannibal flicks.

Because we all know that monkeys love to smoke.

And if nothing else at least you had to admire D'Amato for his perseverance.