Steve Fenton Reviews: We're Going to Eat You.

WE’RE GOING TO EAT YOU 

(地獄無門 / Di yu wu men, a.k.a. HELL HAS NO GATES or NO DOOR TO HELL) 

Hong Kong, 1980. D: Tsui Hark 

Reviewed by Steve Fenton 

(Crank here with a short intro: I reviewed this film 5 years ago when I started this blog (link). Back then I would rattle off capsule reviews and hardly took notes. I'm always excited to read a different perspective on the same film, so I've convinced Steve Fenton to chip in a few reviews. Hopefully you know him from Weng's Chop and Monster besides other DR films he's tackled on this site respectively. And now on with the goods). 

As boss-cannibal The Chief says to his flunkies in regards to their—er—dog-eat-dog existence, “In our line of work, if you don’t eat people, they’ll eat you! If you don’t beat them, they’ll beat you!” Words to the wise… 

This movie’s title is probably most familiar to splatterheads as the US ad slogan for Lucio Fulci’s gutcruncher ZOMBIE (Zombi II, 1979), and it is quite feasible that Tsui Hark was influenced for this early feature (his second following THE BUTTERFLY MURDERS [蝶變 / Die bian, 1979]) by the then-still-ongoing Italian zombie/cannibal genres. According to an unsubstantiated rumor I once heard c/o Colin “Asian Eye/TIFF Midnight Madness/Shudder” Geddes, a Chinese story by Qing Dynasty scribe Pu Songling (a.k.a. 蒲松齡 [1640-1715])—possibly one from his collection Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio?—was likely also a source of inspiration here. Whichever way you slice it, however, WGTEY is indeed one bizarre pot of (to quote Alice Cooper from his classic horror track “The Black Widow” [1975]) “humanary stew”; and, since one man’s (or woman’s) meat is another’s poison, only those strong-stomached flesh-eaters with a liking for theirs not just rare but damn near raw need apply! 

A very erotic episode of Archie Bunker.

Firstly, before we plunge into the—ahem—meat of the matter, allow me to whet your appetite with this tasty tidbit of backstory: In 1992, a Communist dissident named Zheng Yi fled Mainland (i.e., Red) China for Hong Kong (which was then still some five years away from becoming re-assimilated back into the mother country’s jurisdiction [as happened in the fateful year of 1997]), risking his life to defect and reveal to the world at large the horrifying contents of a 600-page manuscript which he had in his possession and was eager to bring to light. This damning document exposed cases of mass public cannibalism organized by the Communist régime during the tumultuous social upheaval of the ’60s Chinese Cultural Revolution. At that time, subversives were reportedly systematically/summarily executed, butchered and then devoured by slavering throngs of loyal Reds. Chairman Mao Zedong believed it was a fine symbol of his people’s “class struggle”; his followers evidently believed it was a good excuse for a BBQ. Due to the sensitive, classified nature of the information contained in the smuggled manuscript for many years before it finally came to light in the early ’90s, it is doubtful that WGTEY’s main maker/mover’n’shaker Tsui drew from actual historical facts (other than perhaps whispered rumors), but—if the film is viewed in broader symbolic/satiric terms—the parallels with certain aspects of China’s then-recent past are noteworthy. 

who else feels like chicken tonight?

And so to the film itself… On an isolated jungle island somewhere in Republican China dwells a whole community of mad butchers—led by him respectfully known as The Chief—with a penchant for the taste of human meat; indeed, central to the community is an ominous brick-and-mortar building known (with good reason!) as the slaughterhouse. Any unwary outsider foolish enough to stray into the voracious villagers’ neck of the woods soon winds up slaughtered, deboned and dressed upon their chopping blocks, ready to be divvied-up for consumption by the locals at the communal dining hall (quaintly described as the “cafeteria” [!] in the English subs to my Mei Ah Entertainment disc edition of the film, which I scored back in the mid-2000s down in Toronto’s Chinatown on a bootleg DVD-R c/o the Triads for a mere two bucks Canuck). 

2 Buck Canuck, I wonder if that wine pairs well with human meat? 

Right in the prologue, a bunch of ersatz downsize Leatherfaces in butchers’ aprons wielding meat-axes, carving knives and bone-saws turn a couple of foolhardy trespassers into instant coldcuts. Close-ups of knives piercing flesh and choppers severing limbs are followed by a man being sawn in half at the waist. This all amounts to quite the garishly gruesome opener, for sure. Although there’s much stronger meat to be had these days, and HK cinema went to even greater lengths to unsettle stomachs in later decades (especially during the spate of ultra-violent “Category III” shockers made in the ’90s), back in the day this was mighty potent stuff, without doubt; even if, shades of its occidental kindred spirit/more-than-just-partial inspiration source THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE (1974, USA, D: Tobe Hooper), many of the bloody bodily atrocities committed in WGTEY are much more implied rather than actually graphically shown. That said, more-so than in Hooper’s comparatively restrained film, there’s still plenty of gory gruesomeness to be seen onscreen in the present one, so it’s hardly an exercise in subtle horror, by any means. 

you were expecting Anthony Wong?

Shortly into the narrative proper, a pair of omnivorous river travelers—a dope-smoking, shaggy-wigged “hippy” hobo/thief (Hon Kwok-choi) and a skilled young martial artist/Central Surveillance operative named Jian Men, alias Agent 999 (played by the rather Danny Lee-like Norman Chu Siu-keung, from WING CHUN [詠春, 1994, D: Yuen Wo-Ping])—stop off at the inhospitable isle of ravenous cannibals, who much prefer home-cooked vittles of the human kind rather than lowly chicken. At their village, the longhair is soon ‘molested’ by an oversexed (or possibly just seriously undersexed) Chinese giantess, who forcibly attempts to have her way with him. (“I’ve got syphilis”, he says in hopes of dissuading his seven-foot-plus seductress. Her good-natured reply is, “Hey, so do I!” Gee, it’s a small world, huh?) The XL female is played strictly for distasteful laughs by ‘her’ drag (?) actor, so it does come as rather a mean-spirited surprise for us when s/he too winds up chopped into extra-large cubes of stewing beef (or rather, “long pig”)—not by the cannibals, but by the heroes. Thankfully, this development isn’t dwelled upon in nauseating detail, but it still leaves a bad taste in the mouth anyway, being as the late oversized nymphomaniac amounted to one of the strange village’s more normal, likeable inhabitants. 

At least this flick is more tolerant than PantyHose Hero!

As befits his official title, The Chief (Eddy Ko Hung, sporting an obviously spurious stick-on ’stache and beardlet) is a militaristic, order-barking authoritarian in partial (if decidedly worse-for-wear-and-tear) uniform, who wields a combo swagger stick/cudgel as his scepter of office and in a later amusing scene bemoans the loneliness of his position as top dog in the pecking order. His #1 aide is a man called Rolex (Melvin Wong Gam-San), a fugitive—now-reformed—bandit who is Agent 999’s primary reason for being in the vicinity in the first place. Having sickened of the local yokels’ cannibalistic ways, the ex-criminal endeavors to put an end to them with the G-man’s help, while clearing his name in the process. 

Over the course of this outré scenario, veritable rivers of watered-down raspberry syrup-like blood are shown flowing in loving close-up, although much of the actual damage done to people’s bodies by all the various cold steel carving implements used is kept firmly out of frame, even if the editor’s juxtaposition of the various visual elements does succeed in making such scenes painful to witness nonetheless. Humor periodically segues to horror (and vice versa) without warning, but this queasy admixture of goofball slapstick comedy and extreme gore largely works, thanks to the staccato cutting—pun very much intended!—and Tsui’s morbid sense of humor, even if the gags do sometimes descend to lowbrow scatology (e.g., “I’ll feed you my farts!”), which was certainly nothing new for HK’s commercial cinema, even then.  

Cannibalistic citizens bicker over larger portions of “pie”, while the shunned/scorned town outcast is a vegetarian (or, worse still, possibly even an all-out Vegan?!) suffering from advanced malnutrition. An amorous wife asks her spouse for a bit of “heart”… literally! While eating noodles, a man finds a whole fingernail in his bowl, which is a whole lot grosser by far than finding a fly in your soup. When a strip of quivering flesh is slashed from his comrade, a flesheater smacks his lips appreciatively and promptly has a nibble of said mouth-wateringly tantalizing morsel. Even when bloodily dismembering victims, the masked meatmen are portrayed as comical lunkheads. Blades cleave skulls set to kooky Three Stooges-like sound effects, while frenetically clashing cymbals bring a disjointed, unsettling quality to the soundtrack, which also incorporates sundry “Halloween haunted house”-style spooky audio FX too; hell, even that familiar canned “wolf-howl” heard in innumerable horror flicks from both the Orient and the Occident is also reheard herein. The cannibals’ voracious appetite for manmeat is played for much broad farce, and human flesh is bartered like steak. The whole “humans-as-cattle” angle/subtext is emphasized further in a scene where two combatants buffet at each other with long-horned yak skulls like rutting male moose trying to outdo one another for a mate. Roller-skates, firecrackers and some impeccably-choreographed kung fu figure prominently at the climax of WGTEY, as does a grisly final twist. Even periodic (if only brief) lapses into philosophical pontification on the universal human condition fail to cause viewers’ attention to wander, and seem fitting to the overall surreal proceedings. 

Oh I'm sorry am I boring you?

All of this might well be interpreted as political allegory regarding Communist China (way back when in Tsui’s Son of the Incredibly Strange Film Show segment, droll host Jonathan Ross aptly called it “biting satire”). But there’s no need to bother with underlying ‘social commentary’ anyway if you don’t feel so inclined; by all means just sit back and enjoy the outrageous visuals! WGTEY is great fun entertainment, but if it happens to be your first-ever experience with HK cinema of the more out-there kind, you’re probably in for a bit of culture shock on top of all the other more visceral shocks you get from it. Cannibalism—even when stir-fried with absurdist Rabelaisian touches and (jet-black) humor—is understandably not exactly a popular topic in Hong Kong, even if so many local filmmakers have dabbled in such themes over the years (case in point some of those grislier “Cat III” serial killer shockers). Upon its initial release, WE’RE GOING TO EAT YOU proved to be a resounding commercial flop, as was Tsui’s other satirical/political piece from the same year, DANGEROUS ENCOUNTERS OF THE FIRST KIND (第一類型危險 / Di yi lei xing wei xian, see review here). Distributors treated both of these at-the-time unpopular films with great apathy and allowed them to gather dust in their vaults for many years, before the home video boom, which started catching-on in the ’80s and shows no signs of slowing down to this day (even if the technology has changed so drastically for the better in the meantime!), began gradually building-up their international fanbases; both films have long-since developed sizeable cult followings by now, and for hardcore HK-horror buffs, the present title—the most notorious of the two by far, for obvious reasons—amounts to absolutely mandatory viewing. 

Attack of the Beast Creatures

ATTACK OF THE BEAST CREATURES Directed By Michael Stanley (1985).

Review By Steve Fenton

Ad-line: “Horror… Terror… Death… They’ll Eat You Alive!”

Back in the late ’80s/early ’90s when I initially became somewhat active in the “zine scene”, I remember reading quite a bit here and there about this justifiably notorious monster cheapie; not the least amount of its notoriety stemming from its luridly outrageous title itself, which evokes the schlockiest of 1950s monster schlockers, but really has little else in common with them other than perhaps the base premise. But, while I’ve long been aware of it and knew I wanted to—and would (and did!)—see it eventually, I didn’t actually finally get around to doing so until just recently, specifically for TOG, as a matter of fact. Was it worth the long wait? Hell yeah! It’s definitely a keeper, and I may well even watch it again sometime.

As an introductory title card informs us, “Somewhere in the North Atlantic” (in May 1920, although the period setting is only hinted at by the costumes), an overloaded lifeboat, filled to the point of capsizing with the mixed-gender survivors of a shipwreck, drifts aimlessly on the high seas until it by chance reaches the “safety” of a presumably uncharted isle well outside the main shipping lanes (the film was lensed in rural locations in Fairfield, Connecticut, of all places. Heavy New Yorkese accents predominate in the cast). That said, considering what awaits them on dry land (the title ought to provide you with some sort of subtle clue), perhaps the castaways might have been better off going down with the sinking ship! Which is presumably what the captain must have done, because he isn’t numbered among the survivors.

Directed by one Michael Stanley—whose sole other listed credit at the IMDb is a comedy called DOING AGATHA (2008)—the present film (a.k.a. HELL ISLAND) was brought to us c/o seasoned schloxploitation impresario Joseph Brenner, Stateside distributor of all sorts of prime ’70s trash cinema imports (Brenner had no actual production input into AOTBC, but merely dealt with the distribution of it). Despite the year given at the IMDb (“1985”), that was actually when it was released on domestic home video by World Video Pictures of LA; but the actual onscreen copyright year given in the film’s end credits is 1983.

The beasties worship at the alter of the giant Sour Patch Kid

Establishing a suitably macabre tone early into the narrative, one luckless castaway, his throat parched after spending days adrift on the bobbing briny, finds a woodland pool presumably filled with cool, drinkable freshwater and goes to quench his thirst. However, no sooner does he dip his head under the water for a refreshing guzzle than his flesh starts to sizzle and smoke, his face almost instantaneously being reduced to a hideous scarlet, blobby mass of melting tissue! (And you’d scream as much as he does too if the same thing happened to you.) To accomplish this crudely effective if by no means convincing-looking effect, it pretty much just looks as though all someone did was dump a quart of semi-coagulated fire engine red latex house-paint over the guy’s head. The man—named Pat, played by the production’s soundman Frans Kal—then flops face-first (if that’s the correct term, considering what little face he has left) into the pool—which is apparently filled with a highly corrosive acid rather than H₂O—and dissolves steamily right before the eyes of another man who runs up at the sound of his agonized screams (“Keep the women away!” he calls gallantly to his associates as one of the flappers comes for a look-see).

I shouldn't have avoided the warning on that Scream and Scream Again poster

Subsequent to this decidedly ominous occurrence, some of the surviving group get the distinct impression that someone—or something—is watching them from the surrounding bush. While one of the women, Mrs. Gordon (Kay Bailey) is off picking edible berries in the dense underbrush, some unseen creature nips her on the hand. “Well, now at least we know there are animals on the island,” she says afterwards, as-yet not overly disturbed. “Maybe we will have some meat to cook.” However, are the humans the highest life forms and at the top of the food chain on this island, or are they merely meat for a higher—albeit much shorter—and still more voracious form of predator…? A short time later, heroes John Trieste (Robert Nolfi) and Case Quinn (Robert Lengyel) come across a bloodied human skeleton which has apparently had its flesh stripped off its bones by some indeterminate species of animal (“Rats...?”). During the group’s first night on the island, what appear to be—and indeed, are—numerous pairs of shining white eyes peer out at them from the darkness all around their campfire.

The Black Devil Doll is my second cousin!

Before you can say “Jeepers creepers, where’d you get those peepers,” the things behind the eyes make their presence further known by doing more than just peeping out at the human interlopers into their domain. Bright red, with long black hair, blank white eyes and pointy gnashers, the gnarly critters don’t first show themselves until several minutes past the half-hour mark of this 80-minute movie, and their initial attack comes nocturnally, so little is seen of them other than fleeting glimpses. Hissing, screeching, scurrying, leaping and biting, they assail the humans’ makeshift camp en masse, sinking their teeth into whoever comes within range, both men and women alike, with zero seeming preference. Although only comparatively tiny—approximately a tenth our size—they are extremely fast-moving and come in such great numbers that they pose a genuine threat to their much larger victims, simply because there are so damn many of ’em.

PHOTO BOMB!

“Those eyes!” exclaims Cathy (Julia Rust), having been reduced to a quivering state of shock following the first attack, shortly before going into all-out hysterics. “I could see those eyes. They were everywhere!” Cue hysterical bawling. Having been alerted to their presence, as the people attempt to wend their way through the woods back to their beached boat, the creatures observe them from the trees, occasionally launching sorties against them by rushing out of the bushes, biting someone seemingly at random, then rushing away again. And the little fuckers even lay booby-traps, too! As in one scene when a fat dude gets speared clear through the guts after tripping and falling onto a wooden stake sticking up out of the ground. Another guy falls into a pit which has been dug by the things for that very purpose, whereupon they leap in on him. When hero Trieste asks, “Where’s Diane?” (Lisa Pak), we shortly see her corpse crawling with critters, still chawin’ away on her like momma’s chitterlings. One by one, the “survivors” are gradually whittled down to nothing by their incessant attackers. Can you guess who lives long enough to make it onto the rescue boat in the last act…?

We kicked those Keebler Elves out and hijacked their cookie trees

As has been commonly remarked by others over the years, in both their size and other physical characteristics as well their viciousness, the titular so-called “Beast Creatures” essentially strongly resemble the famous and ferocious living Zuni fetish doll seen relentlessly attacking Karen Black in Dan Curtis’ classic made-for-TV horror anthology TRILOGY OF TERROR (1975). Clearly little more than simplistic glove or rod puppets in some shots – which was precisely what they were! – these patently phony and decidedly dollish critters are nonetheless bizarre enough in their looks and habits to be mildly unsettling; an unsteady combination of humorously foolish and grotesquely disconcerting in roughly equal degree. These seemingly contradictory if by no means mutually exclusive qualities can sometimes work rather well in regards to supposedly horrific creatures, as here. Several crazed, speed-edited sequences depict the creatures swarming the humans. Sprinting through the bush nipping at knees and ankles like demonic pygmies, for all their unconvincing appearance, the title terrors are presented exuberantly enough to register favorably, their sheer oddness merely adding to their effectiveness.

I'm so humiliated, I was ambushed by a horde of pocket sized evil holly hobby dolls

Due to the ever-increasing frequency and relentlessness of the attacks, stress levels and in-fighting predictably increase among the castaways, much of the friction directly caused by an abrasive a-hole of a middle-aged business tycoon named Mr. Morgan (John Vichiola, the hammiest over-actor in the bunch…and there are a lot of hams to be had here). Right from frame one of his appearance, we just know this loudmouthed yahoo is gonna get his in a bad way before the narrative runs its full course. Sure enough, having been nursing a leg-wound caused by a bite from one of the creatures for much of the action, in the final third he suddenly turns “rabid”—actually foaming at the mouth, evidently due to gangrene having set in—before dashing off into the “jungle” and taking a revengeful bite out of one of the beast creatures, only to shortly thereafter stumble and fall into the aforementioned acid pool and dissolve into a smoking skeleton.

I won the tomato eating contest Hurray!

Robert A. Hutton not only functioned as AOTBC’s writer, but was also its DP, in addition to playing an unnamed sailor in the film (although he is evidently no relation to the Hollywood performer named Robert Hutton who had starred in a number of cheapjack monster flicks which look like comparative epics next to the present next-to-zilch-budgeter under discussion. Hell, even Hutton’s THE SLIME PEOPLE [1963] looks like QUO VADIS? next to this decidedly downscale production). SFX creator/soundman Robert T. Firgelewski also served triple duty in an acting role (namely, the critically wounded Mr. Bruin character, who barely even makes it out of the lifeboat after it washes ashore before croaking). John P. Mozzi’s electronic score mostly sticks to typically drony or just plain airy-fairy ’80s-style motifs in the wannabe Tangerine Dream vein (for wont of a handier description). While it’s effective enough for what it is, since I’ve never been that much of a fan of synth music (other than for the more outrageous forms from the avant-garde/underground, that is; such as Suicide or Throbbing Gristle, say), it typically leaves me cold when utilized for movie soundtracks; although I must admit that some of the minimalistic jittery compositions heard here do complement the ominous mood rather well, all things considered.

This koi pond is doing wonders for my pores

In closing, I had long suspected that I was going to enjoy ATTACK OF THE BEAST CREATURES, and, sure enough, that’s how things panned-out, I’m glad to say. Not only is there more than just a germ of a good idea at work herein, but the film emerges as quite an original – virtually unique, in fact – concoction, whose accomplishments are all the more impressive for the simple reason that it comes from such humble origins, and it knows it, which is why it has the common sense not to overstep its limitations and stays well within the boundaries. I’ve never been one to trumpet a movie’s virtues solely because it was made on the cheap and had the deck stacked against it from the start, so it should automatically be given love, no questions asked (Jerry Warren, fuck off!). But I am totally an admirer of films which are made super-cheaply – and it doesn’t come much cheaper than this! – yet still manage to exhibit a modicum of style and energy, even if you do have to squint a little to spot its finer points while overlooking its virtually innumerable faults. Which is why a no-frills (and then some) effort like this gets major props from me. It’s assuredly not to everybody’s tastes – far from it – but for those of us (are you one of the lucky ones?) who can derive entertainment value virtually without production values, this nifty little monsterpiece was custom-made just for you.

WATCH HERE

Blood Rage (Or Never Pick Up A Stranger)

BLOODRAGE Directed By Joseph Zito, Starring Ian Scott (1979).

by Steve Fenton

Okay, so there’s a reason why I’m reviewing two unrelated movies with the virtually identical title for Theater of Guts, and here it is: I got confused, and originally reviewed the wrong fucking movie (namely BLOOD RAGE – note the subtle difference in the title). After all the months I kept Crankenstein waiting, it turned out I’d reviewed the ‘other’ one by mistake! Which, because I feel like such a idjit, is why I am now rectifying my oversight by covering the ‘right’ one (i.e., the BR which is listed in the Deep Red catalog, in keeping with T.O.G.’s unifying concept). That said, although I was hoping the present BLOODRAGE (1979) under review would at least be somewhat better than BLOOD RAGE (1987), the fact that the former Joseph Zito film has a substantially lower user rating (5.1) at the Internet Movie Database than the latter John Grissmer one (5.7) did make me expect the worse; not that said site’s ratings are always indicative of how entertaining a movie is, by any means. Not sounding too promising, their mini-synopsis sums up the present title’s plot thusly: “A sexually frustrated young man kills hookers”; and, after scanning over a couple of the IMDb’s largely negative user reviews, they didn’t exactly have me primed for a high-quality viewing experience. However, without further ado, I’ll bash on regardless with my humble appraisal of the thing…

Opinions are like assholes . . .

In small town U.S. of A. (somewhere in New York state?), after he kills Beverly, a part-time work-from-home hooker (Judith-Marie Bergan)—this by ‘accidentally’ shoving her head through a window pane, thus causing her jugular to be severed—virginal momma’s boy and all-round social misfit Richie (Ian Scott) thereafter desperately attempts to dispose of the body and cover up all evidence of his unwitting homicide. And with good reason too, as the recently late Bev’s boyfriend is a local uniformed police officer, Ryan (James Johnson), who—in an odd moral twist—also happens to be one of her biggest customers. Considering she had her throat cut, the killer’s initial victim doesn’t bleed very much, and she croaks without barely even twitching, let alone actually going into convulsions, with a single large shard of glass sticking from her neck. While shot in a completely matter-of-fact, non-stylized manner, the death-by-broken-window scene brings to mind similar scenes in more than one Argento movie, but other than for basic content, the presentation styles couldn’t be more dissimilar. In broad daylight, Richie carts off Bev’s fresh corpse (“Goddamn whore!”) in a wheelbarrow for disposal, then goes on the lam in the big city (NYC, to be precise), where he takes a room at a fleabag rooming house in the theater district.

Welcome to New York, now get the fuck outta here!

Deadpan and oftentimes inane narration intermittently conveys the killer’s thought processes (e.g., “I’m tired of people pushin’ me around. I’m gonna start pushin’ back now, only I’m gonna push harder. They won’t fuck with me anymore! I’ll make sure o’ that”). Really overusing the gimmick—which is thankfully abandoned within the first third of the movie—we also get introspective voiceover c/o the dead hooker’s cop beau too. Although ostensibly the hero, this arrogant character is pretty much an authority-abusing a-hole who thinks nothing of overstepping the bounds of legality while attempting to solve the mystery of his missing GF (“my old lady”), even though he is well out of his jurisdiction and acting above the law. For these reasons and more, he makes for a decidedly unsympathetic protagonist. Strangely enough, there are times—albeit few and far between—when we actually sympathize more with Scott’s pitiable Richie character…but then, maybe that was Zito’s express intention.

Wake up, I made you a breakfast knucklesandwich

Following the initial non-sensationally depicted killing, things settle into a long, slow groove  (perhaps rut might be a better word for it!) where next to nothing happens…repeatedly. Well into the 31^st minute, Richie randomly abducts and abuses an easy bar pick-up aptly named Lucy (Blair Trigg), who apparently hadn’t seen the controversial then-recent commercial hit LOOKING FOR MR. GOODBAR, and hence didn’t know better than to take strange men home for one-night stands. After he first half-drowns her in her own bathtub (fully-clothed), there then follows some extended verbal abuse, whereupon the sick puppy, evidently just acting on a spontaneous whim, strangles her with a telephone cord. While eking out a meager subsistence via a day job working in an entry level position at a Yoo-Hoo cannery/bottling plant, Richie’s out-of-control obsessive/compulsive disorder subsequently gets the better of him yet again.

Yoo-Hoo employing murderous weirdos since the 60s

When not casually offing ‘immoral’ women (albeit a mere two thus far), Richie’s related hobbies include playing voyeur in people’s windows; allowing for some would-be REAR WINDOW-styled peeping tom scenes. In one such scene, he eyeballs a disrobing chick whose shaggily unkempt ’70s-style bush is clearly visible through her sheer pantyhose. Amusingly enough, a glaring continuity error occurs when this same chick (who looks a bit too much like Ruth Buzzi for my tastes) is shortly shown removing her G-string—even though she obviously wasn’t wearing one in the previous shot! (Although perhaps my eyes might simply have been playing tricks on me due to the fuzziness of the rip of this flick which I viewed on YouTube…but I don’t think so.) During the same overextended sequence—amounting to one of the movie’s few poignant moments—Richie spies an old lady silently and motionlessly regarding him from a window opposite while he is spying on the other tenants like their private lives are his own personal peepshow. Having said that, come to think of it, this supposed ‘old lady’ might just as easily be a young man wearing a hairnet and curlers, for all I know (once again, the fuzzy upload rendered things indistinct).

for all you know, I'm the sexy Ruth Buzzi lady 

In what appears to be her sole screen credit, one Rita Ebenhart plays Candice, a booze-swilling, all-used-up party girl / groupie with pronounced anger management / misandry issues who lives just down the hall from Richie in much the same dive digs as him. All things considered, Ms. Ebenhart performs well in the role; enough to cause you to wonder whether she ever acted again after this (frankly, she’s annoying as hell, but since her character is meant to be, you might say she aced it). In a scene which is sure to displease animal lovers, out of simple vindictiveness Richie first throttles Candice’s pet pooch, then chucks its corpse out a window (i.e., right through the glass); but not to worry, nothing of an overly graphic nature is shown, and a plush doggie toy seems to have subbed for the real deal. Subsequent to this more minor atrocity—which is dispensed with almost offhandedly, rather like an afterthought—the sick fuck then proceeds to murder the dog’s owner Candice, while her player Ebenhart shrieks exactly like an overexcited chimpanzee (I kid you not. Check it out for yourself, if you don’t believe me!). Now that his pathetic excuse for a life has really started going to hell in a hand-basket big time, everything spirals still further out of control and falls apart in short order, the narrative included (not that it had been very together prior to this). After he attacks her, the Ruth Buzzi lookalike stripper/hooker (played by Susan Doukas?) goes at Richie with a knife, whereafter Ryan the revengeful pig appears from out of nowhere to bodily hurl the now mortally wounded Richie through—yes—yet another window! (Oops! Do forgive me for spoiling the ‘surprise twist’ ending. But trust me, you won’t wanna endure this tripe through right to the end anyway, so consider it a favor I be doin’ ya by saving you the trouble.)

The Voluptuous Horror Of Sally Struthers

Nowadays, due to its frequent misappropriation as a handy feminazi catch-all for any sort of male anti-female sentiment whatsoever, however slight, I am a lot more reluctant to use the dreaded m-word (“misogyny”). However, that said, there is definitely a palpable vein of it running through BLOODRAGE, and we get the distinct impression that not just the film’s disturbed protagonist, but possibly its director too, were simultaneously giving vent to their misogynistic tendencies herein.

What Fred the Dunkin Donuts guy does off the clock

Including porno grindhouses, not-so-exotic dancers, pimps and various other forms of street lowlife, the sleaziness and sordidness of downtown New York is well conveyed. There is an oppressively, depressingly seedy air to the proceedings which rather fits the dubious subject matter, and, while performances are far from great—nor even particularly good, for the most part—there is often a naturalism to them which at times give things a tangibly documentary-like feel. What with all the cinéma vérité touches, at times Zito (credited hereon as “Joseph Bigwood” [!] – how’s that for a perfect porno pseudonym?!) seems to be playing at poverty row Altman. Indeed, the ‘narrative’ is virtually formless, with the action meandering aimlessly from scene to scene. Individual scenes, seemingly strung together at random, go on (and on) without rhyme nor reason, making the just over 80-minute runtime seem much longer than it actually is. Zito seems to be making some half-hearted attempts at emulating Polanski with sexual repression and alienation themes à la REPULSION and THE TENANT (at times there is also a bit of a BASKET CASE vibe, speaking strictly in terms of ambience). That said, there is definitely some sort of assured aesthetic sensibility going on here, although it certainly isn’t a very appealing one, but I can only assume BLOODRAGE’s crude, raw approach has its share of admirers, so I’ll resist belittling it too much and try to remain objective in my appraisal.

I'm so inbred, I can't help what I do

As the hangdog, sadsack Richie, facially Scott at times rather reminded me of a weird combination of Dick Bakalyan, John Savage and Andrew Robinson; which is apt, because all those actors are well-known for portraying mentally unstable characters (Robinson is best-remembered as the demented “Scorpio” in Don Siegel’s DIRTY HARRY, and Savage played memorable loons in both Curtis Harrington’s THE KILLING KIND and Michael Cimino’s THE DEER HUNTER. Bakalyan appeared as an assortment of unsavory creeps for much of his career, including a lot of psychotic juvenile delinquents back in the ’50s. He had a knack for instilling pathos into even the most hateful characters, allowing for more audience empathy. In BLOODRAGE, Scott at times engenders similar emotions in us; if not enough to make us really give much of a shit about what happens to him, though).

Can I interest you in a business hug Mr. Tierney? 

About the only genuine point of interest here is a ‘guest’ appearance by the late, great Lawrence Tierney as Malone, a bulky, heavily balding plainclothes NYPD detective (“Awright, lock this bastard up!”). He only appears in a handful of throwaway incidental scenes, but, if nothing else, his gruff, gravel-voiced delivery and overall imposing presence at least reminds us of far, far better films than this one (such as Robert Wise’s exquisitely nasty 1947 noir BORN TO KILL, for example; at this low point in Tierney’s career, his ‘rediscovery’ in Tarantino’s RESERVOIR DOGS was still more than a decade on down the pike).

I hate to say it (no I don’t!), but if I was forced to choose between watching either Zito’s BLOODRAGE or Grissmer’s BLOOD RAGE again, I’d take the latter…even if I’d rather not take either, ideally. That other movie may have been bad and boring, but, other than for the odd more memorable moment, this one really takes the cake on both counts! In summation, the one motif which most stuck with me from this less-than-scintillating cinematic experience was how much producer/director Zito seems to have a ‘thing’ for windows. That may not be much to take from this, but it’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.

WATCH HERE

Blood Rage

BLOOD RAGE Directed by John Grissmer, Starring Louise Lasser (1987).

Review by Steve Fenton

Originally shot—or possibly shat—in 1983, according to reports this wasn’t actually released until ’87 (as NIGHTMARE AT SHADOW WOODS, whose title was evidently a vague cash-in on A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET). Speaking objectively, it’s pretty easy to see why it shat – I mean sat – on the shelf for so long after its completion. Hell, why anybody ever bothered releasing it at all is beyond my ken to grasp! But the damage is done, so let’s proceed, shall we? I’ve been promising Crankenstein I’d review this bugger for about six months now, so it’s now or never! So, for better or worse (accent on the latter), here goes nothin’…and there’s a whole lot of that going on here, but you takes what you can get where you can get it, as they say.

it's about time Steve!

The film’s supposed main draw, ‘offbeat’ actress Louise Lasser, is arguably best-known by most who know of her for playing the title character of the cult sitcom / soap satire Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman (1976-77), but she also co-wrote and dubbed the voice of a character on Woody Allen’s ‘reimagined’ Japanese crime flick WHAT’S UP, TIGER LILY? (1966), and is also well-remembered by countless gazillions for her roles in both Sam Raimi’s CRIMEWAVE (1985) and Frank Henenlotter’s FRANKENHOOKER (1990). BLOOD RAGE is another of her cult psychotronic offerings, albeit a (deservedly) lesser-known one, which was formerly available on VHS/Beta videocassette from the prolific Prism Entertainment, who were a dependable source of cult and/or trash flicks back in the ’80s and ’90s, even if they did release more than their fair share of über-turkeys, as in the case of our current half-heartedly Thanksgiving-themed gobbler, which might have taken place pretty much any old time of the year (‘holiday’ themes—then, as now—were all the rage in slasher flicks, you see).

Prism Video paid me in pocket lint and good intentions

The film opens in Jacksonville, Florida way back in 1974, at a drive-in showing of a (fictitious) horror movie called “THE HOUSE THAT CRIED MURDER” (sounds like it might be some Italo giallo retitled for import Stateside!). After witnessing two teenagers making it in the front seat of their car at the drive-in, one of a matching pair of preteen twin brothers takes an axe to the male make-out artist, killing him; this evidently because the boys had only just witnessed their ‘shockingly promiscuous’ mother Maddy Simmons (Lasser) necking with her boyfriend in the front seat of his van. Rather than resort to some good old-fashioned slut-shaming, the twin responsible for the foul deed evidently turned his latent hostility towards their mater elsewhere instead. After committing the murder, Terry the wacked-out if wily perpetrator smears Todd with blood so as to paint his brother—who has gone into deep, mute shock at the sight of it being committed—with the blame. Sure enough, the innocent one takes the rap, while his terrible twin gets off scot-free. I ask you, how’s that for a totally predictable plot ‘twist’?

Also predictably enough, as per yer typical slasher formula, action then flashes ahead a whole decade (even a slightly more inventive number like 13 years was beyond the scope of the screenwriter’s imagination, I fear). We learn that the wrongfully-blamed Todd has spent the entire time since in an institution for the criminally insane, under constant observation. Over the course of his stay there, Todd’s recollection of the fateful night of the awful axe murder which precipitated his descent into madness begins gradually creeping back, and Dr. Berman (Marianne Kanter), the psychiatrist who has been handling his case, believes him innocent of the crime for which he was (and still is) accused. On Thanksgiving night, Terry—having gone AWOL from the loony-bin—takes a machete to Momma Maddy’s fiancé after they ‘joyously’ announce their wedding plans over a really dull turkey dinner. Subsequently, Doc Berman—a kind of (very) poor woman’s distaff variation of Donald Pleasence’s Doc Loomis from the HALLOWEEN franchise—comes looking for the prodigal Terry. One by one thereafter, the bodies—and boredom—begin to pile up with clockwork regularity…

Who's in Charge now Charles?

Although played as juveniles by genuine twin bros (namely Keith Hall as Terry and Ross Hall as Todd), as young adults the twins are both portrayed by the same actor (Mark Soper, who does fairly well with the dual role, all things considered; which isn’t really saying much. For what it’s worth, he later played the male lead role in Jerry Ciccoritti’s low-level Canadian vampire flick THE UNDERSTUDY: GRAVEYARD SHIFT II [1988]). In scenes herein where the brothers interact together, Soper’s obvious ‘double’ was one Ed Brophy (no, not the Ed Brophy! He died in 1960. Plus, even if he was still living, he would have been pushing 90 at the time; hence, not a good match for a man roughly in his early-twenties).

I'm here for the Bill Maher look-a-like contest

Quite frankly, Lasser’s ‘central’ performance—in what is more of a tertiary than principal role—verges on broad parody, almost as though she still thinks she’s playing Mary Hartman, and some of her hysterically histrionic reactions are decidedly hammy (e.g., “My children are not guinea-pigs!” is one line that readily springs to mind). But given material like this to work with, who can blame her for trying to inject some intentional (?) humor into it by playing it for laughs! Some of her more convincing scenes come while she is interacting with a prop telephone, addressing a nonexistent (i.e., unseen and barely heard) person on the other end of the line. Ironically enough, these one-sided over-the-phone convos register a lot more believably than most of the actress’ one-on-one, eye-to-eye interactions with her fellow ‘actors’ (note quotes). Evidently of the opinion that his star’s performance on the blower carried much more conviction than her face-to-face dramatic scenes, director John Grissmer—whose slim filmography also includes another shocker called FALSE FACE / a.k.a. SCALPEL (1977), which I know I saw about 30 years ago, but honestly can’t remember a thing about it—repeatedly returns to more shots of Lasser emoting on (and at) the telling-bone.

OMG This disembowelment is doing wonders for my aching back

Usual makeup man and sometime actor Ed French—here at times looking a tad bit like a goofier, way-less-cool version of Nick Cave of The Bad Seeds, albeit with even less of a chin—appears as a nerdy, bashful if filthy rich milquetoast who gets all nervous while on a ‘stay-home-and-smooch’ date with his sexually aggressive, gold-digging GF, a single mother who is just trying to score herself a sugar daddy. French provided his own severed head for the scene when it is seen dangling just outside a doorway; which might be kind of ironic if it looked a hell of a lot more like him than it does. Appearing very boyish indeed, Sam’s kid bro Ted Raimi—listed in the cast as “Condom Salesman”—appears in just one short scene as a “black market” rubber-pusher whose jacket is lined with packets of assorted brands. Within the same period, the Raimi Bros. both appeared in Josh Becker’s actionful killer thriller THOU SHALT NOT KILL… EXCEPT / a.k.a. STRYKER’S WAR (1985), which is by far preferable to the title currently under discussion.

I contracted syphilis while auditioning with the Raimi Bros for Evil Dead 2!

Richard Einhorn’s mostly earitatin’ by-the-numbers, color-within-the-lines synth score accents cheesy instrumental dance-pop with inevitable rips from both John Carpenter’s HALLOWEEN theme and Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells” (which was famously sampled for use in THE EXORCIST). The Einhorn compositions here do improve somewhat later into the runtime—there’s even at least one quite solid Tangerine Dream / Giorgio Moroder-type pummeling rhythm piece that actually generates some tension, and even a bit of actual excitement—but the decent parts are greatly outweighed by all the derivative dreck our earholes have been subjected to up till then. Another audio track lowlight comes when a short-lived minor character tunelessly sings a famous lyric line from FLASHDANCE, albeit replacing the word “maniac” with “lunatic” instead (evidently so as to avoid a potential copyright infringement lawsuit against the producers of the present flick, one would imagine).

"We're Maniacs, Maniacs on the Flooor"

But in low-grade fare such as this, it’s the splatter that matters most, right? Such scenes here include a hand—still possessively clutching a can of beer!—being severed, followed by shots of the victim’s gore-gouting amputated wrist, from which about a half-pint of the red, red groovy is squirted forth with each gout. Elsewhere a machete is shoved clear through another victim (and if it happened to you, you’d scream as much as he does too!). Although her severed trunk is only seen after-the-fact rather than during commission of her murder, a woman in the woods gets chopped in half at the waist; whereupon the actress playing her screams and waves her arms around a lot, buried up to her chest in the ground while reacting to the exceedingly phony gore FX appliance to which she is tenuously attached, which only happens to resemble what it’s supposed to simply because it’s all red and ragged at the severed end; but other than that, any and all similarity to the equivalent part of the actual human anatomy is purely coincidental. Tying in limply with the Thanksgiving ‘festivities’ (yawn), following this murder, Soper as Terry licks his blood-smeared fingers, saying as much to we the audience as to himself, “It’s not cranberry sauce!” He makes virtually the same exact ‘in-joke’ later during yet another half-hearted attempt to stay on the loosely-defined ‘festive’ theme, this time just prior to sticking one of those big two-tined forks used in the carving of turkey (get the “Thanksgiving” connection?!) into the throat of some sucker who is dumb enough to turn his back on him. Then, just in case we didn’t laugh at that howler about cranberry sauce hard enough the first two times, Soper obligingly proceeds to repeat it again for us twice more while muttering to his freshly-bloodied jugular-jabber. Much of the grue is shown after the foul deed has been done, as in the case of a split skull with visible brain matter within which goes for the grosseries without actually succeeding in making us woof our cookies.

That's not a Turducken!

On the nudity front, skin initially limits itself to a single jiggly shot of a (female) bare ass running away from the camera at the scene of a homicide. Some almost full-frontal nudity is later seen while one of the film’s numerous interchangeable big-haired bimbos takes a shower. Still more chaste T&A comes when Terry discovers a couple having sex atop the diving-board beside a swimming pool; a sight which prompts yet another of his random homicidal rages. This two-stroke “chop/chop” sequence is so poorly-directed and badly-framed (and don’t try blaming it on pan-and-scan!) that the double murder registers as little more than an afterthought on the part of both the onscreen killer and the behind-camera personnel. It’s almost as if they thought up the idea of this scene on the spot, much in the same way that the murderer apparently felt the sudden spontaneous impulse to kill the poolside lovers, and merely trotted the scene out ASAP while giving nary a second thought to its conception or composition.

Ouch, hey wait my watch fell off with the wrist!

Unusually inept even for a formulary ’80s slice’n’dicer, BLOOD RAGE’s seemingly made-up-on-the-fly narrative largely unrolls like toilet paper, but is a lot less useful. About as razor-honed as a dull cheese-grater, the script, direction, editing (etc.) all have about as much imagination invested in them as…I dunno what. Hell, from what I can remember of it—not much; I haven’t seen it since about 1989—even the execrable amateur-league stalk’n’slash (“S&S”) entry SATAN’S BLADE (1984) had more going for it than this paltry poultry does. If nothing else, BLOOD RAGE makes me remember why I largely despised slasher flicks the first time ’round (i.e., back in their ’80s ‘heydays’); which isn’t to say I hate all of them, just those without a single thing new to bring to the table…and this doesn’t, I’m sorry to say. If I’m gonna subject myself to one, at least let it come with a memorable psycho, rather than a totally bland boy-next-door-gone-wrong who not only can’t be bothered to at least wear a cool-looking mask while committing his killings, but whose most ‘inventive’ weapon of choice is a forkin’ fork, for fork’s sake!

A memorable psycho like me, there's always room for Cropsey!

I must confess I was relieved when Lasser’s shrill shrike of a character at last blew her brains out with a snub-nose .38 in the 77^th minute (Yippee! Only a few more left to go, then I am outta here!). Not so much because she’d put herself out of her own misery—okay, I admit it; not at all for that reason, really—but simply because she’d put herself out of mine, simple as that. Call me selfish, but hearing her chant the meaningless phrase “I’m Todd!” at close to the top of her lungs approximately 20 times in rapid succession was more than enough to make me want her dead, just to shut her up. Thankfully much of the time remaining in this 82+-minute snoozefest of a movie were taken up by credits, which meant I could split right after the final freeze-frame/fade-out partway into minute #78. Bonus! Catch ya later, BLOOD RAGE…then again, maybe not (ever).

I’m assuming that some sort of vague ‘identity transfer’ took place for the final twisteroo…only I honestly can’t be bothered to pontificate on it further. My brain hurts!

Note: BLOOD RAGE is up for view on YouTube, as is a (needless to say!) completely unrelated 2011 Nollywood SOV movie of the same title, which is evidently some kind of action drama and not a horror flick. Come to think of it, you might wanna try your chances with that flick instead, as I doubt it could be much worse than this one is. (Editor's note, there's also the 1979 Joseph Zito Blood Rage coming soon).

WATCH HERE IF YOU REALLY MUST

She Beast

THE SHE BEAST

(a.k.a. LA SORELLA DI SATANA / “Satan’s Sister” [It]; IL LAGO DI SATANA / “Satan’s Lake” [alt It]; THE REVENGE OF THE BLOOD BEAST [US])

Italy, 1965

Review by Steve Fenton

Kicking off this fast-paced little film is a prologue wherein a hideous old bag of a witch named Vardella (which was also the film’s original shooting title) is captured by superstitious (what else?!) Transylvanian villagers, who promptly dispose of her by roping her to a ducking-stool and – as if that wasn’t indignity enough – then proceed to drive a metal spike through her spine (and quite a grisly scene it is too). Her body is then unceremoniously consigned to an unconsecrated watery grave in the local lake. However, before Vardella finally bites it, she succeeds in hissing out a nasty curse at her assembled tormenters: they killed her, but she will be back, so they better watch out…

This isn't my first unholy resurrection

Centuries later, a freshly-married couple – Philip (Ian Ogilvy, star of the ’80s remake of THE SAINT teleseries) and Veronica (Italy’s then reigning ‘Scream Queen’ Barbara Steele, who was paid a measly 5-grand for the gig) – are off on a sightseeing honeymoon through Transylvania (actually rural Italy outside Rome) that brings them right smack-dab into the vicinity of the very lake where Vardella got dunked, dumped in and died long ago.

Stopping at a “quaint” rustic roadside inn, the newlyweds seek lodging from the boorish, shifty-eyed proprietor, Ladislav Groper (actor-director Mel Welles: best known as florist Gravis Mushnick in Corman’s LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS [USA, 1961]) and meet the at-first-impression rather dotty Von [sic] Helsing (American-born frequent Italo industry character player John Karlsen), who is related to local aristocracy and is soon revealed to possess an extensive working knowledge of the region’s occult history and customs, which of course comes in mighty handy later.

I finally ate that stupid plant, Mushnick wins!

Events move at a brisk if leisurely, ‘holiday’-like pace, the overall tone quite lighthearted in the wake of that nasty prologue, with attempts at comic relief highly in evidence (e.g., the grumbling, surly innkeeper’s antics, Von Helsing riding on a swing with obvious juvenile delight, etc). But in not too long the creepy-crawling business starts again, and unexpectedly we’re treated to more than a couple of effective, no-frills shocks, which can sometimes register that much more strongly when contrasted by humor. That approach either works or it doesn’t, and here it is sometimes quite effective.

This skull and bible combo should keep my erection at bay

Propelling the main narrative (based on a script by Paul Maslansky), upstanding hero Ogilvy catches Welles as that untrustworthy innkeeper – who amongst other things is a lecherous peeping tom – mentally slapping the bishop right underneath the bride and groom’s conjugal windowsill (while shot very chastely, their love scene is quite frank in its implications for 1965). Understandably disgusted by the Welles character’s voyeuristic activity, Ogilvy gets his new wife out of there ASAP; but, while making their retreat, having been accidentally forced off the highway by a passing truck, the couple’s car comes to rest in the very same lake from the prologue (i.e., Vardella’s not-so-final ‘resting’ place). The trucker drags what should rightfully be Veronica from the water, but in her place Ogilvy is justifiably horrified to discover the soggy, poor-condition remains of she whom he later learns is Vardella, a 200-year-old witch-bitch from hell! As predicted, the corpse shortly returns to life (and here’s one of those creepy scares I mentioned), kills a man (there’s another one), then goes on a localized murder spree, as per the malingering malediction she had placed on the vicinity all those years before.

I was a teenage Van Helsing, no one would ever make that film!

Seeking the eccentric Von Helsing’s aid, skeptical young realist Ogilvy and the learned senior scholar of supernature join forces to hunt down the elusive reanimated witch, who has taken possession of Steele’s Veronica so that she may live again inside her unwilling hostess’ body, which is by far preferable to her own mangy carcass (both to her and to us!). There is only a limited period left before Vardella shall become Veronica completely, and the transfer will thereafter be irreversible… so time is of the essence.

During the sundry chase scenes which form a large part of the climax, the ghoulish effect of the witch – which was played by a male actor in a rubber mask, but subdued lighting often endows it with an impressively nightmarish appearance – is softened somewhat by the slapstick, ‘Keystone Kops’-like spectacle of the bumbling local constabulary as they seek to apprehend our heroes. Ogilvy as Philip and Karlsen as Von Helsing must out of necessity re-enact the exact circumstances of Vardella’s death in the lake, but their timing must be spot-on if they wish to reclaim Veronica and simultaneously end the hag’s vengeful killing spree along with her unnaturally sustained unlife.

I'm taking Steve Miner to court for ripping my character off in House.

Needless to say, the vile Vardella finds herself back in her soggy grave, Veronica returns to Philip, and they all drive off Europe-bound in Von Helsing’s cute little yellow Rolls Royce, which adds a sweet capper to a sometimes pretty gloomy plot. Originally, a far darker ending had been proposed, only to be scrapped as economically unfeasible. According to star Ogilvy when later interviewed for Cinefantastique magazine during an overview of Michael Reeves’ career, his character and Steele as his onscreen bride were due to return to England, where, while they are in bed together he sees that she has again reverted to become Vardella, the putrescent witch; which might have made for quite the shocking twist, if handled right.

Can you direct me to the nearest McDonalds, I'm one of their short lived characters

A real quickie for sure, THE SHE BEAST was shot over a rushed two-and-a-half-week schedule, during which the cast and crew toiled for long hours on the set and were paid piecemeal as the shoot progressed. Watching this movie, you can observe the fetal development of ill-fated, short-lived director Reeves’ wunderkind style (THE SORCERERS [UK, 1967] and WITCHFINDER GENERAL [UK, 1968], both also starring Ogilvy, are wildly dissimilar must-see items of cynical, brooding horror). Don’t let THE SHE BEAST’s on-the-cheap, ‘loose’ quality hinder your indulgence… It’s also got lots of style, and a lot of Steele goes a long way.

Tell me something I don't know!

Note: Prior to co-directing the present title with Welles, Reeves had served as assistant director on Warren Kiefer’s eerie period Gothic horror melodrama IL CASTELLO DEI MORTI VIVENTI / a.k.a. CASTLE OF THE LIVING DEAD (Italy, 1964), starring Christopher Lee; although Reeves never actually directed any of Lee’s scenes. THE SHE BEAST’s co-director Welles has frequently been mistaken for German filmmaker Ernst von Theumer, and vice versa, which is not the case. Circa the ’60s, Welles also served as co-producer (along with one Richard Lewellen) on a travelling horror show (“Live On Stage”) entitled ORGY OF EVIL (ad: “Your Nightmares Will Never Be The Same!”). Other lurid ad-copy for the show promised: “SEE… A virgin beheaded on the guillotine. SEE… The dance of the undead. SEE… A man burned on the funeral pyre. SEE… A victim impaled on the silver spikes. SEE… A ripsaw cut into human flesh. SEE… The fiends of hell appear.” The show toured in Australia to some extent, but I am unsure if it ever made it to North America (?).

THE SHE BEAST was formerly available on North American Beta/VHS cassette from Gorgon / MPI Home Video. It’s also floating around on DVD from any number of cheapo vidcos, so it’s not hard to find. I’m unsure what the optimum disc version is.

Dark-Sky Films has a restored edition available.

BUY HERE