Patrick Still Lives (Mario Landi, 1980)

Out of these four Italian actresses, Mariangela Giordano, Carmen Russo, Andrea Belfiore and Anna Veneziano, which one shows her bush in Patrick Still Lives? I'll give you a minute to think about it. Okay, if you said Mariangela Giordano, you would be correct. However, if you chose Carmen Russo, you would be correct as well. Actually, if you answered Andrea Belfiore, ding ding ding, you're a winner, too. In fact, if you selected Anna Veneziano as your choice, congratulations, you clearly know your stuff, or, I should, you clearly know your bush. (Hey, what gives, man?) Gives?!? Why, nothing gives. Every Italian actress who appears in this film, one that is loosely based on the Australian chiller, Patrick, is stark naked at one point or another. And therein lies the innate appeal of this psychological barn-burner from Mario Landi. In most movies, you'll be lucky if you can get one actress to allow you to film her being killed by dogs while wearing an open robe. But the producers of this film somehow managed to snag four actresses willing to perform the various uncouth activities that are peppered throughout this sleazy enterprise. (Now that I think about it, you should have framed your opening question this way: Out of these four Italian actresses, which one exposes her jet black Italian bush onscreen for the longest?) Damn, that's a tough one. Is it okay if I watch the film again? (Sure, go ahead.)

While my alter ego is getting out their bush-based stopwatch, let's discuss the hair located in a different region all-together, shall we? (Don't tell me, someone finally decided to tweeze Patrick's eyebrows?) Very funny. No, if you remember correctly, I was quite shaken by the fact that none of the nurses in the original Patrick bothered to trim/pluck coma boy's eyebrows. And it's clear from the get-go that the Patrick in Patrick Still Lives, played by Gianni Dei, isn't going to have the same problem, as his eyebrows are trim and neat. But get this, Patrick's father, a one Dr. Herschel (Sacha Pitoëff), is sporting the ultimate unruly unibrow.

What the hell happened? Did the eyebrow hair jump from Patrick's face and land on his fathers? After all, he does have psychokinesis. Think about it, if he can transport objects with his mind, why not eyebrow hair? And the last time I checked, eyebrow hair is still classified as an object.

Of course, I'm bringing my own personal eyebrow baggage to the eyebrow discussion. If, say, a less superficial person was reviewing these films, they might not even make a passing reference to eyebrows. But since that person isn't here right now, the topic shall remain eyebrows. However, since the Italian Patrick doesn't have a unibrow and Dr. Herschel usually shields his unibrow with his doctor glasses, this reviews eyebrow content will be scant at best.

Which is a shame, really, as I would much rather talk about eyebrow hair than pubic hair.

Just kidding. While I like both for different reasons, I find pubic hair to be way more appealing than eyebrow hair. I don't know, there's just something about the shape that speaks to me. Yet, it's more than just a triangle-shaped patch of curly hair, you get a sense that everything is going to be all right when you gaze upon a moderately landscaped field of crisp nether fleece.

The only problem being, its soothing nature causes the viewer to become somewhat distracted. In other words, you're supposed to be watching a gripping scene where life and limb are at stake, but instead, you can't help looking at their unclothed crotches kicking up an Italian fuss.

Unlike me, this film wastes little time, as it opens with Patrick being struck in the face by a bottle tossed from a moving vehicle. Rushed to his father's clinic, there's nothing much he can do to bring back his son to the land of the not comatose.

Not sure who threw the bottle, Dr. Herschel decides to invite a strange mish-mash of people to his palatial house/clinic with the hope that Patrick might be able to finger the culprit by using his psychic abilities.

In charge of making sure the doctor's guests are taken care of is his secretary, Lydia Grant (Andrea Beliore); a blondish woman who moves her arms when she walks outside. (Huh?) Oh, it's just something I noticed. If you pay close attention to Mrs. Grant when she walks, you'll notice she doesn't swing her arms as much when she walks indoors. But once you get this gal outside, she's a regular orangutan (This just in: Blonde Italian girl-monkey escapes from local zoo).

The five people invited are as follows: Stella Randolph (Mariangela Giordano), a fierce brunette with dangerous curves, Cheryl Kraft (Carmen Russo), a fierce brunette with dangererous... You know what? Let's change things up a bit and call Mrs. Kraft a dangerous brunette with fierce curves. And the guys include the hunky David Davis (Paolo Giusti), Peter Suniak (John Benedy), he's with Stella, and Lyndon Kraft (Franco Silva), Cheryl's politician husband.

Since David Davis is the only guest who's not accompanied by a fierce and/or dangerous curvy brunette, he seeks out Meg (Anna Veneziano), the maid, who's definitely brunette. (But is she fierce?) Um, she tells him to go to hell when they first meet. Is that fierce enough for you? (I guess.) Anyway, I liked how David says "she seems nice" after being told to go to hell.

Meanwhile, down in the doctor's super-secret laboratory, naked test subjects (who are hooked up to machines covered in blinking lights) are twitching on gurneys in a room that is being bathed in this weird green light. As this is going on, Patrick lies in a catatonic state in an adjacent room (by the way, his room is being bathed in purple light as supposed to green light). To give the lab scenes an even more sci-fi vibe, the soundtrack erupts with the kind of spacey music you might in a 1950s alien invasion movie every time the action moves to the lab.

Unaware of what's going on in the lab, the guests chill out by the pool. I'm no expert when it comes to humans, but I don't think Stella and Cheryl like one another.

Quick question: How is Lydia Grant supposed to stay hydrated if Patrick keeps breaking the glasses she's about to drink from? If I was her, I would be severely annoyed.

After a rather uneventful dinner, Cheryl slips out of her slit-heavy black dress (no stockings!) and heads to the bathroom to admire her hardy bush in the mirror. Indicating to her husband that she is ready to be mounted in a manner that can best be described as "sexual," Cheryl gestures sheepishly toward her aching vagina. Clearly uninterested, Lyndon tells her, "maybe tomorrow." What a tool.

It serves right when Patrick cooks his ass in the swimming pool the following morning; a topless Stella is the one who finds his burnt corpse. Even though he wouldn't mount her last night, Cheryl is still distraught by Lyndon's death.

One by one, the doctor's guests are met with circumstances of a supernatural nature. But not before Stella and Cheryl engage in a nasty fight during dinner. Both wearing red, a drunken Stella stumbles into the dinning hall, her open robe revealing a pair of red panties that are doing a piss poor job at keeping her hairy bush under wraps, shouting brunette nonsense at her fellow brunette. An unamused Cheryl jumps to her feet an begins to hurling haphazardly aimed blows in Stella's general direction. Since both brunettes are a tad tipsy, the fight quickly devolves into a horizontal kicking match.

With no clear winner, Stella heads to her room to admire her hairy bush in the bathroom mirror. (Wait, isn't that what Cheryl did earlier in the film?) Yep. So, you see, Stella and Cheryl have more in common than you think. Of course, that doesn't mean they should be best friends. I mean, if everyone who liked to admire their furry junk in the bathroom mirror got along with one another, the world would be a much nicer place.

In my favourite scene, Lydia Grant goes to visit Patrick down in the lab after receiving a message from him on her typewriter that said, "I'm waiting for you." While sitting beside Patrick's bed, Lydia notices that she is starting to feel a tad chilly. Looking down at her pleated skirt, Lydia realizes the reason she's feeling chilly is because Patrick is slowly hiking it up using his mind. Hike that skirt up, you glassy-eyed pervert! Hike it up! Hike it up with your mind! Swooooosh!

I wonder if I should attempt to describe the gruesome scene that involves an unwilling vagina being stabbed by a large, floating metal rod? No, I think I'll pass. I will say this, though, the scene in question is surprisingly graphic. In fact, I would recommend that all vagina owners tread lightly when watching this particular scene, as it could cause unwanted psychological irregularities to occur the next time you want to use your vagina for reproductive or recreational purposes.

Speaking of vaginas, since Cheryl and Stella have already put their hairy holes on display, it's time for Lydia and Meg to get their boxes out. The former does so in the lab; she masturbates on a couch for Patrick. And the latter does so while lurking the halls in an improperly cinched robe. One of these instances ends with what I consider to be one of the most realistic dog attacks I have ever seen captured on film. What's most impressive is that's there were no, as far as I could tell, puppet dog heads used in this scene. Looking over the credits, I shouldn't have been surprised by the quality of the makeup effects, as Rosario Prestopino (Burial Ground, Delirium, Amazonia, and countless others) is the one responsible for them in this movie.

(Aren't you forgetting something?) This movie rules? (No, who's bush is onscreen the longest?) Oh, that. It's hard to say, really. But if I had to take a guess, I would say it was either Andrea Belfiore's Lydia or Mariangela Giordano's Stella. I'm sorry I couldn't be more specific. Anyway, if you like suspenseful thrillers that are well-acted and made with a Hitchcockian flair, you should go with the original Patrick. However, if you're like me (and why wouldn't you be?), and you dig watching attractive Italian chicks act insane in the vicinity of their impotent male companions, go with Patrick Still Lives.

The Sect (Michele Soavi, 1991)

It's all Soavi, all the time, and I'm lovin' it. You could say that my brain is now officially a citizen of the U.S.S.R. Get it? My cranial allegiances are now squarely with the United Soavi Socialists Republics. Wow. You noticed that the name, "Soavi," the surname of the writer-director of The Sect, the latest mind-scrambler from Michele Soavi (Stage Fright), sort of sounded like "Soviet," and you somehow manged to tie them together. Very clever. No, seriously. I'm impressed. It's not everyday you come across someone who is openly willing to point out the similarities between "Soavi" and "Soviet." But here you are, doing exactly that. I must say, I commend your dedication to your craft. Okay, that's enough praise for one day. Let's focus our attention on The Sect, shall we? Word on the street says that it's got mischievous bunny rabbits and surprisingly chic grey blazers that were both, get this, purchased on a German teacher's salary. Oh, yeah, there's a movie to write about, and a delightfully fucked up one at that. First things first, was it wrong to feel gladness in my tum tum when a bunch of hippies are murdered by a gang of devil worshipers in the California desert in the early 1970s? Really? So, you're saying that's the correct thing to feel. That's a relief. I mean, here I was, feeling guilty about being all glad and junk that an entire commune of hippies, including their annoying children, were sacrificially slaughtered by the aforementioned Satanists. But it turns out, it's completely natural to want hippies to be murdered. What about bunny rabbits, is it okay to want them to die as well? That's a little more tricky. You see, humans care more about animals than they do people, so you better careful. Besides, bunny rabbits bring joy to millions, while everyone hates hippies. Just kidding about the over the top hippie animosity. In reality, I'm indifferent to their earth tone promoting, headband-friendly lifestyle.
 

 

I did, however, wind up developing an intense dislike for the hippies that appear in the opening scene of The Sect. I don't know, there was something about the way they implemented their hippie-centric point-of-view that rubbed me the wrong way. Taking the living on the land thing to whole new level of obnoxiousness, the hippies communing with nature in this flick are visited by a hirsute Rolling Stones fan. Reciting the lyrics to "Sympathy For The Devil" (I heard the Laibach version first, so I view it more as a Laibach song), Damon (Tomas Arana), a Christ-like stranger wanders into their patchouli-drenched fold. The fact that Damon doesn't seem visibly irked by the hippie woman who insisted on guessing the name of the Stones' song he was reciting in a menacing spoken word fashion was odd because I desperately wanted to tell her to shut her gaping pie hole.
 

 

Don't worry her pie hole won't tasting any pies where she's going. Wait a minute. That doesn't make a lick of sense. What I think you meant to say was: Her pie hole has tasted its last pie, as Damon and his bike-riding, devil worshiping friends slaughter them without mercy (some have their faces ripped clean off and tossed in a nearby  campfire). Yep, I'm afraid, on top of pies, these hippies have painted their last boob, destroyed their last clock (time is an artificial construct, man), as they all fall victim to a, and I quote, "blood thirsty demonic sect."
 

 

Flash-forward to 1991, Frankfurt, Germany, where a nondescript woman is window shopping one moment, and the next she's being stabbed to death by Giovanni Lombardo Radice; isn't it weird how these things happen? Anyway, caught carrying her heart on the subway (a pickpocket inadvertently tries to steal it), Giovanni flees the train only to end up cornered by police. Realizing that he's got nowhere to go, Giovanni shoots himself with one of the policeman's guns.
 

 

Meanwhile, in another, less gruesome part of town, a mysterious old man (Herbert Lom) is preparing for a trip. It would seem that he's not coming back, as he let's his canary out of its cage and mumbles to himself: "It is time at last. It is time." Time for what, I don't know. But you know it's going to involve some seriously weird shit. Seemingly oblivious to the news reports blasting from a portable television being watched by the other passengers pertaining to the recent slaying, a slaying that's been connected to a series of killings that revolve around the aforementioned blood thirsty demonic sect, the old man, clutching a package, rides the bus with a purposeful placidity.
 

 

"Don't touch my package!" He screams at his fellow bus riders as they attempt to help him when he starts to convulse. I'm no detective, but I think there's something important in that package of his. Either way, after putting in some strange eye drops, the old man seems fine. At a rest stop, the other passengers are getting snacks and relieving themselves. But not the old man. No, he's standing in the middle of the road. He seems to be waiting for someone. But who? Who could he be waiting for at a random rest stop? As expected, the old man is nearly run down by a woman wearing a grey suit.
 

 

Now lying in the middle of the road, the old man eventually opens his eyes only to find that there are a bunch of people standing around him. Feeling terrible about what happened, Miriam Kreisl (Kelly Curtis), the woman driving the car that almost hit him, offers to take him to her house to rest. That's right, Miriam, an attractive woman who rocks a grey pencil skirt with a matching jacket like nobody's business, just offered to take a dishevelled old man carrying a strange package home with her.
 

 

I don't think this is a good idea, Miriam. What? You don't care. Fine, don't listen to me. But don't come crying to me if you wake up with mealworms coming out of your ears.
 

 

We get a great shot of Miriam's grey suit as she's making tea in the kitchen. What the fuck? You're making tea for him?!? Are you blind? He's up to no good. Look at him!
 

 

Despite my objections, Miriam welcomes the old man into her home, which, get this, he says is very familiar. You see, right there. That's a definite red flag. Very familiar my ass. Introducing him to her nameless bunny, a bunny that will be surprisingly integral to the film's plot later on, Miriam and the old man relax in the living room to discuss life and the Rolling Stones. Hold on. Isn't that the same band the guy from the 1970s...I'm way ahead of you.
 

 

Holy crap! She's letting him spend the night. I'm surprised she didn't let him sleep in her bed. What's this? The old man is opening his package. This can't be good. Okay, he's now walking upstairs. Again, nothing good can come from this. Standing over Miriam, who's snug as a bug, the old man starts to fiddle with something. It's funny you should say, "snug as a bug," because the old man is putting a live insect on her face. Oh, look. The insect just crawled up Miriam's nose.
 

 

As the insect makes its way through Miriam's nasal cavity, we're zapped into her subconscious. Containing a lush field covered with red flowers, Miriam's brain might seem like paradise. But lurking underneath all that berenyian lushness lies something sinister. While Miriam was doing the whole exploring her dream realm in a nightgown thing (watch out, that giant bird wants to peck your neck), it suddenly dawned on me that Kelly Curtis has an electrifying screen presence. And, get this, she spends most of the movie in a drab grey suit. I would definitely put Kelly Curtis' performance in The Sect in the same category as Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby and Catherine Deneuve in Repulsion in terms of frazzled white women in peril.
 

 

After the old man opens a secret door in Miriam's basement (a door Miriam had no idea existed), the film's surreal plot starts to thicken. A young doctor named Frank (Michel Adatte) and Miriam's friend Kathryn (Mariangela Giordano from Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror), a fellow teacher, are soon added to the mix. And just in time, as Miriam needs all the help she can get in order to maintain her sanity. A demonic wash cloth with a mind of its own is turning people into raving lunatics, Miriam's water has blue slime in it (check out the "pipe cam" scene, as we follow the bluish water to the tap), pesky Asian women who randomly show up in her German basement (Coming this Fall to FOX: There's an Asian Woman in My German Basement - starring Brenda Song and Franke Potente), and her pet bunny watches television (and I don't mean it simply stares at the television, it uses the remote to change the channels and everything).   
 

 

You know for sure that things are about to go off the rails when Carla Cassola shows up as Dr. Pernath, an understatedly leggy surgeon/Satanist who sort of looked like an Italian version of Helen Mirran. I don't know, there was something about her that practically screamed cult member. Sure, she's got a wrist tattoo to prove she's in league with Satan, but her greyish bob hairstyle and affinity for white nylons were dead giveaways as far as I'm concerned.
 

 

I loved the face ripping hooks, the giant stork, the necessary close-up of Miriam's nylon encased feet, the creepy well in Miriam's German basement (you know, the one that is replete with Asian ladies), the morgue scene, and the shot of Kelly Curtis' climbing out of a wrecked car in a torn nightie. I love them all. But what I don't understand is, why do the sect members seem shocked, especially the old man, when Miriam doesn't act enthusiastic when it comes time to ask her to join their demonic club. You can't expect a grown woman, one who has a sweet teaching gig that allows her to wear grey suits on a daily basis, to suddenly fall head over heels for Satan. It doesn't make any sense. I mean, you would think they'd have planned a little better. After all, they've had thousands of years to prepare. But that's just a minor quibble. In the grand scheme of things, The Sect is yet another awesome helping of Italian made crazy, one that repeatedly fingered my sweet spot.

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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

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