Torture Dungeon

It almost seems inconceivable in this day and age that someone would attempt the pomp and pageantry of a ye Olde England costume gore epic on a budget LESS than a cross-town ferry ride. And yet Torture Dungeon, the first film for producer William Mishkin's newly crowned Constitution Films, is filmic proof that Andy Milligan's audacity knew no bounds. Cue credits, the music - straight from a 40s Gary Cooper western - swells, and a procession of medieval misfits make their way down a deserted Staten Island beach, looking for all the world like a lost borstal passion play, carrying the coffin of the newly-dead king, beheaded in the film's opening by the prissy yet evil Duke of Norwich (`Jerremy Brooks'/Gerry Jacuzzo). The Duke, last in line to the throne and sterile to boot, hatches a plan to marry off the new king, who would plant the royal seed in the Queen's fertile soil. Once plowed, the Queen becomes the unwilling property of the Duke, and the remaining heirs are dispatched to their untimely deaths.

Hal Borske plays the new king strictly for cheap laughs: he's a bumbling half-wit in a blonde pageboy frightwig who eats bugs on all fours and shows more interest in nailing his plate of chicken than his new queen. His on-screen presence is cut short soon after the `conception' scene, and he gets the obligatory stake to the heart. Blood erupts like tomato soup, exit Hal. And in every one of the death scenes from Torture Dungeon, Andy's camera careers around and plummets to the ground as if it was dropped from a Staten Island ferris wheel. There's even a script direction for this: `Swirl Camera'. Now stick that one in the text books.

Unlike The Ghastly Ones, where the gore comes thick and fast, Torture Dungeon spaces its bloodshed, which leaves wide open spaces in the script for Andy's manic exposition. One scene plays like a psychedelic sex hygiene film of the 50s and features a crazed old harridan (a member of Andy's theatrical troupe?) preparing the new queen for her wifely duties while floating around the room on PCP. The Sadean Duke endlessly waxes lyrical about his personal philosophy, declaring himself `not a heterosexual, not homosexual, not asexual - I'm trisexual. I'll TRY anything.' An old chestnut, I know, but from the mouths of Milligan's characters it takes on a new sinister tone. In another memorable scene the depraved duke is caught in bed with a hunchback, unloved and beaten as a child and corrupted by the uncaring world and now the Duke's assassin and willing love slave. So, he says to his wife with a perverse sneer - ever heard of a menage a trois?

With the exception of the garish costumes (an area Andy always excelled at), the production is threadbare at every turn. The torture chamber itself looks like my Brisbane city basement, for chrissakes, and the effect of the evil Duke swinging a chain sounds suspiciously like Andy on a microphone going `Whoosh! Whoosh!' Voices veer wildly from the fruity and over-theatrical Jacuzzo to the flat Noo York drawl from the mouths of some suitably plague-scarred bookies and old Mafia types in Beatles wigs, uttering lines like `the dook of Nor-witch' with deadpan conviction. Local color, but wrong locality. And I think I spotted a Ramone or two in the funeral procession.