The Other Hell (Bruno Mattei, 1981)

I'm not a big fan of nuns. And I'm certainly not a fan of nunsploitation movies. This dislike, by the way, has nothing to do with some sort of traumatic experience I had as a child/sticky-fingered miscreant. Beyond the fact that nuns were used in the ads for a chain of dry cleaning joints, Sketchley Cleaners, I haven't had much experience with nuns. Wait, I think Sketchley Cleaners used penguins in their ads. What I think I meant to say was Cadet Cleaners. Great, now I'm confused. At any rate, I just don't like their  whole holier-than-thou attitude. Just kidding, I could careless about that. No, what I'm not a fan of is their outfits; they're not sexy. Aren't you a little bit curious about what's going on underneath all those thick layers of pious fabric? Hell no. However, if you were to put say, the luminous Franca Stoppi (Beyond the Darkness) in a nun's habit, and have her appear in a convent-set film written by Claudio Fragasso and directed by Bruno Mattei (Hell of the Living Dead), then I might have a change of heart. Don't tell me, there's a film floating around out there that just happens to adhere to the frightfully specific standards I just finished laying out? Hot dog! And what's this? I'm being told that I just watched it. Woo-hoo! It's called The Other Hell (L'altro Inferno), and, of course, it sort of sucks ass, but it's also kind of great, too. And that, in one of them nutshell thingies, is the main reason I will continue to beat myself over the head with Bruno Mattei cinema. You could say I enjoy the mind-altering headache that inevitably comes after I have inflicted a Bruno Mattei movie on myself. At first, you'll notice that it stings a little bit. But after a while, you get used it. So much so, you'll be wishing that every movie was directed by Bruno Mattei, a.k.a. Stefan Oblowsky. Oh, and don't forget Claudio Fragasso; yeah, he should definitely write every movie.
 

 

A cautionary tale about what might happen if you inexplicably decided to put Franca Stoppi's demon baby in a pot of scalding hot water, The Other Hell is possession, murder and forbidden lust wrapped in an exhaustively precise package. It is? Oh, it totally is. And get this, Franca Stoppi's face is always framed by her black and white nun head covering. Hold on, head covering? There must be a better name for it than that. How about headpiece? Headpiece. Headpiece. It's better than head covering, I'll give you that. But I need something with a little more pizazz. I think I got it. Are you sitting down? Yeah, yeah, what is it already? Wimple. Let it sink in. Wimple. You know what? I like it.
 

 

I'm gonna give the whole face framing thing another go, as I would like to use the word "wimple" in a more organic-sounding fashion. Shot from every angle possible, Franca Stoppi's beguiling mug is always framed by her wimple, a medieval piece of clothing that covers the head, as well as the neck.

 

I can't stress this enough: The wimple is the perfect garment for an actress like Franca Stoppi, as it accentuates her strongest feature. And that is, of course, her gorgeous face.
 

 

Don't get too excited my fellow Franca Stoppi fans. In order to see our beloved Franca Stoppi glower from the inside of a nun's habit, you're going to have to watch The Other Hell. Well, duh, we kind of figured that out already. No, I don't think you understand. You're going to have to watch this movie. Hmm, when you put it that way, it doesn't sound so easy.
 

 

Never fear, Goblin is here. It's true, the Goblin music heard throughout The Other Hell is simply the score from Beyond the Darkness. Nonetheless, it was comforting to hear their unique brand of synth-rock every now and then, as it perked up the film's many dull patches.
 

 

"The genitals are the door to evil!" You can say that again, sister. Notice how she said they were "the" door and not "a" door. Mildly fascinating. Down below in the convent's basement laboratory/crypt, one nun, let's call her Sister Assunta (Paola Montenero), is telling another nun about the wickedness that lies beyond the labia. And just as she's wrapping up her anti-pussy diatribe, a set of glowing red eyes appear from out of the darkness. These eyes, of course, cause Sister Assunta to stab the other nun to death.
 

 

If what I just described sounds out of the ordinary for a nunnery, I have to say, it's pretty standard stuff for the convent that's run by Mother Vincenza (Franca Stoppi), as acts of nun-on-nun violence are par for the course at this place.
 

 

Don't believe me? Just ask Boris (Franco Garofalo), the convent's resident creepy gardener. If he sees a nun ranting and raving about the devil while bleeding from the mouth, he will simply shrug his shoulders and continue trimming the bushes.
 

 

While Mother Vincenza and Boris the gardener (he also runs the dog pound/chicken farm next-door) seem indifferent to the convent chaos, the members of the clergy seem to think otherwise. When the doltish Father Inardo (Andrea Aureli) is unable to get to bottom of things (his attempt to pray the evil away is met with mixed results, and by "mixed results," I mean it was met with complete and utter failure), the church sends in Father Valerio (Carlo De Mejo), a sort of  ecclesiastical detective who solves problems by using reason and logic.
 

 

As he arrives, Mother Vincenza is forcing the other nuns to burn all of Sister Assunta's things; he's also nearly mauled by one of Boris' dogs. So, right from the get-go, it's clear that they have something to hide. But what could it be? Frankly, I don't really care what they're hiding, as the film is not providing me with anything I can use from a perversion perspective. Oh, you poor thing. Is this nun-based supernatural thriller lacking in the titillation department? Yes. Yes it is. Well, suck it up, and stop being such a baby. Not every film is going to cater to your debased needs. Why not? The world doesn't work that way. What you should have done was not watch the film. Now you tell me.  
 

 

That being said, I did like the hanging dolls. Hanging dolls? Yeah, the attic was filled with naked dolls hanging from the rafters. If you add the music of Goblin to the sight of the dolls dangling, it creates a pretty effective sense of dread. You know what? You're right. The sight of the dolls dangling to the music of Goblin is pretty dread-inducing.
 

 

And as far as perversion goes, check out the scene where a prematurely grey nun (Susan Forget) chokes Father Valerio in her room. No offense, but I'm not really into strangulation. No, pay attention to the part where she collapses on top of him mid-choke. What am I looking for? Look at her legs. Oh, they're sheathed in black nylons. Nice. I'm glad you pointed them out, because I was just about to declare The Other Hell a nylon-free zone.
 

 

You know what else needs pointing out? What? The fact that the guy dubbing Carlo De Mejo's voice sounded exactly like Dean Learner from Garth Marenghi's Darkplace. Are you serious? I'm deadly serious. Wow, this little nugget of information just upgraded The Other Hell from lame to not-so lame.
 

 

What about Franca Stoppi? What about her? She must do something besides look delightfully sinister in her habit? Let me see. Oh, yeah. There's this flashback sequence that has Franca Stoppi employ one of the most trouser-moistening head turns while holding a recently scalded baby in recent memory. Imagine being on the receiving end of one of Franca Stoppi's trademark head turns, I would do more than just pee my pants (too much information?). It should go without saying, but the synth flourish that accompanies Franca Stoppi's head turn was awesome. As was the part where Franca Stoppi tells Father Valerio that men only emit empty screams when they're stabbed, yet when women are stabbed, they produce children. I couldn't have said it better myself; pure poetry.
 

 

Ending like you would expect (with lot's of nuns screaming), The Other Hell will probably be my last nunsploitation film for quite some time (what can I say? the genre is not habit forming). I'm not giving up on the genre entirely, but I am going to be a lot more careful when it comes time to choose my next foray.

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Hanna D. - The Girl from Vondel Park (Rino Di Silvestro, 1984)

I'm no junkie, but I don't think it's safe to inject heroin directly into your eye. Hell, I don't think it's safe to inject heroin into half the places it's shot into in Hanna D. - The Girl from Vondel Park (Hanna D. - La Ragazza del Vondel Park), the grittiest film about drug-addled teen prostitutes to ever find its way onto the polluted, dingy as fuck shoreline that is my perverted mind. Even though needles filled with heroin are inexplicably crammed into every orifice imaginable, I'm not going to be one of those non-Italians assholes who sits on their throne of smugness picking apart Italian cinema like it were some sort of ill-conceived game. My aura, much like this film's protagonist, needs sleaze to survive. And, I must say, the film, written and directed by Rino Di Silvestro (Werewolf Woman) and edited by none other than Bruno Mattei (Hell of the Living Dead), delivers so much sleaze, that needed to stop the film every so often to catch my breath. Based the novel...um, I don't think this movie is based on a novel. All right, how 'bout this: A loose collection of thoughts and ideas that were floating around inside the heads of Rino Di Silvestro and Hervé Piccini, the downward spiral the titular character takes will shake you to your very core. Yet, at the same time, it will also cause your genitals to become engorged with blood. And depending on the genital model you received when you were born, you might feel as if someone has shoved a small stick, or a large branch (I don't want to discriminate), down your pants. What you do with the frightfully hard appendage languishing in your trousers as a direct result of watching this awe-inspiring slab of cinema is completely up to you (it's one of the few freedoms we have left in this increasingly fascist society). But the fact that you're able to contemplate such a decision with any semblance of poise or dignity is the biggest complement you can give an Italian made, Amsterdam set exploitation film.
 

 

Most films, depending on their fetishistic girth, will induce you to plunge one, or both (I don't want to discriminate), of your hands down your pants almost immediately (no plunging necessary for all you sweatpants enthusiasts out there out in Slackistan - that's funny. no, not the "Slackistan" bit -- that was stupid -- you rarely ever see the words "sweatpants" and "enthusiast" used in the same sentence). In fact, most, films, that is, are designed to promote hand plunging during the actual film (no waiting required, plunge at will). But not this film, it drags you through so much muck, that you'll want to take a shower (a sort of upright bath) before you think about plunging your hand(s) down anything.  
 

 

Quick question: Shouldn't it be "Sweatpantsistan"? Sweat what? I don't think so. But they're not wearing slacks, they're wearing sweatpants. Hence, Sweatpantsistan. Oh, I see. No, it's called "Slackistan" because they're slackers. I don't get it. You see, people who wear sweatpants in a non-athletic environment are often seen as lazy. And slacker is just another word for lazy.  And "Slackistan" sort of sounds like Pakistan, and therein lies the humour. Whatever. It's still stupid. 
 

 

You would think, from the way I'm describing it, that there wouldn't be much leeway in this film when it comes to plunging hands into arenas that once boasted slumbering genitals. Oh, really, I say sheepishly to myself, knowing full well that my memory bank contains many images that contradict the crux of the writer's opening salvo. Wait a second, I need a hit of oxygen.
 

 

I have fifteen words for you: Prostitutes fighting one another in naturally inclement weather while wearing heels, stockings and fur coats. Are you sure that's fifteen words? Who gives a flying fuck? Did you see the words I just typed?
 

 

Look them over carefully. Study them. Read them aloud if you have to. It's what awesome looks it.
 

 

Just the mere fact that the weather was naturally inclement was enough to make me employ three celebratory fist pumps in quick succession. Really? The weather made you do that? It's not just weather, it's naturally inclement weather. Oh, yes, there's a difference. One of my biggest pet peeves about movies is how phony the weather is. Nothing annoys me more than the over the top rainfall used in most movies. And, believe me, I've seen a lot of fake rain over the years. However, on that rare occasion when I do spot inclement weather that seems to be occurring naturally the way nature intended, I get excited. And in Hanna D - The Girl from Vondel Park, the weather is naturally inclement as all get out. 
 

 

In order to make Hanna D. - The Girl from Vondel Park seem more like Christiane F. - We Children from Bahnhoff Zoo, the film starts off in a train station. But that's where the similarities end. Wearing a saucy beret, a grey skirt, and white knee socks, Hanna Daniels (Ann-Gisel Glass), or "Hanna D.," is innocence personified. Or is she? Aboard a train docked, or are they parked? Whatever. Aboard a train in Amsterdam, it would seem that Hanna D. is a prostitute and the train she's on is a kind of makeshift brothel.
 

 

Ushering tricks into her rail car by her kindly pimp (he winks at her to reassure her every so often), Hanna D. does the naive schoolgirl routine for a wide array of perverts and lowlifes. Entering her rail car on this occasion is Nikolai (who is not played by James Garner), a man who wants to explore the subtle peaks and valleys of Hanna D.'s undercarriage, which are currently being suffocated by a wispy pair of white panties.
 

 

Sitting with her legs crossed while reading a comic book, Hanna D. teases Nikolai by slowly uncrossing them. In doing so, she reveals a hint of her panties. Unbuttoning her shirt while Nikolai's focus is primarily on her crotch, Hanna D. gently caresses her boyish nipples with her fingers. After all he's been put through, you'll be surprised to learn that Nikolai doesn't want to have sex with Hanna D. Actually, he probably wants to, it's just that he doesn't...have sex with her. Anyway, as her next client is being brought into her rail car, Hanna D. grabs a doll from her bag and starts to play with it. Like I said, the naive schoolgirl routine is her stock and trade.
 

 

Why does Hanna D. have to work as a prostitute, you ask? Well, don't look now, but we're soon going to find out. She's blonde, she's shapely, and she's an alcoholic. Meet Hanna D.'s mother, Pearl (Karin Schubert), the most erratic parent or guardian this side of Utrecht. Drinking alone in her white fur robe after being ditched by her in-house boy-toy Hans (Hanna D. gives Hans - who Pearl calls a "clap-giver" - an upskirt peepshow on the stairs as he's on his way out), Pearl welcomes Hanna D. home with a nonsensical helping of verbal diarrhea and milfy staggering.
 

 

Since Hanna D. can't eat milfy staggering for dinner, she takes a shower while Pearl complains to herself in the mirror. Admiring the exquisite lumpiness of her robust body, yet bemoaning its very lumpiness simultaneously, Pearl is, to put it mildly, a mess.  
 

 

With so much domestic distress, it's no wonder Hanna D. turns to the dark side. And where is this dark side, exactly? Just follow the trail of used syringes and broken dreams. In a dilapidated building on the outskirts of town, we meet, oh, let's call him, Peter (Fausto Lombardi), because he reminded me of Peter Weller, a drug dealer, as he's giving a customer a free sample of his latest product. As he sends the junkie packing, he says to her, "Have a good trip..." but mumbles to himself "to Hell." I thought this scene was quite telling, as it implies that the drug dealers are fully aware that the drugs they sell are bad. You thought that was telling, eh? Well, aren't you special.
 

 

It's funny that you should mock my specialness, as am I about to be rewarded with one of the most lopsided hooker brawls in film history. On top of being lopsided, the sequence where a tarted up Hanna D. takes on four of her fellow streetwalkers (one of them played the bellissimo Donatella Damiani) is a lingerie bonanza. Boasting stockings, animal print dresses, leather, garter belts, and furs (all supplied, according to the credits, by Francesco Casini), everything about this scene is sexy. And get this, the scene even makes an allusion to spaghetti westerns at one point (the camera shoots between Donatella's legs as if it a wild west showdown). Except instead of cowboys, we get to see a bunch of fur-draped floozies square off against one another. 
 

 

Four leggy whores vs. Hanna D. (whose legginess has increased tenfold since ditching the schoolgirl look). Yikes. I don't like her chances. Luckily, a guy named Miguel (Tony Serrano) shows up on his Honda motorcycle just in time and drives her to safety. Oh, and the reason the four hookers had a beef with Hanna D. was because they didn't like the fact that she was honing in on their territory.
 

 

You have to ask yourself, what did Miguel rescue Hanna D. from exactly? I mean, she still has to deal with her insane mother. Upset that she rejected Hans' late night advances, which caused him to eventually leave, Pearl and Hanna D. get in an argument. One that leads to my favourite line, "I'm nobody's pussycat!" Which Hanna D. utters before a slap hug. "Pussycat" is what her mother calls her and a "slap hug" is when you slap someone in the face and then immediately hug them after you have slapped them.
 

 

Either way, being called "pussycat" every now and then and getting slap hugged sounds like a picnic compared to what Miguel is about to put her through. Convincing her to let him be her "manager," Miguel has big plans for Hanna D., and I don't think he only wants what's best for her.
 

 

Oatmeal-quality vomit, inhalant abuse (huff that tool shed gas, you underage whore), syringes jabbed into her head, mouth and eyes, jail time, rectal heroin smuggling (I want to lick that hairy...shut your mouth...I'm just talking about placing my tongue on the unkempt asshole attached to a curly-haired Italian women), faucet fellatio, more slap hugs than Mommie Dearest, ferry rides with authentic-looking punks, red stockings seen both at night and during the day, and a romantic montage that will no doubt cause your spirit to soar, the amount of crap Hanna D. puts up with in this movie will make your stomach feel queasy by the time it's over. That is, if you have an aversion to things that are inherently super-terrific. And the last I checked, I don't...have an aversion to things that are...well, you get the idea.
 

 

Featuring two of the stars of Rats: Night of Terror (Ann-Gisel Glass - who played the hysteria prone "Myrna" - and Fausto Lombardi), the composer of Rats (Luigi Ceccarelli), the cinematographer of  Rats (Franco Delli Colli), and the director of Rats (Bruno Mattei, like I said before, is the film's editor), Rino de Silvestro's version of Christiane F. is the sleaziest slice of  garter belt adjacent gimcrackery to hit me in the face in donkey's years. In other words, it has restored my faith in cinema. If only every film I watched had a similar, more single-minded approach to delivering "the sexy," life would be so much easier.
 

 

Oh, and the reason Karin Schubert's performance was so intense in terms of uncut meshugganah was because her voice was dubbed by none other than the late great Carolyn De Fonseca. Whenever I'm watching an Italian exploitation film that's been dubbed into English and I hear Carolyn's distinctive voice coming from one of the characters, I know I'm in goods hands.

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Happy third anniversary to Cinema Gonzo, the premiere movie blog for reviews of films such as: Tainted Image, Out of Bounds, and Satan's Blade.

Cruel Jaws (Bruno Mattei, 1995)

The debate going on inside my head whether or not I should admit that I just watched Cruel Jaws utilizing my own free will was a raucous one. On the one hand, I want everyone to know that I braved yet another Bruno Mattei film and lived to tell the tale. Yet, at the same time, I don't want people to think that I wasted any brain cells watching this drivel. I mean, even I have standards. You'll notice I didn't say, "wasting my time," when referring to the negative, brain cell destroying side effects that can accompany the viewing of a Bruno Mattei film. You wanna know why? No? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. It's because I don't believe time can be wasted. Interesting, do go on. You see, everything is a waste of time. In other words, to me, watching a Bruno Mattei film is on the same level as a attending your daughter's piano recital or catching the game winning touchdown in the Grey Cup. At least that's what I kept telling myself as I struggled to wade through this excruciatingly awful enterprise unscathed. In fact, I'm still trying to figure out how this shark hit piece managed to slither its way in front of my cerebral cortex in the first place. Am I this desperate for entertainment? The only explanation I can think of involves mounds of cocaine, but I don't do cocaine. You could say, I do Bruno Mattei (a.k.a. Vincent Dawn). In this particular film, which, get this, was made in 1995; Whoa! 1995?!? Have you lost your mind? You of all people should know that nothing of value was made in 1995. Anyway, the Bruno Mattei being employed in this flick goes by the name of William Snyder, a potent strain of the drug. Yeah, that's right. It's potent. Don't be fooled by the blandness of its name, this film is pure Bruno Mattei from start to finish.
 

 

If you like watching mediocre actors interact with grainy stock footage stolen from other films, what the fuck is wrong with you? It's obvious that you need to get professional help. Which reminds me, someone, not me, of course, as I'm a habitual user with low self-esteem, should set up a Bruno Mattei support group to help those who endured his films. Actually, that's not fair, as Women's Prison Massacre, Private House of the SS, and Hell of the Living Dead are excellent films. Okay, maybe that's a bit of a stretch. But I think most folks will agree that all three are entertaining in their own unique way. No, what I think someone should set up is a Cruel Jaws support group.
 

 

Enough stalling, tell us all about this wonderful film. Do I have to? I would much rather talk about Bruno Mattei as if he were a drug and I was the user. While I dig the hypothesis you're putting out there, I think you should focus some attention on the actual film. Again, do I have to? Yes. Okay, let me try to gather some thoughts together. Ahh, it's coming back to me. Oh my god! I'm starting to remember Cruel Jaws. Quick, somebody kill me. Too late, it's in my brain now.
 

 

The film opens with a camper heading toward the quiet coastal town of Hampton Bay. ("Armageddon - come Armageddon! Come, Armageddon! Come!") Actually, the film opens with divers being attacked by a shark while snooping around the wreck of the U.S.S. Cleveland. But really, who gives a shit? Try not giving one, it feels great. Inside the camper, Billy (Gregg Hood), a marine biologist, and his girlfriend Vanessa (Norma J. Nesheim), a marine biologist she is not, are discussing all the fun they plan on having while in town.
 

 

The reason Vanessa says, "Something smells fishy" could be seen either two ways. The obvious reason is because Billy is pulling into the parking lot of an aquarium (they have fish there, and fish some times smell fishy). But she's also saying it because she thinks Billy is up to something. You see, Vanessa wants Billy to periodically poke her vagina with his hopefully erect penis, but she worries that his cunt concern will drift back to fish and junk. 
 

 

Sauntering over to where a couple of dolphins are swimming with a little girl named Susy (Kristen Urso), Billy embraces her dad, Dag (Richard Dew), the owner of the aquarium, and his teenage son, Bobby (Scott Silveria); and judging by the chummy nature of their embrace, it would seem that Billy used to live Hampton Bay. When Susy eventually gets out of the water, Cruel Jaws has its first dramatic moment. As she's being helped out of the water, we learn that she has the lost use of her legs. I think I might have heard something about her getting attacked by a shark, but the annoying carnival music drowns out their conversation (it's too bad I can't read Japanese - the version of the film I watched has Japanese subtitles). Either way, the look of sadness on Billy and Vanessa's faces as Susy is plopped into her wheelchair was like being on emotional roller coaster.
 

 

Strange, from what I've read so far, Cruel Jaws sounds like a pretty good movie. It's got dolphins, little girls confined to wheelchairs, that Dag fella looks like Brooke Hogan's dad circa 1987 (I want Brooke Hogan to suffocate me with her thighs - just putting that out there), and, oh, look, the local sheriff, Francis (David Luther), is handing Dag an eviction notice. Yeah, maybe you're right. Let's see if my recollection of this film continues on this positive-sounding course.
 

 

It appears that Sam (George Barnes, Jr.), a local businessman, has bought the property and plans to build a condo/resort on the land the aquarium sits. Meaning, Susy won't be able to swim with Kooky and Daisy (the actual names of the aquarium's dolphins) anymore. I know, what a jerk. To make matters worse, there's a killer shark on the loose.
 

 

Oooh, quiet. My favourite Cruel Jaws character is about to show up. You mean that asshole with the dimpled chin? No, not Ronnie (Carter Collins), the son of the aforementioned jerk/businessman. Check out the woman he's running along the beach with. Wow, she's amazing. Who is she? Why, that is Glenda, Hampton Bay's resident short-haired, leggy troublemaker. Played by model Sky Palma, Glenda is one the few people in town whose facial expressions properly match the mood of their surroundings. In other words, if Glenda sees something horrible, like a badly decomposed body washed on the beach, she'll scream. If those "other words" aren't clear enough. What I think I'm trying to say is that Sky Palma is the only one doing any actual acting.
 

 

The badly decomposed body Ronnie and Glenda stumble upon is taken to the morgue, where Billy tells Francis that the diver was killed by a shark. When this nugget of information hits the ears of Sam and the mayor, they freak out. But not because they're concerned about the well-being of the townspeople, they stand to lose lot's of money if no one comes to the regatta they have planned. Determined to do everything in their power to make sure the windsurfing race goes off without a hitch, Sam tries to placate the fears of Billy and Francis (who want him to call off the regatta) by installing a shark-proof fence around the beach and hiring helicopters to patrol the harbour.
 

 

If he thinks the shark is causing him grief, wait until he finds out that his daughter Gloria (Natasha Etzer) has a crush on Bobby. Yeah, that's right. His daughter is canoodling with the enemy. When his dimple-chinned asshole of a son finds out about Gloria and Bobby, Ronnie threatens to tear his balls off. Quirky fun-fact: Barehanded castration is threatened a total of three times during Cruel Jaws. And in every instance, it's Bobby's balls that are threatened to be forcibly removed. Making his balls the most at risk testicles in movie history.
 

 

I didn't need another reason to dislike Ronnie, but the film provided me with one when he attempts to poison Kooky and Daisy. Don't worry, his dastardly deed is thwarted by a plucky seal. But still, poisoning dolphins? You suck, Ronnie. I don't know what Glenda sees in you.
 

 

Maybe there's more to Ronnie than meets the eye, because Vanessa makes a beeline straight for his cock. Wait a minute, you mean Vanessa and Billy are through? It looks like it. But why? They seemed so right for each other. It looks like Vanessa has had enough of Billy's obsession with fish. In fact, she gives him ultimatum at one point, asking him "it's either the fish or me"? And he chose the fish? Not exactly. He didn't answer the question quickly enough to her liking, so she told him to go fuck himself. Ouch.
 

 

The best way to avoid being attacked by a shark is to stay out of shark-infested waters. The worst way to avoid being attacked by a shark is to participate a windsurfing race that's being held in shark-infested waters. When a race official tells the windsurfers that the race will commence in two minutes, it seemed like I had to actually had to wait two minutes. Speaking of time, even though it takes fifty minutes for Bruno Mattei's shark to appear onscreen (everything up until now has been stock footage of sharks from other movies), I was strangely satisfied. Sure, it looked fake, but I would much rather have fake-looking puppet shark than anything created on a computer. The puppet shark gets wet, the computer-generated shark doesn't even know what wet is. At any rate, as the race kicks off, we're treated to some Yello-esque music, which is followed by some John Williams-esque music. Which reminds me, with so much out right thievery going on, you could call Cruel Jaws movie-esque, as it contains some of the elements that make up a real movie. But mostly features material stolen from other movies. At the end of day, you have to admire the editing of Bruno Mattei, as he has pieced together a pretty entertaining shark movie without a shark.

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