Happy Birthday, Paul Naschy!

September 6, 1934 – November 30, 2009 

Gone, but never forgotten.

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EMPUSA (2010): or, Naschy's Final Bow

A little more than five years ago, the Duke of DVD and I started this blog with a review of Vengeance of the Zombies (1973). That film was and is a perfect example of everything Mad Mad Mad Mad Movies has sought to celebrate, a little-known slice of insane and deliriously entertaining cinema that brought us so much joy, we just had to share it with the world. It was also the first movie we had ever seen featuring the legendary hunk of monstrous manliness that is Jacinto Molina, better known to us all as Paul "Fucking" Naschy. Over half a decade and more than 350 reviews, Paul has been the patron saint of our site, inspiring us to continue our search for treasure in the forgotten realms of b-movie madness, and providing an immovable foundation on which we have tried to build a fitting tribute. His frequent appearances here only give a small glimpse of the wonder he has afforded us, the joy he has so generously given.

So it's only fitting that, in this belated 5th Anniversary Post, I come back to the man who started it all. And ironic perhaps that I do so with the film that, in a way, ended it all: Paul's very last starring role in a feature film, Empusa (2010). I admit, going into this flick, I was a little worried--I'd been waiting for this since August of 2007, two years before Naschy's death, when I heard that principal photography was finished and post-production had begun. As the months passed, my excitement flowed and ebbed, and now at last here it was, ready to be watched. Could it possibly live up to my anticipation? Would it be a fitting end to my idol's magnificent career? Would it deliver the madness and joy I craved, or would it fall flat? Would Empusa (perish the thought) disappoint?

Ah, Paul, fogive me. I should never have doubted you.

J&B: the Breakfast of Champions

 In a beautiful resort city somewhere on the sunny coast of Spain, retiree Abel (Naschy, whose long flowing wig and array of do-rags tread the line between ridiculous and awesome) lives a simple, quiet life. He spends his days walking the beach with his fisherman friend Victor (Antonio Mayans) and his nights between the legs of innkeeper/saloon girl Natalia (María Jesús Solina). He writes about his avocational occult researches, socializes with local aristocrat Baron Ulrich (Paco Racionero),  takes recreational barbiturates and consumes gallons of undiluted absinthe. You know, the simple pleasures.

His peaceful routine is shattered, however, when one day he and Victor almost literally stumble over a grisly discovery on the beach: the severed right hand of a young woman, bearing a very strange wrist tattoo. Over the strenuous objections of his friend, Abel takes the hand back to his apartment and sticks it in the fridge, for...um, further research or something. Abel promises Victor he will return the hand to the beach in a couple of days--three, tops!--and then they can call the police.

Even Paul's porn is classy

A quick Internet search later, Abel has confirmed his initial suspicion--that the hand belongs to a victim of the Empusa, a class of demons in Ancient Greek mythology that are like vampires, only meaner. These exclusively female creatures have none of the traditional weaknesses of folkloric vampires, and satisfy their unholy appetites on the blood of their male and female lovers. Their surviving victims thereafter become "second-hand vampires," which are the garlic-fearing, sunlight-shunning, stake-hating sorts of folks we're all much more familiar with. Which makes sense, you'll agree. Shaken by this discovery--though not so much so you'd notice--Abel takes the hand back to the beach and tosses it into the ocean, forgetting his promise to inform the authorities.

Sadly, this is not the end of the horror--a few days later the police discover a nude body on the beach, a young Nordic tourist who coincidentally is missing her right hand. Not long after, Victor and a friend go squid-fishing only to pull in another mutilated body in their nets. A couple of seashell-seeking daytrippers are attacked Alfred Hitchcock-style by a flock of seagulls (vampires:bats::seagulls:empusa, apparently). And while dining with the Baron, Abel gorges himself on all-you-can-eat shrimp while the aristocrat is assassinated by a steak knife-wielding Belgian--though apparently this has nothing to do with the empusa. Just a value-added bloodbath.

"Got any Chapstick? Just put it on my bill."

Meanwhile, Abel's social life has taken a turn for the "Wow!" While lunching in town, the old Lothario strikes up a conversation with a striking, flame-haired young woman, Christabel (Cristina Carrión), who just so happens to be of Greco-Hungarian extraction. Despite having discovered evidence of a Greek demonic invasion mere days earlier, Abel sees nothing strange in a Hellenic hottie making eyes at a man three times her age--because fuck you, I'm Naschy, that's why! He meets Christabel later frolicking nude in the waves with a female friend, who seems similarly drawn to the irresistible Molina Man-Musk™. A day or so later, he meets yet another interested party--the absolutely smokin' hawt Laura De Pedro--who is looking for some silver artifacts that are rumored to be in the possession of the deceased Baron. With all the new women in his life Abel has little time for Natalia and Victor, the latter of whom just can't shake the feeling that the hand they found and the recent death-storm raining bodies on the beach might have something in common.

Of course Victor's not wrong--Christabel and her ever-expanding army of Eurobabes are indeed a pack of empusa on the loose-a, sucking their way through the local populace while Christabel prepares to battle with their queen Lilith (yes, THAT Lilith...apparently Greek and Jewish mythology have significant overlap) for empusian supremacy. She thinks Abel might be the wild card she needs to overthrow the ancient queen, but of course once she reveals her plan, the old fox is none too keen on helping her. Maybe she and her bffs shouldn't have killed Victor in a blood-fueled frenzy before asking for help? No use second guessing, I guess.

With vengeance on his mind, Abel sets out to bring down Lilith and the other empusa, getting posthumous help from Victor, who appears to him as a rotting corpse a la American Werewolf in London. But what can an old man do against an army of deathless vampire-demons and their ancient queen? Can he find a way to defeat them before they take over all of coastal Spain? Will aged justice prevail over nubile evil?

Puh-leez.

No, thank you.

In addition to being his last starring vehicle, Empusa also marks Naschy's last writing and directorial credit, and as he often does, here he adopts the "everything and the kitchen sink" approach that makes so many of his movies such wild, delirious rides. Obscure ancient mythology, literary and cinematic allusions, European folklore and good old-fashioned exploitation all rub together and produce a friction that is as delicious as it is confusing. Naschy was never afraid to throw everything at the wall just to see the splatter-pattern, and his last effort is no less fearless in this regard than his first.

It's also, believe it or not, extremely funny--and in this case, that's by design. Yes, parishioners, Empusa is not simply a monster movie: it's an all-out horror/comedy! Naschy plays Abel as an absolutely unrepentant rascal, and his chemistry with Mayans as the perpetually exasperated Victor is the stuff of comedy gold. There were many laugh-out-loud scenes for me, including but not limited to:

• Abel's ravenous obliviousness as the Baron regales him with tales of his ancestors' outrageous sexual exploits ("She dyed her pubic hair every color of the rainbow!") before the Baron's hilarious dying soliloquy (his last words compare his gaping abdominal wound to "a waiting, open c****!")
• A police inspector who reflexively punches out a corpse
• Victor communicating with Abel from beyond the grave...via FAX.
• An elderly priest, cop, and fisherman discussing their new status as "second-class vampires"

Viagra: Let Us Put an Epidemic in Your Pants™

• An absolutely hysterical sequence where Abel tries several traditional methods of repelling vampires on the empusa, with hilariously ineffective results
• Naschy learning the hard way that you shouldn't buy crossbows over the Internet

That's not to say the movie is perfect, however. While the women playing the empusa are all completely gorgeous and frequently naked (zang), as actresses they are almost uniformly terrible. I guess it's too much to ask for a modern equivalent of Julia Saly or Helga Liné, but still--ugh. The lone exception is Laura De Pedro as Lilith, who actually seems to know what she's doing and thus comes off as the best actress in the piece.

And also the sexiest.
(photo credit empusafilm.blogspot.com)

The score is either questionable or hysterical depending on your taste, veering from melodramatic orchestral swells to Danny Elfman-style whimsy with reckless abandon. The editing is a trouble spot too--transitions step on dialog, gaps in coverage are filled with random scenes of archaeological digs (?), and a couple of kills--one in a back alley by an empusa, and another in an amusement park spookhouse (??) by Lilith herself--pop in and out of the narrative with such disregard for coherence and continuity that I almost got whiplash.

I found it interesting that with the exception of the monsters, almost the entire cast was made up of actors of more advanced years. I don't think I saw a single human character under the age of 50 who had more than a few lines, which is extremely unusual and a little refreshing in our youth-obsessed culture. However, perhaps as a result of this (and perhaps as a result of the film's budget) there were noticeably few "action" scenes--in fact, a great deal of the film's runtime involves two people sitting in a cafe talking, which may be trying to some viewers' patience. The one real special-effects scene is a standout though, with Lilith in her true form--a nicely grotesque mixture of green scaly demon-beast and hot nude Eurobabe--chowing down on a hapless victim.

Literature: Bridging the Generation Gap since 1955

I would say that whether you enjoy Empusa or not will depend very largely on whether you are already a Naschy fan. To be very honest, I can't see someone unfamiliar with his work watching the film and getting much out of it. But for me (and for the Duke, judging by his chortles and snorts as we watched), it was entertaining, joyful, and a heck of a lot of fun. It's not the best of Naschy's movies by any means, but neither is it the worst. It has the kitchen-sink mentality and the heedless creative energy that make all of Naschy's films such a treat for his fans. And best of all, it has Naschy, his wry wit, his love of all things horror, and the boundless childlike joy that no film could fully contain and no amount of years could ever exhaust.

You gave it to me right to the end, Paul--for that, and for everything, thank you.

2.5 thumbs.

HEAR YE: You can (and should!) download your own copy of EMPUSA for a mere $5 by going to the following link.

http://www.naschysempusa.tk/

Do it! Do it NOW!

A few more images from EMPUSA (2010):

Feel the Glamor

Naschy's man-musk sends all mammals into uncontrollable sexual frenzy--even aquatic ones.

"AND YOU RAAAAAAN! YOU RAN SO FAR AWAAAAAAAAAY!"

Their sermons have only one subject: "Stay Away from the Wall"

Naschy always gets a "Thank You" card--as well he should.

*standing ovation*

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Shadows of Blood (1988): or, Amsterdamaged

That's right--there is no poster for this movie.

In the late 80s, the port of Amsterdam is rocked by a series of brazen and motiveless murders. Local police are stymied, until they learn through Interpol that two vicious serial killers have escaped a French asylum and are currently engaged in a friendly competition to see who can deal the most Dutch death. One of the men (Barry Fleming) is a maniacal, hatchet-faced freak who nurses romantic delusions about finding true love, along with an extreme sensitivity about his male-pattern baldness. The other, played by his Mad Mad Mad Mad Magnificence Paul Naschy, is a grizzled, cigar-smoking old Spaniard, who turned to serial killing after a successful career as a b-movie horror star and champion power lifter...hey waitaminnit!

Shadows of Blood (1988, dir. Sydney Ling) is something of an oddity in Naschy's career. A flick so obscure it doesn't even have an IMDb entry--in fact, Paul is the only member of the cast whose IMDb page seems to exist!--the film was apparently a direct-to-video effort produced for the burgeoning Dutch VHS market. Like many of the early shot-on-video productions, this one suffers from terrible videography, laughable video effects, and incredibly amateurish acting from everyone but the Mighty Mighty Molina. While it's probably only of interest to hardcore Naschyphiles and obsessive DTV collectors, the movie still boasts enough MADness to make it an enjoyable waste of 70 minutes, at least for connoisseurs of trash cinema like your ever lovin' Vicar.

ETA: VIEW THE LAST 8 MINUTES OF SHADOWS OF BLOOD ON YOUTUBE! (Spoilers, obviously)

There is really no plot or character development to speak of here--we meet Fleming's killer window-shopping in Amsterdam, walking down the street like a regular (if funny-looking) tourist. On a busy thoroughfare, he sees a young New Waver coming toward him, and something behind his eyes just snaps! Without even checking whether all ist klar, Der Kommissar, he throttles the young punk on the hood of a nearby Citroen! Whether from lack of social engagement or crippling politeness, the other Amsterdammers passing by on the street take no notice.

"I told you not to put mayonnaise on my fries, but YOU JUST DIDN'T LISTEN!"

Later, Fleming meets Paul's character (who for sake of simplicity we'll call "Paul") and they discuss their newfound freedom and what they intend to do with it--which seems to be mainly random, motiveless stranglings. Of interest to Naschy fans here is that Paul speaks his few lines in English--though so heavily accented and with such strange inflection, he's clearly working it phonetically. (No shame there though--ALL of the actors in the movie seem to be reciting their lines phonetically, with the exception of a wisecracking Cockney detective on the Amsterdam police force, who seems to serve no other purpose in the movie.) I for one got a strong Lugosi vibe off Naschy's dialogue here, which of course made me giggle with glee.

"I crap bigger than you!"

Eager to show the youngster how it's done, Paul checks into a bed & breakfast. Moments after dropping his luggage in his room, he drags a chambermaid in by the throat! (In the first of many instances of somewhat effective black humor, Paul thoughtfully puts out the "Do Not Disturb" sign. Also, in the first of many instances of filmmaking flubs, we next see Paul stepping around a stage light to get to his mark.) Still spry despite his 55 years, Paul stalks his prey before executing a stunning leap attack!

Huzzah!

As the bodies pile up, the Amsterdam police force finally takes notice. Though the tough-as-nails female chief orders her men to bring the killers in before Interpol can come in and trample the case, her elderly, Carlsberg-swilling flatfoots make no progress. Meanwhile Fleming strangles a hobo, and Paul one-ups him by walking into a cafe, ordering a dish of soup (or "soap"--it's hard to tell), and then strangling a Debbie Harry lookalike before his meal can even be served! A fellow diner, sitting literally the next table over, does nothing to help...though he may well have simply been paralyzed by Paul's mesmerizing manliness.

With no clues to go on (except presumably the DOZENS of eyewitnesses to every single murder!), the chieftess is forced to accept the help of an also-elderly Interpol agent, apparently sent over from their Department of International Standing Around with Hands in Pockets. (He's the best there is at what he does!) The agent fills them in on the killers' backstories, which include the fact that Paul has murdered 22 people, and his apprentice a respectable 19--not counting the latest additions. Together the crack task force investigate several tabacs, bars, and hotel bars, finding nothing but a series of suspicious-looking cocktails that must be immediately eliminated.

"Nope, no killers under the crumpets! Maybe at the bottom of this glass, then?"

From there on out, it's a series of curious events. Fleming strangles more random passersby. Paul throttles a few too--including one fat video editor (?), whom he takes out while wearing a Venetian plague doctor mask!--but later diversifies into stabbings and power-drillings. Things take a strange turn when Fleming starts courting a hollow-eyed local woman, who is not put off by his goblin-like face and penchant for killing people during lulls in the conversational courtship. Meanwhile Paul has an odd interlude wherein he meets an elderly Dutch serial killer to talk shop with, and later has his humanity reawakened by the not-so-skillful warblings of a homeless flautist. Seriously.

Fun fact: Naschy spent a good portion of the 80s touring with Jethro Tull

Things come to a head when Fleming senselessly murders the old flute-blower, which causes a rift in his friendship with Paul--a rift that's only exacerbated when Paul garottes Fleming's girlfriend before his eyes! Somehow the cops FINALLY catch up with the younger killer, leading to a foot chase and a showdown in which Fleming laughs like Dwight Frye on nitrous oxide and rips off his hitherto-unmentioned toupee! The police are powerless against such insanity, so it's up to Paul to put Fleming down like the rabid dog he is. As the chief of police stands by completely inactive--saying nonsensically via voice-over that "Perhaps it's better he gets away!" (wha?)--we get a flashback montage with strange video effects of blood-colored hands over the footage, grasping at the old killer while he offs victim after victim. Perhaps these are the "shadows of blood" that haunt him and inspire his murderousness? Director Ling leaves us to ponder this mystery as the end credits roll, and treats us to one of the most infectiously awful title songs I've ever heard in a Naschy flick.

Shadows of Blood is a terrible, terrible movie, and one that I'm sure Paul was not sorry to have left off most of his filmographies. Apart from a short write-up on the indispensible Naschy.com, there's little information in English about this flick, and many fans would probably say that's for the better. It definitely seems beneath Paul's considerable talents, and even the man himself seems to be uncharacteristically phoning in much of the performance, his eyes only on the paycheck waiting at the end. (Apart from those few lines alluded to earlier, most of Paul's acting here is done via broad gestures and pantomime.) Bad script, bad acting, a terrible Casio-fart score, and bad cinematography abound; it's little wonder that few if any of the other people involved have any further discernible film credits.

Your guess is as good as mine

Still, whether because of my own unique mental malformations, or because I'm always under the sway the Magic of the Mighty Molina, I admit to enjoying Shadows of Blood more than a little. The plot device of the competing serial killers isn't a bad idea, and the outlandish brazenness of their killings was a source of laugh-out-loud entertainment to me. Though I couldn't argue that it's anything other than one of the worst films in Naschy's long career, I nonetheless ended the flick with my trademark Naschy-induced grin on full beam. I was never bored by it, which is of course the gold standard for trash cinema in my opinion.

So for me and other Naschy completists, I would rate the film at 2 thumbs, something you need to see and might even enjoy. But for the average moviegoer, that rating would have to drop considerably, maybe even to the 1 thumb range. I freely admit to my bias--but what can I say? Naschy always makes me happy. Rest in peace, you wonderful madman. You are missed.

More images from Shadows of Blood (1988):

Kill!

Kill!

Kill!

Drill!

"Waiter, there's a Fly Girl in my soup!"

"Yeah, everyone keeps telling me Alcohol Niet Ils Ik Ru, but I don't believe it!"

That's right! KNEEL, PEASANT!

The Ghost Hand goes for Paul's Booty. Can you blame it?

Even Paul doesn't know what he was thinking

MORE MADNESS...

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NASCHY FOREVER

The Man

It hardly seems like two years have passed since Jacinto Molina, known to his still-growing legions of fans as the Lon Chaney of Spain, Paul Naschy, shuffled off this mortal coil and took his final bow. Followers of this blog know what Naschy's legacy means to the Duke and me: he was quite literally the impetus of this project of ours, and the subject of its first-ever review post. He left behind a legacy of joy, terror, and madness matched by few, and (in our humbles) surpassed by none.

He is sorely missed. We shall not see his like again.

It may seem incredible to some, but here, two years after the day I woke to discover that my icon and hero had succumbed to pancreatic cancer at the age of 75, I still get tears in my eyes just thinking about it. At some point between that first giddy discovery of Naschy's work, through countless visits to his monster-choked realm, from the dizzying heights of his Waldemar Daninsky saga to the saddening lows of his bitter, fallow years, Naschy stopped being just an image on the screen, just an old man from a foreign land whose interests and passions neatly dovetailed with mine; he became, in a sense, one of my dearest friends. And his loss was hard to take. It still is.

The Myth

Though I have delved deeply into the legacy Naschy left behind, I still have much to discover. Later today I will be posting one of these until-now-untapped discoveries. But in the meantime, as my tribute and monument to my much admired and even-more missed old friend, I collect here all the Naschyness of the blog for your reference and enjoyment.

Rest in peace, Paul. Gracias.

The Legend

• Frankenstein's Bloody Terror (1968)
• Assignment Terror (1970)
• The Werewolf vs. the Vampire Woman (1971)
• Dr. Jekyll vs. the Werewolf (1972)
• Fury of the Wolfman (1972)
• Horror Rises from the Tomb (1972)
• Crimson (1973) 
• Curse of the Devil (1973)
• A Dragonfly for Each Corpse (1973)
• The Hanging Woman (1973)
• The Hunchback of the Morgue (1973)
• The Mummy's Revenge (1973) 
• Vengeance of the Zombies (1973)
• Count Dracula's Great Love (1974)
• The Devil's Possessed (1974)
• Exorcismo (1975)
• Muerte De Un Quinqui (1975)
• Night of the Howling Beast (1975)
• Inquisición (1976)
• El Transexual (1977)
• The Frenchman's Garden (1978)
• El Caminante (1979)
• Los Cantabros (1980)
• Night of the Werewolf (1981)
• The Beast and the Magic Sword (1983)
• El Ultimo Kamikaze (1984) 
• Rojo Sangre (2004)

And remember last year, the glorious outpouring of love that was the Paul Naschy Blogathon? You can still visit all those links too! And well you should!

THE PAUL NASCHY BLOGATHON LINKS PAGE

EDIT: It appears I've jumped the gun with my grief, as Naschy's official date of death is November 30. :( I'm letting this stand, though--expect my review of my latest Naschy viewing tomorrow.

MORE MADNESS...

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Muerte de un Quinqui (1975): or, Momma Always Said I Was Pretty

We've talked a lot about the peculiar genius of Spanish horror icon Paul Naschy here on MMMMMovies--I mean, A LOT--and a great deal of our adulation has as its focus the limitless, almost child-like joy that bleeds through every frame of film in which the Mighty Mighty Molina gets to live out his boyhood dreams of becoming the heroic monster he idolized. As much a fan as a filmmaker, Naschy reveled in the glory of his Universal Monsters inspirations, while upping the sex-and-gore factors and adding his own Iberian spice. His joy is infectious: seeing him tearing up the scenery in those films never fails to put a smile on my face and a spring in my step.

But even Paul Naschy couldn't be all joy, all the time, and as I dig deeper into the voluminous depths of his surviving filmography, more and more I discover the counterpoint to that joyfulness, the "Dark Naschy" that lay just below the surface, sometimes overlapping (as in his wonderfully villainous turns in El Caminante and Horror Rises from the Tomb), and sometimes taking over entirely. Particularly in the late-70s/early-80s segment of his career, Naschy seems to have had some demons to exorcise, springing perhaps from his sense of insufficient respect for his work, or perhaps from a deeper, more personal space.  The "dark" movies sometimes lose that sense of fun that drew me to his spectacularly muscled bosom in the first place, but nonetheless show a fascinating complexity in the man I've come to know and love so well.

This sense of darkness is more pronounced for me in Naschy's non-horror movies, particularly his non-giallo crime-thrillers. In these Paul often plays ruthless, unrepentant criminals, murderers and rapists who display a disturbingly bleak misanthropy (or often, more appropriately and sadly, misogyny) that could be quite jarring to viewers used to his more audience-friendly monster mashes. One such film is Muerte de un Quinqui (1975, aka Death of a Hoodlum) written by Naschy and directed by frequent collaborator León Klimovsky (Werewolf vs. the Vampire Woman, Vengeance of the Zombies, Dr. Jekyll and the Wolfman, etc. etc.).

YES I SAID YES I WILL YES

As the movie opens we're thrown directly into the action, as a group of the quinquiest Quinquis imaginable executes a well-planned robbery on a jewelry store in downtown Madrid. Head hoodlum Marcos (Naschy, looking awesome in sunglasses and a brown leather trenchcoat) engages the clerk in engagement-ring shopping while his henchmen spread out to cover the exits. Things proceed like clockwork for a while--Naschy produces the hardware and orders the workers to hand over the loot, which they're more than happy to do. However, things take a slide to the "shit-we're-fucked" side when a prospective customer walks in off the street, surveys the situation, and abruptly karate-chops a gun-wielding guard! Not his best split second decision, as within seconds he contains more lead than a 1920s paint bucket.

Like a shark scenting blood in the water, Marcos goes all crazy-eyed and starts gunning down everything that moves, including the shop owner and several innocent bystanders. They grab as much loot as they can and hop into the waiting getaway car, driven by the Matthew McConaughey of Spain. After a quick confab it's decided Marcos will hold the loot while the others go to the big boss, Martin (silver fox Frank Braña, hot off a failed audition for the role of Johnny Quest's dad, apparently), and find out what (the fuck) they're supposed to do now. On their way the quinquis sum up Paul's character: "That Marcos is one mean bastard! I don't trust him! I think even Martin is afraid of him!" As well he should be, we'll soon see.

"Don't make me flare my nostrils!"

Turns out Marcos is tired of being Martin's little quinqui boy, and has decided to fence the loot quickly and skip the country with the proceeds. Unfortunately his connection won't be able to gather the necessary funds for three or four weeks, which leaves Marcos in a tight spot. He decides to lay low in the countryside until the cash comes through, and begins packing his belongings, most prized among them the large photo of his dear departed Mother, which he keeps by the bed and talks to almost constantly. We learn through flashback that as a child Marcos witnessed his mother's murder at the hands of her disgusting, philandering second husband (a vile creature who also caused Marcos' deafness in one ear via blow-to-the-head), an event which no doubt had a strong formative influence on his character.

Just how strong becomes clear when Marcos' girlfriend Isabel (smokin' hawt redhead Eva León) catches him packing and asks to go with him. Marcos, ever the gentleman, lets the lovestruck girl down easy:

Harsh, but fair

Isabel, understandably upset, calls Marcos a "son of a bitch"--clearly not knowing that she's just stumbled onto a foolproof trigger for all of Marcos' psychopathic tendencies. Paul turns on the crazy eyes and mumbles toward the photo, "Mother--this slut, this piece of trash, has sullied your name!" then lays the unholy smack down on his unsuspecting and defenseless lover. It's a pretty brutal scene, as Marcos beats the girl viciously for some time before finally lifting a boot and stomping her head into the floor! This last attack is implied rather than shown directly, thank goodness, but still--yikes.

So there we have it. Paul plays a psychologically scarred thief with no honor (even among his own kind), a vicious streak a mile wide, clear problems with women, and the tendency to go into a murderous rage any time someone says anything that could be even tangentially interpreted as a slight to the memory of his mother. (Interior, Quinqui HQ: "...and so I grabbed the cash, stuck the gun up the old man's nose, and pulled the trigger till it went *click*." "Damn, Marcos, you one crazy motherfucker!" "WHATDIDYOUAAUGHKILLKILLLKILLLLL!" "*gurglegurglediiie* -scene-) And he's our main character! A far cry from everyone's favorite Polish nobleman, you'll agree. More like Norman Bates with 'roid rage.

"...and a gun. A real big gun."

Marcos has a rather liberal interpretation of the phrase "lay low," as on his way out of town he speeds like a madman and unceremoniously takes out two hapless motorcycle cops with a machine gun. As his former gang makes plans to put him down like the mad dog he is, Marcos hooks up with an old flame (and mother of his bastard son) who helps him out by getting him a gig as groundskeeper for a reclusive and filthy rich family. He hides the jewels in some nearby ruins, planning to hold down the job for a month and then come back to make his final escape.

Predictably, the family he works for are a few tiles short of a Mah Jongg set themselves. Patriarch Ricardo (Heinrich Starhemberg) is a former target shooting champion now wheelchair-bound with a debilitating spinal disease, who compensates for no longer being a "complete man" by verbally abusing his wife and daughter while sporting a fabulous series of cravats. Wife and mother Marta (Carmen Sevilla, who played Mary Magdalene in Paul's screen debut King of Kings [1961]) is nearly at the end of her rope with Ricardo's depressive/aggressive attitude, to say nothing of her own sexual frustrations. Rounding out the family unit is immediately post-pubescent daughter Elena (frequent Naschy leading-lady Julia Saly), a total Daddy's girl who is nonetheless intrigued and attracted by the buff, handsome stranger in their midst.

Magic Eye™ Wall Tiles: The Dude-in-a-Cravat Pack

And who can blame her? While crime and thrills are the ostensible order of the day, the movie's actual purpose seems to revolve around showing Paul's finely sculpted musculature at every opportunity, and sometimes even creating opportunities where none exist. We get Paul all sweaty chopping wood, Paul wandering into the kitchen late at night wearing (appropriately) a wife-beater tee, the requisite "Paul lounging shirtless in bed" shot, and even PANTSLESS PAUL. It is to swoon! While some viewers might find this self-indulgent on Naschy's part, it has to be said that Paul is in fantastic shape here, as beefy and toned and dripping with roguish charisma as I've ever seen him onscreen. In fact, he'd be absolutely irresistible--if you hadn't just watched him stomp a mudhole in a waifish supermodel. Maybe that's why the scene was included--to keep his musky manliness from stopping the show entirely. You are a wise man, Klimovsky.

For a hardened criminal, Marcos takes the groundskeeping job surprisingly seriously, and to be fair, he's an excellent worker. He repairs things around the house, polishes trophies, cleans up laundry, and even risks life and limb to repair some fallen electrical wires, taking a tumble from the ladder as he does so. This is what leads to the shirtless-in-bed scene, as Marta dresses his wounds and thanks him for his effort. Of course Marcos knows when he's in there, and it's not long before he's turning the full force of his Molina Musk™ on the hapless, longsuffering MILF. Ricardo sees what's happening but can do little about it, other than obsessively oil his rifle and make outraged angry faces at Marcos. To her credit Marta resists as long as she can--about 15 minutes, which I think is a record--before finally collapsing into the ruffian's arms and putting an explosive end to her sexual drought.

"Don't just stand there, woman! GIT ON IT!"

Of course Marcos is nothing if not quinqui, and seeing the opportunity to score with two generations under the same roof, he starts putting the wolfish moves on Elena as well. Saly plays Elena as a girl on the cusp of sexual awakening, flattered and a little frightened by Marcos' attention and innuendo. Of course Saly is closer to Naschy's age IRL, so having her play an almost-innocent teen is a bit of a stretch, no matter how many teddy bears and Mick Jagger and Elvis posters you plaster her bedroom with. Still, she's as hawt as ever, and her chemistry with Naschy really sizzles.

One night, while the sated (and doubtless exhausted) Marta dozes, dreaming of PaulCock, Marcos slips into Elena's room to try his luck. Having seen what's going on with Mom, Elena makes the mistake of asking, "How would you like it if YOUR mother were a hussy?"--which leads not to a beat-down, but to a rather disturbing rape scene that gets only more off-putting when Elena starts to enjoy it. I'm a Naschyphile no matter what, but even I had to shake my head and say, "Dang, Paul--that ain't right."

Saly Got Back

Of course those tangled webs he's weaving tighten sooner rather than later: Marta discovers one of Marcos' cigars in an ashtray in Elena's room and quickly does the math, while Ricardo spies the hoodlum entering his daughter's inner sanctum (IYKWIM) and starts clearing a place on the wall for his next hunting trophy. Then the double-crossed gang (remember them?) tracks Marcos down by threatening his ex and her son, leading to a pretty wild final confrontation/gunfight at the hacienda as the Quinqui makes his admittedly spectacular last stand. No gang of thugs can destroy the Mommy-Obsessed killing machine that is Paul Naschy's Marcos, but there's something about Hell and a woman scorned...

Muerte de un Quinqui is not one of Paul Naschy's greatest films by any stretch, but it's not bad. Klimovsky's direction is solid and doesn't call attention to itself, and the flick looks good. The acting is more than serviceable as well--Saly shines as always, and Sevilla does a great job as the frustrated, downtrodden wife desperate for the attention and affection Marcos promises. Starhemberg is delightful as the mostly unhinged Ricardo, wavering between impotent rage and deep self-loathing with blinding speed. (He also has one of the best OMG OUTRAGE faces ever put to film.)

After witnessing first-hand the power of the Naschy Thrust, Ricardo lost hope of ever being able to compete.

It will shock you to read the next sentence on this site, but what keeps the movie from being really compelling is Naschy himself (GASP!)--or rather, Naschy's character Marcos as written by Paul (*whew*). Paul plays the hoodlum with all the devilish charisma and hatefulness the script requires, and I can't fault his performance on that count. However, Marcos' character is just SO hateful and amoral, SO scarred and misanthropic, it's hard to get really involved in what makes him tick. Of course his evil is nothing compared to Alaric de Marnac, but then we aren't asked to spend the entire movie with him; we've got other heroes to latch onto. In Quinqui it's all Marcos, all the time, and I have to be honest--he's not a guy you want to hang out with.

Still, the movie does have a respectable number of gorgeous Eurobabes, some wild sequences and a slam-bang ending, and a veritable buffet of Paul-Flesh on display, so I can't hate it too much. While I much prefer the Daninsky saga or Paul's pseudo-giallos, I still enjoyed watching the "Dark Naschy" at work here. Also, it's interesting to note how in true Naschy fashion, Paul reworks story elements of an earlier movie, 1973's Crimson (failed jewel heist and vengeful thugs) and then uses elements from Muerte in a later movie, 1976's Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll (drifter wreaks havoc with dysfunctional reclusive family). Anyway, I own my bias: 2.25 thumbs. YMMV, etc.

"Welcome...to Fantasy Island."

More great images from Muerte de un Quinqui (1975)

"...and a woman ain't one."

Treasure Chest at the Gun Show

Check the other side, bro.

Hydration is Important

As Ricardo wheels slowly by, Paul contemplates a Leap Attack.

Zang.

"Oh yes she can, Mick. Oh yes she can."

MILF & PILF

At least they're not kidding themselves.

"NOW whose Momma's fat, ya bastards? WHOSE MOMMA?!?!?!"

MORE MADNESS...

Summary only...