Bloody Pit of Horror (1965) (Italy)

aka The Castle of Artena/Some Virgins for the Hangman/The Crimson Executioner/A Tale of Torture/The Scarlet Hangman/The Life and Times of Larry Artz 

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Rick is in Italy looking for a location to shoot some photos for his horror photo-novel. He, his publisher and his bevy of models come across the perfect spot but the thought-to-be abandoned castle turns out to be occupied by a former actor named Travis Anderson and his beefcake servants. He’s not happy that this mildly attractive group of folks have trespassed but he decides to let them spend the night. Guess whose castle the group of idiots have set up in. Travis warns Rick and company they can use any room to shoot except for the dungeon. Of course, this is the exact location Rick needs and, because he’s a horrible guest, he decides to do whatever the hell he wants. This does not end well. The opening has us witness the execution of a 17th century sadist by the name of The Crimson Executioner within his own iron-maiden-like contraption. Of course, he vows revenge. A tableaux using one of the old torture devices ends in what seems to be the accidental death of a model but suspicions rise when it looks like a rope has been cut. While the publisher offers triple pay to the lethargically upset models, a couple that went off to get their hanky-panky on meet the muscular madman rocking a mask, red hood and no shirt. Looking more like a luchador and less like a 17th century maniac. Travis seems to have a bit of an obsessive thing for one of the ladies (sure, buddy) and we see Travis is also obsessed with himself. “Mankind is made up of inferior creatures, spiritually and physically deformed, who would've corrupted the harmony of my perfect body.” As shit hits the fan, everyone acts like they can’t really be bothered to concern themselves. Rick snoops around and Edith (said lady that caught our meaty man-monster’s eye) let’s him know she was once engaged to said meaty man-monster but he was a little off his rocker and eventually vanished. The night marches on and death greets most of the dummies by the loony hands of the buff beast. There’s the ridiculous death of one of the models via a spiderweb-ish trap involving arrows and a mechanical spider with poison in its claws, enough homoeroticism to make you question your Catholic upbringing, the kind of performances you get when you pay your actors in quaaludes and those damn psychotronic vibes you can’t replicate. They just don’t make ‘em like this anymore, and they rarely made ‘em like this at the time.