After many long, soul-withering years of trawling through the brackish, 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; this little-appreciated maxim is given considerable verisimilitude by 'La Puritan's' generic, Joe D'Amato artwork: while its moribund vista of poodle-haired, pneumatic broad, and an oily, lascivious-looking cat in pensive pre- canoodle might initially appear about as enticing as Polish cuisine; beneath this prosaic veneer is a muscular, lurid masterpiece of palpating, gratuitous nudity; replete with merciless revenge; and a kaleidoscope of non-stop, soft-core ruttage; whereby all those craven, voyeuristic souls can enjoy the myriad 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! More of Margit Evelyn Newton's deliciously pulchritudinous flesh is ALWAYS the best option. (fortunately the arch reprobate director, Grassia realizes that one should always butter one's movie muffin, breast side up) #Excuse the bungled mixed metaphor, but the delightful Ms. Newton's libidinous physiognomy has played havoc with my reeling noggin!#
It would be remiss of me to give away the plot, or any of the wondrous set pieces away, so I wont. Life is paltry enough without some callous internet scrivener 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, grungy 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!
