If you ever wondered what would happen if you took a nunsploitation flick, stapled it to a rape-revenge movie, and then filmed it with the emotional sensitivity of a cinder block, The Last House on the Beach is your answer. Franco Prosperi’s grimy little “thriller” is less a story and more an endurance test for anyone who still clings to the idea that cinema can be both artful and exploitative. Spoiler: here, it’s neither.
The “Plot” (Generous Term)
The premise is simple enough: a group of criminals invade a convent-like setting, and bad things happen. Only, the bad things don’t unfold as suspense or drama—they unspool like an endless parade of ugly, misogynistic set pieces strung together by the cinematic equivalent of duct tape. There’s no narrative momentum, just a grim conveyor belt of violence, humiliation, and the occasional pause so the film can linger far too long on adolescent nudity in a way that makes you want to immediately take a shower.
Sister Cristina, Patron Saint of Poor Life Choices
Florinda Bolkan plays Sister Cristina, a nun whose life takes a very sharp turn from “running a peaceful beachside retreat” to “starring in an Italian exploitation film you’ll regret telling anyone you watched.” She tries to anchor the chaos with dignity, but she’s basically a straight-A student trapped in a group project where the other members are making a papier-mâché volcano out of garbage and malice.
The Villains: Blurry, Sweaty, and Stupid
Ray Lovelock’s Aldo and his fellow goons are the kind of villains who should be terrifying but instead come off like third-tier roadies for a washed-up prog rock band. They leer, they shout, they assault, and they chew up screen time like they’re getting paid by the minute. The most dangerous thing about them is how quickly they can make the viewer start looking at their watch.
Minimalism, but Make it Miserable
One could charitably call the film “minimalist” in its plot progression, but that would imply there’s an intentional artistic choice behind it. What we actually get is 90 minutes of repetition: assault, taunting, assault, repeat. When the revenge finally arrives, it’s less a cathartic explosion and more of a faint cough after a long bout of nausea.
Sleaze Without Substance
Rape-revenge films, at their best, can deliver a grim kind of moral calculus: the horror of the first act pays off in the bloody satisfaction of the last. The Last House on the Beach doesn’t even manage that. It’s sleaze without style, cruelty without consequence, and violence without the faintest glimmer of thematic depth. The camera lingers on suffering not to condemn it, but because the director apparently thinks that’s enough to fill a reel.
Final Thoughts
If The Last House on the Left was a brutal but memorable punch to the gut, The Last House on the Beach is like someone slapping you in slow motion with a wet, moldy dishrag for an hour and a half. It’s ugly, it’s exploitative, and worst of all—it’s boring. The only real suspense is whether you’ll make it to the end credits without turning it off.
