Bruno Mattei was the Xerox of exploitation cinema. Whatever style of movie was popular at the time, he could direct a facsimile faster, more cheaply, and usually in worse taste. Women in prison flicks, Nazisploitation, Nunsploitation, nothing was too sacred to shamelessly rip off in his nearly 40 year career. If it was making bank, he was making a copy as close as budget and copyright law allowed.
While the trailer above plays as if Rats: Night Of Terror is a tension fueled creature feature, the actual movie “borrows” more from Mad Max and Escape From New York than it does post atomic age giant animal romps like The Food Of The Gods.
As a cost effective text crawl tells us, 225 years post nuclear apocalypse, the affluent live in comfortable underground cities, and leave the fallout filled surface to ragtag groups of neo primitives. The protagonists roll up on their motorcycles, and all 11 of them appear to be dressed for a different movie.
The leader favors a kicky little red scarf, but anything goes, as the others are dressed in everything from camo to leather vests. Inexplicably, one of the women is apparently riding out the post apocalypse in a Frederick’s Of Hollywood teddy and a costume shop vampire cape.
We don’t learn most of their names until MUCH later in the film, but it sounds like they were all chosen in an odd game of “I, Spy”, with grown adults walking around calling each other things like Video, Chocolate, Lucifer, Deus, Lillith and……Myrna. Between the muddy audio, and the group’s tendency to squabble, the clothes are the easier method to tell everyone apart anyway.
Our gang of ragtag ramblers stumbles upon a building that has an incredibly well stocked bunker underneath it, with a hydroponic garden, plentiful food supplies and a water purifier. Unfortunately, it also contains some corpses so fresh they are still decomposing and an epic rat infestation.
Despite mounting evidence that something is very wrong, the gang is far too preoccupied doing things that are offensive, stupid, or so stupid that they become offensive. From getting stuck during sleeping bag sex and a host of highly questionable jokes to gleefully barricading themselves into a room without water, food or medical supplies, it’s a minor miracle this group managed to survive a street crossing. Never mind the apocalypse.
Literal buckets of rats are tossed on the actors from just outside of the frame, but this doesn’t ever translate to much suspense or gore. Even the rats spend the majority of their screen time indifferently scurrying off into a corner to attempt to clean their fur from whatever gunk production tossed on them for greasy effect. That said, being that we spend 90 minutes watching the humans cry, flail and fail spectacularly, it doesn’t seem that implausible that a bunch of bored mutant rats could successfully pick them off one by one.
By the time the film takes a turn for The Crazies, in a swirl of fumigator fog and ooky spooky organ music straight out a carnival dark ride, the characters (and most viewers) are at their wits’ end with a film that has clearly overstayed its grimy welcome. Hang in for the last 5 minutes, as the final twist is so gleefully nonsensical, it almost makes the hour and a half slog to get there worth it.
The cannibal vomitorium (a name coined by Bill Landis in his now sadly out of print book Sleazoid Express) is definitely the deeper end of the sleaze cinema pool. Taking all of the cynical and condescending faux documentary/ethnography ideas of the mondo trend, and pushing them past Italian Grand Guignol gore into reprehensible animal cruelty and often unsafe working conditions for the crew, this is rough stuff by any reasonable metric.
Mainly a decade long tit for tat between directors Umberto Lenzi and Ruggero Deodato (with some lesser entries from other genre stalwarts), cannibal vomitoriums tend to follow the same basic outline:
1. Some woefully underprepared white person heads to a remote region for a reason that is stupid, rather colonialist, or some combo of both. 2. Due to all of the reasons noted in point 1, white person royally pisses off natives, which inevitably involves at least one cannibal tribe. 3. Murder and mayhem ensues, and long pig is on the menu. Finger foods for everyone. 4. Bonus points for making some heavy handed “Who is REALLY civilized?” allegory as a grace note/excuse for every extreme thing the audience just saw.
A relatively minor entry into the gut muncher canon, Eaten Alive is notable for both deviating from formula by adding in a Jonestown massacre facsimile to shake up the plot and the fact that director Umberto Lenzi went fully meta, cannibalizing other cannibal movies to finish this one. Interspersed with the main plot are scenes hijacked from older films (both his own and those of other people), and various stock footage bits, easily identifiable by the stark changes in lighting and film stock. Let’s get to it and guess who is coming to dinner:
Pre credits, we get a trip from the Canadian side of Niagara Falls to New York City, watching this guy rather comically blow gun some random strangers to death at extremely close range. He stops, puffs his cheeks, gives his victims time to make a face of exaggerated horror, and out pops the death Q tip and a bit of prop blood as it hits. Our lo fi assassin then gets hit by a bus while running away from the scene of the crime, roll titles and a funky disco theme.
Meet sweet little Sheila Morris from Alabama, who is talking to FBI agents in what looks like a barely set dressed church basement. As we know, there’s been some funky blowgun murders, and the killer just happened to have a color film reel with the name and address of her estranged sister on it when he got hit by that bus.
The whole scene is basically an info dump, to establish that Sheila and her sister Diana haven’t spoken in six months or so, that there’s a hippie street preacher named Jonas (subtle) mixed up in this somehow, and that the whole cult disappeared off into the wild somewhere. While less awful than she was in Fulci’s House By The Cemetery, Janet Agren’s principle attributes as Sheila are a comically corn pone country accent and some flawless eyeliner.
The agents let Sheila take the film with her, and she enlists the help of a professor to try to figure out where the footage was shot. Together they marvel at fakirs and the strangeness of people who keep time with the beat while dancing. He takes a wild guess at New Guinea (which a junkie former student of his confirms), Sheila books a flight instead of informing authorities, and the filmmakers can brag that celebrity skin Mel Ferrer was in this movie for all of 5 minutes. He does get to deliver the home truth that “Americans will believe in anything as long as it’s tax deductible.”
Enter soldier of fortune, Vietnam deserter and knife fight/arm wrestling mixologist Mark. As portrayed by porn star Robert Kerman, he looks more like the accountant for the forefathers of the Cobra Kai, but sex stardom was very different in porn’s golden age.
He agrees to help guide Sheila to the village shown in the film, but considering he only works for cash, you’d think the fact that she doesn’t have any on her to cover his $80,000 fee would be concerning. Also, you’d think a woman who could find the one adventurer for hire in all of either Pakistan or Sri Lanka judging by the Pakistan International Airlines flight New Guinea would know how to hire her own helicopter to a remote village. No one in this situation is firing on all cylinders.
Proving my point, our “heroes” manage to get strong armed by a senior citizen about 30 seconds after exiting the helicopter. They get locked in a room with some cobras, Mark finally makes himself useful and obtains a guide and supplies by force, and there’s 3 repugnant animal scenes. One of said scenes is stolen from 1972’s Sacrifice. It’s no less awful the second time, and this entire sequence is just a long winded way to say that your cultists are in another (cannibal filled) castle. Soon our gang is rolling down the river to the most softcore porn music cue you can think of.
The canoe wrecks, one of the guides is eaten by a crocodile, and the one surviving guide steals all of the supplies. He gets all of 30 feet away before being eaten by cannibals, but it’s the thought that counts. Speaking of, it’s a third of the way through the film, and we finally see a cannibal…..in some more spliced in footage from another movie. I like the still above, which clearly captures a man recalculating his life choices as he holds his rubber limb.
If it feels like I’m zooming through large sections of this movie, that’s because I am. Given that this film is roughly 1/3 post consumer recycled material, there’s a lot of padded reaction shots to spliced in footage of snakes and mongoose or whatever. For the sake of brevity, I’m condensing down to things that have some relevance to the actual plot.
Shaken up by the carnage they have seen, Mark and Shiela run all of six hundred feet away to camp for the night. After receiving the classic cartoon “Snap out of it!” slap, Sheila decides to have sex with Mark, and makes him promise to kill her if they are caught by cannibals.
Morning comes, and a chase ensues, with assailants stalking the pair through the jungle lobbing oddly pool noodle-esque spears. Separated and cornered, Sheila faints……
……only to come to with Jonas’ followers giving her some medicine and reuniting her with Mark. More convenient than a whole county’s worth of 7-11s, if you ask me. They take our gang to “Purification Village” and provide us the vision that is Ivan Rassimov as Jonas swanning about in a Delta Burke Collection caftan.
In a refreshing change, we waste some runtime with some footage actually shot for this movie, yay! A native woman named Mowara (Me Me Lai) was widowed, and the community is having her husband’s funeral ceremony that evening. The funeral sequence is mainly an excuse to get a bunch of Jonas’ followers topless (including Paola Senatore as Sheila’s sister Diana), and to get Me Me Lai naked in some ashes for some sex based uncoupling ritual. Never has a woman looked more like she’d rather be washing her hair.
Me Me Lai was a constant in the cannibal sub genre, and her presence here as Mowara pretty much guarantees that she’ll be the sympathetic native who helps our protagonists escape, spends most of the runtime topless, and dies gruesomely for her trouble.
Diana regrets following a junkie J. Jill frequent shopper into jungle hell, Professor Celebrity Cameo FINALLY informs the authorities where Sheila is, and Jonas makes everyone do a test run on the whole drinking the Kool Aid thing. Mark refuses when he smells it is drugged, and is beaten and tied to a pole for his astute observation. Having spent maybe 6 minutes setting up the third act, we get another random kill of a native by Jonas’ enforcer that has fuck all to do with anything we have just seen.
Jungle roofies work FAST, as the very next shot is Sheila being ritualistically prepared for Jonas to assault her with a cobra blood covered hand carved sex toy. Not only is this poor man’s prophet a scam artist and rapist, he’s a scam artist and rapist who chooses to leave fucking splinters, which is next level monstrous.
In color me not surprised news, Mowara and another sympathetic native (told you so) cut Mark loose, and he bolts into the jungle. He gets to react to a bloody castration scene between tribesmen from 1978’s Slave Of The Cannibal God. Got to pad that runtime until the hips match the shoulders.
Mark manages to last the night amongst the cannibals, but comes back to the village and supplicates himself at Jonas’ feet. With 30 minutes left in the runtime, do you think it just might be a trap? Jonas managed to convince several hundred people to join him in the outer reaches of fucking nowhere, but is egotistical/gullible enough to accept this conversion at face value.
Diana is far less dumb than she appears, and meets with Mark in secret regarding his plans, and enlists Mowara to help them all escape.
Having passed out the day’s drug rations to the flock (Mark included), Jonas skips off to perform the solid gold edition of sexual assault on a doped up Sheila. Diana manages to interrupt by attacking Jonas with a knife, but gets whipped for her trouble. What actually saves Sheila is that a follower was caught imbibing the demon drink, and must be cast out into the jungle with a Bible and not a snowball’s chance in hell of survival. Again, more convenient than a TV dinner.
The plan is in place to leave by nightfall, and Mark warns Sheila not to drink anything Jonas may give her before then, as its definitely drugged…..which you think she would have noticed by now, all things considered.
Jonas has a babbling Bible study about the story of Jehu (say that 5 times fast), and once night falls, our crew of the most recognizable actors left in the film is off to the races. Too bad Sheila starts screaming for Jonas the second the team comes to fetch her….what the hell is in those drugs? The effects morph from roofie to hard Ecstasy from dose to dose. She must have forgotten to skip the last dose of Mighty Morphing MDMA.
Mark gives her another come to your senses slap, but it finally takes a gag to stop her from getting them all killed, and she’s fighting all the way as they run for the river, Jonas’ errand bitches not too far behind.
Diana and Mark make the mistake of thinking Sheila is sober, and untie her. She immediately bolts back towards the village, screaming for Jonas. Mark races after her, leaving Mowara and Diana to their own devices.
Jonas men quickly catch up to the two women, and main heavy Karan decides to rape Diana. In a lightning fast case of instant karma, this gives the cannibals time to catch up to them, and eat everyone alive. Sadly, this includes Diana and Mowara.
Even sadder, only Diana gets a proper death scene, and Me Me Lai is sent off with a retread of her death scene from 1977’s Jungle Holocaust.
Mark saves a suddenly sober Sheila, and they both run toward the sound of screams, but it is too late. Mark uses his third (for those keeping score at home) get it together slap to knock Sheila out before she notices this way too cheerful cannibal nibbling on her sister’s severed leg.
It kind of works, but not quite, as Sheila saw some of the bloodshed before passing out. They both agree that they won’t be able to get out of this alive, and invoke their earlier pact to kill themselves before the cannibals did.
Safely back in the USA, the authorities give Mark and Sheila the usual speech about not telling of what they have seen for political and economic reasons, and Sheila makes the obligatory comparisons between the Stone Age and the Space Age, checking off all of the standard boxes we discussed earlier.
Meanwhile….Mark is in the other room, discovering Sheila’s big fat check was also a big fat rubber ball, and bounced for insufficient funds. Diana had given all the sisters’ money to Jonas before she left New York.
We have a mercenary for hire character played by a real life porn star and he didn’t master the basic idea of get the money up front. When I said “woefully unprepared” I absolutely meant it. That’s about the textbook definition of the term. Cut to bits of ripped up check fluttering through the air as the credits rolls and the funk bass kicks in.
Lucio Fulci’s career was a long strange trip. Internationally known for a 70s and 80s run of giallo and horror flicks, his best work was bleak, bloody and often darkly funny. The golden age of sensational splatter reached its apex in the 1981 dime store surrealist classic The Beyond. However, Fulci still faced unfavorable comparisons to the incredibly stylish but super self serious fellow director, Dario Argento. This Jan vs Marcia situation would dog him for the rest of his career.
By 1988, Lucio Fulci’s fortunes had done an abrupt about face. He had lost his wife to suicide, and his daughter was paralyzed in a car accident. Hepatitis and concurrent illness had forced him to leave the completion of Zombi 3 to human Xerox Bruno Mattei. A reputation for violent content and no fucks given criticism of the Catholic Church made financiers harder to come by.
Originally filmed for Italian television as Quando Alice ruppe lo specchio (Translation: When Alice Broke The Mirror, for those prone to putting on airs), the US release of today’s film was direct to video. What happens when Italy’s godfather of gore goes TV movie of the week? Let’s find out with (retitled for the US) Touch Of Death:
The credits are brief, and play over dead silence, which should tell you the approximate budget of this whole proceeding. Instead, we watch Lester the lost woodshop teacher cook up some lunch, while listening to horse racing results on the radio.
I’m not sure why he’s cooking with a sterno stove at the dining table, but perhaps the gas had not been turned on in what is CLEARLY the showhome for some Florida senior living condominium complex circa the summer of 1987.
He takes his steak, curls up on the couch and watches either some sort of weird home made porn, or a fairytale witch. The video is all gaunt cackling face, big hair and the occasional flash of shoulder, so choose your own adventure on which is correct.
Proving my point about the house, we get a POV tour, and it’s full of mauve based color combos and delicate faux houseplants that would make Blanche Devereaux and the girls jealous. It even has a finished basement.
Too bad there’s a corpse with a steak sized chunk of her thigh missing lying down there. I hope they lock that door at the open house. Humming along with the classical music on the soundtrack, Lester grabs a chainsaw and does a lovely little box step and sway as he dismembers the body. While I would think a bloody power tool would make a poor dance partner, he doesn’t miss a beat or get a speck on his polo shirt. Soft aqua is such a lovely color, but it really does show every little stain.
In fact, Lester is quite the homemaker. After the dismemberment is done, he piles the pieces into a meat grinder, whistling and waltzing as he works. In the spirit of “waste not, want not”, the bits that can’t fit through the grinder are fed to some conveniently located pigs.
This condo complex really thinks of EVERYTHING.
Lester wants to celebrate a butchering job well done. He pulls several stacks of cash out of a wall safe, pours himself a drink and has a chat with the local bookie. All is right with the world, until the evening news reports the investigation into the death of a rich widow who looks like she just might be Lester’s blue plate special from the day before. Despite 3 different processes, he still managed to leave something behind for the trash collectors to find. Guess he was too concerned with keeping grue off that sweet polo shirt.
In any case, Lester is a bit stressed, and pops his favorite classical cassette into the finest tape deck Montgomery Ward could provide. He has a nice chat with his audio system about his worries, and the equipment is kind enough to allay his fears. What a pal.
For those keeping score at home, Lester is not only a murdering cannibal, he is nuttier than squirrel shit. Even Son Of Sam had the dignity to take his orders from a dog rather than an off brand boombox.
Apparently Lester’s betting is about as good as his body disposal. He travels to some weird abandoned building at the edge of town to hand over all of his ill gotten cash to a bookie who has yet to learn how to color match his browns. Our sadsack protagonist also begs for credit on his massive debts.
Because the bookie who keeps his own assistant literally over a barrel in a dilapidated building is going to be super generous and forgiving. Right.
Rather than sell his car or his house, Lester beelines straight for the personal ads in the local paper, to find more lonely ladies with an excess of money and a deficit of sense. For someone whose whole source of income is dependent on being Casanova in chinos, you’d think his seduction technique would have advanced past butterfly kisses and grin (or grimace) and bear it.
Unnecessarily drawn out hijinks ensue, with Lester trying and failing to poison his unfortunate paramour. He only succeeds in making her throw up, and magically removing the SFX facial hair that was tacked on to the actress’ face in the previous scene.
A vicious beating with a bat also fails, but does give us the bylaw mandated eyeball in distress scene required of any movie with Lucio Fulci at the helm.
Bloody, eyeless and as energized as the battery bunny, she pops back up, finally meeting her end in an oversized toaster oven. As her face melts away, the death is doubly sad. Not only has Lester killed an innocent, he has killed a freakishly tough medical miracle that apparently had no skull under her oozing flesh. If this seems an excessive amount of space to devote to a single death, bear in mind that this sequence is nearly 20 minutes of the film’s 90 minute runtime, and likely 95% of the SFX budget.
All that physical exertion makes Lester a sloppy boy. Rather than pass the body to those handy pet pigs, he stuffs it into his car trunk to dump it at a local construction site. Not only does he leave the woman’s severed feet lying in his own driveway, he covers the corpse in concrete in full view of an off brand Charles Manson sleeping in a nearby box.
To avoid getting informed upon, he backs over Canal Street Charlie, but leaves the body in the middle of the street. There goes the remaining 5% of the SFX budget. I would also like to point out to all of you, that the car does indeed have Florida plates. Called it.
To top it off, jewelry he stole from his last victim is all worthless costume, and he owes even more interest to his bookie. A description of the likely killer has hit the evening news, and Lester has to change his appearance from shop teacher to portly sitcom dad to avoid detection by the police.
Our next victim is a slap happy S&M loving soprano, who doesn’t stop singing even in her sleep. Lester strangles her with a whip, and in his latest brilliant plan, transports her body in the front seat of his car. I suppose a jauntily tied scarf hides a lot of sins, as the cop who pulls him over for speeding assumes the cadaver is asleep.
Despite the ever so supportive talking stereo’s assertions that all of this trouble is due to a copycat killer, Lester is not soothed. The evening news once again has the breaking info, announcing the killer’s blood type and DNA genetic code(?!), and our doughboy matches both. While possible, it isn’t terribly PROBABLE that there are two moronic mass murderers with identical DNA on file with the police, and a secret twin seems unlikely on a TV movie budget.
Time for Lester to do some more gambling to destress, as this movie is going to have to try to flesh out the plot now that the SFX money is spent. For variety, he loses his shirt at poker. Why poker? Because even his bookie won’t take any more of his bad bets on horse races. He’d rather fleece him at cards and eliminate the wait.
In deeper hock than ever and plagued by mystery phone calls, Lester heads to the racetrack……to look for the copycat killer. Yep. That’s his story and he’s sticking to it. Spooked by a few loud noises and his own shadow, he heads home……..
….to deal with a highly convenient plot device. A woman named Virginia Fields (whom genre fans will recognize as Cannibal Ferox’s Zora Kerova) keeps accidentally dialing Lester’s number. Thrilled by his sexy voice, she strokes a decorative taxidermy swan suggestively (not a typo), and they make plans to meet. She happens to be yet another wealthy woman with a disfigurement.
Meanwhile, the nightly news has clocked Lester again, so he disguises himself as woodshop teacher version 2.0. This time it’s big square glasses and hair that is an odd piss yellow attempt at blonde. Hope poor Virginia likes big brass house keys.
We’ve seen this same basic scene 4 times now. He minces and winces and acts generally disgusted to be anywhere near a woman. At this stage, I sincerely wonder if he would have been happier with a nice cuddly bear of a truckdriver.
They don’t even bother using the scar prosthetic in the long shots, so Lester’s cartoonish distaste is even more pronounced when the camera pans to the lovely (non altered) face of the actress.
Just like all the rest, utterly enchanted by the powder blue pouched possibility of penis, she is smitten beyond all reason. When Lester sobs about business debts, she agrees to loan him $200,000, with his house as collateral. She promises to have the cash when they meet the next night for dinner.
Unsurprisingly, Lester prepares to kill Virginia as soon as he confirms she withdrew the cash…….
Unlike the rest of these dizzy birds, Virginia watches the news. She recognizes Lester from the police composite drawing……..
……and promptly shoots him. Wanting to die like a wild animal, a bleeding Lester runs out to the parking garage……
…….where we learn that Lester’s mysterious copycat……..
……is his own shadow. Because even the literal darkness wanted to bring Lester’s crimes to light. Or something. I feel like some metaphors got mixed here. Since Lester the murderer and (just that one time) cannibal is dead, I hope somebody thought to notify the questionably sentient boombox.
Exploitation film has always been a trend driven beast, with bizarre boomlets for damn near every common noun you can append -sploitation to.
Nunsploitation shared its 60s and 70s heyday with the women in prison films. Both niches were basically playing the same game, but with different variants of black and white uniforms. Fallen convent angels in habits or proud prison sinners in stripes, both subgenres were chock full of sadistic authority figures, women in isolation, and kinky (often lesbian) sex.
The subject of nuns also added the delightful bonus of jabbing a stick straight into the eye of the church, and a controversy was always good for a few extra asses in the seats. Not surprisingly, many genre standouts were produced by filmmakers in the Catholic strongholds of Spain and Italy.
Today’s film is one of the last gasps of the fading clergy craze, and is unusual for both being set in the (then) present day, and for having made the UK’s infamous “Video Nasties” list. It’s also the only nunsploitation flick starring former mainstream sex goddess Anita Ekberg (though it certainly isn’t the only Hail Mary in her late career filmography).
Originally titled “Suor Omicidi” and also released under the amazing, much snappier alternate title of “Bad Habits” let’s see just how far Ms. Ekberg has fallen from the Trevi Fountain:
Nothing much happens in the credit sequence. Communion wafers are eaten, nuns line up in elaborate configurations, incense and chants are had. An unseen Sister is in confession trying to be absolved of her need for revenge on all men, and up pops the title card. Enter Sister Gertrude (Anita Ekberg), clapping her hands, chastising two of her male patients for making dirty jokes, and being a absolute ray of sunshine that no rational human being would want to to deal with first thing in the morning.
By comparison to the dour nuns in the opener, Sister Gertrude is absolutely the Mother Superior of the Order of the #305 False Eyelash, making her hospital rounds in full eye make up. Sadly, it isn’t all smiles and frosted eyeshadow.
Sister Gertrude has just recovered from surgery to remove a brain tumor, and she hasn’t been quite herself since. While she used to be the resident doctor’s first choice of assistant, she has been neglecting her duties of late, endangering patients and having wacky music cue filled panic attacks at the sight of blood. A younger nun named Sister Mathieu picks up the slack for Sister Gertrude’s various fuck ups.
Every doctor that has examined her has declared Sister Gertrude healthy. She insists that all of the tests are wrong, and that she would be her usual self again if she could only get some more morphine. Because those cold sweats and fainting spells couldn’t possibly be drug withdrawal rather than an invisible phantom tumor. Nope. No way.
In a landmark case of “that escalated quickly”, Sister Gertrude is reading bloody hagiography of tortured saints to the patients at breakfast, then curbstomps patient Josephine’s dentures to dust for taking them out at the table. Sister Gertrude has gone from Pollyanna levels of sunny to shrieking “DISGUSTING! DISGUSTING! DISGUSTING!” like Joan Crawford when she just saw some wire hangers.
Sister Gertrude’s no good, very bad day just keeps on rolling.
Sister Mathieu insists on a nude fireside chat in their shared bedroom, confessing to both her forbidden love, and destroying Gertrude’s medical records. Without tangible proof, no one can deny Gertrude is sick…..which even the brain tumor survivor realizes is an utterly stupid plan.
Then that damned Josephine has to go and have a heart attack and die from the shock of the false teeth frenzy.
Then the doctor cuts off Gertrude’s supply of morphine. Cold turkey.
There’s nothing to do but sneak off into the city and pawn a dead woman’s stolen ring for drug money. As one does.
Over alternating dreamy Roman cha cha music and kicky disco kerfluffle, Gertrude does her various dirty deeds and stops into a cafe for a drink, a smoke, and a man. In hilarious voiceover, she growls about liking beards, and disliking a man she deems “too Latin looking”, whatever the fuck that means in terms of a generic looking white guy. Settling on a chain smoking clams adjuster, she practically purrs and pants her way through this breathy and bizarre line reading:
Sister Gertrude (voiceover): Come on……look this way. Sister Gertrude is just DYYYYYIIING to make love to you.
While Anita Ekberg declined to appear nude, they do have weird half clothed simulated sex in a random apartment building hallway. How his gross open mouthed goldfish style make out technique would be a turn on remains a mystery. On the other hand Ms. Ekberg’s Sister Gertrude is still a stone cold fox.
Back at the charity hospital, Sister Gertrude sets a two prong plan in motion. First, get the doctor who dared deny her fired. Second, celebrate by deciding to shoot up over it. It’s a special occasion, after all. Thrashing about on the carpet, we get a surreal little hallucination sequence of sliced brains and the tentative fondling of the deceased. All set to this delightful piece of music in search of a Nancy Sinatra song to belong to.
It’s about here that the movie takes an abrupt leap towards giallo territory, and mostly lands with a thud. A patient tries to help Sister Gertrude through her overdose. No good deed goes unpunished, and he is bludgeoned to death with a lamp, then tossed out of the window to make it look like a suicide.
The ever helpful Sister Mathieu burns a bloody veil of Gertrude’s she finds in the laundry, not that it helps anyone believe the suicide story. By the following afternoon, the remaining patients point blank call Gertrude a killer during the world’s grimmest game of truth or dare.
A patient and a local girl have some noisy sex outside in the pouring rain, and while their choice of venue is questionable, being choked to death with cotton gauze seems excessive.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, Factory fleshpot Joe D’Allesandro shows up as the new head doctor at the hospital. He keeps his shirt on and his wonderful, working class New York City accent is dubbed out. That tidily eliminates any conceivable purpose of his being in this film.
In a clear concession to the current non starter status of the plot, Sister Gertrude savagely humiliates a nude Sister Mathieu. Sudden dominatrix mode engaged, Gertrude threatens to beat Mathieu if she does not immediately put on silk stockings, and make good on her previous sexual invitations.
Due to an excess of jumping jacks, the patients have a soup bowl clanking rebellion(none of that is a typo), and are sent to bed early. After leading evening prayers, Sister Gertrude is attacked by a mystery assailant, and the one patient who may know who did it is keeping silent. Not that it matters, as the potential snitch is acupunctured to death the following day, and hung up to bleed out in a laundry chute. Bonus points for easy clean up.
Sister Gertrude flies into hysterics at the sight of another body, and when Dr. Rough Trade gives her a sedative, her drug addiction is obvious. She has more than enough tracks to make a greatest hits album. Sister Mathieu tearfully admits covering for Gertrude’s addiction and the theft of hospital morphine.
Desperate to know what is real and what is her own hallucination, Gertrude drugs and kidnaps a handicapped patient named Peter. Dumping him at the bottom of the boiler room steps, she demands to know who is the source of the rumors blaming her for the murders. When he refuses to tell, Gertrude takes his crutches, trapping him there. She has other business to attend to……..
Which gives Peter plenty of time to drag himself up the stairs inch by inch….
Only to be kicked right back down them again by an unseen nun. Yet another killing gets Sister Gertrude sent away to the Brides Of Christ version of Bellevue……
To give us appropriate time to rush through a sloppy ending that primarily exists in service of getting this highly misleading image onto some video boxcovers.
G.G. Grahamis a cult film cryptid, horror hag, and exploitation film explorer of the dusty and disreputable corners of cinema history. The street preacher of Z-grade cinema can be found writing for various genre sites and print publications, proselytizing for disregarded films as a panel/podcast/video guest, or on Twitter @msmidnightmovie
About Shock, Schlock & Leftover Film Stock:
For now, just a humble blog dedicated to the dirtier, mostly disreputable side of cinema. Forgotten flickers of the pre code era, roadshow rarities, grindhouse gore, direct to video dreck, big budget money pit monuments to hubris……..if it offended respectable folk, bombed at the box office or was a fly by night production filmed fast, cheap and free of necessary permits, it will probably be discussed here eventually.