LA PURITANA (aka) SCORPIONS KISS (1989)
After many long, soul-withering years of trawling through the grimpen, celluloid murk of Italian exploitation effluvium; one gets used to throwing much that is entirely indigestible back into the greasy void of cinematic spume; but, on those gloriously rare, and wholly exhilarating occasions, something quite unexpected glitters enticingly within the tawdry, oleaginous miasma of tepid euro-schlock.
All that doesn’t glitter, might yet be gold; a little-appreciated maxim given considerable verisimilitude by ‘La Puritan’s’ generic, Joe D’Amato-style artwork, which proves to be enormously misleading: its moribund vista of poodle-haired, pneumatic broad, and an oily, lascivious-looking cat in pensive pre-canoodle, initially appears about as enticing as a murky commode full of Polish cuisine; but beneath this prosaic veneer is a lurid masterpiece of palpating, gratuitous nudity; merciless revenge, and non-stop, soft-core ruttage; whereby, all of those craven, voyeuristic souls in Utopian mondo-land can freely enjoy the multitudinous charms of Margit Evelyn Newton; who zealously dispenses an especially carnal mode of retribution that invalidates the puritanical coda of less is more: no it isn’t! An excess of Margit Evelyn Newton’s deliciously pulchritudinous flesh is ALWAYS the best option. (fortunately the arch reprobate director, Grassia is fully aware of this; making damn sure that he buttered this particular movie’s muffin, breast side up!) #Excuse the mixed metaphor, but the delightful Ms. Newton’s eye-watering Amazonian physiognomy has played merry havoc with my reeling noggin!#
And it would be remiss of me to give any of the plot, or wondrous set pieces away, so I wont. Life is paltry enough without some callous oaf dampening the possibility of someone enjoying myriads of mondo marvels that lurk betwixt the mountainous peaks of Margie newton’s fecund flesh.
I literally had no idea what to expect with ‘La Puritana’ which heightened the exponential excitement Nini Grassi’s grease-palmed Giallo afforded me! This glorious film suffers not by the wondrous inclusion of exploitation legends Gabriele Tinti, and the perma-smarmy Helmut Berger; both of whom deliver suitably scurrilous performances; twin burning sons of macho sleaze, desperately out-sleazing each other in this towering trash-babel of tantalizing teats; an ultra-prurient; giddy-glorious, grungey Giallo; and all of which, is, of course, entirely indefensible to those with an modicum of decency. Fortunately 25 years of incremental cinematic debasement has eroded all vestiges of good taste from my amoral palate!