The silence of space isn't the only silence that chills. Sometimes, it’s the unnatural quiet of a drifting cargo ship, seemingly abandoned in the middle of New York Harbor, that crawls under your skin. That’s where Luigi Cozzi’s infamous 1980 slice of Italian sci-fi horror, Contamination (also known by the less subtle Alien Contamination), begins its slimy descent into body-bursting mayhem. Forget the pristine corridors of the Nostromo; this is a grimy, dockside dread that feels distinctly, wonderfully cheap and alarmingly effective.
A Nasty Surprise in the Harbor
When NYPD Lieutenant Tony Aris (Marino Masé) boards the derelict vessel, the scene is pure B-movie gold: crew members ripped open from the inside out, their torsos exploded in a gruesome display. The culprit? Pulsating, football-sized green eggs scattered throughout the ship’s hold. Touch one, and you detonate in a geyser of viscera. It’s a setup that wears its Alien influence like a badge of honour, yet Cozzi, ever the enthusiastic genre mimic, injects it with a uniquely lurid, almost gleeful energy. This isn't just imitation; it's Italian exploitation cinema taking a concept and running wild with it, budget be damned. The initial investigation sequences, steeped in dockside grime and bureaucratic frustration, have a grounded, procedural feel that makes the inevitable eruption of sci-fi weirdness all the more jarring.
Globetrotting Gore
The plot quickly escalates, pulling in the stoic Colonel Stella Holmes (Louise Marleau) from a special government agency and the wonderfully cynical, disgraced astronaut Commander Ian Hubbard (Ian McCulloch, instantly recognizable to genre fans from Lucio Fulci's Zombie Flesh Eaters). Hubbard, haunted by a disastrous Mars mission where he encountered similar eggs (and lost his crewmate), becomes their reluctant expert. What follows is a surprisingly globe-trotting affair, taking our heroes from New York to a Colombian coffee plantation hiding a vast underground alien installation. It’s ambitious for its reported shoestring budget (rumored to be around $400,000 USD), and while some sets feel sparse, the sheer audacity is part of the charm. Cozzi stretches every lira thin, using evocative lighting and the relentless score by Italian prog-rock legends Goblin (under the name The Goblins here) to paper over the cracks and maintain a surprisingly potent atmosphere of paranoid dread.
The Main Event: Exploding People
Let’s be honest, though. You didn't rent Contamination from the corner video store back in the day for the nuanced character development or intricate plot. You rented it for those scenes. The exploding chests. And oh, glorious day-glo viscera, does Cozzi deliver. While clearly inspired by Ridley Scott's chestburster, Contamination's version is somehow messier, gooier, and more frequent. There’s a raw, practical effects magic at play here – pressurized blood hoses, latex torsos packed with offal – that hits differently than slick CGI. It’s grotesque, stomach-churning, and utterly unforgettable. I vividly remember the slightly worn VHS tape promising alien terror, and the sheer shock value of those first few detonations living up to the lurid box art. These scenes were so potent, in fact, that they landed Contamination squarely on the infamous "Video Nasty" list in the UK during the moral panic of the early 80s, cementing its cult status among horror hounds seeking forbidden fruit. Did that effect genuinely make your jaw drop back then? It certainly felt viscerally real on a fuzzy CRT screen.
Cozzi's Contaminated Vision
Behind the slime, Luigi Cozzi’s passion for sci-fi shines through, even filtered through the lens of commercial exploitation. He famously wanted to make a space opera but settled for this Earth-bound tale, channeling his influences (including Mario Bava, for whom he worked) into something uniquely his own. There are stories of rushed filming schedules across multiple countries (Italy, the US, Colombia providing the jungle backdrop) and creative corner-cutting, but the end result feels cohesive in its grungy vision. The central alien creature, a massive, one-eyed "Cyclops" bio-weapon controlling the eggs via telepathy, is pure pulp sci-fi monster design – maybe a bit immobile, relying on flashing lights and sound effects, but undeniably memorable. McCulloch, despite looking perpetually weary (perhaps mirroring his character's disillusionment, or maybe just the shooting conditions), brings a welcome dose of cynical heroism. Marleau provides a capable, if somewhat standard, female lead, determined to stop the alien plot.
Still Pulsating After All These Years?
Contamination is undeniably dated in places. The pacing occasionally drags between the money shots, the dialogue can be functional at best, and the science is pure B-movie hand-waving. Yet, it possesses an undeniable energy and a commitment to its gruesome premise that remains compelling. It perfectly captures that late 70s/early 80s wave of Italian genre filmmaking that aimed squarely at international markets, blending familiar Hollywood tropes with a distinctly European sensibility (and gore threshold). It’s a film that knows exactly what it is: a lurid, thrilling, slightly nonsensical sci-fi horror ride designed to shock and entertain. It doesn't aim for high art, but it hits its target with messy, explosive precision.
VHS Heaven Rating: 7/10
Justification: While hampered by its budget and occasional narrative clumsiness, Contamination delivers unforgettable practical gore effects, a fantastic Goblin score, and a pervasive sense of grimy, B-movie dread. Ian McCulloch anchors the film well, and Luigi Cozzi's enthusiastic direction makes it a standout example of Italian genre exploitation cinema. It loses points for pacing issues and some dated elements, but gains significantly for its sheer audacity, atmosphere, and iconic exploding chest sequences that cemented its cult legacy.
It’s a prime slice of VHS-era nastiness, a reminder of a time when practical effects wizards could make you believe a man could literally explode from touching an alien egg, and leave you checking under the sofa just in case. Pure, unadulterated, contaminated fun.