Flesh for the Beast (review)
Bordello of Blood
Guys, get a clue. If you don’t typically have a lot of luck with the ladies and now a woman you’ve never met before who is suspiciously hot and apparently psychotic disrobes before you and invites you to fuck her, this is an indication that you should run. Few women behave this way, and when they do, it usually means they’re, you know, zombie prostitutes looking for their next meal, and “eat me” takes on a whole new aspect in this kind of situation. Hint: It’s not the kind of “eat me” you want to be around.
In illuminating the way of these things, writer/director Terry West’s deliciously schlocky, no-budget gorefest Flesh for the Beast is like one of those films the army used to show their green recruits about the horrors of VD and other sexual terrors awaiting them out in the big, bad world. You can practically hear the disappointed narrator intoning in his gently scolding tone, “To Bob Smith, she looked like a nice girl…”
But you know, they don’t even look like nice girls here: they look like skanky vampire hookers. Or at least germ-laden not-undead ex-mental patients. This is not a deterrent to our idiot heroes, of course, who, at the first sight of a breast — even a skanky, possibly undead, probably germy one — lose about 75 IQ points and all sense of self-preservation. You guys are so sadly predictable… which is exactly what the zombie prostitutes are counting on.
Here, the young gentlemen of an ignorant bent are embarking upon a paranormal adventure, unaware that they’re going to get lucky and then unlucky in rapid succession. These ghostbusters head to “one of the biggest hotspots of paranormal activity on the East Coast,” a former bordello, at the behest of its new owner, John Stoker (Sergio Alarcon) — normal, relatively intelligent people would get the creeps from this dude instantly, or at least be spooked by the enormous old rambling mansion with all its nooks and crannies for getting disemboweled or beheaded in, and these normal people would make their escape posthaste, but then there’d be no movie. Oh, and a “horrible energy” resides in the house, Stoker tells them, which also happens to be “in proximity of an abandoned asylum,” which cannot be good news.
The one gal with the idiot guys is Erin Cooper (Jane Scarlett), a buttoned-down parasomething or other who’s got some sort of psychic connection to the house. She’s got her hair all up in a bun and wears a prim business suit. The hair will be coming down and the suit will be coming off, of course. And all you guys who are salivating already? Remember that this is all according to the zombie prostitutes plans.
And whaddaya know? In this horny haunted house, ghosts of bodacious babes shower in shadow while fondling themselves. Zombie hookers — led by B-movie queen Caroline Munro — entice all the eager, desperate lads into compromising positions before dining on their entrails. There’s lots of naked chicks rubbing themselves suggestively… but they’re rolling around in the blood of their victims are the same time.
So a thinking gal is still gonna roll her eyes as, by legal requirement for these kinds of flicks, the women are prancing around buck naked while all the guys remain fully clothed, even while having the last (and perhaps first) sex of their lives, which is quite an accomplishment, one supposes. Not that any of the dweebs here are George Clooney or anything, but fair’s fair and a little eye candy for the girls in the audience wouldn’t go amiss. But still, it’s gotta be some sorta step forward for womankind to see these clueless, horny idiots get what’s coming to them. Right?