Karin Well – Through the Shattered Lens

Convent of Sinners (1986) wants to expose the corruption behind convent walls, but Joe D’Amato keeps getting distracted by what he can undress inside them. That tension defines this erotic nunsploitation horror film, an atmospheric guilty pleasure with enough religious hypocrisy and malicious intrigue to suggest a sharper movie buried beneath the sleaze. D’Amato recognizes the dramatic possibilities of an institution where frustrated desire disguises itself as moral authority. He also leans so heavily on sexual titillation that his criticism struggles to compete with his exploitation instincts. The result is entertainingly disreputable, occasionally disturbing, and considerably less insightful than its premise promises.

Susanna, played by Eva Grimaldi, enters the convent after suffering sexual abuse at home, only to discover that her supposed sanctuary contains another collection of people determined to control her. The Mother Superior develops an attachment to her, a priest offers forbidden affection, and Sister Teresa resents the attention she receives. Loosely adapted from Denis Diderot’s La Religieuse, the story follows a vulnerable woman whose needs remain secondary to the desires of those claiming to protect her. Susanna becomes the object of affection, suspicion, and punishment without gaining much say in any of it. Escape from one abusive environment simply delivers her into another.

There is a strong foundation here for a bitter examination of institutional corruption. The convent’s inhabitants cannot acknowledge their feelings honestly, so attraction becomes favoritism, jealousy becomes accusation, and cruelty becomes spiritual correction. Susanna exposes tensions that already exist, but blaming her allows everyone else to avoid examining themselves. Religious authority gives ordinary resentment extraordinary reach. Someone who merely dislikes you can make life unpleasant; someone who claims your suffering serves God can make resistance look like further evidence against you. The film understands that distinction, even if it does not consistently develop it beyond another opportunity for humiliation.

Its place within the nunsploitation tradition makes that limitation especially noticeable. Ken Russell’s The Devils combines sexual obsession, religious hysteria, and institutional violence with a larger examination of political power. D’Amato uses related ingredients without approaching Russell’s ambition or furious visual imagination. Convent of Sinners concentrates on private jealousies and forbidden attachments, which could have supported a more intimate account of how authority becomes abusive. Instead, its serious implications repeatedly compete with scenes designed primarily to provoke or titillate. The comparison is useful because it demonstrates that lurid material and meaningful criticism can coexist, provided the filmmaking gives both a purpose.

Bruno Mattei’s The Other Hell offers the trashier comparison, turning a convent into a breeding ground for sinister secrets, violence, and supernatural horror. Both films exploit the reversal of sacred refuge into dangerous confinement, but Mattei foregrounds the horror-show possibilities while D’Amato emphasizes erotic melodrama. Convent of Sinners builds on this established genre territory through its mixture of religious imagery, repressed appetites, and punitive authority. Yet its reliance on sexual spectacle makes the corruption feel less like something being investigated than something supplying the next scandalous situation. The convent is an effective setting, but D’Amato does not always look beyond its exploitation value.

Karin Well’s Sister Teresa gives the persecution a concrete emotional motive. She resents the Mother Superior’s interest in Susanna, and her wounded pride feeds her vindictiveness. Underneath the religious vocabulary is someone furious about losing influence. The institution lets her disguise retaliation as moral responsibility, making her more dangerous than an openly spiteful rival. These dynamics provide some of the film’s strongest material because they reveal how easily a hierarchy can accommodate personal grudges. Teresa does not need to confess her jealousy when she can insist that Susanna is the problem. Her authority supplies the explanation her conscience ought to question.

Grimaldi gives Susanna a sympathetic presence, but the screenplay is far more interested in what happens to her than in who she is. Her longing for tenderness is understandable, and apparent affection offers a believable temptation in such an oppressive environment. Unfortunately, every refuge becomes another trap, and the repeated victimization eventually starts to flatten her character. D’Amato leans way too heavily on the sexual titillation and lurid exploitation of Susanna, weighing down whatever commentary he is attempting about religious hypocrisy and institutional corruption. Her suffering becomes an attraction in itself. The film wants us to condemn those treating her as an object while rarely resisting that temptation itself.

That mixture also connects it to The Convent of Hell, the erotic graphic novel written by Ricardo Barreiro and illustrated by Ignacio Noé. Its forbidden appetites, convent confinement, cruelty, and supernatural grotesquerie belong to the same imaginative tradition. Whether or not its creators would acknowledge these particular predecessors, the family resemblance to The Devils, The Other Hell, and Convent of Sinners is persuasive. This is a critical reading of their shared sensibility rather than a documented claim of direct influence from every film. Still, the progression makes sense: sacred imagery becomes a framework for escalating erotic excess, sometimes overshadowing whatever criticism accompanies it.

Ultimately, Convent of Sinners works better as an uneven guilty pleasure than as a convincing indictment of religious abuse. Its period atmosphere and enclosed setting lend weight to the melodrama, while its malicious characters keep the intrigue moving even when the pacing sags. There is enough solemn hypocrisy and shameless sleaze to satisfy a taste for Italian exploitation, but Susanna’s treatment grows repetitive and uncomfortable. D’Amato has found a subject with genuine dramatic bite; he simply keeps sacrificing that bite to another dose of titillation. The film peers behind the convent’s respectable façade, then becomes so absorbed in the scandal that it neglects the corruption it originally promised to expose.

Previous Guilty Pleasures

“For my final entry in October’s Daily Horror Grindhouse, I want to take a few minutes to tell you about an Italian zombie film from 1981. Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror is not very good but it certainly is memorable. I think it’s debatable whether or not any pleasure can truly be described as being guilty but if there ever was a movie that some people might feel guilty about enjoying, it would probably be Burial Ground.”

“Is that the movie with creepy kid in it?”

“Well, yes, one of the characters in this film is supposed to be a 12 year-old boy and yes, he’s kind of creepy. But you know what? Whenever anyone tries to talk about Burial Ground, everyone always wants to talk about the creepy kid. So, let’s hold off on the creepy kid…”

“That kid really is creepy…”

“Yes, I know the kid is creepy but there’s more to the film than just the kid! For instance, I wonder how many people realize that Burial Ground is perhaps the most blatantly political Italian zombie film ever made? I mean, let’s think about it. This is a film where a bunch of decadent rich people get trapped in a mansion — the same mansion that was used in Patrick Lives Again, by the way — and find themselves besieged by zombies. And who are the zombies? They’re the former workers. They’re the servants who used to toil in the fields and who died exploited and forgotten. And now, without any explanation, they’re suddenly back and they’re determined to kill everyone. And when it comes time to get inside the house, they actually use tools. They have scythes and hammers and all the former tools of their oppression. They are now using them to kill the rich. Well, not just the rich. There are two servants — a butler and a maid — who side with the rich and therefore, have to be killed as well because that’s the way things are in a revolution….”

“What was up with that kid?”

“We’ll get to him. No matter what else you say about Burial Ground, you can’t deny that the zombies were amazingly effective. I mean, they really looked like the living dead and, even if the ‘living’ actors were never quite convincing, the zombies were scary!”

“Not as scary as that creepyass kid…”

“You know, sometimes I think that y’all spend so much time going on about the weird little kid in Burial Ground that you tend to overlook some other fun parts of the film. For instance, there’s the scene Janet — played by Karen Well — gets her ankle stuck in a bear trap and, every time that her boyfriend Mark (Gianluigi Chirizzi) tries to pry it open, he accidentally ends up letting go and it snaps back shut on her ankle. On the one hand, I was having sympathy pains for poor Janet because, as a dancer, I know how much ankle pain sucks. On the other hand, I couldn’t help but laugh because the scene just goes on for so long that it actually starts to resemble a poorly-written SNL sketch. Plus, is it just me or does Mark look like a really young Jack Nicholson?”

“That creepy kid kind of looked like Dario Argento…”

“Yes, he did. But there’s more to this film than the kid! For instance, remember how it ends with this long quote from something called The Prophecy of The Black Spider but, on the title card, they misspelled prophecy…”

“Maybe the kid wrote that card…”

*Sigh* “Okay, I guess I should just admit the truth. The most memorable thing about Burial Ground is the creepy kid. The zombies may be effective. The film may be full of blood, nudity, bear traps, and misspelled words. But ultimately, it all comes down to the character of Michael. Michael is supposed to be 12 years old. He has a small body but he’s also got this weird adult face. According to the credits, he was played by an actor named Peter Bark and strangely enough, there seems to be next to no information available about him. This has led to rumors that Peter Bark was actually a little person or that all of his scenes used trick photography to make him look smaller than he actually was. According to Wikipedia, Peter Bark was actually 25 years old but he was cast because Italian law wouldn’t allow a child to appear in a film like Burial Ground. I don’t necessarily believe that, however. All I can say for sure is that Michael is a creepy little kid and the fact that he was obviously dubbed by an adult trying to sound like a child doesn’t help.”

“That’s not the only reason that Michael was creepy!”

“That’s true. He also has a few … icky scenes with his mother. She, by the way, was played by Mariangela Giordano. Like Giallo in Venice and Patrick Lives Again, Burial Ground was produced by her boyfriend, Gabriele Crisanti. For some reason, any film that he produced featured Mariangela dying in the most gruesome ways possible.”

“Plus, that little kid sure was creepy.”

“Yes, this is true. He certainly was. Happy Halloween.”

“Happy Halloween!”

“Before we leave, here’s two trailers for Burial Ground. The second one is the real trailer. The first one is all Michael.”