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Plot: American heiress returns to the old family seat in Scotland.

To understand where from Huntress: Spirit Of the Night came and how it relates to the genre from whence it sprung a look at the history of gothic horror and the current trends surrounding it is in order. At least since the early seventies the erotic aspect became more emphasized with Mediterranean (primarily Italian, French, and Spanish) titles as The Night Of the Damned (1971), Vampyros Lesbos (1971), The Devil’s Wedding Night (1973), Black Magic Rites (1973), Vampyres (1974), and the early work of Jean Rollin. A decade’s worth of erosion had led the subgenre to succumb to its erotic aspect with the most infamous examples the nearly-identical Malabimba (1979), and Satan’s Baby Doll (1982) from the Bianchi brothers, Andrea and Mario, that went as far as to include hardcore inserts. On the other end of the spectrum was The Red Monks (1988) from Gianni Martucci that was neither atmospheric nor erotic despite featuring plenty of disrobed Lara Wendel and aging Eurocult queen Malisa Longo. All focused heavily on the exposed female form, and the softcore revival of the eighties (Tinto Brass in Italy and the Cine-S movement in Spain) and nineties (the king of late night cable Zalman King in North America). It briefly re-emerged in Hollywood with prestigious big budget offerings as Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992), the Anne Rice adaptation Interview with the Vampire (1994) and The Haunting (1999) before Wes Craven’s Scream (1996) and the meta-slasher revival made it instantly redundant.

Unlike many other subgenres gothic horror never truly went extinct and Huntress: Spirit Of the Night (released as either Huntress or Spirit Of the Night before coalescing into its current form, in addition to rolling into some North American markets as The Beast Inside Her) is very much the logical next step from Jim Wynorski’s The Haunting Of Morella (1990), and Roger Corman’s Frankenstein Unbound (1992). This little seen Charles Band produced ditty is not only a contemporary reworking of Cat People (1942 and 1982) with a lycanthropic bend and a dash of A Virgin Among the Living Dead (1973). Huntress: Spirit Of the Night (simply Huntress hereafter) was originally intended to be made in 1986 under Band's previous studio Empire Pictures. David Schmoeller was attached to write and direct with Pino Donaggio providing the score. In 1988 Empire collapsed and Band moved back from Italy to the US. It was released around the same time as Stuart Gordon’s Castle Freak (1995) and is one of Full Moon’s more enduring features despite not spawning a franchise. Huntress is helped tremendously by having Borovnisa Blervaque - the sultry babe from the opening gambit of Albert Pyun’s Nemesis (1992) - as its headlining star. Blervaque was easily the best thing about Nemesis (1992) (although there certainly was no shortage of explosive action and good-looking actresses in that one) even though she had a scant few lines and was the only female in the cast not to lose her clothes. Three years removed from that Borovnisa apparently was no longer encumbered by such inhibitions and she, along with softcore queen Jenna Bodnar, is probably the only reason why Huntress has attained any sort of longevity and is considered something of a minor cult hit. Bodnar was among the regulars in 90s late night television and in a blitz career that lasted a mere 8 years (from 1995 to 2003) and saw her starring in some 18 titles. She’s often forgotten among more illustrious names as Shauna O'Brien, Shannon Tweed, Julie Strain, Kari Wuhrer, Maria Ford, Landon Hall, Shannon Whirry, and Wendy MacDonald.

Tara (Jenna Bodnar, as Jenna Bodner), an architect, has come to her ancestral home of Brecon, Northern Wales to attend the funeral of her father Kenneth Wexford (Mircea Cojan). Her father had sent her to America out of fear for animal attacks in their rural environs. Tara’s plan is to get her father’s belongings and affairs in order and then return to America. Through her butler Geoffrey (Constantin Cotimanis) she obtains a diary containing her father’s recorded thoughts, newspaper articles, and photographs and deducts that a panther was behind said attacks. A local witch cursed the female populace with carrying the panther’s spirit when her pet animal was shot by a Brecon local. At the funeral service she runs into her childhood friend from France, Michelle (Borovnisa Blervaque, as Blair Valk) who has power of attorney over the Wexford matter and will stop at nothing to enrich herself by selling the estate to interested parties. To lower her guard Michelle invites Tara to a party that will also be attended by her old crush and Michelle’s current boyfriend Alek Devane (David Starzyk). Once the necessary wine has been consumed and Michelle has spiked Alek’s drink with aphrodisiac they almost end up in a threesome, but Tara hesitates despite her urges.

There’s commotion in town because of the persisting animal attacks and a torch and pitchfork-wielding mob has gathered to find and kill the animal. Inspecting the estate she finds a naked young girl (Alina Turoiu) hiding in the wine cellar. The sight awakens her primal instincts and as she tears the clothes off her body she witnesses the spirit leaving the girl’s body and taking up residence in hers. Its presence not only gives chaste and sexually repressed Tara superhuman sense and agility but, more importantly, whets her dormant sexual appetite and latent carnal desires. In town antique dealer Tyrone Bodi (Charles Cooper) believes in the panther legend but Michelle is quick to brush him off as just another old and superstitious coot. Now acclimated to her new surroundings Tara expresses her wish to stay but Geoffrey and Bodi worry about her well-being and the village’s ancient curse, respectively. It’s around this time that Tara meets American expat Jacob (Michael Wiseman) who’s photographing wild life in the area for a magazine. She accepts his offer to pose for him and willingly sheds all of her clothes as well any inhibitions she still has. Tara’s change of heart gets in the way of Michelle (who’s in the habit of lounging on the piano naked) forcing her to resort to more drastic measures to get her hands on the Wexford estate.

Arguably Huntress is probably the earliest example of the kind of late night softcore dreck that Jenna Bodnar would excel at. Our weakness for ginger women is perhaps not as well-documented as it might be and while we were drawn to Huntress because of Borovnisa Blervaque, Jenna Bodnar is no slouch either. Bodnar has the curls and curves and, like Jessica Moore in Italy before her, she was not shy about wielding either when and where it matters. She acquits herself wonderfully well especially in light of how she had done but two features prior. Blervaque is the more athletic of the two and by and large more in line with the icy and mysterious beauties of European weird cinema. Being the nominal star Bodnar is who Huntress understandably gets the most mileage out of. To their credit Blervaque and Bodnar can be seen entirely nude, including full frontal. Likewise, Bodnar can hardly be called the stereotypical late night softcore starlet. For one she isn’t blonde (she would adopt that in her later oeuvre) and while she certainly has the curvaceous body her pneumatically-enhanced curves (she’s no Cat Sassoon, thank fuck) aren’t as startlingly, blindingly obvious.

Borovnisa Blervaque is barely recognizable from her turn in Nemesis (1992) four years earlier. Why Pyun chose Sue Price over her for any of the Nemesis (1992) sequels is a question for the ages. The opening gambit showcased her potential of becoming a low budget action star, but none such thing ever materialized. None of which stops Huntress from inventing enough excuses for Blervaque to disrobe and cavort around in the nude. The piano scene, while brief, does a lot with very little. Bodnar has her somewhat legendary nocturnal seduction scene that has her writing and gyrating around clad only with the sky. Believe it or not, the biggest star here is actually David Starzyk. Starzyk would build an extensive career as the perennial guest star on just about every major American television series. Huntress is decent but there are plenty of other softcore flicks that do this thing better. Huntress is out to titillate and is a resounding success. As a horror, gothic or otherwise, it’s completely bereft of both tension and scares. Not to mention that it never shows its monster.

There’s something fundamentally different about how European and American filmmakers frame and photograph nudity, especially of the beloved female kind. Whereas Europeans see the naked body as a canvas the median American director is deadly afraid of offending the frail sensibilities of a general audience. Compare this to Vampyros Lesbos (1971), The Devil’s Wedding Night (1973), Black Magic Rites (1973), Vampyres (1974), or even Top Sensation (1969) and the difference couldn’t be more stark. Europe is generally more relaxed and liberated when it comes to sexuality and on-screen nudity. Despite its acres of skin Huntress is desperately, terminally afraid to truly explore the exposed female form as a canvas and, as such, never gets really steamy to any notable degree. That Huntress was filmed by a puritan American is maddeningly obvious. Moreso Mark Manos a year or so hence would direct a bunch of videos for Playboy – and that’s exactly what this looks like. An extended, 90-minute Playboy video, with all the good and bad that entails. Besides the usual boob fondling, neck-kissing and writhing of glistening naked bodies you’d expect of a softcore romp the horror element is practically non-existent or pityingly underdeveloped. Unlike Annik Borel in The Legend of the Wolf Woman (1976) Bodnar won’t be turning wolf and Huntress hardly, if ever, turns up the sleaze. If nothing else, it’s painfully clear from Huntress how far and how deep the gothic horror had fallen. While it certainly has the fog-enshrouded, shadowy atmosphere thanks to its lush Romanian locations there’s very little to actively stay awake for. It’s far from the worst in the Full Moon Features catalog and this is well before the puppets and gimmicks became Band’s entire raison d'être.

Huntress is pretty much a product of its time. The nineties were notoriously unkind to horror (a few exceptions notwithstanding) and late night softcore erotica was always a pretty toothless affair to begin with. At any earlier decade in b-cinema history this would have been a recipe for success, or at least nominal fireworks. Joe D’Amato’s Eleven Days Eleven Nights (1987) and Top Model (1988) was better than this. Even Black Cobra Woman (1972) did more with less. The Legend of the Wolf Woman (1976) was sleazier and any Paul Naschy El Hombre Lobo feature from any decade prior actually qualified as a horror. Imagine what José Ramón Larraz, Joe D'Amato or even Jesús Franco could have done with a premise like this. It’s faint praise indeed that it featured an actress who was in a minor home video hit and one that was about to become a regular warm body on late night cable television. It’s even fainter praise that Huntress has the good fortune of making The Haunting Of Morella (1990) look expensive. Then again, that one had Lana Clarkson and Nicole Eggert disrobing. As much as we have a weak spot for Borovnisa Blervaque, her career never went anywhere beyond guest roles and “Yugoslavian girl” in Critical Decision (1996).

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Plot: Waldemar Daninsky faces Countess Elisabeth Báthory… again!

El Retorno del Hombre Lobo (or The Return Of the Wolfman, released in North America as The Craving in 1985 and, at a later stage, internationally as Night of the Werewolf) was the first of two El Hombre Lobo episodes produced during the eighties. Times were changing and audience tastes were no different. The wicked and wild excesses of the 1970s had given way to the staunch conservativism and rampant debauchery of the 80s. The American slasher had become the new horror standard and suddenly Paul Naschy no longer found himself to be the trailblazer he once was. He experienced increasing difficulty in securing North American distribution for his features and back at home in Spain box office returns weren’t what they once were either. It was the dawn of a new age and Spain’s fiercest proponent of the macabre and the fantastic found himself out of step with what the younger generation was producing. As daunting as the circumstances might have been Naschy forged onward. As legend has it this was a personal favorite of Naschy’s and it’s easy to see why. Waldemar Daninsky never was in finer form in the more recent episodes than he is here.

That the Eurocult wave was cresting was apparent by 1976 and four years later the situation was even more dire. The death of Generalísimo Francisco Franco in late 1975 not only meant the slow crawl towards democracy and increased freedom on all fronts, it also signaled the end of mass government funding for the arts, including domestic cinema. If it wasn’t terrible enough Spanish and Italian exports had a hard time competing with big budget Hollywood box office hits as The Exorcist (1973) and Jaws (1975) (which didn’t stop both countries from trying and producing a veritable deluge of alternately obnoxious and hilarious no-budget imitations and knockoffs) and were only getting limited theatrical engagements in North America, once their primary market. To add insult to injury, the home video market was about to explode in just a few years from where they were. Naschy however refused to go gently into that good night and saw these newly-imposed restrictions as an opportunity to cut costs by writing, producing and directing his own features. He had made a television documentary on Madrid's Prado Museum and its art collection for Japanese company Hori Kikaku and they extended their gratitude by providing finances for whatever Naschy wanted to make. Thus he got together with partners Augusto Boue, Masurao Takeda from Dálmata Films, and Julia Saly and formed Acónito Films. Acónito (the scientific term for wolfsbane) would be responsible for all prime Naschy films this decade. Acónito Films produced a spate of features but only a few fall within the purview of this review.

While Mark Of the Wolfman (1968) set the stage it was from the much protracted first sequel Assignment Terror (1969) onward that the El Hombre Lobo became a recurring character in the Naschy canon. Sequels would appear annually (or every other year) up until and including The Werewolf and the Yeti (1975). In that five-year stretch Paul Naschy explored other avenues such as history, superstition and religion. In the decade of the international slasher craze and the domestic Cine-S movement Naschy staunchly stuck to his guns and produced an El Hombre Lobo installment on the 1970s model. Never below milking production assets, plot contrivances and locations for all they were worth The Return Of the Wolfman arrived a year after his Biblical parable The Traveller (1979) and will look and feel instantly familiar. By this point Naschy had accumulated enough experience in front and behind the camera to direct the productions which he had written. There’s a point, and a valid one at that, to be made that by the time The Werewolf and the Yeti (1975) rolled into cineplexes around the world that the series had strayed too far into the action-adventure direction. If there ever was a time to reinstate the franchise to its gothic horror roots, that time was now. Still, there’s no denying that after a decade-plus of sequels the formula was starting to wear thin. Which isn’t necessarily to its detriment as this one is thoroughly entertaining.

Hungary, 16th century. In the royal court of the Habsburgs Kings of Hungary and the Palatine of Hungary Countess Elizabeth Báthory (Julia Saly, as Jully Saly) is tried and executed. Báthory has been accused to torturing and killing hundreds of girls and women. She’s to be walled up in her chambers in Castle of Csejte in the Little Carpathians near Vág-Ujhely and Trencsén (or present-day Nové Mesto nad Váhom and Trenčín, Slovakia) where she’ll be left to die. Two of her vassals are executed for their involvement in her heinous crimes. Also on trial is Polish nobleman Waldemar Daninsky (Jacinto Molina Álvarez, as Paul Naschy), a known lycanthrope and scourge of the region, is tried for his killing sprees in wolfen form and his association with Báthory. On top of these individual accusations the two are accused of witchcraft, vampirism, and diabolism. A dagger made of silver of the Mayenza chalice is driven through Daninsky’s heart and an iron mask is secured on his face to keep him from biting.

Centuries later grave robbers Veres (Ricardo Palacios) and Yoyo (Rafael Hernández, as Rafael Hernandez) remove the dagger and the mask. Released from bondage the tortured nobleman takes up residence in his castle where he lives with his servant Mircaya (Beatriz Elorrieta). One day parapsychology students Erika (Silvia Aguilar) and Karen (Azucena Hernández, as Azucena Hernandez) arrive in the Carpathians with Barbara (Pilar Alcón, as Pilar Alcon) joining them shortly after once she has removed her old professor (Narciso Ibáñez Menta, as Narciso Ibañez Menta) from the equation. The three are able to locate Báthory’s tomb and the find leads to Erika becoming obsessed with Báthory and falling under her hypnotic spell. Her obsession leads Erika to perform a resurrection ritual. Waldemar Daninsky falls in love with Karen and when he realizes Báthory has been revived and is feeding on the local population he turns against his former mistress vowing to protect the woman he loves at his own peril.

If the above summary didn’t make it abundantly clear The Return of the Wolfman is more of a “greatest hits” rather than a straightforward sequel. After the insanity of The Werewolf and the Yeti (1975) the series had been absent for half a decade. For that reason instead of breaking new ground with the character Naschy borrows liberally from prior key episodes and its contemporary surrounding productions. The mainplot is a slightly condensed composite of The Wolfman versus the Vampire Woman (1971) and The Return Of Walpurgis (1973) with varying shades of Horror Rises From the Tomb (1973), Blue Eyes of the Broken Doll (1974) and Devil's Possessed (1974) as well as assorted individual plot elements from Fury Of the Wolfman (1972) and Doctor Jekyll and the Wolfman (1972). With Beatriz Elorrieta’s Mircaya there’s the obligatory nod to Joseph Sheridan LeFanu’s Carmilla and Pilar Alcón’s Barbara could be seen as a loving wink to British cult icon Barbara Steele, the once-and-future queen of vintage Italo gothic horror. As Waldemar Daninsky had been away for half a decade perhaps a reintroduction was needed. Call it truth in advertising but The Return Of the Wolfman does indeed feel reinvigorated and acts as a symbolic return and a new beginning. To its everlasting credit The Return of the Wolfman opens with a sun-baked pool scene prescient of the Cine-S movement where you halfway expect to see a buck naked Eva Lyberten, Vicky Palma or Andrea Albani splashing around, but somehow never do. On top of that it has a disco theme that makes the theme to Cannibal Ferox (1981) appear sensible.

After the relatively low-key (at least in terms of casting) The Werewolf and the Yeti (1975) the first El Hombre Lobo episode of the eighties is brimming with familiar faces. Naschy was in the habit of casting the most beautiful Spanish women and here there’s the delectable trio of Silvia Aguilar, Julia Saly and Azucena Hernández. Aguilar had been in The Traveller (1979) and the Eurocrime romp Human Beasts (1980) (that also co-starred Julia Saly) and the sex comedy The National Mummy (1981). Saly usually worked behind the scenes as a producer and sporadically acted in that which she produced. In that capacity she could be seen in, the fourth and final Blind Dead episode Night of the Seagulls (1975), The People Who Own the Dark (1976), Inquisition (1977), Demon Witch Child (1978), the sex comedy Madrid al desnudo (1979) and The Cantabrians (1980). Hernández was Miss Catalonia 1977, had briefly worked as a model which naturally led to acting. Prior to her excursion into Spanish horror with El Hombre Lobo she could be seen in the Cine-S precursor Intimate Confessions of Stella (1978), and Bacanal en directo (1979). In the early 1980s Azucena transitioned into acting on the stage, did television and participated in zarzuelas. Her ascension to superstardom was cut tragically short when in the night of 15 to 16 October 1986 she was involved in a serious car accident in Las Rozas de Madrid. In the collision she sustained severe spinal cord injuries that left her paralyzed.

Also present are Beatriz Elorrieta (not using her Beatriz Lacy alias) from Necrophagus (1971), Narciso Ibáñez Menta from The Dracula Saga (1973) and Ricardo Palacios from 1001 Nights (1968) (with Luciana Paluzzi) and Juan Piquer Simón's Journey to the Center of the Earth (1977). In a rather unthankful role as a senior bandit is Luis Barboo, he of The Case of the Scorpion's Tail (1971), Female Vampire (1973), The Loreley's Grasp (1973), Return of the Blind Dead (1973), The Witches Mountain (1973), Night Of the Assassins (1974), The Pyjama Girl Case (1977), Supersonic Man (1979) and Conan the Barbarian (1982). Unfortunately Naschy never found the time and space to cast German sex comedy starlets Ursula Buchfellner, Olivia Pascal, Betty Vergés, Edwige Pierre, Christine Zierl, or Biggi Ludwig in one of his features. Imagine what Paul Naschy could have conjured up with someone like Sabrina Siani, Florence Guérin, Olivia Pascal, Andrea Albani or, god forbid, Maribel Guardia.

In the decade of the American slasher and the Italian gore epic Naschy produced what, by al accounts, was a deliciously baroque gothic horror throwback. His association with Julia Saly allowed Naschy to produce a number of more artistic ventures across a variety of genres. The Saly years was Naschy’s last brush with relevance, both artistic as in terms of box office returns, of any kind. Whereas The Werewolf and the Yeti (1975) was the last vintage offering The Return Of the Wolfman and the Japanese co-production The Beast and the Magic Sword (1983) were the last of the Daninsky saga to turn a profit. From the mid-180s onwards (coinciding with the fall of Cine-S which had begun in 1980) Naschy and Spanish horror at large would experience a dark period from which El Hombre Lobo, the Spanish Lon Chaney never truly recovered. In the following decades only two more Waldemar Daninsky episodes would materialize. For a number of years Spanish fantaterror was nothing but a relic from a distant past until Álex de la Iglesia revived Iberian horror with his The Day Of the Beast (1995).