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.

video uploaded by vigilanteforce

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.

Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror (Andrea Bianchi, 1980)

Standing in the doorway of her bedroom, the look on little Michael's face as he watched his mother's current boyfriend penetrate her soft and tender places with his uncompromising penis sent shivers through my, now, I wanna say, "spine," but that doesn't quite cut it when it comes to justifying the wide array of shivers I felt while looking at little Michael leer at his spread eagle mommy. Let's just say, my entire body was engulfed with a sticky substance that smelled like pure, undiluted terror and call it a day. The next morning, we see little Michael sitting at the breakfast table with his mother, her current boyfriend, and the rest of their party, and... Oh my god! He's still wearing that look on his face. You mean to tell me that little Michael is going to be wearing that look on his face for the entire movie? Please tell he is. If so, I think I better go change into a diaper, because there's no way my pants will be dry when all is said and done. And get this, he's not even a zombie! Oh, sure, the chances of him becoming a zombie later on in the film are pretty high. But right now he's not a zombie, and–to be blunt–he's freaking me out. You could say that Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror (a.k.a. Le Notti del Terrore) is a complete and utter failure as a zombie movie, especially when you consider the fact that the film's scariest character is a twelve year-old boy who desperately wants to stroke his mother's pithy thighs in an erotic manner. However, not only will I not say that, I'll go even one step further by saying that this film is work of absolute genius. The screaming is top-notch; the zombies, while extremely slow (even by Romaro and Fulci standards), are quite resourceful; there are a lot of close-up shots of maggots squirming around inside crusty eye sockets; the deviants in the audience have not one, not two, but three different pairs of knee-high boots to savour over the course of the film; and, last but not least, there's this little boy with an insatiable need to press his face against his mother's breasts in a non-nurturing fashion; actually, name any part of her grope-worthy anatomy, and I guarantee he'll want to dribble some of his weird ass drool all over it.

If I happen to sound giddier than usual while talking about little Michael (Peter Bark), well, that's because he pretty much saves this film from being an unmitigated disaster. Now, I'm not saying that I couldn't have salvaged the experience of watching Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror by focusing instead on something else altogether; like, for example, the three female leads or the burlap sack-inspired garments the majority of the zombies sport in this movie. In fact, I still might have to resort to doing that in the not-so distant future. But until that time comes along, I must get down on my hands and knees and thank the incest-loving overlords that live inside my tum tum for delivering little Michael, the creepiest, most perverse twelve year-old ever to wear a dark blue turtleneck sweater in an Italian zombie movie.

Of course, by praising little Michael, I risk the chance of sounding like a hypocrite. You see, I'm usually against non-zombie children being allowed to live long and prosper in zombie movies (zombie children are fine). And for me to be in favour of little Michael's presence flies in the face of everything I hold dear, zombie-wise. That being said, Peter Bark isn't your average twelve year-old. How so, you ask? Well, for one thing, Mr. Bark is probably in his mid-twenties. Also, he reminded me of Topher Grace–you know, if he had Leukemia. Okay, I understand how Peter Bark being twenty-five makes it closer to being acceptable, but how exactly does the sickly Topher Grace angle work? I'm not entirely sure, either. But trust me, it just does.

It's a good thing twentysomething Topher Grace with Leukemia shows up when he does, because up until then Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror was beyond tedious. Opening with some scientist guy with a beard poking around in some cave, the film drags like you wouldn't believe. Sure, the zombies make an appearance (they attack the scientist despite the fact that he tries to convince them that he's their friend). But as far as pre-opening credit sequences go, the prospects look pretty grim. The credits themselves aren't that interesting, either, but you'll notice that the cars are driving on the left side of the road. Which, I know, is still not that interesting. However, as most people know, Italians drive on the right side of the road. Maybe the film is supposed to take place in England (the castle and surrounding gardens were very English). Interesting, eh? Well, at least I thought so. Don't laugh, but I'm sort of proud of myself for picking up on this minor detail, as stuff like that usually goes straight over my head.

Anyway, back to the movie. Arriving at a remote castle in the middle of nowhere, three couples, and, of course, little Michael, who we get our first glimpse of while he's sitting in the backseat of his mom's car, pass through its creaky gates without a care in the world. Greeted by the castle's staff, the couples and little Michael are quickly ushered to their rooms. Damn, these people don't waste anytime, because before you know it, they're all fornicating like a bunch of small animals who have a reputation for fornicating quite frequently. Well, Janet (Karin Well) and Mark (Gianluigi Chirizzi) aren't exactly moistening the sheets, if you know what I mean (their linen's were completely devoid of recently expelled seminal fluid or tiny droplets of grool), and little Michael is sleeping all by himself. Why is little Michael all alone? It would seem that his pleasantly-shaped mother, Evelyn (Mariangela Giordano), has brought some asshole named George (Roberto Caporali) along with her. Meaning, little Michael won't be sleeping with mommy tonight (he does, however, succeed in ruining the structural fortitude of George's erection with some well-timed doorway lurking).

The other couple, Leslie (Antonella Antinori) and James (Simone Mattioli) are the only one's who allowed are to fuck in peace. The main reason for this fucking success had a lot to do with Leslie's decision to put on some dusty vintage lingerie she found languishing in the back of a closet.

Oh, and the reason Janet and Mark aren't making any fucking leeway is because Janet had a dream that involved the dead rising from their graves to feast on the living.

It's morning, and the couples and little Michael are sitting around the breakfast table. Still seething over the fact that his mother has replaced him with this George fella, little Michael shoots many looks of disdain in their general direction. Breaking off into small groups, Mark takes pictures of Janet (who looks angelic in her blue turtleneck sweater) in the castle's garden, James and Leslie frolic in the vicinity of some shrubbery, and George teaches Evelyn how to shoot a pistol (little Michael can be seen glowering in the background). As all this outdoor fun is going on, these slow-moving creatures sheathed in burlap and covered in maggots are starting to amass around the castle. Of course, none of the couples know what kind of hell is coming their way. Though, you would think that Janet might be a little on edge–you know, since she just had a dream about them. But she's too busy getting her thighs stroked to notice (all the couples have to chosen to spend the morning making out with one another either under trees or near bushes). Just in case you're wondering: yes, there's quite a lot of thigh touching in this movie.

You better get used to the pained expression on Karin Well's face, because you'll be seeing a lot of it over the course of the next seventy minutes. You see, when the undead finally do strike, they cause Mark and Janet to flee. And while doing so, Janet steps in a bear trap. Shot from every angle imaginable, Janet's agony was downright orgasmic. I didn't have a stopwatch handy, but I could have sworn that her screaming fit went on for at least five minutes straight.

As Mark struggles to free Janet, while fending off zombies at the same time, Evelyn, George, little Michael, and George's red turtleneck sweater are having zombie problems of their own. Luckily, George just happens to carrying a pistol. Only problem is, he hasn't seen Hell of the Living Dead, and ends up wasting most of his ammo by shooting them in the chest (the zombies in this movie, by the way, have yellow blood). I don't want give to away what happens next. But let's just say, the way George's bleeding organs commingled with his red turtleneck sweater as they spilled out of his body was colour coordinated bliss. Speaking of red sweaters, Leslie, whose red v-neck sweater is paired with a white skirt and a pair of white knee-high boots, and James are having issues pertaining to grabby zombies as well (it's just one of those days). But unlike Mark and Janet, their fleeing doesn't result in one of them being caught in a bear trap. In fact, it allows them to help Mark, who is still having difficulty freeing Janet's foot from the jaws of the trap.

Even though James, Mark, and Leslie demonstrated a fair amount of skill when it came time to dispatch the zombies who were threatening to eat Janet's freshly-groped thighs, it's Evelyn who displays the most zombie-killing moxie during the film's early going. Cornered inside a barn-like structure that could have been a barn, Evelyn and little Michael are harassed by a couple of ragged flesh-eaters. A quick thinking little Michael tells his mommy to set them on fire using the buckets of paint lying on the floor, which she does. If the look of discomfort on Karin Well's face was the film's best torment-based expression, the fiery guise Mariangela Giordano sports as the zombies burned was hands down the foremost when it came to looks that centred around zombie combustion.

With the exception of George and his red turtleneck sweater, all the characters manage escape their initial encounter with the zombie horde. Regrouping at the castle, the couples, including Evelyn and little Michael, barricade the door and board up the windows, and await the inevitable onslaught. The castle's maid, Kathleen (Anna Valente), learns the hard way that these zombies don't play by rules. Blessed with the ability to manipulate tools and weapons, one of the zombies is able pin Kathleen's left hand to a wooden window shutter with a knife, while his zombie pals manage to remove her head with a scythe. As the zombies feast on the servant's severed head, another zombie decides to climb the castle's wall. Is there anything these zombie's can't do?

While the zombies are banging at the castle door with axes and clubs, and James is shooting the non-door banging zombies from the relative safety of a balcony with a shotgun, Leslie checks on Janet's injured leg. Reddish and swollen, Janet's throbbing abrasion was a definite scene stealer. Yeah, you heard right. Even though it's only onscreen for less than ten seconds, I thought Janet's sprain had a certain swagger about it. As in, someone get this misshapen scrape a modeling contract, it's going places. Unfortunately, Janet puts her boot back on, and that's the last we see of her acclaimed laceration. Don't fret, though, Karin Well walks with a limp for the rest of the movie, so we can still imagine what's going on inside the humid confines of her stylish boot as she is staggering.

Now, you'd think with all these men around to protect her, that Evelyn would be content to rest on her ass-kicking laurels. Think again, pal. If a zombie even as much as looks at little Michael in a threatening manner, Evelyn will definitely have something to say about it. And she does. When the castle's library is overrun with zombies, Evelyn is forced to chop some of them up with a sword. Since decapitating the undead is exhausting work, Evelyn and little Michael decide to take a breather on one of the castle's many ornate couches. You can't really blame little Michael for being turned on by Evelyn's swordmanship (the image of Mariangela Giordano wielding a sword is a powerful one). You can, however, blame him for taking his excitement to a plane of groping truth. Some overindulgent mother-son kissing is, I guess, sort of acceptable (after all, this is Europe), but the thigh stroking was totally inappropriate.

Distracting her face with kisses, little Michael tries to sneak his hand up her camel-coloured dress without her expressed written consent. But let's get real, everyone knows Evelyn's thigh cognizance is off the charts when it comes to being aware of untoward fondling (even the slightest of breezes will send her thigh bells a ringing). Slapping her son across the face, Evelyn sends a clear message to little Michael that her thighs are off limits when it comes to gentle caressing. Running off in a sickly huff, little Michael comes across what looks like zombie Meg White. Except this chick ain't the drummer for The White Stripes, no, what she wants to do is eat little Michael for dinner. With Evelyn still trying to come to grips with her son's thigh touching escapade, who will protect little Michael from harm? Ugh, I can't think about it.

Meanwhile, the zombies outside are using a battering ram(!) to bust down the front door. And you know what that means? It's only a matter of time before these creatures are inside the castle. Sporting the exact same boot to skirt length ratio, the film's female characters will have to run for their lives if they want to survive this ordeal with their knee's intact. Yeah, that's right. The men of the Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror universe are completely useless when it comes to protecting their shapely ladyfriends from hungry zombies (their flailing extremities are always on the verge of being bitten, chewed, or worse, masticated). Oh, and as is the case with the majority of Italian exploitation movies made during this era, dubbing artist extraordinaire Carolyn De Fonseca (Women's Prison Massacre and Beyond the Darkness) provides the voice for one of the actresses doing the fleeing; this time around, it's the alluring Mariangela Giordano who gets her dialogue "De Fonsecated" (I knew it was Carolyn's voice the second she told little Michael to stop groping her inner thigh). Don't tell anyone, but my new goal in life (fuck the NFL) is to watch every single film that features the voice of Carolyn De Fonesca.

uploaded by TheFearChamber

...

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.

...