R.I.P. Herschell Gordon Lewis

                               06/15/29 - 09/26/16

R.I.P. Andrzej Żuławski

                      11/22/40 - 02/17/16

"Brain Damage" (1988) d / Frank Henenlotter

If you happen to enter my media room (you're either a hot chick or a member of my inner circle, congrats, either way), you'll notice that the German poster for tonight's review that I've had since the nineties,  hangs, right next to my German print of Carpenter's Halloween (1978)...I never dreamed I'd get this snobby in my old age, really, but here I am, running down my Henenlotter pedigree. No stopping now. I spent sixty-four ninety-five on the Media VHS of Basket Case (1982) when it first came out (I was fourteen), and though I could never stabilize the tracking the whole way through on the big floor model tv in the parlor ( Mr. Bradley's nose always looked like Margaret Hamilton's, as he walked slowly down the cellar stairs on my copy), I was instantly a huge fan of Frank's work. His next film, 1988's Brain Damage, I also saw upon release, and liked even more. Where Basket Case suffered from budgetary restraints in areas, Damage handles the same dilemma, and pulls it off; a more polished, funnier, more generally effective film than his previous effort.


Next week on "When Keith Moon and Syd Barrett Play Hide n' Seek at the Junkyard"...
An elderly couple (just as worldly, judging by their culture-laden digs) seeks out their family pet at the outset, to show him the nice calves' brains they've gotten him, but he's flown the coop, causing his captors to obsessively, haphazardly needle through all of their belongings to find him, until they're both left spastic and foaming on the floor. Elsewhere in the building, there's young Brian (Rick Hearst), who's bedridden with a headache, only to end up on a mind blowing trip of psychedelia and colors, thanks to the mouth parts of Aylmer, a phallic, wisecracking parasite who sort of resembles a smug brussel sprout that attaches itself to the host's neck and shoots a blue euphoria-inducing fluid into their brain. In return for the experience, the host must provide him with a steady diet of brains, preferably human, and fresh out of a living skull? Why, that's even better...


"The waitress, a vampire named Perkins...was so very fond of small gherkins, while she served the tea, she ate forty-three...which pickled her internal workin's! Ho! Ho! Ho!"
Brian is instantly hooked on Aylmer's juice, and willingly strolls out into the New York night with the lump on his neck, unaware that, while he trips his face off, the talking shillelagh will be claiming victims; first a night watchman at a junkyard, then a wasted chick at a punk rock show willing to get her knees dirty. Meanwhile, his relationships with his girlfriend, Barbara (Jennifer Lowry), and his brother, Mike (Gordon MacDonald), become so strained that she ends up waxing his brother down instead, when he blows off their dates, often for a splashy party in the tub with Aylmer (!). It's only when Brian tries to take charge of their symbiotic partnership that Aylmer tells the young man his historic back story, and, in a battle of wills, refuses to juice him, while holed up in a flea bag hotel room. I won't ruin the ending for you here, it's one you need to see to believe. Snag a copy.


It's not the face you fuck, but the fuck you face, except for this fatal face fuck.
Two years later, Henenlotter would revisit Belial and Duane Bradley in Basket Case 2 (1990), though it should be mentioned that they make a cameo here in a hilarious subway standoff with Brian and Aylmer that I never saw coming the first time around and left me laughing. Fellow Basket Case alum, Beverly Bonner, also makes an appearance here. The first time I heard Aylmer's distinct voice, I knew it was New York Horror Host and Chiller Theater regular, John Zacherle, uncredited, though how I fished his name out of the dark recesses of my memory is still puzzling, seeing how I'd only caught Zacherle's act a few times during my childhood (probably the last being his 3D presentation of Gorilla at Large on WOR-TV 9 six years earlier), which belonged exclusively to Dr. Shock, and to a lesser degree, Uncle Ted, during his Ghoul School days. Man, I wouldn't trade growing up in my era for anything. So much good stuff, which happens to be what Henenlotter is synonymous with: good genre stuffs a'plenty. Damage scores a perfect four Wops, as an urban horror/comedy/fantasy about addiction, as gritty as it is urbane. My highest recommendation comes along with it.


Ear's looking at goo, kid.

"Una sull'altra" (1969) d/ Lucio Fulci

One of the main reasons I decided to keep with the Italian genre motif from last October for the site's return (besides my discreetly extreme favorable prejudice towards it!), was the volume of lesser known, underrated gems I'd lined up for you before my latest computer crash, and I just couldn't ignore some of these for another twelve months or the next gimmicky month I happen to dream up between then. Granted, I've been trudging you through some oddities of little renown and even less concern this month, but tonight, your patience has been rewarded with the first Fulci review I've got on tap.  
A Lucio-verture of lush cinematography, beautiful women in various states of undress, and epic treachery is what you'll be treated to, and just what you'd expect from a film proponent of Fulci's level of mastery while he was at his very best. Helping him to realize his vision are Jean Sorel, familiar to genre fans from his turns in  A Lizard in a Woman's Skin  and The Short Night of Glass Dolls (both 1971), as well as 1973's Day of the Jackal, and Marisa Mell, who'd previously worked with no less than Mario Bava himself on Danger: Diabolik a year earlier, later appearing in giallo fave, Seven Bloodstained Orchids (1972). The excellent score was famously provided by the iconic Riz Ortolani. Let's get on top of this one, shall we?


I see what you did there, Lucio.
It seems there's this doctor in San Francisco named Dumerrier (Jean Sorel), who's anchored to a money pit clinic that he runs with his brother (Alberto de Mendoza) and  prior marriage vows to his sickly, asthmatic wife, Susan (Marisa Mell), which are keeping him from running off for good with his healthier paramour, Jane (Elsa Martinelli). Of course, he's not all conscience, this one, as he's left his wheezing burden in the charge of a nurse named Betty as he leaves on a trip to secure some crucial financial backing for the clinic. Just kidding, he's off galavanting at the casino with his fidanzata, Jane, when news of his wife's sudden death is delivered to him, along with some insurance policy mumbojumbo about a two million dollar policy that he's the sole heir of. Something about sedatives mistaken for asthma medication... Of all the lucky breaks a guy can have...you would think.


Guardate! Eccolo.
Soon afterwards, George excuses himself from dinner with Jane to receive an anonymous call, suggesting he check out the headliner at the local strip club, where the good doctor is taken by a certain female sex performer named Monica, who just so happens to be identical to his late wife, save for eye and hair color. Che coincidenza! Such a coincidence, in fact, that George gets slapped into a jail cell, while Monica is taken in for questioning, herself. As you might have imagined, there are several dizzying directions the mysterious narrative can veer off on from here, and Fulci masterfully explores all possibilities before revealing the true course of the film's script, which he also co-wrote, The formula is successful, and the resulting genre staple twists and turns, which I will leave for you to discover on your own when you score yourselves a copy from the fine folks who've made it available over at Severin, bring it all to a very satisfying climax, thanks to another spoiler-free wrap up here from your pal, Wop.
  

Fulci crea una Godiva moderna. C'e' spazio su di esso per un uomo come tutti gli uomini e nessun uomo? 
I feel like the maestro was at the top of his game during the period in which this film was made, and along with Beatrice Cenci (1969), Una lucertola con la pelle di donna aka/ A Lizard in a Woman's Skin (1971), and Non si sevizia un paperino aka/ Don't Torture a Duckling (1972), representing the director's strongest work; a perfect introduction to film buffs that might otherwise ignore his vast artistic merits on the notoriety that his later, more exploitative efforts would be met with, outside of the gore crowd. There are touches of that Lucio here to behold, as well, a mere hint of the floodgates of violence he would help to open later in the decade. I'd suggest that One on Top of the Other, Perversion Story, whatever title you choose to refer to it by, is a must-see for anybody interested in catching some top shelf cinema, regardless of what that person's personal cinematic preference might be. On the scale, the four Wops of perfection have again been bestowed upon the genius that is Lucio Fulci. Recommended.


Holy smokes! Jessica Lange could use a V8.

R.I.P. Alberto De Martino

 
                                  06/12/29 - 06/02/15

"Seul Contre Tous"(1998)d/Gaspar Noe

Argentinian-born, French-based director Gaspar Noe openly flirts with brilliance in his 1998 feature-length debut, shot in a combination of 16mm and CinemaScope and known internationally as 'I Stand Alone', a skeptical potrait of the futility and inner turmoils that an unemployed French horse butcher, portrayed by Phillipe Nahon, of "Haute Tension" fame, faces over several brutal days.Noe's lens captures a bleak northern French landscape wrought with poverty and desperation, while his abrupt cuts are like cinematic exclamation points for every statement he makes through the cynical, darkly humorous inner monologues of his lead's voice over.Some directors like to give you a punch in the guts while unveiling their vision to you, while others like Noe prefer to stomp you in the balls repeatedly, an especially effective method of purveying emotion.Though it may be all adrenaline rush and nostrils full o'victory when you're the one laying the boot, it's a humbling, reflexive experience when it's your bag getting pulverized, and a skillful artist like Noe gives you a bit of both here, while touching on sensitive issues like class warfare, immigration, incest, foot fetishes, knuckle-driven feticide, filicide, and suicide, and even giving you, the viewer, a William Castle-style warning card right before the shit hits the fan, so you can decide if that pipe cleaner you call a spinal column can handle what he's about to give you or if you're going to have to use that thirty seconds to flee to the concession stand like a weepy little mealy-mouthed girl with skinned knees.

"...I didn't pay ten francs just to get foot-titted, bitch."
Through some voice over narration and a montage of still photographs, we learn of our butcher's(Phillipe Nahon) disconsolate history, having been orphaned and turned out by a priest at an early age before landing in prison after having stabbed an innocent man for raping his autistic daughter, mistaking her first menstrual cycle for foul play, selling his butcher shop to a Muslim, and condemning her to a life in an institution in the same rueful swoop.While on lock down he engages in some man-on-man prison cellie action, and vows to maintain a selective memory of the experience once he's back on the outside.As if that didn't suck a big enough Hefty three-ply full o'dicks,  he inadvertently knocks up a highly unsexy barkeep upon gaining freedom, and is forced to move to the north of France with the expectant bo-hemoth and her mother on the promise that she'll buy him another butcher shop of his very own once they've relocated.Of course, she renegs on her word and sends him out on increasingly embarrassing job interviews, none of which pan out for our anti-hero.He eventually wigs out and wallops the parturient pig's pup-pouch repeatedly into a mitt-induced miscarriage before checking the fuck out like Keith Moon's Rolls in a Holiday Inn pool and getting his ass back to Paris, where his old buddies can help him out in ducking his criminal responsibility and getting back on his feet, while shacked up at the same flophouse where his institutionalized daughter was conceived years earlier.

Trente secondes? Sacre Bleu! Nous allons prendre nos cafés et cigarettes obtenir nos ânes dans le hall et le faire vite!
Of course, all of his former chums are currently more impoverished and destitute than he is, and he's forced to endure more fruitless interviews because of it, as the last of his money is wasted on drinks and junkie whores.His internal monologue becomes increasingly classist and racist, and after being denied work at a slaughterhouse he once did business with, he decides to kill the manager with a handgun he pilfered while fleeing the lethargic anchor he was married to.He plots the bourgeous boss' demise at the local watering hole, but gets kicked out after drunkenly puffing chests with the owner's son.Upon discovery that he's only got three bullets, he assigns each round to their respective recipient, one for the manager, one for his poor daughter, and the last for his own brainbox.After the whole nasty family reunion culminates in the father and daughter having sex in his room after lifting her from the home, him shooting her in the carotid artery and through the brain afterwards when the first bullet doesn't prove fatal quickly enough, finally shooting himself, before revealing that he'd been playing out the whole thing in his head, afterall.Overcome with the emotion of not committing a murder-suicide in a dirty room that he's behind on paying on, he begins to fondle his daughter and contemplates having sex with her her anyway, remarking to himself that the world only condemns their type of love because it is 'too pure'.Roll credits.

You've gone and spilled all the spaghetti sauce onto the shag carpet, you clumsy girl.
Definitely an impressive effort from Noe, and we'll certainly be checking out some of his other films here at the Wop as time passes on.From a technical standpoint, Alone would score one higher, with Noe's beautifully framed shots, dripping with despair, and inventive cuts, but I'm gonna go ahead and rate the film on enjoyability instead, and though I chuckled at some of the internal dialogue and grooved on the sporadic but shocking violence, it could have used a bit more of either or both to achieve glorious four Wop status.Kind of a polished-up, sleeker Combat Shock(1984) vibe going on, and that's not a bad thing to groove on once in a while, really, is it?Still, a depressingly nihilistic, incestuous, xenophobic, hateful, womb-wallopin' good time to be had by the whole effin' family, in my book.My kinda flick.See it, then watch it again once you've picked your mandible off the floor from the first screening.

Cancel 'The Ainsley Harriot Show' on me, will you, you bastards?!!?

"Up!"(1976)d/Russ Meyer

Enjoying an exemplary early grilling season here at Chez Wop, with the respective swordfish and bison population dwindling at the apetite of yours cruelly, while you guys have quietly hit the site over the past few months like El Duce on a forty-ouncer of Hurricane at nine in the morning, leftover pizza and weight lifting optional.As a token of my gratitude, tonight we'll look over the second last feature from the King a' Gashingas, the potentate of pillow-puppies, the maharajah of major moundage, the one and only, Russ Meyer.For his bicentennial effort, a wild and woolly sex comedy with little regard for cohesion or clarity(and really, who's going into a movie like this looking for that), Russ enlisted the ample charms of the staggeringly beautiful Raven De La Croix, who measured a modest 42DD during her heyday in cult cinema and burlesque and selfishly hogged my adolescent daydreams just like the archetypal brunette sex kitten oughta.Assisting Ms. De La Croix in pitching my Levis brand tent is two time Miss Nude Universe and former arm candy of Russ himself, Francesca Natividad, merely 42D-24-36 in stature at the height of her popularity(she's been measured at 46EEE as recently as '97), a 'Kitten' I wouldn't mind having my inbox flooded with memes of for a change, to be honest with you.Also along for the ride are Janet Wood and a zipper-masked Candy Samples, neither of whom have a problem getting 'em out for the lads in front of a camera, gods bless 'em, a Hitler lookalike gettin' ass-blasted by a pilgrim with a kielbasa-sized cartoon crank in an S & M dungeon...describing the carnage as penned by Meyer and film critic/repressed pervo Roger Ebert in this mammarian whodunit's even gonna be a challenge to a wily wordsmith such as I, believe me.Twisted fucks of the world unite...and all that old pomp and circumstance, as it were...

Adolf Schwartz(Edward Schaaf), sans shorts, enjoys news reports amidst his watersports.
Straight outta the gate we're introduced by a busty nude Greek chorus(Francesca Natividad) with a dubbed British accent, to Adolf Schwartz(Edward Schaaf), a German who bears more than a striking resemblance to that other Adolf chappie, except he's in an S&M dungeon wearing furry assless chaps getting the fuck whipped out of him by a pilgrim named Paul(Robert McLane) while he ravishes various naked ethno-dames.He tips the pilgrim extra to stuff his hentai-esque cock up his whip-rattled ass.One of the more unsexy visuals in film I've ever had to endure, thanks.Later he's brutally murdered in the bathtub of his Bavarian-style Wulf's Lair hideout in northern California when some mysterious intruder in black leather gloves dumps a piranha(or grouper, same thing, I guess) named 'Harry the Nimrod' in with the bubblebathing fuhrer.The Greek chorus pops up in various picturesque environs, bucking and gyrating in nude interpretive grooviness to run down the list of murder suspects and motives to the audience keeping score at home.While the ever-so-slightly pillow-chested Margo Winchester(Raven De La Croix) bobbles her buh-hubbas on a morning jog, she's sexually attacked by a less-than-subtle admirer from afar that she's forced to cream with a post-rape boulder.The whole sordid incident is witnessed by local badge, Homer Johnson(Monty Bane), who offers to corroborate her alibi if she'd only just fuck his brains out once in awhile.She does(does she ever), later scoring a job at Sweet Li'l Alice's, a local restaurant run by it's namesake(Janet Wood) and her husband, Paul.Glad to see he settled down and dropped the whole puritan/sado-sodomizer kick he was on earlier.

Margo Winchester(Raven De La Croix) makes for an impressive seat cover, indeed.
It's not long before Paul, too, falls prey to Margo's bewitching and bountiful bait, and an abridged period of time passes before the narrative gets hung up on who's putting the blocks to who:Paul v.Margo, Homer v. Margo, Paul v. Alice, Homer v. stereotypically garbed native American chick(Margo asks, "Why's your dick so red? You been fucking an Indian??!")... Oh, that's a scream, alright.While captivating a cafe full of pickled cat-calling hayseeds one night with a table dance in a form-fitting gown with a neckline somewhere around the Marianas Trench, she inspires the reticent mountain of a lumberjack (who's a half-case of beer in), Rafe(Bob Schott), to vigorously rape her in front of the crowd of compliant clodhoppers(Meyer's in there among the hillbillies, btw).Apparently, brutal rape's a real crowdpleaser in them thar parts.When Li'l Alice tries to intervene, her clothes disappear as she becomes another layer in the Dagwood-sized rape-wich, which leads to an outrageous knock down, drag out, cafe'-battle/chase-to-the-death complete with obligatory axes and chainsaw.With Rafe and Homer presumably getting acquainted with their respective makers at the bottom of a ravine, Alice takes the opportunity to seduce Margo(naturally, who wouldn't?), which quickly dissolves into two completely naked women chasing each other, going knuckle up in a river bed, all the while laying down one of the most incomparably unhinged dialogue exchanges to ever take place in the annals of cult movie history, if not cinema itself, which I'm gonna let you hear for yourselves when you decide to check out this particular eighty minute example of Meyer's most deliriously over-the-top stuff available.Must be seen to be believed, and I don't often say that about softcore porn.

I'm exempt from tree-fucks on account of termites becoming lovestruck by my jutting Mediterranean wood.
Up! often gets dismissed as Meyer's ugliest, most hateful work due to the comedic approach to the rape scenes and one-dimensional characters with only ruckin' n' fuckin' in mind, but getting caught up in a Bugs Bunny-esque sound effect booooooiiiiiiinnnng! when somebody whips a prosthetic dick out of their pants when there's naked women who are so goddamned voluptuous that they deserve ogling from misogynists and feminists alike, traipsing through lush locales, whose beauty is only intensified by Meyer's loving lens, well then I think you've missed Russ' point completely.Besides, if you read Wopsploitation on anything resembling a regular basis, then a movie like this is right up your alley with double D doses of cartoony sex, violence, and beautiful women in every frame, though, it's admittedly a frightening thing when Roger Ebert is left to his own perverse devices while writing a screnplay, indeed.On the scale, three really Big ones, with no further boob jokes to follow...

Look out, Kitten! He's about to snatch your pelt.Or vice-versa.

R.I.P. Robert Fuest

1927-2012

R.I.P. Ken Russell

3 July 1927 – 27 November 2011

R.I.P.: Gualtiero Jacopetti

4 September 1919 – 17 August 2011

R.I.P. Jean Rollin

November 3, 1938-December 15, 2010