THE DUKE TASTES
THE BLOOD ON SATAN'S CLAW
THE BLOOD ON SATAN'S CLAW
You know how it goes, man. There a fella is, wandering around the
fields bothering neither man nor beast, only his ridiculous 17th
Century hair style threatening any particular offence to any
motherfucker. What I’ll do, he supposes, is I’ll do some ploughing,
since what the fuck else is he gonna do with this damn plough thing?
Nowadays the kids would probably just sell it on eBay for the price
of a new Limping Biscuits CD, the work-shy bastards.
Back in the 17th century, though, things were different. A man went
out for to toil and to plough and so on. He had curly locks. He had
muscles. Where are your muscles, you skateboarding motherfuckers?
Where are your curly locks?
Next thing he knows, though, he’s only gone and uncovered the bones
of some monster or other, lying there amidst the upturned dirt and
cow-shite.
So begins a tale of intrigue and possession and young ladies with
unfeasibly commanding eyes getting very naked and trying for to get
the village priest to do some sexing.
The Blood On Satan’s Claw is a fucking wonderful slab of eerie
rural devil-worshipping and nude-dancing from the demented sons a
bitches at Tigon Productions. For sure, Tigon rarely produced stuff
of this magnitude, but Blood On Satan’s Claw is easily the equal of
much of anything produced by their contemporaries, Hammer and
Amicus. It’s pitched somewhere between Tigon’s earlier Matthew
Hopkins – Witchfinder General and Robin Hardy’s 1973 The Wicker
Man, although, let’s not get mentalised, it’s not as good as
either, since both those numbers are not only among the best
British horror films of all ever, but the very best from any damn
place.
Unlike Witchfinder General, though, the witches in Blood… are a
real, dangerous, demonic threat, as opposed to the poor victims
Vincent Price raped and butchered for crimes invented in his own
deranged skull-blobs. In the world of Blood… Satan is real, just
like The Louvin Brothers said once upon a time, although I don’t
know that they had so many muscles or curly locks. Certainly they
drank more whiskey, that’s for damn sure.
What The Louvin Brothers failed to point out, however, was that not
only is Satan real, but he’s a big furry motherfucker instructing
school-children for to do his diabolical bidding. Most of this
bidding involves growing hairy lumps on your legs or arms, but then
there’s also the matter of the rape and murder of one’s peers, and
the getting naked for to coerce men of the cloth into a spot of the
old sexing filths.
If you thought Satan was above having a young lady get her foot
caught in a bear trap and then lots of bright-red blood ruins her
dress beyond all hope of restoration, then you better think the
fuck again, and this time, you better think more along the lines of
“You bet your last nut Satan would be up for that sorta shit.”
To tell you all the truth that’s fit to tell, it was impossible for
The Duke to read Blood On Satan’s Claw as anything other than a
cautionary tale about what happens when young ladies stop being
young girls. The possessed folks are all school-children, although
obviously the head possessee, Angel, is at least ten years older
than the rest of them, since she has to do all the stripping and
the purring and the fixing with the eyes.
What it wants to point out, is that when girls reach a certain age,
they become dangerous, liable to drive a man to any lengths of
demented madness, be it looking at them for much longer than is
polite, or trying to chop his arm off on account of it turned into
a big hairy Satan arm for a moment.
I mean come the fuck on, the sign that Satan is within these folks
is a big patch of hair where none hair used to be. It may as well
have been called Blood On Satan’s Underwear, for all the subtlety
of the message.
Puberty is evil, especially in the lassies, since it leads to no
end of sexualistic tomfoolery.
Not that there aren’t fellas who find themselves up to the ears in
Satan grot. Mostly these young fellas look like they just stepped
out Hobbiton, all big hair and sticky-out teeth. I don’t know that
Frodo ever stripped before Gandalf and invited him for to come
“play a game”, though.
I don’t know that Samwise ever tried to fist Aragon round the back
of a cave or some shit. You never know with these Olde Worlde
deviant sons a bitches.
But aside from all the sexual politics and what the hell not,
Blood… is also an incredibly creepy, and incredibly beautiful, slab
of rural horror. The village wherein the tale unfolds is a
stunningly picturesque area, all gnarled oaks and rolling fields
and the like. The cinematography is incredible, even the interiors
having an earthy, autumnal charm. Let’s face it, man, any flick
that can feature a ridiculous furry Satan and still be chillingly
atmospheric for the duration is worthy of a pat on the back.
And, let The Duke be the latest to announce, Blood On Satan's Claw
is never happier than when kicking a taboo or six up the arsehole.
If the whole schoolgirl-stripping-before-a-priest thing didn’t get
cinemagoers of 1970 fussed up to all bejeesus, then certainly the
group rape of a schoolchild, a horrible, if mercifully brief
moment, would be enough to rile the most unrilable of viewers.
Aside from this most unwelcome of plot developments, however,
Blood… feels endearingly quaint for the most part. It’s at its best
when turning up the old chills and so on, and stumbles slightly
when expecting a fella to be similarly shaken by a loada ridiculous
red splatters. When the judge announces that he will indeed sort
out this witchcraft malarkey, and will use methods that are
“uncommonly brutal”, a fella can’t help but anticipate some
Witchfinder General-esque poking, prodding and burning. It never
happens, though. Vincent Price would’ve kicked the fuck outta this
buffoon, that’s for sure.
Blood On Satan’s Claw was actually released a couple times, since
first time around was under the name Satan’s Skin, a moniker which
folks decided was just too fucking boring for to be bothered with.
Mind you, the earlier title makes most sense. There’s a lot more
talk of skin than claws, if the cinematic truth is to be unfurled.
And who’d a thought Satan could be so cuddly? He’s just a big fuzzy
teddy bear in a robe is all he is. Never mind your goat-headed
fiends from The Devil Rides Out or that loud mouthed motherfucker
from Devil’s Advocate. I’d say all Satan wants is to be picked up
and cuddled for a time. Look at me, he says to himself. I couldn’t
be any more cuddly, yet how many cuddles do I get? I get less than
fuck-all cuddles, is how many. I’d imagine he’d be less handy with
the pitchforks if you just showed him some love.
The barbarity of it all is sickening.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
fields bothering neither man nor beast, only his ridiculous 17th
Century hair style threatening any particular offence to any
motherfucker. What I’ll do, he supposes, is I’ll do some ploughing,
since what the fuck else is he gonna do with this damn plough thing?
Nowadays the kids would probably just sell it on eBay for the price
of a new Limping Biscuits CD, the work-shy bastards.
Back in the 17th century, though, things were different. A man went
out for to toil and to plough and so on. He had curly locks. He had
muscles. Where are your muscles, you skateboarding motherfuckers?
Where are your curly locks?
Next thing he knows, though, he’s only gone and uncovered the bones
of some monster or other, lying there amidst the upturned dirt and
cow-shite.
So begins a tale of intrigue and possession and young ladies with
unfeasibly commanding eyes getting very naked and trying for to get
the village priest to do some sexing.
The Blood On Satan’s Claw is a fucking wonderful slab of eerie
rural devil-worshipping and nude-dancing from the demented sons a
bitches at Tigon Productions. For sure, Tigon rarely produced stuff
of this magnitude, but Blood On Satan’s Claw is easily the equal of
much of anything produced by their contemporaries, Hammer and
Amicus. It’s pitched somewhere between Tigon’s earlier Matthew
Hopkins – Witchfinder General and Robin Hardy’s 1973 The Wicker
Man, although, let’s not get mentalised, it’s not as good as
either, since both those numbers are not only among the best
British horror films of all ever, but the very best from any damn
place.
Unlike Witchfinder General, though, the witches in Blood… are a
real, dangerous, demonic threat, as opposed to the poor victims
Vincent Price raped and butchered for crimes invented in his own
deranged skull-blobs. In the world of Blood… Satan is real, just
like The Louvin Brothers said once upon a time, although I don’t
know that they had so many muscles or curly locks. Certainly they
drank more whiskey, that’s for damn sure.
What The Louvin Brothers failed to point out, however, was that not
only is Satan real, but he’s a big furry motherfucker instructing
school-children for to do his diabolical bidding. Most of this
bidding involves growing hairy lumps on your legs or arms, but then
there’s also the matter of the rape and murder of one’s peers, and
the getting naked for to coerce men of the cloth into a spot of the
old sexing filths.
If you thought Satan was above having a young lady get her foot
caught in a bear trap and then lots of bright-red blood ruins her
dress beyond all hope of restoration, then you better think the
fuck again, and this time, you better think more along the lines of
“You bet your last nut Satan would be up for that sorta shit.”
To tell you all the truth that’s fit to tell, it was impossible for
The Duke to read Blood On Satan’s Claw as anything other than a
cautionary tale about what happens when young ladies stop being
young girls. The possessed folks are all school-children, although
obviously the head possessee, Angel, is at least ten years older
than the rest of them, since she has to do all the stripping and
the purring and the fixing with the eyes.
What it wants to point out, is that when girls reach a certain age,
they become dangerous, liable to drive a man to any lengths of
demented madness, be it looking at them for much longer than is
polite, or trying to chop his arm off on account of it turned into
a big hairy Satan arm for a moment.
I mean come the fuck on, the sign that Satan is within these folks
is a big patch of hair where none hair used to be. It may as well
have been called Blood On Satan’s Underwear, for all the subtlety
of the message.
Puberty is evil, especially in the lassies, since it leads to no
end of sexualistic tomfoolery.
Not that there aren’t fellas who find themselves up to the ears in
Satan grot. Mostly these young fellas look like they just stepped
out Hobbiton, all big hair and sticky-out teeth. I don’t know that
Frodo ever stripped before Gandalf and invited him for to come
“play a game”, though.
I don’t know that Samwise ever tried to fist Aragon round the back
of a cave or some shit. You never know with these Olde Worlde
deviant sons a bitches.
But aside from all the sexual politics and what the hell not,
Blood… is also an incredibly creepy, and incredibly beautiful, slab
of rural horror. The village wherein the tale unfolds is a
stunningly picturesque area, all gnarled oaks and rolling fields
and the like. The cinematography is incredible, even the interiors
having an earthy, autumnal charm. Let’s face it, man, any flick
that can feature a ridiculous furry Satan and still be chillingly
atmospheric for the duration is worthy of a pat on the back.
And, let The Duke be the latest to announce, Blood On Satan's Claw
is never happier than when kicking a taboo or six up the arsehole.
If the whole schoolgirl-stripping-before-a-priest thing didn’t get
cinemagoers of 1970 fussed up to all bejeesus, then certainly the
group rape of a schoolchild, a horrible, if mercifully brief
moment, would be enough to rile the most unrilable of viewers.
Aside from this most unwelcome of plot developments, however,
Blood… feels endearingly quaint for the most part. It’s at its best
when turning up the old chills and so on, and stumbles slightly
when expecting a fella to be similarly shaken by a loada ridiculous
red splatters. When the judge announces that he will indeed sort
out this witchcraft malarkey, and will use methods that are
“uncommonly brutal”, a fella can’t help but anticipate some
Witchfinder General-esque poking, prodding and burning. It never
happens, though. Vincent Price would’ve kicked the fuck outta this
buffoon, that’s for sure.
Blood On Satan’s Claw was actually released a couple times, since
first time around was under the name Satan’s Skin, a moniker which
folks decided was just too fucking boring for to be bothered with.
Mind you, the earlier title makes most sense. There’s a lot more
talk of skin than claws, if the cinematic truth is to be unfurled.
And who’d a thought Satan could be so cuddly? He’s just a big fuzzy
teddy bear in a robe is all he is. Never mind your goat-headed
fiends from The Devil Rides Out or that loud mouthed motherfucker
from Devil’s Advocate. I’d say all Satan wants is to be picked up
and cuddled for a time. Look at me, he says to himself. I couldn’t
be any more cuddly, yet how many cuddles do I get? I get less than
fuck-all cuddles, is how many. I’d imagine he’d be less handy with
the pitchforks if you just showed him some love.
The barbarity of it all is sickening.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
