THE TRUE STORY OF THE NUN OF MONZA

Defilers of good taste and political correctness, films that comprise the Nunsploitation sub-genre tear away notions of morality, political fairness, and religious authority as aggressively as they leer at naked bodies. Celebrating the very same abuse of power, misogyny, and erotic torture that their surface plots and/or themes claim to condemn, these sexual pot-boilers, steeped as deeply in history as in filth, have their cake and eat it to. Similar to the Nazi-exploitation films, this genre celebrates excess. Unlike their goose-stepping cousins, however, the best of these 'whores in habits' pictures house serious, tragic, strangely beautiful themes beneath their copious filth and eroticism, allowing those in search of simple thrills to have their day while managing to appeal to the more demanding audience. The True Story of the Nuns of Monza, one of the more provocative, sleazy variations on the theme, is a wonderful case in point. Sadistic and erotic, this scathing combination of thrills and political corruption is every bit as much subversive art as it is exploitative trash. One of the earlier cinematic accounts of the historical events surrounding the convent at Monza, Bruno Mattei directs with an eye as much on characterization and relationships as the more titillating aspects so abundant in this form. In fact, while fans of this exacting, unique sub-genre may rightly expect a filth-fest, Mattei displays rare honesty in his approach, emphasizing as much the corruptive influence of misused power and lure of the taboo as he does its cum-and-blood result. Examining both the effects of psychological violence and the art of physical pain, this addition to Mattei's cannon of horrific titillation and brazen outrage is chock full of all the excess of style and bizarre/filthy subject we've come to love (or hate) about the man, making this a must in the Italian home horror library.

Yet another version of the popular, reputedly true account of Gimpaolo Osio (Antonio Sabato), who, after committing murder, was hidden by the sisters in the Convent of Monza (in Milan) during the 1608 takeover of Italy from the Spanish, this Bruno Mattei nunsploitation sensation focuses primarily on the blasphemy that stems from repressed desires, the subconscious evocation of evil, and lust. Victim to the times, Sister Virginia de Leyva is thrust into an unwanted seat of religious and political power, victim to the unseen forces around her and her own conflicted nature. Torn between passion and restraint, fear and faith, Virginia becomes the new Mother Superior after the death of her convent's previous matriarch. Finding herself the target of the other Nun's envy, mistrust, and anger, Virginia is also horrified to discover a murderer stalking her -- someone who enjoys the aid of a corrupted Priest. Trying to balance her natural human lust with her vows, Virginia is less successful avoiding the torments of her Sisters, each of which seems determined to humiliate, degrade, and destroy her. Perversely violent and sexually explicit, this version of the story clearly focuses on physical pain and debauchery, celebrating the decadence and the abuse of power -- often milking such themes, treated with respect and subtlety in Eriprando Visconti's The Nun of Monza -- for their sheer ability to repulse, arouse, and allow us to play voyeur within the safeness of our living rooms. The typical catalogue of torture, degradation, and sexual torment ensues, lent further schlock 'trash' appeal courtesy of Mattei's deliciously warped sensibilities.

Unapologetically controversial, the Nunsploitation sub-genre focuses on the conflict between the human heart and the ruthlessness of such hypocritical institutions as the Catholic convents, depicting the historic miseries of the era, which often serve as both the setting and context for these pictures. Sensitive issues of sin, redemption, and cultural abuse, all of which are treated with sheer sadism in more explicit features (ex: Images in a Convent), are milked even further in The Nuns of Monza. In addition, and more satisfying to conscience, is Mattie's attempt to evoke pure drama and a sense of tragedy from his exploitative subject material. A better understanding of desire, cruelty, and sacrifice is reached, gleefully admitting the genre's romance with sexual torture and instinctive animal baseness while attempting to layer it with emotional poignancy. Exploring the internal conflicts of the devout struggling with their consciences and instinctive desires, this film also looks at the tyranny of the Church as a political system of corruption. Featuring the tragedies of innocent women (and men) who become fodder for the culture that externally condemns the very pleasures that they themselves indulge in behind closed doors, The True Story of the nun of Monza is both art and entertainment, exposing the evils of political systems dedicated to self-perpetuating power. Fans of Mattel's distinct brand of sheer gusto and bloody showmanship will undoubtedly enjoy this historical romp, as will devotees of Nunsploitation. A perfect double feature with the devil-ion-a-convent tale of possession The Other Hell, Nuns of Monza makes up in guts and decadence what it may lack in logic.

Exploitation Digital once again wows the genre community with a rescued and preserved classic of skin and sin with this wonderful looking print. Presented in anamorphic widescreen 1.85:1, the picture is free from much of the grain and dirt that haunts most presentations. While some rough wear and tear is still noticeable, little can be done to help that, considering the rarity and age of the materials being worked with. This is easily as good as obscure a title as this has a right to look! Dolby Digital sound does a fine job, with clean and clear dialogue and little background noise. Extras are surprisingly substantial for such a release, including a sparse but appreciated photo gallery, the film's original trailer, and a hand full of other juicy promos from one of the genre's more affordable and dependable companies.

Review by William P. Simmons