what the world needs now....

 Is more Jane Asher.

Especially on her 80th birthday.

Fact.

mum's the word.

 

It's day 27 of 31 days of horror and I've suddenly realized that I've not covered any babysitters in peril yet.

Actually I've not covered any babysitters in anything for years.

Tho' I've always said I'd make an exception for Nancy Loomis in Halloween.

Or just Nancy Loomis in general if I'm honest.

 

Loomis....no reason other than she's absolutely lovely.

Babysitter Wanted (2008).

Dir: Jonas Barnes and Michael Manasseri.
Cast: Sarah Thompson, Matt Dallas, Bill Moseley, Bruce Thomas, Nana Visitor, Monty Bane and Kai Caster.

Hungry bum!

 

The sensibly shoed and incredibly cute Christian college newbie Angie Albright (Thompson from teevee's Angel) is leaving home - and her God bothering mum - for the first time ever in order to study art history at the community college in the next town.

Excitedly setting off on her long car journey to freedom she's soon hit by a wave of disappointment when upon arriving at her new digs she discovers that her roommate is a short-skirted stoner, the floor is covered in a scary mix of egg, sweat and semen stains and that someone has sold her bed.

Oh and less importantly local girls have been going missing.

But at least she still has the Lord.

And a really peachy bum if I'm totally honest so it's not all bad.

She might be sleeping now but just wait till the communion starts.

After a long hard chat to Jesus, our holy heroine decides to get a job to pay for a new bed and lo and behold there just happens to be a babysitting position advertised on the college notice board.

What are the chances eh?

Unfortunately tho' Angie can't get to excited seeing as it appears that she's being stalked around campus by a tall woolly hatted man in scruffy work boots with an uncanny (and frankly unnerving) ability to make art history slide show pictures appear on his face at random.

Which if nothing else should secure him a spot on the Britain's Got Talent finals.

Or at the very least in your mums bed.

Tho' just being male with a pulse should do that.

At least that's what your Uncle Ted said.

Laugh now!

Luckily she's got a new friend to chat to about it, the cool Catholic hunk Rick (Kyle XY star and former 80's super soap Dallas) whom she keeps bumping into around campus.

When he's not skulking around confessional boxes that is.

After a quick phone call and a couple of Hail Mary's Angie drives out to meet the couple in need of a sitter; the farm-working and plaid loving Stanton's (Birds of Prey's Batman himself Thomas and Dead Zone regular, one-time Ms. USA and former Bond Dalton) along with their girlie haired cowboy obsessed son, the monosyllabic Sam (pretty lipped Caster best known for Children of the Corn: Genesis, tho' that isn't really his fault).

Chatting to Mrs Stanton whilst enjoying a glass of homemade lemonade, Angie weighs up the pros and cons of the job (Pros: it pays well, cons: Sam's a freak and the house is in the middle of nowhere) before deciding to take it.

I mean what's the worse thing that could happen?

"You're my favourite Deputy....of love!"

On returning to her room Angie's mood is dampened a little when she finds someone has helpfully stuck pictures of the missing local girls to her dorm door leaving her no choice but to whine at Rick (who just happened to be passing) for a bit before heading to see the local sheriff (genre god Moseley in a scene stealing cameo) who assures her that everything is fine.

But if by some strange quirk of fate a mad mentalist does try to kill her he suggests that she should call him.

Which is nice.

The Lucy Powell bike stand was sure to be a big hit this coming Christmas.

The babysitting day soon comes around and wouldn't you know it Angie's car has broken down but never fear as Jack of all trades Rick is here to save the day, not only offering to spend his Saturday night fiddling with her tubes and pumping her engine but also promising to take her over to the Stanton's house too.

Obviously this does mean that if there is someone stalking our gospel lovin' gal and he does strike tonight that she's stuck in the middle of nowhere alone.

Well alone apart from sinister Sam who just happens to be the freakiest movie child this side of Tommy in Manhattan Baby.

I mean not content with wandering silently round the house like some mini Woody sex doll the little sod insists on eating only raw meat.

Without a fork.

How common.

"Hey kids! Let's round up a posse and have ourselves a spit roast!"

Everything is going smoothly (well for about 10 minutes, the movie's not that long, it only feels it) until Angie begins to hear noises from upstairs and banging at the front door.

Luckily the suspense is soon broken by Sam who wakes up mumbling "I'm hungry" before helping himself to some of the aforementioned meaty bits left in a bowl by the door before promptly running away leaving an oh so slightly panicking Angie torn between trying to find him, cleaning up the blood from the kitchen floor and avoiding the big bald fucker with the knife who's suddenly appeared from nowhere and is currently skulking about the porch.

Kids eh?

So who is the mysterious stalker?

Will Rick fix Angie's car?

And what has Sam been asked to "keep under his hat?"

From the former personal assistant to Neal H. Moritz on such hits as Fast & The Furious, SWAT and 2 Fast 2 Furious via a breakthru performance as the scary Irish Henchman in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, writer/director Jonas Barnes and fresh-faced actor turned director Michael Manasseri comes this charming if lightweight addition to the babysitter botherer genre.

And frankly it's not too shady at all.

Suffering somewhat from being released around the same time as Ti West's modern day classic The House of The Devil, Babysitter Wanted, after a fairly serious pre-credit murder plays out the rest of the plot with a slightly more tongue in cheek feel, more Tales of The Unexpected than Hammer House of Horror with it's heady mix of horror clichés and instantly recognizable ciphers, all lovingly crafted into an obvious homage to a genre the pair obviously love.

Either that or I'm getting to a point where I've watched so much shite this month that as soon as something non offensive and halfway decent comes along I'm that relieved that I try to marry it.

Only time, and my analyst truly knows the answer to that.

How I met your mother.

Yes I know bits of it made no sense and it's about 20 minutes too long but it's heart was in the right place.

Plus it boasts a really good cast, led by the yummily librarian-like Sarah Thompson; all big eyes and tight sweaters whilst both Bruce Thomas and Kristen Dalton are equally as lovable as the friendly farm folk in need of a sitter for scary Sam.

Thompson: luscious librarian love.

Which brings me to Kai Caster, who with the face of an angel, the lips of a Parisian whore and the haircut of '80's horror legend Giovanni Frezza was always destined to go far.

Tho' he'd have probably gone even further than Children Of The Corn: Genesis, The Baxters and A Girl Named Jo if his folks had kept their food bins at the bottom of the yard locked.

It's inoffensive, it's harmless and it features Bill Moseley in a rare 'nice guy' role and a bowl haired wee boy chewing lumps of flesh like his life depended on it.

You could do worse.

love bites.

Still attempting a Nosferatu/vampire themed series of posts in the hope of gaining (any) new readers and seeing as the kids enjoyed the Paul Naschy classic Count Dracula's Great Love yesterday I've been desperately searching for any other vampire movies I own that may be kid friendly.

This one with hindsight, wasn't.

Gayracula (1983).
Dir: Roger Earl (Which I must admit sounds a wee bit like Robert Eggers).
Cast: Tim Kramer, Steve Collins, Rand Remington, Randal Butler, Michael Christopher, Ray Medina, Max Montoya, Doug Weston, Douglas Poston and Davin McNeil.

"You have done me a great service....

now I shall service you!"

Our dark tale of undead bloodlust begins with a group of robed and mysteriously seventies haired monks carrying a coffin thru' the California desert to a fairly inoffensive sub-Jerry Goldsmith Omen-esque score.

So far so so.

Entering a dark, dank cave our hooded pals force open the coffin to reveal a jug-eared young man in his granddad's tuxedo lying within.

As the lead monk Brian attempts to stake him thru' the heart our be-suited chum suddenly opens his eyes and sits upright before metamorphosing into a bat whilst filling the cave with what looks like (Robert) eggy bad-dad gas.

As the monks shriek and scream in terror the bat - via a handy fishing wire and a big stick - flies to the cave entrance before reverting back to it's human form.

Naked apart from a cape, patent leather brogues and socks the monks can only cower in fear at the evil that is Gayracula.

Ladies and gentlemen....
live on stage....5ive!

Jump forward (backwards? sideways?) to the year is 1783  - well according to the dodgy Letraset font superimposed over a kids drawing of a Halloween castle it is - where the fantastically monikered Gaylord Young (The late Tim Kramer of California Jackoff fame), a courier for the legal firm of Crotchley, Bloomfield and Smythe (like it matters) has been dispatched to Transylvania to deliver a family heirloom to the mysteriously mustachioed Mark Shannon alike (and even more fantastically monikered) Marquis de Suede (Collins last seen in Falconhead Part II: The Maneaters).

Being so grateful for the personal touch of delivering the said artifact to his imposing castle by hand, de Suede offers Young a hot meal and a bed for the night.

Oh yes, and also insists on sucking the young man's huge throbbing member as if it were an oversized Chupa Chup before firing his own undead vampiric muck all over Young's lily-white arse and at the point of climax biting him on the neck.

All in gloriously over-lit clinical colour.

Which reminds me, how is your dad?

The year they invented Crayola obviously.

Waking the next morning to a head full of red and an arse like a sugared doughnut, poor Gaylord stumbles over to the mirror to examine his neck only to see not his own reflection but the face of de Suede laughing maniacally at him before the mirror explodes in a shower of sharp pointy shards.

The curse of the vampire has been passed to a new victim.

Gaylord Young, legal eagle is no more.

He has become the king of the undead.

Something less than human but with a cock the size of a newborn baby.

A very muscly new born baby.

With shot putters arms.

Which is a plus point if you think about it.

Your Dads works night out.

Suddenly (and without so much as a warning or even a crudely crayoned flashframe) we're transported to 'modern day' Los Angeles, where Boris the manservant (allegedly some bloke named Rand Remington but frankly I'm convinced is Tom Savini) and Geoff the delivery boy (Christopher last seen in the 1991 erotic thriller Fade In, an undiscovered classic that featured gay half-men, half-spiders who devour their sexual partners after trapping them in webs of sticky cum...seriously) are busy decorating a huge mansion ready for the new owner to move in.

Worn out after carrying a big wooden coffin into the lounge Geoff has to rest for a while but luckily Boris appears to be a trained sports therapist and offers to massage his stiff shoulders.

With his penis.

Obviously.

Geoff, grateful for the help notices that Boris looks uncomfortable sitting on a rough wooden box so, assuming his bottom must be getting a wee bit sore offers to massage that in return.

Boris agrees and the two men indulge themselves in a bout of manly massage.

It was at this point I realised that this may not be, in fact, a 'proper' vampire film.

"Tonight Matthew I'm going to be...
Gary Barlow!"

All this excitement, groaning and testosterone (not to mention the copious amounts of semen dripping into his coffin) is enough to wake Gaylord from his slumber.

Having been asleep for 200 hundred years tho' he's rather peckish and makes short work of poor Geoff's bum draining every speck of blood from his body.

And now Gaylord, rested and fed can begin to explore his new home.

Your dad, working late at the office last night.

And it's whilst taking in the LA sights (as well as taking a few other things in obviously) that Gaylord discovers that the Marquis de Suede is still alive - posing as an agent and running an all male dance troupe in a theatre just off Hollywood Boulevard.

And you guessed it our vampiric chum and the Marquis have some unfinished business to attend to.

Revenge for turning Gaylord into a vampire?

A battle to the death to decide who is the king of the undead?

Or is it that Gaylord just can't get enough of the Marquis' ungodly shaft?

Go on, guess.

"Flames in mah mooth!"

Arriving at rehearsals and given a front row seat - alongside a key to the mysterious 'backroom' - by the Marquis, Gaylord's sex plans are thrown into disarray when he comes across (not literally, well not yet) the young, virginal Gavin (McNeil star of Malibu Days Big Bear Nights), a waiter at the theatre and falls instantly and hopelessly in love with him.

Using his powers of persuasion to entice Gavin to his home the pair make beautiful (well sticky and sweaty) love together and, as Gavin falls asleep in Gaylord's arms, the vampire vows never to suck the young boys blood and to only indulge in rimming on a Tuesday.

Aw, ain't love sweet?

Abstaining from blood drinking tho' leaves Gaylord weakened and stumbling thru' the streets in a daze and it's only thru' sheer luck that he manages across the local bloodbank where, as is usually the way with these things, the hunky doctor is far too busy sodomising one of the (even hunkier) patients to notice our hero draining the blood supply dry.

Returning home Gaylord vows to tell Gavin the truth about his unusual affliction.

But will their love survive?

"Put it in me!"

Three cheers for Roger Earl for producing a vampire movie with all the passion, romance, horror and copious scenes of buggery sadly missing from such big budget offerings as Bram Stoker's Dracula, the Salem's Lot remake, Twilight and the like.

It's micro-budget never once compromises Earl's vision and tho' he may have had to incorporate props and sets left over from the arse end of the seventies (cracked and wobbly disco balls, silver clad dance 'numbers' and a couple of unfortunate mustaches) he stays true to his aim of producing a film that not only delves deep into vampire lore whilst dealing with the universal issues of love and belonging but also manages to feature the most varied and frankly disturbing (and slightly erotic as my nan told me) scenes of fucking, rimming, sucking and cupping I have ever seen.

And for this reason alone I take my hat off to him.

I mean who am I to judge tho?

Your mum watching this film yesterday.

how green is my valley?

Sad to hear that The Valeyard himself, Sir Michael of Jayston has died so in way of a tribute I present (again) this review of probably his finest film performance - well his finest where he sports a rather fetching pair of obscenely tight track suit trousers whilst knocking back Joan Collins' sexual advances.

As is the way with these twisty tales I wont give too much away for fear of spoiling the terrific twists.

So without further ado it's on with the review and remember this...there's nothing you can do to prevent the catharsis of spurious morality on display here.

 

 

 

Tales That Witness Madness (1973).
Dir: Freddie Francis.
Cast: Donald Pleasence, Jack Hawkins, Russell Lewis, Donald Houston, Georgia Brown, Peter McEnery, Frank Forsyth, Suzy Kendall, Michael Jayston, Joan Collins, Kim Novak, David Wood, Michael Petrovich, Mary Tamm, Leon Lissek and Zohra Sehgal.

It happens beyond madness - where your mind won't believe what your eyes see.

Welcome one and all to HMP Shadynook where posh car driving Dr. Paul Nicholas (Hawkins - dubbed by Charles Gray - in his last film role) is about to have a very pressing meeting with his erstwhile college Dr. Jeff Tremayne (Pleasence, I'm assuming you know who he is), the psychiatrist in charge of the high tech (for 1973) facilities.

It seems that Tremayne may have discovered the cause of madness or, at the very least the reasons as to why his four favourite patients are locked up in the first place.

I mean it's late at night so it must be important or it could wait till morning.

Either that or Tremayne is a wee bit theatrical and feels that portmanteau horror works best in the dark.

Let's not waste time on semantics tho' as we've got a frightening foursome of fearsome tales to tell.

The first focusing on a tiny baw-headed boy named Paul (Lewis who bizarrely enough went on to create as well as write the Inspector Morse spin-off Endeavor) who spends his days sitting at a tiny piano asking for plates of meat and/or bones.

Must be from the West Midlands.

Inside Elton John's mind....

As it happens poor Paul is a sensitive wee boy who in an attempt to shield himself from his parents - the terrifyingly angry and scarily ginger Sam
(Brit TeeVee stalwart Houston) and drunken uber-MiLF Fay (British cabaret cum jazz songstress Brown in a fantastic collection of hip-hugging outfits) - befriends an imaginary tiger that lives under his bed.


Whilst his slightly pervy home tutor Phillipe (Wood from shit-loads of stuff, go on check) feels that it's normal for a boy his age to have an imaginary friend, his sozzled mum thinks he's a bit of a mentalist which is as good an excuse as any to have her hit the bottle for breakfast.



Shouty Sam doesn't care one way or the other tho' seeing as he's far too busy attending meetings and standing in the hall complaining about things.

Nothing specific mind, just things in general.

It's only when Paul begins to leave plates of chicken bones on his bedroom floor and stealing the Sunday joint from the fridge that his parents decide to finally have a word with him about 'Mr Tiger'.

Who, as mentioned earlier doesn't really exist.

No not at all.

That bike I'm always on about parking.

Next up is the sorry tale of groovy antique store owner Timothy Poshman (Mr Sloane himself and star of the fantastic Le Orme McEnery) - alongside his girlfriend Ann (Kendall from Torso and Bird With A Crystal Plumage) - is busy sorting thru' the boxes of tat left to him by his old Aunt Sally in her will which alongside the usual cabinets, cups and crappy knitted toilet roll holders also includes a poppy-eyed portrait of a distant relative called Uncle Albert (Forsyth who, according to IMDB has been in more dodgy stuff than your dad) as well as his beloved penny farthing bicycle.

Tidying up for the evening in preparation for a well deserved Pot Noodle Timothy is shocked to find himself being inextricably compelled to mount his uncles bicycle and start pedaling.

No really.

But that's not the strangest part.

It seems that - in a kinda proto-Back To The Future/Quantum Leap way - Timothy's frantic pedal power actually causes the bike to not only travel back in time to the 1800's but for Timothy to enter Albert's body.

Not in a sexual way tho'.

Taking it all in his stride (and quite a lot of it up his arse judging by the bike seat) Timothy enjoys a quite ride around the park before coming across (phnar) the beautiful Beatrice (Kendall again but this time she's wearing a large hat), who it turns out was/is Albert's true love.

Beatrice tho' is worried, she's been having dreams that a terrible fate will befall her love and is sure that her premonition will come true.

Has Timothy time traveled to steer the couple to togetherness or is something more sinister (and slightly incomprehensible) afoot?

Who knows because to be honest we really don't have the time to dwell on such minutiae seeing as we've another two tales to get thru' so it's confused time travel shenanigans and exploding plates galore as the story lurches toward it's confused and nonsensical climax.

At least Suzy Kendall looks pretty.

Michael Jayston attempts to prevent the catharsis of spurious morality yesterday.

And taking of pretty we're suddenly transported by the power of wibbly-wobbly flashback to the English countryside (probably the big field behind the studio) where tight-trackied and bouncy bummed Brian Thompson (The Valeyard himself, Jayston) is jogging thru' the bushes on his way home from the shops or something.

Tho' he may be just jogging for fun.

Who knows?

None of that is important tho' as it's really just an excuse for him to come across (not in that way, well not yet) a bizarre shaped dead tree he finds propped up against a fence.

Exactly like your mom on a Saturday night.

Brian, taken aback by it's 'natural beauty' (as in it looks like it has breasts and a face-mounted vagina....no seriously, just look at the pic) carries it home and mounts it (again, not in that way just now) in the living room much to the chagrin of his beautiful (in a non- wooden way - never thought I'd say that about Joan Collins) wife Bella.

Admit it, you would.

 As her hubbie begins to spend very waking moment preening and polishing the tree - which he's named Mel due to it having, well the word MEL carved into it - trimming its bush, sanding its curves etc. Bella becomes evermore jealous, first hitting the bottle and then hitting the bed in quite possibly the sexiest babydoll nightie ever (complete with a yummy pink hair-bow....meow) in the hope of winning back her husbands heart.

I would, you would, your granddad did. Twice.

 Realizing that if it's good enough for Shatner it's bloody well good enough for him Brian heads off to the bedroom to treat Bella to an altogether different type of wood leaving Mel weeping green puss onto the living room carpet.

Later that night Bella is tormented by vivid dreams of tree-based violation culminating in her nightie getting ripped by twigs and her breasts popping out.

It's not too surprising then that upon awakening she storms into the living room with an axe intent on proving she's the lady of the house once and for all.....

Lady Gaga's cucumber suit cheered up a slightly depressed Phil Collins no end.

Back at the asylum Tremayne is excitedly introducing Nicholas to his most interesting - and complicated - case.

Tho' what can be more interesting than an ex-Doctor Who villain fucking a tree is beyond me.

Anyway whilst you think about that we're off to Polynesia where the bequiffed and man-boobed best-selling author Dave Kimo (Petrovich who you may remember as Tito in Turkey Shoot) is listening intently as his dying mum explains the secrets of eternal life to him whilst overdubbed bongo drums are played in the background by a variety of facepainted extras.

So fair so racist.

Having spent a life free of women, wine and low-waist trousers (and mirrors by the look of his barnet) Kimo has one thing left to do if he wishes to not only attain enlightenment but also guarantee his dear old mum a safe passage to the afterlife.

And that involves appeasing the Polynesian god of sideburns by performing the mysterious 'Luau' ceremony.

But for this Kimo needs a virgin.

Mary Tamm: Fancy trainers not shown.

Meanwhile back in dear old blighty the frightening frocked literary agent, Auriol - bless you - Pageant (an off her tits on prescription meds Novak), is excitedly preparing for Kimo's promotional book tour.

Having already booked him to do Loose Women and Summertime Special she's decided that what the tour really needs is a massive Hawaiian themed party to show her appreciation of his talent.

And if that results in her getting him pissed and touching his flaccid (I imagine) member then so be it.

Unfortunately on arriving in the UK Kimo seems much more interested in Auriol's beautiful young - as in school age....t'was a different time - daughter Ginny (Time Lady in waiting Tamm).

Tho' to be honest who can really blame him?

Things go from uncomfortable to slightly annoying tho' when it transpires that the local butcher can't get enough pigs meat for the party (really), luckily Kimo's servant Barry Keoki (hardworking Lissek who's been in everything from Shogun to Time Bandits via EastEnders...busy bloke) just happens to have a suitcase full of butchers knifes with him and excitedly offers to take over the party planning and source some 'special meat' for the celebration himself.

You can see where this is going can't you?

Put it in me!

Will Keoki cook poor Ginny and serve her up to the guests?

Will they eat her whole?

Or spit that bit out?

Will Dr Tremayne convince Nicholas that his experiments are a success or will the poor guy be himself declared insane before being dragged off to a padded cell setting up a bizarro ending featuring grainy stock footage of a tiger menacing an obviously unwell Jack Hawkins?

And will the image of Michael Jayston outrageously flirting with a polystyrene tree ever stop haunting my dreams?

Taking in a multitude of influences ranging from EC Comics to Robert Bloch via Gardeners Question Time, veteran Hammer and Amicus director Freddie Francis hits all the right notes - and the bottle by the look of things - with this frankly bonkers tale of tigers, trees and teen-based tea time terror.

 

Jennifer Jayne: Any excuse.

With a script from Dr Terror’s House of Horrors babe Jennifer Jayne (using the name Jay Fairbank due to women not being allowed to write spooky stuff in the 70s....go on check, it was the law), TTWM is at once as brilliantly bizarre as it is frustrating - and whilst not every story works there is at least something to enjoy in each.

Whether it be the fantastic fashions of Collins and Brown, Mary Tamm's ample arse or even Kim Novak attempting to subtly emote whilst dosed up on Ketamine and dressed as a comedy vegetable, there's something here for everyone.

Yes even fans of Victorian bicycles.

And I've not even mentioned the fantastic sight of Michael Jayston attempting to seduce a tree that just happens to be lying in his bed.

Well not for a few paragraphs anyway.

Plus any film that features a proto-Evil Dead style tree violation shot in the style (and colours) of a Debenhams Christmas ad is at least worth a few minutes of your time.

"Leaf me alone you beast!" Seriously this is quite possibly THE most erotic thing I have ever seen.

Criminally underrated and almost as hard to find as Lord Lucan, TTWM is well worth a watch, especially if you have a bottle - or two - of gin handy.

Oh and probably a box of tissues too.

Bloody bonkersly brilliant.

the ghost man always rings twice.

Until Death (AKA The Changeling 2, Brivido Giallo: Per Sempre. 1987).

Dir: Lamberto Bava.
 

Cast: Gioia Scola, David Brandon, Giuseppe Stefano De Sando, Roberto Pedicini, Marco Vivio and Urbano Barberini.

Professional brunette bad-lady Linda (Scola from the fantastic Raiders of Atlantis) has decided, along with her horse-cocked (yet scarily rodent faced) lover Carlo (Stagefright's Mr. Serious Brandon) to off her baw headed boring hubbie Luca (Pedicini best known for his voice work in Dellamorte Dellamore, looking like a human/frog hybrid and emptying our bins) and set up house together whilst running their homely seaside bed and breakfast cum restaurant cum boat business like some murderous hybrid of Basil and Sybil Fawlty and Tom Howard from Howard's Way.

Tho' not alas Howard's End.

"I can see your house from here Peter!"

 

Anyway, enough character background - and looking back at that paragraph butchery of the English language - let's get back to the story which begins good and proper with the aftermath of Luca's murder and the deadly duo about to dispose of his still fresh corpse in a nearby swamp.

But he's not properly dead and with his last vestige on strength tears one of Linda's huge market stall hoop earring out.

Of her ear not his own obviously.

Hitting the poor sod on the head with a large pizza tray to finish him off our loving couple head home to settle into their new (if rather fraught) lives; baking, shaking and raising Linda's muppet like poppet Alex (AS Roma fan Vivio, who seems to have had the biggest career out of anyone else on screen seeing as he appeared in Avengers: Endgame).


Eight years down the line the couples idyllic - yet it has to be said, fairly paranoid - existence is disturbed by the unexpected arrival of ruggedly raffish traveler (OK, hobo), the hunk-tastic Marco (Sam J Jones alike Barberini from Opera, Demons, Casino Royale and your Aunties bed).

I'd get that seen to son.

After checking out his cooking skills - and it has to be said frankly magnificent arse - Linda and Carlo hire him on the spot to help out in the restaurant.

But it's not long before the pair begin to notice Marco’s frightening familiarity with their home-life, business affairs and even where Linda keeps her clean undies.

He also has an almost unhealthy fondness for lil' Alex but most disturbingly for Linda, he knows all of her secret family recipes.

Nice to see she's got her priorities right, no doubt she'll leave him babysitting next time her and Carlo pop out for tapas.

"Hey senorita! You fancy a little mooth shite-in?"

All this insider knowledge begins to play on Carlo's barely hidden paranoia, leading him to surmise that Marco is working with the police to trap the couple for murdering Luca.

Obviously Italy have a special 'head-fuck' department specially recruited to play with criminals minds.

Or something.

Linda however is way too busy fiddling with herself whilst lusting over Marco to  jump to such bizarre conclusions and poor Alex is too shot to fuck by his recurring dreams about arms bursting thru' his bedroom walls and trying to goose him whilst soggy tramps attempt to crawl out of swamps to care one way or t'other.

"Laugh now!"

Is Carlo reading too much into the situation?

Will Linda get her end away with the hunky bum?

Will Alex get touched up by the nightmarish ghouls?

Will the movie end with a blazing inferno?

But most importantly will Marco steal all of Linda's recipes and pass them off as his own, getting his own teevee show in the process?

If you really are what you eat then he must have eaten a warty testicle.

Only a director of Lamberto Bava's (albeit slightly tarnished) reputation could take the plot of The Postman Always Rings Twice and re-imagine it as a psychological horror tale before turning it into a cheaply made teevee movie and still make it moderately successful.

Under no circumstances to be confused with the 2007 Jean-Claude Van Damme cop caper of the same name (tho' if you did I reckon you deserve all you get), Until Death is, bizarrely enough one of Bava's most subtle and successful movies, returning to the promise he showed with his first feature Macabre then subsequently pissed up the wall with every movie since (Demons being the obvious exception).

"Ooh Alex come and have a wee nibble of your mums nice hot pie!"

It's nicely acted, stylishly shot and features the best line in denim fashion wear this side of Brokeback Mountain.

Or your dad going to one of his classic car weekends.

Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your alcohol levels) it has one of the most idiotic and shlocky twists ever committed to celluloid.

More fun than Graveyard Disturbance but nowhere near as sexy as Blade in The Dark (or your sister), Until Death is still worth owning.

Especially if you have a wobbly table that needs straightening.