SUMMER OF SATAN: Damned in Venice

In which an ageing composer played by Dirk Bogarde travels to – … no, wait, wrong film.

‘Damned in Venice’ – the original Italian title ‘Nero Veneziano’ suggests ‘Darkness in Venice’ as a better rendering – is an atmospheric riff on ‘The Omen’ (it was made two years after little Damien and his nefarious nanny cleaned up at the box office) which, in my humble opinion, uses the material to much better and infinitely creepier effect than Richard Donner’s film.

Mark (Renato Cestie) and Christine (Rena Niehaus) are siblings living with their strict grandmother (Bettine Milne). Their parents died in an accident and they barely know their maternal family, the Winters, as granny blames her son’s death on them. Mark, blind, is having visions of a sinister man with a cane whose appearance seems to presage death. Christine is conducting an on-off relationship with the earnest Giorgio (Fabio Gamma), a tour guide with aspirations of being a sculptor. Christine alternately hectors him to give up his “stupid job” so he can devote himself to his art and turn down his propositions of marriage because they don’t have enough money to start a life together.

When their grandmother dies in an accident (candle, dress) that Mark is unknowingly complicit in, meddlesome priest Father Stefani (Jose Quaglio) insists that they present themselves to the Winters, Martin (Tom Felleghey) and Madeleine (Olga Karlatos, in one of three roles), and take up residence with them. Initially sceptical of them, Mr and Mrs W nonetheless invite them into their dilapidated guesthouse. Mark, informed by Father Stefani that the house is the site of a well whose waters have a curative effect, hopes to cure his blindness. The visions persist, becoming increasingly graphic: he sees the man with the cane murdering his aunt and seducing his sister.

In quick succession, Madeleine dies and Martin commits suicide (or is driven to it). Christine, as the elder sibling, inherits the guesthouse. She throws herself into renovating the property and reopens it. Her first guest, Dan (Yorgo Voyagis), is the man from Mark’s visions. Christine becomes enraptured by him and brushes aside Mark’s concerns. She dumps Giorgio. Mark’s hostility towards Dan ends with the latter leaving the guesthouse.

Things take a strange turn. Christine discovers she’s pregnant, even though her lust for Dan was never consummated. Father Stefani takes an increasingly unpriestly interest in things, encouraging Christine to marry Giorgio for the sake of respectability. Christine turns the guesthouse into a brothel. Giorgio, who reluctantly agrees to the nuptials, sets himself up in a studio on Christine’s money. Despite Dan’s departure, Mark becomes ever more tormented. Giorgio, drinking himself into a pit of self-loathing, develops a kinship with his brother-in-law. Between them, they come to the conclusion that Christine is carrying the devil’s child.

‘Damned in Venice’ depicts a quagmire of relationships – by turns obsessive, jealous and destructive – cynical enough to suggest the protagonists are as damned as the English language title would have it. Throw in the horror genre tropes and things get darker still. If Mark’s visions are internal, what happens around him leaves no doubt that a higher (and darker) power is at work. Taps oozes maggots and worms. The well into which he trustingly dips his hand is plagued with rats; his fingers come within inches of a snake. A young girl who takes pity on Mark disappears and he later finds her rotting corpse, even though she appears to be alive to everyone else. The changes in Christine are palpable. Giorgio’s behaviour grows as erratic as Mark’s.

It’s to director Ugo Liberatore’s credit that he reins in a narrative which could easily have spiralled into hysteria, the cinematography (kudos to Alfio Contini) and staging always low-key even when the script reaches its most grand guignol. Events surrounding the birth of Christine’s son are gradually revealed as an inversion of the birth of Christ. Mark’s role in things isn’t revealed until the blow-to-the-solar-plexus denouement.

‘Damned in Venice’ goes into some dark and unforgiving places. There’s one moment in particular that’s guaranteed to make you wince even if there’s not a maternal or paternal bone in your body. But for all the demonically orchestrated deaths (random sampling: hanging, beheading, impalement), the gratuitous nudity (including Giorgio degrading himself with one of Christine’s hookers, played by the luscious Ely Galleani) and the general air of moral corruption, the credits roll on a moment of quiet acceptance that is all the more chilling for its context.

SOMETHING FOR THE WEEKEND: Laura Gemser and Ely Galleani in Emanuelle and the White Slave Trade

A talented fellow blogger and staple of my link list* left a comment on one of my Black Emanuelle posts that constitutes perhaps the final word on my utterly misconceived decision to even approach these piss-stains on the underwear of cinema:

“I’m glad it's you and not me watching these. I'll search out pictures of Laura Gemser and Ely Galleani if need be, but I'll stay far, far away from these films.”

Consider this a public service. Here are three pictures of Laura Gemser and the lovely Ely Galleani. In the shower. Now you need never actually watch a Black Emanuelle film.

You’re welcome.

*Blogger/commenter confidentiality preserved.

WINTER OF DISCONTENT: Emanuelle and the Cannibalistic White Slave Traders in Prison with the Queen of Sados

Just for the sake of closure, here’s a brief overview of the Black Emanuelle films I was going to review individually, over the next four days, as part of this misbegotten offshoot of Winter of Discontent.

The content of this piece is based on only half-watching most of these films while doing other things (ironing shirts has never been so welcome a distraction) and skipping large chunks of them when the will to live became too depleted.

‘Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals’ – in which our intrepid heroine sets out to prove or disprove the existence of a cannibal tribe. A true investigative journalist to the end, she employs the age old method of shagging everyone in sight. The cannibals, she discovers, exist. A better title for this scabrous piece of filmmaking would be ‘Cannibal Pornocaust’. The atrocities on display include rape (natch), disembowelment, cruelty to animals, castration and rampant flesh-munching (the part of the anatomy the cannibals seem to favour just makes the whole thing that bit nastier). On the plus side, Nieves Navarro co-stars (under her Susan Scott pseudonym) and not to put too fine a point on it, the woman’s hotter than hell on a day when all the furnaces were turned up to the max and the devil’s attitude was fuck the gas bill.

‘Emanuelle and the White Slave Trade’ – in which our shag-happy heroine uncovers a … well, the clue’s in the title. Again, Emanuelle uncovers the story by the simple expedient of uncovering her lithe and luscious form. There’s voyeurism, masturbation, lesbian action, threesomes and – yup – rape. Brownie points for (a) being pretty much the only Black Emanuelle film to have an actual narrative arc (honest!) and (b) co-starring the achingly gorgeous Ely Galleani. Here, Galleani seems to be playing the character originally essayed by Karin Schubert in ‘Black Emanuelle’ and not the American tourist she played in ‘Emanuelle in Bangkok’. Not that the confusion matters when you’ve got a Laura Gemser/Ely Galleani shower scene to feast your eyes on.

‘Emanuelle: Queen of Sados’ – in which Emanuelle’s most perplexing assignment is trying to pin down what the original title of this movie actually was, because I’m damned if it was a bona fide Black Emanuelle flick to begin with. I rather think dubbing and retitling played their part (in some scenes the character’s clearly referred to as “Emanuella”). It’s also known as ‘Emanuelle’s Sweet Revenge’, ‘Emanuelle’s Daughter’ and ‘Emanuelle, Queen Bitch’, the first two of which are – respectively – slightly inaccurate and totally inaccurate, while the third is just plain harsh. ‘Emanuelle’s Stepdaughter’ would be more accurate, but I guess that wouldn’t sell as many tickets. Anyway, Emanuelle is apparently now married (which is why I suspect it was never a canon Emanuelle title; our heroine’s only lasting relationship is her job) and her husband an abusive prick. Emanuelle convinces some random guy (guess how?) to do away with her husband. A plane crash does the job for him. Emanuelle inherits his holiday home in the Greek islands and is appointed ward to his daughter Livia (Livia Russo). I’ve been unable to find out how old Russo was at the time of shooting, but she looks awfully young. If the lass was over 17, I’d be surprised. Although nowhere near as offensive as ‘~ in America’ or ‘~ and the Last Cannibals’, ‘~ Queen of Sados’ (no, it’s not a real Greek island) makes for a very uneasy watch when you have reason to suspect that a minor was exploited.

‘Emanuelle in Prison’ – in which the title is helpfully shortened from ‘Emanuelle Reports from a Women’s Prison (which is itself an Emanuelle-ization of the indigenous ‘Violenza in un carcere femminile’) and is sometimes used as a title for, and therefore confused with, ‘Emanuelle Escapes from Hell’ (‘Emanuelle fuga dall'inferno’). Our hump-happy heroine poses as an inmate to get the skinny on corrupt officials mistreating prisoners. Merrily hopping from slag to hag to old lag, Emanuelle gets the story and we the viewers get a depressing litany of sadistic lesbian guards, sexual humiliation, unerotic shower block nudity and tired bump-and-grind. Director Bruno Mattei evidently enjoyed it a lot more than anyone else, since he essentially remade it a year later as the aforementioned ‘Emanuelle Escapes from Hell’.

I too have escaped from hell. My dalliance with Black Emanuelle has come to an end. No disrespect to the lady: Laura Gemser in her heyday was a vision to behold. Unfortunately that vision was too often rendered on celluloid canvases smeared with filth and executed with the shoddiest aesthetic and very little in the way of directorial capability.

Fare-thee-well, my dusky maiden, it was bitter-sweet at best. But we’ll always have Ely Galleani.

WINTER OF DISCONTENT: Emanuelle in Bangkok

I closed last night’s review of ‘Black Emanuelle’ – a film I had unhesitatingly evaluated on a single viewing as a fuck-awful POS – with the phrase “I’m looking to Joe D’Amato for an upgrade in quality”.

Dear readers, if I ever – ever – say anything like that again – EVER – you have my full permission to descend on Chez Agitation en masse and beat me like a piñata for several hours. And then really get stuck in.

What was I thinking when I wrote that? Was I trying to be funny? Looking to Joe D’Amato for an upgrade in quality!?!? Dear God, you don’t say something like that without consequences. And, oh sweet baby Jesus in a charnel house, did I suffer the consequences!

‘Emanuelle in Bangkok’ (a.k.a. ‘Black Emanuelle Goes East’, which makes it sound like a porno sequel to ‘The Ghost Goes West’) opens with a piece of music that makes the ‘Black Emanuelle’ OST at its absolute nadir sound like Handel’s ‘Messiah’. It’s called “Sweet Leaving Thing” and it’s “permorfed” (according to the end credits) …

… by Silky Sound Singer (who I hope with every ounce of moral outrage in my body was sued under the Trades Description Act for that name) and it’s egregious. I’m not talking bad. I’m not talking horrible. I’m not even talking fuck-awful. In fact, I don’t know if I have the linguistic ability to describe just how sanity-weakening, soul-destroying, aurally-offensive, harmonically-repulsive, bile-inducing and sonically cancerous it is … But I’ll try. Imagine listening to an ungodly conflation of the world’s worst country & western outfit and the world’s cheesiest oompah band. Now imagine listening to them while you’re undergoing major root canal work without anaesthetic and to ensure that you don’t pass out and miss even a single minute of the agony one of the dental nurses is hammering a six inch nail through your scrotum while her colleague repeatedly jabs you in the eye with the business end of an arc welder.

That’s what this song sounds like. You can probably find it on YouTube – hell, you can find the whole movie pretty easily online – but I would urge you not to. In fact, I’d beg you. It’s the aural equivalent of ‘2 Girls, 1 Cup’. You can never unhear it.

So, I was three minutes into the movie and the fucking opening credits music was making me want to self-harm. Surely it had to get better. I took a slug of whisky and told myself the worst was over. Christ, I’m a lying bastard.

The first scene has Emanuelle (Laura Gemser) taking a slow boat to Bangkok and dallying with a moody archaeologist named Roberto (Ivan Rassimov). Their first sex scene, in Emanuelle’s cabin, strives for authenticity. It looks like it was actually filmed in a ship’s cabin. And the thing about cabins is, they’re generally small. The scene is framed in a manner that suggests there wasn’t enough room for the camera and the DoP as well as the performers, so the camera was just rammed into the corner of the cabin and left to roll. Accordingly, the viewer is treated to several minutes of awkward manoeuvring, random body parts and generic slurping sounds. To make things worse, D’Amato decides to nick Albertini’s people shagging/piston rod and cylinder box juxtaposition from the original movie. Except that D’Amato ups the ante by cutting away to a roomful of piston rods hammering away as the massive marine engine powers the ship on through the night.

The, ahem, “story” involves Emanuelle’s attempts to get an interview with some royal personage. To this end, she dallies with the royal dude’s cousin. Said cousin takes her to a massage parlour where D’Amato happily rips of Gemser’s iconic scene from ‘Emmanuelle 2’. Then Emanuelle, royal cousin dude and an American couple – the wife was played by Ely Galleani, I can tell you that much, but I can’t be bothered hitting up IMDb for character names/cast list – who they randomly bump into all head for a club where a stripper does uses ping-pong balls in her act, after which they boogie on down to an opium den, get high and fornicate in various combinations. Ely Galleani has a too-brief girl-girl scene with the oriental masseuse. Which is nice.

Next thing, the deal with the monarch’s cousin goes south when some mercenaries who are about to stage a coup warn Emanuelle that Bangkok isn’t safe for her and she should leave. They issue this warning by way of a gang rape. If the very concept, content and execution of the scene isn’t offensive enough, it’s suggested that Emanuelle’s sexual confidence has equipped her to transmute an act of violence into a more or less pleasurable experience. That fact that the scene ends with the mercenary who instigated the gang rape seeing Emanuelle on her way and wishing her luck just ramps up the inappropriateness factor to a whole other level.

Emanuelle departs Bangkok, albeit on temporary papers since her passport was taken in a hotel room robbery. At the airport, she bumps into Ely Galleani. What do you know, they’re on the same flight! A Sapphic induction to the mile high club ensues.

Emanuelle travels to Casablanca where she looks up Roberto. He’s shacked up with a fellow archaeologist, Janet. She’s initially hostile towards Emanuelle, but a little three-way action breaks the ice. Meanwhile, Emanuelle petitions the consul to help out as regards her stolen passport and discovers that the wheels of bureaucracy spin a tad smoother when the consul’s daughter takes a fancy to you. Roberto doesn’t take too well to Emanuelle’s relationship with Deborah (she being la fille du consul) and angrily calls them “lezzers” before he storms off. At this point, the appearance of Vicky Pollard delivering a monologue along the lines of “yeah but, no but, what it was right, I sat next to that Emanuelle and she totally copied off me coz I told everyone about her diddling Deborah outside the consulate and Roberto totally busted me for it and oh my God I so can’t believe she did that coz anyway everyone knows she’s a lezzer” would have been the most awesome thing imaginable, an act of cinematic alchemy transforming this celluloid dunghill into something marvellous.

But unfortunately Vicky Pollard has standards and would never work with Joe D’Amato (“yeah but, no but, he’s totally a perv and he’d be shoving a camera up me skirt wouldn’t he?”) and instead of becoming something marvellous, ‘Emanuelle in Bangkok’ goes from bad to worse to pointless. The abrupt shift from Bangkok to Casablanca suggests nothing more than a first cut clocking in at an hour and D’Amato and company desperately shooting anything just to pad it out to feature length. The bits of supposed “local colour” that interspersed the kit-offery are mostly drab. There’s a grim and depressing scene, that seems to go on forever, of Emanuelle taking photographs of a snake-on-mongoose smackdown. It’s completely unfaked and it makes the turtle death in ‘Cannibal Holocaust’ look like an episode of ‘Animal Rescue’.

The whole misbegotten thing ends with Emanuelle reluctantly parting from Deborah, even though our infamously transitory and commitment-shy heroine has admitted to deep and profound feelings for the lass (a spiritual and emotional communion they consummate by taking a bubble bath together), because she has another assignment to go on. Against all the odds, their airport farewell is almost poignant … until that fucking song comes line-dancing onto the soundtrack again, stomping its dirty heels all over your will to live.