river shitty.

Just noticed that this fine review of an even finer film was lying unloved way back on page 346 so I thought I'd add a few Mooth Shite-In captions and repost it for a new generation of readers.


Well, it saves me having to think about anything else after that fucking SARS movie doesn't it?


Enjoy.

Nightmare City (AKA City of the Walking Dead, La Invasión De Los Zombies Atómicos, 1980).
Dir: Umberto Lenzi
Cast: Hugo Stiglitz, Laura Trotter, Francisco Rabal, Mel Ferrer, some bouncy breasts and a few other body parts usually attached to people.

In a nameless city somewhere in 'Europe' (tho' from the state of the haircuts and trousers it looks like the West Midlands circa 1985) a terrible nuclear accident has sent the populace reeling into panic.



Bouffanted and bearded ace reporter Dean Miller (Stiglitz from Alcoholics Anonymous and that film where the boat capsizes and they eat the dog ) is assigned to interview eminent scientist Otto Hagenbach (bless you) who just happens to be flying in from the accident site that very morning.



Lucky eh?



But when the plane arrives it contains not only the grey haired boffin but a cargo full of bloodthirsty, spud headed 'atomic zombies'.



'Atomic zombies' intent on murder!!

"You chase me now!"

Whilst all this scary shite is going down (as you kids say) Mrs. Miller (Trotter from Only Fools and Horses) is busy making her rounds at the local hospital (don't worry, she works there. It's not like she's skulking about chasing ambulances).



But things are a mite strange there too as she realises when visiting a young patient named Phil.



When our bubble haired heroine, trying to pass the time, innocently asks him "Well, how are you feeling today?"


His frankly worrying reply is "I feel like somebody who's waiting for the hatchet guy to chop off his head, doctor."




Which is nice, if delivered a little stiffly.




To make matters spookier, another patient, this time a small broken legged football loving wee boy, has been having nightmares about bad men cutting his leg off.





Could this be related?

Mel (not Kim).

Well there's no time to worry about such trivialities as meanwhile at a top secret army base, military top brass Major Holmes (Rabal, all rugged with a silver quiff and a sexy sculptress girlfriend) and General Murchinson (Mel "I was married to Audrey Hepburn and the alimony bill is forcing me to appear in utter shite" Ferrer) are discussing the breaking emergency.



Please join us for a fantastic piece of choice dialogue as the body of one of the attackers is being examined :




Murchison (obviously reading from cue cards): Your autopsy categorically excludes an extraterrestrial being. It's molecular structure clearly establishes him as a member of the human race. A paradox when you consider what they've been doing....



Donohue (a 'scientist'): The examination of the various tissue samples that we have taken from the body reveal a high level of radioactivity, far superior to the level normally tolerated by the human organism. In addition we have found more or less recent hyper-tissue regeneration.



Murchison (bored now): Can you make that a little simpler Colonel? Some of your colleagues may not have the same technical or theoretical background...




(what? a technical background in talking bollocks? does that exist?)



Donohue (he's making it up now): In other words this individual and others like him have been subjected to strong doses of atomic radiation which increase their physical capacities beyond the norm.



Holmes (in a way only a man of a certain age can): How far beyond the norm?



Donohue (he's on a roll!): It's impossible to say. But it is a fact that these cells, subjected to almost every treatment we know, have proven to be almost indestructible.



Holmes: In short it's a kind of superman…?



Donohue (very excitedly): Much more than that… the victims of these creatures are contaminated even if they only suffer minor injuries.....



Murchison (losing the will to live): Then they can reproduce themselves… say indefinitely?



Donohue (jumping up and down waving his hands like a loon): That more or less… is correct!



Still with us?



Good because after this fantastically written exchange Murchison elects to put plan 'H' into effect (no idea what's wrong with A thru' G), giving his men the unforgettable order to "Aim for the brain".


The race is now on to save humanity!

Mr. Potato Head need love!

Can Dean persuade the tee-vee station heads to cancel hit show 'Dance Party' and broadcast his warning to the city and still have time to rescue his wife?



Will Sheila the sculptor survive in the coal bunker?



Will Mrs. Miller (not the cult recording star, the doctor remember?) ever stop waxing philosophically about the situation or will Dean just slap her and will the once great Mel Ferrer have to spend his twilight years in the hell that is the Italian 'B' movie ?

"Touch my hairy face!"

Director Umberto Lenzi's warning against the dangers of science gone mad is (according to the director) based on 'true events'.



That's right! Lenzi reckons this really happened! and is actually proud of this film, hailing it his 'masterpiece' comparing it's plot to that of Jonathan Demme's Philadelphia for it's portrayal of the effects disease has on the populace.



The joke was on us, we thought we were watching a cheap and cheerful zombie movie, when Lenzi has actually produced a document that could change lives and save our planet!


His off screen battles to complete his vision are well documented, from producer Luis Mendez refusing to let him cast a 'name' actor in the lead role of Dean Miller (Lenzi favoured either Franco Nero or Fabio Testi whereas Mendez insisted on a Mexican lead to appeal to the movies co-funders who eventually cast alleged lush and professional hairy woodsman Stiglitz) to what appears to be an imaginary 'female executive' forcing him to tone down the films many gore scenes.

"Oi Umberto! NO!"

Unfortunately (for Lenzi) the finished film is in fact utter shite.



But for us it's one of the most enjoyable pieces of shite you'll ever see (ask Robert Rodriguez, he allegedly based his Planet Terror on this movie).



From the moment the plane lands the screen is awash with a crimson hue only a cheap blood substitute has, the rampaging 'atomic zombies' look like their heads have been covered in PVA glue and then dipped in a cesspool whilst Lenzi's latent misogynism surfaces as female character after female character all seem to trip over, whimper and lose their tops before being killed.



Stiglitz and Trotter run aimlessly around the countryside with no other purpose than to occasionally bump into a group of infected killers then run away again.



Trotter (a doctor don't forget) persuades the hairy one that a church is the best place to hide because the virus/plague/whatever won't enter the house of God.....Much to her (but not the audiences) surprise the church is full of spud-faced loons out for blood.

Mulder and Scully: the pikey years.

Exciting subplots include General Merchinson trying to get his daughter to the (relative) safety of the base whilst she'd rather go camping with her fella and the silver fox that is Major Holmes attempting to save his (almost pre-teen) girlfriend.

If I'm honest then the sight of the mahogany tanned and leathery faced Francisco Rabal running his tongue over the chest of someone young enough to be his (grand) daughter is probably the most unsettling and nightmarish thing in the whole movie meaning this image (and the sight of him in a scoop-necked too tight green 'army' t-shirt proudly displaying his curvy man-breasts) will stay with you long after the film has ended.

A leathery man yesterday.

And oh boy what an ending!

After everyone else seems to have died, the Millers escaped to a seemingly deserted fairground.

Suddenly they are surrounded by the infected....Dean and Anna head for safety atop a rollercoaster (?) the bad men in hot pursuit.

A helicopter appears on the horizon lowering a ladder the pair climb to safety, only for Mrs. Miller to lose her grip (on the ladder, not reality) and plummet to her death in a kind of floppy way only a shoddily made dummy can.

Dean screams and suddenly.....

Like I'd spoil it for you.

You'll haveta go out and buy it now, you know you want to.

the maggots have gushed forth...

Well everyone else seems to have an opinion (and a couple of those folk have even seen it) so who am I to miss a wee bit of bandwagon jumping?

On a more serious note the kids are off because of the snow so I wanted something we could watch as a family.

A Serbian Film (AKA Srpski Film. 2010).
Dir: Srdjan Spasojevic.
Cast: Srdjan Todorovic, Sergej Trifunovic, Jelena Gavrilovic, Katarina Zutic, Slobodan Bestic , Ana Sakic, Lena Bogdanovic, Luka Mijatovic and Andjela Nenadovic.

There are a load more folk too but my spell checker just had a breakdown.

"start with the little one."

Milo, former member of The Tweenies and semi-retired Serbian porn star (Todorovic, allegedly but I reckon it's really David Spade of Saturday Night Live fame) lives the good life with his beautiful wife Bela (Eastern Europe's very own council estate Famke Janssen, Gavrilovic, bless you) and their young, pretty lipped son Jake.

What he lacks financially he more than makes up for in his home life and buddy buddy relationship with his wide-faced brother, Marko (Bestic from the fantastic Serbian teevee hit Metla bez drske) , a white suited policeman with horses teeth.

Don't be too surprised to find out he's the good looking one in the family, after all they are Serbian.

But deep down our sexy friend is worried that his meagre savings wont be enough to support his family in the future and has taken to swigging Jack Daniels straight from the bottle and leaving his porn stash around for his wee boy to see.

A bit like my childhood then.

Then one day out of the blue Milo's former co-star, the frighteningly pneumatic Lejla (Zutic) contacts him with an offer he'd be hard put to refuse.

Or just hard judging by his past performances.

It appears that  bushy bearded millionaire pornographer cum artist cum in mah mooth director Max Vukmir (Trifunovic, who once made a film with Nicolas Cage) is a fan of Milo's earlier work (especially the episode where Doodles goes missing and Fizz loses her hair ribbon) and is intrigued by his legendary erection skills

Milo, it is rumoured, can keep - and maintain - a massive hard on just by thinking about it.

No big deal really, I've got one whilst I'm typing this.

"I'm shagging your weans!"

Vukmir is determined to take porn out of the gutter and into the realms of 'true art' and to this end offers Milo a huge wad of cash to be the movies star. The only rules are that Milo must remain ignorant to the films plot, never interacting with the other performers off stage as to keep his reactions 'true'.

If he agrees to these demands a car will arrive to pick him up every morning and he will be supplied with an earpiece where instructions and direction will be relayed to him.

Milo reckons that it sounds a pretty easy job for a lifetime of potatoes and Vodka (or whatever those pesky Serbians class as luxuries) so signs up straight away.

I mean none of it sounds at all sinister.

"No! I'm shagging your weans!"

A few days later (after a series of 'Rocky' still training montages intercut with shots of Marko having a wank whilst thinking of his sister-in-law) Milo is taken up the local social work offices where he's filmed reacting to a woman shouting at her daughter before being led into a room where the very same woman (I think seeing as the casting brief seems to have read 'Wanted: rough as fuck, interchangeable blonde women with builders thighs') gives him a blow job.

So far so so, if not for the fact that the room is full of giant screens showing the woman's daughter putting on bright red lipstick and sucking on a long sticky lollipop during the whole thing.

I'm assuming this has a hidden meaning but it was a wee bit too deep and intellectual for me to understand.

"And I'm watching him shagging your weans!"

Thinking to himself "Wahey! I'm getting paid to get girlie gobbles!" Milo begins to enjoy revisiting his old life until that is he's led into a room and is expected to let a battered and bruised woman touch his tadger whilst the young girl from earlier, dressed this time like Alice in Wonderland, sits and watches him.

Milo, obviously embarrassed to have his cock out in front of such a wee lassie has a major hissy fit and refuses to continue but as he goes to leave the battered bint bites down on his manhood whilst one of the crew appears from the shadows, grabbing Milo round the throat and forcing him to comply.

Milo is not a very happy chappie.

"I'm crushing your head. I'm crushing your head. Crush. Crush".

Wiping his cock on his trousers he storms off to see Vukmir, hoping to get to the bottom (fnarr) of what's going on.

It comes as a surprise to Milo (but to no-one watching) that despite the charm, well trimmed facial hair and a government contract, Vukmir is a bad man (hey! Do you think that the director is trying to say something about authority here? Maybe he's hinting that those well spoken Serbian politicians with their fancy suits and big words could really be bad men too?) and alongside his job as a minister for childcare and the like is head of an organisation that produces 'specialist porn for the more discriminating viewer.

One such project, explains Vukmir excitedly, in a scene that rivals The Mother of Tears  in it's misuse of a Baby Alive doll, involves a fat man delivering then shagging a newborn baby whilst the mother (not too surprisingly played by a rough as fuck, blonde with builders thighs) looks on approvingly.

Give me a minute whilst I fire off an angry letter to my local MP.

And Mattel.

Somewhere to park the directors bike at least.

Reeling from the shock revelation (well it's either that or he's so fucking offended that someone would attempt to pass off such a shoddy effect as being even remotely realistic) Milo stomps off to his car and drives off, not realising that Vukmir, just for a laugh, has spiked his with bull Viagra which, when given to humans (or even Serbians) creates a highly aggressive, permanently aroused sexual state that leaves the unfortunate victim open to all manner of suggestion.

No, really.

Coming over all woozy (which makes a change from having to endure shots of him coming over various, unattractive women's faces), Milo pulls over to the side of the road where almost immediately he's approached by a whorish brunette (I reckon it's the directors sister) who reaches into the car are starts fondling his cock.

Scarper! It's the parkie!"

The next thing Milo knows is that three day have passed and he's at home in his bed, encrusted in blood and semen, beaten to a pulp and with no memory of anything post the dirty bird hand job.

To most folk reading this would be a normal Saturday night, but as we've come to learn Serbia is bad (as are it's rulers, women, fashions etc.), so Milo heads back to Vukmir's pad to find out the truth.

Or at the very least find a stash of poorly hidden video tapes containing everything that's happened over the last seventy two hours.

Within minutes of arriving at Vukmir's (now deserted) house, Milo has indeed found a stash of  tapes and decides to go into the garden to view them.

Well it is a sunny day, which I gather is unusual in Serbia where it's more likely to be raining virgin's tears mixed with shame.

Armed only with a plate of egg and cress sandwiches and a weak lemon drink Milo begins his videotaped trip into terror.

High on the bull Viagra and totally under Vukmir's power, poor Milo is forced to shag the ample arse off a (you guessed it) nude yet still rough as fuck, blonde women with builders thighs (and arms) who's been thoughtfully handcuffed to a bed whilst Vukmir rants on about Serbia, Serbian war heroes, Serbian weather and Serbia in general.

Yup, I'm pretty sure all this violence is metaphorical.

This rousing speech regarding national identity is bought to a thrilling finale when Vukmir orders Milo to cut the woman's head off with a handy machete in order to allow him to experience the ecstatic joy of rigor mortis rogering.

Out of all the people in this scene she was the one I now felt the most jealous of, yes I know this poor woman has been raped and murdered but as a plus point at least she hasn't got to listen to all this teen angst political bollocks anymore.

Unlike the viewer who has at least twenty five minutes of this shite left to deal with.

Tape two consists of footage of Milo, off his tits, naked and chained face down on a sofa bed being anally violated by a hunky blond man.

So not all bad then.

Gerry McCann was shocked to find his cupboard was bare.

Pausing only to wipe the blood from his arse, Milo tentatively loads the final tape and finds himself looking at Lejla bound by the wrists and hanging in the middle of the set from Hostel, her face swollen and bloodied from having all her teeth removed.

Just like the Serbian government removed workers rights to vote on International X Factor or something.

Probably.

Suddenly a granddad-panted man with a bin bag on his head enters the room and forces his cock (well an obviously rubber representation of one) down her throat until she suffocates.

Milo is visibly stunned by what is revealed on the tapes.

How could Vukmir lie about making art porn with proper plots when he's really producing so-so, been there, seen that torture porn that went out of fashion around five years ago?

But that'll have to wait as there's only fifteen minutes left and there's plenty more buggery fun to fit in before then.

His memory returning thanks to the tapes, Milo begins to remember more and more details about his missing days.

And frankly it doesn't get any more entertaining.

Or interesting.

Srdjan Todorovic, up the arse, Serbia, 2010....he fucking wishes.

 After being dragged off the street where a gang of teenagers have caught him having a wank in an alley, Milo is taken back to Vukmir's where he's given even more drugs before being taken into a huge white lit room.

The room is empty save for a big bed where two bodies, all covered save their arses, one peachy and one fairly scrawny are waiting for him.

Milo is told to take his pick.

Deciding to take the easy (and more rounded) bottom first Milo  opts for the big round one, pulling his best stroke face and grunting whilst what sounds like a disco version of the theme to The Terminator pounds from the soundtrack.

I take it that this is meant to be fairly serious and a mite disturbing then.

Oh well.

 His boots might have been made for walking but his mooth was definitely made for shite-ing in.

Finishing up with a loud squish Milo hops over and gets to work on the smaller of the two bums, whilst the mysterious Y-Fronted masked man from earlier enters the scene and the (by now soggy seconded) first arse, grinning and groaning as he humps away.

Removing his mask at the moment of climax, Milo is shocked (well as shocked as a junked up arse raper can be) to see his brother grinning back at him, but that's not the worst of it, for the bottom that both of the sleazy siblings have just violated belongs to none other than Milo's wife, off her (fairly attractive) tits on a massive cocktail of drugs administered by the villainous Vukmir.

Surely this powerful and disturbing scene shows the "monolithic power of leaders who hypnotise you to do things you don't want to do"?

Well according to the film's ruddy faced, leather box jacketed writer Aleksandar Radivojevic it does and he wrote E-Snuff and reviewed a couple of horror films once so he knows a thing or two about, erm, stuff.

My personal opinion is that he's a huge fan of Japanese guro manga artist Uziga Waita from whose work huge chunks of A Serbian Film's imagery seems to have been lifted from wholesale.

Or am I the only person to notice this?

"To me!" "To you!"

Anyways, back to the 'plot' and as Milo tries to process what he's just seen (and done) he notices the covered figure beneath him start to stir.

Slowly pulling back the covers Milo is horrified to see that he's spent the last ten or so minutes shagging his own son up the shitter in a scene that could almost be seen as a stark visualisation of the molestation of the Serbian populace by the faceless Serbian government.

Well if you listen to Radivojevic (again) I'm sure that's what he'll tell you.

And if you're easily led (and easily pleased) you'll probably nod sagely and agree with him.

Rather than telling him to get to fuck, finishing your drink and leaving.

So with Milo finally realising the full horror of the situation, his mind snapping as he's dragged kicking and screaming back to reality the full base energy of a man betrayed comes to the fore, fuelling and act of savage violence not seen since Milan Stanković performed Ovo Je Balkan in Oslo to a mildly apathetic audience in early 2010....

After months of rumours, cancelled showings, moral outrage and reviews using words like 'resonance' and 'transgressive', the cinematic equivalent of two middle-class teenagers left home alone for the weekend and deciding to amuse themselves by shouting "Cunt!" at passers-by is here.

Billed by it's distribution company, Revolver Entertainment as 'an uncompromising, artistic and political statement from a unique film-making vision' rather than the more honest 'It wants to be a wee bit like a lobotomised Old Boy but with a uniformly uglier cast', A Serbian Film is one of the few cinematic experiences that has ever left me with no feelings toward it whatsoever.

Like an angry child it tries to act and sound like an adult as it screams and shouts in the corner, it's shrill voice getting louder and louder as it demands your attention.

But on taking time out to listen you realise it really has nothing to say. 

Unlike writer Radivojevic and director Spasojevic who quite cleverly (and/or cynically) have manage to wrap their movie up in a big shitey bow made up of all the bad bits of recent Serbian history, hoping that some of it will stick to as many wannabe intellectual journalists as possible and lessen the duo's chances of getting found out as the second rate hacks they really are.


Spasojevic is quoted as saying that "You have to feel the violence to know what it’s about".

Well if this is the case then I'm sorry but he's never been kicked hard enough.


But with him being in the public eye at the moment his chance may come sooner than he thinks.

I do hope so.

hess is more.

Good news for fans of 'the films' north of the border as the spooky and ooky Jekyll & Hyde bar (112 Hanover St Edinburgh) along with Cult Fiction Movies have announced an evening in the company of the legendary horror badman and guitar twirling recording star Sir David of Hess, star of Wes Craven's The Last House on the Left and the magnificent Swamp Thing.

Taking place on Sunday 14th March (from now on known as David Day) from 6pm onwards this is your chance to eat, drink and share a chat or two with the Hess-master himself (tho' the chances of him taking you out into the streets to kidnap and murder a couple of teens is pretty low) so get your tickets NOW.

Well I say now but read the rest of the blog first obviously, I've just added some new stuff.

If that wasn't enough to stir your loins then the fact that badboy Johnny himself, the legend that is Giovanni Lombardo Radice (Cannibal Ferox, House By The Edge Of The Park, City of The Living Dead and Cannibal Apocalypse) will also be in attendance should send you into urine soaked fits of schoolgirl like excitement.

And breath.

rainy wine house.

Been re-arranging the shelves here to make way for even more of those faintly terrifying Littlest Petshop toys that our twin terror Midwich Cuckoos have become obsessed with of late. The Cassatron was quite happily minding his own business, playing with his new Devilman action figure when he dragged this out from behind a pile of Shaw Brothers VCD's.

It was then I realized that he's managed to turn three without ever seeing a Jean Rollin movie. A situation that needed remedying straight away.

Emily: Really knows her stuff, allegedly.

Luckily this one has a train in it so it's a wee bit like Thomas the Tank Engine.

Only with better looking breasts obviously.

Tho' Emily does have really kissable lips.

Les Raisins de la mort (AKA Pesticide, The Grapes of Death, The Raisins of Death. 1978).
Dir: Jean Rollin.
Cast: Marie George Pascal, Felix Marten, Serge Marquand, Mirella Rancelot, Patrice Valota, Patricia Cartier, Brigitte Lahaie, Olivier Rollin and what looks like Noel Fielding.

Button nosed elfin-esque cutie Elizabeth (Pascal, previously seen as Carla in the fantastic I Am Frigid... Why?) is taking a rail holiday with her blonde haired buck toothed pal thru' the quaint French countryside. Taking in the scenery and giggling like a pair of schoolies, the couple are having a wonderful time until a strange French bloke (is there any other type?) with a half chewed caramel for a face bursts into their compartment and kills Elizabeth's plain friend.

Which is lucky seeing as I don't think Cass could've bared to look at such a freakish woman for ninety minutes, I mean he's only little.

In an action sequence that would make Bond proud Elizabeth quickly jumps off the (slow moving) train and runs like buggery along the train tracks toward a small village she noticed a few miles back.

Will she be safe?

Well it wont spoil anything to say that upon arrival she finds herself surrounded by a whole community of chewed faced Frenchies brandishing pitchforks in one hand and bottles of cheap wine in the other so I guess the answer is no.

But thinking about it it would have made for a really short movie had she turned up, told the local copper and had Mr. Melty arrested, which is probably why my scripts end up unsold.

"Can you smell petrol?"

Deciding the best thing to do is hide till everyone in the village is too drunk to walk, Elizabeth dunks into a ramshackle cottage only to be accosted by a melted faced mentalist who, without even a hello (or a sleazy chat up line) tries to kill her.

So that's the secret of the Frenchman's success with women.

Running away (again - it's a good job she's a fit lass) Elizabeth ends up hiding out in a deserted hilltop ruin where she comes across a strangely attractive, gingery blind girl (the fluffily pillow breasted Rancelot, obviously auditioning for a part in a The Beyond tribute act) who, it turns out used to live in the village before all the crazy stuff started.

"Eye hen".

After swapping make up tips (as women do) the pair decided to head back to the village for a nosy about.

Which is when things start to get really freaky.

And I don't just mean the distinct lack of nudity (or the presence of a plot) which is normally an alien concept in a Jean Rollin.

Or the fact that seemingly out of the blue former porn star Brigitte Lahaie turns up, all tight shirted and bouncy haired in order to crucify then behead poor Rancelot leaving Elizabeth no choice but to (you guessed it) run away.

You see, it turns out that someone has been spraying an experimental pesticide on the grapes used to make the local wine, turning most of the French populace into scab faced, violent tempered loons.

Please note how I resisted adding a witty comment here.

Wandering around the barren hilltops looking for help, Elizabeth discovers the most disturbing thing all all regarding the infection when it appears that not everyone contaminated is affected in the same way. Yes there are those odd few that stumble around, arms outstrecthed as the lurch toward their victims but then there are others that are still able to think rationally about their condition, even going as far as feeling remorseful at what the infection is forcing them to do.

Elizabeth however has no time for touchy feely French types and usually just runs away screaming before they start crying on her.

Or try to run her thru' with a pitchfork obviously.

"Le cheap French Vino in mah mooth monsieur!"

Fearing accusations of being an anti-monster bigot, Elizabeth also takes to screaming at any uninfected folk that she comes across too, which always seems to alert any passing madmen to their presence, meaning that these unfortunates usually end up on the wrong end of some pointy farm tool wielded by a dribbling sponge-faced foreigner.

Tho' luckily not the band.

After what seems like days of (non nude, non lesbian vampire filled) wanderings, she eventually meets up with a couple of high waisted, wellie wearing farmers who've amazingly managed to avoid the infection because, gulp, they hate the taste of wine, prefering beer instead.

How's that for luck?

But just as it seems Elizabeth’s luck is about to change and she's excitedly looking forward to a hot, dribbly sausage or two inside her, a bizarre series of coincidences and obvious plot twists happen, bringing her into contact with her (until now) unseen boyfriend.

Will he save the day (and our oh so cute heroine)?

Look to all intents and purposes this is a zombie movie, so what do you think?

Fuck me! It's Noel Fielding!

No matter how threadbare or cheese ridden his movies are, you can't help but love Jean Rollin. He's like the comudgenly old uncle you only saw at Christmas, you know the one that always gave you Victorian Erotic postcards instead of birthday cards and, after he'd got you to admit how attractive you found the breasts on show would laughingly inform you that it's a picture of your Great Granny.

Second only to the incredible Zombie Lake, Les Raisins de la mort is Rollin at his most accessable and audience friendly, owing more than a nod to Jorge Grau's fantastic Living Dead at the Manchester Morgue and Romero's The Crazies rather than his Night of The Living Dead.

When it does feel the need to steal from Romero's classic however it uniquely does so in reverse, whereas Night's cast are trapped inside a farmhouse fighting for survival, Raisins Elizabeth is stranded on the windswept hilltops of rural France, the long lingering shots of Elizabeth alone and frightened make a startling counterpoint to the claustrophobic close-ups of the infected shuffling slowly from various dilapidated houses as the sun sets.

Some grapes (of death) earlier today.

Above all else tho', Les Raisins de la mort is not only classic Rollin but classic Eurohorror to boot, pre-dating (and pissing on from a great height) modern virus based shockers like 28 days later by almost 30 years and finally proving that Rollin was (and still is) capable of making a damn fine horror movie without having to resort to scantily clad, small chested lesbo vampires with dirty feet.

Tho' I'll be the first to admit tho', there is something warm and tingly about seeing them occasionally.

Especially if it's this pair:

Be seeing you.

mind your language.

Invaders of The Lost Gold (AKA Horror Safari, Safari of No Return, Greed 1982).
Dir: Alan Birkinshaw.
Cast: Stuart Whitman, Edmund Purdom, Woody Strode, Laura Gemser, Harold Sakata, David De Martyn and Glynis Barber.

Warning! none of this happens
during the course of the movie!

The year is 1945 and somewhere deep within the lush, verdant jungles of the Philippines a crack squad of (really sweaty) Japanese soldiers and their native minions are carrying huge wooden crates of gold to the coast where it will be shipped back to Japan to help the war effort.

All is going to plan until the (frighteningly bare arsed) local cannibal tribe decide it would be a good laugh to jump out of the bushes and start firing arrows at the unfortunate soldiers before beheading them and dancing about with the said heads on poles.

Which is nice.

Damn good head.

After an out of focus minor skirmish the Japanese that still have their heads attached run away and hide the gold under a pile of leaves in a handy nearby cave before beating a hasty retreat back to the Holiday Inn or wherever they've come from. Before leaving tho' they make a vow to one day return together to retrieve the booty.

Without warning we suddenly jump forward in time 36 years to join weaselly Englishman Rex Larsen ('B' movie ne'er was Purdom) as he cruises the mean streets of Tokyo looking for the three surviving soldiers to 'persuade' them to take him to the caves so he can get his stinky little mitts on the gold.

Things aren't going that well for poor Rex tho' as a mix of bad manners (and bad luck) means that he killed the first soldier he came across (oops) and the second one he spoke to committed Hari Kari (must be his aftershave or his rotten fish breath).

"Oi! Purdom! get in mah belly!"

Luckily the surviving squadie, Mr. Tobachi is always looking for ways to fund his pie habit and offers to lead a team to the cave for a very generous 30% and all the cakes he can eat.

All that's left now is to get Brit Toff Douglas Jefferson (De Martyn in his only big screen role. Shame) to put up the cash for the expedition and pick a motley band of adventurers to head out into the jungle to retrieve the gold. Rex is very annoyed to hear that Jefferson is insisting on using piss stained mercenary Mark Forrest (one time star and full time alcoholic Troy Tempest lookalike Stuart Whitman) to lead the team, it appears Rex and Mark have a history (but not of the sexy kind) and the thought of having to share a tent with him has left Rex all riled.

"If I lie on mah hand till it goes numb
I can pretend it's wee Jimmy Krankie's".

Cut to grainy (well grainier than the rest of the film) footage of sexy bar signs and slinky hipped oriental girls dancing badly. In between the baying sailors and bespectacled tourists is our hero Mark slumped over a bottle of finest J & B and dribbling like a baby.

Enter Cal (Strode), Mr. Jefferson's right hand man sent to find Forrest and offer him a deal. Pausing only to admire the dancers stomach muscles his enjoyable night out is spoiled by one of the group of sailors standing in front of him turning round and uttering the immortal (and possibly offensive line) "Check out the big black bastard here!".

A big black (bald) bastard yesterday.

Ignoring the barrage of thinly veiled insults as he bops along to the glorious disco sounds Cal finally loses his cool when one of the sailors admits to 'not liking niggers' causing the until now calm Cal to become a frenzied fight machine intent on kicking the absolute shite out of anything and anyone near him.

This is enough to sober up Mark who decides to join in.

Mark attempts his party stopping Kinga impression.

Waking in the cells all snuggled up the next morning Mark and Cal have a quick chat about jungle trips before bidding their farewells and going their separate ways. Mark however is interrupted a few hours later still drunk and mid shandy by Jefferson clutching a wad of cash.

Before Mark gets the wrong idea Jefferson explains that the money is to secure his services as team leader for the expedition. Mark hiccups and drops off to sleep in a warm bed of his own urine.

"Mooooooooooooooon!"

Jefferson has only one option left open to him and that's to send his beautiful young daughter Janice (Glynis - Dempsey and Makepiece - Barber in a shocking wig) to seduce Mark into coming.

On the jungle trip obviously.

"Sing Lofty!"

Well this seems to do the trip as next thing we known he's standing on the bow of a boat in all his safari shirted, open necked, man breasted glory as a team of stereotypical natives carry tins of peaches and condensed milk onboard.

One of the party appears to have there own (evil) agenda tho' and if that wasn't enough, Mark's ex girlfriend the sultry Maria (purring pussycat Gemser) and her chubbie hubbie are acting (if that's not too strong a word) as guides for the team.

With this mix of ex minxes, jolly Japs, evil Englishmen and alcoholic Americans what could possibly go wrong?

David Yip, up the casino, Brighton, 1986.

They've only just finished setting up base camp before the horrible (and 'accidental') deaths begin. First up Maria's fat hubby is killed by a snake (after first embarrassingly having a tent collapse on top of him) then a nameless man is killed in slow motion by a photo of a crocodile (or five photo's of a crocodile in a jammed, second hand Viewmaster, tho' it may have been an alligator the picture was so scratchy it was hard to tell) and Rex disappears (whilst shaving no less).

The new Ronco cock in a box available now!

Mark, between bouts of drinking and sticking it in Janice decides that the merry gang should stick together in case anyone else suffers a mysterious accident which is Maria's cue to go skinny dipping (she's already disappointed us by not having a big sexy lesbian shagfest - as she does in every other one of her movies - with Glynis so this is the next best thing).

Somewhere to park your bike at least.

After a good (and I do mean good) ten minutes of Lovely Laura frolicking about in the water the soundtrack goes all sinister, the picture all grainy and slow-mo and Ms. Gemser starts screaming as an unseen horror does bad things to her under the water.

Or something.

Anyway the next thing we know she's lying face down in a puddle, her arse shivering in the cold air as Cal shoots at something strange in the trees.

"It's Chriiiiiiiiiisssssttttttmmmmaassssssss!"

Now everything has gone to Hell in a handbasket (I still have no idea what that means), Mr. Tobachi is sweatily blaming Cal, Mark is feverishly searching for a bottle of scotch to dull the pain of the script and Cal is playing guitar as Janice and her dad stand around looking like right tits in their pith helmets.

But the quest for the gold must continue tho' as there's still 25 minutes left on the running time (not to mention that seeing as there are less folk now it means the survivors will get more cash) but will any of them make it out alive?

Will Cal fall off a rope bridge and fall to his death in a 'bottomless' 15 feet deep cravas?

Will Jefferson end up skewered like a big leathery posh kebab?

Will Tobachi ever have a full tummy and will the cannibals re-appear to protect their sacred land?

You'll have to see Invaders of The Lost Gold to find out (the answer is rather upsettingly no to the last one by the way).

Same shit, different smell.

Invaders of the Lost Gold is one of those unique movies that transcends it's simple, cack handed film making roots to become something so much more.

You actually begin to feel sorry for the cast and crew as the film plays out it's threadbare plot, taking the obvious pain and hurt in their eyes as your own, every disappointed glance and hungover action begins to affect you on a personal level, almost as if you been the victim of some cruel crime from which you suffer waking nightmares and flashbacks.

"Put it in me!....oh wait somebody already did".

After a gung ho opening that offers us guns, gold and gory cannibal action the film jumps forward in time and grinds to a halt never regaining its momentum as it's unfortunate cast are forced to deliver cliched line after cliched line whilst wandering around the directors garden in the vain hope we'll think they're in the jungle.

Minutes of valuable screen time is used showing the cast erecting brightly coloured garden party marquees on freshly cut grass whilst chatting inanely about about the green jungle hell and the dangers therein when (as viewers will testify) the only danger facing anyone is the danger of Stuart Whitman collapsing from too much drink, his puffy red eyes and hideously sun burnt neck reminding one of the old tramp you always find sprawled out in the local kiddies play park on hot summer days.

Standby for (tongue) action!

True, there are some scenes of genuine horror in the movie but they inadvertently are the ones where the geriatric and bloated Whitman is giving it full on tongue action with the fresh faced Glynis Barber. You can almost hear the strain of his trousers as he gets more excited than he has for years (or at least since his last drink) and this image if nothing else will haunt me till the day I die. Add to that the fact that this was made the same year as Raiders of The Lost Ark and you can be guaranteed a chill down your spine just thinking about it, I mean what was director Alan Birkinshaw on?

Whatever it was he must have continued taking them seeing as he followed up this classic with the terrifying straight to video hell that is The Best of Gilbert and Sullivan (featuring one time Master Peter Pratt) and the star studded An Orchestral Tribute to the Beatles (?) before 'modernizing' a couple of Edgar Allen Poe and Agatha Christie stories and redeeming himself with three episodes of the fantastic Gerry Anderson 'cops in space' show Space Precinct.

His last known whereabouts was directing the German Teevee series Die Unbestechliche in 1997.

He's been missing ever since.

It's just a pity this film isn't.

But saying that, if you follow this blog chances are you'll love it.

I know I did.

i am me.

Long ago when the universe was less than half it's present size there was a very late Friday night ritual in Unwell towers which involved watching the late lamented Dating Channel and making disparaging comments about the people begging for sex.

Between the amusing Drambue fellow and the scary old Welshman who ran away to London to escape working in the mines was a super suave (his words) 'film director' by the name of Kai Murphy whose intellectual musings (such as repeating "I am.....me". for what seemed like an eternity) brought such joy and meaning to our otherwise empty lives.

Well it's been five years but I've finally managed to track this elusive man down and it seems he directed his own Dating Channel segment whilst getting paid to film other peoples the cheeky scamp!

No news on his dream of making 12 different films in 12 different countries (shame on you sir) but he is running his own production company with an amusing name.

You can view his website here and, if you feel that way inclined send him tonnes of email asking why he decided to cancel his (exciting sounding) world wide film project.

Alternatively you can add him on Facebook (he's the first two profiles under Kai Murphy).

happy easter readers!

when cosplay goes bad (part one).

Using bin bags, electrical tape and washing up gloves does not make you Cutie Honey.

momma told me not to come.

Big Bad Momma (1974)
Dir: Steve Carver
Cast: Angie Dickinson, William Shatner, Tom Skerritt, Susan Sennett, Robbie Lee, Noble Willingham, Dick Miller, Royal Dano.

"Hot Lead, Hot Cars, Hot Dames, Hot Damn!"

In the hot and dusty depression era of the good ol' US of A (California to be precise) very merry widow and working mum Wilma McClatchie (Dickinson) is having a hard time with the thought of her youngest daughter Polly (Lee) getting hitched to such a boring guy so decides, aided by her other daughter Billie Jean (Sennett) and close family friend 'Uncle' Barney ( Willingham) , to drag Polly out of the church just before the "I do's", jilting the groom at the altar.

Bizarrely they manage to run foul of the FBI and in the ensuing gun battle, Barney gets himself shot (to death) leaving Wilma to take over his successful bootlegging empire.

You would, your dad would,
the Shat already has done. Twice.

But this is just the beginning of the families decent into crime, next on the list of misdemeanors is a wee bit of thieving (as they say round here) after Wilma stumbles in on her daughters performing a sexy striptease for a gaggle of buck toothed, sweaty palmed, greasy war veterans.

To ease her conscience (and to calm herself down after seeing her sweet innocent daughters leered at by so many freaks) Wilma decides to run of with the veterans cash and before too long has teamed up with mustachioed heart throb and housewives choice Fred (Skerritt - whom they meet when they’re attempting to rob the very same bank as he is) and the sexy, white suited Southern gentleman Baxter (The great god of love himself, Lord William of Shatner) to start her own crime syndicate.

Her mission?

To rob, cheat, steal, shag and raise enough cash to keep her daughters in skimpy outfits for life.

Which seems fair enough to me.

Shatner mooth.

Baxter very quickly becomes Wilma’s 'lover' (well it is the Shat so what do you expect?) giving the director an excuse to show the great man naked, sweaty and thrusting at Teevee's 'Police Woman' Dickinson (also naked but frankly who cares?) on a squeaking bed, his muscular torso bathed in electric blue moonlight.

Why is Angie looking angry?
Cos William Shatner!

But I digress....anyway petty jealousies cause Baxter and Fred to argue a bit (it seems Fred has a soft spot for dear old Wilma...ah sweet) sending Fred into the arms (and magnificently oiled thighs) of both her daughters.

At once.

Jammy sod.

"Rock on Tommy (gun)".

But not to worry, their are still loads of wallets that need lifting, corrupt coppers to run rings round and arrogant upper classes to better and because Wilma and her clan are so loyal to each other (plus not to mention sexy and resourceful) they become heroes to the down trodden common folk (who don't have any cash - or teeth- to steal).

Unfortunately tho' everything goes pear shaped when the boys botch a kidnapping attempt leaving poor Wilma to take the rap.....

Will she live to fight (or steal?) another day?

Self censorship rules.

Produced by exploitation king Roger Corman, Big Bad Mama is probably one of his best loved projects and although Steve (director of the Pam Grier gladiator epic The Arena) Carver's direction may be workman-like at best and the film has very little in the way of plot or character development but it more than makes up for its faults by utilising a top notch cast (how big Rog managed to secure so many 'real' actors is still a mystery to me) and then getting them to unashamedly strip butt naked at the drop of a hat.

Dickinson (who caused a wee bit of a scandal at the time by daring to do nude scenes at the age of 43) is fantastic in the title role, playing the part of the honest to goodness mother hen to her daughters with balls of steel to perfection and is ably assisted by Skerritt and Shatner with both actors giving their all to what is effectively a schlocky crime flick with breasts and arses (some of them even belonging to ladies) plenty.

Shatner especially seems to think he's appearing in King Lear, oblivious to the trashy campness that surrounds him which makes his arch performance as bankrupt perv William J. Baxter such a joy to behold.

She can see you naked.

Full of his typical charm and intensity; Bill hits a career best with a performance to rival his role as evil racist Adam Cramer in The Intruder (another Corman quickie) and proves once again why we love him so much.

At the other end of the scale Tom Skerritt is his usual serious self, underplaying the nice but dim Fred to perfection.

Dickinson: Cheap as chips.

Big Bad Momma is a must for any Corman devotee, Shatner worshipper and anyone with a thing for the slightly more mature lady. The film delivers on its promise of lashings of sex and violence plus the chance to experience Captain Kirk stark bollok naked.

What's not to like?