edwige and the angry bint.

Busily preparing the GFT Sunday shock thing aftershow entertainment here whilst juggling with all three of our Midwich Cuckoo's being on half term so excuse the spelling mistakes and scant use of the phrase 'Laugh Now' in this review.

I'd noticed that the original version of it had mysteriously fallen off Blogger and frankly I'm not sitting thru' it again so any mistakes/appearances by flying demons or plot mix-ups put down to me still recovering from Altitude and my mind finally giving it to old age.

Strip Nude For Your Killer (1975)
Dir: Andrea Bianchi.
Cast: Edwige Fenech, Nino Castelnuovo, Franco Diogene, Femi Benussi, Claudio Pellegrini, Erna Schürer, Giuliana Cecchini (AKA Amanda) and various large breasted Italian women.

"You don't need to strangle me."

"Sorry."

Large breasted and curvy hipped Brenda, a young, vivacious and obviously whorish 'model', has accidentally fallen pregnant by a mysterious lover (not me) and panicking over how she'll ever fit into her snazzy fashions again decides to visit a reputable (is there such a thing?) back street abortionist (again, not me) to sort out her little problem.


Unfortunately (for her tho' not the plot) she dies of heart failure during the botched procedure. 

Being a conscientious kinda bloke the abortionist rings his pal Carlo (Scrabble winning Castelnuovo) to give him a hand taking her lifeless (but still fairly hot) body back to her house and pops it in the bath tub with a bottle of gin and a coathanger in the hope of covering up his little mistake.

You don't get service like that on the NHS. 

"I cannae see the car keys hen but I've found the transit van!"

Unbeknownst to Alan the abortionist he's being tailed by a mysterious, shiny helmeted, black clad motor-biking mentalist who, on following him back to his swish apartment, re-arranges his video tapes, knocks all his paintings slightly squint and finally cutting out his still beating heart.


Gah indeed.

When we next see creepy Carlo he's lusting over the harsh faced, tombstone toothed (but still hotter than your mum), bikini-clad beauty that is Lucia Cerrazini (ample arsed genre goddess Benussi) at his exclusive health club, immediately sleazing over to her and asking if he can see her breasts.

Admitting to being a fashion photographer (and smoother than a babies arse) is all it takes to get Lucia to strip off in a sauna enabling our leering lothario  to take loads of almost gynaecological pics of her ample body before sticking it in her.

Result.

  

Anyway, back to the plot good 'n' proper and it transpires that Carlo works for the infamous Albatross modelling agency, an organisation well known for having the prettiest models around and run with terrifying teutonic efficiency by the sapphic sexpot Giselle (Cecchini from the classic Il compromesso... erotico) and her sweatily man breasted, cake loving and frighteningly sausage fingered husband Maurizo (The Stendhal Syndrome's Diogene).

The very same agency that dead Brenda worked for.

Luckily for Lucia, Carlo's not just a sex obsessed pervert, he is in fact an honest sex obsessed pervert and, true to his word is soon dragging Lucia along to the aforementioned Albatross Studios to meet the bosses and work on her 'portfolio'.

Gisella especially is so impressed with Lucia's natural poise and photogenic properties that she has no option but to hire her on the spot.

And then have sex with her.

This never happens on Britain's Next Top Model.

Or unfortunately Junior Apprentice when Zoe Plummer was a contestant.

I'd plummer....Thrice.

With all this sinful bed hopping going on it doesn't take long for everyone to completely forget about poor Brenda's death, our creepy camera guys and curvy cuties carrying on with their day to day routines of swimsuit modelling, sexiness and vomiting till one morning when Mario, the pink cravated, camp as pants photographer (Death Walks at Midnight's Pellegrini) is found murdered, clad only in a G string and furry slippers.

Or was that my dad?

Next in line for the chop is poor Lucia, stripped nude not for her killer but for some rumpy pumpy with Gisella, the killer taunts her with the sound of running water before they put something in her too.

Only this time it's a big sharp knife, not a penis or leathery dildo.

Whilst all these killings are going on Carlo, never one to miss the chance of a wee bit of the sex, has hooked up with sexy, doe eyed art director Magda (the legendary Fenech, think a sleazier foul mouthed Audrey Hepburn and you're halfway there) splitting his time between fondling her frankly fantastic breasts and arguing Gisella over what to tell the police.

Could either of them be the killer?

I mean, Carlo seems to be very friendly with all the victims and Gisella is a lesbian which must mean she's Godless with no morals.

But to be honest do you really care when Edwige Fenech is stripping naked at the drop of a hat?

Fenech: Older than your gran but twice as dirty.

Oblivious to all this murder and back-biting, man-breasted Maurizio is still trying to get his end away with one (well any of them really) of the models, focusing his attentions on the strangely vole like Doris (blonde bombsite Schürer, famous for her appearances on the cover of many a Killink novel cover during the 60's and 70's).

They say that love is blind (and in this case lacking a sense of smell) because she actually says yes to his advances.

But her night of meat fingered fun is scuppered when the poor fella bursts into tears at the thought of doing it with a real live lady, preferring to spend the night clad only in a huge nappy with his faithful blow-up doll instead.

Unfortunately Maurizio's night of latex loving is cut short when the killer pops in and cuts his throat.

Which is a mercy killing quite frankly.

With (nude) bodies starting to pile up everywhere and Milan running out of models (plus the local cake shop losing it's best customer) you'd think that the local police would at least suspect a link to the Albatross Studios.

Wouldn't you?

But oh no, they're more confused than the viewer as to what's going on, the chief inspector still reeling from the fact that Mario was a, gulp, homosexual.

What enlightened times the seventies were eh?

"Look everyone I've found Maddie!"

With time (and cast members) running out it's left to Magda and the by now infinitely punchable Carlo to attempt to solve the case and unmask (or is that unhelmet?) the killer...

Directed by the genius behind the Peter Bark starring zombie classic Burial Ground, Lord Andrea of Bianchi, Strip Nude for Your Killer doesn't so much as steal from the best than break into their houses and spunks in their underwear drawers before legging it with all the credit cards and loose change.

 

But not before it's shoved their toothbrushes up it's arse.

Bianchi (again) has managed the impossible, making a film that is at once so squalid and sleazy that even the bathwater on screen is dirty but at the same time making it a joy to behold.

And that's even before you add Edwige Fenech to the equation.

 

From What Have They Done To Solange? to Scooby Doo Where are You? via Blood and Black Lace, nothing or no-one is safe from Bianchi's sweaty palmed mix of sleaze, nudity, sensationalist lesbianism, big pants, vibrant wallpaper, naked handstands and blood stained bedding. 

 

Plus it's one of the few movies that delivers exactly what it says on the box.

Which can't be all that bad.

goat finger.

After a slew of modern movie type things I reckoned it was time to head back to what I do best (apart from hide bodies that is) and continue to drag the rancid quagmire of cinematic slush that slithers thru' the crap film canal behind my house.

Actually if the truth be told I was tidying up and found this down the back of Cassidy's bookshelf next to a half chewed piece of toast and a crumpled Diana Rigg postcard.

Where does he get it from?

And more importantly will I be able to sneak him into the showing at the GFT in a couple of weeks?

Ta paidia tou Diavolou (AKA Island Of Death, Killing Daylight, Holiday on the Buses. 1975).
Dir: Nico Mastorakis
Cast: Bob Behling, Jane Ryall, Jessica Dublin, Gerard Gonalons, Janice McConnel and Nikos Tsachiridis.

“Please, I believe in God.”
“I’m sorry friend, but he doesn’t believe in you.”

Trendy (in a kind of pikey way) young things Christopher (thin Ollie Reed alike Behling) and human hamster Celia (the chubby faced yet curved of arse Ryall) have arrived on the quaint Greek island of Mykonos (which I'm assuming is Greek for death) looking for fun, sun, a nice cream bun and various places to have 'the sex'.

They must be British then.

Booking into a cheap looking, crap wallpapered boarding house, Christopher changes out of his thin, beige socks and Jesus sandals before taking in a few of the local sights and then taking Celia up the bum.

In a phone box.

Whilst calling his mum.

If this wasn't enough (and frankly the sight of Christopher's skinny man buttocks thrusting vigorously against the dirty glass did it for me) it turns out that he's also an out and out puritanical nutter, madder than a bag of spanners and liable to hurl insults at ginger people in the street for no other reason than he thinks they're morally corrupt.

Which is nice.

lens flare, trouser flare, flared hair lip.

Feeling a wee bit peckish after the phone box fumble, Chris and Celia head back to the guest house for a bite to eat only to come across the owners wife rutting with someone other than her hubby in the shed, her ample arse pushed against the grimy windows leaving a mark not unlike the shape of an obese butterfly on the glass.

Obviously upset by the sight of such an obese arse Chris angrily declares "Bitch! She's a bloody fat bitch, If she was my wife I'd kill her!" before heading into the dinning room for a quick cheese and crisp sandwich, a can of Tizer and the chance of insulting a quiet gay couple at the bar before retiring to bed.

The next morning poor Christopher wakes with an erection so stiff and bloated that not even your mum could satisfy it and, after unsuccessfully trying to prod Celia awake decides to go out into town to find someone willing to have some no strings sex with him so early in the morning.

After what seems like, ooh minutes of searching kerazy Chris stumbles across a cute white goat happily munching grass in a deserted field, there eyes meet and it's lust at first sight.

Aw sweet.

Next thing you know our man is happily humping away at his fluffy friend with all the facial ticks and grimaces of somewhere suffering a severe stroke.

In glorious technicolour of course.

Lying in each others arms (legs? paws? hooves?) the lovers gaze longingly at each other before Chris pulls out a big fuck off knife and slits the goats throat.

Cleaning his dick on the grass he happily heads back to Celia and a spot of lunch.

And who says that the English abroad aren't civilised?

How your dad used to wake
you up on Christmas morning.

Scoffing their delicious bacon, sausage and eggs at a local café our dingbat duo start to indulge in a little bit of saucy banter with one Monsieur Jean-Paul Boff, a local French painter (but not polisher) before asking him to join them in a dirty threesome.

Being French he obviously agrees.

After a quick bout of filthy fondling the couple head home but not before arranging to meet the by now sweat covered Monsieur Boff the next morning for some more saucy fun.

Morning can't come soon enough for the couple, tho' unfortunately Jean Paul does (all over Celia's rather wobbly breasts) whilst Christopher hides in the shadows taking photographs of the whole thing. Obviously offended by the Frenchman's lack of staying power (tho' by the state of Celia I reckon he's lucky to have gotten it up at all) our hatstand hero calmly walks over to the resting couple and crucifies poor Jean Paul for his troubles.

Your mum, up the casino, 1974....Yesch!

Celia, understandably annoyed by the poor sods screams of agony, forces Jean Paul to drink some paint stripper in the hopes of shutting him up.

Not really much else I can add to that really is there?

At a loss as to what to do for the rest of the day, Christopher and Celia decide to attend an engagement party being throw by the gay couple they insulted earlier thinking that if they turn up with a half arsed apology and a cheap bottle of (pink) fizz everything'll be OK.

The gays, being nice, kind folk instantly forgive the couples earlier homophobic rants and welcome them into their celebrations.

And much, much later their bedroom too.

But don't worry dear viewer there's none of that sexy stuff this time (this couple obviously have way too much self esteem to want to put it anywhere near Celia and Christopher) as the maid of mentalism has other ideas.

Yup, it's Celia's turn for a wee bit of the killing this time as she pulls out a gun and shoots the younger, make up caked stud muffin in the mooth whilst kinky Christopher chases his older lover down the street before disembowelling him with a large paper knife.

Knackered after a full day of maiming and murder the couple retire to their room to masturbate over the photo's taken during the day.

Gun in mah mooth!

Luckily for the islands residents, Scotland Yard are on the trail of the perverted pair as it seems that they've been committing similar crimes against fashion and good taste in the UK too. The British Government have had enough and have dispatched DI Foster (Gonalons from some other stuff) to bring the couple to justice.
It comes as a wee surprise then (to him and us) that within minutes of stepping off the plane (clutching his duty free and in-flight magazine) Chris has tied a rope to him and taken off, leaving him hanging on for dear life.
It can't be that dear tho' seeing as within seconds he's let go with a shout of "Oh my fingers!", falling to the ground in a spray of piss and shame.

Pleased with his mornings work Christopher decides it's time he had sex with the hotel owner.
Obviously, this being Christopher, having sex involves pissing over her before sticking it up her arse and finally decapitating her with a handy bulldozer.

Celia by this point has had enough of all this mindless violence and sleazy sex and just wants a quiet life. Obviously this annoys Christopher but not as much as the pair of stoned hippie types that just happen to turn up and molest Celia giving our boy an excuse to kill some more people and show her that the world is full of badness.
Yes, there's a moral here somewhere.

Getting angrier by the minute and realising that he still has to kill an Asian shopkeeper, a heroin addict and a lesbian to fill his cliché rota, Chris persuades the by now shot to fuck and cum stained Celia to help seduce the local lady lover.
Luckily she's also a dirty junkie so it's two for the price of one.
Unbeknown to both Christopher and Celia, whilst they've been merrily blow-torching the faces off dykes and cracking off to blurry death pics, a local novelist has been secretly watching the pair in a kind of Jessica Fletcher manner.
But not as sexily as her obviously.

Nice bedding, shame about the film.

With the bodies piling high and the quaint countryside awash with blood, egg and semen, the net is closing in on the terrible twosome.
Even the local police have finally gotten up off their fat arses and given chase, forcing Christopher and Celia to hide out in the hills on a delapitated ranch belonging to a pube permed, ball faced sheep herder named Neville.

"Leathery balls!"

Seeing this simple man's lifestyle and happiness with his job has a profound effect on Christopher, almost as if a veil has been lifted from his eyes.
Could it really be that rape and murder are bad?
Christopher will never find out as, without warning the shepherd hits him over the head and tosses him into a lime pit before forcing himself on (and into) a screaming Celia who, after a slight struggle, begins to enjoy the experience as Neville violently fucks the badness out of her system.

Christopher's screams for help are ignored, even the revelation that Celia is really his sister (that if you think about it they both should already know) has no effect on the by now tamed woman and as the rain begins to turn the lime caustic, Christopher slowly dies in agony as Celia begins her new life of servitude and sex slavery with Neville.

I think there's a lesson for us all there don't you?

"Put it in me!"

Ah dear old Nico Mastorakis, how must it have felt to see your heart-warming tale of forbidden love cruelly slated as a video nasty before being banned from our shelves?

How can anyone even consider saying this movie has no redeeming features and that it's sole reason for being is to glory in it's own filth and depravity?

Oh the injustice of it all!

Scarily playing out like a nylon caked nightmare version of the Holiday Show, Mastorakis' movie veers violently from wrong to oh so wrong via just plain  wrong.

With absolutely no respect for decency or fashion, it's frighteningly unattractive psycho-sexual siblings begin their reign of sex and violence without warning and continue to do so throughout the films running time, killing off various clichéd characters with gay abandon as the movie lurches toward it's (genuinely) surprising conclusion.

Nico Mastorakis we salute you (grudgingly I'll admit) for giving us a film that on the surface looks like a worthless sleazefest of sex and sin but on closer inspection turns out to be one of the greatest pieces of blackly humoured Carry on Abroad style comedies ever made.

If only all family vacations were this much fun.

our cousin vinny.

Been an eventful few days here, what with not being able to see in 3-D and all.

The docs reckon it's a corneal abrasion, me I just think my eyes have started bleeding from watching too much shite.

Speaking of which...

The Last Horror Film (AKA Fanatic. 1982).
Dir: David Winters.
Caroline Munro, Joe Spinell, Judd Hamilton, Devin Goldenberg, David Winter, Susan Benton, Glenn Jacobson and Sean Casey.

"I've seen enough fake blood to 

know the real thing when I see it!"

Sweat covered NYC taxi driver and part time pock-marked testicle Vinny Durand (cult God Spinell) is scarily obsessed with the fantastically sweet smelling cult scream queen Jana Bates (the very first Barclay's of any self respecting child of the seventies and first lady of fantasy, the yumsome Munro), spending all his spare cash on every piece of Bates merchandise available.

Oh and tissues obviously.

But Vinny isn't planning being a taxi driver (or chronic masturbator) forever because he has a dream.

A dream of making the ultimate (and by default last) horror film with his heroine.

And when he yells cut he really means it.

As in "I'll cut you up!" not "finish filming that scene" obviously.

That all sorted? Great now I can get back to the plot.

Returning home to the cramped, shame tinged apartment he shares with his mum Vinny announces that he's off to the world famous Cannes Film Festival (that's in Paris, France near London, Europe for our American readers) in the hope of meeting Ms. Bates in the flesh and hopefully persuade her to appear in his aforementioned dream project, the aptly titled 'Death Wears a Second Hand Thong'.

After listening to her son's heartfelt dreams and plans, and being a normal mum she slaps him around the head and calls him a mentalist layabout with personal hygiene issues before making him a meatball sandwich and helping him to pack his case.

Matt Smith: The Pikey years.

Arriving in Cannes Vinny tries in vain to get a meeting with Jana but only meets with failure and general snobbery at every attempt, knocked back by everyone from her manager and ex-husband Master Bret Bates (Jacobson from Operation: Petticoat) as well as Jana's boyfriend, the famous film producer Alan Cunningham (Munro's ginger 'tached ex hubbie Hamilton).

On a plus side he does meet up with a bona fide 'American cowboy' and gets to stroll along the streets looking at film posters whilst the cameraman does his best to try and film someone (more) famous leaving a hotel.

It's like watching Friday 13Th intercut with your mums old holiday snaps.

But minus the nudity and body modification obviously.

The final straw tho' is when a stringy French bouncer knocks him back from a happening disco-party being held in Jana's honour, finally breaking Vinny's tenuous link to reality and destroying his beliefs regarding acceptable party fashions.

Angrily phoning Bret to complain about his treatment and to pitch his thong thriller, Vinny gets even more annoyed when the miserly manager hangs up on him, preferring to spend his time snorting cocaine from between the buttocks of a smooth skinned Albania boy child than talk 'the horror'.

Or was that me whilst I was watching this?

Attending an afternoon press conference to promote her new movie 'Scream' (not that one)  Jana is fairly perturbed to receive a bunch of garage forecourt flowers and a hand scrawled note that reads, "You've made your last horror film." 

Spooky eh?

Hopefully whilst all this flower based creepiness is going on no-one has murdered the ferret-like Bret in his bathrobe cos that'd be really embarrassing for the poor guy.


Too late! Arriving at his hotel room Jana comes across Bret's bloodied remains, his little thin legs sticking out over the bath like a couple of discarded twigs.

Like any modern, strong willed woman in the same situation she runs away screaming.

But on returning with Alan and the local police, the body has vanished.

Who saw that coming?

"That reminds me...I must order a turkey for Christmas."

Luckily this lurch forward in the plot doesn't stop the fun to be hand as the endless footage of Jana wandering in and out of hotels intercut with crash zooms into movie posters takes centre stage.

Again.

We're soon back to the action tho' as Vinny (resplendent in a top hat and cloak) continues stalking Jana, sneakily filming her at every given opportunity before retiring to his hotel room to sweat.

After indulging in a tearful Pot Noodle obviously.

Realising quite late on that he's in a film about movie making but he hasn't met a single clichéd Jew yet, Vinny calls Marty Bernestein (Hollywood Blue writer Goldenberg) to ask if he'd be willing promote 'Death Wears a Second Hand Thong'.

Maybe by wearing a second hand thong.

Or a t-shirt bearing the title.

With a raise of his hands and an "Oy vey!" Marty declines before heading off to an important meeting with Scream director Stanley Kline (the films real-life director and former West Side Story gang banger A-Rab, Winters, honestly you couldn't make this shite up or make it any more confusing) and his 'personal assistant' Susan Archer (the covergirl of the May 1970 issue of Playboy - Vol. 17, Issue 5, pg. 137-141 for anyone interested - and star of the fantastic Boy and His Dog Benson).

It appears that all three of them have received the same note as Jana and Bret.

But more upsetting that the note is the fact that they didn't receive any nice flowers with it.

In my eyes the only thing worse than a murdering psychotic bastard is a tight  murdering psychotic bastard.

Phew, I'm glad to get that off my chest finally.

The reason I know so much about that issue? I own it. 

With all the threatening notes, murders and obscene amounts of unnecessary   footage of topless starlets going about Marty decides to head down to the local police station and ask for some help.

Unfortunately all the police in France are foreign and show no interest in doing an honest days detecting, preferring to blame Marty for Bret's disappearance, accusing it of being a cheap publicity before snubbing their noses and such unworthy cinema as the horror genre then going home to burn British beef, watch Jerry Lewis 'comedies' and await the next chance to surrender to someone.

Some French police yesterday deciding who should surrender to the wee boy first.

Heading pack to his hotel to count his money and train a group of Victorian pick-pockets, Marty is (fairly) surprised to find a letter from Bret on his doormat.

It seems the alleged dead man wants to meet him at a local screening room to watch a film.

Bizarre.

When Marty shows up tho' it's all revealed to be a crazy misunderstanding as instead of Bret being there to meet him, he's greeted by a hooded figure wielding an axe.

Nice firm tummy, stunning breasts, fanny made from bananas.

With Vinny getting angrier by the minute and shouting at strippers whilst more and more of Jana's companions are being threatened in a variety of bizarre and brutal (well, just brutal really) ways, nervous (but still bouncy) Susan begs Stanley to leave Cannes with her that very night but Stan (being either immune to her charms or gay) convinces her that it'll be safer to stay a while longer.

Or at least until they've attended the premiere of For Your Eyes Only, as Stan has heard that it's a throwback to the old style of Bond movies before the gadgets took precidence over plot.

Bond: Back to basics.

Neither of them have the chance to find out tho' as that evening Stanley is stabbed to death by the hooded figure (well technically he's stabbed to death by a knife but you know what I mean) whilst a fleeing (and very bouncy) Susan falls off a hotel roof after being shot in the arse by a pellet gun.

Every death twitch and scream filmed by the killers hidden camera.

Meanwhile across town, Vinny has stopped sweating for just long enough to buy a bottle of cheap plonk and break into Jana's hotel room, hoping this surprise gesture will win her over to appearing in his movie.

Stepping out of the shower (her golden thighs glistening in the harsh light of the uncovered 70 watt bulb), Jana is (not too surprisingly, a phrase that's been banded about a lot during this review, unlike the phrase 'utter fucking shite' which I'll no doubt get to later) none to impressed to find a pencil moustached pock faced perv sitting on the edge of her bed vigorously rubbing a champagne bottle and politely asks him to leave.

"Put it in me!"

This brush off, whilst fairly acceptable to us normal folk annoys the buggery out of the by now quite understandably fractious Vinny who, in retaliation smashes the bottle and threatens poor Jana with the jagged edge.

Is this really how Hollywood contracts are made?

luckily the doorbell rings and scares Vinny momentarily (he obviously only has a knocker at home), giving Jana enough time to kick Vinny in the happy sacks and leg it down the hotel corridor clad only in a towel.

Let's take a moment to imagine this enduring image.

I'll admit I didn't give her that pearl necklace but if I'm honest I still would cum on her neck.

Vinny, not content with taking "Fuck off you mentalist!" as an answer gives chase and is only stopped from catching the wet one when a group of photographers get him to pose for some photographs.

By this time Jana has come across (easy tiger!) Alan and, after explaining the situation our ginger prince offers to take Jana to a remote castle owned by her musician friend Jonathan (Casey, the films associate producer) where she'll be safe from any mentalists lurking around.

Sorted.

But the next day, as Alan drives Jana to the castle of relative safety in the French countryside who should be following them but dear old Vinny.

You know that someone is going to 'accidentally' cop it in the next ten minutes when Vinny (who's gone from scary stalker to real-life Mr. Bump) breaks in hoping to get five minutes with Jana don't you?

Yup, alas poor Jonathan we hardly knew you.

Or cared if I'm honest.

Realising that the movie is nearing it's climax and that they've been nominated for the coveted 'Scariest Picture of The Year' award our debonair duo return to Cannes for the ceremony, putting their lives on the line in the hope of winning the gold (plated) statuette, £75 spending money and two nights in Saltcoats.

On the way into the hastily decorated bingo hall being used to host the ceremony however they fail to notice the pock faced, sweaty policeman standing at the front door.

"You'll never shite in mah mooth ya bastard!"

Waiting outside the gents whilst Alan has a particularly painful bowel movement, Vinny manages to chloroform Jana before bundling her into the back of a car and driving all the way back to the castle.

It seems he has a final scene to film for his ultimate horror movie....

But from the shadows a mysterious hooded, camera carrying figure is watching quietly as the events unfold...

Multi-faceted Director/writer/producer/dancer David Winters (alongside co-writers Judd Hamilton and Tom Klassen) took Cannes by storm way back in 1981when they made the (fairly) bold and undeniably cheap decision to film The Last Horror Film without permits and guerrilla style on the towns streets actually during the festival.

And hats off to them for it because despite the low budget, pants dubbing and community halls posing as top range screening rooms they managed to produce quite a nifty little thriller with enough twists to keep you watching even when your brain is yelling turn it off.

Re-teaming the munchy cult starlet Munro and the criminally underrated Spinell from the murkily mucky William Lustig murder frenzy Maniac whilst populating the rest of the movie with various real life members of the crew adds a an almost surrealist quality to the film, aided as it is by the snatched footage of 'real life' stars arriving at screenings and on red carpets.

This blurring of reality and fiction is nowhere near as obvious as in the movies opening scenes where Spinell is seen reading an issue of Starburst Magazine that has a cover feature about the film he's actually acting in at that very moment.

It's like a lo-fi Charlie Kaufman slasher that seems to have popped thru' a crack in space/time from that weird alternate universe where Doctor Who was never cancelled, someone with a smidgen of talent illustrates the Arrow covers and where Splice wasn't shit.

Yes, it's that strange an experience.

But one I urge you to search out if you haven't already.

I'll be the first to admit that yes, it might be cheaper than your mum and tackier than your bed sheets but The Last Horror Film has a special kind of eighties charm that perfectly encapsulates the time and place wherein it was made.

Plus you get to see Caroline Munro in a towel.

And that's gotta be worth a quid of anyone's money.

out on a limb.

Been a strange month here at Arena Towers with a mix of waiting for pay cheques, having commissions rejected, general work type stuff and my plea last month for someone (anyone) to find me something halfway decent to watch before I end up stabbing the sofa.

Again.

Luckily longtime Unwell urchin Dissolvedpaul was kind enough to recommend this movie to me, saying it was the finest film he'd ever seen.

And he never lies.

Saying that tho' can you really trust a man who released a four CD boxset musical tribute to Peter Bark?

The Last House in the Woods (AKA Il Bosco Fuori. 2006).
Dir: Gabriele Albanesi.
Cast: Daniela Virgilio, Daniele Grasseti, Gennaro Diana, Santa De Santis and a few other folk who should really know better.

There are some lines that must never be crossed...
beyond them all...
is The Last House in the Woods.

Driving along a deserted country round after attending a waiters lookalike party Geoff Soontodie, his fish-lipped wife Brenda and his ball headed boy child Crispin, confused by the eye searing inconsistencies between the day and night shots on-screen manage to make their rented hatchback screech uncontrollably off the road and career headlong down a muddy bank.

Luckily a handy tree helps stop the car before it gets too damaged.

Which is more than can be said for Geoff's face.

Escaping from the car in an amusing wobbly manner, Brenda and son head back to the road to hopefully flag down a passing motorist.

It doesn't take long before help seems to be at hand when a nice sturdy family style saloon comes a trundling down the road towards the pair.

Thinking that a huge faced, bow tie wearing dwarf may put the driver off helping Brenda pushes Crispin to the side of the road (and into daylight bizarrely enough) just as the car slams into her, spraying her pretty dress with mud and ruining her lipstick.

Obviously trying to help the driver steps out of the car and tries to wipe it up by repeatedly hitting her in the face with a large brick.

Crispin, fearful for his life (and possibly of losing his bum virginity) runs into the woods....

"Paging Mr. Herman!"

Meanwhile back at the plot good and proper the chisel of chin and lank of hair Aurora (Italian teevee queen Virgilio) is busy drawing funny faces in crayon whilst her on/off (and constantly hen-pecked boyfriend) Rino (Grasseti from Nature: Consuelo...no me neither) takes her up the arse.

And the reason?

He (allegedly) wants to see what great masterpiece she can create in the throes of ecstasy.

Either that or he's banned from working as a classroom assistant.

Rino and his novelty bike stand yesterday.

Within what seems like minutes the pair have messily split up and Rino has taken to driving around in his Fiat Uno hoping for a glimpse of Aurora's bouncy breasts as she stomps passed him.

Makes a change from sitting at home indulging in a tearful wank and a Pot Noodle I suppose.

But why did these young lovers part I hear you ask?

Seems that Aurora can't decide if she loves him or not, playing the 'I'm really confused' card whilst still expecting him to drive her around and give her sweaty car seat shagging on demand.

Typical woman then.

"Blood in mah big fishy mooth ya bastard!"

Meeting up one day the pair decide to head off up the road from the movies beginning for a bit of 'the sex' and a chat about why she's such an evil cow and wont have him back.

But as the sweaty ex-sweethearts discuss their future (or lack of it) they're interrupted by the arrival of three Hush Puppy wearing, nipple revealing t shirt clad bad boys driving around in a bright pink Fiat hatchback (does the directors dad own a dealership?) looking to partake in a wee bit of fighting and raping.

But not necessarily in that order.

Nicola Bryant, up the casino, 1984.....Yesch!

Beating Rino to a pulp (which to be honest is no show of manliness seeing as a gentle breeze would probably send him flying he's so wet) before locking him in the boot of his car, the three stooges decide to turn their lascivious gaze toward Aurora, pinning her down in the dirt and taking it in turns to gyrate against her thighs and threatening to show her their cocks.

Luckily a nice middle aged (and armed) couple (the facially challenged Diana and the sleazily seductive De Santis) drive up and scare the bad lads away, saving us from having to see their (possibly scabby) penises and Aurora from having to touch them.

A win/win situation as far as I'm concerned then.

"Is it a book, film or song?"

As our would-be beast pals run off into the slowly fading light, the man (Antonio) and his wife (Clara) invite Aurora and the by now free but still-unconscious Rino (I for one couldn't tell the difference between him awake or asleep) back to their house for a cup of tea, a quick clean up and a digestive biscuit.

Aurora, being a greedy bitch agrees and they all drive off down a quiet country lane.

Well I say all drive off but it's really only Antonio doing the driving, the others are passengers.

Obviously.

Arriving at the couples secluded mansion things begin to take a sinister turn for the strange, Rino is huddled off into a room by the sexily pneumatic Clara whilst Aurora is sent to sit in the dining room with the smooth talking (if pube haired) Antonio and his clumsy attempts at seduction.

He does manage a quick snog tho' so he can't be all that bad.

Either that or Aurora's a manipulative whore.

But alas, we'll never know as the creepy couple are thankfully interrupted when, in one of modern cinemas finest 'Laugh Now' moments Antonio's rat-toothed, bowl headed and jam covered seven year old son enters the room asking for a pair of fresh beef curtains to munch on.

Laugh when?

Being thick as mince Aurora doesn't notice anything peculiar about this at all and only begins to worry (and then only slightly) when Antonio comes at her with a hypodermic needle shouting "I kill you now!"

Trying to escape from her slightly strange host, our heroine runs upstairs where she finds a by now conscious Rino strapped to a chair and being forced to watch Cbeebies with toothy boy and his mum.

Fearing an appearance by Big Cook, Little Cook Aurora jumps out of the window and disappears into the night.

Followed by some slow motion flashbacks of ball-boy from the films opening.

This man loves Peter Bark...in EVERY way.

Spooked by the recordings of owl songs and frightened by the distant sounds of growling, Aurora hides under a tree till the cameraman's night filter falls off before heading to a burnt out caravan parked by a nearby bush, surely she'll find help there, I mean it's not like you get inbred cannibal type hicks in the backwoods of Italy is it?

Well, yes you do actually.

I know, I was vaguely surprised by this turn of events too.

not as surprised as Aurora tho' who not only gets her cheeks stroked but gets hit on the head for good measure.

Christmas at Heather Mills house.

Waking back at the house, our lippy loser soon finds that she's strapped to a cheap wicker chair next to an unconscious (yes again) Rino.

Who appears to have lost a few limbs along the way.

Continuity error or food for the spiky toothed cannibal child?

Go on...guess.

Screaming and shouting (oh and getting really angry because she's just decided that she loves Rino after all) Aurora is told the terrible tale of Ratty's birth.

Seems the poor boy was born with a perfect set of gnashers and and overwhelming love of man-meat.

Obviously the only solution to the problem was to fortify the house and begin kidnapping anyone who drives down their street.

As a parent I can totally see the logic behind that.

Whilst all this back story is being filled in toothy Tom is bust salivating at the thought of munching out on Aurora's ample thighs and eating her whole.

Tho' I've heard cannibals usually spit that bit out.

I'm sorry but that's not a skirt it's a belt.

Meanwhile our terrible threesome are driving back from a night of booze, big bands and blow-jobs when their car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. With none of their phones working the boys decide to walk thru' the woods, occasionally stopping to pull action poses and look for a house where they can get help and/or some more sex.

Oh and as the none too bright Ginger adds "We can steal a DVD player too!"

It's not long (or big, or clever) before they begin to hear screams in the distance which Biffa, the lead thug mistakes for the sound of shagging, reckoning if they can follow the sound they can all have sex too.

And they say romance is dead.

"Sorry hen but you've got the wrong last house!"

Still tied to a chair and being forced to watch a fat man with a scabby lip chainsaw her beau's arm off it actually comes as a blessed relief to Aurora when she see's her would-be molesters face peering thru' the window.

To Antonio's family tho' this is one meal-time interruption too far and, after packing little toothy ratkin off to bed the entire clan arm themselves with whatever comes to hand and head out to catch the interlopers and protect the family secret locked away in the cellar....

Will Aurora survive with all her limbs still attached?

Will Robbie Rapist turn good guy or attempt to stick it in her again?

Will we ever find out what the significance of bow tie boy is?

And will Rino manage to get trousers to fit him now?

Same shit, different smell.

Writer, director and non trick pony Gabriele Albanesi after force feeding himself a diet of classic seventies shlockers and classic eighties splatter has manage to vomit up a mish mash of influences and ideas so bizarre and unrelated as to make a film that's beyond parody, redemption and possibly criticism.

How else can you explain how arse numbingly bad yet at the same time head fuckingly brilliant
The Last House in the Woods is?

It's quite honestly the film your twelve year old self never made, a junior school version of Phenomena via The Texas Chainsaw Massacre with an added cameo from Last House On The Left villain Krug's slightly stupider younger brother, slightly less soiled linen and considerably more arse shots.

Is this a good thing? I can't possibly say.

But what I can tell you is that if Amer is the ultimate tribute to the Eurohorror genre then this is the hook handed idiot sibling, cowering and dribbling in the basement whilst constantly masturbating over faded, soiled pictures of Marilyn Burns.

And Pete too probably.

"Sorry, I have my woman's period".

Chock full of bizarrely inappropriate dialogue, full frontal amputations, shocking denim fashions, kiddie friendly cannibalism, chainsaw-wielding inbred hicks and a flagrant disregard for the laws of editing not seen since the heady days of Plan 9, the acting veers wildly between the stiffly Formica (Grasseti I'm looking at you) to ear bleedingly shrilly (Virgilio) with a supporting cast that seems hell bent on hitting every emotional point in between whether we like it or not.

Except for the wee toothy boy that is, who seems to spend the entire film in a dribbly, Prozac fuelled daze.

And who says child abuse can't be entertaining?

But fear not for there is one saving grace in this sea of mediocrity and that's the gorgeously ghoulish Santa De Santis.

Coming over like Daria Nicolodi's slinkier, sleazier little sister with a penchant for sensible A-line skirts, De Santis knows exactly how to play it, giving (the fairly sketchy) role just enough 'arch' as to make it the most memorable performance on show.

And in a film packed to the brim with lump-headed freaks, mutant kids and various ginger folk that's no easy task.

And that's why we love her.

De Santis: Twice.

The Last House in the Woods elicits the same feelings of wrongful passion that you get when gazing at your neighbours daughter or your younger cousin in her Girl Guides uniform, you know it's wrong but you just can't help yourself, sneaking a peek from the corner of your eye whilst adjusting you trousers.

Damning with faint praise or too much information regarding my social life?

You decide, I'm off to dress the Cassman in a waiters outfit.

lost in france.

Still working away on a superhero styley strip that needs finishing by end of June (damn having to do paid work, you'd think the kids could live on fresh air for a few months) but didn't want you to all think I'd forgotten you so here's a wee French fancy for your reading pleasure.

Seven Women for Satan (AKA Les week-ends maléfiques du Comte Zaroff. 1976).
Dir: Michel Lemoine.
Cast: Michel Lemoine, Nathalie Zeiger, Howard Vernon, Joëlle Coeur, Sophie Grynholc, Robert Icart, Stephanie Lorry, Patricia Mionet, Emmanuel Pluton, Maria Mancini and Nathalie Zeiger.

Sexy businessman Boris Zaroff (writer/director and general show off Lemoine) is a sexier French version of Sir Alan Sugar, a self made millionaire whose success is all down to hard work and a good dose of old fashioned morals.

Sounds a barrel of laughs that one.

Luckily for us (and the movie) his family history is far from boring and conservative.

You see his dad, the late (as in dead not crap at time keeping) Count Zaroff was a sexually corrupt mentalist who liked nothing better than to hunt unfortunate ladies around his vast estate before torturing them in his deadly dungeon of, um, death upon capture.

If that wasn't enough the family butler Karl (Jess Franco regular and human rodent, the late great Vernon) made a blood pact with the Count on his deathbed to teach young Boris about the pleasures and pain of 'the flesh'.

Saucy.

Well it would be if Boris wasn't such a prudish old sod.

"Oh no! I have a woman's period!"

You have to feel for poor Karl, spending his days continuously inviting large breasted burds to the house in the hope that his master will stick something in them.

By this point you can tell he wouldn't mind if it was his cock, a knife or a hamster.

But Boris just can't get the hang of it, sitting as he does in a dribbly, hypnotic state at the first sign of a decent pair of bristols.

All this embarrassing sexual failure is about to change tho' when Boris whilst out for one of his early morning drives, picks up Stephanie (Mancini, probably not the one that was one of Cardinal Mazarin neices or the type of cigar), a young, voluptuous hitch-hiker and invites her back to his castle for an evening of champagne fuelled sexiness.

And surprise surprise he manages it!

Stuck for conversation (and stuck to the sheets) the next morning, Boris offers to escort his new beau around the castles grounds.

Aw what a sweetheart.

Well he would be if halfway round the cabbage patch he didn't try to strangle Stephanie then feebly attempt to convince her that she had a wasp on her neck.

A bird in the bush yesterday.

Panicking that he may have made a wee faux pas Boris decides to break the uncomfortable atmosphere by punching his new love in the face, pinning her down an attempting for force feed her dirt.

Which as you can probably guess doesn't impress Stephanie too much, so she decides it'd probably be best to leave.

Pavement in mah mooth!

Boris, rightly worried that he's messed up his one chance of true love gives chase to apologise but Stephanie, being used to running after lifts is too quick for him so Boris (with a confidence that only French men have when seducing ladies) decides to catch her up by using his car.

By catch her up I really mean run her down like a dog and hide her body in the boot.

As you do.

Karl, after standing in the shadows and witnessing the whole sorry event can't believe his eyes. After years of trying to get Boris to follow the family traditions he's overjoyed to see his hard work finally pay off.

Your mum's party piece.

Cue ninety minutes of picking up busty babes, sleaze-filled shagging, chasing then torturing them in a variety of sleazily eurotrash ways.

And if you think that's not enough to entertain you there's also a heart breaking love story between batty Boris and a sexy lady ghost.

What's not to love?

Runner up of the Gerry McCann lookalikey
competition 2008.

Orson Welles wannabe Michel Lemoine's naively heartfelt yet still intellectually challenging discourse on humanities eternal struggle to reconcile the wants of the family with the needs of the individual is quite possibly one of the best movies with the words seven, Satan and women in the title ever committed to celluloid.

Lost for decades after the French authorities (who were probably too busy burning British beef, sinking Greenpeace boats and worshipping at the altar of Jerry Lewis at the time to truly appreciate it) banned the film for being 'too bouncy', Seven Women for Satan has never received the praise or cult standing it truly deserves and is only available now thanks to Lemoine himself having a not too knackered copy lying about in his cupboard just waiting for someone to have the vision to release the thing onto an unsuspecting public.

Which means we can finally forgive Mondo Macabro from punting the terrifyingly bad Queen of Black Magic onto us a few years back.

With it's deceptively linear storytelling, Lemoine's film comes across as a kind of junior Jess Franco aimed at the under 12's (Cassidy will testify to that), especially the one's who like their victims a wee bit more on the curvy (and not to say massively bushed) side.

Any of your kids got a party coming up soon because that's the only excuse you need to get this.

And trust me, little Jimmy or Jennifer's friends will love it too.

wet dreams.

Found this in a cupboard on good old Vipco VHS and seeing as I'd not experienced the sheer terror of the tale since I was about 11 I thought I'd give it a wee revisit.

I really must learn.

The Slayer (AKA Nightmare Island. 1982).
Dir: J.S. Cardone
Cast: Sarah Kendall, Frederick Flynn, Carol Kottenbrook, Paul Gandolfo, Alan McRae and Michael Holmes.

"Dreams don't drag men out of
bed in the middle of the night!"

Mentalist artist, the copper-topped Kay (Kendall, later to appear in the pivotal role of 'the stewardess' in The Karate Kid part 2), her doctor hubbie David (McRae, best known as Parker Simonson in the hit teevee show Santa Barbara and Sam Douglas in the Three Ninja movies), her rat faced brother Eric (directors fave Flynn who also appeared in the Leif Garrett starrer Thunder Alley) and his wife Brooke (the directors wife, the former actor and now producer of such quality fare as 8MM 2 , Alien Hunter and The Covenant, Kottenbrook) have decided to go only holiday together (to a deserted island no less), partly for the fishing but mainly to try and cheer up Kay.

Which would possibly be a good idea if she actually wanted to go in the first place.

You see, Kay suffers from panic attacks, bad dreams, insists on wearing Gran style turtle necks under tent like jumpers and more importantly an uncontrollable mass of bright ginger hair that looks like a huge red bush on her head.

Eric thinks her mental health problems stem from the fact that her art career is waning and David thinks that it's because of her nightmares.

But we all know that it's that hair.

Not even with your dads.

Arriving on the island by a plane piloted by the creepy ball headed Kim Marsh (Holmes from everyone's favourite Black Day Blue Night ), Kay is shocked and disturbed to discover that she's been there before, not in reality but in her dreams.

And the island was the basis for her last few works.

Creepsome.

The others tho' are more concerned with the fact that they've to carry their own bags the two miles up the beach to the house that they've rented.

You can tell it's going to be a long week.

"Hey sexy lady! Fancy a wee bit o' mooth shite-in?"

After what seems like days of the foursome whining and walking, intercut with Kay looking spookily off into the middle distance whilst muttering "I've been here before" they finally get to the house. David and Brooke are content to slag off the paintwork whilst Eric gives us his best rodent toothed smile when he discovers a packed drinks cabinet and a fridge stocked with Petit Filous.

Kay on the other hand is content to stand in the corner shaking like a tall and lanky ginger tree in the wind.

Settling in for an evening of Scrabble and snacks the fun is well and truly ruin before it starts by the re-appearance of Mr. Marsh, who appears to have flown all the way back to tell everyone a storm is coming and they should probably leave.

I'm not too certain but I'm sure he's using the storm as an excuse to warn them about something else, tho' why he didn't just tell them that there was a killer on the loose when they went to book it I just don't know.

Your mum's cum face, trust me I know.

Meanwhile back on the beach the local wino/fisherman/molester of young boys Terry No-Name (Gandolfo from The Sopranos probably) is busy gutting a carp whilst chatting to himself about getting either a woman or a dog for companionship (pity he's not met Kay, the best of both worlds there) but alas we never find out which he chooses because the conversation is cut short when someone puts a paddle thru' his head.

Later that evening the party are sitting on the porch sharing booze and thinly veiled insults before bedtime, Eric is slagging off his sisters paintings, David is looking concerned and nodding sagely whilst Brooke stands around looking fairly plain.

Not wanting to have too much (or any really) fun, Kay just sits there talking about the cat she had as a child.

Seems that a week after she got it the poor kittie was found in the freezer.

She blames a big monster, Eric is sure it was her.

What do you think?

Well, an hour in and the only death has been a tramp on a beach, hopefully the oncoming storm and the broken lift hatch will provide a wee bit of gore soaked entertainment soon because frankly all this artsy angst is giving me stomach ache.

And piles.

It's almost midnight and the storm rages outside, the wind and rain lashing against the window panes. David unable to sleep due to Kay's incessant farting decides to get up and have a wander around the cellar hoping to find the source of the loud banging noise.

Don't worry, it's not Eric and Brooke he's already checked.

Heading down to the basement it's not long before poor Davey boy has got his head stuck in that aforementioned hatch before getting it ripped off by some unseen assailant.

On a brighter note it does give Kay a chance to experience a Lamberto Bava based dream sequence so it's not all bad.

So many mooths, so little shite.

Waking the next morning to no sign of David (or any blood), Eric is convinced he's gone to the beach with 'all his cameras' but Kay is sure he's been murdered.

After all, she did have a severed head sex dream.

As the day goes by and David still hasn't return the terrific trio begin to worry and decide to search the island for any sign of him.

Eric takes the beach and Brooke looks in the bushes whilst Kay checks out the deserted old theatre they passed on the way to the house.

You remember, the one she painted from her dream.

"Put it in me!"

When inside it comes as no surprise to find that hanging in the upstairs room is what remains of her husband, gutted, plucked and swaying in the breeze.

Running screaming to the others it's left to Eric to take charge and find a way to survive this nightmare until help arrives from the mainland.

But who (or what) is the killer?

Could it be freaky Mr. Marsh?

Has Kay finally lost the plot and decided to act out her dreams?

Is it old man Whethers that owns the funfair?

Or has a hideous dream demon of 'laugh now' proportions escaped from Kay's subconscious to wreak terror on the island?

Insert choice of laugh or shite based caption here.

The feature debut of workaholic writer, director and producer J.S. Cardone, The Slayer is a nice little non-offensive spooky slasher that would have possibly faded into obscurity had it not been bizarrely placed on the DPP banned list during the 80's video nasty scare.

Pre-dating A Nightmare on Elm Street's dream based monster plot by a few years, Cardone (and co-writer William R. Ewing) go the psychological thriller route rather than Craven's original dream within a dream headfuck, being as they are more interested in the slowly dissolving mental state of Kay than in cheap thrills and gore but feel that the audience would be upset if it didn't feature a wee bit of both.

Whether this approach works or not is up for debate, personally I find it an enjoyable little movie, well executed, solidly written with some pretty good make up effects for such a tiny budget.

It's just a pity that there appears to be a huge charisma black hole where the lead actress should be which doesn't help with the films pacing, given as we have to endure some pretty long scenes of Sarah Kendall 'emoting' whilst staring into space.

Unfortunately, as interesting as it is, it's just too slow for it's own good and you wonder with a better cast and sharper editing what could have been achieved.

Tho' seeing as Cardone went on to direct 8MM2, Shadowhunter and Wicked Little Things as well as writing the abysmal remakes of The Stepfather and Prom Night it's probably for the best if we don't.