Full Moon are doing a terrific job of releasing rafts of films I have absolutely no interest in seeing, particularly those of a Puppet Master / Gingerdead Man hue. Their Grindhouse off-shoot is rather more interesting, though meanders wildly across one of film’s laziest pigeonholes.

Zambo is a particularly odd choice, a jungle romp with not a cannibal nor a naked girlie in sight. It comes complete with the seemingly ever-present disclaimer that the film ‘really is the best we could manage to make it look’, on the off-chance any viewer might expect better than we do get – a reasonable-looking video rental standard pic.

Convict, George (Brad Harris star of the Kommissar X films and most of the worst Hercules efforts), jumps the train to jail, manacled to a fellow prisoner and heads into the jungle to spare himself being shut away for a murder he didn’t commit DONCHAKNOW. After 25 minutes his co-star is dying of hunger and foolishly eats a leaf (a leaf!) only to vomit copious amounts of mushy peas. Oblivious, George declares ‘they’re saved!’ by finding a coconut tree with two coconuts on it. Upon noticing his dead friend he vows to avenge him, or something, he’s annoyed anyhow.

Enter stage left, a tribe of the best groomed savages you’ve ever seen in your life, who quickly declare him, ‘Zambo, King of the Jungle’ after he dispatches some South African slave traders with confusing Australian accents. Think of the scene in Return of the Jedi with C3PO and the Ewoks but more racist. ‘I not kill cos he is peoples’ friend’. No, really. The accents range from ‘owz yer farver’ to Terry Thomas and all points in between, sometimes just for one character. I gave up trying to work out who was dubbed and who wasn’t.

In the time it takes to grow a beard, George is at one with the jungle and the creatures there-in, including 1972’s least convincing gorilla. Some very gentle action follows with Zambo solving inter-tribal marriage difficulties; ‘Let them get married and let’s have a feast!’ he declares to much celebration, presumably with that remaining coconut in mind.

Attempting to cover peplum-type action, King Solomon’s Mines and gritty moralising, it thrashes around like an aggrieved giant trout and misses all the intended bases by a country miles and bravo for that. You’ll recognise Daniele Vargas from dozens of 60s and 70s films from Kiss Kiss Bang Bang to The Arena and Gisela Hahn from Contamination and Devil Hunter as they stumble around the Tanzanian and Ugandan foliage until they realise ‘maybe we all live in a jungle afterall..?’ It’s a thought..

DAZ LAWRENCE