Hell of the Living Dead (Bruno Mattei, 1980)

Rolling around on the floor, clasping at the casing I keep my brain in with both hands, isn't something I do often. But when it does happen, it's usually for a good reason. Now, I understand it when, oh, let's say, a shoe salesmen or a bank teller fails to grasp subtle nuances of your average zombie apocalypse, but highly trained members of a super-elite squad of commandos? They should flourish in a world overrun by flesh-eating ghouls, as the skills possessed by shoe salesmen and bank tellers are no longer required. Whether it's a geriatric zombie with a cat living inside its chest cavity or a child zombie with their dad's entrails dripping from their once cute little chins, these men should be front and centre when it comes to killing zombies. However, when a colleague, one who is obviously cognizant to the problem's head ventilating solution, tries to tell them where to aim ("shoot them in the head!") his words seem to go, rather ironically, straight over their heads. The inability to follow basic instructions wasn't the only thing had me writhing on the proverbial shag carpeting in Hell of the Living Dead (a.k.a. Virus Cannibale), the characters can't seem to do anything right. If there's any film where the dead have a distinct advantage over their living peers, it's definitely this one. Filming in a vast wilderness filled with nature, director Bruno Mattei (The Private House of the SS) captures humanity at its most useless. Unable to carry out even the most basic of tasks with any effectiveness, these people don't stand a chance against the hordes of radioactive zombies who desperately want to gnaw on their supple limbs. Mocking the human characters at every turn, the animals are always present, yet, at the same time, they seem like they're not there at all. And judging by the way the monkeys, the elephants, the jackals, and the water fowl appeared to frolic with an untroubled form of panache, you would think the zombie plague was the figment of a troubled turtle's turbulent imagination. But that's the brilliance of Mr. Mattei as a storyteller, he manages to trick you into believing that humankind and the animal kingdom are completely separate. But as everyone knows, they exist at the exact same time.

When a fox captures its prey, it goes straight for the jugular. Suffocating it until it is no longer living, the fox learned how to do this by watching its parents. People, on the other hand, boast a natural inclination to penetrate the brain matter of their fellow human beings. To put in another way, we don't need to be educated when it comes to jabbing foreign objects into the skulls of others. Whether it be articles of faith, nationalistic tendencies, cultural traditions, or hollow point bullets, the innate desire to poison/alter the human mind is something that lives within all us. What I want to know is, why don't these intuitive skills kick in when it comes to destroying the brains of zombies?

Instead of watching your friend get ripped to shreds by a group of dermatologically-challenged monsters, one's who, by the way, clearly have no qualms when it comes to invading your friend's personal space, why not help them out by shooting as many zombies in the head as you can with the machine gun you're currently holding in your hands? You know, give them a fighting chance. I'm sure they would do the same for you. The first instance of what I like to call, "don't just stand there syndrome" occurs almost immediately when two technicians working at a super-secret nuclear power plant on the island of New Guinea are confronted by a radioactive rat while performing a routine inspection. Somehow the rodent has managed to crawl up the pant leg of one of the technician's radiation suits and has started to eat his skin. While the rat is snacking on his face, his colleague, you guessed it, just stands there as his partner begins to spew blood all over the inside of his poorly tailored radiation suit.

Incompetence aside, the film has been nothing but wall-to-wall lab coats, nonsensical science jargon, plumes of green radioactive gas, and the sound of Goblin throbbing on the soundtrack, what more could you want? Yeah, hi. Long time listener, first time caller. I would like to see a scene where a guy in a lab coat, wearing a gas mask, inexplicably takes off said gas mask just as a radioactive zombie is about to bite him in the shoulder. We can do that. In fact, what you just described is about to happen. Let's watch. Ewww, that was nasty. I wonder why he took off his gas mask? Weird. Anyway, I liked how some of the radioactive zombies were still wearing their hard hats when they began to attack their non-zombie co-workers, as it added a sense of realism to the proceedings.

What we just witnessed at the nuclear power plant was the complete and utter failure of "operation sweet death," and with the name like that, it's no wonder it failed. Meanwhile, over at the U.S. Consulate, "a bunch of crazy goddamn terrorists" have taken the staff hostage, and are threatening to kill them all if their demands aren't met. This segment was the most tedious in the entire film as it features no plumes of radioactive green gas, no garland thongs, no animals frolicking, and definitely no zombies. It's sole purpose for existing is to introduce us to the members of the elite commando unit I alluded to earlier and to show them receiving a dire warning from a dying terrorist. And while it was a tad on the long side as far as introductions and the communicating of dire warnings go, it gets the job done.

It's true, I don't recall why four of the elite commandos were sent to the jungles of New Guinea, but that's where they end up going after the showdown at the U.S. Consulate. I'm willing to bet their arrival in New Guinea has something to do with the incident at the nuclear power plant. At any rate, the four elite commandos, Vincent (Selan Karay), Lt. London (José Gras), Osborne (Josep Lluís Fonoll), and Zantoro (Franco Garofalo), are seen milling about near a wall of skeletons. In the meantime, a passive-aggressive married couple, Steve (Pep Ballester) and Josie (Esther Mesina), and their injured young son (he's got a bloody lesion on his neck), and a couple of journalists, Mack (Gaby Renom) and Lia Rousseau (Margit Evelyn Newton), have parked their vehicle in, what looks like, an abandoned missionary town about a mile away from where the commandos are.

While it's inevitable that the two groups are going to merge with one another, there's no way I'm gonna be able to keep track of all these people. No, I'm afraid some of you are going to have to die. Any volunteers? Hey, Josie. Why don't you go exploring–you know, poke around inside those empty buildings over there. If you're lucky, you might get attacked by a zombie dressed like a priest. And, hey, badly injured little boy. Would you hurry up and die already? The sound you struggling to breath has grown tiresome. What would really cool is if you died while lying in your sleeping father's lap, turned into a zombie, and began to consume his internal organs as he napped. As for the reporters, you can wander around a bit. But don't go too far, I like your overall look, and would be mildly upset if you were to be torn apart at this juncture.

Let's see, so that's four elite commandos and two reporters. Yeah, I can work with that. After all, six is a much lower number than nine. Some quick notes about the scene in the abandoned missionary town: Children, say what you will about them (they're annoying, pretty much useless in every possible way imaginable, and contribute nothing of value to the zombie apocalypse), but the kid in the Hell of the Living Dead sports the best zombie face the genre has ever seen. And if Esther Mesina's voice sounds familiar while she's screaming for help, well, that's because her voice was dubbed by none other than Carolyn De Fonseca (the dubbing artist who provided the voice for Albina in Women's Prison Massacre and Iris in Beyond the Darkness).

"These mothers have got more lives than a cat," and it's with the utterance of that line that we're officially introduced the greatest zombie killer in the history of zombie cinema. His named is Zantoro, and he's only one who know how to kill zombies. While firing his submachine gun at a couple of zombies in an abandoned classroom, Zantoro notices that they only drop to the ground when you pierce their skulls with a bullet (any object will do, but bullets seem to work the best). Dying to tell the rest of his squad, he runs over to his commanding officer, who is currently blasting a little boy zombie in the chest with multiple rounds from his pistol, shoots the kid in the head, and says, "The head! Shoot them in the head!"

It's evident that "shoot them in the head" is too difficult a concept for them to grasp, because the very next day the group find themselves besieged by a throng of zombies in a jungle clearing, and everyone not named Zantoro seems to be shooting them everywhere but in the head. Frustrated by this pathetic display of marksmanship, Zantoro tries to give them another demonstration on how to properly kill a zombie. This time pointing to his own head, Zantoro puts his life in jeopardy to teach them the proper way to dispatch a zombie. Toying with the undead as they crowd around him, Zantoro calls the zombies "a bunch of turds," while, at the same time, periodically shooting a few of them in the head to hammer his point home.

Whether or not his comrades were able to comprehend what he was putting out there with his improvised how-to successfully put down a zombie in a jungle setting seminar is still up in the air. However, the fact one of the members of his team does manage to kill a zombie while investigating a suburban home soon afterward was a promising step in the right direction. It's true, the zombie he ended up killing was an old lady who couldn't even walk (she had a cat living inside her thorax), but you know what they say, baby steps. You could tell the pressure that ultimately comes with being the only person on earth who knows how to kill a zombie was starting take its tole on Zantoro's delicate psyche. Turning his hat backward then turning it forward again almost immediately during a rare quiet moment in the back of their sport-utility vehicle was the hat turning turning point for the unhinged commando. Slowly realizing that the last remnants of his sanity are beginning to erode, Zantoro struggles to maintain his grip on reality as the particulars of their mysterious mission start to become more clear.

While the bug-eyed Zantoro represents the pinnacle of zombie-killing efficiency, Lia Rousseau is the master when it comes to screaming while in the presence of zombies. She's also quite proficient when it comes to looking sincere while staring at natives. Removing her standard issue journalist shirt, Lia's nipples are painted and her probably Italian crotch is covered with garlands faster than you can say, where did they find a garland thong on such short notice? Told to look at New Guinea tribesmen while wearing a chocolate vanilla swirl teardrop on her face, Margit Evelyn Newton must have jumped at the chance to go native, because she goes native like no other actress has ever gone native before.

There was a weird, otherworldly quality to way Margit observed the natives in their natural habitat; it almost seemed like she and the natives were from totally different planets. In fact, it felt like Margit wasn't even there at times. But that's not what drew me to Margit as a performer. No, it was her ability to scream on cue. You know how celebrities like, Cary Grant (a.k.a. Archibald Alexander Leach) and Charo (a.k.a. María Rosario Pilar Martínez Molina Gutiérrez de los Perales Santa Ana Romanguera y de la Hinojosa Rasten), have official biographers, men and women whose job it is to chronicle the lives of their chosen subject? Well, I would like to be Margit Evelyn Newton's official Hell of the Living Dead scream biographer. Of course, I realize I'm going to need to do more than just count the number of times she screams in this movie to be considered her official scream biographer (by the end of the film, I had counted eleven unique screams). But I believe, with a little elbow grease and some good old fashion sticktoitiveness, that I can make this woefully misguided dream a reality.

First of all, I know the inside of Margit's mouth like the back of my hand. And secondly, um, you know what? I don't have a "secondly" right at this moment, but I'm sure if I did, it would be pertinent as all get out. Speaking of her mouth, with a hefty eleven screams under her belt, I wonder how many lozenges Margit popped during the making of this film? I'm gonna say, "eleven," as in, one lozenge for each scream. Anyway, my favourite screams were the ones she tried to stifle. The best examples of this particular style of scream were the double-fisted scream stifle that occurs as a result seeing a small child eating his father's intestines (scream #2) and the open-palmed, back-handed number she employs while helplessly watching her male companion ripped apart in an elevator (scream #8).

Creating a world where straightforward lessons pertaining to head ventilation are completely ignored, Bruno Mattei is one of the few filmmakers who fully understands the important role nature plays during the zombie apocalypse. With humans hunting one another for food, nature is free to stretch its wings. This freedom is best signified when we see a herd of African elephants running through the brush. Now, you're probably thinking to yourself, how did a herd of African elephants wind up in New Guinea? Well, that's easy, they swam. But the reason they swam in the first place was because they no longer fear humans.

However, not everything in this film is as easily explained. Take, for example, one of the female lab coat-wearing zombies we spot during the film's action-packed, eye-popping finale. If you look closely, you'll notice she's wearing a pair of white high-heel cowboy-style ankle boots. What kind of person wears high-heel cowboy-style ankle boots to their job at a remote nuclear power plant on New Guinea? While her decision to go with a white pair made perfect to sense me, as they looked amazing paired with a regulation length white lab coat, I couldn't fathom her fashion choice in relation to her line of work. The only logical explanation I could think of was that she was going to a Mötley Crüe concert after work, and didn't feel like going home to change. They say that even the greatest films have flaws, and if the only one I could find in Hell of the Living Dead involved a five second shot of a zombie's inexplicable footwear, someone is doing something right.

uploaded by revokcom

Special thanks to Kev D. over at Zombie Hall for making me acutely aware of this zombie epic.

...

All Ladies Do It (Tinto Brass, 1992)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Urgh! A Music War (Derek Burbidge, 1981)

You would think that a concert film that featured twenty or so hardcore, new wave, post-punk, synth-pop, and reggae bands at the height of their cultural relevancy might make for one tedious night at the movies. Well, that's where you'd be wrong. If this flick had been made, oh, let's say, the mid-1970s, you could make that argument. But the artists who appear in Urgh! A Music War, unlike the bloated stadium rock of the previous decade, know how to convey their message in a highly succinct manner. Moving at a brisk pace, the film wonderfully captures what it must felt like to be a cool person in 1981. Despite the presence of bands like, The Police and UB40, two bands that ooze a sickly form of undiluted squareness. Actually, I'd like to back away from that statement a bit by saying that the sight of The Police's Andy Summers wailing on that weird-looking guitar while standing atop a post-apocalyptic mound of torn fabric in the music video for the title track from their Synchronicity album was one of the defining images of my youth. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, despite the presence of bands who failed to sonically moisturize my scabby flesh, and the fact there's not a single close up of Jane Wiedlin in the entire movie (a special note to any editors out there: if you have footage of Jane Wiedlin playing guitar, whether it be with The Go-Go's or as a solo artist, use as much it as humanly possible), the film, directed by Derek Burbidge with a workmanlike efficiency (there's very little in regard to dilly dallying), managed to rekindle my love-hate relationship with concert going. It's true, the idea of getting dressed up in your fanciest duds (i.e. the black army jacket without the frayed collar), waiting for what seems like an eternity for the band you want to see to hit the stage, only to have some unwashed degenerate constantly stepping on your foot might sound awful, it's actually... Wait a minute, I can't believe there was a time when I used to pay money to have my shoes ruined, and, not to mention, spend an entire evening almost getting kicked in the face (I'm looking in your general direction Spooky-era Lush fans). Yeah, while that's on the cusp of being interesting, even a stick protruding from a puddle of lumpy sick like me has to admit that the synergy between a band, even if they use backing tapes, and an audience, even if they're drunk racists, can be quite the exhilarating spectacle.

The best way the watch Urgh! A Music War is to not know the order in which the artists appear on stage, as I find that it keeps the viewer on his or her toes. What I mean is, part of the fun is trying to figure out what band you're looking at before their credit pops up on the screen. And since the band's name and the location of the venue are all that appear onscreen (sorry, no song titles), the film has a straightforward, no-nonsense feel about it (the thought of some cheesy radio personality introducing the bands makes me cringe for some reason). Culled from concert footage shot in city's such as London, New York City, and Los Angeles, the bands simply show up on stage, and, if they don't suck, blow us away with their prowess when it comes to making new wave and post-punk music.

Straight out of the gate, the biggest surprise has to be the way an obscure band called Invisible Sex (a band so obscure, the internet doesn't even seem to know they exist) managed to out-Devo Devo with their strange stage show (they appear on stage wearing hazmat suits and wield cardboard guitars at one point); my favourite non-crowd surfing audience member was the guy in the white shirt with the mustache–you can spot him in the front row at a couple of the L.A. gigs (there was something about the way he danced without moving that appealed to me); I liked the leopard print blazer this punk chick outside the Lyceum Theatre (it's hands down the best animal print themed garment in the entire movie); and I'd like to give a general shout out to all the bass players in Urgh!

Top Ten Urgh! A Music War Performances: #1 -- The Cramps - "Tear It Up" – I don't know what I enjoyed more, Poison Ivy's sneering contempt or Lux Interior's low-rise leather trousers. Let's just say I enjoyed both equally and leave it at that. Attacking the shady-looking audience with their unique brand of psychobilly punk rock, Lux Interior, who takes microphone consumption while barely clothed to a whole new level of awesomeness, and Poison Ivy, who shreds it while giving everyone the impression she doesn't give a shit (the nonchalant gum chewing was also a nice touch), want you to "tear this damn place up," and judging by the melted faces of the saps in the front row, they succeeded in doing so. Fashion: I've got to give up to Lux Interior and his low-rise leather trousers, as they're the stuff of hip-revealing legend. And sticking with the trouser theme, I would totally wear Poison Ivy's super-tight gold lamé trousers if I was stranded on a desert island and the only way to get the rescue party's attention was to don a pair of super-tight gold lamé trousers.

#2 -- Wall of Voodoo - "Back in Flesh" – While Stan Ridgway was reciting the song's lyrics in his usual Ridgwalian manner (he also plays the organ), I couldn't help but notice how much he looks like Griffin Dunne circa After Hours. Anyway, kudos to Wall of Voodoo for being the only group in the movie to employ a drum machine, and to Bruce Moreland for that slick bass line. Fashion: Lot's of drab t-shirts (a nice mix of sleeveless and sleeved) paired with dark slacks. "Telephone call for Wall of Voodoo."

#3 -- Au Pairs - "Come Again" – On the surface, the luminous Lesley Woods and an antsier-than-usual Paul Foad appear to be taking turns singing on a peppy dance rock number. However, if you delve a little deeper, you'll find is that they're actually having a frank discussion about the quality of the involuntary contractions that occur within the muscles of their genitals during sexual intercourse. Fashion: As this conversation is taking place, bass player Jane Munro is looking fab in a turquoise t-shirt.

Hey, "Welcome to the Ritz" lady. I was wondering if you might wanna go get a slice of pizza after the show? I hear the joint down the street has a Galaga game.

#4 -- Klaus Nomi - "Total Eclipse" – If you have seen the documentary The Nomi Song, then you know this isn't the true "Klaus Nomi Experience" (keen observers will notice that his usual sidekicks, Joey Arias and Janus, have been replaced by leotard-wearing dancers and that his back-up band have been replaced with a bunch of aging hippies). But, as they say, a little Nomi is better than no Nomi, and Klaus Nomi destroys all comers with his kooky mix of opera and new wave. Fashion: The classic Nomi outfit, which includes a futuristic tuxedo jacket, black tights, white gloves, and a pair of black pointy boots. Oh, and make sure to stick around for the film's closing credits to hear Klaus's "Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix."

#5 -- The Alley Cats - "Nothing Means Nothing Anymore" – When this trio, featuring husband-and-wife duo Randy Stodola (guitar and vocals) and Dianne Chai (bass and vocals), and drummer John McCarthy, hit the stage, I was like, "who are these losers?" But they managed to win me over with their straightforward, L.A.-tinged punk rock. No silly string required, these guys simply rock. Fashion: White shirts paired with jeans.

#6 -- Toyah Wilcox - "Danced" – Look at her! Fashion: Toyah's jumping jacks and new wave-friendly poses are complimented by one square-shaped earring that was hung on an angle in her right ear, two giant gold bracelets on each arm, and a black mesh top.

#7 -- The Go-Go's - "We Got the Beat" – It's probably been covered/butchered by Selena Gomez, the cast of Glee, and countless others over the years, but nothing can touch the original by The Go-Go's, especially when it's performed at the Whiskey A G-Go in 1981 (the band arrive at the gig in the back of a pick-up truck). Seriously, the spunk trickling oh-so playfully from Gina Schock and the girls during "We Got the Beat" is downright infectious. Sure, guitarist Jane Wiedlin is out frame for most of the song (to the uninitiated, they might be mistaken for a foursome), but I'm not gonna let a little thing like that ruin what was a rousing performance. Fashion: Belinda Carlisle looked yummy in an orange Chinese-style dress (I also dug the matching headband), drummer Gina Schock wore this cool polka dot top, Jane Wiedlin looked relaxed in a teal t-shirt and a pair of tropical themed trousers (yeah, she was onscreen long enough for me to remember what she was wearing), guitarist Charlotte Caffey rocked a pair of white boots (her black nylons only exacerbated their whiteness), and bass player Kathy Valentine Margot Olaverra blinded all the sexist pigs in the audience with the brightest pair of yellow pants the Sunset Strip has ever seen.

#8 -- Gang of Four - "He'd Send In the Army" – I don't know what Jon King is hitting to make that sound, but I like it. Fashion: Semi-puffy dress shirts in a wide range of colours.

#9 -- Oingo Boingo - "Ain't This the Life" – While not as catchy as "Dead Man's Party," as overplayed as "Weird Science," or even as creepy as "Little Girls," Danny Elfman and his band, which includes a horn section, still manage to get the kids moving (i.e. slam dancing) with this lively number. Fashion: A sleeveless white undershirt. Duh.

#10 -- Gary Numan - "Down in the Park" – Don't get me wrong, I love the futuristic go-cart thingy Gary drives around during his performance of this classic track (the steering device was located near his crotch). It's just that, after the novelty has worn off, it doesn't exactly make for compelling television (I didn't expect him to remain seated the entire song). That being said, I will always, no matter what the circumstances, choose Gary Numan over Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark. He is, to quote Frank Booth from Blue Velvet, "so fucking suave." Fashion: Underneath all that smoke, it looked like Gary was wearing some kind of red leather getup.

Since I've already mentioned my favourite non-crowd surfing audience member, I guess now is a good time as any to revel who was the absolute bee's knees when it came to crowd surfing. It was no contest: the woman in the Selecter t-shirt at The Go-Go's show was definitely my fave crowd surfing audience member. Not only was she thrown around like an overly molested rag doll, she also managed to briefly reestablish my love for ska band t-shirts ("briefly" because Sting insists on wearing a Beat t-shirt during The Police numbers; way to go, grandpa).

uploaded by mutantwarfare1
...

Bare Behind Bars (Oswaldo de Oliveira, 1980)

Underwear. What purpose does it serve, and why do we wear it? These questions, and a whole lot more will no doubt be scurrying through your polluted little brains while you watch Bare Behind Bars, a nasty, filthy, totally abhorrent piece of anti-lesbian, anti-underwear propaganda from República Federativa do Brasil. What can I say? They scurried through mine, and my brain is not even close to being polluted. In fact, it's as clean as Rupaul's justifiably revered taint on laundry day. I'm intrigued. How underwear averse was this film? I mean, it couldn't have been more scant in the pantie department than any of the other films that populate this specific genre, or could it? (Don't worry, I'll get to the film's stance on lesbianism in a minute.) Taking underwear aversion to the far reaches of ungovernable insanity, writer-director Oswaldo de Oliveira (Amazon Jail), a man who should be ashamed of himself, has created a world where everything from a stiff breeze to a roving hand has been given free reign to caress your hardworking genitals. Anyone who desires to grope the crumpled patch of paradise languishing between the legs of, oh, let's say, prisoner #371, need not worry about the prospect of there being any material impasses standing in their way. The lack of a substantial fabric barrier in the vicinity of my crotch does not necessarily give you carte blanche to feel up my junk. After all, we live in a society that has laws, and one of those laws clearly states: No matter what the level of coverage, whether it be a thick swath of Bangladeshi cotton, a thin stripe of nylon, or nothing at all, a person has the right not to have his or her privates subjected to unsolicited touching or groping. It's true, unrestricted fondling is not allowed in so-called "normal society." But since when has a dingy women's prison, one with an overcrowded clandestine cemetery located somewhere out back and an insatiable lesbian/slave trader/sadist as its warden, ever been considered "normal society"? Let me jump in and tell you when it has: Never.

I'll admit, lumping lesbianism alongside something as heinous and morally repugnant as the slave trade makes my heart hurt; if anything, lesbianism is the epitome of normal. This film, however, does not view things this way. They see lesbianism as the leading cause of violence and degradation within the society I just got finished deeming normal. Nevertheless, just because I found their take on lesbianism to be totally offensive, doesn't mean I'm going to hold it against them. You have to admire the ill-conceived gusto in which it tries to besmirch lesbianism, as it is so misguided, it comes off as desperate and sad. It's almost like watching an after school special at times. Except this particular "special" has pineapple dildos and dogs eating penises at its core.

If they [society] would just treat lesbianism as just another facet of human sexuality, people like, Sylvia (Maria Stella Splendore), wouldn't have to get jobs as cruel prison wardens in order to get dates. Unfortunately, that's exactly what happens in Bare Behind Bars (a.k.a. A Prisão), a no holds barred women in prison flick that will surely satisfy even the most jaded proponents of the genre. Sitting in her office that overlooks the exercise yard, the sound of the women playing outside is causing Sylvia to feel a dull pain in her loins. Longing to rub her face against anything with a pulse (just as long as they have succulent breasts and a mossy beaver), Sylvia sits and stares at the i.d. card of an inmate named Cynthia (Danielle Ferrite), prisoner #341, and thinks to herself: I wonder what her pussy tastes like?

As they're playing handball in the yard, which was like watching five year old's play soccer (i.e. disorganized chaos), one of the girls is stabbed with a shank. In an effort to calm the situation, the guards move in with the hose. Spraying them with gallons of water (kudos to the butch guard with red hair for her top-notch nozzle work), the girls are reduced to a flailing mound of wet noodles. Determined to find out who the culprit was, Sylvia employs various means of torture to get the girls to talk. When that doesn't work, she invites #341 to her office, so that may chat in private. Who is she trying to kid? She's not interested in having a frank discussion about who killed #170, or whatever her number was, she wants to feel #341's soft, immature flesh pressed firmly against the weatherbeaten fullness of what's left of her no-nonsense femininity. It's true, she does make a somewhat feeble attempt to offer #341 a kind of package deal for her cooperation (a nicer cell, better meals), but it's rather obvious that her mind is mainly focused on attaining sexual satisfaction.

Still ticked off about the stabbing incident, Sylvia decides to punish the inmates by taking away some of their privileges. All meals from now on will be served in the prisoner's cells and exercise in the yard has been suspended. Oh, and the reason #341 is washing her coño with the water dripping from the leaky faucet in her cell is because bathing has been curtailed as well. The biggest shake up, however, occurs when she launches a prison wide inspection. Uncovering a plethora of illegal weapons, the exhaustive search for contraband, while managing to unnerve Sylvia's delicate psyche, does introduce us to the film's greatest asset, and that is, of course, Nurse Barbara (Marta Anderson), the Mamie Van Doren-esque ether-sniffer who loves, no, wait, scratch that, who adores raspberry pudding. While inspecting a prisoner's many crevices, Nurse Barbara declares that she that is in love with #241 (Marliane Gomes), and will do anything to make her happy. Okay, maybe she doesn't exactly declare that. But you could totally tell that the on the cusp of being buxom healthcare provider liked the structurally sound brunette that lay before her in the prison's infirmary. Promising to give her a massage and a bath, Nurse Barbara treats #241 like a brand new puppy.

If you're like me, you're probably also wondering how Sylvia manages keep her hair looking so silky smooth on a prison warden's salary. Well, it turns out that Sylvia has quite the money-making venture on the side. On top of being a sadist and a lonely lesbian, Sylvia sells prisoners to her fellow lonely lesbians for a hefty price. And today is the day when a lonely lesbian dressed head-to-toe in yellow has arrived to pick up #514, a.k.a. Betty (Nadia Destro), a prisoner Sylvia has been "grooming" for the past several weeks. Happy with what she sees through the peephole (Sylvia keeps all potential lesbian life partners in a private room), the lonely lesbian pays Sylvia a large amount of money for the right to take Betty home with her.

While the majority of the action transpires within the walls of the prison itself, we're periodically given updates regarding the status of the lonely lesbian and Betty's relationship throughout the film. In addition to keeping us filled in as to the development of their imposed courtship (Betty is essentially a sex slave), this subplot, which usually takes place on a yacht or at the beach, gives the audience a much needed break from the drudgery of prison life. However, I wouldn't call what #241 endures "drudgery." Sure, she's picked on from time to time by the other inmates, but the pampering she receives at the hands of Nurse Barbara was overindulgence run amok. Lying naked on her examination table, her hair adorned with daisies, Nurse Barbara has a present for #241: a strap-on ready dildo. I know what you're thinking. A dildo? Big Deal. It's true, a single dildo might not seem like much in today's booming dildo economy. But back then, the dildo was a symbol of power and strength. There's a reason, "She who controls the dildo, controls the universe," was West Germany's on and off motto for most of 1974.

Accepting her gift, #241 shares the dildo with the rest of the prison population. If you look closely, you'll occasionally catch a glimpse of the dildo being transported from one cell to another via a crude clothesline-based dildo delivery system. The women have obviously devised a schedule that determines when a certain cellblock can use the much sought after sex toy, or else it would been anarchy. My favourite instance of this glorified dildo outreach program comes during the scene where a guard and a prisoner in solitary confinement give one another handjobs through a small hole in the cell door. The way the dildo cable car sneaks into frame as the guard and the isolated prisoner are vigorously rubbing the consecrated viscosity out of their swollen pussies was strangely beautiful.

Since the lonely lesbian in yellow is off cavorting with Betty, that means there's a vacancy in Sylvia's private lesbian life partner grooming room. Who's gonna be a next lucky girl to be the indentured girlfriend of a rich lesbian? A new prisoner named Annette (Sonia Regina) might just be what Sylvia's been looking for. While things get off to a rocky start (Sylvia slaps Annette when she refuses to be called #578), they gradually improve once Nurse Barbara examines her. With her muscular calves rest in her trusty stirrups, Barbara, after testing the dampness of her sex, declares #578's box to be so clean, that you could literally eat off it.

As Nurse Barbara is sitting on the corner of her desk extolling the virtues of raspberry pudding, Sylvia is getting ready to implement her plan to transform #578 into the ultimate lesbian sex slave. Meanwhile, out in the yard (exercise and bathing privileges have been reinstated), #578 is way ahead of Sylvia, and has started do calisthenics, along with #241, #341, and #218, in the nude. The idea is get Sylvia's attention, and you know what? The plan works like a charm, as #578 is quickly summoned to Sylvia office. Staring at her with a fiery intensity, Sylvia tells #578 to take off her gown. The "gown" is basically a sea green coat with the prisoner's number written on the front and back in black. Anyway, Sylvia's stare grows even more intense after #578 does a little spin for her (making sure the warden gets a look at every nook and cranny her exciting body has to offer).

Even though she doesn't communicate it with words, the expression on Sylvia's face as #578 spun for her sums up how she felt at that particular moment. Screw those the other lonely lesbians, she probably thought to herself, this lonely lesbian has found a slice of womanly perfection, and has no intention of sharing her with anyone else. Yeah, that's right. Her name is #578, and her ass belongs to me. After she's finished inspecting "the goods," Sylvia takes #578 for a test drive by grinding her body against hers in a highly erotic manner. And judging from the cunnilingual bruises that dot her inner thighs the following day, there's no way Sylvia's letting some dried up hosebeat intertwine her scabby legs with the robust stems that jut from #578's taut torso.

Are you a middle-aged lesbian who likes to fornicate with girls who are more than half your age? Of course you are. Don't you just hate it when their enthusiasm for eating out your expensive pussy causes your crotch to become parched, sluggish and barely recognizable to the microscopic lickspittles that live on the outskirts your infrequently manicured bush? Well, the next time your fanny region is itching like an underpaid motherfucker, just fill your bathtub with lukewarm water, add a tablespoon of radioactive oregano, keep the affected area submerged for at least five to six hours, and voilà, watch those pesky blemishes go the way of the daguerreotype.

As the bubbles and the radioactive oregano are soothing Sylvia's aching minge, a vision of loveliness sporting a volumizing scrunchie is busy laying the groundwork for her inevitable downfall. Wait. Did you just say, "volumizing scrunchie"? You bet I did. Okay, just checking. The prison's assistant warden, Sandra (Neide Ribeiro), disapproves of Sylvia's methods (she thinks she's a sadist who's letting her thirst for underage cooter cloud her correctional conviction), and wants to put an end to her reign of sapphic terror.

If it seems like #241 and #578 are enjoying their time as lesbian playthings, think again. Tired of playing horsy (Nurse Barbara likes it when #241 rides her bareback while eating watermelon) and performing all-night oral stimulation, #241 and #578 decide it's time start planning their escape from this hellhole. Along with prisoners #341 and #218, the girls hope to use their connections with Sylvia and Nurse Barbara to help speed up the process. Of course, while Sylvia is completely in the dark as to what #578 is up to, Nurse Barbara has no qualms about aiding the unruly foursome.

In terms of exposing skin, all the principal players do their part to titillate the unwashed rabble sitting in the audience. Even the gorgeous Neide Ribeiro gets with the program near the end of the film, as she appears naked while getting dressed in her bedroom. Despite the shortage of fastened buttons on her prison issue blouse, Sandra has been a model of modesty for most the film. All that changes on the day mass is scheduled to be performed in the prison's chapel, when we see her brushing her hair sans clothing in front of a mirror. Numbed by the sheer amount of bare bums, butts, and asses that are barefacedly exposed to throughout this talking picture, I thought to myself: Yawn. Not another unclothed behind. However, I was pleasantly surprised by the oomph of Neide's well-oiled backside when it finally decides to badonk its way onscreen. It not only boasted a pleasing shape, but it also had a certain twinkle about it.

Flashing the contents of your bodacious Brazilian booty is nothing compared to what #241 and #341 get up during the film's final third. Just a second, I'm trying to figure who made the bigger sacrifice. Okay, I'm gonna say #241 took the greater risk. You see, while #341 performs authentic sexual intercourse (squalid slum sex), shot a couple of people, and participates in the gang rape of a minor, #341 cuts off two penises (the first was a flaccid penis that she fed to a noisy dog, while the second was a fully erect penis that she fed to the man who used to be attached to the fully erect penis), participates in the gang rape of a minor, walks around with a razor in her vagina, and is forced to lick a pineapple dildo. So, it's rather obvious who the "winner" is when it comes to championing debasement.

My biggest complaint in relation to watching films like Bare Behind Bars has nothing to do with the torture or the degradation, it's the implausible tan lines. This particular film, like others in the genre, seem to make a concerted effort to point out that the prisoners are wearing no undergarments whatsoever. Yet when it comes time to film the obligatory shower scene, all I see are tan lines in the shape of bikini bottoms and tops These women are supposedly living in an underwear scarce universe, and have been for years, but you wouldn't know it judging by lines of pale skin that cover the bodies of some of the inmates. I know, it's difficult to find women who hate going to the beach, especially in a country as beach-friendly as Brazil, to appear in borderline pornographic women in prison flicks on such short notice. But can't we find away to persuade the actresses not to go to the beach before principal photography begins? I don't ask for much.

...