Touch of Death (Lucio Fulci, 1988)

You have all heard the expression, "beat them off with a stick," right? Well, in Lucio Fulci's darkly humourous Touch of Death (a.k.a. Alice Broke the Mirror) the lead character takes the expression one step further. A veritable ladies man (his burly stench brings all the gorgeous, mole-covered chicks to the yard), Lester Parson (Brett Halsey) literally has to beat them off with a stick. I don't know what it is about the shape of his jib, but the women in this film definitely like the cut of it. Anyway, you wanna know where keeps his stick? You do? Why aren't we inquisitive this morning/this evening. He keeps it hidden behind a potted plant. Isn't that fascinating? I don't want to contradict you mid-tangent, but I think you're taking the expression "beat them off with a stick" too literally. No, I'm not. He literally beats one of the many shapely goddesses who desperately want to feel his manly testicles gently knocking against their chins and anuses with a scrotum-based pitter-patter with a stick. I don't care if my interpretation of the idiom's original definition is incorrect, I decide what words mean. And it's clear, judging by my steely gaze, that I've decided to change the meaning of the semi-popular expression, "beat them off with a stick" to fit my own needs. Since his milf-beating stick doesn't have a name, what should we call it? How 'bout the widowmaker? That doesn't make any sense. Yeah, but not making sense is your thing, isn't it? Very funny. If the stick was used to beat the husbands of the mature babes that populate this movie, than, yes, the widowmaker would be an excellent name. However, since the steady concourse of hot older women that prance, frolic and gambol their beautiful, probably misshapen asses throughout this film are already widows, the name doesn't really fit.

First of all, I think you're focusing too much on Lester's stick; it's only used once, and even then, it doesn't really get the job done. And secondly, you already named the stick. I did? You sure did. Take a quick glance at the paragraph you just typed. Okay, I'll do that. Well, do you see it? Milf-beating stick? Bingo! Milf-beating stick. Milf-beating stick. It's a tad crass. But you know what? I like it.

Even though the milf-beating stick fails to accomplish the very business in which it was designed to carry out, and that is, beat milfs to death, it does cause arterial spray to vomit violently from the victim's forehead. Wait, I thought arterial spray could only erupt from parts of the body where arteries are located? Oh, you silly tosser. This is Lucio Fulci film. So? So?!? Blood sprays from everywhere. Duh.

Cleft lips, mustaches, hairy moles, mutton chops, belly chains, scabs, craniofacial deformities, opera-based somniloquy (it's when people sing opera in their sleep), taxidermy swans, and pot bellies, the women of Touch of Death have got it all. Now, when most people use the language I've been using to describe the various ladies who were kind enough to grace us with their presence, they're either being sarcastic or snide. I, on the other hand, am being completely sincere when I state that I adored the women--warts and all--who appear in this film.

We meet the object of the women in this film's affection in the opening scene. Cooking a piece of meat for himself, Lester Parson sits down in front of the television to watch some homemade milf porn. Turning it off just as the curly-haired babe with the growth on her face was about to remove her panties, Lester heads downstairs to conduct some important business.

What could be more important than watching homemade milf porn while eating meat? Oh, you'll see. Holy crap! Isn't the naked woman lying on a slab in Lester's basement the same woman from the homemade milf porn video he was just watching? It sure is. Grabbing a chainsaw, Lester proceeds to cut off her arms, her legs, and her head. For good measure, he bifurcates her as well. Taking a bucket of her guts outside, Lester feeds them to his pigs.

From where I was sitting, it doesn't look like Lester lives on a farm. However, it makes sense for Lester to have pigs, as it makes the line, "She found her future in pork bellies," all the more creepy and all more groan-worthy. By the way, if you're wondering who Lester said this pithy line to, every now and then, he consults his boombox for advice. Pressing play on the cassette player, the voice on the tape, which sounds an awfully lot like Lester, helps the middle-aged Lothario whenever he finds himself in a jam.

It didn't take long, but Lester went from being a rather harmless fellow who likes steak, listening to horse races being called on the radio, feeding his cat Reginald scraps of food, and watching homemade milf porn, to a deranged psychopath who dismembers women with a chainsaw in his laboratory-like basement; don't forget, he feeds their entrails to pigs. He's also a degenerate gambler, and, like I said, has deep and meaningful conversations with his boombox.

Since he blew his chance to extort any money from the curly-haired woman with the growth on her face (he found out she was a rich widow after he killed her), Lester plans to lure another rich widow to his layer. Answering personal ad, one that was looking for a wise and mature man to have a "lusty" relationship with, Lester finds himself face-to-face with the hirsute tit moles that pepper the chest area belonging to Margie MacDonald (Sacha Darwin), a...I don't want to call a "bearded woman," as she only has a mustache and mutton chops. I know, let's call her mildly hirsute.

Anyway, after doing the nasty with Margie, Lester concocts a convoluted scheme to drug her. This goes on for quite some time, as every attempt to drug her seems to go awry at the last minute. I thought to myself as he tried to drug her, this seems like a lot of work.

When all else fails, hit her with your milf-stick. Hit her! Hit her! Je t'adore, ich liebe dich. Hit her! Hit her! Hit her! Hit her with your milf-stick. Hit her slowly, hit her quick.

Lying in a heap, her tan pantyhose stretched to the breaking point thanks to her beefy thighs, Margie's left cheek is busted open, one of her eyes falls out, and her forehead is gushing blood as a direct result of Lester's milf-beating stick. You don't think something as trivial a missing cheek, an errant eyeball and the loss of copious amounts of forehead blood are going stop a gal like Margie, do you?

The only way to truly stop Margie is to knock her unconscious and shove her head in an oversize industrial microwave, and Lester would never do a thing like that. Well wouldn't you know, he's doing just that.

Tormenting him even in death, Lester is about to get ride of her body, but Margie's feet won't stay inside the trunk of his car. This scene, like the drugging scene, is played for laughs, as the manner in which Margie's foot kept popping out of the trunk right before Lester is about to close it is quite comical.

Unfortunately, all of Margie's jewelry turns out to be worthless. So, Lester decides to seek out another milfy widow. This time he sets his sights on Alice (Ria De Simone), a soprano seeking a tenor. Singing opera in the top half of a frilly Little Bo Peep-style costume (the lower half of her ensemble consists of nothing but a belly chain and a pair of awkwardly skimpy white panties), Alice is clearly getting on Lester's nerves. After taking turns exchanging some whimsical slaps to the face, Alice and Lester go to bed. The fact that Alice sings in her sleep seems to push Lester over the edge, so he strangles her with a whip.

Unlike his previous attempt to bilk rich widows of their money, Lester manages to get some money out of Alice; which, of course, he blows at the poker table. You know what that means? It's time to find another milfy widow. Only this time, the milfy widow contacts Lester.

Having seen Zora Kerova in a handful of movies (Cannibal Ferox and The New York Ripper), I kind of knew what to expect. However, what I didn't expect was a thoughtful and engrossing performance. Playing Virginia Field, the sexy widow with the scarred lip, Zora Kerova is wonderful as the final milfy widow; I loved how her character has a thing for swans, shrubbery and dresses with puffy sleeves. I mean, talk about well-rounded.

You know how I said all the milfy widows in Touch of Death were attractive? Well, I wasn't being entirely honest. You see, Zora Kerova's milfy widow is only one I can safely label as attractive while still managing to maintain a straight face. Don't get me wrong, the others had their pluses. It's just that Zora Kerova and her scarred upper lip was so darned appealing. Of course, Lester doesn't see things this way (he is clearly repulsed by her wonky upper lip), and plans on swindling her of a large sum of money and killing her with a lobster cracker.

A weird amalgam of Eating Raoul, Beyond the Darkness, Weekend at Bernies, and Sex, Lies and Videotape, Touch of Death is a jet black dark comedy with its tongue planted firmly in its cheek, which, in case you didn't know, has been obliterated by a heartily swung milf-beating stick.

The New Barbarians (Enzo G. Castellari, 1983)

If your idea of paradise is a world where every car is equipped with a dome-shaped sunroof, then you my friend will love the future depicted in The New Barbarians (I Nuovi Barbari, a.k.a. Warriors of the Wasteland), yet another Italian post-apocalypse movie from Enzo G. Castellari (1990: The Bronx Warriors), as it has more dome-shaped sunroofs than Ontario Place. (I don't care if no-one knows what Ontario Place is, I've always wanted to make reference to it, and I feel this is the best opportunity to do so to come along in years.) Fine. If that reference means nothing to you, how about this: If your idea of paradise is a car that has an elongated drill installed under the hood for the sole purpose of lancing other vehicles in order to exact homoerotic comeuppance on your enemies, then you my friend are gonna love The New Barbarians, as it has more elongated drills than the men's room at a Village People concert. If, however, you're not into those things–which, even I'll admit, are things with a very limited appeal–I'm afraid you're going to be hunted down and exterminated by an unruly gang of bearded fancy boys who wear white whenever they damn well please. Speaking of fancy, who designed their outfits? Whose outfits? The Templars–you know, the bearded fancy boys. Anyway, as I was saying, the outfits worn by not only The Templars, a gang who want to punish humanity for allowing itself to be destroyed by atomic weapons by killing everyone who had the gall to survive, but almost every citizen of this rubble-strewn universe is making a bold fashion statement. It's true, your average nuclear holocaust can be murder on your wardrobe. And I'm sure the most common question asked in this post-nuke realm is: Do these torn rags go with these hole-ridden shoes? Yet, looking at the people who kill and get killed in this movie, I don't think that question is asked very often.    
 

 

I know what you're thinking, how hard is it to scrounge around dilapidated sports stadiums to find old football pads? Yeah, but, you see, they don't wear discarded sports equipment in this film. The outfits they don are designer originals. Meaning, they were specifically made with the apocalypse in mind.
 

 

Okay, smart guy. How do The Templars, the self-proclaimed "ministers of revenge," who roam the wasteland in search of humans to exterminate, make their outfits? I mean, there are no lady Templars. Are you suggesting that a gang of  bearded men need a woman to make their outfits? In that, only a woman would know how to sew? Yes, that's exactly what I'm suggesting. Well, did it ever occur to you that The Templars are all card carrying Friends of Dorothy? What does that mean? They're gay! And what do gay men do? They make outfits. 
 

 

Determined to destroy what's left of humanity after the nuclear holocaust of 2019, the movie opens with The Templars arriving at a camp filled with humans who seem just as determined to carry on living. This desire to live irks The Templars, who want to punish them. And the best way they can think of to do so is by killing them. Circling the wagons sort of speak, the humans try to hold off The Templars. But it's to no avail, there are too many of them. Swarming their makeshift base with armoured cars and motorcycle troops, The Templars make short work of their defenses. Lead by Shadow (Ennio Girolami), an overly blonde man with a large mane of hair that made him look like The Cowardly Lion from certain angles (and by "certain angles," I mean every angle), The Templars finish off the stragglers utilizing their weaponized vehicles; the aforementioned Shadow uses the flamethrower feature on his car to dispatch one straggler and Mako (Massimo Vanni), a black-bearded Templar with a purple Mohawk, uses a bladed fan attached to the side of his car to decapitate another straggler.
 

 

You know how I said Shadow was the leader of The Templars? It would seem that One (George Eastman) is their actual leader. I just assumed Shadow was in charge, because, well, he oozes leadership. And, like I said, he has that whole Cowardly Lion thing going on. I guess One doesn't take part in raids. Anyway, One rips a Bible in two and declares the world dead.
 

 

In the past, I've stated many of what I think are the benefits to living in a post-apocalyptic world. And, I won't lie, most of them involve fashion. You see, thanks to the wanton destruction, the fascists who run the fashion industry are longer in control of what people wear. That's right, people can wear whatever they want. Yeah, I know, The Templars seem just as fascistic as the people in the fashion industry; they all wear the exact same thing (a white leather jumpsuit with testicle-shaped shoulder pads). But I don't think The Templars are supposed to represent freedom of choice.
 

 

The so-called "freedom of choice onus" is actually placed squarely on the shoulders of a loner named Scorpion (Giancarlo Prete), who we meet as he's blowing away a bunch of "crazies" (ragged nomads who wear welding goggles) and an archer named Nadir (Fred Williamson), an unflappable badass who seems to act as Scorpion's guardian angel. Here's some free advice, if you don't want to get shot in the head by one of Nadir's explosive-tipped arrow, don't bring up the the whole guardian angel thing, as he seems like the kind of guy who wouldn't like to be known as a "guardian angel." Come to think of it, I wouldn't use the word "unflappable" to describe him either.
 

 

After being introduced to Scorpion's mechanic, oh, let's call him, Timmy (Giovanni Frezza), a little blonde kid who, as we'll soon find out, wields a sling-shot with deadly accuracy, we're back on the road with The Templars, who have spotted an armoured van filled, no doubt, with pesky humans. Piercing its armour with his trusty hood-mounted battering ram, Shadow proceeds to spray the inside of the van with hot flames. Two of the occupants jump from the flame-engulfed van. The male occupant is quickly taken care of by Shadow (say hello to my little phallic-shaped hood ornament friend), while Mako and his male companion decide to have little fun with the van's female occupant.
 

 

They may be on friendly terms with Dorothy, but The Templars seem to have it in for all women not named Dorothy. Huh? They don't like women. All right.. At any rate, just as Mako and his male companion are about have their way with Alma (Anna Kanakis), Scorpion steps in to save the day. Oh, and when say, "have their way with Alma," I didn't mean to imply that they were about to rape her. It's more likely that were going to torture her before eventually killing her. Now that I have cleared that up. A visibly frightened Alma, who is wearing red-tinted goggles and purple leather tights, stands between two armoured vehicles. And just as Scoprion and Mako were about to ram into each other, Shadow intervenes just in the nick of time. It would seem that Scorpion has a bit of a history with The Templars. I don't know what exactly occurred between them in the past, but apparently if anyone is going to kill Scorpion it's going to be One.
 

 

As Scorpion is driving Alma to safety (she feels comfortable enough with him that she removes her goggles), Mako is planning his revenge. I thought you said that One wants to be the one to kill Scorpion? Yeah, but that doesn't seem to stop Mako, who gathers up a small group of Templars, from acting on his own. Fans of Italian exploitation will probably notice that Frank von Kuegelgen provides the voice of Mako in the English language version of The New Barbarians; his distinctive voice can be heard in Cannibal Ferox, The House on the Edge of the Park (two films where Frank's voice is used by characters played by Giovanni Radice Lombardo) and Hell of the Living Dead. Confronting Scorpion in what looks like an abandoned quarry, Mako and his men attack him with their vehicles and energy weapons. Holy crap, did you see that fucking mannequin head come apart? (Every time a Templar loses his life, a mannequin explodes into a million pieces.) As expected, Scorpion takes care of business, with, of course, a little help from Fred Williamson.
 

 

The scene where Fred Williamson scopes Anna Kanakis' legs, which, like I said, are encased in purple leather, using the scope on his bow was one the film's few instances where heterosexual titillation was paid any sort of lip service.
 

 

As far as synth-friendly music goes, it's a whole 'nother story, as The New Barbarians is chock-full of synthy goodness. The film's score, composed by Claudio Simonetti, is a synth-lovers dream. Check out the synth flourish at around the hour and twenty-three minute mark, it will blow your mind; it occurs when Fred Williamson is stalking Templars with his trusty bow.
 

 

A glorified western where the villains have traded in their spurs for jumpsuits that make them look like sperm, The New Barbarians is your classic gay vs. straight battle. On one hand, Scorpion and Nadir want to have heterosexual intercourse with Anna Kanakis (2019: After the Fall of New York) and Iris Peynado (a dreamy-eyed wasteland resident with the wasteland's most robust side-ponytail), while The Templars want to have gay sex with each other. You could say, since the gays are depicted as the "bad guys," that the film could be construed as anti-gay. But how can any film be classified as "anti-gay" when it features a mildly chiseled man wearing see-through, gladiator-style plastic armour during the film's man-penetrating climax? Don't look at me, 'cause I don't know. All I know is that the film, while anti-gay at times, can turn pro-gay on a dime. Which, given the circumstances and time period in which the film was made, is the best we can hope for. And besides, the film ends with an interracial "gimme five," something you don't see much of nowadays. Which is a shame, really, as I love interracial gimme fives, interracial gimme tens, and, of course, interracial fist bumps.
 

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Cannibal Ferox (Umberto Lenzi, 1981)

Welcome to the jungle, we've got fun and...Whoa! You're not seriously going there, are you? Yeah, you're right. I'm just kidding around. I would never go there. Though, I have to admit, it's a tempting place to go. You see, I've watched so many jungle movies over the past, oh, let's say, two weeks, that I'm surprised I haven't almost gone there sooner. It's clear as the freshly cut genitals sloshing around inside a tribal chief's mouth that the genre is beginning to have a negative toll on my delicate psyche. This particular jungle flick has the distinction of being filmed not in Spain or Italy, but in the actual Amazon. But it also has the distinction of featuring a plethora of needless animals deaths. The act of killing animals for entertainment purposes was something I used to tolerate. But after seeing Cannibal Ferox, I don't think I can remain indifferent any longer, as the animals are not only killed, some of them are tortured. Which I guess fits its overall theme, the film is also known as "Make Them Die Slowly." But there's no excuse for the amount wanton animal cruelty that appears in this film. I felt the worst for the turtle who has its limbs cut off while it was still alive and the pig-like creature who was tied to a stick while an anaconda was allowed to have its way with it, as their agony seemed unnecessarily prolonged. Animal cruelty, aside, the film is quite nasty in a number different ways. The director, Umberto Lenzi (Nightmare City), obviously has no interest in titillation. Unlike all the other jungle flicks made by Italian men, this one seems to be completely lacking in the sexy department. You have to wonder if he's really Italian. I know, with a name like Umberto Lenzi, it's hard to doubt his Italian-ness. But judging by the film's lack of eroticism, I'm starting to have serious doubts.
 

 

Of course, I'm not saying the film has to be on the same level as say, cinematic output of Jess Franco and Tinto Brass in terms of onscreen perversion, all I'm looking for is some accidental eroticism. Hey, you wanna know what happens if a film doesn't have a single moment of carnal interest? I'll tell you what, you'll get an unfunny tangent about animal cruelty. Oh, Umberto Lenzi, if you would have just given me the bawdiness I desire, we wouldn't be in this pickle of a dish towel. Hell, I would have probably let the whole animal cruelty thing slide for some unclothed thigh. But you know what? You didn't. So, here we are.  
 

 

In the spirit of transparency, there is a scene that was on the cusp being erotic: some post-coital lounging plays out between two cocaine enthusiasts. But I found the scene to be a cynical attempt to play lip service to the deviant community. Isn't lip service better than no service? No, it's actually worse, as it not only insults our intelligence, it belittles our crotches. And besides, we don't want to see Zora Kerova (The New York Ripper) lying butt naked in a hut. We don't? No, we want to see Lorraine De Selle (Woman's Prison Massacre) relaxing in a pair of deep peach-coloured short shorts while Giovanni Radice Lombardo massages her feet. Why Lorraine? She's an alluring sack of ambiguously European womanhood, that's why. Oh, and the reason Lorraine De Selle is "ambiguously European" might have something to do with the fact that she might be Australian.
 

 

Anyway, are you sure you want Giovanni massaging her feet? I'm not following. Well, he does slap her around a lot in The House on the Edge of the Park. And not only that, he calls her a twat at least three times over the course of the film. Okay, maybe that's a bad choice. Since the other male character is her brother, and Giovanni's male companion is nursing a sucking chest wound, I guess the only logical choice would be Zora Kerova. Logical, yes. But you're living in a dream world, man, this film's main concern is showing people and animals being tortured in an outdoor setting.
 

 

Just to let you know, the film features many scenes that take place in New York City; scenes where Robert Kerman plays a tough as nails cop. And I, for one, thought these scenes were a complete waste of time. In fact, you to fast-forward past these scenes, as they add nothing to the film. But they do boast the music of Roberto Donati and Fiamma Maglione. Say what you will about the inhumanity that is usually transpiring onscreen, the music on the soundtrack is always fucking awesome. 
 

 

It's true, Mike Logan (Giovanni Radice Lombardo), a coked up adventurer/sadist looking for emeralds in the Amazon, calls Gloria Davis (Lorraine De Selle), an anthropologist working on her thesis about the myth of cannibalism ("it's an invention of racists"), a "twat" on the three separate occasions. But I could have sworn that Gloria's hunky brother Rudy (Danilo Mattei), a non-coked up adventurer, calls Pat Johnson (Zora Kerova), a brainless wild child in a yellow headband, a "twat" as well (a "dumb twat," if you wanna be specific). What I think I'm trying to say is, what's up with twat? Either way, I just introduced the bulk of the characters we'll be spending the next ninety minutes with.
 

 

As Gloria and Rudy are preparing to go up river to search for a village rumoured to have cannibals, they realize that Pat hasn't arrived yet. You see, she desperately wanted to take a shower, so she went to the home of a sleazy-looking Colombian customs agent to take one (and I'm sure, receive a ripe Columbian dicking). At any rate, an exasperated Rudy says, "Where is that dumb twat!" I know, it's kind of a harsh thing to say. But funny thing is, that it's the mild-mannered Rudy, not the coked up out of his mind Mike Logan, who plays the twat card first. Ironically, the reason Gloria, Rudy, and Pat (the "dumb twat" finally does show up) get into trouble in the first place is because they try to avoid running over an iguana with their jeep. I guess they could have gotten stuck in the mud down the road. But in a film replete with animal cruelty I found it rather telling that they misery in this "poison paradise" was propagated by an act of thoughtfulness.
 

 

The first "close your eyes and enjoy the music" moment comes when the trio come across a native man eating live grubs. The second comes when the pig-like creature (a baby tapir, maybe?) they brought along with them is killed by an anaconda. Actually, closing your eyes doesn't really work in this case, as the pig-shaped animal's cries of agony are just as terrible.
 

 

After Rudy has finished slapping a hysterical Pat in the face a couple of times (they come across two dead locals), the trio finally come across Mike Logan and his mortally wounded sidekick, Joe (Walter Lucchini). The reason I sound excited is because I think Giovanni Radice Lombardo pretty much rocks in this movie. And proves I'm right almost immediately when Pat offers him something to drink. He basically tells her, "Nah, I don't drink. I do cocaine." Yes! You do cocaine! Say it loud, and say it proud. God, I love this guy. I mean, Mike Logan doesn't sneak behind the bushes to get his fix, he does cocaine in full view of everybody; he doesn't care.
 

 

Hold one, Mike Logan is about to call Gloria a twat for the first time. Boom, in your face, Gloria. Of course, I didn't think it was the appropriate insult–you know, given that they have only known each other for ten seconds–but Mike Logan is not known for doing things are "appropriate."    Oh, and, unlike Rudy's twat-based diss of Pat, Mike Logan uses no embellishments when he calls someone a twat.
 

 

It doesn't take long, but Mike Logan calls Gloria a twat again later that evening when she falls in a giant hole along with a pig. After stabbing the pig, Mike Logan calls Gloria, who has mercifully changed into a bright red top (her head-to-toe khaki ensemble paired with that ridiculous-looking white bucket hat was beyond atrocious), a twat after she scolds his pig killing technique (he seemed to enjoy killing it a little too much).
 

 

Coming across an Amazonian village filled only with passive elders, the group decide to rest there. While I can't quite remember the topic of their discussion, Mike Logan calls Gloria a twat a third time. To celebrate his twat trifecta, Mike Logan has sexual intercourse with Pat in one of the huts. Jealous of his awesomeness, Rudy decides to challenge Mike Logan. Okay, he probably challenged him because he didn't approve of the fact he shot a native woman for no apparent reason. But deep down, Rudy must envy Mike Logan's swagger. So, as Mike Logan might say, "Get off his case, motherfucker!"
 

 

A great flashback sequence, narrated by Joe (who is miraculously still alive), eventually tells us the truth about Mike Logan and how he ended up in this "poison paradise." It would seem that Mike Logan isn't just cocaine enthusiast who digs blondes with small titties, he's totally deranged. As a matter of fact, he's a psychopath who gets off on torturing people, especially the locals. Don't believe me? Just ask the eyeball resting precariously on the on the end of his knife. The mysterious appearance of a rotten papaya on a stick sets in motion a serious of gruesome events, as the outsiders soon realize that violence begets violence. It doesn't matter if only a handful of them partook in acts of cruelty, anyone with a white face better keep a close watch on their genitals, as they're in grave danger of being ritualistically removed in a violent manner.

The New York Ripper (Lucio Fulci, 1982)

What would you say is the sexiest part of female anatomy? If you said, "eyebrows," what the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you say that? I'm getting the willies just thinking about what kind of person would choose eyebrows as the sexiest. The image of them cowering naked in some nondescript basement, surrounded by posters of women with robust eyebrows, is so vivid, so real, that I can practically taste the unplucked awkwardness on my chapped lips. However, if you're able to admire a tastefully orchestrated close-up of a woman's eyebrows and surrounding eye region every now and then, and are not a complete weirdo about it, you'll definitely enjoy The New York Ripper, Lucio Fulci's grisly tribute to misogyny and downtown homicide. Wait a minute, did you say, "grisly tribute"? Why, yes, I did. You see, in order to savour the eye-flavoured camera work in this film, you're also gonna have to endure a fair amount of ghastliness. It's what we in the eyebrow appreciation business call a "trade-off." Let me put it this way: No-one in their right mind is gonna allow someone to make a movie solely about eyebrows, and no-one in their right mind is gonna allow someone to make a movie solely about murder. This Manhattan set slasher film attempts to strike a balance between the two subjects by giving the bloodthirsty sickos in the audience the over-the-top carnage they so wantonly crave, while at the same time throwing a bone to the eyebrow crowd. And in that regard, I think this film will definitely silence the critics out there who think extreme gore and eyebrow fetishism can't co-exist with one another.

Proving that gore and eyebrows can live together in cinematic harmony is one thing, but does The New York Ripper work as a gripping thriller? Yes and no. Remove the attributes I just mentioned, and all you're left with a pretty standard murder mystery. For example, the stuff revolving around the police investigation, as is usually the case with movies like this, was pretty tedious. Yet, when you take in account the New York setting (lots of great shots of 42nd Street in all its sleazy glory), its generous throng of Italian actresses, and the fact that the killer talks like duck, the film starts to get more and more interesting by the minute.

The place: New York City. The date: 1982. The situation: There's a killer on the loose. Well, actually, there a thousands of killers on the loose in New York City; that's what made the city so great. No, this particular killer is unique in that they prefer to butcher their victims in a manner that makes sadism seem quaint. The first person to get their Fulci-approved eye area close-up is a cranky shopkeeper who finds a human hand while walking his dog underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. The close-up occurs while his dog is in the process of returning what he thinks will be a stick. Getting in real tight on the upper part of the man's weather-beaten face, Fulci's camera captures every detail of his shocked expression as he realizes that ain't no stick.

The owner of the severed hand was apparently a fashion model who was murdered a few weeks ago, and according to Mrs. Weissburger (Babette New), the model's nosy neighbour, she received a telephone call on the day she died from an individual who talked like a duck. Dismissing the duck chatter as complete nonsense, Lt. Williams (Jack Hedley), the veteran homicide detective in charge of the case, basically tells the garrulous woman to get lost. Nevertheless, pressured to solve the murders by his boss (Lucio Fulci), the detective decides to employ the services of Dr. Davis (Paolo Malco), a "Chess Challenger" playing doctor, with the hope that his intellectual prowess and his manly beard will help shed some much needed light on things.

The first victim we actually get to see come to face-to-face with the duck-voiced assailant, and receive a Fulci-approved close-up, is Rosie (Cinzia de Ponti), a lanky cyclist, who, according to an annoyed motorist, has "the brain of a chicken." Taking the verbal tongue lashing from the irate sexiest pig in the red Volkswagen Beetle in stride, Rosie, sporting teal short shorts and a white windbreaker with multi-coloured stripes on the shoulders, rides aboard the Staten Island Ferry with a carefree, "I'm totally not about to be brutally murdered" brand of elan.

Hoping to get back at the chauvinistic commuter by defacing the windshield of his car with the word "shit" written in lipstick, Rosie meets a stranger just as she is about to put the finishing touches on her work of petty vandalism. Congenial at first, the encounter turns slightly menacing the moment Rosie notices that the stranger is scoping the exquisite length of her first-class gams. There's nothing wrong with that; long legs have been known to be scoped from time to time. However, things go from slightly menacing to extremely menacing once the stranger pulls out a switchblade and starts quacking like a duck. Just as the stranger, who the cops dub, "The Ripper," is about to strike, the camera pulls away from the inside of the car. This lulls the audience into thinking that the stabbing will be occurring off-screen. As we're enjoying the tranquility of the bay as the ferry chugs along the water, it dawns on me that no-one gets stabbed off-screen in a Lucio Fulci film. And boom, just like that, the next images we see are that of a shiny blade being plunged into Rosie's abdomen combined with close-up shots of her much anguished eye-region.

Adhering to a well-worn formula, one that centres around stylish set pieces that revolve around acts of violence followed by banal scenes where police investigate said acts of violence, The New York Ripper occasionally breaks free of its genre limitations whenever the alluring Alexandra Delli Colli shows up onscreen as Jane, a sexually adventurous woman whose overt kinkiness was not only sublime, it was mildly inspirational. We're introduced to Jane through the eyes of a man (Howard Ross) with two fingers missing from his right hand as he enters a live sex show (one that boasts "positions you'd never dream of") taking place at a theatre on 42nd Street. Taking a seat in the front row, the not-quite fingerless man notices a posh woman sitting in the across the aisle in a trench coat and grey fedora.

The question floating around inside the heads of all the perverts gathered here this evening is: What in the world is a sophisticated woman like her doing in a place like this? Well, it turns out, Jane likes to tape her sexual encounters using a small cassette recorder for the erotic benefit of her husband (Cosimo Cinieri). In this case, she records herself masturbating while two live sex performers have standard intercourse on a stage. Breathing heavily, Jane, gripping the cassette recorder with one hand, while sheepishly toying with her panitie-covered clit with the other, tries her best to be discreet. When all is said and done, other than exposing part of her trademark black silk stockings, she is able to obtain a well-deserved chichi climax.

Meanwhile, backstage, the female performer who we just saw straddle and hump her way into our hearts finds herself alone in the dark. Cursing an unseen Italian man named Joe ("prick bastard Italian!"), the live sex performer (Zora Kerova) is stabbed with a broken bottle by an equally unseen individual who can be heard quacking like a duck as they repeatedly thrust the pointy end of their makeshift weapon into the comely sex worker. Right then and there, Jane and the three-fingered pervert are added to the film's lengthy suspect list (the director makes sure to show us that both their seats were empty when the bottle murder takes place).

At this point, the duck-voiced killer starts taunting Lt. Williams via the telephone. Which, if you think about it, is no big deal. I mean, what's the point of being a killer who talks like a duck if you can't provoke law enforcement evry now and then? What irks the detective is the fact that quacking murderer called him while he was with Kitty (Daniela Doria), a prostitute who doesn't fetch coffee for her clients ("I'm a prostitute, not your wife" - you tell him, sister).

Unrelated to the murder plot, but much appreciated from a perversion point-of-view, the scene where Alexandra Delli Colli visits a rundown bar is my favourite sequence in the entire movie simply because it has nothing to do with ducks or switchblades. Sitting at a table near the bar's pool tables, Jane makes eye and crotch contact with a group of degenerates (her depraved gaze zeroes in on the trouser bulge of a shady-looking pool player in white jeans). Two of them join Jane at her table and immediately start making bets with one another. You see, one of the degenerates thinks she's not wearing panties, while the other thinks she is. In order to find out, oh, let's call him, "Degenerate #2," takes off one of his shoes and begins an exploratory campaign to unveil the pantie truth with his barefoot. Like I said, this scene has nothing really to do with The Ripper, but it does give us some insight into the day-to-day existence of a female exhibitionist with razor-sharp cheekbones.

You'd have to be an idiot not to notice that the film has been severely lacking in dirty blondes who are surly and sort of look like Amy Smart up until this point. The producers of The New York Ripper attempt to rectify this (even though there's a good chance they have no idea who Amy Smart is) by introducing us to Fay (Almanta Suska), an athlete of some kind with a creepy boyfriend (Andrea Occhipinti). Riding the subway late at night, Fay spots a strange man watching her from a distance. At first, she probably thought he was merely admiring the harmonious relationship that was taking place between her white scarf and tartan skirt. But it soon becomes to clear to her that this man, who, by the way, is missing two fingers on his right hand, has no interest in women's fashion, and that his intentions are quite sinister in nature.

After lingering on her eyebrows (which are wispy yet sturdy) for a few seconds, Fay and the finger-challenged guy play a game of cat and mouse through the streets of New York City. Is the three-fingered assailant who is chasing Fay the duck-voiced Ripper? I'm not so sure, as I haven't heard him quack once. Nevertheless, after a bizarre sequence at a movie theatre, Fay wakes up in a hospital bed to find her creepy boyfriend hovering over her.

Outside the hospital, Lt. Williams and Dr. Davis decide to take a break from the case. The detective offers to give the doctor a ride, but he says that he's gonna "take a stroll" instead. Which, as we all know, is code used by closeted homosexuals. For example, when your husband says, "Honey, I'm going out to take a stroll," it's means he's running down to the newsstand to pick up the latest issue of Blueboy Magazine. Along with the revelation that the three-fingered fella is Greek, there are many misguided attempts to trick us into believing who the Ripper is this film. Wait a minute, you mean he's Greek?!? Oh my! Well then he must be the killer. Same goes for the gay angle. Using that logic, I could say Heather (Barbara Cupisti), Dr. Davis's attractive assistant, was the killer because she has curly hair. Stupidly lame.

The third–well, fourth if you the count the brief exchange she has with her husband–scene to feature our beloved sex fiend takes place at the dingy Cavalier Hotel and shows Alexandra Delli Colli's Jane being to tied a bed by the three-fingered individual who is, get this, apparently Greek. Stroking her stockings with his good hand, the jean jacket-wearing gigolo (yep, Jane is actually paying to have this done to her) gropes her to the point of carnal madness.

It's not often that I get the chance to declare someone's incoherent blubbering as "exquisite," but that's exactly what happens when Rita Silva does a number on the space-time continuum as a frazzled landlady. She only appears in one scene, but the impression she managed to make was pretty substantial. Wearing a blue bathrobe, rollers in her hair and a thick layer of smudged mascara on her cheeks, Rita had the mental constitution of someone who had just come from the set of a John Waters movie.

Wrapping things up, the gore and eyebrow aspects of the film do come together in an extreme manner when the duck killer takes a razor blade and glides it across a woman's eyebrow before plunging it deep into her right eye. I have a feeling both camps will be upset by this scene: The eyebrow folks won't like it because it shows the killer ruining a perfectly good eyebrow (creating an unwanted Vanilla Ice effect in the process), while the gore cabal will cringe because everyone hates eye trauma; particularly people who have eyeballs that work and junk.

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