After pushing the envelope and erasing the borders between horror, softcore and hardcore porn flicks in his Black Emanuelle movies, Joe D'Amato went the whole hog here and made a film which could be, at times, classified as all of these things. It ends up being quite a mish-mash, but by the end, as the images of coitus and demise have passed before our eyes in a two hour parade, the film seems most like a kind of motion picture memento mori, reminding us of the inexorable link between the little and big deaths.
The film begins in a madhouse, with D'Amato regular George Eastman (who, intriguingly, wrote this film) staring back out of the screen at us through a wired fence. We then follow a pretty young inmate as she searches out Eastman in the bowels of the institution, finding him and engaging in passionate, unbridled (softcore) sex. A shambolic, drooling maniac has also followed them, and he keeps at a distance, touching himself and lolling his tongue as he peaks at their pleasures. We could almost take this as a meta-cinematic representation of D'Amato's cinema – we the audience are the drooling lunatic voyeurs watching our own fellow madmen portrayed in flagrante on D'Amato's cinematic canvas.
The plot itself now begins, as Eastman is revealed as the island-hopping skipper on a small schooner somewhere in the Caribbean, operating a sea-bound taxi service for wealthy visitors. He humours the rich men whilst lusting after their booty-prize women. Meanwhile, we follow Mark Shannon's property developer Wilson as he sources information on a local island, hoping to build a luxury resort there, and in the meantime ogle and frolic with the local whores. His frolicking set the hardcore action of the film in motion, as the whores explicitly fellate him in the shower and he enacts cunnilingus with them on his hotel bed. After cutting between Eastman and Shannon for a while, the two come together when the skipper agrees to take the developer (and a gold-digger he has picked up) to the island ripe for developing. But we've heard sinister things about this place, the so-called Cat Island: it is home to a hoard of zombies headed by a cat (!), the locals are terrified of it and some of them keep jujus to ward the evil off. We've also glimpsed some zombies bringing instant death to those they encounter with a swift chomp to the throat
Before leaving, skipper goes to a local bar where a girl he is involved with strips and does an act which involves masturbating with a champagne bottle and then popping it with her vagina. This is a long, slow, melancholy scene – scored with wistful music – in which the skipper, alone in the bar, watches the act with interest, amusement, impressed but still with a nagging feeling of loneliness. In D'Amato's universe, the viewer is alone, shown exotic and erotic sights but removed, alienated, atomised and ultimately sad.
The skipper and his two passengers sail to Cat Island and there encounter an old black man with an egg-shaped disfigurement on his forehead and his luscious granddaughter, played with an exquisite lack of affect by Laura Gemser. They warn the visitors against messing with things but Wilson insults them, offers them money and generally causes offence. Gradually, the dead rise and interrupt the various erotic scenes which ensure, killing Wilson and aggressively establishing their ownership of the island. Gemser is a kind of succubus, making love to the visitors whilst the dead rise in the background. The old man gives the skipper a juju which has some effectiveness in warding off the dead but which is lost in the final melee, leaving the skipper vulnerable. He does escape with the gold-digger but they have both been driven mad by the experience, ending up making manic love which puts them right where we first saw them, in the lunatic asylum. Their lovemaking and the drooling idiot's view of this is interrupted by the guards. Skipper and girl are dragged back to their cells (they are convicted of Wilson's death and cannibalisation) and the loon is told that he should stop playing with himself and grow up. The audience are thus instructed to put their own private parts away and the film ends.
Erotic (or Sexy, as the credits have it) Nights of the Living Dead doesn't altogether work – it is over-long, languorous and under-developed in terms of plot. Yet its mix of hardcore porn, extreme gore and softcore frolicking make it a compelling example of D'Amato's refusal to stay put in any one genre. In throwing - almost willy-nilly - meat shots, coy fondling, bloody death and monsters at us whilst constantly reminding us of his male characters' ultimately sad position as voyeurs, sometimes conscious and lonely, sometimes drooling and out-of-control, and by suggesting that sex in the face of colonial exploitation and strident displays of wealth, he does go someway to offering a compelling vision of late 20th century Western man on the rocks of alienated enjoyment, whose erotic nights are indeed those of the living dead.