An odd, absorbing and even touching low-budget stalk'n'slash meditation on viciously enforced puritanical mores, obsession, psycho killers, sex, nudity, bold-faced cinematic ineptitude, paltry production values and, most importantly, the profound need to spend your life loving that oh so wonderful, but annoyingly elusive someone special.
Irritable, homicidal, rigidly moralistic photographer Pierre Agostino angrily throttles every last gorgeous babe who fails to meet his strict ideal of the "perfect" woman. That's until he meets the wacko sicko "pure" gal of his dreams: Equally sanguinary and choleric bookstore owner Carolyn Brandt, who has a charming tendency to slice open the throats of any given filthy, uncouth bum who hits on her. The fact that Pierre has a passion for pigeons and Brandt has this thing for jogging only makes things better. Gee, ain't psychopathic misanthrope amour just grand?
Well, this exceptionally stinky, but strangely engaging and enthralling cheapjack trashy ragged-around-the-edges bargain basement poverty-row nickel'n'dime slice'n'dice sleazy junk sure hits the scuzzy spot something lurid. Under legendary Grade Z movie maestro Ray Dennis Steckler's typically slipshod (mis)direction, this choice cheesy chunk of celluloid crud hits all the essential schlock picture bases: we've got a forcefully delineated depiction of the dirty, grotty, thoroughly rundown and destitute Los Angeles milieu, the numerous murder set pieces pack a certain crudely ferocious wallop (the scene where Pierre strangles a hot chick in a jacuzzi with her own bikini top is a real doozy), a hideously meandering pace, clunky, tattered, unsteady cinematography which will have your stomach doing flip-flops, a great woozy, dolorous, wretchedly tuneless droning jazz score, hilariously horrible dialogue (Pierre to victim: "Die garbage!"), a catchy, affecting, truly wondrous ending credits theme song called "You're My Love" that's belted out with lip-smacking gusto by Alberto Sarno, lots of sexy, slender, firm-breasted young honeys who blithely display their delectable bare bodies with splendidly saucy'n'sizzling abandon, a warped, penniless, discontent, brooding gloom-doom slimy mood which grows on the viewer like a bad rash, and -- WARNING: Major *SPOILER* ahead! -- the final climactic meeting between the two titular loonies (they both kill each other) is both quite moving and simply glorious. This winner has almost everything going for it, with the notable exception of one tiny irrelevant thing: Quality. But hey, who needs quality when you can have an unceasingly ratty and repulsive teeming surplus of bottom-of-the-dumpster dwelling dimestore skankbag griminess instead?
Irritable, homicidal, rigidly moralistic photographer Pierre Agostino angrily throttles every last gorgeous babe who fails to meet his strict ideal of the "perfect" woman. That's until he meets the wacko sicko "pure" gal of his dreams: Equally sanguinary and choleric bookstore owner Carolyn Brandt, who has a charming tendency to slice open the throats of any given filthy, uncouth bum who hits on her. The fact that Pierre has a passion for pigeons and Brandt has this thing for jogging only makes things better. Gee, ain't psychopathic misanthrope amour just grand?
Well, this exceptionally stinky, but strangely engaging and enthralling cheapjack trashy ragged-around-the-edges bargain basement poverty-row nickel'n'dime slice'n'dice sleazy junk sure hits the scuzzy spot something lurid. Under legendary Grade Z movie maestro Ray Dennis Steckler's typically slipshod (mis)direction, this choice cheesy chunk of celluloid crud hits all the essential schlock picture bases: we've got a forcefully delineated depiction of the dirty, grotty, thoroughly rundown and destitute Los Angeles milieu, the numerous murder set pieces pack a certain crudely ferocious wallop (the scene where Pierre strangles a hot chick in a jacuzzi with her own bikini top is a real doozy), a hideously meandering pace, clunky, tattered, unsteady cinematography which will have your stomach doing flip-flops, a great woozy, dolorous, wretchedly tuneless droning jazz score, hilariously horrible dialogue (Pierre to victim: "Die garbage!"), a catchy, affecting, truly wondrous ending credits theme song called "You're My Love" that's belted out with lip-smacking gusto by Alberto Sarno, lots of sexy, slender, firm-breasted young honeys who blithely display their delectable bare bodies with splendidly saucy'n'sizzling abandon, a warped, penniless, discontent, brooding gloom-doom slimy mood which grows on the viewer like a bad rash, and -- WARNING: Major *SPOILER* ahead! -- the final climactic meeting between the two titular loonies (they both kill each other) is both quite moving and simply glorious. This winner has almost everything going for it, with the notable exception of one tiny irrelevant thing: Quality. But hey, who needs quality when you can have an unceasingly ratty and repulsive teeming surplus of bottom-of-the-dumpster dwelling dimestore skankbag griminess instead?