Track of the Moon Beast (1976), Or Stalk Like A Dinosaur

Special Guest Post by Jose Cruz of Mephisto's Castle!

Fellow MMMMad movie lovers and maniacs in general, it is with great pleasure and honor that I, El Jose, write this rabid review for you today. Being a devout member of the Church of Cheesy Cinema, I was eager in sending a message inked in the perspiration of 100 Italian prostitutes to see if the honorable Vicar and Duke would lend me an ear… and any other necessary organs that I might need. And when the message returned (though the pony it was sent with had mysteriously disappeared upon arriving at the gilded gates of the Vicarage) with a gracious consent, I leaped forth from my filthy grotto, chittering like an Appalachian love slave in heated excitement.

“So what,” you impatiently ask in between savory chomps of your roasted dragon thigh, “did you decide to offer us for today, you sniveling knave?”

Why, none other than one of the many hidden treasures on the glorious 50 Chilling Classics Set put out by the fine folks at Mill Creek. And having a deep and affectionate love for lycanthropes, I was immediately drawn to the freaky-sounding flick Track of the Moon Beast. But, dear reader, I was quick to find out that we weren’t dealing with the usual furry-faced fiends that serve as the wolfish, flesh-chomping mascots of Daninsky U, but a poor soul who instead turns into a leathery lizard-creature upon the night of the full moon in order to get his cold-blooded groove on.

Intrigued? So was I! So take the perfumed, gloved hand I offer to you now and journey with me into the slithery shenanigans of this kooky drive-in monsterama… 

Our film opens up with a dumpy-looking fellow fiddling around in an observatory which is quickly followed up with a news report concerning a flaming meteorite that is on a crash course with Earth’s moon. Nothing to worry about, we are assured. After all, the meteorite appears to be a crumpled-up page from the script that some foolhardy crew hand set on fire and is twirling around on a string in the grand tradition of Ed Wood. As the blazing spitball meteorite comes ever closer, a group of elder Native Americans are getting’ jiggy with it in the middle of the New Mexican desert, waving large baby rattles as an imminent warning of the meteor’s approach.

 It's coming right fer us!

The next day, good-looking-in-a-70s-sense Paul Carlson (Chase Cordell) speeds into the arid desert on his motorbike and dismounts in order to do some archaeological digging. Making sure to take his shirt off in order to show off his impressive pecs and expose himself to the sun’s merciless rays, Paul gets a great find in the form of a bone approximately two inches under the sand, only to be spooked by a bloodcurdling scream that echoes off the mountains. Looking around, he spies a giant metal mask peering down at him that apparently grew its own pair of legs and mounted itself on a ledge.

Turns out it’s the work of college couple Budd and Janet (dammit!) and Paul’s good friend Professor Johnny Longbow (the charismatic Gregorio Sala) who decided to play a prank on the muscley anthropologist. Paul also meets leggy photojournalist Kathy Nolan (Leigh Drake) who makes her attraction to Paul IMMEDIATELY known. Like, before they’re introduced.

 The spirit of Chief Walla-Walla-Bing-Bang presides over all.

Paul is eager to reciprocate the obvious flirtation, telling the shutterbug he knows of some great photo spots but that they’re a little off the beaten track. So without taking the time to consider the possibility that Paul is a sweet-faced homicidal maniac that wants to knit a sweater from her succulent ass cheeks, Kathy happily hops onto his moped and drives off to possible death in the name of an easy lay.

While having lunch, Janet is frightened by a scampering lizard, which prompts Johnny to go full-on Native American and illustrate the episode using an ancient folktale involving the Coyote and the Lizard and their argument on what form Man should take.* That night Paul and Kathy stand atop a windy hill in which Kathy has surprisingly not been buried in, the blonde vixen rubbing the chiseled stud’s hairy chest while he waxes romantic. And right in the middle of his poetic soliloquy, the dazzling meteorite shower descends from the heavens and knocks the lovers to the ground with its blinding intensity.

*Mankind retains Lizard's five-fingered hands but get to keep Coyote's mortality. Fair trade, right?

Paul gets a scratch on his head, and Kathy tends to the wound with a handkerchief while the lummox picks up a fragment of the miraculously cool “moon rock” for a keepsake. Kathy aloofly tosses the hankie aside (she don’t give a fuck for no Crying Indian) and takes Paul’s suggestion to go to his house for medicinal needs as an invitation to jump his bones. Heading off, they miss the lizard that has crawled on to the now ominously-glowing hankie as a sign of terrible things to come…

 "Well if you must know, that telescope there should give you a good estimation..."

At Paul’s home, the hunk lets it slip during the pre-sexcapades that he lives with his mom (it’s okay—she’s away on vacation) and his bedroom comes fully equipped with adorable childhood photographs, a telescope, and a freakin’ Komodo dragon in a cage named Ty! You would think the implication that she may be horribly raped and have her remains fed to the vicious reptile would be scaring her, but Kathy admits to Paul—whom she has only met that very same day—that “It’s us I’m really frightened about.” Seeing a way to approach their growing relationship in an adult manner, they make out.

Ty watching all the while.

 Giggity!

The next afternoon finds Paul in the university museum checking out moon rock samples similar to his souvenir from the previous night and Kathy attempting to take snapshots of his rock-hard ass. But the camera’s flash sets off a cartoon sound effect in Paul’s head that leaves him dizzier than an iguana dipped in tequila. Later Paul, Kathy, and Johnny go to a local show for some entertainment put on by the pastiest guy in New Mexico and his band of fellow hippies.

 "This IS my farmer's tan!"

Feeling a little woozy, Paul is taken from the AMAZINGLY PACKED HOUSE back to his place to west his wittle head. After being tucked in by Kathy and awaking from a fitful slumber, Paul paces across his room, illuminated by the full moon’s beams. Clutching the moon rock to his chest, Paul looks wearily up at the caged Ty and then…

We cut to a random drunk old man trying to get into his house and showing us the seat of his wrinkled, probably-filled-with-unchanged-diapers pants for a good 10 seconds. Old Guy’s overweight, chain-smoking wife ain’t having none of his inebriated hijinks and sees fit to keep him locked outside. The poor drunk finds out that a little hair of the dog gains him a tooth from the lizard when some shambling, unseen creature stalks up on him and goes in for a nibble. Alarmed by a scream and the puddle of blood that is now oozing under her front door, Roseanne suffers a heart attack when she sees her hubby’s corpse set up on the stoop James Cagney-style.

 "I regret nothing!"

The following afternoon Police Captain McCabe (Patrick Wright) calls in Johnny to have him weigh in his opinion on the deaths. Seeing the shredded remains of the victim, Johnny guesses it’s the work of a mountain lion, but the Scooby Doo-esque handprint that the beast left behind after it tripped over the garden hose confirms that we’re in Roger Corman territory now. Kathy wakes Paul up back at the house, and the two are startled to discover that Ty has seemingly escaped from his cage! At the university, Johnny says it’s possible that a footprint found at the crime scene could have been made by a Komodo dragon. But the print had to have been made by an upright creature, and McCabe speculates that they could be dealing with a T-rex.

Yeah. That second one is more plausible.

 Out of options, the gang decided to consult with the reanimated remains of Abraham Lincoln.

To get their mind off things, Paul, Kathy, and Johnny head out into the desert and see two children participating in a game of archery. Paul and Johnny decide to play William Tell with ears of corn standing in for apples, but Paul has another one of his spells. Given a glass of warm milk and a kiss from Mommy Kathy, Paul awakens yet again during the night by the moon’s haunting light.

We then cut to a group of three campers in the woods, playing cards and jovially chatting as a fire crackles. But the revelry is disturbed when the Moon Beast rudely interrupts their game of Old Maid, their asses severely chewed out and WHOLE ARMS RIPPED FROM SOCKETS in a hideous display of scaly slaughter. This was a wonderfully executed (heh), high-energy scene, and couldn’t help but remind me of the bum massacre from An American Werewolf in London. And we didn’t even get full-on dismemberment in THAT movie.

Paul wakes up from Nappy Time the next morning and, after being chided by Kathy for being a baby (yuh think?), he’s taken to the hospital to get his head examined. The X-rays come up showing something abnormal in Paul’s skull (barring severe independence, that is) and plans are made to operate. It seems that the buckaroo didn’t walk away from that meteorite shower as unscathed as he first thought, as a small piece from the moon rock has lodged itself into his brain meats. Just WHY exactly that forces Paul to metamorphose into a six-foot-tall gecko when the bad moon comes arising is left completely unexplained, but if we were cinematic prudes we wouldn’t be here in the first place, would we?

 "Ma always said there were rocks in my head, BUT THIS IS RIDICULOUS!"

Meanwhile the murder investigation continues as Johnny presents McCabe with a slideshow detailing a Native American legend about a tribesman who was struck by a beam of light and thus turned into a “demon-lizard-monster.” That’s right, folks. This isn’t some prissy, tampon-wearing lizard-monster. This is a DEMON-lizard-monster, so you know this is some heavy dinosaur shit we’re dealing with here.

At any rate, this demon-lizard-wrestler-thunder god-monster caused much havoc before it spontaneously combusted for no other reason than it simply couldn’t handle its own awesomeness. Sensing that Paul has taken the monster mantle, Longbow persuades McCabe to go along with locking Paul into his hospital room that night to see what happens. Ridiculous hunches prevail though, as all those in attendance watch as Paul’s tan features become exceedingly dryer and more rubbery.

The expert doctors are called in and they are quick to diagnose that the moon rock particles in Paul’s body are spreading in his system at such a rate that they will eventually cause him to burst open faster than a piñata at a diabetic birthday party. Paul’s not a sit-down-and-explode kind of guy (at least not in this sense), and he’s intent on doing… something… before he can make like a geisha and blow. There’s the requisite dramatic scene between the two lovers, Kathy weeping "Oh, Paul. Why did this have to happen to you?" and Paul cleverly answering “It did happen. That’s all I know” in between squirmy, grinding kisses of awkwardness. Just before leaving, Paul finally resolves: “I wanna die looking like a man, not a monster…”

 "... just not in this fucking gown."

Disguised as a doctor, Paul snatches a motorbike from the parking lot and purchases a gun from Colonel Sanders at a local ammunition shop, planning to kill himself atop the windy hill he loves so much. Kathy heads there after him, Longbow and the police quick on her tail. Finding Paul, she tries to talk him out of his suicide mission before he blows to smithereens and/or is gunned down by the coppers. Things are looking bad, especially with the sun going down in a matter of SECONDS and Paul beginning to walk a little too much like a dinosaur.

 "Is there something on my face?"

Kat screams bloody murder, which somehow convinces the Moon Beast NOT to eat her, and a couple of cops try taking shots at the beast before he washes his claws in their sweet, bacony blood. Johnny is here to save the day, as he’s devised to sharpen a piece of the moon rock into an arrowhead and wreak sweet Tonto action onto Paul’s leathery hindquarters. Kathy tries driving off but is cornered by the beastie. Johnny is quick on the feet and faster on the draw though as he sends the lunar arrow straight into the creature’s beating heart! The particle reaction sped up in its body, the Moon Beast disintegrates into ashes in a flurry of psychedelic lights. Completely spent and craving some good burritos, our heroes walk off down the dark road.

Parishioners, it would be haughty of me indeed to claim that Track of the Moon Beast is a monumental achievement of genre cinema and that you all must make haste in sacrificing baby newts at its epic altar of grandness (as cool as that might be). What the movie IS, though, is a fun little drive-in feature that is kind enough to throw some rubber-suited monster action our way and a pint of sticky blood to wash it down. And that, friends and loved ones, is something to stand up and cheer for.

 Dancin' In The Street

Performances overall are adequate, but the script never demands too much on the actor’s part. Chase Cordell as the Lawrence Talbot-stand in though is sadly devoid of any real tragic qualities about him, despite the major suckage of his situation. Cordell’s performance never really pulls you in and has you rooting for his doomed protagonist, which is the ultimate goal of any lycanthrope worth their silver.

He still isn’t horrible, though, and Cordell is at least able to pull off his shirt some worthwhile dramatic moments. Sala as Johnny Longbow is the picture of charm and suavity as the world-wise American Indian, and his presence just screams bad ass at times. The rest of the cast fill in their telegraphed roles with the aplomb of dedicated TV actors, so there’s that too.

The film seems like it could have easily been an episode from Kolchak: The Night Stalker as it has all the foamy creatures and MAD monster mythology that made that series so great. And while there are undoubtedly allusions to many a werewolf feature, this movie has a surprising reference to the Val Lewton chiller The Leopard Man (1943).

Not only does that movie also take place in the New Mexican desert, but it deals with an escaped animal (in that case the titular feline) that the countryside believes to be the culprit behind a series of recent murders, mirroring Ty the Dragon’s break-out from this flick. However, writers Charles Sinclair and Bill Finger (the very same one who developed the original conception of Batman with Bob Kane!) do absolutely nothing with that plotline. Perhaps they wanted to leave room open for the summer blockbuster sequel, Commando Komodo?

On the whole, I can give Track of the Moon Beast a solid 2 thumbs. Fans of popcorn creature features will surely get a kick out of this one, and it comes equipped with a few MAD moments to keep the smiles coming. Definitely apply some lotion after watching it though.

And take that last statement how you will.

More images from Track of the Moon Beast (1976): 

Mind the Rattlers

Amaize-ing Precision

Even A Man Who Is Hard In Pec

"Daddy's home."

"Cool ghost stories. But could we turn the lights on now please?"

Fried Chicken and Firearms: A Colonel's Story

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

 "I'm the gawd-damn INDIAN, man!"

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PICK-UP (1975): Another Perspective

Animator and reviewer Jeff Twiller recently read my old review of the 1975 road movie/mind melter Pick-Up (which you can do too, by making here with the clicky), and graciously sent along his own hilarious and strangely moving animated review of the same excellent film. Check out "Pick-Up (1975): Jeff and Randy's Review" below! And Jeff, thanks!

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Guest Review: John Plumley on A DRAGONFLY FOR EACH CORPSE (1973)

Believe it or not, Parishioners, not EVERYONE has a blog. But Naschy-fan John Plumley didn't let that stop him from dusting off the keyboard and banging out a couple thousand words about his love for Jacinto's 1973 giallo! We think everyone should be given a chance to express their love of the Naschinator--after all, we can't all be blogging superstars, now can we?--and therefore we've given John the forum he needs to express his love in public. So parishioners and subjects, please give the man your attention, and your love, and read on!

NOTE: Guest Author John Plumley got the blogging bug after contributing this post to the Naschy Blogathon, and has started his own site. Check it out at http://atthemansionofmadness.blogspot.com!

A Dragonfly for Each Corpse (1973): or, Paul Naschy brings the insect giallo thing to a whole new level.

First off, allow me to say thanks to the Duke of DVD and Vicar of VHS for organizing this Paul Naschy Blogathon and for allowing me to guest review a Paul Naschy film on mmmmmovies. It is an honor to (in a sense) graffiti my name onto the walls of the church of Mmmmmovies, a blog I consider to be an excellent source for low budget movie reviews that manage to be hilarious without tearing the films down at the same time. Also, it was great to come across a blog run by reviewers who I felt shared my enthusiasm for Paul Naschy. I’ve always wanted to write a movie review and I feel that this is a great place to start. I am a graduate student who finds a good deal of reprieve from the daily stresses of research and schoolwork by watching horror and thriller films.

The film begins on the streets of Milan with a lovely lounge cue suitable for the films era. We eventually come across some late night activity between 2 individuals on the street where it becomes obvious that they are involved in a drug deal and we get the sense that they are being watched. The buyer is then followed home by a silhouetted stalker carrying what appears to be a scimitar. It turns out that this buyer is a heroin abusing artist who lives with his grandparents and is about to become a victim for the killer. Our victim in this case is tripping balls after sampling the new merchandise and completely helpless when the killer proceeds to strike (although given his current state of Euphoria, I doubt he minds all that much). This results in much blood splatter over the artist’s own painting of a nude on the wall. You know, the type of perverse painting that is bound to cause a faceless, black gloved, scimitar wielding giallo killer to do what he or she does best and that’s to entertain the viewers with a grand death scene. More blood splatter ensues before a bitchin musical piece (that one may recall from another classic Paul Naschy film Human Beasts) begins to play over the intro credits.

An excellent opener just in the 1st four minutes and we’ve already received a good dose of what us giallo fans came for and we still haven’t gotten to Paul Naschy yet, the most likely reason most would go through great lengths to find such an obscure film.

During the following scene, what appears to be a frightened elderly man is being led to an interrogation room where we are finally introduced to a mustached, cigar chomping, tough as nails police inspector who goes by Paolo Scaporella, played by non-other than Paul Naschy. Paolo gets rough with him and grunts phrases like “This time I’ll send you to the judge alive and kicking,” and “the next time I catch you, I’ll split your head open.” This scene would be bound to induce screams and cheers in a movie theatre setting which would then be followed by laughter when we learn that the old man being interrogated is an exhibitionist who can’t help exhibiting himself in front of women and children???!! As always, Paul has made one hell of an intro by already delivering in spades (script wise and acting wise) in just the first 15 seconds of screen time.

You did not just crap your pants in my office!

After dealing with the exhibitionist, Paolo is sent to the commissioner who reveals to him the photo of victim #1 in this giallorrific piece of entertainment, and claims that the victim was a professional drug addict!!! I haven’t the slightest idea of what would qualify one as a professional drug addict, but I am impressed that the Milan police department considers drug addiction a profession. Anyways, we find out that he is not victim#1 but is a second victim with a similarity from a previous killing where a dragonfly was found on the corpse, this justifying the film’s title.

"Honey, we need to talk....It's either me, or your precious cigar."

The film then cuts to a night club that is full of that 70s euro night club atmosphere fans of the genre (like me) find very attractive and irresistible. We eventually come to a delicious looking red head, sitting alone at the bar complaining to the bartender about how not one guy has come near her all night. Listening to this you can’t help but wonder what type of night club this is, where a beautiful young lady is left alone all night at the bar. Well we learn she is actually a prostitute when the bartender alerts her that her pimp, who goes by Mohammed, will have an attack if she doesn’t bring the money in. The bartender then reveals that he too is in the business of girl managing and insists that she work for him. After an argument ensues, she leaves and is followed out of the club by Eduardo Calvo an actor I see frequently in Naschy’s films. Hmmm…..corrupt, immoral, and attractive. It should be obvious who the next victim for our dragonfly killer will be.

After walking out of the bar alone before much else happens she is murdered via a pointed umbrella to the stomach. The killer then proceeds to drop the rubber dragonfly calling card and we immediately cut to the commissioner and inspector Paolo contemplating the motives of the dragonfly killer. At this point it becomes apparent to the good inspector that the killer is targeting people with vices. This presents a conundrum, because if you think about it the killer is helping the police in a way by helping eliminate drugs and prostitution from the streets but it’s through means of a crime considered much more serious. You can’t help thinking Inspector Paolo would agree when he refers to the drug addicts and prostitutes the killer is targeting as “all garbage.” Nonetheless, the commissioner puts Paolo on the case and thus begins the investigation.

"If it’s a severed head, I'll be very upset."

We then go to Paolo’s apartment where he is playing the role of homemaker, cooking spaghetti for he and his wife while catchy childlike music (I heard before in the ending to Mario Bava’s Bay of Blood) is playing. This gives this setting a feeling of nostalgia and atmosphere worth dying for. Speaking of worth dying for, it is a great honor to introduce someone who I believe to be a much underappreciated actress. This being the actress playing Paolo’s wife Silvana, the fiery red headed, bootylicious, Italian horror eurohottie, Erika Blanc (Check out The Devil’s Nightmare, The Night Evelyn Came out of the Grave, and Kill Baby Kill, which was reviewed on this site previously by The Duke of DVD) looking űber attractive as always. The following conversation that ensues primarily has to do with a get together amongst all of Silvana’s high fashion friends. We are then bombarded with several names by Paolo’s wife, who are all most likely suspects to this 70’s style Paul Naschy edition game of CLUE.

This tender moment between police inspector and “best wife a man could ask for” breaks away to a 1st person perspective of someone breaking into an apartment. And …, wait a minute…., is that a Mick Jagger poster on the wall and are those naked youngsters passed out on the floor from too much drugs, sex, and rock n roll? "That’s right the immoral vice ridden type guaranteed to offend our dragonfly killer.” So it should come as no surprise when we are treated with a splendid axe murdering. This scene is made more horrific when one victim wakes up to what must be a terrifying sight of his beloved mates being hacked by our crazed axe wielding killer before being axed himself. After the deed is done, the killer doesn’t only leave a dragonfly for each corpse but mistakenly leaves behind a button. This being “a button of high craftsmanship and fashion” and “possibly from a woman’s coat” as stated by the inspector and police commissioner in an investigation scene that follows. This leads to the hypothesis that the killer could either be a woman or someone who wears a woman’s coat. Fortunately for the inspector, his wife Silvana knows a good deal of people who work in the designing world and is friends with a supposed well-known fashion designer who may have a colleague that could possibly know something about the button found at the murder scene.

Blancalicious!!!

Later, the film brings all the probable suspects into the same room for the get together with Paolo and Silvana and her high fashion friends she mentioned earlier. Among them are actors (Eduardo Calvo) seen earlier as a prostitute stalking night club frequenter who so happens to be a professor known as Sandro Campitelli, Angel Aranda, a few others I wasn’t able to identify, and Spanish horror regular Maria Kosti who is always a welcome presence as far as I’m concerned. We are able to get acquainted with all the faces of the suspects as they discuss the recent killings and the possible significance of the dragonflies. We learn from the professor that the dragonfly apparently represents ancient Chaldean rites where the dragonfly was a mark of punishment for anyone that was considered immoral. Assuming the killer to be following this ideology, members of this snobby meeting of the minds begin to point out that certain people present had better watch themselves. This suggesting that not all those present lead pure lifestyles and are capable of having the dragonfly badge sewed upon them. It is then pointed out by the professor that no layman could be familiar with such rites and because a professor is in no way a layman he unintentionally invokes teasing from one present that even he could be the killer. The teaser in this case happens to be Silvana’s homosexual fashion designer friend Vittorio Barucci who Inspector Paolo mentioned earlier as possibly knowing who the button, found at the murder scene might belong to. Later Vittorio finds out who makes the button but when Vittorio and Paolo attempt to visit this button designer at his apartment they find out from the landlord that this button designer recently committed suicide. This results in the button clue not yielding any kind of lead for the investigation even though it still ultimately ends up being indirectly related to the killer’s identity.

Somewhere later in the film, we come to very vintage style strip club with yet another scintillating red head on stage, sporting one of those waist bracelets that render her even more irresistible. In the crowd is the professor speaking to Mohammed. Recall that Mohammed was described as a pimp who tends to lose his cool when his girls aren’t making him enough money or as we find out later, pesky police inspectors who meddle in his affairs. In this scene, the professor is in the middle of a deal with Mohammed and is anxiously awaiting an expensive evening with the lovely maiden on stage. The professor demands that she be in a coffin and because of this he must pay even more money because as Mohammed puts it “Necrophilia is a very expensive vice.” As our lovely stage performer is in her room awaiting the good professor to come and collect his due services, she is brutally murdered in a surprisingly gory scene complete with a graphic hand severing. It should become apparent at this point that the professor seems to have a penchant for following prostitutes, with the killer usually showing up in his place. Hmmm, a red herring? Most likely.

While contemplating the identity of the killer, Paolo foolishly doubts a woman’s intuition, as the dragonfly count increases.

Seeing that the latest victim was another prostitute, inspector Paolo decides to question the girls working for Mohammed. Paolo eventually gets information from one girl that he can meet this Mohammed at some warehouse where the inspector later gets roughed up by Mohammed’s Nazi cronies as a warning to leave Mohammed alone. This provides the motive for what occurs in an infamous scene that follows. In the scene, inspector Paolo and his wife are sitting down to dinner, with Erika Blanc looking most attractive by sporting pigtails, a great tan, and a fabulous blue dress. In order to help alleviate all the stress Paolo is going through working on the dragonfly killer case and because it also happens to be his birthday, his wife has decided to have a present delivered for him to their apartment that just happens to be running late. When the present does arrive, Paolo opens it to find that his present is the severed head of Mohammed adorned with a dragonfly. It turns out that Silvana’s present was swiped out for an endearing gesture from the killer. I mean wasn’t it Mohammad who had Paolo beaten and battered recently.

"Check out my new gun flashlight!"

We eventually find out that professor Sandro Campitelli is in fact a red herring after all, when he contacts the killer by phone and tries to blackmail this person claiming to know his or her identity. Anyone knows that the dumbest thing you can do in this type of film is to attempt to blackmail the killer, a surefire way of becoming the next victim. After meeting up with the killer, who happens to be in a gorilla suit, at a creepy afterhours fairground setting, the professor does turn up dead, as do a number of other characters who claim to know a thing or two regarding the killer’s identity.

About three fourths of the way into the film when the J&B Scotch Whisky really starts to kick in, you’ll start to notice that this film is absolutely crazy! There’s so much going on. I mean characters keep turning up dead, you never see Paul Naschy’s inspector character without his cigar, The inspector’s wife gets involved in the investigation, and there are numerous subplots involving characters with double lives. One character who at first seemed pretty level headed, turns out to be a drug dealing transvestite who completely loses it while being pursued by the police, hops onto a rollercoaster ride (possibly to become a moving target??) and starts shooting at the police before being gunned down!!?? The plot is just a great head spinning mystery that ultimately leads to a killer climax (pun intended). A Dragonfly for each Corpse is how a great giallo should be and once again proves as the Vicar made a point of before in his review for The Hunchback at the Morgue that there isn’t anything Paul Naschy could not do. Yes, Paul Naschy pulled off a fine giallo (not just this one, but also 7 murders for a Scotland Yard, and Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll). I rate it 10 out of 10, 3+ thumbs, 6 out of 6 toxic barrels (points to anyone who can recognize what now defunct website that rating system belonged to), and 5 stars. Be sure to check it out.

Muchas gracias y adiós.

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A Tribute to Paul Naschy, by Shane M. Dallman

The Duke and I are pleased to present this guest post by Shane M. Dallman, originally published as a note on the author's FB account on the occasion of Paul Naschy's passing.

I NEVER CALLED HIM “PAUL”

Paul Naschy (Jacinto Molina Alvarez, 1934-2009) provided me with countless hours of entertainment well long before I first set pen to paper in the name of genre journalism. His body of work became the inspiration for my first published articles (as writer/historian Shane M. Dallmann) and would later go on to become a cornerstone of my efforts in the field of entertainment (as horror host “Remo D.”). In other words, Paul Naschy has always been a huge part of who I am and what I do in the field of the fantastic. That doesn’t make me special. But it sure as hell makes HIM special. I trust you’ll forgive me for not delving into biography/filmography at this time. All I want to do now is to tell you my personal story as it relates to the one and only Paul Naschy.

As a young “creature feature” fan in the early 1970s, I was scarcely alone in staying up on weekends to watch the various monstrous adventures of Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi and, of course, Lon Chaney, Jr. Almost everyone at school watched the same movies as I did—these classics belonged to everybody, just as they should. But just a few short years later, our UHF channels started supplying significantly ‘stronger’ material (and not only during the late hours). A different breed of ‘creature feature’ slowly insinuated itself into the mix, and it wasn’t long before I found myself routinely confronted with movies that WEREN’T talked about at school the next day… that seemed to belong only to those viewers who made a point of seeking them out. And one face, one name stood out amongst these latter-day arrivals… one man who made it clear that he wished to represent the classic monsters much as predecessors along the lines of Chaney himself had done. I passed on the opportunity to watch THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING with the rest of my family in order to take in the bizarre concoction known (however misleadingly) as FRANKENSTEIN’S BLOODY TERROR as it unspooled on a tiny black-and-white television in my room (little did I know how much werewolf Waldemar Daninsky would come to mean to me, especially as his energetic antics in a wacky monster mash known as ASSIGNMENT TERROR seemed to have little or nothing to do with this previous adventure). My mother’s admonition to avoid a nasty little item known as THE MUMMY’S REVENGE (of which she had inadvertently caught a “slice” on her own), naturally, caused me to seek it out all the more eagerly. And cut for TV or not, HORROR RISES FROM THE TOMB was the one she really would have kept me away from, had she but known—even I thought it went too far at the time! These movies ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous (even then, I realized that THE FURY OF THE WOLFMAN made almost no sense at all), but I never doubted the sincerity or the dedication of the man who brought them to life… Paul Naschy.

At that young age, I had no idea that actor Paul Naschy was also involved in each and every one of these productions as screenwriter Jacinto Molina—it took Michael Weldon’s PSYCHOTRONIC ENCYCLOPEDIA OF FILM to clue me in. That publication, in fact, was one of my most treasured acquisitions—during the 1980s, as I discovered such fresh television items as HOUSE OF DOOM (HOUSE OF PSYCHOTIC WOMEN) and HORROR OF THE WEREWOLF (NIGHT OF THE HOWLING BEAST, another disconnected Waldemar Daninsky thriller), it was an invaluable reference guide which enhanced my constant obsession with cataloguing fantastic films. If you know me at all, you know that my interest in the field is all-encompassing… but Paul Naschy always had a special wing in my hand-scrawled archives, because even then, “everybody” knew the classics (Universal, Hammer, AIP), but it seemed like only Michael Weldon and I knew and valued the contributions of this Spanish horror powerhouse. Still—no Internet, not even a home computer—I had my memory and pages and pages of handwritten notes for some undefined “project”—or for posterity.

Now we come to 1990. Through the home video boom and meticulous TV taping, I could now account for no less than thirty Paul Naschy films available in the United States. FANGORIA Magazine had become the primary source for horror information both classic and current, and detailed articles on the careers and available works of such filmmakers as Mario Bava and Dario Argento were appearing to great acclaim—especially important was an expose by Tim Lucas on just how Argento’s films were being presented to us on video. And it finally hit me. I had thirty movies spanning over twenty years, and I had all the notes I needed to back them up. I went through the list of genre giants repeatedly and reached the same conclusion every time… Paul Naschy was the only figure in the field (with a comparable body of work, of course) who had not yet been given his due with national exposure in this of all magazines. There was a story to be told—there was an article to be written, and it was obviously up to me to write it.

So I did.

The publication of the two-part article “The Mark of Naschy” in FANGORIA #103-104 remains one of my proudest achievements (much later, I was delighted to see the title appropriated for Mirek Lipinski’s official Naschy website: Mirek, of course, went on to become one of—if not the—most valuable contributors to Naschy’s lasting legacy). I went on to chronicle Naschy’s work (both historic and current) in such publications as DEEP RED and BLOOD TIMES, my original article was translated and reprinted in the Spanish edition of FANGORIA, and the experience opened doors for me which allow me to continue to this day as a regular contributor to VIDEO WATCHDOG (courtesy of none other than the aforementioned Tim Lucas) and SCREEM Magazine: while I write about many other films and filmmakers, the work of Paul Naschy remains a constant in my output.

Only one thing was still missing. I had hoped to bring the work of Paul Naschy to a wider and more appreciative audience—but as the man was still living and working, I wanted to know that he knew what I was trying to do for him. I had heard from my various publishers that Naschy was, indeed, aware of my writing, but (with instant communication to Spain still out of my reach), I still needed to somehow know this first hand… and I was devastated when the false rumor of Naschy’s death reached me just around that time. The relief I felt when I learned that this report was a cruel hoax was palpable… but I still hadn’t achieved my goal of hearing from the man himself.

1997. Tony Timpone calls me to let me know that Paul Naschy will be one of the guests of honor at the New York Fango convention in January of 1998. Perhaps I’d like to attend—and would I be interested in providing a video compilation as a means of introducing him? I’m happily married and have a four-year-old daughter now. I can’t afford to fly my family from California to New York with me. But thankfully, they understand, and I’m allowed to make the trip solo. It’s a dream come true (and I trust you’ll understand my shift to the present tense). By pure chance, I meet Paul Naschy and his family in the hotel hours before the convention even begins (I make Naschy’s acquaintance by showing him my custom-made “Waldemar Lives” T-shirt, in fact!) The entire entourage joins me for breakfast and plenty of awe-struck (on my part, of course) conversation… Naschy signs the original galleys of my Fango article and even provides me with a personally autographed copy of his brand-new autobiography (in Spanish, of course). The honor is overwhelming—but I’m still able to ask him the question foremost on my mind… what can I do for him in exchange for what his career has done for me? His answer: “Keep writing.” During the course of this convention, I also meet Mirek Lipinski, whose “Mark of Naschy” website (now www.naschy.com) is now up and running.

But the best was still yet to come. 2000. Naschy returns to America, this time to the Fanex convention in Virginia. And this time, I get to bring my seven-year-old daughter Rebecca with me. My infant son Cameron stays home with his mother, my wife Lisa—but now I have the Internet, and Naschy himself just happened to be the first to send greetings to my new son! Thanks to this newfangled invention, I was able to plan ahead more effectively, and I’m granted the privilege of taking Naschy, his wife Elvira, his son Sergio (I never did get to meet his other son Bruno), Mirek Lipinski, translator/historian Mike Hodges and more to lunch at an Italian restaurant! With Sergio helpfully translating our conversation, we have a terrific get-together… we’re treated to Naschy filching pieces of calamari off Elvira’s plate while he waits for his own meal—and when the music coming from an overhead speaker starts skipping harshly, I point to the speaker and intone “Juan Carlos Calderon” for a good laugh (if you’ve seen VENGEANCE OF THE ZOMBIES, you’ll get the joke).

As momentous as that was, however, a moment preceding that was even more special. The English translation of Naschy’s autobiography was available at this convention, and as Naschy had already signed the Spanish rendition for me, I thought it would be nice to have him sign this one to Rebecca—which, of course, he did. But where my autograph read “Paul Naschy,” his signature to Rebecca simply read “Paul.” And we were quietly told shortly afterwards that a first-name-only signature such as this was reserved only for the most special occasions… and people. (Rebecca responded with an autograph of her own the next morning—a hand-written card inspired by the movie I treated to her the night before… reading “I loved FRANKENSTEIN’S BLOODY TERROR.” I have no doubt that this card is resting on a very special shelf somewhere in Madrid.) Also at this convention, I had the privilege of introducing Naschy and his family to fellow historian/prolific DVD supplement artist Bruce Holecheck, with whom I collaborated very recently on a “Naschy 101” overview on Troma’s DVD release of THE HANGING WOMAN.

Though I never saw Paul Naschy again, the magic did, indeed, continue. 2002 saw my initial “TV horror host” bow on REMO D.’S MANOR OF MAYHEM, and we debuted with a screening of my old favorite ASSIGNMENT TERROR. The films of Paul Naschy have largely defined the look and feel of my show, and we were honored by a personalized Halloween greeting from the man himself, which I happily relayed to my viewers. By this time, family responsibilities kept me from travelling even as far as Los Angeles for Naschy’s further convention appearances, but we hoped to take advantage of his proximity and invite him to appear in our independent horror feature THE WOODEN GATE. It was not to be (Jim Van Bebber ultimately made the character of “Paulo” his own), but Naschy personally communicated his regrets. And while most of our communications were helpfully translated by the stalwart Sergio, it was Paul Naschy himself who sent a message of strength and encouragement to our WOODEN GATE castmate Jonelle Snead in the face of her terminal cancer.

Which, sadly, brings us to this day. Please consider this my eulogy, but by no means will these be my final respects. Sharing the work of Paul Naschy has always been a major motivating force in my own work—and it always will be, both in print and on the MANOR.

And yes, he’ll always be “Sr. Naschy” to me. I’ve been privileged to enjoy first-name familiarity with Elvira and my good friend Sergio, but pure respect and recognition of tradition (though no rules were ever actually spelled out for me) saw to it that I was never so bold as to address my inspiration by his first name—nor would I ever have presumed to ask for such permission. I never called him “Paul.” And I won’t start now.

But Rebecca can call him “Paul.” And that’s more than enough for me.

Rest in peace, my friend. My sincere condolences and respects to Elvira, Sergio, Bruno, their families, and friends and fans of Paul Naschy the world over.

Shane M. Dallmann
December 1, 2009

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