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Plot: workaholic ad executive dies for the job… and comes to regret it.

Argentine vampire horror has come a long way. In the Golden Age of exploitation Latin – and South American gothics took primarily after Universal Horror and Hammer Films, respectively. Reflective of our more enlightened times Dead Man Tells His Own Tale (released domestically as El Muerto Cuenta su Historia) is a horror comedy that at points is a zombie, ghost, vampire, Satanic cult, and post-apocalyptic flick. It bounces into several different directions at once yet manages to stay surprisingly coherent – even if it comes at the price of never truly developing anything that it presents to any substantial degree. More importantly, Dead Man Tells His Own Tale pushes an outspoken feminist agenda that couldn’t feel more relevant considering women’s rights still regularly get trampled on in Argentina. Dead Man Tells His Own Tale may not have the subtlety of The Love Witch (2016) or be as on-point as Shaun Of the Dead (2004), Fabián Forte is onto something – even if he’s not the Argentine Álex de la Iglesia.

This is what you get when you combine The Day Of the Beast (1995), a hetero-normative take on Vampyros Lesbos (1971), a zombie subplot out of Idle Hands (1999), spice it up with a dash of Liar Liar (1997), a bit of What Women Want (2000) and sprinkle it with the feminist theory and women’s lib angle from The Love Witch (2016). Suffice to say Dead Man Tells His Own Tale fuses together influences and inspirations that have no sensible reason to go together but somehow do anyway. It’s leagues better in terms of writing and direction than Bolivian sex comedy My Cousin the Sexologist (2016) while having that same made-for-TV look. For no apparent reason other than to look cool Dead Man Tells His Own Tale starts in medias res, is told out of chronological order, and switches viewpoint characters around during the third act. It has no reason to work but somehow it does anyway. Dead Man Tells His Own Tale is chuckle-inducing at points and some of the gore scenes are surprisingly well-realized. As the complete antithesis to Emilio Vieyra's legendary Blood Of the Virgins (1967) (with Susana Beltrán and Gloria Prat) these vampires are of the mind rather than of the sanguine persuasion.

Ángel Barrios (Diego Gentile) is a workaholic ad executive in Buenos Aires. He’s shallow, self-centered, and chauvenist and sexist to a fault. He has a loving wife in Lucila (Mariana Anghileri, as Moro Anghileri) but he ignores her whenever convenient and at this point his relationship with her is purely transactional. On top of that, he’s estranged from his precocious daughter Antonella (Fiorela Duranda). Lucila and him have been going to relation therapy with doctor Ana (Viviana Saccone) but Ángel’s not interested in improving himself and blames Lucila for their problems instead. Ángel’s best friend is his work associate Eduardo (Damián Dreizik) who still lives with his elderly mother Cristina (Pipi Onetto). One day Ángel and Eduardo are ordered to helm a commercial for a perfume brand. During the shoot Ángel scolds the hired model (Victoria Saravia) for no apparent reason. From that point forward Ángel finds it difficult to tell what is real and what’s not. He loses all track of time until one night he finds himself in a bar getting seduced by Bea (Emilia Attías), Eri (Julieta Vallina), and a woman looking just like doctor Ana. The seductresses slash his throat, and exsanguinated he ends up on the medical slab of Dr. Piedras (Chucho Fernández).

He awakens, hobbles home, and is greeted by little Antonella who immediately notices that there’s something different about him. Lucila is understandably annoyed but shrugs it off as another of Ángel’s all-night binges. When he meets Eduardo the following day Ángel is startled by his new condition. Eduardo explains that they were killed by three Celtic goddesses for their sexist - and toxic behaviour and that they now exist in a state of unlife (or undeath). To deal with their predicament he has started a therapy group with fellow victims Norberto (Lautaro Delgado), Sergio (Berta Muñiz), Coco (Pablo Pinto), and Gustavo (Germán Romero) – all of whom, just like himself, merely exist as golems. Ángel feverishly continues to work while being something of a ghost in his own household. He learns that the three goddesses are preparing for the resurrection of the Morrígan Macha (Marina Cohen) by killing all sexist males. To make matters worse Cristina indoctrinates and inducts Lucila into the cult of the Morrígan. As the cult conducts a nocturnal ceremony the dead rise, the earth splits open, and Macha is indeed resurrected. Unable to stop the looming apocalypse Lucila and Ángel are witness to how society and power structures change overnight. In the aftermath they reunite with Antonella and with more understanding of their own sensitivities they roam the wastelands in their jeep fighting to restore the world they once knew.

Well, that’s quite something, isn’t it? Let’s break down what we have here. First, the general plot concerns a chauvenist pig getting a royal come-uppance much in the way of the French comedy As the Moon (1977) or What Women Want (2000). Ángel falling under the spell of Bea is lifted wholesale from Vampyros Lesbos (1971). The Morrígan cult scene will look familiar to anybody who has seen Blood On Satan’s Claw (1971), The Wicker Man (1973), or Satan's Slave (1976). The dead rising to do their witch mistress’ bidding sounds an awful lot like Horror Rises From the Tomb (1973). Ángel not being able to tell what is real and what is not reeks of The Game (1997) and him becoming a ghost in his own house reeks of The Sixth Sense (1999). Three misfits trying to stop the impending the impending apocalypse was, of course, the whole of The Day Of the Beast (1995). Finally, it concludes with the ending of The Terminator (1984) copied almost verbatim. There’s absolutely no reason why any of these should go together, but somehow they do. Dead Man Tells His Own Tale starts out as a conventional drama but soon transforms into a ghost horror, a zombie romp, a gothic horror, a Satanic cult flick and towards the end it briefly becomes a post-nuke yarn. Under no circumstance do any of these subgenres usually go together but here the transitions are seamless. That Dead Man Tells His Own Tale never devolves into incoherence attests to Forte’s vision.

Argentinian horror has come a long way since the halcyon days of Armando Bó ushering his bra-busting paramour Isabel Sarli through near-constant controversy and into superstardom, where “la diosa blanca de la sensualidad” Libertad Leblanc hopped across genres and neighbouring countries turning heads and dropping jaws along the way, where Emilio Vieyra’s kink-horror exploits with his trusty mujer sin ropas Gloria Prat and Susana Beltrán upset censors continue to speak to the fertile imagination of cult movie fanatics everywhere more than five decades later. It was here that Roger Corman and his Concorde Pictures struck a partnership with Aries Cinematográfica Argentina to produce some of the most gratuitous barbarian/sword-and-sorcery features with locals Alejandro Sessa and Héctor Olivera and a host of buxom American starlets willing to take their tops off for the right paycheck. Expect no such excesses here. While chaste by exploitation standards Dead Man Tells His Own Tale boasts former model and television personality Emilia Attías and Mariana Anghileri among its principal cast. Attías and Anghileri combine the best of Cristine Reyes, Anne Curtis, and Fernanda Urrejola. Thankfully they act better than Bolivian sexbomb Stephanie Herala. As important as a few pretty faces and hardbodies may be to the marketability of a production, the script of Nicolás Britos and director Forte matters even more. As a bonus, the special effects are a pretty even mix between practical and digital.

It’s a question for the ages why a pretty little fright flick like this ended up with the somewhat misleading Pirates of the Caribbean (2003-2017) derived title that it did. As these things go, its closest cousin is Álex de la Iglesia’s Witching and Bitching (2013). Director Fabián Forte was nominated for a Golden Raven at the Brussels International Festival of Fantasy Film (BIFFF) in 2017 and while he did not win, he might be one of Argentina’s directors to look out for. In the years since Forte has mainly been assistant directing and doing television work with no features for the immediate future. Dead Man Tells His Own Tale proves that there’s still some life to the old corpse and that Argentinian horror can still be relevant and exciting in this day and age. If titles such as Terrified (2017) are anything to go by Argentina is, just like any other country, swamped by the current trend of The Conjuring (2013) and Paranormal Activity (2007) imitations. As lamentable as that evolution is, it makes you long for simpler times when Latin America could be counted upon to deliver something different from its European and American peers. Is that still the case? That’s difficult to say. At least Dead Man Tells His Own Tale can content itself with its old school sensibilities and retro aesthetic.

Plot: in a post-apocalyptic wasteland two starlets seek a sacred stag reel.

John Michael McCarthy is probably the closest America has come to having a Josh Collins. Collins was the master of ceremonies behind Pervirella (1997) (with Emily Booth) and Superstarlet AD is cut from a very similar cloth. Pervirella (1997) was a Victorian steampunk cosplay extravaganza with enough boobage and bounce to make Jim Wynorski proud. Superstarlet AD on the other hand is a monochrome tribute to the Russ Meyer and John Waters repertoire, 1950s science fiction, and 60s drive-in exploitation fare (delinquent youth, nudie-cuties, roughies, various countercultures) complete with colored The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) campy musical numbers and comedic interludes, striptease routines, and lesbian histrionics. In other words, Superstarlet AD is a mostly forgotten nouveau retro antecedent styled after Barbarella (1968) pre-dating Anna Biller’s exquisite feminist manifesto The Love Witch (2016) (with Samantha Robinson) by over a decade and a half. It premiered on the 2001 SXSW Film festival alongside Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Amores Perros (2000), Christopher Nolan’s Memento (2000), and Lukas Moodyson’s Together (2000) and it was part of the seventh annual Chicago Underground Film Festival at the Fine Arts in Michigan in 2000. Since then it has become a beloved cult item no matter how much of an obscurity it might be.

Shot alternating in color and black and white in and around Memphis in just 16 days on a miniscule budget of $16,000 and promoted with the tagline, “when man turns to ape woman turns to womanSuperstarlet AD is a curio even in cult circles. Like Eraserhead (1977), Begotten (1989) and 964 Pinocchio (1991) it’s pervaded with that cold industrial feel of stark alienation and dystopian desolation. The cast consists of enthusiastic amateurs with Kerine Elkins, Gina Velour, and Michèle Carr in the principal roles. All three ladies fill their bras more convincingly than their roles, although nobody can be accused of not bringing any gusto, vigor, and enthusiasm to their respective parts. While there are planks of wood with more acting talent the trio throw their all into the roles, most of which are dialogue-heavy with Velour providing near-constant narration. Despite, or rather in spite, of obvious budgetary limitations Superstarlet AD is very artsy and quirky at times. For a no-budget indie it’s custodian to number of beautifully composed shots and frequently looks far more expensive than what it cost. Very much like Galaxina (1980) before it this is a spoof that plays its humor completely straight.

After an unspecified extinction level event simply referred to as, “the Cataclysm” has reduced to the world to a smoke-shrouded barren post-nuclear wasteland and what little remains of the male population has literally reverted to Neanderthals. As the “homosexual” fashion industry was obliterated during the Cataclysm ammunition, clothing, and lipstick are in short supply. This is Apocalypse Meow. The women of this wasteland have flocked together in a make-shift gyno-centric society always on the brink of war. “Beauty cults” or violent gun-toting all-girl gangs of a specific hair color and dress code roam the streets. Three major gangs have emerged from beneath the remains of yesterday’s world. First, there are the Satanas (modeled after Tura Satana) presided over by Verona (Michèle Carr, as Michelle Carr). Then there are the Phayrays who fashion themselves after Fay Wray and Mamie van Doren and are led by Ultramame (Rita D'Albert). Lastly, there are the treacherous Tempests (as in burlesque dancer Tempest Storm) who congegrate in the Replay Lounge and worship a sewing machine that they don’t know how to operate. Velvet (Katherine Greenwood, as Odessa Greenwood) is the only of the clan who can, but she adamantly refuses. Not even a good whipping from resident dominatrix Cathy X (Kitty Diggins) can sway her. Jezebel (Kerine Elkins) is the 13th mistress to rule the gang. All three engage in open war and territorial disputes are commonplace. The Phayrays and Satanas desire nothing else but to topple the power-hungry Verona and claim her crown and its attendant power as their own.

In the abandoned city of Femphis dark-haired Naomi (Gina Velour) and her platinum blonde girlfriend Rachel (Alicja Trout) set out on a perilous quest raiding every movie theatre they come across in hopes of finding her grandmother’s sacred stag reel or some dye converts. During one such excursions the two find subversive, hot rod-riding, clothes-wearing redhead Valentine (Katherine St. Valentine, as Kate St. Valentine) - apparently an actress from the 1950s who was comatose when the world ended - and is understandably confused in and by the present day. Naomi is the pacifist leader of a new beauty cult, the Superstarlets, where hair color is of no importance. When Naomi learns from Valentine about a place called Retro Metro, the last in Femphis where dresses can be found, a turf war seems imminent. The Phayrays desire to recruit Rachel into their ranks and Valentine’s knowledge furthers the interests of the Satanas. Jezebel is wise enough to put her petty dreams of dominating all gangs aside and let the encroaching chaos do her dirty work for her. Negotiating a truce between the Satanas, the Phayrays, and the Tempests will clear the path for her future usurpation of all power and their fragile coalition will last long enough to destroy their clear and present problem, the dissident Naomi. In a world "gone nudie-cutie, Armageddon style,” and in a war waged by mostly by hair-pulling and jiggling over-sized busts will there be enough stockings, garter belts, suspenders, and vintage bustiers for things to come to a peaceful resolve?

All of the women are pretty enough, although they might not appeal to those not into that whole underground punk/retro pin-up aesthetic. Admittedly, we’re no fans of some of the thicker make-up that Kerine Elkins can be seen wearing either but other than that there’s very little to complain. The biggest and obvious references on that front are Bettie Page, Jayne Mansfield and Mamie Van Doren, Wendy O. Williams, Kitten Natividad, Betty Brosmer, Uschi Digard, Monique Devereux, and Tura Satana. Or full-figured, healthy-looking women who weren’t afraid to showcase their wealthy, natural curves and whom - at least by some of today’s unrealistic and unforgiving beauty standards that seem canonize the sickly and skeletal thin above all else - would either be described as plus-size or plain fat. As near as we can tell most of the cast seem to come from either the Velvet Hammer burlesque troupe, exotic dancer, or the underground punk pool. It does raise one question: why were the Julies, the late great Strain and K. Smith, not in this? Superstarlet AD was something right in their wheelhouse, boudoir, or lingerie closet rather. Strain had taken her top off for lesser filmmakers and on scanter budgets in those unrewarding post-Sidaris years. Those who love vintage lingerie will get an absolute kick out of Superstarlet AD as these gun-toting belles brandish more than enough stockings, garter belts, suspenders and such to satiate anyone’s craving. With that in mind, this is probably the greatest monochrome post-apocalyptic sci-fi Andy Sidaris and Jim Wynorski never made

Nostalgia. That most addictive of drugs. That’s indeed what propels Superstarlet AD forward. Pinpointing when exactly the nouveau retro movement started is anyone’s guess. Superstarlet AD is probably a good place to start. American horror was firmly in the post-modern grip of the self-referential and the meekly comedic, and Asian horror (specifically Japan) was experiencing some of a resurgence.

If something like this were made today it practically begged for curvaceous cuties as French Instagram sex bomb Green Cat From Hell, French-Canadian alt model Ardaeth, American go-go dancer and devil-do-all Toriikills, Ukrainian belly dancer Diana Bastet, Icelandic booty babe and Playboy Playmate of the Month (September, 2014) Arna Bára Karlsdóttir, Australian-British OnlyFans sensation Leah Wilde, or American adult stars as Natalie Monroe, Kayla Kiss, or Reya Reign, to name just a few. Karlsdóttir, Wilde, Kiss, Reign, and even Green Cat From Hell (despite the obvious language barrier) could very well pull it off considering the roleplay they all frequently engage in. With nostalgia stronger than ever before and the longing for simpler times the question is whether there would an audience for such a thing. It is another discussion entirely who would be best qualified to helm such a feature. Wynorski descended into caricature and parody around the time this came out, and it’s safe to assume he’s a lost cause at this point. Unless by some divine intervention he regains his composure suddenly. That leaves the younger generation to meet the demand. Benjamin Combes, Neil Johnson, and Rene Perez have all shown an affinity and knack for such a thing.