Bloody Pit of Horror (1967)

Dir: Massimo PupilloCountry of Origin: ItalyRunning Time: 87 mins
The demand for Gothics, particularly abroad, had become almost insatiable by the mid-1960s. Since the opportunities for aspiring Italian filmmakers were based almost exclusively on how much cash your films brought in, most took to making films that did well abroad rather than in their native Italy. On these cheaply made films, shooting schedules were fairly short and they usually at least made their money back. A lot of directors signed up for these opportunities, some innovated and others ended up stuck making crappy B-Movies that followed whatever was trending. This wasn’t a bad thing for longevity, mind you. One of the reasons Lucio Fulci (director of Zombie Flesh Eaters) worked for so long was how adaptable he was to different kinds of material, making gialli (violent murder mysteries) in one decade and gruesome zombie flicks in the next. Some ended up stuck with contracts to make films they didn’t really want to make, or at the very least were being required to make films on an almost production line basis.
This was the reality of the industry at the time. You made the film quickly and cheaply, or you didn’t work at all. The problem is of course when you make films like this, getting across any kind of vision or even any sense of quality and entertainment is challenging. Mario Bava was good at doing this. Others struggled with the material that they were given, and others just threw everything but the kitchen sink at a project. Massimo Pupillo, a workmanlike but highly capable director who had previously made ‘Terror Creatures from the Grave’ (which I will review) was challenged to make films for the studio as appealing to audiences as possible, which basically meant putting in as many boobs and torture scenes as a film could reasonably allow at the time. The film ended up being credited to its producer Ralph Zucker because Massimo Pupillo did not - and I quote - ‘give a fuck’.

                                         This bodes well.
The frankly ludicrous plot runs like this; a troupe of models and photographers for a magazine, are driving through the countryside when they happen upon an abandoned castle. After exploring, they discover that it isn’t is as abandoned as they think it is and is in fact the home of a reclusive retired actor called Travis Anderson, Who clearly doesn’t want them there. He relents, but soon bad things start happening, usually involving women not wearing very much, or extraordinarily unconvincing Iron Maidens with rubber spikes. 
The main antagonist is played by Mickey Hargitay, former Mr Universe and widow of Jayne Mansfield who in one of the least surprising twists of all time, declares himself to be the reborn crimson executioner, whom we saw get executed for his hideous crimes of murdering women with rubber iron maidens in the prologue. His presence in a set of ludicrous red spandex pants, a gold medallion around his neck and a domino mask, does certainly loom large on the screen although not for the reasons Pupillo probably intended. Hargitay starts the film with the sort of hammy intensity some muscle movie actors could only dream of, but then something happens and his performance just ramps up and up until he is constantly wearing an expression that makes him look like he’s trying to pass a kidney stone. All of this while he gets torturing attractive young ladies to death in his cellar o’ S&M and proceeds to chew up even more scenery. The film does have some wit about it, some of the banter between models and photographers is quite amusing at times, although it rapidly wears out its welcome during the middle of a film when you want things to actually start happening. It’s got some lovely cinematography at times mind you, mainly because the castle they are in is quite stunning. There were times when I drifted off just watching the castle - actually the castle itself has more charisma than several of its leads, particularly the photographer Dermot, which in one of the most meta moments of all time, is played by producer Ralph Zucker who ended up taking directorial credit for this film (and how proud he must have been).                                                                                                  The greatest spider robot in the world
The film is utterly daft, an exercise in lurid, melodramatic nonsense that is never anything but ridiculous. A particular standout is a ludicrous scene in which one of the models is attached to a giant spider’s web, with crossbows around her prepared to fire anyone some just touches any of the strings, all while a poisonous mechanical spider is zooming along the ceiling towards her. If this sounds awesome, I can assure you it absolutely is not.
 I still couldn’t tell you if the spider is supposed to be real or not, because as either a living or a mechanical spider, it still looks like crap. Apparently Pupillo was trying to make the most of the subject matter he had, struggling to introduce some sexual symbolism here and there, but unfortunately it is just a film that is just the sum of its parts. When you have a film in which most of the punch-ups involve people throwing punches that never even connect quite visibly on screen, your thoughts aren’t really on the inherent symbolism. When the crimson executioner it is on screen, you’re more startled by his terrifying bulge than anything else.                                                                             Thank god it’s not in 3D..It is a fairly enjoyable watch provided you turn your brain off. This is in spite of a middle section that drags and the utter hamminess of the whole enterprise. It is in glorious Eastman colour and it is quite amusing, whether intentionally or not. It’s not really bad enough for a bad film night, and it’s not exactly good enough to be considered a classic of the genre either, even if you are stretching the definition of classic to its absolute furthest extent. It has its fans, but it’s best regarded as a perfect crystallisation of all the excesses of the late 1960s.