It has to be a major case of irony when the only tears that the last installment of Dario Argento's 'Mothers' trilogy raise are those that come after excessive gut-straining laughter. Loosely based on Thomas De Quincey's beautiful prose poem Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow (which I do insist you read), Argento's trilogy deals with 3 major domo witches supposedly in charge of causing all manner of evil on this world. 1977's Suspiria (still my favorite of this lot, and not just for camp value) showcased the Mater Suspiriorum in Germany. Inferno, made 3 years later, and in my view a dull and terribly overrated enterprise, took us to New York to meet the Mater Tenebrarum. For the Mater Lachrymarum aka Mother of Tears, Argento takes us to his native Italy, where this allegedly most powerful and attractive of the 3 Mothers is putting on her red T-shirt with glittery inscription and calling for the destruction of Rome by the forces of chaos and evil and really bad fashion.

The movie begins with an ancient urn being dug up by a priest, who seems to share none of the caution and god-fearing nature of priests in horror films. The ballsy father then has it packed off to the museum, where the film's heroine (and the director's daughter, Asia) works. Like most Argento protagonists, our heroine likes nothing better to meddle with things that do not concern her, and in opening the package signals the arrival of a motley of demons (and a screeching monkey) that promptly eviscerate her colleague. Asia however is saved by the sort of miraculous intervention more appropriate to linear adventure games. The police quite naturally snigger at her story and Asia determines to do an investigation of her own. In the meanwhile, the growing chaos and destruction in Rome is indicated by the depiction of low-budget isolated scenes of people grappling in the street, and the arrival of assorted women, supposedly witches, who got their fashion sense from being groupies to 80's cock rock bands. Several other plot convolutions, what-the-fuck character inserts (including a guy that could be Riddick except for his reedy, whiny voice), hokey CGI and reams of laugh-out-loud dialog later, things are wrapped up in a showdown that features copious amounts of all of the above.

While none of the Argento films I've seen have featured a plot with significantly more function than a frame to hang action set-pieces on, Mother of Tears carries the tradition of narrative ineptitude to a new level. To its credit never fails to be less than immensely entertaining camp fodder. The pace is breakneck and there are several gore sequences, the crowning glory being one where a lesbian, in what must be some kind of judgment on her sexual preference, is impaled by a very phallic lance that runs from her crotch to her mouth; Argento handsomely rewards his bloodhound fans here.

While not up to the visual and aural standards of his classic films, Mother of Tears comes off a lot better than most would have expected and if you like your bit of gore, it's a great way to pass a lazy Sunday afternoon with like-minded friends.