Friday, October 22, 2010

hawes in (nae) drawers.

Possibly the yummiest photo of the voice of Lara Croft herself, Keeley Hawes ever.....nuff said.

Monday, October 18, 2010

clowes kinky.

As I live and breath a Daniel Clowes character made flesh.

Sheer perfection.

Friday, October 15, 2010

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)
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."

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.

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.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

nuff said.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Ad nauseam.

Flicking thru' old copies of the UK's number one sci-fi/fantasy/the 'orrah magazine of the seventies, Starburst I came across (quite literally) this fantastically PC ad for projectors.

Who needs VHS (or life drawing skills) eh?

Sunday, October 10, 2010

eye son.

The most terrifying comic panel of all time?

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.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

jacked straw.

Here it is, the review that refused to die (or stay in one place).

After finally replacing my worn out (tho' only at bits featuring Udo Kier obviously) tape copy with a shiny DVD version (albeit sourced from the same old grainy VHS copy, you can't win them all) news has hit that the remake is not only finished but premiering in good old Glasgow at the end of the month.

But with the great man himself replaced by, gulp, a woman (Emmerdale's Anna Brecon) we can but wait and see how it all turns out.

Review to be posted as soon as I get in on the morning of the 25th.

Providing I can still see at that point.

Till then, enjoy!

Exposé (AKA House on Straw Hill, Trauma. 1976).
Dir: James Kenelm Clarke.
Cast: Sir Udo of Kier, Lynda Hayden, Fiona Richmond, Patsy Smart, Vic Armstrong and Karl Howman.

"There is no such thing as a heterosexual man,
only a man who has never seen Udo Kier".

The hot as hell (and dubbed to fuck) bright young author Paul Martin (Kier, the reason for watching) has everything; a fantastic career, money, an all day bus pass and the ability to have sex with any man, woman, child or pet he fancies.

So why he starts the movie humping the famously pig snouted, soft core icon Fiona Richmond is anyone's guess.

But at least he's wearing rubber gloves save he gets burnt by her frighteningly Sunny Delight coloured skin.

Honestly it looks like he's shagging a giant human shaped satsuma.

It's obvious that this would affect even the strongest, most red blooded man and Udo is no exception, seeing as within minutes of emptying his luscious Aryan seed into her gaping chasm that the poor sod begins suffering from panic attacks, nightmarish visions of ghastly murders and blood filled bath tubs.

As you can probably guess, this isn't helping him finish his latest novel.

Insert cock here.

Needing help to unlock his story muse (and reckoning the audience deserve to see someone a wee bit more attractive than an average Granny wandering around with her kit off) Paul arranges for his publishers to send a no nonsense secretary, Linda (the naughtiest nymphet ever seen in British horror, the incredibly arsed Hayden) to assist him with his, um, writing.

Meeting Paul at the local train station, it's not long before Linda's ample charms are spotted by a couple of local troublemakers - including the star of Brit shit-com Brush Strokes Karl Howman - who start shouting suggestive and downright dirty things at her.

The filthy louts.

Paul (being played by cinema's sexiest man) has no choice but to kick the shite out of them before popping into the local shop for a king sized Mars bar and a Kinder Egg for Linda.

Hayden: Paddington but not yet bare (arsed).

Heading back to the house Lind offers to cook Paul a slap up meal to say thank you and after spending an hour slaving over a hot stove arrives at the table with a huge full English breakfast.

Tucking in to the delicious dish Paul fails to notice that the breakfast is lacking the most important ingredient.

A big, greasy pork sausage.

Where could it be?

Surprisingly (that'll be a distinct lack of suspense for you) we find out in the next scene as Linda is using it as a makeshift cock, masturbating furiously (and very loudly I mean the first time I saw this I had to stop what I was doing and turn the sound down for fear of waking my parents up) as she gazes at a framed photo of a strange man.

Linda Hayden's breasts: responsible for the needless deaths of thousands of teen boy sperm in the 70's.

Fancying a bit of fresh air after all that pig meat based shenanigans Linda heads out for a walk in the secluded fields surrounding the house, giving herself a chance to enjoy the countryside's natural beauty to a cheap seventies porn soundtrack.

It's not long tho' before all these sights (sheep rutting, pigs running around, their firm pink bottoms wobbling as they go) and sounds (cows mooing suggestively, a crow) of nature begin to have a strange yet arousing affect on the saucy secretary, giving her no alternative than to hoist up her skirt, drop her panties and get fiddling.

All's going well (as well as masturbating in a field can go) when who should turn up but the loud mouthed bad boys from earlier, watching Linda from afar whilst suggestively brandishing a shotgun, licking their lips (their own not each others obviously) and rubbing their crotches.

All this grass based eroticism sends them into such a sexual frenzy that the pair have no alternative but to rape Linda.

Very roughly indeed.

And at gunpoint.

But not, alas shite in her mooth.

Karl Howman's arse yesterday:
Admit it, you would.

Controversially Linda appears to be enjoying the rough buggery until she grabs the shotgun and shoots both her assailants that is.

Brushing herself down and cleaning the grass of her knees Linda heads back to the house only to be confronted by Paul who's desperate for a shag off a real woman, sick as he is of shagging fruit/gran hybrids.

It is here that the films stark attempts at realism fall apart as Linda knocks back Udo.

Yeah, like that would ever happen.

Furious (and in a state of utter disbelief), he phones satsuma Suzanne before sending Linda to pick her up from the train station.

They arrive back at the house just in time to stop Paul exploding over the sofa and, without so much as a thank you to Linda the pair rip each others clothes off and start banging away against the antique sideboard.

Obviously not turned on by frisky fruit (of both kinds) the sex-mad secretary escapes into the night.

What your nan really gets up to at bingo.

Coming to his senses (but not before coming over Suzanne's monkey-like face) Paul gives chase– giving ample opportunity for Linda to sneak back into the house for an intense bit of girl on gran action with Suzanne.

In a bizarre piece of post sex fun, Linda follows Suzanne into the bathroom and sticks a huge knife in her.

Five times.

Meanwhile as he's driving back to the house, Paul notices that someone has tampered with the brakes on his car, causing him (in one of cinemas greatest action sequences) to crash into a duck pond leaving him soaked thru', battered, bloodied and most importantly with his luxurious hair all messed up.

You still would tho'.

Udo: We Kier a lot.

Stumbling sexy toward the front door he is confronted by the mad as a lorry Linda wielding a big gun and grinning like a (really sexy) loon.

It seems that years previously Paul stole a manuscript from her husband and passed it off as his own causing the poor sod to kill himself.

And now Linda wants revenge on Paul and all those close to him...

Will she succeed?

Or will our plagiarist playboy escape unscathed?

Jack (off) of all trades; writer, composer, director and tea-maker James Clarke assures a place for himself in scabby cinema history with this strange little erotic revenge thriller, the only British film ever to make an appearance on the Department of Public Prosecutions infamous 'video nasty' list.

Ther film is as bizarre behind the scenes as it is in front of it, produced as it was by Brian Smedley-Aston (the man behind Vampyres, Let's Get Laid, the Brigitte Lahaie starrer Erotica and the little seen The Wildcats of St. Trinian's) and financed by British porn baron Paul Raymond as a star vehicle for his then partner Fiona Richmond who was, at the time Britain's biggest sex star.

Not too surprising then that the film veers uncomfortably between scenes of full frontal nudity and hard core violence in a schizophrenic attempt to appease both the dirty Mac crowd and those wanting more visceral thrills from their movies, failing to fully deliver to either and falling uncomfortably between the two stools of sleaze and suspense.

The sexiest movie poster of all time?

It's not all bad tho' and if you can manage to stomach the horrifying image of Richmond naked and thrusting in all her perma-tan glory at the films beginning then there's a fair bit of fun to be had and not just the sight of eighties Teeve icon Karl Howman trying to be a big butch rapist but also with the genius casting of the always yummy English Rose that is Linda Hayden, who brings her trademark faux innocence, erotic charm, chubby cheeks and fantastic breasts to her role as loopy Linda.

Much like she did with every film she appeared in during her heyday.

You young things with your Megan Fox and your Danielle Panabaker's really have no idea.

Is it just me or are you desperate to
ski down these milky white thighs too?

And saving the best till last we have the great god Udo Kier at the start (but not the height) of his - not inconsiderable - acting powers.

For those under the spell of this man the movie is the Holy Grail, unavailable since the heyday of VHS we can only hope that someone will see fit to release this queer old beast of a movie on disc as an ill advised attempt to cash in on the new version.

If my cardboard Intervision case can last that long.

Friday, October 8, 2010

mr. john and mr. george.

The second two pieces in the limited edition 'Masters of Horror' postcard set. Available from the usual places.


Sunday, October 3, 2010

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.


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.


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.


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.

Friday, October 1, 2010

sinister sunday of shock.

Friend of the Arena and professional film fact man Calum Waddell is at it again at the infamous Glasgow Film Theatre on October 24th (this year time travellers) with the spooktacular Sinister Sunday of Shock!

Now there's a mooth made for shite-in in!
Less a lazy film afternoon more of a chance to feel your brain molested by maniacal movie mayhem, the line up includes the UK premiere screening of Frank Henenlotter's disturbingly decadent (or at the very least something else that begins with 'd') documentary HERSCHELL GORDON LEWIS: THE GODFATHER OF GORE, a rare chance to see Nico Mastorakis' goat scaring Greek treat ISLAND OF DEATH on the big screen and with the great man himself in attendance for an audience Q and A and whitewash drinking contest (probably) as well as the Lamberto Bava classic DEMONS in all it's cinematic g(l)ory (with special guest Sir Sergio of Stivaletti - the man behind the frighteningly realistic FX in such movies as DEMONS, DEMONS 2, PHENOMENA, OPERA, THE CHURCH, CEMETERY MAN, THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA, MOTHER OF TEARS as well as directing the kinky classic WAX MASK).

"Beware! The British censor!"
Oh and if you're feeling generous you can buy the illustrator currently working alongside DEMONS star Geretta-Geretta on a comic sequel to the first movie a drink if you like!

Need? Every.
And if that wasn't enough for you greedy people there's a second UK premiere, this time of the EXPOSE/HOUSE ON STRAW HILL remake STALKER with pert breasted saucy starlet Jane March in attendance as well as a mini CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST celebration as Francesca Ciardi (AKA Faye Daniels) makes her first UK public appearance to prove for once and for all that she wasn't really killed making it.

The turtle however tells another story.

So there you have it my friends; one day, four films, copious amounts of alcohol, celebrity guests, some scary surprises and maybe a secret party or two (well, one) and all for a meagre £22 or £18 for dole scum and students).

See you there!