Tuesday, August 30, 2016

sick squid.

Bizarrely enough this is one of those movies that I'd never gotten around to seeing until, well today actually. I remember seeing clips of it on Clapperboard with Chris Kelly (as in he hosted it, he wasn't babysitting me or anything dodgy) and thinking it looked sensational tho' in my defense I was 7 at the time.

"Clap mah board you magnificent wee bastards!"

Tentacles (AKA Tentacoli, 1977).
Dir: Ovidio G. Assonitis (AKA Oliver Hellman).
Cast: John Huston, Shelley Winters, Bo Hopkins, Henry Fonda, Delia Boccardo, Cesare Danova, Claude Akins, Alan Boyd, Franco Diogene, Marc Fiorini and
Sherry Buchanan.

 "Will, I've heard the suckers on a tentacles are like the claws on a tiger."
"Compared to suckers on a tentacle, claws are nothing Mr. Turner."

Welcome to the hip n' happening saucy seaside resort of Solana Beach where men are men and the women are hideously overdubbed in an makeshift shed to hide their Italian origins.

One such woman is busy adjusting her lippy as her frighteningly chubby baby bounces in it's buggy.

How sweet.

She soon however sees her best friend pull up on the opposite side of the road and in a move that even the McCann's would baulk at abandons her baby at trots off for a wee chat.

As the pals happily natter away we can only watch as the baby bounces happily in the background (tho' to be honest he's huge so wouldn't be that hard to spot) before promptly disappearing as a bus goes by causing a bout of mild indifference in the parent.

Meanwhile over at the docks we're introduced to 'salty' Stan the sailor man and his shiny peg leg as he, alongside his tight-shorted sidekick Erasmus prepare their boat for a wee fishing trip.

But all this dockside polishing is hard work (ask your mum) and Erasmus soon wanders of for a sandwich leaving poor Stan to get tugged overboard by an unseen assailant.

Don't worry tho' he soon turns up (well bits of him do) bobbing about in the ocean as a fat lady in a tiny red bikini attempts to get a greasy rat-like guy to put it in her.

Who says romance is dead?

"Laugh now!"

Enter (gently tho' he's 71 and may hurt his back) top journalist type 'Newsworthy' Ned Turner (cinema god Huston, wishing he hadn't bought that second holiday home) who's convinced that the recent deaths are somehow related to the massive tunnel being dug out at sea by the amusingly monikered Trojan Tunnels PLC.

The local sheriff (Akins from loads of stuff, go look him up if you like, I'll still be here when you get back) agrees.

His reason?

"That tunnel that they're building is using equipment Buck Rogers couldn't dream up!"

Which seems fair enough.

Fuck the deaths and discussions where are the old men in dresses? I hear you cry, well don't worry as the next scene features Huston wandering around the house in a christening gown smoking a cigar, his ickle fin legs sticking out of the bottom like stubbly matchsticks as his sister Tillie (Winters....how the heck did Assonitis get this cast?) poses provocatively around the house for his amusement.

One tearful wank and a Pot Noodle later (well I'm only flesh and blood) and we're back to the plot good and proper with an autopsy of the unfortunate Stan.

It appears that whatever killed him tore of most of his flesh before chowing down of his cartilage and finally guzzling all his marrow, leading our heroes to phone an underwater expert to see if he has any clue as to what's going on.

With Richard Dreyfuss busy in rehab it's left to famed oceanographer and whale trainer Will Gleason (Teevee stalwart and father of Anthony, Bo Hopkins) to step into the fray.

Unfortunately it looks like he'll only be able to assist from afar seeing as a recent case of the bends has left him unable to even dip his toes in water without fear of exploding.

As a plus point it does mean that he and his sharp-faced wife Vicky (Boccardo from the classic Secret of the Sahara Teevee Mini-Series) will get a free holiday out of it so it's not all bad plus being so well renowned he can easily send two no-mark extras out to sea to have a nosy around in his place.

Which means more food for whatever's munching its way thru the cast so everyone's a winner really.

"Hello French Polishers? You might just be able to save my life!"

Not everyone is so happy at the thought of Gleason's arrival tho', especially the head of Trojan (and purveyor of Buck Rogers style drilling equipment) Mr Farley Whitehead (Fonda, Mel Ferrer was busy).

Could chemicals/radiation/out of date peaches released by his sinister multinational be to blame for the recent deaths?

In any other movie the answer would be yes but in a bizarre twist of logic (and due in all probability to dear old Henry only being available for a single afternoons shooting) the only thing they've done wrong is forget to forward the paperwork to head office to say that they've started drilling a week early.

But who cares about dead Italian extras when there's a regatta to organize?

Especially when Tillie's son Tommy and his urine obsessed pal Jamie are entering.

The race that is not each other.

"How much for a mooth shite-in?"

Meanwhile back at the main plot Will is pining for his whales so decides to attempt to woo his wife into indulging his animal passions instead, unfortunately she has a sailing trip to go on (alongside her sister, a hunky man with high hair and bizarrely enough a fat Mexican played to comic perfection by the fantastic Franco Diogene, who after sporting cinema's biggest underpants ever in Andrea Bianchi’s Strip Nude For Your Killer is rewarded here with the world's tiniest swimming trunks) so leaves our hero dazed, confused and with his meager erection in his ladylike hands.

As luck would have it she gets stuck in the toilet and misses the boat leaving it up to Sherry Buchanan (she of Zombi Holocaust fame) to supply the bikini clad sexiness (alongside some top racist fatphobia) for a few minutes before the three are eaten whole.

Well not the fat guy obviously, that takes a few more bites.

Whilst all this sea-based tomfoolery is going down, Will and company make a startling discovery.

And it's not that they're stuck in a terminally dull Italian Jaws rip-off with delusions of entertainment value.

Which would be quite nice if I'm honest, I mean the rest of the film could be taken up with the American cast desperately calling their agents whilst the yumsome Buchanan lounges about in a tiny bikini.

But alas it's not that interesting or arousing.

But it is fairly funny.

Turns out that the drilling is so loud that it's annoyed an octopus that lives near by causing him to lose sleep and go a wee bit mental, killing anyone he thinks is related to the project.

Just like octopi are known not to do.

Well glad that's settled.

Here come the Belgians!

By this point you can tell that the movie is beginning to hurtle (lurch?) toward an action packed climax as Will's wife and her pals are quickly munched by the monster whilst the Sheriff runs around in a vain attempt to shut off the coastline before anyone else dies.

Unfortunately in all the excitement he appears to have forgotten to cancel the regatta.


So the scene is set for an ocean-based blood(less) bath as the boats set sail, everyone aboard clutching walkie talkies specifically tuned to an octopus-baiting frequency (how lucky is that) whilst the rest of the town sit on the beach and watch a shit clown tell even shitter jokes totally oblivious to what's going on.

But best of all tho' is the fact that all of this plays out to a big band remix of  Stelvio Cipriani's theme from What Have They Done to Your Daughters? on an almost constant loop.

No really.

I mean when the composer can't be arsed coming up with some new music for a movie what chance do the rest of us have?

To be fair tho' he was kinda busy at the time scoring such classics as  The Great Alligator and Piranha II: The Spawning.

I almost expected the octopus to burst out of the water on a motorbike, slashing at the competitors with a huge knife whilst taking candid pics of underage girls in bikini's.

Saying that it's a thought I often have anyway.

Buchanan: Gallery.

Will our heroes be able to stop the octopus and it's reign of rampaging revenge before the race has finished?

Will our heroes wife be stupid enough to go out to sea to look for her missing sister only to be eaten in a scene directly riffed from Jaws?

Will John Huston vanish from the film entirely after realizing it's beyond saving leaving poor old Bo Hopkins to face the creature alone (apart from a couple of Killer Whales that is)?

Will Henry Fonda ever forgive his agent?

And Will Shelley Winters please stop showing her arse?

Most famous (around here anyway) for 'co-directing' the best sequel James Cameron ever made - the aforementioned Piranha II: The Spawning, Ovidio G. Assonitis takes Jaws as a template for his octo-based 'orror but decides (wisely or unwisely depending on your tolerance to pain) to replace that movies taunt pacing and genuine scares with endless shots of people chatting behind shrubbery, inappropriate kazoo use and Shelley Winters in a variety of ever lager hats intercut with scenes of a baby octopus nonchalantly nudging a toy boat in a bath.

Genius or madman?

You decide.

But (try to) ignore all that and stick with it to the bitter end and you'll be rewarded by the awesome sight of a visibly drunk (and somewhat aroused) Bo Hopkins tearfully flirting (via radio mike) with a couple of whales before sending them off to do battle with the films titular terror and all this is (frighteningly realistically) achieved by attacking a baby octopus with two handmade felt rod puppets.

But probably only because it was too much hard work to catch the real thing.

Oh yes and find a bath big enough to film it in.

Essential viewing for fans of Shelley Winters in hats.

Sunday, August 28, 2016

spain oddity.

Remember the craptastic Ghosts of Sherwood and how I thought I'd never seen a movie quite so shockingly awful ever again?

I was wrong.

So terribly, terribly wrong.

Total Retribution (aka Earthkiller, 2011)
Dir: Andrew Bellware.
Cast: Robin Kurtz, Walter Barnes, Joe Beuerlein, the directors family and friends, your dad.

“humanity will end itself”

The time?

The future (sometime just after lunch possibly),

The place?

High above a children's sandpit.

The audience attention grabbing situation?

Well that'll be the sight of a milky thighed woman falling from the sky as the words “humanity will end itself” play out in a loop.

Now I'm intrigued.

Especially seeing as she's a ginger.

Crashing to earth in a burst of special effects of the kind not seen since I last booted up my Atari 2600 our mysterious heroine is soon found by two portly gypsies dressed in their dad's work overalls (and their little sister's Harry Potter cosplay capes) who appear to have an unhealthy interest in the huge chocolate coin she's wearing around her little bird-like neck.

It can't be that they're hungry so it must have another significance.

It's like a nursery school adaptation of Hardware but with pound shop glitter and glue replacing, well everything really.

Here come The Belgians!

Jumping forward two hundred years (well that's what it says on the caption) we find the very same woman now completely naked and standing in what seems to be a stationary cupboard aboard a high-tech space station that appears to have been rendered by a hook handed child on a V-Tech look and learn tablet.

Luckily she still has the chocolate coin tho.

The woman (whom we discover is named Helen and portrayed with all the charisma of a - fairly - annoyed geography teacher by Robin Kurtz who, truth be told is the nearest the movie will get to having a bona fide actor on screen so make the most of it), bored with standing around shivering in the obviously cold set (trust me you can tell) decides to have a wee peek outside the cupboard just in time to see a guard shot herself in the head amid a pile of Kwik Fit overalled corpses.

There's no time to rest tho' (or even admire the shoddily constructed cardboard sets) as no sooner has the poor woman's head hit the ground when a rag tag couple of military types turn up to wax lyrically about death and 'the scriptures'.

As you do.


With the set not being that big - and with Helen being fairly tall - our naked pal is soon forced out of hiding and into a playground style Mexican standoff with the soldiers before everyone involved gets bored and goes their own way, the duo off into a darkened corridor and Helen straight ahead giving the director a chance to linger on her brightly lit - albeit frighteningly skinny - arse.

It's not all religious chat and nudity tho' as Helen is soon back to her old hiding tricks when she stumbles across a couple of over enunciating maintenance men deep in conversation about some existential rubbish before one of them turns into a zombie and punches the other to death.

No really.

20 minutes in and with her nudity clause fully fulfilled Helen decides to head for the nearest locker room in order to find some clothes suitable for battling the great space undead.

Or at least stand a chance of winning third prize at a Resident Evil fancy dress parade.

And only then if the judges were blind.

As a plus point the 'Helen gets dressed' scene is probably the most dramatic thing you will see in the movie and get dressed she does in a fantastically futuristic ensemble that includes a black boob tube, some saggy arsed spandex cycling shorts, a sad, single child's skateboarding kneepad, a pair of orthopedic boots and a realistic leather effect belt like the one your granddad wears.


"Freedom for Tooting!"

She's barely had time to adjust her crotch when the pal-punching zombie from earlier turns up (you can tell he's a zombie because he has red felt pan round his eyes and a mouth covered in strawberry jam) in order it seems to carry on his frankly mundane musings from earlier.

Perhaps the zombiefication is caused by an airbourne virus that reacts to how much bollocks you can spout in a 5 minute period?

Well it'd make as much sense as the rest of the movie.

Helen has no time for chat tho' and quickly dispatches the zombie by shooting him in the stomach.


Which as we all know is the only way to kill the undead.

Not wanting the plot to be the only thing that's meandering, Helen wanders deeper into the space station before coming across (if only) a harsh-faced girl who is luckily on hand to explain the plot to those of us who haven't drunk themselves into a coma/slashed their wrists by now.

So pay attention, here's the science part:

It appears that Helen is actually an android and that the space station is the staging ground for a final battle between The Terran Special Forces and the stations very own Allied Airborne Battalion.

Why? I hear you cry.

Well the scientists aboard the station have discovered a process by which they can turn folk (but only the really unattractive and untalented ones by the look of it) into scribble faced zombies.

And if that wasn't enough it seems that the process can also be used to turn them into massive robot dogs.

Obviously the people of Earth need to put an end to such frankly ludicrous shenanigans as soon as.

Makes perfect sense when you think about it.

If the director can't be arsed then I'm not wasting my time thinking up an amusing caption.

Now you'd think that'd be enough to keep even the most dedicated hero busy but no there's more as the scientists have also aimed a massive laser at the planet too.

And not just any old laser oh no, you see this one is specifically designed to create wormholes in time and space.

Tho' why you'd threaten to destroy the only place that you can get subjects for your robot dog/zombie hybrid experiments isn't explained.

Or maybe I'm just too thick to figured it out.

And so begins a race against time - and good taste - for our trim tummied terminatrix as she desperately tries to discover her reason for being onboard and her connection to the project before the earth is destroyed.

"Are you looking at my bra?"

Cue 40 minutes of arse-prolapsing dialogue (including a frankly bizarre conversation about Helen's undies), Nintendo 64 quality 'special' effects, the same animated GiF of gunfire used over and over, random blood splash photoshop effects whenever anyone gets shot and the biggest collection of badly painted pound shop Nerf guns ever committed to videotape.

Imagine Alien: Resurrection remade by a group of fish-eyed schizophrenics with only the contents of their dads garage for props and with a script written in shit by a club footed insomniac in exchange for a collection of vintage underwear ads and you'd only be half way to understanding the whole sorry mess.

But who do we thank for it?

Well that'd be writer/director/composer/actor/binman Andrew Bellware - the man who gave the world the definitive discourse of that famous Dane with his New York based 1997 version of Hamlet (no me neither) as well as such straight to torrent site shite as Prometheus Trap, Alien Uprising and Clone Hunter who with this brings us a film so inept, so threadbare and so mind numbingly awful that it managed to not only give my DVD player cancer but caused me to go blind whilst watching.

And it's not just that it's badly made, ill-conceived and horribly realised but the fact that none of it makes any sense and that no-one involved seems to care.

The 'actors' (save Kurtz) seem to be wandering around in a self conscious, charisma free daze - all that is except the thick-necked blonde space marine lady who delivers her lines with all the skill and charm of a menstruating traffic warden with delusions of godhood and unfortunately the mouth of a stroke victim -  almost as if they've been forced at gunpoint to appear in this travesty as some kind of sub-Saw revenge plot.

Come on....they can't have all fucked the directors dog so god knows what they did to end up in this.

If I'm honest I'm kinda worried at to what punishment Bellware will dish out to me if he reads this.

This makes me really sad.

It's not all bad tho' - no hang on it is actually tho' I will admit that had I not had the misfortune to sit thru this I would have missed how utterly woeful (re: fucking abysmal) the robo/dog/zombies actually are.

I'd try to describe them but a screengrab will have to suffice and not even that can do them justice:

No really, just fuck off.

Yes my friends I'm actually recommending that you do indeed sit thru this steaming pile of cinematic shite just to experience the absolute joy of this perfect example of computer-aided arse first hand.

I doubt you ever find anything else that even remotely comes close.

The cinematic equivalent of being clumsily arse-fingered by a jaggy nailed tramp, Total Retribution is less a piece of low-brow cinema entertainment more an evil endurance test designed by an insane sadomasochist with a spandex fetish.

But don't take my word for it see for yourself......

You know you want to.

Monday, August 22, 2016

toy story.

Bootleg bollocks from around the world.

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

i don't (french) fancy yours much.

Been searching thru' the Arena archive for reviews of zombie movies featured in The UnDeck playing card set in order to have a handy mini-review of each of the films therein for folk who care about such stuff.

I'm not sure which is harder tho', trawling thru' pages of my barely literate ramblings or having to cut out all the mooth shite-in/laugh now comments to make them readable.

So taking a break from such endeavors last weekend I took a trip into old Glasgae toon (that's Scotland, in England near to Buckingham Palace and Europe for our American readers) to take a look around a place called 'The Barras'.

For those of you who aren't local, try to imagine a market stall version of Mos Eisley selling everything from knocked off pork to car doors and you're a third of the way there.

Whilst there I came across (not literally mind) a bearded old woman selling clothes pegs, country and western CD's and old VHS tapes.

Not being able to resist varicose veined vixens I just had to take a quick peek at her ample wares, so imagine my surprise when I found this:

Yup, a copy of tit-tastic La Revanche Des Mortes Vivantes on dusty old VHS and for only £1.

It was then that I realised that it wasn't featured in the UnDeck on account of being far too shite.

Imagine that.

Needless to say I had to buy it, unfortunately it also means I have to rewatch it and share my thoughts with you.

And possibly show my distinct lack of French language skills.

Apologies in advance.

Revenge of The Living Dead Girls (AKA La Revanche Des Mortes Vivantes. 1986)
Dir: Pierre B. Reinhard.
Cast: Véronique Catanzaro, Kathryn Charly, Sylvie Novak, Anthea Wyler, Laurence Mercier, Patrick Guillemin, Gábor Rassov and Christina Schmidt (not Christian Schmidt from Neighbours).

The time: the late seventies by the look of things, the place: a rainy, overcast road somewhere in the arse end of France, a blonde bimbette hitchhiker (wearing the cross country regulation outfit of stiletto heels, fishnets, suspenders and fur coat) is picked up by a pube haired man in a big jumper driving a milk van.

So far, so foreign porn like.

Pretending that she's sprained her stick-like ankle getting into his cab she persuades the driver to carry her to a deserted barn where our hitch hiking whore slowly lifts her skirt to see if driver Dan can see any bruises.

Whilst all this is going on a mysterious biker arrives and pours a bottle of Fairy Liquid into the milk.

Tho' God only knows why.

Fearing the audience may blow their load too early, the director sensibly cuts to a hideously decorated kitchen where an old lady is chatting to a transparent lingeried young girl who's busily glugging milk from a bottle like a bairn clamped onto it's mothers breast.

Within seconds of finishing the bottle she keels over.


Liquid in mah milk!

This mysterious death is swiftly followed by a shockingly bespectacled, larged hipped bird in a pub and another girl who is so plain as to make her instantly forgettable.

It seems that a trio of bad men (and a bad lady) were blackmailing somebody rich (I don't know/care who) regarding the toxic waste that their evil lemonade mines were producing.


Unfortunately the cash-grabbing plan started to unravel and given the choice of dumping the waste in a bin or pouring into the local milk supply, one of them bizarrely chose the latter.

If that wasn't enough excitement for you it now seems the very same chemical waste that killed the girls has somehow turned them into spud faced, massive bushed (yet completely normal bodied) zombies out for revenge (hence the title) and maybe, just maybe a wee bit of four way zombie girl on girl action along the way.

We can but hope.

"laugh now!"

I'm assuming the plot makes a bit more sense if you speak French, but frankly I'm too embarrassed to give it to any of my French friends to find out.

But as we all know, it takes more than gratuitous sex and mindless violence to make a great movie (well, most of the time) and frankly no number of lesbian zombies, penis munching, vagina/sword interfaces (at the moment of orgasm no less, well it is French) and scary plasticine undead babies can save this film from being complete and utter tedium from start to finish.

Yup, 'director' (and I use this term under duress) Reinhard (the man behind such classics as 'Outrages transsexuels des petites filles violées et sodomisées', 'Fantaisies anales' and 'La perverse châtelaine dans l'écurie du sexe' amongst others....ask your dad) manages the impossible by taking a plot involving nude zombie girls shagging people to death and turning it into one of the most boring film ever made.

How your mum could afford all those
holidays she took you on as a kid.

It even makes the directors cut of Oliver Stone's Alexander seem a good proposition for a Friday night.

OK, well maybe not that bad.

Featuring as it does, the most unattractive bunch of freaks and misfits since Joe D'Amato stopped making horror porn hybrids, piss poor effects, a camera and lighting crew that appear to have been blinded with sharp sticks minutes before production began and the clumsiest editing ever committed to celluloid and all of this still can't elevate Revenge of The Living Dead Girls to anything other than the motion picture equivalent of weeping arse sores.

And you can trust me when I say I know a thing or two about those.

The sexiest women in Cradley
strip for your pleasure!

But is there anything about this film to recommend to fans of zombie nonsense (or even fans of Unshaved European girls?), well the aforementioned undead lesbian orgy between a prostitute (don't be too harsh, that's someones mum and she had bills to pay) and the three female zombies is unique enough to have you reaching for the remote with your free hand to rewatch it at least once and the fact that the zombies have a habit of ringing folks doorbells to gain entrance into their houses rather than just sneak in does have a certain polite charm to it but other than that it's to be avoided at all costs.

No doubt tho' that there'll be some pasty skinned, expensive shirted and novelty bearded behemian type sitting in a cinema bar somewhere loudly pointing out that La Revanche Des Mortes Vivantes is a serious study of perversion and the breakdown of common values in society, it's refusal to adhere to the shackles of linear storytelling prefering to confront the audience head on with visualisations of mankinds darkest thoughts puts it on par with Lars Von Treer's Antichrist and how the uneducated movie goer will miss these subtleties, concentrating on the sex and breasts instead.

No idea where I was going with that but it's late here and I felt like I should get it off my chest.

But in a totally non nude lesbian zombie way of course.

Saturday, August 6, 2016

kiss kiss bang bang.

Frankly terrifying adverts for guns.


Tuesday, July 5, 2016

uphill gardening.

Torture Garden (1967).
Director: Freddie Francis.
Cast: Burgess Meredith, Michael Bryant, Maurice Denham, Beverly Adams, Barbara Ewing, John Standing, Jack Palance, David Bauer, Robert Hutton, John Phillips, Clytie Jessop and Peter Cushing.

Cabbage reeking carnie 'Doctor' Dave Diablo (Meredith, dressed in his - unwashed - Penguin hand me downs) has a frightening exhibit to share with the few lucky punters that can fit inside his frankly embarrassingly studio bound tent, an exhibit that fully exposes the depths of man's inherent inhumanity and badness and is guaranteed to make even the bravest soul fill his trousers.

But all of this fades into insignificance when compared the terrifyingly piss poor waxworks that anyone unlucky enough to enter his tent has to endure first.

Five brave B-list celebs are persuaded to enter his den of delights of which the centrepiece is, disappointingly a dining chair with some wires attached to the base upon which sits a scabby shop window dummy in polyester flares.

Luckily for Diablo either they're all easily amused or there must have been nowt on the telly that night because the crowd are utterly captivated by his over the top musings, marvellous hat and homemade 'electric chair' and are more than happy to part with a fiver each for the once in a lifetime chance to travel up his dingy back passage and experience (as Dr. D puts it) the most horrific thing they will ever see.

Which it turns out is a rather harsh faced, pendulous breasted wax gypsy wielding a pair of gardening shears (the fantastically named Clytie Jessop who also features in The Innocents and Hammers 1964 snoozefest Nightmare alongside big screen Doctor Who tottie Jennie Linden).

Each to there own I guess.

"Come clap the goat!"

But, the Doc explains, this is no ordinary waxwork pikey oh no, because it can in fact predict the future.

But who will be brave enough to face it's blades?

Leather jacketed beige bad boy about town Colin (Brit Teevee stalwart Bryant) is the first to volunteer, and after a mysterious dose of sweaty sex face and crash zooms finds himself outside the cottage of his ailing, wheelchair bound and urine stained Uncle Roger (alcoholic Time Lord Azmael himself, Denham).

It appears that Colin is your typical ne'er do well; jobless, skint and obsessed with pub lunches, fondue parties and tottie whose only interest in his uncle is to get his smooth, almost ladylike hands on the old man's inheritance.

Uncle Roger has other ideas tho' and is insistent that money isn't everything and all Colin needs to do to be happy is to live his life more considerately and maybe even get a job.

Tho' being a rich old sod he would say that wouldn't he?

Desperate for the cash, our Colin starts to stamp his feet and shout a bit, causing poor Roger to clutch his chest whilst making vaguely erotic (for an old man that is) 'love you long time five dollar' sucky mouth movements.

Seems poor Rog has a weak heart (but fantastic rectal muscles) and is trying to get his nephew to give him his medicine but Colin, either thru' badness or thru' being hypnotised by the sight of an elderly cripples blow job face just stands there and watches him die.

A sexy old man
(possibly named Roger) yesterday.

Even more angry than normal plus now sexually frustrated after his uncle's impromptu sex show and still desperate for the money, Colin starts to ransack the house looking for the hidden loot.

After what seems like an eternity of watching his smash china tea sets, rummage thru' hundreds of pairs of skid marked big pants and empty old copies of Razzle onto the floor Colin comes across a hidden cellar entrance under his uncle's bed.

Descending into the darkness he finds a dirty spade lying across a fresh mound of earth taking this as a sign of where the cash is hidden Colin begins to dig, soon finding a battered old coffin.

With pound signs ker-chinging in his eyes and thoughts of silk cravats filling his head Colin excitedly pries open the lid expecting to find a massive wad of money inside. Imagine his surprise then when out pops a boss eyed black cat called Raymond (or something).

But this is no ordinary cat, turns out this moggy has devilish mind powers (no, really) and has a proposition to make to Colin.

It seems that Uncle Roger was employed by the cat to do certain tasks for him in return for money (it's not what you think, unfortunately) and offers Colin the same deal.

All Colin has to do is murder a few passing punters to keep the cat supplied with his food of choice....

Human heads!

And no, I am not making any of this up.

"Suck mah Werthers!"

Intrigued by what Colin has experienced, bullet breasted wannabe actress Carla (one time arse revealing Dean Martin co-star Adams) stands before the dirty Gypo to see her future....

Cue that crash bang cum face effect.

Carla it seems will do anything to achieve fame and fortune in Hollywood, even if it means destroying her bubbly blonde flatmates party dress minutes before she's due to meet slick haired yet flaccid manbreasted director Mike Charles, and them going on the date herself.

He's about seventy so a lucky escape for her mate me thinks.

Arriving at the restaurant they immediately (well it is an anthology movie, time is of the essence) bump into movie God Bruce Benton (
pencil 'tached cousin of Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton and star of Can Heironymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness? Robert Hutton) and his producer pal Eddie Storm (Phillips from The Onedin Line) and, seeing as it's Hollywood a big bitching session ensues between Storm and Charles over a few glasses of Babycham, leaving Bruce and Carla to get better acquainted.

"Let's get naked and play ping pong!"

Charles wants a new picture deal but Storm thinks he's past it (which is a wee bit rich seeing as he's about seventy three himself) but Charlie boy has an ace up his sleeve, you see he knows the secret of Bruce's success in the movies and he's threatening to tell anyone who'll listen.

With that he flounces off to a seedy bar to get drunk.

Predictably Charles is soon 'silenced' by a rat faced barman on orders from Eddie whilst Carla's luck seems to just get better and better seeing as she get's cast as the female lead in leathery Bruce's new movie without having to let an old man stick it in her.

Finding herself falling for the old fashioned charms (and wobbly turkey neck) of Bruce she becomes suspicious when he seems to cold shoulder her every attempt at seduction with a reply of "I'm not like other men....it's how I stay on top" before sneaking off for meetings with Eddie.

Now you or I might take that as a subtle way of him saying he's gay, but remember that this is the sixties, long before homosexuality was invented leaving Carla no alternative but to follow him home one night.

She only makes it as far as the car park tho' before some butch looking bruisers bundle Benton into the back of a car and drive off, stopping only to shoot him in the head and dump his body on a grass verge.


Eddie persuades Carla to help him get Bruce to a special hospital where he can get the best treatment but Carla isn't too sure that'll help. Maybe it's the huge fuck off hole in his temple or the fact that he's not breathing that has convinced her that he's actually dead.


Imagine her surprise the next morning when he turns up to work on time and with no visible signs of injury.

Carla is determined to discover the bizarre truth at any cost....*

Excited by her friend Carla's sweaty face, doe eyed, chisel chinned yet strangely attractive Dorothy (posh totty Ewing) is next to stare into the shears of fate.

A plummy journalist for a high brow music Dorothy finds herself interviewing famous concert pianist and professional fop Leo Winston (Standing last seen in The Shadow in The North alongside Jared Harris and Phil Cornwell of all people).

Falling for his fey charms and smooth, ladylike hands, she soon has Leo tickling more than just the ivories, much to his butch managers chagrin.

Oh, and then his piano starts to get jealous culminating in possibly the most bizarre stalk and slash scene ever committed to celluloid when it leaps out on poor Dorothy after hiding behind a door then pushes her out of the window.

Whilst playing Chopins Funeral March.

Honest guv.

"Roll up! Roll up! and give the Gypsy a
mooth shite-in she'll never forget!"

Lastly professional sexy bitch and rabid Edgar Allen Poe fan Ronald Wyatt (the mighty Sir Jack of Palance) approaches the stand (where the gypsy is situated, not the Stephen King book obviously).

Finding himself at a special viewing of rival Poe nut Lancelot Canning's (Cushing) private collection, all he can do is sweat over the books and fawn at Canning's feet (or is it the other way around?) whilst managing to wrangle an invite to Lance's house to get pissed and maybe if he's lucky, steal some stuff.

What follows is an incestuous tale of two middle aged men sitting in big comfy leather armchairs knocking back Sherry like there's no tomorrow, with each hoping the other gets sweaty and naked first.


After some top quality drunk acting from Cushing (who manages to make even a cravat and cable knit jumper sexy) Wyatt, high on love and cheap booze can't believe his luck when Canning allows him access to his secret chamber and thrusts something long and leathery into his sweaty sausages hands, an unpublished manuscript written by Poe.

On modern writing paper.

Confused, yet strangely aroused, Wyatt is determined to find the source of the text.

Could Poe still be alive, locked in a secret room just out of shot?

"Put it in me!"

Master of the threadbare anthology Freddie Francis brings his usual deft touch to this, the second (and little seen) of the Amicus horror cycle which, tho' lacking the flair (and budget) of the later Dr. Terrors House of Horrors or Tales From The Crypt is still an enjoyable way to waste an evening.

Which is nice for those of you who are easily pleased or enjoy the sight of an actor like Jack Palance sweatily leering over Peter Cushing's arse everytime he bends down, buxom posh birds being attacked by string instruments or tramps being run thru' with pitchforks for a laugh.

The script, knocked together in a few drunken hours by horror hack Robert Bloch skips along at such a pace, cramming in enough totally bonkers idea's into it's two hour running time that you can forgive the odd lapse in acting, effects or storytelling (of which there are many) and just go with the flow whilst the poverty row studio bound feel of the production actually add to it's dreamlike quality.

Except the Hollywood segment which frankly is just bollocks no matter how drunk you are.

Admit it tho', if you're reading this then you already own it don't you?

*They're all robots if you're wondering.