Hercules, No. 4 - Hercules vs. the Hydra (1960)

Though the rules of the Italian sword-and-sandals craze dictate that any movie released with “Hercules” in the title is therefore a part of the Hercules series, we’re at the point where productions diverge like, well, like the heads of a hydra. That means 1960’s Hercules vs. the Hydra is one of the most spurious entries in this entire Hercules fad. Hell, it wasn’t even made in Italy! It’s French! Not that they play up that fact; nope, the French would never cop to producing sheer escapism, that being something the Italians are much more comfortable owning up to. So here we have a French picture pretending to be Italian pretending to be American. Ah, the demands of the marketplace.

Willing to watch or not, I am unable to watch, as this film’s French origin means it is out of circulation where more Italianate efforts survive. I still wish to devote a day to it, as there’s enough to comment upon.

Hercules vs. the Hydra (or The Loves of Hercules) has something most other Hercules movies could not afford: stunt casting. Oh sure, it still stars an undistinguished bodybuilding non-actor, but even then there’s a bit more to the presence of Mickey Hargitay than that.


Not only is Mr. Hargitay (or “Monsieur Muscle,” as the French credits would have it) another run-of-the-treadmill muscleman, he’s even another former Mr. Universe, much like Steve “First Damn Hercules” Reeves. In fact, Hargitay decided to take up bodybuilding upon seeing Reeves featured on a magazine cover. He then copied his better’s later career all the way into the peplum genre, and from thence into obscurity.

Prior to all that, Hargitay was a Hungarian, who actively fought underground during World War Two (for the good guys). Assorted athletics and marriages make up his pre-strongman life, but the Hargitay Saga wouldn’t start, as far as we care, until that fateful glimpse upon Reeves’ incomparably ripped male physique. God, is it any wonder gay rights came about shortly after the bodybuilding craze?


And about that bodybuilding craze. I feel I ought to provide some context for all this before we get too far into the peplum. It all traces back to Charles Atlas, born Angelo Siciliano, meaning the tradition of he-men switching from Italian to Anglo names is older than we thought. The man essentially invented bodybuilding as a “sport,” the process of narcissistically tempering one’s own body for no reason other than the act itself. How masturbatory! And a disgustingly-bulked out fool called Atlas, how comic book! No coincidence, for comic books made Atlas’ a gymhold name, touting his advertisements for Dynamic Tension and whatnot.

The guy pretty much made a career out of being a bully. Strength is directly equated with social terrorism, as Atlas’ self-promoting ads espouse a Nietzschean notion that might makes right, that the burliest and least evolved among us have it as their duty to give weak doofuses a hard time. The gist of his ads: If you too want the moral and ethical privilege of lording it over scrawny girly-men, worship at my altar, you unwashed peons! And let’s not assume Atlas’ public life was anything but an egotistical game of King of the Mountain. I mean, he fucking named his son Herc! Grounded individuals don’t do such a thing.


But in the ‘40s and ‘50s, there was a certain novelty to Charles Atlas’ disgusting appearance, one others wished to emulate. Hence the bodybuilders, hence Muscle Beach, hence Mickey Hargitay. But rather than these new musclemen being anointed as Masters of the Earth, and granted spontaneous monarchies with which to stomp on lesser sub-humans, instead they got used by the real ubermenschen, the lawyers. Musclemen, far from being worshipped as human Adonises, instead became something akin to circus freaks, natural curiosities to be paraded upon the stage for all to gawk at. Among those subjugating the he-men were Mae West, sex symbol, who created a New York-based strongman revue which was essentially a precursor to Chippendales. And pity poor Hargitay, after winning Mr. Universe in 1955, he had no choice but to pimp himself out under Miss West’s employ.


It is here that he met another mighty sex symbol goddess, Jayne Mansfield, whose entire film career was built upon the premise of having impressive breasts and blonde hair. See Female Jungle, The Girl Can’t Help It, The Burglar, all hailing from the mid-‘50s. So, Hargitay met Mansfield, who became this man’s field. Pumped up on lust and greed and possibly steroids, Hargitay divorced his long-suffering wife I haven’t bothered to name, and wed Mansfield instead. (Their daughter: Mariska Hargitay, of “Law & Order: SVU.”) Thus Mansfield became Hargitay’s next future-ex-wife.

That wasn’t to be until 1964. Until then, they were Hollywood royalty, in that each could manage to get cast in a French rip-off of Italian rip-offs. Yup, Hercules vs. the Hydra is notable for featuring a famously married celebrity couple as onscreen lovers. It’s the Eyes Wide Shut of 1960! And it’s surely his marriage to Mansfield which put Hargitay in this special position, unique among acting peplum bodybuilders. He’d no previous acting experience, and afterwards was only in Promises! Promises! and Bloody Pit of Horror. One, because Mansfield was in it, and two, because it was Italian. (Actually, there are over a dozen other assorted Hargitay appearances, but they hardly warrant mention.)


Well, that’s more than enough context, as I’m just trying to stretch this out to post-worthy length. What of Hercules vs. the Hydra itself? Yeah, what of that movie I haven’t seen?

Mansfield, having abandoned American filmmaking, was well on her way to obscurity, and Hargitay was simply returning from whence he came. Far from their film together yielding any advantages, reportedly the greatest enjoyment to be gotten from Hercules vs. the Hydra is to parse out metatextual tidbits about their personal life. Their inability to act together onscreen surely suggests the domestic problems that’d soon divorce ‘em. Even the public gag they would perform together, which brought Hargitay post-Universe fame in the first place, he cannot do here – so I hear. That gag: Lifting Mansfield over his head, all strongman-like. “Hercules! Hercules! Put me down!” she apparently says, when “Hercules” cannot even gets her up enough to begin with. (Cannot get it up…don’t do steroids, kids.)

Of the story. Despite zero production association with the former Revenge of Hercules, once again it’s Hercules vs. King Eurytus (though the actor this time escapes with his name unknown). Not that he serves so much purpose here, as soon the real villain, Licos (Massimo Serato), kills old Eurytus. Hercules’ wife, another repeating character, dies around the start too, because even a “sequel” like this must make a point of assassinating as many returning characters as possible. It frees up new narrative possibilities, as though they even had to bother. Oh, and that wife this time is now Megara, not Deianeira.

Deianeira’s still in this, though, and what joy that I get to keep typing that unruly name. Now she’s Queen Deianeira, for Jayne Mansfield sure ain’t playing no mere princess or wife of a demigod. Oh nooooo! And even whilst Hercules laments the death of Megara, at the hands of equally-dead Eurytus, he is quick to switch up and happily fall for Deianeira. (Shades of how easily Hargitay left Wife No. 1 for Mansfield in the first place.)

Not that the relationship starts all that smoothly. For reasons having to do with maybe the Wrath of the Gods, or Licos’ convoluted scheming, or arbitrary screenwriting, Hercules must endure the Trial of Themis and hurl axes at Deianeira for a while. She survives this, I guess, and they head off together. Licos continues to scheme, and I’m at a loss to imagine what this schemery amounts to. Political intrigue in pepla is confounding enough when one has seen it; without a film to reference, it becomes downright mysterious.


I’m anxiously awaiting Deianeira’s death, because I know it’s coming. Had it happened sooner, I could’ve said something more cutting about the Hargitay/Mansfield marriage. The possibility of her painful, cruel slaughter arises, when during no-doubt-aimless wanderings they happen upon a ferocious bull…or a sedated, weeping cow painted black. Animal fights rarely come off in the best if pepla, so pitting a “bull” against a “Herc” ain’t gonna work. I picture it mostly like cow tipping.

Next challenger! Enter Achilles (say what?!), who – You know, goddamnit, I don’t remotely want to see how “The Iliad” fits in with this bastardized mythology. Some guy named Achilles (Gil Vidal – homosexual author of “Julian” and “Myra Breckinridge” – no, wait, that’s Gore Vidal) – anyway, this Achilles, who’s not that Achilles, wants to marry Deieisngduaiaiaiaiai- the woman. Bethroval and all. He and Hercules fight, Hercules spares him, Hercules and woman wander off. And Achilles is found dead anyway, by Licos’ hands, but with Hercules framed.

Hercules learns about this frame job. Several hours later, once the slow-minded nitwit has understood what this means, he protests that the dagger which murdered Achilles was in fact left in the hide of the dead “bull.” “Bullshit,” they cry, figuratively, and I for one am astounded that they found an eventual excuse to justify the bull battle. This at least gives Hercules something constructive to do, beyond wander aimlessly and love Deianeira, who still ain’t dead. For now, Hercules’ goal is to find the witness who saw him murder the bull, to prove his roundabout dagger defense. That guy, Philotetes (another figure from Hercules myth, another figure completely misused in film), has apparently decided to do some aimless wandering of his own. For no reason except The Revenge of Hercules did likewise, this includes wandering straight through the fucking Underworld.

All this is just foreplay, the sort of wildly convoluted justification these plot-obsessed pepla utilize to explain their monster fights. For in Hades, Hercules finds the Hydra, when it really ought to be in Lernaea. Misunderstandings of mythological proportions continue, as chopping off but a single of the beast’s heads is enough to kill it outright, rather than simply exacerbate the situation as it ought to do.


By all evidence, the full-scale Hydra is even less impressive (and more immobile) than the dragon from The Revenge of Hercules. Visually, it kind of looks like a green turd.

It’s early yet in the movie, title be damned, and it turns out it was all a big mix-up! The Underworld’s entrance is not wherever Hercules found this Hydra (Lernaea?), rendering all this pointless. Oh well, extends things out, though having reached the titular tussle, I’m gonna parse over the rest with some rapidity. So now Hercules must travel to the Forest of the Dead, which sounds like something taken out of Dante’s “Inferno”– what with the human-like trees and all, looking like a middle school production of The Wizard of Oz.


Past the point of caring, at last Deianeira dies, or she died at some previous point. At any rate, she’s dead. But with Mansfield’s character deceased early, that means a new gal must enter the scene, also played by Mansfield – Hippolyta she is, famed Amazon queen of myth and of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” And Hercules vs. the Hydra. This allows the blonde Mansfield to play a redhead, as Dieanotherday was herself a brunette. That’s “acting.” And Hercules, ever the chaste and monogamous demigod, takes no time in falling for this latest broad, much as Hargitay quickly left Mansfield for a lass named Ellen Siano. Amusingly (to my awful mind), Hargitay’s first divorce from Mansfield was ruled invalid, as it was performed by a conman in Mexico.

I glance ahead in the various plot synopses I’ve found (I do apologize for all this), to see that Deianeira did not die. DAMN IT! Maybe I ought to preplan these things out a bit beforehand. Hippolyta goes the way of all Third Act seductresses, dies, Hercules assembles an eleventh hour army to finally just defeat Licos, and he fights a hairy ape-man, and all is well. And I’m tired.

This movie can kiss my ass.


RELATED POSTS
• No. 1 Hercules (1958)
• No. 2 Hercules Unchained (1959)
• No. 3 The Revenge of Hercules (1960)
• No. 5 Hercules and the Conquest of Atlantis (1961)
• No. 6 Hercules id the Haunted World (1961)
• No. 7 Maciste Against Hercules in the Vale of Woe (1961)
• No. 8 Ulysses vs. Hercules (1962)
• No. 9 The Fury of Hercules (1962)
• No. 10 Hercules, Samson and Ulysses (1963)
• No. 12 Hercules in the Land of Darkness (1964)
• No. 16 Hercules and the Tyrants of Babylon (1964)
• No. 17 Hercules, Samson, Maciste and Ursus (1964)
• No. 18 Hercules and the Princess of Troy (1965)
• No. 19 Hercules the Avenger (1965)

Ilsa, No. 4 -- Ilsa: The Wicked Warden (1977)

This entry is not an official entry in the Ilsa cannon, for as loosely connected as that cannon is. It is in actuality an unrelated women in prison flick that was filmed concurrent to The Tigress of Siberia in 1977, and actually released before it. Upon initial release, there was little here to ally it with the Ilsa franchise. For originally Ilsa: The Wicked Warden was known as Greta The Mad Butcher. (It has also over time been known as Greta the Torturer, Greta the Sadist, and Wanda the Wicked Warden.)

This movie would only earn its shaky connection to Ilsa upon rerelease onto home video some time in the late 1980s. Only then was it first called Ilsa: The Wicked Warden. Apparently there was still enough cachet (and iffy copyright) associated with the Ilsa name to warrant this move. Hell, the movie does star Dyanne Thorne in the fairly Ilsa-ish role of Greta. All you have to do is edit out all utterances of “Greta” on the soundtrack, miss one or two so people can comment upon your incompetency twenty years after the fact, and you’ve got a video hit! It’s certainly a better proposition than releasing a forgotten Euro-smut film to an indifferent public.

Normally I would not think to consider a movie that is as tangentially related to a series as this one is. If I allowed a place for every unlicensed coattailling, the scope of my Sisyphean project would increase tenfold. I’d have to watch about a hundred Django movies. So what makes this movie so special that I’m willing to break so many of my franchise rules, and so early? For one, it truly seems to be accepted by Ilsa fans as one of the family. Apparently dissatisfied by the tameness of The Tigress of Siberia, exploitation enthusiasts were happy to receive a new movie that is far more grotesque and wrong. Besides, if I didn’t count this movie as Part 4, then I wouldn’t have had to watch any of the Ilsa films, and we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?

The man I have to thank for the position I’m now in is one Jesus Franco. His name can send the heartiest of bad movie lovers cowering, for this Spaniard is one of the most prolific and idiosyncratic directors of horrible European smut extravaganzas from the past half century! I am actually kind of sad that I couldn’t find a copy of this movie, since this would be the one chance in my 1,000 film project to justify watching a Jesus Franco joint.

Let me say a little more about Franco’s illustrious career, just to get the point across. Throughout the 70s, this man averaged about 9 movies a year. He dabbled in each and every horrific erotic subgenre, from lesbian vampires to cannibal films and nunspoitation (yes, you can “sploitate” anything). He was a frequent adapter of the Marquis de Sade. And his trademark – for every notable director needs a trademark – is as follows: “His movies often contain long, uninterrupted shots of nude women writhing uncontrollably on the floor or in bed.” Stay classy, San Diego!


Unlike any true Ilsa film, The Wicked Warden is an unabashed, honest-to-goodness women in prison flick. Astoundingly, the others were all brave departures from that standard formula, and amongst Z-grade cinema that puts them in the upper echelon. Now, women in prison films...This has to be the most formula-driven, set in stone genre of them all, with the possible exception of slashers. So without bothering to look over any plot synopsis for The Wicked Warden, we can very likely expect most of the following:

1. An innocent girl is wrongfully sent to a corrupt penal institution.
2. The corrupt head of the institution is running a secret prostitution ring, or some such.
3. Amongst the inmates, a tough female “queen bee” rules over all.
4. An initial degrading strip search (gotta get your assets on screen early).
5. The group shower scene.
6. The lesbian scene.
7. Sexual assaults by the guards (and various similar events I don’t feel like categorizing).
8. The climactic revolution and escape, with the murder of, well, nearly everyone.

So with these as our guidelines, in place of the standard Ilsa formula, let’s see how The Wicked Warden fits into the scheme of things...

Number 5 jumpstarts our checklist – that being the group shower. One girl manages to escape these confines, fleeing soaking wet and naked into the South American jungle. (Franco achieves another genre cliche not noted on our list by setting this in the jungle.) And in order to reward himself for so efficiently getting the entire cast naked in the first scene, Franco plays the physician who takes the girl in once she has eluded her pursuers. Soon enough checklist No. 2 arrives in the form of the warden, presumably wicked, named either Greta, Wanda or Ilsa depending upon your version. She is played by Dyanne Thorne, so for our purposes let’s say she is Ilsa. She takes the girl back to the institution, where she (the unnamed girl) shall promptly die.

By the way, the place “Ilsa” runs is actually a mental institution, not a prison. But the principle is the same, really. And the justification for the inevitable tortures and assaults (No. 7) is a means to cure the inmates’ lesbianism and nymphomania.

Number 1, the wrongly imprisoned innocent with whom we shall identify and leer, is accomplished in an abnormal manner. Abbie Phillips (Tania Busselier) is the dead girl’s older sister. Like the investigative reporters that sometimes replace the innocent girl in this formula, Abbie commits herself to “Ilsa”’s asylum in order to learn the truth. This quickly leads her to meet No. 6 (Juana), and of course to receive generous helpings of No.7. Lord knows if No. 4 ever makes an appearance in here, so I can only guess that it does. Number 6 (the lesbian scene) is provided by “Ilsa” herself, and surely this is a sign this is not a true Ilsa film – amazingly, the Ilsa character in those movies is a staunch heterosexual, despite her Sapphic associates and the general inclinations of this genre.

So we’ve already checked off pretty much everything on the list except for No. 8, which by definition must wait until the climax. So how is this particular film going to spin its wheels until that point, apart of course from more and more of No. 7 ad nauseam? That’s right! The same way the later Ilsa entries did. With lots and lots of vague political intrigue. For it seems Abbie’s sister was part of a revolutionary group and – Oh hey! She’s still alive! I should have read ahead in that plot synopsis. It seems the result of this is it gives “Ilsa” someone to torture for actual plot reasons, demanding to learn the location of the secret Rebel base on Bespin – er, the identity of the revolutionary leader (it’s Franco’s character, by the way). Thus Franco gets killed.

It’s really hard to review a movie this way, working from others’ vague plot synopses. It’s a stupid idea, and it’s doing you no favors. The specifics of the plot sort of dry up at this point. What I can offer you, if you so wish, is a catalogue of at least some of the atrocities (No. 7 again) that can be unearthed in this film like so many nuggets of gold. Here you go, because you demanded it...

The Atrocities (Abridged):
– Prisoners’ numbers branded directly onto their breasts
– Deadly breast acupuncture
– Plastic bag asphyxiation
– More electroshock therapy, but you already guessed that one
– On screen lobotomies
– Douching with acid!
– Coprophagia (you know, poop eating)

Hmm, South America...Per this list, it must be Brazil. And all this sound grosser, if not more morally repulsive, than anything in the original She Wolf. As an added skuzzy benefit, every bit of depravity that takes place at this asylum is secretly videotaped by “Ilsa,” to add to her collection of snuff films she sells on the black market – this indirectly satisfies the prostitution angle necessitated by No. 2.

Of course even lacking better synopses, we all know No. 8 would come to pass in the end. This is the one part of this movie I could find a clip of – the prisoners’ revenge on warden “Ilsa.”

It all starts as your typical, everyday all-girl gang bang, with “Ilsa” as the victim. This quickly descends into straight up cannibalism, with roughly eight or so semi-nude women lustily chewing into “Ilsa”’s flesh! Director Franco highlights the animalistic qualities of this by splicing in footage of lions and other big cats devouring their prey. This is a Spanish movie, so it all plays like a degraded version of an Italian film, which are themselves degraded versions of normal films. Oh, and this scene lasts for a full 4 minutes. If the content alone isn’t enough, then surely dwelling upon it must thrill you. Or bore you out of your mind. Take your pick. By the way, reviews indicate this is the most extreme scene in the film. So if you ever choose to watch this thing, keep in mind it’s NSFW.

Even from this brief clip, it’s clear the film is European, while the real Ilsa series was resolutely North American. Mass naked lesbian cannibalism might be grosser than anything Franco’s Canadian counterparts could conjure, but there is a mighty operatic surrealism to European trash that alleviates the horror. Those of you conversant in Italian horror cinema, or even their spaghetti westerns, can attest to this. It’s extreme, but it’s playful, without aiming for campiness. These movies must have really clouded my judgment and taste, but what little I saw of The Wicked Warden didn’t repulse me excessively.

So what does the future hold for the Ilsa franchise? Are you kidding?! This series is dead, effectively cannibalized worse than “Ilsa” herself. A brief three year run was all the Ilsa concept could sustain, probably because there’s little room for franchising in the realm of sexploitation. And while the grindhouse phenomena which gave birth to the mere possibility of such movies is long gone, a vast unexplored realm of sicko direct-to-video releases continues the good work of Ilsa and her torturous brethren. And if you’re the kind of person who feels the need to seek out more of this, you’re welcome to it. I for one welcome the peaceful and quiet franchises due up next – after a quick detour in Germany.


Related posts:
• No. 1 Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS (1975)
• No. 2 Ilsa, Harem Keeper of the Oil Sheiks (1976)
• No. 3 Ilsa the Tigress of Siberia (1977)