When an NYPD Vice Squad team spots a suspected drug-running boat approaching the harbor at top speed, they swoop in to intercept. What they find, however, isn’t drugs, but a hold full of glowing, pulsing alien eggs. And coffee. A whole fuckload of coffee. The best part of being horribly mutilated by an alien life form is Folger’s in your cup! When a couple of the investigators get too close to one of the eggs, it bursts and sprays them with goo. Within seconds they’re writhing in agony, and their chests explode in a rather spectacular shower of gore (and no spaghetti in sight!).

Before you can say, “Hey, that guy kinda looks like John Hurt”, the gub’mint shows up and flash-freezes the entire ship. Lt. Tony Aris, the only surviving member of the investigation team, is immediately swept up and trucked off to a secret lab, where he is probed, scrubbed, scraped, poked, palpated, and subjected to all manner of indignities before Colonel Stella Holmes springs him and they go off looking for Ian Hubbard, an astronaut who was part of the first manned mission to Mars. On returning, he told wild stories of a glacier cave full of glowing eggs and a giant alien monster. NASA immediately gave him a pink slip and a book of food stamps and showed him the door. Stella finally vindicates him, telling him that the eggs have somehow made it to Earth, and if they all detonate, most of the United States will be a puddle of red gloop within a day or two.

When Hubbard’s fellow astronaut, Hamilton, denies Hubbard’s eggs-and-hell-beast story, even though at least the egg part of it is obviously real, suspicions are aroused and the trio head off to Colombia, to the coffee plantation where the ship’s cargo originated. Upon reaching their destination, they discover Hamilton running a compound full of be-gas-masked goons readying shipments of explosive flesh-melting gloop eggs to be sent all over the world! Oh no! Nothin’ like cracking open a fresh can of coffee in the morning, only to be greeted by a rubbery alien scrotum that blasts green sludge all over you. Then, as you’re spluttering and swearing your way blindly around the kitchen, unable to find the paper towels and thinking, “Goddammit, I’m going to have to ruin those good towels that Aunt Sylvia gave me last Christmas because everything else is in the laundry”, the sludge starts to melt your damn face off, and you start screaming, “Fuck Aunt Sylvia, where the fuck are those towels! SHIT, I FUCKING DIED FROM ALIEN SEX FLUID! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!” Fuckin’ aliens are dicks, man. All I wanted was a goddamn cup of coffee and got a face full of flesh-eating Martian spooge.

So Hubbard, who is the only human proven to be immune to the alien’s mind control powers…sets off to destroy the incubators, sending Tony and Stella to face off with the one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater! Well, more of a one-eyed, no-horned, stationary, slime-drenched vaginapus. Imagine if GAR from Star Crystal and Beulah from It Conquered the World turned out to be siblings, but they didn’t know it until after they spawned a retarded incest baby. It does eat people, though. It eats Tony with its giant penis before Hubbard shows up and shoots it in the eye, causing it to explode.

But it ain’t over yet, kiddies! Somehow, one of the eggs winds up in a pile of garbage awaiting roadside pickup. So…worse comes to worse, a hobo looking for some old toast to strain his isopropyl through gets spooged to death. That’s our sequel? Alien Contamination 2: Vagrant Wino Armageddon? Ah well.

Who’d have thought the guy who wrote Devil Fish could have made something this entertaining? It has everything I ask for in Italian cinema. Grainy, washed out film stock, unintelligible performances from hopelessly alcoholic American actors who can’t find work in the States, in this case provided by Ian McCulloch, the K-Mart Joseph Cotton (paradoxically, Joseph Cotton is also the K-Mart Ian McCulloch – I blew up three different computers writing that line, until I wound up finishing this review on a Commodore 64, because they were actually created before the concept of a paradox, and therefore immune to the effects), and buckets of gore. I didn’t keep actual count, but this movie definitely has more chest explosions than your average flick, plus an exploding lab rat! Couple that with a ridiculous James Bond-meets-Alien third reel, and you’ve got a winner.

De-clunkify some of the second-act dialogue and spice it up with a few more exploding scientists, and you’d have a real classic. As it is, if you’re a Eurotrash fan and lover of fine monster cinema such as I am, then you’ll have a damn fine time with this one, either riffing with friends or alone with some beers. Wait, what? It’s considered lame to drink by your self watching cheap horror movies? You mean, somehow that’s more lame than going to the local townie dive and drinking with a bunch of people who left a chromosome in their other pants, who you were desperately hoping never to see again after your high school graduation half a decade ago, all the while inhaling choking clouds of cigarette smoke and screaming yourself hoarse in an impossible attempt to have a conversation with the one or two people there who you don’t want to see die screaming with sharp things in their head over the blaring a)football/basketball/baseball/some other boring sport I don’t give a fuck about or b)fuck-awful pop music? No thanks. The local bar doesn’t even serve Kirin Ichiban anyway. Fuck them. I’ll take my cheap DVD’s, my dog Sammy at my feet, and a six of something most of the lame redneck fucks around here have never heard of because Budweiser has killed their few remaining brain cells as well as their taste buds.

Christ, now I’ve got myself all worked up. Cheers to you if you have a bar in your town that doesn’t suck big floppy donkey dick. I need a drink.

The Moral of the Story: Do not look directly into the vag…we did that one already? Shit. Ummmm… if your coffee has a glowing alien scrotum in it, back away slowly and notify Ian McCulloch.

H.O.P.E.L.E.S.S. Rating

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