Rest in Pieces (Descanse en piezas) (1987)

Rest in Pieces (Descanse en piezas) (1987) is a Spanish-American co-production, helmed by unique director, José Ramón Larraz.  This horror film concerns a young couple, Bob and Helen Hewitt (portrayed by Scott Thompson Baker and Lorin Jean Vail, respectively), who inherit the fortune of Helen’s estranged (and recently deceased) aunt Catherine (Academy Award winner, Dorothy Malone).  Upon arrival at Catherine’s estate, the couple realize that Aunt Catherine housed many people on her property, two of whom are a blind expert of music, David Hume (Jack Taylor) and a particularly cranky Gertrude Stein (Patty Shepard).  Bob and Helen think that this group is a bunch of creepy peeps and want to evict them.  The motley crew of guests on Catherine’s estate have other plans, which include slicing and dicing their new neighbors.

Rest in Pieces is weird.  It begins with a photo montage with the credit sequence of Baker and Vail at the Los Angeles airport (presumably Larraz cast these two there).  The title-sequence song feels like something out of a late-80s American comedy along the lines of Revenge of the Nerds II:  Nerds in Paradise (released the same year as Rest in Pieces.  Incidentally, I am a fan of this one.).  When Bob and Helen arrive at Catherine’s estate, it appears a normal row of houses surrounding a cul-de-sac, well familiar in American suburbs.  However, these houses are the curtilage of Catherine’s estate, and there is one in particular, that does not stand out particularly, that has always been abandoned.  The whereabouts of its key are unknown.  During their first evening in their new home, the young couple become hungry, but there is no food in the house.  Later that evening, after Bob has had a nice rogering with Helen, he searches the home and descends far into the basement.  He discovers a hidden room where a rotting stockpile of food is being consumed by rats.  Spooky, right?  Apparently, Hume, Stein, Dr. Anderson (a key character, portrayed by Jeffrey Segal), and the rest of the group do not eat.  However, they do smoke and drink. 

The script of Rest in Pieces is unique: there is a fantastic, supernatural element to its story combined with a heavy emphasis on slasher elements and accompanying gore.  Its execution, however, is rather lackluster.  “…Larraz received backing from a fruit exporter, or ‘Philistine moneymen’ as he refers to his backers,” write Pete Tombs and Cathal Tohill in Mondo Macabro. (1) “They wanted a sure return on their investment, so Larraz’s next two horror films, shot under the pseudonym Joseph Braunstein, were gory, direct-to-video Spanish-American co-productions.” (2) The first was Rest in Pieces.  (3) Larraz certainly fulfilled his contractual obligations with this film.  There is a standout scene where the odd group host a concert in the abandoned house.  After completion, the musicians desire to be paid for their performance, but unexpectedly, they get hacked to bits by their audience.  Jack Taylor’s David Hume reveals his cane is for more than walking: it doubles as a spear with a retractable blade!  Lorin Jean Vail displays quite a bit of nudity in the film.  (She is quite beautiful; and I do not want to hurt her feelings but her performance is not very good.)  In an initial scene, Helen takes a bubble bath.  All of the sudden, the fixtures begin moving, and the shower curtain attacks her!  Larraz includes a slo-mo love scene between Bob and Helen, and the final act sees Vail dressed only in her bathrobe and panties.  All the sensational elements are present in Rest in Pieces, but the completed film lacks an artistic spirit driving the images.

José Ramón Larraz creates such a unique atmosphere with his cinema that referring to his cinema as “atmospheric” belies his abilities.  His compositions and his juxtapositions of compositions are without equal.  He can make a three-car garage look ominous.  He can make two female vampires running across a cemetery at dawn poetic.  Larraz can also, finally, for example, imbue scenes with eroticism with ease where most filmmakers would struggle.  Here is an example from Rest in Pieces:  Bob thinks that it is unusual and suspicious that the abandoned house in the area has no key.  So after breakfast, he decides to walk over to the house.  Bob encounters the pretty maid of the estate on a bicycle in the middle of the road.  She gives a weak warning to Bob to not enter the abandoned house and then offers him an open invitation to shag.  After Bob enters the house, he finds an antique bar and picks up a bottle.  He hears a hymn being sung in the parlor room.  Bob enters and finds all of the estate guests in the middle of a meeting.  Bob presents to the group a toupee that he found under a piece of furniture.  This does not belong to any of you, Bob quips, and he demands to know from the group what is going on.  None of the shit in this sequence makes any sense but strung together in Larraz’s series of images, this sequence creates its own unreal logic.  There is a sense of Bob’s impending doom along this short journey, despite the fact that a pretty maid offers to fuck him; the non-descript abandoned house looks ordinary; and the only objects that interest Bob in the house are a bottle of liquor and a toupee.  Little of Larraz’s unique talent is present in Rest of Pieces to the complete detriment of the film.

The VHS cover of Rest in Pieces is well familiar, but a lot of Larraz’s late-80s output never made it onto DVD.  It just sits there in obscurity, like a time capsule of its period.

1.       Tombs, Pete and Cathal Tohill.  Mondo Macabro European Sex and Horror Movies 1956-1984.  St. Martin’s Griffin Press. New York.  1995: p. 206.

2.       Ibid.

3.       Ibid.

Red Cockroaches (2003)

Red Cockroaches (2003) is a science fiction film that really does not have to be (at the least for me to enjoy it).  While traditional science fiction elements are integral to peripheral parts of the story and while one can read Philip-K.-Dick-ian themes of identity versus technology versus civilization, director Miguel Coyula crafts an unusually innovative and provocative film grounded in familiar characters in a dysfunctional setting.  Red Cockroaches also contains good acting, impressive digital photography, and quite a bit of eroticism.

Adam (Adam Plotch) spies a beautiful stranger (Talia Rubel) on the subway platform.  When the train arrives, she disappears in the crowd.  Soon after, she knocks on Adam’s door and inquires if he is looking for a roommate.  They engage in flirty conversation, but the young woman leaves, deciding not to share the rent.  Adam goes to the cemetery to visit his father’s grave on the tenth anniversary of his death and once again meets the beautiful stranger.  This time Adam embraces and kisses her passionately, but she disappears when the two are interrupted.  Adam later gets a worried call from his mother and he rushes to her home.  Adam’s mother introduces him to the beautiful stranger, named Lily, and Lily is his sister, presumed dead ten years ago who died in an accident with Adam’s father.  Adam is understandably perturbed upon this discovery but allows Lily to move in with him in his apartment. 

The sexual tension in Red Cockroaches drives the first two-thirds of the film, aided well in part by Coyula’s photography.  He has an undeniable talent for crafting sexy innuendo in each frame.  The wonderful underlying current in each scene is that Lily is well aware of Adam’s attraction (which she shares) and takes delight in attempting to arouse him (ultimately, to see if he is brave enough to make a sexual advance towards her).  Coyula adeptly inserts into his compositions subtle sexual imagery and emphasizes the very creative ways that couples flirt with each other.  As the sexual tension rises between the two, they consummate in an extremely humorous setting.  At the same time, the scene is hot.  Subsequent to this lovemaking scene, Coyula follows with an intimate scene where Lily confronts Adam about chilling events from their past.  The final act of Red Cockroaches shows how dysfunctional behavior breeds familiarity and more dysfunctional behavior.  The final act also sees the film turn to very dark material.

Setting Red Cockroaches in a futuristic setting, replete with aerocars, mutated insects (hence the film’s title), and continual acid rain, for example, only enhances the unreal atmosphere of the story.  It is as if one could read the film as being representative of technological advances leading to a greater disassociation between people.  This disassociation, in turn, serves as a catalyst for a regression in our civilization.  Nonetheless, Red Cockroaches looks cool; as if Coyula meticulously digitally painted his film in making his lush visuals.  All the detail, however, stays in the background and works in an almost subliminal way.

Red Cockroaches is a weird, independent film.  It is really arty and provocative but should not alienate those who are open-minded about their cinema.  Red Cockroaches was released on DVD years ago by Heretic Films and is well worth checking out.  A personal favorite.

Horror Rises from the Tomb (El espanto surge la tumba) (1973)

Horror Rises from the Tomb (El espanto surge la tumba) (1973) is my favorite film from Paul Naschy.  It features a good supporting cast including two of the most beautiful women to ever grace Spanish cinema, Emma Cohen and Helga Liné.  Naschy’s screenplay for Horror Rises is wonderfully episodic and frenetic.  The most oft anecdote about his screenplay, Naschy relates as thus:  “Pérez Giner called me up in a terrible hurry—he urgently needed a horror screenplay, since the creation of a production company [Profilmes] depended on it.  I didn’t have one but I told him I could write one pretty fast.  I had to do it in a day and a half.  With the help of amphetamine tablets I managed it in what is obviously a record time.” (1)  The majority of the film was shot at Naschy’s family estate at Lozoya. (2)

Horror Rises opens with a pastoral scene:  Alaric de Marnac (Naschy) and his lover, Mabille de Lancré (Liné) are being drawn in a carriage by oxen to a large tree in the middle of a desolate field.  De Marnac is decreed a Satanist, a cannibal, a wolfman, etc. and condemned to death.  His head will be removed from his body and both will be buried in separate places.  Mabille is stripped and hung upside down after also being condemned to death.  She curses Andre Roland (Victor Alcázar) and Armand de Marnac (Naschy) before she dies, stating specifically that their descendants will suffer a tremendous punishment.  Cut to Paris during the present.  Hugo de Marnac (Naschy) visits his artist friend, Maurice Roland (Alcázar), and the two hook up with their girlfriends, Silvia (Betsabé Ruiz) and Paula (Cristina Suriani), respectively.  Over cocktails, the four meet with another couple who invite them to a séance.  Hugo thinks that séances are phony, so he decided to challenge the medium by invoking the spirit of his ancestor, Alaric de Marnac.  The medium successfully channels his spirit, and Alaric reveals the resting place of his head and body.  Hugo, still unconvinced, invites Maurice, Silvia, and Paula to his familial estate for a sojourn, whereupon they will attempt to find Alaric’s head and body among the grounds. 

Horror Rises from the Tomb escalates in sensationalism with every subsequent scene.  My personal favorite scene shows Alaric’s head in a box above a pillar in the crypt where his body is laid.  The scene is actually Naschy rigged up so he can deliver orders to his hypnotized slaves.  For whatever reason, I find a talking head in a box extremely entertaining.  Once Liné’s Mabille is resurrected (in a wonderfully convoluted and sensational manner), she is free to wreak havoc among the population.  In a scene which is probably very close to most young men’s dreams of the period, a young man lays in bed reading a photo-magazine of scantily-clad ladies.  He looks up from his bed to see Liné standing at his bedside, and with one movement she removes the shear slip that she is donning.   The young man embraces her only to have his back ripped to shreds moments later.  Emma Cohen plays Elvira, and her father, the caretaker of the de Marnac estate, is one of the film’s first victims.  Her younger sister, Chantal (María José Cantudo), is the second to be murdered.  In an intimate, sweet scene Hugo visits distraught Elvira who admits that she is all alone in the world.  Hugo tells her that she stills has him and that he loves her since they were children.  The two kiss, and despite the fact that Elvira has lost two of her closest family members and is very emotionally vulnerable, Naschy as Hugo takes the opportunity to cop a serious feel upon Elvira.  Spooky séances, crazed, violent locals, zombies, sorcerers, vampires, buckets of blood, and boatloads of nudity comprise the running time of Horror Rises from the Tomb.

Carmelo A. Bernaola composed an excellent organ score for Horror Rises.  The clash of its archaic sound in a contemporary setting is perfect.  Naschy’s screenplay, perhaps fueled by desperation, births something amazing, usually only reserved for spontaneity.  Carlos Aured was the director of Horror Rises, and he was chosen because he was León Klimovsky’s assistant who was unavailable at the time. (3)  The duo of Naschy and Aured would go on to collaborate on El return de Walpurgis (Curse of the Devil) (1972); Los ojos azules de la muneca rota (House of the Psychotic Women) (1973); and La venganza de la momia (The Mummy’s Revenge) (1973). (4) While their subsequent works were all entertaining, none quite have the je ne sais quois of Horror Rises from the Tomb. 

1.   The quote is from Naschy, Paul.  Memoirs of a Wolfman.  Midnight Marquee Press.  Baltimore, Maryland.  2000:  p. 119.

Naschy would repeat the anecdote in the following interviews:

1.  “Paul Naschy comments on each of his films.”  Videooze.  Ed. Bob Sargent.  No. Six/Seven.  Fall 1994.  Alexandria, Virginia.  1994:  p. 27.

2.  Bouyxou, Jean-Pierre, Jan Van Genecten, and Gilbert Verschooten.  “Interview with Waledmar Daninsky, Alias Paul Naschy.”  Fantoom.  Ed.  Gilbert Verschooten.  No. 5.  Fall/Winter 1977.  Grimbergen, Belgium.  1977, English Supplement:  p. 10.

3.  Cuenca, José Ignacio.  “The Howl from Overseas.”  Fangoria.  Ed.  Anthony Timpone.  No. 134.  Fall 1994.  Starlog Communications International.  New York, New York.  1994: p. 63.

4.  Lipinski, Mirek, Shade Rupe, and The Gore-Met.  “The Creature Incarnate.”  Rue Morgue.  Ed. Dave Alexander.  Issue 98.  Marrs Media Inc.  Toronto, Canada.  March 2010:  p. 19.

2.   Cuenca, José Ignacio.  “The Howl from Overseas.”  Fangoria.  Ed.  Anthony Timpone.  No. 134.  Fall 1994.  Starlog Communications International.  New York, New York.  1994: p. 63.

3.  Naschy, Paul.  Memoirs of a Wolfman.  Midnight Marquee Press.  Baltimore, Maryland.  2000:  p. 119.

4.  Ibid. at p. 120.

Evil Sabbath (La vision del sabba) (1988)

Evil Sabbath (La vision del sabba) (1988) is an Italo-French production, directed by Marco Bellocchio and starring Beatrice Dalle in one of her earliest roles.  Dalle plays Maddalena a young woman confined to an asylum who is awaiting a diagnosis of her mental condition to determine whether she is competent to stand trial for murder.  Davide (Daniel Ezralow) is a young doctor who arrives in Italy to examine her; and after their fateful first meeting, Davide’s life makes a radical change.

Evil Sabbath opens with a young woman standing calmly in the foreground while a blazing fire erupts in the background.  In the following scene, an Inquisition torture scene occurs where Dalle is accused of being a witch.  The Inquisitor is about to adjudge her a witch after a series of tests, but a young man assisting the Inquisitor steps in and reveals that Dalle’s character has the plague.  This faux diagnosis saves her life for the time being.  Cut to the present where the young man awakens from sleep—it is Davide:  he was either dreaming the Inquisition scene or his ancestor was present during the period (and Bellocchio is cross-cutting between the two events).  Davide and his wife Cristina (Corinne Touzet) arrive in Italy, and Davide finally meets Maddalena.

Marco Bellocchio crafts an interesting arthouse drama with Evil Sabbath.  It is not a wholly successful film, but the fault does not lie with Bellocchio’s technique:  he is purposefully punctuating his drama with obscurity.  There are more questions at the conclusion of the film than answers.  Evil Sabbath oscillates between scenes of intimacy and more ornate scenes, typically the subjective scenes from Davide’s point of view, involving the historical scenes with witches.  As to the latter, for example, in a night scene in front of a castle Davide encounters a group of wild women, and they surround Davide with a ring of fire.  The seeming intention of the group is to menace and harm Davide, but undaunted, Davide begins to play with the group of women.  They engage in a playful mimicry, and the scene appears as a dance. When these scenes are contrasted with the intimate scenes, of which there are really only three involving Dalle, they pale in comparison.  Davide’s initial interview with Maddalena; Maddalena’s formal questioning by a tribunal; and a love scene in the final act between Davide and Maddalena are the strongest sequences.  Bellocchio shoots each scene primarily focused on one medium shot of Dalle and he allows the camera to linger upon her.  Dalle is amazingly captivating, and the chemistry she has with Ezralow is strong.  (Ezralow’s intimate scenes with Touzet are good too, but they are not nearly as strong as Ezralow with Dalle.)  When Evil Sabbath does not focus on Dalle, the film cannot generate the energy present in the intimate scenes.

Evil Sabbath is an interesting film conceptually.  I just wish it had been done differently.  The exploration of the word “bewitched” in a filmic composition is a subject well worth exploring:  a man as a completely submissive subject towards his powerful female object.  If any actress is bewitching, Dalle is certainly one first to mind.  Preferring a wholly intimate film focusing on Dalle is my stance on this obscurity.  Anyone seeking a tripped-out arthouse drama may seek out Evil Sabbath, but it will only make each seek out more Dalle.

Die Sklavinnen (1977)

Die Sklavinnen (1977) is a Jess Franco film from his collaboration with Swiss producer Erwin C. Dietrich who also co-wrote the screenplay with Franco.  Most reviews that I have read of Die Sklavinnen are kind even when they are overall negative: most are capable of acknowledging that this is a quick and cheap production, if not exactly inspired nor its plot particularly engaging.  In retrospect, perhaps Die Sklavinnen is a signal that Franco’s tenure under Dietrich’s production house is coming to an end.  In any case, I will try to take a “pro” (as opposed to “con;” not “pro” as in professional) stance on the film.

Die Sklavinnen begins with its first frame narrative:  a young prostitute wanders into a police station and claims she was kidnapped, drugged, and forced into prostitution by a woman named Princess Arminda (Lina Romay).  Cut to the exterior of an island prison where Arminda is escaping.  Arminda is beaten and captured by the henchman (Franco) of wealthy businessman Amos Radeck (Victor Mendés).  Radeck demands to know where his daughter is:  he believes Arminda captured her and forced Radeck to pay five million dollars ransom for her release.  Arminda says she knew his daughter but did not kidnap her.  Thus, Arminda begins the second frame narrative of Die Sklavinnen:  she begins by detailing her story of first meeting young Martine Radeck (Martine Stedil).

Martine Stedil was one of the cooler actresses with whom Franco was able to collaborate during his Dietrich period.  Stedil had an important but less focal role in one of my all-time favorite Franco films, Downtown—die Nackten Puppen der Unterwelt (1975).  So, it was exciting that Stedil would be the focal character, albeit still a character in an ensemble piece, in Die Sklavinnen.  In one of the cuter sequences of the film, Arminda attempts to seduce Martine.  The humorous part is neither Romay nor Stedil are wearing undergarments, and each’s dress slides off in one tug.  “Tell me if make any mistakes,” says Martine, playing a very shy submissive.  Arminda, despite admitting to her lover Raimond (Ramón Ardid) that she has fallen in love with Martine, eventually drugs her and forces her into prostitution.  In the film’s best scene, after several collaborators have identified Martine as the millionaire’s daughter, Martine gives a loopy, disassociated speech when confronted about her past.  Because of the drugs, she cannot remember much and that she does remember is in bits and pieces.  Martine still attempts to seduce her confronter while simultaneously wanting to let go and be left alone:  it is one of those weird, poetic sequences that Franco is known for, and shamefully too little is included in Die Sklavinnen.

Die Sklavinnen is undeniably dirty but is nowhere near as sexy as Downtown or another Dietrich production like Das Bildnis der Doriana Gray (1976).  Franco’s obsessive eye is gone from his camera (Peter Baumgartner says he only shot a few scenes in Portugal but is the credited director of photography.) (*)  I wish he would have treated Stedil to his trademark lingering camera gazes and just, in general, made her the focus of the film.  Die Sklavinnen has an interesting kidnapping plot, but even at seventy-five minutes, it feels as if it is being padded out with conversation and filler.  Downtown, for example, had a really cool scene where Romay sang a song in a cabaret.  In Die Sklavinnen, there is only a few short dance sequences (one in the same cabaret setting from Downtown).  The film also oscillates in tone:  most of the film is fairly serious in tone, but there are ridiculous comedic scenes, like when a john meets his prostitute and her parrot makes off-color jokes about his virility.  Tonal inconsistency can be very effective in cinema, but in Die Sklavinnen it feels like Franco got bored and preferred to shoot comedy on that particular day.

Die Sklavinnen is not a bad film: besides its actresses, it has great locations (as do most of the Dietrich productions).  Walter Baumgartner’s music is really catchy and cool.  Die Sklavinnen belongs in that realm where you have seen too many Jess Franco films, and you are really watching anything that he has made to get a Franco fix.  Die Sklavinnen is familiar, mostly uninspired, and mildly entertaining in Jess Franco’s lesser tier of films.

* Obsession:  The Films of Jess Franco.  Eds. Lucas Balbo and Peter Blumenstock.  Graf Haufen & Frank Trebbin.  Germany:  1993.  P. 131.

Cross of the Seven Jewels (La croce dalle sette pietre) (1987)

A true obscurity and oddity.  Cross of the Seven Jewels (La croce dalle sette pietre) (1987) stars Marco Antonio Andolfi as Marco Sartori.  Andolfi also wrote, directed, edited, and contributed to the special effects of the film.  Cast alongside him are European cult cinema titans, Annie Belle, as Sartori’s love interest, and Gordon Mitchell, as the leader of a satanic cult.

I am fuzzy on the rendition of the facts of the plot of Cross of the Seven Jewels but I will attempt to be as accurate as possible:  the film begins with a red-lit orgy-cum-black mass over which Gordon Mitchell’s character presides.  He says some mumbo jumbo and apparently is successful in raising a demon.  Cut to the train station, in an ordinary daylight sequence, where our hero, Marco Sartori picks up who he thinks is his distant cousin, Elena.  He takes her for coffee and en route to his home, Sartori is robbed of his golden cross with seven inlaid jewels from around his neck by two thugs on motorbike.  He flags the police down; and the police find the thugs, but the necklace was not recovered.  Elena disappears when Marco gives chase.  The following morning, Marco visits Elena’s home; but a woman living there says she is Marco’s cousin and Elena was only staying with her.  Marco tracks Elena’s recent whereabouts to a disco; and when Marco begins asking questions about Elena, the local crime boss beats his ass.  Pretty working girl, Maria (Belle), takes Marco to her home to recuperate.  Marco learns of the fence who may hold his necklace.  He visits the man and Marco is particularly antsy as the clock grows close to midnight.  The fence says he sold the necklace to the local Don.  The clock strikes twelve and Holy Shit!  Marco turns into a werewolf and rips the man to shreds.

From this point in the film, Cross is immediately evident as the child of the werewolf cinema of Lon Chaney, Jr. and Paul Naschy:  a normal man with a fatal affliction destined for a tragic ending.  Werewolf cinema, in general, is fairly incredulous.  However, often the romanticism of the plot and the sympathy engendered in the viewer is enough to make most of the cinema worthwhile.  Andolfi’s script creates an extremely frenetic Marco whose chase to get his jewelry puts him some very bizarre situations.  When Marco confronts the local Don, he is honest and desires only his jewelry.  The local Don does not believe his story, so he allows his henchman to beat upon him for information.  The head of the syndicate even arrives from Sicily (portrayed by Giorgio Ardisson) to uncover whether Marco is a complete idiot or a very tough and savvy operative.  The crime crew keeps Marco until midnight to allow him to wolf out and slaughter the whole group.

Cross of the Seven Jewels has an overwhelming cheapness about it, even slipping into incompetency.  Andolfi attempts to recreate the famous werewolf transformation sequence, made famous with Chaney and replicated well by Naschy.  It is a memorable sequence and needs little description.  Chaney or Naschy would lay on his back while his make-up was applied in layers.  The camera would film the stages and edit them together with a series of quick dissolves.  Andolfi, unfortunately, really fucked up his transformation sequence.  He applied too little hair to his face during the stages, and, as he edited the film, Andolfi cut in his dissolves in too lengthy of sequences.  So the end result showed Marco grimacing quite a bit, like he was taking a shit, with a little bit of hair forming around his nose.  The cinematography of the entire film is almost all handheld with little sensitivity given to making interesting compositions.  The script moves mechanically from point to point in a sluggish manner (even at ninety or so minutes).  I have read reviews from the few who have seen the film:  most are negative but some go so far as to call it one of the worst Italian genre films ever.

The cheapness of Cross of Seven Jewels and its bizarre, quirky sensitivity are also its charms.  Two sequences stand out:  The first is a flashback sequence at the Black Mass where a very furry werewolf who looks like a wookie is boning away at a very hot and uninterested blonde woman.  She wants the werewolf to sire her child (who would grow up to be Marco).  Cut to a domestic scene where infant Marco sits in his crib while his blond mother paces the room with the werewolf father in her footsteps.  (He appears domesticated by this point.)  Marco’s mother is having regrets about the siring of her son and fears for his safety. She places the cross around his neck to prevent him from turning.  The werewolf father becomes suddenly perturbed but is unable to harm his child because of his new amulet.  This scene is presented as the essence of domesticity and appears like the typical family at home.  Simply amazing.  The other sequence of note is where Marco visits Madame Amnesia (Zaira Zoccheddu), a fortune teller and medium who is reputed to be little more than a prostitute by her neighbors.  Marco visits her as she is the apparently the final recipient of the cross.  Marco is not interested in a tarot reading nor is he interested in fucking Madame Amnesia.  However, they start fucking anyway much to the dismay of Marco.  About midway through their lovemaking, Marco turns into a werewolf and furiously begins banging away at the astonished and frightened woman!  It is appropriate to add now that Andolfi’s werewolf costume consists of himself, butt-ass naked with furry hands and head and a fuzzy bit covering his crotch. 

If any of the insanity that I covered in the previous paragraph entices you, then Cross of the Seven Jewels is an oddity well worth seeking out.  However, if it sounds too cheap and stupid, then avoid at all costs.  I do wish that Andolfi would have featured Belle in a bigger role:  she had the potential to steal this one.  Cross of the Seven Jewels is a true oddity for the curious.

Corruption (1983)

Corruption (1983) is an amazing, bleak, and surreal adult film from director Roger Watkins (under his pseudonym Richard Mahler), known primarily as the director of Last House on Dead End Street (1973). 

In the film’s only establishing shot, Corruption opens on a cloudy skyscraper, accompanied by Jim Flamberg’s John Carpenter-esque score. (*)  In an all-white corporate boardroom, a businessman named Williams (Jaimie Gillis) assures Franklin (Michael Gaunt) and Frederick (Michael Morrison) that he will honor the contract that he holds with them.  Despite the fact that Williams verbally assures his colleagues, he seems none too happy that his appointment to perform his end of the bargain is impending.  “We still have some time,” says Doreen (Tiffany Clark), Williams’s girlfriend.  Cut to a warehouse where Alan (George Payne) encounters “the person sitting at the front desk” (Samantha Fox).  Alan has arrived to pick up something for Williams; but before he can receive the item, the woman at the desk tells him to travel into the back room.  As Alan travels through the interior, he moves through three rooms of three different colors (blue, red, and black, respectively) and is ultimately seduced by the three women within (Tanya Lawson, Marilyn Gee, and Tish Ambrose, respectively).  He returns to the front desk where the woman is absent, but the object for which he has been searching sits atop of the desk available for him to take.

Of course, Alan never returns the item to Williams which prompts him to visit a dark bar whose only occupants are Williams’s half-brother, Larry (Bobby Astyr in a particularly effective sleazy role) and a dancing woman (Nicole Bernard).  Larry promises to take Williams to Alan, and they descend into the catacombs of the bar.  Larry forces Williams to peep into three doors where he witness three sexual acts of various perversions.  Williams eventually confronts Alan who, by now, has been very much corrupted.  “I want what is mine,” says Williams.  Alan refuses to relinquish the goods.  Doreen’s sister, Felicia (Kelly Nichols) gets a nasty visit from Franklin which prompts Williams to cut a deal with Larry to take care of the situation.  Williams seeks solace in the arms of Erda (Vanessa del Rio).  Williams gets what is his by the end of Corruption, but it is a pyrrhic victory.

Watkins’s Corruption is an avant-garde tale of power, pleasure, and love (or specifically, its absence).  The film is meticulously composed by Watkins (photography by Larry Revene); and despite the austerity of the sets they are wholly effective.  The entire film is full of cryptic and elliptical dialogue,—“What do you want?”  “I want what is mine.”—and the plot moves in the same manner: scenes take on resonance after being informed by later ones.  Two powerful examples:  In the first, after Williams has fucked Doreen but before he has gone to the bar to find Alan, he stops and peers into Felicia’s room.  (Her room is painted purple.) Williams watches her as she admires herself in the mirror and then stays to watch Felicia get herself off.  Beyond its prurient interest, the scene seems rather innocent.  Its resonance comes later when Franklin comes to visit Felicia with the most salacious intentions:  Felicia becomes a victim of Williams’s dealings, despite the fact that she is wholly independent and collateral to all of his doings.  In the second, as Doreen is undressing in front of a disinterested Williams, they engage in this conversation:

Doreen:  “Do you love me?”

Williams:  “You know I do.”

Doreen:  “Why?”

Williams:  “I don’t know.  I guess it’s because you don’t ask for much.”

Doreen:  “But you give me everything I want.”

Williams never tells her that he loves her.  When he visits Erda late in the film and after their bout of lovemaking, Williams tells her that he loves her, she responds with a smile and says only, “You needed me.”  (Incidentally, Nichols’s solo scene and Gillis and Del Rio’s scene are the only two sex scenes that are not completely cold.)  The absence of returned love is forcefully evident from Alan’s encounter with the Girl in Black (Tish Ambrose), detailing the high price for power.  “Would you renounce love?” She asks.  Alan, by now completely seduced by his surroundings, answers yes.  “Then come over here and fuck me,” she says.  A nasty, yet highly seductive exchange.

Watkins proves very adept at symbolism and paints quite a bleak and dark picture of humanity.  Most of Corruption would appear allegorical if there were not such an overwhelming realism to the proceedings.  Jim Flamberg’s score and Larry Revine’s photography are tops.  This film predates some of David Lynch’s films and their images.  The dancing woman in the bar (Nicole Bernard), who, as Larry remarks, seems never to stop dancing is evoked in the joyride/”Candy-Colored Clown” dance on the car hood in Blue Velvet (1986) and also in the red-lit bar setting, where Laura and Ronette plan their fateful rendezvous, in Twin Peaks:  Fire Walk With Me (1992).  Roger Watkins is one of those rare filmmakers who is so evidently talented but whose work is so bleak, unbecoming, and dark that few should see it.

*  “Back to Dead End Street.  The Ultimate Interview with the Director of the Ultimate Nihilistic Horror Film Roger Watkins.”  Ettinger, Art.  Ultra Violent.  Issue 4.  Ed. Scott Gabbey.  Palm Bay, FL.  2002: p. (approximate number, no pagination) 37.