CLASSICS OF CINEMA
ANTHROPOPHAGUS THE BEAST
ANTHROPOPHAGUS THE BEAST
Italian director Joe D’Amato enjoyed a colorful career, to say the
very least what one could say about Joe D’Amato whilst still
mentioning his career. Following stints as writer, actor, producer
and any number of miscellaneous set-bound occupations, D’Amato
went on to helm a dizzying number of exploitation delights, from
mid-70’s oddities like mondo / porn hybrid Emmanuel And The Last
Cannibals, eighties curiosities like Porno Holocaust and Erotic
Nights Of The Living Dead, and 90’s straight to video efforts like
Robin Hood – Thief Of Wives and the seminal, critically-lauded
House Of Anal Perversions.
D’Amato’s one undisputed classic, though, featured very little in
the way of the sexing, but found time for folks getting a meat-
cleaver in the head, and also a bit of the old fetus-eating.
I mean come on, Joe D’Amato, folks been utilizing that old
chestnut since, I believe, Gone With The Wind. As if the fetus-
eating was anything new in cinema.
Anthropophagus The Beast, also known as The Grim Reaper, probably
on account of no-one knew how to spell Anthropophagus, was one of
a select number of flicks banned in Britain under the Video
Recordings Act in the early eighties. The thought of British
citizens sitting around watching a fella eat a fetus was too much
to bear for the ever-conscientious BBFC, unlike the ever-reliable
Singapore lot, who slapped a PG rating on the film about a man
eats a fetus without a second thought.
very least what one could say about Joe D’Amato whilst still
mentioning his career. Following stints as writer, actor, producer
and any number of miscellaneous set-bound occupations, D’Amato
went on to helm a dizzying number of exploitation delights, from
mid-70’s oddities like mondo / porn hybrid Emmanuel And The Last
Cannibals, eighties curiosities like Porno Holocaust and Erotic
Nights Of The Living Dead, and 90’s straight to video efforts like
Robin Hood – Thief Of Wives and the seminal, critically-lauded
House Of Anal Perversions.
D’Amato’s one undisputed classic, though, featured very little in
the way of the sexing, but found time for folks getting a meat-
cleaver in the head, and also a bit of the old fetus-eating.
I mean come on, Joe D’Amato, folks been utilizing that old
chestnut since, I believe, Gone With The Wind. As if the fetus-
eating was anything new in cinema.
Anthropophagus The Beast, also known as The Grim Reaper, probably
on account of no-one knew how to spell Anthropophagus, was one of
a select number of flicks banned in Britain under the Video
Recordings Act in the early eighties. The thought of British
citizens sitting around watching a fella eat a fetus was too much
to bear for the ever-conscientious BBFC, unlike the ever-reliable
Singapore lot, who slapped a PG rating on the film about a man
eats a fetus without a second thought.
As far as anyone can tell, there are only two uncut versions of
Anthropophagus available on DVD anywhere in the world, both
released by German distributors. One was issued as part of a
limited Box Set, the other is cursed with an abominable transfer,
so most folks make do with the 82 minute version, released as The
Grim Reaper both in the USA Of America and The UK.
Alas, this version features not one ounce of fetus-eating, so
anyone expecting such atrocities should they part with the
requisite five quid for to pick up the Region 2 edition on
Hollywood DVD, will be sorely disappointed. Not a fetus to be
seen, they’ll spit.
So, no fetus-eating, then, (a fetus what was actually a skinned
rabbit, don’t you know), but if you do indeed pick up this flick
what concerns itself with the demented motherfucker of the title,
then what, pray tell, might a man be in line for?
Anthro opens with some pleasing images of a picturesque Greek
ruin. The music, far from being the mournful lament we might
expect to accompany such visuals, is in fact akin to the Colombo
theme. Colombo, as scholars will point out, rarely dined on unborn
children as part of his procedural, although episode #9878
famously featured a scene wherein the frustrated gumshoe lost
patience with a tax-cheat and beat him to death with a brick.
The first scene proper is basically the first scene from Jaws. A
couple laze around on a beach, before the female character decides
to go for a swim. Scholars will note that the scene is different
from Spielberg’s earlier production in a few distinct areas, such
as how D’Amato films the scene in broad daylight, being all the
better to see arse-cheeks and what not.
The woman goes for a swim, and we get the under-water shot,
looking up at our probable victim. The camera creeps ever nearer,
and we’re thinking about No! Get out of there! A shark what wants
to eat you is just a couple meters away!
Turns out, though, that no, it’s not a shark, but rather a bald,
pasty-faced son of a bitch with a meat-cleaver, played by D’Amato
himself. What in the hell was he doing underneath the water, you
might be thinking? Can he breathe under the water? Is this fella
some kind of super-human gill-beast possibly devised by occult-
dabbling Nazis?
The hell The Duke knows, since it’s never revealed, not when
there's so much to reveal regarding something to do with tarot
cards and some nonsense with a woman at a window.
If logic fails him on occasion, though, D’Amato at least proves
himself as king of the pseudonyms via his work on Anthro. Not only
is he credited under an alias for his acting skills, but his part
in the writing process is given over to a fella by the name of
Aristide Massaccesi, whilst bemused fans will no-doubt wonder
about who the hell is this Peter Newton cat what supposedly
directed this opus?
There’s no fooling The Duke, though, except for that time the girl
in the nightclub swore she had no penis. She had not only a penis,
but at least two testicles, is the shameful punchline.
Like many of the “Nasties”, Anthropophagus confounds expectations,
as rather than being a tirade against the very fabric of society,
the moral core of the film is as reactionary as anyone might care
to assume.
The Beast of the title is burdened with such terrible table
manners and ridiculous bald-cap after a bout of starvation-induced
cannibalism. By indulging, albeit under veil of hunger-ravaged-
madness, in this most taboo of societal no-no’s, our hero becomes
a lurching, demented, fetus-eating motherfucker, although, it is
suggested, a lurching, demented, fetus-eating motherfucker who
can, at least, breathe underwater.
Come to think of it, D’Amato’s monster is rather similar to Dr
Bruce Banner, the fella what turns into The Hulk on account of he
crosses a line what society deems we must not be breaching. To
wit; don’t be going and showing no damn emotion or opening your
stupid yap, or what’ll happen is you’ll turn into this big green
motherfucker. Granted, you could also argue that Hulk is a warning
against not showing no emotion and keeping your damn yap shut, but
that would, as the French might say, “Fuck no end with Le Duke’s
theory.”
Unfortunately, whilst D’Amato gets plenty of mileage out of stuff
involving a boat and some nonsense with a woman at a window, he
wastes his greatest asset, ie, his location. The island wherein
the action takes place is a stunningly beautiful chunk of dirt,
with its centuries old stone passages even bringing Pasolini’s
Decameron to mind on occasion.
The Pasolini comparison might seem like a stretch, but upon closer
inspection, one finds that D’Amato sought to emulate the great
madman throughout much of his filmography, albeit with more sexing
than even Pasolini, no stranger to an erection himself, would have
warranted. 120 Days Of Anal, Tales Of Canterbury and More Sexy
Canterbury Tales all sang praises of perverted adoration to good
ol’ Pier Paulo.
To return to the matter at hand, though;
Obviously, such natural beauty as the aforementioned island
exhibits takes away from the whole fetus-chewing effects and so
on, so we get at least half an hour of the film taking place in
the dark, with folks running through a couple trees.
It’s like if those rich fellas what paid for to go into space just
stayed in bed for the duration of the journey. You’d say “What the
hell did you stay in bed for? Why not go and have a look out of
the windows or some shit?”
Similarly, D’Amato spends over a third of the running time
concocting a load of old arse what could just as easily have been
filmed in his back garden.
Way to waste, like, a million years of culture, D’Amato.
He makes up for it, though, by having the finale play out in a
grand ruin of some kind, all corpse-strewn passage-ways and
winding tunnels. For this, we can forgive him the whole pitch-
black middle act, although if he thinks The Duke will extend the
forgiveness to his other 1980 effort, Voodoo Baby, AKA Orgasmo
Negro, then he has another think coming, ie, that he can fuck
right off, is what.
What is most striking about Anthropophagus nowadays, though, is
how far it is from the barbaric orgy of limb-chewing abandon what
one may have been led to believe. Unlike, say, Cannibal Holocaust
or House At The Edge Of The Park, “nasties” what retain the
ability to deeply disturb and unhinge, Anthro seems somewhat
quaint, from its Hammer Horror-styled soundtrack (although the
theme from William Shatner epic Kingdom Of The Spiders is
plundered for some prints) to its lack of very much in the way of
bona-fide gore (excepting, obviously, the fetus-eating and a
particularly unpleasant finale).
Which is not to say you won’t cringe like all hell, but it’s
mostly on account of the haircuts or, more likely, the dialogue.
“There’s evil on this island”, frets our heroine, “An evil that
won’t let us get away…”
“Oh, shut up Carol” comes the considered response.
D’Amato died in January 1999, having directed no less than 178
feature films. It’s doubtful many will remember 1997's Caligula –
The Deviant Emperor, or Sexy Erotic Love, or even his sequel to
Anthropophagus, 1982’s Rosso sangue. For a whole heap of anti-
social malcontents, though, and also some esteemed critics of
filmic affairs like The Duke, there will always be a space at the
table for the fella what went ahead and made the charmingly
atmospheric picture about a fella eats a fetus. I’d rather he
joined the dinner in spirit though, to be honest, and didn’t start
rotting all over the roast.
Thanks Joe D’Amato, Igor Horwess, Sarah Asproon. Though known to
your mother as plain old Aristide Massaccesi, you were a hell of a
directors when it came to the meat-cleavers.
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
Check Out The Duke's Best 13 Horrors Of All-Ever
Anthropophagus available on DVD anywhere in the world, both
released by German distributors. One was issued as part of a
limited Box Set, the other is cursed with an abominable transfer,
so most folks make do with the 82 minute version, released as The
Grim Reaper both in the USA Of America and The UK.
Alas, this version features not one ounce of fetus-eating, so
anyone expecting such atrocities should they part with the
requisite five quid for to pick up the Region 2 edition on
Hollywood DVD, will be sorely disappointed. Not a fetus to be
seen, they’ll spit.
So, no fetus-eating, then, (a fetus what was actually a skinned
rabbit, don’t you know), but if you do indeed pick up this flick
what concerns itself with the demented motherfucker of the title,
then what, pray tell, might a man be in line for?
Anthro opens with some pleasing images of a picturesque Greek
ruin. The music, far from being the mournful lament we might
expect to accompany such visuals, is in fact akin to the Colombo
theme. Colombo, as scholars will point out, rarely dined on unborn
children as part of his procedural, although episode #9878
famously featured a scene wherein the frustrated gumshoe lost
patience with a tax-cheat and beat him to death with a brick.
The first scene proper is basically the first scene from Jaws. A
couple laze around on a beach, before the female character decides
to go for a swim. Scholars will note that the scene is different
from Spielberg’s earlier production in a few distinct areas, such
as how D’Amato films the scene in broad daylight, being all the
better to see arse-cheeks and what not.
The woman goes for a swim, and we get the under-water shot,
looking up at our probable victim. The camera creeps ever nearer,
and we’re thinking about No! Get out of there! A shark what wants
to eat you is just a couple meters away!
Turns out, though, that no, it’s not a shark, but rather a bald,
pasty-faced son of a bitch with a meat-cleaver, played by D’Amato
himself. What in the hell was he doing underneath the water, you
might be thinking? Can he breathe under the water? Is this fella
some kind of super-human gill-beast possibly devised by occult-
dabbling Nazis?
The hell The Duke knows, since it’s never revealed, not when
there's so much to reveal regarding something to do with tarot
cards and some nonsense with a woman at a window.
If logic fails him on occasion, though, D’Amato at least proves
himself as king of the pseudonyms via his work on Anthro. Not only
is he credited under an alias for his acting skills, but his part
in the writing process is given over to a fella by the name of
Aristide Massaccesi, whilst bemused fans will no-doubt wonder
about who the hell is this Peter Newton cat what supposedly
directed this opus?
There’s no fooling The Duke, though, except for that time the girl
in the nightclub swore she had no penis. She had not only a penis,
but at least two testicles, is the shameful punchline.
Like many of the “Nasties”, Anthropophagus confounds expectations,
as rather than being a tirade against the very fabric of society,
the moral core of the film is as reactionary as anyone might care
to assume.
The Beast of the title is burdened with such terrible table
manners and ridiculous bald-cap after a bout of starvation-induced
cannibalism. By indulging, albeit under veil of hunger-ravaged-
madness, in this most taboo of societal no-no’s, our hero becomes
a lurching, demented, fetus-eating motherfucker, although, it is
suggested, a lurching, demented, fetus-eating motherfucker who
can, at least, breathe underwater.
Come to think of it, D’Amato’s monster is rather similar to Dr
Bruce Banner, the fella what turns into The Hulk on account of he
crosses a line what society deems we must not be breaching. To
wit; don’t be going and showing no damn emotion or opening your
stupid yap, or what’ll happen is you’ll turn into this big green
motherfucker. Granted, you could also argue that Hulk is a warning
against not showing no emotion and keeping your damn yap shut, but
that would, as the French might say, “Fuck no end with Le Duke’s
theory.”
Unfortunately, whilst D’Amato gets plenty of mileage out of stuff
involving a boat and some nonsense with a woman at a window, he
wastes his greatest asset, ie, his location. The island wherein
the action takes place is a stunningly beautiful chunk of dirt,
with its centuries old stone passages even bringing Pasolini’s
Decameron to mind on occasion.
The Pasolini comparison might seem like a stretch, but upon closer
inspection, one finds that D’Amato sought to emulate the great
madman throughout much of his filmography, albeit with more sexing
than even Pasolini, no stranger to an erection himself, would have
warranted. 120 Days Of Anal, Tales Of Canterbury and More Sexy
Canterbury Tales all sang praises of perverted adoration to good
ol’ Pier Paulo.
To return to the matter at hand, though;
Obviously, such natural beauty as the aforementioned island
exhibits takes away from the whole fetus-chewing effects and so
on, so we get at least half an hour of the film taking place in
the dark, with folks running through a couple trees.
It’s like if those rich fellas what paid for to go into space just
stayed in bed for the duration of the journey. You’d say “What the
hell did you stay in bed for? Why not go and have a look out of
the windows or some shit?”
Similarly, D’Amato spends over a third of the running time
concocting a load of old arse what could just as easily have been
filmed in his back garden.
Way to waste, like, a million years of culture, D’Amato.
He makes up for it, though, by having the finale play out in a
grand ruin of some kind, all corpse-strewn passage-ways and
winding tunnels. For this, we can forgive him the whole pitch-
black middle act, although if he thinks The Duke will extend the
forgiveness to his other 1980 effort, Voodoo Baby, AKA Orgasmo
Negro, then he has another think coming, ie, that he can fuck
right off, is what.
What is most striking about Anthropophagus nowadays, though, is
how far it is from the barbaric orgy of limb-chewing abandon what
one may have been led to believe. Unlike, say, Cannibal Holocaust
or House At The Edge Of The Park, “nasties” what retain the
ability to deeply disturb and unhinge, Anthro seems somewhat
quaint, from its Hammer Horror-styled soundtrack (although the
theme from William Shatner epic Kingdom Of The Spiders is
plundered for some prints) to its lack of very much in the way of
bona-fide gore (excepting, obviously, the fetus-eating and a
particularly unpleasant finale).
Which is not to say you won’t cringe like all hell, but it’s
mostly on account of the haircuts or, more likely, the dialogue.
“There’s evil on this island”, frets our heroine, “An evil that
won’t let us get away…”
“Oh, shut up Carol” comes the considered response.
D’Amato died in January 1999, having directed no less than 178
feature films. It’s doubtful many will remember 1997's Caligula –
The Deviant Emperor, or Sexy Erotic Love, or even his sequel to
Anthropophagus, 1982’s Rosso sangue. For a whole heap of anti-
social malcontents, though, and also some esteemed critics of
filmic affairs like The Duke, there will always be a space at the
table for the fella what went ahead and made the charmingly
atmospheric picture about a fella eats a fetus. I’d rather he
joined the dinner in spirit though, to be honest, and didn’t start
rotting all over the roast.
Thanks Joe D’Amato, Igor Horwess, Sarah Asproon. Though known to
your mother as plain old Aristide Massaccesi, you were a hell of a
directors when it came to the meat-cleavers.
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
Check Out The Duke's Best 13 Horrors Of All-Ever
