Back in 2014, I made a rather egregious post about how The Nights of Terror (or Burial Ground as it’s more popularly known to idiots in the West) was a bloody awful film and should be watched by nobody with eyes nor ears.
May I retract that, put the whole salad of words into a baguette smothered with mustard and mayonaise, and consume those words without breath. I have realised the error of my ways.
Burial Ground is the work of an auteur. A genius. A man of staggering directorial vision that us mere mortals can’t comprehend what he was even attempting to make. That is, the best horror film ever committed to celluloid.
But it’s even better if you watch it in VHS quality. Not 1080i or 4K restoration. You’d be mentally unhinged or a SJW itching to post complaints to Twatter to even request that. No, you want this film rougher than a foxes arsehole after an evening’s yiffing, and lo-and-behold, some lovely shit on YT has provided it:
There is literally nothing to adore about this film. The cast, including a fully grown man who plays the daughter of an actress who previously appeared as a nun for a nymphomaniac reincarnation of the devil; a man with a moustache so titilating that even the manliest hetereosexualist on the planet would turn his head; plus some other D-listers who probably appeared in the Italian equivalent of Emmerdale Farm (Is that still a thing?). At the start of this Betamax classic, unfairly overlooked by the Oscars due to racism in 1980 (probably, in my opinion, despite it being only available in beautifully out of sync dubbed version), a wise bearded archaeologist heads down into some crypts or something to see his friends. But his friends have decided they’re a bit sick of being visited by Peter Jackson and so decide to kill him. Not very nice really.
Cut to: a car driving down the road to a beautiful manson. Jazz drones and trees. A cloudy, unambitious sky. The various friends and family members are met by the professor’s servants and then immediately run to their rooms to get their jugs out and have it off. Never have you seen intimacy juxtaposed with a full-to-the-brim ashtray about to tumble over the body of two lovers, both overly blessed with body hair. Michael, a boy with big eyes and a disturbing incestuous interest in his mother decides to pop his head round the door of her room for no apparent reason, only to catch her and the new hubby going at it. He storms off in the huff, as if he was going to get invited into the hay for a roll about. Probably unlikely Mikey.
When do the Nights of Terror truly begin? In the daytime, of course. While people are still rubbing up against each other in the grounds of the professor’s home, which seems a bit rum to me. The ground itself is alive with maggots, papier mache faces and preschool craft experiments gone badly wrong and attached to pensioners who move towards their dinners with as much pace as the recent Dune reboot. But these monsters aren’t stupid. They know how to swing a sycthe and lop the head off a poor maid who just happened to bob her head out of window. They swarm an armed man and pull his guts out. The survivors fanny about until morning, when they end up in a set that has been used in about 5 other giallo/horrors that I’ve seen and then are eaten alive. The final quote… well, I’ll just leave this here.