Cannibal Ferox (Umberto Lenzi, 1981)

Welcome to the jungle, we've got fun and...Whoa! You're not seriously going there, are you? Yeah, you're right. I'm just kidding around. I would never go there. Though, I have to admit, it's a tempting place to go. You see, I've watched so many jungle movies over the past, oh, let's say, two weeks, that I'm surprised I haven't almost gone there sooner. It's clear as the freshly cut genitals sloshing around inside a tribal chief's mouth that the genre is beginning to have a negative toll on my delicate psyche. This particular jungle flick has the distinction of being filmed not in Spain or Italy, but in the actual Amazon. But it also has the distinction of featuring a plethora of needless animals deaths. The act of killing animals for entertainment purposes was something I used to tolerate. But after seeing Cannibal Ferox, I don't think I can remain indifferent any longer, as the animals are not only killed, some of them are tortured. Which I guess fits its overall theme, the film is also known as "Make Them Die Slowly." But there's no excuse for the amount wanton animal cruelty that appears in this film. I felt the worst for the turtle who has its limbs cut off while it was still alive and the pig-like creature who was tied to a stick while an anaconda was allowed to have its way with it, as their agony seemed unnecessarily prolonged. Animal cruelty, aside, the film is quite nasty in a number different ways. The director, Umberto Lenzi (Nightmare City), obviously has no interest in titillation. Unlike all the other jungle flicks made by Italian men, this one seems to be completely lacking in the sexy department. You have to wonder if he's really Italian. I know, with a name like Umberto Lenzi, it's hard to doubt his Italian-ness. But judging by the film's lack of eroticism, I'm starting to have serious doubts.
 

 

Of course, I'm not saying the film has to be on the same level as say, cinematic output of Jess Franco and Tinto Brass in terms of onscreen perversion, all I'm looking for is some accidental eroticism. Hey, you wanna know what happens if a film doesn't have a single moment of carnal interest? I'll tell you what, you'll get an unfunny tangent about animal cruelty. Oh, Umberto Lenzi, if you would have just given me the bawdiness I desire, we wouldn't be in this pickle of a dish towel. Hell, I would have probably let the whole animal cruelty thing slide for some unclothed thigh. But you know what? You didn't. So, here we are.  
 

 

In the spirit of transparency, there is a scene that was on the cusp being erotic: some post-coital lounging plays out between two cocaine enthusiasts. But I found the scene to be a cynical attempt to play lip service to the deviant community. Isn't lip service better than no service? No, it's actually worse, as it not only insults our intelligence, it belittles our crotches. And besides, we don't want to see Zora Kerova (The New York Ripper) lying butt naked in a hut. We don't? No, we want to see Lorraine De Selle (Woman's Prison Massacre) relaxing in a pair of deep peach-coloured short shorts while Giovanni Radice Lombardo massages her feet. Why Lorraine? She's an alluring sack of ambiguously European womanhood, that's why. Oh, and the reason Lorraine De Selle is "ambiguously European" might have something to do with the fact that she might be Australian.
 

 

Anyway, are you sure you want Giovanni massaging her feet? I'm not following. Well, he does slap her around a lot in The House on the Edge of the Park. And not only that, he calls her a twat at least three times over the course of the film. Okay, maybe that's a bad choice. Since the other male character is her brother, and Giovanni's male companion is nursing a sucking chest wound, I guess the only logical choice would be Zora Kerova. Logical, yes. But you're living in a dream world, man, this film's main concern is showing people and animals being tortured in an outdoor setting.
 

 

Just to let you know, the film features many scenes that take place in New York City; scenes where Robert Kerman plays a tough as nails cop. And I, for one, thought these scenes were a complete waste of time. In fact, you to fast-forward past these scenes, as they add nothing to the film. But they do boast the music of Roberto Donati and Fiamma Maglione. Say what you will about the inhumanity that is usually transpiring onscreen, the music on the soundtrack is always fucking awesome. 
 

 

It's true, Mike Logan (Giovanni Radice Lombardo), a coked up adventurer/sadist looking for emeralds in the Amazon, calls Gloria Davis (Lorraine De Selle), an anthropologist working on her thesis about the myth of cannibalism ("it's an invention of racists"), a "twat" on the three separate occasions. But I could have sworn that Gloria's hunky brother Rudy (Danilo Mattei), a non-coked up adventurer, calls Pat Johnson (Zora Kerova), a brainless wild child in a yellow headband, a "twat" as well (a "dumb twat," if you wanna be specific). What I think I'm trying to say is, what's up with twat? Either way, I just introduced the bulk of the characters we'll be spending the next ninety minutes with.
 

 

As Gloria and Rudy are preparing to go up river to search for a village rumoured to have cannibals, they realize that Pat hasn't arrived yet. You see, she desperately wanted to take a shower, so she went to the home of a sleazy-looking Colombian customs agent to take one (and I'm sure, receive a ripe Columbian dicking). At any rate, an exasperated Rudy says, "Where is that dumb twat!" I know, it's kind of a harsh thing to say. But funny thing is, that it's the mild-mannered Rudy, not the coked up out of his mind Mike Logan, who plays the twat card first. Ironically, the reason Gloria, Rudy, and Pat (the "dumb twat" finally does show up) get into trouble in the first place is because they try to avoid running over an iguana with their jeep. I guess they could have gotten stuck in the mud down the road. But in a film replete with animal cruelty I found it rather telling that they misery in this "poison paradise" was propagated by an act of thoughtfulness.
 

 

The first "close your eyes and enjoy the music" moment comes when the trio come across a native man eating live grubs. The second comes when the pig-like creature (a baby tapir, maybe?) they brought along with them is killed by an anaconda. Actually, closing your eyes doesn't really work in this case, as the pig-shaped animal's cries of agony are just as terrible.
 

 

After Rudy has finished slapping a hysterical Pat in the face a couple of times (they come across two dead locals), the trio finally come across Mike Logan and his mortally wounded sidekick, Joe (Walter Lucchini). The reason I sound excited is because I think Giovanni Radice Lombardo pretty much rocks in this movie. And proves I'm right almost immediately when Pat offers him something to drink. He basically tells her, "Nah, I don't drink. I do cocaine." Yes! You do cocaine! Say it loud, and say it proud. God, I love this guy. I mean, Mike Logan doesn't sneak behind the bushes to get his fix, he does cocaine in full view of everybody; he doesn't care.
 

 

Hold one, Mike Logan is about to call Gloria a twat for the first time. Boom, in your face, Gloria. Of course, I didn't think it was the appropriate insult–you know, given that they have only known each other for ten seconds–but Mike Logan is not known for doing things are "appropriate."    Oh, and, unlike Rudy's twat-based diss of Pat, Mike Logan uses no embellishments when he calls someone a twat.
 

 

It doesn't take long, but Mike Logan calls Gloria a twat again later that evening when she falls in a giant hole along with a pig. After stabbing the pig, Mike Logan calls Gloria, who has mercifully changed into a bright red top (her head-to-toe khaki ensemble paired with that ridiculous-looking white bucket hat was beyond atrocious), a twat after she scolds his pig killing technique (he seemed to enjoy killing it a little too much).
 

 

Coming across an Amazonian village filled only with passive elders, the group decide to rest there. While I can't quite remember the topic of their discussion, Mike Logan calls Gloria a twat a third time. To celebrate his twat trifecta, Mike Logan has sexual intercourse with Pat in one of the huts. Jealous of his awesomeness, Rudy decides to challenge Mike Logan. Okay, he probably challenged him because he didn't approve of the fact he shot a native woman for no apparent reason. But deep down, Rudy must envy Mike Logan's swagger. So, as Mike Logan might say, "Get off his case, motherfucker!"
 

 

A great flashback sequence, narrated by Joe (who is miraculously still alive), eventually tells us the truth about Mike Logan and how he ended up in this "poison paradise." It would seem that Mike Logan isn't just cocaine enthusiast who digs blondes with small titties, he's totally deranged. As a matter of fact, he's a psychopath who gets off on torturing people, especially the locals. Don't believe me? Just ask the eyeball resting precariously on the on the end of his knife. The mysterious appearance of a rotten papaya on a stick sets in motion a serious of gruesome events, as the outsiders soon realize that violence begets violence. It doesn't matter if only a handful of them partook in acts of cruelty, anyone with a white face better keep a close watch on their genitals, as they're in grave danger of being ritualistically removed in a violent manner.

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House on the Edge of the Park (Ruggero Deodato, 1980)

Does a movie have to take place inside an actual discotheque for it to be considered "disco chic"? Excellent question, random voice in my head. Well, after giving it some unnecessarily belaboured thought, I have come to the conclusion that, no, it does not. Sure, it doesn't hurt, but it's not like it's a requirement or anything like that. It doesn't matter where your movie is set, as long as it promotes the three tenants of disco culture. Which are: Dancing, fashion, and sex. You could set it in a condemned amusement park, a nail salon facing multiple health code violations, or even a swanky house located out in the wilds of New Jersey, if disco is treated with respect, you should have no problem whatever oozing disco chic. Speaking of New Jersey, House on the Edge of the Park takes place in the unfairly maligned state, does it ooze disco chic? You wouldn't think so considering the fact that at no point is cocaine visibly ingested by any of the principal characters. But, as most disco connoisseurs will tell you, casual drug abuse was just one of the many aspects of the disco scene. Getting back to your question, I'd say, yes, this film, directed by Ruggero Deodato (Cannibal Holocaust), exudes plenty of disco-friendly peculiarities. And it's a good thing it does, because if you take away the film's chicer elements, all you're left with is a tediously long exercise that does nothing but openly promote violence and degradation. Boasting three pairs of stockings under varying degrees of structural duress, the bourgeois nightmare scenario this film puts forth, which, in truth, is actually a veiled expose on the ugliness of a society that is growing more and more shallow with every passing day, is too far-fetched to ever reach a level that is close to being believable. However, as a coarse examination of human cruelty, and the extremes some people will go through to make others suffer, this film has plenty to say, and it occasionally does so with a razor-like precision.

While watching the film, which, for the most part, takes place inside the posh living room of a house located out in the suburbs, I felt like I was looking down upon the figurative doll house I had as a child. Creating a series of sick and twisted storylines–ones that were so elaborate, that they could have been the basis of at least five poorly reviewed theatrical productions–I would dress my dolls in the latest fashions, bound the troublemakers with curtain rod cord, smear the recently beaten with tomato paste, and, of course, use the light emanating from the kitchen's open refrigerator to emphasize the mouth-watering tightness of a pair of white stockings (yeah, my doll house had electricity, and, it would seem, a working refrigerator). Now, some might say, I was an eccentric child. But others, the segment of the population who are not totally lame, might say that I was the epitome of off-kilter cool.

Weren't you shocked to see some of your doll storylines recreated in House on the Edge of the Park? Yes and no. Yes, I was surprised to see how close the refrigerator scene was to my version (even the manner in which the female character sat on the kitchen counter was the same). And, no, I wasn't surprised to see a film where two groups of people clash with one another in an enclosed space, as it's the basic foundation of all drama.

You'll notice I said, "two groups." Well, that's actual not true. Sure, there are two sides, but two people don't exactly constitute a group. Granted, Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft, Eurythmics, and Psyche are considered groups, and they only have two people. But in this situation, calling them a group is pushing it. On the other hand, Alex (David Hess), the leader of the undermanned group, while on the surface looks like a single man, actually possesses the properties of at least six fully grown men. Semantics aside, you know Alex is a card carrying psychopath even before the opening credits have started to role when he rapes a woman in the backseat of her car.

Demonized right out of the gate, there's no dark charcoal grey area with Alex. He's vile, vulgar, and extremely dangerous. Yet, he can also be quite persuasive. Anyway, the question you need to be asking yourself is: Who would be friends with a person like this? A sycophantic half-wit. Yes. A blithering coward with low-esteem? Uh-uh. Itching to go disco dancing ("are we gonna boogie?"), Ricky (Giovanni Lombardo Radice) is hounding his pal Alex, who is getting dressed in the office of the parking garage that he either works at or owns. I'm gonna say latter, judging by the quality of his suit he's putting on. If we hadn't seen Alex brutally assault the woman in the opening scene, we'd look at him with bemused indifference; tittering ever so slightly as he put on his comically garish yellow and cream coloured vest.

The other question should be asking is: Who would invite a person like this to a "get together" in the suburbs? It's true, two upscale prats from Manhattan, Tom (Christian Borromeo), a real dandified slice of ineffectual Eurotrash if I ever saw one, and Lisa (Annie Belle), a short-haired hellcat in all white, have no idea the man standing before them in the yellow blazer is will turn out to be one of the most loathsome characters in film history. But like I said, he possesses a certain repulsive charm. In that, part of you finds him to be utterly disgusting, while the other half is busy eyeballing the unclear magnitude of his trouser bulge.

Hoping in the back of their car, Alex and Ricky are driven to a house, which may or may not be located on the edge of a park. Greeted at the door by the virile Howard (Gabriele Di Giulio), the black, bald, and beautiful Glenda (Marie Claude Joseph), and Gloria, who is played by the always gorgeous, always chic, Lorraine De Selle, Alex and Ricky quickly make themselves at home. After being egged on by the other guests, Gloria and Ricky start to dance to the ultra cool sounds of Riz Ortolani's "Do It To Me (Once More)." The sight of Lorraine getting down to this song is one of the film's defining moments. Swaying back and forth to the pulsating disco beat, the slit on the front of her red dress reveling the tautness of her equally red stockings with every hip-based oscillation, Gloria mesmerizes the dimwitted Ricky with an effortless aplomb.

Unamused by this tawdry display, Alex can be seen glowering in the corner (he thinks they're making fun of Ricky). In an attempt to placate his anger (she's the only one who notices that he's annoyed), Lisa takes Alex aside and sits with him on the couch. Since director Ruggero Deodato is an Italian man, the camera focuses on Lisa's white, stocking encased legs as they're being crossed. Hearing the sound of the rarefied hosiery attached to her legs grinding together as she crosses them (a talent most heterosexual men possess), Alex starts to molest her thighs. Allowing him to stroke her stockings proper and the fleshy no-man's land located between her stockings and garter belt for a few seconds, Lisa gets up and goes to the kitchen.

Following her, Alex continues to explore the aforementioned area. Using the light produced by the refrigerator to help him see what he's doing (Lisa is now reclining on the kitchen counter), Alex rubs his face over her upper thighs. And just like when they were on the couch, Lisa pulls her skirt back down to its pre-molestation position, gets up and walks away. You know Alex is going to follow her, and that's exactly what he does. Finding her in one of the upstairs bathrooms, Alex watches Lisa take a shower. Of course, this leads to them washing each others backs and some mild groping. But, as usual, it doesn't really go any further than that.

Meanwhile, back downstairs, Ricky is getting cleaned out by Howard, Tom, and Glenda at the poker table. Are they cheating the excitable dullard? I don't know, but, I have to admit, Tom's flush was a little on the sketchy side. Either way, a dried off Alex seems to think they are, and, after punching out Howard and holding his trusty straight razor to Tom's dainty throat, tells them that from now on they're playing by his rules ("now we're gonna have some fun with these cunts").

Winning all his money back with an unseen "royal straight," Alex tells the victorious Ricky that he can have first dibs on any of the three women in the room. Now, normally, I would say that his choice was an easy one, as Lorraine De Selle, her brunette hair swooped to one side, is alluring as all get out. But Lisa and Glenda are no slouches when it comes to inducing corduroy-based discomfort (your cock has nowhere to go when its sheathed in corduroy). Nonetheless, Ricky chooses Gloria. As he's about to grab her and take her upstairs, Alex demands that he, "fuck her here!" Not one to disobey his master, Ricky proceeds to fondle Gloria on the couch. Tearing off her red panties in a fit of red pantie removing rage (what a waste of a perfectly good pair of red panties), Ricky is just about to take his assault one step further, when, all of a sudden, Howard jumps to his feet, pulls Ricky off Gloria, and starts fighting with Alex.

With Howard subdued (they tie him to a table with some curtain cord), Alex and Ricky are to free harass the others at will. Only problem is, Ricky can't seem to rape Gloria. Taking a break from smashing figurines, Alex tries help out his pal out by rubbing his face against the upper part of Gloria's thighs–you know, show him the groping ropes. This doesn't work, as it would seem that Ricky just doesn't have what it takes to be a professional rapist. Like a father who wants his son to be next Wayne Gretzky, but instead turns out to the next Quentin Crisp, Alex is extremely disappointed that Ricky can't get it together, rape-wise.

In terms of judging the work of the four ladies who appear in the House on the Edge of the Park, there are only two women who are actually worth talking about, as, unfortunately, Marie Claude Joseph, who plays Glenda, and Brigitte Petronio's Cindy, a character who shows up later in the film, are basically used as props. With the exception of her half-assed escape attempt and a lesbian make out scene, Marie Claude just stands there while looking fabulous. And Brigitte? Well, she's just there to be tortured. Oh, sure, it's an effective scene, but her misery is pretty much meaningless.

No, I'd say Annie Belle (Bacchanales Sexuelles), as the feisty Lisa, and Lorraine De Selle (Women's Prison Massacre), as the debonair Gloria, were the only non-raping characters of note in this film, as they're the only ones who interacted with the two assailants. While I've already mentioned the three instances where Lisa toys with Alex, she actually does it a total of six times (and from where I'm standing, that's a lot of toying). Which is quite impressive, if you think about it. I mean, it takes a humongous amount of pluck to stand up a man like Alex. Firmly standing her ground during every single one of their encounters, Annie Belle, despite her delicate frame, doesn't back down once from the towering presence that is David Hess. While it's true, her counterpart in red seems to prefer the cowering in fear technique over the one Lisa was putting out there (you could probably smell the pheromones emanating from her pluck-producing pores for miles), the method utilized by Lorraine De Selle's Gloria was no less effective when it came to mollifying rapists. Though, to be fair, she was dealing with a lesser rapist.

I'm not sure if this had anything to with Lorraine, but I liked the way her character's red stockings seemed to get more torn up as the evening progressed (no one will ever accuse me of underestimating the importance of stocking continuity).

Whether uttering his trademark phrase, "hello, lady," bashing foppish yuppies, calling Gloria "Miss Muffet," slathering his coarse face over the thighs of stylish women in stockings, or cutting up wide-eyed party crashers in pink panties with a straight razor, David Hess is ferociousness personified as Alex, a man without a single redeeming quality. Okay, his fixation with garter belts and stockings made a lot of sense (he instructs Lisa to keep her creamy stockings on before ravaging her). However, I don't think liking a specific article of women's clothing lets you off the hook for all the evil deeds you have committed. If anything, it would make me despise you even more. At any rate, the manner in which David Hess embraces the uncompromising cruelty of his character was a thing of sadistic beauty. Come for the disco chic, stay for the slow-motion "whoa, you just shot me in the crotch" grimace sequence, it's a doozy.

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Women's Prison Massacre (Bruno Mattei, 1983)

Yeah, well, I think you're wrong. Dead wrong, in fact. If you look closely, you'll notice the stay-up stockings worn by all the female prisoners are dark charcoal grey, and not, as you have so erroneously pointed out, black. It's true, the colour of the band near the top of the stay-up stockings are close to being black, but as for the rest of the stay-up stockings, they're dark charcoal grey. The warden's garter belt-assisted stockings, on the other hand, are definitely black. Oh, hello, it would seem that you have accidentally stumbled upon an argument... uh, I don't know if I'd call it an "argument," let's just say it's a "heated discussion." Okay, it would seem that you have accidentally stumbled upon the middle of a heated discussion I was having with myself over the colour of the prison issue stockings worn by the inmates throughout Women's Prison Massacre, Bruno Mattei's sleazy ode to albino enchantresses, girl-on-girl everything, weaponized vaginas, pithy putdowns, and, of course, women who happen to be in prison. You see, while I think they're dark charcoal grey, the other half of my brain (the half who likes to stay up all night watching reruns of The Nanny, a program awash with imagery that promotes a world where black is dominate shade of hosiery) thinks they're black. Oh, and just because I'm using the term "dark" does not necessarily mean that part me of secretly thinks they're black, they're just dark in terms of the grey spectrum. In all honestly, I have this sneaking suspicion that the part of me who thinks the stay-up stockings are black is just messing with me. They know the stockings weren't black, they just like to see me make a fool out of myself in front of all you good people over something as trivial as stockings. You see what they just did? They made me use the words "trivial" and "stockings" in the same sentence. Talk about an exacerbated pickle drowning in a tepid pool of unsubstantiated pandemonium. Here's some free advice: In the future, try to be a little more cautious whenever you get the temptation to pretend that you have some sort of split personality disorder, as the odds of saying something you might regret are quite high.

Okay, now that we've finally established the colour of film's signature legwear, let us move on to less pressing matters. The film opens with a shot of three women sitting on a darkened stage, as somber piano music plays on the soundtrack. Soon, the somber piano music is accompanied by cold synths, warm synths, and, my personal fave, eerie synths. Wait a second, what's going on here? This has got to be the strangest opening to a women in prison flick that I have ever seen. But you know what? I like it. And it gets better. Appearing out of the darkness, her face painted like Jordan from Jubilee, the first woman we're introduced to is Laura (Maria Romano), who is wearing what she likes to call her "snake mask." Describing herself as a praying mantis, Laura's monologue mostly revolves around emasculating men. The large breasted middle child of the prison soliloquy set, Irene (Antonella Giacomini) is up next. Calling herself "Irene, the slut," she goes on and one about how she's a "pleasure spring" (all the men want to drink from her shapely fountain). Rounding out this pokey production of the Vagina Monologues is Emanuelle (Laura Gemser), whose her lecture is all about love and freedom.

While she's prattling on about human rights, a mane of blonde hair can be seen piercing the sooty air like an iridescent bolt of lightning. Who do these golden locks belong to, you ask? Why they belong to Albina (Ursula Flores), a.k.a. the most beautiful human being to walk the face of the earth. Oozing gorgeousness with every sultry step, Albina, annoyed, and rightfully so, by the so-called "art" that she and the audience (a ragtag collection of inmates and guards) have been enduring for the past ten or so minutes, walks up to the stage and expresses her displeasure by calling their play "revolting," and by hurling a fist full of tomatoes in the general direction of Emanuelle's smug face.

After the tomatoes hit her in the face, Emanuelle jumps into the crowd and starts to wrestle with Albina (more veggies are hurled, more feelings are hurt). We might not know it yet, but what we are currently watching is the genesis of one of the greatest rivalries in the history of cinema. The first round of the Emanuelle-Albina conflict is a draw, as the guards break them up just as they were about to start pummeling one another. But if Albina's post-fight rantings are any indication, the war between them is far from over. The blondness of Albina's concise eyebrows vs. Emanuelle's chocolaty cheekbones is the primary plot line of Women's Prison Massacre. Oh, sure, it wants you to think the hostage situation involving a hirsute lawman and four deranged male convicts is the film's nitty-gritty in terms of nutritional value. But make no mistake, the fight for female supremacy that takes place between Emanuelle and Albina is definitely the main course.

If it seemed odd that the warden (Lorraine De Selle) appeared to take Albina's side when it came time to lay blame for veggie vagina altercation. Well, that's because Albina is in the warden's pocket. Yeah, you heard correctly, Albina takes her orders directly from the warden. But why does the warden want to make Emanuelle's stay at her prison so uncomfortable? Who cares, because round two of Emanuelle and Albina's epic struggle is about to commence.

Entering the cafeteria with a disquieting elan, Albina saunters over to where Emanuelle and her pals, Laura and Irene, are sitting and proceeds to antagonize the living fuck out of them. Mocking Irene's slut monologue, Albina basically calls her a "stupid bitch." When Laura tries to stick up for her friend, Albina quickly interjects by telling her to "take my advice and die." Unmoved by her morbidity of her suggestion, Laura threatens to bite Albina's nipples off (if anyone is going to gnaw on Albina's luscious nipples, it's going to be me, so back off, Laura). Shifting her attention to Emanuelle, Albina calls her "fancy talker," which she objects to by saying, "don't call me fancy talker." As you can plainly see, the dialogue in this particular scene is off the charts in terms of inventiveness. However, in my mind, it achieves legend status the moment the phrase "haughty hottentot" leaves Albina's chapped lips. Even as the alliterative put-down was in the process of being uttered, I knew I was in the presence of greatness.

Anyway, unfazed by the fact that she was called a "haughty hottentot," Emanuelle tells her pigment-deficient tormentor that she makes her sick. Well, after some mild maniacal laughter and some boastful statements pertaining to her strength, Albina finally reacts by challenging Emanuelle to an arm wrestling duel. The bout goes back and forth for quite some time, but, ultimately, Emanuelle comes out on top, which is weird, considering she has pipe cleaners for arms.

You'll notice as the two rivals are arm wrestling that two guards are watching over them. Which isn't that uncommon. After all, most prisons have guards. No, what you need to focus on is the fact that the guards are being played by none other than Franca Stoppi (Beyond the Darkness) and Françoise Perrot, two actresses who bring a certain butchy flair to their respective roles. The beguiling Miss Stoppi, in particular, as every time the camera would focus on her wonderfully crafted mug, I would start to hyperventilate. My favourite Stoppi/Perrot moment was when they're forcing Emanuelle to wash her face. While that doesn't sound all that bad, the catch is that she has to keep her face submerged in a sink full of water until they tell her to remove it. What I liked about this scene was that Franca and Françoise would exchange these sinister smirks with one another in-between beatings (every time Emanuelle pulled her head out of the sink, they would hit her with their clubs), as it implied that they enjoyed their work and each others company.

Staying within the dank confines of the women's lavatory, a naked Laura and an almost naked Irene (the way her skimpy white panties struggled to maintain their structural integrity as they desperately clung to her curvy frame was simply divine) can be seen making out with each other. When Albina's sidekick catches wind of this tawdry display, she immediately informs her pale master about the sapphic transgression that is transpiring within their midst. After staring at them with fake disgust for a few minutes, Albina gathers a crowd around them, which alerts the guards. Telling them that these "dogs in heat need to be cooled down," Franca and Françoise start dunking their heads in cold water. Keep an eye on Albina as they're being severely punished, her aura is steeped in gladness. And if Albina's happy, I'm happy.

Recovering from her own dunking incident (simulated drowning seems to be the preferred punishment at this particular prison), Emanuelle is surprised when Albina enters and offers to help her to her feet. This kindness doesn't last long, however, as right after she says, "fancy seeing you here, fancy talker" she hits her in the face with a towel. Uh-oh, a towel to the face? That can only mean one thing: it's time for round three, baby! As is customary in the realm of cellbock fisticuffs that involve women, Emanuelle grabs Albina's hair, only to find out that her bleached adversary is wearing a wig. Holding the wig in her hand, Emanuelle starts to laugh at Albina. This, of course, angers her immensely, and she attacks Emmanuelle, not before calling her a bastard and telling her how much she hates her (I think the exact line was, "You bastard! I hate you!").

Oh, man, Emanuelle is thrashing Albina with own wig! What the fuck? When is this humiliation going to end? Growing up pale and different, Albina has struggled to fit in her entire life. Picked on at school and ridiculed by the customers at the flower shop she probably worked at, Albina swore that she would one day get back at all those who made her life a living hell. She didn't realize it immediately, but being sent to prison was the best thing to happen to her, as her unique appearance and unpleasant disposition intimidated the other inmates. Eventually becoming the de facto ruler of the prison, thanks, in part, to her brash attitude and her willingness to snitch on others, Albina had it made. That is, until some fancy talking haughty hottentot came along and ruined everything.

Do I even have to tell you who wins round four? Well, if must know, round four takes place out in the prison's yard, and involves the guards leaving Emanulle all alone to face Albina, who's been given a switchblade. "Hello, fancy talker," she coos, as she makes her way across the yard's lush green grass (the gal sure knows how to make an entrance). If we were told to judge their various clashes based solely on the quality of the pre-fight bravado, I think most insane people would agree that Albina, hands down, wins them all. Only problem is, Albina can't seem to build up any momentum after her early successes, as her blemish-free bombast usually gets its exquisite ass lambasted in a matter seconds. And the outcome of her well-executed, yet ultimately doomed, screaming knife charge is no different.

Running toward Emanuelle, her knife raised, and screaming her head off, Albina tries to stab her, but instead, she ends up dropping her knife. As she's being choked by her wiry opponent, Albina must be thinking to herself: Why is this happening to me? I mean, I had a knife, I called her "fancy talker," what do I have to do to kill this insipid hosebeast? As they wrestle over the ownership of the dropped knife, Albina's dark charcoal grey stockings are becoming soiled with difficult to remove grass stains. Discerning perverts and chichi linguists alike will want to pay close attention to what happens next, as we catch a brief glimpse of Albina's white panties during this sequence. In fact, the intensity of the tussle has caused them to become partially ensnared between the colourless cheeks that make up the bulk of her creamy buttocks. However, laundry headaches and unforeseen wedgies are the least of Albina's problems, as she soon finds herself with a knife in her right thigh. And not just any knife, her knife.

I won't lie, the sight of Albina screaming in agony as a result being stabbed in the right thigh with own knife filled me with a shitload of sadness. It got to a point where I was so distraught, that I almost switched the movie off in a fit of misguided wretchedness. You know how I said that when Albina's happy, I'm happy? Well, when Albina's in pain, I'm in pain. Just the mere thought of her torn dark charcoal grey stockings languishing unloved in some dank prison laundry room is enough to put me on twenty-four hour suicide watch.

In a veiled attempt to placate my misery, I'm gonna start talking about Crazy Boy Henderson (Gabriele Tinti), Victor "Geronimo" Brain (Raul Cabrera), Helmut "Blade" von Bauer (Pierangelo Pozzato), Brett O'Hara (Robert Mura), because one of them treats Albina like the goddess she truly is. Oh, and, just to let you know, the four guys I just mentioned are convicted murders who take over the women's prison after they overpower the warden, kill a guard, and wound a police officer (Carlo De Mejo) with a beard during what was supposed to be a routine prison transfer.

Free to roam the prison, the four psychopaths (they're apparently the worst of the worst) wander the halls in search of inexpensive poontang. Since the hyperactive "Blade" likes to be groped en masse, he heads to straight for the cells and lets a throng of female prisoners paw at him through the bars; O'Hara makes Lorraine De Selle strip down to her black lingerie; Crazy Boy rapes Emanuelle against a wall; and Geronimo has decided to go to the prison's infirmary to look for drugs. What does Geronimo find when he finally gets there? Heaven on a stale cracker, that's what. Recuperating from her most recent stab wound (her right thigh is wrapped with a modest bandage), Albina stares inquisitively at the strange man poking around her room. "Where's the morphine"? he asks. "How should I know," she quickly shoots back (it's nice to know that the knife wound hasn't put a damper on her scrappiness). As he's looking, he suddenly realizes the woman lying before him, her ashen legs peeking out from underneath the sheets ever so slightly, isn't your average female prisoner.

Caressing her delicate shoulders ("your skin is exciting"), Geronimo tells Albina that everything about her turns him on. When he said that I was like, finally, someone who gets the irregular allure that is Albina. You haven't experienced real pleasure unless you've felt Albina's strong-willed heartbeat pounding against yours as she penetrates you with her soft, elegant flesh. Yeah, that's right. You don't penetrate Albina. On the contrary, Albina penetrates you. And that's exactly what happens to Geronimo, who, from now on, will be known as "the luckiest man in the entire universe." Of course, he ends up treating Albina like crap when she emerges from her chloroform-induced slumber (her supple, bee-stung lips are even more chapped than they were before). When she tries to make a deal with Crazy Boy, the luckiest man in the entire universe acts like her doesn't know her. It's gets to the point where he even allows his esteemed colleagues to call her names like, "Snow White" and "Dracula's Daughter." I know, what a little bastard.

While actress Ursula Flores, the actual owner of the aforementioned "soft, elegant flesh," deserves a lot of the credit for creating such a memorable character (the eye bulging and head tilting alone was award worthy), you shouldn't discount the work of dubbing artist Carolyn De Fonseca (The Lonely Lady), who's the voice of Albina in the English language version of Women's Prison Massacre. If it wasn't for her, lines like, "Take my advice and die!" and "I'll put a stop to your arrogance, you haughty hottentot!" would probably not have had the same impact. Anyway, I hope my you found my covert tribute to Albina to be informative and junk. I'd go into detail about the Russian roulette scene that takes place near the end of the film (round four), but just thinking about it makes this fancy talker extremely depressed.

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Emanuelle in America (Joe D'Amato, 1977)

Her home is America, and her currency, well, you could say she pays her way by liberally employing the jagged peeks and caramel valleys of her slender yet racially complex frame. Of course, she doesn't purchase items like groceries or film for her camera using this flesh-based form of currency, that would be silly. But everything else she desires is pretty much paid for in this unorthodox manner. You could say the super-tight confines of her sugary sweet vaginal expanse is the only thing keeping the world's economy from collapsing. (Just for the record: I won't be saying that, as I don't want to come off as a creep.) Anyway, welcome to the sensual world of Emanuelle in America (a.k.a. Black Emanuelle - Stunden Wilder Lust), just one seedy, polyurethane spoke in a tawdry series of films about a jet-setting woman named Emanuelle, a New York fashion photographer/freelance journalist/disrobing expert. Keen observers will notice that her name seems to be missing an 'm' (the name "Emanuelle" is usually spelled with two 'm's'). Well, that's not an error on my part, as this film isn't about Emmanuelle, the wide-eyed focus of Just Jaeckin's classic about a naive young woman's erotic adventures in far off corners of the globe. No way, man, this film is about Emanuelle, and, like its French counterpart, it explores the limits of mutual debasement and sexual desire, but it's more perverted, much darker, and, most importantly, it's directed by Joe D'Amato (Beyond the Darkness) and it's Italian.

What I liked about Emanuelle compared to Emmanuelle is that she seemed to do stuff. What I mean is she's not content to squeak by on her good looks. This Emanuelle (Laura Gemser), a fashion photographer and freelance journalist, approaches both jobs with a fiery passion. The latter in particular, as it requires her to throw herself headfirst, or, in most cases, cuntfirst, into all sorts of dangerous and lascivious situations. Equipped only with a tiny camera she hides inside a gaudy necklace, her svelte frame (which I'm sure tastes like freshly squeezed molasses on the morning of your gothic bat mitzvah), and a figurative goblet filled to the brim with moxie, Emanuelle uses her connections to get the dish on all kinds of shady business.

Sometimes, the shadiness finds her, as is the case with Tony (Giulio Bianchi), the virginal boyfriend of Janet (Stefania Nocilli), one of Emanuelle's favourite models. Sticking a gun in her face (he was hiding in the backseat of her car), Tony blames Emanuelle for the all the ills of society ("All you know about is sex!"). Quick thinking and an impromptu blow job get Emanuelle out of the sticky ordeal, one that, surprisingly, left her not that sticky (Tony runs away before Emanuelle could finish the job). This, it should be pointed out, is the first instance where Emanuelle utilizes her main weapon of choice, which is: Sex.

After obtaining a tip from a boxer named Joe (Efrem Appel)–her go-to guy for info–Emanuelle joins a harem in the suburbs. Hoping to expose an illicit den of sexual slavery, Emanuelle is given a fancy gold bracelet and a red thong with an astrological sign emblazoned in gold on the crotch (Emanuelle is pretending to be "Virgo"). "Working" for Eric van Darren (Lars Bloch), some rich asshole who thinks he can buy anything, Emanuelle snoops around his spacious compound looking for any signs of illegality (she puts a small camera inside her complimentary bracelet). After she's done snooping, she meets the dapper Alfredo Elvize, Duke of Mount Elba (Gabriele Tinti), that's right, a Duke. Impressed with her prowess as a poker dice player, the Duke invites Emanuelle to come to Venice. Of course, she first has to get a swimming pool lesbian threeway ("the water is like chicken soup"), make a fool out of Eric van Darren, engage in some steam room sex with Gemini (Lorraine De Selle), and watch Pedro the horse get a human handjob out of the way, but the next thing you know, she's on a plane and off to Italy.

Arriving in Venice, Emanuelle immediately gets involved with yet another threeway, this time with the Duke and his gorgeous wife Laura (the tantalizing Paola Senatore), a woman with the world's most succulent thighs. When she realizes her body is no longer needed to sustain the momentum of the threesome, Emanuelle gets up, puts on her robe (one of the few instances where she is seen putting on clothes), and proceeds to do what does best, and that is, poking around in other people's business–and, of course, have sex against a door (while a symphony rehearse twenty feet away) with Bill (Riccardo Salvino), her playboy boyfriend (aww, he flew in from New York just to straddle her in public).

While attending a chic banquet being thrown by Alfredo and Laura, Emanuelle witnesses an orgy that transpires, funny enough, after an elderly senator finds a golden peanut wedged in his slice of cake. You see, whoever finds the golden peanut wins the entire cake. I know, it doesn't sound like much of a prize. I mean, really, who needs that much cake? But underneath all that flour and frosting awaits a surprise, a sexy, naked surprise. Sitting cross-legged and wearing nothing but creamy layer of icing, the senator grabs his prize by the hand (a young woman whose face practically screamed undignified bemusement), and proceeds to lick her body with a reckless form of abandon. As you would expect, the man's aggressive tongue work on the cake lady seems to send the crowd into a bit of a frenzy, as they all start tearing their clothes off.

I'm telling you, never has the sight of multiple clumps of thick pubic hair being forcibly freed from their fabric prisons seemed so electrifying than it does during the Venetian orgy that takes place in Emanuelle in America–and, believe me, I've seen plenty of forced freedom over the years. The way underwear is clawed at in this movie (mostly by tuxedo-wearing letches, but even Emanuelle gets into the pantie-ripping act later on) made me wish I had a hairy pussy in 1970s. The sensation of owning a hirsute undercarriage must be like having a second head of hair, only its appearance is a well-guarded secret. Speaking of which, on top of having the best thighs this side of Kamloops, I liked how the colour of Paola Senatore's fuzzy pleasure triangle didn't even come close to matching the colour of the bundled clump sitting atop her pretty little head. It was like she had two separate personalities: one for genteel social functions, and one for hot, crotch compromising sex.

During the banquet, Emanuelle notices a suave, yet dim-looking blonde man wearing a collar with the number five on it. Before she can ask him about the collar, his piercing eyes smouldering with a musky brand of indifference, a female party guest in a light blue see-through top (the alluring Gota Gobert) interrupts her and claims ownership of the blonde man. That's right, she owns his hunky ass–by the way, I would kill to be Gota's boy-toy. This leads to Emanuelle's next stop, an island in the Caribbean that allows single ladies to secure their weekly (or daily, depending on the their level of randiness) allotment of cock in a tropical environment. Run by Diana (Maria Piera Regoli), a closeted lesbian who has a love/hate relationship with penis-shaped finger food, Emanuelle manages to weasel her way onto the grounds of the exclusive resort and starts taking snaps with her trusty necklace camera.

If they ever decide to make Emanuelle in America action figures, I just want to let it be known that I would be the first in line to purchase the figure based on Gigolo #5.

As the ladies are sizing up the guys on the menu, I couldn't help but notice that one of them says," fan-fucking-tastic," while commenting on the quality of the man meat parading in front of them. Call me grossly unaware of such things, but I had no idea people were slipping the word "fucking" into the middle of their adjectives in the mid-1970s (I know for a fact that the junkie played by Stanley Knapp in Liquid Sky says, "abso-fucking-lutely," but that was in 1982). At any rate, I was like, what did she say? Forget about realistic snuff film footage and horse stable stroke jobs, the most shocking aspect of Emanuelle in America was the expletive infixation used by the horny woman during the gigolo pageant.

Snuff film footage, you say? While Emanuelle with one 'm' is taking pictures, she comes across a room where two people who are getting it on (no surprise here, as the entire resort has turned into one giant fuck fest), but off to side she notices a disturbing movie being projected onto a screen. Depicting some of the most ghastly acts I have ever seen captured on film (and don't forget, my eyes have seen the Jessica Simpson vehicle/toothbrush ad, Blonde Ambition), the grainy film shows a bunch of sweaty men in military uniforms brutally torturing and sexually assaulting naked women in a warehouse setting.

A quick show of hands, how many people didn't care for the way Rick 'Ercolino' Martino presented his load as "Gigolo in Beach Hut" in Emanuelle in America? One, two, three, four, wow, that's what I thought. Feel free to call me a wad snob, but the expedient manner in which my toothpaste squirts out of its tube is more robust than his drippy excuse for an orgasm.

When she gets back to New York, Emanuelle is determined to find out where the disturbing film she saw was made. Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, depending on your level of cynicism, Emanuelle ends up in Washington, D.C. where she hooks up with a politician (Roger Browne) who gets off on snuff films. Now up until this point, I wasn't sure if this was a Joe D'Amato film. After all, where was the all sick and twisted gore? However, the moment the snuff film footage (sliced up to make it look even more realistic) started to play on that dinky screen was when I realized that this was in fact a Joe D'Amato film.

Wasn't the horse tugjob scene a clear indicator of who directed this film? Yes and no. Yes, it's an extreme moment, but there was no horse climax. Anyway, when I saw that she was only going to be using her hands on Pedro's black and pink equine member, I was quite relieved. I'm not a big fan of bestiality. On the other hand, I am a big fan of 1970s interior design, and everything in Emanuelle's apartment, from the orange throw pillows to the fern leaf curtains, was to die for. I don't drink and I don't smoke (I prefer green tea and the movie Teen Witch), but I do want a coffee table that looked like a giant pack of Marlboro cigarettes and contained a fully-stocked wet bar. In addition, the erotic artwork seen throughout the film was breathtakingly vulgar.

In closing, you gotta love a film that opens with its protagonist shooting a bunch of models posing on a motorcycle in striped socks mixed with shots of them walking the streets of Manhattan in a white leisure suit (which, I must say, looked amazing against Laura Gemser's skin). If only more movies had the wherewithal to start off like this, the film world would be a much sexier place, especially if the fabulous music of Nico Fidenco is playing on the film's killer soundtrack (the "Emanuelle in America Theme" is a sensational piece of music). But I'm afraid the art of titillation is dead. Topless women in thigh-high striped socks being photographed on motorcycles, their untamed swathes of hearty pubic hair mocking the shaving industry with every playful pelvic thrust, is no longer chic. Nothing is allowed to be sexy anymore. Sure, I could have done without the emasculating unpleasantness of the horse scene and the nipple slicing excesses of the snuff footage (the ending could have used some tweaking as well), but nothing beats the sight of a strong, sexually liberated woman traveling the world in designer threads and exposing wrongdoings at every turn.

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